Chapters 2
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1 01 - Section 1 25:04
Lamia by John Keats. Section One. Upon a time before the fairy broods drove Nymph and Satyr from the prosperous woods, Before King Oberon's bright diadem, scepter, and mantle, clasped with dewy gem, frighted away the dryads and the fawns from rushes green and breaks and cowsliped lawns, the ever-smitten Hermes, empty left his golden throne, bent warm on amorous theft. From High Olympus he had stolen light on this side of Jove's clouds to escape the sight of his great summoner. And made retreat into a forest on the shores of Crete. For somewhere in that sacred island dwelt a nymph, to whom all hoofed satyrs knelt, at whose white feet the languid tritons poured pearls, while on land they withered and adored.
Fast by the springs where she to bathe was wont, and in those meads where sometime she might haunt, were strewn rich gifts unknown to any muse. Though fancy's casket were unlocked to choose. Ah, what a world of love was at her feet! So Hermes thought, and a celestial heat, Burnt from his winged heels to either ear, That from a whiteness, as the lily clear, Blushed into roses, mid his golden hair, Fallen in jealous curls about his shoulders bare. From veil to veil, from wood to wood he flew. Breathing upon the flowers his passion knew, and wound with many a river to its head to find where the sweet nymph prepared her secret bed. In vain the sweet nymph might nowhere be found, and so he rested on the lonely ground, pensive and full of painful jealousies of the wood gods and even the very trees.
There, as he stood, He heard a mournful voice, such as once heard in gentle heart destroys all pain but pity. Thus the lone voice spake, When from this wreathed tomb shall I awake? When move in a sweet body fit for life, and love, and pleasure, and the ruddy strife of hearts and lips? Ah, miserable me! The god, dove-footed, glided silently round bush and tree, soft brushing in his speed the taller grasses and full flowering weed, until he found a palpitating snake, bright and cirque-couchant, in a dusky break. She was a Gordian shape of dazzling hue, vermilion-spotted, golden, green, and blue, striped like a zebra, freckled like a pard. Eyed like a peacock, and all crimson barred, and full of silver moons that, as she breathed, dissolved or brighter shone, or interwreathed their lustres with the gloomier tapestries.
So rainbow-sided, touched with miseries, she seemed at once some penanced lady elf, some demon's mistress, or the demon's self. Upon her crest she wore a wanish fire. Sprinkled with stars, like Ariadne's Tyre. Her head was serpent, but ah, bittersweet! She had a woman's mouth, with all its pearls complete. And for her eyes, what could such eyes do there but weep and weep, that they were born so fair, as Proserpenes still weeps for her Sicilian heir? Her throat was serpent, but the words she spake. Came as through bubbling honey, for love's sake. And thus, while Hermes on his pinions lay, like a stooped falcon, ere he takes his prey. Fair Hermes, crowned with feathers fluttering light, I had a splendid dream of thee last night.
I saw thee sitting on a throne of gold, among the gods upon Olympus old, the only sad one. For thou didst not hear the soft, lute-fingered muses chanting clear, nor even Apollo, when he sang alone, deaf to his throbbing throat's long, long, melodious moan. I dreamt I saw thee, robed in purple flakes, break amorous through the clouds as morning breaks, and swiftly, as a bright Phobeian dart, strike for the Cretan Isle. And here thou art. To gentle Hermes hast thou found the maid, Whereat the star of Lethe, not delayed his rosy eloquence, And thus inquired. Thou smooth-lipped serpent, surely high-inspired, Thou beauteous wreath with melancholy eyes, Possess whatever bliss thou canst devise, Telling me only where my nymph is flared.
