Classic Poem

MYRSON

Then prithee, Lycidas, wilt thou chant me some pretty lay of Sicily, some delightful sweetheart song of love such as the Cyclops sang to Galatea of the sea-beaches?

LYCIDAS

I myself should like to make some music, Myrson; so what shall it be?

MYRSON

The sweet and enviable love-tale of Scyros, Lycidas, the stolen kisses of the child of Peleus and the stolen espousal of the same, how a lad donned women's weeds and played the knave with his outward seeming, and how in the women's chamber the reckless Deidameia found out Achilles among the daughters of Lycomedes.

LYCIDAS ( sings )

Once on a day, and a woeful day for the wife that loved him well,
The neatherd stole fair Helen and bare her to Ida fell.
Sparta was wroth and roused to arms Achaea wide and far;
Mycenae, Elis, Sparta-land —
No Greek but scorned at home to stand
For all the woes of war.
Yet one lay hid the maids amid, Achilles was he hight;
Instead of arms he learnt to spin
And with wan hand his rest to win,
His cheeks were snow-white freakt with red,
He wore a kerchief on his head,
And woman-lightsome was his tread,
All maiden to the sight.
Yet man was he in his heart, and man was he in his love;
From dawn to dark he'ld sit him by
A maid yclept Deidamy,
And oft would kiss her hand, and oft
Would set her weaver's-beam aloft
And praise the web she wove.
Come dinner-time, he'd go to board that only may beside,
And do his best of deed and word to win her for his bride;
" The others share both board and bed, " such wont his words to be,
" I sleep alone and you alone; though we be maidens free,
Maidens and fair maidens, we sleep on pallets two;
'Tis that cruel crafty Nysa that is parting me and you. ... "