LEAVES FROM THE ANTHOLOGY
by: Lewis Parke Chamberlayne
- HE old book's
magic seized me as I read;
- I heard the waves sigh on the Syrian shore,
- And on dark Heliodora's perfumed head
- The myrtles bloomed once more,
-
- As when, in Gadara, young life was sweet
- To her the while she watched the shadows play
- Along the marble floor, and at her feet
- Young Meleager lay.
-
- I heard his voice in soft hexameters,
- Alternate fire and honey, fall and rise;
- In limpid Doric spoke his love, and hers
- Shone in her swimming eyes.
-
- I saw the laughing lilies that he wreathed
- With hyacinth to crown her kneeling there.
- Oh, what intoxicating incense breathed
- Her dusky, flower-wound hair!
-
- "The flowers will fade," he whispered, "sere
and brown,
- Their petals drooping ere the day be done,
- Yet wilt thou still, thy garland's lovelier crown,
- Shine like the morning sun."
-
- Again I hear the same soft voice outpour
- Its anguish for the light of life now fled,
- And see him heap the bier of Heliodore
- With roses white and red.
-
- Thyrsis I see at ease beneath the pine,
- His dark head pillowed on his arms, asleep,
- And yet the lad's herds stray not, and his kine
- Another lad doth keep.
-
- Sleep, Thyrsis, sleep, within thy shady nook,
- Leaving thy goats to nibble 'mongst the rocks;
- A skilfuller than thou wields now thy crook,
- For Eros guards thy flocks.
-
- I see the young girls, as in garments white
- Along the mountain-side in spring they ran
- To greet the wood-nymphs at their morning rite
- Within the cave of Pan.
-
- It lies 'neath Corycus' sun-haunted hill;
- Old Goat-foot loves it; there the wild vine grows
- So thick it hides the entrance and the rill
- That from the grotto flows.
-
- There the midsummer honey-makers hum
- Above the heather and the thyme, knee-deep,
- Even through the noon, when all things else are dumb
- Lest they disturb his sleep--
-
- His, the luck-bringing Hermes' goat-shanked child,
- Great Pan, who daily, when his pipes' shrill tune
- No more delights him, seeks a summit wild,
- And there sleeps all the noon.
-
- Then fiercest burns the sun, the patient flocks
- Crouch 'neath the tamarisk; scarce the lizard creeps
- Along the wall. Above, on the sun-baked rocks,
- Outstretched, the Arcadian sleeps.
-
- And while his pipes lie silent by his side,
- Brown summer for a moment holds her breath,
- The breezes droop, the dry-flies hush, the tide
- Scarce laps the cliff beneath.
-
- Often, men say, some shepherd on the hills,
- Hearing a sudden, wild, unearthly cry
- Ring from the mountains, that his heart's blood chills,
- Knows he has come too nigh.
-
- The weird, far spot no mortal foot has trod,
- And flees, nor dares once backward turn his eyes:
- Behind him roars the goat-laugh of the god,
- And mocks him as he flies.
"Leaves from the Anthology"
is reprinted from Anthology of Magazine Verse for 1916.
Ed. William Stanley Braithwaite. New York: Laurence J. Gomme,
1916. |
MORE POEMS BY LEWIS PARKE CHAMBERLAYNE |
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