Love, Worship and Death Part 5

Sweet is the music of that air, by Pan of Arcady, Thou drawest from the harpstrings, too sweet, Zenophile; The thronging loves on every side close in and press me nigh, And leave me scarce a breathing s.p.a.ce, so whither can I fly?

Is it thy beauty or thy song that kindles my desire, Thy grace, or every thing thou art? For I am all on fire.

IV

LOVE AND DEATH

Friend Cleobulus, when I die Who conquered by desire, Abandoned in the ashes lie Of youth's consuming fire, Do me this service, drench in wine The urn you pa.s.s beneath, And grave upon it this one line, 'The gift of Love to Death.'

V

LOVE'S MALICE

Cruel is Love, ah cruel, and what can I do more Than moaning love is cruel, repeat it o'er and o'er?

I know the boy is laughing and pleased that I grow grim, And just the bitter things I say are the bread of life to him.

But you that from the grey-green wave arising, Cyprian, came, 'Tis strange that out of water you should have borne a flame.

VI

ASCLEPIAS

Like the calm sea beguiling with those blue eyes of hers, Asclepias tempteth all men to be love's mariners.

VII

HELIODORA

Say Heliodore, and Heliodore, and still say Heliodore, And let the music of her name mix with the wine you pour.

And wreath me with the wreath she wore, that holds the scent of myrrh, For all that it be yesterday's, in memory of her.

The rose that loveth lovers, the rose lets fall a tear Because my arms are empty, because she is not here.

VIII

THE WREATH

White violet with the tender-leaved narcissus I will twine, And the laughing lips of lilies with myrtle blooms combine; And I will bind the hyacinth, the dark red-purple flower, With crocus sweet and roses that are the lovers' dower, To make the wreath that Heliodore's curl-scented brow shall wear, To strew with falling petals the glory of her hair.

IX

LIBATION

Pour out as if for Peitho, and for the Cyprian pour, Then for the sweet-voiced Graces, but all for Heliodore; For there is but one G.o.ddess whose worship I enshrine, And blent with her beloved name I drink the virgin wine.

X

THE GRAVE OF HELIODORA

Tears for thee, Heliodore, and bitter tears to shed, If all that love has left to give can reach thee with the dead; Here at thy grave I offer, that tear-drenched grave of thine, Libation of my longing before affection's shrine.

Forlorn I mourn thee, dearest, in the land where shadows dwell, Forlorn, and grudge the tribute death could have spared so well.

Where is the flower I cherished? Plucked by the G.o.d of doom; Plucked, and his dust has tarnished the scarce unbudded bloom.

I may but pray thee, mother earth, who givest all thy best, Clasp her I mourn for ever close to thy gentle breast.

XI

HIS EPITAPH

Tread softly, ye that pa.s.s, for here The old man rests his head, And sleeps the sleep that all men must Among the honoured dead.

Meleager, son of Eucrates, Who linked the joyous train Of Graces and of Muses With love's delicious pain.

From Gadara, the sacred land, I came and G.o.d-built Tyre, But Meropis and pleasant Cos Consoled life's waning fire.

If thou be Syrian, say Salaam, Or Hail, if Greek thou be, Say Naidios, if Phnician born, For all are one to me.

CRINAGORAS

1ST CENTURY B.C.

ROSES IN WINTER

In spring it was we roses Were used to bloom of old, Who now in midmost winter Our crimson cells unfold, To greet thee on the birthday That shall thy bridal bring.

'Tis more to grace so fair a brow Than know the suns of spring.