Lamia, Part I

Upon a time, before the faery broodsDrove Nymph and Satyr from the prosperous woods,Before King Oberon's bright diadem,Sceptre, and mantle, clasp'd with dewy gem,Frighted away the Dryads and the FaunsFrom rushes green, and brakes, and cowslip'd lawns,The ever-smitten Hermes empty leftHis golden throne, bent warm on amorous theft:From high Olympus had he stolen light,On this side of Jove's clouds, to escape the sightOf his great summoner, and made retreatInto a forest on the shores of Crete.For somewhere in that sacred island dweltA nymph, to whom all hoofed Satyrs knelt;At whose white feet the languid Tritons pouredPearls, while on land they wither'd 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,Though Fancy's casket were unlock'd to choose.Ah, what a world of love was at her feet!So Hermes thought, and a celestial heatBurnt from his winged heels to either ear,That from a whiteness, as the lily clear,Blush'd 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,To find where this sweet nymph prepar'd 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 jealousiesOf the Wood-Gods, and even the very trees.There as he stood, he heard a mournful voice,Such as once heard, in gentle heart, destroysAll pain but pity: thus the lone voice spake:"When from this wreathed tomb shall I awake!When move in a sweet body fit for life,And love, and pleasure, and the ruddy strifeOf hearts and lips! Ah, miserable me!"The God, dove-footed, glided silentlyRound 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,Eyed like a peacock, and all crimson barr'd;And full of silver moons, that, as she breathed,Dissolv'd, or brighter shone, or interwreathedTheir lustres with the gloomier tapestries--So rainbow-sided, touch'd with miseries,She seem'd, at once, some penanced lady elf,Some demon's mistress, or the demon's self.Upon her crest she wore a wannish fireSprinkled with stars, like Ariadne's tiar:Her head was serpent, but ah, bitter-sweet!She had a woman's mouth with all its pearls complete:And for her eyes: what could such eyes do thereBut 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 spakeCame, as through bubbling honey, for Love's sake,And thus; while Hermes on his pinions lay,Like a stoop'd falcon ere he takes his prey.

"Fair Hermes, crown'd with feathers, fluttering light,I had a splendid dream of thee last night:I saw thee sitting, on a throne of gold,Among the Gods, upon Olympus old,The only sad one; for thou didst not hearThe soft, lute-finger'd Muses chaunting 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!Too gentle Hermes, hast thou found the maid?"Whereat the star of Lethe not delay'dHis rosy eloquence, and thus inquired:"Thou smooth-lipp'd 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,"Return'd the snake, "but seal with oaths, fair God!""I swear," said Hermes, "by my serpent rod,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 straysAbout these thornless wilds; her pleasant daysShe tastes unseen; unseen her nimble feetLeave traces in the grass and flowers sweet;From weary tendrils, and bow'd branches green,She plucks the fruit unseen, she bathes unseen:And by my power is her beauty veil'dTo keep it unaffronted, unassail'dBy the love-glances of unlovely eyes,Of Satyrs, Fauns, and blear'd Silenus' sighs.Pale grew her immortality, for woeOf all these lovers, and she grieved soI took compassion on her, bade her steepHer hair in weird syrops, that would keepHer loveliness invisible, yet freeTo wander as she loves, in liberty.Thou shalt behold her, Hermes, thou alone,If thou wilt, as thou swearest, grant my boon!"Then, once again, the charmed God beganAn oath, and through the serpent's ears it ranWarm, tremulous, devout, psalterian.Ravish'd, she lifted her Circean head,Blush'd a live damask, and swift-lisping said,"I was a woman, let me have once moreA woman's shape, and charming as before.I love a youth of Corinth--O the bliss!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 breath'd upon his eyes, and swift was seenOf 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 passTheir pleasures in a long immortal dream.One warm, flush'd moment, hovering, it might seemDash'd by the wood-nymph's beauty, so he burn'd;Then, lighting on the printless verdure, turn'dTo the swoon'd serpent, and with languid arm,Delicate, put to proof the lythe Caducean charm.So done, upon the nymph his eyes he bentFull of adoring tears and blandishment,And towards her stept: she, like a moon in wane,Faded before him, cower'd, nor could restrainHer fearful sobs, self-folding like a flowerThat faints into itself at evening hour:But the God fostering her chilled hand,She felt the warmth, her eyelids open'd bland,And, like new flowers at morning song of bees,Bloom'd, and gave up her honey to the lees.Into the green-recessed woods they flew;Nor grew they pale, as mortal lovers do.

