Classic Poem

AN IDYL .

“O God Apollo! from thy sacred haunts,
God of all life and life-preserving plants,—
O saving God!—God beautiful and mild!—
Take pity on my son, my only child;
Take pity on his mother's tears and sighs,
Think that for him, who here abandoned dies,
She only lives, and grant not in thine ire
That she should live to see her son expire!
Young God! do thou assist his youth, and tame—
Tame in his breast that wild and feverish flame
That feeds upon the flower of his young life;
And if, Apollo, from this deadly strife
Victorious, and, escaped the Stygian shore,
He tends the flocks of Menelus once more,
These hands, these aged hands, will offer up
And at thy statue hang my onyx cup,
And in the summer time of every year
Shall at thy altar bleed the bellowing steer!

“But ah! my son, can'st thou so cruel lie,
And not one soft consoling word reply?
And wilt thou leave me thus? and canst thou wish to die?
Canst thou be deaf to all my sighs and prayers?
And leave me here alone with my white hairs?
And dost thou wish that I should close thine eyes,
And place thy ashes where thy father lies?
These pious cares are thine: as natural debts
My tomb expects thy tears and thy regrets.
Speak, speak, my son, what anguish dost thou feel?—
Those ills are worse that madly we conceal.
Oh! wilt thou never raise those heavy lids?”

“Farewell, dear mother, death thy prayer forbids.
Oh! best beloved, thou hast no more a son,
And I must leave thee—oh! thou widowed one!
A burning ulcer eats my very heart,
I breathe with pain, and every moment start,
And think, each struggling sigh will be my last.
Adieu!—This tender couch where I am cast
Wounds me—this light coverlet weighs down
My weakness; like a burning crown
The very air weighs on my throbbing head;
A heavy atmosphere around is spread,
In which I faint, my mother, and expire.”

“Oh! stay, my only child, a quickening fire
Lies in this draught, which will thy strength renew;
Mallows and ditany, poppies of scarlet hue,
All plants whose powerful juices give repose,
Are here. A fair Thessalian, by my woes
Melted, and moved to pity one so young,
Has o'er the seething cup her strong enchantments sung
These three days past that here I watch and weep,
No food have thy lips known, nor thine eyes sleep.
Take it, my son, yield to my frequent sighs
Think from thy old disconsolate mother's eyes
Those tears descend,—that mother who of old
Guided thy little feet—whose arms did fold
Thy tender frame—whose ever-sheltering breast
Pillowed thee oft in childhood's happy rest—
Who taught thee first to speak the words of love—
Who with my cheerful songs did often move
Thy tiny lips to smile, and hush thy cries
When thy young teeth forced tears from out thine eyes
Press with thy lips,—alas! now pale and cold,—
By which this breast was sweetly pressed of old,
This juice, which comes thy sinking life to raise,
As my milk nourished thee in childhood's days!”

“O hills of Erymanthus!—O ye vales!—
O woods, where breathe the soft sonorous gales,
Making the leaves to dance, the waves to moan,
And o'er each youthful bosom the white zone
Of their light garments rustling, of that band
Of graceful nymphs who bless the Arcadian land!
My mother, dost thou know it?—on the banks
Of Erymanthus; there no wolves make thin the ranks
Of the young lambs, nor serpent's poison'd prongs.
O countenance divine!—O festivals!—O songs!—
Feet interlaced, and crystal waves and flowers!—
Such loveliness exhausting nature's powers.
Gods! shall I never more those flowers behold?
Those arms, those snowy feet, those locks of waving gold?
Oh! bear me, bear me to the happy shore
Of Erymanthus, that I may see once more
The charming maid, and, watching from afar,
See from her roof the smoke curl to the evening star!
Too happy father, venerable sage,
Her tender voice enchants thy green old age.
Gods! where on high in verdant ramparts rise
The fragrant hedges—there, with tearful eyes,
And look of pensive melancholy gloom,
And scattered tresses, leaning o'er a tomb,
I see her weep her mother's mortal doom:
How tender are thine eyes!—how fair thy face!
Wilt thou, too, come and weep upon the place
Where I lie buried, and, as close the gates
Of my cold tomb, exclaim, ‘How cruel are the Fates!’”

“My son—my son, 'tis love's insensate glow
That thus has wounded thy poor bosom so.
Love is the torment of all breasts below;
If all men's hearts, who weep unseen, were bare,
All would perceive that Love is tyrant there.
But say, my son, what charming nymph is this?
Whom hast thou seen—what virgin shape of bliss?
Wert thou not rich and fair, ere sorrow's power
Had killed on thy young cheek the roseate flower?
Speak—is it Æglé, Neptune's darling care?
Or young Irené, with her waving hair?
Or that proud beauty,—she whose name I hear
Spoken each day, and wafted far and near,—
That lovely Daphne?” “What is this I hear?
Ah! peace, my mother!—speak not so loud;
She is, alas! inflexible and proud—
Like the immortals, terrible and fair!
A thousand lovers did in vain declare
Their love, and with the same disdain
She would have spurned my passion and my pain.
My daring love, oh! never let her hear.
But—death and torment!—oh! my mother dear,
Thou seest how I perish thus in grief,
List to my prayer, and come to my relief.
Go seek her; let thy locks of silvery hue,
Thine age, thy features, offer to her view
Her mother's sacred form revived in you!
This basket take, with choicest fruit supplied,
Our ivory Cupid take, the hamlet's pride,
The onyx cup at Corinth won in strife,
Take my young kids,—oh! take my heart—my life,—
Throw all before her feet, let thy tears run,
Say that I die, that thou hast lost thy son;
Fall at the old man's feet, embrace his knees,
Adjure all gods and temples, skies and seas!
Go! and, if back thou comest, the prize not won—
Adieu! my mother, thou hast lost thy son!”

“Hope tells my heart that he shall still be mine”—
In a sweet silence down she doth incline,
Covers his forehead, dulled with grief, not years,
With soft maternal kisses mixed with tears;
Then forth she hastes, alarm her old eyes dims,
Tottering she goes, with trembling heart and limbs;
Arrives, and, soon returning, cries with joy—
Panting she cries—“Thou'lt live, my darling boy.”
The old man, smiling, follows to the place;
The fair young girl, with bashful rosy face,
Enters, and throws a glance upon the bed;
The youth, as bashful, fain would hide his head
Beneath the coverlet. “Three days have flown,”
She says, “and thou, my friend, no fête hath known;
What makes thee ill?—why would'st thou die? They say
That I can cure thee; live, then, live, I pray,
And let us in one family combine;
My parent gains a son—a daughter thine!”