Where she doth breathe. Bright planet, thou hast said, return the snake, but seal with oaths, fair God. I swear, said Hermes, by my serpent rod, and by thine eyes, and by thy starry crown. Light flew his earnest words among the blossoms blown. Then, thus again, the brilliance feminine. Too frail of heart for this lost nymph of thine. Free as the air, invisibly she strays about these thornless wilds. Her pleasant days she tastes unseen. Unseen her nimble feet leave traces in the grass and flowers sweet. From weary tendrils and bowed branches green, she plucks the fruit unseen. She bathes unseen. And by my power is her beauty veiled, to keep it unaffronted, unassailed by the love-glances of unlovely eyes, of satyrs, fauns, and bleared Silena's sighs.
Pale grew her immortality, for woe of all these lovers, and she grieved so I took compassion on her, bade her steep her hair in weird syrups. That would keep her loveliness invisible, yet free to wander as she loves in liberty. Thou shalt behold her, Hermes, thou alone, if thou wilt, as thou swearest, grant my boon. Then once again the charmed God began an oath, and through the serpent's ears it ran, warm, tremulous, devout, psalterian. Ravished, she lifted her Circian head. Blushed alive Damask, and swift lisping said, I was a woman. Let me have once more a woman's shape, and charming as before. I love a youth of Corinth. O the bliss! Give me my woman's form, and place me where he is. Stoop, Hermes, let me breathe upon thy brow, and thou shalt see thy sweet nymph even now.
The god on half-shut feathers sank serene. She breathed upon his eyes, and swift was seen of both the guarded nymph near smiling on the green. It was no dream, or say a dream it was. Real are the dreams of gods, and smoothly pass their pleasures in a long, immortal dream. One warm, flushed moment, hovering, it might seem dashed by the wood-nymph's beauty. So he burned. Then, lighting on the printless verdure, turned to the swooned serpent, and with languid arm, delicate, put to proof the lithe Caducean charm. So done, upon the nymph his eyes he bent, full of adoring tears and blandishment, and towards her stepped. She, like a moon in wane, faded before him, cowered. Nor could restrain her fearful sobs, self-folding, like a flower that faints into itself at evening hour.
But the god, fostering her chilled hand, she felt the warmth, her eyelids opened bland, and like new flowers at morning song of bees, bloomed and gave up her honey to the lees. Into the green recessed woods they flew. Nor grew they pale, as mortal lovers do. Left to herself, the serpent now began to change. Her elfin blood in madness ran, her mouth foamed, and the grass therewith, besprent, withered at dew, so sweet and virulent. Her eyes in torture fixed, and anguish drear, hot, glazed, and wide. With lid lashes all sear, flashed phosphor and sharp sparks without one cooling tear. The colors all inflamed throughout her train. She writhed about, convulsed with scarlet pain. A deep, vulcanian yellow took the place of all her milder-mooned body's grace.
And as the lava ravishes the mead, spoiled all her silver mail. And golden breed, made gloom of all her frecklings, streaks, and bars, eclipsed her crescents, and licked up her stars, so that in moments few she was undressed of all her sapphires, greens, and amethyst, and rubious argent. Of all these bereft, nothing but pain and ugliness were left. Still shone her crown that vanished. Also she melted and disappeared as suddenly, and in the air her new voice, looting soft, cried, Lycius, gentle Lycius. Born aloft with the bright mists about the mountains hoar, these words dissolved. Crete's forests heard no more. Whither fled Lamia, now a lady bright, a full-born beauty. New and exquisite. She fled into that valley they pass o'er who go to Corinth from Sincrea's shore, and rested at the foot of those wild hills, the rugged founts of the Perraean rills, and of that other ridge whose barren back stretches with all its mist and cloudy rack, southwestward to Cleone.
There she stood, about a young bird's flutter from a wood. Fair on a sloping green of mossy tread, by a clear pool, wherein she passionate to see herself escaped from so sore hills, while her robes flaunted with the daffodils. Ah, happy Lysias, for she was a maid more beautiful than ever twisted braid, or sighed, or blushed, or on spring-flowered lea spread a green kirtle to the minstrelsy. A virgin purest-lipped, yet in the lore of love deep learned to the red heart's core. Not one hour old, yet of sciential brain, to one perplex bliss from its neighbor pain. Define their pettish limits, and estrange their points of contact, and swift counter-change. Intrigue with the specious chaos, and dispart its most ambiguous atoms with sure heart.
