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1.049_-_The_Chambers

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1.049_-_The_Chambers

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SIMILAR TITLES

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   1 Sri Ramana Maharshi
   1 Sri Aurobindo
   1 Jorge Luis Borges

NEW FULL DB (2.4M)

   14 Elias Lönnrot
   7 T S Eliot
   6 Sri Aurobindo
   5 Andr Aciman
   3 David Guterson
   3 Charles Sangster
   2 William Peter Blatty
   2 William Blake
   2 Victor Hugo
   2 Thomas Harris
   2 John Green
   2 Jeffrey Eugenides
   2 Charlotte Bront
   2 Charles Dickens
   2 Anonymous
   2 Alfred Lord Tennyson

1:Dive deep into the chambers of your heart. Find out the real, infinite 'I'. Rest there peacefully for ever and become identical with the Supreme Self. ~ Sri Ramana Maharshi,

2:The Palace The Palace is not infinite. The walls, the ramparts, the gardens, the labyrinths, the staircases, the terraces, the parapets, the doors, the galleries, the circular or rectangular patios, the cloisters, the intersections, the cisterns, the anterooms, the chambers, the alcoves, the libraries, the attics, the dungeons, the sealed cells and the vaults, are not less in quantity than the grains of sand in the Ganges, but their number has a limit. From the roofs, towards sunset, many people can make out the forges, the workshops, the stables, the boatyards and the huts of the slaves. It is granted to no one to traverse more than an infinitesimal part of the palace. Some know only the cellars. We can take in some faces, some voices, some words, but what we perceive is of the feeblest. Feeble and precious at the same time. The date which the chisel engraves in the tablet, and which is recorded in the parochial registers, is later than our own death; we are already dead when nothing touches us, neither a word nor a yearning nor a memory. I know that I am not dead. ~ Jorge Luis Borges, The Book of Sand,

3:Mother of Dreams ::: Goddess supreme, Mother of Dream, by thy ivory doors when thou standest, Who are they then that come down unto men in thy visions that troop, group upon group, down the path of the shadows slanting? Dream after dream, they flash and they gleam with the flame of the stars still around them; Shadows at thy side in a darkness ride where the wild fires dance, stars glow and glance and the random meteor glistens; There are voices that cry to their kin who reply; voices sweet, at the heart they beat and ravish the soul as it listens. What then are these lands and these golden sands and these seas more radiant than earth can imagine? Who are those that pace by the purple waves that race to the cliff-bound floor of thy jasper shore under skies in which mystery muses, Lapped in moonlight not of our night or plunged in sunshine that is not diurnal? Who are they coming thy Oceans roaming with sails whose strands are not made by hands, an unearthly wind advances? Why do they join in a mystic line with those on the sands linking hands in strange and stately dances? Thou in the air, with a flame in thy hair, the whirl of thy wonders watching, Holdest the night in thy ancient right, Mother divine, hyacinthine, with a girdle of beauty defended. Sworded with fire, attracting desire, thy tenebrous kingdom thou keepest, Starry-sweet, with the moon at thy feet, now hidden now seen the clouds between in the gloom and the drift of thy tresses. Only to those whom thy fancy chose, O thou heart-free, is it given to see thy witchcraft and feel thy caresses. Open the gate where thy children wait in their world of a beauty undarkened. High-throned on a cloud, victorious, proud I have espied Maghavan ride when the armies of wind are behind him; Food has been given for my tasting from heaven and fruit of immortal sweetness; I have drunk wine of the kingdoms divine and have healed the change of music strange from a lyre which our hands cannot master, Doors have swung wide in the chambers of pride where the Gods reside and the Apsaras dance in their circles faster and faster. For thou art she whom we first can see when we pass the bounds of the mortal; There at the gates of the heavenly states thou hast planted thy wand enchanted over the head of the Yogin waving. From thee are the dream and the shadows that seem and the fugitive lights that delude us; Thine is the shade in which visions are made; sped by thy hands from celestial lands come the souls that rejoice for ever. Into thy dream-worlds we pass or look in thy magic glass, then beyond thee we climb out of Space and Time to the peak of divine endeavour. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Collected Poems,

*** WISDOM TROVE ***

1:[L]et light Rise from the chambers of the east, and bring The honey’d dew that cometh on waking day. O radiant morning... ~ william-blake, @wisdomtrove

2:We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us... and we drown. ~ t-s-eliot, @wisdomtrove

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:Accident ruled every corner of the universe except the chambers of the human heart. ~ David Guterson,

2:accident ruled every corner of the universe except the chambers of the human heart. ~ David Guterson,

3:I like the way bones and skin move, and I like seeing how all of the chambers of the heart fit together ~ Jenn Bennett,

4:There is one court whose findings are incontrovertible, and whose sessions are held in the chambers of our own breast. ~ Hosea Ballou,

5:[L]et light Rise from the chambers of the east, and bring The honey'd dew that cometh on waking day. O radiant morning. ~ William Blake,

6:The final battle against intolerance is to be fought - not in the chambers of any legislature - but in the hearts of men. ~ Dwight D Eisenhower,

7:Most artists create foundations where they put their own work. Here I'm not putting my own work. I'm just creating the chambers. ~ Marina Abramovic,

8:We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us... and we drown. ~ T S Eliot,

9:We have lingered in the chambers of the sea / By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown / Till human voices wake us, and we drown. ~ John Green,

10:We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us... and we drown. ~ T S Eliot,

11:the love had grown cold, and in the night he heard it whistling through the chambers of his heart like a lost and gently crying wind. ~ William Peter Blatty,

12:If I held a revolver to your head, James, and pulled the trigger, would it really matter if I did not know that there were not bullets in the chambers? ~ Cassandra Clare,

13:There are times when wisdom cannot be found in the chambers of parliament or the halls of academia but at the unpretentious setting of the kitchen table. ~ E A Bucchianeri,

14:Dive deep into the chambers of your heart. Find out the real, infinite 'I'. Rest there peacefully for ever and become identical with the Supreme Self. ~ Sri Ramana Maharshi,

15:I take a deep breath and sidestep my fear and begin speaking from the place where beauty and bravery meet--within the chambers of a quivering heart. ~ Terry Tempest Williams,

16:As the Apollo 11 astronauts prepared to land on the moon, the Chambers family was engaged in a rather more prosaic adventure: a two-week visit to Rügen Island in East Germany. ~ James Runcie,

17:Ishmael gave himself to the writing of it, and as he did so he understood this, too: that accident ruled every corner of the universe except the chambers of the human heart. ~ David Guterson,

18:Pyramid Texts" is the name now commonly given to the long hieroglyphic inscriptions that are cut upon the walls of the chambers and corridors of five pyramids at Sakkārah. ~ E A Wallis Budge,

19:Its great thorns pierced the canvas, and its heavy fragrance rushed within, enveloping his sleep, becoming one with his breath, and penetrated the chambers of his exploding heart. ~ Patti Smith,

20:From these he had fled into love, but now the love had grown cold, and in the night he heard it whistling through the chambers of his heart like a lost and gently crying wind. ~ William Peter Blatty,

21:We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown. -T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock ~ Megan D Martin,

22:Climate is so full of surprises, it might even surprise us with a hidden stability. Counting on that, though, would be like playing Russian roulette with all the chambers loaded but one. ~ Stewart Brand,

23:Christ is the great masterkey of all the chambers of God: there is no treasure-house of God which will not open and yield up all its wealth to the soul that lives near to Jesus. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

24:Five thousand miles away and I can still feel your turbulence on my skin, Dustin; your grit stuck in the chambers of my heart . . . and all the silence that has followed it. Please write me back. ~ Brandon Shire,

25:Night-Silence The patient stars are shining large and clear; The crescent moon hangs like a tilted bowl; So calm, so still, that I can almost hear Thoughts stirring in the chambers of my soul. ~ Arthur Bayldon,

26:They are such thin things, these lives of ours; cheap got, cheap lost, mere flickers against the ever dark, brief shadows on a wall. This life no more substantial than breath, a light which fills the chambers of our bodies, and is gone. ~ James D Bradley,

27:The philosophy of six thousand years has not searched the chambers and magazines of the soul. In its experiments there has always remained, in the last analysis, a residuum it could not resolve. Man is a stream whose source is hidden. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,

28:keeping all things in their places. Everybody was dressed for a Fancy Ball that was never to leave off. From the Palace of the Tuileries, through Monseigneur and the whole Court, through the Chambers, the Tribunals of Justice, and all society (except the scarecrows), ~ Charles Dickens,

29:Courage is the most important attribute of a lawyer. It is more important than competence or vision. It can never be an elective in any law school. It can never be de-limited, dated or outworn, and it should pervade the heart, the halls of justice and the chambers of the mind. ~ Robert Kennedy,

30:I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown. ~ T S Eliot,

31:If we believe in the rebirth of our civilization... then clearly this renaissance must begin in the chambers of our own hearts... We cannot wait for society to change, or for our institutions to be renewed. We, as individuals, must assume responsibility for our own personal transformation. ~ Georg Feuerstein,

32:How many rooms are there in the chambers of your heart? How many rooms full of memories can you describe like the one I’m going to tell you about. You know how you left him don’t you? The man you were so in love with once. Bing Cherry Silk. Another man left those for you didn’t he? And you put them on, just like I did. ~ Valentine Bonnaire,

33:Well, all speaking is difficult, whether peril attends it or not. Sometimes peril to the body, sometimes a more intimate, miniature, invisible peril to the soul. When to speak at all is a betrayal of something, perhaps a something not even identified, hiding inside the chambers of the body like a scared refugee in a site of war. ~ Sebastian Barry,

34:If love makes you sad, you acquire a little depth, a little compassion. If it makes you happy, you learn how to be joyous. Every relationship should color your soul to a certain degree, don't you think? Every friendship, every love affair - each one should build up the chambers of your heart the way a sea creature builds the chamber of his shell. ~ Sharon Shinn,

35:FloridaMiami: A new administrative policy bans police officers from taking their guns next time they attend a Miami City Commission meeting unless they are assigned to City Hall or handling a call. The Miami Herald reported the new rule follows a protest in February. Officers will now have to check their guns at the door before entering the chambers. ~ Anonymous,

36:With most people suicide is like Russian roulette. Only one chamber has a bullet. With the Lisbon girls, the gun was loaded. A bullet for family abuse. A bullet for genetic predisposition. A bullet for historical malaise. A bullet for inevitable momentum. The two other bullets are impossible to name, but that doesn't mean the chambers were empty. ~ Jeffrey Eugenides,

37:It is hard to live alone in the dark, confusing the day and night; dropping to sleep through sheer weariness at mid-day, and rising restless in the chill of the dawn. At first Dick, on his awakenings, would grope along the corridors of the chambers till he heard some one snore. Then he would know that the day had not yet come, and return wearily to his bedroom. ~ Rudyard Kipling,

38:I'm close to my mother's heart and know its rhythms and sudden turns. And now! It accelerates at her husband's voice, and there's an added sound, a disturbance in the chambers, like the distant rattling of maracas, or gravel shuffled softly in a tin. From down here I'd say it's a semilunar valve whose cusps are snapping to hard and sticking. Or it could be her teeth. ~ Ian McEwan,

39:Solemnly, mournfully, Dealing its dole, The Curfew Bell Is beginning to toll. Cover the embers, And put out the light; Toil comes with morning, And rest with the night. Dark grow the windows, And quenched is the fire; Sound fades into silence,— All footsteps retire. No voice in the chambers, No sound in the hall! Sleep and oblivion Reign over all! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. ~ Various,

40:To blues purists, the Chambers Brothers, Lightnin’ Hopkins—even, at a stretch, Bo Diddley and Chuck Berry—were authentic exponents of an ethnic folk culture, while Bloomfield, Butterfield, and Bishop, talented as they might be, were interpreters. That Butterfield had two black musicians in his band proved he was genuinely linked to the tradition, not that he was genuinely part of it. ~ Elijah Wald,

41:It was the combination of many factors... With most people, suicide is like Russian roulette. Only one chamber has a bullet. With the Lisbon girls, the gun was loaded. A bullet for family abuse. A bullet for genetic predisposition. A bullet for historical malaise. A bullet for inevitable momentum. The other two bullets are impossible to name, but that doesn't mean the chambers were empty. ~ Jeffrey Eugenides,

42:I have not been able to find a single useful institution which has not been founded either by an intensely religious man or by the son of a praying father or a praying mother. I have made the statement before the chambers of commerce of all the largest cities of the country and have asked them to bring forward a case that is an exception to this rule. Thus far, I have not heard of a single one. ~ Roger Babson,

43:The girl had taken a few restless turns to and fro—closely watched meanwhile by her hidden observer—when the heavy bell of St. Paul’s tolled for the death of another day. Midnight had come upon the crowded city. The palace, the night-cellar,* the jail, the madhouse: the chambers of birth and death, of health and sickness, the rigid face of the corpse and the calm sleep of the child: midnight was upon them all. ~ Charles Dickens,

44:It must be remembered that at that epoch the police was not precisely at its ease; the free press embarrassed it; several arbitrary arrests denounced by the newspapers, had echoed even as far as the Chambers, and had rendered the Prefecture timid. Interference with individual liberty was a grave matter. The police agents were afraid of making a mistake; the prefect laid the blame on them; a mistake meant dismissal. ~ Victor Hugo,

45:Not thus, from cursed lightness having disembarked, I look with worry on the chambers dark? Already used to ringing high and raw, Already judged not by the earthly law, I, like a criminal, am being drawn along To place of shame and execution long. I see the glorious city, and the voice most dear, As though there is no secret grave to fear, Where day and night, in heat and in cold bent, I must await the Final Judgment... ~ Anna Akhmatova,

46:I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me. I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown. T.S. Eliot The Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock ~ T S Eliot,

47:I don't know why I resented it so intensely to have them think of me as something newly minted in their private treasury, but it was-I am certain-echoes of that idea that had been sounding in the chambers of my mind from the time we had arrived in Chicago. I wanted to get up and show everyone what a fool he was, to shout at him: I'm a human being, a person - with parents and memories and a history - and I was before you ever wheeled me into that operating room! ~ Daniel Keyes,

48:When we see religion split into so many thousand of sects, and I may say Christianity itself divided into its thousands also, who are disputing, anathematizing and where the laws permit burning and torturing one another for abstractions which no one of them understand, and which are indeed beyond the comprehension of the human mind, into which of the chambers of this Bedlam would a man wish to thrust himself. [Letter to George Logan, 12 November 1816] ~ Thomas Jefferson,

49:There are few of us who have not sometimes wakened before dawn, either after one of those dreamless nights that make one almost enamoured of death, or one of those nights of horror and misshapen joy, when through the chambers of the brain sweep phantoms more terrible than reality itself, and instinct with that vivid life that lurks in all grotesques, and that lends to Gothic art its enduring vitality, this art being, one might fancy, especially the art of those whose minds have been troubled with the malady of reverie. ~ Oscar Wilde,

50:In the vaults of our hearts and brains, danger waits. All the chambers are not lovely, light and high. There are holes in the floor of the mind, like those in a medieval dungeon floor - the stinking oubliettes, named for forgetting, bottle-shaped cells in solid rock with the trapdoor in the top. Nothing escapes from them quietly to ease us. A quake, some betrayal by our safeguards, and sparks of memory fire the noxious gases - things trapped for years fly free, ready to explode in pain and drive us to dangerous behavior. ~ Thomas Harris,

51:In the vaults of our hearts and brains, danger waits. All the chambers are not lovely, light and high. There are holes in the floor of the mind, like those in a medieval dungeon floor - the stinking oubliettes, named for forgetting, bottle-shaped cells in solid rock with the trapdoor in the top. Nothing escapes from them quietly to ease us. A quake, some betrayal by our safeguards, and sparks of memory fire the noxious gases - things trapped for years fly free, ready to explode in pain and drive us to dangerous behavior... ~ Thomas Harris,

52:You attain to knowledge by argument; You attain a craft or skill by practice; If voluntary poverty's your choice, companionship's the way, not hand or tongue. The knowledge of it passes soul to soul, not by way of talk or reams of notes. Its signs are writ upon the seeker's heart, yet still the seeker cannot ken those signs until his heart becomes exposed to light Then God reveals His: Did We not expose? [Qur'an 94:1] for We've exposed the chambers of your breast and placed the exposition in your heart ~ Rumi,

53:The acquired knowledge, which includes acquired thinking or, in Freudian terms, the "ego", opposes the more animal energy-impulses when they try to take control of the skeletal muscles and thus of action. That these libidinal impulses also flow through the chambers of memory in their effort to control human action, kindling the fire of dream fantasies in them — that in the work of the artist they are purified by a stream of knowledge until they finally merge with it — therefore represents a reconciliation between originally antagonistic tendencies of the personality. ~ Norbert Elias,

54:I grow old … I grow old … I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me. I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown. ~ T S Eliot,

55:I grow old … I grow old … I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me. 125 I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown 130 Till human voices wake us, and we drown. ~ T S Eliot,

56:Whether on Ida's shady brow, Or in the chambers of the East, The chambers of the sun, that now From ancient melody have ceas'd; Whether in Heav'n ye wander fair, Or the green corners of the earth, Or the blue regions of the air, Where the melodious winds have birth; Whether on crystal rocks ye rove, Beneath the bosom of the sea Wand'ring in many a coral grove, Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry! How have you left the ancient love That bards of old enjoy'd in you! The languid strings do scarcely move! The sound is forc'd, the notes are few! - "To the Muses ~ William Blake,

57:Simon, speaking as one sovereign prince to another, you have a lot to learn. You've learned one important lesson already, that a ruler must be willing to use force and shed blood to enforce his rule. You have to learn, too, that a ruler cannot afford to be guided by his fears of what people will say about him. Not even what history will say about him. A ruler's only judge is himself." Bentrik slid the transpex visor of his helmet up and down experimentally, checked the chambers of his pistol and carbine. "All that matters to me is the peace and well-being of Marduk. I'll have to talk it over with ... with my only judge. Well, let's go." The ~ H Beam Piper,

58:are “being” and “having” thoroughly inaccurate verbs in the twisted skein of desire, where having someone’s body to touch and being that someone we’re longing to touch are one and the same, just opposite banks on a river that passes from us to them, back to us and over to them again in this perpetual circuit where the chambers of the heart, like the trapdoors of desire, and the wormholes of time, and the false-bottomed drawer we call identity share a beguiling logic according to which the shortest distance between real life and the life unlived, between who we are and what we want, is a twisted staircase designed with the impish cruelty of M. C. Escher. ~ Andr Aciman,

59:Auster Rampant! A larger Argo ploughs our clearer blue! Your Zephyr won no such auroral bride As her I woo! The South is whence the tide Springs downhill to refresh the North and you! To melt your adamantine basements too, When, as your sagas sang, the flaming-eyed Children of Southern Muspel scatter wide Your world, your gods, when Ragnarok is due! Antipodean? Whew! We are the head, The oceanic head, while you, slung low With lands that scrape the floor of heaven, gaze, Par o'er the Bull your odd Europa wed, Up to the Chambers of the South where glow Our pennant stars, our wider Milky Ways! ~ Bernard O'Dowd,

60:Some days he wishes that he could simply empty the chambers of the men, fill the halls instead with women: the short sharp shock of three thousand two hundred mothers. The ones who picked through the supermarket debris for pieces of their dead husbands. The ones who still laundered their gone son's bed sheets by hand. The ones who kept an extra teacup at the end of the table, in case of miracles. The elegant ones, the angry ones, the clever ones, the ones in hairnets, the ones exhausted by all the dying. They carried their sorrow--not with photos under their arms, or with public wailing, or by beating their chests, but with a weariness around the eyes. ~ Colum McCann,

61:Or are "being" and "having" thoroughly inaccurate verbs in the twisted skein of desire, where having someone's body to touch and being that someone we're longing to touch are one and the same, just opposite banks on a river that passes from us to them, back to us and over to them again in this perpetual circuit where the chambers of the heart, like the trapdoors of desire, and the wormholes of time, and the false-bottomed drawer we call identity share a beguiling logic according to which the shortest distance between real life and the life unlived, between who we are and what we want, is a twisted staircase designed with the impish cruelty of M. C. Escher. ~ Andr Aciman,

62:From the very beginning, before times long past, I was stored among His hidden treasures. He had brought me forth from Nothing, but at the end of time I shall be summoned back before the King. My life flowed out of the depth of the spheres which gave me form and order. Divine forces shaped me to be treasured in the chambers of the King. Then He shined his light to bring me forth in hidden well-springs, on the left and on the right. He made me descend the steps leading down from the Pool of Shelah to the garden of the King. [1835.jpg] -- from The Penguin Book of Hebrew Verse, Edited by T. Carmi ~ Nachmanides, The Soul Speaks (from Hymn on the Fate of the Soul) ,

63:Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table. Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question... Oh, do not ask, "What is it?" Let us go and make our visit. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown. ~ John Green,

64:Sonnet-Xx I sat within the temple of her heart, And watched the living Soul as it passed through, Arrayed in pearly vestments, white and pure. The calm, immortal Presence made me start. It searched through all the chambers of her mind With one mild glance of love, and smiled to view The fastnesses of feeling, strong - secure, And safe from all surprise. It sits enshrined And offers incense in her heart, as on An altar sacred unto God. The dawn Of an imperishable love passed through The lattice of my senses, and I, too, Did offer incense in that solemn place A woman's heart made pure and sanctified by Grace. ~ Charles Sangster,

65:Sonnet I sat within the temple of her heart, And watched the living Soul as it passed through, Arrayed in pearly vestments, white and pure. The calm, immortal presence made me start. It searched through all the chambers of her mind With one mild glance of love, and smiled to view The fastnesses of feeling, strong, secure, And safe from all surprise. It sits enshrined And offers incense in her heart, as on An altar sacred unto God. The dawn Of an imperishable love passed through The lattice of my senses, and I, too, Did offer incense in that solemn place– A woman's heart made pure and sanctified by grace. ~ Charles Sangster,

66:I Sat Within The Temple Of Her Heart I sat within the temple of her heart, And watched the living Soul as it passed through, Arrayed in pearly vestments, white and pure. The calm, immortal Presence made me start. It searched through all the chambers of her mind With one mild glance of love, and smiled to view The fastnesses of feeling, strong-secure, And safe from all surprise. It sits enshrined And offers incense in her heart, as on An altar sacred unto God. The dawn Of an imperishable love passed through The lattice of my senses, and I, too, Did offer incense in that solemn placeA woman's heart made pure and sanctified by Grace. ~ Charles Sangster,

67:Conner, what did you write for dinner?" Alex asked. "Tomato soup, mashed potatoes, and rosary chicken," Conner said, and licked his lips. "Rosary chicken?" she asked. "Did you mean rotisserie chicken?" "Oh no," he said fearfully. Fish-Lips Lucy uncovered the largest serving tray, and rather than a delicious roasted chicken, she revealed a live chicken wearing a Catholic rosary. The chicken panicked and fluttered amok around the chambers, squawking loudly and shedding feathers whenever she went. Auburn Sally gave Fish-Lips Lucy a dirty look. "The chicken seems a little undercooked," she said. "Sorry, Captain," Fish-Lips Lucy said. "I knew I was forgetting something. ~ Chris Colfer,

68:As a family of phenomena is mined into, effects uncovered earlier begin to create methods and understandings that help uncover later effects. One effect leads to another, then to another, until eventually a whole vein of related phenomena has been mined into. A family of effects forms a set of chambers connected by seams and passageways, one leading to another. And that is not all. The chambers in one place-one family of effects-lead through passageways to chambers elsewhere-to different families. Quantum phenomena could not have been uncovered without the prior uncovering of the electrical phenomena. Phenomena form a connected system of excavated chambers and passageways. The whole system underground is connected. ~ W Brian Arthur,

69:Did I want to be like him? Did I want to be him? Or did I just want to have him? Or are "being" and "having" thoroughly inaccurate verbs in the twisted skein of desire, where having someone's body to touch and being that someone we're longing to touch are one and the same, just opposite banks on a river that passes from us to them, back to us and over to them again in this perpetual circuit where the chambers of the heart, like the trapdoors of desire, and the wormholes of time, and the false-bottomed drawer we call identity share a beguiling logic according to which the shortest distance between real life and the life unlived, between who we are and what we want, is a twisted staircase designed with the impish cruelty of M.C. Escher. ~ Andr Aciman,

70:Did I want to be like him? Did I want to be him? Or did I just want to have him? Or are "being" and "having" thoroughly inaccurate verbs in the twisted skein of desire, where having someone's body to touch and being that someone we're longing to touch are one and the same, just opposite banks on a river that passes from us to them, back to us and over to them again in this perpetual circuit where the chambers of the heart, like the trapdoors of desire, and the wormholes of time, and the false-bottomed drawer we call identity share a beguiling logic according to which the shortest distance between real life and the life unlived, between who we are and what we want, is a twisted staircase designes with the impish creulty of M.C. Escher. ~ Andr Aciman,

71:Did I want to be like him? Did I want to be him? Or did I just want to have him? Or are “being” and “having” thoroughly inaccurate verbs in the twisted skein of desire, where having someone’s body to touch and being that someone we’re longing to touch are one and the same, just opposite banks on a river that passes from us to them, back to us and over to them again in this perpetual circuit where the chambers of the heart, like the trapdoors of desire, and the wormholes of time, and the false-bottomed drawer we call identity share a beguiling logic according to which the shortest distance between real life and the life unlived, between who we are and what we want, is a twisted staircase designed with the impish cruelty of M. C. Escher. ~ Andr Aciman,

72:The episcopal palace was a huge and beautiful house, built of stone at the beginning of the last century by M. Henri Puget, Doctor of Theology of the Faculty of Paris, Abbe of Simore, who had been Bishop of D—— in 1712. This palace was a genuine seignorial residence. Everything about it had a grand air,—the apartments of the Bishop, the drawing-rooms, the chambers, the principal courtyard, which was very large, with walks encircling it under arcades in the old Florentine fashion, and gardens planted with magnificent trees. In the dining-room, a long and superb gallery which was situated on the ground-floor and opened on the gardens, M. Henri Puget had entertained in state, on July 29, 1714, My Lords Charles Brulart de Genlis, archbishop; Prince ~ Victor Hugo,

73:Dream Song 90: Op. posth. no. 13 In the night-reaches dreamed he of better graces, of liberations, and beloved faces, such as now ere dawn he sings. It would not be easy, accustomed to these things, to give up the old world, but he could try; let it all rest, have a good cry. Let Randall rest, whom your self-torturing cannot restore one instant’s good to, rest: he’s left us now. The panic died and in the panic’s dying so did my old friend. I am headed west also, also, somehow. In the chambers of the end we’ll meet again I will say Randall, he’ll say Pussycat and all will be as before whenas we sought, among the beloved faces, eminence and were dissatisfied with that and needed more. ~ John Berryman,

74:Right now I can see her, this other version of myself. I can see her dragging her dirty fingernails against the chambers of my heart, drawing blood. And if I could reach inside myself and rip her out of me with my own two hands, I would. I would snap her little body in half. I would toss her mangled limbs out to sea. I would be rid of her then, fully and truly, bleached forevermore of her stains on my soul. But she refuses to die. She remains within me, an echo. She haunts the halls of my heart and mind and though I'd gladly murder her for a chance at freedom, I cannot.....So I close my eyes and beg myself to be brave. I take deep breaths. I cannot let the broken girl inside of me inhale all that I've become. I will not shatter, not again, in the wake of an emotional earthquake. ~ Tahereh Mafi,

75:grief. The first is anticipatory. This is hospice grief. Prognostic grief. This is the grief that comes when you drive your dog to the vet for the very last time. This is the death row inmate’s family’s grief. See that pain in the distance? It’s on its way. This is the grief that it is somewhat possible to prepare for. You finish all business. You come to terms. Goodbyes are said and said again. Anguish stalks the chambers of your heart and you steel yourself for the impending presence of an everlasting absence. This grief is an instrument of torture. It squeezes and pulls and presses down. Grief that follows an immediate loss comes on like a stab wound. This is the second kind of grief. It is a cutting pain and it is always a surprise. You never see it coming. It is a grief that can’t be ~ Jill Alexander Essbaum,

76:Our Kindergartner WHEN April’s tinge was on the fringe Of willows near the pool, She clipt their shoots to fashion flutes For children of her school; She sloped the tips to suit the lips Of rosiness around, Drew forth the pith and shaped it with The chambers of the sound. His fancy said: “That way was made The magic pipe of Pan, Which crept so rare upon the air It crazed a listening man.” She took a flute and shrilled salute Of Arcady so clear, He felt the ring and chime of spring Thrilling through his ear; A mystic sense of rapt suspense Mingled strange with all The bubbling frogs, the echoing dogs, The bluebirds’ mating call. So sweet the charm, he felt no harm, Yet there his craze began, With every note her pulsing throat Blew on the pipe of Pan. ~ Edward William Thomson,

77:Wherefore, O ye who fear the Lord, praise Him in the places where ye now are. Change of place does not effect any drawing nearer unto God, but wherever thou mayest be, God will come to thee, if the chambers of thy soul be found of such a sort that He can dwell in thee and walk in thee. But if thou keepest thine inner man full of wicked thoughts, even if thou wast on Golgotha, even if thou wast on the Mount of Olives, even if thou stoodest on the memorial-rock of the Resurrection, thou wilt be as far away from receiving Christ into thyself, as one who has not even begun to confess Him. Therefore, my beloved friend, counsel the brethren to be absent from the body to go to our Lord, rather than to be absent from Cappadocia to go to Palestine; and if any one should adduce the command spoken by our Lord to His disciples that they should not quit Jerusalem, let him be made to understand its true meaning. ~ Philip Schaff,

78:I believe in that goodly mansion, his heart, he kept one little place under the skylights where Lucy might have entertainment, if she chose to call. It was not so handsome as the chambers where he lodged his male friends; it was not like the hall where he accommodated his philanthropy, or the library where he treasured his science, still less did it resemble the pavilion where his marriage feast was splendidly spread; yet, gradually, by long and equal kindness, he proved to me that he kept one little closet, over the door of which was written " Lucy's Room." I kept a place for him, too—a place of which I never took the measure, either by rule or compass: I think it was like the tent of Peri-Banou. All my life long I carried it folded in the hollow of my hand—yet, released from that hold and constriction, I know not but its innate capacity for expanse might have magnified it into a tabernacle for a host. ~ Charlotte Bront,

79:No I am not Prince Hamlet nor was meant to be Am an attendant lord one that will do To swell a progress start a scene or two Advise the prince no doubt an easy tool Deferential glad to be of use Politic cautious and meticulous Full of high sentence but a bit obtuse At times indeed almost ridiculous— Almost at times the Fool. I grow old … I grow old … I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind Do I dare to eat a peach I shall wear white flannel trousers and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me. I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us and we drown. ~ T S Eliot,

80:Graham’s thoughts of me were not entirely those of a frozen indifference, after all. I believe in that goodly mansion, his heart, he kept one little place under the skylights where Lucy might have entertainment, if she chose to call. It was not so handsome as the chambers where he lodged his male friends; it was not like the hall where he accommodated his philanthropy, or the library where he treasured his science, still less did it resemble the pavilion where his marriage feast was splendidly spread; yet, gradually, by long and equal kindness, he proved to me that he kept one little closet, over the door of which was written ‘Lucy’s Room.’ I kept a place for him too — a place of which I never took the measure, either by rule or compass: I think it was like the tent of Peri-Banou. All my life long I carried it folded in the hollow of my hand — yet, released from that hold and constriction, I knew not but its innate capacity for expanse might have magnified it into a tabernacle for a host. ~ Charlotte Bront,

81:Well?” pressed Amar. “Are we going or not?” We? I looked him over. The garland of red carnations hung limply around his neck. He held out his hand like a casual invitation, indifferent to the tumult outside the chambers. How could I trust him? What if he sold me to the enemies? He had no reason to protect me…unless I meant something to him. Something else guided my hands. Images flashing sideways--a different hand, a samite curtain. I was convinced that we owned this single moment, this sphere of breath, this heartbeat shared like a secret. I don’t know what possessed me, but I took the white garland and threw it around his neck. I stared at my hands, not quite believing what they’d done: With one throw, I had married him. Amar lifted the garland of white flowers and grinned. “I hoped you’d choose me.” The right corner of his lips curled faster than the left. It was such a small movement, but I couldn’t look away from it. His smile was disjointed, like he was out of practice. ~ Roshani Chokshi,

82:The Palace The Palace is not infinite. The walls, the ramparts, the gardens, the labyrinths, the staircases, the terraces, the parapets, the doors, the galleries, the circular or rectangular patios, the cloisters, the intersections, the cisterns, the anterooms, the chambers, the alcoves, the libraries, the attics, the dungeons, the sealed cells and the vaults, are not less in quantity than the grains of sand in the Ganges, but their number has a limit. From the roofs, towards sunset, many people can make out the forges, the workshops, the stables, the boatyards and the huts of the slaves. It is granted to no one to traverse more than an infinitesimal part of the palace. Some know only the cellars. We can take in some faces, some voices, some words, but what we perceive is of the feeblest. Feeble and precious at the same time. The date which the chisel engraves in the tablet, and which is recorded in the parochial registers, is later than our own death; we are already dead when nothing touches us, neither a word nor a yearning nor a memory. I know that I am not dead. ~ Jorge Luis Borges, The Book of Sand,

83:Tease I will give you all my keys, You shall be my châtelaine, You shall enter as you please, As you please shall go again. When I hear you jingling through All the chambers of my soul, How I sit and laugh at you In your vain housekeeping rôle. Jealous of the smallest cover, Angry at the simplest door; Well, you anxious, inquisitive lover, Are you pleased with what's in store? You have fingered all my treasures, Have you not, most curiously, Handled all my tools and measures And masculine machinery? Over every single beauty You have had your little rapture; You have slain, as was your duty, Every sin-mouse you could capture. Still you are not satisfied, Still you tremble faint reproach; Challenge me I keep aside Secrets that you may not broach. Maybe yes, and maybe no, Maybe there are secret places, Altars barbarous below, Elsewhere halls of high disgraces. Maybe yes, and maybe no, You may have it as you please, Since I choose to keep you so, Suppliant on your curious knees. 127 ~ David Herbert Lawrence,

84:Lord, where shall I find You? Your place is lofty and secret. And where shall I not find You? The whole earth is full of Your glory! You are found in man's innermost heart, yet You fixed earth's boundaries. You are a strong tower for those who are near, and the trust of those who are far. You are enthroned on the cherubim, yet You dwell in the heights of heaven. You are praised by Your hosts, but even their praise is not worthy of You. The sphere of heaven cannot contain You; how much less the chambers of the Temple! Even when You rise above Your hosts on a throne, high and exalted, You are nearer to them than their own bodies and souls. Their mouths attest that they have no Maker except You. Who shall not fear You? All bear the yoke of Your kingdom. And who shall not call to You? It is You who give them their food. I have sought to come near You, I have called to You with all my heart; and when I went out towards You, I found You coming towards me. I look upon Your wondrous power and awe. Who can say that he has not seen You? The heavens and their legions proclaim Your dread -- without a sound. [1835.jpg] -- from The Penguin Book of Hebrew Verse, Edited by T. Carmi ~ Judah Halevi, Lord, Where Shall I Find You? ,

85:Preparations YET if His Majesty, our sovereign lord, Should of his own accord Friendly himself invite, And say 'I'll be your guest to-morrow night,' How should we stir ourselves, call and command All hands to work! 'Let no man idle stand! 'Set me fine Spanish tables in the hall; See they be fitted all; Let there be room to eat And order taken that there want no meat. See every sconce and candlestick made bright, That without tapers they may give a light. 'Look to the presence: are the carpets spread, The dazie o'er the head, The cushions in the chairs, And all the candles lighted on the stairs? Perfume the chambers, and in any case Let each man give attendance in his place!' Thus, if a king were coming, would we do; And 'twere good reason too; For 'tis a duteous thing To show all honour to an earthly king, And after all our travail and our cost, So he be pleased, to think no labour lost. But at the coming of the King of Heaven All 's set at six and seven; We wallow in our sin, Christ cannot find a chamber in the inn. We entertain Him always like a stranger, And, as at first, still lodge Him in the manger. ~ Anonymous,

86:Song Of The Captive Trojan Maiden Breeze, breeze of the sea, Who the wave-passers bearest home Swift and unwearied o'er the billows' foam, Ah! whither lead'st thou me Grief-worn? whose house must have This thing - a captured slave? Or shall I reach a harbor strand Dorian of Phthian, where they tell Apidanos o'erstreams the land, Father of fairest founts that well? Or else some island shore, Urged, wretched, on my way with brine-splashed oar, To lead a life of weary sorrow there, Where the first palm bare fruit, Where the bay raised each sacred shoot To form a bower, Leto's protection in her trial of hour? Or shall I, like Delian maiden, Sing of Artemis divine, Golden-filleted, bow-laden? Or at Pallas' sacred shrine The steeds to her fair chariot yoke To bear her, clad in saffron cloak, And braid the silken garments thin With saffron flowerets woven in? Or shall I sing the Titan brood, Whom Zeus, great Kronos' son, Poured twice-forged fire upon, And did to lasting sleep by that fell bolt and rude? Ah, sorrow for the young, For those whose life was long, For all the land, A heap of smoking ruin, Spear-pierced to her undoing 22 By Argive hand! And I shall be a slave Within a country not my own, Leaving the land that Europe has o'erthrown, 'Scaping the chambers of the grave. ~ Euripides,

87:But despite the Secret Service–like behavior, and the regal nomenclature, there’s nothing hierarchical about the way an ant colony does its thinking. “Although queen is a term that reminds us of human political systems,” Gordon explains, “the queen is not an authority figure. She lays eggs and is fed and cared for by the workers. She does not decide which worker does what. In a harvester ant colony, many feet of intricate tunnels and chambers and thousands of ants separate the queen, surrounded by interior workers, from the ants working outside the nest and using only the chambers near the surface. It would be physically impossible for the queen to direct every worker’s decision about which task to perform and when.” The harvester ants that carry the queen off to her escape hatch do so not because they’ve been ordered to by their leader; they do it because the queen ant is responsible for giving birth to all the members of the colony, and so it’s in the colony’s best interest—and the colony’s gene pool—to keep the queen safe. Their genes instruct them to protect their mother, the same way their genes instruct them to forage for food. In other words, the matriarch doesn’t train her servants to protect her, evolution does. Popular culture trades in Stalinist ant stereotypes—witness the authoritarian colony regime in the animated film Antz—but in fact, colonies are the exact opposite of command economies. While they are capable of remarkably coordinated feats of task allocation, there are no Five-Year Plans in the ant kingdom. The colonies that Gordon studies display some of nature’s most mesmerizing decentralized behavior: intelligence and personality and learning that emerges from the bottom up. ~ Steven Johnson,

88:Individuality Ah yes, I love you, and with all my heart; Just as a weaker woman loves her own, Better than I love my beloved art, Which, until you came, reigned royally, alone, My king, my master. Since I saw your face I have dethroned it, and you hold that place. I am as weak as other women are – Your frown can make the whole world like a tomb Your smile shines brighter than the sun, by far; Sometimes I think there is not space or room In all the earth for such a love as mine, And it soars up to breathe in realms divine. I know that your desertion or neglect Could break my heart, as women’s hearts do break; If my wan days had nothing to expect From your love’s splendour, all joy would forsake The chambers of my soul. Yes this is true. And yet, and yet – one thing I keep from you. There is a subtle part of me, which went Into my long pursued and worshipped art; Though your great love fills me with such content, No other love finds room now in my heart. Yet that rare essence was my art’s alone. Thank God, you cannot grasp it; ‘tis mine own. Thank God, I say, for while I love you so, With that vast love, as passionate as tender, I feel an exultation as I know I have not made you a complete surrender. Here is my body; bruise it, if you will, And break my heart; I have that something still. You cannot grasp it. Seize the breath of morn, Or bind the perfume of the rose as well. God put it in my soul when I was born; It is not mine to give away, or sell, 335 Or offer up on any alter shrine. It was my art’s; and when not art’s, ‘tis mine. For Love’s sake, I can put the art away, Or anything which stands ‘twixt me and you, But that strange essence God bestowed, I say, To permeate the work He gave to do: And it cannot be drained, dissolved, or sent Through any channel, save the one He meant. ~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,

89:The Lover To His Lass Crown her with stars, this angel of our planet, Cover her with morning, this thing of pure delight, Mantle her with midnight till a mortal cannot See her for the garments of the light and the night. How far I wandered, worlds away and far away, Heard a voice but knew it not in the clear cold, Many a wide circle and many a wan star away, Dwelling in the chambers where the worlds were growing old. Saw them growing old and heard them falling Like ripe fruit when a tree is in the wind; Saw the seraphs gather them, their clarion voices calling In rounds of cheering labour till the orchard floor was thinned. Saw a whole universe turn to its setting, Old and cold and weary, gray and cold as death, But before mine eyes were veiled in forgetting, Something always caught my soul and held its breath. Caught it up and held it, now I know the reason; Governed it and soothed it, now I know why; Nurtured it and trained it and kept it for the season When new worlds should blossom in the springtime sky. How have they blossomed, see the sky is like a garden! Ah! how fresh the worlds look hanging on the slope! Pluck one and wear it, Love, and ask the Gardener's pardon, Pluck out the Pleiads like a spray of heliotrope. See Aldebaran like a red rose clamber, See brave Betelgeux pranked with poppy light; This young earth must float in floods of amber Glowing with a crocus flame in the dells of night. O you cannot cheat the soul of an inborn ambition, 'Tis a naked viewless thing living in its thought, But it mounts through errors and by valleys of contrition Till it conquers destiny and finds the thing it sought. 121 Crown her with stars, this angel of our planet, Cover her with morning, this thing of pure delight, Mantle her with midnight till a mortal cannot See her for the garments of the light and the night. ~ Duncan Campbell Scott,

90:She left me at the silent time When the moon had ceased to climb The azure path of Heavens steep, And like an albatross asleep, Balanced on her wings of light, Hovered in the purple night, Ere she sought her ocean nest In the chambers of the West. She left me, and I stayed alone Thinking over every tone Which, though silent to the ear, The enchanted heart could hear, Like notes which die when born, but still Haunt the echoes of the hill; And feeling ever--oh, too much!-- The soft vibration of her touch, As if her gentle hand, even now, Lightly trembled on my brow; And thus, although she absent were, Memory gave me all of her That even Fancy dares to claim:-- Her presence had made weak and tame All passions, and I lived alone In the time which is our own; The past and future were forgot, As they had been, and would be, not. But soon, the guardian angel gone, The daemon reassumed his throne In my faint heart. I dare not speak My thoughts, but thus disturbed and weak I sat and saw the vessels glide Over the ocean bright and wide, Like spirit-winged chariots sent Oer some serenest element For ministrations strange and far; As if to some Elysian star Sailed for drink to medicine Such sweet and bitter pain as mine. And the wind that winged their flight From the land came fresh and light, And the scent of winged flowers, And the coolness of the hours Of dew, and sweet warmth left by day, Were scattered oer the twinkling bay. And the fisher with his lamp And spear about the low rocks damp Crept, and struck the fish which came To worship the delusive flame. Too happy they, whose pleasure sought Extinguishes all sense and thought Of the regret that pleasure leaves, Destroying life alone, not peace! Written in 1822 and probably addressed to Jane Williams. Edward and Jane Williams became friends of the Shelleys at Pisa and lived with them in Lerici in 1822. Shelley liked to hear Jane sing and presented her with a guitar. A number of his last lyrics (e.g., "To Jane") are addressed to her. First published by Richard Garnett in Macmillan's Magazine (1862). ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Lines Written in the Bay of Lerici ,

91:David started up the wheeled stairs to the upper floors with his sword at the ready. He expected to encounter Blackadder warriors, protecting the lady of the castle. But there were none on the stairs and none guarding the door on the first floor. Damn it. She must have escaped. He gritted his teeth as he envisioned the lady’s guards leading her through the tunnel. He was about to open the chamber door to make sure it was empty when Brian, one of his best men, came down the stairs. “Laird, I checked all the chambers while ye were in the hall,” he said. David’s jaw ached from clenching it. “There’s one door on the floor just above us that wouldn’t open with the latch,” Brian said. “Shall I break it down?” David waved him aside and pulled the ax from his belt as he raced up the stairs. “Open it!” he shouted and pounded on the door. He did not wait. She could be escaping through a secret door this very moment. Three hard whacks with his ax, and the door split. He kicked it until it swung open, then stepped through. At his first sight of the woman, his feet became fixed to the floor. He felt strange, and his vision was distorted, as if as if he had swallowed a magical potion that narrowed his sight. He could see nothing in the room but her. She was extraordinarily lovely, with violet eyes, pale skin, and shining black hair. But there was something about her, something beyond her beauty, that held him captive. She was young, much younger than he expected, and her features and form were delicate, in marked contrast to the violent emotion in her eyes. David knew to the depths of his soul that a brute like him should not be the man to claim this fragile flower, even while the word mine beat in his head like a drum. He had no notion of how long he stood staring at her before he became aware that she held a sword. It was longer still before he noticed the two wee lasses peeking out from behind her like frightened kittens. Anger boiled up in his chest. Every Blackadder man in the castle who could still draw breath should have been here, standing between him and their lady. Instead, she faced him alone with a sword she could barely lift with both hands. It was a brave, but ridiculous gesture. There was no defense against him. ~ Margaret Mallory,

92:Do not fear the ghosts in this house; they are the least of your worries. Personally I find the noises they make reassuring. The creaks and footsteps in the night, their little tricks of hiding things, or moving them, I find endearing, not upsettling. It makes the place feel so much more like a home. Inhabited. Apart from ghosts nothing lives here for long. No cats no mice, no flies, no dreams, no bats. Two days ago I saw a butterfly, a monarch I believe, which danced from room to room and perched on walls and waited near to me. There are no flowers in this empty place, and, scared the butterfly would starve, I forced a window wide, cupped my two hands around her fluttering self, feeling her wings kiss my palms so gentle, and put her out, and watched her fly away. I've little patience with the seasons here, but your arrival eased this winter's chill. Please, wander round. Explore it all you wish. I've broken with tradition on some points. If there is one locked room here, you'll never know. You'll not find in the cellar's fireplace old bones or hair. You'll find no blood. Regard: just tools, a washing-machine, a drier, a water-heater, and a chain of keys. Nothing that can alarm you. Nothing dark. I may be grim, perhaps, but only just as grim as any man who suffered such affairs. Misfortune, carelessness or pain, what matters is the loss. You'll see the heartbreak linger in my eyes, and dream of making me forget what came before you walked into the hallway of this house. Bringing a little summer in your glance, and with your smile. While you are here, of course, you will hear the ghosts, always a room away, and you may wake beside me in the night, knowing that there's a space without a door, knowing that there's a place that's locked but isn't there. Hearing them scuffle, echo, thump and pound. If you are wise you'll run into the night, fluttering away into the cold, wearing perhaps the laciest of shifts. The lane's hard flints will cut your feet all bloody as you run, so, if I wished, I could just follow you, tasting the blood and oceans of your tears. I'll wait instead, here in my private place, and soon I'll put a candle in the window, love, to light your way back home. The world flutters like insects. I think this is how I shall remember you, my head between the white swell of your breasts, listening to the chambers of your heart. ~ Neil Gaiman,

93:I have sometimes thought that the mere hearing of those songs would do more to impress some minds with the horrible character of slavery, than the reading of whole volumes of philosophy on the subject could do. I did not, when a slave, understand the deep meaning of those rude and apparently incoherent songs. I was myself within the circle; so that I neither saw nor heard as those without might see and hear. They told a tale of woe which was then altogether beyond my feeble comprehension; they were tones loud, long, and deep; they breathed the prayer and complaint of souls boiling over with bitterest anguish. Every tone was a testimony against slavery, and a prayer to God for deliverance from chains. The hearing of those wild notes always depressed my spirit, and filled me with ineffable sadness. I have frequently found myself in tears while hearing them. The mere recurrence to those songs, even now, afflicts me; and while I am writing these lines, an expression of feeling has already found its way down my cheek. To those songs I trace my first glimmering conception of the dehumanizing character of slavery. I can never get rid of that conception. Those songs still follow me, to deepen my hatred of slavery, and quicken my sympathies for my brethren in bonds. If any one wishes to be impressed with the soul-killing effects of slavery, let him go to Colonel Lloyd's plantation, and, on allowance-day, place himself in the deep pine woods, and there let him, in silence, analyze the sounds that shall pass through the chambers of his soul, - and if he is not thus impressed, it will only be because "there is no flesh in his obdurate heart." I have often been utterly astonished, since I came to the north, to find persons who could speak of the singing, among slaves, as evidence of their contentment and happiness. It is impossible to conceive of a greater mistake. Slaves sing most when they are most unhappy. The songs of the slave represent the sorrows of his heart; and he is relieved by them, only as an aching heart is relieved by its tears. At least, such is my experience. I have often sung to drown my sorrow, but seldom to express my happiness. Crying for joy, and singing for joy, were alike uncommon to me while in the jaws of slavery. The singing of a man cast away upon a desolate island might be as appropriately considered as evidence of contentment and happiness, as the singing of a slave; the songs of the one and of the other are prompted by the same emotion. ~ Frederick Douglass,

94:Mother of Dreams ::: Goddess supreme, Mother of Dream, by thy ivory doors when thou standest, Who are they then that come down unto men in thy visions that troop, group upon group, down the path of the shadows slanting? Dream after dream, they flash and they gleam with the flame of the stars still around them; Shadows at thy side in a darkness ride where the wild fires dance, stars glow and glance and the random meteor glistens; There are voices that cry to their kin who reply; voices sweet, at the heart they beat and ravish the soul as it listens. What then are these lands and these golden sands and these seas more radiant than earth can imagine? Who are those that pace by the purple waves that race to the cliff-bound floor of thy jasper shore under skies in which mystery muses, Lapped in moonlight not of our night or plunged in sunshine that is not diurnal? Who are they coming thy Oceans roaming with sails whose strands are not made by hands, an unearthly wind advances? Why do they join in a mystic line with those on the sands linking hands in strange and stately dances? Thou in the air, with a flame in thy hair, the whirl of thy wonders watching, Holdest the night in thy ancient right, Mother divine, hyacinthine, with a girdle of beauty defended. Sworded with fire, attracting desire, thy tenebrous kingdom thou keepest, Starry-sweet, with the moon at thy feet, now hidden now seen the clouds between in the gloom and the drift of thy tresses. Only to those whom thy fancy chose, O thou heart-free, is it given to see thy witchcraft and feel thy caresses. Open the gate where thy children wait in their world of a beauty undarkened. High-throned on a cloud, victorious, proud I have espied Maghavan ride when the armies of wind are behind him; Food has been given for my tasting from heaven and fruit of immortal sweetness; I have drunk wine of the kingdoms divine and have healed the change of music strange from a lyre which our hands cannot master, Doors have swung wide in the chambers of pride where the Gods reside and the Apsaras dance in their circles faster and faster. For thou art she whom we first can see when we pass the bounds of the mortal; There at the gates of the heavenly states thou hast planted thy wand enchanted over the head of the Yogin waving. From thee are the dream and the shadows that seem and the fugitive lights that delude us; Thine is the shade in which visions are made; sped by thy hands from celestial lands come the souls that rejoice for ever. Into thy dream-worlds we pass or look in thy magic glass, then beyond thee we climb out of Space and Time to the peak of divine endeavour. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Collected Poems,

95:author class:Sri Aurobindo Mother of Dreams Goddess supreme, Mother of Dream, by thy ivory doors when thou standest, Who are they then that come down unto men in thy visions that troop, group upon group, down the path of the shadows slanting? Dream after dream, they flash and they gleam with the flame of the stars still around them; Shadows at thy side in a darkness ride where the wild fires dance, stars glow and glance and the random meteor glistens; There are voices that cry to their kin who reply; voices sweet, at the heart they beat and ravish the soul as it listens. What then are these lands and these golden sands and these seas more radiant than earth can imagine? Who are those that pace by the purple waves that race to the cliff-bound floor of thy jasper shore under skies in which mystery muses, Lapped in moonlight not of our night or plunged in sunshine that is not diurnal? Who are they coming thy Oceans roaming with sails whose strands are not made by hands, an unearthly wind advances? Why do they join in a mystic line with those on the sands linking hands in strange and stately dances? Thou in the air, with a flame in thy hair, the whirl of thy wonders watching, Holdest the night in thy ancient right, Mother divine, hyacinthine, with a girdle of beauty defended. Sworded with fire, attracting desire, thy tenebrous kingdom thou keepest, Starry-sweet, with the moon at thy feet, now hidden now seen the clouds between in the gloom and the drift of thy tresses. Only to those whom thy fancy chose, O thou heart-free, is it given to see thy witchcraft and feel thy caresses. Open the gate where thy children wait in their world of a beauty undarkened. High-throned on a cloud, victorious, proud I have espied Maghavan ride when the armies of wind are behind him; Food has been given for my tasting from heaven and fruit of immortal sweetness; I have drunk wine of the kingdoms divine and have healed the change of music strange from a lyre which our hands cannot master, Doors have swung wide in the chambers of pride where the Gods reside and the Apsaras dance in their circles faster and faster. For thou art she whom we first can see when we pass the bounds of the mortal; There at the gates of the heavenly states thou hast planted thy wand enchanted over the head of the Yogin waving. From thee are the dream and the shadows that seem and the fugitive lights that delude us; Thine is the shade in which visions are made; sped by thy hands from celestial lands come the souls that rejoice for ever. Into thy dream-worlds we pass or look in thy magic glass, then beyond thee we climb out of Space and Time to the peak of divine endeavour. next: 4.2.02 - An Image ~ oem, - The Mother of Dreams ,

96:Mariana WITH BLACKEST moss the flower-plots Were thickly crusted, one and all: The rusted nails fell from the knots That held the pear to the gable-wall. The broken sheds look'd sad and strange: Unlifted was the clinking latch; Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!" Her tears fell with the dews at even; Her tears fell ere the dews were dried; She could not look on the sweet heaven, Either at morn or eventide. After the flitting of the bats, When thickest dark did trance the sky, She drew her casement-curtain by, And glanced athwart the glooming flats. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!" Upon the middle of the night, Waking she heard the night-fowl crow: The cock sung out an hour ere light: From the dark fen the oxen's low Came to her: without hope of change, In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn, Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn About the lonely moated grange. She only said, "The day is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!" 348 About a stone-cast from the wall A sluice with blacken'd waters slept, And o'er it many, round and small, The cluster'd marish-mosses crept. Hard by a poplar shook alway, All silver-green with gnarled bark: For leagues no other tree did mark The level waste, the rounding gray. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!" And ever when the moon was low, And the shrill winds were up and away In the white curtain, to and fro, She saw the gusty shadow sway. But when the moon was very low, And wild winds bound within their cell, The shadow of the poplar fell Upon her bed, across her brow. She only said, "The night is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!" All day within the dreamy house, The doors upon their hinges creak'd; The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd, Or from the crevice peer'd about. Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors, Old footsteps trod the upper floors, Old voices call'd her from without. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!" The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, The slow clock ticking, and the sound Which to the wooing wind aloof 349 The poplar made, did all confound Her sense; but most she loath'd the hour When the thick-moted sunbeam lay Athwart the chambers, and the day Was sloping toward his western bower. Then, said she, "I am very dreary, He will not come," she said; She wept, "I am aweary, aweary, O God, that I were dead!" ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

97:Fra Pedro Golden lights and lengthening shadows, Flings the splendid sun declining, O'er the monastery garden Rich in flower, fruit and foliage. Through the avenue of nut trees, Pace two grave and ghostly friars, Snowy white their gowns and girdles, Black as night their cowls and mantles. Lithe and ferret-eyed the younger, Black his scapular denoting A lay brother; his companion Large, imperious, towers above him. 'T is the abbot, great Fra Pedro, Famous through all Saragossa For his quenchless zeal in crushing Heresy amidst his townfolk. Handsome still with hood and tonsure, E'en as when the boy Pedrillo, Insolent with youth and beauty, Who reviled the gentle Rabbi. Lo, the level sun strikes sparkles From his dark eyes brightly flashing. Stern his voice: 'These too shall perish. I have vowed extermination. 'Tell not me of skill or virtue, Filial love or woman's beautyJews are Jews, as serpents serpents, In themselves abomination.' Earnestly the other pleaded, 'If my zeal, thrice reverend master, E'er afforded thee assistance, Serving thee as flesh serves spirit, 80 'Hounding, scourging, flaying, burning, Casting into chains or exile, At thy bidding these vile wretches, Hear and heed me now, my master. 'These be nowise like their brethren, Ben Jehudah is accounted Saragossa's first physician, Loved by colleague as by patient. 'And his daughter Donna Zara Is our city's pearl of beauty, Like the clusters of the vineyard Droop the ringlets o'er her temples. 'Like the moon in starry heavens Shines her face among her people, And her form hath all the languor, Grace and glamour of the palm-tree. 'Well thou knowest, thrice reverend master, This is not their first affliction, Was it not our Holy Office Whose bribed menials fired their dwelling? 'Ere dawn broke, the smoke ascended, Choked the stairways, filled the chambers, Waked the household to the terror Of the flaming death that threatened. 'Then the poor bed-ridden mother Knew her hour had come; two daughters, Twinned in form, and mind, and spirit, And their father-who would save them? 'Towards her door sprang Ben Jehudah, Donna Zara flew behind him Round his neck her white arms wreathing, Drew him from the burning chamber. 'There within, her sister Zillah 81 Stirred no limb to shun her torture, Held her mother's hand and kissed her, Saying, 'We will go together.' 'This the outer throng could witness, As the flames enwound the dwelling, Like a glory they illumined Awfully the martyred daughter. 'Closer, fiercer, round they gathered, Not a natural cry escaped her, Helpless clung to her her mother, Hand in hand they went together. 'Since that 'Act of Faith' three winters Have rolled by, yet on the forehead Of Jehudah is imprinted Still the horror of that morning. 'Saragossa hath respected His false creed; a man of sorrows, He hath walked secure among us, And his art repays our sufferance.' Thus he spoke and ceased. The Abbot Lent him an impatient hearing, Then outbroke with angry accent, 'We have borne three years, thou sayest? ''T is enough; my vow is sacred. These shall perish with their brethren. Hark ye! In my veins' pure current Were a single drop found Jewish, 'I would shrink not from outpouring All my life blood, but to purge it. Shall I gentler prove to others? Mercy would be sacrilegious. 'Ne'er again at thy soul's peril, Speak to me of Jewish beauty, Jewish skill, or Jewish virtue. 82 I have said. Do thou remember.' Down behind the purple hillside Dropped the sun; above the garden Rang the Angelus' clear cadence Summoning the monks to vespers. ~ Emma Lazarus,

98:Yes! even I was in Arcadia born, And, in mine infant ears, A vow of rapture was by Nature sworn; Yes! even I was in Arcadia born, And yet my short spring gave me onlytears! Once blooms, and only once, life's youthful May; For me its bloom hath gone. The silent GodO brethren, weep to-day The silent God hath quenched my torch's ray, And the vain dream hath flown. Upon thy darksome bridge, Eternity, I stand e'en now, dread thought! Take, then, these joy-credentials back from me! Unopened I return them now to thee, Of happiness, alas, know naught! Before Thy throne my mournful cries I vent, Thou Judge, concealed from view! To yonder star a joyous saying went With judgment's scales to rule us thou art sent, And call'st thyself Requiter, too! Here,say they,terrors on the bad alight, And joys to greet the virtuous spring. The bosom's windings thou'lt expose to sight, Riddle of Providence wilt solve aright, And reckon with the suffering! Here to the exile be a home outspread, Here end the meek man's thorny path of strife! A godlike child, whose name was Truth, they said, Known but to few, from whom the many fled, Restrained the ardent bridle of my life. "It shall be thine another life to live, Thy youth to me surrender! To thee this surety only can I give" I took the surety in that life to live; And gave to her each youthful joy so tender. "Give me the woman precious to thy heart, Give up to me thy Laura! Beyond the grave will usury pay the smart." I wept aloud, and from my bleeding heart With resignation tore her. "The obligation's drawn upon the dead!" Thus laughed the world in scorn; "The lying one, in league with despots dread, For truth, a phantom palmed on thee instead, Thou'lt be no more, when once this dream has gone!" Shamelessly scoffed the mockers' serpent-band "A dream that but prescription can admit Dost dread? Where now thy God's protecting hand, (The sick world's Saviour with such cunning planned), Borrowed by human need of human wit?" "What future is't that graves to us reveal? What the eternity of thy discourse? Honored because dark veils its form conceal, The giant-shadows of the awe we feel, Viewed in the hollow mirror of remorse!" "An image false of shapes of living mould, (Time's very mummy, she!) Whom only Hope's sweet balm hath power to hold Within the chambers of the grave so cold, Thy fever calls this immortality!" "For empty hopes,corruption gives the lie Didst thou exchange what thou hadst surely done? Six thousand years sped death in silence by, His corpse from out the grave e'er mounted high, That mention made of the Requiting One?" I saw time fly to reach thy distant shore, I saw fair Nature lie A shrivelled corpse behind him evermore, No dead from out the grave then sought to soar Yet in that Oath divine still trusted I. My ev'ry joy to thee I've sacrificed, I throw me now before thy judgment-throne; The many's scorn with boldness I've despised, Onlythy gifts by me were ever prized, I ask my wages now, Requiting One! "With equal love I love each child of mine!" A genius hid from sight exclaimed. "Two flowers," he cried, "ye mortals, mark the sign, Two flowers to greet the Searcher wise entwine, Hope and Enjoyment they are named." "Who of these flowers plucks one, let him ne'er yearn To touch the other sister's bloom. Let him enjoy, who has no faith; eterne As earth, this truth!Abstain, who faith can learn! The world's long story is the world's own doom." "Hope thou hast felt,thy wages, then, are paid; Thy faith 'twas formed the rapture pledged to thee. Thou might'st have of the wise inquiry made, The minutes thou neglectest, as they fade, Are given back by no eternity!" ~ Friedrich Schiller, Resignation ,

99:From Omar Khayyam A BOOK of Verses underneath the Bough, A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness-O, Wilderness were Paradise enow! Some for the Glories of This World; and some Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come; Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go, Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum! Look to the blowing Rose about us--'Lo, Laughing,' she says, 'into the world I blow, At once the silken tassel of my Purse Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw.' And those who husbanded the Golden grain And those who flung it to the winds like Rain Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd As, buried once, Men want dug up again. II Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day, How Sultán after Sultán with his Pomp Abode his destined Hour, and went his way. They say the Lion and the Lizard keep The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep: And Bahrám, that great Hunter--the wild Ass Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep. I sometimes think that never blows so red The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled; That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head. 43 And this reviving Herb whose tender Green Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean-Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen! Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears TO-DAY of past Regrets and Future Fears: To-morrow!--Why, To-morrow I may be Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n thousand Years. For some we loved, the loveliest and the best That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest, Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before, And one by one crept silently to rest. And we, that now make merry in the Room They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom, Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth Descend--ourselves to make a Couch--for whom? Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, Before we too into the Dust descend; Dust unto Dust, and under Dust to lie, Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and--sans End! III Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide, And wash my Body whence the Life has died, And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf, By some not unfrequented Garden-side.... Yon rising Moon that looks for us again-How oft hereafter will she wax and wane; How oft hereafter rising look or us Through this same Garden--and for one in vain! And when like her O Sákí, you shall pass Among the Guests star-scatter'd on the Grass, And in your joyous errand reach the spot Where I made One--turn down an empty Glass! 44 WITH blackest moss the flower-plots Were thickly crusted, one and all: The rusted nails fell from the knots That held the pear to the gable-wall. The broken sheds look'd sad and strange: Unlifted was the clinking latch; Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange. She only said, 'My life is dreary, He cometh not,' she said; She said, 'I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!' Her tears fell with the dews at even; Her tears fell ere the dews were dried; She could not look on the sweet heaven, Either at morn or eventide. After the flitting of the bats, When thickest dark did trance the sky, She drew her casement-curtain by, And glanced athwart the glooming flats. She only said, 'The night is dreary, He cometh not,' she said; She said, 'I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!' Upon the middle of the night, Waking she heard the night-fowl crow: The cock sung out an hour ere light: From the dark fen the oxen's low Came to her: without hope of change, In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn, Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn About the lonely moated grange. She only said, 'The day is dreary, He cometh not,' she said; She said, 'I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!' About a stone-cast from the wall A sluice with blacken'd waters slept, And o'er it many, round and small, 45 The cluster'd marish-mosses crept. Hard by a poplar shook alway, All silver-green with gnarled bark: For leagues no other tree did mark The level waste, the rounding gray. She only said, 'My life is dreary, He cometh not,' she said; She said, 'I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!' And ever when the moon was low, And the shrill winds were up and away, In the white curtain, to and fro, She saw the gusty shadow sway. But when the moon was very low, And wild winds bound within their cell, The shadow of the poplar fell Upon her bed, across her brow. She only said, 'The night is dreary, He cometh not,' she said; She said, 'I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!' All day within the dreamy house, The doors upon their hinges creak'd; The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd, Or from the crevice peer'd about. Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors, Old footsteps trod the upper floors, Old voices call'd her from without. She only said, 'My life is dreary, He cometh not,' she said; She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,' I would that I were dead!' The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, The slow clock ticking, and the sound Which to the wooing wind aloof The poplar made, did all confound Her sense; but most she loathed the hour When the thick-moted sunbeam lay 46 Athwart the chambers, and the day Was sloping toward his western bower. Then, said she, 'I am very dreary, He will not come,' she said; She wept, 'I am aweary, aweary, O God, that I were dead!' ~ Edward Fitzgerald,

100:The Kalevala - Rune Xxxviii ILMARINEN'S FRUITLESS WOOING. Ilmarinen, the magician, The eternal metal-artist, Lays aside the golden image, Beauteous maid of magic metals; Throws the harness on his courser, Binds him to his sledge of birch-wood, Seats himself upon the cross-bench, Snaps the whip above the racer, Thinking once again to journey To the mansions of Pohyola, There to woo a bride in honor, Second daughter of the Northland. On he journeyed, restless, northward, Journeyed one day, then a second, So the third from morn till evening, When he reached a Northland-village On the plains of Sariola. Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Standing in the open court-yard, Spied the hero, Ilmarinen, Thus addressed the metal-worker: 'Tell me how my child is living, How the Bride of Beauty prospers, As a daughter to thy mother.' Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Head bent down and brow dejected, Thus addressed the Northland hostess: 'O, thou dame of Sariola, Do not ask me of thy daughter, Since, alas I in Tuonela Sleeps the Maiden of the Rainbow, Sleeps in death the Bride, of Beauty, Underneath the fragrant heather, In the kingdom of Manala. Come I for a second daughter, For the fairest of thy virgins. 568 Beauteous hostess of Pohyola, Give to me thy youngest maiden, For my former wife's compartments, For the chambers of her sister.' Louhi, hostess of the Northland, Spake these words to Ilmarinen: 'Foolish was the Northland-hostess, When she gave her fairest virgin, In the bloom of youth and beauty To the blacksmith of Wainola, Only to be led to Mana, Like a lambkin to the slaughter! I shall never give my daughter, Shall not give my youngest maiden Bride of thine to be hereafter, Life-companion at thy fireside. Sooner would I give the fair one To the cataract and whirlpool, To the river of Manala, To the waters of Tuoni!' Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Drew away his head, disdainful, Shook his sable locks in anger, Entered to the inner court-room, Where the maiden sat in waiting, Spake these measures to the daughter: 'Come with me, thou bright-eyed maiden, To the cottage where thy sister Lived and lingered in contentment, Baked for me the toothsome biscuit, Brewed for me the beer of barley, Kept my dwelling-place in order.' On the floor a babe was lying, Thus he sang to Ilmarinen: 'Uninvited, leave this mansion, Go, thou stranger, from this dwelling; Once before thou camest hither, Only bringing pain and trouble, Filling all our hearts with sorrow. Fairest daughter of my mother, Do not give this suitor welcome, Look not on his eyes with pleasure, 569 Nor admire his form and features. In his mouth are only wolf-teeth, Cunning fox-claws in his mittens, In his shoes art only bear-claws, In his belt a hungry dagger; Weapons these of blood and murder, Only worn by the unworthy.' Then the daughter spake as follows To the blacksmith, Ilmarinen: 'Follow thee this maid will never, Never heed unworthy suitors; Thou hast slain the Bride of Beauty, Once the Maiden of the Rainbow, Thou wouldst also slay her sister. I deserve a better suitor, Wish a truer, nobler husband, Wish to ride in richer sledges, Have a better home-protection; Never will I sweep the cottage And the coal-place of a blacksmith.' Then the hero, Ilmarinen, The eternal metal-artist, Turned his head away, disdainful, Shook his sable locks in anger, Quickly seized the trembling maiden, Held her in his grasp of iron, Hastened from the court of Louhi To his sledge upon the highway. In his sleigh he seats the virgin, Snugly wraps her in his far-robes, Snaps his whip above the racer, Gallops on the high-road homeward; With one hand the reins be tightens, With the other holds the maiden. Speaks the virgin-daughter, weeping: We have reached the lowland-berries, Here the herbs of water-borders; Leave me here to sink and perish As a child of cold misfortune. Wicked Ilmarinen, Iisten! If thou dost not quickly free me, I will break thy sledge to pieces, 570 Throw thy fur-robes to the north-winds.' Ilmarinen makes this answer: 'When the blacksmith builds his snow-sledge, All the parts are hooped with iron; Therefore will the beauteous maiden Never beat my sledge to fragments.' Then the silver-tinselled daughter Wept and wailed in bitter accents, Wrung her hands in desperation, Spake again to Ilmarinen: 'If thou dost not quickly free me, I shall change to ocean-salmon, Be a whiting of the waters.' 'Thou wilt never thus escape me, As a pike I'll fleetly follow.' Then the maiden of Pohyola Wept and wailed in bitter accents, Wrung her hands in desperation, Spake again to Ilmarinen; 'If thou dost not quickly free me, I shall hasten to the forest, Mid the rocks become an ermine!' 'Thou wilt never thus escape me, As a serpent I will follow.' Then the beauty of the Northland, Wailed and wept in bitter accents, Wrung her hands in desperation, Spake once more to Ilmarinen: 'Surely, if thou dost not free me, As a lark I'll fly the ether, Hide myself within the storm-clouds.' 'Neither wilt thou thus escape me, As an eagle I will follow.' They had gone but little distance, When the courser shied and halted, Frighted at some passing object; And the maiden looked in wonder, In the snow beheld some foot-prints, Spake these words to Ilmarinen: Who has run across our highway?' ''Tis the timid hare', he answered. Thereupon the stolen maiden 571 Sobbed, and moaned, in deeps of sorrow, Heavy-hearted, spake these measures: 'Woe is me, ill-fated virgin! Happier far my life hereafter, If the hare I could but follow To his burrow in the woodlands! Crook-leg's fur to me is finer Than the robes of Ilmarinen.' Ilmarinen, the magician, Tossed his head in full resentment, Galloped on the highway homeward, Travelled but a little distance, When again his courser halted, Frighted at some passing stranger. Quick the maiden looked and wondered, In the snow beheld some foot-prints, Spake these measures to the blacksmith: Who has crossed our snowy pathway?' ''Tis a fox', replied the minstrel. Thereupon the beauteous virgin Moaned again in depths of anguish, Sang these accents, heavy-hearted: 'Woe is me, ill-fated maiden! Happier far my life hereafter, With the cunning fox to wander, Than with this ill-mannered suitor; Reynard's fur to me is finer Than the robes of Ilmarinen.' Thereupon the metal-worker Shut his lips in sore displeasure, Hastened on the highway homeward; Travelled but a little distance, When again his courser halted. Quick the maiden looked in wonder, in the snow beheld some foot-prints, Spake these words to the magician: Who again has crossed our pathway?' ''Tis the wolf', said Ilmarinen. Thereupon the fated daughter Fell again to bitter weeping, And Intoned these words of sorrow: 'Woe is me, a hapless maiden! 572 Happier far my life hereafter, Brighter far would be my future, If these tracks I could but follow; On the wolf the hair is finer Than the furs of Ilmarinen, Faithless suitor of the Northland.' Then the minstrel of Wainola Closed his lips again in anger, Shook his sable locks, resentful, Snapped the whip above the racer, And the steed flew onward swiftly, O'er the way to Kalevala, To the village of the blacksmith. Sad and weary from his journey, Ilmarinen, home-returning, Fell upon his couch in slumber, And the maiden laughed derision. In the morning, slowly waking, Head confused, and locks dishevelled, Spake the wizard, words as follow: 'Shall I set myself to singing Magic songs and incantations? Shall I now enchant this maiden To a black-wolf on the mountains, To a salmon of the ocean? Shall not send her to the woodlands, All the forest would be frighted; Shall not send her to the waters, All the fish would flee in terror; This my sword shall drink her life-blood, End her reign of scorn and hatred.' Quick the sword feels his intention, Quick divines his evil purpose, Speaks these words to Ilmarinen: 'Was not born to drink the life-blood Of a maiden pure and lovely, Of a fair but helpless virgin.' Thereupon the magic minstrel, Filled with rage, began his singing; Sang the very rocks asunder, Till the distant hills re-echoed; Sang the maiden to a sea-gull, 573 Croaking from the ocean-ledges, Calling from the ocean-islands, Screeching on the sandy sea-coast, Flying to the winds opposing. When his conjuring had ended, Ilmarinen joined his snow-sledge, Whipped his steed upon a gallop, Hastened to his ancient smithy, To his home in Kalevala. Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Comes to meet him on the highway, Speaks these words to the magician: 'Ilmarinen, worthy brother, Wherefore comest heavy-hearted From the dismal Sariola? Does Pohyola live and prosper? Spake the minstrel, Ilmarinen: 'Why should not Pohyola prosper? There the Sampo grinds unceasing, Noisy rocks the lid in colors; Grinds one day the flour for eating, Grinds the second flour for selling, Grinds the third day flour for keeping; Thus it is Pohyola prospers. While the Sampo is in Northland, There is plowing, there is sowing, There is growth of every virtue, There is welfare never-ending.' Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Ilmarinen, artist-brother, Where then is the Northland-daughter, Far renowned and beauteous maiden, For whose hand thou hast been absent? These the words of Ilmarinen: 'I have changed the hateful virgin To a sea-gull on the ocean; Now she calls above the waters, Screeches from the ocean-islands; On the rocks she calls and murmurs Vainly calling for a suitor.' 574 ~ Elias Lönnrot,

