Classic and Contemporary Poetry
NIOBE; ON SIPYLUS, by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907) Poet's Biography First Line: Ah me, ah me! On this high mountain Last Line: Grief all divine and vindicating love. Subject(s): Niobe | ||||||||
AH me, ah me! on this high mountain peak, Which far above the seething Lydian plains Takes the first dawn-shaft, and the sunset keeps When all the fields grow dark -- I, Niobe, A mother's heart, pent in a jail of stone, Stand all day in the vengeful sun-god's eye, Stand all night in the cold gaze of the moon, Who both long ages since conspiring, slew My children, -- I a childless mother now Who was most blest, a grieving woman still, Who am bereft of all, yet cannot die. Ah day, ill-fated day, which wrecked my life! I was the happy mother of strong sons, Brave, beautiful, all in their bloom of age: From him my first-born, now a bearded man, Through the fair promise of imperfect youth, To the slim stripling who had scarcely left The women's chambers, on whose lip scant shade Of budding manhood showed, I loved them all; All with their father's eyes, and that strange charm Of rhythmic grace, and musical utterance As when, in far-off Thebes, the enchanted wall Rose perfect, to the music of his lyre. Ah me, the fatal day! For at high noon I sate within my Theban palace fair -- Deep summer-time it was -- and marked the crowd From the thronged city street, to the smooth plain, Stream joyously: the brave youths, full of life, Stripped for the mimic fray, the leap, the race, The wrestling; and the princes, my strong sons, The fair limbs I had borne beneath my zone Grown to full stature, such as maidens love, -- The sinewy arms, the broad chests, and strong loins Of manhood; the imperfect flower-like forms, Eager with youth's first fires; my youngest born, My darling, doffing his ephebic robe Which late he donned with pride, a child in heart, In budding limbs a youth; -- I see them go, Their fair young bodies glistening in the sun, Which kissed the shining olive. As they went, The joyous concourse winding towards the plain, My happy eyes o'erflowed, and as I turned And saw my daughters round me, fair grown lives And virgin, sitting spinning the white flax, Each with her distaff, beautiful and fit To wed with any stately king of men And reign a queen in Hellas, my glad heart Broke forth in pride, and as I looked I thought, "Oh happy, happy mother of such sons! Oh happy, happy mother of such girls! For whom full soon the joyous nuptial rites Shall bring the expectant bridegroom and the bride, And soon once more the little childish hands Which shall renew my early wedded years, When the king loved me first. Thrice blest indeed. There is no queen in Hellas such as I, Dowered with such fair-grown offspring; not a queen Nor mother o'er all earth's plain, around which flows The wide salt stream of the encircling sea, As blest as I. Nay, in Olympus' self To all-compelling Zeus, what offspring bare Leto of yore? Phoebus and Artemis, A goodly pair indeed, but two alone. Poor mother, that to such a lord as Zeus Bare only those, no fairer than my own. Nay, I am happier than a goddess' self; I would not give this goodly train of mine For that scant birth. I ask no boon of Zeus, Nor of the Olympian Gods; for I am glad. No fruitful mother in a peasant's hut, Scorning the childless great, thinks scorn of me, Being such as I. Nay, let Queen Leto's self Know, that a mortal queen has chanced to bear As fair as she, and more." Even as I spoke, While these unhallowed boastings flushed my pride, Through the closed lattice pierced one angry shaft Of blinding sun, which on the opposite wall Traced some mysterious sign, and on my mind Such vague remorse and consciousness of ill, That straight, that arrogant boldness sank and died In a great dread, nor hardly could I bear To look upon the fairness of my girls, Who, seeing the vague trouble in my eyes, Grew pale, and shuddered for no cause, and gazed Chilled 'midst the blaze of sunlight. Then I strove To laugh my fears away, as one who knows Some great transgression weigh on him, some load Which will not be removed, but bears him down, Though none else knows it, pressing on his heart. But when the half unuttered thought grew dim And my fear with it, suddenly a cry Rose from the city street, and then the sound Of measured hurrying feet, and looking forth To where the youth had passed so late, in joy, Came two who carried tenderly, with tears, A boy's slight form. I had no need to look, For all the mother rising in me knew That 'twas my youngest born they bore; I knew What fate befell him -- 't was the vengeful sun, And I alone was guilty, I, his mother, Who