M Y T H O L O G Y : (continued 3)

————"The God whose potent hand Shakes the tumultuous sea, and solid land: The Ocean Lord, o'er Helicon who reigns, O'er spacious Ægæ's wide extended plains; To whom the gods, with equal skill concede, To guide the bark and tame the fiery steed," Horace.

————————"King of the stormy sea! Brother of Jove, and co-inheritor Of elements Eternally before Thee, the waves awful bow. Fast, stubborn rock; At thy feared trident, shrinking, doth unlock Its deep foundations, hissing into foam. All mountain-rivers, lost, in the wide home Of thy capacious bosom, ever flow. Thou frownest, and old Æolus, thy foe, Skulks to his cavern, mid the gruff complaint Of all his rebel tempests. Dark clouds faint When, from thy diadem, a silver gleam Slants over blue dominion. Thy bright team Gulfs in the morning light, and scuds along To bring thee nearer to that golden song Apollo singeth, while his chariot Waits at the door of heaven. Thou art not For scenes like this; an empire stern hast thou; And it hath furrowed that large front: yet now, As newly come of heaven, dost thou sit, To blend and inter-knit Subdued majesty with this glad time. O shell born king sublime! We lay our hearts before thee evermore— We sing and we adore!" Keats.

———"Great Neptune! I would be Advanced to the freedom of the main, And stand before your vast creation's plain, And roam your watery kingdom thro' and thro' And see your branching woods and palace blue, Spar-built and domed with crystal: aye and view The bedded wonders of the lonely deep; And see on coral banks, the sea-maids sleep, Children of ancient Nereus, and behold Their streaming dance about their father old, Beneath the blue Egean; where he sate, Wedded to prophecy, and full of fate! Or rather, as Arion harped, indeed, Would I go floating on my billow-steed, Over the billows, and triumphing there, Call the white syren from her cave to share My joy, and kiss her willing forehead fair." Keats.

"What hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells? Thou hollow-sounding, and mysterious main! Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-coloured shells, Bright things which gleam unrecked of, and in vain; Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea. We ask not such from thee! "Yet more, the depths have more! what wealth untold, Far down, and shining thro' their stillness lies; Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold, Won from ten thousand royal argosies; Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main; Earth claims not these again! "Yet more, the depths have more! thy waves have rolled, Above the cities of a world gone by! Sand hath filled up the palaces of old, Sea-weed o'er-grown the halls of revelry. Dash o'er them, ocean! in thy scornful play! Man yields them to decay Yet more! the billows and the depths have more! High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast! They hear not now the booming waters roar, The battle thunders will not break their rest; Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave, Give back the true and brave! "Give back the lost and lovely! those for whom The place was kept at board and hearth so long; The prayer went up thro' midnight's breathless gloom, And the vain yearning woke midst festal song! Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown, But all is not thine own! "To thee the love of woman hath gone down, Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head, O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown, Yet must thou hear a voice—restore the dead! Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee! Restore the dead thou sea!" Hemans.

"——————Cerberus, the cruel worm of death, Keeps watchful guard, and with his iron throat, Affrights the spirits in their pale sojourn," Thurlow.

———"He comes to us From the depths of Tartarus. For what of evil doth he roam From his red and gloomy home. In the centre of the world Where the sinful dead are hurled? Mark him as he moves along, Drawn by horses black and strong. Such as may belong to night, Ere she takes her morning flight, Now the chariot stops: the God On our grassy world hath trod, Like a Titan steppeth he, Yet full of his divinity. On his mighty shoulders lie Raven locks, and in his eye A cruel beauty, such as none Of us may wisely look upon." Barry Cornwall.

"So in Sicilia's ever blooming shade, The playful Proserpine from Ceres strayed. Led with unwary step her virgin trains O'er Etna's steeps, and Enna's golden plains; Plucked with fair hand the silver blossomed bower, And purpled mead,—herself a fairer flower; Sudden, unseen amid the twilight glade, Rushed gloomy Dis, and seized the trembling maid. Her startling damsels sprung from mossy seats, Dropped from their gauzy laps the gathered sweets, Clung round the struggling nymph, with piercing cries Pursued the chariot, and invoked the skies;— Pleased as he grasps her in his iron arms, Frights with soft sighs, with tender words alarms; The wheels descending, rolled in smoky rings, Infernal Cupids flapped their demon wings; Earth with deep yawn received the fair amazed, And far in night, celestial beauty blazed." Darwin.

"A horrid dog and grim, couched on the floor, Guards, with malicious art, the sounding door; On each, who in the entrance first appears, He fawning wags his tail, and cocks his ears; If any strive to measure back the way, Their steps he watches, and devours his prey." Hesiod.

"When ill-fated Orpheus tuned to woe His potent lyre, and sought the realms below; Charmed into life unreal forms respired, And list'ning shades the dulcet note admired. Love led the sage through Death's tremendous porch, Cheered with his smile, and lighted with his torch; Hell's triple dog his playful jaws expands, Fawns round the god, and licks his baby hands; In wondering groups the shadowy nations throng, And sigh or simper, as he steps along; Sad swains, and nymphs forlorn, on Lethe's brink, Hug their past sorrows, and refuse to drink; Night's dazzled empress feels the golden flame Play round her breast, and melt her frozen frame; Charms with soft words, and sooths with amorous wiles, Her iron-hearted lord, and Pluto smiles. His trembling bride the bard triumphant led From the pale mansions of the astonished dead; Gave the fair phantom to admiring light, Ah! soon again to tread irrevocable night!" Darwin.

————"On the ground, She sinks without a single sound, And all her garments float around; Again, again she rises light, Her head is like a fountain bright, And her glossy ringlets fall With a murmur musical, O'er her shoulders, like a river That rushes and escapes for ever. Is the fair Cyane gone? Is this fountain left alone For a sad remembrance, where We may in after times repair, With heavy heart and weeping eye, To sing songs to her memory?" Barry Cornwall.

