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 SireSlept, shaded from the sun-light? I did waitTill fervid noon, nay, solitary trodThe beechen grove in haste, until the sunDeparted, smiling on mine agony;Oh cruel! wherefore thus afflict my soul?

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

LEARCHUS. Oh thou untrue!—the bright glow of thy cheekProclaims the falsehood of thy lip, there isNo pale regret upon it!—on thy browNo disappointment sits! I tell thee, girl,Thou mays’t have cause to tremble; dread the wrathOf Eros, the eternal!—he abhorsDeceit in love, and he will punish theeAs did Apollo once, the sun-crown’d God,His lying raven, which, ere he was falseWas beautiful, as the caressed doveThat sleeps in Cytherea’s breast.

PEROE.              Oh, tellThat tale to me, Learchus.

LEARCHUS.            Shall it winA kiss for this fond lip then?

PEROE.        If the taleDeserve it—yes.

LEARCHUS.       Then listen; it may serveFor warning to thee, false one. Thou shall hearThe fate of such deception. BeautifulAnd white as thine own arm, Peroe, wasThe favourite bird of Phœbus; from its beakRadiant in purple glory, soothing wordsAnd soul-entrancing song pour’d sweetly forth;Sweetly, as from thine honied lips, my love,The siren tones of passion o’er my soulSweep with enchanting power—he had wingsOf such delicious softness, and their huesSo ravishingly sweet, you would have swornEros himself had breath’d upon them withThe fragrance of Olympian roses, tintsStol’n from young maiden’s blushes. O how fairWas then the raven! Once, his deityHad 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 HeliconFound the stream’s sparkling source in starry wavesGloriously glittering; it was shaded fromThe sun’s too ardent kiss by loving treesBearing the luscious fig; he look’d, and long’d;Fair, as a girl, and no less curious, hePluck’d of the fruit and tasted—to his thoughtHarsh and severe it seem’d, for it was greenAs yet unripen’d—“Patience!—Time,” said he, ‘Brings on his hoar brow roses, will he not“Fill his broad hand with fruits?” and he beganIn that sweet shaded bower of bliss to toyWantonly with the flowers, and kiss the leaves,And charm the birds, who, wondering, gaz’d uponHis brilliant beauty, and, their hearts subduedTo his perfections, sung him thrilling songsOf love and adoration. Pleas’d, he stay’dForgetting Phœbus at his fountain’s side,Until the fruit, like Autumn’s regal brow,Grew rich with golden hues, and forty sunsArose and set on his abandonment!Then he remember’d the forgotten willOf his bright deity. As he was fairAs a young maid, so like a young maid, heWas wily in his thought; a glossy snakeOf many glittering hues, but chiefly brightIn golden scales, near that fair fountain play’d.He seiz’d the gorgeous prize, and rapidlyHe bore it rustling through the air, untoHis 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, thusApollo wrong’d chastis’d his favourite bird.Is Cytherea less severe, or just?Bethink thee, maiden, will she not make paleThe glowing cheek, and close the ear and heartTo love’s sweet sounds, of her who dares betrayFalsehood 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 heWho fondly flutter’d round thee, robbing meOf 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 soO’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, butI 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.