THE PSALM OF ADONIS.

O Queen that lovest Golgi, and Idalium, and the steep of Eryx, O Aphrodite, that playest with gold, lo, from the stream eternal of Acheron they have brought back to thee Adonis-even in the twelfth month they have brought him, the dainty-footed Hours. Tardiest of the Immortals are the beloved Hours, but dear and desired they come, for always, to all mortals, they bring some gift with them. O Cypris, daughter of Diônê, from mortal to immortal, so men tell, thou hast changed Berenice, dropping softly in the woman's breast the stuff of immortality.

Therefore, for thy delight, O thou of many names and many temples, doth the daughter of Berenice, even Arsinoë, lovely as Helen, cherish Adonis with all things beautiful.

Before him lie all ripe fruits that the tall trees' branches bear, and the delicate gardens, arrayed in baskets of silver, and the golden vessels are full of incense of Syria. And all the dainty cakes that women fashion in the kneading tray, mingling blossoms manifold with the white wheaten flour, all that is wrought of honey sweet, and in soft olive oil, all cakes fashioned in the semblance of things that fly, and of things that creep, lo, here they are set before him. Here are built for him shadowy bowers of green, all laden with tender anise, and children flit overhead - the little Loves young nightingales perched upon the trees fly forth and try their wings from bough to bough.

as the

O the ebony, O the gold, O the twin eagles of white ivory that carry to Zeus, the son of Cronos, his darling, his cup-bearer! O the purple coverlet strewn above, more soft than sleep! So Miletus will say, and whoso feeds sheep in Samos.

Another bed is strewn for beautiful Adonis, one bed Cypris keeps and one the rosy-armed Adonis. A bridegroom of eighteen or nineteen years is he, his kisses are not rough, the golden down being yet upon his lips! And now, good-night to Cypris, in the arms of her lover! But lo, in the morning we will all of us gather with the dew, and carry him forth among the waves that break upon the beach; and with locks unloosed, and ungirt raiment falling to the ankles, and bosoms bare, will we begin our shrill sweet song.

Thou only, dear Adonis, so men tell, thou only of the demigods dost visit both this world and the stream of Acheron. For Agamemnon had no such lot, nor Aias, that mighty lord of the terrible anger, nor Hector, the eldest born of the twenty sons of Hecabe, nor Patroclus, nor Pyrrhus that returned out of Troyland, nor the heroes of yet more ancient days, the Lapithæ and Deucalion's sons, nor the sons of Pelops, and the chiefs of Pelasgian Argos. Be gracious now, dear Adonis, and propitious even in the coming year.

Dear to

us has thine advent been, Adonis, and dear shall it be when thou comest again.

Gorgo-Praxinoë, the woman is cleverer than we fancied! Happy woman to know so much, thrice happy to have so sweet Well, all the same, it is time to be making for home. Diocleides has not had his dinner, and the man is all vinegar, - don't venture near him when he is kept waiting for dinner. Farewell, beloved Adonis, may you find us glad at your next coming!

A LAMENT FOR ADONIS.

BY BION.

(Translation of Mrs. Browning.)

[BION was born at Smyrna; flourished about 280; contemporary of Theocritus, and wrote pastorals in the same manner.

"Lament for Bion" under Moschus.]

I MOURN for Adonis

I.

He was greatly beloved. See

Adonis is dead,

Fair Adonis is dead and the Loves are lamenting.
Sleep, Cypris, no more on thy purple-strewed bed:

Arise, wretch stoled in black; beat thy breast unrelenting,
And shriek to the worlds, "Fair Adonis is dead!"

I mourn for Adonis

II.

the Loves are lamenting.

He lies on the hills in his beauty and death;

The white tusk of a boar has transpierced his white thigh.
Cytherea grows mad at his thin gasping breath,

While the black blood drips down on the pale ivory,

And his eyeballs lie quenched with the weight of his brows,
The rose fades from his lips, and upon them just parted
The kiss dies the goddess consents not to lose,

Though the kiss of the Dead cannot make her glad-hearted:
He knows not who kisses him dead in the dews.

III.

I mourn for Adonis - the Loves are lamenting.
Deep, deep in the thigh is Adonis's wound,

But a deeper, is Cypris's bosom presenting.

The youth lieth dead while his dogs howl around,
And the nymphs weep aloud from the mists of the hill,
And the poor Aphrodité, with tresses unbound,
All disheveled, unsandaled, shrieks mournful and shrill
Through the dusk of the groves. The thorns, tearing her feet,
Gather up the red flower of her blood which is holy,
Each footstep she takes: and the valleys repeat
The sharp cry she utters and draw it out slowly.
She calls on her spouse, her Assyrian, on him

Her own youth, while the dark blood spreads over his body,
The chest taking hue from the gash in the limb,
And the bosom, once ivory, turning to ruddy.

IV.

Ah, ah, Cytherea! the Loves are lamenting.

She lost her fair spouse and so lost her fair smile:

When he lived she was fair, by the whole world's consenting,
Whose fairness is dead with him: woe worth the while!