"Awful Rhadamanthus rules the state. He hears and judges each committed crime, Inquires into the manner, place, and time: The conscious wretch must all his acts reveal, Loth to confess, unable to conceal, From the first moment of his vital breath, To his last year of unrepenting death."

————"Tantalus condemned to hear The precious stream still purling in his ear; Lip-deep in what he longs for, and yet curst With prohibition and perpetual thirst." Cowper.

"When lo! appeared along the dusky coasts, Thin, airy shoals of visionary ghosts: Fair, pensive youths, and young enamoured maids; And withered elders, pale and wrinkled shades; Ghastly with wounds the forms of warriors slain, Stalked with majestic port, a martial train; These and a thousand more, swarmed o'er the ground, And all the dire assembly shrieked around. Astonished at the sight, aghast I stood, And a cold fear ran shivering through my blood."

"High on a throne, tremendous to behold, Stern Minos waves a mace of burnished gold; Around, ten thousand, thousand spectres stand, Thro' the wide dome of Dis, a trembling band. Still as they plead, the fatal lot he rolls, Absolves the just, and dooms the guilty souls. There huge Orion, of portentous size, Swift thro' the gloom, a giant hunter flies; A ponderous mace of brass with direful sway Aloft he whirls to crush the savage prey! Stern beasts in trains that by his truncheon fell, Now grisly forms, shoot o'er the lawns of hell. There Tityus, large and long, in fetters bound, O'erspreads nine acres of infernal ground; Two ravenous vultures, furious for their food, Scream o'er the fiend, and riot in his blood, Incessant gore the liver in his breast, Th' immortal liver grows, and gives the immortal feast. There Tantalus along the Stygian bounds Pours out deep groans (with groans all hell resounds); Ev'n in the circling floods refreshment craves, And pines with thirst amidst a sea of waves; When to the water he his lip applies, Back from his lip the treacherous water flies, Above, beneath, around his hapless head, Trees of all kinds delicious fruitage spread; There figs sky-dy'd, a purple hue disclose, Green looks the olive, the pomegranate grows, There dangling pears exalting scents unfold, And yellow apples ripen into gold: The fruit he strives to seize, but blasts arise, Toss it on high, and whirl it to the skies. I turned my eye, and, as I turned, surveyed A mournful vision! the Sisyphian shade; With many a weary step, and many a groan, Up the high hill he heaves a huge round stone; The huge round stone, resulting with a bound, Thunders impetuous down and smokes along the ground, Again the restless orb his toil renews, Dust mounts in clouds, and sweat descends in dews."

————"A babe, all babes excelling, A schemer subtle beyond all belief, A shepherd of thin dreams, a cow stealing, A night watching and door waylaying thief." Shelley.

"The babe was born at the first peep of day, He began playing on the lyre at noon, And the same evening did he steal away Apollo's herds." Shelley.

"Hermes with gods and men, even from that day Mingled and wrought the latter much annoy, And little profit, going far astray, Through the dun night." Shelley.

————————————"Come take The lyre—be mine the glory of giving it— Strike the sweet chords, and sing aloud and wake The joyous pleasure out of many a fit Of tranced sound—and with fleet fingers make Thy liquid voiced comrade talk with thee; It can talk measured music eloquently. Then bear it boldly to the revel loud, Love wakening dance, or feast of solemn state, A joy by night or day, for those endowed With art and wisdom, who interrogate! It teaches, bubbling in delightful mood All things which make the spirit most elate, Soothing the mind with sweet familiar play, Chasing the heavy shadows of dismay." Shelley.

"O Hermes, thou who couldst of yore Amphion's bosom warm, And breathe into his strains the power, The rugged rocks to charm; Breathe, breathe into my lyre's soft string, And bid its music sweet notes fling, For what O lyre, can thee withstand? Touched by an Orpheus' magic hand, Thou calm'st the tiger's wrath: The listening woods thou draw'st along, The rivers stay to hear thy song, And listen still as death. Tityos with pleasure heard thy strain, And Ixion smiled amid his pain." Horace.

"From both the illustrious authors of his race The child was named; nor was it hard to trace Both the bright parents through the infant's face. When fifteen years, in Ida's cool retreat, The boy had told, he left his native seat, And sought fresh fountains in a foreign soil: The pleasure lessened the attending toil. With eager steps the Lycian fields he crossed, And fields that border on the Lycian coast; A river here he viewed so lovely bright, It showed the bottom in a fairer light, Nor kept a sand concealed from human sight. The fruitful banks with cheerful verdure crowned, And kept the spring eternal on the ground. A nymph presides, nor practised in the chase, Nor skilful at the bow, nor at the race; Of all the blue-eyed daughters of the main, The only stranger to Diana's train; Her sisters often, as 'tis said, would cry 'Fye, Salmaeis, what always idle! fye; Or take the quiver, or the arrows seize And mix the toils of hunting with thy ease.' Nor quivers she, nor arrows e'er would seize, Nor mix the toils of hunting with her ease; But oft would bathe her in the crystal tide, Oft with a comb her dewy locks divide; Now in the limped streams she views her face, And dressed her image in the floating glass: On beds of leaves she now reposed her limbs, Now gathered flowers that grew about her streams, And there by chance was gathering as she stood To view the boy—" Ovid.

