Lamia: Part II by John Keats

Love in a hut, with water and a crust,Is--Love, forgive us!--cinders, ashes, dust;Love in a palace is perhaps at lastMore grievous torment than a hermit's fast:--That is a doubtful tale from faery land,Hard for the non-elect to understand.Had Lycius liv'd to hand his story down,He might have given the moral a fresh frown,Or clench'd it quite: but too short was their blissTo breed distrust and hate, that make the soft voice hiss.Besides, there, nightly, with terrific glareLove, jealous grown of so complete a pair,Hover'd and buzz'd his wings, with fearful roar,Above the lintel of their chamber door,And down the passage cast a glow upon the floor.

For all this came a ruin: side by sideThey were enthroned, in the even tide,Upon a couch, near to a curtainingWhose airy texture, from a golden string,Floated into the room, and let appearUnveil'd the summer heaven, blue and clear,Betwixt two marble shafts:--there they reposed,Where use had made it sweet, with eyelids closed,Saving a tythe which love still open kept,That they might see each other while they almost slept;When from the slope side of a suburb hill,Deafening the swallow's twitter, came a thrillOf trumpets--Lycius started--the sounds fled,But left a thought, a buzzing in his head.For the first time, since first he harbour'd inThat purple-lined palace of sweet sin,His spirit pass'd beyond its golden bournInto the noisy world almost forsworn.The lady, ever watchful, penetrant,Saw this with pain, so arguing a wantOf something more, more than her emperyOf joys; and she began to moan and sighBecause he mused beyond her, knowing wellThat but a moment's thought is passion's passing bell."Why do you sigh, fair creature?" whisper'd he:"Why do you think?" return'd she tenderly:"You have deserted me;--where am I now?Not in your heart while care weighs on your brow:No, no, you have dismiss'd me; and I goFrom your breast houseless: ay, it must be so."He answer'd, bending to her open eyes,Where he was mirror'd small in paradise,"My silver planet, both of eve and morn!Why will you plead yourself so sad forlorn,While I am striving how to fill my heartWith deeper crimson, and a double smart?How to entangle, trammel up and snareYour soul in mine, and labyrinth you thereLike the hid scent in an unbudded rose?Ay, a sweet kiss--you see your mighty woes.My thoughts! shall I unveil them? Listen then!What mortal hath a prize, that other menMay be confounded and abash'd withal,But lets it sometimes pace abroad majestical,And triumph, as in thee I should rejoiceAmid the hoarse alarm of Corinth's voice.Let my foes choke, and my friends shout afar,While through the thronged streets your bridal carWheels round its dazzling spokes."--The lady's cheekTrembled; she nothing said, but, pale and meek,Arose and knelt before him, wept a rainOf sorrows at his words; at last with painBeseeching him, the while his hand she wrung,To change his purpose. He thereat was stung,Perverse, with stronger fancy to reclaimHer wild and timid nature to his aim:Besides, for all his love, in self despite,Against his better self, he took delightLuxurious in her sorrows, soft and new.His passion, cruel grown, took on a hueFierce and sanguineous as 'twas possibleIn one whose brow had no dark veins to swell.Fine was the mitigated fury, likeApollo's presence when in act to strikeThe serpent--Ha, the serpent! certes, sheWas none. She burnt, she lov'd the tyranny,And, all subdued, consented to the hourWhen to the bridal he should lead his paramour.Whispering in midnight silence, said the youth,"Sure some sweet name thou hast, though, by my truth,I have not ask'd it, ever thinking theeNot mortal, but of heavenly progeny,As still I do. Hast any mortal name,Fit appellation for this dazzling frame?Or friends or kinsfolk on the citied earth,To share our marriage feast and nuptial mirth?""I have no friends," said Lamia, "no, not one;My presence in wide Corinth hardly known:My parents' bones are in their dusty urnsSepulchred, where no kindled incense burns,Seeing all their luckless race are dead, save me,And I neglect the holy rite for thee.Even as you list invite your many guests;But if, as now it seems, your vision restsWith any pleasure on me, do not bidOld Apollonius--from him keep me hid."Lycius, perplex'd at words so blind and blank,Made close inquiry; from whose touch she shrank,Feigning a sleep; and he to the dull shadeOf deep sleep in a moment was betray'd.

