Lemures

The parting genius is with sighing sent; with flower-inwoven tresses torn, the nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.

In consecrated earth and on the holy hearth the Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint; in urns and altars round a drear and dying sound affrights the flamens at their service quaint, and the chill marble seems to sweat, while each peculiar power foregoes his wonted seat.

Peor and Baalim forsake their temples dim, with that twice-battered god of Palestine; and mooned Ashtaroth, heaven's queen and mother both, now sits not girt with taper's holy shine.

The Libyck Hammon shrinks his horn; in vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Tammuz mourn; and sullen Moloch fled hath left in shadows dread his burning idol all of blackest hue; in vain with cymbals' ring they call the grisly king in dismal dance about the furnace blue.

Mephistopheles in advance as Overseer.

Come here! Come here! Come on, come on, ye Lemures, loose-hung creatures Of sinew, ligament, and bone, your knitted semi-natures!

Lemures in chorus.

Without delay are we at hand.

And half 'tis our impression That this concerns a spacious land Whereof we'll have possession.

As for our father's maid, prepare To excavate a lengthened square.

From palace to the narrow house transferred, Such is at last the issue most absurd.

The Lemures digging with mocking gestures.

Some sources describe small woolen dolls representing adults hung for each free person in the household and separate small balls or figures for each enslaved person in the household, a grim little census of every soul under a family's roof offered up symbolically instead of literally.

Mania's connection to household death spirits also links her to the Lemuria, a festival in May dedicated to placating the Lemures, the restless, potentially malevolent dead distinct from the more benevolent Lares.

During Lemuria, the head of a Roman household, the paterfamilias, would rise at midnight, walk barefoot through the house, and throw black beans over his shoulder, repeating a specific phrase that they would use to ward off and expel any lingering harmful spirits, a ritual that was described in detail by the poet Ovid.

If, as Macrobius suggests, the Lemures represent these unsatisfied, hungrier versions of the Lares, then their mother Mania is present here too, even if unnamed in the ritual itself.

Separately, in the records of Arval Brethren, we find offerings made to a figure called simply the Mater Larum, the mother of the Lares, who some ancient and modern scholars identify with Mania and others associate with a similar goddess named Larunda or Lara.

In these rites, she receives a ritual meal of porridge served in a sun-dried earthenware pot over which prayers are being spoken.

Mephistopheles in advance as overseer.

Come here! Come here! Come on! Come on, ye lemures, Loose-hung creatures Of sinew, ligament, and bone, Your knitted semi-natures.

Lemures in chorus.

Without delay are we at hand; And half 'tis our impression That this concerns a spacious land Whereof we'll have possession.

The pointed stakes, we bring them all, The measuring-chain for distance; But we've forgotten why the call Was made for our assistance.

As for our fathers maid, Prepare to excavate a lengthen'd square.

From palace to the narrow house transferr'd, Such is at last the issue most absurd.

Lemures digging with mocking gestures.

Mephistopheles in advance as overseer.

Come here! Come here! Come on, come on, ye lemures, Loose-hung creatures Of sinew, ligament, and bone, Your knitted semi-natures.

Lemures in chorus.

Without delay are we at hand; And half 'tis our impression That this concerns a spacious land Whereof we'll have possession.

The pointed stakes, we bring them all, The measuring-chain for distance; But we've forgotten why the call Was made for our assistance.

Lemure, solo.

Who then hath built the house so ill, with shovel and with spade?

Lemures, chorus.

The lonely mountains o'er And the resounding shore A voice of weeping heard and loud lament: From haunted spring and dale Edged with poplar pale The parting genius is with sighing sent; With flower-enwoven tresses torn The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.

In consecrated earth And on the holy hearth The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plate: In urns and altars round A drear and dying sound Affrights the flamens at their service quaint; And the chill marble seems to sweat, While each peculiar power foregoes his wonted seat.

Peor and Baal-im forsake their temples dim, With that twice-battered God of Palestine; And mooned Ashtaroth, Heaven's queen and mother both, Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine; The Libyć Ammon shrinks his horn; In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammus mourn; And sullen Moloch fled Hath left in shadows dread His burning idol all of blackest hue In vain with cymbals' ring they call The grisly king In dismal dance about the furnace blue And brutish gods of Nile As fast, Isis and Horus And the dog Anubis haste Nor is Osiris seen In Memphian grove or green Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud Nor can he be at rest within his sacred chest Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud In vain with timbreled anthems dark The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshiped ark He feels from Judah's land the dreaded infant's hand The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyne Nor all the gods beside longer dare abide Nought Typhon huge ending in snaky twine Our babe to show his godhead true Can in his swaddling bands control the damned crew So when the sun in bed Curtained with cloudy red Pillows his chin upon an orient wave The flocking shadows pale Troop to th' infernal jail Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave And the yellow-skirted fays Fly after the night steeds Leaving their moon-loved maze But see, the Virgin blest hath laid her babe to rest Time is our tedious song should here have ending Heaven's youngest-teaméd star hath fixed her polished car Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lap attending And all about the courtly stable Bright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable End of On the Morning of Christ's Nativity The Passion by John Milton.

This LibriVox recording is in the public domain.

With flower-inwoven tresses torn, the nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.

In consecrated earth and on the holy hearth the Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plate.

In urns and altars round a drear and dying sound affrights the flamens at their service quaint, and the chill marble seems to sweat while each peculiar power foregoes his wonted seat.

Peor and Baalim forsake their temples dim with that twice-battered God of Palestine.