(Herod, i. 24.)

ARION, whose melodic soul
Taught the dithyramb to roll
⁠Like forest fires, and sing
⁠Olympian suffering,

Had carried his diviner lore
From Corinth to the sister shore
⁠Where Greece could largelier be,
⁠Branching o'er Italy.

Then weighted with his glorious name
And bags of gold, aboard he came
⁠'Mid harsh seafaring men
⁠To Corinth bound again.

The sailors eyed the bags and thought;
"The gold is good, the man is naught-
⁠And who shall track the wave
⁠That opens for his grave?"

With brawny arms and cruel eyes
They press around him where he lies
⁠In sleep beside his lyre.
⁠Hearing the Muses quire.

He waked and saw this wolf-faced Death
Breaking the dream that filled his breath
⁠With inspiration strong
⁠Of yet unchanted song.

"Take, take my gold and let me live!"
He prayed, as kings do when they give
⁠Their all with royal will,
⁠Holding born kingship still.

To rob the living they refuse,
One death or other he must choose,
⁠Either the watery pall
⁠Or wounds and burial.

"My solemn robe then let me don,
Give me high space to stand upon,
⁠That dying I may pour
⁠A song unsung before."

It pleased them well to grant this prayer,
To hear for naught how it might fare
⁠With men who paid their gold
⁠For what a poet sold.

In flowing stole, his eyes aglow
With inward fire, he neared the prow
⁠And took his god-like stand,
⁠The cithara in hand.

The wolfish men all shrank aloof,
And feared this singer might be proof
⁠Against their murderous power,
⁠After his lyric hour.

But he, in liberty of song,
Fearless of death or other wrong,
⁠With full spondaic toll
⁠Poured forth his mighty soul:

Poured forth the strain his dream had taught,
A nome with lofty passion fraught
⁠Such as makes battles won
⁠On fields of Marathon.

The last long vowels trembled then
As awe within those wolfish men:
⁠They said, with mutual stare,
⁠Some god was present there.

But lo! Arion leaped on high,
Ready, his descant done, to die;
⁠Not asking, "Is it well?"
⁠Like a pierced eagle fell.

1873