These lids, I see far fiercer brilliances –

Skies full of splendid moons, and shooting stars,

And spouting exhalations, diamond fires,

And panting fountains quivering with deep glows!

Yes – this is dark – is it not dark?

SIGIFREDMy Lord,

’Tis late; the lights of festival are ever

Quenched in the morn.

LUDOLPH ’Tis not tomorrow then?

SIGIFRED ’Tis early dawn.

GERSA Indeed full time we slept;

Say you so, Prince?

LUDOLPH I say I quarrelled with you;

We did not tilt each other – that’s a blessing,

Good gods! No innocent blood upon my head!

SIGIFRED Retire, Gersa

LUDOLPHThere should be three more here:

For two of them, they stay away perhaps,

Being gloomy-minded, haters of fair revels –

They know their own thoughts best. As for the third,

We’ll have her presently; ay, you shall see her,

And wonder at her, friends, she is so fair;

Deep blue eyes, semi-shaded in white lids,

Finished with lashes fine for more soft shade,

Completed by her twin-arched ebon brows;

White temples of exactest elegance,

Of even mould felicitous and smooth;

Cheeks fashioned tenderly on either side,

So perfect, so divine that our poor eyes

Are dazzled with the sweet proportioning,

And wonder that ’tis so – the magic chance!

Her nostrils, small, fragrant, faery-delicate;

Her lips – I swear no human bones e’er wore

So taking a disguise – you shall behold her!

She is the world’s chief jewel, and by heaven

She’s mine by right of marriage! – she is mine!

Patience, good people, in fit time I send

A summoner. She will obey my call,

Being a wife most mild and dutiful.

First I would hear what music is prepared

To herald and receive her – let me hear!

[A soft strain of music]

SIGIFRED Bid the musicians soothe him tenderly.

LUDOLPH Ye have none better? No – I am content;

’Tis a rich sobbing melody, with reliefs

Full and majestic; it is well enough,

And will be sweeter, when ye see her pace

Sweeping into this presence, glistened o’er

With emptied caskets, and her train upheld

By ladies, habited in robes of lawn,

Sprinkled with golden crescents, others bright

In silks, with spangles showered, and bow’d to

By Duchesses and pearlèd Margravines!

Sad, that the fairest creature of the earth –

I pray you mind me not – ’tis sad, I say,

That the extremest beauty of the world

Should so entrench herself away from me,

Behind a barrier of engendered guilt!

SECOND LADY Ah! what a moan!

FIRST KNIGHT Most piteous indeed!

LUDOLPH She shall be brought before this company,

And then – then –

FIRST LADY He muses.

GERSA O, Fortune, where will this end?

SIGIFRED I guess his purpose! Indeed he must not have

That pestilence brought in – that cannot be,

There we must stop him.

GERSA I am lost! Hush, hush!

He is about to rave again.

LUDOLPH A barrier of guilt! I was the fool,

She was the cheater! Who’s the cheater now,

And who the fool? The entrapped, the cagèd fool,

The bird-limed raven? She shall croak to death

Secure! Methinks I have her in my fist,

To crush her with my heel! Wait, wait! I marvel

My father keeps away. Good friend – ah! Sigifred!

Do bring him to me – and Erminia

I fain would see before I sleep – and Ethelbert,

That he may bless me, as I know he will

Though I have cursed him.

SIGIFRED Rather suffer me

To lead you to them.

[Exit SIGIFRED]

LUDOLPHNo, excuse me, no!

The day is not quite done. Go bring them hither.

Certes, a father’s smile should, like sunlight,

Slant on my sheavèd harvest of ripe bliss.

Besides, I thirst to pledge my lovely bride

In a deep goblet: let me see – what wine?

The strong Iberian juice, or mellow Greek?

Or pale Calabrian? Or the Tuscan grape?

Or of old Aetna’s pulpy wine presses,

Black stained with the fat vintage, as it were

The purple slaughter-house, where Bacchus’ self

Pricked his own swollen veins? Where is my Page?

PAGE Here, here!

LUDOLPH Be ready to obey me; anon thou shalt

Bear a soft message for me; for the hour

Draws near when I must make a winding up

Of bridal mysteries – a fine-spun vengeance!

Carve it on my tomb, that when I rest beneath,

Men shall confess – This Prince was gulled and cheated,

But from the ashes of disgrace he rose

More than a fiery dragon, and did burn

His ignominy up in purging fires!

Did I not send, sir, but a moment past,

For my father?

GERSA You did.

LUDOLPH Perhaps ’twould be

Much better he came not.

[Enter OTHO, ERMINIA, ETHELBERT, SIGIFRED, and Physician]

GERSA He enters now!

LUDOLPH O thou good man, against whose sacred head

I was a mad conspirator, chiefly too

For the sake of my fair newly wedded wife,

Now to be punished – do not look so sad!

Those charitable eyes will thaw my heart,

Those tears will wash away a just resolve,

A verdict ten times sworn! Awake – awake –

Put on a judge’s brow, and use a tongue

Made iron-stern by habit! Thou shalt see

A deed to be applauded, ’scribed in gold!

Join a loud voice to mine, and so denounce

What I alone will execute!

OTHO Dear son,

What is it? By your father’s love, I sue

That it be nothing merciless!

LUDOLPHTo that demon?

Not so! No! She is in temple-stall

Being garnished for the sacrifice, and I,

The Priest of Justice, will immolate her

Upon the altar of wrath! She stings me through! –

Even as the worm doth feed upon the nut,

So she, a scorpion, preys upon my brain!

I feel her gnawing here! Let her but vanish,

Then, father, I will lead your legions forth,

Compact in steelèd squares, and spearèd files

And bid our trumpets speak a fell rebuke

To nations drowsed in peace!

OTHO Tomorrow, son,

Be your word law; forget today –

LUDOLPHI will

When I have finished it! Now, now I’m pight,

Tight-footed for the deed!

ERMINIA Alas! Alas!

LUDOLPH What angel’s voice is that? Erminia!

Ah! gentlest creature, whose sweet innocence

Was almost murdered; I am penitent,

Wilt thou forgive me? And thou, holy man,

Good Ethelbert, shall I die in peace with you?

ERMINIA Die, my lord!

LUDOLPHI feel it possible.

OTHO Physician?

PHYSICIAN I fear me he is past my skill.

OTHO Not so!

LUDOLPH I see it – I see it – I have been wandering!

Half-mad – not right here – I forget my purpose.

Bestir – bestir – Auranthe! Ha! ha! ha!

Youngster! Page! go bid them drag her to me!

Obey! This shall finish it! [Draws a dagger]

OTHO O my son! my son!

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SIGIFRED This must not be – stop there!

[Exit Page]

LUDOLPHAm I obeyed?

A little talk with her – no harm – haste! haste!

Set her before me – never fear I can strike.

SEVERAL VOICES My Lord! My Lord!

GERSA Good Prince!

[The doors open. Enter Page. Several women are seen grouped about AURANTHE in the inner room]

LUDOLPH Why do ye trouble me? Out – out away!

There she is! take that! and that! no, no –

That’s not well done. Where is she?

PAGE Alas! My Lord, my Lord! they cannot move her!

Her arms are stiff – her fingers clenched and cold!

LUDOLPH She’s dead! [Staggers and falls into their arms]

ETHELBERT Take away the dagger.

GERSA Softly; so!

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OTHO Thank God for that!

SIGIFREDIt could not harm him now.

GERSA No! – brief be his anguish!

LUDOLPH She’s gone – I am content – Nobles, good night!

Where is your hand, father? – what sultry air!

We are all weary – faint – set ope the doors –

I will to bed! – Tomorrow – [Dies]

[The curtain falls]

PART I

Upon a time, before the faery broods

Drove Nymph and Satyr from the prosperous woods,

Before King Oberon’s bright diadem,

Sceptre, and mantle, clasped with dewy gem,

Frighted away the Dryads and the Fauns

From rushes green, and brakes, and cowslipped lawns,

The ever-smitten Hermes empty left

His golden throne, bent warm on amorous theft:

From high Olympus had he stolen light,

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On this side of Jove’s clouds, to escape the sight

Of his great summoner, and made retreat

Into a forest on the shores of Crete.

For somewhere in that sacred island dwelt

A nymph, to whom all hoofed Satyrs knelt,

At whose white feet the languid Tritons poured

Pearls, while on land they withered and adored.

Fast by the springs where she to bathe was wont,

And in those meads where sometime she might haunt,

Were strewn rich gifts, unknown to any Muse,

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Though Fancy’s casket were unlocked to choose.

Ah, what a world of love was at her feet!

So Hermes thought, and a celestial heat

Burnt from his wingèd heels to either ear,

That from a whiteness, as the lily clear,

Blushed into roses ’mid his golden hair,

Fallen in jealous curls about his shoulders bare.

From vale to vale, from wood to wood, he flew,

Breathing upon the flowers his passion new,

And wound with many a river to its head

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To find where this sweet nymph prepared her secret bed.

In vain; the sweet nymph might nowhere be found,

And so he rested, on the lonely ground,

Pensive, and full of painful jealousies

Of the Wood-Gods, and even the very trees.

There as he stood, he heard a mournful voice,

Such as, once heard, in gentle heart destroys

All pain but pity; thus the lone voice spake:

‘When from this wreathèd tomb shall I awake!

When move in a sweet body fit for life,

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And love, and pleasure, and the ruddy strife

Of hearts and lips! Ah, miserable me!’

The God, dove-footed, glided silently

Round bush and tree, soft-brushing, in his speed,

The taller grasses and full-flowering weed,

Until he found a palpitating snake,

Bright, and cirque-couchant in a dusky brake.

She was a gordian shape of dazzling hue,

Vermilion-spotted, golden, green, and blue;

Striped like a zebra, freckled like a pard,

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Eyed like a peacock, and all crimson barred;

And full of silver moons, that, as she breathed,

Dissolved, or brighter shone, or interwreathed

Their lustres with the gloomier tapestries –

So rainbow-sided, touched with miseries,

She seemed, at once, some penanced lady elf,

Some demon’s mistress, or the demon’s self.

Upon her crest she wore a wannish fire

Sprinkled with stars, like Ariadne’s tiar;

Her head was serpent, but ah, bitter-sweet!

