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| RHAICOS was born amid the hills wherefrom | |
| Gnidos the light of Caria is discern’d | |
| And small are the white-crested that play near, | |
| And smaller onward are the purple waves. | |
| Thence festal choirs were visible, all crown’d | 5 |
| With rose and myrtle if they were inborn; | |
| If from Pandion sprang they, on the coast | |
| Where stern Athenè rais’d her citadel, | |
| Then olive was entwin’d with violets | |
| Cluster’d in bosses, regular and large; | 10 |
| For various men wore various coronals, | |
| But one was their devotion; ’t was to her | |
| Whose laws all follow, her whose smile withdraws | |
| The sword from Ares, thunderbolt from Zeus, | |
| And whom in his chill caves the mutable | 15 |
| Of mind, Poseidon, the sea-king, reveres, | |
| And whom his brother, stubborn Dis, hath pray’d | |
| To turn in pity the averted cheek | |
| Of her he bore away, with promises, | |
| Nay, with loud oath before dread Styx itself, | 20 |
| To give her daily more and sweeter flowers | |
| Than he made drop from her on Enna’s dell. | |
| Rhaicos was looking from his father’s door | |
| At the long trains that hasten’d to the town | |
| From all the valleys, like bright rivulets | 25 |
| Gurgling with gladness, wave outrunning wave, | |
| And thought it hard he might not also go | |
| And offer up one prayer, and press one hand, | |
| He knew not whose. The father call’d him in | |
| And said, “Son Rhaicos! those are idle games; | 30 |
| Long enough I have liv’d to find them so.” | |
| And ere he ended, sigh’d; as old men do | |
| Always, to think how idle such games are. | |
| “I have not yet,” thought Rhaicos in his heart, | |
| And wanted proof. | 35 |
| “Suppose thou go and help | |
| Echion at the hill, to bark yon oak | |
| And lop its branches off, before we delve | |
| About the trunk and ply the root with axe: | |
| This we may do in winter.” | 40 |
| Rhaicos went; | |
| For thence he could see farther, and see more | |
| Of those who hurried to the city-gate. | |
| Echion he found there, with naked arm | |
| Swart-hair’d, strong-sinew’d, and his eyes intent | 45 |
| Upon the place where first the axe should fall: | |
| He held it upright. “There are bees about, | |
| Or wasps, or hornets,” said the cautious eld, | |
| “Look sharp, O son of Thallinos!” The youth | |
| Inclin’d his ear, afar, and warily, | 50 |
| And cavern’d in his hand. He heard a buzz | |
| At first, and then the sound grew soft and clear, | |
| And then divided into what seem’d tune, | |
| And there were words upon it, plaintive words. | |
| He turn’d, and said, “Echion! do not strike | 55 |
| That tree: it must be hollow; for some god | |
| Speaks from within. Come thyself near.” Again | |
| Both turn’d toward it: and behold! there sat | |
| Upon the moss below, with her two palms | |
| Pressing it, on each side, a maid in form. | 60 |
| Downcast were her long eyelashes, and pale | |
| Her cheek, but never mountain-ash display’d | |
| Berries of color like her lip so pure, | |
| Nor were the anemones about her hair | |
| Soft, smooth, and wavering like the face beneath. | 65 |
| “What dost thou here?” Echion, half-afraid, | |
| Half-angry, cried. She lifted up her eyes, | |
| But nothing spake she. Rhaicos drew one step | |
| Backward, for fear came likewise over him, | |
| But not such fear: he panted, gasp’d drew in | 70 |
| His breath, and would have turn’d it into words, | |
| But could not into one. | |
| “O send away | |
| That sad old man!” said she. The old man went | |
| Without a warning from his master’s son, | 75 |
| Glad to escape, for sorely he now fear’d | |
| And the axe shone behind him in their eyes. | |
| Hamad. And wouldst thou too shed the most innocent | |
| Of blood? No vow demands it; no god wills | |
| The oak to bleed. | 80 |
| Rhaicos. Who art thou? whence? why here? | |
| And whither wouldst thou go? Among the rob’d | |
| In white or saffron, or the hue that most | |
| Resembles dawn or the clear sky, is none | |
| Array’d as thou art. What so beautiful | 85 |
| As that gray robe which clings about thee close, | |
| Like moss to stones adhering, leaves to trees, | |
| Yet lets thy bosom rise and fall in turn, | |
| As, touch’d by zephyrs, fall and rise the boughs | |
| Of graceful platan by the river-side? | 90 |
| Hamad. Lovest thou well thy father’s house? | |
| Rhaicos. Indeed | |
| I love it, well I love it, yet would leave | |
| For thine, where’er it be, my father’s house, | |
| With all the marks upon the door, that show | 95 |
| My growth at every birthday since the third, | |
| And all the charms, o’erpowering evil eyes, | |
| My mother nail’d for me against my bed, | |
| And the Cydonian bow (which thou shalt see) | |
| Won in my race last spring from Eutychos. | 100 |
| Hamad. Bethink thee what it is to leave a home | |
