The Georgics IV Virgil
- Written 29 B.C.E
- Georgic IV
- Of air-born honey, gift of heaven, I now
- Take up the tale. Upon this theme no less
- Look thou, Maecenas, with indulgent eye.
- A marvellous display of puny powers,
- High-hearted chiefs, a nation's history,
- Its traits, its bent, its battles and its clans,
- All, each, shall pass before you, while I sing.
- Slight though the poet's theme, not slight the praise,
- So frown not heaven, and Phoebus (female Apollo, Abaddon, Apollyon)
- hear his call.
- First find your bees a settled sure abode,
- Where neither winds can enter (winds blow back
- The foragers with food returning home)
- Nor sheep and butting kids tread down the flowers,
- Nor heifer wandering wide upon the plain
- Dash off the dew, and bruise the springing blades.
- Let the gay lizard too keep far aloof
- His scale-clad body from their honied stalls,
- And the bee-eater, and what birds beside,
- And Procne smirched with blood upon the breast
- From her own murderous hands. For these roam wide
- Wasting all substance, or the bees themselves
- Strike flying, and in their beaks bear home, to glut
- Those savage nestlings with the dainty prey.
The word gay in Greek includes:
- krok-ôtos, ê, on, saffron-dyed, saffron-coloured, Pi.N.1.38.
2. as Subst., krokôtos (sc. chitôn), ho, saffron-coloured robe, worn by gay women, Ar.Th.138, Ec.879; as an offering in temples, IG12.386.22, 22.1514.60, 62; worn by Dionysus (or at his festivals) over the chitôn, Cratin.38, Ar.Ra.46; by effeminate men, parthenos d' einai dokei phorôn krokôtous (prob. for kros-) Arar.4, cf. Callix.2, Duris 12 J., etc.: neut. pl. krokôta (sc. himatia) v.l. in Ar. Lys.44.12.24.08 1000
Dionysus
- And while I was on board, reading
- the Andromeda, suddenly a craving
- smote my heart, you'll never guess how strong.
- Heracles
- A craving? How big?
- Dionysus
- Small, like Molon.
- Heracles
- For a woman?
- Dionysus
- Oh no.
- Heracles
- A boy?
- Dionysus
- Not at all!
- Heracles
- A man?
- Dionysus
- Argh!
- Heracles
- You did it with Cleisthenes?
- Dionysus
- Don't make fun, brother, I've really got it bad,
- Such passionate desire torments me so.
- But let clear springs and moss-green pools be near,
- And through the grass a streamlet hurrying run,
- Some palm-tree o'er the porch extend its shade,
- Or huge-grown oleaster, that in Spring,
- Their own sweet Spring-tide, when the new-made chiefs
- Lead forth the young swarms, and, escaped their comb,
- The colony comes forth to sport and play,
- The neighbouring bank may lure them from the heat,
- Or bough befriend with hospitable shade.
- O'er the mid-waters, whether swift or still,
- Cast willow-branches and big stones enow,
- Bridge after bridge, where they may footing find
- And spread their wide wings to the summer sun,
- If haply Eurus, swooping as they pause,
- Have dashed with spray or plunged them in the deep.
- And let green cassias and far-scented thymes,
- And savory with its heavy-laden breath
- Bloom round about, and violet-beds hard by
- Sip sweetness from the fertilizing springs.
- For the hive's self, or stitched of hollow bark,
- Or from tough osier woven, let the doors
- Be strait of entrance; for stiff winter's cold
- Congeals the honey, and heat resolves and thaws,
- To bees alike disastrous; not for naught
- So haste they to cement the tiny pores
- That pierce their walls, and fill the crevices
- With pollen from the flowers, and glean and keep
- To this same end the glue, that binds more fast
- Than bird-lime or the pitch from Ida's pines.
- Oft too in burrowed holes, if fame be true,
- They make their cosy subterranean home,
- And deeply lodged in hollow rocks are found,
- Or in the cavern of an age-hewn tree.
- Thou not the less smear round their crannied cribs
- With warm smooth mud-coat, and strew leaves above;
- But near their home let neither yew-tree grow,
- Nor reddening crabs be roasted, and mistrust
- Deep marish-ground and mire with noisome smell,
- Or where the hollow rocks sonorous ring,
- And the word spoken buffets and rebounds.
