Publisher's Synopsis
HE was a Grecian lad, who coming homeWith pulpy figs and wine from SicilyStood at his galley's prow, and let the foamBlow through his crisp brown curls unconsciously, And holding wave and wind in boy's despitePeered from his dripping seat across the wet and stormy night.Till with the dawn he saw a burnished spearLike a thin thread of gold against the sky, And hoisted sail, and strained the creaking gear, And bade the pilot head her lustilyAgainst the nor'west gale, and all day longHeld on his way, and marked the rowers' time with measured song.And when the faint Corinthian hills were redDropped anchor in a little sandy bay, And with fresh boughs of olive crowned his head, And brushed from cheek and throat the hoary spray, And washed his limbs with oil, and from the holdBrought out his linen tunic and his sandals brazen-soled, And a rich robe stained with the fishers' juiceWhich of some swarthy trader he had boughtUpon the sunny quay at Syracuse, And was with Tyrian broideries inwrought, And by the questioning merchants made his wayUp through the soft and silver woods, and when the labouring dayHad spun its tangled web of crimson cloud, Clomb the high hill, and with swift silent feetCrept to the fane unnoticed by the crowdOf busy priests, and from some dark retreatWatched the young swains his frolic playmates bringThe firstling of their little flock, and the shy shepherd flingThe crackling salt upon the flame, or hangHis studded crook against the temple wallTo Her who keeps away the ravenous fangOf the base wolf from homestead and f
