O immortal Gods! her eyes
Resembled what could they resemble? what
Ever resemble those? Even her attire
Was not of wonted woof nor vulgar art:
Her mantle show'd the yellow samphire-pod,
Her girdle the dove-colour'd wave serenc.
'Shepherd,' said she, 'and will you wrestle now,
And with the sailor's hardier race engage?'
I was rejoiced to hear it, and contrived
How to keep up contention could I fail
By pressing not too strongly, yet to press ?
'Whether a shepherd, as indeed you seem,
Or whether of the hardier race you boast,
I am not daunted; no; I will engage.'
'But first,' said she, 'what wager will you lay ?'
'A sheep,' I answered: 'add whate'er you will.'
'I can not,' she replied, 'make that return :
Our hided vessels in their pitchy round
Seldom, unless from rapine, hold a sheep.
But I have sinuous shells of pearly hue
Within, and they that lustre have imbibed
In the sun's palace-porch, where when unyoked
His chariot-wheel stands midway in the wave:
Shake one and it awakens, then apply
Its polish'd lips to your attentive ear,
And it remembers its august abodes,
And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there.
And I have others given me by the nymphs,
Of sweeter sound than any pipe you have;
But we, by Neptune! for no pipe contend,
This time a sheep I win, a pipe the next.'
Now came she forward eager to engage,
But first her dress, her bosom then survey'd,
And heav'd it, doubting if she could deceive.
Her bosom seem'd, inclosed in haze like heav'n,
To baffle touch, and rose forth undefined:
Above her knee she drew the robe succinct,
Above her breast, and just below her arms.
'This will preserve my breath when tightly bound,
If struggle and equal strength should so constrain.'
Thus, pulling hard to fasten it, she spake,
And, rushing at me, closed: I thrill'd throughout
And seem'd to lessen and shrink up with cold.
Again with violent impulse gusht my blood,
And hearing nought external, thus absorb'd,
I heard it, rushing through each turbid vein,
Shake my unsteady swimming sight in air.
Yet with unyielding though uncertain arms
I clung around her neck; the vest beneath
Rustled against our slippery limbs entwined:
Often mine springing with eluded force
Started aside and trembled till replaced:
And when I most succeeded, as I thought,
My bosom and my throat felt so comprest
That life was almost quivering on my lips,
Yet nothing was there painful: these are signs
Of secret arts and not of human might;
What arts I can not tell; I only know
My eyes grew dizzy and my strength decay'd;
I was indeed o'ercome-with what regret,
And more, with what confusion, when I reacht
The fold, and yielding up the sheep, she cried,
'This pays a shepherd to a conquering maid.'
She smiled, and more of pleasure than disdain
Was in her dimpled chin and liberal lip,
And eyes that languisht, lengthening, just like love.
She went away; I on the wicker gate
Leant, and could follow with my eyes alone.
The sheep she carried easy as a cloak;
But when I heard its bleating, as I did,
And saw, she hastening on, its hinder feet
Struggle, and from her snowy shoulder slip,
One shoulder its poor efforts had unveil'd,
Then all my passions mingling fell in tears;
Restless then ran I to the highest ground
To watch her; she was gone; gone down the tide ;
And the long moon-beam on the hard wet sand
Lay like a jasper column half uprear'd."
THE CITATION OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.
THE MAID'S LAMENT.
I LOVED him not; and yet now he is gone
I feel I am alone.
I check'd him while he spoke ; yet could he speak,
Alas! I would not check.
For reasons not to love him once I sought,
And wearied all my thought
To vex myself and him: I now would give
My love, could he but live
Who lately lived for me, and when he found
'Twas vain, in holy ground
He hid his face amid the shades of death.
I waste for him my breath
Who wasted his for me: but mine returns,
And this lorn bosom burns
With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep,
And waking me to weep
Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years
Wept he as bitter tears.
"Merciful God!" such was his latest prayer,
"These may she never share!"
Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold,
Than daisies in the mould,
Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate,
His name and life's brief date.
Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be,
And oh! pray too for me.
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.
THE DEATH OF ARTEMIDORA.
(FROM LXXXV. CLEONE TO ASPASIA.)
"We are losing, day by day, one friend or other. Artemidora of Ephesus, was betrothed to Elpenor, and their nuptials, it was believed, were at hand. How gladly would Artemidora have survived Elpenor. I pitied her almost as much as if she had. I must ever love true lovers on the eve of separation."
"ARTEMIDORA! Gods invisible,
While thou art lying faint along the couch, Have tied the sandal to thy veinèd feet, And stand beside thee, ready to convey Thy weary steps where other rivers flow. Refreshing shades will waft thy weariness Away, and voices like thine own come nigh, Soliciting, nor vainly, thy embrace." Artemidora sigh'd, and would have press'd The hand now pressing hers, but was too weak. Fate's shears were over her dark hair unseen While thus Elpenor spake: he look'd into Eyes that had given light and life erewhile To those above them, those now dim with tears And watchfulness. Again he spake of joy Eternal. At that word, that sad word, joy, Faithful and fond her bosom heav'd once more, Her head fell back: one sob, one loud deep sob Swell'd thro' the darken'd chamber; 'twas not hers: With her that old boat, incorruptible,
Unwearied, undiverted in its course,
Had plash'd the water up the farther strand.
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