Lamia | Page 8

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, thou ruthless man!?Turn them aside, wretch! or the righteous ban?Of all the Gods, whose dreadful images?Here represent their shadowy presences,?May pierce them on the sudden with the thorn?Of painful blindness; leaving thee forlorn,?In trembling dotage to the feeblest fright?Of conscience, for their long offended might,?For all thine impious proud-heart sophistries,?Unlawful magic, and enticing lies.?Corinthians! look