 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
EUROPA.
1
When from his white chest first he pushed the shining deep that stayed him,Fair-tressed Europa thought the Bull too gentle to upbraid him;
Her laughing face thrown back to those who spread their hands to chide him,
She sang—‘We all his trappings wrought; yet I alone dared ride him!’
2
But when her father's towers went down beneath successive surges,And the sweet clamour of her mates grew hoarse amid sea dirges,
The simple child her dark eye raised and awe-struck hand to Heaven,
And prayed of all the Gods (but most of Jove) to be forgiven!
3
Her small foot first the billow brushed—at last her knee it bedded:Warm felt the waves as lovers' sighs, long-parted or late-wedded:
73
That cry—‘My father and my mates! help Cadmus, help, my brother!’
4
Behind, the Sea-gods linked their pomp, showing to Jove devotion,And smiles went o'er the purple breadth of loud resounding ocean:
O'erawed though knowing not the God, she strove that cry to smother—
‘Alas! my father and my mates! help, Cadmus, help, my brother!’
5
Hard by old Triton cheered with song the deep sea wildernesses;Far off the Nymphs in myriads rose and mixed their whispering tresses;
But Asia's lonely daughter still looked up and strove to smother
That cry—‘My father and my mates! help, Cadmus, help, my brother!’
6
A Pirate's bark to Chios steered:—that pomp they marked with terror,And spectres of forgotten sins rose dark o'er memory's mirror;
Their eyes the sailors hid, the Priest made haste a kid to slaughter,
And, red as Jove's imperial heart, its life-blood tinged the water.
74
7
Men say that Venus winked on high, a deeper nectar quaffing—That Phœbus, westward driving, sang, prophetic sang though laughing;
‘Fair maid! more numerous than the tears adown that pale face flowing
One day shall gleam the crowns of Kings to thee their sceptres owing!’
8
Weep, weep no more! yon Cretan shore at last o'er ocean peereth,And every little Love that round, by thee unmarked, careereth
In triumph swooping snaps his bow, and claps his hands loud singing,
‘Our precious spoils receive, O Isle, like Delos upward springing!’
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |