350
The Raven.
PEROE.
If the tale
Deserve it—yes.
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,
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,
