 | The music-lesson of Confucius, And Other Poems |  |
18
DE APIBUS MORTEM DOMINÆ LUGENTIBUS
THE sky is grim, the air is grey,
There is no gossamer on the grass;
In shadows dim the vine-leaves swing,
Softly browning and goldening,
And curling aside that the grapes may pass;
The grapes which all summer were lurking unseen,
Green themselves in their drapery green.
Now they are purple and scented sweet,
And hang like bags of unmade wine:
Long may they hang, for they never will greet
Again in the morning that form divine
Of a beautiful girl now dead and gone,
Whose hands should have pressed
From each purple breast
Wine royal,—the Porphyrogeniton.
There is no gossamer on the grass;
In shadows dim the vine-leaves swing,
Softly browning and goldening,
And curling aside that the grapes may pass;
The grapes which all summer were lurking unseen,
Green themselves in their drapery green.
Now they are purple and scented sweet,
And hang like bags of unmade wine:
Long may they hang, for they never will greet
Again in the morning that form divine
Of a beautiful girl now dead and gone,
Whose hands should have pressed
From each purple breast
Wine royal,—the Porphyrogeniton.
So still and strange!
So grave and slow!
It seems as if all things must ever be so
In a world which only spirits know;
Is that a sound
In the garden's bound
Or a sigh just dreamed,
So soft and low?
Yes—it is coming—a wondrous humming,
A weirdly, mournful Elfin drumming,
Rising and dying,
Then silent lying;
The saddest sound upon earth below
A murmur of grief for a maiden gone,
And the bees are mourning Melittion.
So grave and slow!
It seems as if all things must ever be so
In a world which only spirits know;
Is that a sound
In the garden's bound
Or a sigh just dreamed,
So soft and low?
Yes—it is coming—a wondrous humming,
A weirdly, mournful Elfin drumming,
Rising and dying,
Then silent lying;
19
A murmur of grief for a maiden gone,
And the bees are mourning Melittion.
There was no human eye to weep
When the lonely girl laid down to sleep
And die,—a humble Dacian slave,
Far cast by war—into a grave.
Yet she was ever good and mild,
And softer spoken than a child;
And when her daily work was done
She loved to wander by the corn
Singing, yet understood by none,
A murmuring lay
Which died away
In a sigh forlorn.
Then rose in a melody sweet and warm,
Buzzing and humming quaintly dull,
Droning and rolling and wonderful
Whispering, hushing, lulling, soft
In solemn tones and dying thrills,
Honeyed and hive-like, fading oft
Like a twilight song from distant hills.
And as she sang, with waving arm,
If they asked her what the song might be,
She said it was called the Wild Bee's Charm,
And her mother sang it beyond the sea,
And the Spirit Ladies who flit through the corn
Had taught her of old the melody.
When the lonely girl laid down to sleep
And die,—a humble Dacian slave,
Far cast by war—into a grave.
Yet she was ever good and mild,
And softer spoken than a child;
And when her daily work was done
She loved to wander by the corn
Singing, yet understood by none,
A murmuring lay
Which died away
In a sigh forlorn.
Then rose in a melody sweet and warm,
Buzzing and humming quaintly dull,
Droning and rolling and wonderful
Whispering, hushing, lulling, soft
In solemn tones and dying thrills,
Honeyed and hive-like, fading oft
Like a twilight song from distant hills.
And as she sang, with waving arm,
If they asked her what the song might be,
She said it was called the Wild Bee's Charm,
And her mother sang it beyond the sea,
And the Spirit Ladies who flit through the corn
Had taught her of old the melody.
Twilight and eve
They murmur and grieve,
Humming and drumming mournfully,
Wailing—for they have lost their head,
And the Dacian Queen-Bee Girl is dead.
They murmur and grieve,
Humming and drumming mournfully,
Wailing—for they have lost their head,
And the Dacian Queen-Bee Girl is dead.
| The music-lesson of Confucius, And Other Poems | |