The Portable Roman Reader (Portable Library) (51 page)

Thus did the nymphs in vain caress the boy,
He still was lovely, but he still was coy,
When one fair virgin of the slighted train
Thus pray’d the gods, provoked by his disdain:
“O! may he love like me, and love like me in vain!”
Rhamnusia pitied the neglected fair,
And with just vengeance answer’d to her prayer.

There stands a fountain in a darksome wood,
Nor stain’d with falling leaves, nor rising mud,
Untroubled by the breath of winds it rests,
Unsullied by the touch of men or beasts;
High bowers of shady trees above it grow,
And rising grass and cheerful greens below.
Pleased with the form and coolness of the place,
And overheated by the morning chase,
Narcissus on the grassy verdure lies;
But whilst within the crystal fount he tries
To quench his heat, he feels new heat arise:
For, as his own bright image he survey‘d,
He fell in love with the fantastic shade,
And o’er the fair resemblance hung unmoved;
Nor knew, fond youth! it was himself he loved.
The well-turn’d neck and shoulders he descries,
The spacious forehead, and the sparkling eyes,
The hands that Bacchus might not scorn to show,
And hair that round Apollo’s head might flow,
With all the purple youthfulness of face,
That gently blushes in the watery glass.
By his own flames consumed the lover lies,
And gives himself the wound by which he dies.
To the cold water oft he joins his lips,
Oft catching at the beauteous shade he dips
His arms, as often from himself he slips.
Nor knows he who it is his arms pursue
With eager clasps, but loves he knows not who.

What could, fond youth, this helpless passion move?
What kindled in thee this unpitied love?
Thy own warm blush within the water glows,
With thee the colour’d shadow comes and goes,
Its empty being on thyself relies;
Step thou aside and the frail charmer dies.

Still o‘er the fountain’s watery gleam he stood,
Mindless of sleep, and negligent of food,
Still view’d his face, and languish’d as he view’d.
At length he raised his head, and thus began
To vent his griefs, and tell the woods his pain:
“You trees,” says he, “and thou surrounding grove,
Who oft have been the kindly scenes of love,
Tell me, if e’er within your shades did lie
A youth so tortured, so perplex’d as I?
I, who before me see the charming fair,
Whilst there he stands, and yet he stands not there:
In such a maze of love my thoughts are lost;
And yet no bulwark’d town nor distant coast
Preserves the beauteous youth from being seen,
No mountains rise nor oceans flow between;
A shallow water hinders my embrace,
And yet the lovely mimic wears a face
That kindly smiles, and when I bend to join
My lips to his, he fondly bends to mine.
Hear, gentle youth, and pity my complaint;
Come from thy well, thou fair inhabitant.
My charms an easy conquest have obtain’d
O‘er other hearts, by thee alone disdain’d.
But why should I despair? I’m sure he burns
With equal flames, and languishes by turns.
Whene’er I stoop, he offers at a kiss,
And when my arms I stretch, he stretches his;
His eyes with pleasure on my face he keeps,
He smiles my smiles, and when I weep he weeps;
Whene‘er I speak his moving lips appear
To utter something, which I cannot hear.

“Ah, wretched me! I now begin too late
To find out all the long perplex’d deceit;
It is myself I love, myself I see,
The gay delusion is a part of me;
I kindle up the fires by which I burn,
And my own beauties from the well return.
Whom should I court? how utter my complaint?
Enjoyment but produces my restraint,
And too much plenty makes me die for want..
How gladly would I from myself remove!
And at a distance set the thing I love;
My breast is warm’d with such unusual fire,
I wish him absent whom I most desire;
And now I faint with grief, my fate draws nigh,
In all the pride of blooming youth I die.
Death will the sorrows of my heart relieve.
O! might the visionary youth survive,
I should with joy my latest breath resign!
But, oh! I see his fate involved in mine.”

This said, the weeping youth again return’d
To the clear fountain, where again he burn’d.
His tears defaced the surface of the well,
With circle after circle as they fell;
And now the lovely face but half appears,
O‘errun with wrinkles and deform’d with tears.
“Ah! whither,” cries Narcissus, “dost thou fly?
Let me still feed the flame by which I die;
Let me still see, though I’m no further bless’d.”
Then rends his garment off and beats his breast;
His naked bosom redden’d with the blow,
In such a blush as purple clusters show,
Ere yet the sun’s autumnal heats refine
Their sprightly juice, and mellow it to wine;
The glowing beauties of his breast he spies,
And with a new redoubled passion dies.
As wax dissolves, as ice begins to run
And trickle into drops before the sun,
So melts the youth, and languishes away,
His beauty withers, and his limbs decay,
And none of those attractive charms remain,
To which the slighted Echo sued in vain.

She saw him in his present misery,
Whom, spite of all her wrongs, she grieved to see.
She answer’d sadly to the lover’s moan,
Sigh’d back his sighs, and groan’d to every groan.
“Ah youth! beloved in vain,” Narcissus cries;
“Ah youth! beloved in vain,” the nymph replies.
“Farewell.” says he; the parting sound scarce fell
From his faint lips, but she replied, “Farewell.”
Then on the unwholesome earth he gasping lies,
Till death shuts up those self-admiring eyes.
To the cold shades his flitting ghost retires,
And in the Stygian waves itself admires.

For him the Naiads and the Dryads mourn,
Whom the sad Echo answers in her turn;
And now the sister-nymphs prepare his urn:
When, looking for his corpse, they only found
A rising stalk with yellow blossoms crown’d.

This sad event gave blind Tiresias fame,
Through Greece establish’d in a prophet’s name.

The unhallow’d Pentheus only durst deride
The cheated people and their eyeless guide.
To whom the prophet in his fury said,
Shaking the hoary honors of his head,
“‘Twere well, presumptuous man, ’twere well for thee,
If thou wert eyeless too, and blind like me:
For the time comes, nay, ‘tis already here,
When the young god’s solemnities appear,
Which, if thou dost not with just rites adorn,
Thy impious carcase, into pieces torn,
Shall strew the woods, and hang on every thorn.
Then, then, remember what I now foretell:
And own the blind Tiresias saw too well.”

Still Pentheus scorns him, and derides his skill;
But time did all the prophet’s threats fulfil.
For now through prostrate Greece young Bacchus rode,
Whilst howling matrons celebrate the god.
All ranks and sexes to his orgies ran,
To mingle in the pomps and fill the train,
When Pentheus thus his wicked rage express’d:
“What madness, Thebans, has your souls possess’d?
Can hollow timbrels, can a drunken shout,
And the lewd clamours of a beastly rout,
Thus quell your courage? Can the weak alarm
Of women’s yells those stubborn souls disarm,
Whom nor the sword nor trumpet e‘er could fright,
Nor the loud din and horror of a fight?
And you, our sires, who left your old abodes,
And fix’d in foreign earth your country gods,
Will you without a stroke your city yield,
And poorly quit an undisputed field?
But you, whose youth and vigour should inspire
Heroic warmth, and kindle martial fire,
Whom burnish’d arms and crested helmets grace,
Not flowery garlands and a painted face;
Remember him to whom you stand allied;
The serpent for his well of waters died.
He fought the strong, do you his courage show,
And gain a conquest o’er a feeble foe.
If Thebes must fall, 0 might the Fates afford
A nobler doom from famine, fire, or sword;
Then might the Thebans perish with renown:
But now a beardless victor sacks the town,
Whom nor the prancing steed, nor ponderous shield,
Nor the hack’d helmet, nor the dusty field,
But the soft joys of luxury and ease,
The purple vests, and flowery garlands please.
Stand then aside, I’ll make the counterfeit
Renounce his godhead, and confess the cheat
Acrisius from the Grecian walls repell’d
This boasted power: why then should Pentheus yield?
Go quickly, drag the impostor boy to me,
I’ll try the force of his divinity.”
Thus did the audacious wretch those rites profane;
His friends dissuade the audacious wretch in vain,
In vain his grandsire urged him to give o‘er
His impious threats, the wretch but raves the more.
So have I seen a river gently glide
In a smooth course and inoffensive tide,
But if with dams its current we restrain,
It bears down all, and foams along the plain.

But now his servants came, besmear’d with blood,
Sent by their haughty prince to seize the god;
The god they found not in the frantic throng,
But dragg’d a zealous votary along.

Him Pentheus view’d with fury in his look,
And scarce withheld his hands, whilst thus he spoke:
“Vile slave! whom speedy vengeance shall pursue
And terrify thy base seditious crew,
Thy country and thy parentage reveal,
And why thou join‘st in these mad orgies tell.”

