Lysippe—Chilonis. Lysippe. Chilonis, whither? Chilonis. To the town—— Lysippe. So late? Chilonis. It is but twilight yet— Lysippe. ’Tis true—but night Is hovering— Chilonis. Oh! the night hour is so sweet!— Hyperion’s curls have heated the red day; The eve is cool and fresh.— Lysippe. And thy young child Remains at home, alone?— Chilonis. No—she who nurs’d My infancy, now watches hers, Erybæa— She is a faithful guard.— Lysippe. The aged yield Soon to the power of sleep—above their lids Wave but a feather from old Somnus’ couch, And straight they droop, and dose—the night is dreary, Dismal, and dangerous, to the slumbering child. The Lamias wander round, the fierce Empusa Glides unseen to their couches.— Chilonis. Have the girls Of Thessaly been telling thee these tales? Lysippe. Tales!—ask Areta, she who lately scorn’d The warning, in her confidence, now weeps Bereav’d of her sweet child.— Chilonis. Thou startlest me With these strange words—speak, art thou serious? Lysippe. Yes; With serious brow speak I of serious things. I will relate nought but the truth—thou know’st How strong the ancient friendship was between My husband and Aretas—they had dwelt Neighbours of years, and daily met to pass Some hours in social converse, while the children Play’d mirthfully their own light-hearted games Around their thoughtful sires.—Areta’s self At twilight came oft to my cheerful home To talk of earlier days, when we were young, In the full bloom of grief-less maidenhood; And of our husband’s tempers, soured by time, Much had we to relate, as women have When they may speak unfearing;—by us sat Our female children, who, when weary grown, Droop’d into sleep, though oftener listening sat The elder ones in silence. Once Areta Spoke, and I thought unwisely, to her child— “My sweet Iambe seek thy home,” she said, “For sleep hath risen from his cave of night “To kiss thy dewy eyelids. Go, my child, “I well may trust thee to thy guidance, for “Thy wisdom is beyond thy tender years; “For six times only hath my pleased eye seen “The wreath’d-crown’d day that gave thee to my arms, “And yet thy wisdom wins my praise.”—She spoke, And kissed her daughter’s lip. In vain my fears I told, and pray’d her not alone to send Iambe—but she smil’d—boasted her sense, And sent her home. Late when (herself return’d) She sought her infant’s couch, most horribly Her levity was punished; by its side Stood the Empusa, bending eagerly Over the slumbering child!—most deadly pale, Lean, faded, famine-worn, the horrid face— While o’er the blue lips gush’d a stream of blood, Staining the marble breast and livid frame. Fast on the infant’s neck and its red lip The midnight spectre press’d, and touch’d its cheek With murderous kisses, drawing with its blood Life’s blossoms from its heart;—shrieking aloud Towards her child the hapless mother rush’d; But the pale spectre glided from her sight Upon her motionless feet!—The mother rain’d Soft living kisses on the faded lip Of her wan child, repeated oft its name, Warm’d its cold cheek within her burning breast. But vainly!—all was vain!—it was a corse, And life returned no more! Chilonis. Most horrible The story thou hast told. The cool night air Shall tempt my steps no further—I will fly To save my babe from Lamia’s bloody kiss. Ah, hapless lot of mothers!—scarce begins The infant life to dawn, when adverse Powers Threaten its safety,—does the birth-hour’s guard, Majestic Hera, grant them to our vows, That Hecate may send up Hades’ spawn, Lamia, to torture and destroy?——Oh, haste! Methinks I see the pallid spectre stand Close to my infant’s couch!— Lysippe. Nay, coward, stay!— But now so bold, and now so struck by fear! Still in extremes—look, scarcely glitters yet One star above us. Seat thee by the spring; I’ll fill the shining vases, and then go Home to protect thy child. Chilonis. ’Tis Lamia!—see! Empusa, spare my babe!—a kid shall pour Its life-blood to thy honour. Lysippe. This is madness. Or idle folly. Lamia never hears Nor grants a pious prayer,—wild outcries, curses, And terrible wrath alone can banish her. Knowest thou her story?—I will tell it thee. She is the child of a forbidden love; For the bright Lybia bore her to her son Belus, rich Egypt’s ruler.—Beautiful As is that star o’ the waters, Lotus, born Of her own native Nile, was Lamia’s youth;— Fair as the immortals, she believ’d herself Of an immortal nature, therefore scorn’d All love of mortal man—the eternal Gods Bright in eternal beauty, changeless youth, She e’en disdained—coldly her eye pass’d o’er, Chilling and dimming the resplendent light Of their celestial brows. But then with love The crowned one beheld her; his soft voice, His mild yet terrible eye, his glowing locks, His grand majestic brow, on which were thron’d Wisdom, and power, and empire; these she saw, And seeing worshipp’d. His dread thunderbolts Fell at her feet,—himself into her arms! But Hera, the Olympian queen, beheld How Lamia dar’d to bless the lightning’s lord, And fear’d another Hero might arise From this new mortal beauty, to achieve A throne in her Olympus. As she was The ruler of the birth-hour, she came down And blew a dead curse o’er the anguish’d form Of hapless Lamia. The young blossom felt, Even in the bosom of its parent stem, The withering of that curse; and shrunk, and died, Shunning to see the light. Keen agonies Seiz’d on the tortur’d mother, and amidst Her throes of mortal anguish, a cold corse Was all that fill’d her arms;—then frenzy came— Loud wept the desolate one, and wildly beat Her tender breasts to wounds, and madly tore Her fruitful body, now the living grave Of her engender’d hopes. Grief’s blighting hand Pass’d o’er the blossoms of her loveliness, And straight they perish’d! Fury revelled on Her rosied lips, and mounted to her brain, And filled her heart and spirit. Wild Despair Made her his own, and in his madness she Rush’d forth a frenzied monster. The young babes She tore from weeping mothers—clasping them In a fierce death embrace, and on their lips Fast’ning fell kisses, till the heart’s blood gush’d Over the fading mouth. The mother’s cries Pierc’d high Olympus, pealing through its domes Unto the throne of Zeus! Horror-struck, The diadem’d of Heaven rose, and grasp’d In his terrible hand the lightnings—hurl’d them once, And down into eternal Hades struck A mangled spectral form, the blasted wretch! But, Zeus commands not Fate.——She now is past His empire, and each coming night ascends To kill the mother’s hope, and fill her soul With pangs she once endur’d. Bloody and pale, Silently gliding, anxiously she seeks The still and slumbering child. Chilonis. Oh, hush—no more! See, I have fill’d the vases—night descends— Soon will the spectres of dim Hades rise To revel on the earth. ’Tis late—the Bear Glitters above us; and beneath our feet, In beams of silver light, the shadows glide Of our long wandering forms. Now then—home—home.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
Original:
This work was published before January 1, 1930, and is in thepublic domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
Translation:
This work was published before January 1, 1930, and is in thepublic domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.