Poems (Cary)/Hyala
HYALA.
Low by the reedy sea went ancient Ops,Tracking for crownless Saturn: quietlyFrom her gray hair waned off the sober light,For Eve, that Cyclops of the burning eye,Slow pacing down the slumberous hills, was gone,Under the black boughs of a cedarn wood,Weary of hunting, Dian lay asleep,Kissed by the amorous winds. Close to her feet,Cropping the scant ambrosia, lo came,Her slender neck hung round with modest bellsOf asphodel, the gift of Jupiter,Who, for the jealous love that Juno had,Made her the milk-white heifer that she was.So slept the huntress, while, hard by the woodWhere the slant sunset lay in crimson goresAthwart the dimness, that most chaste of maidsWhom Dian loved, cold-bosomed Hyala,Stood leaning on her slack bow, all alone—Her forehead smooth as ice, and ivy-bound,And in her girdle of blue hyacinthsThree sharpest arrows.Three sharpest arrows.All unconsciously,Tripping barefooted through the violets, Idalia, fairest shepherdess of all—In her white hands her silver milking-bowl,And on her lip the music of a heartHungry for love—crossed the near field, her songSweetly dividing the blue silent air: "O fair Scamander, bed of loveliness,When wilt thou give my naked limbs to lieAmong thy marriage pillows, white as foam!" In the pale cheek of Hyala burned outAn angry color, as she saw her sitSinging and milking in her silver bowl.One lily shoulder, under rippling lengthsOf dropping tresses, pressing light the flankOf a plump goat, with eyes as black as sloe,And hoofs of pinky silver, dimpling deepThe wild green turf thick-sprouting on a ridgeThat topt a flowery slope in Thessaly. Scorn curled the lip of listening Hyala,And drawing from her belt the nimblest shaft,Straight from her steady hand it sped and sunkDeep in the forehead of the harmless beast,That moaning fell, and bled into the grass:So Hyala went laughing on her way.