The captive views him with undaunted eyes,
And, arm’d with inward innocence, replies:

“From high Mæonia’s rocky shores I came,
Of poor descent, Acœtes is my name.
My sire was meanly born; no oxen plough’d
His fruitful fields, nor in his pastures low’d;
His whole estate within the waters lay,
With lines and hooks he caught the finny prey;
His art was all his livelihood, which he
Thus with his dying lips bequeathed to me:
‘In streams, my boy, and rivers take thy chance,
There swims,’ said he, ‘thy whole inheritance.’
Long did I live on this poor legacy,
Till, tired with rocks and my old native sky,
To arts of navigation I inclined,
Observed the turns and changes of the wind,
Learn’d the fit heavens, and began to note
The stormy Hyades, the rainy Goat,
The bright Taygete, and the shining Bears,
With all the sailors’ catalogue of stars.
Once, as by chance for Delos I design‘d,
My vessel, driven by a strong gust of wind,
Moor’d in a Chian creek; ashore I went,
And all the following night in Chios spent.
When morning rose, I sent my mates to bring
Supplies of water from a neighb’ring spring,
Whilst I the motion of the winds explored;
Then summon’d in my crew and went aboard.
Opheltes heard my summons, and with joy
Brought to the shore a soft and lovely boy,
With more than female sweetness in his look,
Whom straggling in the neighb‘ring fields he took.
With fumes of wine the little captive glows,
And nods with sleep, and staggers as he goes.

“I view’d him nicely, and began to trace
Each heavenly feature, each immortal grace,
And saw divinity in all his face:
‘I know not who,’ said I, ‘this god should be,
But that he is a god I plainly see.
And thou, whoe’er thou art, excuse the force
These men have used; and 0 befriend our course!‘
Tray not for us,’ the nimble Dictys cried,
Dictys, that could the main-top mast bestride,
And down the ropes with active vigour slide.
But, as he plies, each busy arm shrinks in,
And by degrees is fashion’d to a fin.
Another, as he catches at a cord,
Misses his arms, and, tumbling overboard,
With his broad fins and forky tail he laves
The rising surge, and flounces in the waves.
Thus all my crew transform’d around the ship,
Or dive below, or on the surface leap,
And spout the waves, and wanton in the deep.
Full nineteen sailors did the ship convey,
A shole of nineteen dolphins round her play.
I only in my proper shape appear,
Speechless with wonder, and half dead with fear,
Till Bacchus kindly bid me fear no more.
With him I landed on the Chian shore,
And him shall ever gratefully adore.”

“This forging slave,” says Pentheus, “would prevail
O‘er our just fury by a far-fetch’d tale:
Go; let him feel the whips, the swords, the fire,
And in the tortures of the rack expire.”
The officious servants hurry him away,
And the poor captive in a dungeon lay.
But, whilst the whips and tortures are prepared,
The gates fly open, of themselves unbarr’d;
At liberty the unfetter’d captive stands,
And flings the loosen’d shackles from his hands.

But Pentheus, grown more furious than before,
Resolved to send his messengers no more,
But went himself to the distracted throng,
Where high Cithæron echo’d with their song.
And as the fiery war-horse paws the ground,
And snorts and trembles at the trumpet’s sound,
Transported thus he heard the frantic rout,
And raved and madden’d at the distant shout.

A spacious circuit on the hill there stood,
Level and wide, and skirted round with wood;
Here the rash Pentheus, with unhallow’d eyes,
The howling dames and mystic orgies spies.
His mother sternly view’d him where he stood,
And kindled into madness as she view’d:
Her leafy javelin at her son she cast,
And cries, “The boar that lays our country waste!
The boar, my sisters! Aim the fatal dart,
And strike the brindled monster to the heart.”

Pentheus astonish’d heard the dismal sound,
And sees the yelling matrons gathering round;
He sees and weeps at his approaching fate,
And begs for mercy, and repents too late.
“Help! help! my aunt Autonoë,” he cried,
“Remember how your own Actæon died.”
Deaf to his cries, the frantic matron crops
One stretch‘d-out arm, the other Ino lops.
In vain does Pentheus to his mother sue,
And the raw bleeding stumps present to view.
His mother howl’d, and, heedless of his prayer,
Her trembling hand she twisted in his hair,
“And this,” she cried, “shall be Agave’s share”;
When from his neck his struggling head she tore,
And in her hands the ghastly visage bore.
With pleasure all the hideous trunk survey,
Then pull’d and tore the mangled limbs away,
As starting in the pangs of death it lay.
Soon as the wood its leafy honours casts,
Blown off and scatter’d by autumnal blasts,
With such a sudden death lay Pentheus slain,
And in a thousand pieces strow’d the plain.