The Complete Poems of Percy Bysshe Shelley by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Attend, I pray, to this advice of mine,
115
As you would ’scape what might appal a bolder—
Seeing, see not—and hearing, hear not—and—
If you have understanding—understand.’
XVI
So saying, Hermes roused the oxen vast;
O’er shadowy mountain and resounding dell,
120
And flower-paven plains, great Hermes passed;
Till the black night divine, which favouring fell
Around his steps, grew gray, and morning fast
Wakened the world to work, and from her cell
Sea-strewn, the Pallantean Moon sublime
125
Into her watch-tower just began to climb.
XVII
Now to Alpheus he had driven all
The broad-foreheaded oxen of the Sun;
They came unwearied to the lofty stall
And to the water-troughs which ever run
130
Through the fresh fields—and when with rushgrass tall.
Lotus and all sweet herbage, every one
Had pastured been, the great God made them move
Towards the stall in a collected drove.
XVIII
A mighty pile of wood the God then heaped,
135
And having soon conceived the mystery
Of fire, from two smooth laurel branches stripped
The bark, and rubbed them in his palms;—on high
Suddenly forth the burning vapour leaped
And the divine child saw delightedly.—
140
Mercury first found out for human weal
Tinder-box, matches, fire-irons, flint and steel.
XIX
And fine dry logs and roots innumerous
He gathered in a delve upon the ground—
And kindled them—and instantaneous
145
The strength of the fierce flame was breathed around:
And whilst the might of glorious Vulcan thus
Wrapped the great pile with glare and roaring sound,
Hermes dragged forth two heifers, lowing loud,
Close to the fire—such might was in the God.
XX
150
And on the earth upon their backs he threw
The panting beasts, and rolled them o’er and o’er,
And bored their lives out. Without more ado
He cut fat and flesh, and down before
The fire, on spits of wood he placed the two,
155
Toasting their flesh and ribs, and all the gore
Pursed in the bowels; and while this was done
He stretched their hides over a craggy stone.
XXI
We mortals let an ox grow old, and then
Cut it up after long consideration,—
160
But joyous-minded Hermes from the glen
Drew the fat spoils to the more open station
Of a flat smooth space, and portioned them; and when
He had by lot assigned to each a ration
Of the twelve Gods, his mind became aware
165
Of all the joys which in religion are.
XXII
For the sweet savour of the roasted meat
Tempted him though immortal. Natheless
He checked his haughty will and did not eat,
Though what it cost him words can scarce express,
170
And every wish to put such morsels sweet
Down his most sacred throat, he did repress;
But soon within the lofty portalled stall
He placed the fat and flesh and bones and all.
XXIII
And every trace of the fresh butchery
175
And cooking, the God soon made disappear,
As if it all had vanished through the sky;
He burned the hoofs and horns and head and hair,—
The insatiate fire devoured them hungrily;—
And when he saw that everything was clear,
180
He quenched the coal, and trampled the black dust,
And in the stream his bloody sandals tossed.
XXIV
All night he worked in the serene moonshine—
But when the light of day was spread abroad
He sought his natal mountain-peaks divine.
185
On his long wandering neither Man nor God
Had met him, since he killed Apollo’s kine,
Nor house-dog had barked at him on his road;
Now he obliquely through the keyhole passed,
Like a thin mist, or an autumnal blast.
XXV
190
Right through the temple of the spacious cave
He went with soft light feet—as if his tread
Fell not on earth; no sound their falling gave;
Then to his cradle he crept quick, and spread
The swaddling-clothes about him; and the knave
195
Lay playing with the covering of the bed
With his left hand about his knees—the right
Held his belovèd tortoise-lyre tight.
XXVI
There he lay innocent as a new-born child,
As gossips say; but though he was a God,
200
The Goddess, his fair mother, unbeguiled,
Knew all that he had done being abroad:
‘Whence come you, and from what adventure wild,
You cunning rogue, and where have you abode
All the long night, clothed in your impudence?
205
What have you done since you departed hence?
XXVII
‘Apollo soon will pass within this gate
And bind your tender body in a chain
Inextricably tight, and fast as fate,
Unless you can delude the God again,
210
Even when within his arms—ah, runagate!
