Orpheus E-Book

Edward Burrough Brownlow

• Herausgeber: Edward Burrough Brownlow
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

If I were King of some great land
With lords and commons to command,
My crown should be with justice bright
Instead of jewels—and Love’s light
Should be the sceptre in my hand.


One law of virtue should be planned
That all alike might understand
The simple rule, that right is right—
If I were King.


One Church should stand in God’s own sight
Where all who wished to worship, might,
Its ministers should be a band
Of soldiers with a purpose grand
To put all evil thoughts to flight,
If I were King.

Leseprobe

Edward Burrough Brownlow

Orpheus

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Table of contents

ORPHEUS.

DEAD SUMMER.

AUTUMN.

THE SKY-LARK.

CONSTANCY.

A BALLADE OF THE STREET.

THE BLUSH.

THE RONDEAU.

WINTER.

PURPOSE.

SONNET.

A ROMAN GIRL’S PRAYER.

A BALLADE OF BOCCACCIO.

RELEASE.

THE WHIP-POOR-WILL!

THE DEATH OF THE LAUREATE.

THE SONNET.

THE POET.

IN BŒOTIA.

LOVE-LAND.

THE LEGENDS AND LILIES OF FRANCE.

HAWTHORN SPRAY.

IF I WERE KING.

WORLD, WIND, LEAVES AND SNOW

ROSE.

A SEA DREAM.

THE BLACK KNIGHT.

THE GOLDEN LINE.

SWEET OF MY LIFE.

HASTINGS.

SHELLEY.

MORNING.

LOVE’S VOICE.

LILIES AND POPPIES.

TO BACCHUS.

LOVE’S WHISPERS.

WORK.

WHERE BLUE BELLS NOD.

LOSS AND GAIN.

TRIO.FOUNDED ON A WELL KNOWN PASSAGE OF DANTE.

DE SENECTUTE.

THE COMING OF SUMMER.

RONDEL.

THE ABBEY WALLS.

THE VIOLET.

LA FARFALLA.

COWPER.

RAIN.

HYMN.

THE GREAT PLAY.

ORPHEUS.

