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PRESENTED TO THE LIBRARY

PROFESSOR R G. FIEDLER

7i6<

■>»

. * »

^r ■'•■

\ •

/ Ä>t^ ^^'i^^^ ^^^ J'^iu^

IPHIGENIA IN TAURIS,

?.i

? — r- - /-* y*

IPHIGENIA IN TAURIS

FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE

WITH

ORIGINAL POEMS

Was ioh gewollt 1st löblich, wenn das Ziel

Aach mdnen KraAcn unerreichbar blieb. Ttut«, iv. 4.

Or convien.ch'Elicona per me Teni

Et Urania m'aiutl ool suo coro

Fortl coae a pensar, mettere in Tersi. Dairfe.

PRTVATBLT PRINTED.

18ÖI.

Liverpool : Printed by Baines and Herbert, Times-office.

PREFACE.

The drama of " Iphigenia in Tauris" is generally
considered as Goethe's masterpiece. It is styled,
by his illustrious countryman, Schlegel, an echo of
Greek song; and although that echo must neces-
sarily lose in clearness by passing into another
language, the translator hopes that, faint as the
sounds may be, they will yet be strong enough to
convey to the English reader some idea of the
beauty of the German drama. As a proof of the
high estimation in which '* Iphigenia in Tauris"
is held by the Germans, it may be mentioned
that it was performed at the Theatre of Weimar
on Goethe's eightieth birthday, as the highest
tribute that could be offered to the poet's genius.

Sidmouth, October 17th, 1850.

CHARACTERS OF THE DRAMA.

Iphioemia^ Priestess of Diana.
Thoas, King of Tauris.
Obestes, Brother of Iphigenia.
Ftlades, Friend of Orestes.
Abka.8, a Tanrian Soldier.

Scene — Grove before the Temple of Diana.

IPHIGENIA IN TAURIS.

ACT I.

SCENE THE FIRST.

IFHiaENIA.

Beneath your sacred shades, ye ancient groves,
With shuddering awe I walk, as when I trod
Your silent precincts first, and ne'er my soul
Familiar with your solemn scenes has grown :
For, though, fiill many years, that higher will.
To which I bow, has kept me here concealed.
To you I feel myself a stranger still ;
For, ah ! the sea divides me from the loved.
And on the coast I stand the live-long day,
My sad soul seeking for the Grecian land.
But to my sighs the waves bring no reply
Save hollow murmurs rolling from afar.
Alas ! for him, ^ho far from home and kin,
A lonely life must lead. For grief, the bliss
Which nearest to him lies, does snatch away ;
Whilst thickly swarming thoughts for ever rise
Towards his father's halls, where first the sun
Before his eyes revealed the glorious sky :

Where, playing ^th his child-mates, each to each,
In tender hands were ever faster knit.
I will not judge the gods, hut yet I know
That woman's destiny for pity calls ;
At home, and in the strife, man rules supreme.
And e'en in foreign lands himself can aid ;
Possession makes him glad, him victory crowns.
And for him is prepared a glorious death.
How narrowly hound up is woman's lot !
For e'en a savage hushand to ohey
Her duty is and comfort ; wretched she.
When driven hy a hostile fate afar.
As I am now, whom nolle Thoas keeps
In stem and sacred slavish fetters fast.
Oh ! how it shames me, goddess, to avow.
That 'tis with dumh aversion thee I serve.
Thee, my deliverer, when my life should be
In willing service given up to thee.
In thee I ever hoped, and I will trust,
Diana ! still in thee — ^in thee, who me.
The exiled daughter of a mighty king.
Within thy tender sacred arms received.
Oh, Zeus' s daughter ! if the valiant man
Whom thou, his daughter claiming, didst afflict ;
If thou, the godlike Agamemnon, who
His best and dearest to thy altars brought ;
If thou hast him from Troy's uprooted walls
Back to his native land in triumph led ;

If thou, his spouse, Electra, and his son,
Those dear delights, hast guarded for him well ;
Then give me also hack to him at last.
And save me, thou, who rescued me from death.
Save me from life passed here, this second death.

SCENE THE SECOND.
Iphigenia — Arkas,

ABKi.8.

The king has s^it me here, and wills that I

Should» with his greeting, Diant's priestess hail ;

Tanris, upon this day, her goddess thanks.

For glorious, fresh, and wondrous yict'ries gained.

I hasten from the host, and from the king,

T' announce his coming, and his near approach.

IPHiaENIA.

To meet him worthily, we are prepared :

The welcome offerings brought by Thoas' hand.

With fav'ring eye, our goddess wül regard.

ABKAS.

Oh, priestess, would I also saw thine eye.
Most holy maid, more bright and more serene, —
A sign of good to all ; but sorrow still
Enshrouds mysteriously thy inmost soul.

Through many years we 've waited« yet in vain,
To hear £rom thee one kind« confiding word.
So long as in this office thee I 've known.
Thy gaze has made me shudder, e'en as now ;
And, as with iron bands, remains thy soul.
Within thy inmost bosom fettered fast.

IPHIGENIA.

As suits the banished and the orphaned one.

ABKAS.

Banished and orphaned here, dost feel thyself?

IPHiaENIA.

Can foreign lands ever become our own ?

A£KA8.

To thee thy native land is strange as this.

IPHIGENIA.

And that is why my heart for ever bleeds. —
In my first youth, when yet my soul scarce knew
Parents and brethren to itself to bind ;
When the young shoot, so loving and so loved.
From the old root, strove heavenwards to press,
'Twas then, alas ! that I was fiercely seized
By that dread curse which strangely severed me
From my beloved, tearing each sweetest tie,

With ruthless unrelenting hipid, in twain ;

Then fled from me the dearest joys of youth«

The hliss of childhood's years. Though sared, I am

Only the shadow of my former self.

For me fresh joys of life no more can hloom.

A itBiAn»

If SO unhappy thou dost deem thyself.
Ungrateful, then, must thou indeed he called.

IFHEGENIA.

Thanks have I still for thee.

ABKAS.

Tet not pure thanks
For whose dear sake are deeds of kindness done,
Such as the look with which a heart at peace.
And grateful hreast, reward the gracious host.
When the«, a deeply hid, mysterious fate
Brought to Diana's fane long years ago.
To greet thee as a treasure sent hy Zeus,
With reverence and with awe did Thoas come ;
To thee these shores, which every stranger^s heart
Had long appalled» were gracious and were kind ;
For none ere thee was cast upon this coast
Who did not bleeding fafl in sacrifice
At Dian's shrine, as wüled the ancient law«

IFHIGENIA.

It is not breaäi alone which makes up life !

Gall you that life which in the sacred fane

I sorrowfully lead, like some poor ghost

That wanders round its grave ? Can I call that

A joyful and sufficient life in which

Each cheerless day is wearily dreamed through,

As only leading to those sadder days

The self oblivious hosts of the deceased

Are doomed to linger through on Lethe's shores ?

A useless life is but an earlier death.

This, woman's fiite, is now indeed my own.

ARKAS.

I can forgive, though I must needs deplore

Thy noble pride, which will not rest content ;

But still it robs thee of the joys of life.

Say ! since thy coming, hast thou nothing done ?

Who was it cheered the monarch's troubled mind ?

Who was it that, with soft, persuasive words.

Moved him to waive the fearful law which wiUed

That every stranger in Diana's fane.

Tear after year, should bleeding leave his life ?

Who was it sent to his dear fatherland

So oft the prisoners doomed to certain death ?

Hath not Diana, fiu* f ropi giving sign

Of anger that her bloody offerings failed,

In richest measure granted aü thy prayers 7
And doth not victory hover o'er our hosts
With joyful wingSj nay» hasten on before ?
Doth not each feel his lot is better far
E'er since the monarch, who, with wisdom, long
And gloriously hath ruled us, in thy sight
Rejoicing now, has mild become to us.
Lightening obedience we in sflenoe pay ?
Call'st thou life useless, when a precious balm
Down from thy being, still on thousands drops ;
And when a fresh eternal source of bliss,
Thou art to those to whom thou 'rt sent by Zeus ;
When from the dire, unfriendly, shores of death
Still for the stranger thou provid'st escape ?

IPHIGENIA.

The little done, soon fides from sight to him
Who, forward looking, sees how much remains.

ABKAS.

Dost praise him, then, who underrates himself?

IFHiaENIA.

Who weighs his own deserts is justly blamed.

ABKAS.

He too, who, in his pride, true worth disdains.
As well as he who false worth elevates.

Believe in me, and hearken to a man

In troth devoted honestly to thee :

Thus, when the king with thee this day shall speak,

Lighten to him what he designs to say.

IFHia^NIA.

Each kindly word sends trouble to my soul ;
His profifers often can I scarce evade.

ASKAS.

Think what thou dost, and what will serve thy cause.

£'er since the time the monarch lost his son.

There are but few in whom he will confide.

And in those few, no more as he was wont.

Jealous he looks on every noble's son.

As of his realm successor, whilst he fears

A lonely helpless age, — aye, e'en, perchance,

A rash rebellion, an untimely death.

The Scythian sets but little worth on words.

And least of all the king. Who is but used

To action and command, knows not the art

To guide discourse from fiir with subtle tact

Until it reach the goal he has in view.

By wearisome denials stay him not ;

But try his meaning graciously to meet.

Nor wilfully mistake his kindly words.

IPHIGENIA.

Must I accelerate my threatened fate ?

AIIKA.S.

Dost give his gradous suit the name of threat ?

IPHIGENIA.

'Tis the most terrihle of threats to me.

ABEAS.

Let confidence at least reward his love.

IPHEGENIA.

Then must he first unloose my soul from fear.

AEEA.S.

Wherefore from him conceal' st thou thy descent ?

IPHIGENIA.

Such mystery a priestess well heseems.

ABKAS.

Nought should he kept a secret ^m the king ;

Though he demand it not, yet still he feels,

Yes, feels it deeply in his nohle soul.

That thou should' st hide it with such care from him.

IPHIGENIA.

Does he, 'gainst me, hegin to nourish ire ?

i3tKAS.

So it would seem almost, altfaough of thee
He nothing says» yet words cast here and there
Haye shown me that the wish, thee to possess.
Fast on his soul has seized. Oh ! leave him not,
I do heseech thee, to himself a prey.
That anger may not ripen in his soul.
And work thee wo, when with repentance thou«
Too late, my honest counsel shalt recall.

IPHIGENIA.

What ! does the king design a thing which none
Who loves the honour of a nohle name, which none»
Whom veneration of the gods restrains.
Should even dream of? Does he think hy force
To drag me from the altar to his hed?
Oh, then I will to all the gods appeal.
And to the chaste Diana first of all.
She win assuredly her priestess hear.
Herself a virgin, will a virgin guard.

ABKAB.

Be not afraid. 'Tis not the heat of hlood
Impels the monarch rashly to perform
Such youthful deeds. But in his present mind
I fear from him another hard resolve.
Which he, inexorably, will perform.

His soul is so immovable and firm.

I pray thee, therefore, thank him, give him trust.

If nothing further thou to him canst grant.

IFHIQENIA.

Oh ! tell me what is further known to thee.

ABKAS.

Learn that from him. I see the monarch come.
Thou honourest him ; and thee thy heart will prompt
Him kindly and confidingly to meet.
A noble man by woman's gentle words
May far be led.

IPHIGENU, (alone.)

In truth, I do not see
How I this good man's counsel can obey.
My duty I will gladly do towards the king,
For his kind actions proffer friendly words ;
And much I wish that unto him my lips
With truth could utter what would please his ear.

SCENE THE THIRD.

IFHIGENIA.

Thee may the goddess bless with kingly gifts.
And fame and glory unto thee assure,

And riches and the welfare of thy kin»
In fuhiess granting 9II thy pious prayers ;
That thou, in wisdom ruhng o'er thy land»
May'st bliss enjoy even beyond its own.

THOAS.

Content were I, if me my people praised ;
My conquests gladden them far more than me.
He is, indeed, the happiest» be he king,
Or be he one of lowly birth, for whom
Within his home is happiness assured.
Thou wast a sharer in my deepest grief,
When by the foeman's sword my son was slain.
My last and best who from my side was torn.
Long as revenge my every thought possessed,
I did not feel how empty was my home.
But now that satiated I return,
My foes defeated, and my son avenged,
Nought near my hearth I find to glad my sight.
The pleased obedience paid to me of old.
Which once shone brightly forth from every eye.
Is clouded now with discontent and care ;
The whilst my people on the future think.
Only, because they must, obeying me,
Their hapless monarch, left without an heir.
Now to this temple have I come to-day.
Where I so oft for victory have prayed.
Or thanks for conquest given. An old.

LoDg-chenshed wish within my breast I bear.
Not strange or unexpected 'tis to thee ;
I fondly hope, thee« as a bride, to lead
Back to my home, to bless my land and me.

IPHIGENIA.

To one unknown thou proferest far too much,
O, noble king. Before thee stands ashamed
The fugitive who sought upon this coast
Nought but the rest and safety thou didst give.

THOAS.

That thou within the mystery of thy birih
From me, as from us all, thyself hast kept
So studiously concealed, would ne'er have been«
'Mongst any nation, reckoned just and right.
This coast the stranger terrifies ; its laws.
Its dangers, make it fearful. But from thee.
Who every pious right enjo/st, by us
A welcomed guest, according to thy will.
And thy own pleasure, passing all thy days ;
From thee I looked for trust, such as the host
Might, for his kindness to hb guest, expect.

IPHIGENIA.

That I concealed my parents' name and house
Arose but from perplexity, king,
Not from mistrust. For if, methinks, thou knew'st
c2

Who stands before thee, and whose cursed head
Thou cherishest and gnardest, thy great soul
By shuddering terror would at onoe be seized ;
And thou» instead of offering me a seat
Beside thy throne» would' st drive me swift away
From out thy kingdom ; thrust me hence, perchance.
Into that misery, whose cold, fearful lumd
Grasps every wanderer from his native land.
Before the time ordained, when to my kin.
My exile o'er, I shall return at last.

THOAS.

Whatever may be the counsel of the gods,
Or their designs towards thee and thy house,
There fails me not, since thou with us has dwelt.
The rights enjoying of a blameless guest,
One single bounteous blessing firom above.
It would indeed be hard, to make me think
That I, in thee, a criminal protect.

IPHIGENIA.

Thy own good deeds bring blessings, not thy guest.

THOAS.

He who does wickedly is never blest :
So now thy silence and refusals end.
The man who asks thee this is not unjust.
The goddess gave thee over to my care,

Sacred to me thou wert, as e'en to her.
Henceforth her wish shall he to me as law.
And if return thou to thy home canst hope.
Thou shalt at once from every claim be freed ;
But, if the way for ever be blocked up.
And if thy race be exiled, or extinct
For ever, through some dread or monstrous curse,
Then every law proclaims that thou art mine ; —
Speak freely, for thoa know'st I keep my word.

IFHIGENIA.

Unwillingly the tongue doth free itself
From ancient bands, a secret to disclose,
In silence long time hid ; for, soon as 'tis
Entrusted to another, it doth leave.
Without return, the heart's recesses, harm
Or good to work, as it may please the gods.
Hear ! of the race of Tantalus I come.

THOAS.

Calmly thou lettest fall a word of dread.
Is he thine ancestor, he whom the world
Knows as the sometime fav'rite of the gods ?
Say ! can it be indeed that Tantalus,
Whom Zeus had to his. board and counsels called ?
In whose rich-freighted converse, thoughts profound
And mind experienced, e'en the gods themselves,
As to an oracle, well pleased, did list ?

IPHiaENIA.

The very same ; but gods Bhould not wkh men»
Hand clasped in hand» as with their eqnab walk.
Our mortal race is all too weak to tread
Such unaccustomed heights with steady feet.
No traitor was he, neither was he base.
But for a slare too great; and for the friend
Of him who wields the thunder» but a man.
His fault was heinous» but his doom severe»
And poets sing» that from the board of Zeus
Disloyalty and pride did hurl him down
To feilest depths of ancient Tartarus.
Alas ! his race god-hated are since then*

THOAS.

Bore it his guilt, or did it bear its own ?

IPHiaENIA.

Albeit the mighty Titan's sturdy breast
And sinewy strength» as certain hentage»
He to his son and grandson left» ytt. Zens
Around their forehead clasped a faraeen band»
Patience and wisdom» forethought, temperance»
Concealing from their dread and gloomy view.
Then all their passions into fury merged.
And boundlessly their fiiry raged around,
Already, Pelops» of the mighty will»

Beloved son of Tantalus, obtained.
Through treachery and murder, for his wife
That lovely maiden, Hippodamia named.
She to her hushimd gave two children, called
Thyestes and Atrens. These two beheld.
With envicHis eyes, the love their &ther bore
Towards the son bom of another bed.
Bound by their hate, the pair in secret risked
Their first dread act, the crime of fratricide.
Their sire, believing that their mother was
Herself the murdress, dbaimed vrith savage rage
His son firom her ; then did she slay herself.

THOAS.

Why dost thou pause ? Let not thy soul repent
Its trust and confidence in me. Say on.

IPHIGENIA.

How blest is be who on his father's deeds

Can think with joy, and gladly entertain

His hearer with their greatness, whilst himself

In silence he congratulates, that he

Should of so noble Cham be cbsing link !

Not all at once axe bom great demigods

And fearM monsters in the self-same house ;

Long lines of good or evü fiune precede.

The terror or delight of afl the world.

Brought forth at last. Th^ father, Pelops, dead.

The brothers then the city jointly ruled.
Long could they not in unity remain.
Thyestes first his brother's honour wounds,
Him Atreus from the realm, revenging drives.
But, long ere this, Thyestes, filled with spite.
On crime intent, had stoFn his brother's son.
And nurtured him as though he were his own.
With fury and revenge he filled his breast ;
Then to the royal city sent him fisrth.
That he, his sire, might in his uncle slay.
The youth's design was firustrated. Theking
Punished most fearfully the criminal.
Deeming that he had kiUed his brother's son.
Too late he found who, 'neath his drunken gaze.
In torture died, and then within his breast,
To slake the thirst of vengeance, he conceived
Unheard of deeds. Appeased he seemed,
Indifferent, and even reconciled :
Then lured his brother, with his children twain.
Back to the realm, next seized and slew the boys.
This done, he placed the loathsome, fearful meal
Before the father, at his first repast.
But whilst Thyestes thus, on his own flesh.
His hunger stayed, deep sadness seized his soul :
He for the children called, their step, their voice
Already, close approaching to the door,
BeHeved to hear ; then Atreus tow'rds him threw.
With horrible grimace, tfiear heads and feet.

Shuddering thou dost avert thy face, king :

So turned the sun his glorious face away.

And swerved his chariot firom th' eternal track.

These of thy priestess are the ancestors.

And many fearful tales Uke this, and deeds

Which spring from maddened hrains, the night conceals

Beneath her heavy wings, permitting us

Nought hut their gloomy twilight to perceive.

THOAS.

Hide them in silence, too ? Enough, enough.

Of horror 'tis. But say, through what strange fate

Thou fix»m a race so wild didst issue forth ?

IPHIGENIA.

Of Atreus, Agamemnon was first-bom,
And he my father is ; and I, in him,
Have ever since my very earliest years
A godlike pattern of perlSection seen.
Me unto him did Clytemnestra bear.
First-fruit of love ; then was Electra bom.
In peace the king did rule, and to the house
Of Tantalus, the rest, so long withheld.
Appeared assured. But to my parents' bliss
Still failed a son. Scarce was this wish fulfilled,
And 'tween his sisters, young Orestes grew
The darling of us allj than were prepared
New evus for a house that seemed secure.

The rumour of that war has reached thy ear.
When to avenge a hushand's diieBt wrongs.
The rohhery of the loveliest wife in Oreeoe»
The assemhled princes with their anmes lay
Encamped in siege beneath the walls of Troy.
I have not heard if they the city took.
And their revenge did satisfy. The host
My father led. In Aulis waited they
A favouring wind in vain, for Dian stayed
Those who were hastening on ; so much was she
Enraged against the king, t])e whibt she claimed
From him his eldest child by Calchas' mouth.
They lured me with my mother to the camp ;
Then dragged me to the altar, where they doomed
My head to great Diana. But appeased,
She asked not for my blood, and, in a doud
Concealing, saved me. In this temple 'twas
That first I knew I had escaped from death.
Grandchild of Atreus, she it is who sp^plcA«'
Iphigenia, Agamemnon's child.
And to Diana do I now belong.

THOAS.

Not greater honour or regard I give

To thee as princess, than to thee unknown.

My first request again I now renew ;

Hence ! follow me^ and share with me my realm.

IPHIOENIA.

