The Online Library of Liberty

A project of Liberty Fund, Inc.

• Preface.
• Julian and Maddalo; a Conversation.
• The Witch of Atlas.
• Letter to —
• The Triumph of Life.
• Fragments From an Unfinished Drama.
• Prince Athanase: a Fragment.
• Ode to Naples. *
• Marianne’s Dream.
• Mont Blanc. Lines Written In the Vale of Chamouni.
• Miscellaneous Poems.
• On the Medusa of Leonardo Da Vinci, In the Florentine Gallery.
• Song.
• To Constantia, Singing.
• The Fugitives.
• A Lament.
• The Pine Forest of the Cascine, Near Pisa.
• To Night.
• Evening. Ponte a Mare, Pisa.
• Arethusa.
• The Question.
• Lines to an Indian Air.
• Stanzas Written In Dejection, Near Naples.
• Autumn: a Dirge.
• Hymn of Apollo.
• Hymn of Pan.
• The Boat On the Serchio.
• The Zucca. *
• The Two Spirits. an Allegory.
• A Fragment.
• A Bridal Song.
• The Sunset.
• Song, On a Faded Violet.
• Lines to a Critic.
• Good Night.
• To-morrow.
• Death.
• A Lament.
• Love’s Philosophy.
• To E*** V***
• To —
• Lines.
• To William Shelley.
• An Allegory.
• Mutability.
• From the Arabic. an Imitation.
• To —
• Music.
• Lines.
• Death.
• To —
• Passage of the Apennines.
• To Mary —
• The Past.
• Song of a Spirit.
• Liberty.
• To —
• The Isle.
• To —
• Time.
• Lines.
• A Song.
• The World’s Wanderers.
• A Dirge.
• Lines.
• Dirge For the Year.
• Sonnet I.
• Sonnet II. Political Greatness.
• Sonnet III.
• Sonnet IV.
• Fragments.
• Ginevra. *
• Charles the First. Fragments.
• Prince Athanase. Part II.
• Mazenghi. *
• The Woodman and the Nightingale.
• To the Moon.
• Song For Tasso.
• The Waning Moon.
• Epitaph.
• Alastor; Or the Spirit of Solitude.
• Translations.
• Hymn to Mercury. Translated From the Greek of Homer
• The Cyclops; a Satyric Drama.
• Translation From Moschus.
• Scenes From the “magico Prodigioso” of Calderon.
• Scenes From the Faust of GoËthe.

HYMN TO MERCURY.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK OF HOMER

• • I.

  • Sing, Muse, the son of Maia and of Jove,
  • The Herald-child, king of Arcadia
  • And all its pastoral hills, whom in sweet love
  • Having been interwoven, modest May
  • Bore Heaven’s dread Supreme—an antique grove
  • Shadowed the cavern where the lovers lay
  • In the deep night, unseen by Gods or Men,
  • And white-armed Juno slumbered sweetly then.

• • II.

  • Now, when the joy of Jove had its fulfiling,
  • And Heaven’s tenth moon chronicled her relief,
  • She gave to light a babe all babes excelling,
  • A schemer subtle beyond all belief;
  • A shepherd of thin dreams, a cow-stealing,
  • A night-watching, and door-waylaying thief,
  • Who mongst the Gods was soon about to thieve
  • And other glorious actions to achieve.

• • III.

  • The babe was born at the first peep of day;
  • He began playing on the lyre at noon,
  • And the same evening did he steal away
  • Apollo’s herds;—the fourth day of the moon
  • On which him bore the venerable May,
  • From her immortal limbs he leaped full soon,
  • Nor long could in the sacred cradle keep,
  • But out to seek Apollo’s herds would creep.

• • IV.

  • Out of the lofty cavern wandering
  • He found a tortoise, and cried out—“A treasure!”
  • (For Mercury first made the tortoise sing)
  • The beast before the portal at his leisure
  • The flowery herbage was depasturing,
  • Moving his feet in a deliberate measure
  • Over the turf. Jove’s profitable son
  • Eyeing him laughed, and laughing thus begun:—

• • V.

  • “A useful god-send are you to me now,
  • King of the dance, companion of the feast,
  • Lovely in all your nature! Welcome, you
  • Excellent plaything! Where, sweet mountain beast,
  • Got you that speckled shell? Thus much I know,
  • You must come home with me and be my guest;
  • You will give joy to me, and I will do
  • All that is in my power to honour you.

• • VI.

  • “Better to be at home than out of door;—
  • So come with me, and though it has been said
  • That you alive defend from magic power,
  • I know you will sing sweetly when you’re dead.”
  • Thus having spoken, the quaint infant bore,
  • Lifting it from the grass on which it fed,
  • And grasping it in his delighted hold,
  • His treasured prize into the cavern old.

• • VII.

  • Then scooping with a chisel of grey steel
  • He bored the life and soul out of the beast—
  • Not swifter a swift thought of woe or weal
  • Darts through the tumult of a human breast
  • Which thronging cares annoy—not swifter wheel
  • The flashes of its torture and unrest
  • Out of the dizzy eyes—than Maia’s son
  • All that he did devise hath featly done.

• • VIII.

  • And through the tortoise’s hard strong skin
  • At proper distances small holes he made,
  • And fastened the cut stems of reeds within,
  • And with a piece of leather overlaid
  • The open space and fixed the cubits in,
  • Fitting the bridge to both, and stretched o’er all
  • Symphonious cords of sheep gut rhythmical.

• • IX.

  • When he had wrought the lovely instrument,
  • He tried the chords, and made division meet
  • Preluding with the plectrum, and there went
  • Up from beneath his hand a tumult sweet
  • Of mighty sounds, and from his lips he sent
  • A strain of unpremeditated wit
  • Joyous and wild and wanton—such you may
  • Hear among revellers on a holiday.

• • X.

  • He sung how Jove and May of the bright sandal
  • Dallied in love not quite legitimate;
  • And his own birth, still scoffing at the scandal,
  • And naming his own name, did celebrate;
  • His mother’s cave and servant maids he planned all
  • In plastic verse, her household stuff and state,
  • Perennial pot, trippet, and brazen pan,—
  • But singing he conceived another plan.

• • XI.

  • Seized with a sudden fancy for fresh meat,
  • He in his sacred crib deposited
  • The hollow lyre, and from the cavern sweet
  • Rushed with great leaps up to the mountain’s head,
  • Revolving in his mind some subtle feat
  • Of thievish craft, such as a swindler might
  • Devise in the lone season of dun night.

• • XII.

  • Lo! the great Sun under the ocean’s bed has
  • Driven steeds and chariot—the child meanwhile strode
  • O’er the Pierian mountains clothed in shadows,
  • Where the immortal oxen of the God
  • Are pastured in the flowering unmown meadows,
  • And safely stalled in a remote abode—
  • The archer Argicide, elate and proud,
  • Drove fifty from the herd, lowing aloud.

• • XIII.

  • He drove them wandering o’er the sandy way,
  • But, being ever mindful of his craft,
  • Backward and forward drove he them astray,
  • So that the tracks which seemed before, were aft;
  • His sandals then he threw to the ocean spray,
  • And for each foot he wrought a kind of raft
  • Of tamarisk, and tamarisk-like sprigs,
  • And bound them in a lump with withy twigs.

• • XIV.

  • And on his feet he tied these sandals light,
  • The trail of whose wide leaves might not betray
  • His track; and then, a self-sufficing wight,
  • Like a man hastening on some distant way,
  • He from Piera’s mountain bent his flight;
  • But an old man perceived the infant pass
  • Down green Onchestus heaped like beds with grass.

• • XV.

  • The old man stood dressing his sunny vine:
  • “Halloo! old fellow with the crooked shoulder!
  • You grub those stumps? before they will bear wine
  • Methinks even you must grow a little older:
  • Attend, I pray, to this advice of mine,
  • As you would ’scape what might appal a bolder—
  • Seeing, see not—and hearing, hear not—and—
  • If you have understanding—understand.”

• • XVI.

  • So saying, Hermes roused the oxen vast;
  • O’er shadowy mountain and resounding dell,
  • And flower-paven plains, great Hermes past;
  • Till the black night divine, which favouring fell
  • Around his steps, grew grey, and morning fast
  • Wakened the world to work, and from her cell
  • Sea-strewn, the Pallantean Moon sublime
  • Into her watch-tower just began to climb.

• • XVII.

  • Now to Alpheus he had driven all
  • The broad-foreheaded oxen of the Sun;
  • They came unwearied to the lofty stall
  • And to the water troughs which ever run
  • Through the fresh fields—and when with rushgrass tall,
  • Lotus and all sweet herbage, every one
  • Had pastured been, the great God made them move
  • Towards the stall in a collected drove.

• • XVIII.

  • A mighty pile of wood the God then heaped,
  • And having soon conceived the mystery
  • Of fire, from two smooth laurel branches stript
  • The bark, and rubbed them in his palms,—on high
  • Suddenly forth the burning vapour leapt,
  • And the divine child saw delightedly—
  • Mercury first found out for human weal
  • Tinder-box, matches, fire-irons, flint and steel.

• • XIX.

  • And fine dry logs and roots innumerous
  • He gathered in a delve upon the ground—
  • And kindled them—and instantaneous
  • The strength of the fierce flame was breathed around:
  • And whilst the might of glorious Vulcan thus
  • Wrapt the great pile with glare and roaring sound,
  • Hermes dragged forth two heifers, lowing loud,
  • Close to the fire—such might was in the God.

• • XX.

