Artemis

I'll love them betterEver for thy sake, Cora; but for meThe joy of Earth is in the breath of lifeAnd animal motions: nor are flowery sweetsDear as the scent of life. His petal'd cup,What is it by the wild fawn's liquid eyeEloquent as love-music 'neath the moon?Nay, not a flower in all thy garden here,Nor wer't a thousand-thousand-fold enhanc'tIn every charm, but thou wouldst turn from itTo view the antler'd stag, that in the gladeWith the coy gaze of his majestic fearFaced thee a moment ere he turn'd to fly.

PER. 'Tis not the same.Thy victims fly for life: they pant, they scream.

AR. Were they not mortal, sweet, I coud not kill them.They kill each other in their lust for life;Nay, cruelly persecute their blemisht kin:And they that thus are exiled from the herdSlink heart-brok'n to sepulchral solitudes,Defenceless and dishonour'd; there to fallPrey to the hungry glutton of the cave,Or stand in mute pain lingering, till they dropIn their last lair upon the ancestral bones.

ATH. 'Tis Pity, child,The mortal thought that clouds the brow of manWith dark reserve, or poisoning all deliteDrives him upon his knees in tearful prayerTo avert his momentary qualms: till ZeusAt his reiterated plaint grows wrath,And burdens with fresh curse the curse of care.And they that haunt with men are apt to takeInfection of his mind: thy mighty motherLeans to his tenderness.

PER. How should man, dwellingOn earth that is so gay, himself be sad?Is not earth gay? Look on the sea, the sky,The flowers!

ATH. 'Tis sad to him because 'tis gay.--For whether he consider how the flowers,--Thy miracles of beauty above praise,--Are wither'd in the moment of their glory,So that of all the mounting summer's wealthThe show is chang'd each day, and each day dies,Of no more count in Nature's estimateThan crowded bubbles of the fighting foam:Or whether 'tis the sea, whose azure wavesPlay'd in the same infinity of motionAges ere he beheld it, and will playFor ages after him;--alike 'tis sadTo read how beauty dies and he must die.

PER. Were I a man, I would not worship thee,Thou cold essential wisdom. If, as thou say'st,Thought makes men sorrowful, why help his thoughtTo quench enjoyment, who might else as IRevel among bright things, and feast his senseWith beauty well-discern'd? Nay, why came yeTo share my pastime? Ye love not the flowers.

ATH. Indeed I love thee, child; and love thy flowers,--Nor less for loving wisely. All emotions,Whether of gods or men, all loves and passions,Are of two kinds; they are either inform'd by wisdom,To reason obedient,--or they are unconducted,Flames of the burning life. The brutes of earthAnd Pan their master know these last; the firstAre seen in me: betwixt the extremes there lieInnumerable alloys and all of evil.

PER. Nay, and I guess your purpose with me well:I am a child, and ye would nurse me upA pupil in your school. I know ye twainOf all the immortals are at one in this;Ye wage of cold disdain a bitter feudWith Aphrodite, and ye fear for me,Lest she should draw me to her wanton way.Fear not: my party is taken. Hark! I'll tellWhat I have chosen, what mankind shall holdDevote and consecrate to me on earth:It is the flowers: but only among the flowersThose that men love for beauty, scent, or hue,Having no other uses: I have foundDemeter, my good mother, heeds them not.--She loves vines, olives, orchards, 'the rich leasOf wheat, rye, barley, vetches, oats, and peas,But for the idle flowers she hath little care:She will resign them willingly. And think not,Thou wise Athena, I shall go unhonour'd,Or rank a meaner goddess unto man.His spirit setteth beauty before wisdom,Pleasures above necessities, and thusHe ever adoreth flowers. Nor this I guessWhere rich men only and superfluous kingsAround their palaces reform the landTo terraces and level lawns, whereonAppointed slaves are told, to tend and feedLilies and roses and all rarest plantsFetch'd from all lands; that they--these lordly men--'Twixt flaunting avenues and wafted odoursMay pace in indolence: this is their bliss;This first they do: and after, it may be,Within their garden set their academe:--But in the poorest villages, aroundThe meanest cottage, where no other solaceComforts the eye, some simple gaietyOf flowers in tended garden is seen; some pinks,Tulips, or crocuses that edge the path;Where oft at eve the grateful labourerSits in his jasmin'd porch, and takes the sun:And even the children, that half-naked go,Have posies in their hands, and of themselvesWill choose a queen in whom to honour Spring,Dancing before her garlanded with may.The cowslip makes them truant, they forgetThe hour of hunger and their homely feastSo they may cull the delicate primrose,Sealing their birthright with the touch of beauty;With unconsider'd hecatombs assuringTheir dim sense of immortal mystery.--Yea, rich and poor, from cradle unto graveAll men shall love me, shall adore my name,And heap my everlasting shrine with flowers.

ATH. Thou sayest rightly thou art a child. May ZeusGive thee a better province than thy thought.

Come, Cora; wilt thou learn a hunting dance?I'll teach thee.

PER. Can I learn thy hunter-stepWithout thy bare legs and well-buskin'd feet?

PER. Stay! stay! I have left my flowers.I follow. [Exeunt Athena and Artemis.

They understand not--Now, praise be to Zeus,That, tho' I sprang not from his head, I knowSomething that Pallas knows not.

Thou tiny flower!Art thou not wise?Who taught thee else, thou frail anemone,Thy starry notion, thy wind-wavering motion,Thy complex of chaste beauty, unimagin'dTill thou art seen?--And how so wisely, thou,Indifferent to the number of thy rays,While others are so strict? This six-leaved tulip,--He would not risk a seventh for all his worth,--He thought to attain unique magnificenceBy sheer simplicity--a pointed ovalBare on a stalk erect: and yet, grown oldHe will his young idea quite abandon,In his dishevel'd fury wantoningBeyond belief.... Some are four-leaved: this poppyWill have but four. He, like a hurried thief,Stuffs his rich silks into too small a bag--I think he watch'd a summer-butterflyCreep out all crumpled from his winter-case,Trusting the sun to smooth his tender tissueAnd sleek the velvet of his painted wings:--And so doth he.--Between such different schemes,Such widely varied loveliness, how choose?Yet loving all, one should be most belov'd,Most intimately mine; to mortal menMy emblem: tho' I never find in oneThe sum of all distinctions.--Rose were best:But she is passion's darling, and unkindTo handle--set her by.--Choosing for odour,The violet were mine--men call her modest,Because she hides, and when in companyLacks manner and the assertive style of worth:--While this narcissus here scorns modesty,Will stand up what she is, tho' something prim:Her scent, a saturation of one tone,Like her plain symmetry, leaves nought to fancy:--Whereas this iris,--she outvieth man'sExcellent artistry; elaborationConfounded with simplicity, till noneCan tell which sprang of which. Coud I but findA scented iris, I should be content:Yet men would call me proud: Iris is Pride.--To-day I'll favour thee, sweet violet;Thou canst live in my bosom. I'll not wrong theeWearing thee in Olympus.--Help! help! Ay me!

darkness Hades is seen rushing from behind. He seizes her anddrags her backward. Her basket is thrown up and the flowers

Bright day succeedeth unto day--Night to pensive night--With his towering rayOf all-fathering light--With the solemn tranceOf her starry dance.--

Nought is new or strangeIn the eternal change.--

As the light clouds flyO'er the tree-tops high,So the days go by.--

Ripples that arriveOn the sunny shore,Dying to their liveMusic evermore.--

Like pearls on a thread,--Like notes of a song,--Like the measur'd treadOf a dancing throng.--

Ocëanides are we,Nereids of the foam,But we left the seaOn the earth to roamWith the fairest QueenThat the world hath seen.--Why amidst our playWas she sped away?--

Over hill and plainWe have sought in vain;She comes not again.--

Not the Naiads knewOn their dewy lawns:--Not the laughing crewOf the leaping Fauns.--

Now, since she is gone,All our dance is slow,All our joy is done,And our song is woe.--