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She had a woman’s mouth with all its pearls complete;

And for her eyes – what could such eyes do there

But weep, and weep, that they were born so fair,

As Proserpine still weeps for her Sicilian air?

Her throat was serpent, but the words she spake

Came, as through bubbling honey, for Love’s sake,

And thus – while Hermes on his pinions lay,

Like a stooped falcon ere he takes his prey –

‘Fair Hermes, crowned with feathers, fluttering light,

I had a splendid dream of thee last night:

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I saw thee sitting, on a throne of gold,

Among the Gods, upon Olympus old,

The only sad one; for thou didst not hear

The soft, lute-fingered Muses chanting clear,

Nor even Apollo when he sang alone,

Deaf to his throbbing throat’s long, long melodious moan.

I dreamt I saw thee, robed in purple flakes,

Break amorous through the clouds, as morning breaks,

And, swiftly as a bright Phoebean dart,

Strike for the Cretan isle; and here thou art!

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Too gentle Hermes, hast thou found the maid?’

Whereat the star of Lethe not delayed

His rosy eloquence, and thus inquired:

‘Thou smooth-lipped serpent, surely high inspired!

Thou beauteous wreath, with melancholy eyes,

Possess whatever bliss thou canst devise,

Telling me only where my nymph is fled –

Where she doth breathe!’ ‘Bright planet, thou hast said,’

Returned the snake, ‘but seal with oaths, fair God!’

‘I swear,’ said Hermes, ‘by my serpent rod,

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And by thine eyes, and by thy starry crown!’

Light flew his earnest words, among the blossoms blown.

Then thus again the brilliance feminine:

‘Too frail of heart! for this lost nymph of thine,

Free as the air, invisibly, she strays

About these thornless wilds; her pleasant days

She tastes unseen; unseen her nimble feet

Leave traces in the grass and flowers sweet;

From weary tendrils, and bowed branches green,

She plucks the fruit unseen, she bathes unseen;

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And by my power is her beauty veiled

To keep it unaffronted, unassailed

By the love-glances of unlovely eyes

Of Satyrs, Fauns, and bleared Silenus’ sighs.

Pale grew her immortality, for woe

Of all these lovers, and she grieved so

I took compassion on her, bade her steep

Her hair in weïrd syrops, that would keep

Her loveliness invisible, yet free

To wander as she loves, in liberty.

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Thou shalt behold her, Hermes, thou alone,

If thou wilt, as thou swearest, grant my boon!’

Then, once again, the charmed God began

An oath, and through the serpent’s ears it ran

Warm, tremulous, devout, psalterian.

Ravished, she lifted her Circean head,

Blushed a live damask, and swift-lisping said,

‘I was a woman, let me have once more

A woman’s shape, and charming as before.

I love a youth of Corinth – O the bliss!

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Give me my woman’s form, and place me where he is.

Stoop, Hermes, let me breathe upon thy brow,

And thou shalt see thy sweet nymph even now.’

The God on half-shut feathers sank serene,

She breathed upon his eyes, and swift was seen

Of both the guarded nymph near-smiling on the green.

It was no dream; or say a dream it was,

Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass

Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.

One warm, flushed moment, hovering, it might seem

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Dashed by the wood-nymph’s beauty, so he burned;

Then, lighting on the printless verdure, turned

To the swooned serpent, and with languid arm,

Delicate, put to proof the lithe Caducean charm.

So done, upon the nymph his eyes he bent

Full of adoring tears and blandishment,

And towards her stepped: she, like a moon in wane,

Faded before him, cowered, nor could restrain

Her fearful sobs, self-folding like a flower

That faints into itself at evening hour:

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But the God fostering her chillèd hand,

She felt the warmth, her eyelids opened bland,

And, like new flowers at morning song of bees,

Bloomed, and gave up her honey to the lees.

Into the green-recessèd woods they flew;

Nor grew they pale, as mortal lovers do.

Left to herself, the serpent now began

To change; her elfin blood in madness ran,

Her mouth foamed, and the grass, therewith besprent,

Withered at dew so sweet and virulent;

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Her eyes in torture fixed, and anguish drear,

Hot, glazed, and wide, with lid-lashes all sear,

Flashed phosphor and sharp sparks, without one cooling tear.

The colours all inflamed throughout her train,

She writhed about, convulsed with scarlet pain:

A deep volcanian yellow took the place

Of all her milder-moonèd body’s grace;

And, as the lava ravishes the mead,

Spoilt all her silver mail, and golden brede;

Made gloom of all her frecklings, streaks and bars,

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Eclipsed her crescents, and licked up her stars.

So that, in moments few, she was undressed

Of all her sapphires, greens, and amethyst,

And rubious-argent; of all these bereft,

Nothing but pain and ugliness were left.

Still shone her crown; that vanished, also she

Melted and disappeared as suddenly;

And in the air, her new voice luting soft,

Cried, ‘Lycius! gentle Lycius!’ – Borne aloft

With the bright mists about the mountains hoar

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These words dissolved: Crete’s forests heard no more.

Whither fled Lamia, now a lady bright,

A full-born beauty new and exquisite?

