Or ever he supped, for the grip of his hands he might fashion an oar.
Then found he a pine as he roved, and scant was the burden it bore
Of boughs, nor with heavy-clustering leaves was its shade made dim;
But like to the shaft it rose of a poplar tall and slim:
Even such was the measure thereof to behold in height and in girth.
Swiftly his arrow-fraught quiver hath Herakles cast to the earth
With the shafts therein: from his shoulders the lion’s hide did he strip.
With his brass-heavy club at its roots he smote, till he loosed earth’s grip.
Low down did he grasp the stem about with either hand,
Putting trust in his might: with shoulder against it thrust did he stand
With feet wide set. From the ground, deep-rooted albeit it grew,
Hath his grip upheaved it with all the clods that clave thereto.
And as when unawares the mast of a ship, in the very hour
When Orion’s storm-fraught setting is working in baleful power,
Is struck from on high by a tempest’s swiftly-swooping squall,
And with snapped stays rent from its box, and the wedges therewithal,
Even so he upwrenched that tree; and he gathered up arrows and bow,
And the lion’s hide, and his club; and he hasted him backward to go.
But Hylas the while with a pitcher of brass from the throng hath hied
Seeking a spring’s pure flow; for the feast of the eventide
To draw for him water against his return, and withal to prepare
With speed all things for the time when again his lord should be there.
For in suchlike service did Herakles nurture the lad and train
From the day when, a captive child, by the hero’s hand he was ta’en
From the home of his father Theodamas, slain in Dryopian land
Without ruth, when he dared for his ploughteam’s sake ’gainst the hero to stand.
For it fell, as Theodamas clave with the share the fallow field,
That mischief befell him; for Herakles came, and he bade him to yield
The heifer he ploughed withal unto him in his heart’s despite:
For against the Dryopian folk was he seeking occasion of fight,
For their bane, forasmuch as reckless of right in the land dwelt they:—
But the story thereof should lead me far from my song astray.
So in haste to the fountain he hied him, and Pegae hight that spring
Of the people that dwell in the field thereabout: and the dancing-ring
Of the Nymphs, as it chanced, was there; for all these loved full well—
Even all the Nymphs that about that fair hill wont to dwell—
In hymns through the night-tide ringing to chant unto Artemis still.
But they which inherit the mountain-crest, or the rushing rill,
And the Forest-haunters, were ranged from the fountain far away.
But it fell that the Water-nymph came floating up that day
From the depths of the fair-flowing spring:—lo, over her bendeth his face
In the rosy flush of its beauty, its manifold winsome grace.
For the full moon casting her beams from the height of the firmament
Smote him, and faintness of love on her soul the Cyprian sent,
And scarce she unravelled her thoughts in sweet confusion blent.
But over the fountain’s brim as aforetime aslant hath he bowed,
And plunged in the ripple the pitcher: the water gurgled loud
As into the echoing brass it poured; and the Fountain-maid
Her left arm slid from the depths, and around his neck was it laid
In her yearning to kiss those dainty lips, while, clutched by her right,
Drawn down was his arm, and through swirling eddies he sank from the light.
But his cry as he sank was heard of one of his comrades alone
Who trod that fountainward path, Polyphemus, Eilatus’ son,
To meet that giant hero when back he should fare to the feast.
By Pegae, following the cry, hath he rushed, like a wildwood beast
Unto whom from far away hath been wafted the bleating of sheep,
And with famine afire he pursueth; howbeit he may not leap
On the prey, for already the shepherds have penned them safe from the foe;
And in vehement rage must he moan and howl, till aweary he grow;
So Eilatus’ son made vehement moan, and he roamed to and fro
About the place; and his voice rang piteous, broken with woe.
Then suddenly drew he his mighty blade, and he rushed to pursue,
If perchance he were seized of beasts, or from ambush a robber-crew
Had leapt on him faring alone, and were haling afar their prey.
Then, even as he shook in his hand his naked sword, in the way
Came Herakles’ self to meet him, a giant form that sped
To the ship through the gloom; and he knew him, and straightway a tale most dread
He told, while laboured with heavy panting his heart, and he said:
“God help thee, that I first bring to thee tidings of bitter pain!
Hylas hath gone to the spring, and returned not alive again!
Or robbers have seized him, and hale him away to captivity,
Or evil beasts are rending:—I heard but now his cry.”
Upon Herakles’ temples then did the great sweat-gouts upstart,
As he heard him speak, and the dark blood curdled about his heart.
In fury he flung to the earth the pine, and along that path
Rushed, whithersoever his feet might hurry his aimless wrath.
And as, stung by a gadfly, a bull rusheth onward frenzy-stirred
Forsaking the meadows and marshlands, the while of herdsman or herd
He taketh no heed, pressing on in his wild course now without check,
Now making a moment’s stand, and uplifting his massive neck,
He uttereth bellowings, mad with the sting of the cruel breese;
So he in his frenzy now would be plying his strong swift knees
Unresting, and now from his toil would he cease for a moment’s space,
And shouted:—the mighty voice rang far through the lonely place.
Eftsoons the morning-star rose over the mountain’s crest,
And the winds swept down from the gorges; and Tiphys cried on the rest
To get them aboard in haste, and to hearken the wind’s behest.
So with eager speed they embarked, and the anchor-stones of the ship
Heaved they aboard, and the hawsers thereof in haste did they slip.
And the midst of the sail bellied out with the blast, and far away
From the
