Classic Poem

I

I LAID the strewings, darling, on thine urn;
I lowered the torch, I poured the cup to Dis.
Now hushaby, my little child, and learn
Long sleep how good it is.

In vain thy mother prays, wayfaring hence,
Peace to her heart, where only heartaches dwell;
But thou more blest, O mild intelligence!
Forget her, and Farewell.

II

Gentle Grecian passing by,
Father of thy peace am I:
Wouldst thou now, in memory,
Give a soldier's flower to me,
Choose the standard named of yore
Beautiful Worth-dying-for,
That shall wither not, but wave
All the year above my grave.

III

L IGHT thou hast of the moon,
Shade of the dammar-pine,
Here on thy hillside bed;
Fair befall thee, O fair
Lily of womanhood,
Patient long, and at last
Here on thy hillside bed,
Happier: ah, Blaesilla!

IV

M E , deep-tressed meadows, take to your loyal keeping,
Hard by the swish of sickles ever in Aulon sleeping,
Philophron, old and tired, and glad to be done with reaping!

V

U PON thy level tomb, till windy winter morn,
The fallen leaves delay;
But plain and pure their trace is, when themselves are torn
From delicate frost away.

As here to transient frost the absent leaf is, such
Thou wert and art to me:
So on my passing life is thy long-passed touch,
O dear Alcithoi!

VI

H AIL , and be of comfort, thou pious Xeno,
Late the urn of many a kinsman wreathing;
On thine own shall even the stranger offer
Plentiful myrtle.

VII

H ERE lies one in the earth who scarce of the earth was moulded,
Wise Æthalides' son, himself no lover of study,
Cnopus, asleep, indoors: the young invincible runner.
They from the cliff footpath that see on the grave we made him,
Tameless, slant in the wind, the bare and beautiful iris,
Stop short, full of delight, and cry out: " See, it is Cnopus
Runs, with white throat forward, over the sands to Chalcis! "

VIII

E RE the Ferryman from the coast of spirits
Turn the diligent oar that brought thee thither,
Soul, remember: and leave a kiss upon it
For thy desolate father, for thy sister,
Whichsoever be first to cross hereafter.

IX

J AFFA ended, Cos begun
Thee, Aristeus. Thou wert one
Fit to trample out the sun:
Who shall think thine ardours are
But a cinder in a jar?

X

T WO white heads the grasses cover:
Dorcas, and her lifelong lover.
While they graced their country closes
Simply as the brooks and roses,
Where was lot so poor, so trodden,
But they cheered it of a sudden?
Fifty years at home together,
Hand in hand, they went elsewhither,
Then first leaving hearts behind
Comfortless. Be thou as kind.

XI

As wind that wasteth the unmarried rose,
And mars the golden breakers in the bay,
Hurtful and sweet from heaven for ever blows
Sad thought that roughens all our quiet day;

And elder poets envy, while they weep,
Ion, whom first the gods to covert brought,
Here under inland olives laid asleep,
Most wise, most happy, having done with thought.

XII

Cows in the narrowing August marshes,
Cows in a stretch of water
Motionless,
Neck on neck overlapped and drooping;

These in their troubled and dumb communion,
Thou on the steep bank yonder,
Pastora!
No more ever to lead and love them,

No more ever. Thine innocent mourners
Pass thy tree in the evening
Heavily,
Hearing another herd-girl calling.

XIII

Go you by with gentle tread.
This was Paula, who is dead:
Dear grey eyes that had a look
Like some rock-o'ershadowed brook,
Voice upon the ear to cling
Sweeter than the cithern string.
With that spirit shy and fair
Quietly and unaware
Climbing past the starry van,
Went, for triple talisman,
They to whom the heavens must ope:
Candour, Chastity, and Hope.

XIV

T AKE from an urn my vow and salutation
Unto the land I never now shall see:
Laid here exiled, my heart in desolation
Frets like a child against her breast to be.

Far from the sky, a rose that opes at even
(One liquid star for dewdrop on the rose),
Far from the shower that nesting low in heaven
Thrice in an hour light-winged comes and goes,

Far from my lost and blessed and beloved
Nightfall of June beside the Rhodian wave,
Mine is the pain that other isle to covet,
Though all in vain, for gardener of my grave.

XV

P RAISE thou the Mighty Mother for what is wrought, not me,
A nameless nothing-caring head asleep against her knee.