University of Virginia Library

HYLAS

Not for ourselves alone the God, who fathered that stripling
Erôs, begat him, Nicias, as we have flattered us: neither
Unto ourselves the first have beauties seemed to be beauties,—
Not unto us, who are mortal and do not foresee the morrow;
But that heart of brass, Amphitryôn's son, who awaited
Stoutly the ruthless lion, he too was fond of a youth once—
Graceful Hylas, the lad with the curling locks,—and he taught him
All fair things, as a father would teach the child of his bosom,
All which himself had learned, and great and renowned in song grown;
Nor was he ever at all apart from him, neither at mid-day,
Nor when the white-horsed car of Eôs ran up to Zeusward,—
Nor when the twittering chickens looked to their nest, and the mother
Over her smoky perch at eve had fluttered her pinions,—
So might the lad be featly trained to his heart's own liking,
And, with himself for guide, grow up a genuine hero.
Now when it chanced that Jason, the son of Æson, went sailing
After the Golden Fleece, and with him followed the nobles,—
Picked from all the towns and ripe for that service,—among them
Also to rich Iôlkos came the laboring hero,
He that was son of Alcmêne,—the heroine of Midea;
By his side went Hylas down to the bulwarked Argo,—
Which good ship the clashing Cyanean rocks in no wise
Touched, but clove as an eagle,—and so ran into deep Phasis,—
Clove through a mighty surge, whence low reefs jutted in those days.
So at the time when the Pleiads rise,—and out-of-way places
Pasture the youngling lamb, and Spring has turned,—the immortal
Flower of heroes began of their voyage then to be mindful,
And, having sat them down again in the hollow Argo,
Came to the Hellespont, a south wind blowing, the third day,
And within the Propontis their anchorage made,—where oxen
Broaden Ciánian furrows afield, and brighten the ploughshare.
There stepping out on the beach they got the meal of the evening,
Two by two; and many were strewing a couch for them all, since
Close at hand lay a meadow,—to furnish sedge for the bedding:
Thence sharp flowering-rush and low galingale they cut them.
And with a brazen ewer the fair-haired Hylas was seeking
Water, for Héraklês' supper and sturdy Telamon's also,—
Comrades twain, that ever were used to eat at one table.
Erelong, too, he spied a spring in a low-lying hollow:
Round its brim there grew a host of rushes, and dark-blue
Celandine rose, and pale-green maiden-hair: and parsley
Throve, and the witch-grass tangling wild through watery places.
Now the Nymphs were starting a dance in the midst of the fountain,—
Sleepless Nymphs, divine, to country people a terror,—
Malis, Euneica, and one with her look of the Spring, Nycheia.
Soothly, the lad was holding the huge jar over the water,
Dipping in haste, when one and all grew fast to his hand there.
Love wound close around the gentle hearts of the bevy,
Love for the Argive boy: and headlong into the dark pool
Fell he, as when a fiery star has fallen from heaven
Headlong into the sea, and a sailor cries to his shipmates:
“Loosen the tackle, lads!—O, here comes a wind for sailing!”
As for the Nymphs, they held on their knees the tearful stripling,
And with their kindly words were fain to comfort his spirit.
But Amphitryôn's son, alarmed for the youth, bestirred him,
Taking Scythian-wise his bended bow and its arrows,
Also the club, which his right hand ever to hold was accustomed.
Thrice, ay, thrice he shouted Hylas! loud as his deep throat
Could, while thrice the lad heard underneath, and a thin voice
Came from the wave, and O, so near he was, yet so distant!
And as a thick-maned lion, that hears a whimpering fawn cry
Far away,—some lion that munches flesh on the mountains,—
Speeds from his lair to a meal which surely waits for his coming,
So, through untrodden brambles, Héraklês, craving the dear youth,
Sped in tremor and scoured great reaches this way and that way.
Reckless are they who love! what ills he suffered while ranging
Cliffs and thickets! and light, beside this, seemed the quest of Jason.
Meanwhile the ship lay still, with her tackle hoisted above her,
And,—of those present,—the youth were clearing the sails at midnight,
Waiting for Héraklês: he, wherever his feet might lead him,
Wild went on, for a cruel god was tearing his heartstrings.
Fairest Hylas is numbered thus with the Happy Immortals:
Nathless the heroes were scoffing at Héraklês as a deserter,
Since he had fled from the ship of the thirty benches, from Argo.
Onward he trudged afoot to Colchis and welcomeless Phasis.