Great store of precious things in pack and wain; Wrought gold and silver, gems, full many a bale Of scarlet cloth, and fine silk, fit to veil The perfect limbs of dreaded Goddesses; Spices fresh-gathered from the outland trees, And arms well-wrought, and precious scarce-known wine, And carven images well-nigh divine. So when all folk with these were satisfied, Back went the Minyæ to the water-side, And with them that old lord, fain to behold Victorious Argo and the Fleece of Gold. And so aboard amid the oars he lay Throughout the night, and at the dawn of day Did all men land, nor spared that day to wear The best of all they had of gold-wrought gear, And every one, being crowned with olive grey, Up to the headland did they take their way, Where now already stood the crownèd priests About the altars by the gilt-horned beasts. There, as the fair sun rose, did Jason break Over the altar the thin barley-cake, And cast the salt abroad, and there were slain The milk-white bulls, and there red wine did rain On to the fire from out the ancient jar, And high rose up the red flame, seen afar From many another headland of that shore: But over all its crackling and its roar Uprose from time to time a joyous song, That on the summer morning lay for long, The mighty voices of the Minyæ Exulting o'er the tossing conquered sea, That far below thrust on by tide and wind The crumbling bases of the headland mined. FROM "THE EARTHLY PARADISE." AN APOLOGY. Of Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing, I cannot ease the burden of your fears, Or make quick-coming death a little thing, Or bring again the pleasure of past years, Nor for my words shall ye forget your tears, Or hope again for aught that I can say, The idle singer of an empty day. But rather, when aweary of your mirth, From full hearts still unsatisfied ye sigh, And, feeling kindly unto all the earth, Grudge every minute as it passes by, Made the more mindful that the sweet days die-- --Remember me a little then I pray, The idle singer of an empty day. The heavy trouble, the bewildering care That weighs us down who live and earn our bread, These idle verses have no power to bear; So let me sing of names remembered, Because they, living not, can ne'er be dead, Or long time take their memory quite away From us poor singers of an empty day. Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due time, Why should I strive to set the crooked straight? Let it suffice me that my murmuring rhyme Beats with light wing against the ivory gate, Telling a tale not too importunate To those who in the sleepy region stay, Lulled by the singer of an empty day.