Lamia

Part 1     Upon a time, before the faery broods     Drove Nymph and Satyr from the prosperous woods,     Before King Oberons bright diadem,     Sceptre, and mantle, claspd with dewy gem,     Frighted away the Dryads and the Fauns     From rushes green, and brakes, and cowslipd lawns,     The ever-smitten Hermes empty left     His golden throne, bent warm on amorous theft:     From high Olympus had he stolen light,     On this side of Joves 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 witherd 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 Fancys casket were unlockd to choose.     Ah, what a world of love was at her feet!     So Hermes thought, and a celestial heat     Burnt from his winged heels to either ear,     That from a whiteness, as the lily clear,     Blushd 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 prepard 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 wreathed tomb shall I awake!     When move in a sweet body fit for life,     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,     Eyed like a peacock, and all crimson barrd;     And full of silver moons, that, as she breathed,     Dissolvd, or brighter shone, or interwreathed     Their lustres with the gloomier tapestries     So rainbow-sided, touchd with miseries,     She seemd, at once, some penanced lady elf,     Some demons mistress, or the demons self.     Upon her crest she wore a wannish fire     Sprinkled with stars, like Ariadnes tiar:     Her head was serpent, but ah, bitter-sweet!     She had a womans 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 Loves sake,     And thus; while Hermes on his pinions lay,     Like a stoopd falcon ere he takes his prey.     Fair Hermes, crownd 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 hear     The soft, lute-fingerd Muses chaunting clear,     Nor even Apollo when he sang alone,     Deaf to his throbbing throats 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 delayd     His rosy eloquence, and thus inquired:     Thou smooth-lippd 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,     Returnd 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 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 bowd branches green,     She plucks the fruit unseen, she bathes unseen:     And by my power is her beauty veild     To keep it unaffronted, unassaild     By the love-glances of unlovely eyes,     Of Satyrs, Fauns, and bleard 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 weird syrops, that would keep     Her loveliness invisible, yet free     To 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 began     An oath, and through the serpents ears it ran     Warm, tremulous, devout, psalterian.     Ravishd, she lifted her Circean head,     Blushd a live damask, and swift-lisping said,     I was a woman, let me have once more     A womans shape, and charming as before.     I love a youth of Corinth O the bliss!     Give me my womans 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 breathd 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, flushd moment, hovering, it might seem     Dashd by the wood-nymphs beauty, so he burnd;     Then, lighting on the printless verdure, turnd     To the swoond serpent, and with languid arm,     Delicate, put to proof the lythe Caducean charm.     So done, upon the nymph his eyes he bent,     Full of adoring tears and blandishment,     And towards her stept: she, like a moon in wane,     Faded before him, cowerd, nor could restrain     Her fearful sobs, self-folding like a flower     That faints into itself at evening hour:     But the God fostering her chilled hand,     She felt the warmth, her eyelids opend bland,     And, like new flowers at morning song of bees,     Bloomd, 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 began     To change; her elfin blood in madness ran,     Her mouth foamd, and the grass, therewith besprent,     Witherd at dew so sweet and virulent;     Her eyes in torture fixd, and anguish drear,     Hot, glazd, and wide, with lid-lashes all sear,     Flashd phosphor and sharp sparks, without one cooling tear.     The colours all inflamd throughout her train,     She writhd about, convulsd with scarlet pain:     A deep volcanian yellow took the place     Of all her milder-mooned bodys 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,     Eclipsd her crescents, and lickd up her stars:     So that, in moments few, she was undrest     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 vanishd, also she     Melted and disappeard 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     These words dissolvd: Cretes 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 oer     Who go to Corinth from Cenchreas shore;     And rested at the foot of those wild hills,     The rugged founts of the Peraean rills,     And of that other ridge whose barren back     Stretches, with all its mist and cloudy rack,     South-westward to Cleone. There she stood     About a young birds flutter from a wood,     Fair, on a sloping green of mossy tread,     By a clear pool, wherein she passioned     To see herself escapd 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 sighd, or blushd, or on spring-flowered lea     Spread a green kirtle to the minstrelsy:     A virgin purest lippd, yet in the lore     Of love deep learned to the red hearts 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 Cupids college she had spent     Sweet days a lovely graduate, still unshent,     And kept his rosy terms in idle languishment.     Why this fair creature chose so fairily     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 willd, 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,     Stretchd out, at ease, beneath a glutinous pine;     Or where in Plutos gardens palatine     Mulcibers 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.     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 anchord; 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 betterd his desire;     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 eves star appeared     His phantasy was lost, where reason fades,     In the calmd 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 neighbourd to him, and yet so unseen     She stood: he passd, shut up in mysteries,     His mind wrappd like his mantle, while her eyes     Followd his steps, and her neck regal white     Turnd 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 seemd he had lovd 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     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 one     Of thine harmonious sisters keep in tune     Thy spheres, and as thy silver proxy shine?     