LITMIR.BIZ

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terror in his hair.

      “Lamia!” he shriek’d; and nothing but the shriek

      With its sad echo did the silence break.

      “Begone, foul dream!” he cried, gazing again

      In the bride’s face, where now no azure vein

      Wander’d 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, possess’d, 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 answer’d, as heart-struck and lost,

      He sank supine beside the aching ghost.

      “Fool! Fool!” repeated he, while his eyes still

      Relented not, nor mov’d; “from every ill

      Of life have I preserv’d thee to this day,

      And shall I see thee made a serpent’s prey?”

      Then Lamia breath’d death breath; the sophist’s eye,

      Like a sharp spear, went through her utterly,

      Keen, cruel, perceant, stinging: she, as well

      As her weak hand could any meaning tell,

      Motion’d him to be silent; vainly so,

      He look’d and look’d 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.

       O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell

      O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell,

      Let it not be among the jumbled heap

      Of murky buildings; climb with me the steep, –

      Nature’s observatory – whence the dell,

      Its flowery slopes, its river’s crystal swell,

      May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep

      ’Mongst boughs pavillion’d, where the deer’s swift leap

      Startles the wild bee from the fox-glove bell.

      But though I’ll gladly trace these scenes with thee,

      Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind,

      Whose words are images of thoughts refin’d,

      Is my soul’s pleasure; and it sure must be

      Almost the highest bliss of humankind,

      When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.

       Ode on a Grecian Urn

      I.

      Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness,

      Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,

      Sylvan historian, who canst thus express

      A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:

      What leaf-fring’d legend haunts about thy shape

      Of deities or mortals, or of both,

      In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?

      What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?

      What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?

      What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

      II.

      Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard

      Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;

      Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d,

      Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:

      Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave

      Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;

      Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,

      Though winning near the goal – yet, do not grieve;

      She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,

      For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

      III.

      Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed

      Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;

      And, happy melodist, unwearied,

      For ever piping songs for ever new;

      More happy love! more happy, happy love!

      For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d,

      For ever panting, and for ever young;

      All breathing human passion far above,

      That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy’d,

      A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

      IV.

      Who are these coming to the sacrifice?

      To what green altar, O mysterious priest,

      Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,

      And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?

      What little town by river or sea shore,

      Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,

      Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?

      And, little town, thy streets for evermore

      Will silent be; and not a soul to tell

      Why thou art desolate, can e’er return.

      V.

      O

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