being filled with impious pride, had brought Death to my innocent child. I hurried down The marble stair and met them as they came, Bearing his corpse, and kissed his lips and called His name, yet knew that he was dead; and all His brothers stood regarding us with tears, And would have soothed me with their loving words, Me guilty, who were guiltless, oh, my sons! Till as I looked up from the dead, -- a cry Of agony, -- and then another fell Struggling for life upon the earth, and then Another, and another, till the last Of all my stalwart boys, my life, my pride, Lay dead upon the ground, and the fierce sun Frenzied my brain, and all distraught with woe I to the palace tottered, while they bore Slowly the comely corpses of my sons. That day I dare not think of when they lay, White shrouded, in the darkened palace rooms, Like sculptured statues on a marble hearse. How calm they looked and happy, my dear sons! There was no look of pain within their eyes, The dear dead eyes which I their mother closed; Me miserable! I saw the priests approach, And ministers of death; I saw my girls Flung weeping on the brothers whom they loved. I saw it all as in a dream. I know not How often the dead night work into day, How often the hot day-time turned to night. I did not shudder even to see the Sun Which slew my sons; but in the still, dead night, When in that chill and lifeless place of death, The cold, clear, cruel moonlight seemed to play Upon the ranged corpses, and to mock My mother's heart, and throw on each a hue Of swift corruption ere its time, I knew Some secret terror lest the jealous gods Might find some further dreadful vengeance still, Taking what yet was left. At set of sun The sad procession to the place of graves Went with the rites of royal sepulture, The high priest at its head, the nobles round The dear white shrouded corpses: Last of all I went, the guilty one, my fair sweet girls Clinging to me in tears; but I, I shed not A single tear -- grief dried the fount of tears, I had shed all mine. Only o'ermastering dread Held me of what might come. When they were laid, Oh, wretched me, my dear, my well-loved sons! Within the kingly tomb, the dying sun Had set, and in his stead the rising moon, Behind some lofty mountain-peak concealed, Relit some ghostly twilight. As we knelt, The people all withdrawn a little space, I and my daughters in that place of death, I lifted up my suppliant voice, and they With sweet girl accents pure, and soaring hymn, To the great Powers above. But when at last I heard my hollow voice pleading alone And all the others silent, then I looked, And on the tomb the cold malignant moon, Bursting with pale chill beams of light, revealed My fair girls kneeling mute and motionless, Their dead eyes turned to the unpitying orb, Their white lips which should offer prayer no more. Such vengeance wreaked Phoebus and Artemis Upon a too proud mother. But on me Who only sinned no other punishment They took, only the innocent lives I loved -- If any punishment, indeed, were more Than this to one who had welcomed death. I think My children happier far in death than I Who live to muse on these things. When my girls Were laid in earth, I, my lone palace gate Leaving without a tear, sped hither in haste To this high rock of Sipylus where erst My father held his court; and here, long years, Summer and winter, stay I, day and night Gazing towards the far-off plain of Thebes, Wherein I was so happy of old time, Wherein I erred and suffered. Turned to stone They thought me, and 'tis true the mother's heart Which knows such grief as I knew, turns to stone, And all her life; and pitying Zeus, indeed, Seeing my suffering, listened to my prayer And left me seeming stone, but still the heart Of the mother grows not hard, and year by year When comes the summer with its cloudless skies, And the high sun lights hill and plain by day, And the moon, shining, silvers them by night, My old grief, rising dew-like to my eyes, Quickens my life with not unhappy tears, And through my penitent and yearning heart There throbs again a pulse of love and grief: Love triumphing at last o'er Fate and Death, Grief all divine and vindicating Love. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AN EPITAPH ON NIOBE TURNED TO STONE by HENRY KING (1592-1669) METAMORPHOSES: BOOK 6. NIOBE by PUBLIUS OVIDIUS NASO ODES IV, 6. INVOCATION TO APOLLO by QUINTUS HORATIUS FLACCUS A CAROL by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907) A CHRISTMAS CAROL by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907) A CYNICS DAY-DREAM by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907) |
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