 | Lays and Legends of Ancient Greece, with Other Poems |  |
77
WAIL OF AN IDOL.
In this lyric I have endeavoured to represent the very stupid and comfortless doctrine of the Greeks, with regard to the state of human souls after death. The Greeks believed in a heaven and a hell; but only for the few: heaven for the very good, and hell for the very bad; but the shades of the millions of common mortals were left floating about in a lethargic inane sort of Limbo, not at all enviable. On this subject, there is an excellent essay by Archbishop Whately, in his discourses on some characteristic points of Christianity. The student may also consult my essay on the Theology of Homer, Proposition xix. Classical Museum, Vol. vii. 1850.
Μη δη μοι θανατον γε παραυδα, φαιδιμ' Οδυσσευ:
Βουλοιμην κ' επαρουρος εων θητευεμεν αλλω,
Ανδρι παρ' ακληρω, ω μη βιοτος πολυς ειη,
Η πασιν νεκυεσσι καταφθιμενοισιν ανασσειν.
—Homer.
Βουλοιμην κ' επαρουρος εων θητευεμεν αλλω,
Ανδρι παρ' ακληρω, ω μη βιοτος πολυς ειη,
Η πασιν νεκυεσσι καταφθιμενοισιν ανασσειν.
—Homer.
O dreary, dreary shades!
O sad and sunless glades!
O yellow, yellow meads
Of asphodel!
Where the dream-like Idol strays,
On lone and haunted ways,
Through Hades' weary maze,
And sings his own sad knell.
O sad and sunless glades!
O yellow, yellow meads
Of asphodel!
Where the dream-like Idol strays,
On lone and haunted ways,
Through Hades' weary maze,
And sings his own sad knell.
O sullen, solemn, silent clime!
O lazy pace of noiseless time!
O where is the blythe and gamesome change
Of the many-nurturing earth?
The dance of joy, the flush of mirth,
Life's vast and varied range?
O lazy pace of noiseless time!
O where is the blythe and gamesome change
Of the many-nurturing earth?
78
Life's vast and varied range?
O dreary, dreary vales!
O heavy, heavy gales!
Fraught with the dreamy dew of sleep,
Over the joyless fields ye sweep;
O sullen, sullen, streaky sky,
Where the changeless moon, with a leaden eye,
Aloft hangs languidly,
And yellow vapours mount up high,
And flickering lights in a wild dance fly,
Like the last fleet flash when the strangled die,
Shooting across the darkling eye.
O heavy, heavy gales!
Fraught with the dreamy dew of sleep,
Over the joyless fields ye sweep;
O sullen, sullen, streaky sky,
Where the changeless moon, with a leaden eye,
Aloft hangs languidly,
And yellow vapours mount up high,
And flickering lights in a wild dance fly,
Like the last fleet flash when the strangled die,
Shooting across the darkling eye.
O sullen, sullen sky!
Where the brown bat wings,
And the lone bird sings
A chant like the chant of death;
While sad souls wake
The stagnant lake
With a sobbing, struggling breath.
O sad, O sad is the wail of the stream,
Mingling its sighs with the dead man's dream;
Winding, winding nine times round,
Weary wandering, 'scapeless bound!
And the black, black kine,
In lazy ranks,
Are cropping the sickly herb
From the reedy Stygian banks;
And hissing things,
With poisoned blood,
Are crawling through the slimy mud.
O sad, O sad is the endless row
Of poplars black; oh, sad and slow
Is the long-drawn train of the sons of woe,
The silent-marching ghosts!
And they share no more in the feast of glee,
And the dance, and the song, and the wine-cup free;
Where the bard divine, with mellow lays,
Is singing the gods' and the heroes' praise;
And they share no more
Loud laughter's roar,
The silent-marching ghosts!
I hear their cry,
As they flit swift by
On noiseless wing,
Hurrying through the wide out-spread
Gates that gape for the countless dead;
I hear the cry
Of the wailing ghosts;
Their voices small,
Like a drowning thing,
Drawn echoless along the long dark hall;
And some are whirled,
In the mighty void,
Like a leaf in the foamy tide;
And some are hurled,
With a gusty fit,
Into the deep Tartarean pit;
And some do sway,
Like a blind thing stray,
To and fro in the pathless air;
And some, whom chance less stormy rules,
Sit sipping the blood from crimson pools.