- What more? When now the golden sun has put
- Winter to headlong flight beneath the world,
- And oped the doors of heaven with summer ray,
- Forthwith they roam the glades and forests o'er,
- Rifle the painted flowers, or sip the streams,
- Light-hovering on the surface. Hence it is
- With some sweet rapture, that we know not of,
- Their little ones they foster, hence with skill
- Work out new wax or clinging honey mould.
- So when the cage-escaped hosts you see
- Float heavenward through the hot clear air, until
- You marvel at yon dusky cloud that spreads
- And lengthens on the wind, then mark them well;
- For then 'tis ever the fresh springs they seek
- And bowery shelter: hither must you bring
- The savoury sweets I bid, and sprinkle them,
- Bruised balsam and the wax-flower's lowly weed,
- And wake and shake the tinkling cymbals heard
- By the great Mother: on the anointed spots
- Themselves will settle, and in wonted wise
- Seek of themselves the cradle's inmost depth.
- But if to battle they have hied them forth-
- For oft 'twixt king and king with uproar dire
- Fierce feud arises, and at once from far
- You may discern what passion sways the mob,
- And how their hearts are throbbing for the strife;
- Hark! the hoarse brazen note that warriors know
- Chides on the loiterers, and the ear may catch
- A sound that mocks the war-trump's broken blasts;
- Then in hot haste they muster, then flash wings,
- Sharpen their pointed beaks and knit their thews,
- And round the king, even to his royal tent,
- Throng rallying, and with shouts defy the foe.
- So, when a dry Spring and clear space is given,
- Forth from the gates they burst, they clash on high;
- A din arises; they are heaped and rolled
- Into one mighty mass, and headlong fall,
- Not denselier hail through heaven, nor pelting so
- Rains from the shaken oak its acorn-shower.
- Conspicuous by their wings the chiefs themselves
- Press through the heart of battle, and display
- A giant's spirit in each pigmy frame,
- Steadfast no inch to yield till these or those
- The victor's ponderous arm has turned to flight.
- Such fiery passions and such fierce assaults
- A little sprinkled dust controls and quells.
- And now, both leaders from the field recalled,
- Who hath the worser seeming, do to death,
- Lest royal waste wax burdensome, but let
- His better lord it on the empty throne.
- One with gold-burnished flakes will shine like fire,
- For twofold are their kinds, the nobler he,
- Of peerless front and lit with flashing scales;
- That other, from neglect and squalor foul,
- Drags slow a cumbrous belly. As with kings,
- So too with people, diverse is their mould,
- Some rough and loathly, as when the wayfarer
- Scapes from a whirl of dust, and scorched with heat
- Spits forth the dry grit from his parched mouth:
- The others shine forth and flash with lightning-gleam,
- Their backs all blazoned with bright drops of gold
- Symmetric: this the likelier breed; from these,
- When heaven brings round the season, thou shalt strain
- Sweet honey, nor yet so sweet as passing clear,
- And mellowing on the tongue the wine-god's fire.
- But when the swarms fly aimlessly abroad,
- Disport themselves in heaven and spurn their cells,
- Leaving the hive unwarmed, from such vain play
- Must you refrain their volatile desires,
- Nor hard the task: tear off the monarchs' wings;
- While these prove loiterers, none beside will dare
- Mount heaven, or pluck the standards from the camp.
- Let gardens with the breath of saffron flowers
- Allure them, and the lord of Hellespont,
- Priapus, wielder of the willow-scythe,
- Safe in his keeping hold from birds and thieves.
- And let the man to whom such cares are dear
- Himself bring thyme and pine-trees from the heights,
- And strew them in broad belts about their home;
- No hand but his the blistering task should ply,
- Plant the young slips, or shed the genial showers.
- And I myself, were I not even now
- Furling my sails, and, nigh the journey's end,
- Eager to turn my vessel's prow to shore,
- Perchance would sing what careful husbandry
- Makes the trim garden smile; of Paestum too,
- Whose roses bloom and fade and bloom again;
- How endives glory in the streams they drink,
- And green banks in their parsley, and how the gourd
- Twists through the grass and rounds him to paunch;
- Nor of Narcissus had my lips been dumb,
- That loiterer of the flowers, nor supple-stemmed
- Acanthus, with the praise of ivies pale,
- And myrtles clinging to the shores they love.
