Atalanta in Calydon | Page 3

From Ladon and well-wooded
Maenalus Over the firm hills and the fleeting sea Hast thou drawn
hither, and many an armèd king, Heroes, the crown of men, like gods in
fight. Moreover out of all the Aetolian land, From the full-flowered
Lelantian pasturage To what of fruitful field the son of Zeus Won from
the roaring river and labouring sea When the wild god shrank in his
horn and fled And foamed and lessened through his wrathful fords,

Leaving clear lands that steamed with sudden sun, These virgins with
the lightening of the day Bring thee fresh wreaths and their own
sweeter hair, Luxurious locks and flower-like mixed with flowers,
Clean offering, and chaste hymns; but me the time Divides from these
things; whom do thou not less Help and give honour, and to mine
hounds good speed, And edge to spears, and luck to each man's hand.
CHORUS.
When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces, The mother of
months in meadow or plain Fills the shadows and windy places With
lisp of leaves and ripple of rain; And the brown bright nightingale
amorous Is half assuaged for Itylus, For the Thracian ships and the
foreign faces, The tongueless vigil, and all the pain.
Come with bows bent and with emptying of quivers. Maiden most
perfect, lady of light, With a noise of winds and many rivers, With a
clamour of waters, and with might; Bind on thy sandals, O thou most
fleet, Over the splendour and speed of thy feet; For the faint east
quickens, the wan west shivers, Round the feet of the day and the feet
of the night.
Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to her, Fold our hands
round her knees, and cling? O that man's heart were as fire and could
spring to her, Fire, or the strength of the streams that spring! For the
stars and the winds are unto her As raiment, as songs of the harp-player;
For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her, And the southwest-wind
and the west-wind sing.
For winter's rains and ruins are over, And all the season of snows, and
sins; The days dividing lover and lover, The light that loses, the night
that wins; And time remembered is grief forgotten, And frosts are slain
and flowers begotten, And in green underwood and cover Blossom by
blossom the spring begins.
The full streams feed on flower of rushes, Ripe grasses trammel a
travelling foot, The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes From
leaf to flower and flower to fruit, And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire,

And the oat is heard above the lyre, And the hoofèd heel of a satyr
crushes The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root.
And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night, Fleeter of foot than the
fleet-foot kid, Follows with dancing and fills with delight The Maenad
and the Bassarid; And soft as lips that laugh and hide The laughing
leaves of the trees divide, And screen from seeing and leave in sight
The god pursuing, the maiden hid.
The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair Over her eyebrows hiding her
eyes; The wild vine slipping down leaves bare Her bright breast
shortening into sighs; The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves.
But the berried ivy catches and cleaves To the limbs that glitter, the feet
that scare The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies.
ALTHAEA.
What do ye singing? what is this ye sing?
CHORUS.
Flowers bring we, and pure lips that please the gods, And raiment meet
for service: lest the day Turn sharp with all its honey in our lips.
ALTHAEA.
Night, a black hound, follows the white fawn day, Swifter than dreams
the white flown feet of sleep; Will ye pray back the night with any
prayers? And though the spring put back a little while Winter, and
snows that plague all men for sin, And the iron time of cursing, yet I
know Spring shall be ruined with the rain, and storm Eat up like fire the
ashen autumn days. I marvel what men do with prayers awake Who
dream and die with dreaming; any god, Yea the least god of all things
called divine, Is more than sleep and waking; yet we say, Perchance by
praying a man shall match his god. For if sleep have no mercy, and
man's dreams Bite to the blood and burn into the bone, What shall this
man do waking? By the gods, He shall not pray to dream sweet things
to-night, Having dreamt once more bitter things than death.

CHORUS.
Queen, but what is it that hath burnt thine heart? For thy speech flickers
like a brown-out flame.
ALTHAEA.
Look, ye say well, and know not what