"Who beareth the world on his shoulders so broad; Hear me, thou power, who, of yore, by thy words Couldst soften the hearts of the barbarous hordes, And by the Palæstia taught him of the wild To be gentle, and graceful, and meek as a child. Thou messenger fleet of the cloud-throned sire, 'Twas thou who inventedst the golden-stringed lyre; I hail thee the patron of craft and of guile, To laugh while you grieve, to deceive while you smile, When you chafed into wrath bright Apollo of old, His dun-coloured steers having stol'n from the fold, He laughed; for, while talking all fiercely he found That his quiver, alack! from his back was unbound. 'Twas thou, who old Priam didst guide on his way, When he passed unperceived thro' the hostile array, Of the proud sons of Atreus, who sought to destroy The towers of high Ilion, the city of Troy. O Hermes, 'tis thou who conductest the blest To the seats where their souls shall for ever exist, Who governest their shades by the power of thy spell, The favourite of Heaven, the favourite of Hell." Horace.

———————"Sprung the rude God to light; Of dreadful form, and horrible to sight; Goat-footed, horned, yet full of sport and joy, The nurse, astonished, fled the wondrous boy: His shaggy limbs, the trembling matron feared, His face distorted, and his rugged beard: But Hermes from her hands received the child, And on the infant god auspicious smiled. In the thick fur wrapped of a mountain hare, His arms the boy to steep Olympus bear; Proudly he shows him to imperial Jove, High seated 'mid the immortal powers above. With friendly joy and love, the race divine, But chiefly Bacchus, god of mirth and wine, Received the dauntless god, whom Pan they call, Pan, for his song delights the breast of all." Horace.

——————"His mighty palace roof doth hang From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, death, Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness. Who loves to see the hamadryads dress Their ruffled locks, where meeting hazels darken, And through whole solemn hours, dost sit and harken The dreary melody of bedded reeds." Keats.

————————"A nymph of late there was, Whose heavenly form her fellows did surpass, The pride and joy of fair Arcadia's plains, Beloved by deities, adored by swains. Like Phœbe clad, e'en Phœbe's self she seems, So tall, so straight, such well proportioned limbs, The nicest eye did no distinction know But that the goddess bore a golden bow, Descending from Lycæus, Pan admires The matchless nymph, and burns with new desires. A crown of pine upon his head he wore, And then began her pity to implore. But ere he thus began, she took her flight, So swift she was already out of sight, Nor staid to hear the courtship of the god: But bent her course to Ladon's gentle flood: There by the river stopped, and tired before Relief from water-nymphs her prayers implore, Now while the rural god with speedy pace, Just thought to strain her in his strict embrace, He filled his arms with reeds, new rising in the place: And while he sighs his ill success to find, The tender canes were shaken by the wind, And breathed a mournful air unheard before, That much surprizing Pan, yet pleased him more, Admiring this new music, 'Thou' he said, 'Who cans't not be the partner of my bed, At least shall be the consort of my mind, And often, often to my lips be joined.' He formed the reeds, proportioned as they are, Unequal in their length and waxed with care, They still retain the name of his ungrateful fair." Ovid.

"With cloven feet and horned front who roves With choirs of nymphs, amid the echoing groves; He joins in active dance the virgin throng, To Pan, the pastoral god, they raise the song. "To Pan, with tangled locks, whose footsteps tread Each snow-crowned hill, and mountain's lofty head; Or wander careless through the lowly brake, Or by the borders of the lucid lake." Horace.

"And at the sight of the fair youth she glows, And follows silently where'er he goes."

"Now several ways his young companions gone, And for some time Narcissus left alone, 'Where are you all?' at last she hears him call, And she straight answers him, 'where are you all?' "'Speak yet again,' he cries, 'is any nigh?' Again the mournful Echo answers, 'I,' 'Why come not you,' he said, 'appear in view,' She hastily returns, 'why come not you?' "'Then let us join,' at last Narcissus said, 'Then let us join,' replied the ravished maid."

"With all his strength unlocks her fold, And breaks unkindly from her feeble hold; Then proudly cries, 'life shall this breast forsake, Ere you, loose nymph, on me your pleasure take;' 'On me your pleasure take,' the nymph replies While from her the disdainful hunter flies."

"Deep through the spring, his eye-balls dart their beams, Like midnight stars that twinkle in the streams, His ivory neck the crystal mirror shows, His waving hair, above the surface flows, His own perfections all his passions moved, He loves himself, who for himself was loved."

"Oft with his down-thrust arms he thought to fold, About that neck that still deludes his hold, He gets no kisses from those cozening lips, His arms grasp nothing, from himself he slips; He knows not what he views, and yet pursues His desperate love, and burns for what he views."

"Streaming tears from his full eye-lids fell, And drop by drop, raised circles in the well, The several rings larger and larger spread, And by degrees dispersed the fleeting shade."

"Now hanging o'er the spring his drooping head, With a sad sigh these dying words he said, 'Ah! boy beloved in vain,' thro' all the plain Echo resounds, 'Ah! boy beloved in vain!' 'Farewell,' he cries, and with that word he died, 'Farewell,' the miserable nymph replied. Now pale and breathless on the grass he lies, For death had shut his miserable eyes."

"What first inspired a bard of old to sing Narcissus pining o'er the mountain spring? In some delicious ramble, he had found A little space, with boughs all woven round, And in the midst of all a clearer pool Than ere reflected in its pleasant cool The blue sky, here and there divinely peeping Through tendril wreaths, fantastically creeping; And on the bank a lonely flower he spied, A meek and forlorn flower with nought of pride, Drooping its beauty o'er the watery clearness To woo its own sweet image unto nearness; Deaf to light Zephyrus, it would not move, But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love; So while the poet stood in this sweet spot; Some fainted dreamings o'er his fancy shot; Nor was it long ere he had told the tale Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo's vale." Keats.

"In thy cavern-hall, Echo! art thou sleeping? By the fountain's fall Dreamy silence keeping? Yet one soft note borne From the shepherd's horn, Wakes thee, Echo! into music leaping, Strange sweet Echo! into music leaping. "Then the woods rejoice, Then glad sounds are swelling, From each sister voice Round thy rocky dwelling; And their sweetness fills All the hollow hills, With a thousand notes of one life telling! Softly mingled notes, of one life telling. "Echo! in my heart Thus deep thoughts are lying, Silent and apart, Buried, yet undying, Till some gentle tone Wakening haply one, Calls a thousand forth, like thee replying! Strange sweet Echo, even like thee replying." Hemans.

"From the forests and highlands, We come, we come! From the river-girt islands, Where the loud waves are dumb, Listening to my sweet pipings. The wind in the reeds and the rushes, The bees in the bells of the lime, The birds in the myrtle bushes, The cicale above in the thyme, And the lizard below in the grass, Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was, Listening to my sweet pipings. Liquid Peneus was flowing, And all dark Tempe lay In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing The light of the dying day, Speeded by my sweet pipings. The Sileni, and Sylvans, and Fauns, And the nymphs of woods, and waves, To the edge of the moist river lawns, And the brink of the dewy caves, And all that did there attendant follow, Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo, With envy of my sweet pipings. "I sang of the dancing stars, I sang of the dædal earth, And of heaven, and giant wars, And love, and death, and birth,— And then I changed my pipings. Singing how down the vale of Menalus, I pursued a maiden and clasped a reed; Gods and men were all deluded thus, It breaks in our bosom and then we bleed: All wept, as I think both ye now would, If envy or age had not frozen your blood, At the sorrow of my sweet pipings."

"Faunus who lov'st, thro' woodland glade, To pursue the Sylvan maid, Pass propitious now, I pray, Where my tender lambkins stray: Let each field and mountain high, Own thy genial presence nigh. Since with each returning year, In thy presence, I appear, With the victim's votive blood, Mighty monarch of the wood, And upon thy sacred shrine, Place the love inspiring wine, And, o'er all that hallowed ground, Make the incense breathe around, Hear O Faunus, hear my prayer, My lands to bless, my flocks to spare. When December's nones return Labour's yoke no more is borne, Sport the cattle in the meads, The blythesome dance the peasant leads, Even, 'mid that time of peace, Beasts of prey their fury cease, The lambkin roams all free and bold, Tho' feeds the wolf beside the fold, Knowing well thy potent arm Then protects from every harm. Lo, to hail the Sylvan king, Woods their leafy honours bring, Strewing in profusion gay, Verdant foliage all the way. Freed from toil, the labourer blythe Flings aside the spade and scythe, Glad to trip in nimble jig, The earth which he dislikes to dig." Horace.

"'Give me,' says he, (nor thought he asked too much,) 'That with my body whatsoe'er I touch, Changed from the nature which it held of old, May be converted into yellow gold:' He had his wish: but yet the god repined, To think the fool no better wish could find. But the brave king departed from the place, With smiles of gladness, sparkling in his face: Nor could contain, but, as he took his way, Impatient longs to make the first essay; Down from a lowly branch a twig he drew, The twig strait glittered with a sparkling hue: He takes a stone, the stone was turned to gold, A clod he touches, and the crumbling mould Acknowledged soon the great transforming power, In weight and substance like a mass of ore. He plucked the corn, and straight his grasp appears, Filled with a bending tuft of golden ears. An apple next he takes, and seems to hold The bright, Hesperian, vegetable gold. His hand he careless on a pillar lays, With shining gold, the fluted pillars blaze. And while he wishes, as the servants pour, His touch converts the stream to Danae's shower." Ovid.

"The ready slaves prepare a sumptuous board, Spread with rich dainties for their happy lord, Whose powerful hands the bread no sooner hold, But its whole substance is transformed to gold: Up to his mouth he lifts the savoury meat, Which turns to gold as he attempts to eat: His patron's noble juice, of purple hue, Touched by his lips a gilded cordial grew: Unfit for drink, and wondrous to behold, It trickles from his jaws a fluid gold. The rich, poor fool confounded with surprize, Staring on all his various plenty lies: Sick of his wish, he now detests the power For which he asked so earnestly before: Amidst his gold with pinching famine curst, And justly tortured with an equal thirst. At last his shining arms to heaven he rears And, in distress, for refuge flies to prayers. 'O father Bacchus, I have sinned,' he cried, 'And foolishly thy gracious gift applied, Thy pity now, repenting, I implore; Oh! may I feel the golden plague no more!'" Ovid.

"'Twas on a day When the immortals at their banquet lay, The bowl Sparkled with starry dew, The weeping of those myriad urns of light, Within whose orbs, the almighty Power At nature's dawning hour Stored the rich fluid of ethereal soul. * * * * * * But oh! Bright Hebe, what a tear, And what a blush were thine, When, as the breath of every Grace Wafted thy feet along the studded sphere With a bright cup, for Jove himself to drink, Some star, that shone beneath thy tread, Raising its amorous head To kiss those matchless feet, And all heaven's host of eyes. Checked thy career so fleet: Entranced, but fearful all, Saw thee, sweet Hebe, prostrate fall. * * * * * * But the bright cup? the nectared draught Which Jove himself was to have quaffed! Alas, alas, upturned it lay By the fallen Hebe's side; While in slow lingering drops, th' ethereal tide, As conscious of its own rich essence, ebbed away," Moore.

———"The realized nymph of the stream, Rising up from the wave, with the bend and the gleam Of a fountain, and o'er her white arms she kept throwing Bright torrents of hair, that went flowing and flowing In falls to her feet, and the blue waters rolled Down her limbs like a garment, in many a fold." Hood.

—————————"The Witch Queen of that place, Even Circe the Cruel, that came like a death Which I feared, and yet fled not, for want of my breath, There was thought in her face, and her eyes were not raised From the grass at her foot, but I saw, as I gazed Her hate—"

——————————"I felt with a start, The life blood rush back in one throb to my heart, And saw the pale lips where the rest of that spell Had perished in terror, and heard the farewell Of that voice that was drowned in the dash of the stream! How fain had I followed, and plunged with that scream Into death, but my being indignantly lagged Thro' the brutalized flesh that I painfully dragged Behind me—" Hood.

