Fair Phrygian Attis, loved of Cybele,
Fired with the service of her awful shrine,
Had wandered far before his restless soul
Along the gleaming sand-line of the beach.
At last he came to a deep shaded nook,
Where giant trees thick wreathed with twisting vines
Clomb the steep hills on every side but one,
And rimmed the sky with a green fringe of leaves.

But toward the south wide open to the shore
It seemed a lap, wherein the sun and sea
Together lay warm in each other's smiles.
Down the steep sides a little babbling brook
Leapt with low laughter, fleeing from itself,
Then, wid'ning out into a lucid pool,
Crept slowly seaward through low banks of fern.
Here, stretching his bare limbs upon the sward,
He watched the water falling down the rocks.

His jetty hair, curled loosely on his head,
Fell down upon his shoulders glistening white,
The rounded symmetry of breast and limb,
And the rich color of his sensuous lips
Almost belied the down upon his cheek.
No uncouth garments hid his perfect form,
Nor marred its grace, but, naked like the gods,
The ruddy sunlight bathed him in its glow.

So, as the day sank down the golden west,
And the long index shadows toward the east
Seemed telling of the morn that was to rise,
A band of nymphs came past him where he lay
Half-hidden in the grass, and to the pool
Rushed with sweet rivalry and little screams
To feel the water cold around their limbs.
They saw him not, nor dreamed that mortal eyes
In that lone glen were looking on their play.

Soon they passed on, save one who near the bank
Had lain to rest till sleep stole eyes and ears.
Then Attis rose and would have sought the shrine
But when he saw the sleeper he stood still.
He was too young to know the power of love
When mighty Cybele from his far home—
His home, which lay beyond the heaving sea,
And which to think of even yet would bring
The bitter tears into his dark-lashed eyes,—
Had brought him as a priest into her fane,
And bound him by an oath of dreaded wrath
To be hers only, hers forevermore.

But years had passed since then, he was a man,
And man's strong passion drove into his cheek
The ruby symbol of its first felt power,
As leaning o'er he gazed upon the nymph.
She moved a little under the hot glance
That burned from Attis' eyes upon her face,
And seemed about to wake. Quick he drew back,
Walking away a few steps towards the beach,
Then turned to take one last look ere he went;
She had not woke, her head lay on her arms,
And her face looking toward him seemed to smile.

He could not go, he dared not longer stay,
But stood and wished, and feared, and let his wish
Conquer his fear; returning step by step
Again he bent above her. Then, at last,
The wrath of scorner Cybele forgot,
He thought of nothing but his newfelt love.

Sudden she raised the lids, and her full eyes
Looked straight upon him. Attis laid his hand
Upon her arm to stay the flight he feared,
Saying, "Fear not, 'tis only Attis, I,
And 'tis my love that holds me here by thee."

She smiled back on him and her hand in his
Thrilled with a touch that maddened through his veins;
He bent down over her and all his soul
Slid through his lips in one long burning kiss
Which lovers only know.

Lo, Cybele,
Her chariot, lion-drawn, grinding the sands,
Stood awfully before them. Not a word
Came from her lips, but her great angry eyes
Dark with the wrath and vengeance of the gods
Gloomed forth a hate no mortal could endure;
Pale Attis looked in them but once, and then
In frenzied madness fled along the shore.

Quarterly, 1871.