| Thou never yet hast left, one night, one day. | |
| Rhaicos. No, ’t is not hard to leave it: ’t is not hard | |
| To leave, O maiden, that paternal home | |
| If there be one on earth whom we may love | 105 |
| First, last, for ever; one who says that she | |
| Will love for ever too. To say which word, | |
| Only to say it, surely is enough. | |
| It shows such kindness—if ’t were possible | |
| We at the moment think she would indeed. | 110 |
| Hamad. Who taught thee all this folly at thy age? | |
| Rhaicos. I have seen lovers and have learn’d to love. | |
| Hamad. But wilt thou spare the tree? | |
| Rhaicos. My father wants | |
| The bark; the tree may hold its place awhile. | 115 |
| Hamad. Awhile? thy father numbers then my days? | |
| Rhaicos. Are there no others where the moss beneath | |
| Is quite as tufty? Who would send thee forth | |
| Or ask thee why thou tarriest? Is thy flock | |
| Anywhere near? | 120 |
| Hamad. I have no flock: I kill | |
| Nothing that breathes, that stirs, that feels the air, | |
| The sun, the dew. Why should the beautiful | |
| (And thou art beautiful) disturb the source | |
| Whence springs all beauty? Hast thou never heard | 125 |
| Of Hamadryads? | |
| Rhaicos. Heard of them I have: | |
| Tell me some tale about them. May I sit | |
| Beside thy feet? Art thou not tired? The herbs | |
| Are very soft; I will not come too nigh; | 130 |
| Do but sit there, nor tremble so, nor doubt. | |
| Stay, stay an instant: let me first explore | |
| If any acorn of last year be left | |
| Within it; thy thin robe too ill protects | |
| Thy dainty limbs against the harm one small | 135 |
| Acorn may do. Here ’s none. Another day | |
| Trust me; till then let me sit opposite. | |
| Hamad. I seat me; be thou seated, and content. | |
| Rhaicos. O sight for gods! ye men below! adore | |
| The Aphroditè! Is she there below? | 140 |
| Or sits she here before me? as she sate | |
| Before the shepherd on those heights that shade | |
| The Hellespont, and brought his kindred woe. | |
| Hamad. Reverence the higher Powers; nor deem amiss | |
| Of her who pleads to thee, and would repay— | 145 |
| Ask not how much—but very much. Rise not: | |
| No, Rhaicos, no! Without the nuptial vow | |
| Love is unholy. Swear to me that none | |
| Of mortal maids shall ever taste thy kiss, | |
| Then take thou mine; then take it, not before. | 150 |
| Rhaicos. Hearken, all gods above! O Aphroditè! | |
| O Herè! Let my vow be ratified! | |
| But wilt thou come into my father’s house? | |
| Hamad. Nay: and of mine I cannot give thee part. | |
| Rhaicos. Where is it? | 155 |
| Hamad. In this oak. | |
| Rhaicos. Ay; now begins | |
| The tale of Hamadryad: tell it through. | |
| Hamad. Pray of thy father never to cut down | |
| My tree; and promise him, as well thou mayst, | 160 |
| That every year he shall receive from me | |
| More honey than will buy him nine fat sheep, | |
| More wax than he will burn to all the gods. | |
| Why fallest thou upon thy face? Some thorn | |
| May scratch it, rash young man! Rise up; for shame! | 165 |
| Rhaicos. For shame I cannot rise. O pity me! | |
| I dare not sue for love—but do not hate! | |
| Let me once more behold thee—not once more, | |
| But many days: let me love on—unlov’d! | |
| I aim’d too high: on my own head the bolt | 170 |
| Falls back, and pierces to the very brain. | |
| Hamad. Go—rather go, than make me say I love. | |
| Rhaicos. If happiness is immortality, | |
| (And whence enjoy it else the gods above?) | |
| I am immortal too: my vow is heard— | 175 |
| Hark! on the left—Nay, turn not from me now, | |
| I claim my kiss. | |
| Hamad. Do men take first, then claim? | |
| Do thus the seasons run their course with them? | |
| |
| Her lips were seal’d; her head sank on his breast. | 180 |
| ’T is said that laughs were heard within the wood: | |
| But who should hear them? and whose laughs? and why? | |
| |
| Savory was the smell and long past noon, | |
| Thallinos! in thy house; for marjoram, | |
| Basil and mint, and thyme and rosemary, | 185 |
| Were sprinkled on the kid’s well roasted length, | |
| A waiting Rhaicos. Home he came at last, | |
| Not hungry, but pretending hunger keen, | |
| With head and eyes just o’er the maple plate. | |
| “Thou see’st but badly, coming from the sun, | 190 |
| Boy Rhaicos!” said the father. “That oak’s bark | |
| Must have been tough, with little sap between; | |
| It ought to run; but it and I are old.” | |
| Rhaicos, although each morsel of the bread | |
| Increas’d by chewing, and the meat grew cold | 195 |
| And tasteless to his palate, took a draught | |
| Of gold-bright wine, which, thirsty as he was, | |
| He thought not of, until his father fill’d | |
| The cup, averring water was amiss, | |
| But wine had been at all times pour’d on kid. | 200 |
| It was religion. | |
