Classic Poem

First Song, The: Lines 655–806

Near to the shore that border'd on the rock
No merry swain was seen to feed his flock,
No lusty neatherd thither drove his kine,
Nor boorish hogherd fed his rooting swine:
A stony ground it was, sweet herbage fail'd:
Nought there but weeds, which Limos, strongly nail'd,
Tore from their mother's breast to stuff his maw.
No crab-tree bore his load, nor thorn his haw.
As in a forest well complete with deer
We see the hollies, ashes, everywhere
Robb'd of their clothing by the browsing game:
So near the rock all trees where'er you came,
To cold December's wrath stood void of bark.
Here danc'd no nymph, no early-rising lark
Sung up the ploughman and his drowsy mate:
All round the rock['s] barren and desolate.
In midst of that huge pile was Limos' cave.
Full large and round, wherein a miller's knave
Might for his horse and quern have room at will:
Where was out-drawn by some enforced skill
What mighty conquests were achiev'd by him.
First stood the siege of great Jerusalem,
Within whose triple wall and sacred city—
(Weep, ye stone-hearted men! oh, read and pity!
'Tis Sion's cause invokes your briny tears:
Can any dry eye be when she appears
As I must sing her? oh, if such there be,
Fly, fly th' abode of men! and hasten thee
Into the desert, some high mountain under,
Or at thee boys will hiss, and old men wonder)—
Here sits a mother weeping, pale and wan,
With fixed eyes, whose hopeless thoughts seem'd ran
How (since for many days no food she tasted,
Her meal, her oil consum'd, all spent, all wasted)
For one poor day she might attain supply,
And desp'rate of aught else, sit, pine, and die.
At last her mind meets with her tender child
That in the cradle lay (of osiers wild),
Which taken in her arms, she gives the teat,
From whence the little wretch with labour great
Not one poor drop can suck: whereat she, wood,
Cries out, O Heaven! are all the founts of food
Exhausted quite? and must my infant young
Be fed with shoes? yet wanting those ere long,
Feed on itself? No, first the room that gave
Him soul and life shall be his timeless grave:
My dugs, thy best relief, through griping hunger
Flow now no more, my babe; then since no longer
By me thou canst be fed, nor any other,
Be thou the nurse and feed thy dying mother.
Then in another place she straight appears,
Seething her suckling in her scalding tears.
From whence not far the painter made her stand
Tearing his sod flesh with her cruel hand
In gobbets which she ate. O cursed womb,
That to thyself art both the grave and tomb.
A little sweet lad, there, seems to entreat
With held up hands his famish'd sire for meat,
Who wanting aught to give his hoped joy
But throbs and sighs; the over-hungry boy,
For some poor bit in dark nooks making quest,
His satchel finds, which grows a gladsome feast
To him and both his parents. Then, next day
He chews the points wherewith he us'd to play:
Devouring last his books of every kind,
They fed his body which should feed his mind:
But when his satchel, points, books all were gone,
Before his sire he droops, and dies anon.
In height of art then had the workman done,
A pious, zealous, most religious son,
Who on the enemy excursion made,
And spite of danger strongly did invade
Their victuals' convoy, bringing from them home
Dri'd figs, dates, almonds, and such fruits as come
To the beleag'ring foe, and sates the want
Therewith of those who from a tender plant
Bred him a man for arms: thus oft he went,
And stork-like sought his parents' nourishment,
Till fates decreed he on the Roman spears
Should give his blood for them who gave him theirs.
A million of such throes did Famine bring
Upon the city of the mighty king,
Till, as her people, all her buildings rare
Consum'd themselves and dimm'd the lightsome air.
Near this the curious pencil did express
A large and solitary wilderness,
Whose high well-limned oaks in growing show'd
As they would ease strong Atlas of his load:
Here underneath a tree in heavy plight,
Her bread and pot of water wasted quite,
Egyptian Hagar, nipp'd with hunger fell,
Sat robb'd of hope: her infant Ishmael,
Far from her being laid, full sadly seem'd
To cry for meat, his cry she naught esteem'd,
But kept her still, and turn'd her face away,
Knowing all means were bootless to assay
In such a desert; and since now they must
Sleep their eternal sleep, and cleave to dust,
She chose apart to grasp one death alone,
Rather than by her babe a million.
Then Eresichthon's case in Ovid's song
Was portrayed out; and many more along
The insides of the cave, which were descried
By many loop-holes round on every side.
These fair Marina view'd, left all alone,
The cave fast shut, Limos for pillage gone;
Near the wash'd shore 'mong roots and breers and thorns,
A bullock finds, who delving with his horns
The hurtless earth (the while his tough hoof tore
The yielding turf) in furious rage he bore
His head among the boughs that held it round,
While with his bellows all the shores resound:
Him Limos kill'd, and hal'd with no smail pain
Unto the rock; fed well; then goes again:
Which serv'd Marina fit, for had his food
Fail'd him, her veins had fail'd their dearest blood.
Now great Hyperion left his golden throne
That on the dancing waves in glory shone,
For whose declining on the western shore
The oriental hills black mantles wore,
And thence apace the gentle twilight fled,
That had from hideous caverns ushered
All-drowsy Night, who in a car of jet,
By steeds of iron-grey, which mainly sweat
Moist drops on all the world, drawn through the sky,
The helps of darkness waited orderly.
First thick clouds rose from all the liquid plains;
Then mists from marishes, and grounds whose veins
Were conduit-pipes to many a crystal spring;
From standing pools and fens were following
Unhealthy fogs; each river, every rill
Sent up their vapours to attend her will
These pitchy curtains drew 'twixt earth and heaven,
And as Night's chariot through the air was driven,
Clamour grew dumb, unheard was shepherd's song,
And silence girt the woods; no warbling tongue
Talk'd to the Echo; satyrs broke their dance,
And all the upper world lay in a trance.
Only the curled streams soft chidings kept;
And little gales that from the green leaf swept
Dry summer's dust, in fearful whisp'rings stirr'd,
As loath to waken any singing bird.
Darkness no less than blind Cimmerian
Of Famine's cave the full possession wan,
Where lay the shepherdess inwrapt with night,
The wished garment of a mournful wight.
Here silken slumbers and refreshing sleep
Were seldom found; with quiet minds those keep,
Not with disturbed thoughts; the beds of kings
Are never press'd by them, sweet rest enrings
The tired body of the swarty clown,
And oft'ner lies on flocks than softest down.English