Knight's Quarterly Magazine/Series 1/Volume 1/The Raven

by Johann August Apel

THE RAVEN.

A GREEK TALE.

 

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LEARCHUS.
 Tell me, Peroe, wherefore art thou false,
Didst thou not bid me linger in the grove,
The beechen grove for thee, what time thy Sire
Slept, shaded from the sun-light? I did wait
Till fervid noon, nay, solitary trod
The beechen grove in haste, until the sun
Departed, smiling on mine agony;
Oh cruel! wherefore thus afflict my soul?

PEROE.
 Frown not, Learchus, but my father slept
So lightly, starting in his troubled rest,
I dar’d not venture, lest he should awake.

LEARCHUS.
 Oh thou untrue!—the bright glow of thy cheek
Proclaims the falsehood of thy lip, there is
No pale regret upon it!—on thy brow
No disappointment sits! I tell thee, girl,
Thou mays’t have cause to tremble; dread the wrath
Of Eros, the eternal!—he abhors
Deceit in love, and he will punish thee
As did Apollo once, the sun-crown’d God,
His lying raven, which, ere he was false
Was beautiful, as the caressed dove
That sleeps in Cytherea’s breast.

PEROE.
              Oh, tell
That tale to me, Learchus.

LEARCHUS.
            Shall it win
A kiss for this fond lip then?

PEROE.
        If the tale
Deserve it—yes.

LEARCHUS.
       Then listen; it may serve
For warning to thee, false one. Thou shall hear
The fate of such deception. Beautiful
And white as thine own arm, Peroe, was
The favourite bird of Phœbus; from its beak
Radiant in purple glory, soothing words
And soul-entrancing song pour’d sweetly forth;
Sweetly, as from thine honied lips, my love,
The siren tones of passion o’er my soul
Sweep with enchanting power—he had wings
Of such delicious softness, and their hues
So ravishingly sweet, you would have sworn
Eros himself had breath’d upon them with
The fragrance of Olympian roses, tints
Stol’n from young maiden’s blushes. O how fair
Was then the raven! Once, his deity
Had need of his fair service;—“Corat, come
“My bird of beauty,” said the sun-bright god,
“Kiss with thy gentle wing the loving air
“And speed thee from Olympus, to my fount
“Mine own delicious Hippocrene, hie thou,
“And of the stream’s bright sparkling waters, pour
“Into this golden cup, to slake the thirst
“Th’ immortal longing of thy chosen god.”
Swiftly through air, his wings of light he swung,
And from the breast of templed Helicon
Found the stream’s sparkling source in starry waves
Gloriously glittering; it was shaded from
The sun’s too ardent kiss by loving trees
Bearing the luscious fig; he look’d, and long’d;
Fair, as a girl, and no less curious, he
Pluck’d of the fruit and tasted—to his thought
Harsh and severe it seem’d, for it was green
As yet unripen’d—“Patience!—Time,” said he,
‘Brings on his hoar brow roses, will he not
“Fill his broad hand with fruits?” and he began
In that sweet shaded bower of bliss to toy
Wantonly with the flowers, and kiss the leaves,
And charm the birds, who, wondering, gaz’d upon
His brilliant beauty, and, their hearts subdued
To his perfections, sung him thrilling songs
Of love and adoration. Pleas’d, he stay’d
Forgetting Phœbus at his fountain’s side,
Until the fruit, like Autumn’s regal brow,
Grew rich with golden hues, and forty suns
Arose and set on his abandonment!
Then he remember’d the forgotten will
Of his bright deity. As he was fair
As a young maid, so like a young maid, he
Was wily in his thought; a glossy snake
Of many glittering hues, but chiefly bright
In golden scales, near that fair fountain play’d.
He seiz’d the gorgeous prize, and rapidly
He bore it rustling through the air, unto
His master’s golden throne, and “see, O king
“Royal Apollo,” said the artful bird,
“The cause of my delay, for by the side
“Of thine own Hippocrene, this monster lay,
“And poison’d with his everlasting thirst
“The waters of thy stream; I dar’d not bring
“Of their bright waves for thee, till I had first
“Subdued the monster, who, till this proud hour,
“Radiant with triumph I could not o’ercome
“Thy fountain’s foe!”

    “Liar!” exclaim’d the god,
“The Python-killer, as from his keen eye
“The lightning darted. Me, wouldst thou deceive
“With such a wretched tale!—hence, hence!—begone.
“Black as thy falsehood fly through shuddering air,
“A bird of brooding night!—dumb be thy voice
“Of sweetest melody, henceforth thy cry
“Tell but of woes and horrors, a wild shriek
“Of darkness and dismay—a living horror
“Be thou to youths and maidens—and when fires
“From the fierce dog-star’s eyes with fever’s heat
“Shall scorch each burning breast, let all things drink
“And bless the cooling beverage, save thou!
“Thou, only thou, shalt agonize with thirst,
“And yet forbear to drink, until thy tongue
“Shall stiffen with thy torture!”

           Maiden, thus
Apollo wrong’d chastis’d his favourite bird.
Is Cytherea less severe, or just?
Bethink thee, maiden, will she not make pale
The glowing cheek, and close the ear and heart
To love’s sweet sounds, of her who dares betray
Falsehood to her soft worship?—Sweet, my kiss;
And after, tell me why to-day, alone,
I wander’d through the beech grove? nay, declare,
For I can bear to hear it, who was he
Who fondly flutter’d round thee, robbing me
Of thee, and that lov’d hour?

PEROE.
        First, I’ll confess,
And then bestow the kiss I promis’d thee.
True is thy thought, a lover hover’d round me.
Oh, far more beautiful than thee, Learchus!
And still more gentle, and more flattering—
That flattery, ah, how could I resist!
And the soft air was so delicious so
O’erpowering with its odour—that, at length,
Faint with the fragrance, and the sultry heat,
Lost in th’ intoxicating dream—alas!
Frown not so sternly, dear Learchus, but
I yielded to his flatteries and his prayers,
And sunk into his arms—nay, start not—hear,
They were the arms of poppy-crowned sleep.
A. F.