101:The Kalevala - Rune Xlv BIRTH OF THE NINE DISEASES. Louhi, hostess of the Northland, Heard the word in Sariola, Heard the Dews with ears of envy, That Wainola lives and prospers, That Osmoinen's wealth increases, Through the ruins of the Sampo, Ruins of the lid in colors. Thereupon her wrath she kindled, Well considered, long reflected, How she might prepare destruction For the people of Wainola, For the tribes of Kalevala. With this prayer she turns to Ukko, Thus entreats the god of thunder: 'Ukko, thou who art in heaven, Help me slay Wainola's people With thine iron-hail of justice, With thine arrows tipped with lightning, Or from sickness let them perish, Let them die the death deserving; Let the men die in the forest, And the women in the hurdles!' The blind daughter of Tuoni, Old and wicked witch, Lowyatar, Worst of all the Death-land women, Ugliest of Mana's children, Source of all the host of evils, All the ills and plagues of Northland, Black in heart, and soul, and visage, Evil genius of Lappala, Made her couch along the wayside, On the fields of sin and sorrow; Turned her back upon the East-wind, To the source of stormy weather, To the chilling winds of morning. When the winds arose at evening, 234 Heavy-laden grew Lowyatar, Through the east-wind's impregnation, On the sand-plains, vast and barren. Long she bore her weight of trouble, Many morns she suffered anguish, Till at last she leaves the desert, Makes her couch within the forest, On a rock upon the mountain; Labors long to leave her burden By the mountain-springs and fountains, By the crystal waters flowing, By the sacred stream and whirlpool, By the cataract and fire-stream; But her burden does not lighten. Blind Lowyatar, old and ugly, Knew not where to look for succor, How to lose her weight of sorrow, Where to lay her evil children. Spake the Highest from the heavens, These, the words of mighty Ukko: 'Is a triangle in Swamp-field, Near the border of the ocean, In the never-pleasant Northland, In the dismal Sariola; Thither go and lay thy burden, In Pohyola leave thine offspring; There the Laplanders await thee, There will bid thy children welcome.' Thereupon the blind Lowyatar, Blackest daughter of Tuoni, Mana's old and ugly maiden, Hastened on her journey northward, To the chambers of Pohyola, To the ancient halls of Louhi, There to lay her heavy burdens, There to leave her evil offspring. Louhi, hostess of the Northland, Old and toothless witch of Pohya, Takes Lowyatar to her mansion; Silently she leads the stranger To the bath-rooms of her chamber, Pours the foaming beer of barley, 235 Lubricates the bolts and hinges, That their movements may be secret, Speaks these measures to Lowyatar: 'Faithful daughter of Creation, Thou most beautiful of women, First and last of ancient mothers, Hasten on thy feet to ocean, To the ocean's centre hasten, Take the sea-foam from the waters, Take the honey of the mermaids, And anoint thy sacred members, That thy labors may be lightened. 'Should all this be unavailing, Ukko, thou who art in heaven, Hasten hither, thou art needed, Come thou to thy child in trouble, Help the helpless and afflicted. Take thy golden-colored sceptre, Charm away opposing forces, Strike the pillars of the stronghold, Open all resisting portals, That the great and small may wander From their ancient hiding-places, Through the courts and halls of freedom.' Finally the blind Lowyatar, Wicked witch of Tuonela, Was delivered of her burden, Laid her offspring in the cradle, Underneath the golden covers. Thus at last were born nine children, In an evening of the summer, From Lowyatar, blind and ancient, Ugly daughter of Tuoni. Faithfully the virgin-mother Guards her children in affection, As an artist loves and nurses What his skillful hands have fashioned. Thus Lowyatar named her offspring, Colic, Pleurisy, and Fever, Ulcer, Plague, and dread Consumption, Gout, Sterility, and Cancer. And the worst of these nine children 236 Blind Lowyatar quickly banished, Drove away as an enchanter, To bewitch the lowland people, To engender strife and envy. Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Banished all the other children To the fog-point in the ocean, To the island forest-covered; Banished all the fatal creatures, Gave these wicked sons of evil To the people of Wainola, To the youth of Kalevala, For the Kalew-tribe's destruction. Quick Wainola's maidens sicken, Young and aged, men and heroes, With the worst of all diseases, With diseases new and nameless; Sick and dying is Wainola. Thereupon old Wainamoinen, Wise and wonderful enchanter, Hastens to his people's rescue, Hastens to a war with Mana, To a conflict with Tuoni, To destroy the evil children Of the evil maid, Lowyatar. Wainamoinen heats the bath-rooms, Heats the blocks of healing-sandstone With the magic wood of Northland, Gathered by the sacred river; Water brings in covered buckets From the cataract and whirlpool; Brooms he brings enwrapped with ermine, Well the bath the healer cleanses, Softens well the brooms of birch-wood; Then a honey-heat be wakens, Fills the rooms with healing vapors, From the virtue of the pebbles Glowing in the heat of magic, Thus he speaks in supplication: 'Come, O Ukko, to my rescue, God of mercy, lend thy presence, Give these vapor-baths new virtues, 237 Grant to them the powers of healing, And restore my dying people; Drive away these fell diseases, Banish them to the unworthy, Let the holy sparks enkindle, Keep this heat in healing limits, That it may not harm thy children, May not injure the afflicted. When I pour the sacred waters On the heated blocks of sandstone, May the water turn to honey Laden with the balm of healing. Let the stream of magic virtues Ceaseless flow to all my children, From this bath enrolled in sea-moss, That the guiltless may not suffer, That my tribe-folk may not perish, Till the Master gives permission, Until Ukko sends his minions, Sends diseases of his choosing, To destroy my trusting people. Let the hostess of Pohyola, Wicked witch that sent these troubles, Suffer from a gnawing conscience, Suffer for her evil doings. Should the Master of Wainola Lose his magic skill and weaken, Should he prove of little service To deliver from misfortune, To deliver from these evils, Then may Ukko be our healer, Be our strength and wise Physician. 'Omnipresent God of mercy, Thou who livest in the heavens, Hasten hither, thou art needed, Hasten to thine ailing children, To observe their cruel tortures, To dispel these fell diseases, Drive destruction from our borders. Bring with thee thy mighty fire-sword, Bring to me thy blade of lightning, That I may subdue these evils, 238 That these monsters I may banish, Send these pains, and ills, and tortures, To the empire of Tuoni, To the kingdom of the east-winds, To the islands of the wicked, To the caverns of the demons, To the rocks within the mountains, To the hidden beds of iron, That the rocks may fall and sicken, And the beds of iron perish. Rocks and metals do not murmur At the hands of the invader. 'Torture-daughter of Tuoni, Sitting on the mount of anguish, At the junction of three rivers, Turning rocks of pain and torture, Turn away these fell diseases Through the virtues of the blue-stone; Lead them to the water-channels, Sink them in the deeps of ocean, Where the winds can never find them, Where the sunlight never enters. 'Should this prayer prove unavailing, O, Health-virgin, maid of beauty Come and heal my dying people, Still their agonies and anguish., Give them consciousness and comfort, Give them healthful rest and slumber; These diseases take and banish, Take them in thy copper vessel, To thy eaves within the mountains, To the summit of the Pain-rock, Hurl them to thy boiling caldrons. In the mountain is a touch-stone, Lucky-stone of ancient story, With a hole bored through the centre, Through this pour these pains and tortures, Wretched feelings, thoughts of evil, Human ailments, days unlucky, Tribulations, and misfortunes, That they may not rise at evening, May not see the light of morning.' 239 Ending thus, old Wainamoinen, The eternal, wise enchanter, Rubbed his sufferers with balsams, Rubbed the tissues, red and painful, With the balm of healing flowers, Balsams made of herbs enchanted, Sprinkled all with healing vapors, Spake these words in supplication. 'Ukko, thou who art in heaven, God of justice, and of mercy, Send us from the east a rain-cloud, Send a dark cloud from the North-west, From the north let fall a third one, Send us mingled rain and honey, Balsam from the great Physician, To remove this plague of Northland. What I know of healing measures, Only comes from my Creator; Lend me, therefore, of thy wisdom, That I may relieve my people, Save them from the fell destroyer, If my hands should fall in virtue, Let the hands of Ukko follow, God alone can save from trouble. Come to us with thine enchantment, Speak the magic words of healing, That my people may not perish; Give to all alleviation From their sicknesses and sorrows; In the morning, in the evening, Let their wasting ailments vanish; Drive the Death-child from Wainola, Nevermore to visit Northland, Never in the course of ages, Never while the moonlight glimmers O'er the lakes of Kalevala.' Wainamoinen, the enchanter, The eternal wisdom-singer, Thus expelled the nine diseases, Evil children or Lowyatar, Healed the tribes of Kalevala, Saved his people from destruction. 240 ~ Elias Lönnrot,

102:The Kalevala - Rune Xlviii CAPTURE OF THE FIRE-FISH. Wainamoinen, the enchanter, The eternal wisdom-singer, Long reflected, well considered, How to weave the net of flax-yarn, Weave the fish-net of the fathers. Spake the minstrel of Wainola: 'Who will plow the field and fallow, Sow the flax, and spin the flax-threads, That I may prepare the fish-net, Wherewith I may catch the Fire-pike, May secure the thing of evil?' Soon they found a fertile island, Found the fallow soil befitting, On the border of the heather, And between two stately oak-trees. They prepared the soil for sowing. Searching everywhere for flax-seed, Found it in Tuoni's kingdom, In the keeping of an insect. Then they found a pile of ashes, Where the fire had burned a vessel; In the ashes sowed the seedlings Near the Alue-lake and border, In the rich and loamy fallow. There the seed took root and flourished, Quickly grew to great proportions, In a single night in summer. Thus the flax was sowed at evening, Placed within the earth by moonlight; Quick it grew, and quickly ripened, Quick Wainola's heroes pulled it, Quick they broke it on the hackles, Hastened with it to the waters, Dipped it in the lake and washed it; Quickly brought it borne and dried it. Quickly broke, and combed, and smoothed it, 265 Brushed it well at early morning, Laid it into laps for spinning Quick the maidens twirl the spindles, Spin the flaxen threads for weaving, In a single night in summer. Quick the sisters wind and reel it, Make it ready for the needle. Brothers weave it into fish-nets, And the fathers twist the cordage, While the mothers knit the meshes, Rapidly the mesh-stick circles; Soon the fish-net is completed, In a single night in summer. As the magic net is finished, And in length a hundred fathoms, On the rim three hundred fathoms. Rounded stones are fastened to it, Joined thereto are seven float-boards. Now the young men take the fish-net, And the old men cheer them onward, Wish them good-luck at their fishing. Long they row and drag the flax-seine, Here and there the net is lowered; Now they drag it lengthwise, sidewise, Drag it through the slimy reed-beds; But they do not catch the Fire-pike, Only smelts, and luckless red-fish, Little fish of little value. Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'O thou blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Let us go ourselves a-fishing, Let us catch the fish of evil!' To the fishing went the brothers, Magic heroes of the Northland, Pulled the fish-net through the waters, Toward an island in the deep-sea Then they turn and drag the fish-net Toward a meadow jutting seaward; Now they drag it toward Wainola, Draw it lengthwise, sidewise, crosswise, Catching fish of every species, salmon, trout, and pike, and whiting, 266 Do not catch the evil Fire-fish. Then the master, Wainamoinen, Made additions to its borders, Made it many fathoms wider, And a hundred fathoms longer, Then these words the hero uttered 'Famous blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Let us go again a-fishing, Row again the magic fish-net, Drag it well through all the waters, That we may obtain the Fire-pike!' Thereupon the Northland heroes Go a second time a-fishing, Drag their nets across the rivers, Lakelets, seas, and bays, and inlets, Catching fish of many species, But the Fire-fish is not taken. Wainamoinen, ancient singer, Long reflecting, spake these measures: 'Dear Wellamo, water-hostess, Ancient mother with the reed-breast, Come, exchange thy water-raiment, Change thy coat of reeds and rushes For the garments I shall give thee, Light sea-foam, thine inner vesture, And thine outer, moss and sea-grass, Fashioned by the wind's fair daughters, Woven by the flood's sweet maidens; I will give thee linen vestments Spun from flax of softest fiber, Woven by the Moon's white virgins, Fashioned by the Sun's bright daughters Fitting raiment for Wellamo! 'Ahto, king of all the waters, Ruler of a thousand grottoes, Take a pole of seven fathoms, Search with this the deepest waters, Rummage well the lowest bottoms; Stir up all the reeds and sea-weeds, Hither drive a school of gray-pike, Drive them to our magic fish-net, From the haunts in pike abounding, 267 From the caverns, and the trout-holes, From the whirlpools of the deep-sea, From the bottomless abysses, Where the sunshine never enters, Where the moonlight never visits, And the sands are never troubled.' Rose a pigmy from the waters, From the floods a little hero, Riding on a rolling billow, And the pigmy spake these measures: 'Dost thou wish a worthy helper, One to use the pole and frighten Pike and salmon to thy fish-nets?' Wainamoinen, old and faithful, Answered thus the lake-born hero: 'Yea, we need a worthy helper, One to hold the pole, and frighten Pike and salmon to our fish-nets.' Thereupon the water-pigmy Cut a linden from the border, Spake these words to Wainamoinen: 'Shall I scare with all my powers, With the forces of my being, As thou needest shall I scare them?' Spake the minstrel, Wainamoinen: 'If thou scarest as is needed, Thou wilt scare with all thy forces, With the strength of thy dominions.' Then began the pigmy-hero, To affright the deep-sea-dwellers; Drove the fish in countless numbers To the net of the magicians. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Drew his net along the waters, Drew it with his ropes of flax-thread, Spake these words of magic import: 'Come ye fish of Northland waters To the regions of my fish-net, As my hundred meshes lower.' Then the net was drawn and fastened, Many were the gray-pike taken By he master and magician. 268 Wainamoinen, happy-hearted, Hastened to a neighboring island, To a blue-point in the waters, Near a red-bridge on the headland; Landed there his draught of fishes, Cast the pike upon the sea-shore, And the Fire-pike was among them, Cast the others to the waters. Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'May I touch thee with my fingers, Using not my gloves of iron, Using not my blue-stone mittens? This the Sun-child hears and answers: 'I should like to carve the Fire-fish, I should like this pike to handle, If I had the knife of good-luck.' Quick a knife falls from the heavens, From the clouds a magic fish-knife, Silver-edged and golden-headed, To the girdle of the Sun-child; Quick he grasps the copper handle, Quick the hero carves the Fire-pike, Finds therein the tortured lake-trout; Carves the lake-trout thus discovered. Finds therein the fated whiting; Carves the whiting, finds a blue-ball In the third cave of his body. He, the blue-ball quick unwinding, Finds within a ball of scarlet; Carefully removes the cover, Finds the ball of fire within it, Finds the flame from heaven fallen, From the heights of the seventh heaven, Through nine regions of the ether. Wainamoinen long reflected How to get the magic fire-ball To Wainola's fireless hearth-stones, To his cold and cheerless dwellings. Quick he snatched the fire of heaven From the fingers of the Sun-child. Wainamoinen's beard it singes, Burns the brow of Ilmarinen, 269 Burns the fingers of the blacksmith. Rolling forth it hastens westward, Hastens to the Alue shore-lines, Burns the juniper and alder, Burns the and heath and meadow, Rises to the lofty linden, Burns the firs upon the mountains; Hastens onward, onward, onward, Burns the islands of the Northland, Burns the Sawa fields and forests, Burns the dry lands of Karyala. Straightway ancient Wainamoinen Hastens through the fields and fenlands, Tracks the ranger to the glen-wood, Finds the Fire-child in an elm-tree, Sleeping in a bed of fungus. Thereupon wise Wainamoinen Wakes the child and speaks these measures: 'Wicked fire that God created, Flame of Ukko from the heavens, Thou hast gone in vain to sea-caves, To the lakes without a reason; Better go thou to my village, To the hearth-stones of my people; Hide thyself within my chimneys, In mine ashes sleep and linger. In the day-time I will use thee To devour the blocks of birch-wood; In the evening I will hide thee Underneath the golden circle.' Then he took the willing Panu, Took the willing fire of Ukko, Laid it in a box of tinder, In the punk-wood of a birch-tree, In a vessel forged from copper; Carried it with care and pleasure To the fog-point in the waters, To the island forest covered. Thus returned the fire to Northland, To the chambers of Wainola, To the hearths of Kalevala. Ilmarinen, famous blacksmith, 270 Hastened to the deep-sea's margin, Sat upon the rock of torture, Feeling pain the flame had given, Laved his wounds with briny water, Thus to still the Fire-child's fury, Thus to end his persecutions. Long reflecting, Ilmarinen Thus addressed the flame of Ukko: 'Evil Panu from the, heavens, Wicked son of God from ether, Tell me what has made thee angry, Made thee burn my weary members, Burn my beard, and face, and fingers, Made me suffer death-land tortures? Spake again young Ilmarinen: 'How can I wild Panu conquer, How shall I control his conduct, Make him end his evil doings? Come, thou daughter from Pohyola, Come, white virgin of the hoar-frost, Come on shoes of ice from Lapland, Icicles upon thy garments, In one band a cup of white-frost, In the other hand an ice-spoon; Sprinkle snow upon my members, Where the Fire-child has been resting, Let the hoar-frost fall and settle. 'Should this prayer be unavailing, Come, thou son of Sariola, Come, thou child of Frost from Pohya, Come, thou Long-man from the ice-plains, Of the height of stately pine-trees, Slender as the trunks of lindens, On thy hands the gloves of Hoar-frost, Cap of ice upon thy forehead, On thy waist a white-frost girdle; Bring the ice-dust from Pohyola, From the cold and sunless village. Rain is crystallized in Northland, Ice in Pohya is abundant, Lakes of ice and ice-bound rivers, Frozen smooth, the sea of ether. 271 Bounds the hare in frosted fur-robe, Climbs the bear in icy raiment, Ambles o'er the snowy mountains. Swans of frost descend the rivers, Ducks of ice in countless numbers Swim upon thy freezing waters, Near the cataract and whirlpool. Bring me frost upon thy snow-sledge, Snow and ice in great abundance, From the summit of the wild-top, From the borders of the mountains. With thine ice, and snow, and hoar-frost Cover well mine injured members Where wild Panu has been resting, Where the child of Fire has lingered. 'Should this call be ineffective, Ukko, God of love and mercy, First and last of the creators, From the east send forth a snow-cloud, From the west despatch a second, Join their edges well together, Let there be no vacant places, Let these clouds bring snow and Lay the healing balm of Ukko On my burning, tortured tissues, Where wild Panu has been resting.' Thus the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Stills the pains by fire engendered, Stills the agonies and tortures Brought him by the child of evil, Brought him by the wicked Panu. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

103:The Kalevala - Rune Xlvii LOUHI STEALS SUN, MOON, AND FIRE. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Touched again his magic harp-strings, Sang in miracles of concord, Filled the north with joy and gladness. Melodies arose to heaven, Songs arose to Luna's chambers, Echoed through the Sun's bright windows And the Moon has left her station, Drops and settles in the birch-tree; And the Sun comes from his castle, Settles in the fir-tree branches, Comes to share the common pleasure, Comes to listen to the singing, To the harp of Wainamoinen. Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Northland's old and toothless wizard, Makes the Sun and Moon her captives; In her arms she takes fair Luna From her cradle in the birch-tree, Calls the Sun down from his station, From the fir-tree's bending branches, Carries them to upper Northland, To the darksome Sariola; Hides the Moon, no more to glimmer, In a rock of many colors; Hides the Sun, to shine no longer, In the iron-banded mountain; Thereupon these words she utters: 'Moon of gold and Sun of silver, Hide your faces in the caverns Of Pohyola's dismal mountain; Shine no more to gladden Northland, Till I come to give ye freedom, Drawn by coursers nine in number, Sable coursers of one mother!' When the golden Moon had vanished, 256 And the silver Sun had hidden In the iron-banded caverns, Louhi stole the fire from Northland, From the regions of Wainola, Left the mansions cold and cheerless, And the cabins full of darkness. Night was king and reigned unbroken, Darkness ruled in Kalevala, Darkness in the home of Ukko. Hard to live without the moonlight, Harder still without the sunshine; Ukko's life is dark and dismal, When the Sun and Moon desert him. Ukko, first of all creators, Lived in wonder at the darkness; Long reflected, well considered, Why this miracle in heaven, What this accident in nature To the Moon upon her journey; Why the Sun no more is shining, Why has disappeared the moonlight. Then great Ukko walked the heavens, To the border of the cloudlets, In his purple-colored vestments, In his silver-tinselled sandals, Seeking for the golden moonlight, Looking for the silver sunshine. Lightning Ukko struck in darkness From the edges of his fire-sword; Shot the flames in all directions, From his blade of golden color, Into heaven's upper spaces, Into Ether's starry pastures. When a little fire had kindled, Ukko hid it in the cloud-space, In a box of gold and silver, In a case adorned with silver, Gave it to the ether-maidens, Called a virgin then to rock it, That it might become a new-moon, That a second sun might follow. On the long-cloud rocked the virgin, 257 On the blue-edge of the ether, Rocked the fire of the Creator, In her copper-colored cradle, With her ribbons silver-studded. Lowly bend the bands of silver, Loud the golden cradle echoes, And the clouds of Northland thunder, Low descends the dome of heaven, At the rocking of the lightning, Rocking of the fire of Ukko. Thus the flame was gently cradled By the virgin of the ether. Long the fair and faithful maiden Stroked the Fire-child with her fingers, Tended it with care and pleasure, Till in an unguarded moment It escaped the Ether-virgin, Slipped the hands of her that nursed it. Quick the heavens are burst asunder, Quick the vault of Ukko opens, Downward drops the wayward Fire-child, Downward quick the red-ball rushes, Shoots across the arch of heaven, Hisses through the startled cloudlets, Flashes through the troubled welkin, Through nine starry vaults of ether. Then the ancient Wainamoinen Spake and these the words he uttered: 'Blacksmith brother, Ilmarinen, Let us haste and look together, What the kind of fire that falleth, What the form of light that shineth From the upper vault of heaven, From the lower earth and ocean. Has a second moon arisen, Can it be a ball of sunlight? Thereupon the heroes wandered, Onward journeyed and reflected, How to gain the spot illumined, How to find the sacred Fire-child. Came a river rushing by them, Broad and stately as an ocean. 258 Straightway ancient Wainamoinen There began to build a vessel, Build a boat to cross the river. With the aid of Ilmarinen, From the oak he cut the row-locks, From the pine the oars be fashioned, From the aspen shapes the rudder. When the vessel they had finished, Quick they rolled it to the current, Hard they rowed and ever forward, On the Nawa-stream and waters, At the head of Nawa-river. Ilmatar, the ether-daughter, Foremost daughter of creation, Came to meet them on their journey, Thus addressed the coming strangers: 'Who are ye of Northland heroes, Rowing on the Nawa-waters?' Wainamoinen gave this answer: 'This the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, I the ancient Wainamoinen. Tell us now thy name and station, Whither going, whence thou comest, Where thy tribe-folk live and linger? Spake the daughter of the Ether: 'I the oldest of the women, Am the first of Ether's daughters, Am the first of ancient mothers; Seven times have I been wedded. To the heroes of creation. Whither do ye strangers journey? Answered thus old Wainamoinen: 'Fire has left Wainola's hearth-stones, Light has disappeared from Northland; Have been sitting long in darkness, Cold and darkness our companions; Now we journey to discover What the fire that fell from heaven, Falling from the cloud's red lining, To the deeps of earth and ocean.' Ilmatar returned this answer: 'Hard the flame is to discover, 259 Hard indeed to find the Fire-child; Has committed many mischiefs, Nothing good has he accomplished; Quick the fire-ball fell from ether, From the red rims of the cloudlets, From the plains of the Creator, Through the ever-moving heavens, Through the purple ether-spaces, Through the blackened flues of Turi, To Palwoinen's rooms uncovered. When the fire had reached the chambers Of Palwoinen, son of evil, He began his wicked workings, He engaged in lawless actions, Raged against the blushing maidens, Fired the youth to evil conduct, Singed the beards of men and heroes. 'Where the mother nursed her baby, In the cold and cheerless cradle, Thither flew the wicked Fire-child, There to perpetrate some mischief; In the cradle burned the infant, By the infant burned the mother, That the babe might visit Mana, In the kingdom of Tuoni; Said the child was born for dying, Only destined for destruction, Through the tortures of the Fire-child. Greater knowledge had the mother, Did not journey to Manala, Knew the word to check the red-flame, How to banish the intruder Through the eyelet of a needle, Through the death-hole of the hatchet.' Then the ancient Wainamoinen Questioned Ilmatar as follows: 'Whither did the Fire-child wander, Whither did the red-flame hasten, From the border-fields of Turi, To the woods, or to the waters? Straightway Ilmatar thus answers: 'When the fire had fled from Turi, 260 From the castles of Palwoinen, Through the eyelet of the needle, Through the death-hole of the hatchet, First it burned the fields, and forests, Burned the lowlands, and the heather; Then it sought the mighty waters, Sought the Alue-sea and river, And the waters hissed and sputtered In their anger at the Fire-child, Fiery red the boiling Alue! 'Three times in the nights of, summer, Nine times in the nights of autumn, Boil the waters to the tree-tops, Roll and tumble to the mountain, Through the red-ball's force and fury; Hurls the pike upon the pastures, To the mountain-cliffs, the salmon, Where the ocean-dwellers wonder, Long reflect and well consider How to still the angry waters. Wept the salmon for his grotto, Mourned the whiting for his cavern, And the lake-trout for his dwelling, Quick the crook-necked salmon darted, Tried to catch the fire-intruder, But the red-ball quick escaped him; Darted then the daring whiting, Swallowed quick the wicked Fire-child, Swallowed quick the flame of evil. Quiet grow the Alue-waters, Slowly settle to their shore-lines, To their long-accustomed places, In the long and dismal evening. 'Time had gone but little distance, When the whiting grow affrighted, Fear befel the fire-devourer; Burning pain and writhing tortures Seized the eater of the Fire-child; Swam the fish in all directions, Called, and moaned, and swam, and circled, Swam one day, and then a second, Swam the third from morn till even; 261 Swam she to the whiting-island, To the caverns of the salmon, Where a hundred islands cluster; And the islands there assembled Thus addressed the fire-devourer: 'There is none within these waters, In this narrow Alue-lakelet, That will eat the fated Fire-fish That will swallow thee in trouble, In thine agonies and torture From the Fire-child thou hast eaten.' 'Hearing this a trout forth darting, Swallowed quick as light the whiting, Quickly ate the fire-devourer. Time had gone but little distance, When the trout became affrighted, Fear befel the whiting-eater; Burning pain and writhing torment Seized the eater of the Fire-fish. Swam the trout in all directions, Called, and moaned, and swam, and circled, Swam one day, and then a second, Swain the third from morn till even; Swam she to the salmon-island, Swam she to the whiting-grottoes, Where a thousand islands cluster, And the islands there assembled Thus addressed the tortured lake-trout: 'There is none within this river, In these narrow Alue-waters, That will eat the wicked Fire-fish, That will swallow thee in trouble, In thine agonies and tortures, From the Fire-fish thou hast eaten.' Hearing this the gray-pike darted, Swallowed quick as light the lake-trout, Quickly ate the tortured Fire-fish. 'Time had gone but little distance, When the gray-pike grew affrighted, Fear befel the lake-trout-eater; Burning pain and writhing torment Seized the reckless trout-devourer; 262 Swam the pike in all directions, Called, and moaned, and swam, and circled, Swam one day, and then a second, Swam the third from morn till even, To the cave of ocean-swallows, To the sand-hills of the sea-gull, Where a hundred islands cluster; And the islands there assembled Thus addressed the fire-devourer: 'There is none within this lakelet, In these narrow Alue-waters, That will eat the fated Fire-fish, That will swallow thee in trouble, In thine agonies and tortures, From the Fire-fish thou hast eaten.'' Wainamoinen, wise and ancient, With the aid of Ilmarinen, Weaves with skill a mighty fish-net From the juniper and sea-grass; Dyes the net with alder-water, Ties it well with thongs of willow. Straightway ancient Wainamoinen Called the maidens to the fish-net, And the sisters came as bidden. With the netting rowed they onward, Rowed they to the hundred islands, To the grottoes of the salmon, To the caverns of the whiting, To the reeds of sable color, Where the gray-pike rests and watches. On they hasten to the fishing, Drag the net in all directions, Drag it lengthwise, sidewise, crosswise, And diagonally zigzag; But they did not catch the Fire-fish. Then the brothers went a-fishing, Dragged the net in all directions, Backwards, forwards, lengthwise, sidewise, Through the homes of ocean-dwellers, Through the grottoes of the salmon, Through the dwellings of the whiting, Through the reed-beds of the lake-trout, 263 Where the gray-pike lies in ambush; But the fated Fire-fish came not, Came not from the lake's abysses, Came not from the Alue-waters. Little fish could not be captured In the large nets of the masters; Murmured then the deep-sea-dwellers, Spake the salmon to the lake-trout, And the lake-trout to the whiting, And the whiting to the gray-pike: Have the heroes of Wainola Died, or have they all departed From these fertile shores and waters? Where then are the ancient weavers, Weavers of the nets of flax-thread, Those that frighten us with fish-poles, Drag us from our homes unwilling?' Hearing this wise Wainamoinen Answered thus the deep-sea-dwellers: 'Neither have Wainola's heroes Died, nor have they all departed From these fertile shores and waters, Two are born where one has perished; Longer poles and finer fish-nets Have the sons of Kalevala!' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

104:The Kalevala - Rune Xxvii THE UNWELCOME GUEST. I have brought young Kaukomieli, Brought the Islander and hero, Also known as Lemminkainen, Through the jaws of death and ruin, Through the darkling deeps of Kalma, To the homesteads of Pohyola, To the dismal courts of Louhi; Now must I relate his doings, Must relate to all my bearers, How the merry Lemminkainen, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli, Wandered through Pohyola's chambers, Through the halls of Sariola, How the hero went unbidden To the feasting and carousal, Uninvited to the banquet. Lemminkainen full of courage, Full of life, and strength, and magic. Stepped across the ancient threshold, To the centre of the court-room, And the floors of linwood trembled, Walls and ceilings creaked and murmured. Spake the reckless Lemminkainen, These the words that Ahti uttered: 'Be ye greeted on my coming, Ye that greet, be likewise greeted! Listen, all ye hosts of Pohya; Is there food about this homestead, Barley for my hungry courser, Beer to give a thirsty stranger? Sat the host of Sariola At the east end of the table, Gave this answer to the questions: 'Surely is there in this homestead, For thy steed an open stable, Never will this host refuse thee, 459 Shouldst thou act a part becoming, Worthy, coming to these portals, Waiting near the birchen rafters, In the spaces by the kettles, By the triple hooks of iron.' Then the reckless Lemminkainen Shook his sable locks and answered: 'Lempo may perchance come hither, Let him fill this lowly station, Let him stand between the kettles, That with soot he may be blackened. Never has my ancient father, Never has the dear old hero, Stood upon a spot unworthy, At the portals near the rafters; For his steed the best of stables, Food and shelter gladly furnished, And a room for his attendants, Corners furnished for his mittens, Hooks provided for his snow-shoes, Halls in waiting for his helmet. Wherefore then should I not find here What my father found before me?' To the centre walked the hero, Walked around the dining table, Sat upon a bench and waited, On a bench of polished fir-wood, And the kettle creaked beneath him. Spake the reckless Lemminkainen: 'As a guest am I unwelcome, Since the waiters bring no viands, Bring no dishes to the stranger?' Ilpotar, the Northland hostess, Then addressed the words that follow: 'Lemminkainen, thou art evil, Thou art here, but not invited, Thou hast not the look of kindness, Thou wilt give me throbbing temples, Thou art bringing pain and sorrow. All our beer is in the barley, All the malt is in the kernel, All our grain is still ungarnered, 460 And our dinner has been eaten; Yesterday thou shouldst have been here, Come again some future season.' Whereupon wild Lemminkainen Pulled his mouth awry in anger, Shook his coal-black locks and answered: 'All the tables here are empty, And the feasting-time is over; All the beer has left the goblets, Empty too are all the pitchers, Empty are the larger vessels. O thou hostess of Pohyola, Toothless dame of dismal Northland, Badly managed is thy wedding, And thy feast is ill-conducted, Like the dogs hast thou invited; Thou hast baked the honey-biscuit, Wheaten loaves of greatest virtue, Brewed thy beer from hops and barley, Sent abroad thine invitations, Six the hamlets thou hast honored, Nine the villages invited By thy merry wedding-callers. Thou hast asked the poor and lowly, Asked the hosts of common people, Asked the blind, and deaf, and crippled, Asked a multitude of beggars, Toilers by the day, and hirelings; Asked the men of evil habits, Asked the maids with braided tresses, I alone was not invited. How could such a slight be given, Since I sent thee kegs of barley? Others sent thee grain in cupfuls, Brought it sparingly in dippers, While I sent thee fullest measure, Sent the half of all my garners, Of the richest of my harvest, Of the grain that I had gathered. Even now young Lemminkainen, Though a guest of name and station Has no beer, no food, no welcome, 461 Naught for him art thou preparing, Nothing cooking in thy kettles, Nothing brewing in thy cellars For the hero of the Islands, At the closing of his journey.' Ilpotar, the ancient hostess, Gave this order to her servants: 'Come, my pretty maiden-waiter, Servant-girl to me belonging, Lay some salmon to the broiling, Bring some beer to give the stranger!' Small of stature was the maiden, Washer of the banquet-platters, Rinser of the dinner-ladles, Polisher of spoons of silver, And she laid some food in kettles, Only bones and beads of whiting, Turnip-stalks and withered cabbage, Crusts of bread and bits of biscuit. Then she brought some beer in pitchers, Brought of common drink the vilest, That the stranger, Lemminkainen, Might have drink, and meat in welcome, Thus to still his thirst and hunger. Then the maiden spake as follows: 'Thou art sure a mighty hero, Here to drink the beer of Pohya, Here to empty all our vessels!' Then the minstrel, Lemminkainen, Closely handled all the pitchers, Looking to the very bottoms; There beheld he writhing serpents, In the centre adders swimming, On the borders worms and lizards. Then the hero, Lemminkainen, Filled with anger, spake as follows: Get ye hence, ye things of evil, Get ye hence to Tuonela, With the bearer of these pitchers, With the maid that brought ye hither, Ere the evening moon has risen, Ere the day-star seeks the ocean! 462 0 thou wretched beer of barley, Thou hast met with great dishonor, Into disrepute hast fallen, But I'll drink thee, notwithstanding, And the rubbish cast far from me.' Then the hero to his pockets Thrust his first and unnamed finger, Searching in his pouch of leather; Quick withdraws a hook for fishing, Drops it to the pitcher's bottom, Through the worthless beer of barley; On his fish-book hang the serpents, Catches many hissing adders, Catches frogs in magic numbers, Catches blackened worms in thousands, Casts them to the floor before him, Quickly draws his heavy broad sword, And decapitates the serpents. Now he drinks the beer remaining, When the wizard speaks as follows: 'As a guest am I unwelcome, Since no beer to me is given That is worthy of a hero; Neither has a ram been butchered, Nor a fattened calf been slaughtered, Worthy food for Lemminkainen.' Then the landlord of Pohyola Answered thus the Island-minstrel: 'Wherefore hast thou journeyed hither, Who has asked thee for thy presence? Spake in answer Lemminkainen: 'Happy is the guest invited, Happier when not expected; Listen, son of Pohylander, Host of Sariola, listen: Give me beer for ready payment, Give me worthy drink for money!' Then the landlord of Pohyola, In bad humor, full of anger, Conjured in the earth a lakelet, At the feet of Kaukomieli, Thus addressed the Island-hero: 463 'Quench thy thirst from yonder lakelet, There, the beer that thou deservest!' Little heeding, Lemminkainen To this insolence made answer: 'I am neither bear nor roebuck, That should drink this filthy water, Drink the water of this lakelet.' Ahti then began to conjure, Conjured he a bull before him, Bull with horns of gold and silver, And the bull drank from the lakelet, Drank he from the pool in pleasure. Then the landlord of Pohyola There a savage wolf created, Set him on the floor before him To destroy the bull of magic, Lemminkainen, full of courage, Conjured up a snow-white rabbit, Set him on the floor before him To attract the wolf's attention. Then the landlord of Pohyola Conjured there a dog of Lempo, Set him on the floor before him To destroy the magic rabbit. Lemminkainen, full of mischief, Conjured on the roof a squirrel, That by jumping on the rafters He might catch the dog's attention. But the master of the Northland Conjured there a golden marten, And he drove the magic squirrel From his seat upon the rafters. Lemminkainen, full of mischief, Made a fox of scarlet color, And it ate the golden marten. Then the master of Pohyola Conjured there a hen to flutter Near the fox of scarlet color. Lemminkainen, full of mischief, Thereupon a hawk created, That with beak and crooked talons He might tear the hen to pieces. 464 Spake the landlord of Pohyola, These the words the tall man uttered: 'Never will this feast be bettered Till the guests are less in number; I must do my work as landlord, Get thee hence, thou evil stranger, Cease thy conjurings of evil, Leave this banquet of my people, Haste away, thou wicked wizard, To thine Island-home and people! Spake the reckless Lemminkainen: 'Thus no hero will be driven, Not a son of any courage Will be frightened by thy presence, Will be driven from thy banquet.' Then the landlord of Pohyola Snatched his broadsword from the rafters, Drew it rashly from the scabbard, Thus addressing Lemminkainen: 'Ahti, Islander of evil, Thou the handsome Kaukomieli, Let us measure then our broadswords, Let our skill be fully tested; Surely is my broadsword better Than the blade within thy scabbard.' Spake the hero, Lemminkainen. 'That my blade is good and trusty, Has been proved on heads of heroes, Has on many bones been tested; Be that as it may, my fellow, Since thine order is commanding, Let our swords be fully tested, Let us see whose blade is better. Long ago my hero-father Tested well this sword in battle, Never failing in a conflict. Should his son be found less worthy?' Then he grasped his mighty broadsword, Drew the fire-blade from the scabbard Hanging from his belt of copper. Standing on their hilts their broadswords, Carefully their blades were measured, 465 Found the sword of Northland's master Longer than the sword of Ahti By the half-link of a finger. Spake the reckless Lemminkainen. 'Since thou hast the longer broadsword, Thou shalt make the first advances, I am ready for thy weapon.' Thereupon Pohyola's landlord With the wondrous strength of anger, Tried in vain to slay the hero, Strike the crown of Lemminkainen; Chipped the splinters from the rafters, Cut the ceiling into fragments, Could not touch the Island-hero. Thereupon brave Kaukomieli, Thus addressed Pohyola's master: 'Have the rafters thee offended? What the crimes they have committed, Since thou hewest them in pieces? Listen now, thou host of Northland, Reckless landlord of Pohyola, Little room there is for swordsmen In these chambers filled with women; We shall stain these painted rafters, Stain with blood these floors and ceilings; Let us go without the mansion, In the field is room for combat, On the plain is space sufficient; Blood looks fairer in the court-yard, Better in the open spaces, Let it dye the snow-fields scarlet.' To the yard the heroes hasten, There they find a monstrous ox-skin, Spread it on the field of battle; On the ox-skin stand the swordsmen. Spake the hero, Lemminkainen: 'Listen well, thou host of Northland, Though thy broadsword is the longer, Though thy blade is full of horror, Thou shalt have the first advantage; Use with skill thy boasted broadsword Ere the final bout is given, 466 Ere thy head be chopped in pieces; Strike with skill, or thou wilt perish, Strike, and do thy best for Northland.' Thereupon Pohyola's landlord Raised on high his blade of battle, Struck a heavy blow in anger, Struck a second, then a third time, But he could not touch his rival, Could Dot draw a single blood-drop From the veins of Lemminkainen, Skillful Islander and hero. Spake the handsome Kaukomieli: 'Let me try my skill at fencing, Let me swing my father's broadsword, Let my honored blade be tested!' But the landlord of Pohyola, Does not heed the words of Ahti, Strikes in fury, strikes unceasing, Ever aiming, ever missing. When the skillful Lemminkainen Swings his mighty blade of magic, Fire disports along his weapon, Flashes from his sword of honor, Glistens from the hero's broadsword, Balls of fire disporting, dancing, On the blade of mighty Ahti, Overflow upon the shoulders Of the landlord of Pohyola. Spake the hero, Lemminkainen: 'O thou son of Sariola, See! indeed thy neck is glowing Like the dawning of the morning, Like the rising Sun in ocean!' Quickly turned Pohyola's landlord, Thoughtless host of darksome Northland, To behold the fiery splendor Playing on his neck and shoulders. Quick as lightning, Lemminkainen, With his father's blade of battle, With a single blow of broadsword, With united skill and power, Lopped the head of Pohya's master; 467 As one cleaves the stalks of turnips, As the ear falls from the corn-stalk, As one strikes the fins from salmon, Thus the head rolled from the shoulders Of the landlord of Pohyola, Like a ball it rolled and circled. In the yard were pickets standing, Hundreds were the sharpened pillars, And a head on every picket, Only one was left un-headed. Quick the victor, Lemminkainen, Took the head of Pohya's landlord, Spiked it on the empty picket. Then the Islander, rejoicing, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli, Quick returning to the chambers, Crave this order to the hostess: 'Evil maiden, bring me water, Wherewithal to cleanse my fingers From the blood of Northland's master, Wicked host of Sariola.' Ilpotar, the Northland hostess, Fired with anger, threatened vengeance, Conjured men with heavy broadswords, Heroes clad in copper-armor, Hundred warriors with their javelins, And a thousand bearing cross-bows, To destroy the Island-hero, For the death of Lemminkainen. Kaukomieli soon discovered That the time had come for leaving, That his presence was unwelcome At the feasting of Pohyola, At the banquet of her people. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

105:The Kalevala - Rune Xxvii THE UNWELCOME GUEST. I have brought young Kaukomieli, Brought the Islander and hero, Also known as Lemminkainen, Through the jaws of death and ruin, Through the darkling deeps of Kalma, To the homesteads of Pohyola, To the dismal courts of Louhi; Now must I relate his doings, Must relate to all my bearers, How the merry Lemminkainen, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli, Wandered through Pohyola's chambers, Through the halls of Sariola, How the hero went unbidden To the feasting and carousal, Uninvited to the banquet. Lemminkainen full of courage, Full of life, and strength, and magic. Stepped across the ancient threshold, To the centre of the court-room, And the floors of linwood trembled, Walls and ceilings creaked and murmured. Spake the reckless Lemminkainen, These the words that Ahti uttered: 'Be ye greeted on my coming, Ye that greet, be likewise greeted! Listen, all ye hosts of Pohya; Is there food about this homestead, Barley for my hungry courser, Beer to give a thirsty stranger? Sat the host of Sariola At the east end of the table, Gave this answer to the questions: 'Surely is there in this homestead, For thy steed an open stable, Never will this host refuse thee, 469 Shouldst thou act a part becoming, Worthy, coming to these portals, Waiting near the birchen rafters, In the spaces by the kettles, By the triple hooks of iron.' Then the reckless Lemminkainen Shook his sable locks and answered: 'Lempo may perchance come hither, Let him fill this lowly station, Let him stand between the kettles, That with soot he may be blackened. Never has my ancient father, Never has the dear old hero, Stood upon a spot unworthy, At the portals near the rafters; For his steed the best of stables, Food and shelter gladly furnished, And a room for his attendants, Corners furnished for his mittens, Hooks provided for his snow-shoes, Halls in waiting for his helmet. Wherefore then should I not find here What my father found before me?' To the centre walked the hero, Walked around the dining table, Sat upon a bench and waited, On a bench of polished fir-wood, And the kettle creaked beneath him. Spake the reckless Lemminkainen: 'As a guest am I unwelcome, Since the waiters bring no viands, Bring no dishes to the stranger?' Ilpotar, the Northland hostess, Then addressed the words that follow: 'Lemminkainen, thou art evil, Thou art here, but not invited, Thou hast not the look of kindness, Thou wilt give me throbbing temples, Thou art bringing pain and sorrow. All our beer is in the barley, All the malt is in the kernel, All our grain is still ungarnered, 470 And our dinner has been eaten; Yesterday thou shouldst have been here, Come again some future season.' Whereupon wild Lemminkainen Pulled his mouth awry in anger, Shook his coal-black locks and answered: 'All the tables here are empty, And the feasting-time is over; All the beer has left the goblets, Empty too are all the pitchers, Empty are the larger vessels. O thou hostess of Pohyola, Toothless dame of dismal Northland, Badly managed is thy wedding, And thy feast is ill-conducted, Like the dogs hast thou invited; Thou hast baked the honey-biscuit, Wheaten loaves of greatest virtue, Brewed thy beer from hops and barley, Sent abroad thine invitations, Six the hamlets thou hast honored, Nine the villages invited By thy merry wedding-callers. Thou hast asked the poor and lowly, Asked the hosts of common people, Asked the blind, and deaf, and crippled, Asked a multitude of beggars, Toilers by the day, and hirelings; Asked the men of evil habits, Asked the maids with braided tresses, I alone was not invited. How could such a slight be given, Since I sent thee kegs of barley? Others sent thee grain in cupfuls, Brought it sparingly in dippers, While I sent thee fullest measure, Sent the half of all my garners, Of the richest of my harvest, Of the grain that I had gathered. Even now young Lemminkainen, Though a guest of name and station Has no beer, no food, no welcome, 471 Naught for him art thou preparing, Nothing cooking in thy kettles, Nothing brewing in thy cellars For the hero of the Islands, At the closing of his journey.' Ilpotar, the ancient hostess, Gave this order to her servants: 'Come, my pretty maiden-waiter, Servant-girl to me belonging, Lay some salmon to the broiling, Bring some beer to give the stranger!' Small of stature was the maiden, Washer of the banquet-platters, Rinser of the dinner-ladles, Polisher of spoons of silver, And she laid some food in kettles, Only bones and beads of whiting, Turnip-stalks and withered cabbage, Crusts of bread and bits of biscuit. Then she brought some beer in pitchers, Brought of common drink the vilest, That the stranger, Lemminkainen, Might have drink, and meat in welcome, Thus to still his thirst and hunger. Then the maiden spake as follows: 'Thou art sure a mighty hero, Here to drink the beer of Pohya, Here to empty all our vessels!' Then the minstrel, Lemminkainen, Closely handled all the pitchers, Looking to the very bottoms; There beheld he writhing serpents, In the centre adders swimming, On the borders worms and lizards. Then the hero, Lemminkainen, Filled with anger, spake as follows: Get ye hence, ye things of evil, Get ye hence to Tuonela, With the bearer of these pitchers, With the maid that brought ye hither, Ere the evening moon has risen, Ere the day-star seeks the ocean! 472 0 thou wretched beer of barley, Thou hast met with great dishonor, Into disrepute hast fallen, But I'll drink thee, notwithstanding, And the rubbish cast far from me.' Then the hero to his pockets Thrust his first and unnamed finger, Searching in his pouch of leather; Quick withdraws a hook for fishing, Drops it to the pitcher's bottom, Through the worthless beer of barley; On his fish-book hang the serpents, Catches many hissing adders, Catches frogs in magic numbers, Catches blackened worms in thousands, Casts them to the floor before him, Quickly draws his heavy broad sword, And decapitates the serpents. Now he drinks the beer remaining, When the wizard speaks as follows: 'As a guest am I unwelcome, Since no beer to me is given That is worthy of a hero; Neither has a ram been butchered, Nor a fattened calf been slaughtered, Worthy food for Lemminkainen.' Then the landlord of Pohyola Answered thus the Island-minstrel: 'Wherefore hast thou journeyed hither, Who has asked thee for thy presence? Spake in answer Lemminkainen: 'Happy is the guest invited, Happier when not expected; Listen, son of Pohylander, Host of Sariola, listen: Give me beer for ready payment, Give me worthy drink for money!' Then the landlord of Pohyola, In bad humor, full of anger, Conjured in the earth a lakelet, At the feet of Kaukomieli, Thus addressed the Island-hero: 473 'Quench thy thirst from yonder lakelet, There, the beer that thou deservest!' Little heeding, Lemminkainen To this insolence made answer: 'I am neither bear nor roebuck, That should drink this filthy water, Drink the water of this lakelet.' Ahti then began to conjure, Conjured he a bull before him, Bull with horns of gold and silver, And the bull drank from the lakelet, Drank he from the pool in pleasure. Then the landlord of Pohyola There a savage wolf created, Set him on the floor before him To destroy the bull of magic, Lemminkainen, full of courage, Conjured up a snow-white rabbit, Set him on the floor before him To attract the wolf's attention. Then the landlord of Pohyola Conjured there a dog of Lempo, Set him on the floor before him To destroy the magic rabbit. Lemminkainen, full of mischief, Conjured on the roof a squirrel, That by jumping on the rafters He might catch the dog's attention. But the master of the Northland Conjured there a golden marten, And he drove the magic squirrel From his seat upon the rafters. Lemminkainen, full of mischief, Made a fox of scarlet color, And it ate the golden marten. Then the master of Pohyola Conjured there a hen to flutter Near the fox of scarlet color. Lemminkainen, full of mischief, Thereupon a hawk created, That with beak and crooked talons He might tear the hen to pieces. 474 Spake the landlord of Pohyola, These the words the tall man uttered: 'Never will this feast be bettered Till the guests are less in number; I must do my work as landlord, Get thee hence, thou evil stranger, Cease thy conjurings of evil, Leave this banquet of my people, Haste away, thou wicked wizard, To thine Island-home and people! Spake the reckless Lemminkainen: 'Thus no hero will be driven, Not a son of any courage Will be frightened by thy presence, Will be driven from thy banquet.' Then the landlord of Pohyola Snatched his broadsword from the rafters, Drew it rashly from the scabbard, Thus addressing Lemminkainen: 'Ahti, Islander of evil, Thou the handsome Kaukomieli, Let us measure then our broadswords, Let our skill be fully tested; Surely is my broadsword better Than the blade within thy scabbard.' Spake the hero, Lemminkainen. 'That my blade is good and trusty, Has been proved on heads of heroes, Has on many bones been tested; Be that as it may, my fellow, Since thine order is commanding, Let our swords be fully tested, Let us see whose blade is better. Long ago my hero-father Tested well this sword in battle, Never failing in a conflict. Should his son be found less worthy?' Then he grasped his mighty broadsword, Drew the fire-blade from the scabbard Hanging from his belt of copper. Standing on their hilts their broadswords, Carefully their blades were measured, 475 Found the sword of Northland's master Longer than the sword of Ahti By the half-link of a finger. Spake the reckless Lemminkainen. 'Since thou hast the longer broadsword, Thou shalt make the first advances, I am ready for thy weapon.' Thereupon Pohyola's landlord With the wondrous strength of anger, Tried in vain to slay the hero, Strike the crown of Lemminkainen; Chipped the splinters from the rafters, Cut the ceiling into fragments, Could not touch the Island-hero. Thereupon brave Kaukomieli, Thus addressed Pohyola's master: 'Have the rafters thee offended? What the crimes they have committed, Since thou hewest them in pieces? Listen now, thou host of Northland, Reckless landlord of Pohyola, Little room there is for swordsmen In these chambers filled with women; We shall stain these painted rafters, Stain with blood these floors and ceilings; Let us go without the mansion, In the field is room for combat, On the plain is space sufficient; Blood looks fairer in the court-yard, Better in the open spaces, Let it dye the snow-fields scarlet.' To the yard the heroes hasten, There they find a monstrous ox-skin, Spread it on the field of battle; On the ox-skin stand the swordsmen. Spake the hero, Lemminkainen: 'Listen well, thou host of Northland, Though thy broadsword is the longer, Though thy blade is full of horror, Thou shalt have the first advantage; Use with skill thy boasted broadsword Ere the final bout is given, 476 Ere thy head be chopped in pieces; Strike with skill, or thou wilt perish, Strike, and do thy best for Northland.' Thereupon Pohyola's landlord Raised on high his blade of battle, Struck a heavy blow in anger, Struck a second, then a third time, But he could not touch his rival, Could Dot draw a single blood-drop From the veins of Lemminkainen, Skillful Islander and hero. Spake the handsome Kaukomieli: 'Let me try my skill at fencing, Let me swing my father's broadsword, Let my honored blade be tested!' But the landlord of Pohyola, Does not heed the words of Ahti, Strikes in fury, strikes unceasing, Ever aiming, ever missing. When the skillful Lemminkainen Swings his mighty blade of magic, Fire disports along his weapon, Flashes from his sword of honor, Glistens from the hero's broadsword, Balls of fire disporting, dancing, On the blade of mighty Ahti, Overflow upon the shoulders Of the landlord of Pohyola. Spake the hero, Lemminkainen: 'O thou son of Sariola, See! indeed thy neck is glowing Like the dawning of the morning, Like the rising Sun in ocean!' Quickly turned Pohyola's landlord, Thoughtless host of darksome Northland, To behold the fiery splendor Playing on his neck and shoulders. Quick as lightning, Lemminkainen, With his father's blade of battle, With a single blow of broadsword, With united skill and power, Lopped the head of Pohya's master; 477 As one cleaves the stalks of turnips, As the ear falls from the corn-stalk, As one strikes the fins from salmon, Thus the head rolled from the shoulders Of the landlord of Pohyola, Like a ball it rolled and circled. In the yard were pickets standing, Hundreds were the sharpened pillars, And a head on every picket, Only one was left un-headed. Quick the victor, Lemminkainen, Took the head of Pohya's landlord, Spiked it on the empty picket. Then the Islander, rejoicing, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli, Quick returning to the chambers, Crave this order to the hostess: 'Evil maiden, bring me water, Wherewithal to cleanse my fingers From the blood of Northland's master, Wicked host of Sariola.' Ilpotar, the Northland hostess, Fired with anger, threatened vengeance, Conjured men with heavy broadswords, Heroes clad in copper-armor, Hundred warriors with their javelins, And a thousand bearing cross-bows, To destroy the Island-hero, For the death of Lemminkainen. Kaukomieli soon discovered That the time had come for leaving, That his presence was unwelcome At the feasting of Pohyola, At the banquet of her people. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

106:The Kalevala - Rune Xlix RESTORATION OF THE SUN AND MOON. Thus has Fire returned to Northland But the gold Moon is not shining, Neither gleams the silver sunlight In the chambers of Wainola, On the plains of Kalevala. On the crops the white-frost settled, And the cattle died of hunger, Even birds grew sick and perished. Men and maidens, faint and famished, Perished in the cold and darkness, From the absence of the sunshine, From the absence of the moonlight. Knew the pike his holes and hollows, And the eagle knew his highway, Knew the winds the times for sailing; But the wise men of the Northland Could not know the dawn of morning, On the fog-point in the ocean, On the islands forest-covered. Young and aged talked and wondered, Well reflected, long debated, How to live without the moonlight, Live without the silver sunshine, In the cold and cheerless Northland, In the homes of Kalevala. Long conjectured all the maidens, Orphans asked the wise for counsel. Spake a maid to Ilmarinen, Running to the blacksmith's furnace: 'Rise, O artist, from thy slumbers, Hasten from thy couch unworthy; Forge from gold the Moon for Northland, Forge anew the Sun from silver Cannot live without the moonlight, Nor without the silver sunshine!' From his couch arose the artist, 223 From his couch of stone, the blacksmith, And began his work of forging, Forging Sun and Moon for Northland. Came the ancient Wainamoinen, In the doorway sat and lingered, Spake, these Words to Ilmarinen: 'Blacksmith, my beloved brother, Thou the only metal-worker, Tell me why thy magic hammer Falls so heavy on thine anvil?' Spake the youthful Ilmarinen: 'Moon of gold and Sun of silver, I am forging for Wainola; I shall swing them into ether, Plant them in the starry heavens.' Spake the wise, old Wainamoinen: 'Senseless blacksmith of the ages, Vainly dost thou swing thy hammer, Vainly rings thy mighty anvil; Silver will not gleam as sunshine, Not of gold is born the moonlight!' Ilmarinen, little heeding, Ceases not to ply his hammer, Sun and Moon the artist forges, Wings the Moon of Magic upward, Hurls it to the pine-tree branches; Does not shine without her master. Then the silver Sun he stations In an elm-tree on the mountain. From his forehead drip the sweat-drops, Perspiration from his fingers, Through his labors at the anvil While the Sun and Moon were forging; But the Sun shone not at morning From his station in the elm-tree; And the Moon shone not at evening From the pine-tree's topmost branches. Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Let the Fates be now consulted, And the oracles examined; Only thus may we discover Where the Sun and Moon lie hidden.' 224 Thereupon old Wainamoinen, Only wise and true magician, Cut three chips from trunks of alder, Laid the chips in magic order, Touched and turned them with his fingers, Spake these words of master-magic: 'Of my Maker seek I knowledge, Ask in hope and faith the answer From the great magician, Ukko: Tongue of alder, tell me truly, Symbol of the great Creator, Where the Sun and Moon are sleeping; For the Moon shines not in season, Nor appears the Sun at midday, From their stations in the sky-vault. Speak the truth, O magic alder, Speak not words of man, nor hero, Hither bring but truthful measures. Let us form a sacred compact: If thou speakest me a falsehood, I will hurl thee to Manala, Let the nether fires consume thee, That thine evil signs may perish.' Thereupon the alder answered, Spake these words of truthful import: 'Verily the Sun lies hidden And the golden Moon is sleeping In the stone-berg of Pohyola, In the copper-bearing mountain.' These the words of Wainamoinen: 'I shall go at once to Northland, To the cold and dark Pohyola, Bring the Sun and Moon to gladden All Wainola's fields and forests.' Forth he hastens on his journey, To the dismal Sariola, To the Northland cold and dreary; Travels one day, then a second, So the third from morn till evening, When appear the gates of Pohya, With her snow-clad hills and mountains. Wainamoinen, the magician, 225 At the river of Pohyola, Loudly calls the ferry-maiden: Bring a boat, O Pohya-daughter, Bring a strong and trusty vessel, Row me o'er these chilling waters, O'er this rough and rapid river! ' But the Ferry-maiden heard not, Did not listen to his calling. Thereupon old Wainamoinen, Laid a pile of well-dried brush-wood, Knots and needles of the fir-tree, Made a fire beside the river, Sent the black smoke into heaven Curling to the home of Ukko. Louhi, hostess of the Northland, Hastened to her chamber window, Looked upon the bay and river, Spake these words to her attendants: 'Why the fire across the river Where the current meets the deep-sea, Smaller than the fires of foemen, Larger than the flames of hunters?' Thereupon a Pohyalander Hastened from the court of Louhi That the cause he might discover,' Bring the sought-for information To the hostess of Pohyola; Saw upon the river-border Some great hero from Wainola. Wainamoinen saw the stranger, Called again in tones of thunder: 'Bring a skiff; thou son of Northland, For the minstrel, Wainamoinen! Thus the Pohyalander answered: 'Here no skiffs are lying idle, Row thyself across the waters, Use thine arms, and feet, and fingers, To propel thee o'er the river, O'er the sacred stream of Pohya.' Wainamoinen, long reflecting, Bravely thus soliloquizes: 'I will change my form and features, 226 Will assume a second body, Neither man, nor ancient minstrel, Master of the Northland waters!' Then the singer, Wainamoinen, Leaped, a pike, upon the waters, Quickly swam the rapid river, Gained the frigid Pohya-border. There his native form resuming, Walked he as a mighty hero, On the dismal isle of Louhi, Spake the wicked sons of Northland: Come thou to Pohyola's court-room.' To Pohyola's, court he hastened. Spake again the sons of evil: Come thou to the halls of Louhi!' To Pohyola's halls he hastened. On the latch he laid his fingers, Set his foot within the fore-hall, Hastened to the inner chamber, Underneath the painted rafters, Where the Northland-heroes gather. There he found the Pohya-masters Girded with their swords of battle, With their spears and battle-axes, With their fatal bows and arrows, For the death of Wainamoinen, Ancient bard, Suwantolainen. Thus they asked the hero-stranger. 'Magic swimmer of the Northland, Son of evil, what the message That thou bringest from thy people, What thy mission to Pohyola?' Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Thus addressed the hosts of Louhi: 'For the Sun I come to Northland, Come to seek the Moon in Pohya; Tell me where the Sun lies hidden, Where the golden Moon is sleeping.' Spake the evil sons of Pohya: 'Both the Sun and Moon are hidden In the rock of many colors, In the copper-bearing mountain, 227 In a cavern iron-banded, In the stone-berg of Pohyola, Nevermore to gain their freedom, Nevermore to shine in Northland!' Spake the hero, Wainamoinen: 'If the Sun be not uncovered, If the Moon leave not her dungeon, I will challenge all Pohyola To the test of spear or broadsword, Let us now our weapons measure!' Quick the hero of Wainola Drew his mighty sword of magic; On its border shone the moonlight, On its hilt the Sun was shining, On its back, a neighing stallion, On its face a cat was mewing, Beautiful his magic weapon. Quick the hero-swords are tested, And the blades are rightly measured Wainamoinen's sword is longest By a single grain of barley, By a blade of straw, the widest. To the court-yard rushed the heroes, Hastened to the deadly combat, On the plains of Sariola. Wainamoinen, the magician, Strikes one blow, and then a second, Strikes a third time, cuts and conquers. As the house-maids slice the turnips, As they lop the heads of cabbage, As the stalks of flax are broken, So the heads of Louhi's heroes Fall before the magic broadsword Of the ancient Wainamoinen. Then victor from Wainola, Ancient bard and great magician, Went to find the Sun in slumber, And the golden Moon discover, In, the copper-bearing Mountains, In the cavern iron-banded, In the stone-berg of Pohyola. He had gone but little distance, 228 When he found a sea-green island; On the island stood a birch-tree, Near the birch-tree stood a pillar Carved in stone of many colors; In the pillar, nine large portals Bolted in a hundred places; In the rock he found a crevice Sending forth a gleam of sunlight. Quick he drew his mighty broadsword, From the pillar struck three colors, From the magic of his weapon; And the pillar fell asunder, Three the number of the fragments. Wainamoinen, old and faithful, Through the crevice looked and wondered. In the center of the pillar, From a scarlet-colored basin, Noxious serpents beer were drinking, And the adders eating spices. Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Therefore has Pohyola's hostess Little drink to give to strangers, Since her beer is drank by serpents, And her spices given to adders.' Quick he draws his magic fire-blade, Cuts the vipers green in pieces, Lops the heads off all the adders, Speaks these words of master-magic: Thus, hereafter, let the serpent Drink the famous beer of barley, Feed upon the Northland-spices!' Wainamoinen, the magician, The eternal wizard-singer, Sought to open wide the portals With the hands and words of magic; But his hands had lost their cunning, And his magic gone to others. Thereupon the ancient minstrel Quick returning, heavy-hearted, To his native halls and hamlets, Thus addressed his brother-heroes: 'Woman, he without his weapons, 229 With no implements, a weakling! Sun and Moon have I discovered, But I could not force the Portals Leading to their rocky cavern In the copper bearing mountain. Spake the reckless Lemminkainen 'O thou ancient Wainamoinen, Why was I not taken with thee To become, thy war-companion? Would have been of goodly service, Would have drawn the bolts or broken, All the portals to the cavern, Where the Sun and Moon lie hidden In the copper-bearing mountain!' Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Thus replied to Lemminkainen: 'Empty Words will break no portals, Draw no bolts of any moment; Locks and bolts are never broken. With the words of little wisdom! Greater means than thou commandest Must be used to free the sunshine, Free the moonlight from her dungeon.' Wainamoinen, not discouraged, Hastened to the, forge and smithy, Spake these words to Ilmarinen: 'O thou famous metal-artist, Forge for me a magic trident, Forge from steel a dozen stout-rings, Master-keys, a goodly number, Iron bars and heavy hammers, That the Sun we may uncover In the copper-bearing mountain, In the stone-berg of Pohyola.' Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, The eternal metal-worker, Forged the needs of Wainamoinen, Forged for him the magic trident, Forged from steel a dozen stout-rings, Master-keys a goodly number, Iron bars and heavy hammers, Not the largest, nor the smallest, 230 Forged them of the right dimensions. Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Northland's old and toothless wizard, Fastened wings upon her shoulders, As an eagle, sailed the heavens, Over field, and fen, and forest, Over Pohya's many, waters, To the hamlets of Wainola, To the forge of Ilmarinen. Quick the famous metal-worker Went to see if winds were blowing; Found the winds at peace and silent, Found an eagle, sable-colored, Perched upon his window-casement. Spake the artist, Ilmarinen: 'Magic bird, whom art thou seeking, Why art sitting at my window?' This the answer of the eagle: 'Art thou blacksmith, Ilmarinen, The eternal iron-forger, Master of the magic metals, Northland's wonder-working artist?' Ilmarinen gave this answer: 'There is nothing here of wonder, Since I forged the dome of heaven, Forged the earth a concave cover!' Spake again the magic eagle: Why this ringing of thine anvil, Why this knocking of thy hammer, Tell me what thy hands are forging?' This the answer of the blacksmith: ''Tis a collar I am forging For the neck of wicked Louhi, Toothless witch of Sariola, Stealer of the silver sunshine, Stealer of the golden moonlight; With this collar I shall bind her To the iron-rock of Ehstland!' Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Saw misfortune fast approaching, Saw destruction flying over, Saw the signs of bad-luck lower; 231 Quickly winged her way through ether To her native halls and chambers, To the darksome Sariola, There unlocked the massive portals Where the Sun and Moon were hidden, In the rock of many colors, In the cavern iron-banded, In the copper-bearing mountain. Then again the wicked Louhi Changed her withered form and features, And became a dove of good-luck; Straightway winged the starry heavens, Over field, and fen, and forest, To the meadows of Wainola, To the plains of Kalevala, To the forge of Ilmarinen. This the question of the blacksmith 'Wherefore comest, dove of good-luck, What the tidings that thou bringest?' Thus the magic bird made answer: 'Wherefore come I to thy smithy? Come to bring the joyful tidings That the Sun has left his cavern, Left the rock of many colors, Left the stone-berg of Pohyola; That the Moon no more is hidden In the copper-bearing mountains, In the caverns iron-banded.' Straightway hastened Ilmarinen To the threshold of his smithy, Quickly scanned the far horizon, Saw again the silver sunshine, Saw once more the golden moonlight, Bringing peace, and joy, and plenty, To the homes of Kalevala. Thereupon the blacksmith hastened To his brother, Wainamoinen, Spake these words to the magician: 'O thou ancient bard and minstrel, The eternal wizard-singer See, the Sun again is shining, And the golden Moon is beaming 232 From their long-neglected places, From their stations in the sky-vault!' Wainamoinen, old and faithful, Straightway hastened to the court-yard, Looked upon the far horizon, Saw once more the silver sunshine, Saw again the golden moonlight, Bringing peace, and joy, and plenty, To the people of the Northland, And the minstrel spake these measures: 'Greetings to thee, Sun of fortune, Greetings to thee, Moon of good-luck, Welcome sunshine, welcome moonlight, Golden is the dawn of morning! Free art thou, O Sun of silver, Free again, O Moon beloved, As the sacred cuckoo's singing, As the ring-dove's liquid cooings. 'Rise, thou silver Sun, each Morning, Source of light and life hereafter, Bring us, daily, joyful greetings, Fill our homes with peace and plenty, That our sowing, fishing, hunting, May be prospered by thy coming. Travel on thy daily journey, Let the Moon be ever with thee; Glide along thy way rejoicing, End thy journeyings in slumber; Rest at evening in the ocean, When the daily cares have ended, To the good of all thy people, To the pleasure Of Wainoloa, To the joy of Kalevala!' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

107:The Kalevala - Rune Xvi WAINAMOINEN'S BOAT-BUILDING. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, The eternal wisdom-singer, For his boat was working lumber, Working long upon his vessel, On a fog-point jutting seaward, On an island, forest-covered; But the lumber failed the master, Beams were wanting for his vessel, Beams and scantling, ribs and flooring. Who will find for him the lumber, Who procure the timber needed For the boat of Wainamoinen, For the bottom of his vessel? Pellerwoinen of the prairies, Sampsa, slender-grown and ancient, He will seek the needful timber, He procure the beams of oak-wood For the boat of Wainamoinen, For the bottom of his vessel. Soon he starts upon his journey To the eastern fields and forests, Hunts throughout the Northland mountain To a second mountain wanders, To a third he hastens, searching, Golden axe upon his shoulder, In his hand a copper hatchet. Comes an aspen-tree to meet him Of the height of seven fathoms. Sampsa takes his axe of copper, Starts to fell the stately aspen, But the aspen quickly halting, Speaks these words to Pellerwoinen: 'Tell me, hero, what thou wishest, What the service thou art needing?' Sampsa Pellerwoinen answers: 'This indeed, the needed service 291 That I ask of thee, O aspen: Need thy lumber for a vessel, For the boat of Wainamoinen, Wisest of the wisdom-singers.' Quick and wisely speaks the aspen, Thus its hundred branches answer: 'All the boats that have been fashioned From my wood have proved but failures; Such a vessel floats a distance, Then it sinks upon the bottom Of the waters it should travel. All my trunk is filled with hollows, Three times in the summer seasons Worms devour my stem and branches, Feed upon my heart and tissues.' Pellerwoinen leaves the aspen, Hunts again through all the forest, Wanders through the woods of Northland, Where a pine-tree comes to meet him, Of the height of fourteen fathoms. With his axe he chops the pine-tree, Strikes it with his axe of copper, As he asks the pine this question: 'Will thy trunk give worthy timber For the boat of Wainamoinen, Wisest of the wisdom-singers?' Loudly does the pine-tree answer: 'All the ships that have been fashioned From my body are unworthy; I am full of imperfections, Cannot give thee needed timber Wherewithal to build thy vessel; Ravens live within ray branches, Build their nests and hatch their younglings Three times in my trunk in summer.' Sampsa leaves the lofty pine-tree, Wanders onward, onward, onward, To the woods of gladsome summer, Where an oak-tree comes to meet him, In circumference, three fathoms, And the oak he thus addresses: 'Ancient oak-tree, will thy body 292 Furnish wood to build a vessel, Build a boat for Wainamoinen, Master-boat for the magician, Wisest of the wisdom-singers?' Thus the oak replies to Sampsa: 'I for thee will gladly furnish Wood to build the hero's vessel; I am tall, and sound, and hardy, Have no flaws within my body; Three times in the months of summer, In the warmest of the seasons, Does the sun dwell in my tree-top, On my trunk the moonlight glimmers, In my branches sings the cuckoo, In my top her nestlings slumber.' Now the ancient Pellerwoinen Takes the hatchet from his shoulder, Takes his axe with copper handle, Chops the body of the oak-tree; Well he knows the art of chopping. Soon he fells the tree majestic, Fells the mighty forest-monarch, With his magic axe and power. From the stems he lops the branches, Splits the trunk in many pieces, Fashions lumber for the bottom, Countless boards, and ribs, and braces, For the singer's magic vessel, For the boat of the magician. Wainamoinen, old and skilful, The eternal wonder-worker, Builds his vessel with enchantment, Builds his boat by art of magic, From the timber of the oak-tree, From its posts, and planks, and flooring. Sings a song, and joins the frame-work; Sings a second, sets the siding; Sings a third time, sets the row-locks; Fashions oars, and ribs, and rudder, Joins the sides and ribs together. When the ribs were firmly fastened, When the sides were tightly jointed, 293 Then alas! three words were wanting, Lost the words of master-magic, How to fasten in the ledges, How the stern should be completed, How complete the boat's forecastle. Then the ancient Wainamoinen, Wise and wonderful enchanter, Heavy-hearted spake as follows: 'Woe is me, my life hard-fated! Never will this magic vessel Pass in safety o'er the water, Never ride the rough sea-billows.' Then he thought and long considered, Where to find these words of magic, Find the lost-words of the Master: 'From the brains of countless swallows, From the heads of swans in dying, From the plumage of the gray-duck?' For these words the hero searches, Kills of swans a goodly number, Kills a flock of fattened gray-duck, Kills of swallows countless numbers, Cannot find the words of magic, Not the lost-words of the Master. Wainamoinen, wisdom-singer, Still reflected and debated: 'I perchance may find the lost-words On the tongue of summer-reindeer, In the mouth of the white squirrel.' Now again he hunts the lost-words, Hastes to find the magic sayings, Kills a countless host of reindeer, Kills a rafterful of squirrels, Finds of words a goodly number, But they are of little value, Cannot find the magic lost-word. Long he thought and well considered: 'I can find of words a hundred In the dwellings of Tuoni, In the Manala fields and castles.' Wainamoinen quickly journeys To the kingdom of Tuoni, 294 There to find the ancient wisdom, There to learn the secret doctrine; Hastens on through fen and forest, Over meads and over marshes, Through the ever-rising woodlands, Journeys one week through the brambles, And a second through the hazels, Through the junipers the third week, When appear Tuoni's islands, And the Manala fields and castles. Wainamoinen, brave and ancient, Calls aloud in tones of thunder, To the Tuonela deeps and dungeons, And to Manala's magic castle: 'Bring a boat, Tuoni's daughter, Bring a ferry-boat, O maiden, That may bear me o'er this channel, O'er this black and fatal river.' Quick the daughter of Tuoni, Magic maid of little stature, Tiny virgin of Manala, Tiny washer of the linen, Tiny cleaner of the dresses, At the river of Tuoni, In Manala's ancient castles, Speaks these words to Wainamoinen, Gives this answer to his calling: 'Straightway will I bring the row-boat, When the reasons thou hast given Why thou comest to Manala In a hale and active body.' Wainamoinen, old and artful., Gives this answer to the maiden: 'I was brought here by Tuoni, Mana raised me from the coffin.' Speaks the maiden of Manala: 'This a tale of wretched liars; Had Tuoni brought thee hither, Mana raised thee from the coffin, Then Tuoni would be with thee, Manalainen too would lead thee, With Tuoni's hat upon thee, 295 On thy hands, the gloves of Mana; Tell the truth now, Wainamoinen, What has brought thee to Manala?' Wainamoinen, artful hero, Gives this answer, still finessing: 'Iron brought me to Manala, To the kingdom of Tuoni.' Speaks the virgin of the death-land, Mana's wise and tiny daughter: 'Well I know that this is falsehood, Had the iron brought thee hither, Brought thee to Tuoni's kingdom, Blood would trickle from thy vesture, And the blood-drops, scarlet-colored. Speak the truth now, Wainamoinen, This the third time that I ask thee.' Wainamoinen, little heeding, Still finesses to the daughter: 'Water brought me to Manala, To the kingdom of Tuoui.' This the tiny maiden's answer: 'Well I know thou speakest falsely; If the waters of Manala, If the cataract and whirlpool, Or the waves had brought thee hither, From thy robes the drops would trickle, Water drip from all thy raiment. Tell the truth and I will serve thee, What has brought thee to Manala?' Then the wilful Wainamoinen Told this falsehood to the maiden: 'Fire has brought me to Manala, To the kingdom of Tuoni.' Spake again Tuoni's daughter: 'Well I know the voice of falsehood. If the fire had brought thee hither, Brought thee to Tuoni's empire, Singed would be thy locks and eyebrows, And thy beard be crisped and tangled. O, thou foolish Wainamoinen, If I row thee o'er the ferry, Thou must speak the truth in answer, 296 This the last time I will ask thee; Make an end of thy deception. What has brought thee to Manala, Still unharmed by pain or sickness, Still untouched by Death's dark angel Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'At the first I spake, not truly, Now I give thee rightful answer: I a boat with ancient wisdom, Fashioned with my powers of magic, Sang one day and then a second, Sang the third day until evening, When I broke the magic main-spring, Broke my magic sledge in pieces, Of my song the fleetest runners; Then I come to Mana's kingdom, Came to borrow here a hatchet, Thus to mend my sledge of magic, Thus to join the parts together. Send the boat now quickly over, Send me, quick, Tuoni's row-boat, Help me cross this fatal river, Cross the channel of Manala.' Spake the daughter of Tuoni, Mana's maiden thus replying: 'Thou art sure a stupid fellow, Foresight wanting, judgment lacking, Having neither wit nor wisdom, Coming here without a reason, Coming to Tuoni's empire; Better far if thou shouldst journey To thy distant home and kindred; Man they that visit Mana, Few return from Maria's kingdom.' Spake the good old Wainamoinen: 'Women old retreat from danger, Not a man of any courage, Not the weakest of the heroes. Bring thy boat, Tuoni's daughter, Tiny maiden of Manala, Come and row me o'er the ferry.' Mana's daughter does as bidden, 297 Brings her boat to Wainamoinen, Quickly rows him through the channel, O'er the black and fatal river, To the kingdom of Manala, Speaks these words to the magician: 'Woe to thee! O Wainamoinen! Wonderful indeed, thy magic, Since thou comest to Manala, Comest neither dead nor dying.' Tuonetar, the death-land hostess, Ancient hostess of Tuoni, Brings him pitchers filled with strong-beer, Fills her massive golden goblets, Speaks these measures to the stranger: 'Drink, thou ancient Wainamoinen, Drink the beer of king Tuoni!' Wainamoinen, wise and cautious, Carefully inspects the liquor, Looks a long time in the pitchers, Sees the spawning of the black-frogs, Sees the young of poison-serpents, Lizards, worms, and writhing adders, Thus addresses Tuonetar: 'Have not come with this intention, Have not come to drink thy poisons, Drink the beer of Tuonela; Those that drink Tuoni's liquors, Those that sip the cups of Mana, Court the Devil and destruction, End their lives in want and ruin.' Tuonetar makes this answer: 'Ancient minstrel, Wainamoinen, Tell me what has brought thee hither, Brought thee to the, realm of Mana, To the courts of Tuonela, Ere Tuoni sent his angels To thy home in Kalevala, There to cut thy magic life-thread.' Spake the singer, Wainamoinen: 'I was building me a vessel, At my craft was working, singing, Needed three words of the Master, 298 How to fasten in the ledges, How the stern should be completed, How complete the boat's forecastle. This the reason of my coming To the empire of Tuoni, To the castles of Manala: Came to learn these magic sayings, Learn the lost-words of the Master.' Spake the hostess, Tuonetar: 'Mana never gives these sayings, Canst not learn them from Tuoni, Not the lost-words of the Master; Thou shalt never leave this kingdom, Never in thy magic life-time, Never go to Kalevala, To Wainola's peaceful meadows. To thy distant home and country.' Quick the hostess, Tuonetar, Waves her magic wand of slumber O'er the head of Wainamoinen, Puts to rest the wisdom-hero, Lays him on the couch of Mana, In the robes of living heroes, Deep the sleep that settles o'er him. In Manala lived a woman, In the kingdom of Tuoni, Evil witch and toothless wizard, Spinner of the threads of iron, Moulder of the bands of copper, Weaver of a hundred fish-nets, Of a thousand nets of copper, Spinning in the days of summer, Weaving in the winter evenings, Seated on a rock in water. In the kingdom of Tuoni Lived a man, a wicked wizard, Three the fingers of the hero, Spinner he of iron meshes, Maker too of nets of copper, Countless were his nets of metal, Moulded on a rock in water, Through the many days of summer. 299 Mana's son with crooked fingers, Iron-pointed, copper fingers, Pulls of nets, at least a thousand, Through the river of Tuoni, Sets them lengthwise, sets them crosswise, In the fatal, darksome river, That the sleeping Wainamomen, Friend and brother of the waters, May not leave the isle of Mana, Never in the course of ages, Never leave the death-land castles, Never while the moonlight glimmers On the empire of Tuoni. Wainamoinen, wise and wary, Rising from his couch of slumber, Speaks these words as he is waking: 'Is there not some mischief brewing, Am I not at last in danger, In the chambers of Tuoni, In the Manala home and household?' Quick he changes his complexion, Changes too his form and feature, Slips into another body; Like a serpent in a circle, Rolls black-dyed upon the waters; Like a snake among the willows, Crawls he like a worm of magic, Like an adder through the grasses, Through the coal-black stream of death-land, Through a thousand nets of copper Interlaced with threads of iron, From the kingdom of Tuoni, From the castles of Manala. Mana's son, the wicked wizard, With his iron-pointed fingers, In the early morning hastens To his thousand nets of copper, Set within the Tuoni river, Finds therein a countless number Of the death-stream fish and serpents; Does not find old Wainamoinen, Wainamoinen, wise and wary, 300 Friend and fellow of the waters. When the wonder-working hero Had escaped from Tuonela, Spake he thus in supplication: 'Gratitude to thee, O Ukko, Do I bring for thy protection! Never suffer other heroes, Of thy heroes not the wisest, To transgress the laws of nature; Never let another singer, While he lives within the body, Cross the river of Tuoni, As thou lovest thy creations. Many heroes cross the channel, Cross the fatal stream of Mana, Few return to tell the story, Few return from Tuonela, From Manala's courts and castles.' Wainamoinen calls his people, On the plains of Kalevala, Speaks these words of ancient wisdom, To the young men, to the maidens, To the rising generation: 'Every child of Northland, listen: If thou wishest joy eternal, Never disobey thy parents, Never evil treat the guiltless, Never wrong the feeble-minded, Never harm thy weakest fellow, Never stain thy lips with falsehood, Never cheat thy trusting neighbor, Never injure thy companion, Lest thou surely payest penance In the kingdom of Tuoni, In the prison of Manala; There, the home of all the wicked, There the couch of the unworthy, There the chambers of the guilty. Underneath Manala's fire-rock Are their ever-flaming couches, For their pillows hissing serpents, Vipers green their writhing covers, 301 For their drink the blood of adders, For their food the pangs of hunger, Pain and agony their solace; If thou wishest joy eternal, Shun the kingdom of Tuoui!' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

108:The Kalevala - Rune Xlii CAPTURE OF THE SAMPO. Wainamoinen, old and truthful, With the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, With the reckless son of Lempo, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli, On the sea's smooth plain departed, On the far-extending waters, To the village, cold and dreary, To the never-pleasant Northland, Where the heroes fall and perish. Ilmarinen led the rowers On one side the magic war-ship, And the reckless Lemminkainen Led the rowers on the other. Wainamoinen, old and trusty, Laid his hand upon the rudder, Steered his vessel o'er the waters, Through the foam and angry billows To Pohyola's place of landing, To the cylinders of copper, Where the war-ships lie at anchor. When they had arrived at Pohya, When their journey they had ended, On the land they rolled their vessel, On the copper-banded rollers, Straightway journeyed to the village, Hastened to the halls and hamlets Of the dismal Sariola. Louhi, hostess of the Northland, Thus addressed the stranger-heroes: Magic heroes of Wainola, What the tidings ye are bringing To the people of my village?' Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel. Gave this answer to the hostess: 'All the hosts of Kalevala Are inquiring for the Sampo, 192 Asking for the lid in colors; Hither have these heroes journeyed To divide the priceless treasure. Thus the hostess spake in answer: 'No one would divide a partridge, Nor a squirrel, with three heroes; Wonderful the magic Sampo, Plenty does it bring to Northland; And the colored lid re-echoes From the copper-bearing mountains, From the stone-berg of Pohyola, To the joy of its possessors.' Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Thus addressed the ancient Louhi: 'If thou wilt not share the Sampo, Give to us an equal portion, We will take it to Wainola, With its lid of many colors, Take by force the hope of Pohya.' Thereupon the Northland hostess Angry grew and sighed for vengeance; Called her people into council, Called the hosts of Sariola, Heroes with their trusted broadswords, To destroy old Wainamoinen With his people of the Northland. Wainamoinen, wise and ancient, Hastened to his harp of fish-bone, And began his magic playing; All of Pohya stopped and listened, Every warrior was silenced By the notes of the magician; Peaceful-minded grew the soldiers, All the maidens danced with pleasure, While the heroes fell to weeping, And the young men looked in wonder. Wainamoinen plays unceasing, Plays the maidens into slumber, Plays to sleep the young and aged, All of Northland sleeps and listens. Wise and wondrous Wainamoinen, The eternal bard and singer, 193 Searches in his pouch of leather, Draws therefrom his slumber-arrows, Locks the eyelids of the sleepers, Of the heroes of Pohyola, Sings and charms to deeper slumber All the warriors of the Northland. Then the heroes of Wainola Hasten to obtain the Sampo, To procure the lid in colors From the copper-bearing mountains. From behind nine locks of copper, In the stone-berg of Pohyola. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Then began his wondrous singing, Sang in gentle tones of magic, At the entrance to the mountain, At the border of the stronghold; Trembled all the rocky portals, And the iron-banded pillars Fell and crumbled at his singing. Ilmarinen, magic blacksmith, Well anointed all the hinges, All the bars and locks anointed, And the bolts flew back by magic, All the gates unlocked in silence, Opened for the great magician. Spake the minstrel Wainamoinen: 'O thou daring Lemminkainen, Friend of mine in times of trouble, Enter thou within the mountain, Bring away the wondrous Sampo, Bring away the lid in colors!' Quick the reckless Lemminkainen, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli, Ever ready for a venture, Hastens to the mountain-caverns, There to find the famous Sampo, There to get the lid in colors; Strides along with conscious footsteps, Thus himself he vainly praises: 'Great am I and full of glory, Wonder-hero, son of Ukko, 194 I will bring away the Sampo, Turn about the lid in colors, Turn it on its magic hinges!' Lemminkainen finds the wonder, Finds the Sampo in the mountain, Labors long with strength heroic, Tugs with might and main to turn it; Motionless remains the treasure, Deeper sinks the lid in colors, For the roots have grown about it, Grown nine fathoms deep in sand-earth. Lived a mighty ox in Northland, Powerful in bone and sinew, Beautiful in form and color, Horns the length of seven fathoms, Mouth and eyes of wondrous beauty. Lemminkainen, reckless hero, Harnesses the ox in pasture, Takes the master-plow of Pohya, Plows the roots about the Sampo, Plows around the lid in colors, And the sacred Sampo loosens, Falls the colored lid in silence. Straightway ancient Wainamoinen Brings the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Brings the daring Lemminkainen, Lastly brings the magic Sampo, From the stone-berg of Pohyola, From the copper-bearing mountain, Hides it in his waiting vessel, In the war-ship of Wainola. Wainamoinen called his people, Called his crew of men and maidens, Called together all his heroes, Rolled his vessel to the water, Into billowy deeps and dangers. Spake the blacksmith, Ilmarinen: 'Whither shall we take the Sampo, Whither take the lid in colors, From the stone-berg of Pohyola, From this evil spot of Northland?' Wainamoinen, wise and faithful, 195 Gave this answer to the question: 'Thither shall we take the Sampo, Thither take the lid in colors, To the fog-point on the waters, To the island forest-covered; There the treasure may be hidden, May remain in peace for ages, Free from trouble, free from danger, Where the sword will not molest it.' Then the minstrel, Wainamoinen, Joyful, left the Pohya borders, Homeward sailed, and happy-hearted, Spake these measures on departing: 'Turn, O man-of-war, from Pohya, Turn thy back upon the strangers, Turn thou to my distant country! Rock, O winds, my magic vessel, Homeward drive my ship, O billows, Lend the rowers your assistance, Give the oarsmen easy labor, On this vast expanse of waters! Give me of thine oars, O Ahto, Lend thine aid, O King of sea-waves, Guide as with thy helm in safety, Lay thy hand upon the rudder, And direct our war-ship homeward; Let the hooks of metal rattle O'er the surging of the billows, On the white-capped waves' commotion.' Then the master, Wainamoinen, Guided home his willing vessel; And the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, With the lively Lemminkainen, Led the mighty host of rowers, And the war-ship glided homeward O'er the sea's unruffled surface, O'er the mighty waste of waters. Spake the reckless Lemminkainen: 'Once before I rode these billows, There were viands for the heroes, There was singing for the maidens; But to-day I hear no singing, 196 Hear no songs upon the vessel, Hear no music on the waters.' Wainamoinen, wise and ancient, Answered thus wild Lemminkainen: 'Let none sing upon the blue-sea, On the waters, no rejoicing; Singing would prolong our journey, Songs disturb the host of rowers; Soon will die the silver sunlight, Darkness soon will overtake us, On this evil waste of waters, On this blue-sea, smooth and level.' These the words of Lemminkainen: 'Time will fly on equal pinions Whether we have songs or silence; Soon will disappear the daylight, And the night as quickly follow, Whether we be sad or joyous.' Wainamoinen, the magician, O'er the blue backs of the billows, Steered one day, and then a second, Steered the third from morn till even, When the wizard, Lemminkainen, Once again addressed the master: 'Why wilt thou, O famous minstrel, Sing no longer for thy people, Since the Sampo thou hast captured, Captured too the lid in colors?' These the words of Wainamoinen: ''Tis not well to sing too early! Time enough for songs of joyance When we see our home-land mansions, When our journeyings have ended!' Spake the reckless Lemminkainen: 'At the helm, if I were sitting, I would sing at morn and evening, Though my voice has little sweetness; Since thy songs are not forthcoming Listen to my wondrous singing!' Thereupon wild Lemminkainen, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli, Raised his voice above the waters, 197 O'er the sea his song resounded; But his measures were discordant, And his notes were harsh and frightful. Sang the wizard, Lemminkainen, Screeched the reckless Kaukomieli, Till the mighty war-ship trembled; Far and wide was heard his singing, Heard his songs upon the waters, Heard within the seventh village, Heard beyond the seven oceans. Sat a crane within the rushes, On a hillock clothed in verdure, And the crane his toes was counting; Suddenly he heard the singing Of the wizard, Lemminkainen; And the bird was justly frightened At the songs of the magician. Then with horrid voice, and screeching, Flew the crane across the broad-sea To the lakes of Sariola, O'er Pohyola's hills and hamlets, Screeching, screaming, over Northland, Till the people of the darkness Were awakened from their slumbers. Louhi hastens to her hurdles, Hastens to her droves of cattle, Hastens also to her garners, Counts her herds, inspects her store-house; Undisturbed she finds her treasures. Quick she journeys to the entrance To the copper-bearing mountain, Speaks these words as she approaches: 'Woe is me, my life hard-fated, Woe to Louhi, broken-hearted! Here the tracks of the destroyers, All my locks and bolts are broken By the hands of cruel strangers! Broken are my iron hinges, Open stand the mountain-portals Leading to the Northland-treasure. Has Pohyola lost her Sampo?' Then she hastened to the chambers 198 Where the Sampo had been grinding; But she found the chambers empty, Lid and Sampo gone to others, From the stone-berg of Pohyola, From behind nine locks of copper, In the copper-bearing mountain. Louhi, hostess of the Northland, Angry grew and cried for vengeance; As she found her fame departing, Found her-strength fast disappearing, Thus addressed the sea-fog virgin: 'Daughter of the morning-vapors, Sift thy fogs from distant cloud-land, Sift the thick air from the heavens, Sift thy vapors from the ether, On the blue-back of the broad-sea, On the far extending waters, That the ancient Wainamoinen, Friend of ocean-wave and billow, May not baffle his pursuers! 'Should this prayer prove unavailing, Iku-Turso, son of Old-age, Raise thy head above the billows, And destroy Wainola's heroes, Sink them to thy deep sea-castles, There devour them at thy pleasure; Bring thou back the golden Sampo To the people of Pohyola! 'Should these words be ineffective, Ukko, mightiest of rulers, Golden king beyond the welkin, Sitting on a throne of silver, Fill thy skies with heavy storm-clouds, Call thy fleetest winds about thee, Send them o'er the seven broad-seas, There to find the fleeing vessel, That the ancient Wainamoinen May not baffle his pursuers!' Quick the virgin of the vapors Breathed a fog upon the waters, Made it settle on the war-ship Of the, heroes of the Northland, 199 Held the minstrel, Wainamoinen, Anchored in the fog and darkness; Bound him one day, then a second, Then a third till dawn of morning, In the middle of the blue-sea, Whence he could not flee in safety From the wrath of his pursuers. When the third night had departed, Resting in the sea, and helpless, Wainamoinen spake as follows, 'Not a man of strength and courage, Not the weakest of the heroes, Who upon the sea will suffer, Sink and perish in the vapors, Perish in the fog and darkness!' With his sword he smote the billows, From his magic blade flowed honey; Quick the vapor breaks, and rises, Leaves the waters clear for rowing; Far extend the sky and waters, Large the ring of the horizon, And the troubled sea enlarges. Time had journeyed little distance, Scarce a moment had passed over, When they heard a mighty roaring, Heard a roaring and a rushing Near the border of the vessel, Where the foam was shooting skyward O'er the boat of Wainamoinen. Straightway youthful Ilmarinen Sank in gravest apprehension, From his cheeks the blood departed; Pulled his cap down o'er his forehead, Shook and trembled with emotion. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Casts his eyes upon the waters Near the broad rim of his war-ship; There perceives an ocean-wonder With his head above the sea-foam. Wainamoinen, brave and mighty, Seizes quick the water-monster, Lifts him by his ears and questions: 200 'Iku-Turso, son of Old-age, Why art rising from the blue-sea? Wherefore dost thou leave thy castle, Show thyself to mighty heroes, To the heroes of Wainola?' Iku-Turso, son of Old-age, Ocean monster, manifested Neither pleasure, nor displeasure, Was not in the least affrighted, Did not give the hero answer. Whereupon the ancient minstrel, Asked the second time the monster, Urgently inquired a third time: 'Iku-Turso, son of Old-age, Why art rising from the waters, Wherefore dost thou leave the blue-sea? Iku-Turso gave this answer: For this cause I left my castle Underneath the rolling billows: Came I here with the intention To destroy the Kalew-heroes, And return the magic Sampo To the people of Pohyola. If thou wilt restore my freedom, Spare my life, from pain and sorrow, I will quick retrace my journey, Nevermore to show my visage To the people of Wainola, Never while the moonlight glimmers On the hills of Kalevala!' Then the singer, Wainamoinen, Freed the monster, Iku-Turso, Sent him to his deep sea-castles, Spake these words to him departing: 'Iku-Turso, son of Old-age, Nevermore arise from ocean, Nevermore let Northland-heroes See thy face above the waters I Nevermore has Iku-Turso Risen to the ocean-level; Never since have Northland sailors Seen the head of this sea-monster. 201 Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Onward rowed his goodly vessel, Journeyed but a little distance, Scarce a moment had passed over, When the King of all creators, Mighty Ukko of the heavens, Made the winds blow full of power, Made the storms arise in fury, Made them rage upon the waters. From the west the winds came roaring, From the north-east came in anger, Winds came howling from the south-west, Came the winds from all directions, In their fury, rolling, roaring, Tearing branches from the lindens, Hurling needles from the pine-trees, Blowing flowers from the heather, Grasses blowing from the meadow, Tearing up the very bottom Of the deep and boundless blue-sea. Roared the winds and lashed the waters Till the waves were white with fury; Tossed the war-ship high in ether, Tossed away the harp of fish-bone, Magic harp of Wainamoinen, To the joy of King Wellamo, To the pleasure of his people, To the happiness of Ahto, Ahto, rising from his caverns, On the floods beheld his people Carry off the harp of magic To their home below the billows. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Heavy-hearted, spake these measures: 'I have lost what I created, I have lost the harp of joyance; Now my strength has gone to others, All my pleasure too departed, All my hope and comfort vanished! Nevermore the harp of fish-bone Will enchant the hosts of Suomi!' Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, 202 Sorrow-laden, spake as follows: 'Woe is me, my life hard-fated! Would that I had never journeyed On these waters filled with dangers, On the rolling waste before me, In this war-ship false and feeble. Winds and storms have I encountered, Wretched days of toil and trouble, I have witnessed in the Northland; Never have I met such dangers On the land, nor on the ocean, Never in my hero life-time!' Then the ancient Wainamoinen Spake and these the words he uttered: 'Weep no more, my goodly comrades, In my bark let no one murmur; Weeping cannot mend disaster, Tears can never still misfortune, Mourning cannot save from evil. 'Sea, command thy warring forces, Bid thy children cease their fury! Ahto, still thy surging billows! Sink, Wellamo, to thy slumber, That our boat may move in safety. Rise, ye storm-winds, to your kingdoms, Lift your heads above the waters, To the regions of your kindred, To your people and dominions; Cut the trees within the forest, Bend the lindens of the valley, Let our vessel sail in safety!' Then the reckless Lemminkainen, Handsome wizard, Kaukomieli, Spake these words in supplication: 'Come, O eagle, Turyalander, Bring three feathers from thy pinions, Three, O raven, three, O eagle, To protect this bark from evil!' All the heroes of Wainola Call their forces to the rescue, And repair the sinking vessel. By the aid of master-magic, 203 Wainamoinen saved his war-ship, Saved his people from destruction, Well repaired his ship to battle With the roughest seas of Northland; Steers his mighty boat in safety Through the perils of the whirlpool, Through the watery deeps and dangers. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

109:The Kalevala - Rune Xxiv THE BRIDE'S FAREWELL. Osmotar, the bride-instructor, Gives the wedding-guests this counsel, Speaks these measures to the bridegroom: 'Ilmarinen, artist-brother, Best of all my hero-brothers, Of my mother's sons the dearest, Gentlest, truest, bravest, grandest, Listen well to what I tell thee Of the Maiden of the Rainbow, Of thy beauteous life-companion Bridegroom, praise thy fate hereafter, Praise forever thy good fortune; If thou praisest, praise sincerely, Good the maiden thou hast wedded, Good the bride that Ukko gives thee, Graciously has God bestowed her. Sound her praises to thy father, Praise her virtues to thy mother, Let thy heart rejoice in secret, That thou hast the Bride of Beauty, Lovely Maiden of the Rainbow! 'Brilliant near thee stands the maiden, At thy shoulder thy companion, Happy under thy protection, Beautiful as golden moonlight, Beautiful upon thy bosom, Strong to do thy kindly bidding, Labor with thee as thou wishest, Rake the hay upon thy meadows, Keep thy home in full perfection, Spin for thee the finest linen, Weave for thee the richest fabrics, Make for thee the softest raiment, Make thy weaver's loom as merry As the cuckoo of the forest; Make the shuttle glide in beauty 396 Like the ermine of the woodlands; Make the spindle twirl as deftly As the squirrel spins the acorn; Village-maidens will not slumber While thy young bride's loom is humming, While she plies the graceful shuttle. 'Bridegroom of the Bride of Beauty, Noblest of the Northland heroes, Forge thyself a scythe for mowing, Furnish it with oaken handle, Carve it in thine ancient smithy, Hammer it upon thine anvil, Have it ready for the summer, For the merry days of sunshine; Take thy bride then to the lowlands, Mow the grass upon thy meadows, Rake the hay when it is ready, Make the reeds and grasses rustle, Toss the fragrant heads of clover, Make thy hay in Kalevala When the silver sun is shining. 'When the time has come for weaving, To the loom attract the weaver, Give to her the spools and shuttles, Let the willing loom be worthy, Beautiful the frame and settle; Give to her what may be needed, That the weaver's song may echo, That the lathe may swing and rattle, Ma y be heard within the village, That the aged may remark it, And the village-maidens question: 'Who is she that now is weaving, What new power now plies the shuttle?' 'Make this answer to the question: 'It is my beloved weaving, My young bride that plies the shuttle.' 'Shall the weaver's weft be loosened, Shall the young bride's loom be tightened? Do not let the weft be loosened, Nor the weaver's loom be tightened; Such the weaving of the daughters 397 Of the Moon beyond the cloudlets; Such the spinning of the maidens Of the Sun in high Jumala, Of the daughters of the Great Bear, Of the daughters of the Evening. Bridegroom, thou beloved hero, Brave descendant of thy fathers, When thou goest on a journey, When thou drivest on the highway, Driving with the Rainbow-daughter, Fairest bride of Sariola, Do not lead her as a titmouse, As a cuckoo of the forest, Into unfrequented places, Into copses of the borders, Into brier-fields and brambles, Into unproductive marshes; Let her wander not, nor stumble On opposing rocks and rubbish. Never in her father's dwelling, Never in her mother's court-yard, Has she fallen into ditches, Stumbled hard against the fences, Run through brier-fields, nor brambles, Fallen over rocks, nor rubbish. 'Magic bridegroom of Wainola, Wise descendant of the heroes, Never let thy young wife suffer, Never let her be neglected, Never let her sit in darkness, Never leave her unattended. Never in her father's mansion, In the chambers of her mother, Has she sat alone in darkness, Has she suffered for attention; Sat she by the crystal window, Sat and rocked, in peace and plenty, Evenings for her father's pleasure, Mornings for her mother's sunshine. Never mayest thou, O bridegroom, Lead the Maiden of the Rainbow To the mortar filled with sea-grass, 398 There to grind the bark for cooking, There to bake her bread from stubble, There to knead her dough from tan-bark Never in her father's dwelling, Never in her mother's mansion, Was she taken to the mortar, There to bake her bread from sea-grass. Thou shouldst lead the Bride of Beauty To the garner's rich abundance, There to draw the till of barley, Grind the flour and knead for baking, There to brew the beer for drinking, Wheaten flour for honey-biscuits. 'Hero-bridegroom of Wainola, Never cause thy Bride of Beauty To regret her day of marriage; Never make her shed a tear-drop, Never fill her cup with sorrow. Should there ever come an evening When thy wife shall feel unhappy, Put the harness on thy racer, Hitch the fleet-foot to the snow-sled; Take her to her father's dwelling, To the household of her mother; Never in thy hero-lifetime, Never while the moonbeams glimmer, Give thy fair spouse evil treatment, Never treat her as thy servant; Do not bar her from the cellar, Do not lock thy best provisions Never in her father's mansion, Never by her faithful mother Was she treated as a hireling. Honored bridegroom of the Northland, Proud descendant of the fathers, If thou treatest well thy young wife, Worthily wilt thou be treated; When thou goest to her homestead, When thou visitest her father, Thou shalt meet a cordial welcome. 'Censure not the Bride of Beauty, Never grieve thy Rainbow-maiden, 399 Never say in tones reproachful, She was born in lowly station, That her father was unworthy; Honored are thy bride's relations, From an old-time tribe, her kindred; When of corn they sowed a measure, Each one's portion was a kernel; When they sowed a cask of flax-seed, Each received a thread of linen. Never, never, magic husband, Treat thy beauty-bride unkindly, Teach her not with lash of servants, Strike her not with thongs of leather; Never has she wept in anguish From the birch-whip of her mother. Stand before her like a rampart, Be to her a strong protection, Do not let thy mother chide her, Let thy father not upbraid her, Never let thy guests offend her; Should thy servants bring annoyance, They may need the master's censure; Do not harm the Bride of Beauty, Never injure her thou lovest; Three long years hast thou been wooing, Hoping every mouth to win her. 'Counsel with the bride of heaven, To thy young wife give instruction, Kindly teach thy bride in secret, In the long and dreary evenings, When thou sittest at the fireside; Teach one year, in words of kindness, Teach with eyes of love a second, In the third year teach with firmness. If she should not heed thy teaching, Should not hear thy kindly counsel After three long years of effort, Cut a reed upon the lowlands, Cut a nettle from the border, Teach thy wife with harder measures. In the fourth year, if she heed not, Threaten her with sterner treatment, 400 With the stalks of rougher edges, Use not yet the thongs of leather, Do not touch her with the birch-whip. If she does not heed this warning, Should she pay thee no attention, Cut a rod upon the mountains, Or a willow in the valleys, Hide it underneath thy mantle, That the stranger may not see it, Show it to thy wife in secret, Shame her thus to do her duty, Strike not yet, though disobeying. Should she disregard this warning, Still refuse to heed thy wishes, Then instruct her with the willow, Use the birch-rod from the mountains In the closet of thy dwelling, In the attic of thy mansion; Strike, her not upon the common, Do not conquer her in public, Lest the villagers should see thee, Lest the neighbors hear her weeping, And the forests learn thy troubles. Touch thy wife upon the shoulders, Let her stiffened back be softened. Do not touch her on the forehead, Nor upon the ears, nor visage; If a ridge be on her forehead, Or a blue mark on her eyelids, Then her mother would perceive it, And her father would take notice, All the village-workmen see it, And the village-women ask her 'Hast thou been in heat of battle, Hast thou struggled in a conflict, Or perchance the wolves have torn thee, Or the forest-bears embraced thee, Or the black-wolf be thy husband, And the bear be thy protector?'' By the fire-place lay a gray-beard, On the hearth-stone lay a beggar, And the old man spake as follows: 401 'Never, never, hero-husband, Follow thou thy young wife's wishes, Follow not her inclinations, As, alas! I did, regretful; Bought my bride the bread of barley, Veal, and beer, and best of butter, Fish and fowl of all descriptions, Beer I bought, home-brewed and sparkling, Wheat from all the distant nations, All the dainties of the Northland; All of this was unavailing, Gave my wife no satisfaction, Often came she to my chamber, Tore my sable locks in frenzy, With a visage fierce and frightful, With her eyeballs flashing anger, Scolding on and scolding ever, Ever speaking words of evil, Using epithets the vilest, Thought me but a block for chopping. Then I sought for other measures, Used on her my last resources, Cut a birch-whip in the forest, And she spake in tones endearing; Cut a juniper or willow, And she called me 'hero-darling'; When with lash my wife I threatened, Hung she on my neck with kisses.' Thus the bridegroom was instructed, Thus the last advices given. Then the Maiden of the Rainbow, Beauteous bride of Ilmarinen, Sighing heavily and moaning, Fell to weeping, heavy-hearted, Spake these words from depths of sorrow: 'Near, indeed, the separation, Near, alas! the time for parting, Near the time for my departure; O the anguish of the parting, O the pain of separation, From these walls renowned and ancient, From this village of the Northland, 402 From these scenes of peace and plenty, Where my faithful mother taught me, Where my father gave instruction To me in my happy childhood, When my years were few and tender! As a child I did not fancy, Never thought of separation From the confines of this cottage, From these dear old hills and mountains, But, alas! I now must journey, Since I now cannot escape it; Empty is the bowl of parting, All the farewell-beer is taken, And my husband's sledge is waiting, With the break-board looking southward, Looking from my father's dwelling. 'How shall I give compensation, How repay, on my departure, All the kindness of my mother, All the counsel of my father, All the friendship of my brother, All my sister's warm affection? Gratitude to thee, dear father, For my former-life and blessings, For the comforts of thy table, For the pleasures of my childhood! Gratitude to thee, dear mother, For thy tender care and guidance, For my birth and for my culture, Nurtured by thy purest life-blood! Gratitude to thee, dear brother, Gratitude to thee, sweet sister, To the servants of my childhood, To my many friends and playmates! 'Never, never, aged father, Never, thou, beloved mother, Never, ye, my kindred spirits, Never harbor care, nor sorrow, Never fall to bitter weeping, Since thy child has gone to others, To the distant home of strangers, To the meadows of Wainola, 403 From her father's fields and firesides. Shines the Sun of the Creator, Shines the golden Moon of Ukko, Glitter all the stars of heaven, In the firmament of ether, Full as bright on other homesteads; Not upon my father's uplands, Not upon my home in childhood, Shines the Star of Joyance only. 'Now the time has come for parting From my father's golden firesides, From my brother's welcome hearth-stone, From the chambers of my sister, From my mother's happy dwelling; Now I leave the swamps and lowlands, Leave the grassy vales and mountains, Leave the crystal lakes and rivers, Leave the shores and sandy shallows, Leave the white-capped surging billows, Where the maidens swim and linger, Where the mermaids sing and frolic; Leave the swamps to those that wander, Leave the corn-fields to the plowman, Leave the forests to the weary, Leave the heather to the rover, Leave the copses to the stranger, Leave the alleys to the beggar, Leave the court-yards to the rambler, Leave the portals to the servant, Leave the matting to the sweeper, Leave the highways to the roebuck, Leave the woodland-glens to lynxes, Leave the lowlands to the wild-geese, And the birch-tree to the cuckoo. Now I leave these friends of childhood, Journey southward with my husband, To the arms of Night and Winter, O'er the ice-grown seas of Northland. 'Should I once again, returning, Pay a visit to my tribe-folk, Mother would not hear me calling, Father would not see me weeping, 404 Calling at my mother's grave-stone, 'Weeping o'er my buried father, On their graves the fragrant flowers, Junipers and mournful willows, Verdure from my mother's tresses, From the gray-beard of my father. 'Should I visit Sariola, Visit once again these borders, No one here would bid me welcome. Nothing in these hills would greet me, Save perchance a few things only, By the fence a clump of osiers, And a land-mark at the corner, Which in early youth I planted, When a child of little stature. 'Mother's kine perhaps will know me, Which so often I have watered, Which I oft have fed and tended, Lowing now at my departure, In the pasture cold and cheerless; Sure my mother's kine will welcome Northland's daughter home returning. Father's steeds may not forget me, Steeds that I have often ridden, When a maiden free and happy, Neighing now for me departing, In the pasture of my brother, In the stable of my father; Sure my father's steeds will know me, Bid Pohyola's daughter welcome. Brother's faithful dogs may know me, That I oft have fed and petted, Dogs that I have taught to frolic, That now mourn for me departing, In their kennels in the court-yard, In their kennels cold and cheerless; Sure my brother's dogs will welcome Pohya's daughter home returning. But the people will not know me, When I come these scenes to visit, Though the fords remain as ever, Though unchanged remain the rivers, 405 Though untouched the flaxen fish-nets On the shores await my coming. 'Fare thou well, my dear old homestead, Fare ye well, my native bowers; It would give me joy unceasing Could I linger here forever. Now farewell, ye halls and portals, Leading to my father's mansion; It would give me joy unceasing Could I linger here forever. Fare ye well, familiar gardens Filled with trees and fragrant flowers; It would give me joy unceasing, Could I linger here forever. Send to all my farewell greetings, To the fields, and groves, and berries; Greet the meadows with their daisies, Greet the borders with their fences, Greet the lakelets with their islands, Greet the streams with trout disporting, Greet the hills with stately pine-trees, And the valleys with their birches. Fare ye well, ye streams and lakelets, Fertile fields, and shores of ocean, All ye aspens on the mountains, All ye lindens of the valleys, All ye beautiful stone-lindens, All ye shade-trees by the cottage, All ye junipers and willows, All ye shrubs with berries laden, Waving grass and fields of barley, Arms of elms, and oaks, and alders, Fare ye well, dear scenes of childhood, Happiness of days departed!' Ending thus, Pohyola's daughter Left her native fields and fallows, Left the darksome Sariola, With her husband, Ilmarinen, Famous son of Kalevala. But the youth remained for singing, This the chorus of the children: 'Hither came a bird of evil ' 406 Flew in fleetness from the forest, Came to steal away our virgin, Came to win the Maid of Beauty; Took away our fairest flower, Took our mermaid from the waters, Won her with his youth and beauty, With his keys of ancient wisdom. Who will lead us to the sea-beach, Who conduct us to the rivers? Now the buckets will be idle, On the hooks will rest the fish-poles, Now unswept will lie the matting, And unswept the halls of birch-wood, Copper goblets be unburnished, Dark the handles of the pitchers, Fare thou well, dear Rainbow Maiden.' Ilmarinen, happy bridegroom, Hastened homeward with the daughter Of the hostess of Pohyola, With the beauty of the Northland Fleetly flew the hero's snow-sledge, Loudly creaked, and roared, and rattled Down the banks of Northland waters, By the side of Honey-inlet, On the back of Sandy Mountain. Stones went rolling from the highway, Like the winds the sledge flew onward, On the yoke rang hoops of iron, Loud the spotted wood resounded, Loudly creaked the bands of willow, All the birchen cross-bars trembled, And the copper-bells rang music, In the racing of the fleet-foot, In the courser's gallop homeward; Journeyed one day, then a second, Journeyed still the third day onward, In one hand the reins of magic, While the other grasped the maiden, One foot resting on the cross-bar, And the other in the fur-robes. Merrily the steed flew homeward, Quickly did the highways shorten, 407 Till at last upon the third day, As the sun was fast declining, There appeared the blacksmith's furnace, Nearer, Ilmarinen's dwelling, Smoke arising high in ether, Clouds of smoke to lofty heaven, From the village of Wainola, From the suitor's forge and smithy, From the chimneys of the hero, From the home of the successful. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

110: Book V: The Book of Achilles Meanwhile grey from the Trojan gates Talthybius journeyed Spurred by the secret thought of the Fates who change not nor falter. Simois sighed round his wheels and Xanthus roared at his passing, Troas god like a lion wroth and afraid; to meet him Whistling the ocean breezes came and Ida regarded. So with his haste in the wheels the herald oceanward driving Came through the gold of the morn, oer the trampled green of the pastures Back to the ships and the roar of the sea and the iron-hooped leaguer. Wide to the left his circle he wrote where the tents of Achilles Trooped like a flock of the sea-fowl pensive and still on the margin. He past the outposts rapidly coursed to the fosse of the Argives. In with a quavering cry to the encampment over the causeway Bridging the moat of the ships Talthybius drove in his chariot Out of the wide plains azure-roofed and the silence of Nature Passing in to the murmur of men and the thick of the leaguer. There to a thrall of the Hellene he cast his reins and with labour Down from the high seat climbed of the war-car framed for the mighty. Then betwixt tent-doors endless, vistaed streets of the canvas, Slowly the old man toiled with his eager heart, and to meet him Sauntering forth from his tent at the sound of the driving car-wheels Strong Automedon came who was charioteer of Achilles. Grey Talthybius, whence art thou coming? From Troya the ancient? Or from a distant tent was thy speed and the King Agamemnon? What in their armoured assembly counsel the kings of the Argives? Not from the host but from Troy, Automedon, come I with tidings, Nor have I mixed with the Greeks in their cohorts ranked by the Ocean, Nor have I stood in their tents who are kings in sceptred Achaia, But from Achilles sent to Achilles I bring back the message. Tell me, then, what does Pelides, whether his strength he reposes Soothed by the lyre or hearing the chanted deeds of the mighty Or does he walk as he loves by the shore of the far-sounding waters? And to the Argive herald grey Automedon answered: Now from the meal he rests and Briseis lyres to him singing One of the Ilian chants of old in the tongue of the Trojans. Early, then, he has eaten, Automedon, early reposes? Early the meat was broached on the spits, Talthybius, early High on the sands or under the tents we have eaten and rested. None knows the hour of the hunt, red, fierce, nor the prey he shall leap on, All are like straining hounds; for Achilles shares not his counsels, But on the ships, in the tents the talk has run like Peneus; These upon Troy to be loosed and the hard-fighting wolf-brood of Priam, These hope starkly with Argos embraced to have done with the Spartan, Ending his brilliance in blood or to sport on the sands of the margent Playing at bowls with the heads of the Cretan and crafty Odysseus. Welcome were either or both; we shall move in the dances of Ares, Quicken heart-beats dulled and limbs that are numb with reposing. War we desire and no longer this ease by the drone of the waters. So as they spoke, they beheld far-off the tent of Achilles Splendid and spacious even as the hall of a high-crested chieftain, Lofty, held by a hundred stakes to the Phrygian meadow. Hung were its sides with memories bronze and trophies of armour, Sword and spear and helmet and cuirass of fallen heroes Slain by the hand of the mighty Achilles warring with Troya. Teemed in its canvas rooms the plundered riches of Troas, Craftsmans work and the wood well-carved and the ivory painted, Work of bronze and work of gold and the dreams of the artist. And in those tents of his pride, in the dreadful guard of the Hellene, Noble boys and daughters of high-born Phrygians captive, Borne from the joyless ruins that now were the sites of their childhood, Served in the land of their sires the will of the Phthian Achilles. There on a couch reclined in his beauty mighty and golden, Loved by the Fates and doomed by them, spear of their will against Troya, Peleus hero son by the foam-white child of the waters Dreaming reposed and his death-giving hand hung lax oer the couch-side. Near him dark-eyed Briseis, the fatal and beautiful captive, Sang to the Grecian victor chants of the land of her fathers, Sang the chant of Ilus, the tale of the glories of Troya. Trojan boys and maidens sat near the singer and listened Heart-delighted if with some tears; for easy are mortal Hearts to be bent by Fate and soon we consent to our fortunes. But in the doorway Automedon stood with the shadowy Argive And at the ominous coming the voice of the singer faltered, Faltering hushed like a thought melodious ceasing in heaven. But from his couch the Peleid sprang and he cried to the herald. Long hast thou lingered in Ilion, envoy, mute in the chambers Golden of Priam old, while around thee darkened the counsels Wavering blindly and fiercely of minds that revolt from compulsion, Natures at war with the gods and their fortunes. Fain would I fathom What were the thoughts of Deiphobus locked in that nature of iron Now that he stands confronting his fate in the town of his fathers. Peace dwells not in thy aspect. Sowst thou a seed then of ruin Cast from the inflexible heart and the faltering tongue of Aeneas, Or with the golden laugh of the tameless bright Alexander? Grey Talthybius answered, Surely their doom has embraced them Wrapping her locks round their ears and their eyes, lest they see and escape her, Kissing their tongue with her fatal lips and dictating its answers. Dire is the hope of their chiefs and fierce is the will of their commons. Son of the Aeacids, spurned is thy offer. The pride of thy challenge Rather we choose; it is nearer to Dardanus, King of the Hellenes. Neither shall Helen captive be dragged to the feet of her husband, Nor down the paths of peace revisit her fathers Eurotas. Death and the fire may prevail on us, never our wills shall surrender Lowering Priams heights and darkening Ilions splendours; Not of such sires were we born, but of kings and of gods. Larissan, Not with her gold Troy purchases safety but with her spear-point. Stand with thy oath in the war-front, Achilles, call on thy helpers Armed to descend from the calm of Olympian heights to thy succour Hedging thy fame from defeat; for we all desire thee in battle, Mighty to end thee or tame at last by the floods of the Xanthus. So they reply; they are true to their death, they are constant for ruin. Humbler answer hope not, O hero, from Penthesilea; Insolent, warlike, regal and swift as herself is her message. Sea of renown and of valour that fillest the world with thy rumour, Speed of the battle incarnate, mortal image of Ares! Terror and tawny delight like a lion one hunts or is hunted! Dread of the world and my target, swift-footed glorious hero! Thus have I imaged thee, son of Peleus, dreaming in countries Far from thy knowledge, in mountains that never have rung to thy war-cry. O, I have longed for thee, warrior! Therefore today by thy message So was I seized with delight that my heart was hurt with its rapture, Knowing today I shall gaze with my eyes on that which I imaged Only in air of the mind or met in the paths of my dreaming. Thus have I praised thee first with my speech; with my spear I would answer. Yet for thy haughty scorn who deeming of me as some Hellene Or as a woman weak of these plains fit but for the distaff, Promisest capture in war and fame as thy slavegirl in Phthia, Surely I think that death today will reply to that promise, Now I will give thee my answer and warn thee ere we encounter. Know me queen of a race that never was conquered in battle! Know me armed with a spear that never has missed in the combat! There where my car-wheels run, good fruit gets the husbandman after. This thou knowest. Ajax has told thee, thy friend, in his dying. Has not Meriones spirit come in thy dreams then to warn thee? Didst thou not number the Argives once ere I came to the battle? Number them now and measure the warrior Penthesilea. Such am I then whom thy dreams have seen meek-browed in Larissa, And in the battle behind me thunder the heroes Eoan, Ranks whose feeblest can match with the vaunted chiefs of the Argives. Never yet from the shock have they fled; if they turn from the foeman, Always tis to return like death recircling on mortals. Yet being such, having such for my armies, this do I promise: I on the left of the Trojans war with my bright-armed numbers, Thou on the Argive right come forth, Achilles, and meet me! If thou canst drive us with rout into Troy, I will own thee for master, Do thy utmost will and make thee more glorious than gods are Serving thy couch in Phthia and drawing the jar from thy rivers. Nay, if thou hast that strength, then hunt me, O hunter, and seize me, If tis thy hope indeed that the sun can turn back from the Orient, But if thou canst not, death of myself or thyself thou shalt capture. Musing heard and was silent awhile the strength of Achilles, Musing of Fate and the wills of men and the purpose of Heaven, Then from his thoughts he broke and turned in his soul towards battle. Well did I know what reply would come winged from the princes of Troya. Prone are the hearts of heroes to wrath and to God-given blindness When from their will they are thrust and harried by Fate and disaster: Fierceness then is the armour of strength against grief and its yieldings. So have the gods made man for their purpose, cunningly fashioned. Once had defiance waked from my depths a far-striding fury, Flaming for justice and vengeance, nor had it, satisfied, rested, Sunk to its lair, till the insulter died torn or was kneeling for pardon. Fierce was my heart in my youth and exulted in triumph and slaughter. Now as I grow in my spirit like to my kin the immortals, Joy more I find in saving and cherishing than in the carnage. Greater it seems to my mind to be king over men than their slayer, Nobler to build and to govern than what the ages have laboured Putting their godhead forth to create or the high gods have fashioned, That to destroy in our wrath of a moment. Ripened, more widely Opens my heart to the valour of man and the beauty of woman, Works of the world and delight; the cup of my victory sweetens Not with the joys of hate, but the human pride of the triumph. Yet was the battle decreed for the means supreme of the mortal Placed in a world where all things strive from the worm to the Titan. So will I seize by the onset what peace from my soul would sequester, So will I woo with the sword and with love the delight of my foeman, Troy and Polyxena, beauty of Paris and glory of Priam. This was the ancient wrestling, this was the spirit of warfare Fit for the demigods. Soon in the city of gold and of marble, There where Ilus sat and Tros, where Laomedon triumphed, Peleus house shall reign, the Hellene sit where the Trojan Thought himself deathless. Arise, Automedon! Out to the people! Send forth the cry through the ships and the tents of the Myrmidon nation. Let not a man be found then lingering when oer the causeway Thunder my chariot-wheels, nor let any give back in the battle, Good if he wills from me, till through the conquered gates of the foeman Storming we herd in their remnants and press into Troy as with evening Helios rushing sinks to the sea. But thou, Briseis, Put by thy lyre, O girl; it shall gladden my heart in my triumph Victor returned from Troy to listen pleased to thy singing, Bearing a captive bound to my car-wheels Penthesilea, Bearing my valours reward, Polyxena, daughter of Priam, Won in despite of her city and brothers and spears of her kindred. So by force it is best to take ones will and be mighty. Joyful, Automedon ran through the drowsy camp of the Hellenes Changing the hum of the tents as he raced into shoutings of battle; For with the giant din of a nation triumphant arising Hellas sprang from her irksome ease and mounted her war-car; Donning her armour bright she rejoiced in the trumpets of battle. But to the herald grey the Peleid turned and the old man Shuddered under his gaze and shrank from the voice of the hero: Thou to the tents of thy Kings, Talthybius, herald of Argos! Stand in the Argive assembly, voice of the strength of Achilles. Care not at all though the greatest and fiercest be wroth with thy message. Deem not thyself, old man, as a body and flesh that is mortal, Rather as living speech from the iron breast of the Hellene. Thus shalt thou cry to the vanquished chiefs who fled from a woman, Thus shalt thou speak my will to the brittle and fugitive legions: Now Achilles turns towards Troya and fast-flowing Xanthus, Now he leaps at the iron zone, the impregnable city. Two were the forms of the Gods that oerhung the sails of Pelides When with a doubtful word in his soul he came wind-helped from Hellas Cleaving the Aegean deep towards the pine-crested vision of Ida. Two are the Fates that stride with the hero counting his exploits. Over all earthly things the soul that is fearless is master, Only on death he can reckon not whether it comes in the midnight Treading the couch of Kings in their pride or speeds in the spear-shaft. Now will I weigh down that double beam of the Olympian balance Claiming one of the equal Fates that stand robed for the fighter, For to my last dire wrestle I go with the Archer of heaven, And ere the morning gleam have awakened the eagles on Ida, Troy shall lie prone or the earth shall be empty of Phthian Achilles. But for whatever Fate I accept from the ageless Immortals, Whether cold Hades dim or Indus waits for my coming Pouring down vast to the sea with the noise of his numberless waters, I with Zeus am enough. Your mortal aid I desire not, Rushing to Troy like the eagle of Zeus when he flies towards the thunders, Winged with might, the bird of the spaces, upbuoying his pinions. Nor shall my spirit look back for the surge of your Danaan fighters, Tramp of the Argive multitudes helping my lonely courage, Neither the transient swell of the cry Achaian behind me Seek, nor the far-speeding voice of Atrides guiding his legions. Need has he none for a leader who himself is the soul of his action. Zeus and his fate and his spear are enough for the Phthian Achilles. Rest, O wearied hosts; my arm shall win for you Troya, Quelled when the stern Eoans break and Penthesilea Lies like a flower in the dust at my feet. Yet if Ares desire you, Come then and meet him once more mid the cry and the trampling! Assemble Round the accustomed chiefs, round the old victorious wrestlers Wearied strengths Deiphobus leaves you or sternest Aeneas. But when my arm and my Fate have vanquished their gods and Apollo, Brilliant with blood when we stand amid Ilions marble splendours, Then let none seat deaf flame on the glory of Phrygias marbles Or with his barbarous rapine shatter the chambers of sweetness Slaying the work of the gods and the beauty the ages have lived for. For he shall moan in the night remote from the earth and her greenness, Spurred like a steed to its goal by my spear dug deep in his bosom; Fast he shall fleet to the waters of wailing, the pleasureless pastures. Touch not the city Apollo built, where Poseidon has laboured. Seized and dishelmed and disgirdled of Apollonian ramparts, Empty of wide-rolling wheels and the tramp of a turbulent people Troy with her marble domes shall live for our nations in beauty Hushed mid the trees and the corn and the pictured halls of the ancients, Watching her image of dreams in the gliding waves of Scamander, Sacred and still, a city of memory spared by the Grecians. So shalt thou warn the arrogant hearts of Achaias chieftains Lest upon Greece an evil should fall and her princes should perish. Herald, beware how thou soften my speech in the ears of thy nation Sparing their pride and their hearts but dooming their lives to the death-stroke. Even thy time-touched snows shall not shield thy days from my sword-edge. Wroth the old mans heart, but he feared Achilles and slowly Over the margin grey on the shore of the far-sounding ocean Silent paced to the tents of the Greeks and the Argive assembly. There on the sands while the scream of the tide as it dragged at the pebbles Strove in vain with their droning roar, awaiting their chieftains Each in his tribe and his people far down the margin Aegean Argolis sons and Epirote spears and the isles and the southron, Locris swarms and Messenes pikes and the strength of the Theban, Hosts bright-armed, bright-eyed, bright-haired, time-hardened to Ares, Stretched in harsh and brilliant lines with a glitter of spear-points Far as the eye could toil. All Europe helmeted, armoured Swarmed upon Asias coasts disgorged from her ships in their hundreds. There in the wide-winged tent of the council that peered oer the margin, High where the grass and the meadow-bloom failed on the sand-rifted sward-edge, Pouring his argent voice Epeus spoke to the princes, Rapid in battle and speech; and even as a boy in a courtyard Tosses his ball in the air and changes his hands for the seizing So he played with counsel and thought and rejoiced in his swiftness. But now a nearing Fate he felt and his impulse was silenced. Stilled were his thoughts by the message that speeds twixt our minds in their shadows Dumb, unthought, unphrased, to us dark, but the caverns of Nature Hear its cry when Gods moment changing our fate comes visored Silently into our lives and the spirit too knows, for it watches. Quiet he fell and all men turned to the face of the herald. Mute and alone through the ranks of the seated and silent princes Old Talthybius paced, nor paused till he stood at the midmost Fronting that council of Kings and nearest to Locrian Ajax And where Sthenelus sat and where sat the great Diomedes, Chiefs of the South, but their love was small for the Kings of the Spartans. There like one close to a refuge he lifted his high-chanting accents. High was his voice like the winds when it whistles shrill oer a forest Sole of all sounds at night, for the kite is at rest and the tiger Sleeps from the hunt returned in the deepest hush of the jungle. Hearken, O Kings of the world, to the lonely will of the Phthian! One is the roar of the lion heard by the jungles hundreds, One is the voice of the great and the many shall hear it inclining. Lo, he has shaken his mane for the last great leap upon Troya And when the eagles scream shall arise in the dawn over Ida, Troy shall have fallen or earth shall be empty of Phthian Achilles. But by whatever Fate he is claimed that waits for the mortal, Whether the fast-closed hands above have kept for his morrows Chill of the joyless shades or earth and her wooings of sunlight Still shall detain his days with the doubtful meed of our virtues, He and Zeus shall provide, not mortals. Chaff are mens armies Threshed by the flails of Fate; tis the soul of the hero that conquers. Not on the tramp of the multitudes, not on the cry of the legions Founds the strong man his strength but the god that he carries within him. Zeus and his Fate and his spear are enough for the Phthian Achilles. Prudence of men shall curb no more his god-given impulse. He has no need of thy voice, O Atrides, guiding the legions, He is the leader, his is the soul of magnificent emprise. Rest, O ye sons of the Greeks, the Phthian shall conquer for Hellas! Rest! expose not your hearts to the war-cry of Penthesilea. Yet if the strength in you thirsts for the war-din, if Ares is hungry, Meet him stark in the mellay urging Deiphobus coursers, Guiding Aeneas spear; recover the souls of your fathers. Bronze must his heart be who looks in the eyes of the implacable war-god! But when his Fate has conquered their gods and slaughtered their heroes, And in this marble Ilion forced to the tread of her foemen Watched by the ancient domes you stand, by the timeless turrets, Then let no chieftain garbed for the sacrifice lift against Troya, Counselled of Ate, torch of the burning, hand of the plunder Groping for gold but finding death in her opulent chambers. For he shall moan in the night regretting the earth and her greenness, Spurred by the spear in his arrogant breast like a steed to the gorges: Fast he shall fleet to the flowerless meadows, the sorrowful pastures. Touch not the city Apollo built, where Poseidon has laboured, Slay not the work of the gods and the glory the ages have lived for. Mute of the voice of her children, void of the roll of her war-cars Timeless Troy leave solitary dreaming by ancient Scamander Sacred and still, a city of memory spared by the Phthian. So Talthybius spoke and anger silenced the Argives. Mute was the warlike assembly, silent Achaias princes. Wrath and counsel strove in the hush for the voice of the speakers. *** ~ Sri Aurobindo, 5 - The Book of Achilles ,

111:The Kalevala - Rune L MARIATTA--WAINAMOINEN'S DEPARTURE. Mariatta, child of beauty, Grew to maidenhood in Northland, In the cabin of her father, In the chambers of her mother, Golden ringlets, silver girdles, Worn against the keys paternal, Glittering upon her bosom; Wore away the father's threshold With the long robes of her garments; Wore away the painted rafters With her beauteous silken ribbons; Wore away the gilded pillars With the touching of her fingers; Wore away the birchen flooring With the tramping of her fur-shoes. Mariatta, child of beauty, Magic maid of little stature, Guarded well her sacred virtue, Her sincerity and honor, Fed upon the dainty whiting, On the inner bark of birch-wood, On the tender flesh of lambkins. When she hastened in the evening To her milking in the hurdles, Spake in innocence as follows: 'Never will the snow-white virgin Milk the kine of one unworthy!' When she journeyed over snow-fields, On the seat beside her father, Spake in purity as follows: 'Not behind a steed unworthy Will I ever ride the snow-sledge!' Mariatta, child of beauty, Lived a virgin with her mother, As a maiden highly honored, Lived in innocence and beauty, 68 Daily drove her flocks to pasture, Walking with the gentle lambkins. When the lambkins climbed the mountains, When they gamboled on the hill-tops, Stepped the virgin to the meadow, Skipping through a grove of lindens, At the calling of the cuckoo, To the songster's golden measures. Mariatta, child of beauty, Looked about, intently listened, Sat upon the berry-meadow Sat awhile, and meditated On a hillock by the forest, And soliloquized as follows: 'Call to me, thou golden cuckoo, Sing, thou sacred bird of Northland, Sing, thou silver breasted songster, Speak, thou strawberry of Ehstland, Tell bow long must I unmarried, As a shepherdess neglected, Wander o'er these bills and mountains, Through these flowery fens and fallows. Tell me, cuckoo of the woodlands, Sing to me how many summers I must live without a husband, As a shepherdess neglected!' Mariatta, child of beauty, Lived a shepherd-maid for ages, As a virgin with her mother. Wretched are the lives of shepherds, Lives of maidens still more wretched, Guarding flocks upon the mountains; Serpents creep in bog and stubble, On the greensward dart the lizards; But it was no serpent singing, Nor a sacred lizard calling, It was but the mountain-berry Calling to the lonely maiden: 'Come, O virgin, come and pluck me, Come and take me to thy bosom, Take me, tinsel-breasted virgin, Take me, maiden, copper-belted, 69 Ere the slimy snail devours me, Ere the black-worm feeds upon me. Hundreds pass my way unmindful, Thousands come within my hearing, Berry-maidens swarm about me, Children come in countless numbers, None of these has come to gather, Come to pluck this ruddy berry.' Mariatta, child of beauty, Listened to its gentle pleading, Ran to pick the berry, calling, With her fair and dainty fingers,. Saw it smiling near the meadow, Like a cranberry in feature, Like a strawberry in flavor; But be Virgin, Mariatta, Could not pluck the woodland-stranger, Thereupon she cut a charm-stick, Downward pressed upon the berry, When it rose as if by magic, Rose above her shoes of ermine, Then above her copper girdle, Darted upward to her bosom, Leaped upon the maiden's shoulder, On her dimpled chin it rested, On her lips it perched a moment, Hastened to her tongue expectant To and fro it rocked and lingered, Thence it hastened on its journey, Settled in the maiden's bosom. Mariatta, child of beauty, Thus became a bride impregnate, Wedded to the mountain-berry; Lingered in her room at morning, Sat at midday in the darkness, Hastened to her couch at evening. Thus the watchful mother wonders: 'What has happened to our Mary, To our virgin, Mariatta, That she throws aside her girdle, Shyly slips through hall and chamber, Lingers in her room at morning, 70 Hastens to her couch at evening, Sits at midday in the darkness?' On the floor a babe was playing, And the young child thus made answer: 'This has happened to our Mary, To our virgin, Mariatta, This misfortune to the maiden: She has lingered by the meadows, Played too long among the lambkins, Tasted of the mountain-berry.' Long the virgin watched and waited, Anxiously the days she counted, Waiting for the dawn of trouble. Finally she asked her mother, These the words of Mariatta: 'Faithful mother, fond and tender, Mother whom I love and cherish, Make for me a place befitting, Where my troubles may be lessened, And my heavy burdens lightened.' This the answer of the mother: 'Woe to thee, thou Hisi-maiden, Since thou art a bride unworthy, Wedded only to dishonor!' Mariatta, child of beauty, Thus replied in truthful measures: 'I am not a maid of Hisi, I am not a bride unworthy, Am not wedded to dishonor; As a shepherdess I wandered With the lambkins to the glen-wood, Wandered to the berry-mountain, Where the strawberry had ripened; Quick as thought I plucked the berry, On my tongue I gently laid it, To and fro it rocked and lingered, Settled in my heaving bosom. This the source of all my trouble, Only cause of my dishonor!' As the mother was relentless, Asked the maiden of her father, This the virgin-mother's pleading: 71 O my father, full of pity, Source of both my good and evil, Build for me a place befitting, Where my troubles may be lessened, And my heavy burdens lightened.' This the answer of the father, Of the father unforgiving: 'Go, thou evil child of Hisi, Go, thou child of sin and sorrow, Wedded only to dishonor, To the Great Bear's rocky chamber, To the stone-cave of the growler, There to lessen all thy troubles, There to cast thy heavy burdens!' Mariatta, child of beauty, Thus made answer to her father: 'I am not a child of Hisi, I am not a bride unworthy, Am not wedded to dishonor; I shall bear a noble hero, I shall bear a son immortal, Who will rule among the mighty, Rule the ancient Wainamoinen.' Thereupon the virgin-mother Wandered hither, wandered thither, Seeking for a place befitting, Seeking for a worthy birth-place For her unborn son and hero; Finally these words she uttered 'Piltti, thou my youngest maiden, Trustiest of all my servants, Seek a place within the village, Ask it of the brook of Sara, For the troubled Mariatta, Child of sorrow and misfortune.' Thereupon the little maiden, Piltti, spake these words in answer: 'Whom shall I entreat for succor, Who will lend me his assistance? These the words of Mariatta: 'Go and ask it of Ruotus, Where the reed-brook pours her waters.' 72 Thereupon the servant, Piltti, Ever hopeful, ever willing, Hastened to obey her mistress, Needing not her exhortation; Hastened like the rapid river, Like the flying smoke of battle To the cabin of Ruotus. When she walked the hill-tops tottered, When she ran the mountains trembled; Shore-reeds danced upon the pasture, Sandstones skipped about the heather As the maiden, Piltti, hastened To the dwelling of Ruotus. At his table in his cabin Sat Ruotus, eating, drinking, In his simple coat of linen. With his elbows on the table Spake the wizard in amazement: 'Why hast thou, a maid of evil, Come to see me in my cavern, What the message thou art bringing? Thereupon the servant, Piltti, Gave this answer to the wizard: 'Seek I for a spot befitting, Seek I for a worthy birth-place, For an unborn child and hero; Seek it near the Sara-streamlet, Where the reed-brook pours her waters. Came the wife of old Ruotus, Walking with her arms akimbo, Thus addressed the maiden, Piltti: 'Who is she that asks assistance, Who the maiden thus dishonored, What her name, and who her kindred?' 'I have come for Mariatta, For the worthy virgin-mother.' Spake the wife of old Ruotus, Evil-minded, cruel-hearted: 'Occupied are all our chambers, All our bath-rooms near the reed-brook; in the mount of fire are couches, is a stable in the forest, 73 For the flaming horse of Hisi; In the stable is a manger Fitting birth-place for the hero From the wife of cold misfortune, Worthy couch for Mariatta!' Thereupon the servant, Piltti, Hastened to her anxious mistress, Spake these measures, much regretting. 'There is not a place befitting, on the silver brook of Sara. Spake the wife of old Ruotus: 'Occupied are all the chambers, All the bath-rooms near the reed-brook; In the mount of fire are couches, Is a stable, in the forest, For the flaming horse of Hisi; In the stable is a manger, Fitting birth-place for the hero From the wife of cold misfortune, Worthy couch for Mariatta.'' Thereupon the hapless maiden, Mariatta, virgin-mother, Fell to bitter tears and murmurs, Spake these words in depths of sorrow: 'I, alas! must go an outcast, Wander as a wretched hireling, Like a servant in dishonor, Hasten to the burning mountain, To the stable in the forest, Make my bed within a manger, Near the flaming steed of Hisi!' Quick the hapless virgin-mother, Outcast from her father's dwelling, Gathered up her flowing raiment, Grasped a broom of birchen branches, Hastened forth in pain and sorrow To the stable in the woodlands, On the heights of Tapio's mountains, Spake these words in supplication: 'Come, I pray thee, my Creator, Only friend in times of trouble, Come to me and bring protection 74 To thy child, the virgin-mother, To the maiden, Mariatta, In this hour of sore affliction. Come to me, benignant Ukko, Come, thou only hope and refuge, Lest thy guiltless child should perish, Die the death of the unworthy!' When the virgin, Mariatta, Had arrived within the stable Of the flaming horse of Hisi, She addressed the steed as follows: 'Breathe, O sympathizing fire-horse, Breathe on me, the virgin-mother, Let thy heated breath give moisture, Let thy pleasant warmth surround me, Like the vapor of the morning; Let this pure and helpless maiden Find a refuge in thy manger!' Thereupon the horse, in pity, Breathed the moisture of his nostrils On the body of the virgin, Wrapped her in a cloud of vapor, Gave her warmth and needed comforts, Gave his aid to the afflicted, To the virgin, Mariatta. There the babe was born and cradled Cradled in a woodland-manger, Of the virgin, Mariatta, Pure as pearly dews of morning, Holy as the stars in heaven. There the mother rocks her infant, In his swaddling clothes she wraps him, Lays him in her robes of linen; Carefully the babe she nurtures, Well she guards her much-beloved, Guards her golden child of beauty, Her beloved gem of silver. But alas! the child has vanished, Vanished while the mother slumbered. Mariatta, lone and wretched, Fell to weeping, broken-hearted, Hastened off to seek her infant. 75 Everywhere the mother sought him, Sought her golden child of beauty, Her beloved gem of silver; Sought him underneath the millstone, In the sledge she sought him vainly, Underneath the sieve she sought him, Underneath the willow-basket, Touched the trees, the grass she parted, Long she sought her golden infant, Sought him on the fir-tree-mountain, In the vale, and hill, and heather; Looks within the clumps of flowers, Well examines every thicket, Lifts the juniper and willow, Lifts the branches of the alder. Lo! a star has come to meet her, And the star she thus beseeches-. 'O, thou guiding-star of Northland, Star of hope, by God created, Dost thou know and wilt thou tell me Where my darling child has wandered, Where my holy babe lies hidden?' Thus the star of Northland answers: 'If I knew, I would not tell thee; 'Tis thy child that me created, Set me here to watch at evening, In the cold to shine forever, Here to twinkle in the darkness.' Comes the golden Moon to meet her, And the Moon she thus beseeches: 'Golden Moon, by Ukko fashioned, Hope and joy of Kalevala, Dost thou know and wilt thou tell me Where my darling child has wandered, Where my holy babe lies hidden? Speaks the golden Moon in answer: 'If I knew I would not tell thee; 'Tis thy child that me created, Here to wander in the darkness, All alone at eve to wander On my cold and cheerless journey, Sleeping only in the daylight, 76 Shining for the good of others.' Thereupon the virgin-mother Falls again to bitter weeping, Hastens on through fen and forest, Seeking for her babe departed. Comes the silver Sun to meet her, And the Sun she thus addresses: 'Silver Sun by Ukko fashioned, Source of light and life to Northland, Dost thou know and wilt thou tell me Where my darling child has wandered, Where my holy babe lies hidden?' Wisely does the Sun make answer: 'Well I know thy babe's dominions, Where thy holy child is sleeping, Where Wainola's light lies hidden; 'Tis thy child that me created, Made me king of earth and ether, Made the Moon and Stars attend me, Set me here to shine at midday, Makes me shine in silver raiment, Lets me sleep and rest at evening; Yonder is thy golden infant, There thy holy babe lies sleeping, Hidden to his belt in water, Hidden in the reeds and rushes.' Mariatta, child of beauty, Virgin-mother of the Northland, Straightway seeks her babe in Swamp-land, Finds him in the reeds and rushes; Takes the young child on her bosom To the dwelling of her father. There the infant grew in beauty, Gathered strength, and light, and wisdom, All of Suomi saw and wondered. No one knew what name to give him; When the mother named him, Flower, Others named him, Son-of-Sorrow. When the virgin, Mariatta, Sought the priesthood to baptize him, Came an old man, Wirokannas, With a cup of holy water, 77 Bringing to the babe his blessing; And the gray-beard spake as follows: 'I shall not baptize a wizard, Shall not bless a black-magician With the drops of holy water; Let the young child be examined, Let us know that he is worthy, Lest he prove the son of witchcraft.' Thereupon old Wirokannas Called the ancient Wainamoinen, The eternal wisdom-singer, To inspect the infant-wonder, To report him good or evil. Wainamoinen, old and faithful, Carefully the child examined, Gave this answer to his people: 'Since the child is but an outcast, Born and cradled in a manger, Since the berry is his father; Let him lie upon the heather, Let him sleep among the rushes, Let him live upon the mountains; Take the young child to the marshes, Dash his head against the birch-tree.' Then the child of Mariatta, Only two weeks old, made answer: 'O, thou ancient Wainamoinen, Son of Folly and Injustice, Senseless hero of the Northland, Falsely hast thou rendered judgment. In thy years, for greater follies, Greater sins and misdemeanors, Thou wert not unjustly punished. In thy former years of trouble, When thou gavest thine own brother, For thy selfish life a ransom, Thus to save thee from destruction, Then thou wert not sent to Swamp-land To be murdered for thy follies. In thy former years of sorrow, When the beauteous Aino perished In the deep and boundless blue-sea, 78 To escape thy persecutions, Then thou wert not evil-treated, Wert not banished by thy people.' Thereupon old Wirokannas, Of the wilderness the ruler, Touched the child with holy water, Crave the wonder-babe his blessing, Gave him rights of royal heirship, Free to live and grow a hero, To become a mighty ruler, King and Master of Karyala. As the years passed Wainamoinen Recognized his waning powers, Empty-handed, heavy-hearted, Sang his farewell song to Northland, To the people of Wainola; Sang himself a boat of copper, Beautiful his bark of magic; At the helm sat the magician, Sat the ancient wisdom-singer. Westward, westward, sailed the hero O'er the blue-back of the waters, Singing as he left Wainola, This his plaintive song and echo: 'Suns may rise and set in Suomi, Rise and set for generations, When the North will learn my teachings, Will recall my wisdom-sayings, Hungry for the true religion. Then will Suomi need my coming, Watch for me at dawn of morning, That I may bring back the Sampo, Bring anew the harp of joyance, Bring again the golden moonlight, Bring again the silver sunshine, Peace and plenty to the Northland.' Thus the ancient Wainamoinen, In his copper-banded vessel, Left his tribe in Kalevala, Sailing o'er the rolling billows, Sailing through the azure vapors, Sailing through the dusk of evening, 79 Sailing to the fiery sunset, To the higher-landed regions, To the lower verge of heaven; Quickly gained the far horizon, Gained the purple-colored harbor. There his bark be firmly anchored, Rested in his boat of copper; But be left his harp of magic, Left his songs and wisdom-sayings, To the lasting joy of Suomi. EPILOGUE. Now I end my measured singing, Bid my weary tongue keep silence, Leave my songs to other singers. Horses have their times of resting After many hours of labor; Even sickles will grow weary When they have been long at reaping; Waters seek a quiet haven After running long in rivers; Fire subsides and sinks in slumber At the dawning of the morning Therefore I should end my singing, As my song is growing weary, For the pleasure of the evening, For the joy of morn arising. Often I have heard it chanted, Often heard the words repeated: 'Worthy cataracts and rivers Never empty all their waters.' Thus the wise and worthy singer Sings not all his garnered wisdom; Better leave unsung some sayings Than to sing them out of season. Thus beginning, and thus ending, Do I roll up all my legends, Roll them in a ball for safety, In my memory arrange them, In their narrow place of resting, Lest the songs escape unheeded, While the lock is still unopened, While the teeth remain unparted, 80 And the weary tongue is silent. Why should I sing other legends, Chant them in the glen and forest, Sing them on the hill and heather? Cold and still my golden mother Lies beneath the meadow, sleeping, Hears my ancient songs no longer, Cannot listen to my singing; Only will the forest listen, Sacred birches, sighing pine-trees, Junipers endowed with kindness, Alder-trees that love to bear me, With the aspens and the willows. When my loving mother left me, Young was I, and low of stature; Like the cuckoo of the forest, Like the thrush upon the heather, Like the lark I learned to twitter, Learned to sing my simple measures, Guided by a second mother, Stern and cold, without affection; Drove me helpless from my chamber To the wind-side of her dwelling, To the north-side of her cottage, Where the chilling winds in mercy Carried off the unprotected. As a lark I learned to wander, Wander as a lonely song-bird, Through the forests and the fenlands Quietly o'er hill and heather; Walked in pain about the marshes, Learned the songs of winds and waters, Learned the music of the ocean, And the echoes of the woodlands. Many men that live to murmur, Many women live to censure, Many speak with evil motives; Many they with wretched voices Curse me for my wretched singing, Blame my tongue for speaking wisdom, Call my ancient songs unworthy, Blame the songs and curse the singer. 81 Be not thus, my worthy people, Blame me not for singing badly, Unpretending as a minstrel. I have never had the teaching, Never lived with ancient heroes, Never learned the tongues of strangers, Never claimed to know much wisdom. Others have had language-masters, Nature was my only teacher, Woods and waters my instructors. Homeless, friendless, lone, and needy, Save in childhood with my mother, When beneath her painted rafters, Where she twirled the flying spindle, By the work-bench of my brother, By the window of my sister, In. the cabin of my father, In my early days of childhood. Be this as it may, my people, This may point the way to others, To the singers better gifted, For the good of future ages, For the coming generations, For the rising folk of Suomi. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