So sweetly to these ravishd ears of mine     Came thy sweet greeting, that if thou shouldst fade     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     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     Tiptoe with white arms spread. He, sick to lose     The amorous promise of her lone complain,     Swoond, murmuring of love, and pale with pain.     The cruel lady, without any show     Of sorrow for her tender favourites 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,     While, like held breath, the stars drew in their panting fires     And then she whisperd in such trembling tone,     As those who, safe together met alone     For the first time through many anguishd 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.     And next she wonderd how his eyes could miss     Her face so long in Corinth, where, she said,     She dwelt but half retird, 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 passd him by,     Where gainst a column he leant thoughtfully     At Venus temple porch, mid baskets heapd     Of amorous herbs and flowers, newly reapd     Late on that eve, as Twas the night before     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 womans lore so well;     And every word she spake enticd him on     To unperplexd delight and pleasure known.     Let the mad poets say whateer they please     Of 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 indeed     From Pyrrhas pebbles or old Adams seed.     Thus gentle Lamia judgd, and judgd aright,     That Lycius could not love in half a fright,     So threw the goddess off, and won his heart     More pleasantly by playing womans 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, askd her sweet,     If Twas too far that night for her soft feet.     The way was short, for Lamias eagerness     Made, by a spell, the triple league decrease     To a few paces; not at all surmised     By blinded Lycius, so in her comprized.     They passd 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,     Mutterd, like tempest in the distance brewd,     To the wide-spreaded night above her towers.     Men, women, rich and poor, in the cool hours,     Shuffled their sandals oer the pavement white,     Companiond or alone; while many a light     Flared, here and there, from wealthy festivals,     And threw their moving shadows on the walls,     Or found them clusterd in the corniced shade     Of some archd temple door, or dusky colonnade.     Muffling his face, of greeting friends in fear,     Her fingers he pressd hard, as one came near     With curld gray beard, sharp eyes, and smooth bald crown,     Slow-steppd, 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?     Im 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 to-night he seems     The ghost of folly haunting my sweet dreams.     While yet he spake they had arrived before     A pillard porch, with lofty portal door,     Where hung a silver lamp, whose phosphor glow     Reflected 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 divine     Could eer have touchd there. Sounds Aeolian     Breathd from the hinges, as the ample span     Of the wide doors disclosd a place unknown     Some time to any, but those two alone,     And a few Persian mutes, who that same year     Were seen about the markets: none knew where     They could inhabit; the most curious     Were foild, who watchd to trace them to their house:     And but the flitter-winged verse must tell,     For truths sake, what woe afterwards befel,     Twould humour many a heart to leave them thus,     Shut from the busy world of more incredulous. Part 2     Love in a hut, with water and a crust,     Is Love, forgive us! cinders, ashes, dust;     Love in a palace is perhaps at last     More grievous torment than a hermits fast     That is a doubtful tale from faery land,     Hard for the non-elect to understand.     Had Lycius livd to hand his story down,     He might have given the moral a fresh frown,     Or clenchd it quite: but too short was their bliss     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,     Hoverd and buzzd 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 enthroned, in the even tide,     Upon a couch, near to a curtaining     Whose airy texture, from a golden string,     Floated into the room, and let appear     Unveild the summer heaven, blue and clear,     Betwixt two marble shafts: there they reposed,     Where use had made it sweet, with eyelids closed,     Saving a tythe 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 swallows twitter, came a thrill     Of trumpets Lycius started the sounds fled,     But left a thought, a buzzing in his head.     For the first time, since first he harbourd in     That purple-lined palace of sweet sin,     His spirit passd beyond its golden bourn     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 moments thought is passions passing bell.     Why do you sigh, fair creature? whisperd he:     Why do you think? returnd she tenderly:     You have deserted me where am I now?     Not in your heart while care weighs on your brow:     No, no, you have dismissd me; and I go     From your breast houseless: ay, it must be so.     He answerd, bending to her open eyes,     Where he was mirrord small in paradise,     My silver planet, both of eve and morn!     Why will you plead yourself so sad forlorn,     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 abashd withal,     But lets it sometimes pace abroad majestical,     And triumph, as in thee I should rejoice     Amid the hoarse alarm of Corinths voice.     Let my foes choke, and my friends shout afar,     While through the thronged streets your bridal car     Wheels round its dazzling spokes. The ladys 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,     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     Apollos presence when in act to strike     The serpent Ha, the serpent! certes, she     Was none. She burnt, she lovd 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 askd it, ever thinking thee     Not mortal, but of heavenly progeny,     As still I do. Hast any mortal name,     Fit appellation for this dazzling frame?     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     With any pleasure on me, do not bid     Old Apollonius from him keep me hid.     