- For 'neath the shade of tall Oebalia's towers,
- Where dark Galaesus laves the yellowing fields,
- An old man once I mind me to have seen-
- From Corycus he came- to whom had fallen
- Some few poor acres of neglected land,
- And they nor fruitful' neath the plodding steer,
- Meet for the grazing herd, nor good for vines.
- Yet he, the while his meagre garden-herbs
- Among the thorns he planted, and all round
- White lilies, vervains, and lean poppy set,
- In pride of spirit matched the wealth of kings,
- And home returning not till night was late,
- With unbought plenty heaped his board on high.
- He was the first to cull the rose in spring,
- He the ripe fruits in autumn; and ere yet
- Winter had ceased in sullen ire to rive
- The rocks with frost, and with her icy bit
- Curb in the running waters, there was he
- Plucking the rathe faint hyacinth, while he chid
- Summer's slow footsteps and the lagging West.
- Therefore he too with earliest brooding bees
- And their full swarms o'erflowed, and first was he
- To press the bubbling honey from the comb;
- Lime-trees were his, and many a branching pine;
- And all the fruits wherewith in early bloom
- The orchard-tree had clothed her, in full tale
- Hung there, by mellowing autumn perfected.
- He too transplanted tall-grown elms a-row,
- Time-toughened pear, thorns bursting with the plum
- And plane now yielding serviceable shade
- For dry lips to drink under: but these things,
- Shut off by rigorous limits, I pass by,
- And leave for others to sing after me.
- Come, then, I will unfold the natural powers
- Great Jove himself upon the bees bestowed,
- The boon for which, led by the shrill sweet strains
- Of the Curetes and their clashing brass,
- They fed the King of heaven in Dicte's cave.
- Alone of all things they receive and hold
- Community of offspring, and they house
- Together in one city, and beneath
- The shelter of majestic laws they live;
- And they alone fixed home and country know,
- And in the summer, warned of coming cold,
- Make proof of toil, and for the general store
- Hoard up their gathered harvesting. For some
- Watch o'er the victualling of the hive, and these
- By settled order ply their tasks afield;
- And some within the confines of their home
- Plant firm the comb's first layer, Narcissus' tear,
- And sticky gum oozed from the bark of trees,
- Then set the clinging wax to hang therefrom.
- Others the while lead forth the full-grown young,
- Their country's hope, and others press and pack
- The thrice repured honey, and stretch their cells
- To bursting with the clear-strained nectar sweet.
- Some, too, the wardship of the gates befalls,
- Who watch in turn for showers and cloudy skies,
- Or ease returning labourers of their load,
- Or form a band and from their precincts drive
- The drones, a lazy herd. How glows the work!
- How sweet the honey smells of perfumed thyme
- Like the Cyclopes, when in haste they forge
- From the slow-yielding ore the thunderbolts,
- Some from the bull's-hide bellows in and out
- Let the blasts drive, some dip i' the water-trough
- The sputtering metal: with the anvil's weight
- Groans Etna: they alternately in time
- With giant strength uplift their sinewy arms,
- Or twist the iron with the forceps' grip-
- Not otherwise, to measure small with great,
- The love of getting planted in their breasts
- Goads on the bees, that haunt old Cecrops' heights,
- Each in his sphere to labour. The old have charge
- To keep the town, and build the walled combs,
- And mould the cunning chambers; but the youth,
- Their tired legs packed with thyme, come labouring home
- Belated, for afar they range to feed
- On arbutes and the grey-green willow-leaves,
- And cassia and the crocus blushing red,
- Glue-yielding limes, and hyacinths dusky-eyed.
- One hour for rest have all, and one for toil:
- With dawn they hurry from the gates- no room
- For loiterers there: and once again, when even
- Now bids them quit their pasturing on the plain,
- Then homeward make they, then refresh their strength:
- A hum arises: hark! they buzz and buzz
- About the doors and threshold; till at length
- Safe laid to rest they hush them for the night,
- And welcome slumber laps their weary limbs.
- But from the homestead not too far they fare,
- When showers hang like to fall, nor, east winds nigh,
- Confide in heaven, but 'neath the city walls
- Safe-circling fetch them water, or essay
- Brief out-goings, and oft weigh-up tiny stones,
- As light craft ballast in the tossing tide,
- Wherewith they poise them through the cloudy vast.
- This law of life, too, by the bees obeyed,
- Will move thy wonder, that nor sex with sex
- Yoke they in marriage, nor yield their limbs to love,
- Nor know the pangs of labour, but alone
- From leaves and honied herbs, the mothers, each,
- Gather their offspring in their mouths, alone
- Supply new kings and pigmy commonwealth,
- And their old court and waxen realm repair.
