Softer than lambs and whiter than the curds, O Galatea, swan-nymph of the sea! Vain is my longing, worthless are my words; Why do you come in night's sweet dreams to me, And when I wake, swift leave me, as in fear The lambkin hastens when a wolf is near? Why did my mother on a dark-bright day Bring you, for hyacinths, a-near my cave? I was the guide, and through the tangled way I thoughtless led you; I am now your slave. Peace left my soul when you knocked at my heart-- Come, Galatea, never to depart! Though I am dark and ugly to the sight-- A Cyclops I, and stronger there are few-- Of you I dream through all the quick-paced night, And in the morn ten fawns I feed for you, And four young bears: O rise from grots below, Soft love and peace with me forever know! Last night I dreamed that I, a monster gilled, Swam in the sea and saw you singing there: I gave you lilies and your grotto filled With the sweet odours of all flowers rare; I gave you apples, as I kissed your hand, And reddest poppies from my richest land. Oh, brave the restless billows of your world: They toss and tremble; see my cypress-grove, And bending laurels, and the tendrils curled Of honeyed grapes, and a fresh treasure-trove In vine-crowned Ætna, of pure-running rills! O Galatea, kill the scorn that kills! Softer than lambs and whiter than the curds, O Galatea, listen to my prayer: Come, come to land, and hear the song of birds; Rise, rise, from ocean-depths, as lily-fair As you are in my dreams! Come, then, O Sleep, For you alone can bring her from the deep. And Galatea, in her cool, green waves, Plaits her long hair with purple flower-bells, And laughs and sings, while black-browed Cyclops raves And to the wind his love-lorn story tells: For well she knows that Cyclops will ere long Forget, as poets do, his pain in song. No sensitive mind can dwell on Theocritus, even when interpreted in English prose, without feeling something of the joy of the old Syracusan in life. His human nature is of the kind that makes the nymphs and swains of Alexander Pope dull and artificial. There are flies in this delicious ointment, one must admit, touches of corruption which a degenerate paganism condoned and palliated, but we must remember, as an extenuation of the Greek attitude, that the oracle of Delphi protested against them. The cyprus plains of Theocritus yet echo with the call of the cicada, and the anemones still bloom. The pipes of Pan are not all silent. The world would lose some of its beauty if Theocritus and the Sicilian poets did not entice us to hear their echoes.