The music of the lyre blows away
The clouds which wrap the soul.

Oh! that Fate had let me see

That triumph of the sweet persuasive lyre,
That famous, final victory

When jealous Pan with Marsyas did conspire;

When, from far Parnassus' side,

Young Apollo, all the pride

Of the Phrygian flutes to tame,
To the Phrygian highlands came;
Where the long green reed-beds sway
In the rippled waters gray

Of that solitary lake

Where Maeander's springs are born;
Whence the ridged pine-wooded roots
Of Messogis westward break,

Mounting westward, high and higher.
There was held the famous strife;
There the Phrygian brought his flutes,
And Apollo brought his lyre;

And, when now the westering sun
Touched the hills, the strife was done,
And the attentive Muses said,

“Marsyas, thou art vanquishèd!”
Then Apollo's minister

Hanged upon a branching fir
Marsyas, that unhappy Faun,
And began to whet his knife.

But the Maenads, who were there,

Left their friend, and with robes flowing

In the wind, and loose dark hair

O'er their polished bosoms blowing,

Each her ribboned tambourine

Flinging on the mountain-sod,

With a lovely frightened mien
Came about the youthful god.
But he turned his beauteous face
Haughtily another way,

From the grassy sun-warmed place
Where in proud repose he lay,
With one arm over his head,
Watching how the whetting sped.

But aloof, on the lake-strand,
Did the young Olympus stand,
Weeping at his master's end;
For the Faun had been his friend.
For he taught him how to sing,
And he taught him flute-playing.
Many a morning had they gone
To the glimmering mountain lakes,
And had torn up by the roots

The tall crested water-reeds

With long plumes and soft brown seeds, And had carved them into flutes,

Sitting on a tabled stone

Where the shoreward ripple breaks.
And he taught him how to please
The red-snooded Phrygian girls,
Whom the summer evening sees
Flashing in the dance's whirls
Underneath the starlit trees
In the mountain villages.
Therefore now Olympus stands,
At his master's piteous cries
Pressing fast with both his hands
His white garment to his eyes,
Not to see Apollo's scorn.—

Ah, poor Faun, poor Faun! ah, poor Faun!

T

IV

HROUGH the black, rushing smoke-bursts,

Thick breaks the red flame

All Etna heaves fiercely
Her. forest-clothed frame.

Not here, O Apollo!

Are haunts meet for thee.

But where Helicon breaks down In cliff to the sea,

Where the moon-silvered inlets

Send far their light voice
Up the still vale of Thisbe,-
Oh, speed, and rejoice!

On the sward at the cliff-top
Lie strewn the white flocks:
On the cliff-side the pigeons
Roost deep in the rocks.

In the moonlight the shepherds,
Soft lulled by the rills,
Lie wrapt in their blankets
Asleep on the hills.

- What forms are these coming So white through the gloom? What garments out-glistening The gold-flowered broom?

What sweet-breathing presence
Out-perfumes the thyme?
What voices enrapture
The night's balmy prime?.

'Tis Apollo comes leading
His choir, the Nine.
-The leader is fairest,
But all are divine.

They are lost in the hollows!

They stream up again!

What seeks on this mountain

The glorified train?

They bathe on this mountain,
In the spring by their road;
Then on to Olympus,

Their endless abode.

Whose praise do they mention?

Of what is it told?.

What will be forever,

What was from of old.

First hymn they the Father

Of all things; and then,

The rest of immortals,
The action of men.

The day in his hotness,
The strife with the palm;
The night in her silence,
The stars in their calm.

Matthew Arnold

THE LOTOS-EATERS

"COURAGE!" he said, and pointed toward

the land,

"This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon."

In the afternoon they came unto a land

In which it seemed always afternoon.

All round the coast the languid air did swoon,
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.
Full-faced above the valley stood the moon;
And like a downward smoke, the slender stream
Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did

A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke,
Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go;
And some thro' wavering lights and shadows
broke,

Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below..
They saw the gleaming river seaward flow.

From the inner land: far off, three mountaintops,

Three silent pinnacles of aged snow,

Stood sunset-flush'd: and, dew'd with showery . drops,

Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven

copse.

The charmed sunset linger'd low adown

In the red West: thro' mountain clefts the dale
Was seen far inland, and the yellow down
Border'd with palm, and many a winding vale
And meadow, set with slender galingale;"
A land where all things always seem'd the same!
And round about the keel with faces pale,
Dark faces pale against that rosy flame,
The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came.

Branches they bore of that enchanted stem,
Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave,
To each, but whoso did receive of them,
And taste, to him the gushing of the wave
Far far away did seem to mourn and rave