Hymn to Mercury
Translated from the Greek of Homer
Published by Mrs. Shelley, "Posthumous Poems", 1824. This alone of the "Translations" is included in the Harvard manuscript book. 'Fragments of the drafts of this and the other Hymns of Homer exist among the Boscombe manuscripts' (Forman).
1. Sing, Muse, the son of Maia and of Jove, The Herald-child, king of Arcadia And all its pastoral hills, whom in sweet love Having been interwoven, modest May Bore Heaven's dread Supreme. An antique grove Shadowed the cavern where the lovers lay In the deep night, unseen by Gods or Men, And white-armed Juno slumbered sweetly then.
2. Now, when the joy of Jove had its fulfilling, And Heaven's tenth moon chronicled her relief, She gave to light a babe all babes excelling, A schemer subtle beyond all belief; A shepherd of thin dreams, a cow-stealing, A night-watching, and door-waylaying thief, Who 'mongst the Gods was soon about to thieve, And other glorious actions to achieve.
3. The babe was born at the first peep of day; He began playing on the lyre at noon, And the same evening did he steal away Apollo's herds;—the fourth day of the moon On which him bore the venerable May, From her immortal limbs he leaped full soon, Nor long could in the sacred cradle keep, But out to seek Apollo's herds would creep.
4. Out of the lofty cavern wandering He found a tortoise, and cried out—'A treasure!' (For Mercury first made the tortoise sing) The beast before the portal at his leisure The flowery herbage was depasturing, Moving his feet in a deliberate measure Over the turf. Jove's profitable son Eying him laughed, and laughing thus begun:—
5. 'A useful godsend are you to me now, King of the dance, companion of the feast, Lovely in all your nature! Welcome, you Excellent plaything! Where, sweet mountain-beast, Got you that speckled shell? Thus much I know, You must come home with me and be my guest; You will give joy to me, and I will do All that is in my power to honour you.
6. 'Better to be at home than out of door, So come with me; and though it has been said That you alive defend from magic power, I know you will sing sweetly when you're dead.' Thus having spoken, the quaint infant bore, Lifting it from the grass on which it fed And grasping it in his delighted hold, His treasured prize into the cavern old.
7. Then scooping with a chisel of gray steel, He bored the life and soul out of the beast.— Not swifter a swift thought of woe or weal Darts through the tumult of a human breast Which thronging cares annoy—not swifter wheel The flashes of its torture and unrest Out of the dizzy eyes—than Maia's son All that he did devise hath featly done.
8. ... And through the tortoise's hard stony skin At proper distances small holes he made, And fastened the cut stems of reeds within, And with a piece of leather overlaid The open space and fixed the cubits in, Fitting the bridge to both, and stretched o'er all Symphonious cords of sheep-gut rhythmical.
9. When he had wrought the lovely instrument, He tried the chords, and made division meet, Preluding with the plectrum, and there went Up from beneath his hand a tumult sweet Of mighty sounds, and from his lips he sent A strain of unpremeditated wit Joyous and wild and wanton—such you may Hear among revellers on a holiday.
10. He sung how Jove and May of the bright sandal Dallied in love not quite legitimate; And his own birth, still scoffing at the scandal, And naming his own name, did celebrate; His mother's cave and servant maids he planned all In plastic verse, her household stuff and state, Perennial pot, trippet, and brazen pan,— But singing, he conceived another plan.
11. ... Seized with a sudden fancy for fresh meat, He in his sacred crib deposited The hollow lyre, and from the cavern sweet Rushed with great leaps up to the mountain's head, Revolving in his mind some subtle feat Of thievish craft, such as a swindler might Devise in the lone season of dun night.
12. Lo! the great Sun under the ocean's bed has Driven steeds and chariot—the child meanwhile strode O'er the Pierian mountains clothed in shadows, Where the immortal oxen of the God Are pastured in the flowering unmown meadows, And safely stalled in a remote abode.— The archer Argicide, elate and proud, Drove fifty from the herd, lowing aloud.