112:The Kalevala - Rune Xv LEMMINKAINEN'S RESTORATION. Lemminkainen's aged mother Anxious roams about the islands, Anxious wonders in her chambers, What the fate of Lemminkainen, Why her son so long has tarried; Thinks that something ill has happened To her hero in Pohyola. Sad, indeed, the mother's anguish, As in vain she waits his coming, As in vain she asks the question, Where her daring son is roaming, Whether to the fir-tree mountain, Whether to the distant heath-land, Or upon the broad-sea's ridges, On the floods and rolling waters, To the war's contending armies, To the heat and din of battle, Steeped in blood of valiant heroes, Evidence of fatal warfare. Daily does the wife Kyllikki Look about her vacant chamber, In the home of Lemminkainen, At the court of Kaukomieli; Looks at evening, looks at morning, Looks, perchance, upon his hair-brush, Sees alas! the blood-drops oozing, Oozing from the golden bristles, And the blood-drops, scarlet-colored. Then the beauteous wife, Kyllikki, Spake these words in deeps of anguish: 'Dead or wounded is my husband, Or at best is filled with trouble, Lost perhaps in Northland forests, In some glen unknown to heroes, Since alas! the blood is flowing From the brush of Lemminkainen, 273 Red drops oozing from the bristles.' Thereupon the anxious mother Looks upon the bleeding hair-brush And begins this wail of anguish: 'Woe is me, my life hard-fated, Woe is me, all joy departed! For alas! my son and hero, Valiant hero of the islands, Son of trouble and misfortune! Some sad fate has overtaken My ill-fated Lemminkainen! Blood is flowing from his hair-brush, Oozing from its golden bristles, And the drops are scarlet-colored.' Quick her garment's hem she clutches, On her arm she throws her long-robes, Fleetly flies upon her journey; With her might she hastens northward, Mountains tremble from her footsteps, Valleys rise and heights are lowered, Highlands soon become as lowlands, All the hills and valleys levelled. Soon she gains the Northland village, Quickly asks about her hero, These the words the mother utters: 'O thou hostess of Pohyola, Where hast thou my Lemminkainen? Tell me of my son and hero!' Louhi, hostess of the Northland, Gives this answer to the mother: 'Nothing know I of thy hero, Of the hero of the islands; Where thy son may be I know not, Cannot lend the information; Once I gave thy son a courser, Hitched the racer to his snow-sledge, This the last of Lemminkainen; May perchance be drowned in Wuhne, Frozen In the icy ocean, Fallen prey to wolves in hunger, In a bear's den may have perished.' Lemminkainen's mother answers: 274 'Thou art only speaking falsehoods, Northland wolves cannot devour us, Nor the bears kill Kaukomieli; He can slay the wolves of Pohya With the fingers of his left hand; Bears of Northland he would silence With the magic of his singing. 'Hostess of Pohyola, tell me Whither thou hast sent my hero; I shall burst thy many garners, Shall destroy the magic Sampo, If thou dost not tell me truly Where to find my Lemminkainen.' Spake the hostess of Pohyola: 'I have well thy hero treated, Well my court has entertained him, Gave him of my rarest viands, Fed him at my well-filled tables, Placed him in a boat of copper, Thus to float adown the current, This the last of Lemminkainen; Cannot tell where he has wandered. Whether in the foam of waters, Whether in the boiling torrent, Whether in the drowning whirlpool.' Lemminkainen's mother answers: Thou again art speaking falsely; Tell me now the truth I pray thee, Make an end of thy deception, Where is now my Lemminkainen, Whither hast thou sent my hero, Young and daring son of Kalew? If a third time thou deceivest, I will send thee plagues, unnumbered, I will send thee fell destruction, Certain death will overtake thee.' Spake the hostess of Pohyola: 'This the third time that I answer, This the truth that I shall tell thee: I have sent the Kalew-hero To the Hisi-fields and forests, There to hunt the moose of Lempo; 275 Sent him then to catch the fire-horse, Catch the fire-expiring stallion, On the distant plains of Juutas, In the realm of cruel Hisi. Then I sent him to the Death-stream, In the kingdom of Tuoni, With his bow and but one arrow, There to shoot the swan as dowry For my best and fairest daughter; Have not heard about thy hero Since he left for Tuonela; May in misery have fallen, May have perished in Manala; Has not come to ask my daughter, Has not come to woo the maiden, Since he left to hunt the death-swan.' Now the mother seeks her lost one, For her son she weeps and trembles, Like the wolf she bounds through fenlands, Like the bear, through forest thickets, Like the wild-boar, through the marshes, Like the hare, along the sea-coast, To the sea-point, like the hedgehog Like the wild-duck swims the waters, Casts the rubbish from her pathway, Tramples down opposing brush-wood, Stops at nothing in her journey Seeks a long time for her hero, Seeks, and seeks, and does not find him. Now she asks the trees the question, And the forest gives this answer: 'We have care enough already, Cannot think about thy matters; Cruel fates have we to battle, Pitiful our own misfortunes! We are felled and chopped in pieces, Cut in blocks for hero-fancy, We are burned to death as fuel, No one cares how much we suffer.' Now again the mother wanders, Seeks again her long-lost hero, Seeks, and seeks, and does not find him. 276 Paths arise and come to meet her, And she questions thus the pathways: 'Paths of hope that God has fashioned, Have ye seen my Lemminkainen, Has my son and golden hero Travelled through thy many kingdoms?' Sad, the many pathways answer: 'We ourselves have cares sufficient, Cannot watch thy son and hero, Wretched are the lives of pathways, Deep indeed our own misfortunes; We are trodden by, the red-deer, By the wolves, and bears, and roebucks, Driven o'er by heavy cart-wheels, By the feet of dogs are trodden, Trodden under foot of heroes, Foot-paths for contending armies.' Seeks again the frantic mother, Seeks her long-lost son and hero, Seeks, and seeks, and does not find him; Finds the Moon within her orbit, Asks the Moon in pleading measures: 'Golden Moon, whom God has stationed In the heavens, the Sun's companion, Hast thou seen my Kaukomieli, Hast thou seen my silver apple, Anywhere in thy dominions? ' Thus the golden Moon makes answer: 'I have trouble all-sufficient, Cannot watch thy daring hero; Long the journey I must travel, Sad the fate to me befallen, Pitiful mine own misfortunes, All alone the nights to wander, Shine alone without a respite, In the winter ever watching, In the summer sink and perish.' Still the mother seeks, and wanders, Seeks, and does not find her hero, Sees the Sun in the horizon, And the mother thus entreats him: Silver Sun, whom God has fashioned, 277 Thou that giveth warmth and comfort, Hast thou lately seen my hero, Hast thou seen my Lemminkainen, Wandering in thy dominions?' Thus the Sun in kindness answers: 'Surely has thy hero perished, To ingratitude a victim; Lemminkainen died and vanished In Tuoni's fatal river, In the waters of Manala, In the sacred stream and whirlpool, In the cataract and rapids, Sank within the drowning current To the realm of Tuonela, To Manala's lower regions.' Lemminkainen's mother weeping, Wailing in the deeps of anguish, Mourns the fate of Kaukomieli, Hastens to the Northland smithy, To the forge of Ilmarinen, These the words the mother utters: 'Ilmarinen, metal-artist, Thou that long ago wert forging, Forging earth a concave cover, Yesterday wert forging wonders, Forge thou now, immortal blacksmith, Forge a rake with shaft of copper, Forge the teeth of strongest metal, Teeth in length a hundred fathoms, And five hundred long the handle.' Ilmarinen does as bidden, Makes the rake in full perfection. Lemminkainen's anxious mother Takes the magic rake and hastens To the river of Tuoni, Praying to the Sun as follows: 'Thou, O Sun, by God created, Thou that shinest on thy Maker, Shine for me in heat of magic, Give me warmth, and strength, and courage, Shine a third time full of power, Lull to sleep the wicked people, 278 Still the people of Manala, Quiet all Tuoni's empire.' Thereupon the sun of Ukko, Dearest child of the Creator, Flying through the groves of Northland, Sitting on a curving birch-tree, Shines a little while in ardor, Shines again in greater fervor, Shines a third time full of power, Lulls to sleep the wicked people In the Manala home and kingdom, Still the heroes with their broadswords, Makes the lancers halt and totter, Stills the stoutest of the spearmen, Quiets Tuoni's ghastly empire. Now the Sun retires in magic, Hovers here and there a moment Over Tuoni's hapless sleepers, Hastens upward to his station, To his Jumala home and kingdom. Lemminkainen's faithful mother Takes the rake of magic metals, Rakes the Tuoni river bottoms, Rakes the cataract and whirlpool, Rakes the swift and boiling current Of the sacred stream of death-land, In the Manala home and kingdom. Searching for her long-lost hero, Rakes a long time, finding nothing; Now she wades the river deeper, To her belt in mud and water, Deeper, deeper, rakes the death-stream, Rakes the river's deepest caverns, Raking up and down the current, Till at last she finds his tunic, Heavy-hearted, finds his jacket; Rakes again and rakes unceasing, Finds the hero's shoes and stockings, Sorely troubled, finds these relies; Now she wades the river deeper, Rakes the Manala shoals and shallows, Rakes the deeps at every angle; 279 As she draws the rake the third time From the Tuoni shores and waters, In the rake she finds the body Of her long-lost Lemminkainen, In the metal teeth entangled, In the rake with copper handle. Thus the reckless Lemminkainen, Thus the son of Kalevala, Was recovered from the bottom Of the Manala lake and river. There were wanting many fragments, Half the head, a hand, a fore-arm, Many other smaller portions, Life, above all else, was missing. Then the mother, well reflecting, Spake these words in bitter weeping: 'From these fragments, with my magic, I will bring to life my hero.' Hearing this, the raven answered, Spake these measures to the mother: 'There is not in these a hero, Thou canst not revive these fragments; Eels have fed upon his body, On his eyes have fed the whiting; Cast the dead upon the waters, On the streams of Tuonela, Let him there become a walrus, Or a seal, or whale, or porpoise.' Lemminkainen's mother does not Cast the dead upon the waters, On the streams of Tuonela, She again with hope and courage, Rakes the river lengthwise, crosswise, Through the Manala pools and caverns, Rakes up half the head, a fore-arm, Finds a hand and half the back-bone, Many other smaller portions; Shapes her son from all the fragments, Shapes anew her Lemminkainen, Flesh to flesh with skill she places, Gives the bones their proper stations, Binds one member to the other, 280 Joins the ends of severed vessels, Counts the threads of all the venules, Knits the parts in apposition; Then this prayer the mother offers: 'Suonetar, thou slender virgin, Goddess of the veins of heroes, Skilful spinner of the vessels, With thy slender, silver spindle, With thy spinning-wheel of copper, Set in frame of molten silver, Come thou hither, thou art needed; Bring the instruments for mending, Firmly knit the veins together, At the end join well the venules, In the wounds that still are open, In the members that are injured. 'Should this aid be inefficient; There is living in the ether, In a boat enriched with silver, In a copper boat, a maiden, That can bring to thee assistance. Come, O maiden, from the ether, Virgin from the belt of heaven, Row throughout these veins, O maiden, Row through all these lifeless members, Through the channels of the long-bones, Row through every form of tissue. Set the vessels in their places, Lay the heart in right position, Make the pulses beat together, Join the smallest of the veinlets, And unite with skill the sinews. Take thou now a slender needle, Silken thread within its eyelet, Ply the silver needle gently, Sew with care the wounds together. 'Should this aid be inefficient, Thou, O God, that knowest all things, Come and give us thine assistance, Harness thou thy fleetest racer Call to aid thy strongest courser, In thy scarlet sledge come swiftly, 281 Drive through all the bones and channels, Drive throughout these lifeless tissues, Drive thy courser through each vessel, Bind the flesh and bones securely, In the joints put finest silver, Purest gold in all the fissures. 'Where the skin is broken open, Where the veins are torn asunder, Mend these injuries with magic; Where the blood has left the body, There make new blood flow abundant; Where the bones are rudely broken, Set the parts in full perfection; Where the flesh is bruised and loosened, Touch the wounds with magic balsam, Do not leave a part imperfect; Bone, and vein, and nerve, and sinew, Heart, and brain, and gland, and vessel, Heal as Thou alone canst heal them.' These the means the mother uses, Thus she joins the lifeless members, Thus she heals the death-like tissues, Thus restores her son and hero To his former life and likeness; All his veins are knit together, All their ends are firmly fastened, All the parts in apposition, Life returns, but speech is wanting, Deaf and dumb, and blind, and senseless. Now the mother speaks as follows: 'Where may I procure the balsam, Where the drops of magic honey, To anoint my son and hero, Thus to heal my Lemminkainen, That again his month may open, May again begin his singing, Speak again in words of wonder, Sing again his incantations? 'Tiny bee, thou honey-birdling, Lord of all the forest flowers, Fly away and gather honey, Bring to me the forest-sweetness, 282 Found in Metsola's rich gardens, And in Tapio's fragrant meadows, From the petals of the flowers, From the blooming herbs and grasses, Thus to heal my hero's anguish, Thus to heal his wounds of evil.' Thereupon the honey-birdling Flies away on wings of swiftness, Into Metsola's rich gardens, Into Tapio's flowery meadows, Gathers sweetness from the meadows, With the tongue distills the honey From the cups of seven flowers, From the bloom of countless grasses; Quick from Metsola returning, Flying, humming darting onward, With his winglets honey-laden, With the store of sweetest odors, To the mother brings the balsam. Lemminkainen's anxious mother Takes the balm of magic virtues, And anoints the injured hero, Heals his wounds and stills his anguish; But the balm is inefficient, For her son is deaf and speechless. Then again out-speaks the mother: Lemminkainen's Restoration. 'Little bee, my honey-birdling, Fly away in one direction, Fly across the seven oceans, In the eighth, a magic island, Where the honey is enchanted, To the distant Turi-castles, To the chambers of Palwoinen; There the honey is effective, There, the wonder-working balsam, This may heal the wounded hero; Bring me of this magic ointment, That I may anoint his eyelids, May restore his injured senses.' Thereupon the honey-birdling Flew away o'er seven oceans, 283 To the old enchanted island; Flies one day, and then a second, On the verdure does not settle, Does not rest upon the flowers; Flies a third day, fleetly onward, Till a third day evening brings him To the island in the ocean, To the meadows rich in honey, To the cataract and fire-flow, To the sacred stream and whirlpool. There the honey was preparing, There the magic balm distilling In the tiny earthen vessels, In the burnished copper kettles, Smaller than a maiden's thimble, Smaller than the tips of fingers. Faithfully the busy insect Gathers the enchanted honey From the magic Turi-cuplets In the chambers of Palwoinen. Time had gone but little distance, Ere the bee came loudly humming Flying fleetly, honey-laden; In his arms were seven vessels, Seven, the vessels on each shoulder; All were filled with honey-balsam, With the balm of magic virtues. Lemminkainen's tireless mother Quick anoints her speechless hero, With the magic Turi-balsam, With the balm of seven virtues; Nine the times that she anoints him With the honey of Palwoinen, With the wonder-working balsam; But the balm is inefficient, For the hero still is speechless. Then again out-speaks the mother: 'Honey-bee, thou ether birdling, Fly a third time on thy journey, Fly away to high Jumala, Fly thou to the seventh heaven, Honey there thou'lt find abundant, 284 Balsam of the highest virtue, Only used by the Creator, Only made from the breath of Ukko. God anoints his faithful children, With the honey of his wisdom, When they feel the pangs of sorrow, When they meet the powers of evil. Dip thy winglets in this honey, Steep thy plumage in His sweetness, Hither bring the all-sufficient Balsam of the great Creator; This will still my hero's anguish, This will heal his wounded tissues, This restore his long-lost vision, Make the Northland hills re-echo With the magic of his singing, With his wonderful enchantment.' Thus the honey-bee made answer: 'I can never fly to heaven, To the seventh of the heavens, To the distant home of Ukko, With these wings of little virtue.' Lemminkainen's mother answered: 'Thou canst surely fly to heaven, To the seventh of the heavens, O'er the Moon, beneath the sunshine, Through the dim and distant starlight. On the first day, flying upward, Thou wilt near the Moon in heaven, Fan the brow of Kootamoinen; On the second thou canst rest thee On the shoulders of Otava; On the third day, flying higher, Rest upon the seven starlets, On the heads of Hetewanè; Short the journey that is left thee, Inconsiderable the distance To the home of mighty Ukko, To the dwellings of the blessed.' Thereupon the bee arising, From the earth flies swiftly upward, Hastens on with graceful motion, 285 By his tiny wings borne heavenward, In the paths of golden moonbeams, Touches on the Moon's bright borders, Fans the brow of Kootamoinen, Rests upon Otava's shoulders, Hastens to the seven starlets., To the heads of Hetewanè, Flies to the Creator's castle, To the home of generous Ukko, Finds the remedy preparing, Finds the balm of life distilling, In the silver-tinted caldrons, In the purest golden kettles; On one side, heart-easing honey, On a second, balm of joyance, On the third, life-giving balsam. Here the magic bee, selecting, Culls the sweet, life-giving balsam, Gathers too, heart-easing honey, Heavy-laden hastens homeward. Time had traveled little distance, Ere the busy bee came humming To the anxious mother waiting, In his arms a hundred cuplets, And a thousand other vessels, Filled with honey, filled with balsam, Filled with the balm of the Creator. Lemminkainen's mother quickly Takes them on her, tongue and tests them, Finds a balsam all-sufficient. Then the mother spake as follows: 'I have found the long-sought balsam, Found the remedy of Ukko, Where-with God anoints his people, Gives them life, and faith, and wisdom, Heals their wounds and stills their anguish, Makes them strong against temptation, Guards them from the evil-doers.' Now the mother well anointing, Heals her son, the magic singer, Eyes, and ears, and tongue, and temples, Breaks, and cuts, and seams, anointing, 286 Touching well the life-blood centres, Speaks these words of magic import To the sleeping Lemminkainen: 'Wake, arise from out thy slumber, From the worst of low conditions, From thy state of dire misfortune!' Slowly wakes the son and hero, Rises from the depths of slumber, Speaks again in magic accents, These the first words of the singer: 'Long, indeed, have I been sleeping, Long unconscious of existence, But my sleep was full of sweetness, Sweet the sleep in Tuonela, Knowing neither joy nor sorrow!' This the answer of his mother: 'Longer still thou wouldst have slumbered, Were it not for me, thy, mother; Tell me now, my son beloved, Tell me that I well may hear thee, Who enticed thee to Manala, To the river of Tuoni, To the fatal stream and whirlpool?' Then the hero, Lemminkainen, Gave this answer to his mother: 'Nasshut, the decrepit shepherd Of the flocks of Sariola, Blind, and halt, and poor, and wretched, And to whom I did a favor; From the slumber-land of envy Nasshut sent me to Manala, To the river of Tuoni; Sent a serpent from the waters, Sent an adder from the death-stream, Through the heart of Lemminkainen; Did not recognize the serpent, Could not speak the serpent-language, Did not know the sting of adders.' Spake again the ancient mother: 'O thou son of little insight, Senseless hero, fool-magician, Thou didst boast betimes thy magic 287 To enchant the wise enchanters, On the dismal shores of Lapland, Thou didst think to banish heroes, From the borders of Pohyola; Didst not know the sting of serpents, Didst not know the reed of waters, Nor the magic word-protector! Learn the origin of serpents, Whence the poison of the adder. 'In the floods was born the serpent, From the marrow of the gray-duck, From the brain of ocean-swallows; Suoyatar had made saliva, Cast it on the waves of ocean, Currents drove it outward, onward, Softly shone the sun upon it, By the winds 'twas gently cradled, Gently nursed by winds and waters, By the waves was driven shoreward, Landed by the surging billows. Thus the serpent, thing of evil, Filling all the world with trouble, Was created in the waters Born from Suoyatar, its maker.' Then the mother of the hero Rocked her son to rest and comfort, Rocked him to his former being, To his former life and spirit, Into greater magic powers; Wiser, handsomer than ever Grew the hero of the islands; But his heart was full of trouble, And his mother, ever watchful, Asked the cause of his dejection. This is Lemminkainen's answer: 'This the cause of all my sorrow; Far away my heart is roaming, All my thoughts forever wander To the Northland's blooming virgins, To the maids of braided tresses. Northland's ugly hostess, Louhi, Will not give to me her daughter, 288 Fairest maiden of Pohyola, Till I kill the swan of Mana, With my bow and but one arrow, In the river of Tuoni. Lemminkainen's mother answers, In the sacred stream and whirlpool. 'Let the swan swim on in safety, Give the water-bird his freedom, In the river of Manala, In the whirlpool of Tuoni; Leave the maiden in the Northland., With her charms and fading beauty; With thy fond and faithful mother, Go at once to Kalevala, To thy native fields and fallows. Praise thy fortune, all sufficient, Praise, above all else, thy Maker. Ukko gave thee aid when needed, Thou wert saved by thy Creator, From thy long and hopeless slumber, In the waters of Tuoni, In the chambers of Manala. I unaided could not save thee, Could not give the least assistance; God alone, omniscient Ukko, First and last of the creators, Can revive the dead and dying, Can protect his worthy people From the waters of Manala, . From the fatal stream and whirlpool, In the kingdom of Tuoni.' Lemminkainen, filled with wisdom, With his fond and faithful mother, Hastened straightway on his journey To his distant home and kindred, To the Wainola fields and meadows, To the plains of Kalevala. ***** Here I leave my Kaukomieli, Leave my hero Lemminkainen, Long I leave him from my singing, Turn my song to other heroes, 289 Send it forth on other pathways, Sing some other golden legend. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

113:The Kalevala - Rune Xxvi ORIGIN OF THE SERPENT. Ahti, living on the island, Near the Kauko-point and harbor, Plowed his fields for rye and barley, Furrowed his extensive pastures, Heard with quickened ears an uproar, Heard the village in commotion, Heard a noise along the sea-shore, Heard the foot-steps on the ice-plain, Heard the rattle of the sledges; Quick his mind divined the reason, Knew it was Pohyola's wedding, Wedding of the Rainbow-virgin. Quick he stopped in disappointment, Shook his sable locks in envy, Turned his hero-head in anger, While the scarlet blood ceased flowing Through his pallid face and temples; Ceased his plowing and his sowing, On the field he left the furrows, On his steed he lightly mounted, Straightway galloped fleetly homeward To his well-beloved mother, To his mother old and golden, Gave his mother these directions, These the words of Lemminkainen: 'My beloved, faithful mother, Quickly bring me beer and viands, Bring me food for I am hungry, Food and drink for me abundant, Have my bath-room quickly heated, Quickly set the room in order, That I may refresh my body, Dress myself in hero-raiment.' Lemminkainen's aged mother Brings her hero food in plenty, Beer and viands for the hungry, 440 For her thirsting son and hero; Quick she heats the ancient bath-room, Quickly sets his bath in order. Then the reckless Lemminkainen Ate his meat with beer inspiring, Hastened to his bath awaiting; Only was the bullfinch bathing, With the many-colored bunting; Quick the hero laved his temples, Laved himself to flaxen whiteness, Quick returning to his mother, Spake in haste the words that follow: 'My beloved, helpful mother, Go at once to yonder mountain, To the store-house on the hill-top, Bring my vest of finest texture, Bring my hero-coat of purple, Bring my suit of magic colors, Thus to make me look attractive, Thus to robe myself in beauty.' First the ancient mother asked him, Asked her son this simple question: 'Whither dost thou go, my hero? Dost thou go to hunt the roebuck, Chase the lynx upon the mountains, Shoot the squirrel in the woodlands?' Spake the reckless Lemminkainen, Also known as Kaukomieli: 'Worthy mother of my being, Go I not to hunt the roebuck, Chase the lynx upon the mountains, Shoot the squirrel on the tree-tops; I am going to Pohyola, To the feasting of her people. Bring at once my purple vestments, Straightway bring my nuptial outfit, Let me don it for the marriage Of the maiden of the Northland.' But the ancient dame dissented, And the wife forebade the husband; Two of all the best of heroes, Three of nature's fairest daughters, 441 Strongly urged wild Lemminkainen Not to go to Sariola, To Pohyola's great carousal, To the marriage-feast of Northland, 'Since thou hast not been invited, Since they do not wish thy presence.' Spake the reckless Lemminkainen. These the words of Kaukomieli: 'Where the wicked are invited, There the good are always welcome, Herein lies my invitation; I am constantly reminded By this sword of sharpened edges, By this magic blade and scabbard, That Pohyola needs my presence.' Lemminkainen's aged mother Sought again to stay her hero: 'Do not go, my son beloved, To the feasting in Pohyola; Full of horrors are the highways, On the road are many wonders, Three times Death appears to frighten, Thrice destruction hovers over!' Spake the reckless Lemminkainen, These the words of Kaukomieli: 'Death is seen by aged people, Everywhere they see perdition, Death can never frighten heroes, Heroes do not fear the spectre; Be that as it may, dear mother, Tell that I may understand thee, Name the first of all destructions, Name the first and last destroyers!' Lemminkainen's mother answered: 'I will tell thee, son and hero, Not because I wish to speak it, But because the truth is worthy; I will name the chief destruction, Name the first of the destroyers. When thou hast a distance journeyed, Only one day hast thou travelled, Comes a stream along the highway, 442 Stream of fire of wondrous beauty, In the stream a mighty fire-spout, In the spout a rock uprising, On the rock a fiery hillock, On the top a flaming eagle, And his crooked beak he sharpens, Sharpens too his bloody talons, For the coming of the stranger, For the people that approach him.' Spake the reckless Lemminkainen, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli: 'Women die beneath the eagle, Such is not the death of heroes; Know I well a magic lotion, That will heal the wounds of eagles; Make myself a steed of alders, That will walk as my companion, That will stride ahead majestic; As a duck I'll drive behind him, Drive him o'er the fatal waters, Underneath the flaming eagle, With his bloody beak and talons. Worthy mother of my being, Name the second of destroyers.' Lemminkainen's mother answered: 'This the second of destroyers: When thou hast a distance wandered, Only two clays hast thou travelled, Comes a pit of fire to meet thee, In the centre of the highway, Eastward far the pit extending, Stretches endless to the westward, Filled with burning coals and pebbles, Glowing with the heat of ages; Hundreds has this monster swallowed, In his jaws have thousands perished, Hundreds with their trusty broadswords, Thousands on their fiery chargers.' Spake the reckless Lemminkainen, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli: 'Never will the hero perish In the jaws of such a monster; 443 Know I well the means of safety, Know a remedy efficient: I will make of snow a master, On the snow-clad fields, a hero, Drive the snow-man on before me, Drive him through the flaming vortex, Drive him through the fiery furnace, With my magic broom of copper; I will follow in his shadow, Follow close the magic image, Thus escape the frightful monster, With my golden locks uninjured, With my flowing beard untangled. Ancient mother of my being, Name the last of the destructions, Name the third of the destroyers.' Lemminkainen's mother answered: 'This the third of fatal dangers: Hast thou gone a greater distance, Hast thou travelled one day longer, To the portals of Pohyola, To the narrowest of gate-ways, There a wolf will rise to meet thee, There the black-bear sneak upon thee-, In Pohyola's darksome portals, Hundreds in their jaws have perished, Have devoured a thousand heroes; Wherefore will they not destroy thee, Since thy form is unprotected?' Spake the reckless Lemminkainen, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli: 'Let them eat the gentle lambkins, Feed upon their tender tissues, They cannot devour this hero; I am girded with my buckler, Girded with my belt of copper, Armlets wear I of the master, From the wolf and bear protected, Will not hasten to Untamo. I can meet the wolf of Lempo, For the bear I have a balsam, For his mouth I conjure bridles, 444 For the wolf, forge chains of iron; I will smite them as the willow, Chop them into little fragments, Thus I'll gain the open court-yard, Thus triumphant end my journey.' Lemminkainen's mother answered: 'Then thy journey is not ended, Greater dangers still await thee, Great the wonders yet before thee, Horrors three within thy pathway; Three great dangers of the hero Still await thy reckless footsteps, These the worst of all thy dangers: When thou hast still farther wandered, Thou wilt reach the Court of Pohya, Where the walls are forged from iron, And from steel the outer bulwark; Rises from the earth to heaven, Back again to earth returning; Double spears are used for railings, On each spear are serpents winding, On each rail are stinging adders; Lizards too adorn the bulwarks, Play their long tails in the sunlight, Hissing lizards, venomed serpents, Jump and writhe upon the rampart, Turn their horrid heads to meet thee; On the greensward lie the monsters, On the ground the things of evil, With their pliant tongues of venom, Hissing, striking, crawling, writhing; One more horrid than the others, Lies before the fatal gate-way, Longer than the longest rafters, Larger than the largest portals; Hisses with the tongue of anger, Lifts his head in awful menace, Raises it to strike none other Than the hero of the islands.' Spake the warlike Lemminkainen, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli: 'By such things the children perish, 445 Such is not the death of heroes; Know I well the fire to manage, I can quench the flames of passion, I can meet the prowling wild-beasts, Can appease the wrath of serpents, I can heal the sting of adders, I have plowed the serpent-pastures, Plowed the adder-fields of Northland; While my hands were unprotected, Held the serpents in my fingers, Drove the adders to Manala, On my hands the blood of serpents, On my feet the fat of adders. Never will thy hero stumble On the serpents of the Northland; With my heel I'll crush the monsters, Stamp the horrid things to atoms; I will banish them from Pohya, Drive them to Manala's kingdom, Step within Pohyola's mansion, Walk the halls of Sariola!' Lemminkainen's mother answered: 'Do not go, my son beloved, To the firesides of Pohyola, Through the Northland fields and fallows; There are warriors with broadswords, Heroes clad in mail of copper, Are on beer intoxicated, By the beer are much embittered; They will charm thee, hapless creature, On the tips of swords of magic; Greater heroes have been conjured, Stronger ones have been outwitted.' Spake the reckless Lemminkainen: 'Formerly thy son resided In the hamlets of Pohyola; Laplanders cannot enchant me, Nor the Turyalanders harm me I the, Laplander will conjure, Charm him with my magic powers, Sing his shoulders wide asunder, In his chin I'll sing a fissure, 446 Sing his collar-bone to pieces, Sing his breast to thousand fragments.' Lemminkainen's mother answered: 'Foolish son, ungrateful wizard, Boasting of thy former visit, Boasting of thy fatal journey! Once in Northland thou wert living, In the homesteads of Pohyola; There thou tried to swim the whirlpool, Tasted there the dog-tongue waters, Floated down the fatal current, Sank beneath its angry billows; Thou hast seen Tuoni's river, Thou hast measured Mana's waters, There to-day thou wouldst be sleeping, Had it not been for thy mother! What I tell thee well remember, Shouldst thou gain Pohyola's chambers, Filled with stakes thou'lt find the court-yard, These to hold the heads of heroes; There thy head will rest forever, Shouldst thou go to Sariola.' Spake the warlike Lemminkainen: 'Fools indeed may heed thy counsel, Cowards too may give attention; Those of seven conquest-summers Cannot heed such weak advising. Bring to me my battle-armor. Bring my magic mail of copper, Bring me too my father's broadsword, Keep the old man's blade from rusting; Long it has been cold and idle, Long has lain in secret places, Long and constantly been weeping, Long been asking for a bearer.' Then he took his mail of copper, Took his ancient battle-armor, Took his father's sword of magic, Tried its point against the oak-wood, Tried its edge upon the sorb-tree; In his hand the blade was bended, Like the limber boughs of willow, 447 Like the juniper in summer. Spake the hero, Lemminkainen: 'There is none in Pohya's hamlets, In the courts of Sariola, That with me can measure broadswords, That can meet this blade ancestral.' From the nail he took a cross-bow, Took the strongest from the rafters, Spake these words in meditation: 'I shall recognize as worthy, Recognize that one a hero That can bend this mighty cross-bow, That can break its magic sinews, In the hamlets of Pohyola.' Lemminkainen, filled with courage, Girds himself in suit of battle, Dons his mighty mail of copper, To his servant speaks as follows: 'Trusty slave, and whom I purchased, Whom I bought with gold and silver, Quick prepare my fiery charger, Harness well my steed of battle; I am going to the feasting, To the banquet-fields of Lempo.' Quick obeys the faithful servant, Hitches well the noble war-horse, Quick prepares the fire-red stallion, Speaks these words when all is I ready: 'I have done what thou hast hidden, Ready harnessed is the charger, Waiting to obey his master.' Comes the hour of the departing Of the hero, Lemminkainen, Right hand ready, left unwilling, All his anxious fingers pain him, Till at last in full obedience, All his members give permission; Starts the hero on his journey, While the mother gives him counsel, At the threshold of the dwelling, At the highway of the court-yard: 'Child of courage, my beloved, 448 Son of strength, my wisdom-hero, If thou goest to the feasting, Shouldst thou reach the great carousal, Drink thou only a half a cupful, Drink the goblet to the middle, Always give the half remaining, Give the worse half to another, To another more unworthy; In the lower half are serpents, Worms, and frogs, and hissing lizards, Feeding on the slimy bottom.' Furthermore she tells her hero, Gives her son these sage directions, On the border of the court-yard, At the portals farthest distant: 'If thou goest to the banquet, Shouldst thou reach the great carousal, Occupy but half the settle, Take but half a stride in walking, Give the second half to others, To another less deserving; Only thus thou'lt be a hero, Thus become a son immortal; In the guest-rooms look courageous, Bravely move about the chambers, In the gatherings of heroes, With the hosts of magic valor.' Thereupon wild Lemminkainen Quickly leaped upon the cross-bench Of his battle-sledge of wonder, Raised his pearl-enamelled birch-rod, Snapped his whip above his charger, And the steed flew onward fleetly, Galloped on his distant journey. He had travelled little distance, When a flight of hazel-chickens Quick arose before his coming, Flew before the foaming racer. There were left some feathers lying, Feathers of the hazel-chickens, Lying in the hero's pathway. These the reckless Lemminkainen 449 Gathered for their magic virtues, Put them in his pouch of leather, Did not know what things might happen On his journey to Pohyola; All things have some little value, In a strait all things are useful. Then he drove a little distance, Galloped farther on the highway, When his courser neighed in danger, And the fleet-foot ceased his running. Then the stout-heart, Lemminkainen, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli, Rose upon his seat in wonder, Craned his neck and looked about him Found it as his mother told him, Found a stream of fire opposing; Ran the fire-stream like a river, Ran across the hero's pathway. In the river was a fire-fall, In the cataract a fire-rock, On the rock a fiery hillock, On its summit perched an eagle, From his throat the fire was streaming To the crater far below him, Fire out-shooting from his feathers, Glowing with a fiery splendor; Long he looked upon the hero, Long he gazed on Lemminkainen, Then the eagle thus addressed him: 'Whither art thou driving, Ahti, Whither going, Lemminkainen?' Kaukomieli spake in answer: 'To the feastings of Pohyola, To the drinking-halls of Louhi, To the banquet of her people; Move aside and let me journey, Move a little from my pathway, Let this wanderer pass by thee, I am warlike Lemminkainen.' This the answer of the eagle, Screaming from his throat of splendor: 'Though thou art wild Lemminkainen, 450 I shall let thee wander onward, Through my fire-throat let thee journey, Through these flames shall be thy passage To the banquet-halls of Louhi, To Pohyola's great carousal!' Little heeding, Kaukomieli Thinks himself in little trouble, Thrusts his fingers in his pockets, Searches in his pouch of leather, Quickly takes the magic feathers, Feathers from the hazel-chickens, Rubs them into finest powder, Rubs them with his magic fingers Whence a flight of birds arises, Hazel-chickens from the feathers, Large the bevy of the young birds. Quick the wizard, Lemminkainen, Drives them to the eagle's fire-mouth, Thus to satisfy his hunger, Thus to quench the fire out-streaming. Thus escapes the reckless hero, Thus escapes the first of dangers, Passes thus the first destroyer, On his journey to Pohyola. With his whip he strikes his courser, With his birch-whip, pearl-enamelled; Straightway speeds the fiery charger, Noiselessly upon his journey, Gallops fast and gallops faster, Till the flying steed in terror Neighs again and ceases running. Lemminkainen, quickly rising, Cranes his neck and looks about him, Sees his mother's words were truthful, Sees her augury well-taken. Lo! before him yawned a fire-gulf, Stretching crosswise through his pathway; Far to east the gulf extending, To the west an endless distance, Filled with stones and burning pebbles, Running streams of burning matter. Little heeding, Lemminkainen 451 Cries aloud in prayer to Ukko: 'Ukko, thou O God above me, Dear Creator, omnipresent, From the north-west send a storm-cloud, From the east, dispatch a second, From the south send forth a third one; Let them gather from the south-west, Sew their edges well together, Fill thou well the interspaces, Send a snow-fall high as heaven, Let it fall from upper ether, Fall upon the flaming fire-pit, On the cataract and whirlpool!' Mighty Ukko, the Creator, Ukko, father omnipresent, Dwelling in the courts of heaven, Sent a storm-cloud from the north-west, From the east he sent a second, From the south despatched a third one, Let them gather from the south-west, Sewed their edges well together, Filled their many interspaces, Sent a snow-fall high as heaven, From the giddy heights of ether, Sent it seething to the fire-pit, On the streams of burning matter; From the snow-fall in the fire-pond, Grows a lake with rolling billows. Quick the hero, Lemminkainen, Conjures there of ice a passage From one border to the other, Thus escapes his second danger, Thus his second trouble passes. Then the reckless Lemminkainen Raised his pearl-enamelled birch-rod, Snapped his whip above his racer, And the steed flew onward swiftly, Galloped on his distant journey O'er the highway to Pohyola; Galloped fast and galloped faster, Galloped on a greater distance, When the stallion loudly neighing, 452 Stopped and trembled on the highway, Then the lively Lemminkainen Raised himself upon the cross-bench, Looked to see what else had happened; Lo I a wolf stands at the portals, in the passage-way a black-bear, At the high-gate of Pohyola, At the ending of the journey. Thereupon young Lemminkainen, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli, Thrusts his fingers in his pockets, Seeks his magic pouch of leather, Pulls therefrom a lock of ewe-wool, Rubs it firmly in his fingers, In his hands it falls to powder; Breathes the breath of life upon it, When a flock of sheep arises, Goats and sheep of sable color; On the flock the black-wolf pounces, And the wild-bear aids the slaughter, While the reckless Lemminkainen Rushes by them on his journey; Gallops on a little distance, To the court of Sariola, Finds the fence of molten iron, And of steel the rods and pickets, In the earth a hundred fathoms, To the azure sky, a thousand, Double-pointed spears projecting; On each spear were serpents twisted, Adders coiled in countless numbers, Lizards mingled with the serpents, Tails entangled pointing earthward, While their heads were skyward whirling, Writhing, hissing mass of evil. Then the stout-heart, Kaukomieli, Deeply thought and long considered: 'It is as my mother told me, This the wall that she predicted, Stretching from the earth to heaven; Downward deep are serpents creeping, Deeper still the rails extending; 453 High as highest flight of eagles, Higher still the wall shoots upward.' But the hero, Lemminkainen, Little cares, nor feels disheartened, Draws his broadsword from its scabbard, Draws his mighty blade ancestral, Hews the wall with might of magic, Breaks the palisade in pieces, Hews to atoms seven pickets, Chops the serpent-wall to fragments; Through the breach he quickly passes To the portals of Pohyola. In the way, a serpent lying, Lying crosswise in the entry, Longer than the longest rafters, Larger than the posts of oak-wood; Hundred-eyed, the heinous serpent, And a thousand tongues, the monster, Eyes as large as sifting vessels, Tongues as long as shafts of javelins, Teeth as large as hatchet-handles, Back as broad as skiffs of ocean. Lemminkainen does not venture Straightway through this host opposing, Through the hundred heads of adders, Through the thousand tongues of serpents. Spake the magic Lemminkainen: 'Venomed viper, thing of evil, Ancient adder of Tuoni, Thou that crawlest in the stubble, Through the flower-roots of Lempo, Who has sent thee from thy kingdom, Sent thee from thine evil coverts, Sent thee hither, crawling, writhing, In the pathway I would travel? Who bestowed thy mouth of venom, Who insisted, who commanded, Thou shouldst raise thy head toward heaven, Who thy tail has given action? Was this given by the father, Did the mother give this power, Or the eldest of the brothers, 454 Or the youngest of the sisters, Or some other of thy kindred? 'Close thy mouth, thou thing of evil, Hide thy pliant tongue of venom, In a circle wrap thy body, Coil thou like a shield in silence, Give to me one-half the pathway, Let this wanderer pass by thee, Or remove thyself entirely; Get thee hence to yonder heather, Quick retreat to bog and stubble, Hide thyself in reeds and rushes, In the brambles of the lowlands. Like a ball of flax enfolding, Like a sphere of aspen-branches, With thy head and tail together, Roll thyself to yonder mountain; In the heather is thy dwelling, Underneath the sod thy caverns. Shouldst thou raise thy head in anger, Mighty Ukko will destroy it, Pierce it with his steel-tipped arrows, With his death-balls made of iron!' Hardly had the hero ended, When the monster, little heeding, Hissing with his tongue in anger, Plying like the forked lightning, Pounces with his mouth of venom At the head of Lemminkainen; But the hero, quick recalling, Speaks the master-words of knowledge, Words that came from distant ages, Words his ancestors had taught him, Words his mother learned in childhood, These the words of Lemminkainen: 'Since thou wilt not heed mine order, Since thou wilt not leave the highway, Puffed with pride of thine own greatness, Thou shall burst in triple pieces. Leave thy station for the borders, I will hunt thine ancient mother, Sing thine origin of evil, 455 How arose thy head of horror; Suoyatar, thine ancient mother, Thing of evil, thy creator!' 'Suoyatar once let her spittle Fall upon the waves of ocean; This was rocked by winds and waters, Shaken by the ocean-currents, Six years rocked upon the billows, Rocked in water seven summers, On the blue-back of the ocean, On the billows high as heaven; Lengthwise did the billows draw it, And the sunshine gave it softness, To the shore the billows washed it, On the coast the waters left it. 'Then appeared Creation's daughters, Three the daughters thus appearing, On the roaring shore of ocean, There beheld the spittle lying, And the daughters spake as follows: 'What would happen from this spittle, Should the breath of the Creator Fall upon the writhing matter, Breathe the breath of life upon it, Give the thing the sense of vision? 'The Creator heard these measures, Spake himself the words that follow: 'Evil only comes from evil, This is the expectoration Of fell Suoyatar, its mother; Therefore would the thing be evil, Should I breathe a soul within it, Should I give it sense of vision.' 'Hisi heard this conversation, Ever ready with his mischief, Made himself to be creator, Breathed a soul into the spittle, To fell Suoyatar's fierce anger. Thus arose the poison-monster, Thus was born the evil serpent, This the origin of evil. 'Whence the life that gave her action'? 456 From the carbon-pile of Hisi. Whence then was her heart created? From the heart-throbs of her mother Whence arose her brain of evil? From the foam of rolling waters. Whence was consciousness awakened? From the waterfall's commotion. Whence arose her head of venom? From the seed-germs of the ivy. Whence then came her eyes of fury? From the flaxen seeds of Lempo. Whence the evil ears for hearing? From the foliage of Hisi. Whence then was her mouth created? This from Suoyatar's foam-currents Whence arose thy tongue of anger r From the spear of Keitolainen. Whence arose thy fangs of poison? From the teeth of Mana's daughter. Whence then was thy back created? From the carbon-posts of Piru. How then was thy tail created? From the brain of the hobgoblin. Whence arose thy writhing entrails? From the death-belt of Tuoni. 'This thine origin, O Serpent, This thy charm of evil import, Vilest thing of God's creation, Writhing, hissing thing of evil, With the color of Tuoni, With the shade of earth and heaven, With the darkness of the storm-cloud. Get thee hence, thou loathsome monster, Clear the pathway of this hero. I am mighty Lemminkainen, On my journey to Pohyola, To the feastings and carousals, In the halls of darksome Northland.' Thereupon the snake uncoiling, Hundred-eyed and heinous monster, Crawled away to other portals, That the hero, Kaukomieli, 457 Might proceed upon his errand, To the dismal Sariola, To the feastings and carousals In the banquet-halls of Pohya. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

114: Book VI: The Book of the Chieftains Then as from common hills great Pelion rises to heaven So from the throng uprearing a brow that no crown could ennoble, Male and kingly of front like a lion conscious of puissance Rose a form august, the monarch great Agamemnon. Wroth he rose yet throwing a rein on the voice of his passion, Governing the beast and the demon within by the god who is mighty. Happy thy life and my fame that thou comst with the aegis of heaven Shadowing thy hoary brows, thou herald of pride and of insult. Well is it too for his days who sent thee that other and nobler Heaven made my heart than his who insults and a voice of the immortals Cries to my soul forbidding its passions. O hardness of virtue, Thus to be seized and controlled as in fetters by Zeus and Athene. Free is the peasant to smite in the pastures the mouth that has wronged him, Chained in his soul is Atrides. Bound by their debt to the fathers, Curbed by the god in them painfully move the lives of the noble, Forced to obey the eye that watches within in their bosoms. Ever since Zeus Cronion turned in our will towards the waters, Scourged by the heavens in my dearest, wronged by men and their clamours, Griefs untold I have borne in Argos and Aulis and Troas, Yoked to this sacred toil of the Greeks for their children and country, Bound by the gods to a task that is heavy, a load that is bitter. Seeing the faces of foes in the mask of friends I was silent. Hateful I hold him who sworn to a cause that is holy and common Broods upon private wrongs or serving his lonely ambition Studies to reap his gain from the labour and woe of his fellows. Mire is the man who hears not the gods when they cry to his bosom. Grief and wrath I coerced nor carried my heart to its record All that has hurt its chords and wounded the wings of my spirit. Nobler must kings be than natures of earth on whom Zeus lays no burden. Other is Peleus son than the race of his Aeacid fathers, Nor like his sire of the wise-still heart far-sighted and patient Bearing the awful rein of the gods, but hastes to his longings, Dire in his wrath and pursued by the band of his giant ambitions. Measure and virtue forsake him as Ate grows in his bosom. Yet not for tyrant wrong nor to serve as a sword for our passions Zeus created our strength, but that earth might have help from her children. Not of our moulding its gifts to our soul nor were formed by our labour! When did we make them, where were they forged, in what workshop or furnace? Found in what aeon of Time, that pride should bewilder the mortal? Bowed to our will are the folk and our prowess dreadful and godlike? Shadows are these of the gods which the deep heavens cast on our spirits. Transient, we made not ourselves, but at birth from the first we were fashioned Valiant or fearful and as was our birth by the gods and their thinkings Formed, so already enacted and fixed by their wills are our fortunes. What were the strength of Atrides and what were the craft of Odysseus Save for their triumphing gods? They would fail and be helpless as infants. Stronger a woman, wiser a child were favoured by Heaven. Ceased not Sarpedon slain who was son of Zeus and unconquered? Not to Achilles he fell, but Fate and the gods were his slayers. Kings, to the arrogant shaft that was launched, the unbearable insult, Armoured wisdoms oppose, let not Ate seize on your passions. Be not as common souls, O you who are Greece and her fortunes, Nor of your spirits of wrath take counsel but of Athene. Merit the burden laid by Zeus, his demand from your natures Suffer, O hearts of his seed, O souls who are chosen and mighty, All forgetting but Greece and her good; resolve what is noble. I will not speak nor advise, for tis known we are rivals and foemen. Calmed by his words and his will he sat down mighty and kinglike; But Menelaus arose, the Spartan, the husb and of Helen, Atreus younger son from a lesser womb, in his brilliance Dwarfed by the others port, yet tall was he, gracile and splendid, As if a panther might hunt by a lions side in the forest. Smiting his thigh with his firm-clenched hand he spoke mid the Argives: Woe to me, shameless, born to my country a cause of affliction, Since for my sake all wrongs must be borne and all shames be encountered; And for my sake you have spun through the years down the grooves of disaster Bearing the shocks of the Trojans and ravaged by Zeus and by Hector, Slaughtered by Rhesus and Memnon, Sarpedon and Penthesilea; Or by the Archer pierced, the hostile dreadful Apollo, Evilly end the days of the Greeks remote from their kindred Slain on an alien soil by Asian Xanthus and Ida. Doomed to the pyre we have toiled for a woman ungracious who left us Passing serenely my portals to joy in the chambers of Troya. Here let it cease, O my brother! how much wilt thou bear for this graceless Child of thy sire, cause still of thy griefs and never of blessing? Easily Zeus afflicts who trouble their hearts for a woman; But in our ships that sailed close-fraught with this dolorous Ate Worse was the bane they bore which King Peleus begot on white Thetis. Evil ever was sown by the embrace of the gods with a mortal! Alien a portent is born and a breaker of men and their labours, One who afflicts with his light or his force mortalitys weakness Stripping for falsehoods their verities, shaking the walls they erected. Hostile all things the scourge divine overbears or, if helpful, Neither without him his fellows can prosper, nor will his spirit Fit in the frame of things earthly but shatters their rhythm and order Rending the measures just that the wise have decreed for our growing. So have our mortal plannings broken on this fateful Achilles And with our blood and our anguish Heaven has fostered his greatness. It is enough; let the dire gods choose between Greece and their offspring. Even as he bids us, aloof let our hosts twixt the ships and the Xanthus Stand from the shock and the cry where Hellene meets with Eoan, Troy and Phthia locked, Achilles and Penthesilea, Nor any more than watchers care who line an arena; Calm like the impartial gods, approve the bravest and swiftest. Sole let him fight! The fates shall preserve him he vaunts of or gather, Even as death shall gather us all for memorys clusters, All in their day who were great or were little, heroes or cowards. So shall he slay or be slain, a boon to mankind and his country. Since if he mow down this flower of bale, this sickle by Hades Whirled if he break,for the high gods ride on the hiss of his spear-shaft, Ours is the gain who shall break rejoicing through obdurate portals Praising Pallas alone and Hera daughter of Heaven. But if he sink in this last of his fights, as they say it is fated, Nor do I deem that the man has been born in Asia or Hellas Who in the dreadful field can prevail against Penthesilea, If to their tents the Myrmidons fleeing cumber the meadows Slain by a girl in her speed and leaving the corpse of their leader, Ours is the gain, we are rid of a shame and a hate and a danger. True is it, Troy shall exultant live on in the shadow of Ida, Yet shall our hearts be light because earth is void of Achilles. And for the rest of the infinite loss, what we hoped, what we suffered, Let it all go, let the salt floods swallow it, fate and oblivion Bury it out in the night; let us sail oer the waves to our country Leaving Helen in Troy since the gods are the friends of transgressors. So Menelaus in anger and grief miscounselled the Argives. Great Idomeneus next, the haughty king of the Cretans, Raised his brow of pride in the lofty Argive assembly. Tall like a pine that stands up on the slope of Thessalian mountains Overpeering a cascades edge and is seen from the valleys, Such he seemed to their eyes who remembered Greece and her waters, Heard in their souls the torrents leap and the wind on the hill-tops. Oft have I marvelled, O Greeks, to behold in this levy of heroes Armies so many, chieftains so warlike suffer in silence Pride of a single man when he thunders and lightens in Troas. Doubtless the nations that follow his cry are many and valiant, Doubtless the winds of the north have made him a runner and spearman. Shall not then force be the King? is not strength the seal of the Godhead? This my soul replies, Agamemnon the Atreid only Choosing for leader and king I have come to the toil and the warfare. Wisdom and greatness he owns and the wealth and renown of his fathers. But for this whelp of the northlands, nursling of rocks and the sea-cliff Who with his bleak and rough-hewn Myrmidons hastes to the carnage, Leader of wolves to their prey, not the king of a humanised nation, Not to such head of the cold-drifting mist and the gloom-vigilled Chaos, Crude to our culture and light and void of our noble fulfilments Minos shall bend his knee nor Crete, a barbarians vassal, Stain her old glories. Oh, but he boasts of a goddess for mother Born in the senseless seas mid the erring wastes of the Ocean, White and swift and foam-footed, vast Oceanus daughter. Gods we adore enough in the heavens, and if from us Hades Claim one more of this breed, we can bear that excess of his glories, Not upon earth these new-born deities huge-passioned, sateless Who with their mouth as of Orcus and stride of the ruinous Ocean Sole would be seen mid her sons and devour all lifes joy and its greatness. Millions must empty their lives that a man may oershadow the nations, Numberless homes must weep, but his hunger of glory is sated! Troy shall descend to the shadow; gods and men have condemned her, Weary, hating her fame. Her dreams, her grandeur, her beauty, All her greatness and deeds that now end in miserable ashes, Ceasing shall fade and be as a tale that was forged by the poets. Only a name shall go down from her past and the woe of her ending Naked to hatred and rapine and punished with rape and with slaughter. Never again must marble pride high-domed on her hill-top Look forth dominion and menace over the crested Aegean Shadowing Achaia. Fire shall abolish the fame of her ramparts, Earth her foundations forget. Shall she stand affronting the azure? Dire in our path like a lioness once again must we meet her, Leap and roar of her led by the spear of Achilles, not Hector? Asia by Peleus guided shall stride on us after Antenor? Though one should plan in the night of his thoughts where no eye can pursue him, Instincts of men discover their foe and like hounds in the darkness Bay at a danger hid. No silence of servitude trembling Trains to bondage sons of the race of whom Aeolus father Storm-voiced was and free, nor like other groupings of mortals Moulded we were by Zeus, but supremely were sifted and fashioned. Other are Danaus sons and other the lofty Achaians: Chainless like Natures tribes in their many-voiced colonies founded They their god-given impulse shall keep and their natures of freedom. Only themselves shall rule them, only their equal spirits Bowed to the voice of a law that is just, obeying their leaders, Awed by the gods. So with order and balance and harmony noble Life shall move golden, free in its steps and just in its measure, Glad of a manhood complete, by excess and defect untormented. Freedom is life to the Argive soul, to Aeolias peoples. Dulled by a yoke our nations would perish, or live but as shadows, Changed into phantoms of men with the name of a Greek for a byword. Not like the East and her sons is our race, they who bow to a mortal. Gods there may be in this flesh that suffers and dies; Achaia Knows them not. Need if he feels of a world to endure and adore him, Hearts let him seek that are friends with the dust, overpowered by their heavens, Here in these Asian vastnesses, here where the heats and the perfumes Sicken the soul and the sense and a soil of indolent plenty Breeds like the corn in its multitudes natures accustomed to thraldom. Here let the northern Achilles seek for his slaves and adorers, Not in the sea-ringed isles and not in the mountains Achaian. Ten long years of the shock and the war-cry twixt rampart and ocean Hurting our hearts we have toiled; shall they reap not their ease in the vengeance? Troas is sown with the lives of our friends and with ashes remembered; Shall not Meriones slain be reckoned in blood and in treasure? Cretan Idomeneus girt with the strength of his iron retainers Slaying and burning will stride through the city of music and pleasure, Babes of her blood borne high on the spears at the head of my column, Wives of her princes dragged through her streets in its pomp to their passion, Gold of Troy stream richly past in the gaze of Achilles. Then let him threaten my days, then rally the might of his triumphs, Yet shall a Cretan spear make search in his heart for his godhead. Limbs of this god can be pierced; not alone shall I fleet down to Hades. After him rose from the throng the Locrian, swift-footed Ajax. Kings of the Greeks, throw a veil on your griefs, lay a curb on your anger. Moved mans tongue in its wrath looses speech that is hard to be pardoned, Afterwards stilled we regret, we forgive. If all were resented, None could live on this earth that is thick with our stumblings. Always This is the burden of man that he acts from his heart and his passions, Stung by the goads of the gods he hews at the ties that are dearest. Lust was the guide they sent us, wrath was a whip for his coursers, Madness they made the hearts comrade, repentance they gave for its scourger. This too our hearts demand that we bear with our friend when he chides us. Insult forgive from the noble embittered soul of Achilles! When with the scorn and the wrath of a lover our depths are tormented, Who shall forbid the cry and who shall measure the anguish? Sharper the pain that looses the taunt than theirs who endure it. Rage has wept in my blood as I lived through the flight oer the pastures, Shame coils a snake in my back when thought whispers of Penthesilea. Bright shine his morns if he mows down this hell-bitch armed by the Furies! But for this shaft of his pity it came from a lesser Pelides, Not from the slayer of Hector, not from the doom of Sarpedon, Memnons mighty oerthrower, the blood-stained splendid Achilles. These are the Trojan snares and the fateful smile of a woman! This thing the soul of a man shall not bear that blood of his labour Vainly has brought him victory leaving life to the hated; This is a wound to our race that a Greek should whisper of mercy. Who can pardon a foe though a god should descend to persuade him? Justice is first of the gods, but for Pity twas spawned by a mortal, Pity that only disturbs Gods measures and false and unrighteous Holds man back from the joy he might win and troubles his bosom. Troy has a debt to our hearts; she shall pay it all down to the obol, Blood of the fall and anguish of flight when the heroes are slaughtered, Days without joy while we labour and see not the eyes of our parents, Toil of the war-cry, nights that drag past upon alien beaches, Helen ravished, Paris triumphant, endless the items Crowd on a wrath in the memory, kept as in bronze the credit Stretches out long and blood-stained and savage. Most for the terror Graved in the hearts of our fathers that still by our youth is remembered, Hellas waiting and crouching, dreading the spear of the Trojan, Flattering, sending gifts and pale in her mortal anguish, Agony long of a race at the mercy of iron invaders, This she shall pay most, the city of pride, the insolent nation, Pay with her temples charred and her golden mansions in ruins, Pay with the shrieks of her ravished virgins, the groans of the aged Burned in their burning homes for our holiday. Music and dancing Shall be in Troy of another sort than she loved in her greatness Merry with conquered gold and insulting the world with her flutings. All that she boasted of, statue and picture, all shall be shattered; Out of our shame she chiselled them, rich with our blood they were coloured. This not the gods from Olympus crowding, this not Achilles, This not your will, O ye Greeks, shall deny to the Locrian Ajax. Even though Pallas divine with her aegis counselling mercy Cumbered my path, I would push her aside to leap on my victims. Learn shall all men on that day how a warrior deals with his foemen. Darting flames from his eyes the barbarian sate, and there rose up Frowning Tydeus son, the Tirynthian, strong Diomedes. Ajax Oileus, thy words are foam on the lips of a madman. Cretan Idomeneus, silence the vaunt that thy strength can fulfil not. Strong art thou, fearless in battle, but not by thy spear-point, O hero, Hector fell, nor Sarpedon, nor Troilus leading the war-cry. These were Achilles deeds which a god might have done out of heaven. Him we upbraid who saved, nor would any now who revile him Still have a living tongue for ingratitude but for the hero. Much to the man forgive who has saved his race and his country: Him shall the termless centuries praise when we are forgotten. Curb then your speech, crush down in your hearts the grief and the choler; Has not Atrides curbed who is greatest of all in our nations Wrath in the heart and the words that are winged for our bale from our bosoms? For as a load to be borne were these passions given to mortals. Honour Achilles, conquer Troy by his god-given valour. Now of our discords and griefs debate not for joy of our foemen! First over Priams corpse stand victors in Ilions ramparts; Discord then let arise or concord solder our nations. Rugged words and few as fit for the soul that he harboured Great Tydides spoke and ceased; and there rose up impatient Tall from the spears of the north the hero king Prothonor, Prince in Cadmeian Thebes who with Leitus led on his thousands. Loudly thou vauntest thy freedom Ionian Minos recalling, Lord of thy southern isles who gildst with tri bute Mycenae. We have not bowed our neck to Pelops line, at Argos Iron heel have not crouched, nor clasped like thy time-wearied nations, Python-befriended, gripped in the coils of an iron protection, Bondage soothed by a name and destruction masked as a helper. We are the young and lofty and free-souled sons of the Northland. Nobly Peleus, the Aeacid, seer of a vaster Achaia, Pride of his strength and his deeds renouncing for joy of that vision, Yielded his hoary right to the sapling stock of Atrides. Noble, we gave to that nobleness freely our grandiose approval. Not as a foe then, O King, who angered sharpens his arrows, Fits his wrath and hate to the bow and aims at the heart-strings But from the Truth that is seated within me compelling my accents, Taught by my fathers stern not to lie nor to hide what I harbour, Truth the goddess I speak, nor constrain the voice in my bosom. Monarch, I own thee first of the Greeks save in valour and counsel, Brave, but less than Achilles, wise, but not as Odysseus, First still in greatness and calm and majesty. Yet, Agamemnon, Love of thy house and thy tribe disfigures the king in thy nature; Thou thy brother preferrest, thy friends and thy nations unjustly, Even as a common man whose heart is untaught by Athene, Beastlike favours his brood forgetting the law of the noble. Therefore Ajax grew wroth and Teucer sailing abandoned Over the angry seas this fierce-locked toil of the nations; Therefore Achilles has turned in his soul and gazed towards the Orient. Yet are we fixed in our truth like hills in heaven, Atrides; Greece and her safety and good our passions strive to remember. Not of this stamp was thy brothers speech; such words Lacedaemon Hearing may praise in her kings; we speak not in Thebes what is shameful. Shamefuller thoughts have never escaped from lips that were high-born. We will not send forth earths greatest to die in a friendless battle, Nor will forsake the daughter of Zeus and white glory of Hellas, Helen the golden-haired Tyndarid, left for the joy of our foemen, Chained to Paris delight, earths goddess the slave of the Phrygian, Though Menelaus the Spartan abandon his wife to the Trojans And from the field where he lavished the unvalued blood of his people Flee to a hearth dishonoured. Not the Atreids sullied grandeurs, Greece to defend we have toiled through the summers and lingering autumns Blind with our blood; for our country we bleed repelling her foemen. Dear is that loss to our veins and still that expense we would lavish Claiming its price from the heavens, though thou sail with thy brother and cohorts. Weakling, flee! take thy southern ships, take thy Spartan levies. Still will the Greeks fight on in the Troad helped by thy absence. For though the beaches vast grow empty, the tents can be numbered Standing friendless and few on the huge and hostile champaign, Always a few will be left whom the threatenings of Fate cannot conquer, Always souls are born whose courage waits not on fortune; Hellas heart will be firm confronting the threat of the victor, Sthenelus war and Tydides, Odysseus and Locrian Ajax, Thebes unconquered sons and the hero chiefs of the northland. Stern and persistent as Time or the seas and as deaf to affliction We will clash on in the fight unsatisfied, fain of the war-cry, Helped by the gods and our cause through the dawns and the blood-haunted evenings, Rising in armour with morn and outstaying the red of the sunset, Till in her ashes Troy forgets that she lusted for empire Or in our own the honour and valour of Greece are extinguished. So Prothonor spoke nor pleased with his words Agamemnon; But to the northern kings they were summer rain on the visage. Last Laertes son, the Ithacan, war-wise Odysseus, Rose up wide-acclaimed; like an oak was he stunted in stature, Broad-shouldered, firm-necked, lone and sufficient, as on some island Regnant one peak whose genial streams flow down to the valley, Dusk on its slopes are the olives, the storms butt in vain at its shoulders, Such he stood and pressed the earth with his feet like one vanquished, Striving, but held to his will. So Atlas might seem were he mortal, Atlas whose vastness free from impatience suffers the heavens, Suffering spares the earth, the thought-haunted motionless Titan, Bearer of worlds. In those jarring tribes no man was his hater; For as the Master of all guides humanity, so this Odysseus Dealt with men and helped and guided them, careful and selfless, Crafty, tender and wise,like the Master who bends oer His creatures, Suffers their sins and their errors and guides them screening the guidance; Each through his nature He leads and the world by the lure of His wisdom. Princes of Argolis, chiefs of the Locrians, spears of the northland, Warriors vowed to a sacred hate and a vengeance thats holy, Sateless still is that hate, that vengeance cries for its victims, Still is the altar unladen, the priest yet waits with the death-knife. Who while the rites are unfinished, the god unsatisfied, impious Turns in his heart to the feuds of his house and his strife with his equals? None will approve the evil that fell from the younger Atrides; But it was anger and sorrow that spoke, it was not Menelaus. Who would return from Troy and arrive with his war-wasted legions Back to his home in populous city or orcharded island; There from his ships disembarked look round upon eyes that grow joyless Seeking a father or husb and slain, a brother heart-treasured, Mothers in tears for their children, and when he is asked, O our chieftain, What dost thou bring back in place of our dead to fill hearts that are empty? Who then will say, I bring back my shame and the shame of my nation; Troy yet stands confronting her skies and Helen in Troya? Not for such foil will I go back to Ithaca or to Laertes, Rather far would I sail in my ships past southern Cythera, Turning away in silence from waters where on some headland Gazing south oer the waves my father waits for my coming, Leaving Sicilys shores and on through the pillars of Gades. Far I would sail whence sound of me never should come to Achaia Out into tossing worlds and weltering reaches of tempest Dwarfing the swell of the wide-wayed Aegean,Oceans unbounded Either by cliff or by sandy margin, only the heavens Ever receding before my keel as it ploughs on for ever Frail and alone in a world of waves. Even there would I venture Seeking some island unknown, not return with shame to my fathers. Well might they wonder how souls like theirs begot us for their offspring. Fighters war-afflicted, champions banded by heaven, Wounds and defeat you have borne; bear too their errors who lead you. Mortals are kings and have hearts; our leaders too have their passions. Then if they err, yet still obey lest anarchy fostered, Discord and deaf rebellion that speed like a poison through kingdoms, Break all this army in pieces while Ate mocking at mortals Trails to a shameful end this lofty essay of the nations. Who among men has not thoughts that he holds for the wisest, though foolish? Who, though feeble and nought, esteems not his strength oer his fellows? Therefore the wisest and strongest choose out a king and a leader, Not as a perfect arbiter armed with impossible virtues Far oer our heads and our ken like a god high-judging his creatures, But as a man among men who is valiant, wise and far-seeing, One of ourselves and the knot of our wills and the sword of our action. Him they advise and obey and cover his errors with silence. Not Agamemnon the Atreid, Greeks, we obey in this mortal; Greece we obey; for she walks in his gait and commands by his gestures. Evil he works then who loosens this living knot of Achaia; Falling apart from his nation who, wed to a solitary virtue, Deeming he does but right, renounces the yoke of his fellows, Errs more than hearts of the mire that in blindness and weakness go stumbling. Man when he spurns his kind, when he equals himself with the deathless, Even in his virtues sins and, erring, calls up Ate: For among men we were born, not as wild-beasts sole in a fastness. Oft with a name are misled the passionate hearts of the noble; Chasing highly some image of good they trample its substance. Evil is worked, not justice, when into the mould of our thinkings God we would force and enchain to the throb of our hearts the immortals, Justice and Virtue, her sister,for where is justice mid creatures Perfectly? Even the gods are betrayed by our clay to a semblance. Evil not good he sows who lifted too high for his fellows, Dreams by his light or his force to compel this deity earth-born, Evil though his wisdom exceeded the gathered light of the millions, Evil though his single fate were vaster than Troy and Achaia. Less is our gain from gods upon earth than from men in our image; Just is the slow and common march, not a lonely swiftness Far from our human reach that is vowed to impossible strivings. Better the stumbling leader of men than inimitable paces. If he be Peleus son and his name the Phthian Achilles, Worse is the bane: lo, the Ilian battlefield strewn with his errors! Yet, O ye Greeks, if the heart returns that was loved, though it wandered, Though with some pride it return and reproaching the friends that it fled from, Be not less fond than heart-satisfied parents who yearn oer that coming, Smile at its pride and accept the wanderer. Happier music Never has beat on my grief-vexed ears than the steps of Achilles Turning back to this Greece and the cry of his strength in its rising. Zeus is awake in this man who his dreadful world-slaying puissance Gave in an hour of portentous birth to the single Achilles. Taken today are Ilions towers, a dead man is Priam. Cross not the heros will in his hour, Agamemnon Atrides, Cross not the man whom the gods have chosen to work out their purpose Then when he rises; his hour is his, though thine be all morrows. First in the chambers of Paris delight let us stable our horses, Afterwards bale that is best shall be done persuading Achilles; Doubt not the gods decisions, awful, immutable, ruthless. Flame shall lick Troys towers and the limbs of her old men and infants. O not today nor now remember the faults of the hero! Follow him rather bravely and blindly as children their leader, Guide your fate through the war-surge loud in the wake of his exploits. Rise, O ye kings of the Greeks! leave debate for the voices of battle. Peal forth the war-shout, pour forth the spear-sleet, surge towards Troya. Ilion falls today; we shall turn in our ships to our children. So Odysseus spoke and the Achaians heard him applauding; Ever the pack by the voice of the mighty is seized and attracted! Then from his seat Agamemnon arising his staff to the herald Gave and around him arose the Kings of the west and its leaders, Loud their assembly broke with a stern and martial rumour. *** ~ Sri Aurobindo, 6 - The Book of the Chieftains ,

115:The Kalevala - Rune Xxiii OSMOTAR THE BRIDE-ADVISER Now the bride must be instructed, Who will teach the Maid of Beauty, Who instruct the Rainbow-daughter? Osmotar, the wisdom-maiden, Kalew's fair and lovely virgin, Osmotar will give instructions To the bride of Ilmarinen, To the orphaned bride of Pohya, Teach her how to live in pleasure, How to live and reign in glory, Win her second mother's praises, Joyful in her husband's dwelling. Osmotar in modest accents Thus the anxious bride addresses; 'Maid of Beauty, lovely sister, Tender plant of Louhi's gardens, Hear thou what thy sister teaches, Listen to her sage instructions: Go thou hence, my much beloved, Wander far away, my flower, Travel on enwrapped in colors, Glide away in silks and ribbons, From this house renowned and ancient, From thy father's halls and court-yards Haste thee to thy husband's village, Hasten to his mother's household; Strange, the rooms in other dwellings, Strange, the modes in other hamlets. 'Full of thought must be thy going, And thy work be well considered, Quite unlike thy home in Northland, On the meadows of thy father, On the high-lands of thy brother, Singing through thy mother's fenlands, Culling daisies with thy sister. 'When thou goest from thy father 375 Thou canst take whatever pleases, Only three things leave behind thee: Leave thy day-dreams to thy sister, Leave thou kindness for thy mother, To thy brother leave thy labors, Take all else that thou desirest. Throw away thine incantations, Cast thy sighing to the pine-trees, And thy maidenhood to zephyrs, Thy rejoicings to the couches, Cast thy trinkets to the children, And thy leisure to the gray-beards, Cast all pleasures to thy playmates, Let them take them to the woodlands, Bury them beneath the mountain. 'Thou must hence acquire new habits, Must forget thy former customs, Mother-love must be forsaken, Thou must love thy husband's mother, Lower must thy head be bended, Kind words only must thou utter. 'Thou must hence acquire new habits, Must forget thy former customs, Father-love must be forsaken, Thou must love thy husband's father, Lower must thy head be bended, Kind words only must thou utter. 'Thou must hence acquire new habits, Must forget thy former customs, Brother-love must be forsaken, Thou must love thy husband's brother, Lower must thy head be bended, Kind words only must thou utter. 'Thou must hence acquire new habits Must forget thy former customs, Sister-love must be forsaken, Thou must love thy husband's sister, Lower must thy head be bended, Kind words only must thou utter. 'Never in the course of ages, Never while the moonlight glimmers, Wickedly approach thy household, 376 Nor unworthily, thy servants, Nor thy courts with indiscretion; Let thy dwellings sing good manners, And thy walls re-echo virtue. After mind the hero searches. And the best of men seek honor, Seek for honesty and wisdom; If thy home should be immoral, If thine inmates fail in virtue, Then thy gray-beards would be black-dogs In sheep's clothing at thy firesides; All thy women would be witches, Wicked witches in thy chambers, And thy brothers be as serpents Crawling through thy husband's mansion; All thy sisters would be famous For their evil thoughts and conduct. 'Equal honors must be given To thy husband's friends and kindred; Lower must thy head be bended, Than within thy mother's dwelling, Than within thy father's guest-room, When thou didst thy kindred honor. Ever strive to give good counsel, Wear a countenance of sunshine, Bear a head upon thy shoulders Filled with wise and ancient sayings; Open bright thine eyes at morning To behold the silver sunrise, Sharpen well thine ears at evening, Thus to hear the rooster crowing; When he makes his second calling, Straightway thou must rise from slumber, Let the aged sleep in quiet; Should the rooster fail to call thee, Let the moonbeams touch thine eyelids, Let the Great Bear be thy keeper Often go thou and consult them, Call upon the Moon for counsel, Ask the Bear for ancient wisdom, From the stars divine thy future; When the Great Bear faces southward, 377 When his tail is pointing northward, This is time to break with slumber, Seek for fire within the ashes, Place a spark upon the tinder, Blow the fire through all the fuel. If no spark is in the ashes, Then go wake thy hero-husband, Speak these words to him on waking: 'Give me fire, O my beloved, Give a single spark, my husband, Strike a little fire from flintstone, Let it fall upon my tinder.' 'From the spark, O Bride of Beauty, Light thy fires, and heat thine ovens, In the holder, place the torch-light, Find thy pathway to the stables, There to fill the empty mangers; If thy husband's cows be lowing, If thy brother's steeds be neighing, Then the cows await thy coming, And the steeds for thee are calling, Hasten, stooping through the hurdles, Hasten through the yards and stables, Feed thy husband's cows with pleasure, Feed with care the gentle lambkins, Give the cows the best of clover, Hay, and barley, to the horses, Feed the calves of lowing mothers, Feed the fowl that fly to meet thee. 'Never rest upon the haymow, Never sleep within the hurdles, When the kine are fed and tended, When the flocks have all been watered; Hasten thence, my pretty matron, Like the snow-flakes to thy dwelling, There a crying babe awaits thee, Weeping in his couch neglected, Cannot speak and tell his troubles, Speechless babe, and weeping infant, Cannot say that he is hungry, Whether pain or cold distresses, Greets with joy his mother's footsteps. 378 Afterward repair in silence To thy husband's rooms and presence, Early visit thou his chambers, In thy hand a golden pitcher, On thine arm a broom of birch-wood, In thy teeth a lighted taper, And thyself the fourth in order. Sweep thou then thy hero's dwelling, Dust his benches and his tables, Wash the flooring well with water. 'If the baby of thy sister Play alone within his corner, Show the little child attention, Bathe his eyes and smoothe his ringlets, Give the infant needed comforts; Shouldst thou have no bread of barley, In his hand adjust some trinket. 'Lastly, when the week has ended, Give thy house a thorough cleansing, Benches, tables, walls, and ceilings; What of dust is on the windows, Sweep away with broom of birch-twigs, All thy rooms must first be sprinkled, at the dust may not be scattered, May not fill the halls and chambers. Sweep the dust from every crevice, Leave thou not a single atom; Also sweep the chimney-corners, Do not then forget the rafters, Lest thy home should seem untidy, Lest thy dwelling seem neglected. 'Hear, O maiden, what I tell thee, Learn the tenor of my teaching: Never dress in scanty raiment, Let thy robes be plain and comely, Ever wear the whitest linen, On thy feet wear tidy fur-shoes, For the glory of thy husband, For the honor of thy hero. Tend thou well the sacred sorb-tree, Guard the mountain-ashes planted In the court-yard, widely branching; 379 Beautiful the mountain-ashes, Beautiful their leaves and flowers, Still more beautiful the berries. Thus the exiled one demonstrates That she lives to please her husband, Tries to make her hero happy. 'Like the mouse, have ears for hearing, Like the hare, have feet for running, Bend thy neck and turn thy visage Like the juniper and aspen, Thus to watch with care thy goings, Thus to guard thy feet from stumbling, That thou mayest walk in safety. 'When thy brother comes from plowing, And thy father from his garners, And thy husband from the woodlands, From his chopping, thy beloved, Give to each a water-basin, Give to each a linen-towel, Speak to each some pleasant greeting. 'When thy second mother hastens To thy husband's home and kindred, In her hand a corn-meal measure, Haste thou to the court to meet her, Happy-hearted, bow before her, Take the measure from her fingers, Happy, bear it to thy husband. 'If thou shouldst not see distinctly What demands thy next attention, Ask at once thy hero's mother: 'Second mother, my beloved, Name the task to be accomplished By thy willing second daughter, Tell me how to best perform it.' 'This should be the mother's answer: 'This the manner of thy workings, Thus thy daily work accomplish: Stamp with diligence and courage, Grind with will and great endurance, Set the millstones well in order, Fill the barley-pans with water, Knead with strength the dough for baking, 380 Place the fagots on the fire-place, That thy ovens may be heated, Bake in love the honey-biscuit, Bake the larger loaves of barley, Rinse to cleanliness thy platters, Polish well thy drinking-vessels. 'If thou hearest from the mother, From the mother of thy husband, That the cask for meal is empty, Take the barley from the garners, Hasten to the rooms for grinding. When thou grindest in the chambers, Do not sing in glee and joyance, Turn the grinding-stones in silence, To the mill give up thy singing, Let the side-holes furnish music; Do not sigh as if unhappy, Do not groan as if in trouble, Lest the father think thee weary, Lest thy husband's mother fancy That thy groans mean discontentment, That thy sighing means displeasure. Quickly sift the flour thou grindest, Take it to the casks in buckets, Bake thy hero's bread with pleasure, Knead the dough with care and patience, That thy biscuits may be worthy, That the dough be light and airy. 'Shouldst thou see a bucket empty, Take the bucket on thy shoulder, On thine arm a silver-dipper, Hasten off to fill with water From the crystal river flowing; Gracefully thy bucket carry, Bear it firmly by the handles, Hasten houseward like the zephyrs, Hasten like the air of autumn; Do not tarry near the streamlet, At the waters do not linger, That the father may not fancy, Nor the ancient dame imagine, That thou hast beheld thine image, 381 Hast admired thy form and features, Hast admired thy grace and beauty In the mirror of the fountain, In the crystal streamlet's eddies. 'Shouldst thou journey to the woodlands, There to gather aspen-fagots, Do not go with noise and bustle, Gather all thy sticks in silence, Gather quietly the birch-wood, That the father may not fancy, And the mother not imagine, That thy calling came from anger, And thy noise from discontentment. 'If thou goest to the store-house To obtain the flour of barley, Do not tarry on thy journey, On the threshold do not linger, That the father may not fancy, And the mother not imagine, That the meal thou hast divided With the women of the village. 'If thou goest to the river, There to wash thy birchen platters, There to cleanse thy pans and buckets, Lest thy work be done in neatness, Rinse the sides, and rinse the handles, Rinse thy pitchers to perfection, Spoons, and forks, and knives, and goblets, Rinse with care thy cooking-vessels, Closely watch the food-utensils, That the dogs may not deface them, That the kittens may not mar them, That the eagles may not steal them, That the children may not break them; Many children in the village, Many little heads and fingers, That will need thy careful watching, Lest they steal the things of value. 'When thou goest to thy bathing, Have the brushes ready lying In the bath-room clean and smokeless; Do not, linger in the water, 382 At thy bathing do not tarry, That the father may not fancy, And the mother not imagine, Thou art sleeping on the benches, Rolling in the laps of comfort. 'From thy bath, when thou returnest, To his bathing tempt the father, Speak to him the words that follow: 'Father of my hero-husband, Clean are all the bath-room benches, Everything in perfect order; Go and bathe for thine enjoyment, Pour the water all-sufficient, I will lend thee needed service.' 'When the time has come for spinning, When the hours arrive for weaving, Do not ask the help of others, Look not in the stream for knowledge, For advice ask not the servants, Nor the spindle from the sisters, Nor the weaving-comb from strangers. Thou thyself must do the spinning, With thine own hand ply the shuttle, Loosely wind the skeins of wool-yarn, Tightly wind the balls of flax-thread, Wind them deftly in the shuttle Fit the warp upon the rollers, Beat the woof and warp together, Swiftly ply the weaver's shuttle, Weave good cloth for all thy vestments, Weave of woolen, webs for dresses From the finest wool of lambkins, One thread only in thy weaving. 'Hear thou what I now advise thee: Brew thy beer from early barley, From the barley's new-grown kernels, Brew it with the magic virtues, Malt it with the sweets of honey, Do not stir it with the birch-rod, Stir it with thy skilful fingers; When thou goest to the garners, Do not let the seed bring evil, 383 Keep the dogs outside the brew-house, Have no fear of wolves in hunger, Nor the wild-beasts of the mountains, When thou goest to thy brewing, Shouldst thou wander forth at midnight. 'Should some stranger come to see thee, Do not worry for his comfort; Ever does the worthy household Have provisions for the stranger, Bits of meat, and bread, and biscuit, Ample for the dinner-table; Seat the stranger in thy dwelling, Speak with him in friendly accents, Entertain the guest with kindness, While his dinner is preparing. When the stranger leaves thy threshold, When his farewell has been spoken, Lead him only to the portals, Do not step without the doorway, That thy husband may not fancy, And the mother not imagine, Thou hast interest in strangers. 'Shouldst thou ever make a journey To the centre of the village, There to gain some needed object, While thou speakest in the hamlet, Let thy words be full of wisdom, That thou shamest not thy kindred, Nor disgrace thy husband's household. 'Village-maidens oft will ask thee, Mothers of the hamlet question: 'Does thy husband's mother greet thee As in childhood thou wert greeted, In thy happy home in Pohya?' Do not answer in negation, Say that she has always given Thee the best of her provisions, Given thee the kindest greetings, Though it be but once a season. 'Listen well to what I tell thee: As thou goest from thy father To thy husband's distant dwelling, 384 Thou must not forget thy mother, Her that gave thee life and beauty, Her that nurtured thee in childhood, Many sleepless nights she nursed thee; Often were her wants neglected, Numberless the times she rocked thee; Tender, true, and ever faithful, Is the mother to her daughter. She that can forget her mother, Can neglect the one that nursed her, Should not visit Mana's castle, In the kingdom of Tuoni; In Manala she would suffer, Suffer frightful retribution, Should her mother be forgotten; Should her dear one be neglected, Mana's daughters will torment her, And Tuoni's sons revile her, They will ask her much as follows: 'How couldst thou forget thy mother, How neglect the one that nursed thee? Great the pain thy mother suffered, Great the trouble that thou gavest When thy loving mother brought thee Into life for good or evil, When she gave thee earth-existence, When she nursed thee but an infant, When she fed thee in thy childhood, When she taught thee what thou knowest, Mana's punishments upon thee, Since thy mother is forgotten!'' On the floor a witch was sitting, Near the fire a beggar-woman, One that knew the ways of people, These the words the woman uttered: 'Thus the crow calls in the winter: 'Would that I could be a singer, And my voice be full of sweetness, But, alas! my songs are worthless, Cannot charm the weakest creature; I must live without the singing Leave the songs to the musicians, 385 Those that live in golden houses, In the homes of the beloved; Homeless therefore I must wander, Like a beggar in the corn-fields, And with none to do me honor.' 'Hear now, sister, what I tell thee, Enter thou thy husband's dwelling, Follow not his mind, nor fancies, As my husband's mind I followed; As a flower was I when budding, Sprouting like a rose in spring-time, Growing like a slender maiden, Like the honey-gem of glory, Like the playmates of my childhood, Like the goslings of my father, Like the blue-ducks of my mother, Like my brother's water-younglings, Like the bullfinch of my sister; Grew I like the heather-flower, Like the berry of the meadow, Played upon the sandy sea-shore, Rocked upon the fragrant upland, Sang all day adown the valley, Thrilled with song the hill and mountain, Filled with mirth the glen and forest, Lived and frolicked in the woodlands. 'Into traps are foxes driven By the cruel pangs of hunger, Into traps, the cunning ermine; Thus are maidens wooed and wedded, In their hunger for a husband. Thus created is the virgin, Thus intended is the daughter, Subject to her hero-husband, Subject also to his mother. 'Then to other fields I hastened, Like a berry from the border, Like a cranberry for roasting, Like a strawberry for dinner; All the elm-trees seemed to wound me, All the aspens tried to cut me, All the willows tried to seize me, 386 All the forest tried to slay me. Thus I journeyed to my husband, Thus I travelled to his dwelling, Was conducted to his mother. Then there were, as was reported, Six compartments built of pine-wood, Twelve the number of the chambers, And the mansion filled with garrets, Studding all the forest border, Every by-way filled with flowers Streamlets bordered fields of barley, Filled with wheat and corn, the islands, Grain in plenty in the garners, Rye unthrashed in great abundance, Countless sums of gold and silver, Other treasures without number. When my journey I had ended, When my hand at last was given, Six supports were in his cabin, Seven poles as rails for fencing. Filled with anger were the bushes, All the glens disfavor showing, All the walks were lined with trouble, Evil-tempered were the forests, Hundred words of evil import, Hundred others of unkindness. Did not let this bring me sorrow, Long I sought to merit praises, Long I hoped to find some favor, Strove most earnestly for kindness; When they led me to the cottage, There I tried some chips to gather, Knocked my head against the portals Of my husband's lowly dwelling. 'At the door were eyes of strangers, Sable eyes at the partition, Green with envy in his cabin, Evil heroes in the back-ground, From each mouth the fire was streaming, From each tongue the sparks out-flying, Flying from my second father, From his eyeballs of unkindness. 387 Did not let this bring me trouble, Tried to live in peace and pleasure, In the homestead of my husband In humility I suffered, Skipped about with feet of rabbit, Flew along with steps of ermine, Late I laid my head to slumber, Early rose as if a servant, Could not win a touch of kindness, Could not merit love nor honor, Though I had dislodged the mountains, Though the rocks had I torn open. 'Then I turned the heavy millstone, Ground the flour with care and trouble, Ground the barley-grains in patience, That the mother might be nourished, That her fury-throat might swallow What might please her taste and fancy,. From her gold-enamelled platters, From the corner of her table. 'As for me, the hapless daughter, All my flour was from the siftings On the table near the oven, Ate I from the birchen ladle; Oftentimes I brought the mosses Gathered in the lowland meadows, Baked them into loaves for eating; Brought the water from the river, Thirsty, sipped it from the dipper, Ate of fish the worst in Northland, Only smelts, and worthless swimmers, Rocking in my boat of birch-bark Never ate I fish or biscuit From my second mother's fingers. 'Blades I gathered in the summers, Twisted barley-stalks in winter, Like the laborers of heroes, Like the servants sold in bondage. In the thresh-house of my husband, Evermore to me was given Flail the heaviest and longest, And to me the longest lever, 388 On the shore the strongest beater, And the largest rake in haying; No one thought my burden heavy, No one thought that I could suffer, Though the best of heroes faltered, And the strongest women weakened. 'Thus did I, a youthful housewife, At the right time, all my duties, Drenched myself in perspiration, Hoped for better times to follow; But I only rose to labor, Knowing neither rest nor pleasure. I was blamed by all the household, With ungrateful tongues derided, Now about my awkward manners, Now about my reputation, Censuring my name and station. Words unkind were heaped upon me, Fell like hail on me unhappy, Like the frightful flash of lightning, Like the heavy hail of spring-time. I did not despair entirely, Would have lived to labor longer Underneath the tongue of malice, But the old-one spoiled Lay temper, Roused my deepest ire and hatred Then my husband grew a wild-bear, Grew a savage wolf of Hisi. 'Only then I turned to weeping, And reflected in my chamber, Thought of all my former pleasures Of the happy days of childhood, Of my father's joyful firesides, Of my mother's peaceful cottage, Then began I thus to murmur: 'Well thou knowest, ancient mother, How to make thy sweet bud blossom, How to train thy tender shootlet; Did not know where to ingraft it, Placed, alas! the little scion In the very worst of places, On an unproductive hillock, 389 In the hardest limb of cherry, Where it could not grow and flourish, There to waste its life, in weeping, Hapless in her lasting sorrow. Worthier had been my conduct In the regions that are better, In the court-yards that are wider, In compartments that are larger, Living with a loving husband, Living with a stronger hero. Shoe of birch-bark was my suitor, Shoe of Laplanders, my husband; Had the body of a raven, Voice and visage like the jackdaw, Mouth and claws were from the black-wolf, The remainder from the wild-bear. Had I known that mine affianced Was a fount of pain and evil, To the hill-side I had wandered, Been a pine-tree on the highway, Been a linden on the border, Like the black-earth made my visage, Grown a beard of ugly bristles, Head of loam and eyes of lightning, For my ears the knots of birches, For my limbs the trunks of aspens.' 'This the manner of my singing In the hearing of my husband, Thus I sang my cares and murmurs Thus my hero near the portals Heard the wail of my displeasure, Then he hastened to my chamber; Straightway knew I by his footsteps, Well concluded be was angry, 'Knew it by his steps implanted; All the winds were still in slumber, Yet his sable locks stood endwise, Fluttered round his bead in fury, While his horrid mouth stood open; To and fro his eyes were rolling, In one hand a branch of willow, In the other, club of alder; 390 Struck at me with might of malice, Aimed the cudgel at my forehead. 'When the evening had descended, When my husband thought of slumber Took he in his hand a whip-stalk, With a whip-lash made of deer-skin, Was not made for any other, Only made for me unhappy. 'When at last I begged for mercy, When I sought a place for resting, By his side I courted slumber, Merciless, my husband seized me, Struck me with his arm of envy, Beat me with the whip of torture, Deer-skin-lash and stalk of birch-wood. From his couch I leaped impulsive, In the coldest night of winter, But the husband fleetly followed, Caught me at the outer portals, Grasped me by my streaming tresses, Tore my ringlets from my forehead, Cast in curls upon the night-winds To the freezing winds of winter. What the aid that I could ask for, Who could free me from my torment? Made I shoes of magic metals, Made the straps of steel and copper, Waited long without the dwelling, Long I listened at the portals, Hoping he would end his ravings, Hoping he would sink to slumber, But he did not seek for resting, Did not wish to still his fury. Finally the cold benumbed me; As an outcast from his cabin, I was forced to walk and wander, When I, freezing, well reflected, This the substance of my thinking: 'I will not endure this torture, Will not bear this thing forever, Will not bear this cruel treatment, Such contempt I will not suffer 391 In the wicked tribe of Hisi, In this nest of evil Piru.' 'Then I said, 'Farewell forever!' To my husband's home and kindred, To my much-loved home and husband; Started forth upon a journey To my father's distant hamlet, Over swamps and over snow-fields, Wandered over towering mountains, Over hills and through the valleys, To my brother's welcome meadows, To my sister's home and birthplace. 'There were rustling withered pine-trees. Finely-feathered firs were fading, Countless ravens there were cawing, All the jackdaws harshly singing, This the chorus of the ravens: 'Thou hast here a home no longer, This is not the happy homestead Of thy merry days of childhood.' 'Heeding not this woodland chorus, Straight I journeyed to the dwelling Of my childhood's friend and brother, Where the portals spake in concord, And the hills and valleys answered, This their saddened song and echo: 'Wherefore dost thou journey hither, Comest thou for joy or sorrow, To thy father's old dominions? Here unhappiness awaits thee, Long departed is thy father, Dead and gone to visit Ukko, Dead and gone thy faithful mother, And thy brother is a stranger, While his wife is chill and heartless!' 'Heeding not these many warnings, Straightway to my brother's cottage Were my weary feet directed, Laid my hand upon the door-latch Of my brother's dismal cottage, But the latch was cold and lifeless. When I wandered to the chamber, 392 When I waited at the doorway, There I saw the heartless hostess, But she did not give me greeting, Did not give her hand in welcome; Proud, alas! was I unhappy, Did not make the first advances, Did not offer her my friendship, And my hand I did not proffer; Laid my hand upon the oven, All its former warmth departed! On the coal I laid my fingers, All the latent heat had left it. On the rest-bench lay my brother, Lay outstretched before the fire-place, Heaps of soot upon his shoulders, Heaps of ashes on his forehead. Thus the brother asked the stranger, Questioned thus his guest politely: 'Tell me what thy name and station, Whence thou comest o'er the waters!' This the answer that I gave him: Hast thou then forgot thy sister, Does my brother not remember, Not recall his mother's daughter We are children of one mother, Of one bird were we the fledgelings, In one nest were hatched and nurtured.' 'Then the brother fell to weeping, From his eyes great tear-drops flowing, To his wife the brother whispered, Whispered thus unto the housewife. 'Bring thou beer to give my sister, Quench her thirst and cheer her spirits.' 'Full of envy, brought the sister Only water filled with evil, Water for the infant's eyelids, Soap and water from the bath-room. 'To his wife the brother whispered, Whispered thus unto the housewife: 'Bring thou salmon for my sister, For my sister so long absent, Thus to still her pangs of hunger.' 393 'Thereupon the wife obeying, Brought, in envy, only cabbage That the children had been eating, And the house-dogs had been licking, Leavings of the black-dog's breakfast. 'Then I left my brother's dwelling, Hastened to the ancient homestead, To my mother's home deserted; Onward, onward did I wander, Hastened onward by the cold-sea, Dragged my body on in anguish, To the cottage-doors of strangers, To the unfamiliar portals, For the care of the neglected, For the needy of the village, For the children poor and orphaned. 'There are many wicked people, Many slanderers of women, Many women evil-minded, That malign their sex through envy. Many they with lips of evil, That belie the best of maidens, Prove the innocent are guilty Of the worst of misdemeanors, Speak aloud in tones unceasing, Speak, alas! with wicked motives, Spread the follies of their neighbors Through the tongues of self-pollution. Very few, indeed, the people That will feed the poor and hungry, That will bid the stranger welcome; Very few to treat her kindly, Innocent, and lone, and needy, Few to offer her a shelter From the chilling storms of winter, When her skirts with ice are stiffened, Coats of ice her only raiment! 'Never in my days of childhood, Never in my maiden life-time, Never would believe the story Though a hundred tongues had told Though a thousand voices sang it, 394 That such evil things could happen, That such misery could follow, Such misfortune could befall one Who has tried to do her duty, Who has tried to live uprightly, Tried to make her people happy.' Thus the young bride was instructed, Beauteous Maiden of the Rainbow, Thus by Osmotar, the teacher. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

116: Book III: The Book of the Assembly But as the nation beset betwixt doom and a shameful surrender Waited mute for a voice that could lead and a heart to encourage, Up in the silence deep Laocoon rose up, far-heard, Heard by the gods in their calm and heard by men in their passion Cloud-haired, clad in mystic red, flamboyant, sombre, Priams son Laocoon, fate-darkened seer of Apollo. As when the soul of the Ocean arises rapt in the dawning And mid the rocks and the foam uplifting the voice of its musings Opens the chant of its turbulent harmonies, so rose the far-borne Voice of Laocoon soaring mid columns of Ilions glories, Claiming the earth and the heavens for the field of its confident rumour. Trojans, deny your hearts to the easeful flutings of Hades! Live, O nation! he thundered forth and Troys streets and her pillars Sent back their fierce response. Restored to her leonine spirits Ilion rose in her agora filling the heavens with shoutings, Bearing a name to the throne of Zeus in her mortal defiance. As when a sullen calm of the heavens discourages living, Nature and man feel the pain of the lightnings repressed in their bosoms, Dangerous and dull is the air, then suddenly strong from the anguish Zeus of the thunders starts into glories releasing his storm-voice, Earth exults in the kiss of the rain and the life-giving laughters, So from the silence broke forth the thunder of Troya arising; Fiercely she turned from prudence and wisdom and turned back to greatness Casting her voice to the heavens from the depths of her fathomless spirit. Raised by those clamours, triumphant once more on this scene of his greatness, Tool of the gods, but he deemed of his strength as a leader in Nature, Took for his own a voice that was given and dreamed that he fashioned Fate that fashions us all, Laocoon stood mid the shouting Leaned on the calm of an ancient pillar. In eyes self-consuming Kindled the flame of the prophet that blinds at once and illumines; Quivering thought-besieged lips and shaken locks of the lion, Lifted his gaze the storm-led enthusiast. Then as the shouting Tired of itself at last disappeared in the bosom of silence, Image 1 Image 2 Once more he started erect and his voice oer the hearts of his hearers Swept like Oceans impatient cry when it calls from its surges, Ocean loud with a thought sublime in its measureless marching, Each man felt his heart like foam in the rushing of waters. Ilion is vanquished then! she abases her grandiose spirit Mortal found in the end to the gods and the Greeks and Antenor, And when a barbarous chieftains menace and insolent mercy Bring here their pride to insult the columned spirit of Ilus, Trojans have sat and feared! For a man has arisen and spoken, One whom the gods in their anger have hired. Since the Argive prevailed not, Armed with his strength and his numbers, in Troya they sought for her slayer, Gathered their wiles in a voice and they chose a man famous and honoured, Summoned Ate to aid and corrupted the heart of Antenor. Flute of the breath of the Hell-witch, always he scatters among you Doubt, affliction and weakness chilling the hearts of the fighters, Always his voice with its cadenced and subtle possession for evil Breaks the constant will and maims the impulse heroic. Therefore while yet her heroes fight and her arms are unconquered, Troy in your hearts is defeated! The souls of your Fathers have heard you Dallying, shamefast, with vileness, lured by the call of dishonour. Such is the power Zeus gave to the wingd words of a mortal! Foiled in his will, disowned by the years that stride on for ever, Yet in the frenzy cold of his greed and his fallen ambition Doom from heaven he calls down on his countrymen, Trojan abuses Troy, his country, extolling her enemies, blessing her slayers. Such are the gods Antenor has made in his hearts own image That if one evil man have not way for his greed and his longing Cities are doomed and kings must be slain and a nation must perish! But from the mind of the free and the brave I will answer thy bodings, Gold-hungry raven of Troy who croakst from thy nest at her princes. Only one doom irreparable treads down the soul of a nation, Only one downfall endures; tis the ruin of greatness and virtue, Mourning when Freedom departs from the life and the heart of a people, Into her room comes creeping the mind of the slave and it poisons Manhood and joy and the voice to lying is trained and subjection Easy feels to the neck of man who is next to the godheads. Not of the fire am I terrified, not of the sword and its slaying; Vileness of men appals me, baseness I fear and its voices. What can man suffer direr or worse than enslaved from a victor Boons to accept, to take safety and ease from the foe and the stranger, Fallen from the virtue stern that heaven permits to a mortal? Death is not keener than this nor the slaughter of friends and our dear ones. Out and alas! earths greatest are earth and they fail in the testing, Conquered by sorrow and doubt, fates hammerers, fires of her furnace. God in their souls they renounce and submit to their clay and its promptings. Else could the heart of Troy have recoiled from the loom of the shadow Cast by Achilles spear or shrunk at the sound of his car-wheels? Now he has graven an oath austere in his spirit unpliant Victor at last to constrain in his stride the walls of Apollo Burning Troy ere he sleeps. Tis the vow of a high-crested nature; Shall it break ramparted Troy? Yea, the soul of a man too is mighty More than the stone and the mortar! Troy had a soul once, O Trojans, Firm as her god-built ramparts. When by the spears overtaken, Strong Sarpedon fell and Zeus averted his visage, Xanthus red to the sea ran sobbing with bodies of Trojans, When in the day of the silence of heaven the far-glancing helmet Ceased from the ways of the fight, and panic slew with Achilles Hosts who were left unshepherded pale at the fall of their greatest, Godlike Troy lived on. Do we speak mid a citys ruins? Lo! she confronts her heavens as when Tros and Laomedon ruled her. All now is changed, these mutter and sigh to you, all now is ended; Strength has renounced you, Fate has finished the thread of her spinning. Hector is dead, he walks in the shadows; Troilus fights not; Resting his curls on the asphodel he has forgotten his country: Strong Sarpedon lies in Bellerophons city sleeping: Memnon is slain and the blood of Rhesus has dried on the Troad: All of the giant Asius sums in a handful of ashes. Grievous are these things; our hearts still keep all the pain of them treasured, Hard though they grow by use and iron caskets of sorrow. Hear me yet, O fainters in wisdom snared by your pathos, Know this iron world we live in where Hell casts its shadow. Blood and grief are the ransom of men for the joys of their transience, For we are mortals bound in our strength and beset in our labour. This is our human destiny; every moment of living Toil and loss have gained in the constant siege of our bodies. Men must sow earth with their hearts and their tears that their country may prosper; Earth who bore and devours us that life may be born from our remnants. Then shall the Sacrifice gather its fruits when the war-shout is silent, Nor shall the blood be in vain that our mother has felt on her bosom Nor shall the seed of the mighty fail where Death is the sower. Still from the loins of the mother eternal are heroes engendered, Still Deiphobus shouts in the war-front trampling the Argives, Strong Aeneas far-borne voice is heard from our ramparts, Paris hands are swift and his feet in the chases of Ares. Lo, when deserted we fight by Asias soon-wearied peoples, Men ingrate who enjoyed the protection and loathed the protector, Heaven has sent us replacing a continent Penthesilea! Low has the heart of Achaia sunk since it shook at her war-cry. Ajax has bit at the dust; it is all he shall have of the Troad; Tall Meriones lies and measures his portion of booty. Who is the fighter in Ilion thrills not rejoicing to hearken Even her name on unwarlike lips, much more in the mellay Shout of the daughter of battles, armipotent Penthesilea? If there were none but these only, if hosts came not surging behind them, Young men burning-eyed to outdare all the deeds of their elders, Each in his beauty a Troilus, each in his valour a Hector, Yet were the measures poised in the equal balance of Ares. Who then compels you, O people unconquered, to sink down abjuring All that was Troy? For O, if she yield, let her use not ever One of her titles! shame not the shades of Teucer and Ilus, Soil not Tros! Are you awed by the strength of the swift-foot Achilles? Is it a sweeter lure in the cadenced voice of Antenor? Or are you weary of Time and the endless roar of the battle? Wearier still are the Greeks! their eyes look out oer the waters Nor with the flight of their spears is the wing of their hopes towards Troya. Dull are their hearts; they sink from the war-cry and turn from the spear-stroke Sullenly dragging backwards, desiring the paths of the Ocean, Dreaming of hearths that are far and the children growing to manhood Who are small infant faces still in the thoughts of their fathers. Therefore these call you to yield lest they wake and behold in the dawn-light All Poseidon whitening lean to the west in his waters Thick with the sails of the Greeks departing beaten to Hellas. Who is it calls? Antenor the statesman, Antenor the patriot, Thus who loves his country and worships the soil of his fathers! Which of you loves like him Troya? which of the children of heroes Yearns for the touch of a yoke on his neck and desires the aggressor? If there be any so made by the gods in the nation of Ilus, Leaving this city which freemen have founded, freemen have dwelt in, Far on the beach let him make his couch in the tents of Achilles, Not in this mighty Ilion, not with this lioness fighting, Guarding the lair of her young and roaring back at her hunters. We who are souls descended from Ilus and seeds of his making, Other-hearted shall march from our gates to answer Achilles. What! shall this ancient Ilion welcome the day of the conquered? She who was head of the world, shall she live in the guard of the Hellene Cherished as slavegirls are, who are taken in war, by their captors? Europe shall walk in our streets with the pride and the gait of the victor? Greeks shall enter our homes and prey on our mothers and daughters? This Antenor desires and this Ucalegon favours. Traitors! whether tis cowardice drives or the sceptic of virtue, Cold-blooded age, or gold insatiably tempts from its coffers Pleading for safety from foreign hands and the sack and the plunder. Leave them, my brothers! spare the baffled hypocrites! Failure Sharpest shall torture their hearts when they know that still you are Trojans. Silence, O reason of man! for a voice from the gods has been uttered! Dardanans, hearken the sound divine that comes to you mounting Out of the solemn ravines from the mystic seat on the tripod! Phoebus, the master of Truth, has promised the earth to our peoples. Children of Zeus, rejoice! for the Olympian brows have nodded Regal over the world. In earths rhythm of shadow and sunlight Storm is the dance of the locks of the God assenting to greatness, Zeus who with secret compulsion orders the ways of our nature; Veiled in events he lives and working disguised in the mortal Builds our strength by pain, and an empire is born out of ruins. Then if the tempest be loud and the thunderbolt leaping incessant Shatters the roof, if the lintels flame at last and each cornice Shrieks with the pain of the blast, if the very pillars totter, Keep yet your faith in Zeus, hold fast to the word of Apollo. Not by a little pain and not by a temperate labour Trained is the nation chosen by Zeus for a dateless dominion. Long must it labour rolled in the foam of the fathomless surges, Often neighbour with death and ere Ares grow firm to its banners Feel on the pride of its Capitol tread of the triumphing victor, Hear the barbarian knock at its gates or the neighbouring foeman Glad of the transient smile of his fortune suffer insulting; They, the nation eternal, brook their taunts who must perish! Heaviest toils they must bear; they must wrestle with Fate and her Titans, And when some leader returns from the battle sole of his thousands Crushed by the hammers of God, yet never despair of their country. Dread not the ruin, fear not the storm-blast, yield not, O Trojans. Zeus shall rebuild. Death ends not our days, the fire shall not triumph. Death? I have faced it. Fire? I have watched it climb in my vision Over the timeless domes and over the rooftops of Priam; But I have looked beyond and have seen the smile of Apollo. After her glorious centuries, after her world-wide triumphs, If near her ramparts outnumbered she fights, by the nations forsaken, Lonely again on her hill, by her streams, and her meadows and beaches, Once where she revelled, shake to the tramp of her countless invaders, Testings are these from the god. For Fate severe like a mother Teaches our wills by disaster and strikes down the props that would weaken, Fate and the Thought on high that is wiser than yearnings of mortals. Troy has arisen before, but from ashes, not shame, not surrender! Souls that are true to themselves are immortal; the soulless for ever Lingers helpless in Hades a shade among shades disappointed. Now is the god in my bosom mighty compelling me, Trojans, Now I release what my spirit has kept and it saw in its vision; Nor will be silent for gibe of the cynic or sneer of the traitor. Troy shall triumph! Hear, O ye peoples, the word of Apollo. Hear it and tremble, O Greece, in thy youth and the dawn of thy future; Rather forget while thou canst, but the gods in their hour shall remind thee. Tremble, O nations of Asia, false to the greatness within you. Troy shall surge back on your realms with the sword and the yoke of the victor. Troy shall triumph! Though nations conspire and gods lead her foemen, Fate that is born of the spirit is greater than they and will shield her. Foemen shall help her with war; her defeats shall be victorys moulders. Walls that restrain shall be rent; she shall rise out of sessions unsettled. Oceans shall be her walls at the end and the desert her limit; Indus shall send to her envoys; her eyes shall look northward from Thule. She shall enring all the coasts with her strength like the kingly Poseidon, She shall oervault all the lands with her rule like the limitless azure. Ceasing from speech Laocoon, girt with the shouts of a nation, Lapsed on his seat like one seized and abandoned and weakened; nor ended Only in iron applause, but throughout with a stormy approval Ares broke from the hearts of his people in ominous thunder. Savage and dire was the sound like a wild beasts tracked out and hunted, Wounded, yet trusting to tear out the entrails live of its hunters, Savage and cruel and threatening doom to the foe and opponent. Yet when the shouting sank at last, Ucalegon rose up Trembling with age and with wrath and in accents hurried and piping Faltered a senile fierceness forth on the maddened assembly. Ah, it is even so far that you dare, O you children of Priam, Favourites vile of a people sent mad by the gods, and thou risest, Dark Laocoon, prating of heroes and spurning as cowards, Smiting for traitors the aged and wise who were grey when they spawned thee! Imp of destruction, mane of mischief! Ah, spur us with courage, Thou who hast never prevailed against even the feeblest Achaian. Rather twice hast thou raced in the rout to the ramparts for shelter, Leading the panic, and shrieked as thou ranst to the foemen for mercy Who were a mile behind thee, O matchless and wonderful racer. Safely counsel to others the pride and the firmness of heroes. Thou wilt not die in the battle! For even swiftest Achilles Could not oertake thee, I ween, nor wind-footed Penthesilea. Mask of a prophet, heart of a coward, tongue of a trickster, Timeless Ilion thou alone ruinest, helped by the Furies. I, Ucalegon, first will rend off the mask from thee, traitor. For I believe thee suborned by the cynic wiles of Odysseus And thou conspirest to sack this Troy with the greed of the Cretan. Hasting unstayed he pursued like a brook that scolds amid pebbles, Voicing angers shrill; for the people astonished were silent. Long he pursued not; a shouting broke from that stupor of fury, Men sprang pale to their feet and hurled out menaces lethal; All that assembly swayed like a forest swept by the stormwind. Obstinate, straining his age-dimmed eyes Ucalegon, trembling Worse yet with anger, clamoured feebly back at the people, Whelmed in their roar. Unheard was his voice like a swimmer in surges Lost, yet he spoke. But the anger grew in the throats of the people Lion-voiced, hurting the heart with sound and daunting the nature, Till from some stalwart hand a javelin whistling and vibrant Missing the silvered head of the senator rang disappointed Out on the distant wall of a house by the side of the market. Not even then would the old man hush or yield to the tempest. Wagging his hoary beard and shifting his aged eyeballs, Tossing his hands he stood; but Antenor seized him and Aetor, Dragged him down on his seat though he strove, and chid him and silenced, Cease, O friend, for the gods have won. It were easier piping High with thy aged treble to alter the rage of the Ocean Than to oerbear this people stirred by Laocoon. Leave now Effort unhelpful, wrap thy days in a mantle of silence; Give to the gods their will and dry-eyed wait for the ending. So now the old men ceased from their strife with the gods and with Troya; Cowed by the storm of the peoples wrath they desisted from hoping. But though the roar long swelled, like the sea when the winds have subsided, One man yet rose up unafraid and beckoned for silence, Not of the aged, but ripe in his look and ruddy of visage, Stalwart and bluff and short-limbed, Halamus son of Antenor. Forward he stood from the press and the people fell silent and listened, For he was ever first in the mellay and loved by the fighters. He with a smile began: Come, friends, debate is soon ended If there is right but of lungs and you argue with javelins. Wisdom Rather pray for her aid in this dangerous hour of your fortunes. Not to exalt Laocoon, too much praising his swiftness, Trojans, I rise; for some are born brave with the spear in the war-car, Others bold with the tongue, nor equal gifts unto all men Zeus has decreed who guides his world in a round that is devious Carried this way and that like a ship that is tossed on the waters. Why should we rail then at one who is lame by the force of Cronion? Not by his will is he lame; he would race, if he could, with the swiftest. Yet is the halt man no runner, nor, friends, must you rise up and slay me, If I should say of this priest, he is neither Sarpedon nor Hector. Then, if my father whom once you honoured, ancient Antenor, Hugs to him Argive gold which I see not, his son in his mansion, Me too accusest thou, prophet Laocoon? Friends, you have watched me Sometimes fight. Did you see with my houses allies how I gambolled, Changed, when with sportive spear I was tickling the ribs of my Argives, Nudges of friendly counsel inviting to entry in Troya? Men, these are visions of lackbrains; men, these are myths of the market. Let us have done with them, brothers and friends; hate only the Hellene. Prophet, I bow to the oracles. Wise are the gods in their silence, Wise when they speak; but their speech is other than ours and their wisdom Hard for a mortal mind to hold and not madden or wander; But for myself I see only the truth as a soldier who battles Judging the strength of his foes and the chances of iron encounter. Few are our armies, many the Greeks, and we waste in the combat Bound to our numbers, they by the ocean hemmed from their kinsmen, We by our fortunes, waves of the gods that are harder to master, They like a rock that is chipped, but we like a mist that disperses. Then if Achilles, bound by an oath, bring peace to us, healing, Bring to us respite, help, though bought at a price, yet full-measured, Strengths of the North at our side and safety assured from the Achaian, For he is true though a Greek, will you shun this mighty advantage? Peace at least we shall have, though gold we lose and much glory; Peace we will use for our strength to brea the in, our wounds to recover, Teaching Time to prepare for happier wars in the future. Pause ere you fling from you life; you are mortals, not gods in your glory. Not for submission to new ally or to ancient foeman Peace these desire; for who would exchange wide death for subjection? Who would submit to a yoke? Or who shall rule Trojans in Troya? Swords are there still at our sides, there are warriors hearts in our bosoms. Peace your senators welcome, not servitude, breathing they ask for. But if for war you pronounce, if a noble death you have chosen, That I approve. What fitter end for this warlike nation, Knowing that empires at last must sink and perish all cities, Than to preserve to the end posteritys praise and its greatness Ceasing in clangour of arms and a citys flames for our death-pyre? Choose then with open eyes what the dread gods offer to Troya. Hope not now Hector is dead and Sarpedon, Asia inconstant, We but a handful, Troy can prevail over Greece and Achilles. Play not with dreams in this hour, but sternly, like men and not children, Choose with a noble and serious greatness fates fit for Troya. Stark we will fight till buried we fall under Ilions ruins, Or, unappeased, we will curb our strength for the hope of the future. Not without praise of his friends and assent of the thoughtfuller Trojans, Halamus spoke and ceased. But now in the Ilian forum Bright, of the sungod a ray, and even before he had spoken Sending the joy of his brilliance into the hearts of his hearers, Paris arose. Not applauded his rising, but each man towards him Eagerly turned as if feeling that all before which was spoken Were but a prelude and this was the note he has waited for always. Sweet was his voice like a harps, when it chants of war, and its cadence Softened with touches of music thoughts that were hard to be suffered, Sweet like a string that is lightly struck, but it penetrates wholly. Calm with the greatness you hold from your sires by the right of your nature I too would have you decide before Heaven in the strength of your spirits, Not to the past and its memories moored like the thoughts of Antenor Hating the vivid march of the present, nor towards the future Panting through dreams like my brother Laocoon vexed by Apollo. Dead is the past; the void has possessed it; its drama is ended, Finished its music. The future is dim and remote from our knowledge; Silent it lies on the knees of the gods in their luminous stillness. But to our gaze Gods light is a darkness, His plan is a chaos. Who shall foretell the event of a battle, the fall of a footstep? Oracles, visions and prophecies voice but the dreams of the mortal, And tis our spirit within is the Pythoness tortured in Delphi. Heavenly voices to us are a silence, those colours a whiteness. Neither the thought of the statesman prevails nor the dream of the prophet, Whether one cry, Thus devise and thy heart shall be given its wanting, Vainly the other, The heavens have spoken; hear then their message. Who can point out the way of the gods and the path of their travel, Who shall impose on them bounds and an orbit? The winds have their treading, They can be followed and seized, not the gods when they move towards their purpose. They are not bound by our deeds and our thinkings. Sin exalted Seizes secure on the thrones of the world for her glorious portion, Down to the bottomless pit the good man is thrust in his virtue. Leave to the gods their godhead and, mortal, turn to thy labour; Take what thou canst from the hour that is thine and be fearless in spirit; This is the greatness of man and the joy of his stay in the sunlight. Now whether over the waste of Poseidon the ships of the Argives Empty and sad shall return or sacred Ilion perish, Priam be slain and for ever cease this imperial nation, These things the gods are strong to conceal from the hopings of mortals. Neither Antenor knows nor Laocoon. Only of one thing Man can be sure, the will in his heart and his strength in his purpose: This too is Fate and this too the gods, nor the meanest in Heaven. Paris keeps what he seized from Time and from Fate while unconquered Life speeds warm through his veins and his heart is assured of the sunlight. After tis cold, none heeds, none hinders. Not for the dead man Earth and her wars and her cares, her joys and her gracious concessions, Whether for ever he sleeps in the chambers of Nature unmindful Or into wideness wakes like a dreamer called from his visions. Ilion in flames I choose, not fallen from the heights of her spirit. Great and free has she lived since they raised her twixt billow and mountain, Great let her end; let her offer her freedom to fire, not the Hellene. She was not founded by mortals; gods erected her ramparts, Lifted her piles to the sky, a seat not for slaves but the mighty. All men marvelled at Troy; by her deeds and her spirit they knew her Even from afar, as the lion is known by his roar and his preying. Sole she lived royal and fell, erect in her leonine nature. So, O her children, still let her live unquelled in her purpose Either to stand with your feet on the world oppressing the nations Or in your ashes to lie and your name be forgotten for ever. Justly your voices approve me, armipotent children of Ilus; Straight from Zeus is our race and the Thunderer lives in our nature. Long I have suffered this taunt that Paris was Ilions ruin Born on a night of the gods and of Ate, clothed in a body. Scornful I strode on my path secure of the light in my bosom, Turned from the muttering voices of envy, their hates who are fallen, Voices of hate that cling round the wheels of the triumphing victor; Now if I speak, tis the strength in me answers, not to belittle, That excusing which most I rejoice in and glory for ever, Tyndaris rape whom I seized by the will of divine Aphrodite. Mortal this error that Greece would have slumbered apart in her mountains, Sunk, by the trumpets of Fate unaroused and the morning within her, Only were Paris unborn and the world had not gazed upon Helen. Fools, who say that a spark was the cause of this giant destruction! War would have stridden on Troy though Helen were still in her Sparta Tending an Argive loom, not the glorious prize of the Trojans, Greece would have banded her nations though Paris had drunk not Eurotas. Coast against coast I set not, nor Ilion opposite Argos. Phryx accuse who upreared Troys domes by the azure Aegean, Curse Poseidon who fringed with Greece the blue of his waters: Then was this war first decreed and then Agamemnon was fashioned; Armed he strode forth in the secret Thought that is womb of the future. Fate and Necessity guided those vessels, captained their armies. When they stood mailed at her gates, when they cried in the might of their union, Troy, renounce thy alliances, draw back humbly from Hellas, Should she have hearkened persuading her strength to a shameful compliance, Ilion queen of the world whose voice was the breath of the storm-gods? Should she have drawn back her foot as it strode towards the hills of the Latins? Thrace left bare to her foes, recoiled from Illyrian conquests? If all this without battle were possible, people of Priam, Blame then Paris, say then that Helen was cause of the struggle. But I have sullied the hearth, I have trampled the gift and the guest-rite, Heaven I have armed with my sin and unsealed the gaze of the Furies, So was Troy doomed who righteous had triumphed, locked with the Argive. Fools or hypocrites! Meanest falsehood is this among mortals, Veils of purity weaving, names misplacing ideal When our desires we disguise and paint the lusts of our nature. Men, ye are men in your pride and your strength, be not sophists and tonguesters. Lie not! prate not that nations live by righteousness, justice Shields them, gods out of heaven look down wroth on the crimes of the mighty! Known have men what thing has screened itself mouthing these semblances. Crouching Dire like a beast in the green of the thickets, selfishness silent Crunches the bones of its prey while the priest and the statesman are glozing. So are the nations soothed and deceived by the clerics of virtue, Taught to reconcile fear of the gods with their lusts and their passions; So with a lie on their lips they march to the rapine and slaughter. Truly the vanquished were guilty! Else would their cities have perished, Shrieked their ravished virgins, their peasants been hewn in the vineyards? Truly the victors were tools of the gods and their glorious servants! Else would the war-cars have ground triumphant their bones whom they hated? Servants of God are they verily, even as the ape and the tiger. Does not the wild-beast too triumph enjoying the flesh of his captives? Tell us then what was the sin of the antelope, wherefore they doomed her, Wroth at her many crimes? Come, justify God to his creatures! Not to her sins was she offered, not to the Furies or Justice, But to the strength of the lion the high gods offered a victim, Force that is God in the lions breast with the forest for altar. What, in the cities stormed and sacked by Achilles in Troas Was there no just man slain? Was Brises then a transgressor? Hearts that were pierced in his walls, were they sinners tracked by the Furies? No, they were pious and just and their altars burned for Apollo, Reverent flamed up to Pallas who slew them aiding the Argives. Or if the crime of Paris they shared and his doom has embraced them, Whom had the island cities offended, stormed by the Locrian, Wave-kissed homes of peace but given to the sack and the spoiler? Was then King Atreus just and the house accursd of Pelops, Tantalus race, whose deeds men shuddering hear and are silent? Look! they endure, their pillars are firm, they are regnant and triumph. Or are Thyestean banquets sweet to the gods in their savour? Only a womans heart is pursued in their wrath by the Furies! No, when the wrestlers meet and embrace in the mighty arena, Not at their sins and their virtues the high gods look in that trial; Which is the strongest, which is the subtlest, this they consider. Nay, there is none in the world to befriend save ourselves and our courage; Prowess alone in the battle is virtue, skill in the fighting Only helps, the gods aid only the strong and the valiant. Put forth your lives in the blow, you shall beat back the banded aggressors. Neither believe that for justice denied your subjects have left you Nor that for justice trampled Pallas and Hera abandon. Two are the angels of God whom men worship, strength and enjoyment. Into this life which the sunlight bounds and the greenness has cradled, Armed with strength we have come; as our strength is, so is our joyance. What but for joyance is birth and what but for joyance is living? But on this earth that is narrow, this stage that is crowded, increasing One on another we press. There is hunger for lands and for oxen, Horses and armour and gold desired; possession allures us Adding always as field to field some fortunate farmer. Hearts too and minds are our prey; we seize on mens souls and their bodies, Slaves to our works and desires that our hearts may bask golden in leisure. One on another we prey and one by another are mighty. This is the world and we have not made it; if it is evil, Blame first the gods; but for us, we must live by its laws or we perish. Power is divine; divinest of all is power over mortals. Power then the conqueror seeks and power the imperial nation, Even as luminous, passionless, wonderful, high over all things Sit in their calmness the gods and oppressing our grief-tortured nations Stamp their wills on the world. Nor less in our death-besieged natures Gods are and altitudes. Earth resists, but my soul in me widens Helped by the toil behind and the agelong effort of Nature. Even in the worm is a god and it writhes for a form and an outlet. Workings immortal obscurely struggling, hints of a godhead Labour to form in this clay a divinity. Hera widens, Pallas aspires in me, Phoebus in flames goes battling and singing, Ares and Artemis chase through the fields of my soul in their hunting. Last in some hour of the Fates a Birth stands released and triumphant; Poured by its deeds over earth it rejoices fulfilled in its splendour. Conscious dimly of births unfinished hid in our being Rest we cannot; a world cries in us for space and for fullness. Fighting we strive by the spur of the gods who are in us and oer us, Stamping our image on men and events to be Zeus or be Ares. Love and the need of mastery, joy and the longing for greatness Rage like a fire unquenchable burning the world and creating, Nor till humanity dies will they sink in the ashes of Nature. All is injustice of love or all is injustice of battle. Man over woman, woman oer man, over lover and foeman Wrestling we strive to expand in our souls, to be wide, to be happy. If thou wouldst only be just, then wherefore at all shouldst thou conquer? Not to be just, but to rule, though with kindness and high-seated mercy, Taking the world for our own and our will from our slaves and our subjects, Smiting the proud and sparing the suppliant, Trojans, is conquest. Justice was base of thy government? Vainly, O statesman, thou liest. If thou wert just, thou wouldst free thy slaves and be equal with all men. Such were a dream of some sage at night when he muses in fancy, Imaging freely a flawless world where none were afflicted, No man inferior, all could sublimely equal and brothers Live in a peace divine like the gods in their luminous regions. This, O Antenor, were justice known but in words to us mortals. But for the justice thou vauntest enslaving men to thy purpose, Setting an iron yoke, nor regarding their need and their nature, Then to say I am just; I slay not, save by procedure, Rob not save by law, is an outrage to Zeus and his creatures. Terms are these feigned by the intellect making a pact with our yearnings, Lures of the sophist within us draping our passions with virtue. When thou art weak, thou art just, when thy subjects are strong and remember. Therefore, O Trojans, be firm in your will and, though all men abandon, Bow not your heads to reproach nor your hearts to the sin of repentance; For you have done what the gods desired in your breasts and are blameless. Proudly enjoy the earth that they gave you, enthroning their natures, Fight with the Greeks and the world and trample down the rebellious, What you have lost, recover, nor yield to the hurricane passing. You cannot utterly die while the Power lives untired in your bosoms; When tis withdrawn, not a moment of life can be added by virtue. Faint not for helpers fled! Though your yoke had been mild as a fathers They would have gone as swiftly. Strength men desire in their masters; All men worship success and in failure and weakness abandon. Not for his justice they clung to Teucer, but for their safety, Seeing in Troy a head and by barbarous foemen afflicted. Faint not, O Trojans, cease not from battle, persist in your labour! Conquer the Greeks, your allies shall be yours and fresh nations your subjects. One care only lodge in your hearts, how to fight, how to conquer. Peace has smiled out of Phthia; a hand comes outstretched from the Hellene. Who would not join with the godlike? who would not grasp at Achilles? There is a price for his gifts; it is such as Achilles should ask for, Never this nation concede. O Antenors golden phrases Glorifying rest to the tired and confuting patience and courage, Garbed with a subtlety lax and the hopes that palliate surrender! Charmed men applaud the skilful purpose, the dexterous speaker; This they forget that a Force decides, not the wiles of the statesman. Now let us yield, do you say, we will rise when our masters are weakened? Nay, then, our masters master shall find us an easy possession! Easily nations bow to a yoke when their virtue relaxes; Hard is the breaking fetters once worn, for the virtue has perished. Hope you when custom has shaped men into the mould of a vileness, Hugging their chains when the weak feel easier trampled than rising Or though they groan, yet have heart nor strength for the anguish of effort, Then to cast down whom, armed and strong, you were mastered opposing? Easy is lapse into uttermost hell, not easy salvation. Or have you dreamed that Achilles, this son of the gods and the ocean, Aught else can be with the strong and the bold save pursuer or master? Know you so little the mood of the mighty? Think you the lion Only will lick his prey, that his jaws will refrain from the banquet? Rest from thy bodings, Antenor! Not all the valour of Troya Perished with Hector, nor with Polydamas vision has left her; Troy is not eager to slay her soul on a pyre of dishonour. Still she has children left who remember the mood of their mother. Helen none shall take from me living, gold not a drachma Travels from coffers of Priam to Greece. Let another and older Pay down his wealth if he will and his daughters serve Menelaus. Rather from Ilion I will go forth with my brothers and kinsmen; Troy I will leave and her shame and live with my heart and my honour Refuged with lions on Ida or build in the highlands a city Or in an isle of the seas or by dark-driven Pontic waters. Dear are the halls of our childhood, dear are the fields of our fathers, Yet to the soul that is free no spot on the earth is an exile. Rather wherever sunlight is bright, flowers bloom and the rivers Flow in their lucid streams to the Ocean, there is our country. So will I live in my souls wide freedom, never in Troya Shorn of my will and disgraced in my strength and the mock of my rivals. First had you yielded, shame at least had not stained your surrender. Strength indulges the weak! But what Hector has fallen refusing, Men! what through ten loud years we denied with the spear for our answer, That what Trojan will ever renounce, though his city should perish? Once having fought we will fight to the end nor that end shall be evil. Clamour the Argive spears on our walls? Are the ladders erected? Far on the plain is their flight, on the farther side of the Xanthus. Where are the deities hostile? Vainly the eyes of the tremblers See them stalking vast in the ranks of the Greeks and the shoutings Dire of Poseidon they hear and are blind with the aegis of Pallas. Who then sustained so long this Troy, if the gods are against her? Even the hills could not stand save upheld by their concert immortal. Now not with Tydeus son, not now with Odysseus and Ajax Trample the gods in the sound of their chariot-wheels, victory leading: Argos falls red in her heaps to their scythes; they shelter the Trojans; Victory unleashed follows and fawns upon Penthesilea. Ponder no more, O Ilion, city of ancient Priam! Rise, O beloved of the gods, and go forth in thy strength to the battle. Not by the dreams of Laocoon strung to the faith that is febrile, Nor with the tremblings vain and the haunted thoughts of Antenor, But with a noble and serious strength and an obstinate valour Suffer the shock of your foes, O nation chosen by Heaven; Proudly determine on victory, live by disaster unshaken. Either Fate receive like men, nay, like gods, nay, like Trojans. So like an army that streams and that marches, speeding and pausing, Drawing in horn and wing or widened for scouting and forage, Bridging the floods, avoiding the mountains, threading the valleys, Fast with their flashing panoply clad in gold and in iron Moved the array of his thoughts; and throughout delight and approval Followed their march, in triumph led but like prisoners willing, Glad and unbound to a land they desire. Triumphant he ended, Lord of opinion, though by the aged frowned on and censured, But to this voice of their thoughts the young men vibrated wholly. Loud like a storm on the ocean mounted the roar of the people. Cease from debate, men cried, arise, O thou warlike Aeneas! Speak for this nation, launch like a spear at the tents of the Hellene Ilions voice of war! Then up mid a limitless shouting Stern and armed from his seat like a war-god helmd Aeneas Rose by King Priam approved in this last of Ilions sessions, Holding the staff of the senates authority. Silence, O commons, Hear and assent or refuse as your right is, masters of Troya, Ancient and sovereign people, act that your kings have determined Sitting in council high, their reply to the strength of Achilles. Son of the Aeacids, vain is thy offer; the pride of thy challenge Rather we choose; it is nearer to Dardanus, King of the Hellenes. Neither shall Helen be led back, the Tyndarid, weeping to Argos, Nor down the paths of peace revisit her fathers Eurotas. Death and the fire may prevail oer us, never our wills shall surrender Lowering Priams heights and darkening Ilions splendours. Not of such sires were we born, but of kings and of gods, O Larissan. Not with her gold Troy traffics for safety, but with her spear-points. Stand with thy oath in the war-front, Achilles; call on thy helpers Armed to descend from the calm of Olympian heights to thy succour Hedging thy fame from defeat; for we all desire thee in battle, Mighty to end thee or tame at last by the floods of the Xanthus. So Aeneas resonant spoke, stern, fronted like Ares, And with a voice that conquered the earth and invaded the heavens Loud they approved their doom and fulfilled their impulse immortal. Last Deiphobus rose in their meeting, head of their mellay: Proudly and well have you answered, O nation beloved of Apollo; Fearless of death they must walk who would live and be mighty for ever. Now, for the sun is hastening up the empyrean azure, Hasten we also. Tasting of food round the call of your captains Meet in your armd companies, chariots and hoplites and archers. Strong be your hearts, let your courage be stern like the sun when it blazes; Fierce will the shock be today ere he sink blood-red in the waters. They with a voice as of Oceans meeting rose from their session, Filling the streets with her tread Troy strode from her Ilian forum. *** ~ Sri Aurobindo, 3 - The Book of the Assembly ,