- Oft, too, while wandering, against jagged stones
- Their wings they fray, and 'neath the burden yield
- Their liberal lives: so deep their love of flowers,
- So glorious deem they honey's proud acquist.
- Therefore, though each a life of narrow span,
- Ne'er stretched to summers more than seven, befalls,
- Yet deathless doth the race endure, and still
- Perennial stands the fortune of their line,
- From grandsire unto grandsire backward told.
- Moreover, not Aegyptus, nor the realm
- Of boundless Lydia, no, nor Parthia's hordes,
- Nor Median Hydaspes, to their king
- Do such obeisance: lives the king unscathed,
- One will inspires the million: is he dead,
- Snapt is the bond of fealty; they themselves
- Ravage their toil-wrought honey, and rend amain
- Their own comb's waxen trellis. He is the lord
- Of all their labour; him with awful eye
- They reverence, and with murmuring throngs surround,
- In crowds attend, oft shoulder him on high,
- Or with their bodies shield him in the fight,
- And seek through showering wounds a glorious death.
- Led by these tokens, and with such traits to guide,
- Some say that unto bees a share is given
- Of the Divine Intelligence, and to drink
- Pure draughts of ether; for God permeates all-
- Earth, and wide ocean, and the vault of heaven-
- From whom flocks, herds, men, beasts of every kind,
- Draw each at birth the fine essential flame;
- Yea, and that all things hence to Him return,
- Brought back by dissolution, nor can death
- Find place: but, each into his starry rank,
- Alive they soar, and mount the heights of heaven.
- If now their narrow home thou wouldst unseal,
- And broach the treasures of the honey-house,
- With draught of water first toment thy lips,
- And spread before thee fumes of trailing smoke.
- Twice is the teeming produce gathered in,
- Twofold their time of harvest year by year,
- Once when Taygete the Pleiad uplifts
- Her comely forehead for the earth to see,
- With foot of scorn spurning the ocean-streams,
- Once when in gloom she flies the watery Fish,
- And dips from heaven into the wintry wave.
- Unbounded then their wrath; if hurt, they breathe
- Venom into their bite, cleave to the veins
- And let the sting lie buried, and leave their lives
- Behind them in the wound. But if you dread
- Too rigorous a winter, and would fain
- Temper the coming time, and their bruised hearts
- And broken estate to pity move thy soul,
- Yet who would fear to fumigate with thyme,
- Or cut the empty wax away? for oft
- Into their comb the newt has gnawed unseen,
- And the light-loathing beetles crammed their bed,
- And he that sits at others' board to feast,
- The do-naught drone; or 'gainst the unequal foe
- Swoops the fierce hornet, or the moth's fell tribe;
- Or spider, victim of Minerva's spite,
- Athwart the doorway hangs her swaying net.
- The more impoverished they, the keenlier all
- To mend the fallen fortunes of their race
- Will nerve them, fill the cells up, tier on tier,
- And weave their granaries from the rifled flowers.
- Now, seeing that life doth even to bee-folk bring
- Our human chances, if in dire disease
- Their bodies' strength should languish- which anon
- By no uncertain tokens may be told-
- Forthwith the sick change hue; grim leanness mars
- Their visage; then from out the cells they bear
- Forms reft of light, and lead the mournful pomp;
- Or foot to foot about the porch they hang,
- Or within closed doors loiter, listless all
- From famine, and benumbed with shrivelling cold.
- Then is a deep note heard, a long-drawn hum,
- As when the chill South through the forests sighs,
- As when the troubled ocean hoarsely booms
- With back-swung billow, as ravening tide of fire
- Surges, shut fast within the furnace-walls.
- Then do I bid burn scented galbanum,
- And, honey-streams through reeden troughs instilled,
- Challenge and cheer their flagging appetite
- To taste the well-known food; and it shall boot
- To mix therewith the savour bruised from gall,
- And rose-leaves dried, or must to thickness boiled
- By a fierce fire, or juice of raisin-grapes
- From Psithian vine, and with its bitter smell
- Centaury, and the famed Cecropian thyme.
- There is a meadow-flower by country folk
- Hight star-wort; 'tis a plant not far to seek;
- For from one sod an ample growth it rears,
- Itself all golden, but girt with plenteous leaves,
- Where glory of purple shines through violet gloom.