13. He drove them wandering o'er the sandy way, But, being ever mindful of his craft, Backward and forward drove he them astray, So that the tracks which seemed before, were aft; His sandals then he threw to the ocean spray, And for each foot he wrought a kind of raft Of tamarisk, and tamarisk-like sprigs, And bound them in a lump with withy twigs.
14. And on his feet he tied these sandals light, The trail of whose wide leaves might not betray His track; and then, a self-sufficing wight, Like a man hastening on some distant way, He from Pieria's mountain bent his flight; But an old man perceived the infant pass Down green Onchestus heaped like beds with grass.
15. The old man stood dressing his sunny vine: 'Halloo! old fellow with the crooked shoulder! You grub those stumps? before they will bear wine Methinks even you must grow a little older: Attend, I pray, to this advice of mine, As you would 'scape what might appal a bolder— Seeing, see not—and hearing, hear not—and— If you have understanding—understand.'
16. So saying, Hermes roused the oxen vast; O'er shadowy mountain and resounding dell, And flower-paven plains, great Hermes passed; Till the black night divine, which favouring fell Around his steps, grew gray, and morning fast Wakened the world to work, and from her cell Sea-strewn, the Pallantean Moon sublime Into her watch-tower just began to climb.
17. Now to Alpheus he had driven all The broad-foreheaded oxen of the Sun; They came unwearied to the lofty stall And to the water-troughs which ever run Through the fresh fields—and when with rushgrass tall, Lotus and all sweet herbage, every one Had pastured been, the great God made them move Towards the stall in a collected drove.
18. A mighty pile of wood the God then heaped, And having soon conceived the mystery Of fire, from two smooth laurel branches stripped The bark, and rubbed them in his palms;—on high Suddenly forth the burning vapour leaped And the divine child saw delightedly.— Mercury first found out for human weal Tinder-box, matches, fire-irons, flint and steel.
19. And fine dry logs and roots innumerous He gathered in a delve upon the ground— And kindled them—and instantaneous The strength of the fierce flame was breathed around: And whilst the might of glorious Vulcan thus Wrapped the great pile with glare and roaring sound, Hermes dragged forth two heifers, lowing loud, Close to the fire—such might was in the God.
20. And on the earth upon their backs he threw The panting beasts, and rolled them o'er and o'er, And bored their lives out. Without more ado He cut up fat and flesh, and down before The fire, on spits of wood he placed the two, Toasting their flesh and ribs, and all the gore Pursed in the bowels; and while this was done He stretched their hides over a craggy stone.
21. We mortals let an ox grow old, and then Cut it up after long consideration,— But joyous-minded Hermes from the glen Drew the fat spoils to the more open station Of a flat smooth space, and portioned them; and when He had by lot assigned to each a ration Of the twelve Gods, his mind became aware Of all the joys which in religion are.
22. For the sweet savour of the roasted meat Tempted him though immortal. Natheless He checked his haughty will and did not eat, Though what it cost him words can scarce express, And every wish to put such morsels sweet Down his most sacred throat, he did repress; But soon within the lofty portalled stall He placed the fat and flesh and bones and all.
23. And every trace of the fresh butchery And cooking, the God soon made disappear, As if it all had vanished through the sky; He burned the hoofs and horns and head and hair,— The insatiate fire devoured them hungrily;— And when he saw that everything was clear, He quenched the coal, and trampled the black dust, And in the stream his bloody sandals tossed.
24. All night he worked in the serene moonshine— But when the light of day was spread abroad He sought his natal mountain-peaks divine. On his long wandering, neither Man nor God Had met him, since he killed Apollo's kine, Nor house-dog had barked at him on his road; Now he obliquely through the keyhole passed, Like a thin mist, or an autumnal blast.
