ORIGINAL POEMS BY BARRY CORNWALL AND W. C. BENNETT.[8]

If I may choose (out of our travelled bands) Friend or companion to make bright, the way; Or draw the grandeur out from Orient lands, Where Libanus mounts up and meets the day; Or face, midst trackless, boundless, burning sands, The Desert Silence—as it pants for prey; Be thou (oh Author of Eothen), mine; Who show'st whate'er the region, stern or gay, Whate'er the scene—life, death, sublime decay, For all fine things, and apprehension fine. 'Tis well to ride abroad on the untamed waves; To shoot the desert with the camel's speed; To muse o'er discrowned Egypt's wondrous graves, And trace her story downwards, deed by deed; Yet, half the lustre of our life were hid, Our travel idle, meditation nought, Without such friend in give back thought for thought, From waste and sea, mountain and pyramid. Barry Cornwall.

Morn rose on Naxos,—golden dewy morn, Climbing its eastern cliffs with gleaming light, Purpling each inland peak and dusky gorge Of the gray distance,—morn, on lowland slopes, Of olive-ground and vines and yellowing corn, Orchard and flowery pasture, white with kine, On forest, hillside cot, and rounding sea, And the still tent of Theseus by the shore. Morn rose on Naxos—chill and freshening morn, Nor yet the unbreathing air a twitter heard From eave or bough,—nor yet a blue smoke rose From glade or misty vale, or far-off town; One only sign of life, a dusky sail, Stole afar across the distant sea, Flying; all else unmoved in stillness lay Beneath the silence of the brightening heavens, Nor sound was heard to break the slumbrous calm, Save the soft lapse of waves along the strand. A white form from the tent,—a glance,—a cry. Where art thou, Theseus?—Theseus! Theseus! where? Why hast thou stolen thus with earliest dawn, Forth from thy couch—forth from these faithless arms, That even in slumber should have clasped thee still! Truant! ah me! and hast thou learnt to fly So early from thy Ariadne's love! Where art thou? Is it well to fright me thus,—— To scare me for a moment with the dread Of one abandoned! Art thou in the woods With all that could have told me where thou art! Cruel! and couldst thou not have left me one, Ere this to have laughed away my idle fears! He could have told thee all—the start—the shriek—— The pallid face, with which I found thee gone, And furnished laughter for thy glad return; But thus! to leave me, cruel! thus alone! There is no sound of horns among the hills, No shouts that tell they track or bay the boar. O fearful stillness! O that one would speak! O would that I were fronting wolf or pard But by thy side this moment! so strange fear Possesses me, O love! apart from thee; The galley? gone? Ye Gods! is it not gone? Here, by this rock it lay but yesternight. Gone! through this track its keel slid down by the shore; And I slept calmly as it cleft the sea. Gone? gone? where gone?—that sail! 'tis his! 'tis his! Return, O Theseus! Theseus! love! return! Thou wilt return. Thou dost but try my love? Thou wilt return to make my foolish fears Thy jest. Return, and I will laugh with thee! Return! return! and canst thou hear my shrieks, Nor heed my cry! And wouldst thou have me weep, Weep! I that wept—white with wild fear—the while Thou slew'st the abhorred monster! If it be Thou takest pleasure in these bitter tears, Come back, and I will weep myself away—— A streaming Niobe—to win thy smiles! O stony heart! why wilt thou wring me thus! O heart more cold unto my shrilling cries Than these wild hills that wail to thee, return, Than all these island rocks that shriek, return. Come back! Thou seest me rend this blinding hair; Hast thou not sworn each tress thou didst so prize, That sight of home, and thy gray father's face, Were less a joy to thee, and lightlier held! Thy sail! thy sail! O do my watery eyes Take part with thee, so loved! to crush me down! Gone! Gone! and wilt thou—wilt thou not return? Heartless, unfearing the just Gods, wilt thou, Theseus! my lord! my love! desert me thus! Thus leave me, stranger in this strange wild land, Friendless, afar from all I left for thee, Crete, my old home, and my ancestral halls, My father's love, and the remembered haunts Of childhood,—all that knew me—all I knew—— All—all—woe! woe! that I shall know no more. Why didst thou lure me, craftiest, from my home? There if, thy love grown cold, thou thus hadst fled, I had found comfort in fond word and smiles Familiar, and the pity of my kin, Tears wept with mine—tears wept by loving eyes, That had washed out thy traces from my heart, Perchance, in years, had given me back to joy. O that thy steps had never trodden Crete! O that these eyes had never on thee fed! O that, weak heart! I ne'er had looked my love. Or looking, thou hadst thrust it back with hate! Did I not save thee? I? was it for this, Despite Crete's hate—despite my father's wrath, Perchance to slay me, that I ventured all For thee—for thee—forgetting all for thee! Thou know'st it all,—who knows it if not thou, Save the just Gods—the Gods who hear my cry, And mutter vengeance o'er thy flying head, Forsworn! And, lo! on thy accused track Rush the dread furies; lo! afar I see The hoary Ægeus, watching for his son, His son that nears him still with hastening oars, Unknown, that nears him but to dash him down, Moaning, to darkness and the dreadful shades The while, thy grief wails after him in vain: And, lo, again the good Gods glad my sight With vengeance; blood again, thy blood, I see Streaming;—who bids Hippolytus depart But thou—thou, sword of lustful Phædra's hate Against thy boy—thy son—thy fair-haired boy; I see the ivory chariot whirl him on—— The maddened horses down the rocky way Dashing—the roaring monster in their path; And plates and ivory splinters of the car, And blood and limbs, sprung from thee, crushed and torn, Poseidon scatters down the shrieking shores; And thou too late—too late, bewail'st in vain. Thy blindness and thy hapless darling's fate. And think'st of me, abandoned, and my woe; Thou who didst show no pity, to the Gods Shrieking for pity, that my vengeful cries Drag thee not down unto the nether gloom, To endless tortures and undying woe. Dread Gods! I know these things shall surely be! But other, wilder whispers throng my ears, And in my thought a fountain of sweet hope Mingles its gladness with my lorn despair. Lo! wild flushed faces reel before mine eyes. And furious revels, dances, and fierce glee, Are round me,—tossing arms and leaping forms. Skin-clad and horny-hoofed, and hands that clash Shrill cymbals, and the stormy joy of flutes And horns, and blare of trumpets, and all hues Of Iris' watery bow, on bounding nymphs, Vine-crowned and thyrsus-sceptred, and one form, God of the roaring triumph, on a car Golden and jewel-lustred, carved and bossed, As by Hephæstus, shouting, rolls, along, Jocund and panther-drawn, and through the sun, Down, through the glaring splendor, with wild bound, Leaps, as he nears me, and a mighty cup, Dripping, with odorous nectar, to my lips Is raised, and mad sweet mirth—frenzy divine Is in my veins—hot love burns through mine eyes, And o'er the roar and rout I roll along, Throned by the God, and lifted by his love Unto forgetfulness of mortal pains, Up to the prayers and praise and awe of earth. W. C. B.