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 | Poems by William Wetmore Story |  |
150
TANTALUS.
I at the banquet of the Gods have sate
Above the clouds that shroud these earthly plains,
Their nectar quaffed, and their ambrosia ate,
And felt the Olympian ichor in my veins.
Above the clouds that shroud these earthly plains,
Their nectar quaffed, and their ambrosia ate,
And felt the Olympian ichor in my veins.
Apollo, like a glory in a gloom,
Jove's thund'rous brow, and Juno's face serene,
Chaste Dian's grace,—the auroral blush and bloom
That Venus owns,—these mortal eyes have seen.
Jove's thund'rous brow, and Juno's face serene,
Chaste Dian's grace,—the auroral blush and bloom
That Venus owns,—these mortal eyes have seen.
Mad with desire I strove the charm to seize
That should again renew to sense and soul
On earth below those heavenly ecstasies—
And I their nectar and ambrosia stole.
That should again renew to sense and soul
On earth below those heavenly ecstasies—
And I their nectar and ambrosia stole.
But who against the Gods shall e'er prevail?
The bliss of heaven on earth we may not own,
Stale tastes the nectar here, the ambrosia stale,
The ethereal flavor lost, the aroma flown.
The bliss of heaven on earth we may not own,
Stale tastes the nectar here, the ambrosia stale,
The ethereal flavor lost, the aroma flown.
And so the Gods condemn me here to stand
Thirsting within the stream that from me flees,—
Hungering 'mid fruits ambrosial that my hand
Forever vainly reaches out to seize.
Thirsting within the stream that from me flees,—
151
Forever vainly reaches out to seize.
My sense the music of Apollo haunts,
But dim and distant and beyond my reach;
I hear afar the Gods' grand utterance
But cannot shape it into mortal speech.
But dim and distant and beyond my reach;
I hear afar the Gods' grand utterance
But cannot shape it into mortal speech.
In silence still I feel as in a dream
Their dim mysterious whisperings everywhere,—
On the lone hills,—in forest, reed, and stream,—
In night's low breathings, in the sea's despair.
Their dim mysterious whisperings everywhere,—
On the lone hills,—in forest, reed, and stream,—
In night's low breathings, in the sea's despair.
So taunting ever with half-confidence
That wins the listening ear, but will not speak,
Pleasing and puzzling all the soul and sense,
The Gods forever mock us mortals weak.
That wins the listening ear, but will not speak,
Pleasing and puzzling all the soul and sense,
The Gods forever mock us mortals weak.
O Poets, in whatever realm or clime,
Pity me—Tantalus—for you must feel
How nature lures us on with dreams sublime,
And hints the secret she will ne'er reveal.
Pity me—Tantalus—for you must feel
How nature lures us on with dreams sublime,
And hints the secret she will ne'er reveal.
| Poems by William Wetmore Story | |