Acon
(After Joannes Baptista Amaltheus)
I
Bear me to Dictaeus,
And to the steep slopes;
To the river Erymanthus.
I choose spray of dittany,
Cyperum frail of flower,
Buds of myrrh,
All-healing herbs,
Close pressed in calathes.
For she lies panting,
Drawing sharp breath,
Broken with harsh sobs,
She, Hyella,
Whom no god pitieth.
II
Dryads,
Haunting the groves,
Nereids,
Who dwell in wet caves,
For all the whitish leaves of olive-branch,
And early roses,
And ivy wreathes, woven gold berries,
Which she once brought to your altars,
Bear now ripe fruits from Arcadia,
And Assyrian wine
To shatter her fever.
The light of her face falls from its flower,
As a hyacinth,
Hidden in a far valley,
Perishes upon burnt grass.
Pales,
Bring gifts,
Bring your Phoenician stuffs,
And do you, fleet-footed nymphs,
Bring offerings,
Illyrian iris,
And a branch of shrub,
And frail-headed poppies.