They see the Indian On his mountain lake; but squalls Make their skiff reel, and worms In the unkind spring have gnawn Their melon-harvest to the heart. They see The Scythian; but long frosts Parch them in winter-time on the bare steppe, Till they too fade like grass; they crawl Like shadows forth in spring. They see the merchants On the Oxus-stream; but care Must visit first them too, and make them pale: Whether, through whirling sand, A cloud of desert robber-horse have burst Upon their caravan; or greedy kings, In the walled cities the way passes through, Crushed them with tolls; or fever-airs, On some great river’s marge, Mown them down, far from home. They see the heroes Near harbor; but they share Their lives, and former violent toil in Thebes,-- Seven-gated Thebes, or Troy; Or where the echoing oars Of Argo first Startled the unknown sea. The old Silenus Came, lolling in the sunshine, From the dewy forest-coverts, This way, at noon. Sitting by me, while his fauns Down at the water-side Sprinkled and smoothed His drooping garland, He told me these things. But I, Ulysses, Sitting on the warm steps, Looking over the valley, All day long, have seen, Without pain, without labor, Sometimes a wild-haired mænad, Sometimes a faun with torches, And sometimes, for a moment, Passing through the dark stems Flowing-robed, the beloved, The desired, the divine, Beloved Iacchus. Ah, cool night-wind, tremulous stars! Ah, glimmering water, Fitful earth-murmur, Dreaming woods! Ah, golden-haired, strangely smiling goddess, And thou, proved, much-enduring, Wave-tossed wanderer! Who can stand still? Ye fade, ye swim, ye waver before me-- The cup again! Faster, faster, O Circe, goddess, Let the wild, thronging train, The bright procession Of eddying forms, Sweep through my soul! _FRAGMENT OF AN “ANTIGONE.”_ THE CHORUS. Well hath he done who hath seized happiness! For little do the all-containing hours, Though opulent, freely give,-- Who, weighing that life well Fortune presents unprayed, Declines her ministry, and carves his own; And, justice not infringed, Makes his own welfare his unswerved-from law. He does well too, who keeps that clew the mild Birth-goddess and the austere Fates first gave. For, from the day when these Bring him, a weeping child, First to the light, and mark A country for him, kinsfolk, and a home, Unguided he remains, Till the Fates come again, this time with death.