Take these, and count them still the best of all Thine envied wealth, and when on thee shall fall By any way the worst extremity, Call upon me before thou com'st to die, And lay these shafts with incense on a fire, That thou mayst gain thine uttermost desire." He ceased, but ere the golden tongue was still An odorous mist had stolen up the hill, And to Admetus first the god grew dim, And then was but a lovely voice to him, And then at last the sun had sunk to rest, And a fresh wind blew lightly from the west Over the hill-top, and no soul was there; But the sad dying autumn field-flowers fair, Rustled dry leaves about the windy place, Where even now had been the godlike face, And in their midst the brass-bound quiver lay. Then, going further westward, far away, He saw the gleaming of Peneus wan 'Neath the white sky, but never any man, Except a grey-haired shepherd driving down From off the long slopes to his fold-yard brown His woolly sheep, with whom a maiden went, Singing for labour done and sweet content Of coming rest; with that he turned again, And took the shafts up, never sped in vain, And came unto his house most deep in thought Of all the things the varied year had brought. * * * * * Thenceforth in bliss and honour day by day His measured span of sweet life wore away. A happy man he was; no vain desire Of foolish fame had set his heart a-fire; No care he had the ancient bounds to change, Nor yet for him must idle soldiers range From place to place about the burdened land, Or thick upon the ruined cornfields stand; For him no trumpets blessed the bitter war, Wherein the right and wrong so mingled are, That hardly can the man of single heart Amid the sickening turmoil choose his part; For him sufficed the changes of the year, The god-sent terror was enough of fear For him; enough the battle with the earth, The autumn triumph over drought and dearth. Better to him than wolf-moved battered shields, O'er poor dead corpses, seemed the stubble-fields Danced down beneath the moon, until the night Grew dreamy with a shadowy sweet delight, And with the high-risen moon came pensive thought, And men in love's despite must grow distraught And loiter in the dance, and maidens drop Their gathered raiment, and the fifer stop His dancing notes the pensive drone that chid, And as they wander to their dwellings, hid By the black shadowed trees, faint melody, Mournful and sweet, their soft good-night must be. Far better spoil the gathering vat bore in Unto the pressing shed, than midst the din Of falling houses in war's waggon lies Besmeared with redder stains than Tyrian dyes; Or when the temple of the sea-born one With glittering crowns and gallant raiment shone, Fairer the maidens seemed by no chain bound, But such as amorous arms might cast around