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 night
Is 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 child
Remains at home, alone?—
Chilonis.
             No—she who nurs’d
My infancy, now watches hers, Erybæa—
She is a faithful guard.—
Lysippe.
         The aged yield
Soon to the power of sleep—above their lids
Wave 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 Empusa
Glides unseen to their couches.—
Chilonis.
            Have the girls
Of Thessaly been telling thee these tales?
Lysippe.
Tales!—ask Areta, she who lately scorn’d
The warning, in her confidence, now weeps
Bereav’d of her sweet child.—
Chilonis.
              Thou startlest me
With 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’st
How strong the ancient friendship was between
My husband and Aretas—they had dwelt
Neighbours of years, and daily met to pass
Some hours in social converse, while the children
Play’d mirthfully their own light-hearted games
Around their thoughtful sires.—Areta’s self
At twilight came oft to my cheerful home
To 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 have
When they may speak unfearing;—by us sat
Our female children, who, when weary grown,
Droop’d into sleep, though oftener listening sat
The elder ones in silence. Once Areta
Spoke, 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 fears
I told, and pray’d her not alone to send
Iambe—but she smil’d—boasted her sense,
And sent her home. Late when (herself return’d)
She sought her infant’s couch, most horribly
Her levity was punished; by its side
Stood the Empusa, bending eagerly
Over 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 lip
The midnight spectre press’d, and touch’d its cheek
With murderous kisses, drawing with its blood
Life’s blossoms from its heart;—shrieking aloud
Towards her child the hapless mother rush’d;
But the pale spectre glided from her sight
Upon her motionless feet!—The mother rain’d
Soft living kisses on the faded lip
Of 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 horrible
The story thou hast told. The cool night air
Shall tempt my steps no further—I will fly
To save my babe from Lamia’s bloody kiss.
Ah, hapless lot of mothers!—scarce begins
The infant life to dawn, when adverse Powers
Threaten 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 stand
Close 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 yet
One star above us. Seat thee by the spring;
I’ll fill the shining vases, and then go
Home to protect thy child.
Chilonis.
             ’Tis Lamia!—see!
Empusa, spare my babe!—a kid shall pour
Its life-blood to thy honour.
Lysippe.
            This is madness.
Or idle folly. Lamia never hears
Nor 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.—Beautiful
As is that star o’ the waters, Lotus, born
Of her own native Nile, was Lamia’s youth;—
Fair as the immortals, she believ’d herself
Of an immortal nature, therefore scorn’d
All love of mortal man—the eternal Gods
Bright in eternal beauty, changeless youth,
She e’en disdained—coldly her eye pass’d o’er,
Chilling and dimming the resplendent light
Of their celestial brows. But then with love
The crowned one beheld her; his soft voice,
His mild yet terrible eye, his glowing locks,
His grand majestic brow, on which were thron’d
Wisdom, and power, and empire; these she saw,
And seeing worshipp’d. His dread thunderbolts
Fell at her feet,—himself into her arms!
But Hera, the Olympian queen, beheld
How Lamia dar’d to bless the lightning’s lord,
And fear’d another Hero might arise
From this new mortal beauty, to achieve
A throne in her Olympus. As she was
The ruler of the birth-hour, she came down
And blew a dead curse o’er the anguish’d form
Of 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 agonies
Seiz’d on the tortur’d mother, and amidst
Her throes of mortal anguish, a cold corse
Was all that fill’d her arms;—then frenzy came—
Loud wept the desolate one, and wildly beat
Her tender breasts to wounds, and madly tore
Her fruitful body, now the living grave
Of her engender’d hopes. Grief’s blighting hand
Pass’d o’er the blossoms of her loveliness,
And straight they perish’d! Fury revelled on
Her rosied lips, and mounted to her brain,
And filled her heart and spirit. Wild Despair
Made her his own, and in his madness she
Rush’d forth a frenzied monster. The young babes
She tore from weeping mothers—clasping them
In a fierce death embrace, and on their lips
Fast’ning fell kisses, till the heart’s blood gush’d
Over the fading mouth. The mother’s cries
Pierc’d high Olympus, pealing through its domes
Unto the throne of Zeus! Horror-struck,
The diadem’d of Heaven rose, and grasp’d
In his terrible hand the lightnings—hurl’d them once,
And down into eternal Hades struck
A mangled spectral form, the blasted wretch!
But,
Zeus commands not Fate.——She now is past
His empire, and each coming night ascends
To kill the mother’s hope, and fill her soul
With pangs she once endur’d. Bloody and pale,
Silently gliding, anxiously she seeks
The 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 rise
To revel on the earth. ’Tis late—the Bear
Glitters above us; and beneath our feet,
In beams of silver light, the shadows glide
Of our long wandering forms. Now then—home—home.

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