Orpheus turns to look at his wife, Eurydice, and her shadowy figure falls back toward Hades. He reaches out toward her with his right arm and clutches his lyre with his left. She falls backward with outstretched arms. Both figures are dressed in classical robes. Their clothing and Eurydice’s hair both flow as if caught by a breeze. Grasses and small flowers line the ground. Full-page illustration contained within a single-ruled border.

Orpheus and Eurydice. As sweet Eurydice, with footfall light, Roved the Thessalian woods one moonlit night, Singing amidst the gentle Naiad throng, Who ranged attentive to her voice, a song That her own Orpheus taught her, suddenly Aristæus, hot with honey-wine, comes by, Follows the music ardently, and ere The singer and the listening nymphs are ware, Leaps in their midst, and, kindling to her charms, Clasps at Eurydice with eager arms. She, the sweet melody on her lovely lips, Snapt with a scream, from his embraces slips, And crying, ‘ Orpheus, Orpheus,’ swift as light, Flies from the woods, he following, through the night, Until escaped from the pursuer’s hand O’er the full Hebrus she has swum to land ; When, through the shelter of the sloping sward, A hooded snake that haunts the river ford Shoots his lithe length to meet her from the ground, And, ere she sees it, darts a deadly wound. She still would flee, if but she still may reach Her home, now nigh, and find a friendly leech, Or die at least in her dear love’s embrace— But the black poison runs a swifter race ; Her footsteps fail, her limbs their force forget, Her fluttering sighs came fast and faster yet ; The landscape swims around,—she falters, falls— Thrice strives to rise, and thrice on Orpheus calls, Each cry a fainter echo of the last, And murmuring Orpheus still the gentle spirit passed. Then Aristæus, stricken with remorse, Braves the loud flood, and kneels beside her corse, And chafes her hands, and every art essays From her last sleep the lovely Nymph to raise. But all in vain, and, turning with a tear, Slow he retraces his too swift career. Anon the Naiads from the general flight Toward their Hebrus one by one unite ; And when—ah ! woeful hap—they see her slain, Beat their white breasts, and lift the cry of pain, Wood, vale, and mountain mingle in the dirge, The desolate River sobs from verge to verge ; And Night herself, veiling her starry eyes, Leads the lament with long-drawn tempest-sighs. O say not that two sympathetic souls Can only mix as outward sense controls. Far off the mother of an only daughter, Pierced with her pangs, has trembling resought her : The absent brother feels the fatal power That strikes the partner of his natal hour ; And the fond youth, beneath far distant skies, Knows the sad moment when his mistress dies. Thus Orpheus, who had left his lovely spouse For Delphi’s steep to pay his filial vows To King Apollo, starts from sleep to hear His name thrice shrieked with anguish in his ear : To earth he starts—a weapon wildly snatches— Hies through the hall, the darkling door unlatches, And stands bewildered in the moonlight clear, Crying, ‘ Eurydice, your love is here ;’ Till the night airs on his uncovered brows Blowing awhile his woe-stunned wits arouse. But sense no solace yields, and, as he flies With homeward haste, still dark and darker rise Death’s phantom fears, till on the dewy lea Orpheus has clasped his cold Eurydice, And laid alond by her with weeping strong And sobs tempestuous tosses all day long. Then King Apollo, pitying the pain Of his dear son, whom most he loved of men, Stands by his side, his awful beauty veiling In softest cloud, and thus rebukes his wailing : ‘ Rise, Orpheus, rise, infatuate with grief ; Orpheus, arise, Apollo brings relief ; For not in vain hast thou required my favour With filial vows and first-fruits sweet of savour ; Nor idly did thy docile genius follow The magic music of thy sire Apollo. No Marsyas thou, but reverently mute To hear and learn the language of my lute, And therefore thou of living men alone Canst charm all cruel force with music’s moan. For this did Jason, warned of Chiron