Part 2 — CYMINDIS.

Ορνιθι λιγυρη εναλιγκιος, ην τ’ εν ορεσσι Χαλκιδα κικλησκουσι Θεοι, ανδρες δε Κυμινδιν.—Homer.

Beside my lattice cool at dead of night, As I sat musing on unnumbered things, With startled glance I saw a figure bright, No larger than a star, on luminous wings Borne towards me with a swift continuous flight, From some green island in the Occident. At first, methought that Hesper from his throne Upon the forehead of the firmament Had parted, and was gliding o’er the foam Of ocean towards me; but my error soon Became apparent—for a gorgeous bird, Apparelled in full many a splendid plume Of green, and gold, and purple, came and stirred An olive’s foliage with its flutterings; Where, perching on a slender flexile bough, It stayed its flight and furled its weary wings. Voiceless awhile, against a dark green spray It leaned its breast; then making prelude low, From its dim throat poured out a lengthened flow Of moist Memnonian melody—a lay More soft and sweet than ancient Pan could play Through all the wild Circean realm of sound, Did range this feathered minstrel’s dulcet tongue; So that no note, or high or low is found, That by its tuneful throat was left unsung. Sometimes I heard a flute’s low silvery plaining, And then anon a shepherd’s reed was blown; And then a far-off clarion’s exclaiming Aroused my spirit with its martial tone; Which died ere long into a tender moan— The wail of Indian lover, languishing Beneath a guarded princess’ lattice high. This ceased; and next a music rivalling The spheral chime that fills the starry sky, An intervolved Æolian harmony, Stole through the porch of sound into the hall Where my delighted spirit sat enthroned, And from their cells the loftiest thoughts, that woned Therein, rapt into ecstasy, did call— A sudden shriek of keenest anguish broke My breathless rapture, and the silver chain Of that wild song, alas! Cymindis’ note (Such was that Iris-feathered warbler’s name) Was stilled forever. Him within the beak Of a relentless vulture dead I saw, That, swooping from the clouds, his descant sweet Had hushed to silence, to appease the maw Of famine in his eyrie on the steep.