- With chaplets woven hereof full oft are decked
- Heaven's altars: harsh its taste upon the tongue;
- Shepherds in vales smooth-shorn of nibbling flocks
- By Mella's winding waters gather it.
- The roots of this, well seethed in fragrant wine,
- Set in brimmed baskets at their doors for food.
- But if one's whole stock fail him at a stroke,
- Nor hath he whence to breed the race anew,
- 'Tis time the wondrous secret to disclose
- Taught by the swain of Arcady, even how
- The blood of slaughtered bullocks oft has borne
- Bees from corruption. I will trace me back
- To its prime source the story's tangled thread,
- And thence unravel. For where thy happy folk,
- Canopus, city of Pellaean fame,
- Dwell by the Nile's lagoon-like overflow,
- And high o'er furrows they have called their own
- Skim in their painted wherries; where, hard by,
- The quivered Persian presses, and that flood
- Which from the swart-skinned Aethiop bears him down,
- Swift-parted into sevenfold branching mouths
- With black mud fattens and makes Aegypt green,
- That whole domain its welfare's hope secure
- Rests on this art alone. And first is chosen
- A strait recess, cramped closer to this end,
- Which next with narrow roof of tiles atop
- 'Twixt prisoning walls they pinch, and add hereto
- From the four winds four slanting window-slits.
- Then seek they from the herd a steer, whose horns
- With two years' growth are curling, and stop fast,
- Plunge madly as he may, the panting mouth
- And nostrils twain, and done with blows to death,
- Batter his flesh to pulp i' the hide yet whole,
- And shut the doors, and leave him there to lie.
- But 'neath his ribs they scatter broken boughs,
- With thyme and fresh-pulled cassias: this is done
- When first the west winds bid the waters flow,
- Ere flush the meadows with new tints, and ere
- The twittering swallow buildeth from the beams.
- Meanwhile the juice within his softened bones
- Heats and ferments, and things of wondrous birth,
- Footless at first, anon with feet and wings,
- Swarm there and buzz, a marvel to behold;
- And more and more the fleeting breeze they take,
- Till, like a shower that pours from summer-clouds,
- Forth burst they, or like shafts from quivering string
- When Parthia's flying hosts provoke the fray.
- Say what was he, what God, that fashioned forth
- This art for us, O Muses? of man's skill
- Whence came the new adventure? From thy vale,
- Peneian Tempe, turning, bee-bereft,
- So runs the tale, by famine and disease,
- Mournful the shepherd Aristaeus stood
- Fast by the haunted river-head, and thus
- With many a plaint to her that bare him cried:
- "Mother, Cyrene, mother, who hast thy home
- Beneath this whirling flood, if he thou sayest,
- Apollo, lord of Thymbra, be my sire,
- Sprung from the Gods' high line, why barest thou me
- With fortune's ban for birthright? Where is now
- Thy love to me-ward banished from thy breast?
- O! wherefore didst thou bid me hope for heaven?
- Lo! even the crown of this poor mortal life,
- Which all my skilful care by field and fold,
- No art neglected, scarce had fashioned forth,
- Even this falls from me, yet thou call'st me son.
- Nay, then, arise! With thine own hands pluck up
- My fruit-plantations: on the homestead fling
- Pitiless fire; make havoc of my crops;
- Burn the young plants, and wield the stubborn axe
- Against my vines, if there hath taken the
- Such loathing of my greatness." But that cry,
- Even from her chamber in the river-deeps,
- His mother heard: around her spun the nymphs
- Milesian wool stained through with hyaline dye,
- Drymo, Xantho, Ligea, Phyllodoce,
- Their glossy locks o'er snowy shoulders shed,
- Cydippe and Lycorias yellow-haired,
- A maiden one, one newly learned even then
- To bear Lucina's birth-pang. Clio, too,
- And Beroe, sisters, ocean-children both,
- Both zoned with gold and girt with dappled fell,
- Ephyre and Opis, and from Asian meads
- Deiopea, and, bow at length laid by,
- Fleet-footed Arethusa. But in their midst
- Fair Clymene was telling o'er the tale
- Of Vulcan's idle vigilance and the stealth
- Of Mars' sweet rapine, and from Chaos old
- Counted the jostling love-joys of the Gods.
