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THE SIBYL'S FLOWER.
The nameless little golden-hued, star-formed flower before me was plucked by a friend travelling in Italy, near the entrance of “The Sibyl's Grotto,” on the shore of the Lucrine Lake. A part of the poetic fable of the Cumæan Sibyl is thus told:—“Apollo, having become enamoured of her, offered to give her whatever she should ask. She demanded to live as many years as she had grains of sand in her hand, but forgot to ask for health and bloom, which she then possessed. The god granted her request, but she refused in return to listen to his suit, and the gift of longevity, therefore, unaccompanied by freshness and beauty, proved a burden. She had already lived seven centuries when Æneas came to Italy, and had still six more to live to complete the number; at the expiration of which, she was to wither away, and become a mere voice.”
Above thy leaves so green,—
Thy root is in a land afar,
Hard by old Lake Lucrine.
Thy vital breath Italia gave,
Thy tint her mellow skies;
And close before her Sibyl's cave
Didst thou to being rise.
From o'er the booming sea,
And pluck thee from thy mystic home,—
A golden gift!—for me.
But here thou com'st without a name,
Meek beauty, whilst I know
Thy birth-place filled the trump of Fame
Two thousand years ago.
On vanished Cumæ's site,
Didst thou, a radiant, mimic sun,
Spring up to worship light.
Deep musing, oft the Sibyl paced,
Alone, thy native spot,
Ere her mysterious lines were traced
Within her silent grot.
That she would tell with years,
She, smiling, scattered from her hand,
To count them oft by tears.
Perchance 't was on thy native sod
Apollo's suit she heard,
In youthful bloom, and to the god
Her noted prayer preferred;—
Impetuous of her aim,
She half forgot to speak her prayer,—
Its burden half to name.
For, while the boon she sought to gain
Was, that the god would give
A year of time for every grain
Of sand she held, to live,—
Was what she fain had said;
But ere the words were on her tongue
Her traitor memory fled!
And hence, a thousand years and more
Was she on earth to dwell;
But faded, withered, weird, and hoar,
Within her lonely cell.
From which thy stem shot up?
Did Sol commute the tears she shed
To gold, that fills thy cup?
Did her adored her wish fulfil,
And thus delight to see
His ancient love in beauty still,
Incorporate in thee?
To wake and light my lyre;
To be—fulfilling his decree—
A Voice, to give it fire?
No; temple, worship, prophetess,
And oracle are cast,
All powerless, into nothingness,
In darkness of the past!
Didst rise from out the clod,
To shine, a truer light than they,
And show a holier God.
Thy leaves with his all-glorious Name
Are penciled o'er and o'er,
Which to the Sibyl never came,—
Her volumes never bore.
Thy golden petals go,
Thine own peculiar name do they
Refuse to let me know.
Thou hast, howe'er, a charm so strong
To wile a pensive hour,
I weave thee in my lonely song,
And call thee Sibyl's Flower.
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