Agnes the Indian Captive. A Poem, in Four Cantos. With Other Poems. By the Rev. John Mitford |
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ODE TO SOPHOCLES. |
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 | Agnes |  |
169
ODE TO SOPHOCLES.
Oh, magic king! whose voice severe
The coy, reluctant Muse can sway,
When on the Bard's enraptur'd ear
She pours her deeply-thrilling lay;
Great monarch of the spell sublime,
That smooths the ruffled plume of Time,
And from thy bright immortal bowers
His scythe adorns with fairy flowers;
Oh! say, has e'er thy loved domain
To more enchanting cadence rung,
Than when it caught yon Attic strain,
By sweet Electra's poet sung?
For oft that strain was wont to flow
Around Cithæron's rocks of snow;
And oft his harp has lov'd to gleam
Amid the bowers of Academe.
Taught by the Muse, he smote the lyre,
And gazing at the minstrel's fire,
As Athens crowned his early youth with fame;
Yon hoary father shrieked aloud,
Hiding his laurel'd brow amid the crowd,
Though not inglorious he, or of forgotten name .
The coy, reluctant Muse can sway,
When on the Bard's enraptur'd ear
She pours her deeply-thrilling lay;
Great monarch of the spell sublime,
That smooths the ruffled plume of Time,
And from thy bright immortal bowers
His scythe adorns with fairy flowers;
170
To more enchanting cadence rung,
Than when it caught yon Attic strain,
By sweet Electra's poet sung?
For oft that strain was wont to flow
Around Cithæron's rocks of snow;
And oft his harp has lov'd to gleam
Amid the bowers of Academe.
Taught by the Muse, he smote the lyre,
And gazing at the minstrel's fire,
As Athens crowned his early youth with fame;
Yon hoary father shrieked aloud,
Hiding his laurel'd brow amid the crowd,
Though not inglorious he, or of forgotten name .
171
Break off!—for see on yon pale mountain's side,
Like fearful visions of a storm,
What shadowy forms are seen to glide!
And fancy first shall him descry,
Known by his haggard look and sightless eye,
The man of Thebes, the incestuous monarch's form.
Like fearful visions of a storm,
What shadowy forms are seen to glide!
And fancy first shall him descry,
Known by his haggard look and sightless eye,
The man of Thebes, the incestuous monarch's form.
Oft on the regal front its splendour shewing,
The star of glory loves to shine,
Each sacred gift of power bestowing,
And flaming with a birth divine.
But he, whose hand a father's blood bedews,
Who dares the pure paternal couch ascend;
He, whom at once a wife and mother views,
And at whose feet unhallowed children bend:
Can wealth or power to him restore
The tranquil thought, the heart's repose,
Or bid his sorrows stream no more,
Or with the voice of pity mitigate his woes?
Nor filial love, nor helpless age,
Nor tears for ever taught to flow,
Can slake the god's indignant rage,
Or shield him from the uplifted blow:
Gone is the kingly crown, the kingly mind,
With age, and exiled woes, and solitude behind.
The star of glory loves to shine,
Each sacred gift of power bestowing,
And flaming with a birth divine.
But he, whose hand a father's blood bedews,
Who dares the pure paternal couch ascend;
He, whom at once a wife and mother views,
And at whose feet unhallowed children bend:
172
The tranquil thought, the heart's repose,
Or bid his sorrows stream no more,
Or with the voice of pity mitigate his woes?
Nor filial love, nor helpless age,
Nor tears for ever taught to flow,
Can slake the god's indignant rage,
Or shield him from the uplifted blow:
Gone is the kingly crown, the kingly mind,
With age, and exiled woes, and solitude behind.
Fled is the form.—With more majestic tread,
Saw ye yon injured warrior's shade pass by;
In stern defiance shook his helmed head,
And glared in proud disdain his awe-commanding eye.
Oh! far amid the tropic tide,
And girt with Ocean's azure wave,
His angry spirit loves to glide
Amid the green isles of the brave;
Delights the beamy spear to throw,
To wave the nodding plume of snow,
Delights again the ponderous mace to wield,
And gird the clasping mail, and toss the seven-fold shield.
Saw ye yon injured warrior's shade pass by;
In stern defiance shook his helmed head,
And glared in proud disdain his awe-commanding eye.
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And girt with Ocean's azure wave,
His angry spirit loves to glide
Amid the green isles of the brave;
Delights the beamy spear to throw,
To wave the nodding plume of snow,
Delights again the ponderous mace to wield,
And gird the clasping mail, and toss the seven-fold shield.
But see, impatient of delay,
The sullen spirit stalks away;
Haste to the wounded chief who lies,
Sad listening to the Ægean's mournful roar;
When bound for Ilium's palmy plain
The burnished vessel swept the main,
Alone they left him on the desart shore,
And Hope, the friend of all, hears not his frantic cries.
The sullen spirit stalks away;
Haste to the wounded chief who lies,
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When bound for Ilium's palmy plain
The burnished vessel swept the main,
Alone they left him on the desart shore,
And Hope, the friend of all, hears not his frantic cries.
Ten years alone the warrior lay,
His dark and solitary sleep,
Nor saw aught but the rolling bay,
Nor heard aught but the howling deep.
Yet o'er his youthful eyes would stray
Heroic dreams by fancy bred;
In thought he saw the obedient streamers play,
In thought the carnage steamed, and battle bled.
And oft at night, in thunder deep,
The Tyrrhene trump has roused his sleep,
In many a lengthening peal;
And o'er the mountain's cloudy steep
The darkening squadrons sheathed in steel
Would seem to float along;
Then has he girt his arms of might,
His fatal quiver slung;
And striding to the impetuous fight,
Awoke the battle-song.
His dark and solitary sleep,
Nor saw aught but the rolling bay,
Nor heard aught but the howling deep.
Yet o'er his youthful eyes would stray
Heroic dreams by fancy bred;
In thought he saw the obedient streamers play,
In thought the carnage steamed, and battle bled.
And oft at night, in thunder deep,
The Tyrrhene trump has roused his sleep,
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And o'er the mountain's cloudy steep
The darkening squadrons sheathed in steel
Would seem to float along;
Then has he girt his arms of might,
His fatal quiver slung;
And striding to the impetuous fight,
Awoke the battle-song.
To sooth his solitary hours
His god, his guardian-friend in visions came,
Awoke the hero's slumbering powers,
And pointed to the deathless wreath of fame:
Again the eye of languor gleams,
Again the wasted cheek has learn'd to smile,
For bounding o'er the ocean streams
Yon fated bark has reached the Lemnian isle.
Then high upon the trophied prow
In pride the youthful warrior stood;
And while the billows foamed below,
His blue arms sparkled in the flood.
His gleaming sword was seen to sweep
Athwart the bosom of the deep.
His angry spear was seen to ride
In triumph o'er the subject tide,
And ever and anon with look of joy,
He reared the fatal bow, and bent his eye to Troy.
His god, his guardian-friend in visions came,
Awoke the hero's slumbering powers,
And pointed to the deathless wreath of fame:
Again the eye of languor gleams,
Again the wasted cheek has learn'd to smile,
For bounding o'er the ocean streams
Yon fated bark has reached the Lemnian isle.
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In pride the youthful warrior stood;
And while the billows foamed below,
His blue arms sparkled in the flood.
His gleaming sword was seen to sweep
Athwart the bosom of the deep.
His angry spear was seen to ride
In triumph o'er the subject tide,
And ever and anon with look of joy,
He reared the fatal bow, and bent his eye to Troy.
—The vision sinks!—Yet last remains
One whose pale cheek the tear-drop stains,
For he who o'er Mycenæ spread,
With many a green and palmy bough,
His regal sceptre's ample shade,
That mighty king is fallen now.
Flow, flow ye bitter tears, and steep
A father's grave, a brother's urn;
Nor yet thy woes, poor injured maid, shall sleep,
While he, Orestes, lingers to return.
Ah, fly! adulterer monarch fly!
Ere yet Revenge shall close thy murderous scene.
—'Tis past.—The dagger gleams on high,
Oh! see how falls thy widow-queen!
Then slowly heave the pall aside,
And gaze upon the pale and blood-besmeared bride.
—'Tis gone.—The visionary form is fled!
That linger'd last on fancy's musing eye,
Closed is the sad procession of the dead,
Like the pale stars along the morning sky;
While he, great master of the tragic choir,
Last waves his laurel'd brow, and bends his eye of fire.
One whose pale cheek the tear-drop stains,
For he who o'er Mycenæ spread,
With many a green and palmy bough,
His regal sceptre's ample shade,
That mighty king is fallen now.
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A father's grave, a brother's urn;
Nor yet thy woes, poor injured maid, shall sleep,
While he, Orestes, lingers to return.
Ah, fly! adulterer monarch fly!
Ere yet Revenge shall close thy murderous scene.
—'Tis past.—The dagger gleams on high,
Oh! see how falls thy widow-queen!
Then slowly heave the pall aside,
And gaze upon the pale and blood-besmeared bride.
—'Tis gone.—The visionary form is fled!
That linger'd last on fancy's musing eye,
Closed is the sad procession of the dead,
Like the pale stars along the morning sky;
178
Last waves his laurel'd brow, and bends his eye of fire.
| Agnes | |