She fled into that valley they pass o’er

Who go to Corinth from Cenchreas’ shore;

And rested at the foot of those wild hills,

The rugged founts of the Peræan rills,

And of that other ridge whose barren back

Stretches, with all its mist and cloudy rack,

South-westward to Cleone. There she stood

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About a young bird’s flutter from a wood,

Fair, on a sloping green of mossy tread,

By a clear pool, wherein she passionèd

To see herself escaped from so sore ills,

While her robes flaunted with the daffodils.

Ah, happy Lycius! – for she was a maid

More beautiful than ever twisted braid,

Or sighed, or blushed, or on spring-flowered lea

Spread a green kirtle to the minstrelsy:

A virgin purest lipped, yet in the lore

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Of love deep learnèd to the red heart’s core;

Not one hour old, yet of sciential brain

To unperplex bliss from its neighbour pain,

Define their pettish limits, and estrange

Their points of contact, and swift counterchange;

Intrigue with the specious chaos, and dispart

Its most ambiguous atoms with sure art;

As though in Cupid’s college she had spent

Sweet days a lovely graduate, still unshent,

And kept his rosy terms in idle languishment.

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Why this fair creature chose so faerily

By the wayside to linger, we shall see;

But first ’tis fit to tell how she could muse

And dream, when in the serpent prison-house,

Of all she list, strange or magnificent:

How, ever, where she willed, her spirit went;

Whether to faint Elysium, or where

Down through tress-lifting waves the Nereids fair

Wind into Thetis’ bower by many a pearly stair;

Or where God Bacchus drains his cups divine,

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Stretched out, at ease, beneath a glutinous pine;

Or where in Pluto’s gardens palatine

Mulciber’s columns gleam in far piazzian line.

And sometimes into cities she would send

Her dream, with feast and rioting to blend;

And once, while among mortals dreaming thus,

She saw the young Corinthian Lycius

Charioting foremost in the envious race,

Like a young Jove with calm uneager face,

And fell into a swooning love of him.

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Now on the moth-time of that evening dim

He would return that way, as well she knew,

To Corinth from the shore; for freshly blew

The eastern soft wind, and his galley now

Grated the quaystones with her brazen prow

In port Cenchreas, from Egina isle

Fresh anchored; whither he had been awhile

To sacrifice to Jove, whose temple there

Waits with high marble doors for blood and incense rare.

Jove heard his vows, and bettered his desire;

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For by some freakful chance he made retire

From his companions, and set forth to walk,

Perhaps grown wearied of their Corinth talk:

Over the solitary hills he fared,

Thoughtless at first, but ere eve’s star appeared

His fantasy was lost, where reason fades,

In the calmed twilight of Platonic shades.

Lamia beheld him coming, near, more near –

Close to her passing, in indifference drear,

His silent sandals swept the mossy green;

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So neighboured to him, and yet so unseen

She stood: he passed, shut up in mysteries,

His mind wrapped like his mantle, while her eyes

Followed his steps, and her neck regal white

Turned – syllabling thus, ‘Ah, Lycius bright,

And will you leave me on the hills alone?

Lycius, look back! and be some pity shown.’

He did – not with cold wonder fearingly,

But Orpheus-like at an Eurydice –

For so delicious were the words she sung,

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It seemed he had loved them a whole summer long.

And soon his eyes had drunk her beauty up,

Leaving no drop in the bewildering cup,

And still the cup was full – while he, afraid

Lest she should vanish ere his lip had paid

Due adoration, thus began to adore

(Her soft look growing coy, she saw his chain so sure):

‘Leave thee alone! Look back! Ah, Goddess, see

Whether my eyes can ever turn from thee!

For pity do not this sad heart belie –

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Even as thou vanisheth so I shall die.

Stay! though a Naiad of the rivers, stay!

To thy far wishes will thy streams obey.

Stay! though the greenest woods be thy domain,

Alone they can drink up the morning rain:

Though a descended Pleiad, will not one

Of thine harmonious sisters keep in tune

Thy spheres, and as thy silver proxy shine

So sweetly to these ravished ears of mine

Came thy sweet greeting, that if thou shouldst fade

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Thy memory will waste me to a shade –

For pity do not melt!’ – ‘If I should stay,’

Said Lamia, ‘here, upon this floor of clay,

And pain my steps upon these flowers too rough,

What canst thou say or do of charm enough

To dull the nice remembrance of my home?

Thou canst not ask me with thee here to roam

Over these hills and vales, where no joy is –

Empty of immortality and bliss!

Thou art a scholar, Lycius, and must know

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That finer spirits cannot breathe below

In human climes, and live. Alas! poor youth,

What taste of purer air hast thou to soothe

My essence? What serener palaces,

Where I may all my many senses please,

And by mysterious sleights a hundred thirsts appease?

It cannot be – Adieu!’ So said, she rose

Tip-toe with white arms spread. He, sick to lose

The amorous promise of her lone complain,

Swooned, murmuring of love, and pale with pain.

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The cruel lady, without any show

Of sorrow for her tender favourite’s woe,

But rather, if her eyes could brighter be,

With brighter eyes and slow amenity,

Put her new lips to his, and gave afresh

The life she had so tangled in her mesh;

And as he from one trance was wakening

Into another, she began to sing,

Happy in beauty, life, and love, and every thing,

A song of love, too sweet for earthly lyres,

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While, like held breath, the stars drew in their panting fires.

