352
The Lamia.
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
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