How dare I ridk a step like this, O Idog?
Hath not the goddess» she who rescued me.
The right unto my consecrated life ?
She hath for me a place of safety sought ;
Me for my father, whom she has enough
Chastised by my apparent death, she keeps
Secluded here, to gladden his old age
In days to come. Perchance my blest return
Is near at hand, and ahall I, 'gainst h^ will
And 'gainst her wish, myself in fetters place ?
A sign I ask, if I must here remain.

TH0A8.

The sign is this. Thou still abidest here.
Seek not so anxiously for vain excuse ;
'Tis useless in refusing much to say ;
The listener hears of all nought but the no.

IPHIGEMIA.

Mine are not words intended to deceive.
I have my deepest heart to thee revealed.
Ah ! see'st thou not thyself, how I must long
Each day, each hour, with yearning anguished soul,
To meet once more my parents and my kin ?
That in Üiose ancient halls, where grief my name
Oft hsps 'midst ailenee, joy again may hang,

From every pillar^ wreaths of loveliest flowers.
As in glad welcome of a new-bom child ?
Oh ! would' st thoa let thy vessels bear me hence
To me and mine new life thou wouldest give !

THOAS.

So be it ! Gro ! Do what thy heart desires,
And hearken not to reason's kindly voice.
Or sage advice. Nought but a woman be.
And to the brideless impulse drawing thee
Where'er it lists, thyself give wholly up.
When bums a wish within a woman's breast
No bands avail, or when the traitor tries
To lure her from the fond and faithful arms
Of husband or of father to his own ;
If glowing fire bum but within her breast.
Of no avail with her is power or troth.
Or soft persuasions of a golden tongue.

IPHIGENIA.

Bethink thee of thy noble word, O king.

Ah ! wilt thou thus my trust requite ? Thou seem'dst

Prepared to hear all that I had to say.

THOAS.

For things unlooked for was I not prepared;
Yet these I might have looked for. Knew I not
That with a woman 'twas I had to deal ?

IFHIGENIA.

Depict not thus, O king; our feeble sex ;
Not lordly, like the weapons used by thee.
Yet not ignoble, those a woman bears.
Believe me, that I know, ah ! better far
Than thou thyself, what will assure thy bliss.
Thou deemed'st, while yet I was to thee unknown,
A closer band would us in bliss unite.
FiQed with a kind intent, thy trustful heart
Still urges me to join myself with thee :
But here I thank the gods that they to me
Have given resolve this union not to form ;
A union that I know would them displease.

THOAS.

Thy heart it is and not the gods who speak.

IPHiaENIA.

'Tis only through our hearts to us they speak.

THOAS.

Have I not, too, the right their voice to hear ?

IPHIGENIA.

The raging storm their gentle voice o'ercomes.

THOAS.

The priestess is it who alone can hear ?

IPHIOENIA.

The prince, before all else, AovJd list their yoice.

THOAS.

Thy holy office, thy HBcestral ri^t

To sit at Zeos's board, thee nearer brings

Than me, an earth-bom savage, to the gods.

IPHiaBNIA.

So must I rae the tnist thou didst extort.

THOAS.

I am but man. 'Tis better that we end ;
So shall I keep my word. Be priestess still
To her, the goddess, who has chosen thee.
Yet may Diana pardon me, that I,
Till now imjustly, but with self-reproach,
The ancient sacrifice should have withheld.
No stranger ever safety neared our coasts
Who was not, from of old, to death condemned.
But me, with friendship sweet, thou didst beguile.
In which at times a daughter's tend^ness.
At times the dawning of a dearer love,
My heart rejoiced, till as with magic chams
I was enthralled, and duty I forgot,
Thou hadst so lulled to sleep my every sense
The murmurs of my people were unheard ;
Now at my door with voices hmd they lay

2Ö

The gcdlt of my dear son's too early death ;
But for thy sake no longer I oppose
Those who with cries the sacrifice demand.

IPHIGENIA.

To be withheld for me, I ne'er desired.
But he the gods doth misconceive who deems
That they bloodthirsty are ; he but imputes
To them his own most cruel, base desires.
Did not Diana me from Calchas snatch.
And my poor service to my death preferred ?

THOAS.

It is not seemly that we should attempt.
With shifting arguments, the sacred rites
To construe and to guide as seems us fit.
Do thou thy duty. I will follow mine.
Two strangers, who, concealed within a cave.
Upon the coast were found, and to my land
Bring nothing good, are captive in my hands ;
With these thy goddess shall receive once more.
Her first and just, but long-abstained-from rites.
I send them here. Thy office thou dost know.

SCENE THE FOUKTH.
iPHiaEMiA, (ahne,)

Great deliverer ! in a cloud

Thou these guiltless ones enshroud.

From the iron arms of fate.
Snatch them, ere it be too late ;
Bear them from a cruel death.
O'er the widest bounds of earth.
On the winds across the sea,
Where it seemeth good to thee.
Wise, the foture thou dost see ;
Past is not the past to thee ;
All is present to thy sight ;
As thy light, the life of night.
O'er the earth doth rule and rest.
So thy own are still the blest.
Oh ! from blood my hand restrain.
Ne'er bestows it rest or gain :
Evil hours, the murdered shade.
Brings his slayer, makes afraid.
Him, who, forced against his will.
Blood that's innocent must spill.
Mortals, the celestials love.
Look with pity from above,
On our widely- spreading race.
Pleased their fleeting lives a space
To delay, that of the skies
They to mortals' longing eyes.
Glad may grant a while the sight.
Entering into their delight.

ACT II.

SCENE THE FIRST.
Orestes — Pylades

0BB8TES.

Along the gloomy path of death we tread ;
With every step my soul grows more serene.
When I Apollo prayed to take away
The Furies' fearftd escort firom my side.
He seemed to promise safety and escape
Within the fane upon the Taurian coast.
Where his beloved sister rules, with words
Which hope inspired, as spoken by a god ;
And now it seems about to be fulfilled.
That with my life my troubles all shall end.
How easy would it be for me whose heart
Beneath the heavy hand of Zeus is crushed.
Whose senses all are deadened, to renounce
The dazzling light of the resplendent sun.
What ! shall the sons of Atreus never win
A glorious end, with wreaths of conquest crowned ?
And must I, like my fathers and my sire.
In death ignoble, as a victim bleed ?
So be it. Better on the altar here.
Than in a spot accursed, where cunning nets
By murderers, near of kin allied, are laid.

Leave me to brief repose^ infernal ones,
Who, hunting me like homids let loose, my steps
Track by the blood that ever dropping falls
Where'er I step, and marks out all my path.
Leave me ! to you I downwards soon must come.
The light of day nor you nor I shall see ;
The verdant carpet of the lovely earth
No gathering place for shades may be, I come
Below to seek you out, and all whom fate
Has bound alike in ever dreary night.
But thou, my Pylades, who of my crime
And of my esle guutless partner art.
Before thy time, down to this land of grief
Unwillingly I take. Thy life or death
Alone excites in me or hope or fear.

PYLADES.

Like thee, Orestes, am I not prepared
As yet to seek the kingdom of the shades.
I purpose still, through these entangled paths.
That seem to lead to shades of blackest night.
To win our upward way to life again.
On death I think not, but I watch and wait.
In hope, perchance, the gods, for happy flight,
A means and fitting way may still prepare :
Or, feared or not, still death at last will come.
And when the priestess lifts her hand to cut
Our dedicated locks, my only thought

E'en then will be^ thy safety and my own.
Exalt thy soul above despair, for thns
The danger thou bat hastenest. To us
Apollo pledged his word, that we should find
Both aid and comfort in his sister^s fane.
Words spoke by gods are not of double sense,
As the oppressed may deem in his despair.

OfiESTZS.

Upon my tender head my mother spread.

In childhood's years, the gloomy veil of life ;

I grew to be the image of my sire,

And this mute semblance 'twas which sorely stung.

With, «harp reproach, her and her lover too.

How often when Electra quiet sat

Beside the fire, within our ancient halls.

Nestling all anxioasly upon her kp

I watched, as bitterly she wept, and looked

On her with wondering eyes. And then she spoke

Much of our valiant father, ah \ so much

That him I longed to see, with him to be.

Myself sometimes I wished at Troy, sometimes

Him here. Then came the day, —

PYLADEB.

Oh! of that hour
Let fiends of h^ hold converse night by night.
Be ours the mem'ry oi a happier im»,

Which to the hero's soul new strength may bring.
The gods full many righteous men require,
On this wide earth» their bidding to fulfil ;
And still they need thee, for they did not give
Thee as companion to thy noble sire,
When he to Orcus so unwilling went.

ORESTES.
i

Would I had seized the border of his robe
And followed him.

FTLADES.

'Twas that for me they cared
Who held thee back. If thou had'st ceased to live,
What had become of me I dare not think,
For I with thee, and for thy sake alone.
Since childhood's years have Uved, or cared to live.

ORESTES.

Bemind me not of those sweet, happy days
Which gave to me a place within thy home.
Thy noble father, wisely, and with care,
The young, half-perished blossom tending well ;
Whilst thou, a loving playmate, ever gay,
like some bright, many-coloured butterfly.
That flutters round a dark and gloomy flower.
Didst round me sport, with fresher life each day.
And breathe thy mirthful spirit into mine,

i t

}

Until, my cares forgetting, I with thee
Revelled in all the joys of thoughtless youth.

PYLADEB.

For me did life begin when thee I loved.

OBESTES.

Truth thou wouldst speak, if thou didst say, thy grief.

For 'tis the bitterest portion of my lot

That as an outcast, stricken by the plague,

A hidden death I bear within my breast ;

That when I tread the healthiest spots, e'en there.

Too soon, I see each blooming fieu^e around

Betray the sorrow lines of lingering death.

PYLADES.

I should have been the first this death to die,
Orestes, if thy breath could poison thus.
But am I not, as ever, full of Hfe?
And life, and love, and courage are the wings
Of noble deeds.

OBESTES.

Of noble deeds ! Ah ! yes,
I mind me when in vision them we saw ;
As we some savage beast together oft.
O'er hill and vale pursued, and hoped the while
That when we should some future day attain

The strengtih of breast aad aim our ams p« M Coa od,
So we like diem some monater dread might chase«
Or hunting, track the robber for our prey.
And then at eTening, near the boundless sea.
We, 'gainst each other leaning, quiet aat.
The httle wavelets playing at our feet,
Whilst all around us lay the broad, wide world.
Then one of us would sudden seize his sword.
And future deeds swarmed round us like the stus,
Which countless shone from out the depths of night.

PTLADES.

The work in truth is endless Üiat the soul

Impels us to fulfil. We would each deed

Which we perform, were aU at once as great

As it becomes and grows, when through long years,

Through lands and races, in the poef s mouth

It gathers fame, whilst rolling on in verse.

All that our fathers did so glorious seemi^

When resting in the tranquil evening shades, »

We drink it in to music of the harp ;

And what we do seems as it did to them.

Of trouble full, and nought but fragments vain.

All that before us lies we thus pursue.

And never heed the path on which we tread,

Or near us see our valiant fiithers' steps.

The traces of their bygone earthly lives.

But onwards hast'ning, still we chase their shades.

Which godlike in the misty distance loom

like mountain summits crowned with golden clouds.

Him little I esteem who weighs himself .

After the measure of the people's praise.

But thou, Orestes, to the gods give thanks.

Who have already done so much through thee.

OBESTES.

When they to glorious deeds ordain a man.
As evil from his house to turn away.
Extend his realm, its hounds assure, and make
Its ancient enemies to fall or flee ;
Then may he grateful he ; on him the gods
The first and highest hliss of life hestow.
But me, as murderer, they have set apart.
To alay a mother whom I still revere,
A shameful deed revenging shamefully.
By their decree to ruin me they hrmg.
Trust me, the race of Tantalus is doomed.
And I, the last, may not in innocence
Or honour pass.

PYLADES.

Not on the sons.
The father's misdeeds, do the gods avenge.
£ach, he he good or he he evil, reaps
The due reward for which his actions call.
Heir to his father's hlessing, not his curse.

OBESTES.

Methinks dieir blessing did not lead us here.

PYIADES.

Yet 'twas at least their own supreme decree.

OBESTES.

So is it then their will which us destroys.

FYLADES.

Do what they bid thee and await the rest :
If to Apollo, thou his sister bring,
That both united may at Delphi dwell.
Revered and worshipped by a noble race.
Thee for this deed the noble, heavenly pair.
With gracious eye will view, and from the hand
Of these dread Furies save. Already here
Within this sacred grove they dare not come.

ORESTES.

So shall I have at least a quiet death.

PTLADES.

Not so, I think, for I have pondered o'er.
In silence, past events, combining them,
By skilful, subtle tact, with things to come.
Perchance, through many years, this glorious work

Has ripened in the counsel of the gods.
Diana longs to flee this barbarous coast.
Where savage men the bloody sacrifice
Of human victims offer in her fane ;
We have been destined to this noble deed.
To us it is assigned, and strangely thus
Before her fane we are constrained to come.

OBESTES.

With wondrous skill, thou knowest how to weave
Thy wishes with the counsel of the gods.

PTLADES.

What is man's prudence if he fail to watch.

With heedful gaze, the will of those above ?

The gods to deeds of danger heroes call.

Who much have sinned ; and things from them require

Which to fulfil impossible appears.

The hero conquers, and repenting serves

The gods and men, who give him honour due.

OBESTES.

Am I, indeed, ordained to live and act ?
Then let the gods take from my heavy brow
This maddening impulse, driving me along
A path made slippery by my mother's blood, —
The path of death. 0, let them pitying dry

The fountain which from Clytemnestra's wounds
For ever spouting, thus defiles her son.

FYLADES.

More tranqml wait. Thou dost increase thy üls»
On thee the Furies office taking thus.
Let me hut plan. Be still. And when at last
The work shall caU for our unjted strength,
Then will I summon thee, and we will forth.
With cautious daring, to achieve the deed.

OBBSTES.

I hear Ulysses speak !

I PYLADES.

Nay I mock me not,
For each his hero for himself must choose.
Whom he as worthy pattern takes to show
How he Olympus' lofty mount may climh.
Methinks that craft and prudence ne'er disgrace
The man who vows himself to daring deeds.

OBESTES.

Who is uprightly hold I most esteem.

FYLADES.

Therefore have I thy counsel never asked.
Already is the work hegun. I have

• J4i ■■■■

Already from our guards extracted much.
A godlike woman, foreign to these shores,
Enchained in fetters holds the bloody law ;
Incense and prayer, with guileless heart, she brings
Before the gods. Her praises far and wide
They celebrate, the whilst they think she springs
Of Afoazonian race, and hither fled
That she some fearAil evüi may escape.

ORESTES.

It seems her gentle sway lost all its power.
Soon as the wretch drew near, who, by a curse.
E'en as by night, is shrouded and pursued.
A pious thirst for blood, the ancient law
Has from its chains unloosed, our doom to seal.
The monarch's savage will our death decrees ;
A woman cannot save us from his rage.

PYIiADES.

'Tis well for us that she a woman is :
Trust me, a man, aye, e'en the best, in time
With fearAil deeds may so accustomed grow.
That out of that which he at first abhorred
He makes himself at last a law, becomes
Hard-hearted and unlike his former self;
But woman steadfast ever doth remain
To what she first resolves, and thou on her
With far more certainty, ahke in good

£ 2

Or evil» may depend. But hash ! she comes.
Leave us alone. I may not all at once
To her confide^ without reserve, our names
And destinies. I pray thee now retire.
And ere with thee she speaks, we '11 meet again.

SCENE THE SECOND.
Iphigenia — Pylades^

IPHIOENIA.

From whence thou art and com'st, oh, stranger, say.
It seemeth me, that rather to a Greek,
Than to a Scythian, thee I should compare.

(She takes off his chains.)

Most dangerous is the freedom which I give ;
Oh, may the gods avert thy threatened doom !

PYLADES.

Oh ! sweetest voice ! Oh ! welcome thousand-fold.
Sounds of my mother tongue in foreign land ! '
The azure mountains of my native shores
Before mine eyes in them once more I see.
And welcome with a captive's joy. Let this
Be proof to thee, I also am a Greek.
I had forgotten for a moment's space
How much thine aid I need, the whilst my soul
Was filled and dazzled by thy presence fair.
Oh, say, if mystery on thy hps her seal

Should not have laid, from out what kindred race
Dost thou thy godlike origin derive ?

IPHIGENIA.

The priestess hy the goddess' self ordained
And set apart as sacred, speaks with thee, —
Let that suffice. Now, tell me who thou art,
And what unhlest overruling fate has thee,
With thy companion, driven to these shores ?

PYLADES.

To thee, 'twill easy be for me to tell
What curse torments us with its presence dread.
Oh ! couldst thou with like ease on us of hope
The cheering glance, oh, godlike one, bestow.
From Crete are we, and of Adrastus' sons.
I am the youngest bom, and Cephalus named,
He is Laodamus, the eldest son.
Between us twain there grew another son.
Of wild and savage soul, who oft disturbed
The joy and concord of our childhood's days.
Passive we listened to our mother's words
Long as our valiant father fought for Troy,
But when, enriched with booty, he returned
And shortly after died, then contest fierce
Bose midst the brethren for the heritage.
And for the realm. The eldest 'twas I joined ;
He slew our brother ; for the bloody crime

The Furies chase relenüesslj his steps.
Yet to this savage coast, the Delphian god
Has sent us cheered hy hope, and hids us wait
Within his sister's consecrated fane.
The blessed hand of comfort and of aid.
Captives we are. To thee are hither brought
For sacrifice. And now thou knowest all.

IPHIGENIA.

Is Troy o'erthrown ? Gk)od Mend, assure me this ?

PYLAOES.

It lies in dust. Assure us safety now.

Oh, hasten thou, Apollo's promised aid ;

Have pity, priestess, on my brother too.

Say to him soon, some gentle, kindly word.

Yet spare him when thou dost with him discourse ;

This I implore. Too easily, alas !

His breast, through memories of joy or grief,

Is torn and shattered to its inmost depths,

Till with delirious fever he is seized.

And then his free and lovely soul becomes

As 'twere to Furies yielded for a prey.

IPHIGENIA.

Though great thy mis'ry be, entreat I thee
Forget it now, and tell me what I wish.

PYLADES.

The noble city, which for ten long years
Did all th' united hosts of Greece withstand.
Now lies in dust ; shall never rise again.
Yet many a hero's grave will to our souls
Bring back the mem'ry of that barbarous coast ;
There lies Achilles with his valiant Mend.

IPHiaENIA.

Thus, then, oh ! godlike men, ye lie in dust !

PYLADES.

Ajax and Palamedes ne'er again
Will see the light of day in fatherland.

IPHIGENIA.

He speaks not of my sire. Him doth not name
Among the slain. Yes, still he lives for me,
Him shall I see again. Hope on, fond heart !

PYLADES.

Yet blessed are the thousands, they who died
A sweetly bitter death 'neath foeman's hand ;
For desolating woes, and tragic end,
Instead of triumph, a revengeful god
Prepared for those who to their homes returned.
Do human voices never reach your ears ?

Where'er they sound do they afar and near
Bear tales of deeds unparalleled in fame.
Are then the woes which have Mycense's hfüls,
With tears and ever ceaseless sighings, filled
To you a secret 7 Clytemnestra hath,
With base ^gisthus' aid, her spouse ensnared
And murdered, on the day of his return.
Ah ! yes, thou dost revere this kingly house,
I see it well ; thy breast doth fight in vain
Against the unexpected monstrous news ;
Art thou the daughter of a friend ? Art thou
Within a state near to Mycense bom ?
Conceal it not : revenge it not on me,
That I have been the first this crime to tell.

rPHIGENIA.

Say on ; how was the fearful deed performed ?

PYLADES.

When on the day of his return the king
Arose from out the bath, refreshed and soothed,
His robe demanding firom his consort's hands.
The wicked traitress, o'er his noble head
And round his shoulders, threw a garment made
With many an artful, complicated fold.
And whilst, as from a net, in vain he Sitrove
Himself to extricate, ^gisthus slew

The valiant prince, whom thus, the traitor base»
Sent, shrouded in his robe, to seek the shades.

IPHIGENIA.

And what reward received the treacherous man ?

PITLABES.

The realm and queen, which were already his.

IPHIGENIA.

Base passion prompted, then, that wicked deed ?

PYLADES.

And feelings cherished long of deep revenge.

IPHIOENIA..

How had the king 'gainst Clytemnestra sinned ?

PYLADES.

By such a fearful crime, that, if excuse

For murder could be found, she were excused.

To Aulis he allured her, when the fleet

Was by a goddess stayed, with adverse winds.

Her eldest daughter then he brought before

The great Diana's altar, where she fell

A bloody sacrifice for Grecian weal.