"I once had a haunt near a cot. where a mother Daily sat in the shade with her child, and would smother Its eye-lids in kisses, and then in its sleep Sang dreams in its ears, of its manhood, while deep In a thicket of willows I gazed o'er the brooks That murmured between us, and kissed them with looks; But the willows unbosomed their secret, and never I returned to a spot I had startled for ever; Tho' I oft longed to know, but could ask it of none, Was the mother still fair, and how big was her son?" Hood.

"For the haunters of fields, they all shunned me by flight, The men in their horror, the women in fright: None ever remained, save a child once that sported Among the wild blue bells, and playfully courted The breeze; and beside him a speckled snake lay Tight strangled, because it had hissed him away From the flower at his finger; he rose and drew near Like a son of immortals, one born to no fear, But with strength of black locks, and with eyes azure bright, To grow to large manhood of merciful might, He came, with his face of bold wonder, to feel The hair of my side and to lift up my heel, And questioned his face with wide eyes, but when under My lids he saw tears,—for I wept at his wonder, He stroked me, and uttered such kindliness then, That the once love of women, the friendship of men In past sorrow, no kindness, e'er came like a kiss On my heart in its desolate day, such as this And I yearned at his cheeks in my love, and down bent And lifted him up in my arms with intent To kiss him—but he cruel—kindly alas! Held out to my lips a plucked handful of grass! Then I dropped him in horror, but felt as I fled, The stone he indignantly hurled at my head, That dissevered my ear, but I felt not, whose fate, Was to meet more distress in his love his hate!" Hood.

"He met with the same as himself,"

"Now brave Perithous, bold Ixion's son, The love of fair Hippodamé had won. The cloud begotten race, half men, half beast, Invited came to grace the nuptial feast: In a cool cave's recess the treat was made, Whose entrance, trees, with spreading boughs o'ershade, They sat; and summoned by the bridegroom, came, To mix with those, the Lapythæan name: ————————The roofs with joy resound, And Hymen, Iö Hymen, rung around. Raised altars shone with holy fires: the bride Lovely herself, (and lovely by her side A bevy of bright nymphs, with sober grace,) Came glittering like a star, and took her place. Her heavenly form beheld, all wished her joy; And little wanted, but in vain their wishes all employ. For one, most brutal of the brutal brood, Or whether wine or beauty fired his blood, Or both at once, beheld with lustful eyes The bride: at once resolved to make his prize. Down went the board, and fastening on her hair, He seized with sudden force the frighted fair. 'Twas Eurytus began; his bestial kind His crime pursued, and each as pleased his mind On her, whom chance presented, took. The feast An image of a taken town expressed." Ovid.

————————————————"which unveil Their breasts of beauty, and each delicate bud O' the Season, comes in turn to bloom and perish. But first of all the Violet, with an eye Blue as the midnight heavens, the frail snow-drop, Born of the breath of winter, and on his brow, Fixed like a pale and solitary star, The languid hyacinth, and wild primrose, And daisy, trodden down like modesty, The fox-glove, in whose drooping-bells the bee Makes her sweet music: the Narcissus, named From him who died for love, the tangled woodbine Lilacs and flowering limes, and scented thorns, And some from whom the voluptuous winds of June Catch their perfumery." Barry Cornwall.

"Her name Pomona, from her woodland race, In garden culture none could her excel, Or form the pliant souls of plants so well; Or to the fruit more generous flavours lend, Or teach the trees with nobler loads to bend."

"Long had she laboured to continue free From chains of love and nuptial tyranny; And in her orchard's small extent immured, Her vow'd virginity she still secured. Oft would loose Pan, and all the lustful train Of satyrs, tempt her innocence in vain. Vertumnus too pursued the maid no less, But with his rivals, shared a like success." Ovid.

"To gain access, a thousand ways he tries Oft in the hind, the lover would disguise, The heedless lout comes shambling on, and seems Just sweating from the labour of his teams. Then from the harvest, oft the mimic swain Seems bending with a load of bearded grain. Sometimes a dresser of the vine he feigns, And lawless tendrils to their boughs restrains. Sometimes his sword a soldier shews; his rod An angler; still so various is the God. Now, in a forehead cloth some crone he seems, A staff supplying the defect of limbs: Admittance thus he gains; admires the store Of fairest fruit; the fair possessor more; Then greets her with a kiss; th' unpractised dame Admired, a grandame kissed with such a flame. Now seated by her, he beholds a vine, Around an elm in amorous foldings twine, "If that fair elm," he cried, "alone should stand, No grapes would glow with gold, and tempt the hand; Or if that vine without her elm should grow, 'Twould creep a poor neglected shrub below. Be then, fair nymph, by these examples led, Nor shun for fancied fears, the nuptial bed." Ovid.

"On my assurance well you may repose, Vertumnus scarce Vertumnus better knows, True to his choice all looser flames he flies, Nor for new faces fashionably dies. The charms of youth, and every smiling grace, Bloom in his features, and the god confess." Ovid.

"The story oft Vertumnus urged in vain, But then assumed his heavenly form again; Such looks and lustre the bright youth adorn, As when with rays glad Phœbus paints the morn. The sight so warms the fair admiring maid, Like snow she melts, so soon can youth persuade; Consent on eager wings succeeds desire, And both the lovers glow with mutual fire." Ovid.

