IX.

POLYPHEME'S PASSION.

Ho, Silenus !—no one here!

The kitchen empty, the flocks in stalls,

The red fire flickering over the walls,

And a young kid spitted-dainty cheer!
Ho, Silenus !-tipsy old reveller,

Soft-zone-unloosener, bright-hair-disheveller,

Where are you hiding, you tipsy old hound you, With your beard of a goat and your eyes of a lamb ?

Ho, Cyclops!

SILENUS.

POLYPHEME.

He mocks me! Where are you, confound you?

SILENUS.

Patience, sweet master, here I am!—

POLYPHEME.

Rise! or with my great fist I'll put an end to you ; The dregs of my great flagon have been warming you— You're drunk, sow-ears. I find there's no reforming you, Tho' six round moons I've tried to be a friend to you. Once more divinely warming those old veins,

Chirping like grasshoppers at every pore,

Foaming as warm as milk among your brains,
Gushing like sunshine in your dry heart's core,
Runs the pink nectar of my vines. It stains,

Flowing from that bald head, this grassy floor-
Too sweet for earth to drink, unmeet for thee,
Fit only to be quaffed by gods like me!

Cyclops!

SILENUS.

POLYPHEME.

Jump up, then, quickly. Nay, no more.

Follow me to this rocky eminence,

Cool-cushion'd with the yellow moss, from whence

We can at ease behold

The cloud-stain'd greenness of the ocean sleek,
Rounding its smooth mild waves into the creek,

Speckled with sparkling jewels manifold,
And, far away, one melting patch of gold.

Now, sit !-Nay, nearer, higher-here, above

My shoulder. Turn your face on mine, Silenus!

Fear not being fill'd with the sweet milk of Venus,

:

You're a fit counsellor for one in love;

And, as I'm in a talking humour, why-
Suppose we chat a little at our leisure.

With pleasure!

The subject?

SILENUS.

POLYPHEME.

One alone beneath the sky,

Old man, is worthy of the conversation

And serious consideration

Of such a god as I!

Now, guess the name of that sweet thing?

SILENUS.

With ease.

Bacchus, the god to whom these aged knees

Bend gloriously impotent so often,

And in whose luscious pool

I dip hot mouth and eyes, and soak and soften

The yoke of your strong rule.

POLYPHEME.

A thing a thousand times more beautiful!

SILENUS.

I know no thing more beautiful than he
When, dripping odours cool,

Deep-purpled, like a honey-bosom'd flower
For which the red mouth buzzes like a bee,
He bursts from thy deep caverns gushingly,

And throws his pleasure round him in a shower, And sparkles, sparkles, like the eyes that see,

In sunshine, murmuring for very glee

And bursting foamy bubbles until sour

Lips tremble into moist anticipation

Of his rich exultation!

POLYPHEME.

Has little Bacchus, whom you praise so, power

To unnerve these mighty limbs, make this one Eye Rain impotent tears, hurl this gigantic bulk Down on its stubborn knees-nay, make me skulk And fume and fret, and simper oaths, and sigh, Like tiny mortal milking-maids who sulk

In dairies, frothing yellow like their cream? Could Bacchus, once let loose to fight and fly, Do all these things to sinewy Polypheme?

Assuredly!

SILENUS.

POLYPHEME.

By this right hand, you lie !—

I am a god, great-statured, strong, and born
Out of Poseidon's nervy loins divine;

I laugh the wrath of Zeus himself to scorn;
And when I rise erect on Aetna's horn

My shadow on the faint sea-hyaline

Falls like a cloud wherein the winds drop still

And white-wing'd ships move slowly without will.