’O sons of Greeks, go, set your country free,
    Free your wives, free your children, free the fanes
    O’ the Gods, your fathers founded,—­sepulchres
    They sleep in!  Or save all, or all be lost.’

The crew, impassioned by the girl, answered the song, and drove the boat on, “churning the black water white,” till the land shone clear, and the wide town and the harbour, and lo, ’twas not Crete, but Syracuse, luckless fate!  Out came a galley from the port.  “Who are you; Sparta’s friend or foe?” “Of Rhodes are we, Rhodes that has forsaken Athens!”

“How, then, that song we heard?  All Athens was in that AEschylus.  Your boat is full of Athenians—­back to the pirate; we want no Athenians here....  Yet, stay, that song was AEschylus; every one knows it—­how about Euripides?  Might you know any of his verses?” For nothing helped the poor Athenians so much if any of them had his mouth stored with

    Old glory, great plays that had long ago
    Made themselves wings to fly about the world,—­

But most of all those were cherished who could recite Euripides to Syracuse, so mighty was poetry in the ancient days to make enemies into friends, to build, beyond the wars and jealousies of the world, a land where all nations are one.

At this the captain cried:  “Praise the God, we have here the very girl who will fill you with Euripides,” and the passage brings Balaustion into full light.

    Therefore, at mention of Euripides,
    The Captain crowed out, “Euoi, praise the God! 
    Ooep, boys, bring our owl-shield to the fore! 
    Out with our Sacred Anchor!  Here she stands,
    Balaustion!  Strangers, greet the lyric girl! 
    Euripides?  Babai! what a word there ’scaped
    Your teeth’s enclosure, quoth my grandsire’s song
    Why, fast as snow in Thrace, the voyage through,
    Has she been falling thick in flakes of him! 
    Frequent as figs at Kaunos, Kaunians said. 
    Balaustion, stand forth and confirm my speech! 
    Now it was some whole passion of a play;
    Now, peradventure, but a honey-drop
    That slipt its comb i’ the chorus.  If there rose
    A star, before I could determine steer
    Southward or northward—­if a cloud surprised
    Heaven, ere I fairly hollaed ’Furl the sail!’—­
    She had at fingers’ end both cloud and star
    Some thought that perched there, tame and tuneable,
    Fitted with wings, and still, as off it flew,
    ‘So sang Euripides,’ she said, ’so sang
    The meteoric poet of air and sea,
    Planets and the pale populace of heaven,
    The mind of man, and all that’s made to soar!’
    And so, although she has some other name,
    We only call her Wild-pomegranate-flower,
    Balaustion; since, where’er the red bloom burns
    I’ the dull dark verdure of the bounteous tree,
    Dethroning, in the Rosy Isle,