And this, 'tis said, abhorrence in her heart

So deep impressed, that to ^gisthus' suit

Herself she yielded, and aroand her spouse
She flung the net of treachery and death.

IPHIGENIA, (concealing her f (ice.)

It is enough, soon shall we meet again.

FYLADES, (alone.)

I see the story of this kingly house

Has deeply moved her. Whosoe'er she be.

She must herself have known the monarch well.

'Tis fortunate for us she hath been sold.

And hither brought, from out a noble house.

Be still, dear heart, and towards the star of hope.

Which o'er us beams, with courage let us steer.

•J

45
ACT III.

SCENE THE FIRST.
Iphigenia — Orestes.

IPHIGENIA.

Unhappy man, thy fetters I but loose.

In token of a doom more bitter still.

The freedom which the sacred fane assures,

Is as the last bright gleam of life, that shines

Upon a dying face and heralds death.

Yet to myself I cannot, dare not say.

That ye are lost indeed. For how could I,

With murderous hand, devote you unto death ?

And long as I Diana's priestess am.

None, be he who he may, dare touch thy head.

Tet, if I were the monarch to oppose.

Dared I refuse the duty to perform

He in his rage requires» he would but then

Choose out another virgin from my train

Me in my priestly ofßce to succeed.

Whilst I could only aid you with my prayers.

Oh, my compatriot, e'en the meanest slave.

Who hath but grazed our lares-guarded hearth,

Is gladly welcomed in a foreign land ;

How shall I then enough with blessings hail,

With joy receive thee, who, before my eyes,

Dost bring the image of those godlike men
M J parents early taught me to revere ?
How shall I greet thee, who my inmost heart
Dost cheer anew with sweet and flattering hopes?

OBEBTEB.

Does prudent forethought lead thee to conceal
Thy origin and name ? Or, may I -know
Who, like a heavenly vision« meets my gaze ?

IPHIGENIA.

Me shalt thou know. But first conclude the tale
Of which but half I firom thy brother heard ;
And tell me of their end, who, When ftom Troy
They home returned, a hard unlooked-for fate
Upon the threshold of their dwelling found.
Though I was but a girl when hither brought,
I mind me of the shy and wondering gaze
I on those heroes cast. Methought it seemed
As if Olympus' mount had cast them forth«
Illustrious forms of an anterior age.
That they might lUion with terror fill ;
And Agamemnon noblest was of all.
Say, was it on the threshold that he fell.
Slain by the fidse .Slgisthus and his wife?

OBSSTES.

E'en so.

IPHIOENIA.

Accursed Mycenae ! wo to thee.
'Tis thus the sons of Tantalus have sown,
With wild and lavish hand, curse heaped on curse.
As some foul, noxious weed, that shakes its head,
And strews around its many thousand seeds,
So do they give to none but murd'rers birth,
Who feast their rage, each on the other, down
To children's children. Now reveal to me
What of thy brother's tale remains untold.
Which in its silent darkness, horror hid.
How did the remnant of that noble race.
Avenger of his fiither doomed to be.
How did the gentle child Orestes 'scape
Upon that bloody day 1 Or did like fate
Enshroud him with Avemus' treach'rous net ;
Say, is he saved ? Electra, does she live ?

OBESTES.

They live.

IPHIOENIA.

Oh, lend to me, thou golden sun.
Thy brightest beams, beneath the throne of Zeus
To lay in thanks, for I am poor and dumb.

OSEBTES.

If thou by social ties, or nearer bonds.

Shouldst be connected mth this royal house.

As seems thy guileless joy to indicate ;

Then must thou hold with tightest reins thy heart»

For back to fall from joy's supremest heights

To sorrow's depths imbearable must be.

Thou know' St as yet but Agamemnon's death.

IPHIOENIA.

And are these tidings not enough for me ?

OBE8TE8,

But half hast thou of all these horrors heard.

ZPHIGEMIA.

Orestes and Electra both survive»

What can there» then» remain for me to dread ?

0BB8TES.

For Clytemnestra dost thou nothing fear?

IFHiaENIA.

Nor hope nor fear her can avail to save.

0BE8TEB.

She to the land of hope has bade farewell.

IFHIGENIA.

And did she» then, her hand repentant raise
And slay herself?

ORESTES.

Not so, and yet it was
By her own blood she fell a prey to death.

rPHIGENIA.

Speak clearer and bewilder me no more ;
For with her dark and many-folded wings.
Suspense doth hover o'er my anxious head.

ORESTES.

Have I been then elected by the gods
T* announce a deed I would so glady hide
Within the silent, heUish realms of night ?
Me, 'gainst my will, thy gracious lips constrain.
Demanding and obtaining that from me
Will give Thee pain to hear and me to tell.
The day on which his father fell, Electra hid
And saved her brother. Agamemnon's £riend
And kinsman, Strophius, willingly received.
And reared the boy, with Pylades his son.
Who twined around him friendship's lovely bands ;
And as they grew, so grew within their souls
A burning wish t' avenge the monarch's death.
Unseen of all, disguised in strange attire,
They reach M ycense, feigning to have brought
The mournful tidings of Orestes' death
There, with his ashes. Welcomed by the queen,

The halls Orestes enters of his home,
Then to Electra he reveals himself.
She fans the flame of vengeance in his hreast»
Which in his mother's sacred presence seemed
As though it had heen stifled. Him she leads
In silence to the place where fell his sire.
Where traces faint of hlood, so madly shed.
Still stain the oft, hut vainly, cleansed floor
With pale and soul-intimidating streaks ;
Each circumstance of that most cursed crime
Describes to him, with fiery glowing words.
Her slavish, suflering, and heart-trampled life»
The haughty pride the prosp'rous traitor shows.
The perils threatening Agamemnon's race«
From Clytemnestra, as .^)gisthus' wife.
Then in his hand the ancient dagger thrusts.
Which oft before had raged within his house, —
Slain by her son, did Clytemnestra fall.

IPHIGENIA.

Immortal powers ! who, through each day serene.
Most blessed live midst ever-varying shades
And changing lights of richly-tinted clouds,
Have you, for this alone, me through long years
From men secluded kept, and near yourselves :
To me the childlike oiüce given to feed
The holy flame, and like it taught my soul.
In sacred purity for ever clear.

To your eternal dwellings to aspire,
Only that I the terrors of my house
Might but the later and the deeper feel ?
Speak of Orestes, of the wretched speak.

ORESTES.

Would I could give thee tidings of his death !

Babbling arises from her reeking blood«

The slain one's ghost!

And to night's aged daughters thus it calls :

" Let not the murderer of his mother 'scape ;

Pursue the traitor yielded up to you."

They Usten, and with hollow eyes they glare.

Like greedy eagles, on their wretched prey ;

Then stir themselves within their dusky caves,

Whilst from their comers, their companions dread.

Remorse and fierce despair, creep softly forth.

Before them fumes the smoke of Acheron,

And mirrored in its gloomy circling clouds.

Which whirl around the wretched victim's head.

Is ever seen the image of the past ;

And they, who by an ancient curse from earth

Had exiled been, to whom belongs the right

To ruin and destroy, tread once again

Its lovely hills and plains, whereon the gods

Have scattered beauty vrith a lavish hand,

Their swifter feet the fugitive pursue, j

Or rest but give him to affright anew. I

IPHIGEMIA.

Unhappy man ! thy case is like his own,
Ail that he suffers thou dost suffer too.

ORESTES.

What sayest thou, what mean'st thou, hy like case

IPHIGENIA.

like him, 'tis fratricide that weighs thy soul
Down to the dust. Thy hrother hath to me
Already told the tale of wo and crime.

OBESTES.

I cannot suffer that thy noble soul

Should be by words of falsehood thus deceived.

The stranger 'tis, who, practised in deceit

And rich in cunning, weaves a lying web

To snare a stranger's feet ; but 'tween us twain

Let there be truth.

I am Orestes, and this guilty head

Bows o'er the grave and earnest longs for death.

Welcome 'twill be, come in what form it may.

Whoe'er thou art, to thee and to my friend

I wish escape, but I desire it not.

Against thy will thou seem'st to tarry here.

Seek out for means of flight, here will I stay.

And from the rocks my body shall be hurled.

f.*

And in tlie sea my streaming blood shall fall,
To call down corses on this savage shore ;
Return together, in our lovely Greece
With joy a new existence to begin.

(He withdraws,)
IFHIGENIA.

Thus, then. Fulfilment, fairest child of Zeus,

Dost thou from heaven descend to me at last?

How vast ! how wonderftd ! thine image looms ;

My straimng gaze can scarcely reach thy hands.

Which, filled with festive garlands and with fruits.

Bring down the treasures of Olympus' height.

As by the lavish measure of his gifts

The king we recognize, (for what may seem

To thousands riches, nothing is to him,)

So we the gods may know by sparing boons

In wisdom long and fittingly prepared.

For ye alon^ can tell our real wants.

And o'er the fixture's wide-spread realm, which mist

And doud and starry veil from us conceal.

Your eyes fi^r ever rove. Ye to our prayers

In calmness list, when we like children sue

For greater speed ; but never will your hands

For us break off unripe heaven's golden firuit ;

And wo to him who doth impatient seize.

Defying you, the food which, snatched too soon.

Instead of bliss, gives death. Let not, I pray.

This long-awaited happiness, which jet

I scarce can reahae, glide by in \rain,

like to the shadows of departed friends.

And leave me thrice more wretdied than before.

OBE8TE8, (returning.)

When thou, for Fykdes and for thyself.
Dost to the gods appeal, name- not my name.
Thou canst not save the traitor thou wonld'st join.
Whose sorrows and whose corse thoa wouldest share.

IPHI9ENIÄ. . .

My destiny is &8t bound u{» with thine«

OBXSTSB.

No ! thus it must not be. Let me to death

Alone and unattended go. For e'en should' st thou

Beneath thy veil conceal my guilty head.

Thou couldst not hide me from the Furies' eyes.

Thy presence, heavenly maid, doth only drive

My foes aside, "'tis powerless them to scare.

With brazen, impious feet they dare not tread

Within the precincts of these sacred groves,

But in the distance, ever and anon,

I hear their fearful laughter. 'Tis e'en thus

That round the tree, on which a traveller

Has refuge sought, wolves prowling wait. Without

They lie encamped and rest ; but should I quit

This consecrated groTe, then iroidd they rise
And shake their serpent locks, and hnish the ground,
TiQ darkening all the air with clouds of dust,
Their wretched prey before them they would drive.

IPHiaENIA.

Wilt thou, Orestes, list a friendly word ?

OBESTES.

Keep it for him who of the gods is friend.

IPHiaEMIA.

They give to thee anew the light of hope.

OBESTES.

Through smoke and steam I see the glimmer faint,
Of Orcus' flood, which lights me down to hell.

IPHEGENIA.

Hast thou no sister, saye Electra, left?

OBESTES.

I know but one alone, for her good fiite,
A fiite that seemed to us so full of dread.
My eldest sister early bore away
From out the misery reigmog o'er our house.
Ah ! cease thy questions, nor thyself unite
With the Erinnys who, with fiendish joy.

Delight to bbw the ashes from my soul»
Lest e'en the fiuntest spark which lingers stilly
Amidst the fearful heap should be allowed
To die away in peace. Oh ^^must the fire
With purpose kindled« with hell's sulphnr fed,
My anguished« tortured soul for ever sear?

IFHIGENIA.

I bring sweet incense to assuage the flame.
Oh ! let the pure and gentle breath of loye,
The burning heat within thy bosom cool.
Orestes, loved one, dost thoii nothing feel ?
Has, then, the fearful Furies' escort dread
Dried up the drding blood within thy veins ?
And doth there creep through all thy limbs a spell
like that which o'er the Gorgon's head is cast.
And turns whoever looks on it to stone ?
Ah ! though the voices from thy mother's blood.
With hollow tones, are calling thee to heU,
Shall not a guiltless sister's blessing call
Down from Olympus some aid-bringing god ?

OBESTES.

She calls ! she calls ! Would' st thou my ruin too ?
Doih a revelling fiiiy in thee hide 1
Who art thou, say, whose eentle voice my soul
So fearful stirs within its inmost depths ?

Ö7

IFHIGENIA.

Thy inmost heart reveals it. Look at me !
Thy sister, I, Iphigenia, am,
I live.

OBESTES.

Thou!

IPHiaSNIA.

My brother !

OBESTES.

Hence away !
Touch not these locks, I counsel thee, begone !
For as from Creusa's bridal robe, from me
There ever flames a fire that nought can quench.
Leave me, for I, like Hercules, will die
The death of shame, wrapt in my guilty self.

IFHIGENIA.

Thou wilt not perish ? Oh ! that I might hear
One single tranquil word fall from thy Ups.
Oh, free me from my doubts» and let the bliss
Long-wished, long-prayed for, be assured at last.
A wheel of sorrow and of joy revolves
Through all my soul. I with aversion turn

ö8

From men miknown, but brother, onto thee.
With force resistless, b my soul impelled.

OBESTEB.

Is this the fane of Bacchus ? Doth the glow
Of holy transport thee, its priestess, seize ?

IPHiaENIA..

Oh, hear me ! Oh, look up ! See how my heart, *
So long time closed, doth welcome give once more,
To bliss the highest which the world bestows.
Oh, let me kiss that head, and thee embrace
With these poor arms, that to the empty winds
Alone have been extended. Stay me not !
Repulse me not, beloved ! Th' eternal spring
Gushed never clearer from Parnassus forth.
Or leapt with quicker haste from rock to rock,
Until it reached the golden vale beneath,
Than from my heart the flood of gladness pours.
And like a sea of bliss around me swells.
Orestes ! Oh, my brother !

0BESTE8.

Lovely nymph !
I neither trust thy flatteries nor thyself.
The great Diana vassals strict requires.
And doth avenge a desecrated ^e.
Remove thy twining arms from round my breast.

If thou a youth canst loye, and him wilt save.
And then earth's sweetest bliss on him bestow.
Give to my friend thy heart, for he, indeed.
Is worthier far than I. Go, seek him out.
Amidst these rocks he wanders even now.
Lead him to safety. Peace ! Leave me.

IPHIGENIA.

Collect
Thyself, my brother, recognise the lost.
Chide not a sister's pure and holy love.
As though it were a passion base and low.
Ye gods ! remove th' illusion from his eyes,
Lest these sweet moments, full of highest bliss,
Render us threefold wretched. She is here.
Thy long-lost sister ; me the goddess snatched.
And from the altar bearing, placed me here.
Within the precincts of her sacred grove.
A captive thou, prepared for sacrifice.
Dost now thy sister in the priestess find.

OBESTES.

Unhappy one ! now may the sun behold
The last dread horrors of our fated house.
Is not Electra here, that she with us
May perish now, and her sad life not be
For sharper, deeper sorrows still prolonged ?

'Tis well. Come, priestess, to the altar lead.

For fratricicle has ever of our house

The custom heen, and you I thank, ye gods,

Who, childless, have resolved to root me out.

And now by me be counselled. Hold not thou

The dazzling sun and myriad stars too dear.

But follow me to nighf s dark realms below.

As dragons gendered in the sulph'rous lake.

Which first wage war, then feast upon their brood.

So our accursed race destroys itself.

Childless and guiltless, come with me below ;

On me thou dost with pity gaze. Ah ! cease.

'Twas with such looks that Clytemnestra sought

An entrance to her son Orestes' heart,

And yet his upraised arm transfixed her heart.

His mother fell. Appear ! indignant ghost !

Within the circle, come, ye Furies, come,

And at the welcome spectacle assist.

The last most fearful one that ye prepare.

Nor hate nor vengeance gives the dagger edge ;

A loving sister 'tis that to the deed

Is now compelled. Come, weep not, guiltless one !

Ah ! since my very childhood have I ne'er

Loved aught, my sister, as I thee could love.

Yes ! brandish now thy steel, and spare me not.

This bosom rive, and let the streams which boil

Within my breast burst forth, and find «> k wt escape.

(He ginks exhausted.)

n'HIGENIA.

This weight of hlessedness, this load of wo^
I cannot bear alone. Oh dear, my friend.
Thy help I need. Where art thou, Pylades ?

(Iphigenia retires, seek'uuj him. )
SCENE THE SECOND.

OBESTES,

(recovering from his swoon, and standing up,)

Yet reach to me once more from Lethes^ stream,

The last cold cup, whose draughts revival give ;

For soon veill life's convulsive throes be stilled

Within my breast ; my spirit soon will glide,

In gentle stillness, to Oblivion's source.

To you, ye shades, wrapt in eternal mists.

With quiet joy, in your serene repose.

The worn-out son of earth may lave his soul.

What whispers do I hear amidst the boughs ?

What rustling murmurs through the twilight sound ?

They come from far, the stranger to behold.

What are these hosts, that, like a princely house

For converse gathered, solemnly rejoice?

They mingle peacefully, both old and young,

Of either sex, like gods they seem, and each

Like unto each,, the gliding forms appear :

Yes, these are they, the fathers of my house.
g2

Thyestes now with Atreos walks as friend.

Whilst skipping round them, play his murdered boys.

Is there no enmity amongst you here ?

Is vengeance, too, extinguished with the sun ?

Then am I also welcome, and amidst

Your solemn ranks may hope to take my place.

(A pOMM.J

All hail, my fathers, you Orestes greets.
The latest scion of your lordly race ;
What ye have sown, that has he fully reaped.
Laden with curses, he descends to you ;
But curses here are easier far to bear.
Into your circle take him now, oh, take.
Thee, Atreus, I revere ; Thyestes, too.
Here all are free from vengeance and from hate.
Show me my valiant father, whom but once
In life I saw. Art thou laj father, he.
Who trustful leads my mother by his side ?
Dares Clytemnestra place her hand in thine ?
Then may Orestes, too, to her draw near.
And cry, oh, mother, look upon your son !
Give, oh, my parents, welcome to your child.
For with our house 'twas ever thus on earth.
Of murder, was a kiss forerunner sure ;
The race of ancient Tantalus their joys
Have aye reserved for shades of blackest night.
Welcome ye give, and me ye now receive.
Oh, lead me to the ancients of my house.

Where is its founder ? let me him behold,
And pay my homage to that reverend head,
Which with th' immortals once at coonsel sat.
Ye seem to shudder, and ye turn away ;
What means it ? Does the hero suffer still ?
Alas ! the mighty gods, with brazen chains.
Have fettered fast upon his noble breast
The dreads torments, making him their prey.

SCENE THE THIRD.
Orestes — Iphigenia — Pylades.

OKESTES.

What, have ye, too, so soon descended here ?
I greet thee, sister. Still Electra fails.
Oh, that to us some kindly god would soon.
With soft-winged arrow, send her quickly down !
But thee, poor friend, I pity from my heart.
Now come with me, at once, to Pluto's throne.
To greet our hosts, as guests but just arrived.

IPHiaENIA.

Oh, twin-bom, heavenly pair, who from the sky.
By day and night, shed down on men the light.
Which on departed spirits may not shine.
Look down iu pity on a mortal pair.
Like you, united in fraternal bonds.
Diana, thou thy gracious brother lov'st

Far more than aug^t wbicfa eaiäi or heaYea can give.

And dost with earnest longing ever torn

Thy vir^ face to his eternal light ;

Let not my only hrother, found so late^

Thus in the dioricneds of delirum nge ;

And if thy will« which here has me concealed.

Be now fulfilled, ou me wtmld'st thou, through him.

On him, through me, thy saving aid hestow.

Then free him from the fetters of his curse.

Lest we should lose the precious hours of flight.

PYLAD&S*

Dost thou not know us, and this sacred grove,

And this hlest light, which shines not on the shades ?

Dost thou not feel thy friend's, thy sister's arms.

Which strain thy living form in close embrace ?

Oh, touch us, see, we are no empty shades ;

Observant mark my words — collect thysdlf.

For every fleetmg moment now is dear.

And our return hangs on a slender thread.

The thread, methinks, some fav'ring &te doth spin.

OBESTES.

Oh, let me taste, as ne'er I could before,
With heart at rest, pure joy within thy arms.
Immortal gods ! who, armed with flaming power,
Stride forth to rend the heavy lowering clouds.
And sternly gracious pour the long-sought rain.

With roll ef thunder apd with roar of winds.

In rushing torrents on the thirsty earth.

Yet who the terrors such dread scenes excite

Soon change to hlessings, and men's anxious fears

Tum into gladness and to songs of praise.

Whilst in the drops which hang from leaves revived.

The sun anew is mirrored thousand fold.

And kind, gay Iris parts, with skilful hand,

The veil of lingering clouds which hide the sky ;

Oh, let me now, within my sister's arms,

And on the hosom of my friend« enjoy,

All former terrors past, with grateful heart.

The hliss which you at last on me hestow.

My heart assures me that the curse dissolves,

Th' Eumenides retreat, to Tartarus

I hear them fly, and now the hrazen doors

Clang, as they dose hehind them, with a sound

Like roar of distant thunder. I am free ;

The earth inspiring odours upwards sends.

And hids me on its plains pursue once more.

The joys of life, and deeds of nohle fame.

PYLADES.

The hours are numbered. Not a moment lose !
The breeze which swell our saus must be the first
To- waft our bliss to high Olympus' mount.
Quick counsel, swift, resolve are now required.

ACT IV.

SCENE THE FIRST.

IPHIOENIA.

For all of earth's sons,

Weave the heavenly ones,

■ Vi

•

Perplexities dread,

• .»

By them are we led.

From bliss to despair.

•

From pleasure to care ;

Sad changes tiiat tear

Man's innermost breast.

And rob him of rest.

Then him they provide.

A friend and a guide.

' «

In a dty at hand.

Or a far-^stant strand.

That in hour of his need.

He may quickly be freed.

Oh ! bless, ye heavenly powers, our Pylades,

And prosper everything he undertakes.

In battle his the valiant arm of youth,

In counsel his the gray beard's searching eye.

• »

His soul serene possesses in its depths.

-•

Exhaustless treasures of a sacred rest.

And to the weary and oppressed he gives

•<
•

Whate'er they need of counsel or of aid.
He tore me from my brother» whilst on him
I gazed and gazed again, as if my bliss
I scarce could realize, or let him go
From out my arms ; the whilst I took no heed
Of all the dangers which were drawing near.
And now their project to fulfil they go,
Down to the sea, where, in a little bay.
The ship lies hid, and there his friends await
Until the promised signal they behold.
And me with cautious words they have supplied.
And taught me what to answer when the king
Shall hither send, and for the sacrifice
Shall pressingly demand. Ab, well I see
That I must let them guide me like a child.
Yet never have I learnt to keep back aught.
Or ever aught by cunning to obtain.
Wo, wo to falsehood I wo to cursed lies !
They ne'er relieve the heart like words of truth.
Or e'er give peace and comfort ; but to him
Who forges them in secret, anguish bring ;
For, like an arrow from the bow discharged.
And by a god diverted from its course,
They turn and strike the archer. Anxious cares
In quick succession pass across my breast.
Perchance once more the Furies, vengefrd, seize
Upon my brother, now that he has passed
This consecrated grove and sought the coast.

Both are, perchance, recaptured. Hark ! methinks
I hear the tread of armed men. 'Tis he.
The rojal messenger, who comes with haste.
My sonl is troahled, and my heart heats fast.
Now that indeed I look upon the man
Whom I with words of falsehood must accost.

SCENE THE SECOND.
Iphig&wia — Arkat»

ABKAS.

Priestess ! with speed prepare the sacrifice !
Impatiently the king and people wait.

IPHIOENIA.

I had ohsenred my office and thy will,
Had not an hindrance unforeseen 'tween me
And the fulfilment of my duty crossed.

ABKAS.

What is it that ohstructs the king's command 7

IPHIGENIA.

Blind chance, of whom we ever are the slaves.

ABKAS.

Say on, that I the answer may with speed

Bear to the monarchy who hath now the lives
Of hoth the prisoners resolved to take.

IPHIOEinA.

On this the gods have not as yet resolved.
The eldest of the twain hows 'neath the guilt
Of shedding kindred blood. The Furies track
His every step ; yes, e'en within the shrine
The frenzy seized him, and he thus profaned
The pure and sacred temple. Now I haste.
Together with my maidens, to the sea,
To purify the goddess in its waves,
And there to celebrate mysterious rites ;
Let none disturb our still and solemn march.

ABKAS.

I to the monarch will at once announce
This fresh impediment. Begin not thou
The sacred rites until he shall permit.

IPHIOENIA.

With this the priestess has alone to do.

ABKA.S.

The king should hear an incident so strange.

IFHIGENIA.

His counsel or command could nothing change.

ABKAS.

Oft are the great consulted out of form.

msiaBNiA.
Insist no more on what I must reftise.

ABKAS.

Reftise not that which is but just and right.

IPHiaENIA.

I yield me, then, if thou wilt not delay.

ABKAS.

Swift will I take the tidings to the camp.
And with the monarch's answer quick return.
Oh, that I could that welcome message bear,
Which all perplexities at once would end.
But thou, alas I my counsel wouldst not heed.

IPHIGENIA.

All that I could that did I gladly do.

ABKAB.

Couldst thou but change, e'en now there would be time.

IPHiaENIA.

Such change as this is not within my power.

ABKAS.

Thou deem' st impossible what costs thee pain.

IPHiaENIA.

To think it possible, thy wish misleads.

ABKAS.

And wilt thou» then» thy all so cahnly risk ?

IPHiaENIA.

My cause I have committed to the gods.

ABKAS.

The gods by human means are wont to save.

IFHIOENIA.

By their appointment everything arrives.

ABKAS.

I tell thee that it rests within thy hands.
The monarch's irritated mind alone
Condemns these strangers to a bitter death.
To cruel sacrifices long disused«
The soldiers care not for the cruel rite.
Aye, many of them whom an adverse fate
Has cast on foreign coasts, themselves have felt
How godlike to the exiled wand'rer seems

A kindly faoe^ where all around is strange.
Oh, turn not from us then, 'twill easy be
For thee to end the work thou hast begun.
Since nowhere, Mercy, when she comes from hearen
To dwell with men, can empire quicker gain.
Than 'midst a wild and gjLoomy infant race.
With life and strength and courage filled, yet left
To guide itself, and with forebodings sad
To bear the heavy load of human life.

IPHIOEMIA.

Seek not to shake my soul from its resolve,
Thou canst not mould or bend it to thy will.

ABKAS.

Whilst there is time, I will not trouble spare.
Or cease repeating one persuasive word.

Trouble thou giv'st thyself and sorrow me.
Vain are they both, so leave me, I entreat.

ABXAS.

Sorrows they are which to my aid I call.

For they are friends, who counsel wise can give.

IPHIGENIA.

Although they stir thy inmost soul with power.
Yet my repugnance can they not remove.

ABKAS.

And can a gentle soul aversion feel

For one like Thoas, who would noblj act ?

IPHIGEMIA.

Yes, when the noble Thoas, not my thanks
But me desires, for benefits bestowed.

ASKAS.

Who no affection feels, can never want
For reasons or excuses. To the king
All that has happened I will now relate.
Oh, that thou would' st revolve within thy soul
How nobly he has borne himself to thee,
Since thy arrival even until now.

SCENE THE THIRD.
iPHiaBNiA, (alone,)

I feel, alas ! this man's untimely words
Have caused once more revulsion in my breast.
I shudder, and my heart is filled with fear ;
For, as the tide with quick advandng waves,
O'erflows the rocks which strew the sandy shore.
E'en so a flood of bliss o'erwhelmed my soul.
And in my arms th' Impossible I clasped.
It seemed as though a gentle cloud once more

Around me floated, me from earth to raise,

And rock me in that sleep which Dian laid

Upon mj temples when her kindlj arm

Saved me from death. My long-bst hrother seized

Upon my heart with strong, resistless power ;

I listened only to his friend's advice.

Only to save them forwards pressed my sonl ;

And, as the sailor gladly turns his back

On crags and rocks that bound a desert isle.

So Tauris lay behind me. But the voice

Of faithful Arkas wakens me once more,

Reminding me that they are also men

Whom I forsake. Deceit and falsehood now

Are doubly hateful. Oh! my soul« be still ;

B^nn'st thou now to vacillate and doubt?

Must thou, alas ! thy solitude forsake.

And leave its solid ground ? Again embarked

The waves will toss thee on their reeling crests.

Whilst to thy anxious and perplexing thoughts

The world and e'en thyself will changed appear.

SCENE THE FOURTH.
Iphigenia^^PyladeSf

PYLADES.

Where is she ? that my speedy words may bring
To her glad tidings of our near escape.

^^^^■* ^^«^M

7Ö

IPHIOEVIA.

Thou seest me here» where, full of care, I wait
The certain comforts thou didst promise me.

PALADES.

Thj brother is restored. The rocky paths
Of the uncoQsecrated shore we trod.
In cheerfiil converse, whilst behind us lay
The sacred grove, albeit unmarked by us.
Still, with increasing glory, ever shone
Around his flowing locks the flame of youth.
His deep eyes glowed with courage and with hope.
And his freed heart exulted in the bliss
Of saving thee his rescuer, and his friend.

IFHIGENIA.

Now blest be thou ; and from those gracious lips,
Which tell such joyful news, be never heard
The tones of sorrow or of sad complaint.

PtLADES.

I bring thee more than this, for, like a prince
Nobly escorted, bliss is wont to come :
Our friends and comrades we have also found.
Within a rocky bay the ship lay hid.
And they in sadness waited our approach ;
But when they saw thy brother, shouts of joy

Burst forth from aU, and him they then implored.
The hour of his departure swift to haste :
Whilst bnged each hand to grasp the ready oar»
And e'en a hreeze came whispering from the land,
A fav'ring zephyr, marked alike of all.
Then let us haste, me to the temple guide.
That I the sacred shrine may tread, and seijce,
"With reverent hand, the object of our hopes ;
Diana's sacred image I can bear.
Unaided, on my tutored shoulders hence.
Oh, how I bug to feel the precious weight !

( While tpeaJdny thete wards he approaches the temple,
without perceimng that he is not followed by Iphigenia,
at length he turns round»)

Thou stand' St and Hngerest. Silent, too, thou art.
Thou seem'st confused. Does some fresh hindrance rise
Our bliss f oppose ? Oh, tell me all, and say
If to the monarch thou hast yet made known
The cautious message which to thee we gave.

IPHiaENIA.

I have, dear friend, and yet thou still wilt chide. •
Thy aspect is to me a mute reproach.
The royal messenger arrived, and all
Which thou hadst counselled me to speak I said.
He seemed surprised, and pressingly besought
That to the monarch he might first make known
Th' unusual rite, and then his wishes learn ;
Now his return am I awaiting here.

PYLADES.

Alas ! alas ! again above our beads
Dotb danger bover. In Üiy priestess' rights
Why didst thou not at once enshroud thyself,
That thou might dius escape the threatened ill ?

IPHIGENU.

I never have employed them as a veiL

FTLADES.

And so thou wilt, pure soul, thyself and us
To ruin bring. Oh, wherefore on this chance
Did I not think before, and teach thee e'en
Request like this, with prudence to evade.

IPmOENIA.

Chide only me, the guilt is mine alone.

Yet other answer could I not return.

To him who strongly and with reason urged

That which my heart confessed was nought but right.

FYIiADES.

The danger thickens, yet let us be firm.
Nor tremble, or with wild and senseless haste
Ourselves betray. Wait thou in calmness here
Until the messenger return again.

And then stand &st^ whatever he may say.

To order sacred rites like these belongs

To thine, the priestess' office, not the Idn^s.

Should he require the stranger to behold.

Who by delirious rage is burdened sore,

Then make excuse, as if thou kept us both

Securely guarded, in the saared fime. \^

Thus gain us time, that we with utmost speed

May seek escape, and with us bear away A'

The sacred treasure £rom this savage race, i

Unworthy its possession to retain. .1

ApoUo doth auspicious omens send ; * #/

Ere we our parts have piously performed.

Already, godlike, he fulfils his word.

Orestes is restored — ^is free. And witih the freed, j^^

Oh, waft us also, kind, propitious breeze, JJ

Hence to the rocky isle where dwells the god. .,fr

Then to Mycenae, that with life renewed ' h

It may be filled, and that the household gods • //

May from die hearth's extinguished ashes rise, , p^

With solemn joy, whilst cheerful fires illume

Once more their dwellings. There thy gentle hand

ShaD be the first to shed, from censers round, ,,

The fragrant incense, as an offering sweet. ~^

Across that threshold thou with thee shalt bring, . f^

Both life and blessing, and appease the curse.

Thy kindred then thou shalt again adorn.

In lordly guise, with freshest flowers of hfe.

IPHiaENIA.

As flowers that seek the sun, so turns my soul
To thee» dear friend, and 'neath the cheerful beams
Shed bj thy words, doth comfort seek and find.
How precious, when we list a present friend.
Are his persuasive and assuring words !
Of whose sustaining, godlike power deprived.
The lonely heart, in saddest stillness sinks ;
For slowly ripen, locked within the breast,
The thoughts and purposes that quickly form
When with the loved one we can hold commune.

FYLADES.

Farewell ! I haste to reassure our friends,

Who our arrival anxiously await.

Then will I quick return, and, lurking near.

Hid 'midst the bushes, there thy signal wait.

What are thy thoughts ? Why once again doth pass

A shade of sorrow o'er thy brow serene ?

IPHIOENIA.

Forgive. As fleecy clouds athwart the sun.
So pass across my soul anxieties
And trivial cares.

FYLADSS.

Oh ! banish fear ;

With it, deceitfully» has danger formed
A close alliance. Both companions are.

IPHIOENIA.

An honourable scruple sure it is

Which makes me shrink from plundering the king,

Who as a second father is to me.

PniADBS.

Him thou dost fly, who would thy brother slay.

IPHIOENIA.

To me, at least, he hath been ever kind.

FTLADE8.

What springs from need is not ii^ratitude.

iPHiaBNIA.

'Tis still ingratitude, alas ! e'en though
Necessity for it| excuse doth plead.

FYLADES.

Thee before gods and men it justifies.

IFHIGEMIA.

But still my heart remains unsatisfied.

FYLADES.

Too rigid scruples oft are cloak for pride.

IFHIGENIA.

I cannot argue. I can only feeL

PYLADEa.

Conscious of right, thyself thou must esteem.

IFKEGENIA.

The heart must he unstained, if it would know
The hlessedness of perfect rest and peace.

FTLADES.

And in the temple thou hast kept it pure.

life teaches us with others and ourselves

Not so severe to he. This wilt thou learn.

So wondrously is human nature formed»

And its relations are so compHcate,

So various and entangled, none may hope

To live apart, or ever keep himself

From others uncontaminate and free.

Nor are we hither sent to judge ourselves,

With careful heed to walk along his path.

Is of man's duties ever highest, first ;

For seldom does he estimate aright.

What he has done, nay, scarcely what he does.

IPHIGENIA. 1

Almost thou dost persuade me thus to think.

PTLADES.

Needs there persuasion where the choice is none?
To save thyself, thy brother« and thy friend
One only way b left, and need'st thou ask
If we along that only path must go ?

IPHIGENIA.

Oh, let me pause, for eren thou thyself
Wouldst such injustice ne'er inflict on one
To whom for benefits thou wert in debt.

PYLAOES.

If we should perish, bitter self-reproach,
Bom of despair, thy portion sure wiU be.
Thou art not used to suffering and to loss.
If thou, so great an CTil to escape.
Not one false word wilt give in sacrifice.

IPHIGENIA.

Oh, that I but possessed a manly heart !
Which, when it once conceives a bold design.
Is 'gainst opposing vmces firmly closed.

PYLAPES.

In lain dost thou refuse. The brazen hand
Of stem necessity commands. Her will
Is to the gods themselves a law suprente,
To which they most submit. In silence rules
Th' uncounselled sister of eternal fate ;
What she imposes on thee bear« and do
What she commands. Thou knowest all the rest.
Soon shall I here return« from out thy hand
The precious seal of safety to receive.

SCENE THE FIFTH.
IPHXGENIA, (alone,)

I must obey him« for I' see my friends
Beset with pressing dangers. Tet, alas !
My own uncertain fate doth fill my heart
With anxious fears« that strengthen every hour.
Oh« may I not preserve the silent hope«
So sweetly cherished in my solitude^?
Shall« then« this curse eternal o'er me rule ?
And shall our fated race ne'er rise again
To taste fresh blessings ? Everything decays ;
The highest bliss« the noblest powers of life«
Wear out at last, and wherefore not the curse t
So hoped I« then, in vain« that guarded here«
Secluded ^om the fate which ruled our house«

I should at last, with guileless hands and heart» .
The dark-stained dwelling of my fathers cleanse.
Scarce is my brother clasped within my arms.
From raging madness wondrously restored»
Scarce nears the shore the yessel prayed for long.
Which back should bear 'me to my fatherland.
Than deaf necessity, with iron hand,
A double crime doth lay on me : to steal
The sacred statue trusted to my care,
And him deceive to whom I owe a debt
Of deepest gratitude for life preserved.
Oh, that within my inmost heart at last
Aversion may not germinate, nor hate.
Like that the ancient Titans felt tow'rds you,
Ol3nnpian gods, my inmost bosom seize
With vi^ture claws I Oh, save me now, and save
Your sacred image, cherished in my soul.

------ {A pause.y

Within my ears resounds that ancient song,
I had forgotten long, and glad forgot.
The Parcse's song which shudderingly they sang.
When fell the hero from his golden seat.
And as they suffered for their valiant friend.
From raging hearts flowed horribly their song.
When we were children, often would our nurse
To me, my brother, and my sister sing,
Well do I mind it, all that wild lament.

Feared by the mortal race.

Are all the gods.
High in their pride of place.

Ruling with nods!
Holding in closest bands
Earth with their hands.

Doubly should fear their love

Whom they exalt.
Lift them to seats above

Heaven's high vault.
Where thickest mist and cloud
Jove's golden board enshroud.

Lifts herself Discord, - *

See the guests knried, U/rMtcL

Ruined and god-abhorred.
Into night hurled ;

Waiting in vain below

Judgment that cometh slow.

But the Immortals stay

Jove's board beside ;
Then from high mountains they

O'er mountains stride ;

Whilst on their march they go,

Rises from depths below,
I 2

TitanSdense stifled breath

Up to the skies«
In a white yapoury wreath

like sacrifice.

Tom the gods from the race

Shmming them lest
They should see slightest trace

On them imprest.
Of the once-&voured sire
Doomed to their vengeance dire.

Thus the Faroe sang,

Whilst the night-caves rang ;

And the exiled heard,

Every fearful word.
On his children thought with dread.
Bowing down his hoary head.

t
ACT V.

SCENE THE FIEST.
Thoas — Arkas.

ABKAS.

I own I am perplexed^ and cannot tell
Where my suspicions should in justice fall.
Whether the captives plot a secret flight.
Or whether 'tis the priestess gives them aid.
For rumour says the ship that brought them here,
Is somewhere still within a bay concealed.
And then the pris'ner's madness and these rites
For this delay the pious pretext made,
Mistrust excite» for forethought loudly call.

THOAS.

Here let Diana's priestess quickly come.
Then hasten narrowly to search the shore,
Bight from the cape down to the sacred grove ;
See thou respect its depths, whilst thou dost set
A well-planned ambush round. Next seize the men
Where'er you find them. Ye your duty know.

SCENE THE SECOND.
THOAS, (alone,)

Within my breast doth anger fiercely strive,

Against her, first, whom once I thought so pure.
Then 'gainst myself, who did but form her soul
For treason, by my kind, indulgent love.
To slavery can man himself innure.
And learn submission easily, when he
Of freedom is by others wholly robbed.
Yes, had she fallen in the savage hands
Of my forefathers, and their sacred wrath
Had spared her life, she had so grateful been
Herself to see preserved, that she her fate
Had thankfuUy received, and strangers' blood
To shed before the altar, she had named
Duty and not necessity ; but now
My goodness tempts audacious thoughts to rise.
In vain I hoped to bind her to myself.
She wills her fate should keep her far from me.
Through flattery it was she won my heart ;
And now that I withstand it, seeks her ends
To gain by fraud and Hes, the whilst she deems
My kindness but an old prescriptive right.

SCENE THE THIRD
Jphigenia — Thonts,

rPHIGENIA.

Me hast thou summoned. Wherefore art thV)u here ?

THOAS.

Say vrhj the sacrifice is thus delayed?

IPHIGEinA.

I have to Arkas clearly all explained.

THOAS.

The reasons I would further hear from thee.

IFHIOENIA.

This respite for reflection Dian gives.

THOAS.

And opportune to thee the respite seems.

IPHIGENIA.

If to resolve so cruel and so dread
Thy heart is hardened, here thou shouldst not come.
A king who meditates inhuman deeds
Can hirelings find enough who will, for gain
And honours granted, eager seek to hear
One-half the curse which to the crime helongs,
And leave the king apparently unstained.
Concealed from view, in thick and gloomy clouds.
His thoughts are husy plotting schemes of death.
And flaming ruin hring his minions down.
Upon the heads of miserable men.

Whilst o'er the storm he hovers in his height,
Untrouhled as a god heyond our reach.

THOAS.

Wild songs are these which flow from sacred lips.

IPHiaSliXl.

No priestess now, bnt Agamemnon's child ! /

Thou didst revere my words whust all unknown.

And me as princess wilt thou dare command?

