Marsyas

CALLICLES (from below)     As the sky-brightening south-wind clears the day,     And makes the massd clouds roll,     The music of the lyre blows away     The clouds that wrap the soul.     Oh, that Fate had let me see     That triumph of the sweet persuasive lyre!     That famous, final victory     When jealous Pan with Marsyas did conspire!     When, from far Parnassus side,     Young Apollo, all the pride     Of the Phrygian flutes to tame,     To the Phrygian highlands came!     Where the long green reed-beds sway     In the rippled waters grey     Of that solitary lake     Where Maeanders springs are born;     Where the ridgd pine-wooded roots     Of Messogis westward break,     Mounting westward, high and higher.     There was held the famous strife;     There the Phrygian brought his flutes,     And Apollo brought his lyre;     And, when now the westering sun     Touchd the hills, the strife was done,     And the attentive Muses said     Marsyas! thou art vanquishd.     Then Apollos minister     Hangd upon a branching fir     Marsyas, that unhappy Faun,     And began to whet his knife.     But the Maenads, who were there,     Left their friend, and with robes flowing     In the wind, and loose dark hair     Oer their polishd bosoms blowing,     Each her ribbond tambourine     Flinging on the mountain sod,     With a lovely frightend mien     Came about the youthful God.     But he turnd his beauteous face     Haughtily another way,     From the grassy sun-warmd place,     Where in proud repose he lay,     With one arm over his head,     Watching how the whetting sped.     But aloof on the lake strand,     Did the young Olympus stand,     Weeping at his masters end;     For the Faun had been his friend.     For he taught him how to sing.     And he taught him flute-playing.     Many a morning had they gone     To the glimmering mountain lakes,     And had torn up by the roots     The tall crested water-reeds     With long plumes, and soft brown seeds,     And had carved them into flutes,     Sitting on a tabled stone     Where the shoreward ripple breaks.     And he taught him how to please     The red-snooded Phrygian girls,     Whom the summer evening sees     Flashing in the dances whirls     Underneath the starlit trees     In the mountain villages.     Therefore now Olympus stands,     At his masters piteous cries     Pressing fast with both his hands     His white garment to his eyes,     Not to see Apollos scorn;     Ah, poor Faun, poor Faun! ah, poor Faun!