Walter Savage Landor (1775-1864)
Acon and Rhodope; or, Inconstancy
1The Year's twelve daughters had in turn gone by,
2Of measured pace tho' varying mien all twelve,
3Some froward, some sedater, some adorn'd
4For festival, some reckless of attire.
5The snow had left the mountain-top; fresh flowers
6Had withered in the meadow; fig and prune
7Hung wrinkling; the last apple glow'd amid
8Its freckled leaves; and weary oxen blinkt
9Between the trodden corn and twisted vine,
10Under whose bunches stood the empty crate,
11To creak ere long beneath them carried home.
12This was the season when twelve months before,
13O gentle Hamadryad, true to love!
14Thy mansion, thy dim mansion in the wood
15Was blasted and laid desolate: but none
16Dared violate its precincts, none dared pluck
17The moss beneath it, which alone remain'd
18Of what was thine.
18 Old Thallinos sat mute
19In solitary sadness. The strange tale
20(Not until Rhaicos died, but then the whole)
21Echion had related, whom no force
22Could ever make look back upon the oaks.
23The father said "Echion! thou must weigh,
24Carefully, and with steady hand, enough
25(Although no longer comes the store as once!)
26Of wax to burn all day and night upon
27That hollow stone where milk and honey lie:
28So may the Gods, so may the dead, be pleas'd!"
29Thallinos bore it thither in the morn,
30And lighted it and left it.
30 First of those
31Who visited upon this solemn day
32The Hamadryad's oak, were Rhodope
33And Acon; of one age, one hope, one trust.
34Graceful was she as was the nymph whose fate
35She sorrowed for: he slender, pale, and first
36Lapt by the flame of love: his father's lands
37Were fertile, herds lowed over them afar.
38Now stood the two aside the hollow stone
39And lookt with stedfast eyes toward the oak
40Shivered and black and bare.
40 "May never we
41Love as they loved!" said Acon. She at this
42Smiled, for he said not what he meant to say,
43And thought not of its bliss, but of its end.
44He caught the flying smile, and blusht, and vow'd
45Nor time nor other power, whereto the might
46Of love hath yielded and may yield again,
47Should alter his.
47 The father of the youth
48Wanted not beauty for him, wanted not
49Song, that could lift earth's weight from off his heart,
50Discretion, that could guide him thro' the world,
51Innocence, that could clear his way to heaven;
52Silver and gold and land, not green before
53The ancestral gate, but purple under skies
54Bending far off, he wanted for his heir.
55 Fathers have given life, but virgin heart
56They never gave; and dare they then control
57Or check it harshly? dare they break a bond
58Girt round it by the holiest Power on high?
59 Acon was grieved, he said, grieved bitterly,
60But Acon had complied . . 'twas dutiful!
61 Crush thy own heart, Man! Man! but fear to wound
62The gentler, that relies on thee alone,
63By thee created, weak or strong by thee;
64Touch it not but for worship; watch before
65Its sanctuary; nor leave it till are closed
66The temple-doors and the last lamp is spent.
67 Rhodope, in her soul's waste solitude,
68Sate mournful by the dull-resounding sea,
69Often not hearing it, and many tears
70Had the cold breezes hardened on her cheek.
71Meanwhile he sauntered in the wood of oaks,
72Nor shun'd to look upon the hollow stone
73That held the milk and honey, nor to lay
74His plighted hand where recently 'twas laid
75Opposite hers, when finger playfully
76Advanced and pusht back finger, on each side.
77He did not think of this, as she would do
78If she were there alone.
78 The day was hot;
79The moss invited him; it cool'd his cheek,
80It cool'd his hands; he thrust them into it
81And sank to slumber. Never was there dream
82Divine as his. He saw the Hamadryad.
83She took him by the arm and led him on
84Along a valley, where profusely grew
85The smaller lilies with their pendent bells,
86And, hiding under mint, chill drosera,
87The violet shy of butting cyclamen,
88The feathery fern, and, browser of moist banks,
89Her offspring round her, the soft strawberry;
90The quivering spray of ruddy tamarisk,
91The oleander's light-hair'd progeny
92Breathing bright freshness in each other's face,
93And graceful rose, bending her brow, with cup
94Of fragrance and of beauty, boon for Gods.
95The fragrance fill'd his breast with such delight
96His senses were bewildered, and he thought
97He saw again the face he most had loved.
98He stopt: the Hamadryad at his side
99Now stood between; then drew him farther off:
100He went, compliant as before: but soon
101Verdure had ceast: altho' the ground was smooth,
102Nothing was there delightful. At this change
103He would have spoken, but his guide represt
104All questioning, and said,
104 "Weak youth! what brought
105Thy footstep to this wood, my native haunt,
106My life-long residence? this bank, where first
107I sate with him . . the faithful (now I know,
108Too late!) the faithful Rhaicos. Haste thee home;
109Be happy, if thou canst; but come no more
110Where those whom death alone could sever, died."
111 He started up: the moss whereon he slept
112Was dried and withered: deadlier paleness spread
113Over his cheek; he sickened: and the sire
114Had land enough; it held his only son.
Notes
1] This follows "The Hamadryad," in which a mortal, Rhaicos, dies of grief over the estrangement of a wood-nymph with whom he is in love. Thallinos is his father and Echion an old servant. These and the other characters are invented by Landor.
Online text copyright © 2009, Ian Lancashire (the Department of English) and the University of Toronto.
Published by the Web Development Group, Information Technology Services, University of Toronto Libraries.
Original text: Walter Savage Landor, The Hellenics (1847).
First publication date:
1847
RPO poem editor: H. Kerpneck
RP edition: 3RP 3.8.
Recent editing: 4:2002/3/7*2:2002/6/7
Form: Blank Verse
Rhyme: unrhyming
Other poems by Walter Savage Landor
