University of Virginia Library

THE JUDGMENT OF MIDAS.

Hear what Apollo sang, and what, rough Pan,
To Midas, listening, dull-eyed, judging each,
Beneath the coolness of a stirless pine,
What time the noon its heaviest shadows threw
Down Ida's slopes, and, save each voice and pipe,
Alternate, not a sound the valley heard,
Save only where one hot cicada sung.
First sang Apollo, shaking lightly back
From the high whiteness of his swelling brows,
The golden glory of his clustering curls:
“Hearken, O Midas! not to thee I sing
“As to one fetter'd by thy golden gift
“Unto the low delights and hopes of earth;
“But as to one, earth-born, yet above men
“Favoured—one, lifted by the Gods, a God,
“Dealing the good or ill thou will'st to man.
“What are the pleasures and delights of sense
“That I should sing them unto such as thou?
“Not with such, grovelling, will I soil my song,
“Brutish or flesh-defiled; O Midas, hear
“Thoughts that a God should hear—a God should speak.
“Evil and good, what are they unto thee!
“Not sounds that falsely image to thy soul
“The thoughts and things they show to sights impure;
“Their evil not thy evil, nor their good
“Thy good shall be. Not sloth, not restful hours,
“Thy gold shall grasp, rejoicing!—unused life,
“If that thy sumless treasures to thee gave,
“Better wert thou the neediest of thy slaves,
“That fate, with bitter goad of all men's wills,
“Scourges to labour, so, from out thy toil,
“Should help and some poor good for man be wrung;
“Oh, heed not thou the false and luring voice
“That whispers of the poor delights of ease,
“Of slumbrous nights, and dull, unfruitful days,
“These thou shalt loathe, enjoy'd,—enjoy'd and past,
“Leaving no after-life of glorious thoughts
“Of labours garner'd—the full harvest won.
“Lo, gold is power, or power for good or ill,
“And oft, o'erweighted with the lustrous load,
“Have high resolves, white-wing'd, full-plumed for heaven,
“Waver'd aloft, o'erburden'd, but to fall,
“To flutter in the miry ways of life.
“Spurn thou its rule. Rule thou its strength. Thy slave,
“So shall it minister to loftiest ends,
“And lift thee, mortal, to that higher life
“Of nobler toils and struggles for thy kind
“Than others compass, such as strain'd the strength
“Of Herakles, ere yet he rose, a God,
“O'er labours, vanquish'd, toiling up to heaven.”
Ceased the full song, yet still the sultry noon
Listen'd, even as when Philomel hath ceased
Beneath the moon, the rapt night hearkens on,
Ravening for more of her melodious swells
And gushings of rich sweetness. Then two sounds
Throbb'd through the silence; one, the deep-drawn breath
Of Pan, recovering from the God's strong sway,
And one, far deeper, by dull Midas drawn,
Roused by the stillness from his sultry doze.
Twitching a hairy ear—a mocking laugh
Round his brute mouth and wrinkling all his cheeks,
Lover of cream, the goatherds' God began:
“Earth-born, O Midas, live alone for earth,
“Nor miss its pleasures for an untried heaven.
“Sweet are the plenteous gifts earth has for thee,
“And dear the joys that every season brings,
“The young spring's brightness—the hot summer's shade—
“The autumn's harvests, fruits, and vintage mirth,
“And winter's ruddy gatherings round the hearth,
“While the loud tempest, howling, beats without.
“Ease is thine own; thine, gold; why should'st thou toil?
“Swift comes the day, when to the dreadful shades
“Thy steps descend; live!—yet thou livest; live!
“Live!—wise are they that wring from out their days
“The wine of joy—the nectar of delight.
“Crown thee with roses, Aphrodite's flower,
“The violet and the jasmine, newly blown!
“Wreathe thee with arms more white than Ida's snows,
“But, O, more warm than these deep valleys' noons,
“With wild hot throbs through every violet vein
“Pulsing delight. Sun thee 'neath azure eyes,
“Dewy with passion,—languid with sweet love,
“Brighter than frostiest stars,—lit with desire.
“What joy more sweet than, from the fiery glare
“Shadow'd, beneath the cool of forest boughs,
“Or in some ivied cavern's mouth to lie,
“With honied whispers murmuring in thine ears
“And burning kisses evermore rain'd down
“On half-oped eyes and brow and lip and cheek—
“Mouth sealed to mouth, the rich breath breathing in,
“In golden dreams forgetting all but joy!
“Wreathe me with sun-bathed droopings of the vine!
“Bind me, O Dionusus, in thy chains!
“Thy slave I would be—ever, be thy slave;
“Brim me this beechen bowl with wild delight!
“Wine—give me wine—fierce wine, the drink of gods!
“Drink, mortal! draughts, more sweet than Hebe bears,
“Earth, in these violet clusters, stores for thee,
“Nor dearer sound has, than the gurgling flow
“Of the bright gladness, from the wine-bag's mouth
“Leaping; drink—laugh and love! lo, these are life!”
Then Midas, brute-like, gave the prize to Pan,
And, in the moment that he stretch'd it forth,
A golden pipe, chased by the lame God's hand,
On his dolt's head he felt the dull ears rise,
And in the stream, he saw himself, an ass.