Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs By Walter Thornbury. Illustrated by J. Whistler, F. Walker, John Tenniel, J. D. Watson, W. Small, F. Sandys, G. J. Pinwell, T. Morten, M. J. Lawless, and many others |
 |
 |
The Chase of the Siren.
|
|
 | Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs |  |
The Chase of the Siren.
A DORIC LEGEND.
Ages past a Doric village
Heard at night a spirit summons,
Sounding over wood and commons,
Over fallow, rock, and tillage,
Waking all the rustic sleepers,
Weary with the toil of tillage.
Heard at night a spirit summons,
Sounding over wood and commons,
Over fallow, rock, and tillage,
Waking all the rustic sleepers,
Weary with the toil of tillage.
For that music shook the branches,
From their clay nests woke the thrushes;
Where the brook thro' fern-leaves gushes—
Brook that Summer scarcely stanches;
Woke the bird whose endless sorrow
Rest, nor years, nor absence stanches.
From their clay nests woke the thrushes;
Where the brook thro' fern-leaves gushes—
Brook that Summer scarcely stanches;
Woke the bird whose endless sorrow
Rest, nor years, nor absence stanches.
Watchmen by the gate's barred portal
Woke and heard the spirit calling,
As the chill night-dew was falling.
“Lo!” they said, “'t is an Immortal
Come to bless our new-built temple—
Now the moonbeam strikes its portal.”
Woke and heard the spirit calling,
As the chill night-dew was falling.
“Lo!” they said, “'t is an Immortal
Come to bless our new-built temple—
Now the moonbeam strikes its portal.”
Dusky faces, over doorways,
Peered into the moonshine quiet,
Thinking it some rustic riot
Of god Pan, who often plays
To the Bacchantes in the midnight,
All dark through, so they but praise.
Peered into the moonshine quiet,
Thinking it some rustic riot
Of god Pan, who often plays
To the Bacchantes in the midnight,
All dark through, so they but praise.
Hark! it rises and it hovers
Where the dew, so fresh and gleaming,
Like a diamond treasure beaming,
Studs the rose-flowers, dear to lovers.
Can it be a wandering Siren
Luring Dryads from their lovers?
Where the dew, so fresh and gleaming,
Like a diamond treasure beaming,
Studs the rose-flowers, dear to lovers.
Can it be a wandering Siren
Luring Dryads from their lovers?
Now a bird returning seaward,
Then it moaneth like the dying;
Now it clamours like the flying
Of a host fierce driven seaward;
Then there comes a sound of pinions
As of creatures winging seaward.
Then it moaneth like the dying;
Now it clamours like the flying
Of a host fierce driven seaward;
Then there comes a sound of pinions
As of creatures winging seaward.
Floats through ilex-boughs that tangle,
Where moss banks the violets cover,
Where the amorous night-moths hover,
By the brooks that playful wrangle,
Washing round the roots of beeches,
Where the water-courses jangle.
Where moss banks the violets cover,
Where the amorous night-moths hover,
By the brooks that playful wrangle,
Washing round the roots of beeches,
Where the water-courses jangle.
Now it seems a pæan holy
Keeping cadence to the beating
Of the wild Fauns' golden cymbals,
When their blood the wine is heating,
When the lambs burn on the turf,
And the worshippers are meeting.
Keeping cadence to the beating
Of the wild Fauns' golden cymbals,
When their blood the wine is heating,
When the lambs burn on the turf,
And the worshippers are meeting.
103
Hearing it, the green-mailed adder
From the bramble woods came creeping,
Then the tortoise from its sleeping
Slowly woke, and loud and madder
Howled the wolf, as if tormented
By those sounds that cheered all other—
Sounds that Echo answered sadder.
From the bramble woods came creeping,
Then the tortoise from its sleeping
Slowly woke, and loud and madder
Howled the wolf, as if tormented
By those sounds that cheered all other—
Sounds that Echo answered sadder.
