human
Can you write me a poem about the sprinkled isles, bacchus and croesus in the style of Mór Jókai?
assistant
Sure, here's a poem about the sprinkled isles, bacchus and croesus in the style of Mór Jókai:
  Some renderings from the Greek Anthology
'the sprinkled isles,
Lily on lily that overlace the sea.'
Theirs is the age of the austerer mood, when the clean-cut marble
A new epoch of lyrical revival is inaugurated by the advent of
The interpretation of these lyrics has been my sole and grateful
Dying thou shalt lie in nothingness, nor after
Love shall abide here nor memory of thee;
For thou hast no portion in the roses of Pieria;
But even in the nether world obscurely shalt thou wander
Flitting hither thither with the phantoms of the dead.
Blest as the Gods are esteem I him who alway
Sits face to face with thee and watching thee forgoes not
The voice that is music and the smile that is seduction,
Smile that my heart knows
Fluttered in its chambers. For lo, when I behold thee
Forthwith my voice fails, my tongue is tied in silence,
Flame of fire goes through me, my ears are full of murmur,
Blinded I see naught:
Sweat breaketh forth on me, and all my being trembles,
Paler am I grown than the pallor of the dry grass,
Death seemeth almost to have laid his hand upon me.--
Then I dare all things.
Thou, Hesper, bringest homeward all
That radiant dawn sped far and wide:
The sheep to fold, the goat to stall,
The children to their mother's side.
Like the apple that ripens rosy at the end of a branch on high,
At the utmost end of the utmost bough,
Which those that gather forgot till now.
Nay, did not forget, but only they never might come thereby.
Love smote me with his jacinth wand and challenged me to race,
And wore me down with running till the sweat poured off my face,
Through breaks of tangled woodland, by chasms sheer to scale,
Until my heart was in my lips and at the point to fail.
Then as I felt his tender wings brush lightly round my head,
''Tis proven that thou lackest the strength to love,' he said.
When Bacchus hath possessed me my cares are lulled in wine,
And all the wealth of Croesus is not more his than mine:
I crown my head with ivy, I lift my voice to sing,
And in my exultation seem lord of every thing.
So let the warrior don his arms, give me my cup instead,
If I must lie my length on earth, why better drunk than dead.
Master of all the craftsmen,
Prince of the Rhodian art,
Interpret, master craftsman,
Each detail I impart,
And draw as were she present
The mistress of my heart.
First you must match those masses
Of darkly clustered hair,
And if such skill be in your wax
The scent that harbours there;
And where the flowing tresses cast
A warm-toned shadow, trace
A forehead white as ivory,
The oval of her face.
Her brows you must not quite divide
Nor wholly join, there lies
A subtle link between them
Above the dark-lashed eyes.
And you must borrow flame of fire
To give her glance its due,
As tender as Cithera's
And as Athena's blue.
For cheek and nostril rose-leaves
And milk you shall enlist,
And shape her lips like Peitho's
Inviting to be kissed.
Let all the Graces stay their flight
And gather round to deck
The outline of her tender chin,
The marble of her neck.
And for the rest--bedrape her
In robe of purple hue,
With here and there to give it life
The flesh tint peeping through.
Now hold thy hand,--for I can see
The face and form I seek,
And surely in a moment's space
I think your wax will speak.
If she who, born to Tantalus,
As Niobe we know,
Was turned to stone among the hills
Of Phrygia long ago;
If Proene by such magic change
Was made a bird that flies,
Let me become the mirror
That holds my lady's eyes!
Or let me be the water
In which your beauty bathes,
Or the dress which clinging closely
Your gracious presence swathes;
Or change me to the perfume
You sprinkle on your skin,
Or let me be the pearl-drop
That hangs beneath your chin;
And if not these the girdle
You bind below your breast;
Or be at least the sandal
Your little foot hath pressed.
The brown earth drinks from heaven, and from the earth the tree,
The sea drinks down the vapour, and the sun drinks up the sea,
The moon drinks in the sunlight; now therefore, comrades, say
What fault have you to find in me if I would drink as they?
You that pass this place of graves
Pause and spill a cup for me,
For I hold Anacreon's ashes,
And would drink as once would he.
These who with fame eternal their own dear land endowed
Took on them as a mantle the shade of death's dark cloud;
Yet dying thus they died not, on whom is glory shed
By virtue which exalts them above all other dead.
If to die nobly be the meed that lures the noblest mind,
Then unto us of all men in this was fortune kind.
Far from our own AEgean shore
And the surges booming deep,
Here where Ecbatana's great plain
Lies broad, we exiles sleep.
Farewell, Eretria the renowned,
Where once we used to dwell;
Farewell, our neighbour Athens;
Beloved sea, farewell!
Thou gazest starward, star of mine, whose heaven I fain would be,
Star that didst on the living at dawn thy lustre shed,
Now as the star of evening thou shinest with the dead!
I that through the land of Hellas
Laughed in triumph and disdain,
Lais, of whose open porches
All the love-struck youth were fain,
Bring the mirror once I gazed in,
Cyprian, at thy shrine to vow,
Since I see not there what once was,
And I would not what is now.
I am the god of the little things,
In whom you will surely find,
If you call upon me in season,
A little god who is kind.
You must not ask of me great things,
But what is in my control,
I, Tychon, god of the humble,
May grant to a simple soul.
This is the Cyprian's holy ground,
Who ever loves to stand
Where she can watch the shining seas
Beyond the utmost land;
That sailors on their voyages
May prosper by her aid,
Whose radiant effigy the deep
Beholding is afraid.
I, Hermes, by the grey sea-shore,
Set where the three roads meet,
Outside the wind-swept garden,
Give rest to weary feet;
The waters of my fountain
Are clear, and cool, and sweet.
The ox of Alcon was not led to the slaughter when at length
Age and the weary furrow had sapped his olden strength.
His faithful work was honoured, and in the deep grass now
He strays and lows contentment, enfranchised from the plough.
Sweet is the snow in summer thirst to drink, and sweet the day
When sailors see spring's garland bloom and winter pass away.
Rest here beneath the poplars,
When tired with travelling,
And drawing nigh refresh you
With water from our spring.
So may you keep in memory
When under other skies
The fount his father Simus set
By the grave where Gillus lies.
Who were you, shipwrecked sailor? The body that he found,
Cast on the beach, Leontichus laid in this burial mound;
And mindful of his own grim life he wept, for neither he
May rest in peace who like a gull goes up and down the sea.
This Nossis saith. And only they the Cyprian loves may know
The glory of the roses that in her garden grow.
Give me a hearty laugh, and say
A friendly word and go thy way.
A modest song bird of the muse,
Whose tears and smiles together sown
Have born an ivy all my own.
The lyric maid Erinna, the poet-bee that drew
The honey from the rarest blooms the muses' garden grew,
Hath Hades snatched to be his bride. Mark where the maiden saith,
Pause not here to drink thy fill
Where the sheep have stirred the rill,
And the pool lies warm and still--
Cross yon ridge a little way,
Where the grazing heifers stray,
And the stone-pine's branches sway
O'er a creviced rock below;
Thence the bubbling waters flow
Cooler than the northern snow.
Girl with the roses and the grace
Of all the roses in your face,
Are you, or are the blooms you bear,
Or haply both your market ware?
These words, renowned Phocaea, were the last Theano said,
As she went down into the night that none hath harvested.
Hapless am I, Apellichus, beloved husband mine,
Where in the wide, wide waters is now that bark of thine?
My doom hath come upon me, and would to God that I
Had felt my hand in thy dear hand on the day I had to die.
Me, Pan, whose presence haunts the shore,
The fisher folk set here,
To guard their haven anchorage
On the cliff that they revere;
And thence I watch them cast the net
And mind their fishing gear.
Sail past me, traveller: for I send
The gentle southern breeze,
Because of this their piety,
To speed thee over seas.
I, shipwrecked Theris, whom the tide
Flung landward from the deep,
Not even dead may I forget
The shores that know not sleep.
Beneath the cliffs that break the surf
My body found a grave,
Dug by the hands of stranger men,
Beside the cruel wave:
And still ill-starred among the dead
I hear for evermore
The hateful booming of the seas
That thunder on the shore.
By Heliodora's sandalled foot, and Demo's waving hair,
By Dorothea's wreath of blooms unbudding to the air,
By Anticlea's winsome smile and the great eyes of her,
And by Timarion's open door distilling scent like myrrh,
I know the god of love has spent his arrows winged to smart,
For all the shafts his quiver held I have them in my heart.
The cup takes heart of gladness, whose boast it is to be
Sipped by the mouth of love's delight, soft-voiced Zenophile.
Most favoured cup! I would that she with lips to my lips pressed
Sweet is the music of that air, by Pan of Arcady,
Thou drawest from the harpstrings, too sweet, Zenophile;
The thronging loves on every side close in and press me nigh,
And leave me scarce a breathing space, so whither can I fly?
Is it thy beauty or thy song that kindles my desire,
Thy grace, or every thing thou art? For I am all on fire.
Friend Cleobulus, when I die
Who conquered by desire,
Abandoned in the ashes lie
Of youth's consuming fire,
Do me this service, drench in wine
The urn you pass beneath,
And grave upon it this one line,
'The gift of Love to Death.'
Cruel is Love, ah cruel, and what can I do more
Than moaning love is cruel, repeat it o'er and o'er?
I know the boy is laughing and pleased that I grow grim,
And just the bitter things I say are the bread of life to him.
But you that from the grey-green wave arising, Cyprian, came,
'Tis strange that out of water you should have borne a flame.
Like the calm sea beguiling with those blue eyes of hers,
Asclepias tempteth all men to be love's mariners.
