Then it was that Heracles For sweet Hylas ill at ease, Left the heroes by the fire, Strung his bowstring taut as wire, Went to look for Hylas inland Past a little rocky headland, Rising higher ever higher Till he found the cup-shaped dale, Where he called without avail, Shouting loudly, "Hylas, Hylas," Echo answered back, "Alas," Echo answered very slowly, Speaking sorrowfully and lowly, When he called the lad, "Hy-_las_," Hollow echo said, "Alas." And he never found him more On the hill or by the shore, On the upland, on the downland, Never found him where he lay Down among the boulders gray, Limp among the watery rocks, Where the lily raised its chalice And the dread nymphs combed his locks, Pale Nycheia, April-eyed, And white Eunice and Malis. For his voice came down to these Vague as April in the trees, Filtered through the water clear Far and faint yet strangely near, Very thin-- And no echo could they hear Only ripples' silver din And the dull splash of an otter; Echo cannot live in water. But that echo comes to me Down through half eternity Crying out, "Alas--Alas!" For all beauty that must pass Like a picture from a glass-- When time breathes it is not there-- Bony hands and coffined hair! Alas! Alas! Alas! BACCHUS IS GONE. _Bacchus is gone_! I saw him leave the shore Upon a moonless time, _And he is gone--is gone--_ Forevermore. I saw the satyrs and the bacchanals-- _Bacchus is gone--is gone--_ With smoking torches as at funerals Light him across the sea at dawn. I saw the whimpering pards Where he had passed-- _Bacchus is gone--is gone--_ Sniff to the water's edge, Where purple stained, his footprints led-- I heard the Goat-foot whisper in the hedge, "_Bacchus is dead--is dead,_" And go aghast, Snapping the myrtle branches as he fled. _Bacchus is gone!_ And with him dancing Folly-- _Bacchus is dead--is dead--_ Oh, Melancholy! No! No! He is not dead; he has but fled To kindlier lands he knew in days before Men snatched the purple roses from his head. He does but wanton by some liberal shore-- Sun kissed-- And wreathed with vine leaves as of old, With spotted beasts and maidens by his car, And sound of timbrels like a story told Of youth and love and blood and wine and war. TIGER LILIES. They make me think of battlefields I saw Where butterflies with wings of sulphurous gold Crawled on gray faces death had made obscene That stared with stolid dolls' eyes from the mold. They make me think of pools of wimpled slime, Where lizards bask upon the quaking crust, And crumbling walls where hairy spiders weave And snakes lie coupling in the summer dust.