Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE ARGIVE MOTHER, by MARGARET ELIZABETH MUNSON SANGSTER


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE ARGIVE MOTHER, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: On the terse heroic pages
Last Line: Have no patience in our prayer!
Alternate Author Name(s): Van Deth, Gerrit, Mrs.
Subject(s): Juno (goddess); Mothers; Women - Heroes


ON the terse heroic pages
Of the stately elder time,
Where the wisdom of the ages
Lives in melody sublime,
I this story long ago
Read, the sunbeams dropping low,

Through the leaves of oak and maple,
On the brown and ancient book,
With the scent of pear and apple,
And the lapping of the brook,
And the vestal lilies white,
Each a separate delight.

'T was the Argive mother's story:
She who, borne to Juno's feast
By her sons, her pride, her glory,
Nobler none in west or east,
Lifted up her voice in prayer
To the goddess, crowned and fair.

"Give to these," so cried the mother,
"These my darlings, I implore,
Some rich guerdon, like no other,—
Make them joyful evermore:
Bless them, touch them, queenly heart,
With thine own divinest art."

Poured she then the choice libation
Of the sacrificial wine.
Ah, the bursts of acclamation!
Ah! how bright the sun did shine!
Stole a whisper through the noon:
"Woman, granted is thy boon."

Turning, beautiful with gladness,—
All her soul's ecstatic grace,
Beaming, burning, shaming sadness,
Lighting ardently her face,—
Forth she stepped, her matron brow
Proud and calm as Juno's now.

As before a progress royal
Parted all the eager throng,
And, to Juno's brightness loyal,
Fed her heart with shout and song.
Still that whisper through the noon
Told her "Granted is thy boon."

"Are ye sleeping? Waken! Waken!
First-born, twin-born sons of mine!
I for you in prayer have taken
Pledge and vow at Juno's shrine.
Sorrow, pain, or creeping fears
Shall not blight your manly years.

"Waken! Wherefore sleep in daylight?
Ah!"—a bitter wailing cry;
Sudden, awful, hath the gray night
Fallen from the radiant sky.
Is it thus hath Juno heard?
Keeps she so her plighted word?

Dead—both sons! Nay, broken-hearted,
Hapless mother,—'t was thy prayer
That no trial, poison-darted,
Evermore their souls should bear.
They are glad, with gladness great,
Lifted far from evil fate.

Did the mother feel it—lonely,
Desolate, grown too early old?
It was Juno's answer; only
Prayer unheard had been less cold.
'T was a pitiless gift in sooth,
Emptied arms and blasted youth.

Do we dream how our petitions
Granted, might, like swords of wrath,
Sweep away the sweet conditions
And the mercies from our path,—
Leave us shorn of all our pride,
Fenceless, trampled, cast aside?

Do we know? O dear compassion,
Gracious ruth, that bids us wait,
Though we mourn, in thankless fashion,
That the answers tarry late,
And, o'erwhelmed by waves of care,
Have no patience in our prayer!





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