* * * * * Upon the shore of Argolis there stands A temple to the goddess that he sought, That, turned unto the lion-bearing lands, 360 Fenced from the east, of cold winds hath no thought, Though to no homestead there the sheaves are brought, No groaning press torments the close-clipped murk, Lonely the fane stands, far from all men's work. Pass through a close, set thick with myrtle-trees, 365 Through the brass doors that guard the holy place, And entering, hear the washing of the seas That twice a day rise high above the base, And with the southwest urging them, embrace The marble feet of her that standeth there, 370 That shrink not, naked though they be and fair. Small is the fane through which the sea-wind sings About Queen Venus'[303] well-wrought image white, But hung around are many precious things, The gifts of those who, longing for delight, 375 Have hung them there within the goddess' sight, And in return have taken at her hands The living treasures of the Grecian lands. And thither now has come Milanion, And showed unto the priests' wide-open eyes 380 Gifts fairer than all those that there have shown, Silk cloths, inwrought with Indian fantasies, And bowls inscribed with sayings of the wise Above the deeds of foolish living things, And mirrors fit to be the gifts of kings. 385 And now before the Sea-born One he stands, By the sweet veiling smoke made dim and soft, And while the incense trickles from his hands, And while the odorous smoke-wreaths hang aloft, Thus doth he pray to her: "O Thou, who oft 390 Hast holpen[304] man and maid in their distress, Despise me not for this my wretchedness! "O goddess, among us who dwell below, Kings and great men, great for a little while, Have pity on the lowly heads that bow, 395 Nor hate the hearts that love them without guile; Wilt thou be worse than these, and is thy smile A vain device of him who set thee here, An empty dream of some artificer? "O great one, some men love, and are ashamed; 400 Some men are weary of the bonds of love; Yea, and by some men lightly art thou blamed, That from thy toils their lives they cannot move, And 'mid the ranks of men their manhood prove. Alas! O goddess, if thou slayest me 405 What new immortal can I serve but thee?