Scene I:—Outside the gate of Sicyon—Morning. Glycera
weaving garlands, Pausias stands admiring.
Pausias
"YE Gods, I thought myself the Prince of Art,
By Phoebus, and the Muses set apart,
To smite the critic with his own complaint,
And teach the world the proper way to paint.
But lo, a young maid trips out of a wood,
And what becomes of all I understood?
I Stand and Stare; I Could Not Draw a Line,
if Ninety Muses Came, Instead of Nine.
Thy Name, Fair Maiden, is a Debt to Me;
Teach Him to Speak, Whom Thou Hast Taught To See.
Myself Already Some Repute Have Won,
for I Am Pausias, Brietes' Son.
to Boast Behoves Me Not, Nor Do I Need,
But Often Wish My Friends to Win the Meed.
So Shall They Now; No More Will I Pursue
the Beaten Track, But Try What Thou Hast Shown,
New Forms, New Curves, New Harmonies of Tone,
New Dreams of Heaven, and How to Make Them True."

Glycera
"Fair Sir, 'tis only what I plucked this morn,
Kind nature's gift, ere you and I were born.
Through mossy woods, and watered vales, I roam,
While day is young, and bring my treasure home;
Each lovely bell so tenderly I bear,
It knoweth not my fingers from the air,
Lo now, they scarce acknowledge their surprise,
And how the dewdrops sparkle in their eyes!"

Pausias
"Because the sun shines out of thine. But hush,
To praise a face praiseworthy, makes it blush.
I am not of the youths who find delight,
In every pretty thing that meets their sight
My father is the sage of Sicyon;
And I—well, he is proud of such a son."

Glycera
"And proud am I, my mother's child to be,
And earn for her the life she gave to me,
Her name is Myrto of the silver hair,
Not famed for wisdom, but loved everywhere."

Pausias
"Then whence thine art? Hath Phoebus given thee boon
Of wreath and posy, fillet and festoon?
Of tint and grouping, balance, depth, and tone—
Lo, I could cast my palette down, and groan!"

Glycera
"No art, fair sir, hath ever crossed my thought,
The lesson I delight in comes untaught.
The flowers around me take their own sweet way,
They tell me what they wish—and I obey.
Unlike poor us, they feel no spleen or spite
But earn their joy, oy ministering delight.
So loved and cherished, each may well suppose
Itself at home again just where it grows.
No dread have they of what the Fates may bring,
But trust their Gods, and breathe perpetual Spring."

Pausias
"Fair child of Myrto, simple-hearted maid,
Thy innocence doth arrogance upbraid.
Ye Gods, I pray you make a flower of me;
That I may dwell with nature, and with thee."

Glycera
"I see the brave sun leap the city wall!
The gates swing wide; I hear the herald's call.
The Archon ham proclaimed the market-day;
And mother will shed tears at my delay.
The priest of Zeus hath ordered garlands three;
And while I tarry, who will wait for me?"

Pausias
"No picture have I sold for many a moon,
But fortune must improve her habits soon;
Then will I purchase all thy stock-in-trade,
And thou shalt lead me to thy bower of green,
There will I paint the flowers, and thee their Queen—
The Queen of dowers, that nevermore shall fade."

Glycera
"I know a wood-nymph, who her dwelling hath
Among the leaves, and far beyond the path,
With myrtle and with jasmin roofed across,
Enlaced with vine, and carpeted with moss,
Whose only threshold is a plaited brook,
Whereby the primrose at herself may look;
While birds of song melodious make the air—
But oh! I must not take a stranger there."

Pausias
"Nay, but a friend No stranger now am I.
Good art is pledge of perfect modesty.
From chastened heights the painter glanceth down;
No maid can fear a youth who loves renown."

Glycera
"Thy words are trim, If mother deems them true,
Thou shalt come with me. But till then, adieu!" [Exit.

Pausias
"O! where am I? The mind is all for art—
But one warm breath transforms it into heart."

Scene II:—A wood near Sicyon. Pausias with his
easel, &c. Glycera carrying flowers.
Pausias
"Confounded tangle! Who could paint all this?
A bear might hug him, or a serpent hiss!
For love of nature justly am I famed;
But when she goes so far as this, she ought to be ashamed."

