University of Virginia Library

From out the thick shade of a laurel grove
(Crowning a little knoll of sacred ground,
Like to a wreath forlorn hung o'er an urn,)
Issued a dim and melancholy voice,
The tender air infecting with sad breath.
The yellow leaves dropp'd down the failing light,
The autumn wind crept slowly through the boughs;
The wind and falling leaves with low sweet tones
Echoed that plaint, till the great pulse of life
Seem'd but the ebb and flow of one long sigh.
‘Eurydice! Eurydice!’ was all
The burthen of that sorrow: but anon
These words came sobbing forth from a burst heart,
Gushing in full flow of abandon'd grief,
Like the low pining wail of Philomel.

‘Eurydice! mine own Eurydice!—
O Earth o'er which her music footsteps moved;
O clear blue Sky, not deeper than her eyes;
Thou Forest-shade with sunlight leaping through,
Not sunnier than her laugh,—nor lovelier that
Than her thought-shadow'd depth of seriousness;
Ye Torrents, grandly falling, like her hair;
Ye honey-clefted Rocks, firm as her truth;
And ye sun-kissed Slopes of harvest land,
Smooth-rounded as the blessed globes above
Her fertile heart: O Earth and Sky, O Life,—
That speak to me of her in every tone,
That spoke to me of her in every word:—
Why are ye beautiful, and She no more?

‘Ye Hamadryads, with brown arms enlaced,
Leaning against the gnarled trunks, half-veil'd
In flood of level sunshine, your bright eyes
Flashing amid green leaves; or ye who glide
Mistily down dim aisles, with gentle feet
Responsive to the gentle fall of rain
Dropping upon soft turf from lofty boughs,
And glistening in the moonlight, like quick tears
Upon a smiling face:—why do ye mock
My longing with vain phantoms, till mine eyes
Strain to the distant purple of warm eves,
To reach her form? why do ye play with grief?
Ye Naiads pure, calm-flowing in the cool
Of overhanging foliage, your lank hair
Trailing along the current,—why do ye
Babble with ripply lips that sweetest word—
Eurydice, until the blabbing reeds
That told King Midas' secret whisper mine
To every wind, till every trickling wave
Repeats my woe in more melodious tone?
Ye Nereids, with your coral crowns, and plumes
Of waving weed, and blue hair in the spray
Caught on the wave's edge by some eager breeze,—
Why do ye haunt the sea-board with your grace?
Still rusheth up the shingle and returns
The melody of dancing feet, and round
The smooth-cheek'd pebbles slides the creamy foam.
Eurydice!—O Presences and Powers
Of Nature, once so dear, my heart is deaf
To your best witcheries. The strings are rent.
My lyre no more can answer your delight,
Nor with glad notes provoke your swift reply.

‘Eurydice! my lost Eurydice!
No more thy bounding limbs are eloquent.
On the smooth beach our Greek girls, as of old,
Dance in the twilight: in the torches' glare,
Answering the passion of the westering sun,
Their warm cheeks flush more rosily; I see
The gleam of their uplifted arms, as each
Hastily in the mazes of the dance
Passes the flame unto some sister hand;
I hear the song, borne by the gentle-voiced,
Close-following upon the trail of fire
In all its windings,—that dear Freedom-song
Our youths and maidens love; and I can hear
The sweet time-beats of soft feet on the sand:—
Eurydice! Eurydice! no more
Thou lead'st the chorus. Freedom, Fatherland:—
Eurydice! the future as the past
Is buried in thine urn. I have no hymn.
The torches are extinguish'd; the drear sea
Moans in the gloomy hollows of its caves.

‘O thou vast soul of Nature I once waked
With lightest touch! O throbbing heart of Life
That used to listen fondly to my lyre
Made eloquent by her! I do appeal
Unto thy grateful memories. Alas!
The pulse of Life is no more audible.—
Dryads and Oreads! wherefore have we laid
Our oil and milk and honey at your feet?
O Nymphs of forest, mountain, plain, and flood!
Why have we pour'd our songs more honey-sweet,
Our oil-smooth songs, our rich and fruity songs,—
Why have we borne our Dionysian songs
To you, making you jocund with much mirth,
And ye are silent now? O gentle Nymphs!
Have ye no drops left in your brimming cups?
Dear Echo! has thy sympathy no word,
No drained flavour of those richnesses,
To bring to my dry heart in her dear name?
Ye Satyrs! wont to troop around our path,
With rude, broad gambols, your most awkward speech
Were musical as Phoibos' golden tongue,
If you would tell me whither She is gone.
I pray to you, for all my household gods
Are scatter'd. Unto you the Homeless prays,
Powers of the waste and solitude, once loved!