As though in Cupid's college she had spent sweet days a lovely graduate, still unshent, and kept his rosy terms in idle languishment. Why this fair creature chose so fairly by the wayside to linger, we shall see. But first tis fit to tell how she could muse and dream when in the serpent prison-house, of all she list, strange or magnificent. However, where she willed, her spirit went, whether to faint Elysium, or where down through tress-lifting waves the Nereids fare, wind into Thetis' bower by many a pearly stair, or where God Bacchus drains his cups divine, stretched out at ease beneath a glutinous pine, or where in Pluto's gardens, Palatine, Mulsibur's columns gleam. In far Piazian line, and sometimes into cities she would send her dream, with feast and rioting to blend.
And once, while among mortals dreaming thus, she saw the young Corinthian Lysias, charioting foremost in the envious race, like a young Jove with calm, uneager face, and fell into a swooning love of him. Now, on the moth-time of that evening dim, he would return that way, as well she knew, to Corinth from the shore, for freshly blew the eastern soft wind, and his galley now grated the keystones with her brazen prow, in Port Sancreus from Agena Isle, fresh anchored. Whither he had been a while to sacrifice to Jove, Whose temple there waits with high marble doors for blood and incense rare. Jove heard his vows and bettered his desire, for by some freakful chance he made retire from his companions and set forth to walk, perhaps grown wearied of their Corinth talk.
Over the solitary hills he fared, thoughtless at first, but ere Eve's star appeared, his fantasy was lost. Where reason fades in the calmed twilight of platonic shades. Lamia beheld him coming, near, more near, close to her passing, in indifference drear. His silent sandals swept the mossy green. So neighbored to him, and yet so unseen, she stood. He passed, shut up in mysteries, his mind wrapped like his mantle. While her eyes followed his steps, and her neck, regal white, turned, syllabling thus. Ah, Lycius bright, and will you leave me on the hills alone? Lycius, look back, and be some pity shown. He did, not with cold wonder fearingly, but Orpheus-like at Anne Eurydice, for so delicious were the words she sung.
It seemed he had loved them a whole summer long, and soon his eyes had drunk her beauty up, leaving no drop in the bewildering cup, and still the cup was full, while he, afraid lest she should vanish ere his lip had paid due adoration, thus began to adore. Her soft look growing coy, she saw his chain so sure. Leave thee alone. Look back! Ah, goddess, see whether my eyes can ever turn from thee! For pity do not this sad heart belie. Even as thou vanishest, so I shall die. Stay, though a naiad of the rivers, stay! To thy far wishes will thy streams obey. Stay, though the greenest woods be thy domain, alone they can drink up the morning rain. Though a descended Pleiad, will not one of thine harmonious sisters keep in tune thy spheres, and as thy silver proxies shine?
So sweetly to these ravished ears of mine came thy sweet greeting, that if thou shouldst fade, thy memory will waste me to a shade. For pity do not melt." If I should stay," said Lamia. Hear upon this floor of clay, and pain my steps upon these flowers too rough. What canst thou say or do of charm enough to dull the nice remembrance of my home? Thou canst not ask me, would thee hear, to roam over these hills and vales where no joy is, empty of immortality and bliss? Thou art a scholar, Lysias, and must know that finer spirits cannot breathe below in human climes, and live. Alas, poor youth! What taste of purer air hast thou to soothe my essence? What serener palaces, where I may all my many senses please, and by mysterious slights a hundred thirsts appease?
