More than one pretty, trifling thousand years;
And then 'twere pity, but fate's gentle shears
Cut short its immortality. Sea flirt!
Young dove of the waters! truly I'll not hurt
One hair of thine: see how I weep and sigh,
That our heart-broken parting is so nigh.
And must we part? Ah, yes, it must be so.
Yet, ere thou leavest me in utter woe,

Let me sob over thee my last adieus,

And speak a blessing. Mark me! Thou hast thews
Immortal, for thou art of heavenly race;
But such a love is mine, that here I chase
Eternally away from thee all bloom

Of youth, and destine thee towards a tomb.
Hence shalt thou quickly to the watery vast;
And there, ere many days be overpast,
Disabled age shall seize thee; and even then
Thou shalt not go the way of aged men;
But live and wither, cripple and still breathe
Ten hundred years; which gone, I then bequeath
Thy fragile bones to unknown burial.
Adieu, sweet love, adieu!"

As shot stars fall,
Stung

She fled ere I could groan for mercy.
And poisoned was my spirit: despair sung
A war song of defiance 'gainst all hell.
A hand was at my shoulder to compel
My sullen steps; another 'fore my eyes
Moved on with pointed finger. In this guise
Enforced, at the last by ocean's foam

I found me; by my fresh, my native home.
Its tempering coolness, to my life akin,

Came salutary as I waded in;

And, with a blind, voluptuous rage, I gave

Battle to the swollen billow ridge, and drave

Large froth before me, while there yet remained

Hale strength, nor from my bones all marrow drained.

Young lover, I must weep-such hellish spite With dry cheek who can tell? While thus my might Proving upon this element, dismayed,

Upon a dead thing's face my hand I laid;

I looked-'twas Scylla! Cursed, cursed Circe!
O vulture witch, hast never heard of mercy?

Could not thy harshest vengeance be content,
But thou must nip this tender innocent
Because I loved her? - Cold, O cold indeed
Were her fair limbs, and like a common weed
The sea swell took her hair. Dead as she was
I clung about her waist, nor ceased to pass
Fleet as an arrow through unfathomed brine,
Until there shone a fabric crystalline,
Ribbed and inlaid with coral, pebble, and pearl.
Headlong I darted; at one eager swirl
Gained its bright portal, entered, and behold!
'Twas vast, and desolate, and icy cold;
And all around. But wherefore this to thee,
Who, in few minutes more, thyself shalt see?
I left poor Scylla in a niche and fled.

My fevered parchings up, my scathing dread
Met palsy halfway; soon these limbs became

Gaunt, withered, sapless, feeble, cramped, and lame.

THE STRAYED REVELER.

BY MATTHEW ARNOLD.

[For biographical sketch, see Principles of Homeric Translation.]

Scene: The Portico of Circe's Palace. Evening. Present: A YOUTH, CIRCE.

The Youth

Faster, faster,

O Circe, Goddess,

Let the wild, thronging train,

The bright procession

Of eddying forms,

Sweep through my soul!

Thou standest, smiling

Down on me! thy right arm,

Leaned up against the column there,

Props thy soft cheek;

Thy left holds, hanging loosely,

The deep cup, ivy-cinctured,

I held but now.

Circe

Is it then evening

So soon? I see, the night dews,
Clustered in thick beads, dim
The agate brooch stones
On thy white shoulder;
The cool night wind, too,
Blows through the portico,
Stirs thy hair, Goddess,
Waves thy white robe!

Whence art thou, sleeper?

The Youth-When the white dawn first

Circe

Through the rough fir planks
Of my hut, by the chestnuts,
Up at the valley head,
Came breaking, Goddess!
I sprang up, I threw round me
My dappled fawn skin;

Passing out, from the wet turf,

Where they lay, by the hut door,

I snatched up my vine crown, my fir staff,
All drenched in dew

Came swift down to join

The rout early gathered

In the town, round the temple,

Iacchus' white fane

On yonder hill.

Quick I passed, following

The woodcutters' cart track
Down the dark valley;-I saw
On my left, through the beeches,
Thy palace, Goddess,
Smokeless, empty!

Trembling, I entered; beheld

The court all silent,

The lions sleeping,

On the altar this bowl.

I drank, Goddess!

And sank down here, sleeping,
On the steps of thy portico.

Foolish boy! Why tremblest thou?
Thou lovest it, then, my wine?

Wouldst more of it? See, how glows,

Through the delicate, flushed marble,
The red, creaming liquor,

Strown with dark seeds!

Drink, then! I chide thee not,

Deny thee not my bowl.

Come, stretch forth thy hand, then-so!
Drink-drink again!

The Youth Thanks, gracious one!

Ah, the sweet fumes again!
More soft, ah me,

More subtle-winding

Than Pan's flute music!

Faint― faint! Ah me,

Again the sweet sleep!

Circe

Hist!

Ulysses

Circe

Thou- within there!

Come forth, Ulysses!

Art tired with hunting?

While we range the woodland,
See what the day brings.

Ever new magic!

Hast thou then lured hither,
Wonderful Goddess, by thy art,

The young, languid-eyed Ampelus,
Iacchus' darling-

Or some youth beloved of Pan,

Of Pan and the Nymphs?

That he sits, bending downward

His white, delicate neck

To the ivy-wreathed marge

Of thy cup; the bright, glancing vine leaves

That crown his hair,

Falling forward, mingling

With the dark ivy plants

His fawn skin, half untied,

Smeared with red wine stains?

That he sits, overweighed

By fumes of wine and sleep,

So late, in thy portico?

Who is he,

What youth, Goddess, - what guest
Of Gods or mortals?

Hist! he wakes!

I lured him not hither, Ulysses.
Nay, ask him!

Who speaks! Ah, who comes forth

To thy side, Goddess, from within?
How shall I name him?
This spare, dark-featured,
Quick-eyed stranger?

Ah, and I see too

His sailor's bonnet,

His short coat, travel-tarnished,

With one arm bare!

Art thou not he, whom fame

This long time rumors

The favored guest of Circe, brought by the waves?
Art thou he, stranger?

The wise Ulysses,
Laertes' son?

I am Ulysses.

And thou, too, sleeper?

Thy voice is sweet.

It may be thou hast followed

Through the islands some divine bard,

By age taught many things,

Age and the Muses;

And heard him delighting

The chiefs and people

In the banquet, and learned his songs,

Of Gods and Heroes,

Of war and arts,

And peopled cities,
Inland, or built

By the gray sea

If so, then hail!

I honor and welcome thee.

The Gods are happy.

They turn on all sides
Their shining eyes,
And see below them
The earth and men.
They see Tiresias
Sitting, staff in hand,
On the warm, grassy
Asopus bank,

His robe drawn over
His old, sightless head,

Revolving inly

The doom of Thebes.