By the Three Fountains and the Adder’s Hill
To the Stymphalian Lake, our journey’s end,
To draw the coverts on Cyllene’s side.
There, on a grassy spur which bathes its root
Far in the liquid lake, we sate, and drew
Cates from our hunters’ pouch, Arcadian fare,
Sweet chestnuts, barley-cakes, and boar’s-flesh dried:
And as we ate, and rested there, we talk’d
Of places we had pass’d, sport we had had,
Of beasts of chase that haunt the Arcadian hills,
Wild hog, and bear, and mountain-deer, and roe:
Last, of our quarters with the Arcadian chiefs.
For courteous entertainment, welcome warm,
Sad, reverential homage, had our prince
From all, for his great lineage and his woes:
All which he own’d, and prais’d with grateful mind.
But still over his speech a gloom there hung,
As of one shadow’d by impending death;
And strangely, as we talk’d, he would apply
The story of spots mention’d to his own;
Telling us, Arnê minded him, he too
Was sav’d a babe, but to a life obscure,
Which he, the seed of Hercules, dragg’d on
Inglorious, and should drop at last unknown,
Even as those dead unepitaph’d, who lie
In the stone coffins at Orchomenus.
And, then, he bade remember how we pass’d
The Mantinean Sanctuary, forbid
To foot of mortal, where his ancestor,
Nam’d Aepytus like him, having gone in,
Was blinded by the outgushing springs of brine.
Then, turning westward to the Adder’s Hill—
Another ancestor, nam’d, too, like me,
Died of a snake-bite, said he,
on that brow:
Still at his mountain tomb men marvel, built
Where, as life ebb’d, his bearers laid him down.
So he play’d on; then ended, with a smile:
This region is not happy for my race.
We cheer’d him; but, that moment, from the copse
By the lake-edge, broke the sharp cry of hounds;
The prickers shouted that the stag was gone:
We sprang upon our feet, we snatch’d our spears,
We bounded down the swarded slope, we plung’d
Through the dense ilex-thickets to the dogs.
Far in the woods ahead their music rang;
And many times that morn we cours’d in ring
The forests round that belt Cyllene’s side;
Till I, thrown out and tired, came to halt
On that same spur where we had sate at morn.
And resting there to breathe, I saw below
Rare, straggling hunters, foil’d by brake and crag,
And the prince, single, pressing on the rear
Of that unflagging quarry and the hounds.
Now, in the woods far down, I saw them cross
An open glade; now he was high aloft
On some tall scar fring’d with dark feathery pines,
Peering to spy a goat-track down the cliff,
Cheering with hand, and voice, and horn his dogs.
At last the cry drew to the water’s edge—
And through the brushwood, to the pebbly strand,
Broke, black with sweat, the antler’d mountain-stag,
And took the lake: two hounds alone pursued;
Then came the prince—he shouted and plung’d in.—
There is a chasm rifted in the base
Of that unfooted precipice, whose rock
Walls on one side the deep Stymphalian Lake:
There the lake-waters, which in ages gone
Wash’d, as the marks upon the hills still show,
All the Stymphalian plain, are now suck’d down.
A headland, with one agèd plane-tree crown’d,
Parts from this cave-pierc’d cliff the shelving bay
Where first the chase plung’d in: the bay is smooth,
But round the headland’s point a current sets,
Strong, black, tempestuous, to the cavern-mouth.
Stoutly, under the headland’s lee, they swam:
But when they came abreast the point, the race
Caught them, as wind takes feathers, whirl’d them round
Struggling in vain to cross it, swept them on,
Stag, dogs, and hunter, to the yawning gulf.
All this, O King, not piecemeal, as to thee
Now told, but in one flashing instant pass’d:
While from the turf whereon I lay I sprang,
And took three strides, quarry and dogs were gone;
A moment more—I saw the prince turn round
Once in the black and arrowy race, and cast
One arm aloft for help; then sweep beneath
The low-brow’d cavern-arch, and disappear.
And what I could, I did—to call by cries
Some straggling hunters to my aid, to rouse
Fishers who live on the lake-side, to launch
Boats, and approach, near as we dar’d, the chasm.
But of the prince nothing remain’d, save this,
His boar-spear’s broken shaft, back on the lake
Cast by the rumbling subterranean stream;
And this, at landing spied by us and sav’d,
His broad-brimm’d hunter’s hat, which, in the bay,
Where first the stag took water, floated still.
And I across the mountains brought with haste
To Cypselus, at Basilis, this news:
Basilis, his new city, which he now
Near Lycosura builds, Lycaon’s town,
First city founded on the earth by men.
He to thee sends me on, in one thing glad
While all else grieves him, that his grandchild’s death
Extinguishes distrust ’twixt him and thee.
But I from our deplor’d mischance learn this—
The man who to untimely death is doom’d,
Vainly you hedge him from the assault of harm;
He bears the seed of ruin in himself.
So dies the last shoot of our royal tree!
Who shall tell Merope this heavy news?
Stranger, this news thou bringest is too great
For instant comment, having many sides
Of import, and in silence best receiv’d,
Whether it turn at last to joy or woe.
But thou, the zealous bearer, hast no part
In what it hath of painful, whether now,
First heard, or in its future issue shown.
Thou for thy labour hast deserv’d our best
Refreshment, needed by thee, as I judge,
With mountain-travel and night-watching spent.—
To the guest-chamber lead him, some one! give
All entertainment which a traveller needs,
And such as fits a royal house to show;
To friends, still more, and labourers in our cause. Attendants conduct Aepytus within the palace.
The youth is gone within; alas! he bears
A presence sad for some one through those doors.
Admire then, maidens, how in one short hour
The schemes, pursued in vain for twenty years,
Are by a stroke, though undesir’d, complete.
Crown’d with success, not in my way, but Heaven’s!
This at a moment, too, when I had urg’d
A last, long-cherish’d project, in my aim
Of concord, and been baffled with disdain.
Fair terms of reconcilement, equal rule,
I offer’d to my foes, and they refus’d:
Worse terms than mine they have obtain’d from Heaven.
Dire is this blow for Merope; and I
Wish’d, truly wish’d, solution to our broil
Other than by this death; but it hath come!
I speak no word of boast, but this I
