Constructing Wilde

Part 3

Oscar cleared his throat. "Ah... Well then! I say... Not quite what I expected you to want..."

Frank sat in the other chair and smiled saucily at Oscar.

Glaring at his cheeky friend — the natural response, of course, when you've been showed up and then mocked in a matter by anyone — Oscar riffled through his loose sheaves of paper, searching for just the right piece to read. "Well, here's a piece for you, then, Mother.

He was a Grecian lad, who coming home

With pulpy figs and wine from Sicily

Stood at his galley's prow, and let the foam

Blow through his crisp brown curls unconsciously,

And holding wave and wind in boy's despite

Peered from his dripping seat across the wet and stormy night.

Till with the dawn he saw a burnished spear

Like a thin thread of gold against the sky,

And hoisted sail, and strained the creaking gear,

And bade the pilot head her lustily

Against the nor'west gale, and all day long

Held on his way, and marked the rowers' time with measured song."

He paused, looking up to ascertain his audience's reaction.

His mother waved a hand and smiled. "Continue on at least a few more stanzas, why don't you? Then perhaps you might read a bit from a couple others? I haven't a lot of time to visit, I'm afraid, but I wanted to drop by and at least hear a bit."

With the expected acquiescence, Oscar continued on.

"And when the faint Corinthian hills were red

Dropped anchor in a little sandy bay,

And with fresh boughs of olive crowned his head,

And brushed from cheek and throat the hoary spray,

And washed his limbs with oil, and from the hold

Brought out his linen tunic and his sandals brazen-soled,

And a rich robe stained with the fishers' juice

Which of some swarthy trader he had bought

Upon the sunny quay at Syracuse,

And was with Tyrian broideries inwrought,

And by the questioning merchants made his way

Up through the soft and silver woods, and when the labouring day

Had spun its tangled web of crimson cloud,

Clomb the high hill, and with swift silent feet

Crept to the fane unnoticed by the crowd

Of busy priests, and from some dark retreat

Watched the young swains his frolic playmates bring

The firstling of their little flock, and the shy shepherd fling

The crackling salt upon the flame, or hang

His studded crook against the temple wall

To Her who keeps away the ravenous fang

Of the base wolf from homestead and from stall;

And then the clear-voiced maidens 'gan to sing,