"Why do I translate this stuff? Why, but for the sake of a child who will never see it—who if she read it, would not understand a word?"
"Lo! Behold ye the bulls, with how lordly a
flank they besprawl on the broom!
—Yet obey the uxorious yoke and are tamed
by Dione her doom.
Or behear ye the sheep, to the husbanding
rams how they bleat to the shade!
Or behear ye the birds, at the Goddess'
command how they sing unafraid!—
Be it harsh as the swannery's clamour that
shatters the hush of the lake;
Be it dulcet as where Philomela holds
darkling the poplar awake,
So melting her soul into music, you'd vow
'twas her passion, her own,
She chanteth—her sister forgot, with the
Daulian crime long-agone.
Hush! Hark! Draw around to the circle…
Ah, loitering Summer, say when
For me shall be broken the charm, that I
chirp with the swallow again?
I am old: I am dumb: I have waited to
sing till Apollo withdrew.
—So Amyclæ a moment was mute, and for
ever a wilderness grew.—
Now learn ye to love who loved never—now ye
who have loved, love anew!"
"Lo! Behold ye the bulls, with how lordly a
flank they besprawl on the broom!
—Yet obey the uxorious yoke and are tamed
by Dione her doom.
Or behear ye the sheep, to the husbanding
rams how they bleat to the shade!
Or behear ye the birds, at the Goddess'
command how they sing unafraid!—
Be it harsh as the swannery's clamour that
shatters the hush of the lake;
Be it dulcet as where Philomela holds
darkling the poplar awake,
So melting her soul into music, you'd vow
'twas her passion, her own,
She chanteth—her sister forgot, with the
Daulian crime long-agone.
Hush! Hark! Draw around to the circle…
Ah, loitering Summer, say when
For me shall be broken the charm, that I
chirp with the swallow again?
I am old: I am dumb: I have waited to
sing till Apollo withdrew.
—So Amyclæ a moment was mute, and for
ever a wilderness grew.—
Now learn ye to love who loved never—now ye
who have loved, love anew!"
"Perdidi musam tacendo," murmured Brother Copas, gazing afield. "Only the young can speak to the young.… God grant that, at the right time, the right Prince may come to her over the meadows, and discourse honest music!"
Splash!
He sprang up and snatched at his rod. A two-pound trout had risen almost under his nose.
CHAPTER XXIV.
FINIS CORONAT OPUS.
The great day dawned at last: the day to which all Merchester had looked forward for months, for which so many hundreds had been working, on which all must now pin their hopes: the opening day of Pageant Week.