Lamia | Page 8

severe,
And with calm-planted steps walk'd in
austere;
'Twas Apollonius: something too he laugh'd,
As though
some knotty problem, that had daft
His patient thought, had now
begun to thaw,
And solve and melt - 'twas just as he foresaw.
He met within the murmurous vestibule
His young disciple. "'Tis no
common rule,
Lycius," said he, "for uninvited guest
To force
himself upon you, and infest
With an unbidden presence the bright
throng
Of younger friends; yet must I do this wrong,
And you
forgive me." Lycius blush'd, and led
The old man through the inner
doors broad-spread;
With reconciling words and courteous mien

Turning into sweet milk the sophist's spleen.
Of wealthy lustre was the banquet-room,
Fill'd with pervading
brilliance and perfume:
Before each lucid pannel fuming stood
A
censer fed with myrrh and spiced wood,
Each by a sacred tripod held
aloft,
Whose slender feet wide-swerv'd upon the soft

Wool-woofed
carpets: fifty wreaths of smoke
From fifty censers their light voyage
took
To the high roof, still mimick'd as they rose
Along the mirror'd

walls by twin-clouds odorous.
Twelve sphered tables, by silk seats
insphered,
High as the level of a man's breast rear'd
On libbard's
paws, upheld the heavy gold
Of cups and goblets, and the store thrice
told
Of Ceres' horn, and, in huge vessels, wine
Come from the
gloomy tun with merry shine.
Thus loaded with a feast the tables
stood,
Each shrining in the midst the image of a God.
When in an antichamber every guest
Had felt the cold full sponge to
pleasure press'd,
By minist'ring slaves, upon his hands and feet,

And fragrant oils with ceremony meet
Pour'd on his hair, they all
mov'd to the feast
In white robes, and themselves in order placed

Around the silken couches, wondering
Whence all this mighty cost
and blaze of wealth could spring.
Soft went the music the soft air along,
While fluent Greek a vowel'd
undersong
Kept up among the guests discoursing low
At first, for
scarcely was the wine at flow;
But when the happy vintage touch'd
their brains,
Louder they talk, and louder come the strains
Of
powerful instruments - the gorgeous dyes,
The space, the splendour
of the draperies,
The roof of awful richness, nectarous cheer,

Beautiful slaves, and Lamia's self, appear,
Now, when the wine has
done its rosy deed,
And every soul from human trammels freed,
No
more so strange; for merry wine, sweet wine,
Will make Elysian
shades not too fair, too divine.
Soon was God Bacchus at meridian
height;
Flush'd were their cheeks, and bright eyes double bright:

Garlands of every green, and every scent
From vales deflower'd, or
forest-trees branch rent,
In baskets of bright osier'd gold were brought

High as the handles heap'd, to suit the thought
Of every guest; that
each, as he did please,
Might fancy-fit his brows, silk-pillow'd at his
ease.
What wreath for Lamia? What for Lycius?
What for the sage, old
Apollonius?

Upon her aching forehead be there hung
The leaves of
willow and of adder's tongue;
And for the youth, quick, let us strip for

him
The thyrsus, that his watching eyes may swim
Into
forgetfulness; and, for the sage,
Let spear-grass and the spiteful thistle
wage
War on his temples. Do not all charms fly
At the mere touch
of cold philosophy?
There was an awful rainbow once in heaven:

We know her woof, her texture; she is given
In the dull catalogue of
common things.
Philosophy will clip an Angel's wings,
Conquer all
mysteries by rule and line,
Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine -

Unweave a rainbow, as it erewhile made
The tender-person'd
Lamia melt into a shade.
By her glad Lycius sitting, in chief place,
Scarce saw in all the room
another face,
Till, checking his love trance, a cup he took
Full
brimm'd, and opposite sent forth a look
'Cross the broad table, to
beseech a glance
From his old teacher's wrinkled countenance,
And
pledge him. The bald-head philosopher
Had fix'd his eye, without a
twinkle or stir
Full on the alarmed beauty of the bride,

Brow-beating her fair form, and troubling her sweet pride.
Lycius
then press'd her hand, with devout touch,
As pale it lay upon the rosy
couch:
'Twas icy, and the cold ran through his veins;
Then sudden it
grew hot, and all the pains
Of an unnatural heat shot to his heart.

"Lamia, what means this? Wherefore dost thou start?
Know'st thou
that man?" Poor Lamia answer'd not.
He gaz'd into her eyes, and not
a jot
Own'd they the lovelorn piteous appeal:
More, more he gaz'd:
his human senses reel:
Some hungry spell that loveliness absorbs;

There was no recognition in those orbs.
"Lamia!" he cried - and no
soft-toned reply.
The many heard, and the loud revelry
Grew hush;
the stately music no more breathes;
The myrtle sicken'd in a thousand
wreaths.
By faint degrees, voice, lute, and pleasure ceased;

A
deadly silence step by step increased,
Until it seem'd a horrid
presence there,
And not a man but felt the terror in his hair.

"Lamia!" he shriek'd; and nothing but the shriek
With its sad echo did
the silence break.
"Begone, foul dream!" he cried, gazing again
In
the bride's face, where now no azure vein
Wander'd on fair-spaced

temples; no soft bloom
Misted the cheek; no passion to illume
The
deep-recessed vision - all was blight;
Lamia, no longer fair, there sat
a deadly white.
"Shut, shut those juggling eyes,