My mother brought you-'twas a fatal day;

And I, alas! unwary led the way:

F'er since my tortured mind has known no rest;
Peace is become a stranger to my breast:

Yet you nor pity, nor relieve my pain-
Yes, yes, I know the cause of your disdain;
For, stretched from ear to ear with shagged grace,
My single brow adds horror to my face;

My single eye enormous lids enclose,

And o'er my blubbered lips projects my nose.

Yet, homely as I am, large flocks I keep,
And drain the udders of a thousand sheep;

My pails with milk, my shelves with cheese they fill,
In scorching summer and in winter chill.
The vocal pipe I tune with pleasing glee,
No other Cyclops can compare with me:
Your charms I sing, sweet apple of delight!
Myself and you I sing the live-long night.
For you ten fawns, with collars decked, I feed,
And four young bears for your diversion breed.
Come, live with me; all these you may command,
And change your azure ocean for the land:
More pleasing slumbers will my cave bestow;
There spiry cypress and green laurels grow;
There round my trees the sable ivy twines,
And grapes, as sweet as honey, load my vines:
From grove-crowned Etna, robed in purest snow,
Cool springs roll nectar to the swains below.
Say, who would quit such peaceful scenes as these
For blustering billows and tempestuous seas?
Though my rough form's no object of desire,
My oaks supply me with abundant fire;
My hearth unceasing blazes-though I swear
By this one eye, to me forever dear,
Well might that fire to warm my breast suffice,
That kindled at the lightning of your eyes.

Had I, like fish, with fins and gills been made,
Then might I in your element have played-
With ease have dived beneath your azure tide,
And kissed your hand, though you your lips denied!
Brought lilies fair, or poppies red that grow

In summer's solstice, or in winter's snow;

These flowers I could not both together bear
That bloom in different seasons of the year

Well, I'm resolved, fair Nymph, I'll learn to dive,
If e'er a sailor at this port arrive;

Then shall I surely by experience know

What pleasures charm you in the deeps below.
Emerge, O Galatea! from the sea,

And here forget your native home like me.

Oh, would you feed my flock and milk my ewes,

And ere you press my cheese the rennet sharp infuse!"

"Ah, Cyclops, Cyclops, where's your reason fled?-
If with the leafy spray your lambs you fed,

Or e'en wove baskets, you would seem more wise;
Milk the first cow, pursue not her that flies:
You'll soon, since Galatea proves unkind,
A sweeter, fairer Galatea find."

Thus Cyclops learned Love's torments to endure,
And calmed that passion which he could not cure.
More sweetly far with song he soothed his heart,
Than if his gold had bribed the doctor's art.

THE SYRACUSAN WOMEN AT THE FESTIVAL OF ADONIS.

IDYLL XV. is a dialogue of two Syracusan women residing in Alexandria, who attend the solemn celebration of the death of Adonis, prepared by Arsinoë, the queen of Ptolemy Philadelphus, and intended partly in commemoration of her mother Berenice.

Gorgo. Is Praxinoa at home?

Praxinoa.

Dear Gorgo, yes!

How late you are! I wonder, I confess,

That you are come e'en now. Quick, brazen-front!

A chair there stupid! lay a cushion on't.
Gor. Thank you, 'tis very well.

Prax.

[To Eunca.

Be seated, pray.

Gor. My untamed soul! what dangers on the way!

I scarce could get alive here: such a crowd!

So many soldiers with their trappings proud!

A weary way it is-you live so far.

Prax. The man whose wits with sense are aye at war, Bought at the world's end but to vex my soul

This dwelling, no! this serpent's lurking hole,

That we might not be neighbors. Plague o' my life,

His only joy is quarreling and strife.

Gor. Talk not of Dinon so before the boy;

See! how he looks at you!

Prax.

My honey-joy!

My pretty dear! 'tis not papa I mean.

Gor. Handsome papa! the urchin, by the queen, Knows every word you say.

Prax.

The other day

For this in sooth of everything we say

That mighty man of inches went and brought me
Salt-which for nitre and ceruse he bought me.

Gor. And so my Diocleide-a brother wit,
A money-waster, lately thought it fit

To give seven goodly drachms for fleeces five-
Mere rottenness, but dog's hair, as I live,
The plucking of old scrips-a work to make.

But come, your cloak and gold-clasped kirtle take,
And let us speed to Ptolemy's rich hall,

To see the fine Adonian festival.

The queen will make the show most grand, I hear. Prax. All things most rich in rich men halls appear. To those who have not seen it, one can tell

What one has seen.