It was the custom then to bring awayThe bride from home at blushing shut of day,Veil'd, in a chariot, heralded alongBy strewn flowers, torches, and a marriage song,With other pageants: but this fair unknownHad not a friend. So being left alone,(Lycius was gone to summon all his kin)And knowing surely she could never winHis foolish heart from its mad pompousness,She set herself, high-thoughted, how to dressThe misery in fit magnificence.She did so, but 'tis doubtful how and whenceCame, and who were her subtle servitors.About the halls, and to and from the doors,There was a noise of wings, till in short spaceThe glowing banquet-room shone with wide-arched grace.A haunting music, sole perhaps and loneSupportress of the faery-roof, made moanThroughout, as fearful the whole charm might fade.Fresh carved cedar, mimicking a gladeOf palm and plantain, met from either side,High in the midst, in honour of the bride:Two palms and then two plantains, and so on,From either side their stems branch'd one to oneAll down the aisled place; and beneath allThere ran a stream of lamps straight on from wall to wall.So canopied, lay an untasted feastTeeming with odours. Lamia, regal drest,Silently paced about, and as she went,In pale contented sort of discontent,Mission'd her viewless servants to enrichThe fretted splendour of each nook and niche.Between the tree-stems, marbled plain at first,Came jasper pannels; then, anon, there burstForth creeping imagery of slighter trees,And with the larger wove in small intricacies.Approving all, she faded at self-will,And shut the chamber up, close, hush'd and still,Complete and ready for the revels rude,When dreadful guests would come to spoil her solitude.

The day appear'd, and all the gossip rout.O senseless Lycius! Madman! wherefore floutThe silent-blessing fate, warm cloister'd hours,And show to common eyes these secret bowers?The herd approach'd; each guest, with busy brain,Arriving at the portal, gaz'd amain,And enter'd marveling: for they knew the street,Remember'd it from childhood all completeWithout a gap, yet ne'er before had seenThat royal porch, that high-built fair demesne;So in they hurried all, maz'd, curious and keen:Save one, who look'd thereon with eye severe,And with calm-planted steps walk'd in austere;'Twas Apollonius: something too he laugh'd,As though some knotty problem, that had daftHis patient thought, had now begun to thaw,And solve and melt:--'twas just as he foresaw.

He met within the murmurous vestibuleHis young disciple. "'Tis no common rule,Lycius," said he, "for uninvited guestTo force himself upon you, and infestWith an unbidden presence the bright throngOf younger friends; yet must I do this wrong,And you forgive me." Lycius blush'd, and ledThe old man through the inner doors broad-spread;With reconciling words and courteous mienTurning into sweet milk the sophist's spleen.

Of wealthy lustre was the banquet-room,Fill'd with pervading brilliance and perfume:Before each lucid pannel fuming stoodA censer fed with myrrh and spiced wood,Each by a sacred tripod held aloft,Whose slender feet wide-swerv'd upon the softWool-woofed carpets: fifty wreaths of smokeFrom fifty censers their light voyage tookTo the high roof, still mimick'd as they roseAlong the mirror'd walls by twin-clouds odorous.Twelve sphered tables, by silk seats insphered,High as the level of a man's breast rear'dOn libbard's paws, upheld the heavy goldOf cups and goblets, and the store thrice toldOf Ceres' horn, and, in huge vessels, wineCome from the gloomy tun with merry shine.Thus loaded with a feast the tables stood,Each shrining in the midst the image of a God.

When in an antichamber every guestHad felt the cold full sponge to pleasure press'd,By minist'ring slaves, upon his hands and feet,And fragrant oils with ceremony meetPour'd on his hair, they all mov'd to the feastIn white robes, and themselves in order placedAround the silken couches, wonderingWhence all this mighty cost and blaze of wealth could spring.

Soft went the music the soft air along,While fluent Greek a vowel'd undersongKept up among the guests, discoursing lowAt first, for scarcely was the wine at flow;But when the happy vintage touch'd their brains,Louder they talk, and louder come the strainsOf powerful instruments:--the gorgeous dyes,The space, the splendour of the draperies,The roof of awful richness, nectarous cheer,Beautiful slaves, and Lamia's self, appear,Now, when the wine has done its rosy deed,And every soul from human trammels freed,No more so strange; for merry wine, sweet wine,Will make Elysian shades not too fair, too divine.Soon was God Bacchus at meridian height;Flush'd were their cheeks, and bright eyes double bright:Garlands of every green, and every scentFrom vales deflower'd, or forest-trees branch-rent,In baskets of bright osier'd gold were broughtHigh as the handles heap'd, to suit the thoughtOf every guest; that each, as he did please,Might fancy-fit his brows, silk-pillow'd at his ease.

What wreath for Lamia? What for Lycius?What for the sage, old Apollonius?Upon her aching forehead be there hungThe leaves of willow and of adder's tongue;And for the youth, quick, let us strip for himThe thyrsus, that his watching eyes may swimInto forgetfulness; and, for the sage,Let spear-grass and the spiteful thistle wageWar on his temples. Do not all charms flyAt the mere touch of cold philosophy?There was an awful rainbow once in heaven:We know her woof, her texture; she is givenIn the dull catalogue of common things.Philosophy will clip an Angel's wings,Conquer all mysteries by rule and line,Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine--Unweave a rainbow, as it erewhile madeThe tender-person'd Lamia melt into a shade.

By her glad Lycius sitting, in chief place,Scarce saw in all the room another face,Till, checking his love trance, a cup he tookFull brimm'd, and opposite sent forth a look'Cross the broad table, to beseech a glanceFrom his old teacher's wrinkled countenance,And pledge him. The bald-head philosopherHad fix'd his eye, without a twinkle or stirFull on the alarmed beauty of the bride,Brow-beating her fair form, and troubling her sweet pride.Lycius then press'd her hand, with devout touch,As pale it lay upon the rosy couch:'Twas icy, and the cold ran through his veins;Then sudden it grew hot, and all the painsOf an unnatural heat shot to his heart."Lamia, what means this? Wherefore dost thou start?Know'st thou that man?" Poor Lamia answer'd not.He gaz'd into her eyes, and not a jotOwn'd they the lovelorn piteous appeal:More, more he gaz'd: his human senses reel:Some hungry spell that loveliness absorbs;There was no recognition in those orbs."Lamia!" he cried--and no soft-toned reply.The many heard, and the loud revelryGrew hush; the stately music no more breathes;The myrtle sicken'd in a thousand wreaths.By faint degrees, voice, lute, and pleasure ceased;A deadly silence step by step increased,Until it seem'd a horrid presence there,And not a man but felt the terror in his hair."Lamia!" he shriek'd; and nothing but the shriekWith its sad echo did the silence break."Begone, foul dream!" he cried, gazing againIn the bride's face, where now no azure veinWander'd on fair-spaced temples; no soft bloomMisted the cheek; no passion to illumeThe deep-recessed vision:--all was blight;Lamia, no longer fair, there sat a deadly white."Shut, shut those juggling eyes, thou ruthless man!Turn them aside, wretch! or the righteous banOf all the Gods, whose dreadful imagesHere represent their shadowy presences,May pierce them on the sudden with the thornOf painful blindness; leaving thee forlorn,In trembling dotage to the feeblest frightOf conscience, for their long offended might,For all thine impious proud-heart sophistries,Unlawful magic, and enticing lies.Corinthians! look upon that gray-beard wretch!Mark how, possess'd, his lashless eyelids stretchAround his demon eyes! Corinthians, see!My sweet bride withers at their potency.""Fool!" said the sophist, in an under-toneGruff with contempt; which a death-nighing moanFrom Lycius answer'd, as heart-struck and lost,He sank supine beside the aching ghost."Fool! Fool!" repeated he, while his eyes stillRelented not, nor mov'd; "from every illOf life have I preserv'd thee to this day,And shall I see thee made a serpent's prey?"Then Lamia breath'd death breath; the sophist's eye,Like a sharp spear, went through her utterly,Keen, cruel, perceant, stinging: she, as wellAs her weak hand could any meaning tell,Motion'd him to be silent; vainly so,He look'd and look'd again a level--No!"A Serpent!" echoed he; no sooner said,Than with a frightful scream she vanished:And Lycius' arms were empty of delight,As were his limbs of life, from that same night.On the high couch he lay!--his friends came round--Supported him--no pulse, or breath they found,And, in its marriage robe, the heavy body wound.