117: Ilion Book I: The Book of the Herald Dawn in her journey eternal compelling the labour of mortals, Dawn the beginner of things with the night for their rest or their ending, Pallid and bright-lipped arrived from the mists and the chill of the Euxine. Earth in the dawn-fire delivered from starry and shadowy vastness Woke to the wonder of life and its passion and sorrow and beauty, All on her bosom sustaining, the patient compassionate Mother. Out of the formless vision of Night with its look on things hidden Given to the gaze of the azure she lay in her garment of greenness, Wearing light on her brow. In the dawn-ray lofty and voiceless Ida climbed with her god-haunted peaks into diamond lustres, Ida first of the hills with the ranges silent beyond her Watching the dawn in their giant companies, as since the ages First began they had watched her, upbearing Time on their summits. Troas cold on her plain awaited the boon of the sunshine. There, like a hope through an emerald dream sole-pacing for ever, Stealing to wideness beyond, crept Simois lame in his currents, Guiding his argent thread mid the green of the reeds and the grasses. Headlong, impatient of Space and its boundaries, Time and its slowness, Xanthus clamoured aloud as he ran to the far-surging waters, Joining his call to the many-voiced roar of the mighty Aegean, Answering Oceans limitless cry like a whelp to its parent. Forests looked up through their rifts, the ravines grew aware of their shadows. Closer now gliding glimmered the golden feet of the goddess. Over the hills and the headlands spreading her garment of splendour, Fateful she came with her eyes impartial looking on all things, Bringer to man of the day of his fortune and day of his downfall. Full of her luminous errand, careless of eve and its weeping, Fateful she paused unconcerned above Ilions mysteried greatness, Domes like shimmering tongues of the crystal flames of the morning, Opalesque rhythm-line of tower-tops, notes of the lyre of the sungod. High over all that a nation had built and its love and its laughter, Lighting the last time highway and homestead, market and temple, Looking on men who must die and women destined to sorrow, Looking on beauty fire must lay low and the sickle of slaughter, Fateful she lifted the doom-scroll red with the script of the Immortals, Deep in the invisible air that folds in the race and its morrows Fixed it, and passed on smiling the smile of the griefless and deathless, Dealers of death though death they know not, who in the morning Scatter the seed of the event for the reaping ready at nightfall. Over the brooding of plains and the agelong trance of the summits Out of the sun and its spaces she came, pausing tranquil and fatal, And, at a distance followed by the golden herds of the sungod, Carried the burden of Light and its riddle and danger to Hellas. Even as fleets on a chariot divine through the gold streets of ether, Swiftly when Life fleets, invisibly changing the arc of the soul-drift, And, with the choice that has chanced or the fate man has called and now suffers Weighted, the moment travels driving the past towards the future, Only its face and its feet are seen, not the burden it carries. Weight of the event and its surface we bear, but the meaning is hidden. Earth sees not; lifes clamour deafens the ear of the spirit: Man knows not; least knows the messenger chosen for the summons. Only he listens to the voice of his thoughts, his hearts ignorant whisper, Whistle of winds in the tree-tops of Time and the rustle of Nature. Now too the messenger hastened driving the car of the errand: Even while dawn was a gleam in the east, he had cried to his coursers. Half yet awake in lights turrets started the scouts of the morning Hearing the jar of the wheels and the throb of the hooves exultation, Hooves of the horses of Greece as they galloped to Phrygian Troya. Proudly they trampled through Xanthus thwarting the foam of his anger, Whinnying high as in scorn crossed Simois tangled currents, Xanthus reed-girdled twin, the gentle and sluggard river. One and unarmed in the car was the driver; grey was he, shrunken, Worn with his decades. To Pergama cinctured with strength Cyclopean Old and alone he arrived, insignificant, feeblest of mortals, Carrying Fate in his helpless hands and the doom of an empire. Ilion, couchant, saw him arrive from the sea and the darkness. Heard mid the faint slow stirrings of life in the sleep of the city, Rapid there neared a running of feet, and the cry of the summons Beat round the doors that guarded the domes of the splendour of Priam. Wardens charged with the night, ye who stand in Laomedons gateway, Waken the Ilian kings. Talthybius, herald of Argos, Parleying stands at the portals of Troy in the grey of the dawning. High and insistent the call. In the dimness and hush of his chamber Charioted far in his dreams amid visions of glory and terror, Scenes of a vivider world,though blurred and deformed in the brain-cells, Vague and inconsequent, there full of colour and beauty and greatness, Suddenly drawn by the pull of the conscious thread of the earth-bond And of the needs of Time and the travail assigned in the transience Warned by his body, Deiphobus, reached in that splendid remoteness, Touched through the nerve-ways of life that branch to the brain of the dreamer, Heard the terrestrial call and slumber startled receded Sliding like dew from the mane of a lion. Reluctant he travelled Back from the light of the fields beyond death, from the wonderful kingdoms Where he had wandered a soul among souls in the countries beyond us, Free from the toil and incertitude, free from the struggle and danger: Now, compelled, he returned from the respite given to the time-born, Called to the strife and the wounds of the earth and the burden of daylight. He from the carven couch upreared his giant stature. Haste-spurred he laved his eyes and regained earths memories, haste-spurred Donning apparel and armour strode through the town of his fathers, Watched by her gods on his way to his fate, towards Pergamas portals. Nine long years had passed and the tenth now was wearily ending, Years of the wrath of the gods, and the leaguer still threatened the ramparts Since through a tranquil morn the ships came past Tenedos sailing And the first Argive fell slain as he leaped on the Phrygian beaches; Still the assailants attacked, still fought back the stubborn defenders. When the reward is withheld and endlessly leng thens the labour, Weary of fruitless toil grows the transient heart of the mortal. Weary of battle the invaders warring hearthless and homeless Prayed to the gods for release and return to the land of their fathers: Weary of battle the Phrygians beset in their beautiful city Prayed to the gods for an end of the danger and mortal encounter. Long had the high-beached ships forgotten their measureless ocean. Greece seemed old and strange to her children camped on the beaches, Old like a life long past one remembers hardly believing But as a dream that has happened, but as the tale of another. Time with his tardy touch and Nature changing our substance Slowly had dimmed the faces loved and the scenes once cherished: Yet was the dream still dear to them longing for wife and for children, Longing for hearth and glebe in the far-off valleys of Hellas. Always like waves that swallow the shingles, lapsing, returning, Tide of the battle, race of the onset relentlessly thundered Over the Phrygian corn-fields. Trojan wrestled with Argive, Caria, Lycia, Thrace and the war-lord mighty Achaia Joined in the clasp of the fight. Death, panic and wounds and disaster, Glory of conquest and glory of fall, and the empty hearth-side, Weeping and fortitude, terror and hope and the pang of remembrance, Anguish of hearts, the lives of the warriors, the strength of the nations Thrown were like weights into Destinys scales, but the balance wavered Pressed by invisible hands. For not only the mortal fighters, Heroes half divine whose names are like stars in remoteness, Triumphed and failed and were winds or were weeds on the dance of the surges, But from the peaks of Olympus and shimmering summits of Ida Gleaming and clanging the gods of the antique ages descended. Hidden from human knowledge the brilliant shapes of Immortals Mingled unseen in the mellay, or sometimes, marvellous, maskless, Forms of undying beauty and power that made tremble the heart-strings Parting their deathless secrecy crossed through the borders of vision, Plain as of old to the demigods out of their glory emerging, Heard by mortal ears and seen by the eyeballs that perish. Mighty they came from their spaces of freedom and sorrowless splendour. Sea-vast, trailing the azure hem of his clamorous waters, Blue-lidded, maned with the Night, Poseidon smote for the future, Earth-shaker who with his trident releases the coils of the Dragon, Freeing the forces unborn that are locked in the caverns of Nature. Calm and unmoved, upholding the Word that is Fate and the order Fixed in the sight of a Will foreknowing and silent and changeless, Hera sent by Zeus and Athene lifting his aegis Guarded the hidden decree. But for Ilion, loud as the surges, Ares impetuous called to the fire in mens hearts, and his passion Woke in the shadowy depths the forms of the Titan and demon; Dumb and coerced by the grip of the gods in the abyss of the being, Formidable, veiled they sit in the grey subconscient darkness Watching the sleep of the snake-haired Erinnys. Miracled, haloed, Seer and magician and prophet who beholds what the thought cannot witness, Lifting the godhead within us to more than a human endeavour, Slayer and saviour, thinker and mystic, leaped from his sun-peaks Guarding in Ilion the wall of his mysteries Delphic Apollo. Heavens strengths divided swayed in the whirl of the Earth-force. All that is born and destroyed is reborn in the sweep of the ages; Life like a decimal ever recurring repeats the old figure; Goal seems there none for the ball that is chased throughout Time by the Fate-teams; Evil once ended renews and no issue comes out of living: Only an Eye unseen can distinguish the thread of its workings. Such seemed the rule of the pastime of Fate on the plains of the Troad; All went backwards and forwards tossed in the swing of the death-game. Vain was the toil of the heroes, the blood of the mighty was squandered, Spray as of surf on the cliffs when it moans unappeased, unrequited Age after fruitless age. Day hunted the steps of the nightfall; Joy succeeded to grief; defeat only greatened the vanquished, Victory offered an empty delight without guerdon or profit. End there was none of the effort and end there was none of the failure. Triumph and agony changing hands in a desperate measure Faced and turned as a man and a maiden trampling the grasses Face and turn and they laugh in their joy of the dance and each other. These were gods and they trampled lives. But though Time is immortal, Mortal his works are and ways and the anguish ends like the rapture. Artists of Nature content with their work in the plan of the transience, Beautiful, deathless, august, the Olympians turned from the carnage, Leaving the battle already decided, leaving the heroes Slain in their minds, Troy burned, Greece left to her glory and downfall. Into their heavens they rose up mighty like eagles ascending Fanning the world with their wings. As the great to their luminous mansions Turn from the cry and the strife, forgetting the wounded and fallen, Calm they repose from their toil and incline to the joy of the banquet, Watching the feet of the wine-bearers rosily placed on the marble, Filling their hearts with ease, so they to their sorrowless ether Passed from the wounded earth and its air that is ploughed with mens anguish; Calm they reposed and their hearts inclined to the joy and the silence. Lifted was the burden laid on our wills by their starry presence: Man was restored to his smallness, the world to its inconscient labour. Life felt a respite from height, the winds breathed freer delivered; Light was released from their blaze and the earth was released from their greatness. But their immortal content from the struggle titanic departed. Vacant the noise of the battle roared like the sea on the shingles; Wearily hunted the spears their quarry; strength was disheartened; Silence increased with the march of the months on the tents of the leaguer. But not alone on the Achaians the steps of the moments fell heavy; Slowly the shadow deepened on Ilion mighty and scornful: Dragging her days went by; in the rear of the hearts of her people Something that knew what they dared not know and the mind would not utter, Something that smote at her soul of defiance and beauty and laughter, Darkened the hours. For Doom in her sombre and giant uprising Neared, assailing the skies: the sense of her lived in all pastimes; Time was pursued by unease and a terror woke in the midnight: Even the ramparts felt her, stones that the gods had erected. Now no longer she dallied and played, but bounded and hastened, Seeing before her the end and, imagining massacre calmly, Laughed and admired the flames and rejoiced in the cry of the captives. Under her, dead to the watching immortals, Deiphobus hastened Clanging in arms through the streets of the beautiful insolent city, Brilliant, a gleaming husk but empty and left by the daemon. Even as a star long extinguished whose light still travels the spaces, Seen in its form by men, but itself goes phantom-like fleeting Void and null and dark through the uncaring infinite vastness, So now he seemed to the sight that sees all things from the Real. Timeless its vision of Time creates the hour by things coming. Borne on a force from the past and no more by a power for the future Mighty and bright was his body, but shadowy the shape of his spirit Only an eidolon seemed of the being that had lived in him, fleeting Vague like a phantom seen by the dim Acherontian waters. But to the guardian towers that watched over Pergamas gateway Out of the waking city Deiphobus swiftly arriving Called, and swinging back the huge gates slowly, reluctant, Flung Troy wide to the entering Argive. Ilions portals Parted admitting her destiny, then with a sullen and iron Cry they closed. Mute, staring, grey like a wolf descended Old Talthybius, propping his steps on the staff of his errand; Feeble his body, but fierce still his glance with the fire within him; Speechless and brooding he gazed on the hated and coveted city. Suddenly, seeking heaven with her buildings hewn as for Titans, Marvellous, rhythmic, a child of the gods with marble for raiment, Smiting the vision with harmony, splendid and mighty and golden, Ilion stood up around him entrenched in her giant defences. Strength was uplifted on strength and grandeur supported by grandeur; Beauty lay in her lap. Remote, hieratic and changeless, Filled with her deeds and her dreams her gods looked out on the Argive, Helpless and dumb with his hate as he gazed on her, they too like mortals Knowing their centuries past, not knowing the morrow before them. Dire were his eyes upon Troya the beautiful, his face like a doom-mask: All Greece gazed in them, hated, admired, grew afraid, grew relentless. But to the Greek Deiphobus cried and he turned from his passion Fixing his ominous eyes with the god in them straight on the Trojan: Messenger, voice of Achaia, wherefore confronting the daybreak Comest thou driving thy car from the sleep of the tents that besiege us? Fateful, I deem, was the thought that, conceived in the silence of midnight, Raised up thy aged limbs from the couch of their rest in the stillness, Thoughts of a mortal but forged by the Will that uses our members And of its promptings our speech and our acts are the tools and the image. Oft from the veil and the shadow they leap out like stars in their brightness, Lights that we think our own, yet they are but tokens and counters, Signs of the Forces that flow through us serving a Power that is secret. What in the dawning bringst thou to Troya the mighty and dateless Now in the ending of Time when the gods are weary of struggle? Sends Agamemnon challenge or courtesy, Greek, to the Trojans? High like the northwind answered the voice of the doom from Achaia: Trojan Deiphobus, daybreak, silence of night and the evening Sink and arise and even the strong sun rests from his splendour. Not for the servant is rest nor Time is his, only his death-pyre. I have not come from the monarch of men or the armoured assembly Held on the wind-swept marge of the thunder and laughter of ocean. One in his singleness greater than kings and multitudes sends me. I am a voice out of Phthia, I am the will of the Hellene. Peace in my right I bring to you, death in my left hand. Trojan, Proudly receive them, honour the gifts of the mighty Achilles. Death accept, if Ate deceives you and Doom is your lover, Peace if your fate can turn and the god in you chooses to hearken. Full is my heart and my lips are impatient of speech undelivered. It was not made for the streets or the market, nor to be uttered Meanly to common ears, but where counsel and majesty harbour Far from the crowd in the halls of the great and to wisdom and foresight Secrecy whispers, there I will speak among Ilions princes. Envoy, answered the Laomedontian, voice of Achilles, Vain is the offer of peace that sets out with a threat for its prelude. Yet will we hear thee. Arise who are fleetest of foot in the gateway, Thou, Thrasymachus, haste. Let the domes of the mansion of Ilus Wake to the bruit of the Hellene challenge. Summon Aeneas. Even as the word sank back into stillness, doffing his mantle Started to run at the bidding a swift-footed youth of the Trojans First in the race and the battle, Thrasymachus son of Aretes. He in the dawn disappeared into swiftness. Deiphobus slowly, Measuring Fate with his thoughts in the troubled vasts of his spirit, Back through the stir of the city returned to the house of his fathers, Taming his mighty stride to the pace infirm of the Argive. But with the god in his feet Thrasymachus rapidly running Came to the halls in the youth of the wonderful city by Ilus Built for the joy of the eye; for he rested from war and, triumphant, Reigned adored by the prostrate nations. Now when all ended, Last of its mortal possessors to walk in its flowering gardens, Great Anchises lay in that luminous house of the ancients Soothing his restful age, the far-warring victor Anchises, High Bucoleons son and the father of Rome by a goddess; Lonely and vagrant once in his boyhood divine upon Ida White Aphrodite ensnared him and she loosed her ambrosial girdle Seeking a mortals love. On the threshold Thrasymachus halted Looking for servant or guard, but felt only a loneness of slumber Drawing the souls sight within away from its life and things human; Soundless, unheeding, the vacant corridors fled into darkness. He to the shades of the house and the dreams of the echoing rafters Trusted his high-voiced call, and from chambers still dim in their twilight Strong Aeneas armoured and mantled, leonine striding, Came, Anchises son; for the dawn had not found him reposing, But in the night he had left his couch and the clasp of Cresa, Rising from sleep at the call of his spirit that turned to the waters Prompted by Fate and his mother who guided him, white Aphrodite. Still with the impulse of speed Thrasymachus greeted Aeneas: Hero Aeneas, swift be thy stride to the Ilian hill-top. Dardanid, haste! for the gods are at work; they have risen with the morning, Each from his starry couch, and they labour. Doom, we can see it, Glows on their anvils of destiny, clang we can hear of their hammers. Something they forge there sitting unknown in the silence eternal, Whether of evil or good it is they who shall choose who are masters Calm, unopposed; they are gods and they work out their iron caprices. Troy is their stage and Argos their background; we are their puppets. Always our voices are prompted to speech for an end that we know not, Always we think that we drive, but are driven. Action and impulse, Yearning and thought are their engines, our will is their shadow and helper. Now too, deeming he comes with a purpose framed by a mortal, Shaft of their will they have shot from the bow of the Grecian leaguer, Lashing themselves at his steeds, Talthybius sent by Achilles. Busy the gods are always, Thrasymachus son of Aretes, Weaving Fate on their looms, and yesterday, now and tomorrow Are but the stands they have made with Space and Time for their timber, Frame but the dance of their shuttle. What eye unamazed by their workings Ever can pierce where they dwell and uncover their far-stretching purpose? Silent they toil, they are hid in the clouds, they are wrapped with the midnight. Yet to Apollo I pray, the Archer friendly to mortals, Yet to the rider on Fate I abase myself, wielder of thunder, Evil and doom to avert from my fatherland. All night Morpheus, He who with shadowy hands heaps error and truth upon mortals, Stood at my pillow with images. Dreaming I erred like a phantom Helpless in Ilions streets with the fire and the foeman around me. Red was the smoke as it mounted triumphant the house-top of Priam, Clang of the arms of the Greeks was in Troya, and thwarting the clangour Voices were crying and calling me over the violent Ocean Borne by the winds of the West from a land where Hesperus harbours. Brooding they ceased, for their thoughts grew heavy upon them and voiceless. Then, in a farewell brief and unthought and unconscious of meaning, Parting they turned to their tasks and their lives now close but soon severed: Destined to perish even before his perishing nation, Back to his watch at the gate sped Thrasymachus rapidly running; Large of pace and swift, but with eyes absorbed and unseeing, Driven like a car of the gods by the whip of his thoughts through the highways, Turned to his mighty future the hero born of a goddess. One was he chosen to ascend into greatness through fall and disaster, Loser of his world by the will of a heaven that seemed ruthless and adverse, Founder of a newer and greater world by daring adventure. Now, from the citadels rise with the townships crowding below it High towards a pondering of domes and the mystic Palladium climbing, Fronted with the morning ray and joined by the winds of the ocean, Fate-weighed up Troys slope strode musing strong Aeneas. Under him silent the slumbering roofs of the city of Ilus Dreamed in the light of the dawn; above watched the citadel, sleepless Lonely and strong like a goddess white-limbed and bright on a hill-top, Looking far out at the sea and the foe and the prowling of danger. Over the brow he mounted and saw the palace of Priam, Home of the gods of the earth, Laomedons marvellous vision Held in the thought that accustomed his will to unearthly achievement And in the blaze of his spirit compelling heaven with its greatness, Dreamed by the harp of Apollo, a melody caught into marble. Out of his mind it arose like an epic canto by canto; Each of its halls was a strophe, its chambers lines of an epode, Victor chant of Ilions destiny. Absent he entered, Voiceless with thought, the brilliant megaron crowded with paintings, Paved with a splendour of marble, and saw Deiphobus seated, Son of the ancient house by the opulent hearth of his fathers, And at his side like a shadow the grey and ominous Argive. Happy of light like a lustrous star when it welcomes the morning, Brilliant, beautiful, glamoured with gold and a fillet of gem-fire, Paris, plucked from the song and the lyre by the Grecian challenge, Came with the joy in his face and his eyes that Fate could not alter. Ever a child of the dawn at play near a turn of the sun-roads, Facing destinys look with the careless laugh of a comrade, He with his vision of delight and beauty brightening the earth-field Passed through its peril and grief on his way to the ambiguous Shadow. Last from her chamber of sleep where she lay in the Ilian mansion Far in the heart of the house with the deep-bosomed daughters of Priam, Noble and tall and erect in a nimbus of youth and of glory, Claiming the world and life as a fief of her strength and her courage, Dawned through a doorway that opened to distant murmurs and laughter, Capturing the eye like a smile or a sunbeam, Penthesilea. She from the threshold cried to the herald, crossing the marble, Regal and fleet, with her voice that was mighty and dire in its sweetness. What with such speed has impelled from the wind-haunted beaches of Troas, Herald, thy car though the sun yet hesitates under the mountains? Comest thou humbler to Troy, Talthybius, now than thou camest Once when the streams of my East sang low to my ear, not this Ocean Loud, and I roamed in my mountains uncalled by the voice of Apollo? Bringest thou dulcet-eyed peace or, sweeter to Penthesilea, Challenge of war when the spears fall thick on the shields of the fighters, Lightly the wheels leap onward chanting the anthem of Ares, Death is at work in his fields and the heart is enamoured of danger? What says Odysseus, the baffled Ithacan? what Agamemnon? Are they then weary of war who were rapid and bold and triumphant, Now that their gods are reluctant, now victory darts not from heaven Down from the clouds above Ida directing the luminous legions Armed by Fate, now Pallas forgets, now Poseidon slumbers? Bronze were their throats to the battle like bugles blaring in chorus; Mercy they knew not, but shouted and ravened and ran to the slaughter Eager as hounds when they chase, till a woman met them and stayed them, Loud my war-shout rang by Scamander. Herald of Argos, What say the vaunters of Greece to the virgin Penthesilea? High was the Argives answer confronting the mighty in Troya. Princes of Pergama, whelps of the lion who roar for the mellay, Suffer my speech! It shall ring like a spear on the hearts of the mighty. Blame not the herald; his voice is an impulse, an echo, a channel Now for the timbrels of peace and now for the drums of the battle. And I have come from no cautious strength, from no half-hearted speaker, But from the Phthian. All know him! Proud is his soul as his fortunes, Swift as his sword and his spear are the speech and the wrath from his bosom. I am his envoy, herald am I of the conquering Argives. Has not one heard in the night when the breezes whisper and shudder, Dire, the voice of a lion unsatisfied, gnawed by his hunger, Seeking his prey from the gods? For he prowls through the glens of the mountains, Errs a dangerous gleam in the woodlands, fatal and silent. So for a while he endures, for a while he seeks and he suffers Patient yet in his terrible grace as assured of his banquet; But he has lacked too long and he lifts his head and to heaven Roars in his wonder, incensed, impatiently. Startled the valleys Shrink from the dreadful alarum, the cattle gallop to shelter. Arming the herdsmen cry to each other for comfort and courage. So Talthybius spoke, as a harper voicing his prelude Touches his strings to a varied music, seeks for a concord; Long his strain he prepares. But one broke in on the speaker, Sweet was his voice like a harps though heard in the front of the onset, One of the sons of Fate by the people loved whom he ruined, Leader in counsel and battle, the Priamid, he in his beauty Carelessly walking who scattered the seeds of Titanic disaster. Surely thou dreamedst at night and awaking thy dreams have not left thee! Hast thou not woven thy words to intimidate children in Argos Sitting alarmed in the shadows who listen pale to their nurses? Greek, thou art standing in Ilion now and thou facest her princes. Use not thy words but thy kings. If friendship their honey-breathed burden, Friendship we clasp from Achilles, but challenge outpace with our challenge Meeting the foe ere he moves in his will to the clash of encounter. Such is the way of the Trojans since Phryx by the Hellespont halting Seated Troy on her hill with the Ocean for comrade and sister. Shaking in wrath his filleted head Talthybius answered: Princes, ye speak their words who drive you! Thus said Achilles: Rise, Talthybius, meet in her spaces the car of the morning; Challenge her coursers divine as they bound through the plains of the Troad. Hasten, let not the day wear gold ere thou stand in her ramparts. Herald charged with my will to a haughty and obstinate nation, Speak in the palace of Priam the word of the Phthian Achilles. Freely and not as his vassal who leads, Agamemnon, the Argive, But as a ruler in Hellas I send thee, king of my nations. Long I have walked apart from the mellay of gods in the Troad, Long has my listless spear leaned back on the peace of my tent-side, Deaf to the talk of the trumpets, the whine of the chariots speeding; Sole with my heart I have lived, unheeding the Hellene murmur, Chid when it roared for the hunt the lion pack of the war-god, Day after day I walked at dawn and in blush of the sunset, Far by the call of the seas and alone with the gods and my dreaming, Leaned to the unsatisfied chant of my heart and the rhythms of ocean, Sung to by hopes that were sweet-lipped and vain. For Polyxenas brothers Still are the brood of the Titan Laomedon slain in his greatness, Engines of God unable to bear all the might that they harbour. Awe they have chid from their hearts, nor our common humanity binds them, Stay have they none in the gods who approve, giving calmness to mortals: But like the Titans of old they have hugged to them grandeur and ruin. Seek then the race self-doomed, the leaders blinded by heaven Not in the agora swept by the winds of debate and the shoutings Lion-voiced, huge of the people! In Troyas high-crested mansion Speak out my word to the hero Deiphobus, head of the mellay, Paris the racer of doom and the stubborn strength of Aeneas. Herald of Greece, when thy feet shall be pressed on the gold and the marble, Rise in the Ilian megaron, curb not the cry of the challenge. Thus shalt thou say to them striking the ground with the staff of defiance, Fronting the tempests of war, the insensate, the gamblers with downfall. Princes of Troy, I have sat in your halls, I have slept in your chambers; Not in the battle alone as a warrior glad of his foemen, Glad of the strength that mates with his own, in peace we encountered. Marvelling I sat in the halls of my enemies, close to the bosoms Scarred by the dints of my sword and the eyes I had seen through the battle, Ate rejoicing the food of the East at the tables of Priam Served by the delicatest hands in the world, by Hecubas daughter, Or with our souls reconciled in some careless and rapturous midnight Drank of the sweetness of Phrygian wine, admiring your bodies Shaped by the gods indeed, and my spirit revolted from hatred, Softening it yearned in its strings to the beauty and joy of its foemen, Yearned from the death that oertakes and the flame that cries and desires Even at the end to save and even on the verge to deliver Troy and her wonderful works and her sons and her deep-bosomed daughters. Warned by the gods who reveal to the heart what the mind cannot hearken Deaf with its thoughts, I offered you friendship, I offered you bridal, Hellas for comrade, Achilles for brother, the world for enjoyment Won by my spear. And one heard my call and one turned to my seeking. Why is it then that the war-cry sinks not to rest by the Xanthus? We are not voices from Argolis, Lacedaemonian tricksters, Splendid and subtle and false; we are speakers of truth, we are Hellenes, Men of the northl and faithful in friendship and noble in anger, Strong like our fathers of old. But you answered my truth with evasion Hoping to seize what I will not yield and you flattered your people. Long have I waited for wisdom to dawn on your violent natures. Lonely I paced oer the sands by the thousand-throated waters Praying to Pallas the wise that the doom might turn from your mansions, Buildings delightful, gracious as rhythms, lyrics in marble, Works of the transient gods, and I yearned for the end of the war-din Hoping that Death might relent to the beautiful sons of the Trojans. Far from the cry of the spears, from the speed and the laughter of axles, Heavy upon me like iron the intolerable yoke of inaction Weighed like a load on a runner. The war-cry rose by Scamander; Xanthus was crossed on a bridge of the fallen, not by Achilles. Often I stretched out my hand to the spear, for the Trojan beaches Rang with the voice of Deiphobus shouting and slaying the Argives; Often my heart like an anxious mother for Greece and her children Leaped, for the air was full of the leonine roar of Aeneas. Always the evening fell or the gods protected the Argives. Then by the moat of the ships, on the hither plain of the Xanthus New was the voice that climbed through the din and sailed on the breezes, High, insistent, clear, and it shouted an unknown war-cry Threatening doom to the peoples. A woman had come in to aid you, Regal and insolent, fair as the morning and fell as the northwind, Freed from the distaff who grasps at the sword and she spurns at subjection Breaking the rule of the gods. She is turbulent, swift in the battle. Clanging her voice of the swan as a summons to death and disaster, Fleet-footed, happy and pitiless, laughing she runs to the slaughter; Strong with the gait that allures she leaps from her car to the slaying, Dabbles in blood smooth hands like lilies. Europe astonished Reels from her shock to the Ocean. She is the panic and mellay, War is her paean, the chariots thunder of Penthesilea. Doom was her coming, it seems, to the men of the West and their legions; Ajax sleeps for ever, Meriones lies on the beaches. One by one they are falling before you, the great in Achaia. Ever the wounded are borne like the stream of the ants when they forage Past my ships, and they hush their moans as they near and in silence Gaze at the legions inactive accusing the fame of Achilles. Still have I borne with you, waited a little, looked for a summons, Longing for bridal torches, not flame on the Ilian housetops, Blood in the chambers of sweetness, the golden amorous city Swallowed by doom. Not broken I turned from the wrestle Titanic, Hopeless, weary of toil in the ebb of my glorious spirit, But from my stress of compassion for doom of the kindred nations, But for her sake whom my soul desires, for the daughter of Priam. And for Polyxenas sake I will speak to you yet as your lover Once ere the Fury, abrupt from Erebus, deaf to your crying, Mad with the joy of the massacre, seizes on wealth and on women Calling to Fire as it strides and Ilion sinks into ashes. Yield; for your doom is impatient. No longer your helpers hasten, Legions swift to your call; the yoke of your pride and your splendour Lies not now on the nations of earth as when Fortune desired you, Strength was your slave and Troya the lioness hungrily roaring Threatened the western world from her ramparts built by Apollo. Gladly released from the thraldom they hated, the insolent shackles Curbing their manhood the peoples arise and they pray for your ruin; Piled are their altars with gifts; their blessings help the Achaians. Memnon came, but he sleeps, and the faces swart of his nation Darken no more like a cloud over thunder and surge of the onset. Wearily Lycia fights; far fled are the Carian levies. Thrace retreats to her plains preferring the whistle of stormwinds Or on the banks of the Strymon to wheel in her Orphean measure, Not in the revel of swords and fronting the spears of the Hellenes. Princes of Pergama, open your gates to our Peace who would enter, Life in her gracious clasp and forgetfulness, grave of earths passions, Healer of wounds and the past. In a comity equal, Hellenic, Asia join with Greece, one world from the frozen rivers Trod by the hooves of the Scythian to farthest undulant Ganges. Tyndarid Helen resign, the desirable cause of your danger, Back to Greece that is empty long of her smile and her movements. Broider with riches her coming, pomp of her slaves and the waggons Endlessly groaning with gold that arrive with the ransom of nations. So shall the Fury be pacified, she who exultant from Sparta Breathed in the sails of the Trojan ravisher helping his oarsmen. So shall the gods be appeased and the thoughts of their wrath shall be cancelled, Justice contented trace back her steps and for brands of the burning Torches delightful shall break into Troy with the swords of the bridal. I like a bridegroom will seize on your city and clasp and defend her Safe from the envy of Argos, from Lacedaemonian hatred, Safe from the hunger of Crete and the Locrians violent rapine. But if you turn from my voice and you hearken only to Ares Crying for battle within you deluded by Hera and Pallas, Swiftly the fierce deaths surges shall close over Troy and her ramparts Built by the gods shall be stubble and earth to the tread of the Hellene. For to my tents I return not, I swear it by Zeus and Apollo, Master of Truth who sits within Delphi fathomless brooding Sole in the caverns of Nature and hearkens her underground murmur, Giving my oath to his keeping mute and stern who forgets not, Not from the panting of Ares toil to repose, from the wrestle Locked of hope and death in the ruthless clasp of the mellay Leaving again the Trojan ramparts unmounted, leaving Greece unavenged, the Aegean a lake and Europe a province. Choosing from Hellas exile, from Peleus and Deidamia, Choosing the field for my chamber of sleep and the battle for hearthside I shall go warring on till Asia enslaved to my footsteps Feels the tread of the God in my sandal pressed on her bosom. Rest shall I then when the borders of Greece are fringed with the Ganges; Thus shall the past pay its Titan ransom and, Fate her balance Changing, a continent ravished suffer the fortune of Helen. This I have sworn allying my will to Zeus and Ananke. So was it spoken, the Phthian challenge. Silent the heroes Looked back amazed on their past and into the night of their future. Silent their hearts felt a grasp from gods and had hints of the heavens. Hush was awhile in the room, as if Fate were trying her balance Poised on the thoughts of her mortals. At length with a musical laughter Sweet as the jangling of bells upon anklets leaping in measure Answered aloud to the gods the virgin Penthesilea. Long I had heard in my distant realms of the fame of Achilles, Ignorant still while I played with the ball and ran in the dances Thinking not ever to war; but I dreamed of the shock of the hero. So might a poet inland who imagines the rumour of Ocean, Yearn with his lust for the giant upheaval, the dance as of hill-tops, Toss of the yellow mane and the tawny march and the voices Lionlike claiming earth as a prey for the clamorous waters. So have I longed as I came for the cry and the speed of Achilles. But he has lurked in his ships, he has sulked like a boy that is angry. Glad am I now of his soul that arises hungry for battle, Glad, whether victor I live or defeated travel the shadows. Once shall my spear have rung on the shield of the Phthian Achilles. Peace I desire not. I came to a haughty and resolute nation, Honour and fame they cherish, not life by the gift of a foeman. Sons of the ancient house on whom Ilion looks as on Titans, Chiefs whom the world admires, do you fear then the shock of the Phthian? Gods, it is said, have decided your doom. Are you less in your greatness? Are you not gods to reverse their decrees or unshaken to suffer? Memnon is dead and the Carians leave you? Lycia lingers? But from the streams of my East I have come to you, Penthesilea. Virgin of Asia, answered Talthybius, doom of a nation Brought thee to Troy and her haters Olympian shielded thy coming, Vainly who feedest mens hearts with a hope that the gods have rejected. Doom in thy sweet voice utters her counsels robed like a woman. Answered the virgin disdainfully, wroth at the words of the Argive: Hast thou not ended the errand they gave thee, envoy of Hellas? Not, do I think, as our counsellor camst thou elected from Argos, Nor as a lover to Troy hast thou hastened with amorous footing Hurting thy heart with her frowardness. Hatred and rapine sent thee, Greed of the Ilian gold and lust of the Phrygian women, Voice of Achaian aggression! Doom am I truly; let Gnossus Witness it, Salamis speak of my fatal arrival and Argos Silent remember her wounds. But the Argive answered the virgin: Hearken then to the words of the Hellene, Penthesilea. Virgin to whom earths strongest are corn in the sweep of thy sickle, Lioness vain of thy bruit who besiegest the paths of the battle! Art thou not satiate yet? hast thou drunk then so little of slaughter? Death has ascended thy car; he has chosen thy hand for his harvest. But I have heard of thy pride and disdain, how thou scornest the Argives And of thy fate thou complainest that ever averse to thy wishes Cloisters the Phthian and matches with weaklings Penthesilea. Not of the Ithacan boar nor the wild-cat littered in Locris Nor of the sleek-coat Argive wild-bulls sates me the hunting; So hast thou said, I would bury my spear in the lion of Hellas. Blind and infatuate, art thou not beautiful, bright as the lightning? Were not thy limbs made cunningly linking sweetness to sweetness? Is not thy laughter an arrow surprising hearts imprudent? Charm is the seal of the gods upon woman. Distaff and girdle, Work of the jar at the well and the hush of our innermost chambers, These were appointed thee, but thou hast scorned them, O Titaness, grasping Rather the shield and the spear. Thou, obeying thy turbulent nature, Tramplest oer laws that are old to the pleasure thy heart has demanded. Rather bow to the ancient Gods who are seated and constant. But for thyself thou passest and what hast thou gained for the aeons Mingled with men in their works and depriving the age of thy beauty? Fair art thou, woman, but fair with a bitter and opposite sweetness Clanging in war when thou matchest thy voice with the shout of assemblies. Not to this end was thy sweetness made and the joy of thy members, Not to this rhythm Heaven tuned its pipe in thy throat of enchantment, Armoured like men to go warring forth and with hardness and fierceness Mix in the strife and the hate while the varied meaning of Nature Perishes hurt in its heart and life is emptied of music. Long have I marked in your world a madness. Monarchs descending Court the imperious mob of their slaves and their suppliant gesture Shameless and venal offends the majestic tradition of ages: Princes plead in the agora; spurred by the tongue of a coward, Heroes march to an impious war at a priestly bidding. Gold is sought by the great with the chaffering heart of the trader. Asia fails and the Gods are abandoning Ida for Hellas. Why must thou come here to perish, O noble and exquisite virgin, Here in a cause not thine, in a quarrel remote from thy beauty, Leaving a land that is lovely and far to be slain among strangers? Girl, to thy rivers go back and thy hills where the grapes are aspirant. Trust not a fate that indulges; for all things, Penthesilea, Break with excess and he is the wisest who walks by a measure. Yet, if thou wilt, thou shalt meet me today in the shock of the battle: There will I give thee the fame thou desirest; captive in Hellas, Men shall point to thee always, smiling and whispering, saying, This is the woman who fought with the Greeks, overthrowing their heroes; This is the slayer of Ajax, this is the slave of Achilles. Then with her musical laughter the fearless Penthesilea: Well do I hope that Achilles enslaved shall taste of that glory Or on the Phrygian fields lie slain by the spear of a woman. But to the herald Achaian the Priamid, leader of Troya: Rest in the halls of thy foes and ease thy fatigue and thy winters. Herald, abide till the people have heard and reply to Achilles. Not as the kings of the West are Ilions princes and archons, Monarchs of men who drive their nations dumb to the battle. Not in the palace of Priam and not in the halls of the mighty Whispered councils prevail and the few dispose of the millions; But with their nation consulting, feeling the hearts of the commons Ilions princes march to the war or give peace to their foemen. Lightning departs from her kings and the thunder returns from her people Met in the ancient assembly where Ilus founded his columns And since her famous centuries, names that the ages remember Leading her, Troya proclaims her decrees to obedient nations. Ceasing he cried to the thralls of his house and they tended the Argive. Brought to a chamber of rest in the luminous peace of the mansion, Grey he sat and endured the food and the wine of his foemen, Chiding his spirit that murmured within him and gazed undelighted, Vexed with the endless pomps of Laomedon. Far from those glories Memory winged it back to a sward half-forgotten, a village Nestling in leaves and low hills watching it crowned with the sunset. So for his hour he abode in earths palace of lordliest beauty, But in its caverns his heart was weary and, hurt by the splendours, Longed for Greece and the smoke-darkened roof of a cottage in Argos, Eyes of a woman faded and children crowding the hearthside. Joyless he rose and eastward expected the sunrise on Ida. *** ~ Sri Aurobindo, 1 - The Book of the Herald ,

118: Book IV: The Book of Partings Eagerly, spurred by Ares swift in their souls to the war-cry, All now pressed to their homes for the food of their strength in the battle. Ilion turned her thoughts in a proud expectancy seaward Waiting to hear the sounds that she loved and the cry of the mellay. Now to their citadel Priams sons returned with their father, Now from the gates Talthybius issued grey in his chariot; But in the halls of Anchises Aeneas not doffing his breastpiece Hastily ate of the corn of his country, cakes of the millet Doubled with wild-deers flesh, from the quiet hands of Cresa. She, as he ate, with her calm eyes watching him smiled on her husband: Ever thou hastest to battle, O warrior, ever thou fightest Far in the front of the ranks and thou seekest out Locrian Ajax, Turnest thy ear to the roar for the dangerous shout of Tydides; There, once heard, leaving all thou drivest, O stark in thy courage. Yet am I blest among women who tremble not, left in thy mansion, Quiet at old Anchises feet when I see thee in vision Sole with the shafts hissing round thee and say to my quivering spirit, Now he is striking at Ajax, now he has met Diomedes. Such are the mighty twain who are ever near to protect thee, Phoebus, the Thunderers son, and thy mother, gold Aphrodite; Such are the Fates that demand thee, O destined head of the future. But though my thoughts for their own are not troubled, always, Aeneas, Sore is my heart with pity for other Ilian women Who in this battle are losing their children and well-loved husbands, Brothers too dear, for the eyes that are wet, for the hearts that are silent. Will not this war then end that thunders for ever round Troya? But to Cresa the hero answered, the son of Anchises: Surely the gods protect, yet is Death too always mighty. Most in his shadowy envy he strikes at the brave and the lovely, Grudging works to abridge their days and to widow the sunlight. Most, disappointed, he rages against the beloved of Heaven; Striking their lives through their hearts he mows down their loves and their pleasures. Truly thou sayst, thou needst not to fear for my life in the battle; Ever for thine I fear lest he find thee out in his anger, Missing my head in the fight, when he comes here crossed in his godhead. Yet shall Phoebus protect and my mother, gold Aphrodite. But to Aeneas answered the tranquil lips of Cresa: So may it be that I go before thee, seeing, Aeneas, Over my dying eyes thy lips bend down for the parting. Blissfullest end is this for a woman here mid earths sorrows; Afterwards there we hope that the hands shall join which were parted. So she spoke, not knowing the gods: but Aeneas departing Clasped his fathers knees, the ancient mighty Anchises. Bless me, my father; I go to the battle. Strong with thy blessing Even today may I hurl down Ajax, slay Diomedes, And on the morrow gaze on the empty beaches of Troas. Troubled and joyless, nought replying to warlike Aeneas Long Anchises sat unmoving, silent, sombre, Gazing into his soul with eyes that were closed to the sunlight. Prosper, Aeneas, slowly he answered him, son of a goddess, Prosper, Aeneas; and if for Troy some doom is preparing, Suffer always the will of the gods with a piety constant. Only they will what Necessity fashions compelled by the Silence. Labour and war she has given to man as the law of his transience. Work; she shall give thee the crown of thy deeds or their ending appointed, Whether glorious thou pass or in silent shadows forgotten. But what thy mother commands perform ever, loading thy vessels. Who can know what the gods have hid with the mist of our hopings? Then from the house of his fathers Aeneas rapidly striding Came to the city echoing now with the wheels of the chariots, Clanging with arms and astream with the warlike tramp of her thousands. Fast through the press he strode and men turning knew Aeneas, Greatened in heart and went on with loftier thoughts towards battle. He through the noise and the crowd to Antenors high-built mansion Striding came, and he turned to its courts and the bronze of its threshold Trod which had suffered the feet of so many princes departed. But as he crossed its brazen square from the hall there came running, Leaping up light to his feet and laughing with sudden pleasure, Eurus the youngest son of Polydamas. Clasping the fatal War-hardened hand with a palm that was smooth as a maidens or infants, Well art thou come, Aeneas, he said, and good fortune has sent thee! Now I shall go to the field; thou wilt speak with my grandsire Antenor And he shall hear thee though chid by his heart reluctant. Rejoicing I shall go forth in thy car or warring by Penthesilea, Famous, give to her grasp the spear that shall smite down Achilles. Smiling answered Aeneas, Surely will, Eurus, thy prowess Carry thee far to the front; thou shalt fight with Epeus and slay him. Who shall say that this hand was not chosen to pierce Menelaus? But for a while with the ball should it rather strive, O hero, Till in the play and the wrestle its softness is trained for the smiting. Eagerly Eurus answered, But they have told me, Aeneas, This is the last of our fights; for today will Penthesilea Meet Achilles in battle and slay him ending the Argives. Then shall I never have mixed in this war that is famous for ever. What shall I say when my hairs are white like the aged Antenors? Men will ask, And what were thy deeds in the warfare Titanic? Whom didst thou slay of the Argives, son of Polydamas, venging Bravely thy father? Then must I say, I lurked in the city. I was too young and only ascending the Ilian ramparts Saw the return or the flight, but never the deed and the triumph. Friend, if you take me not forth, I shall die of grief ere the sunset. Plucking the hand of Aeneas he drew him into the mansion Vast; and over the floor of the spacious hall they hastened Laughing, the gracious child and the mighty hero and statesman, Flower of a present stock and the burdened star of the future. Meanwhile girt by his sons and the sons of his sons in his chamber Cried to the remnants left of his blood the aged Antenor. Hearken you who are sprung from my loins and children, their offspring! None shall again go forth to the fight who is kin to Antenor. Weighed with my curse he shall go and the spear-points athirst of the Argives Meet him wroth; he shall die in his sin and his name be forgotten. Oft have I sent forth my blood to be spilled in vain in the battle Fighting for Troy and her greatness earned by my toil and my fathers. Now all the debt has been paid; she rejects us driven by the immortals. Much do we owe to the mother who bore us, much to our country; But at the last our life is ours and the gods and the futures. Gather the gold of my house and our kin, O ye sons of Antenor. Warned by a voice in my soul I will go forth tonight from this city Fleeing the doom and bearing my treasures; the ships shall receive them Gathered, new-keeled by my care and the gods, in the narrow Propontis. Over Gods waters guided, treading the rage of Poseidon, Bellying out with their sails let them cleave to the untravelled distance Oceans crests and resign to their Fates the doomed and the evil. So Antenor spoke and his children heard him in silence; Awed by his voice and the dread of his curse they obeyed, though in sorrow. Halamus only replied to his father: Dire are the white hairs Reverend, loved, of a father, dreadful his curse to his children. Yet in my heart there is one who cries, tis the voice of my country, She for whose sake I would be in Tartarus tortured for ever. Pardon me then, if thou wilt; if the gods can, then let them pardon. For I will sleep in the dust of Troy embracing her ashes, There where Polydamas sleeps and the many comrades I cherished. So let me go to the darkness remembered or wholly forgotten, Yet having fought for my country, true in my fall to my nation. Then in his aged wrath to Halamus answered Antenor: Go then and perish doomed with the doomed and the hated of heaven; Nor shall the gods forgive thee dying nor shall thy father. Out from the chamber Halamus strode with grief in his bosom Wrestling with wrath and he went to his doom nor looked back at his dear ones. Crossing the hall the son of Antenor and son of Anchises Met in the paths of their fates where they knotted and crossed for the parting, One with the curse of the gods and his sire fast wending to Hades, Fortunate, blessed the other; yet equal their minds were and virtues. Cypris son to the Antenorid: Thee I have sought and thy brothers, Bough of Antenor; sore is our need today of thy counsels, Endless our want of their arms that are strong and their hearts that recoil not Meeting myriads stark with the spear in unequal battle. Halamus answered him: I will go forth to the palace of Priam, There where Troy yet lives and far from the halls of my fathers; There will I speak, not here. For my kin they repose in the mansion Sitting unarmed in their halls while their brothers fall in the battle. Eurus eagerly answered the hero: Me rather, therefore, Take to the fight with you; I will make war on the Greeks for my uncles; One for all I will fill their place in the shock with the foemen. But from his chamber-door Antenor heard and rebuked him: Scamp of my heart, thou torment! in to thy chamber and rest there, Bound with cords lest thou cease, thou flutter-brain, scourged into quiet; So shall thy lust of the fight be healed and our mansion grow tranquil. Chid by the old man Eurus slunk from the hall discontented, Yet with a dubious smile like a moonbeam lighting his beauty. But to Antenor the Dardanid born from the white Aphrodite: Late the Antenorids learn to flinch from the spears of the Argives, Even this boy of their blood has Polydamas heart and his valour. Nor should a life that was honoured and noble be stained in its ending. Nay, then, the mood of a child would shame a grey-headed wisdom, If for the fault of the people virtue and Troy were forgotten. For, though the people hear us not, yet are we bound to our nation: Over the people the gods are; over a man is his country; This is the deity first adored by the hearths of the noble. For by our nations will we are ruled in the home and the battle And for our nations weal we offer our lives and our childrens. Not by their own wills led nor their passions men rise to their manhood, Selfishly seeking their good, but the gods and the States and the fathers. Wroth Antenor replied to the warlike son of Anchises: Great is the soul in thee housed and stern is thy will, O Aeneas; Onward it moves undismayed to its goal though a city be ruined. They too guide thee who deepest see of the ageless immortals, One with her heart and one in his spirit, Cypris and Phoebus. Yet might a man not knowing this think as he watched thee, Aeneas, Spurring Priams race to its fall he endangers this city, Hoping to build a throne out of ruins sole in the Troad. I too have gods who warn me and lead, Athene and Hera. Not as the ways of other mortals are theirs who are guided, They whose eyes are the gods and they walk by a light that is secret. Coldly Aeneas made answer, stirred into wrath by the taunting: High wert thou always, nurtured in wisdom, ancient Antenor. Walk then favoured and led, yet watch lest passion and evil Feign auguster names and mimic the gait of the deathless. And with a smile on his lips but wrath in his bosom answered, Wisest of men but with wisdom of mortals, aged Antenor: Led or misled we are mortals and walk by a light that is given; Most they err who deem themselves most from error excluded. Nor shalt thou hear in this battle the shout of the men of my lineage Holding the Greeks as once and driving back Fate from their country. His alone will be heard for a space while the stern gods are patient Even now who went forth a victim self-offered to Hades, Last whom their wills have plucked from the fated house of Antenor. They now with wrath in their bosoms sundered for ever and parted. Forth from the halls of Antenor Aeneas rapidly striding Passed once more through the city hurrying now with its car-wheels, Filled with a mightier rumour of war and the march of its thousands, Till at Troys upward curve he found the Antenorid crestward Mounting the steep incline that climbed to the palace of Priam White in her proud and armed citadel. Silent, ascending Hardly their feet had attempted the hill when behind them they hearkened Sweet-tongued a call and the patter and hurry of light-running sandals, Turning they beheld with a flush on his cheeks and a light on his lashes Challenging mutely and pleading the boyish beauty of Eurus. Racer to mischief, said Halamus, couldst thou not sit in thy chamber? Surely cords and the rod await thee, Eurus, returning. Answered with laughter the child, I have broken through ranks of the fighters, Dived under chariot-wheels to arrive here and I return not. I too for counsel of battle have come to the palace of Priam. Burdened with thought they mounted slowly the road of their fathers Breasting the Ilian hill where Laomedons mansion was seated, They from the crest down-gazing saw their countrys housetops Under their feet and heard the murmur of Troya below them. But in the palace of Priam coming and going of house-thralls Filled all the corridors; smoke from the kitchens curled in its plenty Rich with savour and breathed from the labouring lungs of Hephaestus. Far in the halls and the chambers voices travelled and clustered, Anklets jangling ran and sang back from doorway to doorway Mocking with music of speed and its laughters the haste of the happy, Sound came of arms, there was tread of the great, there were murmurs of women, Voices glad of the doomed in Laomedons marvellous mansion. Six were the halls of its splendour, a hundred and one were its chambers Lifted on high upon columns that soared like the thoughts of its dwellers, Thoughts that transcended the earth though they sank down at last into ashes; So had Apollo dreamed to his lyre; and its tops were a grandeur Domed, as if seeking to roof mens lives with a hint of the heavens; Marble his columns rose and with marble his roofs were appointed, Conquered wealth of the world in its largeness suffered, supporting Purities of marble, glories of gold. Nor only of matter Blazed there the brutal pomps, but images mystic or mighty Crowded ceiling and wall, a work that the gods even admire Hardly believing that forms like these were imagined by mortals Here upon earth where sight is a blur and the soul lives encumbered. Scrolls that remembered in gems the thoughts austere of the ancients Bordered the lines of the stone and the forms of serpent and Naiad Ran in relief on those walls of pride in the palace of Priam Mingled with Dryads who tempted and fled and Satyrs who followed, Sports of the nymphs in the sea and the woods and their meetings with mortals, Sessions and battles of Trojan demigods, deaths that were famous, Wars and loves of men and the deeds of the golden immortals. Pillars sculptured with gods and with giants soared up from bases Lion-carved or were seated on bulls and bore into grandeur Amply those halls where they soared, or in lordliness slenderly fashioned, Dressed in flowers and reeds like virgins standing on Ida, Guarded the screens of stone and divided alcove and chamber. Ivory carved and broidered robes and the riches of Indus Cherished in sandalwood triumphed and teemed in the palace of Priam; Doors that were carven and fragrant sheltered the joys of its princes. Here in a chamber of luminous privacy Paris was arming. Near him moved Helen, a whiteness divine, and intent on her labour Fastened his cuirass, bound the greaves and settled the hauberk Thrilling his limbs with her touch that was heaven to the yearning of mortals. She with her hands of delight caressing the senseless metal Pressed her lips to his brilliant armour; she bowed down, she whispered: Cuirass, allowed by the gods, protect the beauty of Paris; Keep for me that for which country was lost and my child and my brothers. Yearning she bent to his feet, to the sandal-strings of her lover; Then as she gazed up, changed grew her mood; for the Daemon within her Rose that had banded Greece and was burning Troy into ashes. Slowly a smile that was perfect and perilous over her beauty Dawned like the sunlight on Paradise; strangely she looked on her lover. So might a goddess have gazed as she played with the love of a mortal Passing an hour on the earth ere she rose up white to Olympus. So art thou winner, Paris, yet and thy spirit ascendant Leads this Troy where thou wilt, O thou mighty one veiled in thy beauty. First in the dance and the revel, first in the joy of the mellay, Who would not leave for thy sake and repent it not country and homestead? Winning thou reignest still over Troy, over Fate, over Helen. Always so canst thou win? Has Death no claim on thy beauty, Fate no scourge for thy sins? How the years have passed by in a glory, Years of this heaven of the gods, O ravisher, since from my hearthstone Seizing thou borest me compelled to thy ships and my joy on the waters. Troy is enringed with the spears, her children fall and her glories, Mighty souls of heroes have gone down prone to the darkness; Thou and I abide! the mothers wail for our pleasure. Wilt thou then keep me for ever, O son of Priam, in Troya? Fate was my mother, they say, and Zeus for this hour begot me. Art thou a god too, O hero, disguised in this robe of the mortal, Brilliant, careless of death and of sin as if sure of thy rapture? What then if Fate today were to lay her hands on thee, Paris? Calmly he looked on the face of which Greece was enamoured, the body For whose desire great Troy was a sacrifice, tranquil regarded Lovely and dire on the lips he loved that smile of a goddess, Saw the daughter of Zeus in the woman, yet was not shaken. Temptress of Argos, he answered, thou snare for the world to be seized in, Thou then hopst to escape! But the gods could not take thee, O Helen, How then thy will that to mine is a captive, or how, though with battle, He who has lost thee, unhappy, the Spartan, bright Menelaus? All things yield to a man and Zeus is himself his accomplice When like a god he wills without remorse or longing. Thou on this earth art mine since I claimed thee beheld, not speaking, But with thy lids that fell thou veiledst thy heart of compliance. Then in whatever beyond I shall know how to take thee, O Helen, Even as here upon earth I knew, in heaven as in Sparta; I on Elysian fields will enjoy thee as now in the Troad. Silent a moment she lingered like one who is lured by a music Rapturous, heard by himself alone and his lover in heaven, Then in her beauty compelling she rose up divine among women. Yes, it is good, she cried, what the gods do and actions of mortals; Good is this play of the world; it is good, the joy and the torture. Praised be the hour of the gods when I wedded bright Menelaus! Praised, more praised the keels that severed the seas towards Helen Churning the senseless waves that knew not the bliss of their burden! Praised to the end the hour when I passed through the doors of my husband Laughing with joy in my heart for the arms that bore and enchained me! Never can Death undo what life has done for us, Paris. Nor, whatsoever betide, can the hour be unlived of our rapture. This too is good that nations should meet in the shock of the battle, Heroes be slain and a theme be made for the songs of the poets, Songs that shall thrill with the name of Helen, the beauty of Paris. Well is this also that empires should fall for the eyes of a woman; Well that for Helen Hector ended, Memnon was slaughtered, Strong Sarpedon fell and Troilus ceased in his boyhood. Troy for Helen burning, her glory, her empire, her riches, This is the sign of the gods and the type of things that are mortal. Thou who art kin to the masters of heaven, unconstrained like thy kindred High on this ancient stage of the Troad with gods for spectators Play till the end thy part, O thou wondrous and beautiful actor: Fight and slay the Greeks, my countrymen; victor returning Take for reward of the play, thy delight of Argive Helen. Force from my bosom a hint of the joy denied to the death-claimed, Rob in the kiss of my lips a pang from the raptures of heaven. Clasping him wholly her arms of desire were a girdle of madness, Cestus divine of the dread Aphrodite. He with her kisses Flushed like the gods with unearthly wine and rejoiced in his ruin. Thus while they conversed now in this hour that was near to their parting Last upon earth, a fleet-footed slavegirl came to the chamber: Paris, thy father and mother desire thee; there in the strangers Outer hall Aeneas and Halamus wait for thy coming. So with the Argive he wended to Priams ample chamber Far in Laomedons house where Troy looked upwards to Ida. Priam and Hecuba there, the ancient grey-haired rulers, Waiting him sat in their chairs of ivory calm in their greatness; Hid in her robes at their feet lay Cassandra crouched from her visions. Since, O my father, said Paris, thy thoughts have been with me, thy blessing Surely shall help me today in my strife with the strength of Achilles. Surely the gods shall obey in the end the might of our spirits, Pallas and Hera, flame-sandalled Artemis, Zeus and Apollo. Ever serve the immortal brightnesses man when he stands up Firm with his will uplifted a steadfast flame towards the heavens, Ares works in his heart and Hephaestus burns in his labour. Priam replied to his son: Forewilled by the gods, Alexander, All things happen on earth and yet we must strive who are mortals, Knowing all vain, yet we strive; for our nature seizing us always Drives like the flock that is herded and urged towards shambles or pasture. So have the high gods fashioned these tools of their action and pleasure; Failure and grief are their engines no less than the might of the victor; They in the blow descend and resist in the sobs of the smitten. Such are their goads that I too must walk in the paths that are common, Even I who know must send for thee, moved by Cassandra. Speak, O my child, since Apollo has willed it, once, and be silent. But in her raiment hidden Cassandra answered her father: No, for my heart has changed since I cried for him, vexed by Apollo. Why should I speak? For who will believe me in Troy? who believed me Ever in Troy or the world? Event and disaster approve me Only, my comrades, not men in their thoughts, not my brothers and kinsmen. All by their hopes are gladly deceived and grow wroth with the warner, Half-blind prophets of hope entertained by the gods in the mortal! Wiser blind, if nothing they saw or only the darkness. I too once hoped when Apollo pursued me with love in his temple. Round me already there gleamed the ray of the vision prophetic, Thrill of that rapture I felt and the joy of the god in his seeing Nor did I know that the knowledge of mortals is bound unto blindness. Either only they walk mid the coloured dreams of the senses Treading the greenness of earth and deeming the touch of things real, Or if they see, by the curse of the gods their sight into falsehood Easily turns and leads them more stumbling astray than the sightless. So are we either blind in a darkness or dazzled by seeing. Thus have the gods protected their purpose and baffled the sages; Over the face of the Truth their shield of gold is extended. But I deemed otherwise, urged by the Dreadful One, he who sits always Veiled in us fighting the gods whom he uses. I cried to Apollo, Give me thy vision sheer, not such as thou givst to thy prophets, Troubled though luminous; clear be the vision and ruthless to error, Far-darting god who art veiled by the sun and by death thou art shielded. Then I shall know that thou lovest. He gave, alarmed and reluctant, Driven by Fate and his heart; but I mocked him, I broke from my promise, Courage fatal helping my heart to its ruin with laughter. Always now I remember his face that grew tranquil and ruthless, Hear the voice divine and implacable: Since thou deceivest Even the gods and thou hast not feared to lie to Apollo, Speak shalt thou henceforth only truth, but none shall believe thee: Scorned in thy words, rejected yet more for their bitter fulfilment, Scourged by the gods thou must speak though thy sick heart yearns to be silent. For in this play thou hast dared to play with the masters of heaven, Girl, it is thou who hast lost; thy voice is mine and thy bosom. Since then all I foreknow; therefore anguish is mine for my portion: Since then all whom I love must perish slain by my loving. Even of that I denied him, violent force shall bereave me Grasped mid the flames of my city and shouts of her merciless victors. But to Cassandra answered gently the voice of her brother: Sister of mine, afflicted and seized by the dreadful Apollo, All whose eyes can pierce that curtain, gaze into dimness; This they have glimpsed and that they imagine deceived by their natures Seeing the forms in their hearts of dreadful things and of joyous; As in the darkness our eyes are deceived by shadows uncertain, Such is their sight who rend the veil that the dire gods have woven. Busy our hearts are weaving thoughts and images always: After their kind they see what here we call truth. So thy nature Tender and loving, plagued by this war and its fears for thy loved ones, Sees calamity everywhere; when the event like the vision Seems, as in every war the beloved must fall and the cherished, Then the heart cries, It has happened as all shall happen I mourn for. All that was bright it misses and only seizes on sorrow. Dear, on the brightness look and if thou must prophesy, tell us Rather of great Pelides slain by my spear in the onset. But with a voice of grief the sister answered her brother: Yes, he shall fall and his slayer too perish and Troy with his slayer. But in his spirit rejoicing Paris answered Cassandra: Let but this word come true; for the rest, the gods shall avert it. Look once more, O Cassandra, and comfort the heart of thy mother, See, O seer, my safe return with the spoils of Achilles. And with a voice of grief the sister answered her brother: Thou shalt return for thy hour while Troy yet stands in the sunshine. But in his spirit exultant Paris seizing the omen: Hearst thou, my father, my mother? She who still prophesied evil Now perceives of our night this dawning. Yet is it grievous, Since through a heart that we love must be pierced the heart of Achilles. Fate, with this evil satisfied, turn in the end from Troya. Bless me, my father, and thou, O Hecuba, mother long-patient, Still forgive that thy children have fallen for Helen and Paris. Tenderly yearning his mother drew him towards her and murmured: All for thy hyacinth curls was forgiven even from childhood And for thy sunlit looks, O wonder of charm, O Paris. Paris, my son, though Troy must fall, thy mother forgives thee, Blessing the gods who have lent thee to me for a while in their sunshine. Theirs are fate and result, but ours is the joy of our children; Even the griefs are dear that come from their hands while they love us. Fight and slay Achilles, the murderer dire of thy brothers; Venging Hector return, my son, to the clasp of thy mother. But in his calm august to Paris Priam the monarch: Victor so mightst thou come, so gladden the heart of thy mother. Then to the aged father of Paris Helen the Argive Bright and immortal and sad like a star that grows near to the dawning And on its pale companions looks who now fade from its vision: Me too pardon and love, my parents, even Helen, Cause of all bane and all death; but I came from the gods for this ruin Born as a torch for the burning of empires, cursed with this beauty. Nor have I known a fathers embrace, a mothers caresses, But to the distant gods I was born and nursed as an alien Here by earth from fear, not affection, compelled by the thunders. Two are her monstrous births, from the Furies and from the immortals; Either touching mortality suffers and bears not the contact. I have been both, a monster of doom and a portent of beauty. Slowly Priam the monarch answered to Argive Helen: That which thou art the gods have made thee; thou couldst not be other: That which thou didst, the gods have done; thou couldst not prevent them. Who here shall blame or whom shall he pardon? Should not my people Rail at me murmuring, Priam has lost what his fathers had gathered; Cursed is this king by heaven and cursed who are born as his subjects? Masked the high gods act; the doer is hid by his working. Each of us bears his punishment, fruit of a seed thats forgotten; Each of us curses his neighbour protecting his heart with illusions: Therefore like children we blame each other and hate and are angry. Take, my child, the joy of the sunshine won by thy beauty. I who lodge on this earth as an alien bound by the body, Wearing my sorrow even as I wear the imperial purple, Praise yet the gods for my days that have seen thee at last in my ending. Fitly Troy may cease having gazed on thy beauty, O Helen. He became silent, he ceased from words. But Paris and Helen Lightly went and gladly; pursuing their footsteps the mother, Mother once of Troilus, mother once of Hector, Stood at the door with her death in her eyes, nor returned from her yearning, But as one after a vanishing sunbeam gazes in prison, Gazed down the corridors after him, long who had passed from her vision. Then in the silent chamber Cassandra seized by Apollo Staggered erect and tossing her snow-white arms of affliction Cried to the heavens in her pain; for the fierce god tortured her bosom: Woe is me, woe for the guile and the bitter gift of Apollo! Woe, thrice woe, for my birth in Troy and the lineage of Teucer! So do you deal, O gods, with those who have served you and laboured, Those who have borne for your sake the evil burden of greatness. Blessed is he who holds mattock in hand or who bends oer the furrow Taking no thought for the good of mankind, with no yearnings for knowledge. Woe unto me for my wisdom which none shall value nor hearken! Woe unto thee, O King, for thy strength which shall not deliver! Better the eye that is sealed, more blest is the spirit thats feeble. Vainly your hopes with iron Necessity struggle, O mortals. Virtue shall lie in her pangs, for the gods have need of her torture; Sin shall be scourged, though her deeds were compelled by the gods in their anger. None shall avail in the end, the coward shall die and the hero. Troy shall fall in her sin and her virtues shall not protect her; Argos shall grow by her crimes till the gods shall destroy her for ever. Now have I fruit of thy love, O Loxias, dreadful Apollo. Woe is me, woe for the flame that approaches the house of my fathers! Woe is me, woe for the hand of Ajax laid on my tresses! Woe, thrice woe to him who shall ravish and him who shall cherish! Woe for the ships that shall bound too swift oer the azure Aegean! Woe for thy splendid shambles of hell, O Argive Mycenae! Woe for the evil spouse and the house accursd of Atreus! So with her voice of the swan she clanged out doom on the peoples, Over the palace of Priam and over the armd nation Marching resolved to the war in the pride of its centuries conquered, Centuries slain by a single day of the anger of heaven. Dim to the thoughts like a vision of Hades the luminous chamber Grew; in his ivory chair King Priam sat like a shadow Throned mid the ghosts of departed kings and forgotten empires. But in his valiance careless and bli the the Priamid hastened Seeking the pillared megaron wide where Deiphobus armoured Waited his coming forth with the warlike chiefs of the Trojans. Now as he passed by the halls of the women, the chambers that harboured Daughters and wives of King Priam and wives of his sons and their playmates, Niches of joy that were peopled with murmurs and sweet-tongued laughters, Troubled like trees with their birds in a morning of sun and of shadow Where in some garden of kings one walks with his heart in the sunshine, Out from her door where she stood for him waiting Polyxena started, Seized his hand and looked in his face and spoke to her brother. Then not even the brilliant strength of Paris availed him; Joyless he turned his face from her eyes of beauty and sorrow. So it is come, the hour that I feared, and thou goest, O Paris, Armed with the strength of Fate to strike at my heart in the battle; For he is doomed and thou and I, a victim to Hades. This thou preferrest and neither thy father could move nor thy mother Burning with Troy in their palace, nor could thy country persuade thee, Nor dost thou care for thy sisters happiness pierced by thy arrows. Will she remember it all, my sister Helen, in Argos Passing tranquil days with her husband, bright Menelaus, Holding her child on her knees? But we shall lie joyless in Hades. Paris replied: O sister Polyxena, blame me not wholly. We by the gods are ensnared; for the pitiless white Aphrodite Doing her will with us both compels this. Helpless our hearts are And when she drives perforce must love, for death or for gladness: Weighed in unequal scales she deals them to one or another. Happy who holding his love can go down into bottomless Hades. But to her brother replied in her anguish the daughter of Priam: Evilly deal with my days the immortals happy in heaven; Yes, I accuse the gods and I curse them who heed not our sorrow. This they have done with me, forcing my heart to the love of a foeman, One whose terrible hands have been stained with the blood of my brothers. This now they do, they have taken the two whom I love beyond heaven, Brother and husband, and drive to the fight to be slain by each other. Nay, go thou forth; for thou canst not help it, nor I, nor can Helen. Since I must die as a pageant to satisfy Zeus and his daughter, Since now my heart must be borne as a victim bleeding to please them, So let it be, let me deck myself and be bright for the altar. Into her chamber she turned with her great eyes blind, unregarding; He for a moment stood, then passed to the megaron slowly; Dim was the light in his eyes and clouded his glorious beauty. Meanwhile armed in the palace of Priam Penthesilea. Near her her captains silent and mighty stood, from the Orient Distant clouds of war, Surabdas and iron Surenas, Pharatus planned like the hills, Somaranes, Valarus, Tauron, High-crested Sumalus, Arithon, Sambus and Artavoruxes. There too the princes of Phrygian Troya gathered for counsel And with them Eurus came, Polydamas son, who most dearly Loved was of all the Trojan boys by the glorious virgin. She from her arming stayed to caress his curls and to chide him: Eurus, forgotten of grace, dost thou gad like a stray in the city Eager to mix with the armoured men and the chariots gliding? High on the roofs wouldst thou watch the swaying speck that is battle? Better to aim with the dart or seek with thy kind the palaestra; So wilt thou sooner be part of this greatness rather than straining Yearn from afar to the distance that veils the deeds of the mighty. But with an anxious lure in his smile on her Eurus answered: Not that remoteness to see have I come to the palace of Priam Leaving the house of my fathers, but for the spear and the breastpiece. Hast thou not promised me long I shall fight in thy car with Achilles? Doubtful he eyed her, a lions cub at play in his beauty, And mid the heroes who heard him laughter arose for a moment, Yet with a sympathy stirred; they remembered the days of their childhood, Thought of Troy still mighty, life in its rose-touched dawning When they had longed for the clash of the fight and the burden of armour. Glad, with the pride of the lioness watching her cub in the desert, Couchant she lies with her paws before her and joys in his gambols, Over the prey as he frisks and is careless, answered the virgin: Younger than thou in my nation have mounted the steed and the war-car. Eurus, arm; from under my shield thou shalt gaze at the Phthian, Reaching my shafts for the cast from the rim of my car in the battle Handle perhaps the spear that shall smite down the Phthian Achilles. What sayst thou, Halamus? Were not such prowess a perfect beginning Worthy Polydamas son and the warlike house of Antenor? Halamus started and smiting his hand on the grief of his bosom, Sombre replied and threatened with Fate the high-hearted virgin. Virgin armipotent, wherefore mockst thou thy friend, though unwitting? Nay, for the world will know at the end and my death cannot hide it, Slain by a fathers curse we fight who are kin to Antenor. Take not the boy in thy car, lest the Furies, Penthesilea, Aim through the shield and the shielder to wreak the curse of the grandsire. They will not turn nor repent for thy strength nor his delicate beauty. Swiftly to Halamus answered the high-crested might of the virgin: Curses leave lightly the lips when the soul of a man is in anger Even as blessings easily crowd round the head that is cherished. Yet have I never seen that a curse has sharpened a spear-point; Never Death drew back from the doomed by the power of a blessing. Valour and skill and chance are Fate and the gods and the Furies. Give me the boy; a hero shall come back formed from the onset. Do as thou wilt, replied Halamus; Fate shall guard or shall end him. Then to the boy delighted and smiling-eyed and exultant Cried with her voice like the call of heavens bugles waking the heroes, Blown by the lips of gold-haired Valkyries, Penthesilea. Go, find the spear, gird the sword, don the cuirass, child of the mighty. Armed when thou standst on the plain of the Xanthus, field of thy fathers, See that thou fight on this day like the comrade of Penthesilea. Bud of a hero, gaze unalarmed in the eyes of Achilles. Light as a hound released he ran to the hall of the armour Where were the shields of the mighty, the arms of the mansion of Teucer; There from the house-thralls he wrung the greaves and the cuirass and helmet Troilus wore, the wonderful boy who, ere ripened his prowess, Conquered the Greeks and drove to the ships and fought with Achilles. These on his boyish limbs he donned and ran back exulting Bearing spears and a sword and rejoiced in the clank on his armour. Meanwhile Deiphobus, head of the mellay, moved by Aeneas Opened the doors of their warlike debate to the strength of the virgin: Well do I hope that our courage outwearying every opponent Triumph shall lift to her ancient seat on the Pergaman turrets; Clouds from Zeus come and pass; his sunshine eternal survives them. Yet we are few in the fight and armoured nations besiege us. Surging on Troy today a numberless foe well-captained Hardly pushed back in shock after shock with the Myrmidon numbers Swelled returns; they fight with a hope that broken refashion Helpful skies and a man now leads them who conquers and slaughters, One of the sons of the gods and armed by the gods for the struggle. We unhelped save by Ares stern and the mystic Apollo And but as mortals striving with stubborn mortal courage, Hated and scorned and alone in the world, by the nations rejected, Fight with the gods and mankind and Achilles and numbers against us Keeping our country from death in this bitter hour of her fortunes. Therefore have prudence and hardihood severed contending our counsels Whether far out to fight on the seaward plain with the Argives Or behind Xanthus the river impetuous friendly to Troya. This my brother approves and the son of Antenor advises, Prudent masters of war who prepare by defence their aggression. But for myself from rashness I seek a more far-seeing wisdom, Not behind vain defences choosing a tardy destruction, Rather as Zeus with his spear of the lightning and chariot of tempest Scatters and chases the heavy mass of the clouds through the heavens, So would I hunt the Greeks through the plains to their lair by the Ocean, Straight at the throat of my foeman so would I leap in the battle. Swiftly to smite at the foe is prudence for armies outnumbered. Then to the Dardanid answered the high-crested Penthesilea: There where I find my foe I will fight him, whether by Xanthus Or at the fosse of the ships where they crouch behind bulwarks for shelter, Or if they dare by Scamander the higher marching on Troya. Sternly approved her the Trojan, So should they fight who would triumph Meeting the foe ere he move in his will to the clash of encounter. But with his careless laughter the brilliant Priamid Paris: Joy of the battle, joy of the tempest, joy of the gamble Mated are in thy blood, O virgin, daughter of Ares. Thou like the deathless wouldst have us combat, us who are human? Come, let the gods do their will with us, Ares let lead and his daughter! Always the blood is wiser and knows what is hid from the thinker. Life and treasure and fame to cast on the wings of a moment, Fiercer joy than this the gods have not given to mortals. Highly to Paris the virgin armipotent Penthesilea, Paris and Halamus, shafts of the war-god, fear not for Troya. Not as a vaunt do I speak it, you gods who stern-thoughted watch us, But in my vision of strength and the soul that is seated within me, Not while I live and war shall the host of the Myrmidon fighters Forcing the currents lave, as once they were wont, in Scamander Vaunting their victor car-wheels red with the blood of the vanquished. Then when I lie by some war-god slain on the fields of the Troad, Fight again if you will behind high-banked fast-flowing Xanthus. Halamus answered her, Never so by my will would I battle Flinging Troy as a stake on the doubtful diceboard of Ares. But you have willed it and so let it be; yet hearken my counsel. Massed in the fight let us aim the storm of our spears at one greatness, Mighty Pelides head who gives victory still to the Argives. Easy the Greeks to destroy lay Achilles once slain on the Troad, But if the Peleid lives the fire shall yet finish with Troya. Join then Orestes speed to the stubborn might of Aeneas, Paris fatal shafts and the missiles of Penthesilea. Others meanwhile, a puissant screen of our bravest and strongest, Fighting shall hold back Pylos and Argolis, Crete and the Locrian. Thou, Deiphobus, front the bronze-clad stern Diomedes, I with Polydamas spear will dare to restrain and discourage Ajax feet though they yearn for pursuit and are hungry for swiftness. Knot of retreat behind let some strong experienced captain Stand with our younger levies guarding the fords of the Xanthus, Fortify the wavering line and dawn as fresh strength on the wearied. Then if the fierce gods prevail we shall perish not driven like cattle Over the plains, but draw back sternly and slowly to Troya. Answered the Priamid, Wise is thy counsel, branch of Antenor. Chaff are the southern Achaians, only the hardihood Hellene, Only the savage speed of the Locrian rescues their legions. Marshal we so this field. Stand, Halamus, covering Xanthus, Helping our need when the foe press hard on the Ilian fighters. Paris, my brother, thou with our masses aid the Eoan. I with Aeneas single spear am enough for the Argive. Gladlier Halamus cried would I fight in the front with the Locrian! This too let be as you will; for one is the glory and service Fighting in front or guarding behind the fate of our country. So in their thoughts they ordered battle. Meanwhile Eurus Gleaming returned and the room grew glad with the light of his armour. Glad were its conscious walls of that vision of boyhood and valour; Gods of the household sighed and smiled at his courage and beauty, They who had seen so many pass over their floors and return not Hasting to battle, the fair and the mighty, the curled and the grizzled, All of them treading one path like the conscious masks of one pageant Winding past through the glare of a light to the shadows beyond them. But on her captains proudly smiling Penthesilea Seized him and cried aloud, her wild and warlike nature Moved by the mothers heart that the woman loses not ever. Who then shall fear for the fate of Troy when such are her children? Verily, Eurus, yearning has seized me to meet thee in battle Rather than Locrian Ajax, rather than Phthian Achilles. There acquiring a deathless fame I would make thee my captive, Greedy and glad who feel as a lioness eyeing her booty. Nay, I can never leave thee behind, my delicate Trojan, But, when this war ends, will bear thee away to the hills of my country And, as a robber might, with my captive glad and unwilling Bring thee a perfect gift to my sisters Ditis and Anna. Eurus, there in my land thou shalt look on such hills as thy vision Gazed not on yet, with their craggy tops besieging Cronion, Sheeted in virgin white and chilling his feet with their vastness. Thou shalt rejoice in our wooded peaks and our fruit-bearing valleys, Lakes of Elysium dreaming and wide and rivers of wonder. All day long thou shalt glide between mystic woodlands in silence Broken only by call of the birds and the plashing of waters. There shalt thou see, O Eurus, the childhood of Penthesilea. Thou shalt repose in my fathers house and walk in the gardens Green where I played at the ball with my sisters, Ditis and Anna. Musing she ceased, but if any god had touched her with prescience Bidding her think for the last time now of the haunts of her childhood, Gaze in her soul with a parting love at the thought of her sisters And of the lovely and distant land where she played through her summers, Brief was the touch; for she changed at once and only of triumph Dreamed and only yearned in her heart for the shock of Achilles. So they passed from the halls of Priam fated and lofty, Halls where the air seemed sobbing yet with the cry of Cassandra; Clad in their brilliant armour, bright in their beauty and courage, Sons of the passing demigods, they to their latest battle Down the ancestral hill of the Pergamans moved to the gateway. Loud with an endless march, with a tireless gliding to meet them, All Troy streamed from her streets and her palaces armed for the combat. Then to the voice of Deiphobus clanging high oer the rumour Wide the portals swung that shall close on a blood-red evening, Slow, foreboding, reluctant, and through the yawn of the gateway Drove with a cry her steeds the virgin Penthesilea Calling aloud, O steeds of my east, we drive to Achilles. Bli the in the car behind her Eurus scouted around him Scared with his eyes lest Antenor his grandsire should rise in the gateway, Hardly believing his fate that led him safe through the portals. After her trampled and crashed the ranks of her orient fighters. Paris next with his hosts came brilliant, gold on his armour, Gold on his helm; a mighty bow hung slack on his shoulder, Propped oer his arm a spear, as he drove his car through the gateway. Next Deiphobus drove and the hero strong Aeneas, Leading their numbers on. Behind them Dus and Polites, Helenus, Priams son, Thrasymachus, grizzled Aretes, Came like the tempest his father, Adamas, son of the Northwind Orus old in the fight and Eumachus, kin to Aeneas, Who was Cresas brother and richest of men in the Troad After Antenor only and Priam, Ilions monarch. Halamus drove and Arintheus led on his Lycian levies. Who were the last to speed out of Troya of all those legions Doomed to the sword? for never again from the ancient city Foot would march or chariots crash in their pride to the Xanthus. Aetor the old and Tryas the conqueror known by the Oxus. They in the portals met and their ancient eyes on each other Looked amazed, admiring on age the harness of battle. They in the turreted head of the gateway halted and conversed. Twenty years have passed, O Tryas, chief of the Trojans, Since in the battle thy car was seen and the arm of thy prowess Age has wronged. Why now to the crowded ways of the battle Move once more thy body infirm and thy eyes that are faded? And to Antenors brother the Teucrian, Thou too, O Aetor, Old and weary hast sat in thy halls and desisted from battle. Now in Troys portals I meet thee driving forth to the mellay. Aetor answered, Which then is better, to wretchedly perish Crushed by the stones of my falling house or slain like a victim Dragged through the blood of my kin on the sacred hearth of my fathers, Or in the battle to cease mid the war-cry and hymn of the chariots Knowing that Troy yet stands in her pride though doomed in her morrows? So have the young men willed and the old like thee who age not, Old are thy limbs, but thy heart is still young and hot for the war-din. Tryas replied, To perish is better for man or for nation Nobly in battle, nor end disgraced by disease or subjection. So have I come here to offer this shoulder Laomedon leaned on, Arms that have fought by the Oxus and conquered the Orients heroes Famous in Priams wars, and a heart that is faithful to Troya. These I will offer to death on his splendid altar of battle, Tri bute from Ilion. If she must fall, I shall see not her ending. Aetor replied to Tryas, Then let us perish together, Joined by the love of our race who in life were divided in counsel. All things embrace in death and the strife and the hatred are ended. Silent together they drove for the last time through Ilions portals Out with the rest to the fight towards the sea and the spears of the Argives. Only once, as they drove, they gazed back silent on Troya Lifting her marble pride in the golden joy of the morning. So through the ripening morn the army, crossing Scamander, Filling the heavens with the dust and the war-cry, marched on the Argives. Far in front Troys plain spread wide to the echoing Ocean. *** ~ Sri Aurobindo, 4 - The Book of Partings ,

