Sidor som bilder
PDF
ePub

547

548

DIRCE

STAND close around, ye Stygian set,
With Dirce in one boat convey'd !
Or Charon, seeing, may forget
That he is old and she a shade.

CORINNA TO TANAGRA, FROM ATHENS
TANAGRA! think not I forget

Thy beautifully storied streets;
Be sure my memory bathes yet

In clear Thermodon, and yet greets
The blithe and liberal shepherd-boy,
Whose sunny bosom swells with joy
When we accept his matted rushes

Upheav'd with sylvan fruit; away he bounds, and
blushes.

A gift I promise: one I see

Which thou with transport wilt receive,

The only proper gift for thee,

Of which no mortal shall bereave

In later times thy mouldering walls,
Until the last old turret falls;

A crown, a crown from Athens won,

A crown no God can wear, beside Latona's son

There may be cities who refuse

To their own child the honours due,
And look ungently on the Muse;

But ever shall those cities rue
The dry, unyielding, niggard breast,
Offering no nourishment, no rest,

To that young head which soon shall rise
Disdainfully, in might and glory, to the skies.

549

550

Sweetly where cavern'd Dirce flows
Do white-arm'd maidens chant my lay,
Flapping the while with laurel-rose
The honey-gathering tribes away;
And sweetly, sweetly Attic tongues
Lisp your Corinna's early songs;

To her with feet more graceful come

The verses that have dwelt in kindred breasts at home.

O let thy children lean aslant

Against the tender mother's knee,
And gaze into her face, and want

To know what magic there can be
In words that urge some eyes to dance,
While others as in holy trance

Look up to heaven: be such my praise!

Why linger? I must haste, or lose the Delphic bays.

MOTHER, I CANNOT MIND MY WHEEL

MOTHER, I cannot mind my wheel;
My fingers ache, my lips are dry:
Oh! if you felt the pain I feel!
But oh, who ever felt as I?
No longer could I doubt him true-
All other men may use deceit;
He always said my eyes were blue,
And often swore my lips were sweet.

WELL I REMEMBER

WELL I remember how you smiled
To see me write your name upon
The soft sea-sand-'O! what a child!
You think you're writing upon stone!'

I have since written what no tide
Shall ever wash away, what men
Unborn shall read o'er ocean wide
And find Ianthe's name again.

551

552

553

No, MY OWN LOVE

No, my own love of other years!

No, it must never be.

Much rests with you that yet endears,

Alas! but what with me?

Could those bright years o'er me revolve

So gay, o'er you so fair,

The pearl of life we would dissolve,
And each the cup might share.

You show that truth can ne'er decay,
Whatever fate befalls;

I, that the myrtle and the bay
Shoot fresh on ruined walls.

ROBERT BROWNING

THERE is delight in singing, though none hear
Beside the singer; and there is delight
In praising, though the praiser sit alone.
And see the praised far off him, far above.
Shakespeare is not our poet, but the world's,
Therefore on him no speech! and brief for thee,
Browning! Since Chaucer was alive and hale,
No man hath walked along our roads with step
So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue
So varied in discourse. But warmer climes
Give brighter plumage, stronger wing: the breeze
Of Alpine heights thou playest with, borne on
Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where

The Siren waits thee, singing song for song.

THE DEATH OF ARTEMIDORA

ARTEMIDORA! Gods invisible,

While thou art lying faint along the couch,
Have tied the sandal to thy veined feet

And stand beside thee, ready to convey

554

Thy weary steps where other rivers flow.
Refreshing shades will waft thy weariness
Away, and voices like thine own come nigh
And nearer, and solicit an embrace.'

Artemidora sigh'd, and would have pressed
The hand now pressing hers, but was too weak.
Iris stood over her dark hair unseen

While thus Elpenor spake. He looked into.
Eyes that had given light and life erewhile
To those above them, but now dim with tears
And wakefulness. Again he spake of joy
Eternal. At that word, that sad word, joy,
Faithful and fond her bosom heav'd once more:
Her head fell back; and now a loud deep sob
Swell'd thro' the darken'd chamber; 'twas not hers.

IPHIGENEIA

IPHIGENEIA, when she heard her doom
At Aulis, and when all beside the king

Had gone away, took his right hand, and said,
"O father, I am young and very happy.
I do not think the pious Calchas heard
Distinctly what the Goddess spake. Old-age
Obscures the senses. If my nurse, who knew
My voice so well, sometimes misunderstood
While I was resting on her knee both arms
And hitting it to make her mind my words,
And looking in her face, and she in mine,
Might he not also hear one word amiss,
Spoken from so far off, even from Olympus?"
The father placed his cheek upon her head,
And tears dropped down it, but the king of men
Replied not. Then the maiden spake once more.
"O father! sayst thou nothing? Hear'st thou not
Me whom thou ever hast, until this hour,
Listened to fondly, and awakened me
To hear my voice among the voice of birds,
When it was inarticulate as theirs,

And the down deadened it within the nest?"
He moved her gently from him, silent still,
And this, and this alone, brought tears from her,
Although she saw fate nearer: then with sighs,
"I thought to have laid down my hair before
Benignant Artemis, and not have dimmed
Her polished altar with my virgin blood;

I thought to have selected the white flowers
To please the nymphs, and to have asked of each
By name, and with no sorrowful regret,
Whether, since both my parents willed the change,
I might at Hymen's feet bend my clipt brow;
And (after those who mind us girls the most)
Adore our own Athena, that she would
Regard me mildly with her azure eyes.
But, father! to see you no more, and see
Your love, O father! go ere I am gone"-
Gently he moved her off, and drew her back,
Bending his lofty head far over hers,
And the dark depths of nature heaved and burst.
He turned away; not far, but silent still.
She now first shuddered; for in him so nigh,
So long a silence seemed the approach of death,
And like it. Once again she raised her voice.
"O father! if the ships are now detained,
And all your vows move not the Gods above,

When the knife strikes me there will be one prayer
The less to them: and purer can there be

Any, or more fervent than the daughter's prayer

For her dear father's safety and success?"

A groan that shook him shook not his resolve.

An aged man now entered, and without
One word, stept slowly on, and took the wrist
Of the pale maiden. She looked up, and saw
The fillet of the priest and calm cold eyes.

Then turned she where her parent stood, and cried
"O father! grieve no more: the ships can sail.”

66

« FöregåendeFortsätt »