He was a Grecian lad, who coming home

         With pulpy figs and wine from Sicily

      Stood at his galley’s prow, and let the foam

         Blow through his crisp brown curls unconsciously,

      And holding wave and wind in boy’s despite

      Peered from his dripping seat across the wet and stormy night.

      Till with the dawn he saw a burnished spear

         Like a thin thread of gold against the sky,

      And hoisted sail, and strained the creaking gear,

         And bade the pilot head her lustily

      Against the nor’west gale, and all day long

      Held on his way, and marked the rowers’ time with measured song.

      And when the faint Corinthian hills were red

         Dropped anchor in a little sandy bay,

      And with fresh boughs of olive crowned his head,

         And brushed from cheek and throat the hoary spray,

      And washed his limbs with oil, and from the hold

      Brought out his linen tunic and his sandals brazen-soled,

      And a rich robe stained with the fishers’ juice

         Which of some swarthy trader he had bought

      Upon the sunny quay at Syracuse,

         And was with Tyrian broideries inwrought,

      And by the questioning merchants made his way

      Up through the soft and silver woods, and when the labouring day

      Had spun its tangled web of crimson cloud,

         Clomb the high hill, and with swift silent feet

      Crept to the fane unnoticed by the crowd

         Of busy priests, and from some dark retreat

      Watched the young swains his frolic playmates bring

      The firstling of their little flock, and the shy shepherd fling

      The crackling salt upon the flame, or hang

         His studded crook against the temple wall

      To Her who keeps away the ravenous fang

         Of the base wolf from homestead and from stall;

      And then the clear-voiced maidens ’gan to sing,

      And to the altar each man brought some goodly offering,

      A beechen cup brimming with milky foam,

         A fair cloth wrought with cunning imagery

      Of hounds in chase, a waxen honey-comb

         Dripping with oozy gold which scarce the bee

      Had ceased from building, a black skin of oil

      Meet for the wrestlers, a great boar the fierce and white-tusked spoil

      Stolen from Artemis that jealous maid

         To please Athena, and the dappled hide

      Of a tall stag who in some mountain glade

         Had met the shaft; and then the herald cried,

      And from the pillared precinct one by one

      Went the glad Greeks well pleased that they their simple vows had done.

      And the old priest put out the waning fires

         Save that one lamp whose restless ruby glowed

      For ever in the cell, and the shrill lyres

         Came fainter on the wind, as down the road

      In joyous dance these country folk did pass,

      And with stout hands the warder closed the gates of polished brass.

      Long time he lay and hardly dared to breathe,

         And heard the cadenced drip of spilt-out wine,

      And the rose-petals falling from the wreath

         As the night breezes wandered through the shrine,

      And seemed to be in some entrancèd swoon

      Till through the open roof above the full and brimming moon

      Flooded with sheeny waves the marble floor,

         When from his nook up leapt the venturous lad,

      And flinging wide the cedar-carven door

         Beheld an awful image saffron-clad

      And armed for battle! the gaunt Griffin glared

      From the huge helm, and the long lance of wreck and ruin flared

      Like a red rod of flame, stony and steeled

         The Gorgon’s head its leaden eyeballs rolled,

      And writhed its snaky horrors through the shield,

         And gaped aghast with bloodless lips and cold

      In passion impotent, while with blind gaze

      The blinking owl between the feet hooted in shrill amaze.

      The lonely fisher as he trimmed his lamp

         Far out at sea off Sunium, or cast

      The net for tunnies, heard a brazen tramp

         Of horses smite the waves, and a wild blast

      Divide the folded curtains of the night,

      And knelt upon the little poop, and prayed in holy fright.

      And guilty lovers in their venery

         Forgat a little while their stolen sweets,

      Deeming they heard dread Dian’s bitter cry;

         And the grim watchmen on their lofty seats

      Ran to their shields in haste precipitate,

      Or strained black-bearded throats across the dusky parapet.

      For round the temple rolled the clang of arms,

         And the twelve Gods leapt up in marble fear,

      And the air quaked with dissonant alarums

         Till huge Poseidon shook his mighty spear,

      And on the frieze the prancing horses neighed,

      And the low tread of hurrying feet rang from the cavalcade.

      Ready for death with parted lips he stood,

         And well content at such a price to see

      That calm wide brow, that terrible maidenhood,

         The marvel of that