 | Silenus |  |
His anguish smote
The Naiades in sedgy nooks and Nymphs
And Dryads lone of ancient shadowy woods,
Who lifting lamentations all amain
Thronged to him lying prostrate and beloved;
And kneeling strove with kisses, chafe of limbs,
And casting little handfuls of the wave
About his throat and brow, to summon back
The sharp-fled life.
The Naiades in sedgy nooks and Nymphs
And Dryads lone of ancient shadowy woods,
Who lifting lamentations all amain
Thronged to him lying prostrate and beloved;
And kneeling strove with kisses, chafe of limbs,
And casting little handfuls of the wave
45
The sharp-fled life.
In vain their tenderness
Was lavished on him, pressing bosoms warm
Fast to his chilly breast; laying their cheeks
Softly to his; while slender fingers combed
From the moist brow his dank and matted hair,
Calling with murmurous moan upon his name,
Until they sank beside him hopelessly;
The clouds above with shadow covering them,
Their solitude, and unavailing charms.
Was lavished on him, pressing bosoms warm
Fast to his chilly breast; laying their cheeks
Softly to his; while slender fingers combed
From the moist brow his dank and matted hair,
Calling with murmurous moan upon his name,
Until they sank beside him hopelessly;
The clouds above with shadow covering them,
Their solitude, and unavailing charms.
They lay in silence on the ancient Earth,
And looked like flowers that might lie there and fade,
And be within her substance drawn again.
And looked like flowers that might lie there and fade,
And be within her substance drawn again.
But had the Earth growled inwardly and heaved
In quick succession of stupendous throbs,
They had not been with wonder startled more
Than when they heard Silenus mutter low:
In quick succession of stupendous throbs,
They had not been with wonder startled more
Than when they heard Silenus mutter low:
46
“As rush, and reed, tall grasses, and pink flowers,
Mirrored in softened hues within the stream,
Are to themselves that breathe the living air,
And guard the river banks, was she to me.
No sooner ripe than plucked! Nay, O, not plucked,
But shaken from the stem into the stream,
Borne by the flow to darksome mystery.
Mirrored in softened hues within the stream,
Are to themselves that breathe the living air,
And guard the river banks, was she to me.
No sooner ripe than plucked! Nay, O, not plucked,
But shaken from the stem into the stream,
Borne by the flow to darksome mystery.
| Silenus | |