LAMIA.
PART II.
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 hermit's fast:--
That is a doubtful tale from faery land,
Hard for the non-elect to understand.
Had Lycius liv'd to hand his story down,
He might have given the moral a fresh frown,
Or clench'd it quite: but too short was their bliss
To breed distrust and hate, that make the soft voice hiss. 10
Besides, there, nightly, with terrific glare,
Love, jealous grown of so complete a pair,
Hover'd and buzz'd 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 20
Unveil'd 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 swallow's 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 harbour'd in 30
That purple-lined palace of sweet sin,
His spirit pass'd 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 moment's thought is passion's passing bell.
"Why do you sigh, fair creature?" whisper'd he: 40
"Why do you think?" return'd she tenderly:
"You have deserted me;--where am I now?
"Not in your heart while care weighs on your brow:
"No, no, you have dismiss'd me; and I go
"From your breast houseless: ay, it must be so."
He answer'd, bending to her open eyes,
Where he was mirror'd 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 50
"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 abash'd withal,
"But lets it sometimes pace abroad majestical,
"And triumph, as in thee I should rejoice 60
"Amid the hoarse alarm of Corinth's voice.
"Let my foes choke, and my friends shout afar,
"While through the thronged streets your bridal car
"Wheels round its dazzling spokes."--The lady's 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 70
Her wild and timid nature to his aim:
Besides, for all his love, in self despite,
Against his b>
Transfer interrupted!
urious 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 Apollo's presence
when in act to strike The serpent--Ha, the serpent! certes, she 80 Was
none. She burnt, she lov'd 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 ask'd 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, 90
"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 100 "Old
Apollonius--from him keep me hid." Lycius, perplex'd 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 betray'd.
It was the custom then to bring away The bride from home at blushing shut
of day, Veil'd, in a chariot, heralded along By strewn flowers, torches,
and a marriage song, With other pageants: but this fair unknown 110 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 120 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 branch'd one to one All down the
aisled place; and beneath all 130 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, Mission'd 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, 140 And with the larger wove in small intricacies. Approving
all, she faded at self-will, And shut the chamber up, close, hush'd and
still, Complete and ready for the revels rude, When dreadful guests would
come to spoil her solitude. The day appear'd, and all the gossip rout.
O senseless Lycius! Madman! wherefore flout The silent-blessing fate, warm
cloister'd hours, And show to common eyes these secret bowers? The herd
approach'd; each guest, with busy brain, 150 Arriving at the portal, gaz'd
amain, And enter'd marveling: for they knew the street, Remember'd it from
childhood all complete Without a gap, yet ne'er before had seen That royal
porch, that high-built fair demesne; So in they hurried all, maz'd, curious
and keen: Save one, who look'd thereon with eye severe, And with calm-planted
steps walk'd in austere; 'Twas Apollonius: something too he laugh'd, As
though some knotty problem, that had daft 160 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 blush'd, and led
The old man through the inner doors broad-spread; 170 With reconciling
words and courteous mien Turning into sweet milk the sophist's spleen.
Of wealthy lustre was the banquet-room, Fill'd 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-swerv'd upon the soft Wool-woofed carpets: fifty wreaths of smoke
From fifty censers their light voyage took 180 To the high roof, still
mimick'd as they rose Along the mirror'd walls by twin-clouds odorous.
Twelve sphered tables, by silk seats insphered, High as the level of a
man's breast rear'd On libbard's paws, upheld the heavy gold Of cups and
goblets, and the store thrice told Of Ceres' horn, and, in huge vessels,
wine Came 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. 190 When
in an antichamber every guest Had felt the cold full sponge to pleasure
press'd, By minist'ring slaves, upon his hands and feet, And fragrant oils
with ceremony meet Pour'd on his hair, they all mov'd 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 vowel'd undersong 200
Kept up among the guests discoursing low At first, for scarcely was the
wine at flow; But when the happy vintage touch'd 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 Lamia's self, appear, Now, when
the wine has done its rosy deed, And every soul from human trammels freed,
210 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; Flush'd
were their cheeks, and bright eyes double bright: Garlands of every green,
and every scent From vales deflower'd, or forest-trees branch rent, In
baskets of bright osier'd gold were brought High as the handles heap'd,
to suit the thought Of every guest; that each, as he did please, Might
fancy-fit his brows, silk-pillow'd at his ease. 220 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 adder's 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? 230 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 Angel's wings, Conquer all mysteries by rule and
line, Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine-- Unweave a rainbow, as it
erewhile made The tender-person'd Lamia melt into a shade. By her glad
Lycius sitting, in chief place, Scarce saw in all the room another face,
240 Till, checking his love trance, a cup he took Full brimm'd, and opposite
sent forth a look 'Cross the broad table, to beseech a glance From his
old teacher's wrinkled countenance, And pledge him. The bald-head philosopher
Had fix'd 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 press'd her hand, with devout touch, As pale it lay upon the
rosy couch: 250 '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? "Know'st thou that
man?" Poor Lamia answer'd not. He gaz'd into her eyes, and not a jot Own'd
they the lovelorn piteous appeal: More, more he gaz'd: his human senses
reel: Some hungry spell that loveliness absorbs; There was no recognition
in those orbs. 260 "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 sicken'd in a thousand wreaths. By faint degrees, voice, lute,
and pleasure ceased; A deadly silence step by step increased, Until it
seem'd a horrid presence there, And not a man but felt the terror in his
hair. "Lamia!" he shriek'd; and nothing but the shriek With its sad echo
did the silence break. 270 "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, 280 "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." 290 "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, 300 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, 310 And, in
its marriage robe, the heavy body wound.*
*"Philostratus, in his fourth book De Vita Apollonii, hath a
memorable instance in this kind, which I may not omit, of one Menippus
Lycius, a young man twenty-five years of age, that going betwixt Cenchreas
and Corinth, met such a phantasm in the habit of a fair gentlewoman, which
taking him by the hand, carried him home to her house, in the suburbs of
Corinth, and told him she was a Phoenician by birth, and if he would tarry
with her, he should hear her sing and play, and drink such wine as never
any drank, and no man should molest him; but she, being fair and lovely,
would live and die with him, that was fair and lovely to behold. The young
man, a philosopher, otherwise staid and discreet, able to moderate his
passions, though not this of love, tarried with her a while to his great
content, and at last married her, to whose wedding, amongst other guests,
came Apollonius; who, by some probable conjectures, found her out to be
a serpent, a lamia; and that all her furniture was, like Tantalus' gold,
described by Homer, no substance but mere illusions. When she saw herself
descried, she wept, and desired Apollonius to be silent, but he would not
be moved, and thereupon she, plate, house, and all that was in it, vanished
in an instant: many thousands took notice of this fact, for it was done
in the midst of Greece."
Burton's 'Anatomy of Melancholy.' Part 3. Sect. 2. Memb.
1. Subs. 1.
Keats, John. 1884. Poetical Works.