Part 42 (1/2)
Hear then the cause of her disastrous doom!
A snake stole forth and stung her suddenly.
I am so burdened with this weight of gloom That, lo, I bid you all come weep with me!
CHORUS OF DRYADS.
Let the wide air with our complaint resound!
For all heaven's light is spent.
Let rivers break their bound, Swollen with tears outpoured from our lament!
Fell death hath ta'en their splendour from the skies: The stars are sunk in gloom.
Stern death hath plucked the bloom Of nymphs:--Eurydice down-trodden lies.
Weep, Love! The woodland cries.
Weep, groves and founts; Ye craggy mounts; you leafy dell, Beneath whose boughs she fell, Bend every branch in time with this sad sound.
Let the wide air with our complaint resound!
Ah, fortune pitiless! Ah, cruel snake!
Ah, luckless doom of woes!
Like a cropped summer rose, Or lily cut, she withers on the brake.
Her face, which once did make Our age so bright With beauty's light, is faint and pale; And the clear lamp doth fail, Which shed pure splendour all the world around
Let the wide air with our complaint resound!
Who e'er will sing so sweetly, now she's gone?
Her gentle voice to hear, The wild winds dared not stir; And now they breathe but sorrow, moan for moan: So many joys are flown, Such jocund days Doth Death erase with her sweet eyes!
Bid earth's lament arise, And make our dirge through heaven and sea rebound!
Let the wide air with our complaint resound!
A DRYAD.
'Tis surely Orpheus, who hath reached the hill, With harp in hand, glad-eyed and light of heart!
He thinks that his dear love is living still.
My news will stab him with a sudden smart: An unforeseen and unexpected blow Wounds worst and stings the bosom's tenderest part.
Death hath disjoined the truest love, I know, That nature yet to this low world revealed, And quenched the flame in its most charming glow.
Go, sisters, hasten ye to yonder field, Where on the sward lies slain Eurydice; Strew her with flowers and gra.s.ses! I must yield This man the measure of his misery.
[_Exeunt_ DRYADS. _Enter_ ORPHEUS, _singing_.
ORPHEUS.
_Musa, triumphales t.i.tulos et gesta canamus Herculis, et forti monstra subacta manu; Ut timidae malri pressos ostenderit angues, Intrepidusque fero riserit ore puer._
A DRYAD.
Orpheus, I bring thee bitter news. Alas!
Thy nymph who was so beautiful, is slain!
flying from Aristaeus o'er the gra.s.s, What time she reached yon stream that threads the plain,
A snake which lurked mid flowers where she did pa.s.s, Pierced her fair foot with his envenomed bane: So fierce, so potent was the sting, that she Died in mid course. Ah, woe that this should be!