  • And on the earth upon their backs he threw
  • The panting beasts, and rolled them o’er and o’er,
  • And bored their lives out. Without more ado
  • He cut up fat and flesh, and down before
  • The fire, on spits of wood he placed the two,
  • Toasting their flesh and ribs, and all the gore
  • Pursed in the bowels; and while this was done
  • He stretched their hides over a craggy stone.

• • XXI.

  • We mortals let an ox grow old, and then
  • Cut it up after long consideration,—
  • But joyous-minded Hermes from the glen
  • Drew the fat spoils to the more open station
  • Of a flat smooth space, and portioned them; and when
  • He had by lot assigned to each a ration
  • Of the twelve Gods, his mind became aware
  • Of all the joys which in religion are.

• • XXII.

  • For the sweet savour of the roasted meat
  • Tempted him though immortal. Nathelesse
  • He checked his haughty will and did not eat,
  • Though what it cost him words can scarce express,
  • And every wish to put such morsels sweet
  • Down his most sacred throat, he did repress;
  • But soon within the lofty portalled stall
  • He placed the fat and flesh and bones and all.

• • XXIII.

  • And every trace of the fresh butchery
  • And cooking, the God soon made disappear,
  • As if it all had vanished through the sky;
  • He burned the hoofs and horns and head and hair,
  • The insatiate fire devoured them hungrily;—
  • And when he saw that everything was clear,
  • He quenched the coals and trampled the black dust,
  • And in the stream his bloody sandals tossed.

• • XXIV.

  • All night he worked in the serene moonshine—
  • But when the light of day was spread abroad
  • He sought his natal mountain peaks divine.
  • On his long wandering, neither man nor god
  • Had met him, since he killed Apollo’s kine,
  • Nor house-dog had barked at him on his road;
  • Now he obliquely through the key-hole past,
  • Like a thin mist, or an autumnal blast.

• • XXV.

  • Right through the temple of the spacious cave
  • He went with soft light feet—as if his tread
  • Fell not on earth; no sound their falling gave;
  • Then to his cradle he crept quick, and spread
  • The swaddling-clothes about him; and the knave
  • Lay playing with the covering of the bed
  • With his left hand about his knees—the right
  • Held his beloved tortoise-lyre tight.

• • XXVI.

  • There he lay innocent as a new born child,
  • As gossips say; but though he was a god,
  • The goddess, his fair mother, unbeguiled
  • Knew all that he had done being abroad:
  • “Whence come you, and from what adventure wild,
  • You cunning rogue, and where have you abode
  • All the long night, clothed in your impudence?
  • What have you done since you departed hence?

• • XXVII.

  • “Apollo soon will pass within this gate
  • And bind your tender body in a chain
  • Inextricably tight, and fast as fate,
  • Unless you can delude the God again,
  • Even when within his arms—ah, runagate!
  • A pretty torment both for gods and men
  • Your father made when he made you!”—“Dear mother,”
  • Replied sly Hermes, “Wherefore scold and bother?

• • XXVIII.

  • “As if I were like other babes as old,
  • And understood nothing of what is what;
  • And cared at all to hear my mother scold.
  • I in my subtle brain a scheme have got,
  • Which whilst the sacred stars round Heaven are rolled
  • Will profit you and me—nor shall our lot
  • Be as you counsel, without gifts or food,
  • To spend our lives in this obscure abode.

• • XXIX.

  • “But we will leave this shadow-peopled cave
  • And live among the Gods, and pass each day
  • In high communion, sharing what they have
  • Of profuse wealth and unexhausted prey;
  • And from the portion which my father gave
  • To Phœbus, I will snatch my share away,
  • Which if my father will not—nathelesse I,
  • Who am the king of robbers, can but try.

• • XXX.

  • “And, if Latona’s son should find me out,
  • I’ll countermine him by a deeper plan;
  • I’ll pierce the Pythian temple-walls, though stout,
  • And sack the fane of every thing I can—
  • Cauldrons and tripods of great worth no doubt,
  • Each golden cup and polished brazen pan,
  • All the wrought tapestries and garments gay.”—
  • So they together talked;—meanwhile the Day

• • XXXI.

  • Ætherial born arose out of the flood
  • Of flowing Ocean, bearing light to men.
  • Apollo past toward the sacred wood,
  • Which from the inmost depths of its green glen
  • Echoes the voice of Neptune,—and there stood
  • On the same spot in green Onchestus then
  • That same old animal, the vine-dresser,
  • Who was employed hedging his vineyard there.

• • XXXII.

  • Latona’s glorious Son began:—“I pray
  • Tell, ancient hedger of Onchestus green,
  • Whether a drove of kine has past this way,
  • All heifers with crooked horns? for they have been
  • Stolen from the herd in high Pieria,
  • Where a black bull was fed apart, between
  • Two woody mountains in a neighbouring glen,
  • And four fierce dogs watched there, unanimous as men.

• • XXXIII.