No, »ei Although I 've learnt obedience from my youth,.

First, tow'rds my parents, then towards the gods,

And whilst the most obeying felt my soul

Was then most free ; yet neither then nor since <;

Have I to man's severe and cruel words.

Or to his mandates rude, compliance learnt.

THOAB.

Not I, but ancient laws obedience claim.

IPHIOENIA.

Upon a law our passions eager seize

Which they, as useful weapon, hope to wield.

To me another speaks, an older law,

Which bids that I withstand thy dread resolve —

The law that strangers sacred must be held.

THOAB.

'Twould seem these men lie very near thy heart,
Since sympathy with them doth make thee thus
Strangely forget discretion's primal law.
Which says, the mighty ne'er should be provoked.

IPHIGENIA.

Speaking or silent, thou mayst ever know

What is and always will be in my breast.

Doth not remembrance of a common fate

To sympathy awake the coldest heart ?

How much more mine ! In them I see myself.

Before the altar I have trembled too.

And solemnly did early death enshroud

My kneeling form. The knife already glanced

My Hving, panting bosom to traasfix ;

My inmost soul in dreadful horror whirled ;

My swimming eyes grew dim, and — I was saved.

Are we not bound to render the distressed

The mercy we have from the gods received ?

Thon know'st it, knowest me, aad yet wilt still

Ck>nstrain me to perform the sacrifice.

THOAS.

Obey thy office, not the king's command.

IFHIOENIA.

Cease, cease ; no longer try to cloak brute force.

Which in a woman's weakness finds its joy.
Mj sool was bom as free as soul of man ;
Stood Agamemnon's son before thee now.
And what beseemed him not didst thon require,
His mighty arm and weapon would suffice
His bosom's rights and freedom to defend :
I nothing have but words, and it becomes
A noble mind to heed a woman's word.

TH0A8.

I more respect it than a brother's sword.

IPHIGENIA.

For ever changefrd is the fate of arms.
No prudent warrior holds his foe as nought.
Nor yet does nature fenceless leave the weak
'Grainst cruel, harsh defiance. Him she shows
The pleasure of deceit, and gives him arts
By which he seeming yields, delays, eludes.
And then at last escapes. Most just it is
Such arms as these 'gainst violence to use.

THOAS.

Wisely doth prudence stand opposed to fraud.

IFHIOENIA.

A pure and upright soul doth ne'er require
The aid of cunning or of fraud.

THOAS.

Take heed.
Lest thou incautioasly condemii thyself.

IPHiaEMIA.

Ah ! conldst thou see how bravely strives my soul
To put to flight, e'en in its first assault.
The eyil fate which threatens me from far.
Defenceless stand I, then, before thee here ?
Prayer, lovely prayer, that pleasant oHve branch,
More full of power, when held in woman's hand.
Than sword or weapon, thou has thrust from thee.
And now what is there left wherewith my soul
I may defend ? Shall I the goddess pray
To work a miracle in my behalf?
Lies there no power within my spirit's depths ?

THOAS.

Extravagant methinks the anxious cares
The fate of both these captives in thee wakes ;
Who are they ? Speak ; and tell me whence they come
For whom thy spirit is so strongly moved.

IPHiaENIA.

They are, — ^they seem, — ^I take them to be Greeks.

THOAB.

Thj countTTmen, indeed ! and thej, no doubt.
Renewed in thee the hope of ^ad return.

IPHIOBNIA, (after a pause,)

And is it, then, that man to glorious deeds
Alone possesses right? May none but he
Dare hope to clasp to his heroic breast
Th' ideal to which the noble soul aspires?
What call we great ? What is it makes the soul
Heave with a shuddering awe beneath a tale,
* However oft narrated, but the deeds
Begun by valiant heroes, where success
Not doubtfiil» but impossible appeared?
What I shall the man who steals at dead of night
Through hostile hosts, and, like a raging fire,
That all unseen and unexpected flames,
Destroys his slumbering and his waking foes,
Until pursued at length by men aroused.
And by their horses, back with booty oomeii,
Be then alone extolled ? Shall none but he
Be honoured and esteemed, who looks with scorn
On paths secure and boldly fighting roams
Through woods and wilds that he may cleanse the land
From robbers that its hills and vales infest ?
Does nought remain ? Must feeble woman, then.
Forego the natuise givra her at hex

And force 'gainst force employ? like Amazons,

Usurp from man his sacred right — ^the sword ?

With hlood avenge oppression ? In my soul

The impulse to perform a nohler work

By turns doth rise and sink. If it succeed.

Severe reproaches I shall not escape.

Nor evils worse to hear if it should fail.

Now on your knees I lay it, oh, ye gods.

If ye are full of truth, as we helieve,

Then prove it hy your timely aid. In me

Let truth be glorified« Now, heair, O king ;

A secret plot has been already laid.

And for the captives thoa dost ask in vain ;

Escaped from here, they for their comrades seek.

Who, with the ship, await them on the ooast.

The eldest, he whom madness lately seized.

But who is now restored, Orestes is,

My brother, and the other is bis friend

And confidant, whose name is Pylades :

Apollo sent them here from Delphi's coast.

With his divine command, to bear away

The image of Diana, and bring back

To him his sister. Once the deed performed,

He promised from the Furies he would free

The guilty shedd^ of his mother's blood.

And now the remnants of our fated race,

Orestes and myself, to thee I yield.

Destroy us, if thoa canst.

THOAB.

And dost thou think
The rnde and savage Scythian will obey
The yoice of truth and of humanity,
Which Atreus, the Greek, would not attend?

ipmaENiA.

'Tis heard by all, beneath whatever skies
They may be bom, and in whose bosom flows,
Unchecked and pure, the stream of life. O king.
What dost thou silent purpose in thy soul ?
If it be ruin, let me perish first :
For now all chances of escape are fled,
I feel the dreadful perils into which.
With fearfiil haste, my loved ones I have plunged.
Alas I before me I shall see them bound !
How shall I to my brother bid farewell
Whom I have murdered ? Never more can I
Gaze in his dear beloved eyes again.

THOAS.

Thus these deceivers have, with specious art,
A web like this thrown round about the head
Of one secluded long, who doth with ease
And joy beHeve all that her wishes prompt.

IPHiaENIA.

No, no ! O king. Though I should he deceiyed.

These men are faithM, aye, as truth itself.

Should' st thou discover they are otherwise.

Then let them fall as victims justly doomed ;

And hanish me, my foUy to chastise.

To dreary coasts of some wild rocky isle.

But should this he my brother loved, the man

Prayed for so long, oh, then dismiss us both, —

Be kind unto my brother as to me.

My father by his guilty wife was slain.

She by her son. The last and dearest hopes

Of Atreus' race on him alone repose.

Oh ! let me with pure heart and stainless hand

Go hence, to cleanse our dwelUng from the curse.

Thy promise thou wilt keep ; for thou didst swear

That if a safe return for me were found.

Then would' st thou let me go. The time is come.

A king resembles not the herd, who grant

That firom petition they may respite gain.

Nor does he promise things he fain would hope

Performance at his hands wül never claim.

But most his royal dignity he feels

When bhss he gives to long-expecting hearts.

THOA&.

Unwillingly, as. fire with water fights,

K 2

And hissing tries to oyercome its foe.

So now within my bosom aoger strives

Against the words with which thon stirr'st my soul.

IPHXOEHIA.

Upon me, wreathed with songs of grateful praise.
Let mercy, like the pure and sacred light
Of sacrificial flame, descend and shine.

THOABb

How oft this Yoioe has softened my resolves !

IPHZGENIA.

Oh, give to me thy hand, in sign of peace. .

TH0A8.

Much thou requirest in so short a time.

IPHIOEIOA.

Good to perform doth no reflection need.

THOAS.

It calls for much ; oft evil springs from good.

IPHIOENIA.

Suspuaon 'tis which good to evfl turns.
Consider not : act as thy fiwHngs prompt.

SCENE THE FOURTH.
Orestes, farmed) — The preceding,
OBESTES, {adäre8sing hufolhwen.)

Strain doubly every nerve, and hold them back
But for a moment longer. Keep your ranks.
And see that ye the passage to the ship.
For me and for my sister, cover.

{To IpMgema, without perceiving the king.)

Come with speed.
We are betrayed, brief space remains for flight.
Haste, haste.

THOAS, {seizing his suwrd.)

None may unpunished bear
His sword unsheathed in my presence.

IPHIGENIA.

Hold!
Profane not Dian's fane with rage and blood.
Command your people to forbear awhile,
And hear the priestess and the sister speak.

ORESTES.

Who is the man that threatens thus ?

100

IPmOENIA.

In him
Rerere the kmgy who was my second sire.
Forgiye me» brother, that my childlike heart ^

Has laid our fate entirely in his hands. ^

Your project I confessed, and thus my soul
From base and wicked treachery I saved.

OEE8TE8.

Will he permit our peaceable return?

IPHIOENIA..

Thy gleaming sword prohibits my reply.

Now spei^ Thou seest I listen to thy words.

SCENE THE FIFTH.

The preesding,

Pylades-'^oon after him, Arkas,

(Both loith dravm swords.)

FYLASES.

0BE8TEB, {sheathing his sword.) .»J

-J

Delay no longer» for our friends put forth :l

Their final efforts now» and as they yield i

Back to the sea, by slow degrees, are pressed.

101

What conference of princes find I here ?
This is the monarch's sacred honoured head.

ABKAS.

With cahnness, as beseemeth thee, O king,
Thou stand'st amidst thy foes. Their rash attempt
Its chastisement has met. Their forces yield.
Their ship is ours. Speak but the word, it flames.

THOAS.

Command my people to forbear. Let none
Upon the foe lay hands while we confer.

OBESTES.

I give consent. 60, faithfiil Fylades,
Collect the remnant of our people, wait
In stillness till we know what is decreed
By heaven as issue of our enterprise.

SCENE THE SIXTH.
Iphig&mO'-^ThoM-^OresUs,

IPHEGEIOA.

Relieye my cares ere ye b^in to speak.
I fear lest evil discord should arise.
If thou, O king, shouldst not the gentle voice
Of reason list ; and if, my brother, thou
Forget to curb the rashness of thy youth.

102

TH0A8.

I, as beseems the elder, know to keep <^'

My anger in due bounds. How dost thou prove I

That thou indeed art Agamemnon^s son

0BE8TSS.

Behold the sword
With which he slew the valiant men of Troy,
I took it from his murderer away.
And prayed the gods that they would grant to me
Great Agamemnon's courage, strength, and power.
And then bestow on me a nobler death«
Choose thou firom out the noblest of thy hosts
The best of all to battle with me here ;
Where'er this earth doth cherish -heroes' sons
This boon no stranger ever finds denied.

TH0A8.

ORESTES.

Then irom thee and m^
Oh, let this custom date its happy rise ;
And thou wilt find how all thy people soon»
By imitating us, will consecrate

And btüther of this maid? ^^

-*■

• I

A privilege like this our customs here

Have ne'er accorded. 'l

«i

i
f

103

Their monardi's noble deed, and make it law.
Not for my freedom only would I strive.
Let me, a stranger, here for strangers plead :
If I should fall, my doom is also theif's ;
But should kind fortune be upon my side.
None will in future ever tread these shores,
Who, with kind looks of sympathy and love,
Will not be gladly welcomed. None will then
Unaided, nnconsded, from here depart.

THOAS.

Not all unworthy dost thou seem, O youth.
The ancestors of whom thou mak'st thy boast ;
Glreat is the numb^ of the valiant men
Which fill my hosts» and yet will I myself.
Though old in jears^ oppose thee as a &e.
Prepared am I to try appeal to arms.

Oh ! let it not be thus. This bloody proof

Is not required, my king. O sheath your swords ;

Think on my fate, and what I have at stake.

Bash combat may immortalise a man.

For, though he fall, he lives again in song.

But after ages never count the tears.

The ceaseless tears, forsaken woman sheds.

Who but survives to mourn. The poet, too.

In silence passes o'er the thousand days

In weeping spent, and all the countless nights

104

Wherein her soul with silent ^n gnii^b yearns
O'er her beloved, so quickly called away.
Until at last. her life is all consumed
With yain attempts to bring him back to earth.
Ere thb my fears had warned me to beware
Lest I by robbers' wiles should be allured
From my sure refuge, that to bondage then
They might betray me. So with anxious carie
These men I questioned, and demanded signs,
Searched erery circumstance, and proofs required,
Until my heart was sure, nor felt a doubt.
Behold the token on his hand impressed.
As of three stars, which on the yery day
That he was bom appeared, and which the priest
Declared were signs that by this yery hand
Some fearful deed should beittiereafter done.
And then this scar, which doth his eyebrow deaye.
Made me feel doubly sure 'twas he himself;
For when he was a child, £lectra, rash
And thoughüess, as her nature eyer was.
Dropped him from out her arms and let him fall
Against a tripod. Oh, 'tis he, indeed.
The likeness to his father which he bears.
The joyful beating of my inmost heart,
These need I show to thee as further proofs ?

THOAS.

E'en though thy words had banished eyery doubt.

r loö

And I had tamed the anger in my breast;
Between ns twain weapons mnst still decide.
No chance I see for peace. Thou didst thyself
Confess they hither came from me to steal
Diana's sacred image^ and dost think
That I upon such deeds will calmly look ?
The Greek is wont his longing eye to cast
On treasures which barbarians possess,
In lovely daughters, steeds, or golden fleece.
Yet force or cunning have not always led
Them and their longed-for booty safely home.

ORESTES.

The statue shall not be a cause of strife.

For now we see the error which the god

Cast, like a veil, before the eyes of both.

When he commanded us to journey here.

His counsel and assistance I implored

To free me from the Furies' dread pursuit.

And when to me he of a sister spoke

Who in the sacred fane at Tauris dwelt,

Against her will, and promised, that as soon

As I should bring her back to Greece, the curse

Should be dissolved, methought Apollo's words

Applied to great Diana, whilst 'twas thou

To whom the God referred. The bonds are loosed

Which held thee once in thrall, and to thine own

Art thou, the holy one, restored agam.

106

'Twas by thy blessed touch that I was healed.

For in thy amis did madness» with her daws«

For final conflict seise me, when she shook

My inmost soul with terror, ere she fled.

Like some fell serpent gliding swift away.

Anew the boundless light of day through thee

I now enjoy, and to my wondering eyes

The wisdom of the great Diana shows.

In all its beauty and in all its power.

For as a sacred image, which is bound

Unalterably to a city's fate

By some mysterious oracle, so thee

The great protectress of our house did take

And kept thee in this sacred solitude,

A blessing to thy brother to become.

And to the &ted race of Tantalus.

When o'er the widespread earth escape for us

Seems lost and gone, thou giv'st us all again.

Let then thy soul, O king, to peace incline.

The consecration of our father's house

Let her complete. Oh ! stay her not, that she

May to their purified abodes restore

Their rightfid heir, and place upon his brow

The ancient crown, which all my fathers bore.

Hepay the blessings which her presence brought.

And let me now enjoy my nearer rights.

For craft and power, the highest boasts of man.

Shrink back ashamed before the truth, which shows

107

In her great soul, the whibt her childlike trast
Placed in a noble man deserves reward.

. IPH^OEKU.

Think on thy promise. Let thy heart' be moved
By words which ^ow from honest, trathful hps.
Look on us both. "Not oil has thou, O king,
Fit opportunity fbr such a de^d. -
Reftise thou canst not. Grant a quick reply.

TH0A8.

Then go!

IPmOBNIA...,

Alas ! alas ! not so, my king !
Without a blessing, with reluctance thus.
From thee I cannot and I will not part.
Banish us not, for ho^itable rights
Between us still exist, nor shall we be
For ever exiled and cut off from thee.
For still to me, as in times past art thou.
As dear and cherished as my father was.
And this remembrance in my inmost soul
Will ever dwell when I am far away.
Should e'en the meanest of thy people bring
Back to my ear the tones I know so well.
Thy country's language, which I learnt from thee ;
And should I ever see the poorest wear

108

The garb whidi shows his fatherland is thine
With joyM welcome will I him receive»
As though he were a god» myself prepare
His downy couch» and then beside our hearth
Invite him to a seat, and nought £rom him
But what concerns thy fate and thee inquire.
Oh ! may the gods» for deeds so noble» grant
To thee the recompense they well deserve.
Farewell» fiirewell. Oh !, turn to us and grant
One kindly word of parting in return ;
So shall the breeze more gently swell our sails»
Whilst tears more soothing flow adown the cheeks
Of thy departing friend. Farewell. Extend
To me thy hand» in mem'ry of the past»
And of our whilom friendship.

TH0A8.

Fare ye well.

■o»©f>^

TRANSLATIONS

FROM THE ITALIAN

AND

ORIGINAL POEMS.

She said
Brokenly, that she knew it; she had &iled
In sweet humility; had failed in all;
That aU her lahonr was but as a block
Left in the quarry. Tennyson.

IL EISORGIMENTO.

A FREE TRANSLATION, FBOM THE ITALTAN OF OUCOMO LEOPABDI.

Methought the sorrows which had grown
To be my joy from me had flown,
And left me desolate and lone.

E'en in my youth's first glow ;
The griefs my heart so sweetly bound,
Which lay within its depths profound.
Whatever in the world is fomid,

WUch bliss it is to know.

In that strange state, when sorrow fled.
And my cold heart seemed as 't were dead,
How many bitter tears I shed.

How was my soul distrest :
My spirit in me shrank and froze.
And love departed with its throes.
No longer sobs and sighs arose,

No longer throbbed my breast.

112

I wept sad tears ; a firightftd dearth
Seemed to o'erspread the arid earth,
Bound all around with icy girth,

Life seemed extinct vxd gon^e.
The day more lonely was, the night
More silent, darker to the sight.
The lovely moon extinguished quite.

The stars no longer shone.

And yet with weeping still arose

Those sorrows sweet, those hlessed woes.

Within my breast still feebly roset,

And feebly fell, my heart ;
And still my fancy, tired and cold.
To me its thoughts and Tiaipns told.
And still I felt, e'en as of old,

That I in grief had part.

But soon within me had the last
Faint traces of that sorrow past :
Weakness its spells upon me cast,

I could no longer mourn ;
Nor sought I comfort, but amazed.
And silent felt as I were crazed,
As from its place my heart were razed.

And from my bosom torn.

Such I became, who once aspired
To heights of bliss> with ardour fired.

lis

Whom blest iDusions onoe inspired,

And fed my soul each day ;
The watchful swallow, flying fleet
Around the windows, glad to greet
The early dawn with warble sweet.

Found to my heart no way.

When palHd autumn's evening fell
Upon me in my lonely cell.
And gently toUed the yesper bell.

The sun's departing hour ;
In vain for me did Hesper still
Shine soMy o'er the quiet hül.
The nightingale's melodious trill.

In vain filled grove and bower.

And you, sweet eyes, whose ftirtiye tays
Glanced here and there, nor dared to gaze
Upon the loved, dear eyes that raise

The lover to the skies ;
And ye, white hands, which lay in mine.
And clasped me with their touch divine.
From my deep torpor, power of thine.

In vain had bade me rise.

Of sweet emotions widowed quite,
In mutest sadness as of night,
My days were passed, and to the sight.
Serene I seemed to rest ;

Then had I prayed that I mi^t die.
And hence from wiietched being fly; .
But strength for wishing had passed bye
From my exhausted breast.. . . ..

In the fdrlom and wretched state
Of age, unknowing love, and hate,
Was I, alas ! condemned by Fate

To pass my earliest years.;
Thus ! oh, my heart, my youth's sweet sprii^
Did little pleasure to thee, .bring;
Like April days, which on th^ wing

Show us the sky tbrpi^h t^ars^« ..

What is it wakes me once again.
Removes this torpor from my brain ?
How did I this new virtue gain.

Which I within me feel ?
Emotions sweet and fancies bright.
Illusions full of blest, deljght, . :
Is not my heart against yoa quite.

Shut faßt as with 9, sef4 ?,

Perchance, poor heart, 'tis but the smile
With which fond hope would thee beguile ;
Alas ! of hope, the lovely smile,

I never more shall see ;
Nature illusions never grants.
Or thoughts with which the bosom pants,

Jlö

The virtue which my spirit wants.
Is what was horn with me.

Full well I know this age of wo.
Of genius naught doth see or know.
And to all noble deeds below

Is glory still denied ;
And you, ye eyes, whose trembling rays
From earth to heaven the soul might raise.
Love never sparkles in your gaze.

Wherever it may bide.

No sweet and hid emotion steals
Upon your glance, your heart conceals
No living spark, my spirit feels

Tours is an empty breast.
Nay, e'en the love that brightly bums
In others souls, your mocking turns
To ridicule ; it never earns

Aught from you but a jest.

