m
Fill earth and heaven with beauty and perfume.
All this, by thine enchantment, liveth here;
Oh wondrous power, that chills my pride with fear!"

$Pausias$

"Thy praise, sweet critic, makes thee doubly dear.
But what of thy fair self--thy form, thy face,
The flower of flowers, the gracefulness of grace?"

$Glycera$

"I see why thou hast placed me among these;
I serve a purpose--'tis to scare the bees.
Sweet love hath right to place me anywhere;
And yet I mourn, to find myself so fair."

$Pausias$

"A maid lament her beauty! Thou hast shown,
A thousand times, a wit beyond mine own;
Yet is it kind to such a love as mine,
To grudge it refuge in a lovely shrine?"

$Glycera$

"No shrine, no throne, of earth or heaven above,
Can be too fair a dwelling-place for love.
But that which makes me grieve, myself to see,
Is memory of the bitter loss to thee;
That earthly charms--as men such things esteem--
Should tantalize thee, in a weeping dream!"

$Pausias$

"My own, my only love, what wouldst thou say?
My heart hath borne a heavy bode, all day."

$Glycera$

"I durst not tell thee, till thy work was done;
But now I must, before the setting sun.
Last night, when life was lapsed in quietude,
Beside my couch a stately figure stood--
A virgin form, in garb of chace arrayed,
With bow and quiver, baldric, and steel blade;
Majestic as a palm that scorns the wind,
And taller than the daughters of mankind
Twas Artemis, close-girt in silver sheen,
The Goddess of the woods, the Maiden-queen.
Cold terror seized me, and mute awe, the while
She oped her proud lips, with an icy smile--
'Whose votary art thou? Shall I resign
'To wanton Cypris this sworn nymph of mine?
'Have I enfeoffed thee of my holiest glen?
'To have thee tainted by the lips of men?
'Shall urchin Eros laugh at my decree?
'No Hymen torch, no loosened zone for thee I
'To-morrow, when my crescent tops yon oak,
'Thou shalt return unto thy proper yoke.'
She closed her lips, and like the barb of frost,
Her fingers on my bounding heart outspread:
My breast is ice, mv soul is of the dead:
The sod, the cold clay, are my marriage-bed;
Sweet sun, sweet flowers, sweet Love, forever lost!"