The Poetical Works of Robert Bridges, Excluding the Eight Dramas. Bridges RobertЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Whence the fierce ravisher sprang forth—

       (seeing the nymphs) Ah! Ye! I know you well: ye are the nymphs of Ocean. Ye, graceful as your watery names And idle as the mimic flames That skip upon his briny floor, 370 When the hot sun smiteth thereo'er; Why did ye leave your native waves? Did false Poseidon, to my hurt Leagued with my foe, bid you desert Your opalescent pearly caves, Your dances on the shelly strand? Ch. Poseidon gave us no command, Lady; it was thy child Persephone, Whose beauty drew us from the sea. Dem. Ill company ye lent, ill-fated guards! 380 How was she stolen from your distracted eyes? Ch. There, where thou standest now, stood she companion'd By wise Athena and bright Artemis. We in flower-gathering dance and idle song Were wander'd off apart; we fear'd no wrong. Dem. In heav'n I heard her cry: ye nothing heard? Ch. We heard no cry—How coudst thou hear in heaven? Ask us not óf her:—we have nought to tell.— Dem. I seek not knowledge óf you, for I know. Ch. Thou knowest? Ah, mighty Queen, deign then to tell If thou hast found her. Tell us—tell us—tell! 391 Dem. Oh, there are calls that love can hear, That strike not on the outward ear. None heard save I: but with a dart Of lightning-pain it pierc'd my heart,{64} That call for aid, that cry of fear. It echo'd from the mountain-steeps Down to the dark of Ocean-deeps; O'er all the isle, from ev'ry hill It pierc'd my heart and echoes still, 400 Ay me! Ay me! Ch. Where is she, O mighty Queen?—Tell us—O tell!— Dem. Swift unto earth, in frenzy led By Cora's cry, from heav'n I sped. Immortal terror froze my mind: I fear'd, ev'n as I yearn'd to find My child, my joy, faln from my care Wrong'd or distresst, I knew not where, Cora, my Cora! Nor thought I whither first to fly, 410 Answ'ring the appeal of that wild cry: But still it drew me till I came To Enna, calling still her name, Cora, my Cora! Ch. If thou hast found her, tell us, Queen, O tell! Dem. Nine days I wander'd o'er the land. From Enna to the eastern strand I sought, and when the first night came I lit my torch in Etna's flame. But neither 'mid the chestnut woods 420 That rustle o'er his stony floods; Nor yet at daybreak on the meads Where bountiful Symaethus leads His chaunting boatmen to the main; Nor where the road on Hybla's plain Is skirted by the spacious corn; Nor where embattled Syracuse With lustrous temple fronts the morn; Nor yet by dolphin'd Arethuse; Nor when I crossed Anapus wide, 430 Where Cyane, his reedy bride,{65} Uprushing from her crystal well, Doth not his cold embrace repel; Nor yet by western Eryx, where Gay Aphrodite high in air Beams gladness from her marble chair; Nor 'mong the mountains that enfold Panormos in her shell of gold, Found I my Cora: no reply Came to my call, my helpless cry, 440 Cora, my Cora! Ch. Hast thou not found her, then? Tell us—O tell! Dem. What wonder that I never found Her whom I sought on mortal ground, When she—(now will ye understand?)— Dwelt in the land that is no land, The fruitless and unseason'd plain Where all lost things are found again; Where man's distract imaginings Head-downward hang on bat-like wings, 450 'Mid mummied hopes, sleep-walking cares, Crest-faln illusions and despairs, The tortur'd memories of crime, The outcasts of forgotten time? Ch. Where is she, Queen?—where?—where? Dem. Nor had I known, Had not himself high Helios seen and told me. Ch. Alas! Alas! We cannot understand— We pray, dear Queen, may great Zeus comfort thee. Dem. Yea, pray to Zeus; but pray ye for yourselves, That he have pity on you, for there is need. 460 Or let Zeus hear a strange, unwonted prayer That in his peril he will aid himself; For I have said, nor coud his Stygian oath Add any sanction to a mother's word, That, if he give not back my daughter to me, Him will I slay, and lock his pining ghost{66} In sleepy prisons of unhallowing hell. Ch. (aside). Alas! alas! she is distraught with grief.— What comfort can we make?—How reason with her?—469 (to D.) This coud not be, great Queen. How coud it be That Zeus should be destroy'd, or thou destroy him? Dem. Yea, and you too: so make your prayer betimes. Ch. We pray thee, Lady, sit thou on this bank And we will bring thee food; or if thou thirst, Water. We know too in what cooling caves The sly Fauns have bestow'd their skins of wine. Dem. Ye simple creatures, I need not these things, And stand above your pity. Think ye me A woman of the earth derang'd with grief? Nay, nay: but I have pity on your pity, 480 And for your kindness I will ease the trouble Wherewith it wounds your gentleness: attend! Ye see this jewel here, that from my neck Hangs by this golden chain.

      [They crowd near to see.

      Look, 'tis a picture,

       'Tis of Persephone.