Left to herself, the serpent now beganTo change; her elfin blood in madness ran,Her mouth foam'd, and the grass, therewith besprent,Wither'd at dew so sweet and virulent;Her eyes in torture fix'd, and anguish drear,Hot, glaz'd, and wide, with lid-lashes all sear,Flash'd phosphor and sharp sparks, without one cooling tear.The colours all inflam'd throughout her train,She writh'd about, convuls'd with scarlet pain:A deep volcanian yellow took the placeOf all her milder-mooned 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,Eclips'd her crescents, and lick'd up her stars:So that, in moments few, she was undrestOf 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 vanish'd, also sheMelted and disappear'd as suddenly;And in the air, her new voice luting soft,Cried, "Lycius! gentle Lycius!"--Borne aloftWith the bright mists about the mountains hoarThese words dissolv'd: 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'erWho 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 backStretches, with all its mist and cloudy rack,South-westward to Cleone. There she stoodAbout a young bird's flutter from a wood,Fair, on a sloping green of mossy tread,By a clear pool, wherein she passionedTo see herself escap'd from so sore ills,While her robes flaunted with the daffodils.

Ah, happy Lycius!--for she was a maidMore beautiful than ever twisted braid,Or sigh'd, or blush'd, or on spring-flowered leaSpread a green kirtle to the minstrelsy:A virgin purest lipp'd, yet in the loreOf love deep learned to the red heart's core:Not one hour old, yet of sciential brainTo unperplex bliss from its neighbour pain;Define their pettish limits, and estrangeTheir points of contact, and swift counterchange;Intrigue with the specious chaos, and dispartIts most ambiguous atoms with sure art;As though in Cupid's college she had spentSweet days a lovely graduate, still unshent,And kept his rosy terms in idle languishment.

