Pygmalion mourns his own success; Was ever such strange wretchedness? His work itself, a work of Art, Perfect in its every part; But himself? Alas, artist he Of his own utmost misery. He feels his wounds, but who shall tell Whence come the drops that downward steal? Flames leap out from the marble, cold As ice itself by storm-wind roll'd: And he, contriver of that fire, Burns self-immolate on his own pyre; Furies of his own genius born Cast him, adoring and forlorn, Into a strange captivity Before his own hands' work; and he Clings to the shapely form, until, In ecstasy of love a-thrill, He burning lips to cold lips sets, And wild with passion her cheek wets; Strains to his breast insensate stone, As 'twere a breathing thing; with moan, With clasp and grasp and tingling touch, As though he ne'er could grip too much; And wilder'd cry of agony, That she respond would; by him lie A virgin pure as drifted snow, Or lilies that i' the meadows blow. Is it ivory? is it stone? Lives it? or is it clay alone? O that to flesh the stone would melt, And show a soul within it dwelt! He looks, he yearns, he sighs, he sobs, Convulsive his whole body throbs; He doubts, he fears, he supplicates With wistful gaze; he on her waits; Gifts lavish he lays at her feet, And, stung to passion, will entreat, As though the image he has made Were thing of life he might persuade-- Persuade and woo, and on her stake His future, all. O sad mistake! For thee, Pygmalion, Venus sends These triumphs which thy chisel lends, To punish thee, for that no love Erewhile thy obstinate heart might move. Why flee'st thou the living, say, When this image thee doth slay? Thee doth--ay, slay! Why dost thou stand Entranc'd before the work o' thy hand, None the less hurtful that it is Thine own genius yields the bliss? Venus must thee still deny; The sculptured maid must breathless lie. G. ARION. Squammea vivae Lubrica terga ratis Jam conscendet Arion. Merces tam nova solvitur Navis quam nova scanditur. Illa Aërea est merces, haec est et aquatica navis. Perdidere illum viri Mercede magna, servat hic Mercede nulla piscis: et sic Salute plus ruina constat illi; Minoris et servatur hinc quam perditur. Hic dum findit aquas, findit hic aëra: Cursibus, piscis; digitis, Arion: Et sternit undas, sternit et aëra: Carminis hoc placido Tridente Abjurat sua jam murmura, ventusque modestior Auribus ora mutat: Ora dediscit, minimos et metuit susurros; Sonus alter restat, ut fit sonus illis Aura strepens circum muta sit lateri adjacente penna, Ambit et ora viri, nec vela ventis hic egent; Attendit hanc ventus ratem: non trahit, at trahitur. TRANSLATION (_full_). ARION.