25. Right through the temple of the spacious cave He went with soft light feet—as if his tread Fell not on earth; no sound their falling gave; Then to his cradle he crept quick, and spread The swaddling-clothes about him; and the knave Lay playing with the covering of the bed With his left hand about his knees—the right Held his beloved tortoise-lyre tight.
26. There he lay innocent as a new-born child, As gossips say; but though he was a God, The Goddess, his fair mother, unbeguiled, Knew all that he had done being abroad: 'Whence come you, and from what adventure wild, You cunning rogue, and where have you abode All the long night, clothed in your impudence? What have you done since you departed hence?
27. 'Apollo soon will pass within this gate And bind your tender body in a chain Inextricably tight, and fast as fate, Unless you can delude the God again, Even when within his arms—ah, runagate! A pretty torment both for Gods and Men Your father made when he made you!'—'Dear mother,' Replied sly Hermes, 'wherefore scold and bother?
28. 'As if I were like other babes as old, And understood nothing of what is what; And cared at all to hear my mother scold. I in my subtle brain a scheme have got, Which whilst the sacred stars round Heaven are rolled Will profit you and me—nor shall our lot Be as you counsel, without gifts or food, To spend our lives in this obscure abode.
29 'But we will leave this shadow-peopled cave And live among the Gods, and pass each day In high communion, sharing what they have Of profuse wealth and unexhausted prey; And from the portion which my father gave To Phoebus, I will snatch my share away, Which if my father will not—natheless I, Who am the king of robbers, can but try.
30. 'And, if Latona's son should find me out, I'll countermine him by a deeper plan; I'll pierce the Pythian temple-walls, though stout, And sack the fane of everything I can— Caldrons and tripods of great worth no doubt, Each golden cup and polished brazen pan, All the wrought tapestries and garments gay.'— So they together talked;—meanwhile the Day
31. Aethereal born arose out of the flood Of flowing Ocean, bearing light to men. Apollo passed toward the sacred wood, Which from the inmost depths of its green glen Echoes the voice of Neptune,—and there stood On the same spot in green Onchestus then That same old animal, the vine-dresser, Who was employed hedging his vineyard there.
32. Latona's glorious Son began:—'I pray Tell, ancient hedger of Onchestus green, Whether a drove of kine has passed this way, All heifers with crooked horns? for they have been Stolen from the herd in high Pieria, Where a black bull was fed apart, between Two woody mountains in a neighbouring glen, And four fierce dogs watched there, unanimous as men.
33. 'And what is strange, the author of this theft Has stolen the fatted heifers every one, But the four dogs and the black bull are left:— Stolen they were last night at set of sun, Of their soft beds and their sweet food bereft.— Now tell me, man born ere the world begun, Have you seen any one pass with the cows?'— To whom the man of overhanging brows:
34. 'My friend, it would require no common skill Justly to speak of everything I see: On various purposes of good or ill Many pass by my vineyard,—and to me 'Tis difficult to know the invisible Thoughts, which in all those many minds may be:— Thus much alone I certainly can say, I tilled these vines till the decline of day,
35. 'And then I thought I saw, but dare not speak With certainty of such a wondrous thing, A child, who could not have been born a week, Those fair-horned cattle closely following, And in his hand he held a polished stick: And, as on purpose, he walked wavering From one side to the other of the road, And with his face opposed the steps he trod.'
36. Apollo hearing this, passed quickly on— No winged omen could have shown more clear That the deceiver was his father's son. So the God wraps a purple atmosphere Around his shoulders, and like fire is gone To famous Pylos, seeking his kine there, And found their track and his, yet hardly cold, And cried—'What wonder do mine eyes behold!
37. 'Here are the footsteps of the horned herd Turned back towards their fields of asphodel;— But THESE are not the tracks of beast or bird, Gray wolf, or bear, or lion of the dell, Or maned Centaur—sand was never stirred By man or woman thus! Inexplicable! Who with unwearied feet could e'er impress The sand with such enormous vestiges?
38. 'That was most strange—but this is stranger still!' Thus having said, Phoebus impetuously Sought high Cyllene's forest-cinctured hill, And the deep cavern where dark shadows lie, And where the ambrosial nymph with happy will Bore the Saturnian's love-child, Mercury— And a delightful odour from the dew Of the hill pastures, at his coming, flew.
39. And Phoebus stooped under the craggy roof Arched over the dark cavern:—Maia's child Perceived that he came angry, far aloof, About the cows of which he had been beguiled; And over him the fine and fragrant woof Of his ambrosial swaddling-clothes he piled— As among fire-brands lies a burning spark Covered, beneath the ashes cold and dark.
40. There, like an infant who had sucked his fill And now was newly washed and put to bed, Awake, but courting sleep with weary will, And gathered in a lump, hands, feet, and head, He lay, and his beloved tortoise still He grasped and held under his shoulder-blade. Phoebus the lovely mountain-goddess knew, Not less her subtle, swindling baby, who
41. Lay swathed in his sly wiles. Round every crook Of the ample cavern, for his kine, Apollo Looked sharp; and when he saw them not, he took The glittering key, and opened three great hollow Recesses in the rock—where many a nook Was filled with the sweet food immortals swallow, And mighty heaps of silver and of gold Were piled within—a wonder to behold!
42. And white and silver robes, all overwrought With cunning workmanship of tracery sweet— Except among the Gods there can be nought In the wide world to be compared with it. Latona's offspring, after having sought His herds in every corner, thus did greet Great Hermes:—'Little cradled rogue, declare Of my illustrious heifers, where they are!
43. 'Speak quickly! or a quarrel between us Must rise, and the event will be, that I Shall hurl you into dismal Tartarus, In fiery gloom to dwell eternally; Nor shall your father nor your mother loose The bars of that black dungeon—utterly You shall be cast out from the light of day, To rule the ghosts of men, unblessed as they.
44. To whom thus Hermes slily answered:—'Son Of great Latona, what a speech is this! Why come you here to ask me what is done With the wild oxen which it seems you miss? I have not seen them, nor from any one Have heard a word of the whole business; If you should promise an immense reward, I could not tell more than you now have heard.
45. 'An ox-stealer should be both tall and strong, And I am but a little new-born thing, Who, yet at least, can think of nothing wrong:— My business is to suck, and sleep, and fling The cradle-clothes about me all day long,— Or half asleep, hear my sweet mother sing, And to be washed in water clean and warm, And hushed and kissed and kept secure from harm.
46. 'O, let not e'er this quarrel be averred! The astounded Gods would laugh at you, if e'er You should allege a story so absurd As that a new-born infant forth could fare Out of his home after a savage herd. I was born yesterday—my small feet are Too tender for the roads so hard and rough:— And if you think that this is not enough,
47. I swear a great oath, by my father's head, That I stole not your cows, and that I know Of no one else, who might, or could, or did.— Whatever things cows are, I do not know, For I have only heard the name.'—This said He winked as fast as could be, and his brow Was wrinkled, and a whistle loud gave he, Like one who hears some strange absurdity.
48. Apollo gently smiled and said:—'Ay, ay,— You cunning little rascal, you will bore Many a rich man's house, and your array Of thieves will lay their siege before his door, Silent as night, in night; and many a day In the wild glens rough shepherds will deplore That you or yours, having an appetite, Met with their cattle, comrade of the night!
49. 'And this among the Gods shall be your gift, To be considered as the lord of those Who swindle, house-break, sheep-steal, and shop-lift;— But now if you would not your last sleep doze; Crawl out!'—Thus saying, Phoebus did uplift The subtle infant in his swaddling clothes, And in his arms, according to his wont, A scheme devised the illustrious Argiphont.
50. ... ... And sneezed and shuddered—Phoebus on the grass Him threw, and whilst all that he had designed He did perform—eager although to pass, Apollo darted from his mighty mind Towards the subtle babe the following scoff:— 'Do not imagine this will get you off,
51. 'You little swaddled child of Jove and May! And seized him:—'By this omen I shall trace My noble herds, and you shall lead the way.'— Cyllenian Hermes from the grassy place, Like one in earnest haste to get away, Rose, and with hands lifted towards his face Round both his ears up from his shoulders drew His swaddling clothes, and—'What mean you to do
52. 'With me, you unkind God?'—said Mercury: 'Is it about these cows you tease me so? I wish the race of cows were perished!—I Stole not your cows—I do not even know What things cows are. Alas! I well may sigh That since I came into this world of woe, I should have ever heard the name of one— But I appeal to the Saturnian's throne.'
53. Thus Phoebus and the vagrant Mercury Talked without coming to an explanation, With adverse purpose. As for Phoebus, he Sought not revenge, but only information, And Hermes tried with lies and roguery To cheat Apollo.—But when no evasion Served—for the cunning one his match had found— He paced on first over the sandy ground.
54. ... He of the Silver Bow the child of Jove Followed behind, till to their heavenly Sire Came both his children, beautiful as Love, And from his equal balance did require A judgement in the cause wherein they strove. O'er odorous Olympus and its snows A murmuring tumult as they came arose,—
55. And from the folded depths of the great Hill, While Hermes and Apollo reverent stood Before Jove's throne, the indestructible Immortals rushed in mighty multitude; And whilst their seats in order due they fill, The lofty Thunderer in a careless mood To Phoebus said:—'Whence drive you this sweet prey, This herald-baby, born but yesterday?—
56. 'A most important subject, trifler, this To lay before the Gods!'—'Nay, Father, nay, When you have understood the business, Say not that I alone am fond of prey. I found this little boy in a recess Under Cyllene's mountains far away— A manifest and most apparent thief, A scandalmonger beyond all belief.
57. 'I never saw his like either in Heaven Or upon earth for knavery or craft:— Out of the field my cattle yester-even, By the low shore on which the loud sea laughed, He right down to the river-ford had driven; And mere astonishment would make you daft To see the double kind of footsteps strange He has impressed wherever he did range.
58. 'The cattle's track on the black dust, full well Is evident, as if they went towards The place from which they came—that asphodel Meadow, in which I feed my many herds,— HIS steps were most incomprehensible— I know not how I can describe in words Those tracks—he could have gone along the sands Neither upon his feet nor on his hands;—
59. 'He must have had some other stranger mode Of moving on: those vestiges immense, Far as I traced them on the sandy road, Seemed like the trail of oak-toppings:—but thence No mark nor track denoting where they trod The hard ground gave:—but, working at his fence, A mortal hedger saw him as he passed To Pylos, with the cows, in fiery haste.
60. 'I found that in the dark he quietly Had sacrificed some cows, and before light Had thrown the ashes all dispersedly About the road—then, still as gloomy night, Had crept into his cradle, either eye Rubbing, and cogitating some new sleight. No eagle could have seen him as he lay Hid in his cavern from the peering day.
61. 'I taxed him with the fact, when he averred Most solemnly that he did neither see Nor even had in any manner heard Of my lost cows, whatever things cows be; Nor could he tell, though offered a reward, Not even who could tell of them to me.' So speaking, Phoebus sate; and Hermes then Addressed the Supreme Lord of Gods and Men:—
62. 'Great Father, you know clearly beforehand That all which I shall say to you is sooth; I am a most veracious person, and Totally unacquainted with untruth. At sunrise Phoebus came, but with no band Of Gods to bear him witness, in great wrath, To my abode, seeking his heifers there, And saying that I must show him where they are,
63. 'Or he would hurl me down the dark abyss. I know that every Apollonian limb Is clothed with speed and might and manliness, As a green bank with flowers—but unlike him I was born yesterday, and you may guess He well knew this when he indulged the whim Of bullying a poor little new-born thing That slept, and never thought of cow-driving.
64. 'Am I like a strong fellow who steals kine? Believe me, dearest Father—such you are— This driving of the herds is none of mine; Across my threshold did I wander ne'er, So may I thrive! I reverence the divine Sun and the Gods, and I love you, and care Even for this hard accuser—who must know I am as innocent as they or you.
65. 'I swear by these most gloriously-wrought portals (It is, you will allow, an oath of might) Through which the multitude of the Immortals Pass and repass forever, day and night, Devising schemes for the affairs of mortals— I am guiltless; and I will requite, Although mine enemy be great and strong, His cruel threat—do thou defend the young!'
66. So speaking, the Cyllenian Argiphont Winked, as if now his adversary was fitted:— And Jupiter, according to his wont, Laughed heartily to hear the subtle-witted Infant give such a plausible account, And every word a lie. But he remitted Judgement at present—and his exhortation Was, to compose the affair by arbitration.
67. And they by mighty Jupiter were bidden To go forth with a single purpose both, Neither the other chiding nor yet chidden: And Mercury with innocence and truth To lead the way, and show where he had hidden The mighty heifers.—Hermes, nothing loth, Obeyed the Aegis-bearer's will—for he Is able to persuade all easily.
68. These lovely children of Heaven's highest Lord Hastened to Pylos and the pastures wide And lofty stalls by the Alphean ford, Where wealth in the mute night is multiplied With silent growth. Whilst Hermes drove the herd Out of the stony cavern, Phoebus spied The hides of those the little babe had slain, Stretched on the precipice above the plain.
69. 'How was it possible,' then Phoebus said, 'That you, a little child, born yesterday, A thing on mother's milk and kisses fed, Could two prodigious heifers ever flay? Even I myself may well hereafter dread Your prowess, offspring of Cyllenian May, When you grow strong and tall.'—He spoke, and bound Stiff withy bands the infant's wrists around.
70. He might as well have bound the oxen wild; The withy bands, though starkly interknit, Fell at the feet of the immortal child, Loosened by some device of his quick wit. Phoebus perceived himself again beguiled, And stared—while Hermes sought some hole or pit, Looking askance and winking fast as thought, Where he might hide himself and not be caught.
71. Sudden he changed his plan, and with strange skill Subdued the strong Latonian, by the might Of winning music, to his mightier will; His left hand held the lyre, and in his right The plectrum struck the chords—unconquerable Up from beneath his hand in circling flight The gathering music rose—and sweet as Love The penetrating notes did live and move
72. Within the heart of great Apollo—he Listened with all his soul, and laughed for pleasure. Close to his side stood harping fearlessly The unabashed boy; and to the measure Of the sweet lyre, there followed loud and free His joyous voice; for he unlocked the treasure Of his deep song, illustrating the birth Of the bright Gods, and the dark desert Earth:
73. And how to the Immortals every one A portion was assigned of all that is; But chief Mnemosyne did Maia's son Clothe in the light of his loud melodies;— And, as each God was born or had begun, He in their order due and fit degrees Sung of his birth and being—and did move Apollo to unutterable love.
74. These words were winged with his swift delight: 'You heifer-stealing schemer, well do you Deserve that fifty oxen should requite Such minstrelsies as I have heard even now. Comrade of feasts, little contriving wight, One of your secrets I would gladly know, Whether the glorious power you now show forth Was folded up within you at your birth,
75. 'Or whether mortal taught or God inspired The power of unpremeditated song? Many divinest sounds have I admired, The Olympian Gods and mortal men among; But such a strain of wondrous, strange, untired, And soul-awakening music, sweet and strong, Yet did I never hear except from thee, Offspring of May, impostor Mercury!