And then she whispered in such trembling tone,

As those who, safe together met alone

For the first time through many anguished days,

Use other speech than looks; bidding him raise

His drooping head, and clear his soul of doubt,

For that she was a woman, and without

Any more subtle fluid in her veins

Than throbbing blood, and that the self-same pains

Inhabited her frail-strung heart as his.

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And next she wondered how his eyes could miss

Her face so long in Corinth, where, she said,

She dwelt but half retired, and there had led

Days happy as the gold coin could invent

Without the aid of love; yet in content

Till she saw him, as once she passed him by,

Where ’gainst a column he leant thoughtfully

At Venus’ temple porch, ’mid baskets heaped

Of amorous herbs and flowers, newly reaped

Late on that eve, as ’twas the night before

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The Adonian feast; whereof she saw no more,

But wept alone those days, for why should she adore?

Lycius from death awoke into amaze,

To see her still, and singing so sweet lays;

Then from amaze into delight he fell

To hear her whisper woman’s lore so well;

And every word she spake enticed him on

To unperplexed delight and pleasure known.

Let the mad poets say whate’er they please

Of the sweets of Faeries, Peris, Goddesses,

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There is not such a treat among them all,

Haunters of cavern, lake, and waterfall,

As a real woman, lineal indeed

From Pyrrha’s pebbles or old Adam’s seed.

Thus gentle Lamia judged, and judged aright,

That Lycius could not love in half a fright,

So threw the goddess off, and won his heart

More pleasantly by playing woman’s part,

With no more awe than what her beauty gave,

That, while it smote, still guaranteed to save.

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Lycius to all made eloquent reply,

Marrying to every word a twinborn sigh;

And last, pointing to Corinth, asked her sweet,

If ’twas too far that night for her soft feet.

The way was short, for Lamia’s eagerness

Made, by a spell, the triple league decrease

To a few paces; not at all surmised

By blinded Lycius, so in her comprised.

They passed the city gates, he knew not how,

So noiseless, and he never thought to know.

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As men talk in a dream, so Corinth all,

Throughout her palaces imperial,

And all her populous streets and temples lewd,

Muttered, like tempest in the distance brewed,

To the wide-spreaded night above her towers.

Men, women, rich and poor, in the cool hours,

Shuffled their sandals o’er the pavement white,

Companioned or alone; while many a light

Flared, here and there, from wealthy festivals,

And threw their moving shadows on the walls,

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Or found them clustered in the corniced shade

Of some arched temple door, or dusky colonnade.

Muffling his face, of greeting friends in fear,

Her fingers he pressed hard, as one came near

With curled grey beard, sharp eyes, and smooth bald crown,

Slow-stepped, and robed in philosophic gown:

Lycius shrank closer, as they met and passed,

Into his mantle, adding wings to haste,

While hurried Lamia trembled: ‘Ah,’ said he,

‘Why do you shudder, love, so ruefully?

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Why does your tender palm dissolve in dew?’ –

‘I’m wearied,’ said fair Lamia, ‘tell me who

Is that old man? I cannot bring to mind

His features – Lycius! wherefore did you blind

Yourself from his quick eyes?’ Lycius replied,

‘’Tis Apollonius sage, my trusty guide

And good instructor; but tonight he seems

The ghost of folly haunting my sweet dreams.’

While yet he spake they had arrived before

A pillared porch, with lofty portal door,

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Where hung a silver lamp, whose phosphor glow

Reflected in the slabbèd steps below,

Mild as a star in water; for so new,

And so unsullied was the marble hue,

So through the crystal polish, liquid fine,

Ran the dark veins, that none but feet divine

Could e’er have touched there. Sounds Aeolian

Breathed from the hinges, as the ample span

Of the wide doors disclosed a place unknown

Some time to any, but those two alone,

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And a few Persian mutes, who that same year

Were seen about the markets: none knew where

They could inhabit; the most curious

Were foiled, who watched to trace them to their house.

And but the flitter-wingèd verse must tell,

For truth’s sake, what woe afterwards befell,

‘Twould humour many a heart to leave them thus,

Shut from the busy world, of more incredulous.

PART II

Love in a hut, with water and a crust,

Is – Love, forgive us! – cinder, ashes, dust;

Love in a palace is perhaps at last

More grievous torment than a hermit’s fast.

That is a doubtful tale from faery land,

Hard for the non-elect to understand.

Had Lycius lived to hand his story down,

He might have given the moral a fresh frown,

Or clenched it quite: but too short was their bliss

10

To breed distrust and hate, that make the soft voice hiss.

Besides, there, nightly, with terrific glare,

Love, jealous grown of so complete a pair,

Hovered and buzzed his wings, with fearful roar,

Above the lintel of their chamber door,

And down the passage cast a glow upon the floor.

For all this came a ruin: side by side

They were enthronèd, in the eventide,

Upon a couch, near to a curtaining

Whose airy texture, from a golden string,

20

Floated into the room, and let appear

Unveiled the summer heaven, blue and clear,

Betwixt two marble shafts. There they reposed,

Where use had made it sweet, with eyelids closed,

Saving a tithe which love still open kept,

That they might see each other while they almost slept;

When from the slope side of a suburb hill,

Deafening the swallow’s twitter, came a thrill

Of trumpets – Lycius started – the sounds fled,

But left a thought, a buzzing in his head.

