Classic Poem

IDYLL XII

The C OMRADES

T HOU art come, lad, come! Scarce thrice hath dusk today
Given place — but lovers in an hour grow gray
As spring's more sweet than winter, grapes than thorns,
The ewe's fleece richer than her latest born's;
As young girls' charms the thrice wed wife's outshine,
As fawns are lither than the ungainly kine,
Or as the nightingale's clear notes outvie
The mingled music of all birds that fly;
So at thy coming passing glad was I.
I ran to greet thee e'en as pilgrims run
To beechen shadows from the scorching sun:
Oh if on us accordant Loves would breathe,
And our two names to future years bequeath!

" These twain" — let men say — " lived in olden days.
This was a yokel (in their country-phrase),
That was his mate (so talked these simple folk):
And lovingly they bore a mutual yoke
The hearts of men were made of sterling gold,
When troth met troth, in those brave days of old."

O Zeus, O gods who age not nor decay!
Let e'en two hundred ages roll away,
But at the last these tidings let me learn,
Borne o'er the fatal pool whence none return: —
" By every tongue thy constancy is sung,
Thine and thy favourite's — chiefly by the young. "
But lo, the future is in heaven's high hand:
Meanwhile thy graces all my praise demand,
Not false lip praise, not idly bubbling froth —
For though thy wrath be kindled, e'en thy wrath
Hath no sting in it: doubly I am caressed,
And go my way repaid with interest.

Oarsmen of Megara, ruled by Nisus erst!
Yours be all bliss, because ye honoured first
That true child lover, Attic Diocles
Around his gravestone with the first spring breeze
Flock the bairns all, to win the kissing prize:
And whoso sweetliest lip to lip applies
Goes crown clad home to its mother. Blest is he
Who in such strife is named the referee:
To brightfaced Ganymede full ofThe'll cry
To lend his lip the potencies that lie
Within that stone with which the usurers
Detect base metal, and which never errs.