Lycius, perplexd 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 betrayd     It was the custom then to bring away     The bride from home at blushing shut of day,     Veild, in a chariot, heralded along     By strewn flowers, torches, and a marriage song,     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,     There was a noise of wings, till in short space     The glowing banquet-room shone with wide-arched grace.     A haunting music, sole perhaps and lone     Supportress of the faery-roof, made moan     Throughout, as fearful the whole charm might fade.     Fresh carved 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 branchd one to one     All down the aisled 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 drest,     Silently paced about, and as she went,     In pale contented sort of discontent,     Missiond her viewless servants to enrich     The fretted splendour of each nook and niche.     Between the tree-stems, marbled plain at first,     Came jasper pannels; then, anon, there burst     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, hushd and still,     Complete and ready for the revels rude,     When dreadful guests would come to spoil her solitude.     The day appeard, and all the gossip rout.     O senseless Lycius! Madman! wherefore flout     The silent-blessing fate, warm cloisterd hours,     And show to common eyes these secret bowers?     The herd approachd; each guest, with busy brain,     Arriving at the portal, gazd amain,     And enterd marveling: for they knew the street,     Rememberd it from childhood all complete     Without a gap, yet neer before had seen     That royal porch, that high-built fair demesne;     So in they hurried all, mazd, curious and keen:     Save one, who lookd thereon with eye severe,     And with calm-planted steps walkd in austere;     Twas Apollonius: something too he laughd,     As though some knotty problem, that had daft     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 blushd, and led     The old man through the inner doors broad-spread;     With reconciling words and courteous mien     Turning into sweet milk the sophists spleen.     Of wealthy lustre was the banquet-room,     Filld with pervading brilliance and perfume:     Before each lucid pannel fuming stood     A censer fed with myrrh and spiced wood,     Each by a sacred tripod held aloft,     Whose slender feet wide-swervd upon the soft     Wool-woofed carpets: fifty wreaths of smoke     From fifty censers their light voyage took     To the high roof, still mimickd as they rose     Along the mirrord walls by twin-clouds odorous.     Twelve sphered tables, by silk seats insphered,     High as the level of a mans breast reard     On libbards 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,     Each shrining in the midst the image of a God.     When in an antichamber every guest     Had felt the cold full sponge to pleasure pressd,     By ministring slaves, upon his hands and feet,     And fragrant oils with ceremony meet     Pourd on his hair, they all movd 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,     While fluent Greek a voweld undersong     Kept up among the guests discoursing low     At first, for scarcely was the wine at flow;     But when the happy vintage touchd 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 Lamias self, appear,     Now, when the wine has done its rosy deed,     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;     Flushd were their cheeks, and bright eyes double bright:     Garlands of every green, and every scent     From vales deflowerd, or forest-trees branch rent,     In baskets of bright osierd gold were brought     High as the handles heapd, to suit the thought     Of every guest; that each, as he did please,     Might fancy-fit his brows, silk-pillowd 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 adders 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     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 Angels wings,     Conquer all mysteries by rule and line,     Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine     Unweave a rainbow, as it erewhile made     The tender-persond Lamia melt into a shade.     By her glad Lycius sitting, in chief place,     Scarce saw in all the room another face,     Till, checking his love trance, a cup he took     Full brimmd, and opposite sent forth a look     Cross the broad table, to beseech a glance     From his old teachers wrinkled countenance,     And pledge him. The bald-head philosopher     Had fixd 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 pressd her hand, with devout touch,     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?     Knowst thou that man? Poor Lamia answerd not.     He gazd into her eyes, and not a jot     Ownd they the lovelorn piteous appeal:     More, more he gazd: his human senses reel:     Some hungry spell that loveliness absorbs;     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 sickend in a thousand wreaths.     By faint degrees, voice, lute, and pleasure ceased;     A deadly silence step by step increased,     Until it seemd a horrid presence there,     And not a man but felt the terror in his hair.     Lamia! he shriekd; and nothing but the shriek     With its sad echo did the silence break.     Begone, foul dream! he cried, gazing again     In the brides face, where now no azure vein     Wanderd on fair-spaced temples; no soft bloom     Misted the cheek; no passion to illume     The deep-recessed 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     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 gray-beard wretch!     Mark how, possessd, his lashless eyelids stretch     Around his demon eyes! Corinthians, see!     My sweet bride withers at their potency.     Fool! said the sophist, in an under-tone     Gruff with contempt; which a death-nighing moan     From Lycius answerd, as heart-struck and lost,     He sank supine beside the aching ghost.     Fool! Fool! repeated he, while his eyes still     Relented not, nor movd; from every ill     Of life have I preservd thee to this day,     And shall I see thee made a serpents prey?     Then Lamia breathd death breath; the sophists eye,     Like a sharp spear, went through her utterly,     Keen, cruel, perceant, stinging: she, as well     As her weak hand could any meaning tell,     Motiond him to be silent; vainly so,     He lookd and lookd again a level No!     A Serpent! echoed he; no sooner said,     Than with a frightful scream she vanished:     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     Supported him no pulse, or breath they found,     And, in its marriage robe, the heavy body wound.