76. 'What Muse, what skill, what unimagined use, What exercise of subtlest art, has given Thy songs such power?—for those who hear may choose From three, the choicest of the gifts of Heaven, Delight, and love, and sleep,—sweet sleep, whose dews Are sweeter than the balmy tears of even:— And I, who speak this praise, am that Apollo Whom the Olympian Muses ever follow:
77. 'And their delight is dance, and the blithe noise Of song and overflowing poesy; And sweet, even as desire, the liquid voice Of pipes, that fills the clear air thrillingly; But never did my inmost soul rejoice In this dear work of youthful revelry As now. I wonder at thee, son of Jove; Thy harpings and thy song are soft as love.
78. 'Now since thou hast, although so very small, Science of arts so glorious, thus I swear,— And let this cornel javelin, keen and tall, Witness between us what I promise here,— That I will lead thee to the Olympian Hall, Honoured and mighty, with thy mother dear, And many glorious gifts in joy will give thee, And even at the end will ne'er deceive thee.'
79. To whom thus Mercury with prudent speech:— 'Wisely hast thou inquired of my skill: I envy thee no thing I know to teach Even this day:—for both in word and will I would be gentle with thee; thou canst reach All things in thy wise spirit, and thy sill Is highest in Heaven among the sons of Jove, Who loves thee in the fulness of his love.
80. 'The Counsellor Supreme has given to thee Divinest gifts, out of the amplitude Of his profuse exhaustless treasury; By thee, 'tis said, the depths are understood Of his far voice; by thee the mystery Of all oracular fates,—and the dread mood Of the diviner is breathed up; even I— A child—perceive thy might and majesty.
81. 'Thou canst seek out and compass all that wit Can find or teach;—yet since thou wilt, come take The lyre—be mine the glory giving it— Strike the sweet chords, and sing aloud, and wake Thy joyous pleasure out of many a fit Of tranced sound—and with fleet fingers make Thy liquid-voiced comrade talk with thee,— It can talk measured music eloquently.
82. 'Then bear it boldly to the revel loud, Love-wakening dance, or feast of solemn state, A joy by night or day—for those endowed With art and wisdom who interrogate It teaches, babbling in delightful mood All things which make the spirit most elate, Soothing the mind with sweet familiar play, Chasing the heavy shadows of dismay.
83. 'To those who are unskilled in its sweet tongue, Though they should question most impetuously Its hidden soul, it gossips something wrong— Some senseless and impertinent reply. But thou who art as wise as thou art strong Canst compass all that thou desirest. I Present thee with this music-flowing shell, Knowing thou canst interrogate it well.
84. 'And let us two henceforth together feed, On this green mountain-slope and pastoral plain, The herds in litigation—they will breed Quickly enough to recompense our pain, If to the bulls and cows we take good heed;— And thou, though somewhat over fond of gain, Grudge me not half the profit.'—Having spoke, The shell he proffered, and Apollo took;
85. And gave him in return the glittering lash, Installing him as herdsman;—from the look Of Mercury then laughed a joyous flash. And then Apollo with the plectrum strook The chords, and from beneath his hands a crash Of mighty sounds rushed up, whose music shook The soul with sweetness, and like an adept His sweeter voice a just accordance kept.
86. The herd went wandering o'er the divine mead, Whilst these most beautiful Sons of Jupiter Won their swift way up to the snowy head Of white Olympus, with the joyous lyre Soothing their journey; and their father dread Gathered them both into familiar Affection sweet,—and then, and now, and ever, Hermes must love Him of the Golden Quiver,
87. To whom he gave the lyre that sweetly sounded, Which skilfully he held and played thereon. He piped the while, and far and wide rebounded The echo of his pipings; every one Of the Olympians sat with joy astounded; While he conceived another piece of fun, One of his old tricks—which the God of Day Perceiving, said:—'I fear thee, Son of May;—
88. 'I fear thee and thy sly chameleon spirit, Lest thou should steal my lyre and crooked bow; This glory and power thou dost from Jove inherit, To teach all craft upon the earth below; Thieves love and worship thee—it is thy merit To make all mortal business ebb and flow By roguery:—now, Hermes, if you dare By sacred Styx a mighty oath to swear
89. 'That you will never rob me, you will do A thing extremely pleasing to my heart.' Then Mercury swore by the Stygian dew, That he would never steal his bow or dart, Or lay his hands on what to him was due, Or ever would employ his powerful art Against his Pythian fane. Then Phoebus swore There was no God or Man whom he loved more.
