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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,
Or the green corners of the earth,
Or the blue regions of the air,

Where the melodious winds have birth;

Whether on crystal rocks ye rove,
Beneath the bosom of the sea,
Wandering in many a coral grove,—
Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry;

How have you left the ancient love
That bards of old enjoyed in you!
The languid strings do scarcely move,
The sound is forced, the notes are few.

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,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness, and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower

The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

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,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

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,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour:-

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

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
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repressed their noble rage,

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
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

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,

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