Yet do I feel in me revive
Illusions sweet, again alive.
Familiar fancies once more strive

Within my wondering sense ;
To thee, my heart alone, is due.
This last faint light, this ardour new.
My comfort all I owe to you.

Whatever I have comes thence.

116

Though fortnne, beauty, nature, all.
Our fellow men dear blessings call.
Ne'er to my humble lot may fall

Whilst living on the earth ;
Whilst thou surviyest, day by day.
And to thy fate dost ne'er give way.
That He was cruel none shall say.

Who gave to me my breath.

Westmount, February, 18Ö1.

117

CANTO NOTTURNO.

DI UN PASTOBB BBB4NTE DBLL' ASIA.

[Many of these shepherds pass the night seated on a stone,
looking at the moon, and Improvising melancholy words to airs which
are not less plaintive.]

FBOH THE ITALIAN OF LBOPABDI.

What dost thou in the sky, oh I silent moon,
"What doest thou ? Arising with the eve.
The deserts thou dost contemplate, and then
Thou liest down. Art thou not satbfied
Ere this of wandering on th' eternalttrack ?
Would' st thou not shun it ? Still desirest thou
These valleys to behold ?
Thy life is like the shepherd's lonely life ;
He rises with the earliest break of dawn
To lead his flock to pasture, and beholds
All day the fields, the fountains, and his sheep ;
Then tired, betakes him to repose at eve,
And seeks for nought beyond.

118

Hear me, oh, moon ! and tell me what is worth
The shepherd's life to him, and yours to you.
Oh ! tell me whither my hrief wanderings tend,
-And your immortal, never-ending course?

An old and weak, half-clothed and harefoot man,

A heavy hurden hearing on his back.

Through vales and over hiUs, and catting stones.

And sinking sands and thorns, through vrind and storm.

And hours of burning heat, and chillmg frost.

Still onward running, pantmg on his way.

Breasting the torrents, wading through the lake.

Now faUing, now arising, hasting on

Without delay or rest.

All torn and bleeding, till he reach at last

The goal in which his path

And all his weary strivings find their end.

That dark, unfathomable, drear abyss.

Wherein he casts himself, and all forgets ;

Such, virgin moon,Ven such as this is Hfe.

To labour man is bom ;

His birth is purchased at the risk of Hfe,

And pain and grief he proves before all else :

Receives his parents in his earUest days

As consolation due to him for birth ;

And they sustain him as he grows in years.

And daily study, by their words and acts.

119

To give lum heart ; and, witk this mortal state,

Consoling him, to make him reconciled.

Than this no kindlier office parents e'er

Can to their offspring fill :

But wherefore give to light, and into life

A being usher, who consoling needs ?

If life be nothing but unhappiness.

Oh ! wherefore should it last ?

Pure moon, e'en such as this our mortal state.

But thou immortal art, and for my words,

Perchance, dost litüe care.

And yet thou lovely, ever wandering moon,

Thou who so thoughtM art, perchance thou JcnoVst

What means this earthly life, its woes and sighs ;

Thou know«st death, perchance, when o'er the face

Its last pale hues are thrown, when from the earth

We perish, and from old familiar ways

And loved companions we for ever cease.

Thou of a truth dost know and comprehend

The how and wherefore of all mortal things :

Thou seest the fruit of morning and of eve.

Of silence and the ceaseless march of time ;

Thou knowest too, on whose sweet love it is

The spring tide smiles :

To whom the summer heat brings joy, and what

It is that winter with its frosts doth chase.

Thou knowest a thousand thii^s, and thousands seest.

120

Which from the simple shepherd all are hid.

Oft when I see thee in the desert plain.

Whose distant circle hy the sky is hound.

And when I guide my flock throughout the day,

Or when the stars are shining in the sky,

I ask, " And wherefore all these sparkling lights ?

Who made the infinite air ? that deep serene ?

What mean those trackless silent solitudes ?

And what am I ?"

And with myself I reason of the sphere

So measureless and vast, and of the hosts

Innumerable of the universe.

Then how is all employed, and to what end

Celestial things and ev^ything terrene,

Bevolving ceaselessly, return again

Back to the point from whither they are sent.

I cannot guess the use and fruit, if aught.

But thou, immortal, erer-youthful maid.

Thou surely seest and know'st the end of all.

This only do I ever feel and know.

That of the eternal courses of the stars,

And of my being frail, whatever good.

Whatever content may others have, to me

Life is an ill.

Oh ! ye my flock who rest, oh ! blessed ye.
Who of your misery nothing know, methinks»
How great the envy that to you I bear !

121

Not only that from trouble ye are free, {

That every pain and every grief and fear, ^

As soon as o'er, ye suddenly forget !

But more because ye never feel ennui :

When 'neath the shade or on the grass ye rest,

Still are you ever peaceful and content ;

And ne'er annoyance feeling, thus you pass

The largest portion of the year away.

And yet whene'er I sit beneath the shade.

Or on the grass, a sense of weariness

Enshrouds my soul. It seems as 't were a goad

Which stings me so, that more than ever far

I am, whilst resting, from content and peace ;

And yet I nought desire, and cause for tears

I never yet have had.

Whatever or how large your joys may be,

I cannot tell, but fortunate ye are.

Whilst little I enjoy, my flock, and yet

'Tis not for that alone I ever grieve.

If you could answer me, then would I ask.

Why should it be, that whilst in idleness

Each animal, reposing at its ease.

Is satisfied ; yet, when I lay me down

To seek repose, ennui assails me still ?

Perchance, if I had wings

To fly above the clouds, and one by one

To number all the stars ; or could I like

122

The thunder, wander through the gloomy sky ;

Perchance I should he happier, dear my sheep.

Perchance I should he happier, gentle moon.

But thus heholding others fate, perchance

My thoughts might wander widely £rom the truth ;

Perchance that, in whatever form or state

We may he bom, in cradle or in den.

The day of birth is dire to all who breathe.

Januaby 2dD, 1801.

123

ENONE.

Beneath the shadows of Mount Ida's woods
Had poor Enone passed the Uve long night.
So motionless she lay that life seemed gone^
And yet it was not death, but something worse ;
The blank and rigid stillness of despair.
Her pallid lips together firmly pressed.
Scarcely allowed the breath to come and go.
And her sweet eyes were hid beneath their lids.
Whose lashes, rested softly on her cheeks ;
Adown her face, dishevelled fell her hair.
And veiled her fair romid neck and snowy arms.
The while her fingers clasped each other fast.
As though to stay the beating of her heart.
Stunned by her grief, the gloomy hours went by.
And she was all unconscious of their flight.
E'en as her soul had drank of Lethe's streams.
But when the chariot of great HeUos showed
Above the mountain, and the god looked down
In all his awM beauty on the nymph.
Startled she woke to conscious Hfe again ;
Then in one moment rushed upon her mind.
The harrowing memory of the fearful past.
And in its train the sense of present wo.
With parted lips and outstretched arms she stood,

124

In silence, gazing from the mountain height.

On the fiir-distant shore, where hrightly shone

The ghstening waters of the Hellespont ;

At last, in tones which seemed as though they were

But echoes of her voice, so sad and low

The sounds fell on the air, her love and wo

Burst forth in words of passionate lament.

" Oh, Paris, my heloved ! my shepherd prince !
Why hast thou gone from me, thy tender wife ?
Why hast thou left thy flocks and milk-white bulls.
The glory of Mount Ida's verdant sbpes ?
Cursed be the golden fruit which worked such wo.
Cursed be the hour that saw thee raised as judge.
Where Zeus alone as umpire should have sat.
Ah ! what availed me then Apollo's gift.
Thou would' st not listen to my warning voice ;
Incredulous of all, thou laugh' st to scorn,
Athense's vengeance, and dread Hera's ire :
Ill-fated prince, why did'st thou ever Ust,
To hateful Aphrodite's flattering words ?
Her gifts are curses, treacherous as her smiles.
I am not fair, indeed, but yet methinks.
By ever gazing on thy beauteous face,
I should in time reflect its loveliness :
And, oh I remember that the fairest maid.
Perchance, might prove a cruel, faithless wife,
Whilst true and loving I have ever been.

125

Think on the happy days which we have passed

Together on Mount Ida's hreezy heights ;

When thou no other cares or pleasures knew.

But pasturing thy herds hy running streams.

Or guarding well thy flocks from savage heasts ;

And when thy labours ceased, at close of day.

How sweet the hours that passed in hi^ discourse

Of the great gods, and then of godlike men.

That mouth so eloquent, that voice so sweet.

Upon whose tones enraptured once I hung,

Oh ! shall I never hear its sound again ?

Paris ! my husband, wilt thou not return

To oiur old haunts, and me, thy loving wife?

E'en if thou wilt not list me for the sake

Of that dear love which once thou felt for me ;

Tet when at last, after long search, thou find'st

What thou art gone to seek, oh ! bring her here.

And I will be to her a willing slave.

Her couch I'll strew with flowers, lead her each mom

To bathe her limbs where fireshest fountains flow ;

Then bring her flragrant perfumes for her hair.

I never will be jealous of thy bliss,

Whate'er is dear to thee is dear to me.

And I will learn to love her for thy sake :

But if my prayers should fail to move thy heart,

Athense ! Aphrodite ! Hera ! bring him here.

That I may look upon his face once more.

Once more ; — ^what do I ask ? oh ! fatal hour.

126

When we once more shall meet, I see it now.
In dreads prophetic vision stands revealed
The direful ftiture^ to my shuddering si^t :
Tears have past hy, and on the plains of Troy
Paris, my husband and my prince, I see.

" Lo I before the gates of IHon

Eages fierce the bloody fight,
And above each Grecian legion

Gleaming spears shine coldly bright ;
Twang the bows ! like Ughtning flashes

Through the air winged arrows fly ;
Hark ! how sword on helmet clashes !

Shouts of triumph rend the sky.

'* Ah, Cassandra ! wretched daughter«

Of a still more wretched sire,
Gould' st thou not avert this slaughter»

Save thy race from vengeance dire ?
No ! to thy prophetic warnings.

Oft repeated, day by day.
As j&om woman's weak forebodings,

Scornfully they turned away.

" On her ivory couch reclining,
See where faithless Helen lies.
Well I know to* her 'tis nothing
Whether Paris lives or dies.

127

Hear, oh, bear me. Aphrodite 1
Hasten hither, stay the strife,

Grant my prayer, for thou art mighty.
Come, and save thy hero's life.

" Wherefore is that sudden stillness ?

Wherefore lags the mortal strife ?
Strange to see such fearful calmness ,

Where the battle was so rife.
Now the ranks, so closely mingbng,

Fall apart, and leave a space.
Where each others power defying

Stand the princes face to face.

At the hosts upon him gazing

Philoctetes glances round.
And, the dreadful combat waiting.

Rests his bow upon the ground.
On his back the fatal quiver.

Filled with arrows steeped in gall.
At the bidding of the archer.

Death they carry where they fall.

'' Paris now, with silent scorning.
Takes his aim, the arrow parts, —
Ha ! it wants Apollo's guiding.
Far beyond the mark it darts :

128

Then his foe, midst bitter smiling,
lifts his bow, with whizzing sound

To the goal the arrow flying
Strikes the hero to the ground.

" The Trojan host»
In wonder lost.
With blood run cold«
Their prince behold;
Closed are his eyes.
In dust he lies ;
The crimson blood.
Life's ebbing flood.
Pours on the ground«
Beneath, around :
The arrow's mark.
So small and dark,
Stamped like a brand
On feet and hand.

" But, wherefore, Trojans, stand ye motionless.
Stupidly gazing on the coming foe ?
Up, valiant soldiers ! quit yourselyes like men I
Rescue the body of your yanqnished prince.
Or Thetis will her cruel yengeanoe wreak
Upon the slayer of her godlike son.

129

Oh ! quickly bear the precious burden hence,

And lay him on the altar raised to Zeus,

Who once from Hector's ire preserved his life.

Perchance he will be gracious to him now.

Hark ! what is that which whispers in my ear ?

Methinks I know the voice, albeit so faint

That from the Elysian shades it seems to rise ; —

Enonel my Enone, come to me !

Ah ! well I know there is but one on earth

Who to my name^ the old familiar name,

Gould ever give such thrilling utterance sweet.

Paris, dear Paris, I will haste to thee.

Cure all thy wounds, and by thy side forget

The weary hours that I have passed alone.

Ye gods ! what do I hear ? wild shrieks of wo,

With fearful sounds of hurrying to and fro.

That loud resound within the city walls.

Alas, alas ! I have arrived too late.

For Atropos, on swifter wings than I,

Has passed me in the flight, and she has cut

The slackening thread of his dear life in twain

Before I could receive his parting breath.

Oh, queen of heaven ! have pity on me now.

And let me weep myself in tears away,

For I am daughter of a river god.

And from the ceaseless fountain of my tears

My anguish and my love, in gushing streams,

130

Shall flow around the place where he is laid.
To guard it from the tread of feet profane."

But ere dread Hera to Enone's prayer
Had answer given, the vision past away,
And with bewildered gaze the nymph looked round
On Ida's peaceful woods and quiet shades.
Once more unconscious of the coming wo,
Which in prophetic trance she had foretold.
She only knew that she was left alone
To mourn his loss who never would return.
Ah ! that was sorrow great enough for her.
Without the added weight of future ills,
Which none but the Olympian gods can bear
To keep for ever present to their sight.

SiDMOUNT, Mat, 1849.

-^»©4—

131

THE MOUNTAIN STREAM.

Down from the mountain.
Covered with snow,

See the stream hasten.
Swiftly below.

Ceaselessly gushing
Forth from its source.

Comes the stream rushing
On in its course.

Yet the great mountain.
Covered with snow.

Lies nearer heaven
Than valleys below.

Wherefore so eager
Downwards to roam ?

Rest thee for ever.
Safe in thy home.

But on the mountain
Covered with snow.

Came from the fountain
Words whispered low.

132

'' In the death stiUness
" Reigning around,

" Life in its fiihiess
" Cannot be found;

" So from the mountain,
" Covered with snow,

** Out from the fountain
" Gladly I flow.

*' Here should I linger,

" Motionless still,
" Then should I never

" Life's end fulfil.

'' Though on the mountain,
" Covered with snow,

" Down on the fountain
*' Sunbeams may glow,

" Feeble their power
" To lift me on high,
Cdd as the glaciers
" There should I lie.

((

But by descending
Joy shall I gain,
*' Blessed and blessing,
" Valley and plain.

133

" Whilst the great mountain,
" Covered with snow,

" Guarding my fountain,
" Watches me flow.

Still ever hastening
Quickly helow,
" Mists from me rising,
'* Upwards shall go>

" And on the mountain,
" Covered with snow,

^* Rain for my fountain
" I wiU bestow."

Finished its whisperings.
Flowed the stream past.

Clear in its meaning
Life seemed at last.

Though the great mountain.
Covered with snow.

Lies nearer heaven.
Life is below.

Suffering and doing.

Blessing and blest.
Ever untiring,

Man must not rest.

Januaby, 1849.
n2

•

J
I

184

TOWN AND COUNTRY.

I am tired of city noises.

Never ceasing all the dsLj,
Loud, discordant sounds and voices.

Gladly would I flee away.

I am sick of paint and gilding.

Things which are not what they seem.
With their glare the eyes deceiving,

Till for true the false we deem.

Nowhere have I felt more lonely.

Than where heing is so rife,
For an atom I am only

In this world of human life.

Thousands are around me crowding,
But to me they 're strangers all ;

And my heart to their's appealing
Ne'er receives an answering call.

I will tarry here no longer.
Wasting in regrets each day,

Why should I a moment^ linger.
When my heart is far away ?

135

Oh ! how soothing is the feeling
Which the spirit overflows,

Rural sounds the senses lulling
To a sweet and calm repose.

Nought discordant, nothing jarring.

But a music all divine.
Forth from stream and river peaHng,

Warbling bird and lowing kine.

Humming bees and leaflets rustling,
Children's voices from afar.

Each in harmony combining.
Nothing the accord to mar.

And the tones so sweetly mellowed.
All so softened and subdued.

That it seems Hke silence rendered
Palpable in solitude.

Different far the silent stillness,
Reigning midst the Alpine snows,

Heart oppressive, like the darkness
That o'er Egypt once arose.

Nothing there the eye rejoicing.
Nought but images of death.

Corpse-like lakes, blue waters Ipng,
Still and cold the ice beneath.

136

Bat within the genial vaUey,
Man with nature may oommnne^

If his heart be meek and lowly.
It to peace she will attune.

There, instead of stranger-fiu^es.

Flowers and birds will round him throng,

Give hhn songs and kindly glances,
Cheering him the whole day long.

There, instead of paint and gilding.
Sun and cloud, will light and shade

Scenes in beauty far exceeding
Aught that artists' hands have made.

I will tarry here no longer.

Wasting in regrets each day.
Not another moment linger.

But to nature fly away.

London, September, 1849.

-*©<«-

137

AFTEE BEADING LESSING'S LAOOOON,

Oh ! ye old, heroic ages.

How my spirit longs to fly
To the poets and the sages.

Living in the days gone by.

Then amidst the people. Homer
Sat and told his wondrous tale.

Stirred the soul of every hearer.
Whilst each woman's cheek grew pale.

Overpowered by strong emotion.

As the rhapsody uprose.
Heaved their breasts like waves of ocean.

When it grandly ebbs and flows.

And the hosts of eager warriors.
As they heard of deeds of fame.

Done by their heroic fathers.
Teamed to win themselves a name.

Childlike, moved to tears or laughter.

By each vict'ry or defeat ;
Flushed with joy, or pale with anger.

Starting sudden to their feet ;

188

And^ with warlike ardour burning,
Vaulting quick upon their steeds ;

Those were moments for achieving,
Thus inspired, world-fiunous deeds.

Fear was none that grief and weeping.
O'er their dead in battle-field.

Would unfit such men for fighting.
Or would make them weakly yield.

In their feelings they were human.
Gave to nature all her rights.

Whilst their valour, superhuman,
Lifted them to nobler heights.

Strange it must have been and awful.
Thus commingled, to behold.

Softness joined with strength so fearful.
In these men of godlike mould.

Painters th^ci with sculptors joining.
Raised the standard of the race.

Thoughts sublimest realising.
Full of beauty, power, and grace.

Ah ! those days indeed were golden
When 'twas law in every state.

Artists all should be forbidden.
Aught unlovely to create.

189

Poets, sages, all rememb'nng
How the eye affects the heart,

That to raise its tone and feeUng
Is the highest aim of art.

Different we» familiarising

Eyes of ours with meanest things,
Never e'en in thought aspiring.

We have shorn us of our wings.

Is there no one who will raise us.
In these sad, degenerate days ;

Speak of something better to us,
Lead us into higher ways ?

Bring us back to look on nature
Like those men with clearer eyes,

Who the earth, like one vast altar.
Saw prepared for sacrifice ;

Who upon each cloud-capped mountain
Grods beheld enthroned above.

That each river and each fountain
Guarded with a jealous love ;

Gods who watched o'er hill and valley.
Fertile field and verdant plain,

Guve in season wine and honey,
Glowing sun and cooling rain.

140

Then the air, and earth, and ocean
Seemed to men a sacred shrine.

Whilst ahore, the empyrean
Teemed with life that was divine.

Ah ! methinks those times were purer
Far than ours, more free from guile ;

And to feel their tone were better
Than their outward rites revile.

141

A VISION.

Methought last night I wandered amidst the shades below^
And gazed upon them as they paced with patient steps

and slow.
Along the smooth and grassy walks, bordered with

shadowy flowers.
Or wrapt in solemn musings sought the green and silent

^ bowers.
I knew the place, 't was Eden still, but, oh ! how sadly

changed
Since our primeval parents once, along its glades had

ranged;
No radiant glowing sun was there to shine in glorious

might.
On trees and flowers which once had basked beneath his

golden light ;
Nought but the red and fitfiil glare which darted fix}m

the sword.
Barring the garden's entrance, now glimmered o'er the

sward;
Towering above the river's banks the tree of knowledge

stands.
But now to pluck its dazzling fruit are stretched no daring

hands;

142

And e'en the awful tree of life» whilst soaring to the skies.
Excites no eager yearning wish» attracts no longing eyes*
In wonder then I asked the shades who stood in silence

round»
With meek hands crossed, and faces pale, and eyes cast

on the ground,
" Say, tempts you not th' immortal tree its living fruit to

take,
'^ Do you no longer value life, e'en for its own deur sake ?
'^'T was but the tree of knowledge that your parents

proved of old,
*' Its taste brought death, whilst this gives liife, why llien

your hand withhold ?"
But a shuddering sigh ran through the crowd, and for a

moment's 9paoe,
No words to mine made answer, deep silence filled the

place;
Till with sad tones a ghostly voice replied in accents low.
Ah I better fai for ever rest in stillness here below.
Than tasting the life-giving fruit, return to mortal life,
Once more to bear its sorrows, and its cares and endless

strife;
Knowledge it was brought death to us, life would bring

only pain,
In death is peace, on earth is wo, we would not live again.

