WEAVE the wild dance; awake the song;1
Awake the strain severe,
And pour on mortal ear,
What mighty honours to our race belong.
(1) Obviously imitated from this, is the song of the Furies in a ballad of Schiller's:
"Ein schwarzer Mantel schlägt die Lenden,
Sie schwingen in entfleischten Händen
Der Fackel düsterrothe Glut;
In ihren Wangen fliesst kein Blut.
Und wo die Haare lieblich flattern,
Um Menschenstirnen freundlich weh'n,
Da sieht man Schlangen hier und Nattern,
Die giftgeschwoll'nen Bauche bläh'n.
"Und, schauerlich gedreht im Kreise,
Beginnen sie des Hymnes Weise,
Der durch das Herz zerreissend dringt,
Die Bande um den Sünder schlingt.
Besinnungraubend, Herzbethörend,
Schallt der Erinnyen Gesang
Er schallt, des Hörer's Mark verzehrend,
Und duldet nicht der Leier Klang :
Still in justice find we pleasure,
Meting right in strictest measure;
He, whose hand from blood is pure,
From our wrath may rest secure ;
But the sinner, who would fain
Cover murder's crimson stain,
Still shall find his steps pursued
By inquisitors for blood:
"Wohl dem, der frei von Schuld und Fehle,
'Bewahrt die kindlich reine Seele !
Ihn dürfen wir nicht rächend nah'n,
'Er wandelt frei des Leben's Bahn,
'Das wehe, wehe, wer verstohlen
'Des Mordes schwere That vollbracht,
'Wir heften uns an seine Sohlen,
'Das furchtbare Gesehlecht der Nacht!
"Und glaubt er fliehend zu entspringen,
Geflügelt sind wir da, die Schlingen
Ihm werfend um den flücht' gen Fuss,
'Dass er zu Boden fallen muss.
'So jagen wir ihn, ohn' Ermatten,
'Versöhnen kann uns keine Reu,
Ihn fort und fort bis zu den Schatten,
'And geben ihn auch dort nicht frei.''
A sable vest each round her flings,
Each in her fleshless fingers swings
A lurid torch, that dusky glows;
Within their veins no life-blood flows.
And where the graceful ringlets stray,
Round man's more kindly aspect floating,
There only snakes and adders play,
Their loathsome forms with venom bloating.
Due to the unavenged dead
Our malison devotes his head.
Night! from whom, with vital breath,
Came my lot, in life and death,
To be for every dark offence
Instrument of recompense,
Mother! to my prayer attend;
Shall Latona's offspring rend
From my grasp the destined prey,
Steal the matricide away?
Round in the awful ring they spin,
The measure of the hymn begin,
That tears its way the heart to wound,
And flings its bands the sinner round.
It robs the wits, the heart it blasts,
Loud pealed by the infernal choir,
The marrow of the hearer wastes,
Nor brooks the music of the lyre.
"Blest, who, from guilt and error free,
Keeps the heart's childlike purity!
He walks life's path secure from fear,
We dare not draw in vengeance near.
Woe, woe to him, who dares conceal
His heavy crime, the deed of blood!
We fasten on his flying heel,
We dog him, Night's tremendous brood.
"And if he think to spring away,
We wave our wing, we net our prey,
Around his feet our toils are cast,
And he must sink to earth at last.
Unwearied thus we urge the chase,
Nor penitence can aught appease,
On to the shades, still on we race,
Nor grant him even there release."
O'er the victim we repeat 2
Dirges for our office meet;
Might is in that jarring note
From the yelling Furies' throat;
It can bind the soul in sadness,
Blast the brain with blighting madness,
Wither budding beauty's bloom,
Hurry to an early tomb:
(2) Euripides describes the Furies in a very similar manner :
δρομάδες ὦ πτεροφόροι
Ποτνίαδες θεαὶ,
ἀβάκχευτον αἱ θίασον ἐλάχετ ̓ ἐν
δάκρυσι καὶ γόοις,
μελαγχρῶτες Εὐμενίδες αἵ τε τὸν
ταναὸν αἰθέρ ̓ ἀμπάλλεσθ', αἵματος
τινύμεναι δίκαν, τινύμεναι φόνον,
καθικετεύομαι, καθικετεύομαι,
τὸν ̓Αγαμέμνονος γόνον ἐάσατ ̓ ἐκ-
λαθέσθαι λύσσας μανιάδος φοιτα-
λέου.
Ye, upon rapid wing who speed,
Ye, who the mystic dances lead,
Whom awe-struck man reveres ;
Wild Bacchanals in all save joy,
For ne'er may mirth your song employ,
But woe and sighs and tears!
Swart Furies! whom your pinions bear,
Flapping amid the expanse of air;
Exacted by whose vengeful crew
Is punishment to murder due,
Receive my prayer-let madness wild
Quit Agamemnon's wretched child,
And sweet oblivion wipe away
The memory of his pangs to-day.
Never harp's responsive chord
Quivers when that strain is poured.
When the web of Fate was spun,
First my service was begun;
Him I tend, who, spurning laws,
Blood hath shed without a cause,
Till he lie entombed in earth ;
(Such mine heir-loom from my birth,)
Nor in Hades shall he be
From the pangs of torture free.
Not to me to touch was given
Pure inhabitants of heaven,
Not to taste the social feast,
Not to wear the snow-white vest;
When, in household mask, a foe3
Deals the dark assassin's blow,
Mine to work his overthrow!
Straight our crew is slipped on him,
Straight his glory waxeth dim,
Straight his ancient might is fled,
Vanquished by the gore he shed.
Jealous of the lot we share,
We forbid the suppliant's prayer
(3) Literally, "When Mars domesticated slays a friend." In accordance with this idea, which makes Mars the God of assassination as well as of war, Chaucer places in the temple of that deity, "The smiler with the knif under the cloke."
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