"Thou know'st, the Delphic oracle foretold
That the first Greek who touched the Trojan strand Should die; but me the threat did not withhold: A gen'rous cause a victim did demand; And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain; A self-devoted chief-by Hector slain.'
"Supreme of heroes-bravest, noblest, best! Thy matchless courage I bewail no more, That then, when tens of thousands were depressed By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore; Thou found'st-and I forgive thee-here thou art— A nobler counsellor than my poor heart.
"But thou, though capable of sternest deed, Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave; And He, whose power restores thee, hath decreed That thou shouldst cheat the malice of the grave; Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair
As when their breath enriched Thessalian air.
'No spectre greets me,-no vain shadow this: Come, blooming hero, place thee by my side! Give, on this well-known couch, one nuptial kiss To me, this day a second time thy bride!" Jove frowned in heaven: the conscious Parca threw Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue.
"This visage tells thee that my doom is past. Know, virtue were not virtue if the joys Of sense were able to return as fast
And surely as they vanish.-Earth destroys Those raptures duly-Erebus disdains: Calm pleasures there abide-majestic pains.
"Be taught, O faithful consort, to control Rebellious passion: for the gods approve The depth, and not the tumult of the soul; The fervour-not the impotence of love. Thy transports moderate; and meekly mourn When I depart, for brief is my sojourn―"
"Ah, wherefore ?-Did not Hercules by force Wrest from the guardian monster of the tomb Alcestis, a reanimated corse,
Given back to dwell on earth in beauty's bloom? Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years, And Eson stood a youth 'mid youthful peers.
"The gods to us are merciful-and they Yet further may relent; for mightier far Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the sway
Of magic, potent over sun and star,
Is love though oft to agony distressed;
And though his favourite seat be feeble woman's breast.
"But if thou go'st, I follow-" "Peace!" he said-' She looked upon him and was calmed and cheered; The ghastly colour from his lips had fled;
In his deportment, shape, and mien appeared Elysian beauty-melancholy grace-
Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
He spake of love, such love as spirits feel In worlds whose course is equable and pure; No fears to beat away-no strifes to heal- The past unsighed for, and the future sure; Spake, as a witness, of a second birth For all that is most perfect upon earth:
Of all that is most beauteous-imaged there In happier beauty; more pellucid streams, An ampler æther, a diviner air,
And fields invested with purpureal gleams; Climes which the sun, who sheds the brightest day Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey.
Yet there the soul shall enter which hath earned That privilege by virtue." Ill," said he, "The end of man's existence I discerned, Who from ignoble games and revelry*
Could draw, when we had parted, vain delight While tears were thy best pastime,-day and night:
"And while my youthful peers, before my eyes (Each hero following his peculiar bent), Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise By martial sports,-or, seated in the tent, Chieftains and kings in council were detained; What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained.
"The wished-for wind was given :-I then revolved Our future course, upon the silent sea; And, if no worthier led the way, resolved That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be The foremost prow in pressing to the strand,--
Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand.
"Yet bitter, ofttimes bitter, was the pang When of thy loss I thought, beloved wife; On thee too fondly did my memory hang, And on the joys we shared in mortal life,→
The paths which we had trod-these fountains-flowers; My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers.
"But should suspense permit the foe to cry, 'Behold they tremble !-haughty their array,
For this feature in the character of Protesilaus, see the "Iphigenia in Aulis" of Euripides.
Yet of their number no one dares to die?'- In soul I swept the indignity away:
Old frailties then recurred:-but lofty thought, In act embodied, my deliverance wrought.
"And thou, though strong in love, art all too weak In reason, in self-government too slow;
I counsel thee by fortitude to seek
Our bless'd reunion in the shades below. Th' invisible world with thee hath sympathized; Be thy affections raised and solemnized.
"Learn by a mortal yearning to ascend Towards a higher object :-Love was given, Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for this end: For this the passion to excess was driven- That self might be annulled; her bondage prove The fetters of a dream, opposed to love."
Aloud she shrieked-for Hermes reappears!
Round the dear shade she would have clung-'tis vain; The hours are past,--too brief had they been years; And him no mortal effort can detain:
Swift toward the realms that know not earthly day He through the portal takes his silent way— And on the palace floor a lifeless corse she lay.
Ah, judge her gently who so deeply loved! Her, who, in reason's spite, yet without crime, Was in a trance of passion thus removed; Delivered from the galling yoke of time, And these frail elements-to gather flowers Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers.
Yet tears to human suffering are due; And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown Are mourned by man, and not by man alone, As fondly he believes.-Upon the side Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained) A knot of spiry trees for ages grew From out the tomb of him for whom she died; And ever, when such stature they had gained That Ilium's walls were subject to their view, The trees' tall summits withered at the sight; A constant interchange of growth and blight!
"Her divine skill taught me this, That from everything I saw I could some instruction draw, And raise pleasure to the height Through the meanest object's sight. By the murmur of a spring Or the least bough's rustelling; By a Daisy whose leaves spread Shut when Titan goes to bed;
Or a shady bush or tree; She could more infuse in me Than all Nature's beauties can In some other wiser man.'
IN youth from rock to rock I went, From hill to hill, in discontent Of pleasure high and turbulent,
Most pleased when most uneasy; But now my own delights I make,- My thirst at every rill can slake, And gladly Nature's love partake Of thee, sweet Daisy!
When soothed a while by milder airs, Thee Winter in the garland wears That thinly shades his few grey hairs; Spring cannot shun thee;
Whole summer fields are thine by right; And Autumn, melancholy wight! Doth in thy crimson head delight When rains are on thee.
In shoals and bands, a morrice train, Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane ; If welcomed once, thou count'st it gain; Thou art not daunted,
Nor car'st if thou be set at naught; And oft alone in nooks remote
We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.
Be violets in their secret mews
The flowers the wanton zephyrs choose; Proud be the rose, with rains and dews Her head impearling;
Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim, Yet hast not gone without thy fame; Thou art indeed, by many a claim, The poet's darling.
If to a rock from rains he fly, Or, some bright day of April sky, Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie Near the green holly,
And wearily at length should fare; He need but look about, and there Thou art!-a friend at hand, to scare His melancholy.
A hundred times, by rock or bower, Ere thus I have lain couched an hour, Have I derived from thy sweet power Some apprehension;
Some steady love; some brief delight; Some memory that had taken flight; Some chime of fancy, wrong or right, Or stray invention.
If stately passions in me burn, And one chance look to thee should turn, I drink, out of an humbler urn, A lowlier pleasure;
The homely sympathy that heeds The common life, our nature breeds; A wisdom fitted to the needs
Of hearts at leisure.
When, smitten by the morning ray, I see thee rise, alert and gay,
Then, cheerful flower! my spirits play With kindred gladness:
And when, at dusk, by dews oppressed, Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest Hath often eased my pensive breast Of careful sadness.
And all day long I number yet, All seasons through, another debt, Which I, wherever thou art met, To thee am owing;
An instinct call it, a blind sense; A happy, genial influence,
Coming one knows not how, nor whence, Nor whither going:
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