"I come, I come! ye have called me long, I come o'er the mountains with light and song! Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth, By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass, By the green leaves opening as I pass. I have breathed in the south, and the chesnut flowers, By thousands have burst from the forest bowers, And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes, Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains: But it is not for me in my hour of bloom, To speak of the ruin or the tomb. I have looked o'er the hills of the stormy north, And the larch has hung all his tassels forth, The fisher is out in the stormy sea, And the rein-deer bounds o'er the pastures free, And the fence has a fringe of softer green, And the moss looks bright where my foot hath been. I have sent thro' the wood-paths a glowing sigh, And called out each voice of the deep blue sky; From the night bird's lay thro' the starry time, In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime, To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes, When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks. From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain, They are sweeping on to the silvery main, They are flashing down from the mountain brows, They are flinging spray o'er the forest boughs, They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, And the earth resounds with the joy of waves! Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come! Where the violets lie may be now your home. Ye of the rose-lip and dew-bright eye, And the bounding footstep to meet me fly! With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay, Come forth to the sunshine, I may not stay. Away from the dwellings of care-worn men, The waters are sparkling in grove and glen! Away from the chamber and sullen hearth, The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth! Their light stems thrill to the wild wood strains. And youth is abroad in my green domains. But ye! ye are changed since ye met me last! There is something bright from your features past! There is something come over brow and eye, Which speaks of a world where the flowers must die! Ye smile!—but your smile hath a dimness yet— Oh! what have ye looked on since last we met? Ye are changed, ye are changed! and I see not here All whom I saw in the vanished year! There were graceful heads with their ringlets bright, Which tossed in the breeze with a play of light, There were eyes, in whose glistening laughter lay No faint remembrance of dull decay! There were steps that flew o'er the cowslip's head, As if for a banquet all earth were spread; There were voices that rung thro' the sapphire sky, And had not a sound of mortality! Are they gone? is their mirth from the mountains passed? Ye have looked on death since ye met me last! I know whence the shadow comes o'er you now, Ye have strewn the dust on the sunny brow! Ye have given the lovely to earth's embrace, She hath taken the fairest of beauty's race, With their laughing eyes and their festal crown, They are gone from amongst you in silence down! The Summer is coming, on soft winds borne, Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn! For me I depart to a brighter shore, Ye are marked by care, ye are mine no more, I go where the loved, who have left you, dwell, And the flowers are not death's—farewell, farewell!" Hemans.

A welcome to the summer's pleasant song, A welcome to the summer's golden hour, A welcome to the myriad joys that throng, With a deep loveliness, o'er tree and flower, The earth is glad with beauty, the sky Smiles in calm grandeur over vale and hill, And the breeze murmurs forth a gentle sigh, And the fish leap from out the smiling rill. The town's pale denizens come forth to breathe. The free, fresh air, and lave their fevered brows; And beauty loves young fairy flowers to wreathe Beneath some stately forest's antique boughs. Oh! art hath nought like this, the very air Breatheth of beauty, banishing despair." Francis.

"Come away! the sunny hours Woo thee far to founts and bowers! O'er the very waters now, In their play, Flowers are shedding beauty's glow— Come away! Where the lily's tender gleam Quivers on the glancing stream— Come away! All the air is filled with sound, Soft, and sultry, and profound; Murmurs through the shadowy grass Lightly stray; Faint winds whisper as they pass— Come away; Where the bee's deep music swells From the trembling fox-glove bells— Come away! In the skies the sapphire blue Now hath won its richest hue; In the woods the breath of song Night and day Floats with leafy scents along— Where the boughs with dewy gloom Come away! Darken each thick bed of bloom Come away! In the deep heart of the rose Now the crimson love-hue glows; Now the glow-worm's lamp by night Sheds a ray, Dreamy, starry, freely bright— Come away! Where the fairy cup-moss lies, With the wild-wood strawberries, Come away! Now each tree by summer crowned, Sheds its own night twilight round; Glancing there from sun to shade, Bright wings play; Here the deer its couch hath made— Come away! Where the smooth leaves of the lime Glisten in the honey time, Come away—away! Hemans.

"I saw old Autumn in the misty morn, Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence, for no lonely bird would sing Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn, Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn; Shaking his tangled locks all dewy bright With spangled gossamer that fell by night, Pearling his coronet of golden corn. Where are the songs of summer? with the sun, Opening the dusky eyelids of the south, Till shade and silence waken up alone, And morning sings with a warm odorous mouth. Where are the merry birds? Away, away On panting wings through the inclement skies, Lest owls should prey Undazzled at noon-day, And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes. Where are the blooms of Summer? in the west, Blushing their last to the last sunny hours, When the mild eve by sudden night is prest Like tearful Proserpine, snatched from her flowers To a most gloomy breast. Where is the pride of Summer,—the green prime— The many, many leaves all twinkling?—There On the moss'd elm; three on the naked lime Trembling,—and one upon the old oak tree! Where is the Dryad's immortality? Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew, Or wearing the long, gloomy winter through In the smooth holly's green eternity. The squirrel gloats on his accomplished hoard, The Ants have trimm'd their garners with ripe grain, And honey bees have stored The sweets of summer in their luscious cells; The swallows all have winged across the main; But here the Autumn melancholy dwells, And sighs her tearful spells, Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain. Alone, alone, Upon a mossy stone, She sits and reckons up the dead and gone, With the last leaves for a love-rosary, Whilst all the withered world looks drearily, Like a dim picture of the drowned past In the hushed mind's mysterious far away, Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last Into that distance, grey upon the grey. O go and sit with her, and be o'ershaded Under the languid downfall of her hair; She wears a coronal of flowers faded, Upon her forehead, and a face of care;— There is enough of withered every where To make her bower,—and enough of gloom; There is enough of sadness to invite, If only for the rose that died—whose doom Is beauty's,—she that with the living bloom Of conscious cheeks, most beautifies the light; There is enough of sorrowing, and quite Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear, Enough of chilly droppings for her bowl, Enough of fear and shadowy despair, To frame her cloudy prison for the soul." Hood.