104
Now it passes to'ards the village,
In between the wattled houses,
And each drowsy shepherd rouses.
Faces stare out on the tillage,
Thinking that some God were coming,
Or the light-armed hot for pillage.
In between the wattled houses,
And each drowsy shepherd rouses.
Faces stare out on the tillage,
Thinking that some God were coming,
Or the light-armed hot for pillage.
Then the young men of the shepherds
Hearing it, leapt from their pallets—
Rose from hovel, loft, and garrets.
Swift and strong as angry leopards,
Out into the moonlit forest,
Hurried all the enchanted shepherds.
Hearing it, leapt from their pallets—
Rose from hovel, loft, and garrets.
Swift and strong as angry leopards,
Out into the moonlit forest,
Hurried all the enchanted shepherds.
How their strong limbs shone like marble
In the moonshine—silver burning;
Never thought they of returning—
(Why should I the fable garble?)—
Bold they ran, and lithe and sturdy,
With their broad chests white as marble.
In the moonshine—silver burning;
Never thought they of returning—
(Why should I the fable garble?)—
Bold they ran, and lithe and sturdy,
With their broad chests white as marble.
Past the little Doric temple,
Past the grotto of the Nymph,
Where so crystal dripped the lymph,
O'er the plain so broad and ample,
Ran each madman lured to ruin
By his fellow-fool's example.
Past the grotto of the Nymph,
Where so crystal dripped the lymph,
O'er the plain so broad and ample,
Ran each madman lured to ruin
By his fellow-fool's example.
Such a strain of back and shoulder,
Such a flood of eager faces,
Throwing by his crook each races;
Sinew strung with courage bolder,
Every pliant muscle straining—
Garments blowing from each shoulder.
Such a flood of eager faces,
Throwing by his crook each races;
Sinew strung with courage bolder,
Every pliant muscle straining—
Garments blowing from each shoulder.
In the silver rolling river,
Fierce they breast the angry billows,
Where droop all the mournful willows,
Where old aspens shake and quiver;
Still beyond them ran the music,
Luring them across the river.
Fierce they breast the angry billows,
Where droop all the mournful willows,
Where old aspens shake and quiver;
Still beyond them ran the music,
Luring them across the river.
All the maidens knelt, still praying
From afar for those their lovers—
Then still sweeter far it hovers—
Comes the music to them praying;
Vain the wailing supplication,
Not one runner is delaying.
From afar for those their lovers—
Then still sweeter far it hovers—
Comes the music to them praying;
Vain the wailing supplication,
Not one runner is delaying.
For the madmen run but faster—
Evil led and evil seeking—
Caring not for wife or maiden,
Caring not for child or master,
All their hope is on the Siren,
Could they struggle on but faster.
Evil led and evil seeking—
Caring not for wife or maiden,
Caring not for child or master,
All their hope is on the Siren,
Could they struggle on but faster.
Down a blue gorge of the mountain
All that wild chase swept and vanished—
Slowly the last runner vanished.
Then arose, high as a fountain,
Such a scream of hopeless anguish
That it seemed to rend the mountain.
All that wild chase swept and vanished—
Slowly the last runner vanished.
Then arose, high as a fountain,
Such a scream of hopeless anguish
That it seemed to rend the mountain.
Ne'er returned those spirit-seekers—
They were sought by wood and hollow,
Where the goat's foot scarce could follow;
Wine was poured from golden beakers,
Incense burnt and fatlings offered,
But in vain,—lost spirit-seekers!
They were sought by wood and hollow,
Where the goat's foot scarce could follow;
Wine was poured from golden beakers,
Incense burnt and fatlings offered,
But in vain,—lost spirit-seekers!
Some said that it was a Siren
Who had left her emerald hollow
To lure such as these to follow,
Through all dangers that environ,
To her home amidst the surges,
For she hates man—does the Siren.
Who had left her emerald hollow
To lure such as these to follow,
Through all dangers that environ,
To her home amidst the surges,
For she hates man—does the Siren.
| Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs | |