 | The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield |  |
The virgin flies along a corridor
Ampler, and living with the daylight air;
And far, upon its boundary, she discerns
An open portal, and a rosebeam gush
Of radiance streams upon the threshold stone.
Like Delphi's Pythia in her maniac mood,
She leaves the vaults of Isis, hurls aside
The tissued curtains o'er the portal hung,
And springs, bewildered yet exulting, through
Voluptuous chambers, frescoed o'er with scenes
Of earthly Passion in its last excess,
Where the mind melts in odour, and the heart
Pants in the fever of the earthborn Love.
“Oh, watching Dian! whither am I led?
These mellowed lamps that burn in fragrant nard,
Those violet couches—wanton picturess—hrines
Of chrysolite with myrtle wreathes o'erhung,
And jewelled girdles loosened—what is this
But Paphian Venus' temple! oh, the vaults
Of Isis are elysium to her bowers!”
She turned to hasten, when a strangled shriek
From the recess before her came, and sounds
Of fear and strife, and hate and agony
Rose indistinct yet with intensest strength.
The maiden's only path of flight lay there.
She drew aside the curtain, and with hair
Tangled and drenched with vault dews, haggard face
And eyes dilated, like a sybil stood,
A moment, in the very bower of lust,
Glaring in terror on two forms that strove,
One with the strength of Virtue and deep wrong,
The other with base Passion's baffled wrath.
“No, never shall thy pride the power and love
Of Diomede despise! Here, in the home
Of Isis' own luxurious priests, thou dwell'st
Their slave, till thou art mine!” “No, tyrant, no!”
The lovely victim shrieked, when from the vaults,
In agony of fear, with horror wild,
The Maiden rushed, and, like a spirit armed
With Heaven's own vengeance, stood; then quick as light
While still the violator gazed upon
The sudden vision, hurling him apart,
The feebler being rushed along the aisles,
Through many a crypt and sacrosanct and cell
Of mystery and wantonness and guilt,
With face fearwrought and raiment soiled and torn.
The maiden traced the fugitive, and ere
The blood, now at the heart, might reach the brow,
They stood together 'neath the open skies.
“The Saviour for thy service bless thee maid!”
'T was Mariamne—from the loathed embrace
Of Diomede escaped—that quickly spake.
“I cannot ask nor answer now—but fly
With me, for peril's look proclaims thee pure!
Quick, maiden! Diomede will never spare—
Yet Mariamne once again is free!
It should be noontide; but a livid gloom
Palls all things, and a ghastliness, nor light
Nor darkness, wraps our flight and bodes an eve
The workers of all evil, in their pride,
Dread not, nor dream of! Pansa! heaven in love
Keep thy unfaltering thoughts beneath the wings
Of cherubim, and clothe thy heart with strength
To foil the fiend that dares or tempts to sin!
Where'er thou art! we shall not fail to meet,
For all shall be abroad, and earth and air
And fire and flood shall mingle ere sun sinks.
Away! sweet maiden!—now the Cyprian's fane—
The equestrian Forum—the Prætorians' tower—
Are passed; and 'mid the crowded huts, that lie
Beneath the amphitheatre, we rest
Till the deep justice of Jehovah comes!”
Ampler, and living with the daylight air;
And far, upon its boundary, she discerns
An open portal, and a rosebeam gush
Of radiance streams upon the threshold stone.
Like Delphi's Pythia in her maniac mood,
She leaves the vaults of Isis, hurls aside
The tissued curtains o'er the portal hung,
And springs, bewildered yet exulting, through
Voluptuous chambers, frescoed o'er with scenes
Of earthly Passion in its last excess,
Where the mind melts in odour, and the heart
113
“Oh, watching Dian! whither am I led?
These mellowed lamps that burn in fragrant nard,
Those violet couches—wanton picturess—hrines
Of chrysolite with myrtle wreathes o'erhung,
And jewelled girdles loosened—what is this
But Paphian Venus' temple! oh, the vaults
Of Isis are elysium to her bowers!”
She turned to hasten, when a strangled shriek
From the recess before her came, and sounds
Of fear and strife, and hate and agony
Rose indistinct yet with intensest strength.
The maiden's only path of flight lay there.
She drew aside the curtain, and with hair
Tangled and drenched with vault dews, haggard face
And eyes dilated, like a sybil stood,
A moment, in the very bower of lust,
Glaring in terror on two forms that strove,
One with the strength of Virtue and deep wrong,
The other with base Passion's baffled wrath.
“No, never shall thy pride the power and love
Of Diomede despise! Here, in the home
Of Isis' own luxurious priests, thou dwell'st
Their slave, till thou art mine!” “No, tyrant, no!”
The lovely victim shrieked, when from the vaults,
In agony of fear, with horror wild,
The Maiden rushed, and, like a spirit armed
With Heaven's own vengeance, stood; then quick as light
While still the violator gazed upon
The sudden vision, hurling him apart,
The feebler being rushed along the aisles,
Through many a crypt and sacrosanct and cell
Of mystery and wantonness and guilt,
With face fearwrought and raiment soiled and torn.
The maiden traced the fugitive, and ere
The blood, now at the heart, might reach the brow,
They stood together 'neath the open skies.
“The Saviour for thy service bless thee maid!”
114
Of Diomede escaped—that quickly spake.
“I cannot ask nor answer now—but fly
With me, for peril's look proclaims thee pure!
Quick, maiden! Diomede will never spare—
Yet Mariamne once again is free!
It should be noontide; but a livid gloom
Palls all things, and a ghastliness, nor light
Nor darkness, wraps our flight and bodes an eve
The workers of all evil, in their pride,
Dread not, nor dream of! Pansa! heaven in love
Keep thy unfaltering thoughts beneath the wings
Of cherubim, and clothe thy heart with strength
To foil the fiend that dares or tempts to sin!
Where'er thou art! we shall not fail to meet,
For all shall be abroad, and earth and air
And fire and flood shall mingle ere sun sinks.
Away! sweet maiden!—now the Cyprian's fane—
The equestrian Forum—the Prætorians' tower—
Are passed; and 'mid the crowded huts, that lie
Beneath the amphitheatre, we rest
Till the deep justice of Jehovah comes!”
| The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield | |