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116
THE DEATH OF PROCRIS
To J. E. H.
Poor jealous Procris in the Cretan wood,
Slain by the very hand of love at last!
This way was best! the cordial bath of blood,
The long love-sickness past.
Slain by the very hand of love at last!
This way was best! the cordial bath of blood,
The long love-sickness past.
The brown fauns gather round with piteous cries;
They mourn her beauty, guess not at her woe;
They find no Eos graven on those eyes
Whence tears no longer flow.
They mourn her beauty, guess not at her woe;
They find no Eos graven on those eyes
Whence tears no longer flow.
Her griefs, her frailties from the flowery turf
Exhaled, are as the dews of yesterday;
The grim ship hurrying through the Phocian surf,
The exile on her way,
Exhaled, are as the dews of yesterday;
The grim ship hurrying through the Phocian surf,
The exile on her way,
117
The cruel goddess, and the two-fold test,
The breaking heart of hate, the poisoned hours,—
All these have faded into utter rest
Among the Cretan flowers.
The breaking heart of hate, the poisoned hours,—
All these have faded into utter rest
Among the Cretan flowers.
Ah! wrap her body in its fluttering lawns!
'Tis Cephalus' own shaft that hath made cease
The passion of her breast; hush, foolish fauns,
Hush! for her end was peace.
'Tis Cephalus' own shaft that hath made cease
The passion of her breast; hush, foolish fauns,
Hush! for her end was peace.
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