It cannot be. Adieu. So said she rose tiptoe with white arms spread. He, sick to lose the amorous promise of her lone complain, swooned, murmuring of love, and pale with pain, the cruel lady without any show of sorrow for her tender favorite's woe, but rather, if her eyes could brighter be, with brighter eyes and slow amenity, put her new lips to his. And gave afresh the life she had so tangled in her mesh. And as he from one trance was wakening into another, she began to sing, happy in beauty, life and love and everything, a song of love too sweet for earthly lyres. While like held breath, the stars drew in their panting fires. And then she whispered, in such trembling tone, as those who safe together met alone for the first time through many anguished days, use other speech than looks, bidding him raise his drooping head and clear his soul of doubt, for that she was a woman, and without any more subtle fluid in her veins than throbbing blood, and that the selfsame pains inhabited her frail strong heart, As his.
And next she wondered how his eyes could miss her face so long in Corinth, where she said she dwelt but half-retired, and there had led days happy as the gold coin could invent, without the aid of love. Yet in content till she saw him as once she passed him by, where gainst a column he leant thoughtfully at Venus' temple porch. Midbaskets heaped of amorous herbs and flowers, newly reaped late on that eve, as twas the night before the Adonian feast, whereof she saw no more, but wept alone those days, for why should she adore? Lysias from death awoke into a maze to see her still, and singing so sweet lays. Then from a maze into delight he fell. To hear her whisper woman's lore so well, and every word she spake enticed him on to one perplexed delight and pleasure known.
Let the mad poets say whate'er they please of the sweets of fairies, paris, goddesses. There is not such a treat among them all, haunters of cavern, lake, and waterfall, as a real woman, lineal indeed. From Pyrrha's pebbles or old Adam's seed. Thus gentle Lamia judged and judged aright that Lysias could not love in half a fright. So threw the goddess off and won his heart more pleasantly by playing woman's part with no more awe than what her beauty gave, that, while it smote, still guaranteed to save. Lysias to all made eloquent reply, marrying to every word a twin-born sigh, and last, pointing to Corinth, asked her sweet if t'was too far that night for her soft feet. The way was short, for Lamia's eagerness made by a spell, the triple league decrease to a few paces, not at all surmised by blinded Lysias.
So in her comprised. They passed the city gates, he knew not how, so noiseless, and he never thought to know. As men talk in a dream, so Corinth all, throughout her palaces imperial, and all her populous streets and temples lewd, muttered, like tempest in the distance brewed, to the widespread at night above her towers. Men, women, rich and poor, in the cool hours, shuffled their sandals o'er the pavement white, companioned or alone, while many a light flared here and there from wealthy festivals and through their moving shadows on the walls, or found them clustered in the cornest shade of some arched temple door or dusky colonnade, muffling his face of greeting friends in fear. Her fingers he pressed hard, as one came near with curled gray beard, sharp eyes, and smooth bald crown, slow-stepped and robed in philosophic gown.
Lycius shrank closer as they met and passed into his mantle, adding wings to haste, while hurried Lamia trembled. Ah, said he, why do you shudder, love, so ruefully? Why does your tender palm dissolve in dew? I'm wearied," said Fair Lamia. Tell me, who is that old man? I cannot bring to mind his features. Lysias, wherefore did you blind yourself from his quick eyes? Lysias replied, "'Tis Apollonius' sage, my trusty guide and good instructor, but tonight he seems the ghost of folly haunting my sweet dreams." While yet he spake, they had arrived before a pillared porch with lofty portal door, where hung a silver lamp, whose phosphor glow reflected in the slabbed steps below, mild as a star in water.
For so new and so unsullied was the marble's hue, so through the crystal-polish liquid fine ran the dark veins that none but feet divine could e'er have touched there. Sounds Aeolian breathed from the hinges, as the ample span of the wide doors disclosed a place unknown some time to any, but those two alone, and a few Persian mutes, who that same year were seen about the markets. None knew where they could inhabit. The most curious were foiled, who watched to trace them to their house, and but the flitter-winged verse must tell, for truth's sake. What woe afterwards befell? "'T'would humour many a heart to leave them thus, shut from the busy world of more incredulous."
