A Sicilian Story :: :: University of Virginia Library

Hic ver purpureum: varios hic flumina circum
Fundit humus flores: hic candida populus antro
Imminet, et lentæ texunt umbracula vites.
O, Galatea.
VIRG. Ecl. ix.

107

Listen, my love, and I will tell you now
A tale Sicilian: 'tis of fabulous times
When the vast giants liv'd and spirits dwelt
In haunted woods and caves beneath the seas,
And some (these were the harmless Naiades)
By running waters. You have heard me tell of
The sea-nymph Galatea, Nereus' child,
Who lov'd the shepherd Acis? 'tis a sweet
And mournful history, and to think how love
Could bend a rugged Cyclops to his power
Is pleasant: hearken then.

There is a time,
Just the first blush of summer, when the spring
And his soft rains are passing off, and flowers
Unclasp their bosoms to the winds and spread

108

Perfume and living beauty thro' the world.
It is the year's gay manhood: Nature then,
Grateful and wantoning in idolatry,
Does homage to the sun.—Long years ago,
At this gay season, in a cave o'errun
By vines and boundless clematis, (between
Whose wilderness of leaves white roses peep'd,
And honeysuckle which, with trailing boughs,
Droop'd o'er a sward grateful as ever sprung
By sprinkling fountains, when Apollo drove
The nymphs to haunt the thickets,) Acis knelt
At Galatea's feet. She gaz'd awhile.
One delicate hand was press'd against her cheek
That flush'd with pleasure, and her dark hair stream'd
Shadowing the brightness of her fixed eye,
Which on the young Sicilian shepherd's face
Shone like a star: the other hand hung down,
White as that Parian stone the sculptor hew'd
To fashion for the temples of his gods.
Peerless on earth, and like those forms of old,
Pallas, or dark-eyed Juno, or the queen
Who won the fruit on Ida, sate the sea-nymph,
Proud Galatea; 'till at last she rais'd
Her arm and twined it round her lover's neck,
And in the gentlest music asked him then
Why and how much he lov'd, and if he thought

109

'Twas strange that she, a high sea nymph, should leave
Her watery palaces and coral caves,
Her home, and all immortal company,
To dwell with him, a simple shepherd boy.
—But hark! a sudden sound burst on their ears,
And thro' the disturbed air came words like these:

“Hear me ye rocks, and all ye hollow caves
Where the wild ocean raves!
And thou, eternal Ætna! on whose brow
The white and silent and perennial snow
Sits like a diadem, I shout to thee,
In this my sad extremity.
Hearken! ye liberated winds that stray
From your dark caverns to the day,
And blindly wander all the world around:
Say to that world, ‘I love, I love, I die;’
And, on your home-returning sound,
Bear the white Galatea's last reply.”

Thus, from an overhanging promontory,
Shouted the giant Polypheme: the seas
Drew backward as affrighted at the sound:
The green woods moved, and the light poplar shook
Its silver pyramid of leaves: the Fauns

110

Rose up to listen, and the Naiades
Shrank in their chrystal fountains. Gloomily,
And still awhile, the Cyclops lay: at last,
He lifted to his mouth a reed, and blew
A strange and sweet preluding symphony.
He was a master of his pipe and knew
How every note was touch'd: deep sorrow mix'd
With those his mountain melodies, and Love cast
A strange charm 'round him: mighty tears then fill'd
His solitary eye, and with such noise
As the rough winds of Autumn make when they
Pass o'er a forest and bend down the pines,
The giant sigh'd. Again he blew his reed,
And as the whistling music pass'd away,
Sang thus of the white Galatea.

“Fair Galatea, listen! By my birth
(And I can trace it to the sea, the earth)
I love you; not as mortals love a maid,
Amorous, yet afraid
Lest that her answer chase all hope away:
Oh! Galatea, did I not celebrate
You thro' the world, and tell you were divine,
(Will you not then be mine?)
And ever sing your praise, early and late,
Thro' all the changes of a summer's day?”

111

“Proud Galatea, listen! am I not he,
Before whose matchless melody
The finest player stills his charmed lute,
And every sea-maid's voice is mute?
Am I not he to whose sweet song the Faun
Dances with mad delight,
And, on her cloudy pillow resting thro' the night,
Queen Dian listens 'till the morn?”

“Am I not, cruel nymph, great Neptune's child,
Who circles with his arms the visible earth,
(Altho' I may not walk the waters wild)
And shalt thou scorn my worth?
—Yet pardon, Galatea, pardon, for my heart
Is almost broken, beauty, and the smart
Of Love may draw from me
Words that I must disown in calmer hours:
I meant not, never meant to anger thee.
Listen, my love! altho' in coral bowers
Thou hidest, now that thro' the burning air
Starry Apollo rides. Listen, my fair;
The Son of Neptune, from his mountain high,
Calls: Galatea! listen, and reply.”

He ended, and the lovers left their cave
To see who sang so sweet, and stood exposed

112

Before the giant's eye. At once he saw
His rival and the nymph he lov'd so well
Twined in each other's arms. ‘Away,’ he cried,
‘Away thou wanton nymph, and thou, my slave,
‘Earth-born and base, thou—thou whom I could shake
‘To atoms, as the tempest scatters abroad
‘The sea-sand tow'rd the skies, away, away!’
He spoke, and from the groaning promontory
Wrench'd a huge rock, to lift whose massy weight
Would strain the sinews of a hundred arms,
And toss'd it tow'rd the sun: awhile it flew
Thro' the blue air with whizzing noise, with all
Its moss and stones and roots and branching shrubs,
And stopp'd at last in the mid-air, and then
Dropp'd like a plummet. Oh! the shepherd boy:
He felt the Cyclop's wrath, for on his head
The mighty weight descended: not a limb,
Or bone or fragment or a glossy hair
Remained of all his beauty. He was struck
Dead in a moment. Galatea! where
Fled you to shun the tumbling mountain—where?
What matters it? the sea-maid's heart was struck,
And never own'd a love again. She changed,
(As Grecian fables say) the shepherd boy
Into a stream, and on its banks would lie
And utter her laments in such a tone

113

As might have mov'd the rocks, and then would call
Upon the murdered Acis. He the while
Ran to the sea, but oft on summer nights
Noises were heard and plaintive music, like
The songs you hear in Sicily. Shepherd swains
For many an age would lie by that lone stream,
And from its watery melodies catch an air,
And tune it to their simple instruments.
Hence, as 'tis thought by some, did many songs
Originate, and oh! most likely 'tis
That pastoral music first had some such birth,
But whether from the running brooks it came,
Or from the rustling leaves, or whispering winds,
Or silver talking fountains, who may tell?
It is enough we live and own its power.