CUMA (CUMÆ)

CUMÆ

WEEPING he spoke, then gave his fleet the reins, Until at length Euboean Cuma's shores

They reach. Seaward the prows are turned; the

ships

Fast anchored, and the curved sterns fringe the beach.

On the Hesperian shore the warriors leap
With eager haste. Some seek the seminal flame
Hid in the veins of flint; some rob the woods,
The dense abode of beasts, and rivulets
Discover. But the good Æneas seeks

The heights o'er which the great Apollo rules,
And the dread cavern where the Sibyl dwells,
Revered afar, whose soul the Delian god
Inspires with thought and passion, and to her
Reveals the future. And now Dian's groves
They enter, and the temple roofed with gold.
The story goes, that Dædalus, who fled
From Minos, dared to trust himself with wings
Upon the air, and sailed in untried flight
Toward the frigid Arctic, till at length
He hovered over the Cumaan towers.

Here first restored to earth, he gave to thee,
Phoebus, his oar-like wings, a sacred gift,
And built a spacious temple to thy name.

VIRGIL.

Tr. C. P. Cranch.

THE SIBYL'S CAVE AT CUMA

CUMEAN Sibyl! from thy sultry cave

Thy dark eyes level with the sulphurous ground Through the gloom flashing, roll in wrath around. What see they? Coasts perpetual earthquakes

pave

With ruin; piles half buried in the wave;

Wrecks of old times and new in lava drowned;And festive crowds, sin-steeped and myrtlecrowned,

Like idiots dancing on a parent's grave.
And they foresee. Those pallid lips with pain
Suppress their thrilling whispers. Sibyl, spare!
Could Wisdom's voice divide yon sea, or rear
A new Vesuvius from its flaming plane,
Futile the warning! Power despised! forbear
To deepen guilt by counsel breathed in vain!
AUBREY DE VERE.

ISCHIA

INARIMÉ

Vittoria Colonna, after the death of her husband, the Marchese di Pescara, retired to her castle at Ischia (Inarimé), and there wrote the ode upon his death which gained her the title of Divine.

ONCE more, once more, Inarimé,

I see thy purple hills—once more I hear the billows of the bay

Wash the white pebbles on thy shore.

High o'er the sea-surge and the sands,
Like a great galleon wrecked and cast
Ashore by storms, thy castle stands,
A mouldering landmark of the Past.

Upon its terrace-walk I see

A phantom gliding to and fro; It is Colonna,—it is she

Who lived and loved so long ago.

Pescara's beautiful young wife,

The type of perfect womanhood,

Whose life was love, the life of life,

That time and change and death withstood.

For death, that breaks the marriage band In others, only closer pressed

The wedding-ring upon her hand

And closer locked and barred her breast.

She knew the life-long martyrdom,

The weariness, the endless pain
Of waiting for some one to come
Who nevermore would come again.

The shadows of the chestnut-trees,
The odor of the orange blooms,
The song of birds, and, more than these,
The silence of deserted rooms;

The respiration of the sea,

The soft caresses of the air,
All things in nature seemed to be
But ministers of her despair;

Till the o'erburdened heart, so long
Imprisoned in itself, found vent
And voice in one impassioned song
Of inconsolable lament.

Then as the sun, though hidden from sight, Transmutes to gold the leaden mist,

Her life was interfused with light,

From realms that, though unseen, exist.

Inarimé! Inarimé!

Thy castle on the crags above In dust shall crumble and decay, But not the memory of her love.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.