| |
| ON the sea-shore at Cyprus stood | |
| A little sheltered rustic altar | |
| Where those whom Venus loved could come | |
| And pious prayers and praises falter. | |
| ’T was humble, yet the Golden Age, | 5 |
| Ere tyrants were, had kept it guarded, | |
| And centuries long that little fane | |
| A sheltering plane had greenly warded. | |
| |
| Up to its marble steps the waves | |
| Came creeping, courtier-like, in whispers; | 10 |
| The zephyrs spoke among the boughs, | |
| Like lovers, or like infant lispers; | |
| Dark violets purpled all the turf | |
| Beneath that plane-tree’s soft green shadow, | |
| Nowhere the amaranth grew so fair | 15 |
| As just within that sea-side meadow. | |
| |
| Phædon, a sculptor, Lemnian born, | |
| Had toiled for years to deck that altar | |
| With his best art; no lust for gold | |
| Or bad men’s scorn could make him falter; | 20 |
| So he had carved his dead love’s face | |
| As Clytè—praying still in anguish | |
| That for one hour she might return | |
| From those dark shades where sad souls languish. | |
| |
| “’T is done!” one eve the sculptor cried, | 25 |
| And knelt in prayer to Aphroditè. | |
| His dream stood petrified at last, | |
| That marble nymph,—his gentle Clytè. | |
| The goddess heard him as he knelt, | |
| And, smiled from rosy clouds, consenting. | 30 |
| The maid was ferried back to earth, | |
| Pluto for one short hour relenting. | |
| |
| That swelling breast—the lover’s pillow— | |
| Was now of Parian crystal whiteness; | |
| Those Juno arms, that Jove might fold, | 35 |
| Were of a smooth and radiant lightness; | |
| Her hair in rippling wave on wave | |
| Crowned a fair head so sweetly mournful; | |
| The eyes were full of tender grief, | |
| The full-lipped mouth was witching scornful. | 40 |
| |
| The room was dark where Phædon knelt, | |
| But as he prayed the moonbeams entered, | |
| And, like a crown of glory pure, | |
| Upon the brow of Clytè centred; | |
| Then down her face they gently stole, | 45 |
| With silver all her raiment sheathing. | |
| His prayer was answered; Phædon cried, | |
| “She lives! she lives! I hear her breathing!” | |
| |
| Like one who, rising from a trance, | |
| Reluctant wakes, and half in sorrow, | 50 |
| Clytè stepped from that pedestal,— | |
| Death had been vanquished till the morrow. | |
| She kissed her lover’s burning brow, | |
| Her soft white arms around him lacing; | |
| Venus had sent her from the dead | 55 |
| To soothe him with her sweet embracing. * * * * * | |
| But when day dawned and he awoke, | |
| That rainbow-dream had passed forever: | |
| The nymph had turned to stone again, | |
| To wake to life and beauty—never. | 60 |
| With a deep sigh he kissed the lips | |
| Of that sweet nymph, once more reposing: | |
| Then seized his shaping steel and clay, | |
| To toil till life’s long day was closing. | |
| |
| He wept not, but, in patience strong, | 65 |
| Thought of the blissful reuniting, | |
| As soldiers do of rest and sleep | |
| After a long day’s toilsome fighting; | |
| And in his art content he toiled | |
| To deck that fane of Aphroditè, | 70 |
| And by him, as he labored, stood | |
| His statue of the gentle Clytè. | |
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