old, In choice of questers for the Fleece of Gold, Prefer thee helmsman of the hero crew Of Argo, wisely yielding thee thy due : Else had they never rowed to Colchian seas Past those gray cliffs the dread Symplegades ; For, as with oars that to thy harping clear In cadence dipped, the desperate course they steer, From the almost shock the shores resilient flew Rapt to thy lay and let the questers through ; Thou too, when far upon the western main Fierce thirst possessed the heroes, with thy strain Alone could’st win from the Hesperian Maids The golden offspring of their garden shades ; And after, when the Argonautic oars Approached too near those bark-beguiling shores, Where bleach the bones of many a music-slain Mariner—and the Siren Sisters’ strain Was with its amorous enchantment stealing Each quester’s soul, thy heavenly pæan pealing Struck dumb the weird witch-music, and reclaimed Their service due who else the Quest had shamed.’ ‘ And what avails that skill,’ the mourner sighs, ‘ Oh ! father mine, when low my mistress lies ; Though, when I luted, love stole softly o’er her, The song that won her never can restore her.’ ‘ Orpheus, I heard you once, when stars were clear, Echoing the strains that thrill from sphere to sphere ; You sang, whilst Argo o’er the ocean hoary Leaped to the lay, Creation’s awful story Softly you sang ; and, though you knew it not, Nature was tranced around in troubled thought, Fearful lest thou shouldst wake that louder lay Intolerable that shook her natal day. Idly she feared, for I of gods and men, Save Love alone, have knowledge of that strain, And I but once its music can recall— Yet, for I love thee, son, yea more than all My children, and now pity, bride-bereft, Thee I endue with my transcendent gift, The song of songs, to whose ecstatic strain Informing Love, from Chaos’ dread insane, Called the young Cosmos. Lift that psalm again, And earth shall quake, the empyrean lower, Seas rage, and at the last the Infernal Power Ope to thy lay the inexorable door, And thy lost mistress to thine arms restore.’ He said, and vanished, whilst a rosy source Of sudden sunset flowing found the corse, Kissed her cold feet, suffused her bosom’s snow, Blushed in her cheek, and melted on her brow. Then Orpheus : ‘ For the dim discoloured light Of Hymen’s torch upon my nuptial night This radiant omen, Phœbus, I accept ;’ Whilst o’er the lute his eager fingers swept, Preluding softly to that mystic strain Which he but wakened once, and none shall wake again. Then the sphere-music stole upon the harp, Pregnant with rapturous pain and pleasure sharp, All things that are, enchanted, paused to hear, Save the small growths that sprang to be more near ; For joy and sorrow, birth and life, and death Trembled together in that tuneful breath. Anon the wild sphere-music louder grew, Loud as when first the parent atoms flew, Of air and water, fire and formless earth, Each seed to share an elemental birth ; For to that cadence arched the skyey dome, The soft soil hardened, Ocean sought his home, And shapes of sea and landscape loom around, Till sun and moon and stars the night astound, With living lustre leaping to the sound ; And vendure springs, and with the breathing form The earth and air and ocean sudden swarm ; And last of all, to crown Creation’s plan, Awakes to life the myriad-mooded man. But, on the even of that natal day, Love’s louder song had died into the lay, That all to subtle-sweet for mortal ears Thrills with eternal music through the spheres. Orpheus alone had caught that softer strain, And, as he wakes it now, his eager brain, Inspired by Phœbus, links the sound subdued To its loud, long-forgotten parent mood. So lutes he, and so sings, with flashing eyes And dark dishevelled locks that fall and rise O’er his torn vestments to the cadence wild. Eve fades—night blackens—and Apollo’s child, Unseen as Philomel pours his passionate thought Whilst round him all the universe, distraught By the fierce phrenzy of awful lyre, All breathing forms, earth, ocean, air, and fire, Hear and make moan as each indwelling essence That forms them feels the old Creative Presence Maddening their rest, and drawing them to mix In other moulds, and all that is perplex ; Till at the sphere-song, out of centuried sleep, Old Chaos rears him from the utmost deep, Deeming perchance that erst obnoxious hymn, Favourable now unto his empire dim ; Then rocked the earth for fear, the vaulted heaven Thundered aghast, far leaped th’ affrighted levin, Shook the deep sea dismayed, and, at the last, Through the song-severed gates of hell the poet passed. Hard by the hideous porch a spectral crew Deform first meet the minstrel’s troubled view ; Grief, Labour, Care, Disease, and tristful Age And Fear and Famine, War, Revenge, and Rage, But shape more dread of all the demon Death With infant face distort, a maid beneath, Yet with lean palsied arms and locks of eld, Who first from far the approaching bard beheld, And fain to startle him to swift retreat Begins : ‘ O fool, what strain to Death is sweet. Essay no further, lest this countenance, In wrath revealed, consume thee at a glance. Or canst thou, front to front opposed, outstare Her whose fierce eyes’ intolerable glare, Spite all the horrors of her serpent brow And hellish aspect, laid Medusa low.’ She said, but Orpheus struck his saddest chord, Wept the fell fiend, and past her haunt abhorred The youth unhurt pursued his darkling way, Till at his feet the Stygian river lay, And rustling round him stole those bloodless ranks That wait expectant on the oozy banks For Charon’s bark ; but that grim senior rowed Toward the further shore his goblin load. Then Orpheus, for Eurydice the lost, Eager peruses all that phantom host, But vainly, when outspake a giant ghost, Whose shoulders topped the crowd. ‘ Oh ! comrade dear, Orpheus divine, what quest has led thee here, Alive ! O strange, as first I sought this shore, Admetus’ bride, Alcestis, to restore, And with these hands, how forceless now, alas ! Fettered the Triple Hound all fear to pass ; Surely some bitter cause thy suppliant dress, Dishevelled hair, and downcast eyes confess.’ Then Orpheus weeping, ‘ Ah me, grief on grief, No woe is single, thou too here, my chief, Whom yesterday sang Victor, then she crossed The ninefold stream before thy life was lost, For, by a serpant slain, Eurydice, My bride, is hither borne. Oh, woe is me ! Her now I seek ; but what fate forced thee here, Whom of old Argo’s crew I loved most dear ?’ Then great Alcides tells the jealous wile Of Deianeira, by the Centaur’s guile, Malignant, fraught with poison fierce and fire Life-ridding on the self-sought funeral pyre. ‘ Console thee, Herakles, my comrade dear,’ Orpheus presaged, ‘for short space art thou here. It only needs to expiate the ire Of Dis, conceived what time his hell-hound dire Thy might o’ermastered, that as yon weak ghosts As forceless thou awhile shouldst range his coasts. Right soon from Hell exempt, with honours meet, Thee gods shall welcome to a heavenly seat, Constellate in their midst, and for the love Of woman, bless with Hebe’s bower above.’ Now Charon brings his boat once more to land, And Orpheus hastes his service to demand ; But with a hateful scowl the ferryman In scornful answer to his suit began, ‘ Back, rash intruder in the realms of dark, For long as I direct the Stygian bark No sprite embodied enters it again,’ He said ; but Orpheus woke a soothing strain, So sweet, so softly wildering the brain, That all his grisly length old Charon slept, Then lightly to his seat the poet stepped, And, singing, o’er the stream with easy oarage swept. Stretched on the further shore the Triple Hound Owns with a troubled voice the magic sound, Whom Orpheus passed, and through the palace-gate Of Hell still presses on with hope elate, Until at last before the dusky throne Of Dis and Proserpine he casts him down. Whom, sternly eyeing, Pluto straight addressed : ‘ Stranger, declare thy name and what thy quest, No Tityos sure, nor with Alcides’ might, Hast thou approached the realms of nether night ; My minions have been mocked with panic error, If thou, effeminate form, hast caused them terror. Speak, but expect no grace.’ Then Proserpine Broke in, ‘ My Lord, ’tis Orpheus the divine, Offspring of Phœbus and Calliope, Who, when the Fleece-Quest neared sweet Sicily, His descant turned till e’en the sea-beach smiled, To bright-eyed blossom by his song beguiled.’ Then Orpheus, with fresh heart, awoke his litany wild. ‘ Not out of impious lust, O Nameless Name, Nor friend for friend, as Herakles hither came, Have I adventured to thine empire dread No might of mine—aywell, this downcast head And feeble limbs provoke thy sharpest scorn— Not his poor prowess hath thy servant borne Thus strangely past thy guardian forms of fear, Charon and Cerberus, and set unscathed here, A Power eternal bears me from above— Now in my need forsake me not, O Love—’ On whom so crying bitterly a great change, With tremor fierce and sighing thick and strange, Smote suddenly—his labouring limbs assume Stature divine, his front immortal bloom, Erect he starts, a sudden halo bright Burns from his brow, beneath whose living light His eyes, bright stars in bluest heaven, shed Ethereal influence through that palace dread, Whilst his sweet voice divine went forth amonst the dead, Singing the lives of those two lovers fond, How dutiful in youth, then how beyond Compare in piety ; and how they loved A long, long love, that but the purer proved By bitter ordeal ; their brief nuptial bliss And latest parting ; last the envenomed kiss Of the fierce serpent, when with flying foot, Scarce had Eurydice foiled the vile pursuit Of Aristæus, and how she failed and fell, And made her death-bed in the asphodel. Here paused the voice awhile ; but soon again Awaking, poured a most enchanting strain Of a fair goddess in Sicilian meads, And Eros charioting those dusky steeds Soft o’er the lily leaves and grasses green, And to the King of Night bearing his beauteous queen. Last the voice sang how that deep love divine Had never quenched in Dis or Proserpine, Or failed in anywise for Eros’ aid, For which dear services that sweet voice prayed Eurydice’s reprieve with its last breath, Then on the darkness dies a most delicious death. The strange song ceased ; but, ere its echo dies, Pluto repents him, and to Minos cries : ‘ Eurydice is free, ’tis thine to fix The law that speeds the lovers o’er the Styx Unto the upper light, whose stern decree Bids Orpheus lead his dear Eurydice, But nor to turn, nor look upon his love Till they have safely reached the realms above.’ Then forth they fare, the living and the dead, He first, she following with painful tread, Till every peril passed and ghostly dread, Upon the very threshold of the day, Fearful lest that dear shape had gone astray, Orpheus looks back, O fool ! for close behind His love still followed with a faithful mind ; But scarce has turned him when that well-known form, Half-spectre still, yet momently more warm With waking life, dissolves with shrill despair And looks of anguish on the nether air. Rose as she sank a universal knell, And clapped in thunder the grim gates of hell Seven days and nights he strove, but strove in vain, Once more to wake that elemental strain, Nourished the while on nought but tearful sorrow ; But with the eighth inexorable morrow He sadly rose, one look of longing cast On Tænarus, and, sighing, Thraceward passed, And three long years, amidst the lost one’s bowers, Wandered, wild warbling to her favourite flowers, Laments more melancholy sweet than ever Echo had answered by the Hebrus’ river. Thus on Eurydice his constant thought Still fixed, no solace of fresh love he sought, Till as he sleeps outworn within that wood Whence she whilere had flown towards the flood, Exasperate each at Orpheus’ slights of love, A Mænad troop steal on him through the grove, Of whom one snatches swiftly from the ground His lute, low-shivering with ill-omened sound. ‘ Io, exultant ! Io ! ’ through the brakes ! The Bacchants shout, and shuddering Orpheus wakes, But helpless quite, as of his lyre forlorn, By the wild women limb from limb is torn. ‘ Eurydice,’ the passing spirit cries ; ‘ Eurydice,’ the troubled vale replies ; ‘ Eurydice,’ afar, each snowy summit sighs. Alfred Perceval Graves.