"When first the fiery mantled sun His heavenly race began to run; Round the earth, in ocean blue His children four the Seasons flew;— First, in the green apparel dancing, The young Spring smiled with angel grace; Rosy Summer next advancing, Rushed into her sire's embrace:— Her bright haired sire, who bade her keep For ever nearest to his smiles, On Calpe's olive shaded steep, On India's citron covered isles: Now remote and buxom brown, The queen of vintage bowed before his throne; A rich pomegranate gemmed her crown, A ripe sheaf bound her zone. But howling Winter fled afar, To hills that prop the polar star, And loves on deer-borne car to ride With barren Darkness by his side, Round the shore where loud Lofoden Whirls to death the roaring whale, Round the hall where Runic Oden Howls his war song to the gale; Save when a-down the ravaged globe He travels on his native storm, Deflowering Nature's grassy robe, And trampling on her faded form: Till light's returning lord assume The shaft that drives him to his polar field, Of power to pierce his raven plume, And chrystal covered shield. Oh, sire of storms, whose savage ear The Lapland drum delights to hear, When frenzy with her bloodshot eye Implores thy dreadful deity, Archangel! power of desolation! Fast descending as thou art, Say, hath mortal invocation Spells to touch thy stony heart? Then, sullen Winter, hear my prayer, And gently rule the ruined year; Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare, Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear. To shuddering want's unmantled bed, Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lead, And gently on the orphan head Of innocence descend. But chiefly spare, O King of clouds, The sailor on his airy shrouds; When wrecks and beacons strew the steep, And spectres walk along the deep. Milder yet thy snowy breezes Pour on yonder tented shores, Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes, Or the dark brown Danube roars. Oh, winds of Winter! list ye there To many a deep and dying groan; Or start, ye demons of the midnight air, At shrieks and thunders louder than your own. Alas! e'en your unhallowed breath, May spare the victim fallen low; But man will ask no truce to death, No bounds to human woe." Campbell.

"Three thousand graceful Oceanides Long-stepping, tread the earth, or far and wide Dispersed, they haunt the glassy depth of lakes, A glorious sisterhood of goddess birth." Hesiod.

"Proteus thus to virgin Thetis said, 'Fair goddess of the waves, consent to wed, A son you'll have, the terror of the field, To whom, in fame and power, his sire shall yield.' Jove, who adored the nymph with boundless love, Did, from his breast, the dangerous flame remove; He knew the fates, nor cared to raise up one, Whose fame and greatness, should eclipse his own. On happy Peleus he bestowed her charms, And blessed his grandson in the goddess' arms: —A silent creek Thessalia's coast can show, Two arms project, and shape it like a bow; 'Twould make a bay, but the transparent tide Does scarce the yellow, gravel bottom hide; A grove of fragrant myrtle near it grows, Whose boughs, though thick, a beauteous grot disclose The well wrought fabric, to discerning eyes, Rather by art than nature seem to rise. A bridled dolphin, oft fair Thetis bore To this her loved retreat, her favourite shore: Here Peleus seized her slumbering where she lay, And urged his suit, with all that love could say: The nymph o'erpowered, to art for succour flies, And various shapes the eager youth surprize. A bird she seems, but plies her wings in vain, His hand the fleeting substance still detain: A branchy tree, high in the air she grew, About its bark, his nimble arms he threw: A tiger next she glares with flaming eyes, The frightened lover quits his hold and flies. The sea-gods he with sacred rites adores, Then a libation on the ocean pours; While the fat entrails crackle in the fire, And sheets of smoke in sweet perfume aspire: Till Proteus, rising from his oozy bed, Thus to the poor, desponding lover said, 'No more in anxious thoughts your mind employ, For yet you shall possess the dear, expected joy, You must once more the unwary nymph surprize, As in her cooly grot she slumbering lies: Then bind her fast with unrelenting hands, And strain her tender limbs with knotted bands; Still hold her under every distant shape, Till tired, she tries no longer to escape? Thus he then sunk beneath the glassy flood, And broken accents fluttered where he stood. Bright Sol had almost now his journey done, And down the steepy, western convex run; When the fair Nereid left the briny wave, And, as she used, retreated to her cave, He scarce had bound her fast, when she arose, And into various shapes her body throws; She went to move her arms, then found them tied, Then with a sigh 'Some god assists,' she cried, And in her proper shape stood blushing by his side." Dryden.

"Old Triton blowing his sea horn." Wordsworth.

"The shepherd of the seas, a prophet, and a god, High o'er the main, in watery pomp he rides, His azure car and finny coursers guides. With sure foresight, and with unerring doom He sees what is, and was, and is to come." Virgil.

————————"Blue Proteus dwells, Great Neptune's prophet, who the ocean quells; He in a glittering chariot courses o'er The foaming waves, him all the nymphs adore, Old Nereus too, because he all things knows, The past, the present, and the future shows; So Neptune pleased who Proteus thus inspired, And with such wages to his service hired, Gave him the rule of all his briny flocks, That feed among a thousand ragged rocks."

"The Proteus lover woos his playful bride, To win the fair he tries a thousand forms, Basks on the sands, or gambols in the storms. A dolphin now, his scaly sides he laves; And bears the sportive damsel on the waves; She strikes the cymbals as he moves along, And wondering Ocean listens to the song. And now a spotted pard the lover stalks, Plays round her steps, and guards her favoured walks; As with white teeth he prints her hand, caressed, And lays his velvet paw upon her breast, O'er his round face her snowy fingers strain The silken knots and fit the ribbon-rein. And now a swan he spreads his plumy sails, And proudly glides before the fanning gales; Pleased on the flowery brink with graceful hand She waves her floating lover to the land; Bright shines his sinuous neck with crimson beak, He prints fond kisses on her glowing cheek, Spreads his broad wings, elates his ebon crest, And clasps the beauty to his downy breast." Darwin.