- Charmed by whose lay, the while their woolly tasks
- With spindles down they drew, yet once again
- Smote on his mother's ears the mournful plaint
- Of Aristaeus; on their glassy thrones
- Amazement held them all; but Arethuse
- Before the rest put forth her auburn head,
- Peering above the wave-top, and from far
- Exclaimed, "Cyrene, sister, not for naught
- Scared by a groan so deep, behold! 'tis he,
- Even Aristaeus, thy heart's fondest care,
- Here by the brink of the Peneian sire
- Stands woebegone and weeping, and by name
- Cries out upon thee for thy cruelty."
- To whom, strange terror knocking at her heart,
- "Bring, bring him to our sight," the mother cried;
- "His feet may tread the threshold even of Gods."
- So saying, she bids the flood yawn wide and yield
- A pathway for his footsteps; but the wave
- Arched mountain-wise closed round him, and within
- Its mighty bosom welcomed, and let speed
- To the deep river-bed. And now, with eyes
- Of wonder gazing on his mother's hall
- And watery kingdom and cave-prisoned pools
- And echoing groves, he went, and, stunned by that
- Stupendous whirl of waters, separate saw
- All streams beneath the mighty earth that glide,
- Phasis and Lycus, and that fountain-head
- Whence first the deep Enipeus leaps to light,
- Whence father Tiber, and whence Anio's flood,
- And Hypanis that roars amid his rocks,
- And Mysian Caicus, and, bull-browed
- 'Twixt either gilded horn, Eridanus,
- Than whom none other through the laughing plains
- More furious pours into the purple sea.
- Soon as the chamber's hanging roof of stone
- Was gained, and now Cyrene from her son
- Had heard his idle weeping, in due course
- Clear water for his hands the sisters bring,
- With napkins of shorn pile, while others heap
- The board with dainties, and set on afresh
- The brimming goblets; with Panchaian fires
- Upleap the altars; then the mother spake,
- "Take beakers of Maconian wine," she said,
- "Pour we to Ocean." Ocean, sire of all,
- She worships, and the sister-nymphs who guard
- The hundred forests and the hundred streams;
- Thrice Vesta's fire with nectar clear she dashed,
- Thrice to the roof-top shot the flame and shone:
- Armed with which omen she essayed to speak:
- "In Neptune's gulf Carpathian dwells a seer,
- Caerulean Proteus, he who metes the main
- With fish-drawn chariot of two-footed steeds;
- Now visits he his native home once more,
- Pallene and the Emathian ports; to him
- We nymphs do reverence, ay, and Nereus old;
- For all things knows the seer, both those which are
- And have been, or which time hath yet to bring;
- So willed it Neptune, whose portentous flocks,
- And loathly sea-calves 'neath the surge he feeds.
- Him first, my son, behoves thee seize and bind
- That he may all the cause of sickness show,
- And grant a prosperous end. For save by force
- No rede will he vouchsafe, nor shalt thou bend
- His soul by praying; whom once made captive, ply
- With rigorous force and fetters; against these
- His wiles will break and spend themselves in vain.
- I, when the sun has lit his noontide fires,
- When the blades thirst, and cattle love the shade,
- Myself will guide thee to the old man's haunt,
- Whither he hies him weary from the waves,
- That thou mayst safelier steal upon his sleep.
- But when thou hast gripped him fast with hand and gyve,
- Then divers forms and bestial semblances
- Shall mock thy grasp; for sudden he will change
- To bristly boar, fell tigress, dragon scaled,
- And tawny-tufted lioness, or send forth
- A crackling sound of fire, and so shake of
- The fetters, or in showery drops anon
- Dissolve and vanish. But the more he shifts
- His endless transformations, thou, my son,
- More straitlier clench the clinging bands, until
- His body's shape return to that thou sawest,
- When with closed eyelids first he sank to sleep."
- So saying, an odour of ambrosial dew
- She sheds around, and all his frame therewith
- Steeps throughly; forth from his trim-combed locks
- Breathed effluence sweet, and a lithe vigour leapt
- Into his limbs. There is a cavern vast
- Scooped in the mountain-side, where wave on wave
- By the wind's stress is driven, and breaks far up
- Its inmost creeks- safe anchorage from of old
- For tempest-taken mariners: therewithin,
- Behind a rock's huge barrier, Proteus hides.
- Here in close covert out of the sun's eye
- The youth she places, and herself the while
- Swathed in a shadowy mist stands far aloof.
- And now the ravening dog-star that burns up
- The thirsty Indians blazed in heaven; his course
- The fiery sun had half devoured: the blades
- Were parched, and the void streams with droughty jaws
- Baked to their mud-beds by the scorching ray,
- When Proteus seeking his accustomed cave
- Strode from the billows: round him frolicking
- The watery folk that people the waste sea
- Sprinkled the bitter brine-dew far and wide.
- Along the shore in scattered groups to feed
- The sea-calves stretch them: while the seer himself,
- Like herdsman on the hills when evening bids
- The steers from pasture to their stall repair,
- And the lambs' bleating whets the listening wolves,
- Sits midmost on the rock and tells his tale.
- But Aristaeus, the foe within his clutch,
- Scarce suffering him compose his aged limbs,
- With a great cry leapt on him, and ere he rose
- Forestalled him with the fetters; he nathless,
- All unforgetful of his ancient craft,
- Transforms himself to every wondrous thing,
- Fire and a fearful beast, and flowing stream.
- But when no trickery found a path for flight,
- Baffled at length, to his own shape returned,
- With human lips he spake, "Who bade thee, then,
- So reckless in youth's hardihood, affront
- Our portals? or what wouldst thou hence?"- But he,
- "Proteus, thou knowest, of thine own heart thou knowest;
- For thee there is no cheating, but cease thou
- To practise upon me: at heaven's behest
- I for my fainting fortunes hither come
- An oracle to ask thee." There he ceased.
- Whereat the seer, by stubborn force constrained,
- Shot forth the grey light of his gleaming eyes
- Upon him, and with fiercely gnashing teeth
- Unlocks his lips to spell the fates of heaven:
- "Doubt not 'tis wrath divine that plagues thee thus,
- Nor light the debt thou payest; 'tis Orpheus' self,
- Orpheus unhappy by no fault of his,
- So fates prevent not, fans thy penal fires,
- Yet madly raging for his ravished bride.
- She in her haste to shun thy hot pursuit
- Along the stream, saw not the coming death,
- Where at her feet kept ward upon the bank
- In the tall grass a monstrous water-snake.
- But with their cries the Dryad-band her peers
- Filled up the mountains to their proudest peaks:
- Wailed for her fate the heights of Rhodope,
- And tall Pangaea, and, beloved of Mars,
- The land that bowed to Rhesus, Thrace no less
- With Hebrus' stream; and Orithyia wept,
- Daughter of Acte old. But Orpheus' self,
- Soothing his love-pain with the hollow shell,
- Thee his sweet wife on the lone shore alone,
- Thee when day dawned and when it died he sang.
- Nay to the jaws of Taenarus too he came,
- Of Dis the infernal palace, and the grove
- Grim with a horror of great darkness- came,
- Entered, and faced the Manes and the King
- Of terrors, the stone heart no prayer can tame.
- Then from the deepest deeps of Erebus,
- Wrung by his minstrelsy, the hollow shades
- Came trooping, ghostly semblances of forms
- Lost to the light, as birds by myriads hie
- To greenwood boughs for cover, when twilight-hour
- Or storms of winter chase them from the hills;
- Matrons and men, and great heroic frames
- Done with life's service, boys, unwedded girls,
- Youths placed on pyre before their fathers' eyes.
- Round them, with black slime choked and hideous weed,
- Cocytus winds; there lies the unlovely swamp
- Of dull dead water, and, to pen them fast,
- Styx with her ninefold barrier poured between.
- Nay, even the deep Tartarean Halls of death
- Stood lost in wonderment, and the Eumenides,
- Their brows with livid locks of serpents twined;
- Even Cerberus held his triple jaws agape,
- And, the wind hushed, Ixion's wheel stood still.
- And now with homeward footstep he had passed
- All perils scathless, and, at length restored,
- Eurydice to realms of upper air
- Had well-nigh won, behind him following-
- So Proserpine had ruled it- when his heart
- A sudden mad desire surprised and seized-
- Meet fault to be forgiven, might Hell forgive.
- For at the very threshold of the day,
- Heedless, alas! and vanquished of resolve,
- He stopped, turned, looked upon Eurydice
- His own once more. But even with the look,
- Poured out was all his labour, broken the bond
- Of that fell tyrant, and a crash was heard
- Three times like thunder in the meres of hell.