Why this fair creature chose so fairilyBy the wayside to linger, we shall see;But first 'tis fit to tell how she could museAnd dream, when in the serpent prison-house,Of all she list, strange or magnificent:How, ever, where she will'd, her spirit went;Whether to faint Elysium, or whereDown through tress-lifting waves the Nereids fairWind into Thetis' bower by many a pearly stair;Or where God Bacchus drains his cups divine,Stretch'd out, at ease, beneath a glutinous pine;Or where in Pluto's gardens palatineMulciber's columns gleam in far piazzian line.And sometimes into cities she would sendHer dream, with feast and rioting to blend;And once, while among mortals dreaming thus,She saw the young Corinthian LyciusCharioting foremost in the envious race,Like a young Jove with calm uneager face,And fell into a swooning love of him.Now on the moth-time of that evening dimHe would return that way, as well she knew,To Corinth from the shore; for freshly blewThe eastern soft wind, and his galley nowGrated the quaystones with her brazen prowIn port Cenchreas, from Egina isleFresh anchor'd; whither he had been awhileTo sacrifice to Jove, whose temple thereWaits with high marble doors for blood and incense rare.Jove heard his vows, and better'd his desire;For by some freakful chance he made retireFrom 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 appearedHis phantasy was lost, where reason fades,In the calm'd 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;So neighbour'd to him, and yet so unseenShe stood: he pass'd, shut up in mysteries,His mind wrapp'd like his mantle, while her eyesFollow'd his steps, and her neck regal whiteTurn'd--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,It seem'd he had lov'd 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, afraidLest she should vanish ere his lip had paidDue adoration, thus began to adore;Her soft look growing coy, she saw his chain so sure:"Leave thee alone! Look back! Ah, Goddess, seeWhether my eyes can ever turn from thee!For pity do not this sad heart belie--Even as thou vanishest 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 oneOf thine harmonious sisters keep in tuneThy spheres, and as thy silver proxy shine?So sweetly to these ravish'd ears of mineCame thy sweet greeting, that if thou shouldst fadeThy 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 enoughTo dull the nice remembrance of my home?Thou canst not ask me with thee here to roamOver these hills and vales, where no joy is,--Empty of immortality and bliss!Thou art a scholar, Lycius, and must knowThat finer spirits cannot breathe belowIn human climes, and live: Alas! poor youth,What taste of purer air hast thou to sootheMy 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 roseTiptoe with white arms spread. He, sick to loseThe amorous promise of her lone complain,Swoon'd, murmuring of love, and pale with pain.The cruel lady, without any showOf 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 afreshThe life she had so tangled in her mesh:And as he from one trance was wakeningInto another, she began to sing,Happy in beauty, life, and love, and every thing,A song of love, too sweet for earthly lyres,While, like held breath, the stars drew in their pantingfires.And then she whisper'd in such trembling tone,As those who, safe together met aloneFor the first time through many anguish'd days,Use other speech than looks; bidding him raiseHis drooping head, and clear his soul of doubt,For that she was a woman, and withoutAny more subtle fluid in her veinsThan throbbing blood, and that the self-same painsInhabited her frail-strung heart as his.And next she wonder'd how his eyes could missHer face so long in Corinth, where, she said,She dwelt but half retir'd, and there had ledDays happy as the gold coin could inventWithout the aid of love; yet in contentTill she saw him, as once she pass'd him by,Where 'gainst a column he leant thoughtfullyAt Venus' temple porch, 'mid baskets heap'dOf amorous herbs and flowers, newly reap'dLate on that eve, as 'twas the night beforeThe 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 fellTo hear her whisper woman's lore so well;And every word she spake entic'd him onTo unperplex'd delight and pleasure known.Let the mad poets say whate'er they pleaseOf the sweets of Fairies, Peris, Goddesses,There is not such a treat among them all,Haunters of cavern, lake, and waterfall,As a real woman, lineal indeedFrom Pyrrha's pebbles or old Adam's seed.Thus gentle Lamia judg'd, and judg'd aright,That Lycius could not love in half a fright,So threw the goddess off, and won his heartMore pleasantly by playing woman's part,With no more awe than what her beauty gave,That, while it smote, still guaranteed to save.Lycius to all made eloquent reply,Marrying to every word a twinborn sigh;And last, pointing to Corinth, ask'd her sweet,If 'twas too far that night for her soft feet.The way was short, for Lamia's eagernessMade, by a spell, the triple league decreaseTo a few paces; not at all surmisedBy blinded Lycius, so in her comprized.They pass'd the city gates, he knew not how,So noiseless, and he never thought to know.

As men talk in a dream, so Corinth all,Throughout her palaces imperial,And all her populous streets and temples lewd,Mutter'd, like tempest in the distance brew'd,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,Companion'd or alone; while many a lightFlared, here and there, from wealthy festivals,And threw their moving shadows on the walls,Or found them cluster'd in the corniced shadeOf some arch'd temple door, or dusky colonnade.

Muffling his face, of greeting friends in fear,Her fingers he press'd hard, as one came nearWith curl'd gray beard, sharp eyes, and smooth bald crown,Slow-stepp'd, and robed in philosophic gown:Lycius shrank closer, as they met and past,Into his mantle, adding wings to haste,While hurried Lamia trembled: "Ah," said he,"Why do you shudder, love, so ruefully?Why does your tender palm dissolve in dew?"--"I'm wearied," said fair Lamia: "tell me whoIs that old man? I cannot bring to mindHis features:--Lycius! wherefore did you blindYourself from his quick eyes?" Lycius replied,"'Tis Apollonius sage, my trusty guideAnd good instructor; but to-night he seemsThe ghost of folly haunting my sweet dreams."

While yet he spake they had arrived beforeA pillar'd porch, with lofty portal door,Where hung a silver lamp, whose phosphor glowReflected in the slabbed 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 divineCould e'er have touch'd there. Sounds ÆolianBreath'd from the hinges, as the ample spanOf the wide doors disclos'd a place unknownSome time to any, but those two alone,And a few Persian mutes, who that same yearWere seen about the markets: none knew whereThey could inhabit; the most curiousWere foil'd, who watch'd to trace them to their house:And but the flitter-winged verse must tell,For truth's sake, what woe afterwards befel,'Twould humour many a heart to leave them thus,Shut from the busy world of more incredulous.