A pretty torment both for Gods and Men
Your father made when he made you!’—‘Dear mother,’
Replied sly Hermes, ‘wherefore scold and bother?
XXVIII
‘As if I were like other babes as old,
215
And understood nothing of what is what;
And cared at all to hear my mother scold.
I in my subtle brain a scheme have got,
Which whilst the sacred stars round Heaven are rolled
Will profit you and me—nor shall our lot
220
Be as you counsel, without gifts or food,
To spend our lives in this obscure abode.
XXIX
‘But we will leave this shadow-peopled cave
And live among the Gods, and pass each day
In high communion, sharing what they have
225
Of profuse wealth and unexhausted prey;
And from the portion which my father gave
To Phoebus, I will snatch my share away,
Which if my father will not—natheless I,
Who am the king of robbers, can but try.
XXX
230
‘And, if Latona’s son should find me out,
I’ll countermine him by a deeper plan;
I’ll pierce the Pythian temple-walls, though stout,
And sack the fane of everything I can—
Caldrons and tripods of great worth no doubt,
235
Each golden cup and polished brazen pan,
All the wrought tapestries and garments gay.’—
So they together talked;—meanwhile the Day
XXXI
Aethereal born arose out of the flood
Of flowing Ocean, bearing light to men.
240
Apollo passed toward the sacred wood,
Which from the
Echoes the voice of Neptune,—and there stood
On the same spot in green Onchestus then
That same old animal, the vine-dresser,
245
Who was employed hedging his vineyard there.
XXXII
Latona’s glorious Son began:—‘I pray
Tell, ancient hedger of Onchestus green,
Whether a drove of kine has passed this way,
All heifers with crooked horns? for they have been
250
Stolen from the herd in high Pieria,
Where a black bull was fed apart, between
Two woody mountains in a neighbouring glen,
And four fierce dogs watched there, unanimous as men.
XXXIII
‘And what is strange, the author of this theft
255
Has stolen the fatted heifers every one,
But the four dogs and the black bull are left:—
Stolen they were last night at set of sun,
Of their soft beds and their sweet food bereft.—
Now tell me, man born ere the world begun,
260
Have you seen any one pass with the cows?’—
To whom the man of overhanging brows:
XXXIV
‘My friend, it would require no common skill
Justly to speak of everything I see:
On various purposes of good or ill
265
Many pass by my vineyard,—and to me
’Tis difficult to know the invisible
Thoughts, which in all those many minds may be:—
Thus much alone I certainly can say,
I tilled these vines till the decline of day,
XXXV
270
‘And then I thought I saw, but dare not speak
With certainty of such a wondrous thing,
A child, who could not have been born a week,
Those fair-horned cattle closely following,
And in his hand he held a polished stick:
275
And, as on purpose, he walked wavering
From one side to the other of the road,
And with his face opposed the steps he trod.’
XXXVI
Apollo hearing this, passed quickly on—
No wingèd omen could have shown more clear
280
That the deceiver was his father’s son.
So the God wraps a purple atmosphere
Around his shoulders, and like fire is gone
To famous Pylos, seeking his kine there,
And found their track and his, yet hardly cold,
285
And cried—‘What wonder do mine eyes behold!
XXXVII
‘Here are the footsteps of the hornèd herd
Turned back towards their fields of asphodel;—
But these are not the tracks of beast or bird,
Gray wolf, or bear, or lion of the dell,
290
Or manèd Centaur—sand was never stirred
By man or woman thus! Inexplicable!
Who with unwearied feet could e’er impress
The sand with such enormous vestiges?
XXXVIII
‘That was most strange—but this is stranger still!’
295
Thus having said, Phoebus impetuously
Sought high Cyllene’s forest-cinctured hill,
And the deep cavern where dark shadows lie,
And where the ambrosial nymph with happy will
Bore the Saturnian’s love-child, Mercury—
300
And a delightful odour from the dew
Of the hill pastures, at his coming, flew.