^«<-

143

BEACON HILL.

Happy moorland I o& your height.
Now in shade» and now in light.

Blooms the heather ;
Casting perfumes on the air^
Nothing caring, growing thei'e,

For the weather.

Blessed moorland ! free from toil.
Never passes o'er your soil.

Plough or harrow !
Undisturbed, at peace you rest,
By no cares or ^ars opprest.

For the morrow.

Trusting to the kindly care
Of the pure and genial air.

All your flowers ;
Whilst for ever comes aright.
Summer day and winter night.

Sun and showers.

On your rocks are purple heath.
Yellow gorse and thyme beneath.

Richly glowing ;

144

Lifted high into the air^

Of the woild hdow them there.

Nothing knowing.

In a nest upon the ground.
Hath the lark a dwelling found.

And each flower
listens to him as he sings.
Mounting on aspiring wings^

Ever higher.

On the moorland, hosy hees
Honey firom the heather seize.

Gently humming.
Hard at work the live long day.
Bear at eve their spoils away.

Downwards coming.

Morning mists from Tallies rise.
But hefore they reach the skies

Stay to nourish
Moorland flowers with gentle dew.
That in beauty ever new.

They may flourish.

BuscoKBE, Febbüabt ISth, 1649.

145

ABSENCE.

Courage, weak hearty yield not thyself to sorrow,
Although the sun awhile withdraw his light ;

A few short hoursy and rising on the morrow,
His rays once more will chase the shades of night.

Grieve not that earth has lost its midday brightness,
Hope in the future, raise thy thoughts on high ;

Look, weeping eyes, the night is not all darkness,
See how its myriad stars glow in the sky.

If in the heavens the sun were alway shining.
Could we believe the stars still glowed above ?

For aye upon the loved one's breast reclining.
Could we be sure that absent they would love ?

But now their hearts unto thine own responding,
Be veal far more than thou had'st known was there ;

Their love amidst the darkness >cast by parting,
Shines like the stars from out the dear cold air«

Then, comfort take, fond heart, cease tears and sighing.
Their souls will still be full of thoughts of thee.

As is the heaven of stars serenely shining,
E'en when by day not one of them we see.
o2

146

THE DEATH-BED.

Nay ! shudder not to raise the TeQ from off that smooth

cahnhrow»
For she was never lovelier than death has made her now ;
Of pain and grief he has not left upon her]'sweet pale £ut
One lingering shade, one faintest line, for e'en your love

to trace.

Her beaming eyes are closed indeed, but they are dosed

in sleep
Far sweeter than the night can give, more placid and more

deep;
And though her lips of love to you will never speak agaiii.
They never more will torture you with accents fuü of pain.

Her heart that beat so wearily is stilled to beat no more.
And though its joys and hopes are fled, its sorrows too

are o'er;
Wish her not back on earth again to live another day, '
Life is a cold and heartless thing, whate'er the happy say.

Bemember her consoling words, when kneeling near her

bed
She gently strove, with trembling hands, to raise yotir

grief-bowed head :

147

''Think not of me^ beloved/' she said, ''as fading ^m

thy sight,
Death cannot part us, God ^ill change its darkness into

light.

"Hast thou not likened me to flowers, to birds, to

summer skies ?
Hast thou not seen me in the stars, in mists that upward

rise?
Whate'er on earth was beauti^, whate'er was good and

fair,
^Twas but to thee a type of me, my image mirrored there.

<' And though I knew it was thy love, and not my own

desert,
"Which ever to such use as this did nature's self convert ;
I grieve not now that in thy heart my memory for aye.
Will be entwined with things which are so much more

fair than I."

And then she sweetly smiled oi^ you, the whilst in whispers

faint,
She said, when death had come and freed her soul from

all restraint.
Your love to her she would repay, and ever by your side
An angel guardian she would walk, your every footstep

guide.

148

Then grieve not o'er her early death, since she is with yoa

still.
Since earth and heaven of her your heart with images will

fiU.
And, oh ! it is a noble thing to feel that now your love.
Is fixed not on a mortal maid, but on a saint above !

^©«-

149

APATHY,

Apattiy! apathy!

Say is it thee,
Through the dark» stealthily.

Creeping to me ?
Knew'st thou my longing,

Heard' st thou my cry ?
Praying, heseeching,

Feeling might die.

From the world's vanity,

HoUowness, falsity.
Friendship and enmity,

Loathing I yearn ;
Ceaselessly, murmuringly.

Wildly, despairingly.
Recklessly, daringly,

Bespite to earn.

Come, my heart's freedom

Quickly restore.
Queen of its kingdom

Rule evermore.

150

Kill its desiriiigs,

Wither its tnut,
AU its aspirings

Trample in dust.

Harshly, relentleäsly.

Instantly« jealously.
Make thöo« oh ! apathy,

Swifuy depaift ;
Pity and sympathy,

Charity, tenderness.
Faith, with ltd hopefuhiess.

Oat of ikiy heaft.

Quell the eonflictiüg

Feelings that strive.
Tortures inflicthig.

My bosom to rite ;
Let no heatfc^mttnngs.

Agony sore,
Painfullest doübti^.

Torture me morö.

Never the wretchedness
Then shall I know.

Springing from blessedness,
Followed by wo ;

löl

Blessings and corses.

Whate'er may heML,
On me shall powerless

All alike fall.

Coldly and qnietly,

Then shall I brook
Bitter contumely,

Jealousy's look ;
Words of unkindness»

Calumny's thorn.
Perfidy, heartlessness,

Cruelty, seom.

Then never hurriedly

Tears shall arise,
Down my cheeks scaldingly.

Flow from mine eyes ;
And on my lips never

Love shall find place.
Shadows or smiles ever

Flit o'er my face.

Then my words fklling low,

Shall, in their tone,
Sound like rain dropping low,

Down on a stone ;

162

None by my hand's pressiag»

Erer shall tell
My feelings in greeting,

Or bidding fiurewell.

Then never gloomily

Grief bending low.
Shall her lines wearily

Trace on my brow ;
Armed with frigidity.

Insensibility.
Nothing shall move me, l|

Inwardly, outwardly.

Pantingly, throbbingly.

Then this poor breast, ^

Need never, sighingly.

Pray for death rest.
For as thy calmness

Sore is divine.
So the grave's stillness

Equals not thine.

Longing and breathless

Wait I for thee !
Gome through the darkness.

Closer to me ;

15a

Hear my entreating,
Thee I beseech !

Fill thou my hearing,
Seeing, and speech.

Wherefore, oh! apathy^

Dost thou not speak^
Or, by thy touching me,

Give what I seek ?
Ha I do I feel thee

Curdling my blood,
Of the life in me

Staying the flood?

Oh ! I would rather

Infinite pain
Bear, than this torpor.

Numbing my brain !
Dead to all feeling,

Stifle my breath,
I shall find healing

Only in death !

154

SERENITY.

Oh ! that thou would* st come to me»
Quiets pfile, ^Serenity !
I am weary» sick of life»
Sick of days with trials rife»
Tired of never-euding strife.

Shed upon my soul the halm
Of thy holy, hlessed calm ;
Let me» through thy help, attain
Best from hope and yearnings vain»
Disappointment's gnawing chain.

By thy presence chase Despair,
Eyeing me with dreadful stare.
Hoarsely whisp'ring in my ears.
Drear will he my future years.
Desolate and Ml of tears.

Calm as Una went her way.
All unhurt, midst heasts of prey.
Let me 'neath thy guidance sweet»
All unruffled, passion meet.
See it crouch hefore my feet.

löö

Let not fears what others may
Of my actions think or say
Harass me in what I do.
But with thee my way parsue.
Long as I to right am true.

If in time to come, I should
Often he misunderstood,
Let me stül and silent stay
For the justifying day.
Be it near or far away.

Let me mount with thee on high.
Till I see heneath me lie
AU that now has power to grind,
And in fetters fast to hind.
Soul and spirit, heart and mind ;

Chafing ills, so hard to hrook.
Harsh, unmerited rehuke,
AU the tyranny and wrong,
I have wrestled with so long,
I, the weak, against the strong.

All the petty cares of earth.

Poor vexations, nothing worth ;

Things which on my spirit jar.

All its hopes and calmness mar, ^

And to peace the entrance har.

1S6

AU the fears, that sad and lone
I must walk on earth alone.
That to me a closed nm
Is the lore for which I yearn,
Tet may never hope to earn.

Teach me hpw to 6oe mj wo.
Patiently to see it grow ;
'Neath its hnrthen still to lie.
Bearing all without a sigh,
Qnietlj, mitil I die.

Show me how my longings wild,
I may hush, and like a child.
Taken from its mother's breast,
With its first sad grief opprest»
Weep myself at last to rest.

And if it be wrong to pray
God I my soul to take away.
Teach me how to bear my fate
All unmurmuring, while I wait
Entrance to a better state.

157

THE WIND.

Summer zephyr, gentle breeze,
SoMj whispering 'midst the trees.
When I hear thee, how I sigh.
With thee o'er the earth to fly.
That a glad and merry life
I might lead, away from strife ;
Then each moment of the day
I would spend with thee in play ;
Soon as past the gloomy night.
Ready for our happy flight.

When with fluttering wing from the mountain we'd spring.

And as down its sides we swept.
We 'd shake the leaves of the tallest trees,

'Tül the pearly drops they had wept.
For loss of the light throughout the night.

Should fall on the grass below.
And glistening there, should shine as fidr

As jewels on queenly brow.

Then we'd drive the mist, before it had kissed

The valleys with sad farewell.
Up to the sky, where it might lie.

And brighter than tongue can tell,

P 2

168

Shine down on the plain o'er which it had lain

All night like a paly shroud.
And high in the air be changed there

To a beautiAil» goi^eous cloud.

But oyer the grass we'd stealthily pass.

Nor startle with slightest sound,
The daisies that look from every nook.

Out on the world around ;
Whilst buttercups all, and the flowerets tall.

When they felt us passing them by,
Should curtsey and bow their heads as low

As if we were emperors high.

A moment's hush, and on we would rush.

With wilder joy than before.
Till stirred should be, like a summer sea.

The com as we swept it o'er.
With a rustling sound, the stalks to the ground

Should one o'er the other be rolled.
And the ears in our wake, like waves, should break . -/|

Into ripples of shining gold.

Oh ! then what a race we would hare to the place - .f:

Where the cUfiPs o'er the ocean lean.
And foolishly think, as they stand on its brink.

Gazing down on its face serene.

159

That nonght can efface a colour or trace
Of the forms that are pictured there>

Not a light or a shade erer pass or fade
That shows in its mirror fair.

But their trust they would rue^ when sidling through

Some crevice their sides hetween,
We 'd toss into heaps, the hlue still deeps.

Till nought should he clearly seen,
And after our toil, the picture to spoil.

Oh! how we would triumph to see
That a viewless thing, like a hreeze on the wing.

Had such power o'er the mighty sea.

And^in our exulting, our voices uplifting.

It should seem as an organ's swell.
Were booming along to a chorussed song,

When the sound on the ocean fell ;
Or, as warlike strain on a battle plain

Were sending its soul-stirring tone.
From rear to outpost of the serried host.

That fight for hearth, altar, and throne.

Then like warriors we 'd ride, and far and wide

The waves, our steeds, should fly.
And with each ksh we gave them should splash

White foam from their sides to the sky ;

160

Their manes should shake, and their crests should qwfa^

And how they should heDow and roar»
As with thundering crash, at last the j should dash» >

In despair on the rock-hound shore.

There we 'd leave them to die, and upwards we 'd flj,.

Tired out of our hoisterous play.
But amidst the leaves of stateliest trees

We 'd dally awhile on our way,
And merrily fling, whirled into a ring,

lime blossoms, with odours sweet,
On the ground below to lie like snow.

For footsteps of fairies meet.

In a swinging dance, the boughs should glance, : -

And cast a flickering shade.
On the mossy seat, where lovers meet,

Far down in the quiet glade ; •
And with wickedest glee, we 'd peep and see ."i

The timid young maiden's fears.
As 'midst her whisperings, our gentle rustlings . "i

Should strike on her startled ears.

But in pity we 'd cease, and leave her in peace, ^ ^

To list to the southings of love.
Whilst away we would fly and joyfully hie

To where the clouds float above ;

1 •

161

Aad we 'd dart throiigh their raiiks, and pierce Üidr flanks.

And scatter them over the sky,
Now here and now there, until everywhere,
Like flocks of sheep they should lie.

And then in our might, how we would delight,

Against the horizon to pile.
Cloud alps of snow, which brightly should glow,

In the sunbeam's radiant smile ;
But next moment should pass, the vaporous mass.

And nought in its place should be seen.
But streaks of white scarce reached by the sight.

So high in the blue serene.

And we 'd waft them on till the setting sun

Upon them his beams should fling,
Until they should seem in the shimmering gleam,

like aA angel's glistening wing ;
Then we *d gather them all for a glorious pall.

O'er the dying day to spread,
"^hen at sight of the night, withdrawing his light.

Her life^ving God had fled.

At last from the skies, with plaintive sighs.

We would hasten to earth again.
In ivy-crowned towers to spend the hours.

Till morning should dawn again ;

, 162

And the twilight pale we 'd solemnly hail.

And awed by her calm repose.
Not a leaf would we stir of aspen or fir.
As we stole o'er the woods and the giores.

Bat ere to onr sleep, in the old rained keep

We had folded oar weary wings.
We wonld whistle and scream, antQ it should

As if troops of unholy things
Were filling the gloom of each vaulted room

With dismal, unearthly tones,
Which away should scare the creatures that dare

To hide 'midst those mouldering stones*

like beings uncanny, we 'd whisk through each cranny.

And creep through the old oaken floors,
Till the bats, in dismay, should flutter away.

To hide behind tapestried doors.
Each iron-bound casement, from roof down to basement.

On its hinges should ratue and creaky
And the hangings we 'd flap, against every gap,

Whilst we played there at hide and seek.

Then we 'd echo each groan and long-drawn moan

Of the spirits of those who stalk
At night round the walls of their father's halls.

And we 'd mimic their ghostly talk.

163

TiU the shades in amaze should stand and should gaze

Around them, yet nothing should see.
But hearing each wail home away hy the gale.

To their graves in terror should flee»

Then when midnight had past, exhausted at last,

Each other we 'd hush to sleep.
Whilst each twinkling star that shines from afar.

Its watch over us should keep.
And over our heds night flowers should shed

Their rich and o'erpowering perfume,
Which all day they hide their petals inside.

To cast on the lonely gloom.

Summer zephyr, well I wis
Sweeter would he life like this.
Than such death in life as ours.
Passing weary days and hours.
In the cares by which are bound,
life and spirit to the ground ;
This is why I sigh to be
Sailing through the air with thee.

")©(• ■

164

HEXAMETERS.

Lonely are ever the loveliest things on the earth« «nj
ahoyeus

Ever the sorrowful moon in her orbit companionless wib-
ders;

When in her gloiy she rises, each planet at onoe disqi*
pearing,

Longingly seeks she a star that with it» her own light
commingling,

Moonbeam and starbeam. may know the delight of re-
ceiving and giving,

And the still greater bliss from soul union and sympathy
flowing.

Lonely are ever all things the sublimest on earth» and

before us
Lifteth heavenward the mountain his snow-covered head

o'er his fellows»
Dark lowering thunder clouds hide him from view» and

the forked lightning playing,
Fears to dart upwards, hisgladers in awful serenity leaving.
In his dread solitude finds he no being who with him

communing.
May constrain him to give to his visions a life and a

meaning.

16Ö

Lonely ore ever the holiest things on the earth, and

within us
Thoughts in their solitude dwell, for language is weak

and is powerless
Att: thdr high meaning to utter, and to clothe them aright

with expression,
Bfiep in our souls they must slumher, till the day when

to us 'twill he given,
Vj^Qfid from the rule of the hody, upwards to rise where

the spirit
No longer needs words for the thoughts which are earnests

what we shall inherit.

^»©f-

166

CAMOENS TO HIS LADY'S EYES.

Holiest eyes were ever seen^
Lady dear« are thine I ween.
Heart and soul from earth they raise,
With their clear nntrouhled gaze«
Showering blessings all the while,
Lmocent and free from giule ;
Never hiding what they mean.
Holiest eyes were ever seen.

Grandest eyes were ever seen,
Glorious in their beauty's sheen,
Burning, withering, 'neath their light,
AH that is not pure and right ;
Flashing blinding rays around.
Striking falsehood to the ground,
Fear^ in their glances keen,
Grandest eyes were ever seen.

Sweetest eyes were ever seen,
Windows whence the soul doth lean.
Beaming with a liquid light.
Like the moon on cloudless night ;

167

Stillest depths of peace and love,
Sadly tender as a dove,
Grentle, loving, and serene.
Sweetest eyes were ever seen.

Loveliest eyes were ever seen.
Like a summer smiset e'en.
When the clouds across the blue,
Float in ever varying hue.
Changing lights and shades that go.
Ere we see from whence they flow.
Sure they cannot be terrene.
Loveliest eyes were ever seen.

Dearest eyes were ^ver seen.
Thine to me have always been.
When my earnest longing gaze
Waits till they their eyelids raise.
Then I know I 'm one with thee.
For in them myself I see ;
Are not then thine eyes, my queen,
Dearest eyes were ever seen ?

168

LINES

WBITTEN ON THE DEATH OF A TRAVELLER, LOST
WHILST CROSSING A MOUNTAIN ALONE.

OCTOBEB, 1849.

Oh ! 'tis as though a century had past

Since on the vale heneath I looked my last,

And yet 'twas but this morning, glad of heart,

I left its shades, nor feared from friends to part.

Friends ! coldly falls that word upon my ear.

Where are they now, my voice they cannot hear^

Though all is silent round, th^ muffled air

To them no words of mine will downwards bear.

Alas ! alas ! how quickly wanes the day,

No longer can I trace my onward way ;

The stream, my only guide, has ceased to flow.

And frozen dead lies buried 'neath the snow.

Uncertain shapes that fill my soul with dread,

Loom through the mist like visions of the dead.

And high in air, sharp crag and icy peak

Look frowning down, as they could vengeance wreak

On man's presumption, daring thus to tread

A realm from whence all living things are fled.

Thick heavy fogs obscure the sky, no star

To guide the wanderer's steps shines from afiur.

169

And 'neath, seen dimly through the dusky air^

Are sights and forms of horror everywhere :

Rivers whilst raging struck to sudden rest.

Their towering waves in rigid heaps comprest.

Steep alps that shelve to deep ravines below.

Where noiseless sinks the ever-falling snow,

And piled in direful ruin, riven rocks

Asunder ,tom by fearful earthquake shocks ;

Dread wastes from whence my dying groans shall rise.

And break the silence of these gloomy skies.

Appalling silence, ne'er disturbed by sound

Of stormy wind or tempest wheeling round.

Oh ! easier 't were on battle-field to die,

Than 'midst this stillness, 'neath this leaden sky.

But yet, perchance, these are but troubled dreams.

In which the brain with fearful fancies teems,

For sure this cannot be the gentle earth,

That loves her chfldren even from their birth ;

No mother ever thus forsook her child.

With whom in grief she wept, in joy she smiled ;

Then why, where'er I look, beneath, above.

Does Nature give no sign of tender love,

But deaf and pitiless shuts out my prayer.

And leaves me to the madness of despair ?

Oh ! it is terrible, with sighs of pain.

To gasp for air, then heave it forth again.

And while each moment fiercer grows the cold.

To feel its iron-grasp my limbs unfold.

Q 2

170

Alas ! I kncm not if 'tk cold or heut»

Which makes the g;roiiiid thns soorah my adiiiig Ibe^

The snow in flakes of fire &Ds on my head.

And withers op mj fanin — would I were dead!

What! ii it thns I most fiir sin atooe.

Pass thiongh the tmyail of n^ sool akme?

What! shaü the tortored hodj loh the soid

Of all its strength, its sufferings to oontrolf

Shame that the mortal part should ha^ snch power

In its last conflict^ in its dying hoar.

When ¥rill these stm^les end and I he free?

Would, withont dying, I coold come to Thee,

Oh, God! my God! What, have I not tffl now

Upon Thee called. Strength of the lonely. Thou.

Dear Father, look on me with pitying eye.

If Thou art near I shall not fear to die ;

Though chilling glaciers raise their peaks around.

And corpse-like lakes my dying form surround»

Tet even here my heart shall know no &ar.

Since Thou, Lord God of Hosts, art watching near.

