The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning Volume I Part 23

Ah, ah, Cytherea! the Loves are lamenting.

She lost her fair spouse and so lost her fair smile: When he lived she was fair, by the whole world's consenting, Whose fairness is dead with him: woe worth the while!

All the mountains above and the oaklands below Murmur, ah, ah, Adonis! the streams overflow Aphrodite's deep wail; river-fountains in pity Weep soft in the hills, and the flowers as they blow Redden outward with sorrow, while all hear her go With the song of her sadness through mountain and city.

V.

Ah, ah, Cytherea! Adonis is dead, Fair Adonis is dead--Echo answers, Adonis: Who weeps not for Cypris, when bowing her head She stares at the wound where it gapes and astonies?

--When, ah, ah!--she saw how the blood ran away And empurpled the thigh, and, with wild hands flung out, Said with sobs: "Stay, Adonis! unhappy one, stay, Let me feel thee once more, let me ring thee about With the clasp of my arms, and press kiss into kiss!

Wait a little, Adonis, and kiss me again, For the last time, beloved,--and but so much of this That the kiss may learn life from the warmth of the strain!

--Till thy breath shall exude from thy soul to my mouth, To my heart, and, the love-charm I once more receiving May drink thy love in it and keep of a truth That one kiss in the place of Adonis the living.

Thou fliest me, mournful one, fliest me far, My Adonis, and seekest the Acheron portal,-- To h.e.l.l's cruel King goest down with a scar, While I weep and live on like a wretched immortal, And follow no step! O Persephone, take him, My husband!--thou'rt better and brighter than I, So all beauty flows down to thee: _I_ cannot make him Look up at my grief; there's despair in my cry, Since I wail for Adonis who died to me--died to me-- Then, I fear _thee_!--Art thou dead, my Adored?

Pa.s.sion ends like a dream in the sleep that's denied to me, Cypris is widowed, the Loves seek their lord All the house through in vain. Charm of cestus has ceased With thy clasp! O too bold in the hunt past preventing, Ay, mad, thou so fair, to have strife with a beast!"

Thus the G.o.ddess wailed on--and the Loves are lamenting.

VI.

Ah, ah, Cytherea! Adonis is dead.

She wept tear after tear with the blood which was shed, And both turned into flowers for the earth's garden-close, Her tears, to the windflower; his blood, to the rose.

VII.

I mourn for Adonis--Adonis is dead.

Weep no more in the woods, Cytherea, thy lover!

So, well: make a place for his corse in thy bed, With the purples thou sleepest in, under and over He's fair though a corse--a fair corse, like a sleeper.

Lay him soft in the silks he had pleasure to fold When, beside thee at night, holy dreams deep and deeper Enclosed his young life on the couch made of gold.

Love him still, poor Adonis; cast on him together The crowns and the flowers: since he died from the place, Why, let all die with him; let the blossoms go wither, Rain myrtles and olive-buds down on his face.

Rain the myrrh down, let all that is best fall a-pining, Since the myrrh of his life from thy keeping is swept.

Pale he lay, thine Adonis, in purples reclining, The Loves raised their voices around him and wept.

They have shorn their bright curls off to cast on Adonis; One treads on his bow,--on his arrows, another,-- One breaks up a well-feathered quiver, and one is Bent low at a sandal, untying the strings, And one carries the vases of gold from the springs, While one washes the wound,--and behind them a brother Fans down on the body sweet air with his wings.

VIII.

Cytherea herself now the Loves are lamenting Each torch at the door Hymenaeus blew out; And, the marriage-wreath dropping its leaves as repenting, No more "Hymen, Hymen," is chanted about, But the _ai ai_ instead--"Ai alas!" is begun For Adonis, and then follows "Ai Hymenaeus!"

The Graces are weeping for Cinyris' son, Sobbing low each to each, "His fair eyes cannot see us!"

Their wail strikes more shrill than the sadder Dione's.

The Fates mourn aloud for Adonis, Adonis, Deep chanting; he hears not a word that they say: He _would_ hear, but Persephone has him in keeping.

--Cease moan, Cytherea! leave pomps for to-day, And weep new when a new year refits thee for weeping.

A VISION OF POETS

O Sacred Essence, lighting me this hour, How may I lightly stile thy great power?

_Echo._ Power.

Power! but of whence? under the greenwood spraye?

Or liv'st in Heaven? saye.

_Echo._ In Heavens aye.

In Heavens aye! tell, may I it obtayne By alms, by fasting, prayer,--by paine?

_Echo._ By paine Show me the paine, it shall be undergone.

I to mine end will still go on.

_Echo._ Go on.

_Britannia's Pastorals._

A VISION OF POETS.

A poet could not sleep aright, For his soul kept up too much light Under his eyelids for the night.

And thus he rose disquieted With sweet rhymes ringing through his head, And in the forest wandered

Where, sloping up the darkest glades, The moon had drawn long colonnades Upon whose floor the verdure fades

To a faint silver: pavement fair, The antique wood-nymphs scarce would dare To foot-print o'er, had such been there,

And rather sit by breathlessly, With fear in their large eyes, to see The consecrated sight. But HE--

The poet who, with spirit-kiss Familiar, had long claimed for his Whatever earthly beauty is,

Who also in his spirit bore A beauty pa.s.sing the earth's store,-- Walked calmly onward evermore.

His aimless thoughts in metre went, Like a babe's hand without intent Drawn down a seven-stringed instrument:

Nor jarred it with his humour as, With a faint stirring of the gra.s.s, An apparition fair did pa.s.s.

He might have feared another time, But all things fair and strange did chime With his thoughts then, as rhyme to rhyme.

An angel had not startled him, Alighted from heaven's burning rim To breathe from glory in the Dim;

Much less a lady riding slow Upon a palfrey white as snow, And smooth as a snow-cloud could go.

Full upon his she turned her face, "What ho, sir poet! dost thou pace Our woods at night in ghostly chase

"Of some fair Dryad of old tales Who chants between the nightingales And over sleep by song prevails?"

She smiled; but he could see arise Her soul from far adown her eyes, Prepared as if for sacrifice.

She looked a queen who seemeth gay From royal grace alone. "Now, nay,"

He answered, "slumber pa.s.sed away,

"Compelled by instincts in my head That I should see to-night, instead Of a fair nymph, some fairer Dread."