  • “And, what is strange, the author of this theft
  • Has stolen the fatted heifers every one,
  • But the four dogs and the black bull are left:—
  • Stolen they were last night at set of sun,
  • Of their soft beds and their sweet food bereft—
  • Now tell me, man born ere the world begun,
  • Have you seen any one pass with the cows?”—
  • To whom the man of overhanging brows:

• • XXXIV.

  • “My friend, it would require no common skill
  • Justly to speak of everything I see:
  • On various purposes of good or ill
  • Many pass by my vineyard,—and to me
  • ’Tis difficult to know the invisible
  • Thoughts, which in all those many minds may be:—
  • Thus much alone I certainly can say,
  • I tilled these vines till the decline of day.

• • XXXV.

  • “And then I thought I saw, but dare not speak
  • With certainty of such a wondrous thing,
  • A child, who could not have been born a week,
  • Those fair-horned cattle closely following,
  • And in his hand he held a polished stick:
  • And, as on purpose, he walked wavering
  • From one side to the other of the road,
  • And with his face opposed the steps he trod.”

• • XXXVI.

  • Apollo hearing this, past quickly on—
  • No winged omen could have shown more clear
  • That the deceiver was his father’s son.
  • So the God wraps a purple atmosphere
  • Around his shoulders, and like fire is gone
  • To famous Pylos, seeking his kine there,
  • And found their track and his, yet hardly cold,
  • And cried—“What wonder do mine eyes behold!

• • XXXVII.

  • “Here are the footsteps of the horned herd
  • Turned back towards their fields of asphodel;—
  • But these! are not the tracks of beast or bird,
  • Grey wolf, or bear, or lion of the dell,
  • Or maned Centaur—sand was never stirred
  • By man or woman thus! Inexplicable!
  • Who with unwearied feet could e’er impress
  • The sand with such enormous vestiges?

• • XXXVIII.

  • “That was most strange—but this is stranger still!”
  • Thus having said, Phœbus impetuously
  • Sought high Cyllene’s forest-cinctured hill,
  • And the deep cavern where dark shadows lie,
  • And where the ambrosial nymph with happy will
  • Bore the Saturnian’s love-child, Mercury—
  • And a delightful odour from the dew
  • Of the hill pastures, at his coming, flew.

• • XXXIX.

  • And Phœbus stooped under the craggy roof
  • Arched over the dark cavern:—Maia’s child
  • Perceived that he came angry, far aloof,
  • About the cows of which he had been beguiled,
  • And over him the fine and fragrant woof
  • Of his ambrosial swaddling clothes he piled—
  • As among fire-brands lies a burning spark
  • Covered, beneath the ashes cold and dark.

• • XL.

  • There, like an infant who had sucked his fill
  • And now was newly washed and put to bed,
  • Awake, but courting sleep with weary will,
  • And gathered in a lump hands, feet, and head,
  • He lay, and his beloved tortoise still
  • He grasped and held under his shoulder-blade.
  • Phœbus the lovely mountain-goddess knew,
  • Not less her subtle, swindling baby, who

• • XLI.

  • Lay swathed in his sly wiles. Round every crook
  • Of the ample cavern, for his kine, Apollo
  • Looked sharp; and when he saw them not, he took
  • The glittering key, and opened three great hollow
  • Recesses in the rock—where many a nook
  • Was filled with the sweet food immortals swallow,
  • And mighty heaps of silver and of gold
  • Were piled within—a wonder to behold!

• • XLII.

  • And white and silver robes, all overwrought
  • With cunning workmanship of tracery sweet—
  • Except among the Gods there can be nought
  • In the wide world to be compared with it.
  • Latona’s offspring, after having sought
  • His herds in every corner, thus did greet
  • Great Hermes:—“Little cradled rogue, declare
  • Of my illustrious heifers, where they are!

• • XLIII.

  • “Speak quickly! or a quarrel between us
  • Must rise, and the event will be, that I
  • Shall hawl you into dismal Tartarus,
  • In fiery gloom to dwell eternally;
  • Nor shall your father nor your mother loose
  • The bars of that black dungeon—utterly
  • You shall be cast out from the light of day,
  • To rule the ghosts of men, unblest as they.”

• • XLIV.

  • To whom thus Hermes slily answered:—“Son
  • Of great Latona, what a speech is this!
  • Why come you here to ask me what is done
  • With the wild oxen which it seems you miss?
  • I have not seen them, nor from any one
  • Have heard a word of the whole business;
  • If you should promise an immense reward,
  • I could not tell more than you now have heard.

• • XLV.

  • “An ox-stealer should be both tall and strong,
  • And I am but a little new-born thing,
  • Who, yet at least, can think of nothing wrong:—
  • My business is to suck, and sleep, and fling
  • The cradle-clothes about me all day long,—
  • Or half asleep, hear my sweet mother sing,
  • And to be washed in water clean and warm,
  • And hushed and kissed and kept secure from harm.

• • XLVI.