For well I see vdiate'er Hioo dost is right.

By darkness Thou preparest us for light ;

And blest, thrice blessed, oh, my God ! are those

With Christ who suffer ere they taste repose ;

On Calyaries of suffering thus to sigh

The soul away, is better than to die,

Down in the vale, where mists arise between

Us and that heaven which here is clearly seen.

171

The dreadfiil past is fading from my view,
I see and feel that Thou, dear Lord, art true ;
Soon will thy guardian angels waiting hy,
Calm all my struggles, catch my latest sigh.
E'en now with softest touch my eyes they close,
And peacefully I sink to my repose.

172

DREAMS.

Sleep, restless, eager, active brain.

Refresh thy wearied powers.
Sleep tni the dawn of mom again

Restore "Ay busy hours.

Or, tell me why it is the mind.

The immaterial part.
When by the senses unconfined«

Should here and thither dart ?

Why is it with the body's rule
That reason's role should cease.

As though it were the senses' tool
To act as they may please ?

How is it that, although our views
Are then more wide and bright.

Of that fair world the soul endues
With spiritual light ;

Still, whilst distinct the whole appears,

'T is strangely disarranged ;
Though everything Truth's semblance wears,

It seems entirely changed ?

173

What in the day we view with fear.
Seems scarcely worth a thought ;

When in our dreams we see it near
Our very threshold brought.

Whilst things for which we longed awake,
We in our sleep despise.

Far other measure then we take.

It.

Of all that most we prize.

With loved ones dead, to life restored,

We talk, nor seek to know.
If we to them in heaven have soared.

Or they have come below.

Nought can surprise us, we receive

As real, what by day
Our senses never would believe,

Whate'er the soul might say.

And yet our feelings never change.

Whatever be tiie theme,
However wide may be the range,

Ck>ntained within a dream.

Only our sorrow and our joy.

Our faith and love and hate.
Have in their nature less alloy.

Are deeper and more great.

174

If theo the ftdiiigs aeem to be

As true by nig^t as day» ,
So aU that in oor dreams we se^

May real be as they.

Though whea «wake we question aU

The viabns of the night»
Perchanoe that we in error fidl.

And do not jndge aright.

And so the wakeful spirit stat^

In which oor bodies sleep»
When mind is freed from eyery weight»

The senses on it keep.

May thus we full of power and tmth»

Deep» noble» and sublime»
A state where soul renews its youth»

And scorns both space and time.

Dawubb, Ootobxb, 18Ö0.

»)©f^

17Ö

TWILIGHT.

With slow and gentle step the t\¥i]ight comes.
To spread o'er vale and hill, o'er wood and stream.
Her soft yet rich, subdued yet mellow hues ;
Soon with her sad but sweetly tender gaze,
She calmly stills the eager soul of day
To placid thoughts and to serene repose.
Lulled into slumber 'neath her soothing spell.
The little flow'rets cease their graceful dance.
The water-liHes in their cradles sleep,
And e'en the restless summer breeze is hushed.
No longer move the swifUy flying clouds
Across the azure sky, that they may chase
Their shadows flitting o'er the earth beneath.
But quiet float above the mountain heights.
No longer flows the stream with merry noise.
But calmlj seeks the shadow of the woods.
Upon its bosom bearing echoes soft
Of warbling birds and gently cooing doves.
The leaves which crown the summit of the trees.
No longer in the glaring daylight lost.
Stand now in strong rehef against the sky.
Beloved friend, sweet is the twilight hour.
But sweeter still the twilight of the heart.

176

When, like the ednes cwried bj the stretm.

Come Ueased memories of bygone dsjrs ;

Deer» biqpp j ^J% whose flig^ we scaiody msiked.

Too blest to think of circomstanoe or place,

Or Tone, idiich gave, then took, our joys swmj.

Each look and word that in those hoors of bliss,

ünoonscioosly we tieasored in onr hearts.

There like those leaves in sharp idief appear.

To show more clearly what we knew before.

And though remembrances like these may lack

The Rowing beanty of the dawiling day ;

Tet in their twüi^it all is clearly seen.

And we shonld grateM be that memory

Thus shows the past, not boried, though in shade.

HowsHAM Woods, July, 1849.

I.
I

■

177

HEB NAME.

No! never shall her name resound

Upon the common air>
For curious echoes listening round.

To babble everywhere.

Only when night her curtain folds.
The slumbering earth around.

When she in deepest silence holds
Each busy daylight sound ;

Then to the music of the spheres

Her name I softly sing.
Until the tones some angel hears.

Who, poised on lightest wing,

lists to the strain, and then afar
Flies with it through the skies.

That he may seek some lonely star
Concealed from mortal eyes.

Which faint had glimmered quite unseen,
^Midst brighter splendours lost.

Till with her name he crowns it queen
Of all the starry host.

178

Then tremulous with glad surprise

It flashes into light.
And like a jewel in the skies

Adorns the hrow of night.

And if the while a smik should aeem
To cross some sleeper's face,

It is äiat through his happy dream.
Floats that sweet word of grace.

That dearest name, that hcdiest word»
Too sacred, pure and high.

To he in aught hut visions heard,
When none are standing hj.

So all day long, like jewel sealed.
And kept with jealous care.

It lies within my heart concealed.
Or only breathed in prayer.

-*)Q^

179

THE POET'S TEIAL.

Nay ! not even at thy bidding, aided by my own desire,
Can I kindle on the altar of my heart the Uving fire.
Which, from heaven to earth descending, in its nature is

divine,
Coming only when it hsteth, not at prayer or will of mine ;
At its flaming, thoughts long hidden, as beneath the

shades of night,
Into glowing life awaken, animated by its light.
And the winged words fly upwards, all exulting in their

might,
Though they only bring faint shadows of heart-feehngs

into light;
Yet I 'm tempted oft to murmur, that ordained it thus

should be.
For when in my soul are rising sweetest thoughts which

none can see ;
If I tiy to seizethem flowing^ words their aid will not impart.
And with sighs I feel them dying in the silence of my heart.
Thus it is with waves of ocean» rising highest just before
Into spray their crests are shivered, and they die upon

the shore.
Of their mighty rolling waters, leaving not a single trace.
Save a transient wreath of foam flakes cast upon their

burial place.

180

THE POET'S CONSOLATION.

When inspiration oomes to thee, yet seems
To find no utterance, he not thou dismayed ;

Great thoughts are real» and no fleeting dream, —
They cannot die or fade.

As on a mountain's height some secret well
Is fed hy streamlets, quietly and slow.

Till it is filled, and from their hidden cell
The waters overflow ;

So through the quiet night and husy day
Thoughts from ahove, upon thy heart descend.

Until its hrink o'erflowing, on their way
To outward life they wend.

Then vain as 'twere the torrent's eager course
With feehle hands to stem, e'en so the rush

Of thoughts can nothing stay when full of force
From out the soul they gush.

like hurrying streams that leap o'er rocks which rise
To stay their progress, thoughts o'ercome at last

The hindrances which language ever tries
Upon their path to cast.

181

Thus, too, like steep, o'er&anging banks, that keep
The river 'tween their narrow bounds confined.

Material things serve oft to show how deep
The waters of the mind.

And sorrow not, although thou keenly feel
That choicest, noblest words are, aüer all

Of inspiration thou would' st fain impart,
But shadows faint and small.

Words are but signs, and never show the whole
Of what they picture ; yet, who wisely hears.

Can with them thoughts create within his soul
To live through countless years.

So for thy comfort in all future time.
Remember in such hearts as erst in thine

Thy thoughts wiU dwell, and ever there sublime
In spirit glory shine.

^^©f

182

LONGINGS

Purer jet and purer,
I would be in mind ;

Dearer yet and dearer.
Every duty find.

Hoping still and trusting
Thee without a fear ;

Patiently believing
Thou wilt make all dear.

Calmer yet and calmer.
Trials bear and pain ;

Surw yet and surer.
Peace at last to gain.

. Bearing still and doing,
To my lot resigned ;
And to right subduing,
Heart and will and mind.

Brighter yet and brighter.
Virtue still perceive ;

Clearer yet and clearer.
Know Thee and believe.

188

Christ's command obeying.

Perfect seek to be ;
Earnestly desiring,

Union still with Thee.

Farther yet and farther.

From all evil flee ;
Closer yet and closer.

Ever draw to Thee.

Still in heart ascending
Up to Thee above ;

And Thy trath embracing,
Hold it fast in love.

Higher yet and higher.
Out of clouds and night ;

Nearer yet and nearer,
Bise towards the hght.

Light serene and holy.
Where my soul may rest ;

Purified and lowly.
Satisfied and blest.

Qaicker yet and quicker.
Ever onward press ;

Firmer yet and firmer.
Step as I prc^press.

184

Oft these earnest longings
Swell within my breast ;

Tet their inner meaning
Scarce can be exprest.

■*4©V*"

185

THE MOENING HYMN OF TEUTH,
BEAUTY, AND LOVE.

''Dear mother ! list to me" thus sang a bird,
Returned from distant wandering to its nest,
" Such wondrous things as yon have never heard

rU tell you, lying 'neath your warm, soft breast.

This morning, waking long before the sun

Had streaked the calm gray sky with lines of light,

Whilst in our peaceful home slept every one,
I preened my wings, made ready for a flight,
And bathed my feathers in the drops of dew

That glistening hang around our mossy nest.
Then with a longing sigh upwards I flew.
Glad that on earUi I need no longer rest ;

With prideful joy I rose, and ever rose,
TO], looking down from my aerial height,
I scarce could see the river where it flows,

like sun-rays glancing sudden on the sight ;
For it was shrouded in the mists that lie
All night upon its verdant baifks to hide

186

The sleeping flowers from night's too carious eye.
Then morning dawned, and spreading fiir and wide
Rolled floods of glorious light» whose golden waves

Swept grandly upwards from the east» and broke
In ripples on the skj» or sluak in cares
Of deepest purple, douds, and quidL awoke

The slumbering day to joyful life again.
Nearest the sky» in purity and height»
The snowy summits of each Alpine chain«

An palpitating glowed beneath the light»
Soon as above them rose their glorious king,^
And touched their altars» set for sacriflce»

With smokeless fire» which» like a living thing,
Streamed down their aides and flushed the western sides.
Then forth from icy peak and crag upsprang

A hymn of solemn praise» in tones too high
To pass the ear of man» and thus they sang,
The winged words swift rising to the sky :

All the night» with earnest longing,
We have watched and never slept»

Waited for the break of morning»
In our hearts thy promise k^t.

187

Though we could no longer see thee»
'Twas but for a little while»

Lord of light, and life» and beauty»
Thou withdrew from us thy smile.

Stars and planets brightly shining»
Kept the memory of thy light»

Freshly in our bosoms shining,
Through the calm and silent night.

Every peak and mountain hoary»
Pure for thee has kept its snow»

Steep them in such floods of glory»
As from thee alone can flow.

Tjrpe of God's own truth eternal.
We will cheer the heart of man»

Show him by thy course diurnal»
Things his reason never can.

Teach him after revelation»
Of the truth in all its might,

Good it is that for a season» *
It should take away its light :

That in calmest meditation

HjS may spend the midnight hour»
Strong in faith that when 'tis fitting

It will shine once more with power.

«»

188

Meanwhfle feeling *t is for trial.
Of his £uih and patience too»

And to see what he, weak mortal.
Of himself can think and do.

" Gloria in ezcelsis" chant we.
Lord to Thee the whole day long ;

On the air shall rise towards thee,
Echoes of onr solenm song.

So ceased the hymn, then mother, I had flown

As high as those grand sounds which upwards passed.

Swift as the lightning, strong as thunder tone.

And powerful as the rushing of the hlast ;

But well I knew mj feeble, fluttering wing r

Would fail me in the flight, and that content

I must remain below, and grateful sing

Of truth in humbler strains, on mission sent

As sacred, though more lowly far than theirs.

Who God adore, sublimed from earthly cares.
So downwards then I flew, but long before
My pinions brushed the pines, that high in air

Uprear their trunks all clothed with lichens hoar.
Hanging like lank gray locks of wizard's hair
From every bough and on each feathery crest,

189

The air beneath seemed turned to instrument
Of sweetest sounds, that on each other pressed
In varied tones, yet all in concord blent.

Not loud and deep, like that majestic hymn
Which I had heard from snowy mountains rise,
But soft and tender, like the voice of Him

Who spoke as none ere spake in human guise.
And soon I found it was the voice of praise,
From sea and river, valley, hill, and wood,

Wliieh thrilled the air with music, as God's ways
They blest, and echoed his long-spoken word, that good.
Aye, very good, was all which He had made.

And beauty was the burden of their hymu.
Such beauty as will never, never fade.
Or cease to satisfy, when life grows dim.

Hail to the dawn of morning,

She comes upon the earth.
Like angel footsteps stealing,

To watch the Saviour's birth.

Like tender mother gently

She wakes us firom our sleep.
And for a moment softly

She bids us silence keep ;

190

Until the son arismg,

Sends down his living tbjs.
And then with glad rejoidng»

We chant our hymn of praise.

Lord« *t is our happy duty»
On thee all day to gaze,

Eeflecting'hack thy beauty.
Each in opr several ways.

When all the waves of ocean»
Unclouded see thee glow.

Thy face in flashing motion
Their thousand mirrors show.

And e'en each dew-drop lowly.
Towards thee may aspire.

For looking on Thee only.
It glows an orb of fire.

Throughout this &ir creation.
Nought is too great or mean.

For blest transfiguration
When lighted by thy sheen.

Oh I that the whole creation,
United thus with thee.

Meet for his imitation.
To man might pattern be.

191

When beauty sempiternal

With glory not terrene.
But bom of the celestial

Untroubled and serene.

Is o'er him beaming clearly.
Transparent, pure, and bright.

Be it his effort truly.
To show to all its light.

And be it still his duty.

At erery hour to show.
That light of hearenly beauty.

From out pure hearts should flow.

So passed the melody, and on its wave

I floated in an ectasy of rest,

My voice to silence hushed, glad and yet grave

The thoughts which slowly swept across my breast.
To see how innocent and free from guile
Sweet nature woke, and with her voice serene

Sang forth her hymns of joyful praise, the while
She glowed with beauty I had often seen.
But never felt till now that 'neath my eyes

192

She passed, as in a mommg dream, when 'tween
Waking and slumbering an infant lies.
And smiles at angels that aboTe bim lean.

Bat searcelj bad sbe ceased ber matin song.
And I my wings bad flapped for fligbt again,
Wben from below came sounds tbat swept along

Tbe quiet air and 'midst tbe mingled strain,
Wbicb swelled more gloriously and more diyine.
More full of hoe iban augbt I 'd beard before.

Metbougbt a voice, dear motber, like to tbine,

Tbe cborus led, and gave it wings to soar.

'T was tben once mcnre I stayed my eager wing,

Tbat I might bear each several tone and word.
As thus it pealed from every living thing, ,
That at its waking sang to praise tbe Lord.

The night is done, and tbe glorious sun

Comes flaming up the sky,
Tbe earth rejoices, with millions of voices.

We sing in chorus high.
The love that again, like drops of rain,

Bejoices the world beneath.
And with smiling beams and radiant gleams»

Shines down on the mountain and heath.

. ijbT'w - " Ml mm^ t ^m^i

193

Let eagles arise with their fiery eyes,

Where thou art enthroned above.
On their pinions bearing towards thee upspringing,

Our songs of thanksgiving and love ;
Let lions and bears, from their deep-hidden lairs.

With thunderous voices call,
On the whole creation, with glad adoration.

Before thy face to fall.

Let all that dwell in hill or in dell.

In cave or in mossy nest.
Each creeping thing, eadi bird on the wing,

Rejoicing after its rest,
With glad acclaim, thy praise proclaim.

To the earth and the sea and the sky.
Till the air shall resound with the joyful sound,

And waft the glad chorus on high.

'Tis Thou that ripenest the plains to harvest»

For us preparing food.
And every hour thy beams with power

Shine forth on field and on wood;
Making loveHest flowers in shadiest bowers

With richest beauty bloom ;
Not a single home thou leavest lone.

In darkness, or cold, or in gloom.
s2

194

And the sea's dim deeps, where the wares in heaps

Roll with a lordly swell»
Whose hooming soand is heard aronnd,

Thou yisitest as well ;
Where the finny tribes in cayes abide.

Thou sendest thy glorious rays.
And awaking from sleep, through the waters they sweep.

And though they are mute give praise.

Then happy mead, oh, let us lead

The heart of man on high,
And its depths inspire, till with strong desire

It longs from the earth to fiy.
And upwards mount towards the fount

Of Grod's everlasting love,
Which, like to the sun, on every one

Shines brightly from above.

'Twas over, and the joyful sounds that gushed.
Like sparkling waters dancing from their spring,
High in the Alpine mountains, all were hushed.

But whilst I slowly sank to earth with outstretched wing,
Soon through the silence voices rose above
In chorus loud from all the sons of men.

Which fitly closed the Hymn of Truth and Love,
And sanctified it with a deep Amen.

195

LIGHT AND TKUTH.

I cannot climb that dizzy height.
For it is hid in shades of nighty
Which have concealed it from my sight,

Ere since my youth ;
Oh, wherefore, wherefore, bid me rise.
Your torches ne'er can show where lies
The pathway leading to the skies.

The way of Truth.

With clanging words urge me no more.
Repeating sternly o'er and o'er.
All I have heard so oft before,

And heard in vain ;
Ah ! think you not full well I know
Man was not meant to rest below.
But onwards, upwards, still should go.

Till heaven he gain.

Tet must he calmly rest and still,
Throughout the dreary night, until
The sun shall dawn upon the hill.

And show the way ;

106

Which, eyer present to the sight.
Now soft in shade, now sharp in light,
Marked with distinctness, dear and bright.

Ne'er leads astray.

Deem not that with this lower state
I am content becanse I wait
Till God shall change, or soon or late,

My night to day.
For when on me his light divine.
Shall ip its clondless glory shine, i

No feet shall be more swift than mine, \

To tread the way.

Patient to stay, nor seek to rise.

Till Gk)d himself shall show where lies.

The pathway leading to the skies,

Is all I ask ;
In ever praying that the night,
No more may hide th' untrodden height.
In darkness from my wistful sight.

My present task.

^4©^-

197

A POKTRAIT.

Of aspect angel mild.
And üce so sadly sweet.

How to describe my child.
Shall I find language meet?

If Eaphael's art were mine.
Then would I seek to trace,

With pencil soft and fine.
Her simple, earnest grace ;

As like a vision bright,
Or infant saint she stands.

In the evening^s golden lights
With meekly folded hands.

Her robe, as white as snow,

CoTcrs her litue feet,
The sunbeams o'er her throw

A halo ere they fleet.

Upon her smooth calm brow.
No shade of care appears.

The thoughts that dwell there now
Are pure as childhood's years.

198

To heaven is raised her gaze,
"With lore that casta oat fear,

In stiDness deep she prays»
"Oh, God« my daughter hear."

But now a holy smile

Lights up her dove-like eyes.
As to her side the while

Her guardian angel flies.

And I koow not in th^ gloom»
Where mystery seems to he.

If standing in the room.
Angel or child I see.

•

")©0

199

INSPIKATION.

Seems it veiy strange unto you, poets' lips are closed at

times.
That they camiot at your bidding speak their thoughts in

flowing rhymes ?
Oh ! they are like harps Eolian, which are silence doomed

to keep,
Till some breeze from heaven descending, o'er their chords

may chance to sweep.
When they feel its gentle motion, then they waken from

their sleep.
And obedient to its bidding, sing of joy or plaintive

weep.
For the strains are not their choosing, their own words

they cannot sing,
They but echo onlj^ what the zephyr whispers to each

trembling string;
Yety although the breeze is viewless, we can tell that it is

there,
When with it the harp communing, casts its soul upon the

air.
After strange and fltM pausings all is for a moment

stiU,
Then, when we the least expect it, rising at the zephyr's

will;

200

When its miräi is at the loudest, sodden ™lriiig into |

sighs,
Oft before the stnuns are ended flying with them to the

Thus it is with all true poets, if yon ask, they know not

why
They should smg of mirth and gladness, wherefore they

should weep and sigh.
'Tis their part, with humblest watching, inspiration to '

await.
But they know not whence it oometh, that belongs not

to their state.
All their duty being only, to give forüi what they receive,
Holiest thoughts in h e lioo 4 verses, which the world may

hear and Uve. ^^^'"

-«>#(-

L'ENVOY.

Invention, rest ;
Comparisons go play ; wit use thy will !

Less than the least
Of all God's mercies, is my poesy still.

Geobge Hbbbert.

I-

Bainw bmI Herbert, Printan liveipQol.

i-^*w '

h «I

t_.

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