Poems by a Painter :: :: University of Virginia Library

He left her weeping on the Naxian shore,
And homeward with triumphant garlands bore.
Through blinding tears she watched his lessening sail,
And the sun burning on his brazen mail.
Blent with the thunders of the hoary deep,
Blent with the salt wind's wail, as if in sleep,
She heard his voice grow fainter, as he trod
The sounding deck victorious, like a god!
She heard the rowers singing as they rowed;
She saw the fluttering sheen of Ægle's veil;
She heard her laughter on the freshening gale,

And shrieked. Well, Ariadne! may'st thou mourn:
The perjured ingrate never will return.
Another bosom,—ah! less fair than thine!—
Shall pillow his proud head beyond the brine;
Another brow the Athenian crown shall share,
And other arms his Attic children bear!—
But still she gazed, and still, with claspèd hands
Outstretched to Delos, knelt upon the sands,
Till daylight died among the Cyclades,
And darkness gathered o'er the desolate seas.

II.

Smiles over all an azure-vaulted clime,—
The wandering airs breathe odour of the rose,
Thick-fallen fir-cones, moss, and dewy thyme,
Blent with the cool wind from the sea that blows.

Scattering the stars, the Olympian charioteer
His beamy front upreareth; silently

His cloud-borne coursers urge their steep career
Up the rath purple of the eastern sky.

Through the long grass—o'er the awakening flowers—
Up the grey boles of cedar, beech, and pine,
His golden splendours slant in arrowy showers,
Or, snake-like, leap and twine.

And hark! from far the greenwood alleys ring
With sistrum, cymbal, flute, and twangling string,
With pipe and timbrel and Iacchic shout!
Io! evoè! ho! In motley rout
Through the deep umbrage, forth into the gleam
Of morn, the frolic feres of Evan stream!
Here the lithe Indian, nursling of the sun,
Wreathing bright snakes about his shoulders dun,
Comes leaping. There, with smilax garlanded,
The Mænad tosses her delirious head;
Now the brown Satyr thumps the rooty ground
With horny heel to Syrinx' liquid sound;

Now the young Oread's milky beauties shine
'Neath emerald shadows of the liberal vine;
Now, by two sinewy Sylvans borne on high,
Flushed with the god the Lesbian sage comes by,
Chanting old ditties of Titanic wars,
Thrumming his can, and winking at the stars
That linger yet aloft—his joyous brow,
Fresh twined with lustrous ivy, all a-glow!
While high o'erhead blushes the grape divine,
Heavy with unborn wine!

III.

Still as a stone, and pallid as a flower
Reft by sharp Eurus from Aurora's bower,
Under a marble cliff that guards the bay,
Her dark locks heavy with the midnight spray,
Alone the love-lorn Ariadne lay.
She sleeps!—but still her burning cheeks are wet,
For in her dreams she mourns her Theseus yet;

Nor hears the blue-eyed daughters of the main
Weave their wild songs to soothe her deathly pain.

IV.

Who in his purple chariot, panther-drawn,
Bursts through the revel, glorious as the dawn—
His dancing hair with tender vine-leaves crowned,
His rosy feet with golden sandals bound?
Athwart his ivory shoulders, backwards blown
By his own speed, a pard's light spoils are thrown;
In his soft hand the wreathèd thyrsus gleams,
And from his dark, bold eye the godhood beams!
Io! evoè! ho!—'Tis he! 'tis he!
Bacchus, the white-armed son of Semele!

Wake, Ariadne! On the billowy strand
He bends above thee, and with gentlest hand
Smooths thy dank hair and breathes o'er cheek and brow,

As breathes the spring o'er winter's waste of snow;
Breathes until once again the roses bud and blow!

Wake, Ariadne! Night hath past away
With all thy sorrow. See! the joyous Day
Comes dancing o'er the eastern foam. Arise,
And shame him with the glory of thine eyes;
They were not made for tears, nor this white breast for sighs!

Wake, Ariadne! by thy slumbering side
Lyæus kneels, and woos thee for his bride;
With him to roam from sunny shore to shore,
A proud and peerless queen the wide world o'er;
Wake, Ariadne, wake!—be loved! and weep no more!