Ancient Tradition from the Island of Lesbos

When Orpheus' limbs by Thracian madness torn On the cold Hebrus' rapid waves were borne, The sever'd head in tuneful measures sigh'd, And murmuring music charm'd the tossing tide. Thus as it roved, complaining and distrest, Mithymnia's bands beheld the approaching guest, Rush'd with indignant grief, and shuddering bore The injured victim to their verdant shore.— With fragrant balm the golden locks they lave, And gently cleanse them from the dripping wave, With purest flowers the polish'd brows entwine, And bathe the quivering lips with generous wine, Restore it kindly to the earth's green breast, And with sad dirges lull its woes to rest.— —Next, from the floating surge his lyre they gain, And reverent, place it in Apollo's fane. Round its slight frame, the freshest garlands bind, And mourn its master to the earth consign'd.— —But o'er its chords when evening breezes sweep, Soft tones arise, and murmuring voices weep, "Eurydice!"—in trembling grief they sigh,— "Eurydice!"—the lofty aisles reply: And through the temple roves in echoes slow, The cherish'd burden of remember'd wo.— The list'ning trains, with sudden awe inspired, With all Apollo's soul of song were fired;— The tuneful god, this gift celestial made To those whose pious rites appeased his votary's shade.