Unto the realm of Pluto many roadsLead with dark winding from the bright abodesOf men, and when life’s last detaining threadIs cut by Iris, and the body, dead,With Charon’s coin in palm, rests in the tombOr on the pyre, the dæmon of its doomAfter much pitiful forbearance tearsThe soul from its environment of caresWith promise sweet of love’s awaiting kiss,Of old friends greeting, and much holy blissOn shores Elysian, where all ways are peace,And all existence virtue without cease;But ere the fields of Asphodel are wonDire labours manifold must first be doneBy soul and dæmon.All the paths descendTo four great streams, whose turgid waters blendWith suffering souls: here flows sad AcheronOn whose black banks impatient spirits runAnd call to that grim boatman, ferrying o’erHis last embarker to the nether shoreIn silence, bent with duty’s measured pull,Certain of all to follow; there, too, fullOf awful lamentations from lost soulsCocytus its fierce waves of sorrow rollsWherein dwells one whose face is only seen—Above the surface, human and serene,Below, her horrid serpent-form encoilsAnd stings the hapless spirits in her toilsWith scorpion venom; Phlegethon rolls byFlaming with waves that hiss, and mount on highTo lick with burning tongue each crusted shoreWhere not the vilest weed dare clamber o’er,There swim huge salamanders, whose desireGrows with the maddening tumult of the fire;And lastly, Styx, that pool of pitchy slimeWhereby the great gods swear their vows sublime,In whose black channel hatred finds a home,And breeds with fury many a plague-born gnomeLoathsome to gods and men.These rivers runFar to the West, beyond the sinking sun,Beyond old Ocean’s limits, past the rangeOf starry travel or where comets strangeRush in hot madness; there too Lethe flowsWhere souls must drink to gain the sweet reposeOf all-forgetfulness, before the FatesLose power to plague them, or their bygone statesHaunt them like ghosts.These waters safely crossed,The plains beneath thick filled with spirits lost,Avernus meets the view, vast, horrid lakeAt Hades’ entrance; who its waters take,Sicken and die in torture that must rendWith endless tooth, for such death has no end.Beyond Avernus stands the gate of Hell,With Cerberus to guard its portals well.Unto that gate came Orpheus with his luteWhose most melodious music had made muteThe wailing souls on Acheron’s sad shore,And charmed old Charon, as he ferried o’erThe son of great Apollo in his questFor her whom of all women he loved best,And as he came fierce Cerberus stood stillFixed by the magic of the player’s skill:On Orpheus went and played, for he knew wellThe wondrous potency of this great spellWould by a pause be broken, and his fateNever to pass alive the solemn gate;He roused the Harpies, those most fearful thingsWith heads and breasts of women and the wingsOf birds, and talons of the lion fierce,Whose breath is poison and whose venoms pierceDeep in man’s soul—the hags were planning thenFoul plots for planting grief in hearts of men;He stayed stern Nemesis, now poised for flightAs she in darkness left her mother Night;The three great judges of the soul now pausedIn giving sentence, for the music causedMinos and Æacus and Rhadamanthus thinkWhat change the gods had wrought, that at the brinkOf Tartarus such heavenly sounds should riseTo make the heart upleap and to the eyesCommunicate swift tears of sudden joy—Had Jupiter grown mad to let this boy,This gold-haired stripling with the silver stringsEnter dark Hades with such sound that bringsPity to their stern breasts?The Gorgons stareIn vain at Orpheus through their viper-hair,He sings and heeds them not, and he aloneLooks at them, eye for eye, and not to stoneIs turned; the Lemures, that spectral swarm,That fill the space of Hades without form,Halt in their wanderings to hear the notesThat fall as from a thousand song-birds’ throats.Pale Death sits sharpening her dart and hearsWith sad dismay the sound that soothes her ears,Her arm grows powerless—the black dart fallsWith echoing clang on Hades’ marbled halls;The triple sisters who turn mad the mindWith envy, rage, and hatred, and make blindThe heart with judgment false, hear the high strains,And knowledge of lost joy o’erwhelms their brains;Triptolemus stands still with bated breathWhile on his way to that great hall of deathWhere his stern fellow judges sit aghastStill pondering on Orpheus.Now he passedPoor Marsyas, whose love of music greatLured him to challenge for his after-fateThe laurel-crowned Apollo and his lyre,Wherefore he stayed in the eternal fire;But Orpheus, passing, played so wondrous wellThat all the flames about him flickered, fell,And left the wretch in peace to hear once moreThe power of sound he staked his spirit for.Black Discord in her den of hideous noiseGrew sudden silent, and her breast with joysFilled, as the gentle tremblings of the luteFound subtle ways to reach her.ResoluteStrode Orpheus on his path, and to the rightStood Sisyphus, the stone just at the heightOf the great mountain, ready to roll againInto the vale beneath, but that sweet strainHeld it in place so long as it could reachThe spot it rested on—and to beseechEternal playing, Sisyphus held highTired arms to Jove as Orpheus passed him by;There to the left Ixion ceased to feelThe endless revolutions of the wheelOver the flaming river, and the fangsOf serpents leave him as he, listless, hangsListening to such sweet music.Now the lakeWhose tempting waters Tantalus forsakeWhen his parched lips and maddened hands would takeOf their cool touch relief, hears the new soundAnd Tantalus with surfeit is near drownedFor this brief respite, and with hungry clutchPlucks tender fruits before he could not touch,Eating in joyous wonder that Hell’s GodGave him such feasting for a period.Now Orpheus passed the black, oblivious lairOf Sleep, a cave devoid of light or air,Paved with strange shapes and horrid phantasiesInanimate and senseless, and they rise,As through the cave’s dark mouth the music sweetFills to the inmost parts that foul retreat,Crying for air to breathe and light to seeThe wondrous worker of such harmony.Pluto’s high throne within the distance looms,Built of the gold and marble of men’s tombsUpon a base of bones, and by its sideStood the p [...]