[Greek: glukeia mater, outoi dunamai krekên ton histon, pothô dameisa paidos bradinan di' Aphroditan.]
Dear mother mine, I cannot weave my web-- My heart is sick with longing for my dear, Through Aphrodite fair.
And he would probably have included that longer poem of passion which has been the wonder of the world, that invocation to
[Greek: poikilothron, athanat Aphrodita.]
Mr. Dakyns did not tell me himself what he had learnt of Simonides from Tennyson, but Tennyson quoted the following poems to his eldest son, Hallam. The sad, comforting, beautiful chant of Danaë to her baby, afloat on the waters, was quoted in one of Mr. Dakyns's last letters to me, when his mind was full of his unfinished article. He wrote: "Isn't that lovely and tear-drawing? true and tender and sempiternal?" And then he copied out the whole song, in case I should chance not to have the text at hand, with J. A. Symonds's translation beside it:
[Greek: hote larnaki en daidalea anemos te min pneôn kinêtheisa te limna deimati êripen, out' adiantoisi pareiais, amphi te Persei balle philên cheira, eipe t'; ô tekos, oion echô ponon. su d' aôteis, galathênô t' êtori knôsseis en aterpei dourati chalkeogomphô, nukti alampei kuaneô te dnophô staleis; halman d' huperthe tean koman batheian pariontos kumatos ouk alegeis, oud' anemou phthongon, porphurea keimenos en chlanidi, kalon prosôpon.
ei de toi deinon to ge deinon ên, kai ken emôn rhêmatôn lepton hupeiches ouas. kelomai d', heude brephos, heudetô de pontos, heudetô d' ametron kakon; metaibolia de tis phaneiê, Zeu pater, ek seo; hoti de tharsaleon epos euchomai nosphin dikas, syngnôthi moi.]
When in the carven chest The winds that blew and waves in wild unrest Smote her with fear, she not with cheeks unwet Her arms of love round Perseus set, And said: "O child, what grief is mine! But thou dost slumber, and thy baby breast Is sunk in rest. Here in the cheerless, brass-bound bark, Tossed amid starless night and pitchy dark, Nor dost thou heed the scudding brine Of waves that wash above thy curls so deep, Nor the shrill winds that sweep-- Lapped in thy purple robe's embrace Fair little face!
But if this dread were dreadful, too, to thee, Then would'st thou lend thy listening ear to me; Therefore I cry, Sleep, babe, and sea be still, And slumber our unmeasured ill! Oh, may some change of fate, sire Zeus, from Thee Descend our woes to end! But if this prayer, too overbold, offends Thy justice,--yet be merciful to me.