Is not this the cup in which my lord drinketh, and whereby indeed he divineth ?'———— Gen. xl. 6.
RE the shadows of time overstep me too fast;
Ere this tempest-hark! child, 'tis my death-storm-hath passed; Bring thou forth from the shrine where it bideth alone,
The cup of the kingdom that once was our own.
For 'tis linked with the life that still breathes through my breast;
And in hap, good or ill, with my race shall it rest;
It descended to me. I transmit it-to whom?
Thou, if last of our line, hold it thine in the tomb.
'Tis the cup of our fate, child; far, far, from the east,
Kings brought it-our fathers-ere magic had ceased.
Lo! the concave all studded with jewels star-bright,
Each gem* to the orb of its consecrate light.
Here, the horoscope mark of the head of our race;
There, the road of the gods † to their heavenly place:
Here, the sun's living belt past and future unite,
While the wine is as, what? in this globelet of light.
'Tis the cup of our sires; see there, round the rim,
The dates of our lineage, distant and dim.
There is room for one other;-I leave that for thee;
But in mercy, sweet son, mark thou nothing for me.
For the crown of destruction was wrought for my brow;
And the sceptre of ages is wrung from us now;
And the star of our destiny darkens for aye
As it sets in the dawn of thy desolate day.
In this globelet of gold I now poise in my hand,
Let the wine, dearest son, with the lip level stand;
So shall memory fill, from the fountain of truth-
My mind with the years, the bright years of my youth.
With the wine-blood it loves, my fair son, fill it high;
Let it shine like the star-cup‡ that shines in the sky;
While for thee I unloose, ere my spirit depart,
All the whirlwind that raves round the clefts of my heart.
According to the Orphic and other systems these were, to Saturn, Carbuncle and Sapphire; to Jupiter, Sapphire and Amethyst; to Mars, Diamond and Ruby; to the Sun, Topaz and Carbuncle; to Venus, Emerald and Jasper; to Mercury, Chrysolith and Agate; to the Moon, Crystal and Selenite.
† Hâc iter est superis ad magni tecta Tonantis,
Regalemque domum.'-OVID. Met. i. 60.
The constellation Crater,' in Hydra.
'Tis the cup of prediction; nor vainly it spoke;
Ah! who can escape from the fate they invoke?
This goblet, forgotten through many a reign,
I brought back to use, though to use were profane.
For an ancient enchantment in soothsaying verse,
"Twas here graven-denounced on its owner a curse,
If for joy filled, or triumph; at festival placed,
Or for aught save divining:-that curse I erased.
But a ban, in abeyance though never so long,
Still works; retribution writes ruin for wrong.
On the day when betrothal first brought me my bride;
On the day when she first stepped, a Queen, by my side;
In the hour when thou first to my longing wast given;
I pledged in this goblet each earnest of Heaven.
Little thought I, elate, 'mid the banquet of kings,
I should lose, e'er, or ruin those dearest of things.
'Tis the cup of temptation; men told me my throne
Stood firm as my father's: I held it thine own.
I was proud of my heir; my dominions; nor wist
They would fade from his grasp, as a mountainous mist.
I had wealth, I had love; I had honour and fame:
They have left me their value in full-'twas a name;
A name that now seeks in all silence its home,
As a wave dies at sea; dies in luminous foam.
We were kings; we had realms; fought for greater, and won: And high flowed the feast when the foe was fordone.
In this goblet of gold, as the hall it went round,
Was the pride of a people and dynasty drowned.
It was drowned; but years after, it rose from its grave,
Like the seed of the lily, though whelmed 'neath the wave.
We fell; oh! this fortune's a passable thing;
But it's fate that's eternal, and worthy a king.
'Tis the cup of my passion; when cast down to earth;
When hurled from the God-given land of my birth;
As I rushed, in despair, to the succouring sea,
'Twas a slave of my house saved me this,-saved me thee.
While the yell of the million still harrowed mine ear;
While the sack-and the burning-slew all I held dear;
While I saw-but it means not; this soon will be thine,
Sole and silent,-nay, drink! 'tis my funeral wine.
And the blind-headed multitude dreamed for an hour,
That the mantle they mocked was the pall of all power;
And the thoughts of their hearts shot up, sanguine and high,
Like the night's flaring streamers of ominous dye.
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