| |
| “SPEAK, daughter, speak; art speaking now?” | |
| “Seek, mother, seek; art seeking thou | |
| Thy dear-loved Cora?” “Daughter sweet, | |
| I bend unto the earth my ear | |
| To catch the sound of coming feet; | 5 |
| I listen long but only hear | |
| The deep, dark waters running clear.” | |
| “Oh! my great mother, now the heat | |
| Of thy strong heart in thickened beat | |
| Hath reached thy Cora in her gloom, | 10 |
| Is’t well with thee, my Mother—tell?” | |
| “Is’t well with thee, my daughter?” “Well | |
| Or ill I know not; I through fate | |
| Queen of a wide unmeasured tomb | |
| Know not if it be love or hate | 15 |
| That holds me fast, but I am bound | |
| For ever! What if I am found | |
| Of thee, my mother, still the bars | |
| Are round me, and the girdling night | |
| Hath passed within my soul! the stars | 20 |
| Have risen on me, but the light | |
| Hath gone for ever.” “Daughter, tell, | |
| Doth thy dark lord, the King of Hell, | |
| Still love thee?” “Oh, too well, too well | |
| He loves! he binds with unwrought chain. | 25 |
| I was not born to be thy mate, | |
| Aïdes! nor the Queen of pain: | |
| I was thy daughter Cora, vowed | |
| To gladness in thy world above, | |
| I loved the daffodil, I love | 30 |
| All lovely, free and gentle things | |
| Beloved of thee! a sound of wings | |
| Is with me in captivity, | |
| Of birds, and bees, with her that sings | |
| The shrill Cicula, ever gay | 35 |
| In noon’s white heat.” “But, daughter, say | |
| Dost love Aïdes?” “Now, too bold | |
| Thy question, mother; this be told, | |
| I leave him not for love, for gold, | |
| One lot we share, one life we know. | 40 |
| The Lord is he of wealth and rest, | |
| As well as king of death and pain; | |
| He folds me to a kingly breast, | |
| He yields to me a rich domain. | |
| I leave him not for aught above, | 45 |
| For any God’s unsteadfast love | |
| Or fairest mortal-form below; | |
| Thou hast left heaven for earth; and thou | |
| For thy poor Cora’s sake, self-driven, | |
| Hast fled its sunny heights in scorn | 50 |
| And hate, of Zeus unforgiven! | |
| Do mortals love thee?” “Daughter, yea. | |
| They call me their great mother. Corn | |
| And wine I give them when they pray; | |
| Their love for me their little day | 55 |
| Of life lasts out; perchance they knew | |
| It was not love for them that drew | |
| Me down to wander where the vine | |
| Is sweet to me, and breath of kine. | |
| Art listening now, my Cora dear? | 60 |
| Art listening now, my child,—art near? | |
| Oh, that thy kiss upon my cheek | |
| Were warm! thy little hand in mine | |
| Once more! Yet, let me hear thee speak, | |
| And tell me of that garden rare, | 65 |
| And of thy flowers, dark, fiery, sweet, | |
| That never breathe the upper air.” | |
| “Oh, mother, they are fair, are fair; | |
| Large-leaved are they, large-blossomed, frail, | |
| And beautiful. No vexing gale | 70 |
| Comes ever nigh them; fed with fire, | |
| They kindle in a torch-like flame | |
| Half ecstasy, half tender shame | |
| Of bloom that must so soon expire. | |
| But, mother, tell me of the wet | 75 |
| Cool primrose! of the lilac-bough | |
| And its warm gust of rapture, met | |
| In summer days!—art listening yet?” | |
| “Art near me, O my Cora, now?” | |
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