Hylas

UNTO the woodland spring he came For water welling fresh and sweet; An eager purpose winged his feet And set his heart aflame. But musing on Alcmene's son— Reviewing, emulous, each prize By the godlike hero won, A-sudden, with surprise, He heard soft voices call upon his name:

Hylas, Hylas, stay and listen!

Pleasure greets thee, Youth entreats thee,—

Where the eddies dimpling glisten, To the love-lorn naiads listen!

Let not carping care destroy Life's jocund prime with counsels cold!— From happy youth the gods withhold The sordid gifts that they employ To plague the old. Let not fruitless toil destroy Days fresh as blossoms newly sprung! Ere sages spoke, ere poets sung, Youth was the gala-time of joy,— And thou art young!

Glory?—ah, 't is labor double! Wealth?—alas! 't is costly trouble! Foolish Hylas! Wouldst thou follow Glistering shows and phantoms hollow, Vague intents and dreams ideal? Here are pleasures sweet as real: Still delights Of summer nights, Rest—which e'en ambition misses— Soft repose On beds of rose In murmurous grots, and waking blisses. Hither comes no word of duty; Life is love, and love is beauty. Hither comes no note of strife; Life is love, and love is life. Raptures bubbling to the brink, Would not a wise man stoop and drink?

Though Heracles sit in his tent And boast to warlike Telamon Of monsters tamed and labors done; Though he recount in lofty strain How dread Nemea's plague was slain, And loudly vaunt, grown eloquent, The rattling heaven-descended spell, And Cerberus upborne from Hell,— Yet, even as he tells the story, And boasts a world-renownèd glory, Telamon applauding—then, Ay, even then, let him recall Shy Megara's face—he'd give it all, All, Hylas, to be young again!"

The wondering boy beheld the gleam Of tresses mirrored in the spring: Naught else; yet soft as in a dream, Those voices sweetly ravishing Fell on his ear. He bent more near, Trembling, amazed, And wistful gazed— Grown eager more to hear— Far down below the cool reflection And wavy sheen of auburn hair. But, Eros blest!—what marvel rare, What more than mortal beauty there, What coy, what wooing-sweet perfection Entrancèd held him, bound as in a snare?

No need to urge him now to stay! . . . Alas! he could not turn away, But on the Naiad's nearing charms Gazed amorous:—on locks of brown, On melting eyes, and rubied lips, Slim throats and dewy finger-tips. He stooped; they caught him in their arms, And held him fast, and drew him down.