Drop by drop as the hunter bleeds, the tears of the Goddess Fall and blend with the blood, and both on the ground become flowers; Rose-blossoms grow from the blood, and wind-lilies out of the tear-drops. Ai! ai! comely Adonis-gone dead is the godlike Adonis; Wander no longer bewailing in glade and in thicket, sad lady! Fair is his bed of leaves, and fragrant the couch where thy dead lies, Dead, but as lovely as life-yea, dead-but as lovely as sleep. is; Lap him in mantles of silk-such robes as he once took delight in When by thy side he passed in caresses the season of starbeams, Lulled on a couch of gold-though dead, the raiments become him; Heap on him garlands and blossoms and buds, entomb them together; When that Adonis died, the flowers died too, and were withered! Rain on him perfumes and odors, shed myrtle and spices upon him; Let all delightful things die and go with him, for dead is the dearest. So lies he lovely, in death-shroud of purple, the fair young Adonis; Round about his couch the Loves go piteously wailing, Tearing their hair for Adonis; and one has charge of his arrows, One of his polished bow, and one of his well-feathered quiver; One unclasps his sandal, and one in a water-pot golden Brings bright water to lave his limbs, and one at the bier-head Fans with her pinions the forehead and eyes of the sleeping Adonis. Ah! but for Cypris herself the young Loves sorrow the sorest; Quenched are the marriage-lamps in the halls of the God Hymenæus,1 Scattered his marriage crowns; no more he sings, "Hymen, oh! Hymen," "Hymen!" no more is the song he goes singing, but evermore ai! ai! "Ah, for Adonis," he cries, and "Ah!" say the Graces, "Adonis!" More than the marriage-god even, they weep for the Syrian huntsman, One to the other still saying, "Dead-dead is the lovely Adonis!" All the nine Muses bewail-but he hears no more music and singing, Nay, not if that he would; Fate holds him fast and for ever. Cease, Cytherea, thy sobs; a little while rest from thine anguish, Soon must thy tears flow again, and again comes the season of sorrow. Bion 291 TO THE MUSES WHETHER on Ida's shady brow, WHETH Or in the chambers of the East, The chambers of the Sun, that now From ancient melody have ceased; 1 The marriage-god. "Hymen, oh! Hymen," of the rext line, is the wed ding song. Whether in Heaven ye wander fair, Where the melodious winds have birth; Whether on crystal rocks ye rove, How have you left the ancient love William Blake 292 T ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower The moping owl does to the moon complain Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the Poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre: But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, |