30

For the first time, since first he harboured in

That purple-linèd palace of sweet sin,

His spirit passed beyond its golden bourne

Into the noisy world almost forsworn.

The lady, ever watchful, penetrant,

Saw this with pain, so arguing a want

Of something more, more than her empery

Of joys; and she began to moan and sigh

Because he mused beyond her, knowing well

That but a moment’s thought is passion’s passing-bell.

40

‘Why do you sigh, fair creature?’ whispered he:

‘Why do you think?’ returned she tenderly,

‘You have deserted me – where am I now?

Not in your heart while care weighs on your brow:

No, no, you have dismissed me; and I go

From your breast houseless – ay, it must be so.’

He answered, bending to her open eyes,

Where he was mirrored small in paradise,

‘My silver planet, both of eve and morn!

Why will you plead yourself so sad forlorn,

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While I am striving how to fill my heart

With deeper crimson, and a double smart?

How to entangle, trammel up and snare

Your soul in mine, and labyrinth you there

Like the hid scent in an unbudded rose?

Ay, a sweet kiss – you see your mighty woes.

My thoughts! shall I unveil them? Listen then!

What mortal hath a prize, that other men

May be confounded and abashed withal,

But lets it sometimes pace abroad majestical,

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And triumph, as in thee I should rejoice

Amid the hoarse alarm of Corinth’s voice.

Let my foes choke, and my friends shout afar,

While through the throngèd streets your bridal car

Wheels round its dazzling spokes.’ – The lady’s cheek

Trembled; she nothing said, but, pale and meek,

Arose and knelt before him, wept a rain

Of sorrows at his words; at last with pain

Beseeching him, the while his hand she wrung,

To change his purpose. He thereat was stung,

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Perverse, with stronger fancy to reclaim

Her wild and timid nature to his aim:

Besides, for all his love, in self-despite,

Against his better self, he took delight

Luxurious in her sorrows, soft and new.

His passion, cruel grown, took on a hue

Fierce and sanguineous as ’twas possible

In one whose brow had no dark veins to swell.

Fine was the mitigated fury, like

Apollo’s presence when in act to strike

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The serpent – Ha, the serpent! Certes, she

Was none. She burnt, she loved the tyranny,

And, all subdued, consented to the hour

When to the bridal he should lead his paramour.

Whispering in midnight silence, said the youth,

‘Sure some sweet name thou hast, though, by my truth,

I have not asked it, ever thinking thee

Not mortal, but of heavenly progeny,

As still I do. Hast any mortal name,

Fit appellation for this dazzling frame?

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Or friends or kinsfolk on the citied earth,

To share our marriage feast and nuptial mirth?’

‘I have no friends,’ said Lamia, ‘no, not one;

My presence in wide Corinth hardly known:

My parents’ bones are in their dusty urns

Sepulchred, where no kindled incense burns,

Seeing all their luckless race are dead, save me,

And I neglect the holy rite for thee.

Even as you list invite your many guests;

But if, as now it seems, your vision rests

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With any pleasure on me, do not bid

Old Apollonius – from him keep me hid.’

Lycius, perplexed at words so blind and blank,

Made close inquiry; from whose touch she shrank,

Feigning a sleep; and he to the dull shade

Of deep sleep in a moment was betrayed.

It was the custom then to bring away

The bride from home at blushing shut of day,

Veiled, in a chariot, heralded along

By strewn flowers, torches, and a marriage song,

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With other pageants: but this fair unknown

Had not a friend. So being left alone,

(Lycius was gone to summon all his kin)

And knowing surely she could never win

His foolish heart from its mad pompousness,

She set herself, high-thoughted, how to dress

The misery in fit magnificence.

She did so, but ’tis doubtful how and whence

Came, and who were her subtle servitors.

About the halls, and to and from the doors,

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There was a noise of wings, till in short space

The glowing banquet-room shone with wide-archèd grace.

A haunting music, sole perhaps and lone

Supportress of the faery-roof, made moan

Throughout, as fearful the whole charm might fade.

Fresh carvèd cedar, mimicking a glade

Of palm and plantain, met from either side,

High in the midst, in honour of the bride;

Two palms and then two plantains, and so on,

From either side their stems branched one to one

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All down the aislèd place; and beneath all

There ran a stream of lamps straight on from wall to wall.

So canopied, lay an untasted feast

Teeming with odours. Lamia, regal dressed,

Silently paced about, and as she went,

In pale contented sort of discontent,

Missioned her viewless servants to enrich

The fretted splendour of each nook and niche.

Between the tree-stems, marbled plain at first,

Came jasper panels; then anon, there burst

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Forth creeping imagery of slighter trees,

And with the larger wove in small intricacies.

Approving all, she faded at self-will,

And shut the chamber up, close, hushed and still,

Complete and ready for the revels rude,

When dreadful guests would come to spoil her solitude.

The day appeared, and all the gossip rout.

O senseless Lycius! Madman! wherefore flout

The silent-blessing fate, warm cloistered hours,

And show to common eyes these secret bowers?

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The herd approached; each guest, with busy brain,

Arrivng at the portal, gazed amain,

And entered marvelling – for they knew the street,

Remembered it from childhood all complete

Without a gap, yet ne’er before had seen

That royal porch, that high-built fair demesne.

So in they hurried all, mazed, curious and keen –

Save one, who looked thereon with eye severe,

And with calm-planted steps walked in austere.

’Twas Apollonius: something too he laughed,

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As though some knotty problem, that had daffed

His patient thought, had now begun to thaw,

And solve and melt – ’twas just as he foresaw.

He met within the murmurous vestibule

His young disciple. ‘’Tis no common rule,

Lycius,’ said he, ‘for uninvited guest

To force himself upon you, and infest

With an unbidden presence the bright throng

Of younger friends; yet must I do this wrong,

And you forgive me. Lycius blushed, and led

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The old man through the inner doors broad-spread;

With reconciling words and courteous mien

Turning into sweet milk the sophist’s spleen.

Of wealthy lustre was the banquet-room,

Filled with pervading brilliance and perfume:

Before each lucid panel fuming stood

A censer fed with myrrh and spicèd wood,

Each by a sacred tripod held aloft,

Whose slender feet wide-swerved upon the soft

Wool-woofèd carpets; fifty wreaths of smoke

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From fifty censers their light voyage took

To the high roof, still mimicked as they rose

Along the mirrored walls by twin-clouds odorous.

Twelve spherèd tables, by silk seats ensphered,

High as the level of a man’s breast reared

On libbard’s paws, upheld the heavy gold

Of cups and goblets, and the store thrice told

Of Ceres’ horn, and, in huge vessels, wine

Come from the gloomy tun with merry shine.

Thus loaded with a feast the tables stood,

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Each shrining in the midst the image of a God.

When in an antechamber every guest

Had felt the cold full sponge to pleasure pressed,

By ministering slaves, upon his hands and feet,

And fragrant oils with ceremony meet

Poured on his hair, they all moved to the feast

In white robes, and themselves in order placed

Around the silken couches, wondering

Whence all this mighty cost and blaze of wealth could spring.

Soft went the music the soft air along,

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While fluent Greek a vowelled undersong

Kept up among the guests, discoursing low

At first, for scarcely was the wine at flow;

But when the happy vintage touched their brains,

Louder they talk, and louder come the strains

Of powerful instruments. The gorgeous dyes,

The space, the splendour of the draperies,

The roof of awful richness, nectarous cheer,

Beautiful slaves, and Lamia’s self, appear,

Now, when the wine has done its rosy deed,

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And every soul from human trammels freed,

No more so strange; for merry wine, sweet wine,

Will make Elysian shades not too fair, too divine.

Soon was God Bacchus at meridian height;

Flushed were their cheeks, and bright eyes double bright:

Garlands of every green, and every scent

From vales deflowered, or forest-trees branch-rent,

In baskets of bright osiered gold were brought

High as the handles heaped, to suit the thought

Of every guest – that each, as he did please,

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Might fancy-fit his brows, silk-pillowed at his ease.

What wreath for Lamia? What for Lycius?

What for the sage, old Apollonius?

Upon her aching forehead be there hung

The leaves of willow and of adder’s tongue;

And for the youth, quick, let us strip for him

The thyrsus, that his watching eyes may swim

Into forgetfulness; and, for the sage,

Let spear-grass and the spiteful thistle wage

War on his temples. Do not all charms fly

230

At the mere touch of cold philosophy?

There was an awful rainbow once in heaven:

We know her woof, her texture; she is given

In the dull catalogue of common things.

Philosophy will clip an Angel’s wings,

Conquer all mysteries by rule and line,

Empty the haunted air, and gnomèd mine –

Unweave a rainbow, as it erewhile made

The tender-personed Lamia melt into a shade.

By her glad Lycius sitting, in chief place,

240

Scarce saw in all the room another face,

Till, checking his love trance, a cup he took

Full brimmed, and opposite sent forth a look

‘Cross the broad table, to beseech a glance

From his old teacher’s wrinkled countenance,

And pledge him. The bald-head philosopher

Had fixed his eye, without a twinkle or stir

Full on the alarmed beauty of the bride,

Brow-beating her fair form, and troubling her sweet pride.

Lycius then pressed her hand, with devout touch,

250

As pale it lay upon the rosy couch:

’Twas icy, and the cold ran through his veins;

Then sudden it grew hot, and all the pains

Of an unnatural heat shot to his heart.

‘Lamia, what means this? Wherefore dost thou start?

Know’st thou that man?’ Poor Lamia answered not.

He gazed into her eyes, and not a jot

Owned they the lovelorn piteous appeal;

More, more he gazed; his human senses reel;

Some hungry spell that loveliness absorbs;

260

There was no recognition in those orbs.

‘Lamia!’ he cried – and no soft-toned reply.

The many heard, and the loud revelry

Grew hush; the stately music no more breathes;

The myrtle sickened in a thousand wreaths.