Gor.

'Tis time to go.-'Tis well

For those who all the year have holidays.

Prax. Eunoa, my cloak-you wanton! quickly raise, And place it near me-cats would softly sleep;

And haste for water-how the jade does creep!

The water first-now, did you ever see?

She brings the cloak first: well, then, give it me.

You wasteful slut, not too much-pour the water!
What! have you wet my kirtie? sorrow's daughter!
Stop, now: I'm washed-gods love me: where's the key
Of the great chest? be quick, and bring it me.

Gor. The gold-clasped and full-skirted gown you wear Becomes you vastly. May I ask, my dear,

How much in all it cost you from the loom?

Prax. Don't mention it: I'm sure I did consume

More than two mine on it: and I held on
The work with heart and soul.

Gor.

But when done, well done!

Prax. Truly-you're right. My parasol and cloakArrange it nicely. Cry until you choke,

I will not take you, child; horse bites, you know—
Boo! Boo! no use to have you lame. Let's go.
Play with the little man, my Phrygian! call
The hound in; lock the street-door of the hall.-

[They pass into the street.

Gods, what a crowd: they swarm like ants, how ever
Shall we work through them with our best endeavor?
From when thy sire was numbered with the blest,
Many fine things, and this among the rest,
Hast thou done, Ptolemy! No villain walks
The street, and picks your pocket, as he talks
On some pretence with you, in Egypt's fashion:
As once complete in every style, mood, passion,
Resembling one another, rogues in grain,
Would mock and pilfer, and then-mock again.
What will become of us, dear Gorgo? see!
The king's war-horses! Pray, don't trample me,
Good sir! the bay horse rears! how fierce a one!
Eunoa, stand from him: dog-heart! won't you run?
He'll kill his leader! what a thought of joy,

That safe at home remains my precious boy!

Gor. Courage! they're as they were-and we behind them. Prax. I nearly lost my senses; now I find them,

And am myself again. Two things I hold

In mortal dread-a horse and serpent cold,

And have done from a child. Let us keep moving;

Oh! what a crowd is on us, bustling, shoving.

Gor. (to an old woman). Good mother, from the palace?
Old Woman.
Yes, my dear.

Gor. Is it an easy thing to get in there?

Old Wom. The Achæans got to Troy, there's no denying.

All things are done, as they did that-by trying.

Gor. The old dame spoke oracles.

Prax.

Our sex, as you know,

Know all things-e'en how Zeus espoused his Juno.

Gor. Praxinoa, what a crowd about the gates!

Prax. Immense! your hand; and, Eunoa, hold your mate's;

Do you keep close, I say, to Eutychis,

And close to us, for fear the way you miss.
Let us, together all, the entrance gain:

Ah me! my summer-cloak is rent in twain.
Pray, spare my cloak, heaven bless you, gentleman!
Stranger. 'Tis not with me-I will do what I can.
Prax. The crowd, like pigs, are thrusting.

Stran.

'Tis well with us.

Prax.

Cheer thy heart,

And for your friendly part,
This year and ever be it well with you!

A kind and tender man as e'er I knew.
See! how our Eunoa is pressed-push through-
Well done! all in-as the gay bridegroom cried,
And turned the key upon himself and bride.

[They enter the temple.

Gor. What rich, rare tapestry! Look, and you'll swear, The fingers of the goddesses were here.

Prax. August Athene! who such work could do?

Who spun the tissue, who the figures drew?

How life-like are they, and they seem to move!
True living shapes they are, and not inwove!
How wise is man! And there he lies outspread
In all his beauty on his silver bed,
Thrice-loved Adonis, in his youth's fresh glow,
Loved even where the rueful stream doth flow.

A Stranger. Cease ye like turtles idly thus to babble:
They'll torture all of us with brogue and gabble.

Gor. Who're you? what's it to you our tongues we use?

Rule your own roost, not dames of Syracuse.
And this too know we were in times foregone
Corinthians, sir, as was Bellerophon.

We speak the good old Greek of Pelops' isle:
Dorians, I guess, may Dorian talk the while.

Prax. Nymph! grant we be at none but one man's pleasure;

A rush for you-don't wipe my empty measure.

Gor. Praxinoa, hush! behold the Argive's daughter,
The girl who sings as though the Muses taught her,
That won the prize for singing Sperchis' ditty,
Prepares to chant Adonis; something pretty
I'm sure she'll sing: with motion, voice, and eye,
She now preludes-how sweetly, gracefully!