| He thus fortified | |
| Said, not quite boldly, and not quite abash’d, | |
| “Father, that oak is Zeus’s own; that oak | |
| Year after year will bring thee wealth from wax | 205 |
| And honey. There is one who fears the gods | |
| And the gods love—that one” | |
| (He blush’d, nor said | |
| What one) | |
| “Has promis’d this, and may do more. | 210 |
| Thou hast not many moons to wait until | |
| The bees have done their best; if then there come | |
| Nor wax nor honey, let the tree be hewn.” | |
| “Zeus hath bestow’d on thee a prudent mind,” | |
| Said the glad sire: “but look thou often there, | 215 |
| And gather all the honey thou canst find | |
| In every crevice, over and above | |
| What has been promis’d; would they reckon that?” | |
| |
| Rhaicos went daily; but the nymph as oft, | |
| Invisible. To play at love, she knew, | 220 |
| Stopping its breathings when it breathes most soft, | |
| Is sweeter than to play on any pipe. | |
| She play’d on his: she fed upon his sighs; | |
| They pleas’d her when they gently wav’d her hair, | |
| Cooling the pulses of her purple veins, | 225 |
| And when her absence brought them out, they pleas’d. | |
| Even among the fondest of them all, | |
| What mortal or immortal maid is more | |
| Content with giving happiness than pain? | |
| One day he was returning from the wood | 230 |
| Despondently. She pitied him, and said | |
| “Come back!” and twin’d her fingers in the hem | |
| Above his shoulder. Then she led his steps | |
| To a cool rill that ran o’er level sand | |
| Through lentisk and through oleander; there | 235 |
| Bath’d she his feet, lifting them on her lap | |
| When bath’d, and drying them in both her hands. | |
| He dar’d complain; for those who most are lov’d | |
| Most dare it; but not harsh was his complaint. | |
| “O thou inconstant!” said he, “if stern law | 240 |
| Bind thee, or will, stronger than sternest law, | |
| O, let me know henceforward when to hope | |
| The fruit of love that grows for me but here.” | |
| He spake; and pluck’d it from its pliant stem. | |
| “Impatient Rhaicos! Why thus intercept | 245 |
| The answer I would give? There is a bee | |
| Whom I have fed, a bee who knows my thoughts | |
| And executes my wishes: I will send | |
| That messenger. If ever thou art false, | |
| Drawn by another, own it not, but drive | 250 |
| My bee away: then shall I know my fate, | |
| And—for thou must be wretched—weep at thine. | |
| But often as my heart persuades to lay | |
| Its cares on thine and throb itself to rest, | |
| Expect her with thee, whether it be morn | 255 |
| Or eve, at any time when woods are safe.” | |
| |
| Day after day the Hours beheld them blest, | |
| And season after season: years had past, | |
| Blest were they still. He who asserts that Love | |
| Ever is sated of sweet things, the same | 260 |
| Sweet things he fretted for in earlier days, | |
| Never, by Zeus! lov’d he a Hamadryad. | |
| |
| The nights had now grown longer, and perhaps | |
| The Hamadryads find them lone and dull | |
| Among their woods; one did, alas! She call’d | 265 |
| Her faithful bee: ’t was when all bees should sleep, | |
| And all did sleep but hers. She was sent forth | |
| To bring that light which never wintry blast | |
| Blows out, nor rain nor snow extinguishes, | |
| The light that shines from loving eyes upon | 270 |
| Eyes that love back, till they can see no more. | |
| Rhaicos was sitting at his father’s hearth: | |
| Between them stood the table, not o’er-spread | |
| With fruits which autumn now profusely bore, | |
| Nor anise cakes, nor odorous wine; but there | 275 |
| The draft-board was expanded; at which game | |
| Triumphant sat old Thallinos; the son | |
| Was puzzled, vex’d, discomfited, distraught. | |
| A buzz was at his ear: up went his hand | |
| And it was heard no longer. The poor bee | 280 |
| Return’d (but not until the morn shone bright) | |
| And found the Hamadryad with her head | |
| Upon her aching wrist, and show’d one wing | |
| Half-broken off, the other’s meshes marr’d, | |
| And there were bruises which no eye could see | 285 |
| Saving a Hamadryad’s. | |
| At this sight | |
| Down fell the languid brow, both hands fell down, | |
| A shriek was carried to the ancient hall | |
| Of Thallinos: he heard it not: his son | 290 |
| Heard it, and ran forthwith into the wood. | |
| No bark was on the tree, no leaf was green, | |
| The trunk was riven through. From that day forth | |
| Nor word nor whisper sooth’d his ear, nor sound | |
| Even of insect wing; but loud laments | 295 |
| The woodmen and the shepherds one long year | |
| Heard day and night; for Rhaicos would not quit | |
| The solitary place, but moan’d and died. | |
| |
| Hence milk and honey wonder not, O guest, | |
| To find set duly on the hollow stone. | 300 |
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