But the sailors did not dare let him go to Periander, knowing that the king loved him and would have them punished for the robbery. They said they would kill him in the ship, or he might plunge into the sea.
Arion was brave and chose to give his life to the waves. He dressed as if going to a festival, with his handsomest garments, his jewels, and a crown of golden laurel leaves. Taking his lyre, he played so exquisitely that even the cruel sailors were moved to pity, but the thought of his gold hardened their hearts.
As he plunged beneath the waves, a dolphin, charmed by his music, offered its broad back for him to ride upon.
The sailors thought him drowned and continued on their way. Meanwhile Arion journeyed on, singing and playing as he went. The dolphin bore him safely to the shore. He reached Corinth, and told his friend Periander of the treachery of the sailors.
When the ship arrived, the sailors landed and were conducted to the palace. “Where is Arion?” asked Periander. “Has he not returned?” The sailors replied that he was safe in Tarentum.
At this moment Arion appeared, tall and handsome, wearing elegant robes and shining jewels. Amazed to see one whom they believed dead, the sailors fell on their knees and cried,—“We murdered him, and he has become a god! O earth, open and receive us!”
“Yes,” replied the king, “the gods delight to honor the poet, and they have saved the life of one whose music charms all hearts but yours. Arion does not desire your death. Go, avaricious souls, and never know the joy that beauty and music can bring.”
JUNE.
No price is set on the lavish summer;
June may be had by the poorest comer.
And what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays:
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,
An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And, groping blindly above it for light,
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;
The flush of life may well be seen
Thrilling back over hills and valleys;
The cowslip startles in meadows green,
The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there’s never a leaf nor a blade too mean
To be some happy creature’s palace;
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
And lets his illumined being o’errun
With the deluge of summer it receives;
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,—
In the nice ear of nature which song is the best?