They stooped, in the gleam of the faint light, over
The print of themselves on the limpid gloom;
And she lifted her full palm toward her lover,
With her lips preparing the words of doom.
But the warm heart rose, and the cold hand fell,
And the pledge of her faith sprang sweet and clear,
From a holier source than the old Saint's well,
From the depth of a woman's love—a tear.
PAUSIAS AND GLYCERA; OR, THE FIRST FLOWER-PAINTER
A STORY IN THREE SCENES
(Plin. Nat. Hist., xxxv. ii)
Scene I:—Outside the gate of Sicyon—Morning. Glycera
weaving garlands, Pausias stands admiring.
Pausias
"YE Gods, I thought myself the Prince of Art,
By Phoebus, and the Muses set apart,
To smite the critic with his own complaint,
And teach the world the proper way to paint.
But lo, a young maid trips out of a wood,
And what becomes of all I understood?
I Stand and Stare; I Could Not Draw a Line,
if Ninety Muses Came, Instead of Nine.
Thy Name, Fair Maiden, is a Debt to Me;
Teach Him to Speak, Whom Thou Hast Taught To See.
Myself Already Some Repute Have Won,
for I Am Pausias, Brietes' Son.
to Boast Behoves Me Not, Nor Do I Need,
But Often Wish My Friends to Win the Meed.
So Shall They Now; No More Will I Pursue
the Beaten Track, But Try What Thou Hast Shown,
New Forms, New Curves, New Harmonies of Tone,
New Dreams of Heaven, and How to Make Them True."