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2 02 - Section 2 19:28
Love in a hut with water and a crust is, love forgive us, cinders, ashes, dust. Love in a palace is perhaps at last more grievous torment than a hermit's fast. That is a doubtful tale from Fairyland, hard for the non-elect to understand. Had Lysias lived to hand his story down, he might have given the moral a fresh frown, or clenched it quite. But too sure it was their bliss to breed distrust and hate that make the soft voice hiss. Besides, their nightly with terrific glare, love, jealous groan of so complete a pair. Hovered and buzzed his wings with fearful roar above the lintel of their chamber door, and down the passage cast a glow upon the floor. For all this came a ruin. Side by side they were enthroned in the eventide upon a couch near to a curtaining, whose airy texture from a golden string floated into the room and let appear unveiled the summer heaven, blue and clear.
Betwixt two marble shafts. There they reposed, where use had made it sweet, with eyelids closed, saving a tithe which love still open kept, that they might see each other while they almost slept. When from the slope side of a suburb hill, deafening the swallow's twitter, came a thrill of trumpets, Lysias started. The sounds fled, but left a thought, a buzzing in his head. For the first time since first he harbored in that purple-lined palace of sweet sin, his spirit passed beyond its golden bourne into the noisy world, almost forsworn. The lady, ever watchful, penetrant, saw this with pain, so arguing a want of something more, more than her empery of joys, and she began to moan and sigh, because he mused beyond her.
Knowing well that but a moment's thought is passion's passing bell. Why do you sigh, fair creature? whispered he. Why do you think? returned she tenderly. You have deserted me. Where am I now? Not in your heart, while care weighs on your brow. No, no, you have dismissed me, and I go from your breast, houseless. Ay, it must be so. He answered. Bending to her open eyes, where he was mirrored, small in paradise. My silver planet, both of Eve and Morn, why will you plead yourself so sad, forlorn, while I am striving how to fill my heart with deeper crimson and a double smart? How to entangle, trammel up, and snare your soul in mine, and labyrinth you there, like the head sent in an unbudded rose?
Ay, a sweet kiss, you see your mighty woes. My thoughts, shall I unveil them? Listen, then. What mortal hath a prize that other men may be confounded and abashed withal, but let's it sometimes pace abroad, majestical, and triumph, as in thee I should rejoice amid the hoarse alarm of Corinth's voice? Let my foes choke. And my friends shout afar, While through the thronged streets your bridal car Wheels round its dazzling spokes. The lady's cheek trembled. She nothing said, But pale and meek arose and knelt before him, Wept a rain of sorrows at his words, At last with pain beseeching him, The while his hand she wrung. To change his purpose. He thereat was stung, perverse, with stronger fancy to reclaim her wild and timid nature to his aim.
Besides, for all his love in self despite against his better self, he took delight luxurious in her sorrows, soft and new, his passion cruel-grown. Took on a hue fierce and sanguineous, as twas possible in one whose brow had no dark veins to swell. Fine was the mitigated fury, like Apollo's presence when in act to strike the serpent. Ah, the serpent! Certi, she was none. She burnt. She loved the tyranny. And all subdued consented to the hour when to the bridle he should lead his paramour. Whispering in midnight silence said the youth, Sure some sweet name thou hast, though by my truth I have not asked it, ever thinking thee not mortal, but of heavenly progeny, as still I do. Hast any mortal name fit appellation for this dazzling frame, or friends or kinsfolk on the city'd earth?
To share our marriage feast and nuptial mirth. I have no friends, said Lamia. No, not one. My presence in wide Corinth hardly known. My parents' bones are in their dusty urns, sepulchred, where no kindled incense burns. Seeing all their luckless race are dead. Save me, and I neglect the holy rite for thee. Even as you list, invite your many guests. But if, as now it seems, your vision rests with any pleasure on me, do not bid old Apollonius. From him keep me hid. Lysias, perplexed at words so blind and blank, made close inquiry, from whose touch she shrank, fainting asleep. And he, to the dull shade of deep sleep, in a moment was betrayed. It was the custom, then, to bring away the bride from home, at blushing shut of day, veiled in a chariot, heralded along by strewn flowers, torches, and a marriage song, with other pageants.