Say Heliodore, and Heliodore, and still say Heliodore,
And let the music of her name mix with the wine you pour.
The rose that loveth lovers, the rose lets fall a tear
Because my arms are empty, because she is not here.
White violet with the tender-leaved narcissus I will twine,
And the laughing lips of lilies with myrtle blooms combine;
And I will bind the hyacinth, the dark red-purple flower,
With crocus sweet and roses that are the lovers' dower,
To make the wreath that Heliodore's curl-scented brow shall wear,
Pour out as if for Peitho, and for the Cyprian pour,
Then for the sweet-voiced Graces, but all for Heliodore;
For there is but one goddess whose worship I enshrine,
And blent with her beloved name I drink the virgin wine.
Tears for thee, Heliodore, and bitter tears to shed,
If all that love has left to give can reach thee with the dead;
Here at thy grave I offer, that tear-drenched grave of thine,
Libation of my longing before affection's shrine.
Forlorn I mourn thee, dearest, in the land where shadows dwell,
Forlorn, and grudge the tribute death could have spared so well.
Where is the flower I cherished? Plucked by the god of doom;
Plucked, and his dust has tarnished the scarce unbudded bloom.
I may but pray thee, mother earth, who givest all thy best,
Clasp her I mourn for ever close to thy gentle breast.
Tread softly, ye that pass, for here
The old man rests his head,
And sleeps the sleep that all men must
Among the honoured dead.
Who linked the joyous train
With love's delicious pain.
From Gadara, the sacred land,
I came and god-built Tyre,
But Meropis and pleasant Cos
Consoled life's waning fire.
If thou be Syrian, say Salaam,
Or Hail, if Greek thou be,
Say Naidios, if Phoenician born,
For all are one to me.
In spring it was we roses
Were used to bloom of old,
Who now in midmost winter
Our crimson cells unfold,
To greet thee on the birthday
That shall thy bridal bring.
'Tis more to grace so fair a brow
Than know the suns of spring.
Among the myriad voices that seek to win thine ear
And hearken and incline the brow that binds thy promise true.
Let my long exile have an end, my toil and travel past,
Grant me in my own native land to live at rest at last!
Ausonian earth contains me
That was a Libyan maid,
And in the sea's sand hard by Rome
My virgin form was laid.
Pompeia with a mother's care
Watched o'er my tender years,
Entombed me here among the free,
And gave me many tears.
Not as she prayed the torch was fired,
She would have burned for me;
The lamp which took the torch's place
Was thine, Persephone.
This stone, my good Sabinus, although it be but small,
Shall be of our great friendship a witness unto all.
Ever shall I desire thee, and thou, if this may be,
Forbear to drink among the dead the lethe-draft for me.
In this green meadow, traveller, yield
Thy weary limbs to rest:
The branches of the stone pine sway
To the wind from out the west;
The cricket calls, and all noon long
The shepherd's piping fills
The plane-grove's leafy shadows
By the spring among the hills.
Soothed by these sounds thou shalt avoid
The dogstar's autumn fires,
And then to-morrow cross the ridge;--
Such wisdom Pan inspires.
Touch but the virgin water, clean of soul,
Nor fear to pass into the pure god's sight:
For the good a drop suffices. But the whole
Great ocean could not wash the unclean white.
Fortune and Hope, a long adieu!
My ship is safe in port.
With me is nothing left to do,
Make other lives your sport.
It was at even and the hour in which good-nights are bid
That Moeris kissed me, if indeed I do not dream she did.
Of all the rest that happened there is naught that I forget,
No word she said, no question of all she asked,--and yet
If she indeed did kiss me, my doubt can not decide,
For how could I still walk the earth had I been deified!
Though till the gates of Heracles thy land-marks thou extend,
Their share in earth is equal for all men at the end;
And thou shalt lie as Irus lies, one obol all thy store,
And be resolved into an earth that is thine own no more.
The cities of the hero age thine eyes may seek in vain,
Save where some wrecks of ruin still break the level plain.
So once I saw Mycenae, the ill-starred, a barren height
Too bleak for goats to pasture,--the goat-herds point the site.
And as I passed a greybeard said, 'Here used to stand of old
A city built by giants, and passing rich in gold.'
Spirit of Birth, that gave me life,
Earth, that receives my clay,
Farewell, for I have travelled
The stage that twixt you lay.
I go, and have no knowledge
From whence I came to you,
Nor whither I shall journey,
Nor whose I am, nor who.
sethen
esset' oud' eros eis oesteron]
rather than
esset' oute tot' out' oesteron]
'Dying thou shalt lie in nothingness, nor of
There nor thereafter shall memory abide.'
A portion of this fragment was adopted by Catullus.
followed.
Tychon is identified with Priapus.
surviving lyrics of the Rhodian poetess.
Inveni portum, spes et fortuna valete,
Nil mihi vobiscum, ludite nunc alios.