Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Then came the Argo to an unknown isle,
Where thought the mariners to rest awhile,
To fill the empty water-skins anew,
And gather store of juicy fruit that grew
Upon the laden trees along the strand.

Hylas,—an earthen pitcher in his hand,—
First wades to shore, to seek a woodland spring
And water for the mid-day meal to bring.
Beautiful Hylas, loved of Hercules!
Who often set him on his mighty knees,
And told him how a hero's fame was earned,
Till the boy's heart with thoughts of glory burned.

So, while he hies him to the bosky vales,
The mariners haul down the flapping sails,
The anchor cast, and leap upon the sand;
Some draw the net and from the shallows land
The silver tunny-fish, or baskets fill
With parsley pale and crisp luxuriant dill,

That at the fringes of the forest shine;
Others for fuel gather boughs of pine;
And while the frugal banquet they prepare,
Their shouts and laughter float upon the air.

Soon as the feast is done, beneath the trees,
With listening comrades stretched around at ease,
The minstrel Orpheus on his cithern plays
And sings the famous deeds of former days.

But when the noon-day heat is overpast,
Along the level sand the games they range;
Huge boulders, here, in ordered turn they cast,
The wrestlers writhe with many an antic strange,
And youths of Elis or Aetolia leap
The pools that lie along the ebbing deep;
There, like an antelope, the runner flies,
And great Alcides stands to judge the prize.
But yet the while his thoughts seem otherwise,
Nor in the triumph nor defeat to share;
His heart is with his comrade, far away
In forests wandering since the break of day;
And now the mellow sunset lulls the breeze;
The billows leap no more; across the bay
The calm, uncrested ripple of the seas
Lisps murmurous secrets of the coming night;
No more the sea-bird soars with wheeling flight;
Touched by the torch of Evening, each in turn,
The cressets of the sky begin to burn;
The tide creeps up the sands where late they set
The racing goal: but Hylas comes not yet.

Then, through the woods, the hero strides away,
To shout for Hylas. 'Wildered or astray,

Wounded or faint, some evil chance befalls
The winsome boy! And ever as he calls
He stands awhile, with ear intent, to hark
If there be answer through the dreary dark!
For in his mind a vision will not cease
Of locks as golden as the Golden Fleece,
That oft were wont upon his breast to spread
When there the happy child would lay his head;
And often, too, a voice he seems to hear,
That loved to tell youth's day-dreams in his ear!
But till the Eastern clouds are all aflame,
Only mad echo answers Hylas' name.

At sun-rise he perceives a narrow vale,
Where sky-blue swallow-wort and galingale
With mallow cool and trembling maiden-hair
The sheltered margin of a river share;
Here, as he kneels along a strip of sand,
To splash his fevered brow with hollow hand,
With sudden pang he sees the shape impressed
Of youthful footsteps by the river brink!
He starts erect! He must renew the quest!
He pants, he runs; and scarcely dares to think
If he should hope or be the more distressed!

So comes he to the head of the ravine,
And there beholds a bubbling pool, between
Unnumbered flowers, enamelling the ground,
And golden-fruited trees. He looks around
And calls for Hylas. Then with sudden start
A chilling tremour seizes on his heart,—
Beside the fount an earthen pitcher lies!
Again the forest echoes with his cries;

Again along the hateful shore he seeks:
But all is silence; nought of Hylas speaks
Save that deserted pitcher. But its tale
Of desolation darkens all the vale.

And yet fair Hylas was not truly dead,
For when he rambled to the river's head,
And stood upon a boulder, shelving sheer
Into the well of water crystal-clear,
Up through the cloven wave, with sudden swirl
Of silvery spray, arose a Naiad girl!
Glad, glad was Hylas; for not yet had men
Scared gentle fairies from the lake and glen
But who was pure in spirit and right free
Might meet them oft beneath the forest tree.
Around her soon a troop of Naiads rise,
Naked, with clinging hair and dusky eyes;
They stretch alluring arms, and laughing toy
With the fair curls that crown the lovely boy;
Then, at the touch of those immortal hands,
His nature changes; fearless, to the sands
Beneath the wave, he lets them draw him down,
And with large lilies plait for him a crown,
Among their grottoes, pale with shelly floor.
Here would he stay with them for evermore,
And feel not summer heat, nor wintry cold;
Never grow weary, sorrowful, nor old;
But chase the speckled fish with emerald eyes,
Pluck down the clustered apples, golden-ripe,
By the lake-side, and when the moon should rise,
Dance with the maidens to the Satyrs' pipe!

Now whether Hercules, beside the well,
Had visions of this witchery that befell,

By very anguish wearied into sleep,
Or whether from the water's crystal deep
Rose up with Hylas those Limnaean maids,
I know not; for the isle before me fades;
The Argonauts have put to sea once more,
And dimly glimmers that enchanted shore.

But this I know,—the minstrel Orpheus oft,
When round the prow the ripples murmured soft,
A ballad for the mariners would make
Of Hylas and the Maidens of the Lake.