Lysander, Alcanor, and Phanoe

LYSANDER.

Art thou grown hoarse by sitting in the sun
Of early spring, when winds come down adrift
To punish them they find asleep at noon!

ALCANOR.

Hoarse I am not, but I am tired of song,
Therefore do I retire, where, without pipe.
The goat-foot God brought all the nymphs to sit
Half-way up Msenalos. If she I love
Will follow me, I swear to thee by him,
Bitter to those who slight him or forswear.
Thou shalt hear something sweet, do thou but stay.

LYSANDER.
Lysander well can stay, do thou but sing.
ALCANOR.

But not unless a Nymph or Nymph-like maid
Will listen.

LYSANDER.

Here comes Phanoe. Thou art pale.
Sing: Phanoe! bid him sing.

PHANOE.

By Artemis!
I bade him never more repeat my name.
And if he disobeys me . . .
LYSANDER.

Hush! 'twere ill
To call down vengeance upon those who love:
And he hath sworn by Pan that he will sing
If thou wilt follow him up Msenalos.

PHANOE.

He may snatch off my slipper while I kneel
To Pan, upon the stone so worn aslant
That it is difficult to kneel upon
Without my leaving half a slipper loose.
Little cares he for Pan: he scarcely fears
That other, powerfuller and terribler.
To whom more crowns are offered than to Zeus,
Or any God beside, and oftener changed.
In spring we garland him with pointed flowers,
Anemone and crocus and jonquil,
And tender hyacinth in clustering curls;
Then with sweet-breathing mountain strawberry;
Then pear and apple blossom, promising
(If he is good) to bring the fruit full-ripe,
Hanging it round about his brow, his nose,
Down even to his lips. When autumn comes,
His russet vine- wreath crackles under grapes:
Some trim his neck with barley, wheat, and oat;
Some twine his naked waist with them: and last
His reverend head is seen and worshipt through
Stiff narrow olive-leaves, that last til spring.
Say, ought I not to fear so wild a boy,
Who fears not even him! but once has tried
By force to make me pat him, after prayers?

H
How fierce then lookt the God! and from above
How the club reddened, as athirst for blood!
Yet, fearing and suspecting the audacious,
Up Msenalos I must, for there my herd
Is browsing on the thorn and citisus
At random.

LYSANDER.

He hath not endured thy frown,
But hurries off.

PHANOE.
And let him.
LYSANDER.

Captious Pan
On one or other may look evil-eyed.

PHANOE.
I mind my Goddess, let him mind his God.

Away she went, and as she went she sang.
Brief cries were heard ere long, faint and more faint.
Pan! was it thou? was it thou, Artemis?
Frolicksome kids and hard goats glassy-eyed
Alone could tell the story, had they speech.
The maiden came not back: but, after rites
Due to the goat-foot God, the pious youth
Piped shrilly forth and shook off all his woe.