HKB
where, hard by, The quivered Persian presses, and that flood Which from the swart-skinned Aethiop bears him down, Swift-parted into sevenfold branching mouths With black mud fattens and makes Aegypt green, That whole domain its welfare's hope secure Rests on this art alone. And first is chosen A strait recess, cramped closer to this end, Which next with narrow roof of tiles atop 'Twixt prisoning walls they pinch, and add hereto From the four winds four slanting window-slits. Then seek they from the herd a steer, whose horns With two years' growth are curling, and stop fast, Plunge madly as he may, the panting mouth And nostrils twain, and done with blows to death, Batter his flesh to pulp i' the hide yet whole, And shut the doors, and leave him there to lie. But 'neath his ribs they scatter broken boughs, With thyme and fresh-pulled cassias: this is done When first the west winds bid the waters flow, Ere flush the meadows with new tints, and ere The twittering swallow buildeth from the beams. Meanwhile the juice within his softened bones Heats and ferments, and things of wondrous birth, Footless at first, anon with feet and wings, Swarm there and buzz, a marvel to behold; And more and more the fleeting breeze they take, Till, like a shower that pours from summer-clouds, Forth burst they, or like shafts from quivering string When Parthia's flying hosts provoke the fray. Say what was he, what God, that fashioned forth This art for us, O Muses? of man's skill Whence came the new adventure? From thy vale, Peneian Tempe, turning, bee-bereft, So runs the tale, by famine and disease, Mournful the shepherd Aristaeus stood Fast by the haunted river-head, and thus With many a plaint to her that bare him cried: "Mother, Cyrene, mother, who hast thy home Beneath this whirling flood, if he thou sayest, Apollo, lord of Thymbra, be my sire, Sprung from the Gods' high line, why barest thou me With fortune's ban for birthright? Where is now Thy love to me-ward banished from thy breast? O! wherefore didst thou bid me hope for heaven? Lo! even the crown of this poor mortal life, Which all my skilful care by field and fold, No art neglected, scarce had fashioned forth, Even this falls from me, yet thou call'st me son. Nay, then, arise! With thine own hands pluck up My fruit-plantations: on the homestead fling Pitiless fire; make havoc of my crops; Burn the young plants, and wield the stubborn axe Against my vines, if there hath taken the Such loathing of my greatness." But that cry, Even from her chamber in the river-deeps, His mother heard: around her spun the nymphs Milesian wool stained through with hyaline dye, Drymo, Xantho, Ligea, Phyllodoce, Their glossy locks o'er snowy shoulders shed, Cydippe and Lycorias yellow-haired, A maiden one, one newly learned even then To bear Lucina's birth-pang. Clio, too, And Beroe, sisters, ocean-children both, Both zoned with gold and girt with dappled fell, Ephyre and Opis, and from Asian meads Deiopea, and, bow at length laid by, Fleet-footed Arethusa.