All the mountains above and the oaklands below
Murmur, ah, ah, Adonis! the streams overflow
Aphrodité's deep wail; river fountains in pity

Weep soft in the hills, and the flowers as they blow

Redden outward with sorrow, while all hear her go

With the song of her sadness through mountain and city.

V.

Ah, ah, Cytherea! Adonis is dead,

Fair Adonis is dead - Echo answers, Adonis ! Who weeps not for Cypris, when bowing her head

She stares at the wound where it gapes and astonies?

- When, ah, ah!-she saw how the blood ran away And empurpled the thigh, and, with wild hands flung out, Said with sobs: "Stay, Adonis! unhappy one, stay,

Let me feel thee once more, let me ring thee about With the clasp of my arms, and press kiss into kiss! Wait a little, Adonis, and kiss me again,

For the last time, beloved, —and but so much of this

That the kiss may learn life from the warmth of the strain! - Till thy breath shall exude from thy soul to my mouth, To my heart, and, the love charm I once more receiving

May drink thy love in it and keep of a truth

That one kiss in the place of Adonis the living.

Thou fliest me, mournful one, fliest me far,

My Adonis, and seekest the Acheron portal,To Hell's cruel King goest down with a scar,

While I weep and live on like a wretched immortal, And follow no step! O Persephoné, take him,

My husband!thou'rt better and brighter than I, So all beauty flows down to thee: I cannot make him Look up at my grief; there's despair in my cry, Since I wail for Adonis who died to me - died to me Then, I fear thee! - Art thou dead, my Adored? Passion ends like a dream in the sleep that's denied to me, Cypris is widowed, the Loves seek their lord

All the house through in vain. Charm of cestus has ceased With thy clasp! O too bold in the hunt past preventing, Ay, mad, thou so fair, to have strife with a beast!"

Thus the goddess wailed on-and the Loves are lamenting.

VI.

Ah, ah, Cytherea! Adonis is dead.

She wept tear after tear with the blood which was shed,
And both turned into flowers for the earth's garden close,
Her tears, to the windflower; his blood. to the rose.

Weep no more in the woods, Cytherea, thy lover!
So, well: make a place for his corse in thy bed,

With the purples thou sleepest in, under and over.
He's fair though a corse a fair corse, like a sleeper.
Lay him soft in the silks he had pleasure to fold
When, beside thee at night, holy dreams deep and deeper
Enclosed his young life on the couch made of gold.
Love him still, poor Adonis; cast on him together

The crowns and the flowers: since he died from the place,
Why, let all die with him; let the blossoms go wither,
Rain myrtles and olive buds down on his face.
Rain the myrrh down, let all that is best fall a-pining,
Since the myrrh of his life from thy keeping is swept.
Pale he lay, thine Adonis, in purples reclining;

The Loves raised their voices around him and wept. They have shorn their bright curls off to cast on Adonis; One treads on his bow,- -on his arrows, another,

One breaks up a well-feathered quiver, and one is

Bent low at a sandal, untying the strings,

And one carries the vases of gold from the springs,

While one washes the wound, and behind them a brother
Fans down on the body sweet air with his wings.

VIII.

Cytherea herself now the Loves are lamenting.
Each torch at the door Hymenæus blew out.

And, the marriage wreath dropping its leaves as repenting,
No more "Hymen, Hymen," is chanted about,
But the ai ai instead -"Ai alas!" is begun

For Adonis, and then follows "Ai Hymenæus!"

The Graces are weeping for Cinyris's son,

Sobbing low each to each, "His fair eyes cannot see us!"
Their wail strikes more shrill than the sadder Dioné's.
The Fates mourn aloud for Adonis, Adonis,

Deep chanting; he hears not a word that they say:

He would hear, but Persephoné has him in keeping.

- Cease moan, Cytherea! leave pomps for to-day,

And weep new when a new year refits thee for weeping.

CASSANDRA'S PROPHECY.

BY LYCOPHRON.

(Translated by Viscount Royston.)

[LYCOPHRON, a Greek critic and tragic poet, born at Chalcis in Eubœa, but an Alexandrian by residence and work, flourished in the reign of Ptolemy Philadelphus, B.C. 285-247. Intrusted by him with the arrangement of the comedies in the Alexandrian library, he wrote a treatise on comedy, but his chief production was a body of tragedies forty-six or sixty-four in number. His only extant work is "Cassandra," an imaginary prophecy by that daughter of Priam concerning the fate of Troy and the Greek and Trojan heroes.]

HARK, how Myrinna groans! the shores resound
With snorting steeds, and furious chivalry:
Down leaps the Wolf, to lap the blood of kings,
Down on our strand; within her wounded breast
Earth feels the stroke, and pours the fateful stream
On high, the fountains of the deep disclosed.

Now Mars showers down a fiery sleet, and winds
His trumpet-shell, distilling blood, and now,
Knit with the Furies and the Fates in dance,