XXXIX
And Phoebus stooped under the craggy roof
Arched over the dark cavern:—Maia’s child
Perceived that he came angry, far aloof,
305
About the cows of which he had been beguiled;
And over him the fine and fragrant woof
Of his ambrosial swaddling-clothes he piled—
As among fire-brands lies a burning spark
Covered, beneath the ashes cold and dark.
XL
310
There, like an infant who had sucked his fill
And now was newly washed and put to bed,
Awake, but courting sleep with weary will,
And gathered in a lump, hands, feet, and head,
He lay, and his belovèd tortoise still
315
He grasped and held under his shoulder-blade.
Phoebus the lovely mountain-goddess knew,
Not less her subtle, swindling baby, who
XLI
Lay swathed in his sly wiles. Round every crook
Of the ample cavern, for his kine, Apollo
320
Looked sharp; and when he saw them not, he took
The glittering key, and opened three great hollow
Recesses in the rock—where many a nook
Was filled with the sweet food immortals swallow,
And mighty heaps of silver and of gold
325
Were piled within—a wonder to behold!
XLII
And white and silver robes, all overwrought
With cunning workmanship of tracery sweet—
Except among the Gods there can be nought
In the wide world to be compared with it,
330
Latona’s offspring, after having sought
His herds in every corner, thus did greet
Great Hermes:—‘Little cradled rogue, declare
Of my illustrious heifers, where they are!
XLIII
‘Speak quickly! or a quarrel between us
335
Must rise, and the event will be, that I
Shall hurl you into dismal Tartarus,
In fiery gloom to dwell eternally;
Nor shall your father nor your mother loose
The bars of that black dungeon—utterly
340
You shall be cast out from the light of day,
To rule the ghosts of men, unblessed as they.’
XLIV
To whom thus Hermes slily answered:—‘Son
Of great Latona, what a speech is this!
Why come you here to ask me what is done
345
With the wild oxen which it seems you miss?
I have not seen them, nor from any one
Have heard a word of the whole business;
If you should promise an immense reward,
I could not tell more than you now have heard.
XLV
350
‘An ox-stealer should be both tall and strong,
And I am but a little new-born thing,
Who, yet at least, can think of nothing wrong:—
My business is to suck, and sleep, and fling
The cradle-clothes about me all day long,—
355
Or half asleep, hear my sweet mother sing,
And to be washed in water clean and warm,
And hushed and kissed and kept secure from harm.
XLVI
‘O, let not e’er this quarrel be averred!
The astounded Gods would laugh at you, if e’er
360
You should allege a story so absurd
As that a new-born infant forth could fare
Out of his home after a savage herd.
I was born yesterday—my small feet are
Too tender for the roads so hard and rough:—
365
And if you think that this is not enough,
XLVII
‘I swear a great oath, by my father’s head,
That I stole not your cows, and that I know
Of no one else, who might, or could, or did.—
Whatever things cows are, I do not
370
For I have only heard the name.’—This said,
He winked as fast as could be, and his brow
Was wrinkled, and a whistle loud gave he,
Like one who hears some strange absurdity.
XLVIII
Apollo gently smiled and said:—‘Ay, ay,—
375
You cunning little rascal, you will bore
Many a rich man’s house, and your array
Of thieves will lay their siege before his door,
Silent as night, in night; and many a day
In the wild glens rough shepherds will deplore
380
That you or yours, having an appetite,
Met with their cattle, comrade of the night!
XLIX
‘And this among the Gods shall be your gift,
To be considered as the lord of those
Who swindle, house-break, sheep-steal, and shop-lift;—
385
But now if you would not your last sleep doze;
Crawl out!’—Thus saying, Phoebus did uplift
The subtle infant in his swaddling clothes,
And in his arms, according to his wont,
A scheme devised, the illustrious Argiphont.
L
· · · · · · ·
· · · · · · ·
390
And sneezed and shuddered—Phoebus on the grass
Him threw, and whilst all that he had designed
He did perform—eager although to pass,
Apollo darted from his mighty mind
Towards the subtle babe the following scoff:—
395
‘Do not imagine this will get you off,
LI
‘You little swaddled child of Jove and May!’
And seized him:—‘By this omen I shall trace
My noble herds, and you shall lead the way.’—