"Oh many a voice is thine thou wind! Full many a voice is thine, From every scene thy wing o'ersweeps Thou bear'st a sound and sign; A minstrel wild and strong thou art, With a mastery all thine own, And the spirit is thy harp, O wind! That gives the answering tone. "Thou hast been across red fields of war, Where shivered helmets lie, And thou bringest thence the thrilling note Of a clarion in the sky: A rustling of proud banner folds, A peal of stormy drums,— All these are in thy music met, As when a leader comes. "Thou hast been o'er solitary seas, And from their wastes brought back Each noise of waters that awoke In the mystery of thy track; The chime of low, soft southern waves On some green palmy shore, The hollow roll of distant surge, The gathered billows roar. "Thou art come from forests dark and deep, Thou mighty, rushing wind! And thou bearest all their unisons In one, full swell combined; The restless pines, the moaning stream, All hidden things and free, Of the dim, old sounding wilderness, Have lent their soul to thee. "Thou art come from cities lighted up For the conqueror passing by, Thou art wafting from their streets, a sound Of haughty revelry: The rolling of triumphant wheels, The harpings in the hall, The far off shout of multitudes, Are in thy rise and fall. "Thou art come from kingly tombs and shrines, From ancient minsters vast, Through the dark aisles of a thousand years Thy lonely wing hath passed; Thou hast caught the anthem's billowy swell, The stately dirge's tone; For a chief, with sword and shield, and helm, To his place of slumber's gone. "Thou art come from long forsaken homes, Wherein our young days flew, Thou hast found sweet voices lingering there, The loved, the kind, the true! Thou callest back those melodies, Though now all changed and fled, Be still, be still, and haunt us not With music from the dead! "Are all these notes in thee, wild wind? These many notes in thee? Far in our own unfathomed souls Their fount must surely be; Yes! buried, but unsleeping, there; Thought watches, memory lies, From whose deep urn the tones are poured Through all earth's harmonies." Hemans.

SONGS OF THE WINDS. "We are free! we are free! in our home the skies, When we calmly sleep, or in tumult rise, When we smile on the vision-like realms below, Or vengefully utter the chords of woe. When we dance in the sunbeams, or laughingly play With the spring clouds that fly from our kisses away, When we grapple and fight with the bellowing foam, Or slumber and sleep in our shadowless home." NORTH WIND. "I've blastingly wandered Where nature doth pant; And gloomily pondered O'er sadness and want. An old man was sighing O'er angel lips gone, His cherub was dying, And he was alone. On his grey locks I clotted An ice-crown cold,— His sinews I knotted; His tale is told." SOUTH WIND. "I met two young lovers, And listed their vows, Where the woodbine covers The old oak boughs. Enhancing their pleasures I fluttered around. And joined with glad measures Their soft sighs' sound. They blessed me for bringing Sweet perfumes near, They blessed me for singing A cadence so dear." EAST WIND. "I've wafted through bowers Where angels might muse, And kiss their bright flowers Of loveliest hues. And maidens were singing Of beauty and love, Their symphonies ringing, Resounded above. I parted the tresses, From fairy-like brows, Where the lily impresses Its earliest vows." WEST WIND. "I've rolled o'er the regions Of earth and sea, And laughed at the legions That trembled at me. I've madly gambolled With clouds and waves; And closed, as I rambled, My victim's grave. I've roared and I've revelled, With fiend-like glee, Earth's palaces levelled, Wrecks dashed o'er the sea." CHORUS. "We are free, we are free, in our realms of air, We list to no sorrow, we own no care; We hold our carousals aloft with the stars, Where they glitter along in their golden cars, We frolic and bound with the playful wave, Which the prison-like confines of earth doth lave; We are glad, we are glad, and in breeze or in blast, We will sport round the world as long as 'twill last." Jennings.

"O, poor Alcyone! What were thy feelings on the stormy strand, When thou saw'st Ceyx borne a corse to land? O, I could weep with thee, And sit whole tides upon the pebbly shore, And listen to the waves lamenting roar, O, poor Alcyone! But now thy stormy passion past, Thou upon the wave at last, Buildest, from all tempest free, Thou and Ceyx, side by side, Charming the distempered tide, O, dear Alcyone!"

"Who, as they sung, would take the prisoned soul, And lap it in Elysium: Scylla wept And chid her barking waves into attention, And fell Charybdis murmured soft applause." Ovid.

"Upon the beech a winding bay there lies, Sheltered from seas, and shaded from the skies; This station Scylla chose; a soft retreat From chilling winds and raging cancer's heat. The vengeful sorceress visits this recess, Her charm infuses, and infects the place. Soon as the nymph wades in, her nether parts Turn into dogs, then at herself she starts. A ghastly horror in her eyes appears But yet she knows not what it is she fears, In vain she offers from herself to run, And drag's about her what she strives to shun. "Oppressed with grief the pitying god appears, And swells the rising surges with his tears; From the detested sorceress he flies, Her art reviles, and her address denies, Whilst happless Scylla, changed to rocks, decrees Destruction to those barks that beat the seas." Garth.

———"The fates, in vengeance pitiless; Who at the birth of men dispense the lot Of good and evil. They of men and gods The crimes pursue, nor ever pause from wrath Tremendous, till destructive on the head Of him that sins the retribution falls." Hesiod.

"The three Parcæ, Fates fair offspring born, The world's great spindle as its axle turn; Round which eight spheres in beauteous order run, And as they turn, revolving Time is spun, Whose motions all things upon earth ordain, Whence revolutions date their fickle reign. These robed in white, at equal distance throned, Sit o'er the spheres, and twirl the spindle round, On each of which a syren loudly sings, As from the wheel the fatal thread she flings; The Parcæ answer, in the choir agree And all those voices make one harmony."