Knight's Quarterly Magazine/Series 1/Volume 2/The Lamia

by Johann August Apel

THE LAMIA.

GREEK TRADITION.

 

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Lysippe—Chilonis.Lysippe.Chilonis, whither?Chilonis.           To the town——Lysippe.              So late?Chilonis.It is but twilight yet—Lysippe.            ’Tis true—but nightIs hovering—Chilonis.      Oh! the night hour is so sweet!—Hyperion’s curls have heated the red day;The eve is cool and fresh.—Lysippe.             And thy young childRemains at home, alone?—Chilonis.             No—she who nurs’dMy infancy, now watches hers, Erybæa—She is a faithful guard.—Lysippe.         The aged yieldSoon to the power of sleep—above their lidsWave but a feather from old Somnus’ couch,And straight they droop, and dose—the night is dreary,Dismal, and dangerous, to the slumbering child.The Lamias wander round, the fierce EmpusaGlides unseen to their couches.—Chilonis.            Have the girlsOf Thessaly been telling thee these tales?Lysippe.Tales!—ask Areta, she who lately scorn’dThe warning, in her confidence, now weepsBereav’d of her sweet child.— Chilonis.              Thou startlest meWith these strange words—speak, art thou serious?Lysippe.                     Yes;With serious brow speak I of serious things.I will relate nought but the truth—thou know’stHow strong the ancient friendship was betweenMy husband and Aretas—they had dweltNeighbours of years, and daily met to passSome hours in social converse, while the childrenPlay’d mirthfully their own light-hearted gamesAround their thoughtful sires.—Areta’s selfAt twilight came oft to my cheerful homeTo talk of earlier days, when we were young,In the full bloom of grief-less maidenhood;And of our husband’s tempers, soured by time,Much had we to relate, as women haveWhen they may speak unfearing;—by us satOur female children, who, when weary grown,Droop’d into sleep, though oftener listening satThe elder ones in silence. Once AretaSpoke, and I thought unwisely, to her child—“My sweet Iambe seek thy home,” she said,“For sleep hath risen from his cave of night“To kiss thy dewy eyelids. Go, my child,“I well may trust thee to thy guidance, for“Thy wisdom is beyond thy tender years;“For six times only hath my pleased eye seen“The wreath’d-crown’d day that gave thee to my arms,“And yet thy wisdom wins my praise.”—She spoke,And kissed her daughter’s lip. In vain my fearsI told, and pray’d her not alone to sendIambe—but she smil’d—boasted her sense,And sent her home. Late when (herself return’d)She sought her infant’s couch, most horriblyHer levity was punished; by its sideStood the Empusa, bending eagerlyOver the slumbering child!—most deadly pale,Lean, faded, famine-worn, the horrid face—While o’er the blue lips gush’d a stream of blood,Staining the marble breast and livid frame.Fast on the infant’s neck and its red lipThe midnight spectre press’d, and touch’d its cheek With murderous kisses, drawing with its bloodLife’s blossoms from its heart;—shrieking aloudTowards her child the hapless mother rush’d;But the pale spectre glided from her sightUpon her motionless feet!—The mother rain’dSoft living kisses on the faded lipOf her wan child, repeated oft its name,Warm’d its cold cheek within her burning breast.But vainly!—all was vain!—it was a corse,And life returned no more!Chilonis.            Most horribleThe story thou hast told. The cool night airShall tempt my steps no further—I will flyTo save my babe from Lamia’s bloody kiss.Ah, hapless lot of mothers!—scarce beginsThe infant life to dawn, when adverse PowersThreaten its safety,—does the birth-hour’s guard,Majestic Hera, grant them to our vows,That Hecate may send up Hades’ spawn,Lamia, to torture and destroy?——Oh, haste!Methinks I see the pallid spectre standClose to my infant’s couch!—Lysippe.              Nay, coward, stay!—But now so bold, and now so struck by fear!Still in extremes—look, scarcely glitters yetOne star above us. Seat thee by the spring;I’ll fill the shining vases, and then goHome to protect thy child.Chilonis.             ’Tis Lamia!—see!Empusa, spare my babe!—a kid shall pourIts life-blood to thy honour.Lysippe.            This is madness.Or idle folly. Lamia never hearsNor grants a pious prayer,—wild outcries, curses,And terrible wrath alone can banish her.Knowest thou her story?—I will tell it thee.She is the child of a forbidden love;For the bright Lybia bore her to her son Belus, rich Egypt’s ruler.—BeautifulAs is that star o’ the waters, Lotus, bornOf her own native Nile, was Lamia’s youth;—Fair as the immortals, she believ’d herselfOf an immortal nature, therefore scorn’dAll love of mortal man—the eternal GodsBright in eternal beauty, changeless youth,She e’en disdained—coldly her eye pass’d o’er,Chilling and dimming the resplendent lightOf their celestial brows. But then with loveThe crowned one beheld her; his soft voice,His mild yet terrible eye, his glowing locks,His grand majestic brow, on which were thron’dWisdom, and power, and empire; these she saw,And seeing worshipp’d. His dread thunderboltsFell at her feet,—himself into her arms!But Hera, the Olympian queen, beheldHow Lamia dar’d to bless the lightning’s lord,And fear’d another Hero might ariseFrom this new mortal beauty, to achieveA throne in her Olympus. As she wasThe ruler of the birth-hour, she came downAnd blew a dead curse o’er the anguish’d formOf hapless Lamia. The young blossom felt,Even in the bosom of its parent stem,The withering of that curse; and shrunk, and died,Shunning to see the light. Keen agoniesSeiz’d on the tortur’d mother, and amidstHer throes of mortal anguish, a cold corseWas all that fill’d her arms;—then frenzy came—Loud wept the desolate one, and wildly beatHer tender breasts to wounds, and madly toreHer fruitful body, now the living graveOf her engender’d hopes. Grief’s blighting handPass’d o’er the blossoms of her loveliness,And straight they perish’d! Fury revelled onHer rosied lips, and mounted to her brain,And filled her heart and spirit. Wild DespairMade her his own, and in his madness sheRush’d forth a frenzied monster. The young babesShe tore from weeping mothers—clasping themIn a fierce death embrace, and on their lips Fast’ning fell kisses, till the heart’s blood gush’dOver the fading mouth. The mother’s criesPierc’d high Olympus, pealing through its domesUnto the throne of Zeus! Horror-struck,The diadem’d of Heaven rose, and grasp’dIn his terrible hand the lightnings—hurl’d them once,And down into eternal Hades struckA mangled spectral form, the blasted wretch!But,Zeus commands not Fate.——She now is pastHis empire, and each coming night ascendsTo kill the mother’s hope, and fill her soulWith pangs she once endur’d. Bloody and pale,Silently gliding, anxiously she seeksThe still and slumbering child.Chilonis.             Oh, hush—no more!See, I have fill’d the vases—night descends—Soon will the spectres of dim Hades riseTo revel on the earth. ’Tis late—the BearGlitters above us; and beneath our feet,In beams of silver light, the shadows glideOf our long wandering forms. Now then—home—home.

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