  • “O, let not e’er this quarrel be averred!
  • The astounded Gods would laugh at you, if e’er
  • You should allege a story so absurd,
  • As that a new-born infant forth could fare
  • Out of his home after a savage herd.
  • I was born yesterday—my small feet are
  • Too tender for the roads so hard and rough:—
  • And if you think that this is not enough,

• • XLVII.

  • “I swear a great oath, by my father’s head,
  • That I stole not your cows, and that I know
  • Of no one else, who might, or could, or did.—
  • Whatever things cows are, I do not know,
  • For I have only heard the name.”—This said,
  • He winked as fast as could be, and his brow
  • Was wrinkled, and a whistle loud gave he,
  • Like one who hears some strange absurdity.

• • XLVIII.

  • Apollo gently smiled and said:—“Aye, aye,—
  • You cunning little rascal, you will bore
  • Many a rich man’s house, and your array
  • Of thieves will lay their siege before his door,
  • Silent as night, in night; and many a day
  • In the wild glens rough shepherds will deplore
  • That you or yours, having an appetite,
  • Met with their cattle, comrade of the night!

• • XLIX.

  • “And this among the Gods shall be your gift,
  • To be considered as the lord of those
  • Who swindle, house-break, sheep-steal, and shop-lift;—
  • But now if you would not your last sleep dose,
  • Crawl out!”—Thus saying, Phœbus did uplift
  • The subtle infant in his swaddling clothes,
  • And in his arms, according to his wont,
  • A scheme devised the illustrious Argiphont.

• • L.

  • * * * * *
  • * * * *
  • And sneezed and shuddered—Phœbus on the grass
  • Him threw, and whilst all that he had designed
  • He did perform—eager although to pass,
  • Apollo darted from his mighty mind
  • Towards the subtle babe the following scoff:—
  • “Do not imagine this will get you off,

• • LI.

  • “You little swaddled child of Jove and May!”
  • And seized him:—“By this omen I shall trace
  • My noble herds, and you shall lead the way.”—
  • Cyllenian Hermes from the grassy place,
  • Like one in earnest haste to get away,
  • Rose, and with hands lifted towards his face
  • Roused both his ears—up from his shoulders drew
  • His swaddling clothes, and—“What mean you to do

• • LII.

  • “With me, you unkind God?”—said Mercury:
  • “Is it about these cows you teize me so?
  • I wished the race of cows were perished!—I
  • Stole not your cows—I do not even know
  • What things cows are. Alas! I well may sigh,
  • That since I came into this world of woe,
  • I should have ever heard the name of one—
  • But I appeal to the Saturnian’s throne.”

• • LIII.

  • Thus Phœbus and the vagrant Mercury
  • Talked without coming to an explanation,
  • With adverse purpose. As for Phœbus, he
  • Sought not revenge, but only information,
  • And Hermes tried with lies and roguery
  • To cheat Apollo—But when no evasion
  • Served—for the cunning one his match had found—
  • He paced on first over the sandy ground.

• • LIV.

  • He of the Silver Bow the child of Jove
  • Followed behind, till to their heavenly Sire
  • Came both his children—beautiful as Love,
  • And from his equal balance did require
  • A judgment in the cause wherein they strove.
  • O’er odorous Olympus and its snows
  • A murmuring tumult as they came arose,—

• • LV.

  • And from the folded depths of the great Hill,
  • While Hermes and Apollo reverent stood
  • Before Jove’s throne, the indestructible
  • Immortals rushed in mighty multitude;
  • And whilst their seats in order due they fill,
  • The lofty Thunderer in a careless mood
  • To Phœbus said:—“Whence drive you this sweet prey,
  • This herald-baby, born but yesterday?—

• • LVI.

  • “A most important subject, trifler, this
  • To lay before the Gods!”—“Nay, father, nay,
  • When you have understood the business,
  • Say not that I alone am fond of prey.
  • I found this little boy in a recess
  • Under Cyllene’s mountains far away—
  • A manifest and most apparent thief,
  • A scandal-monger beyond all belief.

• • LVII.

  • “I never saw his like either in heaven
  • Or upon earth for knavery or craft:—
  • Out of the field my cattle yester-even,
  • By the low shore on which the loud sea laughed,
  • He right down to the river-ford had driven;
  • And mere astonishment would make you daft
  • To see the double kind of footsteps strange
  • He has impressed wherever he did range.

• • LVIII.

  • “The cattle’s track on the black dust, full well
  • Is evident, as if they went towards
  • The place from which they came—that asphodel
  • Meadow, in which I feed my many herds,—
  • His steps were most incomprehensible—
  • I know not how I can describe in words
  • Those tracks—he could have gone along the sands
  • Neither upon his feet nor on his hands;—

• • LIX.

  • “He must have had some other stranger mode
  • Of moving on: those vestiges immense,
  • Far as I traced them on the sandy road,
  • Seemed like the trail of oak-toppings:—but thence
  • No mark or track denoting where they trod
  • The hard ground gave:—but, working at his fence,
  • A mortal hedger saw him as he past
  • To Pylos, with the cows, in fiery haste.

• • LX.

  • “I found that in the dark he quietly
  • Had sacrificed some cows, and before light
  • Had thrown the ashes all dispersedly
  • About the road—then, still as gloomy night,
  • Had crept into his cradle, either eye
  • Rubbing, and cogitating some new sleight.
  • No eagle could have seen him as he lay
  • Hid in his cavern from the peering day.

• • LXI.

  • “I tax’d him with the fact, when he averred
  • Most solemnly that he did neither see
  • Or even had in any manner heard
  • Of my lost cows, whatever things cows be;
  • Nor could he tell, though offered a reward,
  • Not even who could tell of them to me.”
  • So speaking, Phœbus sate; and Hermes then
  • Addressed the Supreme Lord of Gods and Men:—

• • LXII.

  • “Great Father, you know clearly before hand
  • That all which I shall say to you is soothe;
  • I am a most veracious person, and
  • Totally unacquainted with untruth.
  • At sunrise, Phœbus came, but with no band
  • Of Gods to bear him witness, in great wrath,
  • To my abode, seeking his heifers there,
  • And saying that I must show him where they are,

• • LXIII.

  • “Or he would hurl me down the dark abyss.
  • I know, that every Apollonian limb
  • Is clothed with speed and might and manliness,
  • As a green bank with flowers—but unlike him
  • I was born yesterday, and you may guess
  • He well knew this when he indulged the whim
  • Of bullying a poor little new-born thing
  • That slept, and never thought of cow-driving.

• • LXIV.

  • “Am I like a strong fellow who steals kine?
  • Believe me, dearest Father, such you are,
  • This driving of the herds is none of mine;
  • Across my threshhold did I wander ne’er,
  • So may I thrive! I reverence the divine
  • Sun and the Gods, and I love you, and care
  • Even for this hard accuser—who must know
  • I am as innocent as they or you.

• • LXV.

  • “I swear by these most gloriously-wrought portals—
  • (It is, you will allow, an oath of might)
  • Through which the multitude of the Immortals
  • Pass and repass forever, day and night,
  • Devising schemes for the affairs of mortals—
  • That I am guiltless; and I will requite,
  • Although mine enemy be great and strong,
  • His cruel threat—do thou defend the young!”

• • LXVI.

  • So speaking, the Cyllenian Argiphont
  • Winked, as if now his adversary was fitted:—
  • And Jupiter according to his wont,
  • Laughed heartily to hear the subtle-witted
  • Infant give such a plausible account,
  • And every word a lie. But he remitted
  • Judgment at present—and his exhortation
  • Was, to compose the affair by arbitration.

• • LXVII.

  • And they by mighty Jupiter were bidden
  • To go forth with a single purpose both,
  • Neither the other chiding nor yet chidden:
  • And Mercury with innocence and truth
  • To lead the way, and show where he had hidden
  • The mighty heifers.—Hermes, nothing loth,
  • Obeyed the Ægis-bearer’s will—for he
  • Is able to persuade all easily.

• • LXVIII.

  • These lovely children of Heaven’s highest Lord
  • Hastened to Pylos and the pastures wide
  • And lofty stalls by the Alphean ford,
  • Where wealth in the mute night is multiplied
  • With silent growth. Whilst Hermes drove the herd
  • Out of the stony cavern, Phœbus spied
  • The hides of those the little babe had slain,
  • Stretched on the precipice above the plain.

• • LXIX.

  • “How was it possible,” then Phœbus said,
  • “That you, a little child, born yesterday,
  • A thing on mother’s milk and kisses fed,
  • Could two prodigious heifers ever flay?
  • Even I myself may well hereafter dread
  • Your prowess, offspring of Cyllenian May,
  • When you grow strong and tall.”—He spoke, and bound
  • Stiff withy bands the infant’s wrists around.

• • LXX.

  • He might as well have bound the oxen wild;
  • The withy bands, though starkly interknit,
  • Fell at the feet of the immortal child,
  • Loosened by some device of his quick wit.
  • Phœbus perceived himself again beguiled,
  • And stared—while Hermes sought some hole or pit,
  • Looking askance and winking fast as thought,
  • Where he might hide himself and not be caught.

• • LXXI.

  • Sudden he changed his plan, and with strange skill
  • Subdued the strong Latonian, by the might
  • Of winning music, to his mightier will;
  • His left hand held the lyre, and in his right
  • The plectrum struck the chords—unconquerable
  • Up from beneath his hand in circling flight
  • The gathering music rose—and sweet as Love
  • The penetrating notes did live and move

• • LXXII.

  • Within the heart of great Apollo—he
  • Listened with all his soul, and laughed for pleasure.
  • Close to his side stood harping fearlessly
  • The unabashed boy; and to the measure
  • Of the sweet lyre, there followed loud and free
  • His joyous voice; for he unlocked the treasure
  • Of his deep song, illustrating the birth
  • Of the bright Gods and the dark desart Earth:

• • LXXIII.

  • And how to the Immortals every one
  • A portion was assigned of all that is;
  • But chief Mnemosyne did Maia’s son
  • Clothe in the light of his loud melodies;—
  • And as each God was born or had begun
  • He in their order due and fit degrees
  • Sung of his birth and being—and did move
  • Apollo to unutterable love.

• • LXXIV.

  • These words were winged with his swift delight:
  • “You heifer-stealing schemer, well do you
  • Deserve that fifty oxen should requite
  • Such minstrelsies as I have heard even now.
  • Comrade of feasts, little contriving wight,
  • One of your secrets I would gladly know,
  • Whether the glorious power you now show forth
  • Was folded up within you at your birth,

• • LXXV.

  • “Or whether mortal taught or God inspired
  • The power of unpremeditated song?
  • Many divinest sounds have I admired,
  • The Olympian Gods and mortal men among;
  • But such a strain of wondrous, strange, untired,
  • And soul-awakening music, sweet and strong,
  • Yet did I never hear except from thee,
  • Offspring of May, impostor Mercury!

• • LXXVI.

  • “What Muse, what skill, what unimagined use,
  • What exercise of subtlest art, has given
  • Thy songs such power?—for those who hear may choose
  • From three, the choicest of the gifts of Heaven,
  • Delight, and love, and sleep,—sweet sleep, whose dews
  • Are sweeter than the balmy tears of even:—
  • And I, who speak this praise, am that Apollo
  • Whom the Olympian Muses ever follow:

• • LXXVII.

  • “And their delight is dance, and the blithe noise
  • Of song and overflowing poesy;
  • And sweet, even as desire, the liquid voice
  • Of pipes, that fills the clear air thrillingly;
  • But never did my inmost soul rejoice
  • In this dear work of youthful revelry,
  • As now I wonder at thee, son of Jove;
  • Thy harpings and thy song are soft as love.

• • LXXVIII.

  • “Now since thou hast, although so very small,
  • Science of arts so glorious, thus I swear,
  • And let this cornel javelin, keen and tall,
  • Witness between us what I promise here,—
  • That I will lead thee to the Olympian Hall,
  • Honoured and mighty, with thy mother dear,
  • And many glorious gifts in joy will give thee,
  • And even at the end will ne’er deceive thee.”

• • LXXIX.

  • To whom thus Mercury with prudent speech:—
  • “Wisely hast thou enquired of my skill:
  • I envy thee no thing I know to teach
  • Even this day:—for both in word and will
  • I would be gentle with thee; thou canst reach
  • All things in thy wise spirit, and thy sill
  • Is highest in heaven among the sons of Jove,
  • Who loves thee in the fulness of his love.

• • LXXX.

  • “The Counsellor Supreme has given to thee
  • Divinest gifts, out of the amplitude
  • Of his profuse exhaustless treasury;
  • By thee, ’tis said, the depths are understood
  • Of his far voice; by thee the mystery
  • Of all oracular fates,—and the dread mood
  • Of the diviner is breathed up, even I—
  • A child—perceive thy might and majesty—

• • LXXXI.

  • “Thou canst seek out and compass all that wit
  • Can find or teach;—yet since thou wilt, come take
  • The lyre—be mine the glory giving it—
  • Strike the sweet chords, and sing aloud, and wake
  • Thy joyous pleasure out of many a fit
  • Of tranced sound—and with fleet fingers make
  • Thy liquid-voiced comrade talk with thee,
  • It can talk measured music eloquently.

• • LXXXII.

  • “Then bear it boldly to the revel loud,
  • Love-wakening dance, or feast of solemn state,
  • A joy by night or day—for those endowed
  • With art and wisdom who interrogate
  • It teaches, babbling in delightful mood
  • All things which make the spirit most elate,
  • Soothing the mind with sweet familiar play,
  • Chasing the heavy shadows of dismay.

• • LXXXIII.

  • “To those who are unskilled in its sweet tongue,
  • Though they should question most impetuously
  • Its hidden soul, it gossips something wrong—
  • Some senseless and impertinent reply.
  • But thou who art as wise as thou art strong
  • Can compass all that thou desirest. I
  • Present thee with this music-flowing shell,
  • Knowing thou canst interrogate it well.

• • LXXXIV.

  • “And let us two henceforth together feed
  • On this green mountain slope and pastoral plain,
  • The herds in litigation—they will breed
  • Quickly enough to recompense our pain,
  • If to the bulls and cows we take good heed;—
  • And thou, though somewhat over fond of gain,
  • Grudge me not half the profit.”—Having spoke,
  • The shell he proffered, and Apollo took.

• • LXXXV.

  • And gave him in return the glittering lash,
  • Installing him as herdsman;—from the look
  • Of Mercury then laughed a joyous flash.
  • And then Apollo with the plectrum strook
  • The chords, and from beneath his hands a crash
  • Of mighty sounds rushed up, whose music shook
  • The soul with sweetness, as of an adept
  • His sweeter voice a just accordance kept.

• • LXXXVI.

  • The herd went wandering o’er the divine mead,
  • Whilst these most beautiful Sons of Jupiter
  • Won their swift way up to the snowy head
  • Of white Olympus, with the joyous lyre
  • Soothing their journey; and their father dread
  • Gathered them both into familiar
  • Affection sweet,—and then, and now, and ever,
  • Hermes must love Him of the Golden Quiver,

• • LXXXVII.

  • To whom he gave the lyre that sweetly sounded,
  • Which skilfully he held and played thereon.
  • He piped the while, and far and wide rebounded
  • The echo of his pipings; every one
  • Of the Olympians sat with joy astounded,
  • While he conceived another piece of fun,
  • One of his old tricks—which the God of Day
  • Perceiving, said:—“I fear thee, Son of May;—

• • LXXXVIII.

  • “I fear thee and thy sly camelion spirit,
  • Lest thou should steal my lyre and crooked bow;
  • This glory and power thou dost from Jove inherit,
  • To teach all craft upon the earth below;
  • Thieves love and worship thee—it is thy merit
  • To make all mortal business ebb and flow
  • By roguery:—now, Hermes, if you dare,
  • By sacred Styx a mighty oath to swear

• • LXXXIX.

  • “That you will never rob me, you will do
  • A thing extremely pleasing to my heart.”
  • Then Mercury sware by the Stygian dew,
  • That he would never steal his bow or dart,
  • Or lay his hands on what to him was due,
  • Or ever would employ his powerful art
  • Against his Pythian fane. Then Phœbus swore
  • There was no God or man whom he loved more.

• • XC.

  • “And I will give thee as a good-will token,
  • The beautiful wand of wealth and happiness;
  • A perfect three-leaved rod of gold unbroken,
  • Whose magic will thy footsteps ever bless;
  • And whatsoever by Jove’s voice is spoken
  • Of earthly or divine from its recess,
  • It, like a loving soul to thee will speak,
  • And more than this, do thou forbear to seek.

• • XCI.

  • “For, dearest child, the divinations high
  • Which thou requirest, ’tis unlawful ever
  • That thou, or any other deity
  • Should understand—and vain were the endeavour;
  • For they are hidden in Jove’s mind, and I
  • In trust of them, have sworn that I would never
  • Betray the counsels of Jove’s inmost will
  • To any God—the oath was terrible.

• • XCII.

  • “Then, golden-wanded brother, ask me not
  • To speak the fates by Jupiter designed;
  • But be it mine to tell their various lot
  • To the unnumbered tribes of human kind.
  • Let good to these, and ill to those be wrought
  • As I dispense—but he who comes consigned
  • By voice and wings of perfect augury
  • To my great shrine, shall find avail in me.

• • XCIII.

  • “Him will I not deceive, but will assist;
  • But he who comes relying on such birds
  • As chatter vainly, who would strain and twist
  • The purpose of the Gods with idle words,
  • And deems their knowledge light, he shall have mist
  • His road—whilst I among my other hoards
  • His gifts deposit. Yet, O son of May,
  • I have another wondrous thing to say.

• • XCIV.

  • “There are three Fates, three virgin Sisters, who
  • Rejoicing in their wind-outspeeding wings,
  • Their heads with flour snowed over white and new,
  • Sit in a vale round which Parnassus flings
  • Its circling skirts—from these I have learned true
  • Vaticinations of remotest things.
  • My father cared not. Whilst they search out dooms,
  • They sit apart and feed on honeycombs.

• • XCV.

  • “They, having eaten the fresh honey, grow
  • Drunk with divine enthusiasm, and utter
  • With earnest willingness the truth they know;
  • But if deprived of that sweet food, they mutter
  • All plausible delusions;—these to you
  • I give;—if you inquire, they will not stutter;
  • Delight your own soul with them:—any man
  • You would instruct, may profit, if he can.

• • XCVI.

  • “Take these and the fierce oxen, Maia’s child—
  • O’er many a horse and toil-enduring mule,
  • O’er jagged-jawed lions, and the wild
  • White-tusked boars, o’er all, by field or pool,
  • Of cattle which the mighty Mother mild
  • Nourishes in her bosom, thou shalt rule—
  • Thou dost alone the veil of death uplift—
  • Thou givest not—yet this is a great gift.”

• • XCVII.

  • Thus king Apollo loved the child of May
  • In truth, and Jove covered them with love and joy.
  • Hermes with Gods and men even from that day
  • Mingled, and wrought the latter much annoy,
  • And little profit, going far astray
  • Through the dun night. Farewell, delightful Boy,
  • Of Jove and Maia sprung,—never by me,
  • Nor thou, nor other songs shall unremembered be.