Glycera
"Nay, be not frightened by a small affray,
Pure love of nature cannot pave its way.
But lo, where yonder coney-tracks begin,
My nymph hath made her favourite bower within.
Yon oak hath reared its rugged antlers thus,
Before Deucalion lived, or Daedalus.
Inside her woodland Majesty doth keep
A world of wonders—if one dared to peep—
Of things that burrow, elide, spin webs, or creep;
Strange creatures, which before they live must die,
And plants that hunt for prey, and flowers that fly!"

Pausias
"My love of nature freezes in a trice;
I loathe all earwigs, beetles, and wood-lice.
Outside her bower the lady must remain,
If she doth wish to have her portrait taen."

Glycera
"Tis not the lady thou must paint—but me."

Pausias
"Aha, that will I, with a glow of glee.
But when I offered, somebody was vexed,
And blushed, and frowned, and longed to say,
'Whatnext?'"

Glycera
"A painter's tongue hath learnt to paint, I trow.
But oh that order—I remember now—
For twenty chaplets, from the priest of Zeus!
Ah, what a grand majestic Hiereus!"
So pleased he was that morning with those three,
And such a customer he means to be!

Pausias
"The priest of Dis!a scoundrel with three wives!
I'll pull his triple beard, if he arrives."

Glycera
"High words and threats profane this hallowed place,
Where Time rebukes the fuss of human race.
And gentle sir, what harm hath he done thee?
It is my mother whom he comes to see.
Lo, how the Gods our puny wrath deride,
With peace and beauty spread on every side!
This earth with pleasure of the Spring complete,
Too bright to dwell on, were it not so sweet.
No theft of man it's affluence impairs,
A thousand flowers, without a loss, it spares;
Whose bashful elegance no brush can trace,
Heartfelt delight, and plenitude of grace;
No palettes match their brilliance, although
Pandora filled her box from Iris' bow."

Pausias
"Her want of faith sweet Glycera will rue,
When she hath seen what Pausias can do."

Glycera "Forgive me, sir; In truth it was no taunt.
A great man can do anything—but vaunt."

Pausias
"E'en that he can do, if he sees the need.
But out on words, when time hath come for deed!
Up leaps the sun, to paint thee with his plume,
And every blossom seems to be thy bloom."

Glycera
"Why stand we here, so early of the morn,
In love with things that treat our love with scorn—
Grey crags, where Time with folded pinion broods,
Ana ever young antiquity of woods;
The brooks that babble, and the flowers that blush,
Ere woman was a reed, or man a rush?
And he for ever, as the Gods ordain,
Would fain revive with art what he hath slain;
Shall nature fail to laugh, while man doth yearn
To teach the canvas what he ne'er can learn?"

Pausias
"Sweet Muse, while thus through heaven's too distant vault,
Thy great mind roves—how shall we earn our salt?
Though art is not encouraged as of old,
She is worth a score of nature; I design
To manufacture, from these flowers of thine,
A silver * talent—or perhaps of gold!"

* Lucullus is said to have given two talents for
a mere copy of this picture.

Glycera
"Good heavens, how precious is your Worship's time!
Some minds are lowly, others too sublime.
Before thee all my simple flowers I spread;
Long may they live, when Glycera is dead!"

Pausias
"The Gods forefend!
Fair omen from fair maid—
Bright tongue, recall the dark thing thou hast said!"

Glycera
"Then long live they, with Glycera to aid!"

Pausias
"And Pausias crowned by Critics, to non-plus
Euphranor, Cydias, and Antidotus.
But what are they? Below my feet they lie;
Poor sons of pelf. The son of art am I.
Now rest thee, maiden, on this pillowy bed,
With fragrance canopied, with beauty spread;
Above thee hovers eglantine's caress,
Around thee glows entangled loveliness;
Shy primrose smiles, thy gentle smile to woo,
And violets take thy glances for the dew."

&Glycera&

"Then will they pluck themselves, to see me laugh;
Good flowers bring cash; but who will pay for chaff?
But haply thus the true poet intervenes,
To make us wonder what on earth he means."

Pausias
"A poet! We do things in a superior way;
A painter is a poet, who makes it pay.
A poet, though deep and mystic as the Sphinx,
Will ne'er earn half of what he eats and drinks,
He dreams of Gods, but of himself he thinks."