Where the brown bat wings,
And the lone bird sings
A chant like the chant of death;
While sad souls wake
The stagnant lake
With a sobbing, struggling breath.
O sad, O sad is the wail of the stream,
Mingling its sighs with the dead man's dream;
79
Weary wandering, 'scapeless bound!
And the black, black kine,
In lazy ranks,
Are cropping the sickly herb
From the reedy Stygian banks;
And hissing things,
With poisoned blood,
Are crawling through the slimy mud.
O sad, O sad is the endless row
Of poplars black; oh, sad and slow
Is the long-drawn train of the sons of woe,
The silent-marching ghosts!
And they share no more in the feast of glee,
And the dance, and the song, and the wine-cup free;
Where the bard divine, with mellow lays,
Is singing the gods' and the heroes' praise;
And they share no more
Loud laughter's roar,
The silent-marching ghosts!
I hear their cry,
As they flit swift by
On noiseless wing,
80
Gates that gape for the countless dead;
I hear the cry
Of the wailing ghosts;
Their voices small,
Like a drowning thing,
Drawn echoless along the long dark hall;
And some are whirled,
In the mighty void,
Like a leaf in the foamy tide;
And some are hurled,
With a gusty fit,
Into the deep Tartarean pit;
And some do sway,
Like a blind thing stray,
To and fro in the pathless air;
And some, whom chance less stormy rules,
Sit sipping the blood from crimson pools.
O sad is the throne,
Dark, drear, alone,
Of the stern, relentless pair!
With gloom enveiled,
In judgment mailed,
A joyless sway they bear.
No circling years,
No sounding spheres,
No hopes and fears,
Are there;
They sit on the throne,
Dark, drear, alone,
A stern relentless pair.
And beside them sits
A monster dire,
Watching the darkness with eyes of fire,
The dog of the triple head;
And his harsh bark splits,
Like thunder fits,
The realm of the silent dead.
Oh, sad is the throne,
Dark, drear, alone,
Of the stern, relentless pair!
O dreary, dreary shades!
O sad and sunless glades!
O yellow, yellow meads
Of asphodel!
O loveless, joyless homes!
O weary, starless domes!
Where the wind-swept idol roams,
And sighs his own sad knell.
Dark, drear, alone,
Of the stern, relentless pair!
With gloom enveiled,
81
A joyless sway they bear.
No circling years,
No sounding spheres,
No hopes and fears,
Are there;
They sit on the throne,
Dark, drear, alone,
A stern relentless pair.
And beside them sits
A monster dire,
Watching the darkness with eyes of fire,
The dog of the triple head;
And his harsh bark splits,
Like thunder fits,
The realm of the silent dead.
Oh, sad is the throne,
Dark, drear, alone,
Of the stern, relentless pair!
O dreary, dreary shades!
O sad and sunless glades!
O yellow, yellow meads
Of asphodel!
O loveless, joyless homes!
82
Where the wind-swept idol roams,
And sighs his own sad knell.
O sullen, solemn, silent clime!
O lazy pace of noiseless time!
O where are the many-coloured joys of earth?
O where is the loud strong voice of mirth?
O where is the change
Of joy and woe?
The love of friend,
The hate of foe?
O where is the bustle of many-winged life,
And of man with man the many-mingling strife?
O Hermes! leader of the dead,
Thou winged god
Of the golden rod,
O lead me, lead me further still!
Lead me to Lethe's silent stream,
That I may drink, deep drink my fill,
And wash from my soul this long life-dream!
O lead me, lead me to Lethe's shore,
Where Memory lives no more!
O lazy pace of noiseless time!
O where are the many-coloured joys of earth?
O where is the loud strong voice of mirth?
O where is the change
Of joy and woe?
The love of friend,
The hate of foe?
O where is the bustle of many-winged life,
And of man with man the many-mingling strife?
O Hermes! leader of the dead,
Thou winged god
Of the golden rod,
O lead me, lead me further still!
Lead me to Lethe's silent stream,
That I may drink, deep drink my fill,
And wash from my soul this long life-dream!
O lead me, lead me to Lethe's shore,
Where Memory lives no more!
| Lays and Legends of Ancient Greece, with Other Poems | |