But this fair unknown had not a friend. So, being left alone, Lysias was gone to summon all his kin, and knowing surely she could never win his foolish heart from its mad pompousness, she said herself, high-thoughted, How to dress the misery in fit magnificence. She did so, but tis doubtful how and whence came, and who were her subtle servitors. About the halls, and to and from the doors, there was a noise of wings, till in short space the glowing banquet room shone with wide-arched grace. A haunting music, soul perhaps and lone supportress of the fairy roof, made moan throughout. As fearful the whole charm might fade. Fresh carved cedar, mimicking a glade of palm and plantain, met from either side, high in the midst, in honor of the bride, two palms and then two plantains, and so on.
From either side their stems branched one to one, all down the isled place, and beneath all there ran a stream of lamps, straight on from wall to wall. So canopied lay an untasted feast, teeming with odors. Lamia, regal dressed, silently paced about, and as she went in pale contented sort of discontent, missioned her viewless servants to enrich the fretted splendor of each nook and niche. Between the tree stems, marbled plain at first, came jasper panels. Then anon there burst forth creeping imagery of slighter trees. And with the larger wove in small intricacies. Approving all, she faded at self-will, and shut the chamber up, close, hushed, and still, complete and ready for the revels' rood, when dreadful guests would come to spoil her solitude.
The day appeared, and all the gossip rout. O senseless Lycius madman! Wherefore flout the silent blessing fate? Warm cloistered hours, and show to common eyes these secret bowers. The herd approached. Each guest with busy brain arriving at the portal gazed amain, and entered marveling, for they knew the street, remembered it from childhood, all complete without a gap, yet ne'er before had seen that royal porch, that high-built fair demean. So in they hurried all. Mazed, curious, and keen. Save one, who looked thereon with eye severe, and with calm planted steps walked in austere. Twas Apollonius. Something, too, he laughed, as though some naughty problem that had daft his patient thought had now begun to thaw, and solve, and melt.
Twas just as he foresaw. He met within the murmurous vestibule his young disciple. "'Tis no common rule, Lysias," said he, "'for an invited guest to force himself upon you, and infest with an unbidden presence the bright throng of younger friends. Yet must I do this wrong, and you forgive me." Lysias blushed, and led the old man through the inner doors, broad-spread. With reconciling words and courteous mien, turning into sweet milk the sophist's spleen. Of wealthy luster was the banquet room, filled with pervading brilliance and perfume. Before each lucid panel fuming stood a censer fed with myrrh and spiced wood, each by a sacred tripod held aloft, whose slender feet wide swerved upon the soft, wool-woofed carpets.
Fifty wreaths of smoke from fifty censers their light voyage took to the high roof, still mimicked as they rose along the mirrored walls by twin clouds odorous. Twelve sphered tables by silk seats in sphered. High as the level of a man's breast reared, on Libard's paws upheld the heavy gold of cups and goblets, and the store thrice told of Ciri's horn. And in huge vessels wine came from the gloomy tan with merry shine. Thus loaded with a feast the tables stood, each shrining in the midst the image of a god. When in an antechamber every guest had felt the cold full sponge to pleasure pressed by ministering slaves upon his hands and feet, and fragrant oils with ceremony meat poured on his hair.
They all moved to the feast in white robes, and themselves in order, placed around the silken couches, wondering whence all this mighty cost and blaze of wealth could spring. Soft went the music, the soft air along, while fluent Greek, a vowed undersong, kept up among the guests, discoursing low at first, for scarcely was the wine at flow. But when the happy vintage touch their brains, louder they talk, and louder come the strains of powerful instruments. The gorgeous dyes, the space, the splendor of the draperies, the roof of awful richness, nectarous cheer, beautiful slaves, and Lamia's self appear. Now when the wine has done its rosy deed, and every soul from human trammels freed, No more so strange, for merry wine, sweet wine, will make Elysian shades not too fair, too divine.