By faint degrees, voice, lute, and pleasure ceased;

A deadly silence step by step increased,

Until it seemed a horrid presence there,

And not a man but felt the terror in his hair.

‘Lamia!’ he shrieked; and nothing but the shriek

270

With its sad echo did the silence break.

‘Begone, foul dream!’ he cried, gazing again

In the bride’s face, where now no azure vein

Wandered on fair-spaced temples; no soft bloom

Misted the cheek; no passion to illume

The deep-recessèd vision. All was blight;

Lamia, no longer fair, there sat a deadly white.

‘Shut, shut those juggling eyes, thou ruthless man!

Turn them aside, wretch! or the righteous ban

Of all the Gods, whose dreadful images

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Here represent their shadowy presences,

May pierce them on the sudden with the thorn

Of painful blindness; leaving thee forlorn,

In trembling dotage to the feeblest fright

Of conscience, for their long offended might,

For all thine impious proud-heart sophistries,

Unlawful magic, and enticing lies.

Corinthians! look upon that grey-beard wretch!

Mark how, possessed, his lashless eyelids stretch

Around his demon eyes! Corinthians, see!

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My sweet bride withers at their potency.’

‘Fool!’ said the sophist, in an undertone

Gruff with contempt; which a death-nighing moan

From Lycius answered, as heart-struck and lost,

He sank supine beside the aching ghost.

‘Fool! Fool!’ repeated he, while his eyes still

Relented not, nor moved: ‘From every ill

Of life have I preserved thee to this day,

And shall I see thee made a serpent’s prey?’

Then Lamia breathed death-breath; the sophist’s eye,

300

Like a sharp spear, went through her utterly,

Keen, cruel, perceant, stinging: she, as well

As her weak hand could any meaning tell,

Motioned him to be silent; vainly so,

He looked and looked again a level – No!

‘A Serpent!’ echoed he; no sooner said,

Than with a frightful scream she vanishèd:

And Lycius’ arms were empty of delight,

As were his limbs of life, from that same night.

On the high couch he lay! – his friends came round –

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Supported him – no pulse, or breath they found,

And, in its marriage robe, the heavy body wound.

Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes,

Nibble their toasts and cool their tea with sighs;

Or else forget the purpose of the night,

Forget their tea, forget their appetite.

See, with crossed arms they sit – Ah! hapless crew,

The fire is going out and no one rings

For coals, and therefore no coals Betty brings.

A fly is in the milk-pot – must he die

Circled by a Humane Society?

10

No, no; there, Mr Werter takes his spoon,

Inverts it, dips the handle, and lo! soon

The little struggler, saved from perils dark,

Across the teaboard draws a long wet mark.

Romeo! Arise! take snuffers by the handle,

There’s a large cauliflower in each candle.

A winding-sheet – ah, me! I must away

To No. 7, just beyond the Circus gay.

‘Alas, my friend, your coat sits very well;

Where may your tailor live?’ ‘I may not tell.

20

O pardon me – I’m absent now and then.

Where might my tailor live? I say again

I cannot tell. Let me no more be teased –

He lives in Wapping, might live where he pleased.’

I

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun,

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

10

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For Summer has o’er-brimmed their clammy cells.

II

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,

Drowsed with the fume of poppies while thy hook

Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers;

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

20

Steady thy laden head across a brook;

Or by a cider-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

III

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too –

While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue:

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

30

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

CANTO I

Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave

A paradise for a sect; the savage too

From forth the loftiest fashion of his sleep

Guesses at Heaven: pity these have not

Traced upon vellum or wild Indian leaf

The shadows of melodious utterance.

But bare of laurel they live, dream, and die;

For Poesy alone can tell her dreams,

With the fine spell of words alone can save

10

Imagination from the sable charm

And dumb enchantment. Who alive can say,

‘Thou art no Poet – mayst not tell thy dreams’?

Since every man whose soul is not a clod

Hath visions, and would speak, if he had loved,

And been well nurtured in his mother tongue.

Whether the dream now purposed to rehearse

Be Poet’s or Fanatic’s will be known

When this warm scribe my hand is in the grave.

Methought I stood where trees of every clime,

20

Palm, myrtle, oak, and sycamore, and beech,

With plantain, and spice-blossoms, made a screen –

In neighbourhood of fountains, by the noise

Soft-showering in mine ears, and, by the touch

Of scent, not far from roses. Turning round,

I saw an arbour with a drooping roof

Of trellis vines, and bells, and larger blooms,

Like floral censers, swinging light in air;

Before its wreathèd doorway, on a mound

Of moss, was spread a feast of summer fruits,

30

Which, nearer seen, seemed refuse of a meal

By angel tasted, or our Mother Eve;

For empty shells were scattered on the grass,

And grape-stalks but half bare, and remnants more,

Sweet-smelling, whose pure kinds I could not know.

Still was more plenty than the fabled horn

Thrice emptied could pour forth at banqueting

For Proserpine returned to her own fields,

Where the white heifers low. And appetite

More yearning than on earth I ever felt

40

Growing within, I ate deliciously;

And, after not long, thirsted, for thereby

Stood a cool vessel of transparent juice,

Sipped by the wandered bee, the which I took,

And, pledging all the mortals of the world,

And all the dead whose names are in our lips,

Drank.