90. 'And I will give thee as a good-will token, The beautiful wand of wealth and happiness; A perfect three-leaved rod of gold unbroken, Whose magic will thy footsteps ever bless; And whatsoever by Jove's voice is spoken Of earthly or divine from its recess, It, like a loving soul, to thee will speak, And more than this, do thou forbear to seek.
91. 'For, dearest child, the divinations high Which thou requirest, 'tis unlawful ever That thou, or any other deity Should understand—and vain were the endeavour; For they are hidden in Jove's mind, and I, In trust of them, have sworn that I would never Betray the counsels of Jove's inmost will To any God—the oath was terrible.
92. 'Then, golden-wanded brother, ask me not To speak the fates by Jupiter designed; But be it mine to tell their various lot To the unnumbered tribes of human-kind. Let good to these, and ill to those be wrought As I dispense—but he who comes consigned By voice and wings of perfect augury To my great shrine, shall find avail in me.
93. 'Him will I not deceive, but will assist; But he who comes relying on such birds As chatter vainly, who would strain and twist The purpose of the Gods with idle words, And deems their knowledge light, he shall have missed His road—whilst I among my other hoards His gifts deposit. Yet, O son of May, I have another wondrous thing to say.
96. 'There are three Fates, three virgin Sisters, who Rejoicing in their wind-outspeeding wings, Their heads with flour snowed over white and new, Sit in a vale round which Parnassus flings Its circling skirts—from these I have learned true Vaticinations of remotest things. My father cared not. Whilst they search out dooms, They sit apart and feed on honeycombs.
95. 'They, having eaten the fresh honey, grow Drunk with divine enthusiasm, and utter With earnest willingness the truth they know; But if deprived of that sweet food, they mutter All plausible delusions;—these to you I give;—if you inquire, they will not stutter; Delight your own soul with them:—any man You would instruct may profit if he can.
96. 'Take these and the fierce oxen, Maia's child— O'er many a horse and toil-enduring mule, O'er jagged-jawed lions, and the wild White-tusked boars, o'er all, by field or pool, Of cattle which the mighty Mother mild Nourishes in her bosom, thou shalt rule— Thou dost alone the veil from death uplift— Thou givest not—yet this is a great gift.'
97. Thus King Apollo loved the child of May In truth, and Jove covered their love with joy. Hermes with Gods and Men even from that day Mingled, and wrought the latter much annoy, And little profit, going far astray Through the dun night. Farewell, delightful Boy, Of Jove and Maia sprung,—never by me, Nor thou, nor other songs, shall unremembered be.
NOTES: _13 cow-stealing]qy. cattle-stealing? _57 stony Boscombe manuscript. Harvard manuscript; strong edition 1824. _252 neighbouring]neighbour Harvard manuscript. _336 hurl Harvard manuscript, editions 1839; haul edition 1824. _402 Round]Roused edition 1824 only. _488 wrath]ruth Harvard manuscript. _580 heifer-stealing]heifer-killing Harvard manuscript. _673 and like 1839, 1st edition; as of edition 1824, Harvard manuscript. _713 loving]living cj. Rossetti. _761 from Harvard manuscript; of editions 1824, 1839. _764 their love with joy Harvard manuscript; them with love and joy, editions 1824, 1839. _767 going]wandering Harvard manuscript.