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Title: Europa
Author: William Johnson Cory [
More Titles by Cory]
May the foemen's wives, the foemen's children,
Feel the kid leaping when he lifts the surge,
Tumult of swart sea, and the reefs that shudder
Under the scourge.
On such a day to the false bull Europa
Trusted her snowy limbs; and courage failed her,
Where the whales swarmed, the terror of sea-change
and
Treason assailed her.
For the meadow-fays had she duly laboured,
Eager for flowers to bind at eventide;
Shimmering night revealed the stars, the billows,
Nothing beside.
Brought to Crete, the realm of a hundred cities,
"Oh, my sire! my duty!" she clamoured sadly.
"Oh, the forfeit! and oh, the girl unfathered,
Wilfully, madly!
What shore is this, and what have I left behind me?
When a maid sins 'tis not enough to die.
Am I awake? or through the ivory gateway
Cometh a lie?
Cometh a hollow fantasy to the guiltless?
Am I in dreamland? Was it best to wander
Through the long waves, or better far to gather
Rosebuds out yonder?
Now, were he driven within the reach of anger,
Steel would I point against the villain steer,
Grappling, rending the horns of the bull, the monster
Lately so dear.
Shameless I left the homestead and the worship,
Shameless, 'fore hell's mouth, wide agape, I pause.
Hear me, some god, and set me among the lions
Stript for their jaws.
Ere on the cheek that is so fair to look on
Swoop the grim fiends of hunger and decay,
Tigers shall spring and raven, ere the sweetness
Wither away.
Worthless Europa! cries the severed father,
Why dost thou loiter, cling to life, and doat?
Hang on this rowan; hast thou not thy girdle
Meet for thy throat?
Lo, the cliff, the precipice, edged for cleaving,
Trust the quick wind, or take a leman's doom.
Live on and spin; thou wast a prince's daughter;
Toil at the loom.
Pass beneath the hand of a foreign lady;
Serve a proud rival." Lo, behind her back
Slyly laughed Venus, and her archer minion
Held the bow slack.
Then, the game played out, "Put away," she whispered,
"Wrath and upbraiding, and the quarrel's heat,
When the loathed bull surrenders horns, for riving,
Low at your feet.
Bride of high Jove's majesty, bride unwitting,
Cease from your sobbing; rise, your luck is rare.
Your name's the name which half the world divided
Henceforth shall bear."
[The end]
William Johnson Cory's poem: Europa
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