‘Eurydice! my own Eurydice!—
Alas! no voice replies: the Earth is dead.—
My Beautiful! whose life was as the crown
Of festal days,—whose blush was as the bloom
On the full fruit,—whose days were as ripe grapes,
Clear and delicious on one cluster growing;
My Beautiful! whose smile moved o'er the earth
Like the first sunbeam of the year,—whose voice
Was the mild wind that whispereth odourously
Unto the yearning buds that Spring is come;
More beautiful than Eos rosy-brow'd,
Or than the arrow-bearing Artemis,—
Thou Dawn of my existence, Promiser
Of glorious days, thou pure Light-bearing One
Chasing the shadows from across my path
When night hung darkly o'er my clouded thought;
Thou spirit of my potent lyre, now mute;
Thou Genius of my life; thou Life; thou Song;
Eurydice! my own Eurydice!

‘She is not dead: this death is but a dream.
Where art thou gone? Eurydice!—Return,
Ere doubt hath grown to madness!—It is not.
The serpent did but coil around my sleep.
Eurydice!—Sweet Echo! she will come,
Prank'd in thy guise, out of the forest depth,
And smile on me with that deep-hearted smile,
More radiant than Persephone's when closed
Her welcoming arms around Demeter's head
Bow'd with its sheaf of joy upon her breast.—
Alas! the mourning friends, the solemn priests,
The virgin train, the sobs that hid the cry
Of painful steps toward the funeral pyre,—
Alas! this little urn clasp'd to my heart,
This empty husk of life, this loneliness,
This death of life,—attest that thou art not:
That Sorrow lives, but not Eurydice.

‘Thou shalt not die! O Son of Zeus, who brought
Alcestis to this upper air, attend
My dearer quest! I will descend to her,
And with my fervent song require from Dis
My own Eurydice. She shall return
Unto this pleasant earth. Persephone
Will listen as my words shall fill her lap
With Enna's flowers, and in her eyes shall look
Demeter's mother-glances till her own
O'erflow with ruth, and she shall wind her arms
Around the gloomy king and him conjure
To give me the Belovéd to my song.
Or my whole life shall stand amid the shades,
Before the Fates, and with its chaunt enweave
Her thread of life anew. I will bring back
Her beauty to the earth, and live again,
Strong in the sunlight of her summer love:
Even as a tree that lifteth up its head
After a storm, and, shaking off the weight
Of passed tears, laughs freshly in the sun.
And yet again, her hand upon my heart,
My lyre shall speak unto the Life of things;
And the fair Nymphs crowd round us as of old;
And even Satyr shapes look beautiful;
And the dumb Spirit of the Inanimate
Be stirr'd into expression; and the Earth,
Hearing the music of thy thoughts, Belovéd!
Grow beautiful as thou art, till the world
Resume the glory of the olden gods.

‘Eurydice! my own Eurydice!
My grief is at my feet. My will is strong.
My soul hath pass'd the ferry of despair;
My song pours forth resistless eloquence;
My voice is firm; the Inexorable Three
Relent. Persephone amid her tears
Clingeth impassion'd to the knees of Power:
Thou canst not hold the Loved; she shall return.
There is no deed impossible to prayer,
To faithful will.—I hear thy following feet,
Most musical of echoes; step by step
I count those dearest of dear promises,
Conquering the steep ascent; I see the light
Of our old life; I hear thy eager pants
Closer and closer; now thy fragrant breath
Kisses my neck, thy passion-parted lips
Lean forward, and the music of thy curls
Touches my cheek,—Mine own Belovéd One,
Eurydice, mine own Eurydice—
O God! O Sorrow!—’

Life is all a dream.
The Past returns not. Look no more behind!
It is a phantom. Rather let thy song
Mount as a pyre-flame up into the heavens.
O Constellated Beauty! thou art there.
Not on the earth, nor with the buried Past,
Lo, thy Eurydice awaiteth thee.
Eurydice!
Eurydice!