Classic Poem

WHEN Orpheus' limbs, by Thracian madness torn,
Down the cold Hebrus' sounding floods were borne,
The blood-stain'd lips in tuneful measures sigh'd,
And murmur'd music charm'd the listening tide.

Thus roam'd the head, complaining and distrest,
Till Lesbian bands beheld the approaching guest,
And, with indignant sorrow, shuddering bore
The mangled victim to their verdant shore.
With fragrant streams the quivering brows they lave,
And cleanse the tresses from the briny wave,
Spread a soft pillow in the earth's green breast,
And with low dirges lull to dreamless rest.
Then from the tossing surge his lyre they gain,
A treasured trophy for Apollo's fane,
Round its fair frame funereal garlands bind,
And mourn its lord, to silent dust consign'd.

Hark!—while its chords the gales of evening sweep,
Soft tones awake, and mystic voices weep.
“Eurydice!” in trembling love they sigh;
“Eurydice!” the long-drawn aisles reply,
And through the temple steals, in echoes low,
The mournful sweetness of remember'd wo.

Methymnia's sons, with new-felt warmth inspired,
By all Apollo's soul of song were fired,
Pour'd their rich offerings round his' golden shrine,
Caught the rapt spirit, and the strain divine;
For he with smiles and priceless gifts repaid
The men whose pious rites appeased his favourite's shade.