Classic Poem

CANTO THE SIXTH .

That moment fled: — asham'd of the surprize,
To Philomela she averts her eyes;
Looks at them both by turns, and then exclaims,
" That little Wretch the rights of Nature blames:
He gives me words — my Sister there — is mute.
She has no language — baffled is her suit.
He calls me by a name to Love endear'd,
From her the name of Sister is not heard.
See what a Husband, Progne , has been thine!
Foe to Pandion's race — no abject line —
A race of Heroes, mark'd with " good ," and " great " —
Shall their proud offspring be degenerate?
The Wife, the Parent, is in fury lost,
The torch of Hymen shall away be toss'd;
For Tereus is the Husband , and the Sire —
What faith, what pity, can a Fiend inspire? "
She hurried, and withdrew the Child away,
As the fierce tiger makes the fawn its prey;
Then in a deep recess, from view remote,
" Oh — Mother , " as it cried — the Infant smote;
In vain his little arms to fold her aim'd,
In vain his piteous look the Mother claim'd;
She pierc'd his bleeding side, and saw him bleed:
Her savage eye with insult mark'd the deed;
He perish'd, and his gentle spirit fled;
His breathless form, a hideous ruin, bled;
The sever'd head was Philomela's prize,
And Fury gave its language to her eyes;
The murder'd Infant's mangled flesh was made
Part of a banquet, for the King display'd;
" He was to share with none the Regal feast,
Nor, till the dish was clear, to be releas'd: "
With an Athenian usage to concur,
He took it up, as interesting her .
But counterfeit the tale. — His dish was clear'd —
No fraud suspected — no resentments fear'd —
" Where is my Child? " he ask'd — " My Itys! where? "
No more dissembling — " You possess him there , "
His Queen reply'd — and pointed at the King.
But still he question'd — " Hither Itys bring, "
He fondly said. — When, mute in vain the tongue ,
Accusing Eloquence before him sprung,
A living apparition from the tomb,
Hurl'd at the Fiend his exemplary doom:
Loose was her clotted hair, in sanguine hue;
Her lifted arm its hideous present threw.
She look'd a vengeance, that no words could reach,
The very gesture was a pictur'd speech.
" King! " said his Wife — " your feast has been your Son;
That precious banquet you have richly won; —
A ravish'd Princess — a dishonour'd Queen —
With no revenge of cowards mar the scene;
They have abjur'd all Nature — to be just;
And murder is the recompence of lust! "
The tortur'd King half doubts the hideous dream;
The Furies come, their pledges to redeem.
Apt was their scholar at the murdering sword;
Revenge he suffer'd, and revenge implor'd;
Stung with despair, shook off the mourner's part,
And would have pierc'd these tigers to the heart: —
But they were birds; though bleeding was their breast,
And marks upon the wing their shame confess'd.
One, to the night her melody inspir'd,
With a new eloquence of passion fir'd;
The other built with straw her creeping nest,
Or captive insects in her flight possess'd;
Arm'd with extended beak, and crested head,
A lapwing, Tereus , from his palace fled;
With yelling sounds of discord rent the air,
And scream'd as if the herald of despair.
No Muse can paint, in words that reach the doom,
A venerable Parent's living tomb,
Which Death, before his years their course had run,
Before the destinies their web had spun,
In mercy to his torments, and his worth,
Clos'd in the dark oblivion of the earth.