- 'Orpheus! what ruin hath thy frenzy wrought
- On me, alas! and thee? Lo! once again
- The unpitying fates recall me, and dark sleep
- Closes my swimming eyes. And now farewell:
- Girt with enormous night I am borne away,
- Outstretching toward thee, thine, alas! no more,
- These helpless hands.' She spake, and suddenly,
- Like smoke dissolving into empty air,
- Passed and was sundered from his sight; nor him
- Clutching vain shadows, yearning sore to speak,
- Thenceforth beheld she, nor no second time
- Hell's boatman brooks he pass the watery bar.
- What should he do? fly whither, twice bereaved?
- Move with what tears the Manes, with what voice
- The Powers of darkness? She indeed even now
- Death-cold was floating on the Stygian barge!
- For seven whole months unceasingly, men say,
- Beneath a skyey crag, by thy lone wave,
- Strymon, he wept, and in the caverns chill
- Unrolled his story, melting tigers' hearts,
- And leading with his lay the oaks along.
- As in the poplar-shade a nightingale
- Mourns her lost young, which some relentless swain,
- Spying, from the nest has torn unfledged, but she
- Wails the long night, and perched upon a spray
- With sad insistence pipes her dolorous strain,
- Till all the region with her wrongs o'erflows.
- No love, no new desire, constrained his soul:
- By snow-bound Tanais and the icy north,
- Far steppes to frost Rhipaean forever wed,
- Alone he wandered, lost Eurydice
- Lamenting, and the gifts of Dis ungiven.
- Scorned by which tribute the Ciconian dames,
- Amid their awful Bacchanalian rites
- And midnight revellings, tore him limb from limb,
- And strewed his fragments over the wide fields.
- Then too, even then, what time the Hebrus stream,
- Oeagrian Hebrus, down mid-current rolled,
- Rent from the marble neck, his drifting head,
- The death-chilled tongue found yet a voice to cry
- 'Eurydice! ah! poor Eurydice!'
- With parting breath he called her, and the banks
- From the broad stream caught up 'Eurydice!'"
- So Proteus ending plunged into the deep,
- And, where he plunged, beneath the eddying whirl
- Churned into foam the water, and was gone;
- But not Cyrene, who unquestioned thus
- Bespake the trembling listener: "Nay, my son,
- From that sad bosom thou mayst banish care:
- Hence came that plague of sickness, hence the nymphs,
- With whom in the tall woods the dance she wove,
- Wrought on thy bees, alas! this deadly bane.
- Bend thou before the Dell-nymphs, gracious powers:
- Bring gifts, and sue for pardon: they will grant
- Peace to thine asking, and an end of wrath.
- But how to approach them will I first unfold-
- Four chosen bulls of peerless form and bulk,
- That browse to-day the green Lycaean heights,
- Pick from thy herds, as many kine to match,
- Whose necks the yoke pressed never: then for these
- Build up four altars by the lofty fanes,
- And from their throats let gush the victims' blood,
- And in the greenwood leave their bodies lone.
- Then, when the ninth dawn hath displayed its beams,
- To Orpheus shalt thou send his funeral dues,
- Poppies of Lethe, and let slay a sheep
- Coal-black, then seek the grove again, and soon
- For pardon found adore Eurydice
- With a slain calf for victim."
- No delay:
- The self-same hour he hies him forth to do
- His mother's bidding: to the shrine he came,
- The appointed altars reared, and thither led
- Four chosen bulls of peerless form and bulk,
- With kine to match, that never yoke had known;
- Then, when the ninth dawn had led in the day,
- To Orpheus sent his funeral dues, and sought
- The grove once more. But sudden, strange to tell
- A portent they espy: through the oxen's flesh,
- Waxed soft in dissolution, hark! there hum
- Bees from the belly; the rent ribs overboil
- In endless clouds they spread them, till at last
- On yon tree-top together fused they cling,
- And drop their cluster from the bending boughs.
- So sang I of the tilth of furrowed fields,
- Of flocks and trees, while Caesar's majesty
- Launched forth the levin-bolts of war by deep
- Euphrates, and bare rule o'er willing folk
- Though vanquished, and essayed the heights of heaven.
- I Virgil then, of sweet Parthenope
- The nursling, wooed the flowery walks of peace
- Inglorious, who erst trilled for shepherd-wights
- The wanton ditty, and sang in saucy youth
- Thee, Tityrus, 'neath the spreading beech tree's shade.
- THE END
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