 | Poems by William Wetmore Story |  |
143
ORESTES.
How tranquil is the night! how calm and deep
This sacred silence! Not an olive-leaf
Is stirring on the slopes; all is asleep—
All silent, save the distant drowsy streams
That down the hill-sides murmur in their dreams.
The vast sad sky all breathless broods above,
And peace and rest this solemn temple steep.
Here let us rest—it is the hour of love—
Forgetting human pain and human grief.
This sacred silence! Not an olive-leaf
Is stirring on the slopes; all is asleep—
All silent, save the distant drowsy streams
That down the hill-sides murmur in their dreams.
The vast sad sky all breathless broods above,
And peace and rest this solemn temple steep.
Here let us rest—it is the hour of love—
Forgetting human pain and human grief.
But see! half-hidden in the columned shade,
Who panting stands, with hollow eyes dismayed,
That glance around as if they feared to see
Some dreaded shape pursuing? Can it be
Orestes, with those cheeks so trenched and worn—
That brow with sorrow seamed, that face forlorn?
Ay, 't is Orestes! we are not alone.
What human place is free from human groan?
Ay, 't is Orestes! In the temple there,
Refuge he seeks from horror, from despair.
Look! where he listens, dreading still to hear
The avenging voices sounding in his ear—
The awful voices that, by day and night,
Pursue relentless his despairing flight.
Ah! vain the hope to flee from Nemesis!
He starts—again he hears the horrent hiss
Of the fierce Furies through the darkness creep.
And list! along the aisles the angry sweep,
The hurrying rush of trailing robes—as when,
Through shivering pines asleep in some dim glen,
Fierce Auster whispers. Yes, even here they chase
Their haunted victim—even this sacred place
Stays not their fatal footsteps. As they come,
Behold him with that stricken face of doom
Fly to the altar, and there falling prone,
Strike with his brow Apollo's feet of stone.
“Save me!” he cries; “Apollo! hear and save;
Not even the dead will sleep in their dark grave.
They come—the Furies! To this tortured breast
Not even night, the calm, the peaceful, can give rest.
Stretch forth thy hand, great God! and bid them cease.
Peace, O Apollo! give the victim peace!”
Who panting stands, with hollow eyes dismayed,
That glance around as if they feared to see
Some dreaded shape pursuing? Can it be
Orestes, with those cheeks so trenched and worn—
That brow with sorrow seamed, that face forlorn?
Ay, 't is Orestes! we are not alone.
What human place is free from human groan?
Ay, 't is Orestes! In the temple there,
Refuge he seeks from horror, from despair.
Look! where he listens, dreading still to hear
The avenging voices sounding in his ear—
The awful voices that, by day and night,
144
Ah! vain the hope to flee from Nemesis!
He starts—again he hears the horrent hiss
Of the fierce Furies through the darkness creep.
And list! along the aisles the angry sweep,
The hurrying rush of trailing robes—as when,
Through shivering pines asleep in some dim glen,
Fierce Auster whispers. Yes, even here they chase
Their haunted victim—even this sacred place
Stays not their fatal footsteps. As they come,
Behold him with that stricken face of doom
Fly to the altar, and there falling prone,
Strike with his brow Apollo's feet of stone.
“Save me!” he cries; “Apollo! hear and save;
Not even the dead will sleep in their dark grave.
They come—the Furies! To this tortured breast
Not even night, the calm, the peaceful, can give rest.
Stretch forth thy hand, great God! and bid them cease.
Peace, O Apollo! give the victim peace!”
See! the white arm above him seems to wave,
And all at once is silent as the grave,
And Sleep stoops down with noiseless wings outspread,
And brooding hovers o'er Orestes' head;
And like a gust that roars along the plain
Seaward, and dies far off, so dies the pain,
The deep remorse, that long his life hath stung,
And he again is guiltless, joyous, young.
Again he plays, as in the olden time,
Through the cool marble halls, unstained by crime.
Hope holds his hands, Joy strikes the sounding strings,
Love o'er him fluttering shakes his purple wings,
And Sorrow hides her face, and dark Death creeps
Into the shade, and every Fury sleeps.
And all at once is silent as the grave,
And Sleep stoops down with noiseless wings outspread,
And brooding hovers o'er Orestes' head;
And like a gust that roars along the plain
145
The deep remorse, that long his life hath stung,
And he again is guiltless, joyous, young.
Again he plays, as in the olden time,
Through the cool marble halls, unstained by crime.
Hope holds his hands, Joy strikes the sounding strings,
Love o'er him fluttering shakes his purple wings,
And Sorrow hides her face, and dark Death creeps
Into the shade, and every Fury sleeps.
Sleep! sleep, Orestes! let thy torments cease!
Sleep! great Apollo grants thy prayer for peace.
Sleep! while the dreams of youth around thee play,
And the fierce Furies rest.—Let us away.
Sleep! great Apollo grants thy prayer for peace.
Sleep! while the dreams of youth around thee play,
And the fierce Furies rest.—Let us away.
| Poems by William Wetmore Story | |