Soon was God Bacchus at meridian height. Flushed were their cheeks and bright eyes double bright, garlands of every green and every scent from veils deflowered, or forest trees branch rent. In baskets of bright osured gold were brought, high as the handles heaped, to suit the thought of every guest, that each, as he did please, might fancy fit his brows, silk pillowed at his ease. What wreath for Lamia? What for Lysias? What for the sage, old Apollonius? Upon her aching forehead be there hung the leaves of willow. And of Adder's tongue. And for the youth, quick, let us strip for him the thyrsus, that his watching eyes may swim into forgetfulness. And for the sage, let spear-grass and the spiteful thistle wage war on his temples.
Do not all charms fly at the mere touch of cold philosophy? There was an awful rainbow once in heaven. We know her wolf, her texture. She is given in the dull catalogue of common things. Philosophy will clip an angel's wings, conquer all mysteries by rule and line. Empty the haunted air and gnomad mine, unweave a rainbow as it erewhile made the tender-personed Lamia melt into a shade. By her glad lyceous sitting in chief place, scarce saw. In all the room another face, till checking his love trance a cup he took full brimmed, and opposite sent forth a look across the broad table to beseech a glance from his old teacher's wrinkled countenance, and pledge him. The bald head philosopher had fixed his eye without a twinkle or a stir, full on the alarmed beauty of the bride, brow-beating her fair form and troubling her sweet pride.
Lysias then pressed her hand with devout touch, as pale it lay upon the rosy couch. "'Twas icy," and the cold ran through his veins. Then, sudden, it grew hot, and all the pains of an unnatural heat shot to his heart. "'Lamia, what means this? Wherefore dost thou start? Knowest thou that man?' Poor Lamia answered not. He gazed into her eyes, and not a jot owned they the lovelorn piteous appeal. More, more he gazed, his human senses real, some hungry spell that loveliness absorbs. There was no recognition in those orbs. "'Lamia,' he cried, and no soft-toned reply. The many heard, and the loud revelry grew hush. The stately music no more breathes. The myrtle sickened in a thousand wreaths. By faint degrees, voice, lute, and pleasure ceased.
A deadly silence step by step increased until it seemed a horrid presence there, and not a man but felt the terror in his hair.
And nothing but the shriek with its sad echo did the silence break. Begone, foul dream, he cried, gazing again in the bride's face, where now no azure vein wandered on fair-spaced temples. No soft bloom misted the cheek, no passion to illumine the deep recessed vision. All was blight. Lamia, no longer fair. There sat a deadly white. Shut, shut those juggling eyes, thou ruthless man. Turn them aside, wretch. O'er the righteous ban of all the gods whose dreadful images here represent their shadowy presences may pierce them on the sudden with the thorn of painful blindness, leaving thee forlorn in trembling dotage to the feeblest fright of conscience. For their long-offended might, for all thine impious, proud heart's sophistries, unlawful magic, and enticing lies.
Corinthians, look upon that gray-beard wretch! Mark how, possessed, his lashless eyelids stretch around his demon eyes! Corinthians, see! My sweet bride withers at their potency. Fool, said the sophist, in an undertone gruff with contempt, which a death-nying moan from Lysias answered, as heart-struck and lost, he sank supine beside the aching ghost. Fool, fool, repeated he, while his eyes still relented not, nor moved. From every ill of life have I preserved thee to this day. And shall I see thee made a serpent's prey? Then Lemia breathed death-breath. The softest sigh, like a sharp spear, went through her utterly. Keen, cruel, perseant, stinging, she, as well as her weak hand could any meaning tell, motioned him to be silent.
Vainly so. He looked and looked again a level no. A serpent, echoed he. No sooner said than with a frightful scream, she vanished, and Lysias' arms were empty of delight, as were his limbs of life from that same night. On the high couch he lay. His friends came round. Supported him, no pulse or breath they found, and in its marriage robe the heavy body wound.
End of section two. End of Lamia by John Keats.