119:The Witch Of Hebron A Rabbinical Legend Part I. From morn until the setting of the sun The rabbi Joseph on his knees had prayed, And, as he rose with spirit meek and strong, An Indian page his presence sought, and bowed Before him, saying that a lady lay Sick unto death, tormented grievously, Who begged the comfort of his holy prayers. The rabbi, ever to the call of grief Open as day, arose; and girding straight His robe about him, with the page went forth; Who swiftly led him deep into the woods That hung, heap over heap, like broken clouds On Hebron’s southern terraces; when lo! Across a glade a stately pile he saw, With gleaming front, and many-pillared porch Fretted with sculptured vinage, flowers and fruit, And carven figures wrought with wondrous art As by some Phidian hand. But interposed For a wide space in front, and belting all The splendid structure with a finer grace, A glowing garden smiled; its breezes bore Airs as from paradise, so rich the scent That breathed from shrubs and flowers; and fair the growths Of higher verdure, gemm’d with silver blooms, Which glassed themselves in fountains gleaming light Each like a shield of pearl. Within the halls Strange splendour met the rabbi’s careless eyes, Halls wonderful in their magnificance, With pictured walls, and columns gleaming white Like Carmel’s snow, or blue-veined as with life; 222 Through corridors he passed with tissues hung Inwrought with threaded gold by Sidon’s art, Or rich as sunset clouds with Tyrian dye; Past lofty chambers, where the gorgeous gleam Of jewels, and the stainèd radiance Of golden lamps, showed many a treasure rare Of Indian and Armenian workmanship Which might have seemed a wonder of the world: And trains of servitors of every clime, Greeks, Persians, Indians, Ethiopians, In richest raiment thronged the spacious halls. The page led on, the rabbi following close, And reached a still and distant chamber, where In more than orient pomp, and dazzling all The else-unrivalled splendour of the rest, A queenly woman lay; so beautiful, That though upon her moon-bright visage, pain And langour like eclipsing shadows gloomed, The rabbi’s aged heart with tremor thrilled; Then o’er her face a hectic colour passed, Only to leave that pallor which portends The nearness of the tomb. From youth to age The rabbi Joseph still had sought in herbs And minerals the virtues they possess, And now of his medicaments he chose What seemed most needful in her sore estate; “Alas, not these,” the dying woman said, “A malady like mine thou canst not cure, ’Tis fatal as the funeral march of Time! But that I might at length discharge my mind Of a dread secret, that hath been to me An ever-haunting and most ghostly fear, Darkening my whole life like an ominous cloud And which must end it ere the morning come, Therefore did I entreat thy presence here.” The rabbi answered, “If indeed it stand Within my power to serve thee, speak at once 223 All that thy heart would say. But if ’tis vain, If this thy sin hath any mortal taint, Forbear, O woman, to acquaint my soul With aught that could thenceforth with horror chase The memory of a man of Israel.” “I am,” she said “the daughter of thy friend Rabbi Ben Bachai—be his memory blest! Once at thy side a laughing child I played; I married with an Arab Prince, a man Of lofty lineage, one of Ishmael’s race; Not great in gear. Behold’st thou this abode? Did ever yet the tent-born Arab build Thus for his pride or pleasure? See’st thou These riches? An no! Such were ne’er amassed By the grey desert’s wild and wandering son; Deadly the game by which I won them all! And with a burning bitterness at best Have I enjoyed them! And how gladly now Would I, too late, forego them all, to mend My broken peace with a repentant heed In abject poverty!” She ceased, and lay Calm in her loveliness, with dreamy looks Roaming, perhaps, in thought the fateful past; Then suddenly her beauteous countenance grew Bedimm’d and drear, then dark with mortal pangs, While fierce convulsions shook her tortured frame, And from her foaming lips such words o’erran, That rabbi Joseph sank upon his knees, And bowed his head a space in horror down While ardent, pitying prayers for her great woe Rose from his soul; when, lo! The woman’s face Was cloudless as a summer heaven! The late Dark brow was bright, the late pale cheek suffused With roseate bloom; and, wondrous more than all, Here weary eyes were changed to splendours now That shot electric influence, and her lips Were full and crimson, curled with stormy pride. The doubting rabbi stood in wild amaze To see the dying woman bold and fierce 224 In bright audacity of passion’s power. “These are the common changes,” then she said, “Of the fell ailment, that with torments strange, Which search my deepest life, is tearing up The dark foundations of my mortal state, And sinking all its structures, hour by hour, Into the dust of death. For nothing now Is left me but to meet my nearing doom As best I may in silent suffering.” Then as he heard her words and saw her face, The rabbi in his wisdom knew some strong Indwelling evil spirit troubled her, And straighway for an unction sent, wherewith The famous ancestor whose name he bore, Herod the Great’s chief hakim, had expelled The daemon haunter of the dying king. With this he touched her forehead and her eyes And all her finger-tips. Forthwith he made Within a consecrated crucible A fire of citron-wood and cinnamon; Then splashed the flames with incense, mingling all With the strong influence of fervent prayer; And, as the smoke arose, he bowed her head Into its coils, that so she might inhale Its salutary odour—till the fiend That dwelt within her should be exorcised. Her face once more grew pale with pain; she writhed In burning torment, uttering many words Of most unhallowed meaning! Yet her eyes Were fixed the while, and motionless her lips! Whereby the rabbi certainly perceived ’Twas not the woman of herself that spake, But the dread spirit that possessed her soul, And thus it cried aloud. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 225 Part II. “WHY am I here, in this my last resort, Perturbed with incense and anointings? Why Compelled to listen to the sound of prayers That smite me through as with the fire of God? O pain, pain, pain! Is not this chamber full Of the implacable stern punishers? Full of avenging angels, holding each A scourge of thunder in his potent hand, Ready to lighten forth! And then, thus armed, For ever chase and wound us as we fly! Nor end with this—but, in each wound they make, Pour venom sweltered from that tree As-gard, Whose deadly shadow in its blackness falls Over the lake of everlasting doom! “Five hundred years ago, I, who thus speak, Was an Egyptian of the splendid court Of Ptolemy Philadelphus. To the top Of mountainous power, though roughened with unrest, And girt with dangers as with thunder-clouds, Had I resolved by all resorts to climb; By truth and falsehood, right and wrong alike; And I did climb! Then firmly built in power Second alone to my imperial lord’s, I crowned with its impunity my lust Of beauty, sowing broadcast everywhere Such sensual baits wide round me, as should lure Through pleasure, or through interest entrap, The fairest daughters of the land, and lo! Their lustrous eyes surcharged with passionate light The chambers of my harem! But at length Wearied of these, though sweet, I set my heart On riches, heaped to such a fabulous sum As never one man’s hoard in all the world Might match; and to acquire them, steeped my life In every public, every private wrong, In lies, frauds, secret murders; till at last A favoured minion I had trusted most, And highest raised, unveiled before the king The dark abysmal badness of my life; But dearly did he rue it; nor till then Guessed I how deadly grateful was revenge! 226 I stole into his chamber as he slept, And with a sword, whose double edge for hours I had whetted for the purpose of the deed, There staked him through the midriff to his bed. I fled; but first I sent, as oft before, A present to the household of the man Who had in secret my betrayer bribed. Twas scented wine, and rich Damascus cakes; On these he feasted, and fell sudden down, Rolling and panting in his dying pangs, A poisoned desert dog! “But I had fled. A swift ship bore me, which my forecast long Had kept prepared against such need as this. Over the waves three days she proudly rode; Then came a mighty storm, and trampled all Her masted bravery flat, and still drove on The wave-swept ruin towards a reefy shore! Meanwhile amongst the terror-stricken crew An ominous murmur went from mouth to mouth; They grouped themselves in councils, and, ere long, Grew loud and furious with surmises wild, And maniac menaces, all aimed at me! My fugitive head it was at which so loud The thunder bellowed! The wild-shrieking winds And roaring waters held in vengeful chase Me only! Me! Whose signal crimes alone Had brought on us this anger of the gods! And thus reproaching me with glaring eyes, They would have seized and slain me, but I sprang Back from amongst them, and, outstriking, stabbed With sudden blow their leader to the heart; Then, with my poniard scaring off the rest, Leaped from the deck, and swimming reached the shore, From which, in savage triumph, I beheld The battered ship, with all her howling crew, Heel, and go down, amid the whelming waves. “Inland my course now lay for many days, O’er barren hills and glens, whose herbless scopes Never grew luminous with a water gleam, 227 Or heard the pleasant bubble of a brook, For vast around the Afric desert stretched. Starving and sun-scorched and afire with thirst, I wandered ever on, until I came To where, amid the dun and level waste, In frightful loneliness, a mouldered group Of ancient tombs stood ghostly. Here at last, Utterly spent, in my despair I lay Down on the burning sand, to gasp and die! When from among the stones a withered man, Old-seeming as the desert where he lived, Came and stood by me, saying ‘get thee up! Not much have I to give, but these at least I offer to thy need, water and bread.’ “Then I arose and followed to his cell,— A dismal cell, that seemed itself a tomb, So lightless was it, and so foul with damp, And at its entrance there were skulls and bones. Long and deep drank I of the hermit’s draught, And munched full greedily the hermit’s bread; But with the strength which thence my frame derived, Fierce rage devoured me, and I cursed my fate! Whereat the withered creature laughed in scorn, And mocked me with the malice of his eyes, That sometimes, like a snake’s, shrank small, and then Enlarging blazed as with infernal fire! Then, on a sudden, with an oath that seemed To wake a stir in the grey musty tombs, As if their silence shuddered, he averred That he could life me once more to the height Of all my wishes—nay, even higher, but On one condition only. Dared I swear, By the dread angel of the second death, I would be wholly his, both body and soul, After a hundred years? “Why should I not? I answered, quivering with a stormy haste, A rampart unreluctance! For so great Was still my fury against all mankind, And my desire of pomp and riches yet 228 So monstrous, that I felt I could have drunk Blood, fire, or worse, to wear again the power That fortune, working through my enemies’ hands, Had stript away from me. So, word by word, I swore the oath as he repeated it; Nor much it moved me, in my eagerness, To feel a damp and earthy odour break Out of each tomb, from which there darkling rose At every word a hissing as of snakes; And yet the fell of hair upon my scalp Rose bristling under a cold creeping thrill: But I failed not, I swore the dread oath through, And then the tombs grew silent as their dead. But through my veins a feeling of strong youth Coursed bold along, and summered in my heart, Till there before him in my pride I stood In stately strength, and swift as is the wind, Magnificant as a desert-nurtured steed Of princeliest pedigree, with nostrils wide Dilated, and with eyes effusing flame. ‘Begone,’ he said, ’and live thy hundred years Of splendour, power, pleasure, ease.’ His voice Sighed off into the distance. He was gone: Only a single raven, far aloft, Was beating outwards with its sable wings; The tombs had vanished, and the desert grey Merged its whole circle with the bending sky. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Part III. “OUT of these wilds to Egypt I returned: Men thought that I had perished with the ship, And no one knew me now, because my face And form were greatly changed,—from passing fair To fairer yet; from manly, to a pile So nobly built, that in all eyes I seemed Beauteous as Thammuz! And my heart was changed; Ambition wilder than a leopard’s thirst 229 For blood of roe, or flying hart, possessed My spirit, like the madness of a god! But this I yet even in its fiercest strain Could curb and guide with sovereign strength of will. From small beginnings onward still I worked, Stepping as up a stair from rival head To rival head,—from high to higher still, Unto the loftiest post that might be held Under the Ptolemies; and meantime paid Each old unsettled score, defeating those Who erst had worked against me, sweeping them Out of all posts, all places; for though time And change had wide dispersed them through the land, The sleuth-hounds of my vengeance found them out! Which things not being in a corner done, What wonder was it that all Egypt now, From end to end, even like a shaken hive, Buzzed as disturbed with my portentous fame? “And what to me were secret enemies? Had I not also spies, who could pin down A whisper in the dark and keep it there? Could dash a covert frown by the same means An open charge had challenged? Hence my name Became a sound that struck through every heart Ineffable dismay! And yet behold There more I trampled on mankind, the more Did fawning flatterers praise me as I swept Like a magnificant meteor through the land! The more I hurled the mighty from their seats, And triumphed o’er them prostrate in the dust, The human hounds that licked my master hand But multiplied the more! And still I strode From bad to worse, corrupting as I went, Making the lowly ones more abject yet; Awing as with a thunder-bearing hand The high and affluent; while I bound the strong To basest service, even with chains of gold. All hated, cursed and feared me, for in vain Daggers were levelled at my brazen heart— They glanced, and slew some minion at my side Poison was harmless as a heifer’s milk When I had sipped it with my lips of scorn; 230 All that paraded pomp and smiling power Could draw against me from the envious hearts Of men in will as wicked as myself I challenged, I encountered, and o’erthrew! “But, after many years, exhaustion sere Spread through the branches of my tree of life; My forces flagged, my senses more and more Were blunted, and incapable of joy; The splendours of my rank availed me not; A poverty as naked as a slave’s Peered from them mockingly. The pride of power That glowed so strong within me in my youth Was now like something dying at my heart. To cheat or stimulate my jaded taste, Feasts, choice or sumptuous, were devised in vain; there was disfavour, there was fraud within, Like that which filled the fair-appearing rind Of those delusive apples that of old Grew on the Dead Sea shore. “And yet, though thus All that gave pleasure to my younger life Was withering from my path like summer grass, I still had one intense sensation, which Grew ever keener as my years increased— A hatred of mankind; to pamper which I gloated, with a burning in my soul, Over their degradation; and like one Merry with wine, I revelled day by day In scattering baits that should corrupt them more: The covetous I sharpened into thieves, Urged the vindictive, hardened the malign, Whetted the ruffian with self-interest, And flung him then, a burning brand, abroad. And the decadence of the state in which My fortunes had recast me, served me well. Excess reeled shameless in the court itself, Or, staggering thence, was rivalled by the wild Mad looseness of the crowd. Down to its death The old Greek dynasty was sinking fast; Waste and pale want, extortion, meanness, fraud— 231 These, welling outwards from the throne itself, Spread through the land. “But now there seized my soul A new ambition—from his feeble throne To hurl the king, and mount thereon myself! To this end still I lured him into ill, And daily wove around him cunning snares, That reached and trammelled too his fawning court; And all went well, the end at last was near, But in my triumph one thing I forgot— My name was measured. At a banquet held In the king’s chamber, lo! A guest appeared, Chief of a Bactrian tribe, who tendered gold To pay for some great wrong his desert horde Had done our caravans; his age, men said, Was wonderful; his craft more wondrous still; For this his fame had spread through many lands, And the dark seekers of forbidden lore Knew his decrepit wretch to be their lord. “The first glance that I met of his weird eye Had sent into my soul a fearful doubt That I had seen that cramp-shrunk withered form And strange bright eye in some forgotten past. But at the dry croak of his raven voice Remembrance wok; I knew that I beheld The old man of the tombs: I saw, and fell Into the outer darkness of despair. The day that was to close my dread account Was come at last. The long triumphant feast Of life had ended in a funeral treat. I was to die—to suffer with the damned The hideous torments of the second death! The days, weeks, months of a whole hundred years Seemed crushed into a thought, and burning out In that brief period which was left me now. “Stung with fierce horror, shame, and hate I fled; I seized my sword, to plunge its ready point Into my maddened heart, but on my arm I felt a strong forbidding grasp! I turned; 232 The withered visage of the Bactrian met My loathing eyes; I struggled to be free From the shrunk wretch in vain; his spidery hands Were strong as fetters of Ephesian brass, And all my strength, though now with madness strung, Was as a child’s to his. He calmly smiled: ‘Forbear, thou fool! Am I not Sammael? Whom to resist is vain, and from whom yet Has never mercy flowed; for what to me Are feelings which thou knowest even in men Are found the most in fools. But wide around A prince of lies I reign. ’Tis I that fill the Persian palaces with lust and wrong, Till like the darkling heads of sewers they flow With a corruption that in fretting thence Taints all the region round with rankest ill; ’Tis I that clot the Bactrian sand with blood; And now I come to fling the brands of war Through all this people, this most ill-mixed mob, Where Afric’s savage hordes meet treacherous Greeks, And swarming Asia’s luxury-wasted sons. This land throughout shall be a deluge soon Of blood and fire, till ruin stalk alone, A grisly spectre, in its grass-grown marts.’ The fiery eyes within his withered face Glowed like live coals, as he triumphant spake, And his strange voice, erewhile so thin and dry, Came as if bellowed from the vaults of doom. Prone fell I, powerless to move or speak; And now he was about to plunge me down Ten thousand times ten thousand fathoms deep Through the earth’s crust, and through the slimy beds Of nether ocean—down! Still down, below The darkling roots of all this upper world Into the regions of the courts of hell! “To stamp me downward to the convict dead His heel was raised, when suddenly I heard Him heave a groan of superhuman pain, So deep twas drawn! And as he groaned, I saw A mighty downburst of celestial light 233 Enwrap his shrivelled form from head to foot, As with a robe within whose venomous folds He writhed in torment. Then above him stood A shining shape, unspeakably sublime, And gazed upon him! One of the high sons Of Paradise, who still keep watch and ward O’er Israel’s progeny, where’er dispersed; And now they fought for me with arms that filled The air wide round with flashes and swift gleams Of dazzling light; full soon the Evil One Fell conquered. Then forth sprang he from the ground And with dark curses wrapped him in a cloud That moved aloft, low thundering as it went. “And then the shining son of paradise Came where I lay and spoke, his glorious face Severe with wrath, and yet divinely fair— ‘O Child of Guilt! Should vengeance not be wrought On thee as well? On Sammael’s willing slave?’ I clasped his radiant knees—I wept—I groaned— I beat my bosom in my wild distress. At last the sacred Presence, who had held The blow suspended still, spoke thus: ‘Thou’rt spared; From no weak pity, but because thou art Descended from the line of Israel: For that cause spared;—yet must thou at my hand Find some meet punishment.’ And as he spake, He laid his hand with a life-crushing weight Upon my forehead—and I fell, as dead! -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Part IV. “AWAKING as from sleep, I bounded up, Stung with a feeling of enormous strength, Though yet half wild with horror. Onward then Ramping I went, out through the palace gates, Down the long streets, and into the highways, Forth to the wilds, amazed at my own speed! 234 And now afar, in long-drawn line appeared A caravan upon its outward way Over the desert of Pentapolis. And strange the instinct seemed that urged me then to rush amongst them—and devour: for I Was fierce with hunger, and inflamed with thirst. “Amidst a laggard company I leaped That rested yet beside a cooling spring; One of those clear springs that, like giant pearls, Inlay the burning borders of the grey Enormous desert. All at once they rose! Some fled, some threw themselves amongst the brakes, Some seized their swords and lances; this to see Filled me at once with a mysterious rage And savage joy! The sternness of their looks, Their fearful cries, the gleaming of their spears Seemed to insult me, and I rushed on them. Then sudden spasms of pain searched deep my side, Wherein a fell lance quivered. On I rushed; I roared a roar that startled e’en myself, So loud and hoarse and terrible its tone, Then bounding, irresistible it seemed As some huge fragment from a crag dislodged, Against the puny wretch that sent the lance, Instantly tore him, as he were a kid, All into gory shreds! The others fled At sight of this, nor would I chase them then, All wearied by my flight. Besides, the well Was gleaming in its coolness by me there. “And as I stooped to quench my parching thirst, Behold, reversed within the water clear, The semblance of a monstrous lion stood! I saw his shaggy mane, I saw his red And glaring eyeballs rolling in amaze, His rough and grinning lips, his long sharp fangs All foul with gore and hung with strings of flesh! I shrank away in horrible dismay. But as the sun each moment fiercer grew, I soon returned to stoop and slake my thirst. Again was that tremendous presence there Standing reversed, as erewhile, in the clear 235 And gleaming mirror of the smiling well! The horrid truth smote like a rush of fire Upon my brain! The dreadful thing I saw Was my own shadow! I was a wild beast.” “They did not fable, then, who held that oft The guilty dead are punished in the shapes Of beasts, if brutal were their lives as men.” “Long lapped I the cool lymph, while still my tongue Made drip for drip against the monstrous one, Which, as in ugly mockery, from below Seemed to lap up against it. But though thirst Was quenched at length, what was there might appease The baffled misery of my fated soul? The thought that I no more was human, ran Like scorpion venom through my mighty frame; Fiercely I bounded, tearing up the sands, That, like a drab mist, coursed me as I went Out on my homeless track. I made my fangs Meet in my flesh, trusting to find in pain Some respite from the anguish of regret. From morn to night, from night to morn, I fled, Chased by the memory of my lost estate; Then, worn and bleeding, in the burning sands I lay down, as to die. In vain!—in vain! The savage vigour of my lion-life Might yield alone to the long tract of time. “From hill to valley rushing after prey, With whirlwind speed, was now my daily wont, For all things fled before me—all things shrank In mortal terror at my shaggy front. Sometimes I sought those close-fenced villages, Wherein the desert-dwellers hide their swart And naked bodies from the scorching heats, Hoping that I might perish by their shafts. And often was I wounded—often bore Their poisoned arrows in my burning flesh— But still I lived. “The tenor of my life 236 Was always this—the solitary state Of a wild beast of prey, that hunted down The antelope, the boar, the goat, the gorged Their quivering flesh, and lapped their steaming blood; Then slept till hunger, or the hunter’s cry, Roused him again to battle or to slay, To flight, pursuit, blood, stratagem, and wounds. And to make this rude life more hideous yet, I still retained a consciousness of all The nobler habits of my eariler time, And had a keen sense of what most had moved My nature as a man, and knew besides That this my punishment was fixed by One Too mighty to be questioned, and too just One tittle of its measure to remit. “How long this haggard course of life went on I might not even guess, for I had lost The human faculty that measures time. But still from night to night I found myself Roaming the desert, howling at the moon, Whose cold light always, as she poured it down, Awoke a drear distemper in my brain: But much I shunned the sunblaze, which at once Inflamed me, and revealed my dread approach. “Homelessly roaming thus for evermore, The tempests beat on my unsheltered bulk, In those bleak seasons when the drenching rains Drove into covert all those gentler beasts That were my natural prey. I swinkt beneath The furnace heats of the midsummer sun, When even the palm of the oasis stood All withered, like a weed: and for how long, Yet knew not. “Thus the sun and moon arose Through an interminable tract of time, And yet though sense was dim, the view of all My human life was ever at my beck, Nay, opened out before me of itself Plain as the pictures in a wizard’s glass! 237 I saw again the trains that round my car Streamed countless, saw its pageants and its pomps, Its faces fair and passionate, and felt Lie’s eager pleasures, even its noble pangs! Then in the anguish of my goaded heart Would I roll howling in the burning sand. “At length this life of horror seemed to near Its fated bourn. The slow but sure approach Of old decay was felt in every limb And every function of my lion frame. My massive strength seemed spent, my speed was gone, The antelope escaped me! Wearily I sought a mountain cavern, shut from day By savage draperies of tangled briers, And only dragged my tardy bulk abroad When hunger urged. It chanced on such a day I sprange amid a herd of buffaloes And tore their leader down, who bellowing fell. When, lo! The chief of those that drove them came Against me, and I turned my rage on him: But though the long lapse of so many years Of ever-grinding wretchedness had dulled My memory, I felt that I had seen His withered visage twice before; and straight A shuddering awe subdued me, and I crouched Beneath him in the dust. My lust of blood, My ruthless joy at sight of mortal pain, Within me died, and if in human speech I might have told the wild desire that filled My being, I had prayed him once for all To crush me out of life, and to consign My misery to the pit of final death! But when, all hopeless, I again looked up, The tawney presence of the desert chief Was gone, and I beheld the shining son Of paradise, from whose majestic brow There flashed the lightings of a wrath divine. Yea, twas the angel that with Sammael Had fought for me in Egypt; and once more He laid his crushing had upon my front; And earth and sky, and all that in them is, 238 Became to me a darkness, swimming blank In the Eternal, round that point where now My body lay, stretched dead upon the sand. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Part V. “AGAIN I lived—again I felt. But now The winds of heaven seemed under me, and I Was sweeping, like the spirit of a storm That bellowed round me, in its murky glooms, All heaving with a motion wide and swift That seemed yet mightier than the darkling swells Of ocean, wrestling with a midnight gale! The wild winds tossed me; I was drenched throughout With heavy moisture, and at intervals Amid the ragged gaps of moving cloud, Methought I caught dim glimpses of the sun Hanging aloft, as if in drear eclipse; But as my senses cleared, I saw my limbs Were clothed with plumage; and long-taloned claws Were closing eagerly with fierce desire And sudden hunger after blood and prey! An impulse to pursue and to destroy Both on the earth and in the air, ran quick Out from my heart and shivered in my wings; And as a thing more central yet, I felt Pregnant within me, throned o’er all, a lone And sullen, yet majestic, glow of pride. “’Twas plain that I, who had aforetime been Crushed out of human being into that Of a wild beast, had thence again passed on Into the nature of some mighty thing That now swept sailing on wide van-like wings, Amid the whirls of an aërial gloom, That out extending in one mighty cope Hung heaving, like a black tent-roof, o’er all The floor of Africa. 239 “Still on I swept, And still as far as my keen vision went, That now was gifted with a power that seemed To pierce all space, I saw the vapours roll In dreadful continuous of black And shapeless masses, by the winds convulsed; But soon in the remotest distance came A change: the clouds were touched with sunny light, And, as I nearer drew, I saw them dash, Like the wild surges of an uproused sea Of molten gold, against the marble sides Of lofty mountains, which, though far below My flight, yet pierced up through them all, and stood With splintered cones and monster-snouted crags, Immovable as fate. Beneath me, lo! The grandeur of the kingdom of the air Was circling in its magnitude! It was A dread magnificence of which before I might not even dream. I saw its quick And subtle interchange of forms and hues, Saw its black reservoirs of densest rain, Its awful forges of the thunderstorm. “At last, as onward still I swept, above A milky mass of vapour far outspread, Behold, reflected in its quiet gleam, I saw an image that swept on with me, Reversed as was the lion’s in the well, With van-like wings, with eyeballs seething fire, With taloned claws, and cruel down-bent beak,— The mightiest eagle that had ever sailed The seas of space since Adam named the first! “My fated soul had passed into the form Of that huge eagle which swept shadowed there. Cold horror thrilled me! I was once again Imprisoned in the being of a brute, In the base being of a nature yet Inferior by what infinite descent To that poor remnant of intelligence Which still kept with me,—like a put-back soul Burningly conscious of its powers foregone, 240 Its inborn sovreignty of kind, and yet So latent, self-less; once again to live A life of carnage, and to sail abroad A terror to all birds and gentle beasts That heard the stormy rushings of my wings! A royal bird indeed, who lived alone In the great stillness of the mighty hills, Or in the highest heavens. “But in truth Not much for many seasons had I need To search for prey, for countless hosts of men, Forth mustering over all the face of earth, Cast the quick gleam of arms o’er trampled leagues Of golden corn, and as they onward marched They left behind them seas of raging fire, In whose red surges cities thronged with men And happy hamlets, homes of health and peace, That rang erewhile with rural thankfulness, Were whelmed in one wide doom; or in their strength Confronted upon some set field of fight, Their sullen masses charged with dreadful roar That far out-yelled the fiercest yells of beasts, And with brute madness rushed on wounds and death; Or else about fenced cities they would pitch Their crowded camps, and leaguer them for years, Sowing the fields about them with a slime Of carnage, till their growths were plagues alone. What is the ravage made by brutes on brutes To that man makes on man? “With mingled pain And joy I saw the wondrous ways of men, (For ever when I hungered, close at hand, Some fresh slain man lay smoking in his gore) And though the instincts of the eagle’s life Were fierce within me, yet I felt myself Cast in a lot more capable of joy; Safe from pursuit, from famine, and from wounds. Some solaces, though few and far between, Were added to me; and I argued thence, In the dark musings of my eagle heart, 241 That not for ever was my soul condemned To suffer in the body of a brute; For though remembrance of the towering crimes And matchless lusts, that filled my whole career Of human life, worked in me evermore, No longer did they shed about my life So venomous a blight. Nay, I could think How often I had looked with longing eyes Up at the clear Egyptian heavens, and watched The wings that cleft them, envying every bird That, soaring in the sunshine, seemed to be Exempt from all the grovelling cares of men. I thought how once, when with my hunting train I pierced that region round the cataracts, I watched an eagle as it rose aloft Into the lovely blue, and wished to change My being with it as it floated on, So inaccessible to hate or hurt, So peaceful, at a height in heaven so safe; And then it passed away through gorgeous clouds Against the sunset, through the feathered flags Of royal purple edged with burning gold. “These fields of space were my dominion now; Motion alone within a world so rich Was something noble: but to move at will, Upward or forward, or in circles vast, Through boundless spaces with a rushing speed No living thing might rival, and to see The glory of the everlasting hills Beneath me, and the myriad-peopled plains, Broad rivers, and the towery towns that sate Beside their spacious mouths, with out beyond The lonely strength of the resounding seas— This liberty began to move my sense As something godlike; and in moving made A sure impression that kept graining still Into the texture of my brute estate— Yea, graining in through all its fleshy lusts And savage wonts. “Hence ever more and more 242 The temper of a better spirit grew Within me, as from inkling roots, and moved E’en like an embryon in its moist recess: A sensibility to beauteous things As now I saw them in the heavens displayed, And in the bright luxuriance of the earth; Some power of just comparison, some sense Of how a man would rank them, could he see Those earthly grandeurs from the sovreign height Whence I beheld them. And with this a wish To commune even with the human race, And pour the loftier wonders of my life Into their ears, through a rich-worded song Whose golden periods in mellow flow Should witch all ears that heard them—ev’n old men s, Ev’n jaded monarchs; not to speak of theirs, Those spirit-lovely ones—yea, moons of love, That rise at first in the Circassian hills— And they should tingle all like tiny shells Of roseate whiteness to its perfect chords. “One day amid the mountains of the moon, Behold a sudden storm had gatherd up Out of my view, hid by a neighbouring height, But which, thence wheeling with terrific force, Wide tossed me with its gusts—aloft, and then Downward as far; then whirlingly about, Ev’n like a withered leaf. My strength of wing Availed me nought, so mightily it raged; Then suddenly, in the dim distance, lo! I saw, as from the storm’s Plutonian heart, A mass of white-hot light come writing forth, And then the figure of a withered man Seemed dropping headlong through the lurid clouds; While full within the radiant light, again The conquering son of paradise appeared, Upon whose brow divine I yet might trace Some sing of wrath. Onward the vision rushed, Orbed in white light. I felt a stifling heat, One cruel blasting pang, and headlong then Fell earthward—dead; a plumb descending mass. 243 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Part VI. “WITHIN a rustic chamber, dark and low, Thronged with wild-looking men and women strange, I seemed to waken. Inwardly I felt No briskness of existence, but a sense Of languor rather, or revival slow: And evermore the men and women came And gazed upon me, shouting in amaze, Then would they whirl about the room in dance, Abandoned to their barbarous delight. “I turned mine eyes about the low-roofed room, Half fearing and half hoping I might see The mighty angel that now ruled my life; They thought I needed air, and I was borne to a low casement. Like a picture lay The world without. On all sides wide around Nothing but mountains, feathered to their tops With a dense growth of pines, and valleys filled With a cold darkness that was lit alone By the broad flashes of the furious streams That leaped in thunder our of marble gaps! Dull vapours, like a canopy of smoke, Did so obscure the sun, that I had thought The scene that now I saw was not of earth, But for a golden flush that now and then Would touch the highest ranges. What I was I knew not, but I felt my former wants, And oft I made vain efforts to expand The wings I had no longer, and sail off, And through those sullen vapours—up, and up— Into the mighty silence of the blue. “The day was fading, and a blare of horns, With many voices and much trampling noise, Heard from without, aroused me; and, ere long, Women rushed in, each bearing some rich robe Or some gay bauble, wherewithal they next 244 Arrayed me to their taste; and then they held A mirror up before me, and I saw My soul had this time passed into the form Of a fair damsel. She, whose form I now Re-animated, was—so learned I soon— The only child of a Circassian chief, Who had been long regarded by her house As its chief treasure, for her beauty rare; Reserved for him, no matter whence he came, Whose hand could dip into the longest purse. But envy lurks in the Circassian hills As elsewhere, and a dose of opium, Administered by one who had been long The rival beauty of a neighbouring tribe, Had served to quash a bargain quite complete Save in the final payment of the gold, Which had been even offered and told down, And only not accepted, through some old Delaying ceremony of the tribe; And in this luckless circumstances, twas plain That both my admirable parents saw The unkindest turn of all. “On all hands forth Had scouts been sent to summon the whole tribe To attend my obsequies, and then forthwith Exterminate our ancient enemies Through all their tents—such was the fierce resolve. But while these things were pending, lo! The light Had broken like a new morn from the eyes Of the dead beauty; on her cheeks had dawned A roseate colour; from her moistening lips Low murmurs, too, had broken; whereupon My parents in exulting hope transformed The funeral to a general tribal feast, And loaded me with all the ancient gauds And ornaments they held. The Persian, too, Had been invited to renew his suit, And carry me at once beyond the reach Of future opium doses. “Soon he came 245 Galloping back to bear me to the arms Of his long-bearded lord. He paid the price; My worthy parents took a fond farewell Of me, with tears declaring me to be The life-light of their eyes, their rose of joy,— Then stretched their palms out for the stranger’s gold, And hurried off to count it o’er again— The dear recovered treasure they so late Had mourned as lost for ever. On that night I was packed neatly on a camel’s back Beside a precious case of porcelain pipes, And carried Persia-ward, by stages safe, From the Circassian mountains. “At the court I soon became the favourite of the king; Lived sumptuously, but in perpetual fear: For all my luxury and gold and gems, I envied the poor slaves who swept the floors. I was the favourite of my Persian lord For one whole month, perhaps a little more, And then I learned my place was to be filled; And though I loathed him, as we loathe some cold And reptile creature, yet I could not bear To see a newer rival take my place, For I was beautiful, and therefore vain: So, that I might regain his favour past, I now arrayed myself in airy robes, While scarfs of purple like an orient queen’s Barred them with brilliant tints, and gold and pearls Confined the wavelets of my sunny hair. “The harem all applauded, and there seemed Even in his own dull eyes almost a flash As of extorted joy, but this became At the next moment a malignant scowl, Which had its dark cause in such thoughts as these: ‘What! Did so soft and ignorant a thing Hope to enchant again a man so wise As he was—he! The paragon of kings! By floating in before him like a swan, A little better feathered than before?’ 246 And then he waved the harem ladies forth, And with him kept only a Nubian girl, Whom he thought dull, and altogether his: A conclave of those strange demoniac dwarfs Who from their secret dens and crypts would come On given signals forth, was summoned in: Wizard-like beings, with enormous heads, Splay-feet, and monstrous spider-fingered hands. Nor was the council long; I on that night Was to be poisoned with a pomegranate. Then stole the Nubian girl away, and brought Me word of all; yet her news moved me not, So sure I felt that this was not my doom; Or moved me only to prepare for flight With the poor Nubian girl. Unseen I came To my own chamber, where I packed my goods; And whence, unseen by all, we swiftly fled. ’Twas plain and patent to my inmost self That in this last change I had always been Regenerating more and more; for though I had a love of mischief in my head, At heart I was not bad, and they who knew Me closely, or at least the woman sort, Loved me,—nay, served me, as the Nubian did. And now, as no one else might sell me,—lo! I sold myself, and found myself installed Queen of a rude baboon-like Afric king. “Then I was captive to a Bedouin sheik, Was sold in the slave-mart of Astrachan, And carried thence to India, to be crowned A rajahpoot’s sultana; from which state Flying at length, I fell into a worse, Being pounced on by a Turkoman horse-stealer. At Alexandra I became the slave Of a harsh Roman matron, who was wont To flog and famish me to make me good, And when I owned myself converted, then She flogged and famished me the more, to make My goodness lasting; and I finally Fell stabbed in Cairo—slaughtered by a slave. 247 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Part VII. “AFTER some short and intermediate terms Of transmigration, all in female forms, In which, through kindly offices performed, It seemed the temper of my spirit much Had humanized, and in the last of which Twas mine to die for once a natural death, Again I had some deep-down hold on being, Dim as an oyster’s in its ocean-bed; Then came a sense of light and air, of space, Of hunger, comfort, warmth, of sight and sound I caught at length the drift of speech, and knew That all who came to see me and admire Called me Ben Bachai’s daughter. “Dark indeed, But lovely as a starry night I grew, A maid, the glory of her father’s house, Her mother’s dovelet, filling all her wonts With tenderness and joy. Still as I grew, By strange degrees the memory of all That I had been came back upon my mind To fill it with wild sorrow and dismay; To know I was a cheat, nor wholly what I seemed to my fond parents—that I was But half their daughter, and the rest a fiend, With a fiend’s destiny,—ah! This, I say, Would smite me even in dreams with icy pangs Or wordless woe, yea, even while I slept So innocently as it seemed, and so Securely happy in the arms of love!” As this was said, the Rabbi looked, and saw That now again the woman seemed to speak As of herself, and not as heretofore With moveless lips, and prisoned voice, that came As from some dark duality within. 248 Her looks had changed, too, with the voice, and now Again she lay, a queen-like creature, racked With mortal sufferings, who, when these grew less, Or for a time remitted, even thus Took up her tale again. “At length upgrown To womanhood, by some mysterious pact Existing twixt my father’s house and that Of an Arabian prince time out of mind, I was now wedded ere I wished, and he, My husband, finally had come to claim And bear me from my home, that happiest home Which I should know no more: a man most fair To look upon, but void of force, in truth The weakling of a worn-out line, who yet (What merit in a prince!) Was not depraved, Not wicked, not the mendicant of lust, But mild, and even affectionate and just. My dowry was immense, and flushed with this The prince had summoned from his vassal tribe Five hundred horse, all spearmen, to escort And guard us desert-ward. And as we went These ever and anon, at signal given, Would whirl around us like a thunder-cloud Wind-torn, and shooting instant shafts of fire! And thus we roamed about the Arabian wastes, Pitching our camp amid the fairest spots. Beneath an awning oft I lay, and gazed Out at the cloudless ether, where it wrapt The silent hills, like to a conscious power Big with the soul of an eternal past. “But long this life might last not, for the prince Sickened and died;—died poor, his wealth and mine Having been squandered on the hungry horde That wont to prance about us; who ere long, Divining my extremity, grew loud And urgent for rewards, till on a day, By concert as it seemed, the tribe entire Came fiercely round me, all demanding gifts, Gifts that I had not; as they nearer pressed, 249 Wearing his way among them, lo! I saw The old man of the tombs! The Bactrian sage! With signs of awe they made him room to pass; He fixed me with his shrunk and serpent eyes, Waved off the abject Arabs, and then asked ‘Why art thou poor? With needs so great upon thee? I offer thee long life and wealth and power.’ “I turned to him and said: ‘Should I not know, By all the past, the nature of thy gifts? Shows and delusions, evil, sin-stained all, And terminating in eternal loss.’ ‘Well, take it as thou wilt,’ he said; ‘my gifts Are not so weighed by all.’ And saying this He went his way, while I retired within My lonely tent to weep. “Next day the tribes Again assembled, and with threats and cries, And insults loud, they raised a passion in me. My blood arose: I chid them angrily, Called them all things but men, till they, alarmed, Fell back in sullen silence for a while, Crouching like tigers ready for a spring. Humbled, perplexed, and frightened, I returned Into my tent, and there within its folds Stood the weird Bactrian with his snaky eyes, And wiry voice that questioned as before: ‘Why art thou poor? Why dost thou suffer wrong, With all this petty baseness brattling round? Am I not here to help thee? I, thy one Sole friend—not empty, but with ample means. Behold the secrets of the inner earth! There, down among the rock-roots of the hills, What seest thou there? Look, as I point, even those Strange miscreations, as they seem to thee, Are demoniac moilers that obey Such arts as I possess; the gnomish brood Of Demogorgon. See them how they moil Amid those diamonds shafts and reefs of gold Embedded in the oldest drifts of time, And in the mire that was the first crude floor 250 And blind extension of the infant earth: Why art thou poor, then, when such slaves as they Might work for thee, and glut thy need with all The matchless values which are there enwombed, Serving thee always as they now serve me? Nor these alone: turn thou thy looks aloft, And watch the stars as they go swimming past. Behold their vastness, each a world,’ he said; ‘The secrets of all these, too, thou shalt know, The spirits of all these shall be thy slaves, If thou wilt swear as erst amid the tombs.’ “The woe of desolation wrapped me round, The joy to know all mysteries tempted me, And with a shudder that shook me to the soul I swore, as erst I swore amid the tombs. “As on my hand he placed a signet-ring, Suddenly loud the desert winds arose, And blew with mighty stress among the tents; And instantly aloft the thunder ran, A mighty issue of miraculous light Burst shaft-like forward, smiting him in twain, Or so it seemed, down through the solid earth. In vain I shrunk into a dim recess; Before me stood the son of paradise. Then leapt the soul to life within my heart— Leapt into life with fear, and pain, and woe— Anger and sadness both were on his brow. “‘Could’st thou no trial bear—all but redeemed; Could’st thou not rest content? A rabbi’s child! Enjoy as best thou may this ill-won power Over the darker agencies of time, And bide the end, which end is punishment But the more terrible, the more delayed; Yet know this also, thou shalt thus no more Be punished in a body built of clay.’ He vanished, leaving me to sharp remorse, And harrowed with the thought of his grieved look. ‘And yet no power in heaven or hell,’ I said, ‘May now annul my deed.’ 251 “And not one day Of joy has brought to me my ‘ill-won power.’ I built vast palaces in quiet view Of ancient cities, or by famous streams; I filled my halls with men and women fair, And with these pages of a beauty rare Like striplings kidnapped from some skirt of heaven; Yet sorrowful of countenance withal, As knowing that their mortal doom is joined With mine irrevocably, that with me ’Tis theirs to own these shows of time, with me To live—with me to die. And as, ’tis said, A hunted roe will evermore beat round Towards whence he started first, I felt at length An ardent longing for my native place; That spot in all the earth where only I, In tasting of it, had divined the worth And Sabbath quality of household peace. Then coming hither, thus constrained, I pitched My dwelling here, even this thou seest; built fair, And filled with splendours such as never yet Under one roof-tree on this earth were stored. See yon surpassing lustres! Could this orb Show such? From Mars came that; from Venus this; And yonder mass of sun-bright glory, that From Mercury came, whence came these viols, too, Instinct with fervent music such as ne’er From earthly instruments might thrill abroad.” Then seizing one of them, even as she spake, Over its chords she moved her ivory hand, And instantly the palace domes throughout Rang resonant, as every hall and crypt Were pulsing music from a thousand shells That still ran confluent with a mellow slide And intercourse of cadence: sweet, and yet Most mournful and most weird, and oft intoned With a wild wilfulness of power that worked For madness more than joy. “Even such, ” she said “Are the delights with which I most converse In the dark loneness of my fated soul, 252 For all is show, not substance. All I hold But darkens more the certainty I have Of wrath to come, from which no change of place, No earthly power, no power of heaven nor hell, May shield me now. I see it shadowing forth Even like a coming night, in whose dark folds My soul would ask to hide itself in vain. And now I go to meet the angel’s face; I will not claim my hundred years of pride, I trample underneath my feet the gift For which I sold my soul; I will not touch The ring of Sammael, nor use his power To stay the torments that devour my life; Misery, shame, remorse, and dread are mine; Yet shall the angel see repentent eyes, And know at last I could one trial bear; Too late, too late.” As thus the woman spake, Her brow grew dark, and suddenly she shrieked In her great agony. “Oh pray for me! Pray, rabbi! For the daughter of thy friend! The hour is coming, nay, the hour is come!” There was a rustle as of wings aloft, A sudden flicker in the lights below, And she, who until now seemed speaking, sank Back on her pillow and in silence lay Beautiful in the marble calm of death. The rabbi gazed on her, and thought the while Of those far times, when, as a child, her grace Had filled with pleasantness her father’s house. Then to her servants gave in charge the corpse, And forth he paced, much musing as he went. At length he turned to gaze once more upon The silent house of death. Can such things be? All had evanished like a morning mist! Only the woods that hung like clouds about The steeps of Hebron, in the whitening dawn Lay dark against the sky! Only a pool Gleamed flat before him, where it seemed erewhile The splendid palace had adorned the view! 253 Perplexed in mind, the rabbi turned again And hurried homeward, muttering as he went: Was it a vision? Can such marvels be? But what in truth are all things, even those That seem most solid—dust and air at last ~ Charles Harpur,

120:The Ghost - Book Iv Coxcombs, who vainly make pretence To something of exalted sense 'Bove other men, and, gravely wise, Affect those pleasures to despise, Which, merely to the eye confined, Bring no improvement to the mind, Rail at all pomp; they would not go For millions to a puppet-show, Nor can forgive the mighty crime Of countenancing pantomime; No, not at Covent Garden, where, Without a head for play or player, Or, could a head be found most fit, Without one player to second it, They must, obeying Folly's call, Thrive by mere show, or not at all With these grave fops, who, (bless their brains!) Most cruel to themselves, take pains For wretchedness, and would be thought Much wiser than a wise man ought, For his own happiness, to be; Who what they hear, and what they see, And what they smell, and taste, and feel, Distrust, till Reason sets her seal, And, by long trains of consequences Insured, gives sanction to the senses; Who would not (Heaven forbid it!) waste One hour in what the world calls Taste, Nor fondly deign to laugh or cry, Unless they know some reason why; With these grave fops, whose system seems To give up certainty for dreams, The eye of man is understood As for no other purpose good Than as a door, through which, of course, Their passage crowding, objects force, A downright usher, to admit New-comers to the court of Wit: (Good Gravity! forbear thy spleen; 190 When I say Wit, I Wisdom mean) Where (such the practice of the court, Which legal precedents support) Not one idea is allow'd To pass unquestion'd in the crowd, But ere it can obtain the grace Of holding in the brain a place, Before the chief in congregation Must stand a strict examination. Not such as those, who physic twirl, Full fraught with death, from every curl; Who prove, with all becoming state, Their voice to be the voice of Fate; Prepared with essence, drop, and pill, To be another Ward or Hill, Before they can obtain their ends, To sign death-warrants for their friends, And talents vast as theirs employ, _Secundum artem_ to destroy, Must pass (or laws their rage restrain) Before the chiefs of Warwick Lane: Thrice happy Lane! where, uncontroll'd, In power and lethargy grown old, Most fit to take, in this bless'd land, The reins--which fell from Wyndham's hand, Her lawful throne great Dulness rears, Still more herself, as more in years; Where she, (and who shall dare deny Her right, when Reeves and Chauncy's by?) Calling to mind, in ancient time, One Garth, who err'd in wit and rhyme, Ordains, from henceforth, to admit None of the rebel sons of Wit, And makes it her peculiar care That Schomberg never shall be there. Not such as those, whom Polly trains To letters, though unbless'd with brains, Who, destitute of power and will To learn, are kept to learning still; Whose heads, when other methods fail, Receive instruction from the tail, Because their sires,--a common case 191 Which brings the children to disgrace,-Imagine it a certain rule They never could beget a fool, Must pass, or must compound for, ere The chaplain, full of beef and prayer, Will give his reverend permit, Announcing them for orders fit; So that the prelate (what's a name? All prelates now are much the same) May, with a conscience safe and quiet, With holy hands lay on that fiat Which doth all faculties dispense, All sanctity, all faith, all sense; Makes Madan quite a saint appear, And makes an oracle of Cheere. Not such as in that solemn seat, Where the Nine Ladies hold retreat,-The Ladies Nine, who, as we're told, Scorning those haunts they loved of old, The banks of Isis now prefer, Nor will one hour from Oxford stir,-Are held for form, which Balaam's ass As well as Balaam's self might pass, And with his master take degrees, Could he contrive to pay the fees. Men of sound parts, who, deeply read, O'erload the storehouse of the head With furniture they ne'er can use, Cannot forgive our rambling Muse This wild excursion; cannot see Why Physic and Divinity, To the surprise of all beholders, Are lugg'd in by the head and shoulders; Or how, in any point of view, Oxford hath any thing to do. But men of nice and subtle learning, Remarkable for quick discerning, Through spectacles of critic mould, Without instruction, will behold That we a method here have got To show what is, by what is not; And that our drift (parenthesis 192 For once apart) is briefly this: Within the brain's most secret cells A certain Lord Chief-Justice dwells, Of sovereign power, whom, one and all, With common voice, we Reason call; Though, for the purposes of satire, A name, in truth, is no great matter; Jefferies or Mansfield, which you will-It means a Lord Chief-Justice still. Here, so our great projectors say, The Senses all must homage pay; Hither they all must tribute bring, And prostrate fall before their king; Whatever unto them is brought, Is carried on the wings of Thought Before his throne, where, in full state, He on their merits holds debate, Examines, cross-examines, weighs Their right to censure or to praise: Nor doth his equal voice depend On narrow views of foe and friend, Nor can, or flattery, or force Divert him from his steady course; The channel of Inquiry's clear, No sham examination's here. He, upright justicer, no doubt, _Ad libitum_ puts in and out, Adjusts and settles in a trice What virtue is, and what is vice; What is perfection, what defect; What we must choose, and what reject; He takes upon him to explain What pleasure is, and what is pain; Whilst we, obedient to the whim, And resting all our faith on him, True members of the Stoic Weal, Must learn to think, and cease to feel. This glorious system, form'd for man To practise when and how he can, If the five Senses, in alliance, To Reason hurl a proud defiance, And, though oft conquer'd, yet unbroke, 193 Endeavour to throw off that yoke, Which they a greater slavery hold Than Jewish bondage was of old; Or if they, something touch'd with shame, Allow him to retain the name Of Royalty, and, as in sport, To hold a mimic formal court; Permitted--no uncommon thing-To be a kind of puppet king, And suffer'd, by the way of toy, To hold a globe, but not employ; Our system-mongers, struck with fear, Prognosticate destruction near; All things to anarchy must run; The little world of man's undone. Nay, should the Eye, that nicest sense, Neglect to send intelligence Unto the Brain, distinct and clear, Of all that passes in her sphere; Should she, presumptuous, joy receive Without the Understanding's leave, They deem it rank and daring treason Against the monarchy of Reason, Not thinking, though they're wondrous wise, That few have reason, most have eyes; So that the pleasures of the mind To a small circle are confined, Whilst those which to the senses fall Become the property of all. Besides, (and this is sure a case Not much at present out of place) Where Nature reason doth deny, No art can that defect supply; But if (for it is our intent Fairly to state the argument) A man should want an eye or two, The remedy is sure, though new: The cure's at hand--no need of fear-For proof--behold the Chevalier!-As well prepared, beyond all doubt, To put eyes in, as put them out. But, argument apart, which tends 194 To embitter foes and separate friends, (Nor, turn'd apostate from the Nine, Would I, though bred up a divine, And foe, of course, to Reason's Weal, Widen that breach I cannot heal) By his own sense and feelings taught, In speech as liberal as in thought, Let every man enjoy his whim; What's he to me, or I to him? Might I, though never robed in ermine, A matter of this weight determine, No penalties should settled be To force men to hypocrisy, To make them ape an awkward zeal, And, feeling not, pretend to feel. I would not have, might sentence rest Finally fix'd within my breast, E'en Annet censured and confined, Because we're of a different mind. Nature, who, in her act most free, Herself delights in liberty, Profuse in love, and without bound, Pours joy on every creature round; Whom yet, was every bounty shed In double portions on our head, We could not truly bounteous call, If Freedom did not crown them all. By Providence forbid to stray, Brutes never can mistake their way; Determined still, they plod along By instinct, neither right nor wrong; But man, had he the heart to use His freedom, hath a right to choose; Whether he acts, or well, or ill, Depends entirely on his will. To her last work, her favourite Man, Is given, on Nature's better plan, A privilege in power to err. Nor let this phrase resentment stir Amongst the grave ones, since indeed The little merit man can plead In doing well, dependeth still 195 Upon his power of doing ill. Opinions should be free as air; No man, whate'er his rank, whate'er His qualities, a claim can found That my opinion must be bound, And square with his; such slavish chains From foes the liberal soul disdains; Nor can, though true to friendship, bend To wear them even from a friend. Let those, who rigid judgment own, Submissive bow at Judgment's throne, And if they of no value hold Pleasure, till pleasure is grown cold, Pall'd and insipid, forced to wait For Judgment's regular debate To give it warrant, let them find Dull subjects suited to their mind. Theirs be slow wisdom; be my plan, To live as merry as I can, Regardless, as the fashions go, Whether there's reason for't or no: Be my employment here on earth To give a liberal scope to mirth, Life's barren vale with flowers to adorn, And pluck a rose from every thorn. But if, by Error led astray, I chance to wander from my way, Let no blind guide observe, in spite, I'm wrong, who cannot set me right. That doctor could I ne'er endure Who found disease, and not a cure; Nor can I hold that man a friend Whose zeal a helping hand shall lend To open happy Folly's eyes, And, making wretched, make me wise: For next (a truth which can't admit Reproof from Wisdom or from Wit) To being happy here below, Is to believe that we are so. Some few in knowledge find relief; I place my comfort in belief. Some for reality may call; 196 Fancy to me is all in all. Imagination, through the trick Of doctors, often makes us sick; And why, let any sophist tell, May it not likewise make us well? This I am sure, whate'er our view, Whatever shadows we pursue, For our pursuits, be what they will, Are little more than shadows still; Too swift they fly, too swift and strong, For man to catch or hold them long; But joys which in the fancy live, Each moment to each man may give: True to himself, and true to ease, He softens Fate's severe decrees, And (can a mortal wish for more?) Creates, and makes himself new o'er, Mocks boasted vain reality, And is, whate'er he wants to be. Hail, Fancy!--to thy power I owe Deliverance from the gripe of Woe; To thee I owe a mighty debt, Which Gratitude shall ne'er forget, Whilst Memory can her force employ, A large increase of every joy. When at my doors, too strongly barr'd, Authority had placed a guard, A knavish guard, ordain'd by law To keep poor Honesty in awe; Authority, severe and stern, To intercept my wish'd return; When foes grew proud, and friends grew cool, And laughter seized each sober fool; When Candour started in amaze, And, meaning censure, hinted praise; When Prudence, lifting up her eyes And hands, thank'd Heaven that she was wise; When all around me, with an air Of hopeless sorrow, look'd despair; When they, or said, or seem'd to say, There is but one, one only way Better, and be advised by us, 197 Not be at all, than to be thus; When Virtue shunn'd the shock, and Pride, Disabled, lay by Virtue's side, Too weak my ruffled soul to cheer, Which could not hope, yet would not fear; Health in her motion, the wild grace Of pleasure speaking in her face, Dull regularity thrown by, And comfort beaming from her eye, Fancy, in richest robes array'd, Came smiling forth, and brought me aid; Came smiling o'er that dreadful time, And, more to bless me, came in rhyme. Nor is her power to me confined; It spreads, it comprehends mankind. When (to the spirit-stirring sound Of trumpets breathing courage round, And fifes well-mingled, to restrain And bring that courage down again; Or to the melancholy knell Of the dull, deep, and doleful bell, Such as of late the good Saint Bride Muffled, to mortify the pride Of those who, England quite forgot, Paid their vile homage to the Scot; Where Asgill held the foremost place, Whilst my lord figured at a race) Processions ('tis not worth debate Whether they are of stage or state) Move on, so very, very slow, Tis doubtful if they move, or no; When the performers all the while Mechanically frown or smile, Or, with a dull and stupid stare, A vacancy of sense declare, Or, with down-bending eye, seem wrought Into a labyrinth of thought, Where Reason wanders still in doubt, And, once got in, cannot get out; What cause sufficient can we find, To satisfy a thinking mind, Why, duped by such vain farces, man 198 Descends to act on such a plan? Why they, who hold themselves divine, Can in such wretched follies join, Strutting like peacocks, or like crows, Themselves and Nature to expose? What cause, but that (you'll understand We have our remedy at hand, That if perchance we start a doubt, Ere it is fix'd, we wipe it out; As surgeons, when they lop a limb, Whether for profit, fame, or whim, Or mere experiment to try, Must always have a styptic by) Fancy steps in, and stamps that real, Which, _ipso facto_, is ideal. Can none remember?--yes, I know, All must remember that rare show When to the country Sense went down, And fools came flocking up to town; When knights (a work which all admit To be for knighthood much unfit) Built booths for hire; when parsons play'd, In robes canonical array'd, And, fiddling, join'd the Smithfield dance, The price of tickets to advance: Or, unto tapsters turn'd, dealt out, Running from booth to booth about, To every scoundrel, by retail, True pennyworths of beef and ale, Then first prepared, by bringing beer in, For present grand electioneering; When heralds, running all about To bring in Order, turn'd it out; When, by the prudent Marshal's care, Lest the rude populace should stare, And with unhallow'd eyes profane Gay puppets of Patrician strain, The whole procession, as in spite, Unheard, unseen, stole off by night; When our loved monarch, nothing both, Solemnly took that sacred oath, Whence mutual firm agreements spring 199 Betwixt the subject and the king, By which, in usual manner crown'd, His head, his heart, his hands, he bound, Against himself, should passion stir The least propensity to err, Against all slaves, who might prepare, Or open force, or hidden snare, That glorious Charter to maintain, By which we serve, and he must reign; Then Fancy, with unbounded sway, Revell'd sole mistress of the day, And wrought such wonders, as might make Egyptian sorcerers forsake Their baffled mockeries, and own The palm of magic hers alone. A knight, (who, in the silken lap Of lazy Peace, had lived on pap; Who never yet had dared to roam 'Bove ten or twenty miles from home, Nor even that, unless a guide Was placed to amble by his side, And troops of slaves were spread around To keep his Honour safe and sound; Who could not suffer, for his life, A point to sword, or edge to knife; And always fainted at the sight Of blood, though 'twas not shed in fight; Who disinherited one son For firing off an alder gun, And whipt another, six years old, Because the boy, presumptuous, bold To madness, likely to become A very Swiss, had beat a drum, Though it appear'd an instrument Most peaceable and innocent, Having, from first, been in the hands And service of the City bands) Graced with those ensigns, which were meant To further Honour's dread intent, The minds of warriors to inflame, And spur them on to deeds of fame; With little sword, large spurs, high feather, 200 Fearless of every thing but weather, (And all must own, who pay regard To charity, it had been hard That in his very first campaign His honours should be soil'd with rain) A hero all at once became, And (seeing others much the same In point of valour as himself, Who leave their courage on a shelf From year to year, till some such rout In proper season calls it out) Strutted, look'd big, and swagger'd more Than ever hero did before; Look'd up, look'd down, look'd all around, Like Mavors, grimly smiled and frown'd; Seem'd Heaven, and Earth, and Hell to call To fight, that he might rout them all, And personated Valour's style So long, spectators to beguile, That, passing strange, and wondrous true, Himself at last believed it too; Nor for a time could he discern, Till Truth and Darkness took their turn, So well did Fancy play her part, That coward still was at the heart. Whiffle (who knows not Whiffle's name, By the impartial voice of Fame Recorded first through all this land In Vanity's illustrious band?) Who, by all-bounteous Nature meant For offices of hardiment, A modern Hercules at least, To rid the world of each wild beast, Of each wild beast which came in view, Whether on four legs or on two, Degenerate, delights to prove His force on the parade of Love, Disclaims the joys which camps afford, And for the distaff quits the sword; Who fond of women would appear To public eye and public ear, But, when in private, lets them know 201 How little they can trust to show; Who sports a woman, as of course, Just as a jockey shows a horse, And then returns her to the stable, Or vainly plants her at his table, Where he would rather Venus find (So pall'd, and so depraved his mind) Than, by some great occasion led, To seize her panting in her bed, Burning with more than mortal fires, And melting in her own desires; Who, ripe in years, is yet a child, Through fashion, not through feeling, wild; Whate'er in others, who proceed As Sense and Nature have decreed, From real passion flows, in him Is mere effect of mode and whim; Who laughs, a very common way, Because he nothing has to say, As your choice spirits oaths dispense To fill up vacancies of sense; Who, having some small sense, defies it, Or, using, always misapplies it; Who now and then brings something forth Which seems indeed of sterling worth; Something, by sudden start and fit, Which at a distance looks like wit, But, on examination near, To his confusion will appear, By Truth's fair glass, to be at best A threadbare jester's threadbare jest; Who frisks and dances through the street, Sings without voice, rides without seat, Plays o'er his tricks, like Aesop's ass, A gratis fool to all who pass; Who riots, though he loves not waste, Whores without lust, drinks without taste, Acts without sense, talks without thought, Does every thing but what he ought; Who, led by forms, without the power Of vice, is vicious; who one hour, Proud without pride, the next will be 202 Humble without humility: Whose vanity we all discern, The spring on which his actions turn; Whose aim in erring, is to err, So that he may be singular, And all his utmost wishes mean Is, though he's laugh'd at, to be seen: Such, (for when Flattery's soothing strain Had robb'd the Muse of her disdain, And found a method to persuade Her art to soften every shade, Justice, enraged, the pencil snatch'd From her degenerate hand, and scratch'd Out every trace; then, quick as thought, From life this striking likeness caught) In mind, in manners, and in mien, Such Whiffle came, and such was seen In the world's eye; but (strange to tell!) Misled by Fancy's magic spell, Deceived, not dreaming of deceit, Cheated, but happy in the cheat, Was more than human in his own. Oh, bow, bow all at Fancy's throne, Whose power could make so vile an elf With patience bear that thing, himself. But, mistress of each art to please, Creative Fancy, what are these, These pageants of a trifler's pen, To what thy power effected then? Familiar with the human mind, And swift and subtle as the wind, Which we all feel, yet no one knows, Or whence it comes, or where it goes, Fancy at once in every part Possess'd the eye, the head, the heart, And in a thousand forms array'd, A thousand various gambols play'd. Here, in a face which well might ask The privilege to wear a mask In spite of law, and Justice teach For public good to excuse the breach, Within the furrow of a wrinkle 203 'Twixt eyes, which could not shine but twinkle, Like sentinels i' th' starry way, Who wait for the return of day, Almost burnt out, and seem to keep Their watch, like soldiers, in their sleep; Or like those lamps, which, by the power Of law, must burn from hour to hour, (Else they, without redemption, fall Under the terrors of that Hall, Which, once notorious for a hop, Is now become a justice shop) Which are so managed, to go out Just when the time comes round about, Which yet, through emulation, strive To keep their dying light alive, And (not uncommon, as we find, Amongst the children of mankind) As they grow weaker, would seem stronger, And burn a little, little longer: Fancy, betwixt such eyes enshrined, No brush to daub, no mill to grind, Thrice waved her wand around, whose force Changed in an instant Nature's course, And, hardly credible in rhyme, Not only stopp'd, but call'd back Time; The face of every wrinkle clear'd, Smooth as the floating stream appear'd, Down the neck ringlets spread their flame, The neck admiring whence they came; On the arch'd brow the Graces play'd; On the full bosom Cupid laid; Suns, from their proper orbits sent, Became for eyes a supplement; Teeth, white as ever teeth were seen, Deliver'd from the hand of Green, Started, in regular array, Like train-bands on a grand field day, Into the gums, which would have fled, But, wondering, turn'd from white to red; Quite alter'd was the whole machine, And Lady ---- ---- was fifteen. Here she made lordly temples rise 204 Before the pious Dashwood's eyes, Temples which, built aloft in air, May serve for show, if not for prayer; In solemn form herself, before, Array'd like Faith, the Bible bore. There over Melcombe's feather'd head-Who, quite a man of gingerbread, Savour'd in talk, in dress, and phiz, More of another world than this, To a dwarf Muse a giant page, The last grave fop of the last age-In a superb and feather'd hearse, Bescutcheon'd and betagg'd with verse, Which, to beholders from afar, Appear'd like a triumphal car, She rode, in a cast rainbow clad; There, throwing off the hallow'd plaid, Naked, as when (in those drear cells Where, self-bless'd, self-cursed, Madness dwells) Pleasure, on whom, in Laughter's shape, Frenzy had perfected a rape, First brought her forth, before her time, Wild witness of her shame and crime, Driving before an idol band Of drivelling Stuarts, hand in hand; Some who, to curse mankind, had wore A crown they ne'er must think of more; Others, whose baby brows were graced With paper crowns, and toys of paste, She jigg'd, and, playing on the flute, Spread raptures o'er the soul of Bute. Big with vast hopes, some mighty plan, Which wrought the busy soul of man To her full bent; the Civil Law, Fit code to keep a world in awe, Bound o'er his brows, fair to behold, As Jewish frontlets were of old; The famous Charter of our land Defaced, and mangled in his hand; As one whom deepest thoughts employ, But deepest thoughts of truest joy, Serious and slow he strode, he stalk'd; 205 Before him troops of heroes walk'd, Whom best he loved, of heroes crown'd, By Tories guarded all around; Dull solemn pleasure in his face, He saw the honours of his race, He saw their lineal glories rise, And touch'd, or seem'd to touch, the skies: Not the most distant mark of fear, No sign of axe or scaffold near, Not one cursed thought to cross his will Of such a place as Tower Hill. Curse on this Muse, a flippant jade, A shrew, like every other maid Who turns the corner of nineteen, Devour'd with peevishness and spleen; Her tongue (for as, when bound for life, The husband suffers for the wife, So if in any works of rhyme Perchance there blunders out a crime, Poor culprit bards must always rue it, Although 'tis plain the Muses do it) Sooner or later cannot fail To send me headlong to a jail. Whate'er my theme, (our themes we choose, In modern days, without a Muse; Just as a father will provide To join a bridegroom and a bride, As if, though they must be the players, The game was wholly his, not theirs) Whate'er my theme, the Muse, who still Owns no direction but her will, Plies off, and ere I could expect, By ways oblique and indirect, At once quite over head and ears In fatal politics appears. Time was, and, if I aught discern Of fate, that time shall soon return, When, decent and demure at least, As grave and dull as any priest, I could see Vice in robes array'd, Could see the game of Folly play'd Successfully in Fortune's school, 206 Without exclaiming rogue or fool. Time was, when, nothing both or proud, I lackey'd with the fawning crowd, Scoundrels in office, and would bow To cyphers great in place; but now Upright I stand, as if wise Fate, To compliment a shatter'd state, Had me, like Atlas, hither sent To shoulder up the firmament, And if I stoop'd, with general crack, The heavens would tumble from my back. Time was, when rank and situation Secured the great ones of the nation From all control; satire and law Kept only little knaves in awe; But now, Decorum lost, I stand Bemused, a pencil in my hand, And, dead to every sense of shame, Careless of safety and of fame, The names of scoundrels minute down, And libel more than half the town. How can a statesman be secure In all his villanies, if poor And dirty authors thus shall dare To lay his rotten bosom bare? Muses should pass away their time In dressing out the poet's rhyme With bills, and ribands, and array Each line in harmless taste, though gay; When the hot burning fit is on, They should regale their restless son With something to allay his rage, Some cool Castalian beverage, Or some such draught (though they, 'tis plain, Taking the Muse's name in vain, Know nothing of their real court, And only fable from report) As makes a Whitehead's Ode go down, Or slakes the Feverette of Brown: But who would in his senses think, Of Muses giving gall to drink, Or that their folly should afford 207 To raving poets gun or sword? Poets were ne'er designed by Fate To meddle with affairs of state, Nor should (if we may speak our thought Truly as men of honour ought) Sound policy their rage admit, To launch the thunderbolts of Wit About those heads, which, when they're shot, Can't tell if 'twas by Wit or not. These things well known, what devil, in spite, Can have seduced me thus to write Out of that road, which must have led To riches, without heart or head, Into that road, which, had I more Than ever poet had before Of wit and virtue, in disgrace Would keep me still, and out of place; Which, if some judge (you'll understand One famous, famous through the land For making law) should stand my friend, At last may in a pillory end; And all this, I myself admit, Without one cause to lead to it? For instance, now--this book--the Ghost-Methinks I hear some critic Post Remark most gravely--'The first word Which we about the Ghost have heard.' Peace, my good sir!--not quite so fast-What is the first, may be the last, Which is a point, all must agree, Cannot depend on you or me. Fanny, no ghost of common mould, Is not by forms to be controll'd; To keep her state, and show her skill, She never comes but when she will. I wrote and wrote, (perhaps you doubt, And shrewdly, what I wrote about; Believe me, much to my disgrace, I, too, am in the self-same case But still I wrote, till Fanny came Impatient, nor could any shame On me with equal justice fall 208 If she had never come at all. An underling, I could not stir Without the cue thrown out by her, Nor from the subject aid receive Until she came and gave me leave. So that, (ye sons of Erudition Mark, this is but a supposition, Nor would I to so wise a nation Suggest it as a revelation) If henceforth, dully turning o'er Page after page, ye read no more Of Fanny, who, in sea or air, May be departed God knows where, Rail at jilt Fortune; but agree No censure can be laid on me; For sure (the cause let Mansfield try) Fanny is in the fault, not I. But, to return--and this I hold A secret worth its weight in gold To those who write, as I write now, Not to mind where they go, or how, Through ditch, through bog, o'er hedge and stile, Make it but worth the reader's while, And keep a passage fair and plain Always to bring him back again. Through dirt, who scruples to approach, At Pleasure's call, to take a coach? But we should think the man a clown, Who in the dirt should set us down. But to return--if Wit, who ne'er The shackles of restraint could bear, In wayward humour should refuse Her timely succour to the Muse, And, to no rules and orders tied, Roughly deny to be her guide, She must renounce Decorum's plan, And get back when, and how she can; As parsons, who, without pretext, As soon as mention'd, quit their text, And, to promote sleep's genial power, Grope in the dark for half an hour, Give no more reason (for we know 209 Reason is vulgar, mean, and low) Why they come back (should it befall That ever they come back at all) Into the road, to end their rout, Than they can give why they went out. But to return--this book--the Ghost-A mere amusement at the most; A trifle, fit to wear away The horrors of a rainy day; A slight shot-silk, for summer wear, Just as our modern statesmen are, If rigid honesty permit That I for once purloin the wit Of him, who, were we all to steal, Is much too rich the theft to feel: Yet in this book, where Base should join With Mirth to sugar every line; Where it should all be mere chit-chat, Lively, good-humour'd, and all that; Where honest Satire, in disgrace, Should not so much as show her face, The shrew, o'erleaping all due bounds, Breaks into Laughter's sacred grounds, And, in contempt, plays o'er her tricks In science, trade, and politics. By why should the distemper'd scold Attempt to blacken men enroll'd In Power's dread book, whose mighty skill Can twist an empire to their will; Whose voice is fate, and on their tongue Law, liberty, and life are hung; Whom, on inquiry, Truth shall find With Stuarts link'd, time out of mind, Superior to their country's laws, Defenders of a tyrant's cause; Men, who the same damn'd maxims hold Darkly, which they avow'd of old; Who, though by different means, pursue The end which they had first in view, And, force found vain, now play their part With much less honour, much more art? Why, at the corners of the streets, 210 To every patriot drudge she meets, Known or unknown, with furious cry Should she wild clamours vent? or why, The minds of groundlings to inflame, A Dashwood, Bute, and Wyndham name? Why, having not, to our surprise, The fear of death before her eyes, Bearing, and that but now and then, No other weapon but her pen, Should she an argument afford For blood to men who wear a sword? Men, who can nicely trim and pare A point of honour to a hair-(Honour!--a word of nice import, A pretty trinket in a court, Which my lord, quite in rapture, feels Dangling and rattling with his seals-Honour!--a word which all the Nine Would be much puzzled to define-Honour!--a word which torture mocks, And might confound a thousand Lockes-Which--for I leave to wiser heads, Who fields of death prefer to beds Of down, to find out, if they can, What honour is, on their wild plan-Is not, to take it in their way, And this we sure may dare to say Without incurring an offence, Courage, law, honesty, or sense): Men, who, all spirit, life, and soul Neat butchers of a button-hole, Having more skill, believe it true That they must have more courage too: Men who, without a place or name, Their fortunes speechless as their fame, Would by the sword new fortunes carve, And rather die in fight than starve At coronations, a vast field, Which food of every kind might yield; Of good sound food, at once most fit For purposes of health and wit, Could not ambitious Satire rest, 211 Content with what she might digest? Could she not feast on things of course, A champion, or a champion's horse? A champion's horse--no, better say, Though better figured on that day, A horse, which might appear to us, Who deal in rhyme, a Pegasus; A rider, who, when once got on, Might pass for a Bellerophon, Dropt on a sudden from the skies, To catch and fix our wondering eyes, To witch, with wand instead of whip, The world with noble horsemanship, To twist and twine, both horse and man, On such a well-concerted plan, That, Centaur-like, when all was done, We scarce could think they were not one? Could she not to our itching ears Bring the new names of new-coin'd peers, Who walk'd, nobility forgot, With shoulders fitter for a knot Than robes of honour; for whose sake Heralds in form were forced to make, To make, because they could not find, Great predecessors to their mind? Could she not (though 'tis doubtful since Whether he plumber is, or prince) Tell of a simple knight's advance To be a doughty peer of France? Tell how he did a dukedom gain, And Robinson was Aquitain? Tell how her city chiefs, disgraced, Were at an empty table placed,-A gross neglect, which, whilst they live, They can't forget, and won't forgive; A gross neglect of all those rights Which march with city appetites, Of all those canons, which we find By Gluttony, time out of mind, Established, which they ever hold Dearer than any thing but gold? Thanks to my stars--I now see shore-- 212 Of courtiers, and of courts no more-Thus stumbling on my city friends, Blind Chance my guide, my purpose bends In line direct, and shall pursue The point which I had first in view, Nor more shall with the reader sport Till I have seen him safe in port. Hush'd be each fear--no more I bear Through the wide regions of the air The reader terrified, no more Wild ocean's horrid paths explore. Be the plain track from henceforth mine-Cross roads to Allen I resign; Allen, the honor of this nation; Allen, himself a corporation; Allen, of late notorious grown For writings, none, or all, his own; Allen, the first of letter'd men, Since the good Bishop holds his pen, And at his elbow takes his stand, To mend his head, and guide his hand. But hold--once more, Digression hence-Let us return to Common Sense; The car of Phoebus I discharge, My carriage now a Lord Mayor's barge. Suppose we now--we may suppose In verse, what would be sin in prose-The sky with darkness overspread, And every star retired to bed; The gewgaw robes of Pomp and Pride In some dark corner thrown aside; Great lords and ladies giving way To what they seem to scorn by day, The real feelings of the heart, And Nature taking place of Art; Desire triumphant through the night, And Beauty panting with delight; Chastity, woman's fairest crown, Till the return of morn laid down. Then to be worn again as bright As if not sullied in the night; Dull Ceremony, business o'er, 213 Dreaming in form at Cottrell's door; Precaution trudging all about To see the candles safely out, Bearing a mighty master-key, Habited like Economy, Stamping each lock with triple seals; Mean Avarice creeping at her heels. Suppose we too, like sheep in pen, The Mayor and Court of Aldermen Within their barge, which through the deep, The rowers more than half asleep, Moved slow, as overcharged with state; Thames groan'd beneath the mighty weight, And felt that bauble heavier far Than a whole fleet of men of war. Sleep o'er each well-known faithful head With liberal hand his poppies shed; Each head, by Dulness render'd fit Sleep and his empire to admit. Through the whole passage not a word, Not one faint, weak half-sound was heard; Sleep had prevail'd to overwhelm The steersman nodding o'er the helm; The rowers, without force or skill, Left the dull barge to drive at will; The sluggish oars suspended hung, And even Beardmore held his tongue. Commerce, regardful of a freight On which depended half her state, Stepp'd to the helm; with ready hand She safely clear'd that bank of sand, Where, stranded, our west-country fleet Delay and danger often meet, Till Neptune, anxious for the trade, Comes in full tides, and brings them aid. Next (for the Muses can survey Objects by night as well as day; Nothing prevents their taking aim, Darkness and light to them the same) They pass'd that building which of old Queen-mothers was design'd to hold; At present a mere lodging-pen, 214 A palace turn'd into a den; To barracks turn'd, and soldiers tread Where dowagers have laid their head. Why should we mention Surrey Street, Where every week grave judges meet All fitted out with hum and ha, In proper form to drawl out law, To see all causes duly tried 'Twixt knaves who drive, and fools who ride? Why at the Temple should we stay? What of the Temple dare we say? A dangerous ground we tread on there, And words perhaps may actions bear; Where, as the brethren of the seas For fares, the lawyers ply for fees. What of that Bridge, most wisely made To serve the purposes of trade, In the great mart of all this nation, By stopping up the navigation, And to that sand bank adding weight, Which is already much too great? What of that Bridge, which, void of sense But well supplied with impudence, Englishmen, knowing not the Guild, Thought they might have a claim to build, Till Paterson, as white as milk, As smooth as oil, as soft as silk, In solemn manner had decreed That on the other side the Tweed Art, born and bred, and fully grown, Was with one Mylne, a man unknown, But grace, preferment, and renown Deserving, just arrived in town: One Mylne, an artist perfect quite Both in his own and country's right, As fit to make a bridge as he, With glorious Patavinity, To build inscriptions worthy found To lie for ever under ground. Much more worth observation too, Was this a season to pursue The theme, our Muse might tell in rhyme: 215 The will she hath, but not the time; For, swift as shaft from Indian bow, (And when a goddess comes, we know, Surpassing Nature acts prevail. And boats want neither oar nor sail) The vessel pass'd, and reach'd the shore So quick, that Thought was scarce before. Suppose we now our City court Safely delivered at the port. And, of their state regardless quite, Landed, like smuggled goods, by night, The solemn magistrate laid down, The dignity of robe and gown, With every other ensign gone, Suppose the woollen nightcap on; The flesh-brush used, with decent state, To make the spirits circulate, (A form which, to the senses true, The lickerish chaplain uses too, Though, something to improve the plan, He takes the maid instead of man) Swathed, and with flannel cover'd o'er, To show the vigour of threescore, The vigour of threescore and ten, Above the proof of younger men, Suppose, the mighty Dulman led Betwixt two slaves, and put to bed; Suppose, the moment he lies down, No miracle in this great town, The drone as fast asleep as he Must in the course of nature be, Who, truth for our foundation take, When up, is never half awake. There let him sleep, whilst we survey The preparations for the day; That day on which was to be shown Court pride by City pride outdone. The jealous mother sends away, As only fit for childish play, That daughter who, to gall her pride, Shoots up too forward by her side. The wretch, of God and man accursed, 216 Of all Hell's instruments the worst, Draws forth his pawns, and for the day Struts in some spendthrift's vain array; Around his awkward doxy shine The treasures of Golconda's mine; Each neighbour, with a jealous glare, Beholds her folly publish'd there. Garments well saved, (an anecdote Which we can prove, or would not quote) Garments well saved, which first were made When tailors, to promote their trade, Against the Picts in arms arose, And drove them out, or made them clothes; Garments immortal, without end, Like names and titles, which descend Successively from sire to son; Garments, unless some work is done Of note, not suffer'd to appear 'Bove once at most in every year, Were now, in solemn form, laid bare, To take the benefit of air, And, ere they came to be employ'd On this solemnity, to void That scent which Russia's leather gave, From vile and impious moth to save. Each head was busy, and each heart In preparation bore a part; Running together all about The servants put each other out, Till the grave master had decreed, The more haste ever the worse speed. Miss, with her little eyes half-closed, Over a smuggled toilette dosed; The waiting-maid, whom story notes A very Scrub in petticoats, Hired for one work, but doing all, In slumbers lean'd against the wall. Milliners, summon'd from afar, Arrived in shoals at Temple Bar, Strictly commanded to import Cart loads of foppery from Court; With labour'd visible design, 217 Art strove to be superbly fine; Nature, more pleasing, though more wild, Taught otherwise her darling child, And cried, with spirited disdain, Be Hunter elegant and plain! Lo! from the chambers of the East, A welcome prelude to the feast, In saffron-colour'd robe array'd, High in a car, by Vulcan made, Who work'd for Jove himself, each steed, High-mettled, of celestial breed, Pawing and pacing all the way, Aurora brought the wish'd-for day, And held her empire, till out-run By that brave jolly groom, the Sun. The trumpet--hark! it speaks--it swells The loud full harmony; it tells The time at hand when Dulman, led By Form, his citizens must head, And march those troops, which at his call Were now assembled, to Guildhall, On matters of importance great, To court and city, church and state. From end to end the sound makes way, All hear the signal and obey; But Dulman, who, his charge forgot, By Morpheus fetter'd, heard it not; Nor could, so sound he slept and fast, Hear any trumpet, but the last. Crape, ever true and trusty known, Stole from the maid's bed to his own, Then in the spirituals of pride, Planted himself at Dulman's side. Thrice did the ever-faithful slave, With voice which might have reach'd the grave, And broke Death's adamantine chain, On Dulman call, but call'd in vain. Thrice with an arm, which might have made The Theban boxer curse his trade, The drone he shook, who rear'd the head, And thrice fell backward on his bed. What could be done? Where force hath fail'd, 218 Policy often hath prevail'd; And what--an inference most plain-Had been, Crape thought might be again. Under his pillow (still in mind The proverb kept, 'fast bind, fast find') Each blessed night the keys were laid, Which Crape to draw away assay'd. What not the power of voice or arm Could do, this did, and broke the charm; Quick started he with stupid stare, For all his little soul was there. Behold him, taken up, rubb'd down, In elbow-chair, and morning-gown; Behold him, in his latter bloom, Stripp'd, wash'd, and sprinkled with perfume; Behold him bending with the weight Of robes, and trumpery of state; Behold him (for the maxim's true, Whate'er we by another do, We do ourselves; and chaplain paid, Like slaves in every other trade, Had mutter'd over God knows what, Something which he by heart had got) Having, as usual, said his prayers, Go titter, totter to the stairs: Behold him for descent prepare, With one foot trembling in the air; He starts, he pauses on the brink, And, hard to credit, seems to think; Through his whole train (the chaplain gave The proper cue to every slave) At once, as with infection caught, Each started, paused, and aim'd at thought; He turns, and they turn; big with care, He waddles to his elbow-chair, Squats down, and, silent for a season, At last with Crape begins to reason: But first of all he made a sign, That every soul, but the divine, Should quit the room; in him, he knows, He may all confidence repose. 'Crape--though I'm yet not quite awake-- 219 Before this awful step I take, On which my future all depends, I ought to know my foes and friends. My foes and friends--observe me still-I mean not those who well or ill Perhaps may wish me, but those who Have't in their power to do it too. Now if, attentive to the state, In too much hurry to be great, Or through much zeal,--a motive, Crape, Deserving praise,--into a scrape I, like a fool, am got, no doubt I, like a wise man, should get out: Note that remark without replies; I say that to get out is wise, Or, by the very self-same rule, That to get in was like a fool. The marrow of this argument Must wholly rest on the event, And therefore, which is really hard, Against events too I must guard. Should things continue as they stand, And Bute prevail through all the land Without a rival, by his aid My fortunes in a trice are made; Nay, honours on my zeal may smile, And stamp me Earl of some great Isle: But if, a matter of much doubt, The present minister goes out, Fain would I know on what pretext I can stand fairly with the next? For as my aim, at every hour, Is to be well with those in power, And my material point of view, Whoever's in, to be in too, I should not, like a blockhead, choose To gain these, so as those to lose: 'Tis good in every case, you know, To have two strings unto our bow.' As one in wonder lost, Crape view'd His lord, who thus his speech pursued: 'This, my good Crape, is my grand point; 220 And as the times are out of joint, The greater caution is required To bring about the point desired. What I would wish to bring about Cannot admit a moment's doubt; The matter in dispute, you know, Is what we call the _Quomodo_. That be thy task.'--The reverend slave, Becoming in a moment grave, Fix'd to the ground and rooted stood, Just like a man cut out out of wood, Such as we see (without the least Reflection glancing on the priest) One or more, planted up and down, Almost in every church in town; He stood some minutes, then, like one Who wish'd the matter might be done, But could not do it, shook his head, And thus the man of sorrow said: 'Hard is this task, too hard I swear, By much too hard for me to bear; Beyond expression hard my part, Could mighty Dulman see my heart, When he, alas! makes known a will Which Crape's not able to fulfil. Was ever my obedience barr'd By any trifling nice regard To sense and honour? Could I reach Thy meaning without help of speech, At the first motion of thy eye Did not thy faithful creature fly? Have I not said, not what I ought, But what my earthly master taught? Did I e'er weigh, through duty strong, In thy great biddings, right and wrong? Did ever Interest, to whom thou Canst not with more devotion bow, Warp my sound faith, or will of mine In contradiction run to thine? Have I not, at thy table placed, When business call'd aloud for haste, Torn myself thence, yet never heard 221 To utter one complaining word, And had, till thy great work was done, All appetites, as having none? Hard is it, this great plan pursued Of voluntary servitude; Pursued without or shame, or fear, Through the great circle of the year, Now to receive, in this grand hour, Commands which lie beyond my power, Commands which baffle all my skill, And leave me nothing but my will: Be that accepted; let my lord Indulgence to his slave afford: This task, for my poor strength unfit, Will yield to none but Dulman's wit.' With such gross incense gratified, And turning up the lip of pride, 'Poor Crape'--and shook his empty head-'Poor puzzled Crape!' wise Dulman said, 'Of judgment weak, of sense confined, For things of lower note design'd; For things within the vulgar reach, To run of errands, and to preach; Well hast thou judged, that heads like mine Cannot want help from heads like thine; Well hast thou judged thyself unmeet Of such high argument to treat; Twas but to try thee that I spoke, And all I said was but a joke. Nor think a joke, Crape, a disgrace, Or to my person, or my place; The wisest of the sons of men Have deign'd to use them now and then. The only caution, do you see, Demanded by our dignity, From common use and men exempt, Is that they may not breed contempt. Great use they have, when in the hands Of one like me, who understands, Who understands the time and place, The person, manner, and the grace, Which fools neglect; so that we find, 222 If all the requisites are join'd, From whence a perfect joke must spring, A joke's a very serious thing. But to our business--my design, Which gave so rough a shock to thine, To my capacity is made As ready as a fraud in trade; Which, like broad-cloth, I can, with ease, Cut out in any shape I please. Some, in my circumstance, some few, Aye, and those men of genius too, Good men, who, without love or hate, Whether they early rise or late, With names uncrack'd, and credit sound, Rise worth a hundred thousand pound, By threadbare ways and means would try To bear their point--so will not I. New methods shall my wisdom find To suit these matters to my mind; So that the infidels at court, Who make our city wits their sport, Shall hail the honours of my reign, And own that Dulman bears a brain. Some, in my place, to gain their ends, Would give relations up, and friends; Would lend a wife, who, they might swear Safely, was none the worse for wear; Would see a daughter, yet a maid, Into a statesman's arms betray'd; Nay, should the girl prove coy, nor know What daughters to a father owe, Sooner than schemes so nobly plann'd Should fail, themselves would lend a hand; Would vote on one side, whilst a brother, Properly taught, would vote on t'other; Would every petty band forget; To public eye be with one set, In private with a second herd, And be by proxy with a third; Would, (like a queen, of whom I read, The other day--her name is fled-In a book,--where, together bound, 223 'Whittington and his Cat' I found-A tale most true, and free from art, Which all Lord Mayors should have by heart; A queen oh!--might those days begin Afresh, when queens would learn to spin-Who wrought, and wrought, but for some plot, The cause of which I've now forgot, During the absence of the sun Undid what she by day had done) Whilst they a double visage wear, What's sworn by day, by night unswear. Such be their arts, and such, perchance, May happily their ends advance; Prom a new system mine shall spring, A _locum tenens_ is the thing. That's your true plan. To obligate The present ministers of state, My shadow shall our court approach, And bear my power, and have my coach; My fine state-coach, superb to view, A fine state-coach, and paid for too. To curry favour, and the grace Obtain of those who're out of place; In the mean time I--that's to say, I proper, I myself--here stay. But hold--perhaps unto the nation, Who hate the Scot's administration, To lend my coach may seem to be Declaring for the ministry, For where the city-coach is, there Is the true essence of the Mayor: Therefore (for wise men are intent Evils at distance to prevent, Whilst fools the evils first endure, And then are plagued to seek a cure) No coach--a horse--and free from fear, To make our Deputy appear, Fast on his back shall he be tied, With two grooms marching by his side; Then for a horse--through all the land, To head our solemn city-band, Can any one so fit be found 224 As he who in Artillery-ground, Without a rider, (noble sight!) Led on our bravest troops to fight? But first, Crape, for my honour's sake-A tender point--inquiry make About that horse, if the dispute Is ended, or is still in suit: For whilst a cause, (observe this plan Of justice) whether horse or man The parties be, remains in doubt, Till 'tis determined out and out, That power must tyranny appear Which should, prejudging, interfere, And weak, faint judges overawe, To bias the free course of law. You have my will--now quickly run, And take care that my will be done. In public, Crape, you must appear, Whilst I in privacy sit here; Here shall great Dulman sit alone, Making this elbow-chair my throne, And you, performing what I bid, Do all, as if I nothing did.' Crape heard, and speeded on his way; With him to hear was to obey; Not without trouble, be assured, A proper proxy was procured To serve such infamous intent, And such a lord to represent; Nor could one have been found at all On t'other side of London Wall. The trumpet sounds--solemn and slow Behold the grand procession go, All moving on, cat after kind, As if for motion ne'er design'd. Constables, whom the laws admit To keep the peace by breaking it; Beadles, who hold the second place By virtue of a silver mace, Which every Saturday is drawn, For use of Sunday, out of pawn; Treasurers, who with empty key 225 Secure an empty treasury; Churchwardens, who their course pursue In the same state, as to their pew Churchwardens of St Margaret's go, Since Peirson taught them pride and show, Who in short transient pomp appear, Like almanacs changed every year; Behind whom, with unbroken locks, Charity carries the poor's box, Not knowing that with private keys They ope and shut it when they please: Overseers, who by frauds ensure The heavy curses of the poor; Unclean came flocking, bulls and bears, Like beasts into the ark, by pairs. Portentous, flaming in the van, Stalk'd the professor, Sheridan, A man of wire, a mere pantine, A downright animal machine; He knows alone, in proper mode, How to take vengeance on an ode, And how to butcher Ammon's son And poor Jack Dryden both in one: On all occasions next the chair He stands, for service of the Mayor, And to instruct him how to use His A's and B's, and P's and Q's: O'er letters, into tatters worn, O'er syllables, defaced and torn, O'er words disjointed, and o'er sense, Left destitute of all defence, He strides, and all the way he goes Wades, deep in blood, o'er Criss-cross-rows: Before him every consonant In agonies is seen to pant; Behind, in forms not to be known, The ghosts of tortured vowels groan. Next Hart and Duke, well worthy grace And city favour, came in place; No children can their toils engage, Their toils are turn'd to reverend age; When a court dame, to grace his brows 226 Resolved, is wed to city-spouse, Their aid with madam's aid must join, The awkward dotard to refine, And teach, whence truest glory flows, Grave sixty to turn out his toes. Each bore in hand a kit; and each To show how fit he was to teach A cit, an alderman, a mayor, Led in a string a dancing bear. Since the revival of Fingal, Custom, and custom's all in all, Commands that we should have regard, On all high seasons, to the bard. Great acts like these, by vulgar tongue Profaned, should not be said, but sung. This place to fill, renown'd in fame, The high and mighty Lockman came, And, ne'er forgot in Dulman's reign, With proper order to maintain The uniformity of pride, Brought Brother Whitehead by his side. On horse, who proudly paw'd the ground, And cast his fiery eyeballs round, Snorting, and champing the rude bit, As if, for warlike purpose fit, His high and generous blood disdain'd, To be for sports and pastimes rein'd, Great Dymock, in his glorious station, Paraded at the coronation. Not so our city Dymock came, Heavy, dispirited, and tame; No mark of sense, his eyes half-closed, He on a mighty dray-horse dozed: Fate never could a horse provide So fit for such a man to ride, Nor find a man with strictest care, So fit for such a horse to bear. Hung round with instruments of death, The sight of him would stop the breath Of braggart Cowardice, and make The very court Drawcansir quake; With dirks, which, in the hands of Spite, 227 Do their damn'd business in the night, From Scotland sent, but here display'd Only to fill up the parade; With swords, unflesh'd, of maiden hue, Which rage or valour never drew; With blunderbusses, taught to ride Like pocket-pistols, by his side, In girdle stuck, he seem'd to be A little moving armoury. One thing much wanting to complete The sight, and make a perfect treat, Was, that the horse, (a courtesy In horses found of high degree) Instead of going forward on, All the way backward should have gone. Horses, unless they breeding lack, Some scruple make to turn their back, Though riders, which plain truth declares, No scruple make of turning theirs. Far, far apart from all the rest, Fit only for a standing jest, The independent, (can you get A better suited epithet?) The independent Amyand came, All burning with the sacred flame Of Liberty, which well he knows On the great stock of Slavery grows; Like sparrow, who, deprived of mate, Snatch'd by the cruel hand of Fate, From spray to spray no more will hop, But sits alone on the house-top; Or like himself, when all alone At Croydon he was heard to groan, Lifting both hands in the defence Of interest, and common sense; Both hands, for as no other man Adopted and pursued his plan, The left hand had been lonesome quite, If he had not held up the right; Apart he came, and fix'd his eyes With rapture on a distant prize, On which, in letters worthy note, 228 There 'twenty thousand pounds' was wrote. False trap, for credit sapp'd is found By getting twenty thousand pound: Nay, look not thus on me, and stare, Doubting the certainty--to swear In such a case I should be loth-But Perry Cust may take his oath. In plain and decent garb array'd, With the prim Quaker, Fraud, came Trade; Connivance, to improve the plan, Habited like a juryman, Judging as interest prevails, Came next, with measures, weights, and scales; Extortion next, of hellish race A cub most damn'd, to show his face Forbid by fear, but not by shame, Turn'd to a Jew, like Gideon came; Corruption, Midas-like, behold Turning whate'er she touch'd to gold; Impotence, led by Lust, and Pride, Strutting with Ponton by her side; Hypocrisy, demure and sad, In garments of the priesthood clad, So well disguised, that you might swear, Deceived, a very priest was there; Bankruptcy, full of ease and health, And wallowing in well-saved wealth, Came sneering through a ruin'd band, And bringing B---- in her hand; Victory, hanging down her head, Was by a Highland stallion led; Peace, clothed in sables, with a face Which witness'd sense of huge disgrace, Which spake a deep and rooted shame Both of herself and of her name, Mourning creeps on, and, blushing, feels War, grim War, treading on her heels; Pale Credit, shaken by the arts Of men with bad heads and worse hearts, Taking no notice of a band Which near her were ordain'd to stand, Well-nigh destroyed by sickly fit, 229 Look'd wistful all around for Pitt; Freedom--at that most hallow'd name My spirits mount into a flame, Each pulse beats high, and each nerve strains, Even to the cracking; through my veins The tides of life more rapid run, And tell me I am Freedom's son-Freedom came next, but scarce was seen, When the sky, which appear'd serene And gay before, was overcast; Horror bestrode a foreign blast, And from the prison of the North, To Freedom deadly, storms burst forth. A car like those, in which, we're told, Our wild forefathers warr'd of old, Loaded with death, six horses bear Through the blank region of the air. Too fierce for time or art to tame, They pour'd forth mingled smoke and flame From their wide nostrils; every steed Was of that ancient savage breed Which fell Geryon nursed; their food The flesh of man, their drink his blood. On the first horses, ill-match'd pair, This fat and sleek, that lean and bare, Came ill-match'd riders side by side, And Poverty was yoked with Pride; Union most strange it must appear, Till other unions make it clear. Next, in the gall of bitterness, With rage which words can ill express, With unforgiving rage, which springs From a false zeal for holy things, Wearing such robes as prophets wear, False prophets placed in Peter's chair, On which, in characters of fire, Shapes antic, horrible, and dire Inwoven flamed, where, to the view, In groups appear'd a rabble crew Of sainted devils; where, all round, Vile relics of vile men were found, Who, worse than devils, from the birth 230 Perform'd the work of hell on earth, Jugglers, Inquisitors, and Popes, Pointing at axes, wheels, and ropes, And engines, framed on horrid plan, Which none but the destroyer, Man, Could, to promote his selfish views, Have head to make or heart to use, Bearing, to consecrate her tricks, In her left hand a crucifix, 'Remembrance of our dying Lord,' And in her right a two-edged sword, Having her brows, in impious sport, Adorn'd with words of high import, 'On earth peace, amongst men good will, Love bearing and forbearing still,' All wrote in the hearts' blood of those Who rather death than falsehood chose: On her breast, (where, in days of yore, When God loved Jews, the High Priest wore Those oracles which were decreed To instruct and guide the chosen seed) Having with glory clad and strength, The Virgin pictured at full length, Whilst at her feet, in small pourtray'd, As scarce worth notice, Christ was laid,-Came Superstition, fierce and fell, An imp detested, e'en in hell; Her eye inflamed, her face all o'er Foully besmear'd with human gore, O'er heaps of mangled saints she rode; Fast at her heels Death proudly strode, And grimly smiled, well pleased to see Such havoc of mortality; Close by her side, on mischief bent, And urging on each bad intent To its full bearing, savage, wild, The mother fit of such a child, Striving the empire to advance Of Sin and Death, came Ignorance. With looks, where dread command was placed, And sovereign power by pride disgraced, Where, loudly witnessing a mind 231 Of savage, more than human kind, Not choosing to be loved, but fear'd, Mocking at right, Misrule appear'd. With eyeballs glaring fiery red, Enough to strike beholders dead, Gnashing his teeth, and in a flood Pouring corruption forth and blood From his chafed jaws; without remorse Whipping and spurring on his horse, Whose sides, in their own blood embay'd, E'en to the bone were open laid, Came Tyranny, disdaining awe, And trampling over Sense and Law; One thing, and only one, he knew, One object only would pursue; Though less (so low doth passion bring) Than man, he would be more than king. With every argument and art Which might corrupt the head and heart, Soothing the frenzy of his mind, Companion meet, was Flattery join'd; Winning his carriage, every look Employed, whilst it conceal'd a hook; When simple most, most to be fear'd; Most crafty, when no craft appear'd; His tales, no man like him could tell; His words, which melted as they fell, Might even a hypocrite deceive, And make an infidel believe, Wantonly cheating o'er and o'er Those who had cheated been before:-Such Flattery came, in evil hour, Poisoning the royal ear of Power, And, grown by prostitution great, Would be first minister of state. Within the chariot, all alone, High seated on a kind of throne, With pebbles graced, a figure came, Whom Justice would, but dare not name. Hard times when Justice, without fear, Dare not bring forth to public ear The names of those who dare offend 232 'Gainst Justice, and pervert her end! But, if the Muse afford me grace, Description shall supply the place. In foreign garments he was clad; Sage ermine o'er the glossy plaid Cast reverend honour; on his heart, Wrought by the curious hand of Art, In silver wrought, and brighter far Than heavenly or than earthly star, Shone a White Rose, the emblem dear Of him he ever must revere; Of that dread lord, who, with his host Of faithful native rebels lost, Like those black spirits doom'd to hell, At once from power and virtue fell: Around his clouded brows was placed A bonnet, most superbly graced With mighty thistles, nor forgot The sacred motto--'Touch me not.' In the right hand a sword he bore Harder than adamant, and more Fatal than winds, which from the mouth Of the rough North invade the South; The reeking blade to view presents The blood of helpless innocents, And on the hilt, as meek become As lamb before the shearers dumb, With downcast eye, and solemn show Of deep, unutterable woe, Mourning the time when Freedom reign'd, Fast to a rock was Justice chain'd. In his left hand, in wax impress'd, With bells and gewgaws idly dress'd, An image, cast in baby mould, He held, and seem'd o'erjoy'd to hold On this he fix'd his eyes; to this, Bowing, he gave the loyal kiss, And, for rebellion fully ripe, Seem'd to desire the antitype. What if to that Pretender's foes His greatness, nay, his life, he owes; Shall common obligations bind, 233 And shake his constancy of mind? Scorning such weak and petty chains, Faithful to James he still remains, Though he the friend of George appear: Dissimulation's virtue here. Jealous and mean, he with a frown Would awe, and keep all merit down, Nor would to Truth and Justice bend, Unless out-bullied by his friend: Brave with the coward, with the brave He is himself a coward slave: Awed by his fears, he has no heart To take a great and open part: Mines in a subtle train he springs, And, secret, saps the ears of kings; But not e'en there continues firm 'Gainst the resistance of a worm: Born in a country, where the will Of one is law to all, he still Retain'd the infection, with full aim To spread it wheresoe'er he came; Freedom he hated, Law defied, The prostitute of Power and Pride; Law he with ease explains away, And leads bewilder'd Sense astray; Much to the credit of his brain, Puzzles the cause he can't maintain; Proceeds on most familiar grounds, And where he can't convince, confounds; Talents of rarest stamp and size, To Nature false, he misapplies, And turns to poison what was sent For purposes of nourishment. Paleness, not such as on his wings The messenger of Sickness brings, But such as takes its coward rise From conscious baseness, conscious vice, O'erspread his cheeks; Disdain and Pride, To upstart fortunes ever tied, Scowl'd on his brow; within his eye, Insidious, lurking like a spy, To Caution principled by Fear, 234 Not daring open to appear, Lodged covert Mischief; Passion hung On his lip quivering; on his tongue Fraud dwelt at large; within his breast All that makes villain found a nest; All that, on Hell's completest plan, E'er join'd to damn the heart of man. Soon as the car reach'd land, he rose, And, with a look which might have froze The heart's best blood, which was enough Had hearts been made of sterner stuff In cities than elsewhere, to make The very stoutest quail and quake, He cast his baleful eyes around: Fix'd without motion to the ground, Fear waiting on Surprise, all stood, And horror chill'd their curdled blood; No more they thought of pomp, no more (For they had seen his face before) Of law they thought; the cause forgot, Whether it was or ghost, or plot, Which drew them there: they all stood more Like statues than they were before. What could be done? Could Art, could Force. Or both, direct a proper course To make this savage monster tame, Or send him back the way he came? What neither art, nor force, nor both, Could do, a Lord of foreign growth, A Lord to that base wretch allied In country, not in vice and pride, Effected; from the self-same land, (Bad news for our blaspheming band Of scribblers, but deserving note) The poison came and antidote. Abash'd, the monster hung his head, And like an empty vision fled; His train, like virgin snows, which run, Kiss'd by the burning bawdy sun, To love-sick streams, dissolved in air; Joy, who from absence seem'd more fair, Came smiling, freed from slavish Awe; 235 Loyalty, Liberty, and Law, Impatient of the galling chain, And yoke of Power, resumed their reign; And, burning with the glorious flame Of public virtue, Mansfield came. ~ Charles Churchill,

121:Obiit Mdcccxxxiii (Entire) Strong Son of God, immortal Love, Whom we, that have not seen thy face, By faith, and faith alone, embrace, Believing where we cannot prove; Thine are these orbs of light and shade; Thou madest Life in man and brute; Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot Is on the skull which thou hast made. Thou wilt not leave us in the dust: Thou madest man, he knows not why, He thinks he was not made to die; And thou hast made him: thou art just. Thou seemest human and divine, The highest, holiest manhood, thou: Our wills are ours, we know not how; Our wills are ours, to make them thine. Our little systems have their day; They have their day and cease to be: They are but broken lights of thee, And thou, O Lord, art more than they. We have but faith: we cannot know; For knowledge is of things we see; And yet we trust it comes from thee, A beam in darkness: let it grow. Let knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell; That mind and soul, according well, May make one music as before, But vaster. We are fools and slight; We mock thee when we do not fear: But help thy foolish ones to bear; Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light. 414 Forgive what seem’d my sin in me; What seem’d my worth since I began; For merit lives from man to man, And not from man, O Lord, to thee. Forgive my grief for one removed, Thy creature, whom I found so fair. I trust he lives in thee, and there I find him worthier to be loved. Forgive these wild and wandering cries, Confusions of a wasted youth; Forgive them where they fail in truth, And in thy wisdom make me wise. I. I held it truth, with him who sings To one clear harp in divers tones, That men may rise on stepping-stones Of their dead selves to higher things. But who shall so forecast the years And find in loss a gain to match? Or reach a hand thro’ time to catch The far-off interest of tears? Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown’d, Let darkness keep her raven gloss: Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss, To dance with death, to beat the ground, Than that the victor Hours should scorn The long result of love, and boast, ‘Behold the man that loved and lost, But all he was is overworn.’ II. 415 Old Yew, which graspest at the stones That name the under-lying dead, Thy fibres net the dreamless head, Thy roots are wrapt about the bones. The seasons bring the flower again, And bring the firstling to the flock; And in the dusk of thee, the clock Beats out the little lives of men. O not for thee the glow, the bloom, Who changest not in any gale, Nor branding summer suns avail To touch thy thousand years of gloom: And gazing on thee, sullen tree, Sick for thy stubborn hardihood, I seem to fail from out my blood And grow incorporate into thee. III. O Sorrow, cruel fellowship, O Priestess in the vaults of Death, O sweet and bitter in a breath, What whispers from thy lying lip? ‘The stars,’ she whispers, ‘blindly run; A web is wov’n across the sky; From out waste places comes a cry, And murmurs from the dying sun: ‘And all the phantom, Nature, stands– With all the music in her tone, A hollow echo of my own,– A hollow form with empty hands.’ And shall I take a thing so blind, Embrace her as my natural good; Or crush her, like a vice of blood, Upon the threshold of the mind? 416 IV. To Sleep I give my powers away; My will is bondsman to the dark; I sit within a helmless bark, And with my heart I muse and say: O heart, how fares it with thee now, That thou should’st fail from thy desire, Who scarcely darest to inquire, ‘What is it makes me beat so low?’ Something it is which thou hast lost, Some pleasure from thine early years. Break, thou deep vase of chilling tears, That grief hath shaken into frost! Such clouds of nameless trouble cross All night below the darken’d eyes; With morning wakes the will, and cries, ‘Thou shalt not be the fool of loss.’ V. I sometimes hold it half a sin To put in words the grief I feel; For words, like Nature, half reveal And half conceal the Soul within. But, for the unquiet heart and brain, A use in measured language lies; The sad mechanic exercise, Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. In words, like weeds, I’ll wrap me o’er, Like coarsest clothes against the cold: But that large grief which these enfold Is given in outline and no more. 417 VI. One writes, that ‘Other friends remain,’ That ‘Loss is common to the race’– And common is the commonplace, And vacant chaff well meant for grain. That loss is common would not make My own less bitter, rather more: Too common! Never morning wore To evening, but some heart did break. O father, wheresoe’er thou be, Who pledgest now thy gallant son; A shot, ere half thy draught be done, Hath still’d the life that beat from thee. O mother, praying God will save Thy sailor,–while thy head is bow’d, His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud Drops in his vast and wandering grave. Ye know no more than I who wrought At that last hour to please him well; Who mused on all I had to tell, And something written, something thought; Expecting still his advent home; And ever met him on his way With wishes, thinking, ‘here to-day,’ Or ‘here to-morrow will he come.’ O somewhere, meek, unconscious dove, That sittest ranging golden hair; And glad to find thyself so fair, Poor child, that waitest for thy love! For now her father’s chimney glows In expectation of a guest; And thinking ‘this will please him best,’ She takes a riband or a rose; 418 For he will see them on to-night; And with the thought her colour burns; And, having left the glass, she turns Once more to set a ringlet right; And, even when she turn’d, the curse Had fallen, and her future Lord Was drown’d in passing thro’ the ford, Or kill’d in falling from his horse. O what to her shall be the end? And what to me remains of good? To her, perpetual maidenhood, And unto me no second friend. VII. Dark house, by which once more I stand Here in the long unlovely street, Doors, where my heart was used to beat So quickly, waiting for a hand, A hand that can be clasp’d no more– Behold me, for I cannot sleep, And like a guilty thing I creep At earliest morning to the door. He is not here; but far away The noise of life begins again, And ghastly thro’ the drizzling rain On the bald street breaks the blank day. VIII. A happy lover who has come To look on her that loves him well, Who ’lights and rings the gateway bell, And learns her gone and far from home; 419 He saddens, all the magic light Dies off at once from bower and hall, And all the place is dark, and all The chambers emptied of delight: So find I every pleasant spot In which we two were wont to meet, The field, the chamber and the street, For all is dark where thou art not. Yet as that other, wandering there In those deserted walks, may find A flower beat with rain and wind, Which once she foster'd up with care; So seems it in my deep regret, O my forsaken heart, with thee And this poor flower of poesy Which little cared for fades not yet. But since it pleased a vanish’d eye, I go to plant it on his tomb, That if it can it there may bloom, Or dying, there at least may die. IX. Fair ship, that from the Italian shore Sailest the placid ocean-plains With my lost Arthur’s loved remains, Spread thy full wings, and waft him o’er. So draw him home to those that mourn In vain; a favourable speed Ruffle thy mirror’d mast, and lead Thro’ prosperous floods his holy urn. All night no ruder air perplex Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright As our pure love, thro’ early light Shall glimmer on the dewy decks. 420 Sphere all your lights around, above; Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow; Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now, My friend, the brother of my love; My Arthur, whom I shall not see Till all my widow’d race be run; Dear as the mother to the son, More than my brothers are to me. X. I hear the noise about thy keel; I hear the bell struck in the night: I see the cabin-window bright; I see the sailor at the wheel. Thou bring’st the sailor to his wife, And travell’d men from foreign lands; And letters unto trembling hands; And, thy dark freight, a vanish’d life. So bring him: we have idle dreams: This look of quiet flatters thus Our home-bred fancies: O to us, The fools of habit, sweeter seems To rest beneath the clover sod, That takes the sunshine and the rains, Or where the kneeling hamlet drains The chalice of the grapes of God; Than if with thee the roaring wells Should gulf him fathom-deep in brine; And hands so often clasp’d in mine, Should toss with tangle and with shells. XI. 421 Calm is the morn without a sound, Calm as to suit a calmer grief, And only thro’ the faded leaf The chestnut pattering to the ground: Calm and deep peace on this high wold, And on these dews that drench the furze, And all the silvery gossamers That twinkle into green and gold: Calm and still light on yon great plain That sweeps with all its autumn bowers, And crowded farms and lessening towers, To mingle with the bounding main: Calm and deep peace in this wide air, These leaves that redden to the fall; And in my heart, if calm at all, If any calm, a calm despair: Calm on the seas, and silver sleep, And waves that sway themselves in rest, And dead calm in that noble breast Which heaves but with the heaving deep. XII. Lo, as a dove when up she springs To bear thro’ Heaven a tale of woe, Some dolorous message knit below The wild pulsation of her wings; Like her I go; I cannot stay; I leave this mortal ark behind, A weight of nerves without a mind, And leave the cliffs, and haste away O’er ocean-mirrors rounded large, And reach the glow of southern skies, And see the sails at distance rise, And linger weeping on the marge, 422 And saying; ‘Comes he thus, my friend? Is this the end of all my care?’ And circle moaning in the air: ‘Is this the end? Is this the end?’ And forward dart again, and play About the prow, and back return To where the body sits, and learn That I have been an hour away. XIII. Tears of the widower, when he sees A late-lost form that sleep reveals, And moves his doubtful arms, and feels Her place is empty, fall like these; Which weep a loss for ever new, A void where heart on heart reposed; And, where warm hands have prest and closed, Silence, till I be silent too. Which weeps the comrade of my choice, An awful thought, a life removed, The human-hearted man I loved, A Spirit, not a breathing voice. Come Time, and teach me, many years, I do not suffer in a dream; For now so strange do these things seem, Mine eyes have leisure for their tears; My fancies time to rise on wing, And glance about the approaching sails, As tho’ they brought but merchants’ bales, And not the burthen that they bring. XIV. 423 If one should bring me this report, That thou hadst touch’d the land to-day, And I went down unto the quay, And found thee lying in the port; And standing, muffled round with woe, Should see thy passengers in rank Come stepping lightly down the plank, And beckoning unto those they know; And if along with these should come The man I held as half-divine; Should strike a sudden hand in mine, And ask a thousand things of home; And And And And I should tell him all my pain, how my life had droop’d of late, he should sorrow o’er my state marvel what possess’d my brain; And I perceived no touch of change, No hint of death in all his frame, But found him all in all the same, I should not feel it to be strange. XV. To-night the winds begin to rise And roar from yonder dropping day: The last red leaf is whirl’d away, The rooks are blown about the skies; The forest crack’d, the waters curl’d, The cattle huddled on the lea; And wildly dash’d on tower and tree The sunbeam strikes along the world: And but for fancies, which aver That all thy motions gently pass Athwart a plane of molten glass, I scarce could brook the strain and stir 424 That makes the barren branches loud; And but for fear it is not so, The wild unrest that lives in woe Would dote and pore on yonder cloud That rises upward always higher, And onward drags a labouring breast, And topples round the dreary west, A looming bastion fringed with fire. XVI. What words are these have fall’n from me? Can calm despair and wild unrest Be tenants of a single breast, Or sorrow such a changeling be? Or doth she only seem to take The touch of change in calm or storm; But knows no more of transient form In her deep self, than some dead lake That holds the shadow of a lark Hung in the shadow of a heaven? Or has the shock, so harshly given, Confused me like the unhappy bark That strikes by night a craggy shelf, And staggers blindly ere she sink? And stunn’d me from my power to think And all my knowledge of myself; And made me that delirious man Whose fancy fuses old and new, And flashes into false and true, And mingles all without a plan? XVII. 425 Thou comest, much wept for: such a breeze Compell’d thy canvas, and my prayer Was as the whisper of an air To breathe thee over lonely seas. For I in spirit saw thee move Thro’ circles of the bounding sky, Week after week: the days go by: Come quick, thou bringest all I love. Henceforth, wherever thou may’st roam, My blessing, like a line of light, Is on the waters day and night, And like a beacon guards thee home. So may whatever tempest mars Mid-ocean, spare thee, sacred bark; And balmy drops in summer dark Slide from the bosom of the stars. So kind an office hath been done, Such precious relics brought by thee; The dust of him I shall not see Till all my widow’d race be run. XVIII. ’Tis well; ’tis something; we may stand Where he in English earth is laid, And from his ashes may be made The violet of his native land. ’Tis little; but it looks in truth As if the quiet bones were blest Among familiar names to rest And in the places of his youth. Come then, pure hands, and bear the head That sleeps or wears the mask of sleep, And come, whatever loves to weep, And hear the ritual of the dead. 426 Ah yet, ev’n yet, if this might be, I, falling on his faithful heart, Would breathing thro’ his lips impart The life that almost dies in me; That dies not, but endures with pain, And slowly forms the the firmer mind, Treasuring the look it cannot find, The words that are not heard again. XIX. The Danube to the Severn gave The darken’d heart that beat no more; They laid him by the pleasant shore, And in the hearing of the wave. There twice a day the Severn fills; That salt sea-water passes by, And hushes half the babbling Wye, And makes a silence in the hills. The Wye is hush’d nor moved along, And hush’d my deepest grief of all, When fill’d with tears that cannot fall, I brim with sorrow drowning song. The tide flows down, the wave again Is vocal in its wooded walls; My deeper anguish also falls, And I can speak a little then. XX. The lesser griefs that may be said, That breathe a thousand tender vows, Are but as servants in a house Where lies the master newly dead; 427 Who speak their feeling as it is, And weep the fulness from the mind: ‘It will be hard,’ they say, ‘to find Another service such as this.’ My lighter moods are like to these, That out of words a comfort win; But there are other griefs within, And tears that at their fountain freeze; For by the hearth the children sit Cold in that atmosphere of Death, And scarce endure to draw the breath, Or like to noiseless phantoms flit: But open converse is there none, So much the vital spirits sink To see the vacant chair, and think, ‘How good! how kind! and he is gone.’ XXI. I sing to him that rests below, And, since the grasses round me wave, I take the grasses of the grave, And make them pipes whereon to blow. The traveller hears me now and then, And sometimes harshly will he speak: ‘This fellow would make weakness weak, And melt the waxen hearts of men.’ Another answers, ‘Let him be, He loves to make parade of pain, That with his piping he may gain The praise that comes to constancy.’ A third is wroth: ‘Is this an hour For private sorrow’s barren song, When more and more the people throng The chairs and thrones of civil power? 428 ‘A time to sicken and to swoon, When Science reaches forth her arms To feel from world to world, and charms Her secret from the latest moon?’ Behold, ye speak an idle thing: Ye never knew the sacred dust: I do but sing because I must, And pipe but as the linnets sing: And one is glad; her note is gay, For now her little ones have ranged; And one is sad; her note is changed, Because her brood is stol’n away. XXII. The path by which we twain did go, Which led by tracts that pleased us well, Thro’ four sweet years arose and fell, From flower to flower, from snow to snow: And we with singing cheer’d the way, And, crown’d with all the season lent, From April on to April went, And glad at heart from May to May: But where the path we walk’d began To slant the fifth autumnal slope, As we descended following Hope, There sat the Shadow fear’d of man; Who broke our fair companionship, And spread his mantle dark and cold, And wrapt thee formless in the fold, And dull’d the murmur on thy lip, And bore thee where I could not see Nor follow, tho’ I walk in haste, And think, that somewhere in the waste 429 The Shadow sits and waits for me. XXIII. Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut, Or breaking into song by fits, Alone, alone, to where he sits, The Shadow cloak’d from head to foot, Who keeps the keys of all the creeds, I wander, often falling lame, And looking back to whence I came, Or on to where the pathway leads; And crying, How changed from where it ran Thro’ lands where not a leaf was dumb; But all the lavish hills would hum The murmur of a happy Pan: When each by turns was guide to each, And Fancy light from Fancy caught, And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech; And all we met was fair and good, And all was good that Time could bring, And all the secret of the Spring Moved in the chambers of the blood; And many an old philosophy On Argive heights divinely sang, And round us all the thicket rang To many a flute of Arcady. XXIV. And was the day of my delight As pure and perfect as I say? The very source and fount of Day 430 Is dash’d with wandering isles of night. If all was good and fair we met, This earth had been the Paradise It never look’d to human eyes Since our first Sun arose and set. And is it that the haze of grief Makes former gladness loom so great? The lowness of the present state, That sets the past in this relief? Or that the past will always win A glory from its being far; And orb into the perfect star We saw not, when we moved therein? XXV. I know that this was Life,–the track Whereon with equal feet we fared; And then, as now, the day prepared The daily burden for the back. But this it was that made me move As light as carrier-birds in air; I loved the weight I had to bear, Because it needed help of Love: Nor could I weary, heart or limb, When mighty Love would cleave in twain The lading of a single pain, And part it, giving half to him. XXVI. Still onward winds the dreary way; I with it; for I long to prove No lapse of moons can canker Love, Whatever fickle tongues may say. 431 And if that eye which watches guilt And goodness, and hath power to see Within the green the moulder’d tree, And towers fall’n as soon as built– Oh, if indeed that eye foresee Or see (in Him is no before) In more of life true life no more And Love the indifference to be, Then might I find, ere yet the morn Breaks hither over Indian seas, That Shadow waiting with the keys, To shroud me from my proper scorn. XXVII. I envy not in any moods The captive void of noble rage, The linnet born within the cage, That never knew the summer woods: I envy not the beast that takes His license in the field of time, Unfetter’d by the sense of crime, To whom a conscience never wakes; Nor, what may count itself as blest, The heart that never plighted troth But stagnates in the weeds of sloth; Nor any want-begotten rest. I hold it true, whate’er befall; I feel it, when I sorrow most; ’Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all. XXVIII. 432 The time draws near the birth of Christ: The moon is hid; the night is still; The Christmas bells from hill to hill Answer each other in the mist. Four voices of four hamlets round, From far and near, on mead and moor, Swell out and fail, as if a door Were shut between me and the sound: Each voice four changes on the wind, That now dilate, and now decrease, Peace and goodwill, goodwill and peace, Peace and goodwill, to all mankind. This year I slept and woke with pain, I almost wish’d no more to wake, And that my hold on life would break Before I heard those bells again: But they my troubled spirit rule, For they controll’d me when a boy; They bring me sorrow touch’d with joy, The merry merry bells of Yule. XXIX. With such compelling cause to grieve As daily vexes household peace, And chains regret to his decease, How dare we keep our Christmas-eve; Which brings no more a welcome guest To enrich the threshold of the night With shower’d largess of delight In dance and song and game and jest? Yet go, and while the holly boughs Entwine the cold baptismal font, Make one wreath more for Use and Wont, That guard the portals of the house; 433 Old sisters of a day gone by, Gray nurses, loving nothing new; Why should they miss their yearly due Before their time? They too will die. XXX. With trembling fingers did we weave The holly round the Christmas hearth; A rainy cloud possess’d the earth, And sadly fell our Christmas-eve. At our old pastimes in the hall We gambol’d, making vain pretence Of gladness, with an awful sense Of one mute Shadow watching all. We paused: the winds were in the beech: We heard them sweep the winter land; And in a circle hand-in-hand Sat silent, looking each at each. Then echo-like our voices rang; We sung, tho’ every eye was dim, A merry song we sang with him Last year: impetuously we sang: We ceased: a gentler feeling crept Upon us: surely rest is meet: ‘They rest,’ we said, ‘their sleep is sweet,’ And silence follow’d, and we wept. Our voices took a higher range; Once more we sang: ‘They do not die Nor lose their mortal sympathy, Nor change to us, although they change; ‘Rapt from the fickle and the frail With gather’d power, yet the same, Pierces the keen seraphic flame From orb to orb, from veil to veil.’ 434 Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn, Draw forth the cheerful day from night: O Father, touch the east, and light The light that shone when Hope was born. XXXI. When Lazarus left his charnel-cave, And home to Mary’s house return’d, Was this demanded–if he yearn’d To hear her weeping by his grave? ‘Where wert thou, brother, those four days?’ There lives no record of reply, Which telling what it is to die Had surely added praise to praise. From every house the neighbours met, The streets were fill’d with joyful sound, A solemn gladness even crown’d The purple brows of Olivet. Behold a man raised up by Christ! The rest remaineth unreveal’d; He told it not; or something seal’d The lips of that Evangelist. XXXII. Her eyes are homes of silent prayer, Nor other thought her mind admits But, he was dead, and there he sits, And he that brought him back is there. Then one deep love doth supersede All other, when her ardent gaze Roves from the living brother’s face, And rests upon the Life indeed. 435 All subtle thought, all curious fears, Borne down by gladness so complete, She bows, she bathes the Saviour’s feet With costly spikenard and with tears. Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers, Whose loves in higher love endure; What souls possess themselves so pure, Or is there blessedness like theirs? XXXIII. O thou that after toil and storm Mayst seem to have reach’d a purer air, Whose faith has centre everywhere, Nor cares to fix itself to form, Leave thou thy sister when she prays, Her early Heaven, her happy views; Nor thou with shadow’d hint confuse A life that leads melodious days. Her faith thro’ form is pure as thine, Her hands are quicker unto good: Oh, sacred be the flesh and blood To which she links a truth divine! See thou, that countest reason ripe In holding by the law within, Thou fail not in a world of sin, And ev’n for want of such a type. XXXIV. My own dim life should teach me this, That life shall live for evermore, Else earth is darkness at the core, And dust and ashes all that is; This round of green, this orb of flame, 436 Fantastic beauty; such as lurks In some wild Poet, when he works Without a conscience or an aim. What then were God to such as I? ’Twere hardly worth my while to choose Of things all mortal, or to use A little patience ere I die; ’Twere best at once to sink to peace, Like birds the charming serpent draws, To drop head-foremost in the jaws Of vacant darkness and to cease. XXXV. Yet if some voice that man could trust Should murmur from the narrow house, ‘The cheeks drop in; the body bows; Man dies: nor is there hope in dust:’ Might I not say? ‘Yet even here, But for one hour, O Love, I strive To keep so sweet a thing alive:’ But I should turn mine ears and hear The moanings of the homeless sea, The sound of streams that swift or slow Draw down Æonian hills, and sow The dust of continents to be; And Love would answer with a sigh, ‘The sound of that forgetful shore Will change my sweetness more and more, Half-dead to know that I shall die.’ O me, what profits it to put And idle case? If Death were seen At first as Death, Love had not been, Or been in narrowest working shut, 437 Mere fellowship of sluggish moods, Or in his coarsest Satyr-shape Had bruised the herb and crush’d the grape, And bask’d and batten’d in the woods. XXXVI. Tho’ truths in manhood darkly join, Deep-seated in our mystic frame, We yield all blessing to the name Of Him that made them current coin; For Wisdom dealt with mortal powers, Where truth in closest words shall fail, When truth embodied in a tale Shall enter in at lowly doors. And so the Word had breath, and wrought With human hands the creed of creeds In loveliness of perfect deeds, More strong than all poetic thought; Which he may read that binds the sheaf, Or builds the house, or digs the grave, And those wild eyes that watch the wave In roarings round the coral reef. XXXVII. Urania speaks with darken’d brow: ‘Thou pratest here where thou art least; This faith has many a purer priest, And many an abler voice than thou. ‘Go down beside thy native rill, On thy Parnassus set thy feet, And hear thy laurel whisper sweet About the ledges of the hill.’ And my Melpomene replies, 438 A touch of shame upon her cheek: ‘I am not worthy ev’n to speak Of thy prevailing mysteries; ‘For I am but an earthly Muse, And owning but a little art To lull with song an aching heart, And render human love his dues; ‘But brooding on the dear one dead, And all he said of things divine, (And dear to me as sacred wine To dying lips is all he said), ‘I murmur’d, as I came along, Of comfort clasp’d in truth reveal’d; And loiter’d in the master’s field, And darken’d sanctities with song.’ XXXVIII. With weary steps I loiter on, Tho’ always under alter’d skies The purple from the distance dies, My prospect and horizon gone. No joy the blowing season gives, The herald melodies of spring, But in the songs I love to sing A doubtful gleam of solace lives. If any care for what is here Survive in spirits render’d free, Then are these songs I sing of thee Not all ungrateful to thine ear. XXXIX. Old warder of these buried bones, 439 And answering now my random stroke With fruitful cloud and living smoke, Dark yew, that graspest at the stones And dippest toward the dreamless head, To thee too comes the golden hour When flower is feeling after flower; But Sorrow–fixt upon the dead, And darkening the dark graves of men,– What whisper’d from her lying lips? Thy gloom is kindled at the tips, And passes into gloom again. XL. Could we forget the widow’d hour And look on Spirits breathed away, As on a maiden in the day When first she wears her orange-flower! When crown’d with blessing she doth rise To take her latest leave of home, And hopes and light regrets that come Make April of her tender eyes; And doubtful joys the father move, And tears are on the mother’s face, As parting with a long embrace She enters other realms of love; Her office there to rear, to teach, Becoming as is meet and fit A link among the days, to knit The generations each with each; And, doubtless, unto thee is given A life that bears immortal fruit In those great offices that suit The full-grown energies of heaven. Ay me, the difference I discern! 440 How often shall her old fireside Be cheer’d with tidings of the bride, How often she herself return, And tell them all they would have told, And bring her babe, and make her boast, Till even those that miss’d her most Shall count new things as dear as old: But thou and I have shaken hands, Till growing winters lay me low; My paths are in the fields I know, And thine in undiscover’d lands. XLI. The spirit ere our fatal loss Did ever rise from high to higher; As mounts the heavenward altar-fire, As flies the lighter thro’ the gross. But thou art turn’d to something strange, And I have lost the links that bound Thy changes; here upon the ground, No more partaker of thy change. Deep folly! yet that this could be– That I could wing my will with might To leap the grades of life and light, And flash at once, my friend, to thee. For tho’ my nature rarely yields To that vague fear implied in death; Nor shudders at the gulfs beneath, The howlings from forgotten fields; Yet oft when sundown skirts the moor An inner trouble I behold, A spectral doubt which makes me cold, That I shall be thy mate no more, 441 Tho’ following with an upward mind The wonders that have come to thee, Thro’ all the secular to-be, But evermore a life behind. XLII. I vex my heart with fancies dim: He still outstript me in the race; It was but unity of place That made me dream I rank’d with him. And so may Place retain us still, And he the much-beloved again, A lord of large experience, train To riper growth the mind and will: And what delights can equal those That stir the spirit’s inner deeps, When one that loves but knows not, reaps A truth from one that loves and knows? XLIII. If Sleep and Death be truly one, And every spirit’s folded bloom Thro’ all its intervital gloom In some long trance should slumber on; Unconscious of the sliding hour, Bare of the body, might it last, And silent traces of the past Be all the colour of the flower: So then were nothing lost to man; So that still garden of the souls In many a figured leaf enrolls The total world since life began; And love will last as pure and whole 442 As when he loved me here in Time, And at the spiritual prime Rewaken with the dawning soul. XLIV. How fares it with the happy dead? For here the man is more and more; But he forgets the days before God shut the doorways of his head. The days have vanish’d, tone and tint, And yet perhaps the hoarding sense Gives out at times (he knows not whence) A little flash, a mystic hint; And in the long harmonious years (If Death so taste Lethean springs), May some dim touch of earthly things Surprise thee ranging with thy peers. If such a dreamy touch should fall, O turn thee round, resolve the doubt; My guardian angel will speak out In that high place, and tell thee all. XLV. The baby new to earth and sky, What time his tender palm is prest Against the circle of the breast, Has never thought that ‘this is I:’ But as he grows he gathers much, And learns the use of ‘I,’ and ‘me,’ And finds ‘I am not what I see, And other than the things I touch.’ So rounds he to a separate mind From whence clear memory may begin, 443 As thro’ the frame that binds him in His isolation grows defined. This use may lie in blood and breath, Which else were fruitless of their due, Had man to learn himself anew Beyond the second birth of Death. XLVI. We ranging down this lower track, The path we came by, thorn and flower, Is shadow’d by the growing hour, Lest life should fail in looking back. So be it: there no shade can last In that deep dawn behind the tomb, But clear from marge to marge shall bloom The eternal landscape of the past; A lifelong tract of time reveal’d; The fruitful hours of still increase; Days order’d in a wealthy peace, And those five years its richest field. O Love, thy province were not large, A bounded field, nor stretching far; Look also, Love, a brooding star, A rosy warmth from marge to marge. XLVII. That each, who seems a separate whole, Should move his rounds, and fusing all The skirts of self again, should fall Remerging in the general Soul, Is faith as vague as all unsweet: Eternal form shall still divide The eternal soul from all beside; 444 And I shall know him when we meet: And we shall sit at endless feast, Enjoying each the other’s good: What vaster dream can hit the mood Of Love on earth? He seeks at least Upon the last and sharpest height, Before the spirits fade away, Some landing-place, to clasp and say, ‘Farewell! We lose ourselves in light.’ XLVIII. If these brief lays, of Sorrow born, Were taken to be such as closed Grave doubts and answers here proposed, Then these were such as men might scorn: Her care is not to part and prove; She takes, when harsher moods remit, What slender shade of doubt may flit, And makes it vassal unto love: And hence, indeed, she sports with words, But better serves a wholesome law, And holds it sin and shame to draw The deepest measure from the chords: Nor dare she trust a larger lay, But rather loosens from the lip Short swallow-flights of song, that dip Their wings in tears, and skim away. XLIX. From art, from nature, from the schools, Let random influences glance, Like light in many a shiver’d lance 445 That breaks about the dappled pools: The lightest wave of thought shall lisp, The fancy’s tenderest eddy wreathe, The slightest air of song shall breathe To make the sullen surface crisp. And look thy look, and go thy way, But blame not thou the winds that make The seeming-wanton ripple break, The tender-pencil’d shadow play. Beneath all fancied hopes and fears Ay me, the sorrow deepens down, Whose muffled motions blindly drown The bases of my life in tears. L. Be near me when my light is low, When the blood creeps, and the nerves prick And tingle; and the heart is sick, And all the wheels of Being slow. Be near me when the sensuous frame Is rack’d with pangs that conquer trust; And Time, a maniac scattering dust, And Life, a Fury slinging flame. Be near me when my faith is dry, And men the flies of latter spring, That lay their eggs, and sting and sing And weave their petty cells and die. Be near me when I fade away, To point the term of human strife, And on the low dark verge of life The twilight of eternal day. LI. 446 Do we indeed desire the dead Should still be near us at our side? Is there no baseness we would hide? No inner vileness that we dread? Shall he for whose applause I strove, I had such reverence for his blame, See with clear eye some hidden shame And I be lessen’d in his love? I wrong the grave with fears untrue: Shall love be blamed for want of faith? There must be wisdom with great Death: The dead shall look me thro’ and thro’. Be near us when we climb or fall: Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours With larger other eyes than ours, To make allowance for us all. LII. I cannot love thee as I ought, For love reflects the thing beloved; My words are only words, and moved Upon the topmost froth of thought. ‘Yet blame not thou thy plaintive song,’ The Spirit of true love replied; ‘Thou canst not move me from thy side, Nor human frailty do me wrong. ‘What keeps a spirit wholly true To that ideal which he bears? What record? not the sinless years That breathed beneath the Syrian blue: ‘So fret not, like an idle girl, That life is dash’d with flecks of sin. Abide: thy wealth is gather’d in, When Time hath sunder’d shell from pearl.’ 447 LIII. How many a father have I seen, A sober man, among his boys, Whose youth was full of foolish noise, Who wears his manhood hale and green: And dare we to this fancy give, That had the wild oat not been sown, The soil, left barren, scarce had grown The grain by which a man may live? Or, if we held the doctrine sound For life outliving heats of youth, Yet who would preach it as a truth To those that eddy round and round? Hold thou the good: define it well: For fear divine Philosophy Should push beyond her mark, and be Procuress to the Lords of Hell. LIV. Oh yet we trust that somehow good Will be the final goal of ill, To pangs of nature, sins of will, Defects of doubt, and taints of blood; That nothing walks with aimless feet; That not one life shall be destroy’d, Or cast as rubbish to the void, When God hath made the pile complete; That not a worm is cloven in vain; That not a moth with vain desire Is shrivell’d in a fruitless fire, Or but subserves another’s gain. 448 Behold, we know not anything; I can but trust that good shall fall At last–far off–at last, to all, And every winter change to spring. So runs my dream: but what am I? An infant crying in the night: An infant crying for the light: And with no language but a cry. LV. The wish, that of the living whole No life may fail beyond the grave, Derives it not from what we have The likest God within the soul? Are God and Nature then at strife, That Nature lends such evil dreams? So careful of the type she seems, So careless of the single life; That I, considering everywhere Her secret meaning in her deeds, And finding that of fifty seeds She often brings but one to bear, I falter where I firmly trod, And falling with my weight of cares Upon the great world’s altar-stairs That slope thro’ darkness up to God, I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, And gather dust and chaff, and call To what I feel is Lord of all, And faintly trust the larger hope. LVI. 449 ‘So careful of the type?’ but no. From scarped cliff and quarried stone She cries, ‘A thousand types are gone: I care for nothing, all shall go. ‘Thou makest thine appeal to me: I bring to life, I bring to death: The spirit does but mean the breath: I know no more.’ And he, shall he, Man, her last work, who seem’d so fair, Such splendid purpose in his eyes, Who roll’d the psalm to wintry skies, Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer, Who trusted God was love indeed And love Creation’s final law– Tho’ Nature, red in tooth and claw With ravine, shriek’d against his creed– Who loved, who suffer’d countless ills, Who battled for the True, the Just, Be blown about the desert dust, Or seal’d within the iron hills? No more? A monster then, a dream, A discord. Dragons of the prime, That tare each other in their slime, Were mellow music match’d with him. O life as futile, then, as frail! O for thy voice to soothe and bless! What hope of answer, or redress? Behind the veil, behind the veil. LVII. Peace; come away: the song of woe Is after all an earthly song: Peace; come away: we do him wrong To sing so wildly: let us go. 450 Come; let us go: your cheeks are pale; But half my life I leave behind: Methinks my friend is richly shrined; But I shall pass; my work will fail. Yet in these ears, till hearing dies, One set slow bell will seem to toll The passing of the sweetest soul That ever look’d with human eyes. I hear it now, and o’er and o’er, Eternal greetings to the dead; And ‘Ave, Ave, Ave,’ said, ‘Adieu, adieu’ for evermore. LVIII. In those sad words I took farewell: Like echoes in sepulchral halls, As drop by drop the water falls In vaults and catacombs, they fell; And, falling, idly broke the peace Of hearts that beat from day to day, Half-conscious of their dying clay, And those cold crypts where they shall cease. The high Muse answer’d: ‘Wherefore grieve Thy brethren with a fruitless tear? Abide a little longer here, And thou shalt take a nobler leave.’ LIX. O Sorrow, wilt thou live with me No casual mistress, but a wife, My bosom-friend and half of life; As I confess it needs must be; O Sorrow, wilt thou rule my blood, 451 Be sometimes lovely like a bride, And put thy harsher moods aside, If thou wilt have me wise and good. My centred passion cannot move, Nor will it lessen from to-day; But I’ll have leave at times to play As with the creature of my love; And set thee forth, for thou art mine, With so much hope for years to come, That, howsoe’er I know thee, some Could hardly tell what name were thine. LX. He past; a soul of nobler tone: My spirit loved and loves him yet, Like some poor girl whose heart is set On one whose rank exceeds her own. He mixing with his proper sphere, She finds the baseness of her lot, Half jealous of she knows not what, And envying all that meet him there. The little village looks forlorn; She sighs amid her narrow days, Moving about the household ways, In that dark house where she was born. The foolish neighbours come and go, And tease her till the day draws by: At night she weeps, ‘How vain am I! How should he love a thing so low?’ LXI. If, in thy second state sublime, 452 Thy ransom’d reason change replies With all the circle of the wise, The perfect flower of human time; And if thou cast thine eyes below, How dimly character’d and slight, How dwarf’d a growth of cold and night, How blanch'd with darkness must I grow! Yet turn thee to the doubtful shore, Where thy first form was made a man: I loved thee, Spirit, and love, nor can The soul of Shakespeare love thee more. LXII. Tho’ if an eye that’s downward cast Could make thee somewhat blench or fail, Then be my love an idle tale, And fading legend of the past; And thou, as one that once declined, When he was little more than boy, On some unworthy heart with joy, But lives to wed an equal mind; And breathes a novel world, the while His other passion wholly dies, Or in the light of deeper eyes Is matter for a flying smile. LXIII. Yet pity for a horse o’er-driven, And love in which my hound has part, Can hang no weight upon my heart In its assumptions up to heaven; And I am so much more than these, As thou, perchance, art more than I, And yet I spare them sympathy, 453 And I would set their pains at ease. So mayst thou watch me where I weep, As, unto vaster motions bound, The circuits of thine orbit round A higher height, a deeper deep. LXIV. Dost thou look back on what hath been, As some divinely gifted man, Whose life in low estate began And on a simple village green; Who breaks his birth’s invidious bar, And grasps the skirts of happy chance, And breasts the blows of circumstance, And grapples with his evil star; Who makes by force his merit known And lives to clutch the golden keys, To mould a mighty state’s decrees, And shape the whisper of the throne; And moving up from high to higher, Becomes on Fortune’s crowning slope The pillar of a people’s hope, The centre of a world’s desire; Yet feels, as in a pensive dream, When all his active powers are still, A distant dearness in the hill, A secret sweetness in the stream, The limit of his narrower fate, While yet beside its vocal springs He play’d at counsellors and kings, With one that was his earliest mate; Who ploughs with pain his native lea And reaps the labour of his hands, 454 Or in the furrow musing stands; ‘Does my old friend remember me?’ LXV. Sweet soul, do with me as thou wilt; I lull a fancy trouble-tost With ‘Love’s too precious to be lost, A little grain shall not be spilt.’ And in that solace can I sing, Till out of painful phases wrought There flutters up a happy thought, Self-balanced on a lightsome wing: Since we deserved the name of friends, And thine effect so lives in me, A part of mine may live in thee And move thee on to noble ends. LXVI. You thought my heart too far diseased; You wonder when my fancies play To find me gay among the gay, Like one with any trifle pleased. The shade by which my life was crost, Which makes a desert in the mind, Has made me kindly with my kind, And like to him whose sight is lost; Whose feet are guided thro’ the land, Whose jest among his friends is free, Who takes the children on his knee, And winds their curls about his hand: He plays with threads, he beats his chair For pastime, dreaming of the sky; His inner day can never die, 455 His night of loss is always there. LXVII. When on my bed the moonlight falls, I know that in thy place of rest By that broad water of the west, There comes a glory on the walls: Thy marble bright in dark appears, As slowly steals a silver flame Along the letters of thy name, And o’er the number of thy years. The mystic glory swims away; From off my bed the moonlight dies; And closing eaves of wearied eyes I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray: And then I know the mist is drawn A lucid veil from coast to coast, And in the dark church like a ghost Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn. LXVIII. When in the down I sink my head, Sleep, Death’s twin-brother, times my breath; Sleep, Death’s twin-brother, knows not Death, Nor can I dream of thee as dead: I walk as ere I walk’d forlorn, When all our path was fresh with dew, And all the bugle breezes blew Reveillée to the breaking morn. But what is this? I turn about, I find a trouble in thine eye, Which makes me sad I know not why, Nor can my dream resolve the doubt: 456 But ere the lark hath left the lea I wake, and I discern the truth; It is the trouble of my youth That foolish sleep transfers to thee. LXIX. I dream’d there would be Spring no more, That Nature’s ancient power was lost: The streets were black with smoke and frost, They chatter’d trifles at the door: I wander’d from the noisy town, I found a wood with thorny boughs: I took the thorns to bind my brows, I wore them like a civic crown: I met with scoffs, I met with scorns From youth and babe and hoary hairs: They call’d me in the public squares The fool that wears a crown of thorns: They call’d me fool, they call’d me child: I found an angel of the night; The voice was low, the look was bright; He look’d upon my crown and smiled: He reach’d the glory of a hand, That seem’d to touch it into leaf: The voice was not the voice of grief, The words were hard to understand. LXX. I cannot see the features right, When on the gloom I strive to paint The face I know; the hues are faint And mix with hollow masks of night; 457 Cloud-towers by ghostly masons wrought, A gulf that ever shuts and gapes, A hand that points, and palled shapes In shadowy thoroughfares of thought; And crowds that stream from yawning doors, And shoals of pucker’d faces drive; Dark bulks that tumble half alive, And lazy lengths on boundless shores; Till all at once beyond the will I hear a wizard music roll, And thro’ a lattice on the soul Looks thy fair face and makes it still. LXXI. Sleep, kinsman thou to death and trance And madness, thou hast forged at last A night-long Present of the Past In which we went thro’ summer France. Hadst thou such credit with the soul? Then bring an opiate trebly strong, Drug down the blindfold sense of wrong That so my pleasure may be whole; While now we talk as once we talk’d Of men and minds, the dust of change, The days that grow to something strange, In walking as of old we walk’d Beside the river’s wooded reach, The fortress, and the mountain ridge, The cataract flashing from the bridge, The breaker breaking on the beach. LXXII. 458 Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again, And howlest, issuing out of night, With blasts that blow the poplar white, And lash with storm the streaming pane? Day, when my crown’d estate begun To pine in that reverse of doom, Which sicken’d every living bloom, And blurr’d the splendour of the sun; Who usherest in the dolorous hour With thy quick tears that make the rose Pull sideways, and the daisy close Her crimson fringes to the shower; Who might’st have heaved a windless flame Up the deep East, or, whispering, play’d A chequer-work of beam and shade Along the hills, yet look’d the same. As wan, as chill, as wild as now; Day, mark’d as with some hideous crime, When the dark hand struck down thro’ time, And cancell’d nature’s best: but thou, Lift as thou may’st thy burthen’d brows Thro’ clouds that drench the morning star, And whirl the ungarner’d sheaf afar, And sow the sky with flying boughs, And up thy vault with roaring sound Climb thy thick noon, disastrous day; Touch thy dull goal of joyless gray, And hide thy shame beneath the ground. LXXIII. So many worlds, so much to do, So little done, such things to be, How know I what had need of thee, For thou wert strong as thou wert true? 459 The fame is quench’d that I foresaw, The head hath miss’d an earthly wreath: I curse not nature, no, nor death; For nothing is that errs from law. We pass; the path that each man trod Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds: What fame is left for human deeds In endless age? It rests with God. O hollow wraith of dying fame, Fade wholly, while the soul exults, And self-infolds the large results Of force that would have forged a name. LXXIV. As sometimes in a dead man’s face, To those that watch it more and more, A likeness, hardly seen before, Comes out–to some one of his race: So, dearest, now thy brows are cold, I see thee what thou art, and know Thy likeness to the wise below, Thy kindred with the great of old. But there is more than I can see, And what I see I leave unsaid, Nor speak it, knowing Death has made His darkness beautiful with thee. LXXV. I leave thy praises unexpress’d In verse that brings myself relief, And by the measure of my grief I leave thy greatness to be guess’d; What practice howsoe’er expert 460 In fitting aptest words to things, Or voice the richest-toned that sings, Hath power to give thee as thou wert? I care not in these fading days To raise a cry that lasts not long, And round thee with the breeze of song To stir a little dust of praise. Thy leaf has perish’d in the green, And, while we breathe beneath the sun, The world which credits what is done Is cold to all that might have been. So here shall silence guard thy fame; But somewhere, out of human view, Whate’er thy hands are set to do Is wrought with tumult of acclaim. LXXVI. Take wings of fancy, and ascend, And in a moment set thy face Where all the starry heavens of space Are sharpen’d to a needle’s end; Take wings of foresight; lighten thro’ The secular abyss to come, And lo, thy deepest lays are dumb Before the mouldering of a yew; And if the matin songs, that woke The darkness of our planet, last, Thine own shall wither in the vast, Ere half the lifetime of an oak. Ere these have clothed their branchy bowers With fifty Mays, thy songs are vain; And what are they when these remain The ruin’d shells of hollow towers? 461 LXXVII. What hope is here for modern rhyme To him, who turns a musing eye On songs, and deeds, and lives, that lie Foreshorten’d in the tract of time? These mortal lullabies of pain May bind a book, may line a box, May serve to curl a maiden’s locks; Or when a thousand moons shall wane A man upon a stall may find, And, passing, turn the page that tells A grief, then changed to something else, Sung by a long-forgotten mind. But what of that? My darken’d ways Shall ring with music all the same; To breathe my loss is more than fame, To utter love more sweet than praise. LXXVIII. Again at Christmas did we weave The holly round the Christmas hearth; The silent snow possess’d the earth, And calmly fell our Christmas-eve: The yule-clog sparkled keen with frost, No wing of wind the region swept, But over all things brooding slept The quiet sense of something lost. As in the winters left behind, Again our ancient games had place, The mimic picture’s breathing grace, And dance and song and hoodman-blind. Who show’d a token of distress? 462 No single tear, no mark of pain: O sorrow, then can sorrow wane? O grief, can grief be changed to less? O last regret, regret can die! No–mixt with all this mystic frame, Her deep relations are the same, But with long use her tears are dry. LXXIX. ‘More than my brothers are to me,’– Let this not vex thee, noble heart! I know thee of what force thou art To hold the costliest love in fee. But thou and I are one in kind, As moulded like in Nature’s mint; And hill and wood and field did print The same sweet forms in either mind. For us the same cold streamlet curl’d Thro’ all his eddying coves; the same All winds that roam the twilight came In whispers of the beauteous world. At one dear knee we proffer’d vows, One lesson from one book we learn’d, Ere childhood’s flaxen ringlet turn’d To black and brown on kindred brows. And so my wealth resembles thine, But he was rich where I was poor, And he supplied my want the more As his unlikeness fitted mine. LXXX. If any vague desire should rise, 463 That holy Death ere Arthur died Had moved me kindly from his side, And dropt the dust on tearless eyes; Then fancy shapes, as fancy can, The grief my loss in him had wrought, A grief as deep as life or thought, But stay’d in peace with God and man. I make a picture in the brain; I hear the sentence that he speaks; He bears the burthen of the weeks But turns his burthen into gain. His credit thus shall set me free; And, influence-rich to soothe and save, Unused example from the grave Reach out dead hands to comfort me. LXXXI. Could I have said while he was here, ‘My love shall now no further range; There cannot come a mellower change, For now is love mature in ear.’ Love, then, had hope of richer store: What end is here to my complaint? This haunting whisper makes me faint, ‘More years had made me love thee more.’ But Death returns an answer sweet: ‘My sudden frost was sudden gain, And gave all ripeness to the grain, It might have drawn from after-heat.’ LXXXII. I wage not any feud with Death For changes wrought on form and face; 464 No lower life that earth’s embrace May breed with him, can fright my faith. Eternal process moving on, From state to state the spirit walks; And these are but the shatter’d stalks, Or ruin’d chrysalis of one. Nor blame I Death, because he bare The use of virtue out of earth: I know transplanted human worth Will bloom to profit, otherwhere. For this alone on Death I wreak The wrath that garners in my heart; He put our lives so far apart We cannot hear each other speak. LXXXIII. Dip down upon the northern shore, O sweet new-year delaying long; Thou doest expectant nature wrong; Delaying long, delay no more. What stays thee from the clouded noons, Thy sweetness from its proper place? Can trouble live with April days, Or sadness in the summer moons? Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire, The little speedwell’s darling blue, Deep tulips dash’d with fiery dew, Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire. O thou, new-year, delaying long, Delayest the sorrow in my blood, That longs to burst a frozen bud And flood a fresher throat with song. 465 LXXXIV. When I contemplate all alone The life that had been thine below, And fix my thoughts on all the glow To which thy crescent would have grown; I see thee sitting crown’d with good, A central warmth diffusing bliss In glance and smile, and clasp and kiss, On all the branches of thy blood; Thy blood, my friend, and partly mine; For now the day was drawing on, When thou should’st link thy life with one Of mine own house, and boys of thine Had babbled ‘Uncle’ on my knee; But that remorseless iron hour Made cypress of her orange flower, Despair of Hope, and earth of thee. I seem to meet their least desire, To clap their cheeks, to call them mine. I see their unborn faces shine Beside the never-lighted fire. I see myself an honour’d guest, Thy partner in the flowery walk Of letters, genial table-talk, Or deep dispute, and graceful jest; While now thy prosperous labour fills The lips of men with honest praise, And sun by sun the happy days Descend below the golden hills With promise of a morn as fair; And all the train of bounteous hours Conduct by paths of growing powers, To reverence and the silver hair; Till slowly worn her earthly robe, 466 Her lavish mission richly wrought, Leaving great legacies of thought, Thy spirit should fail from off the globe; What time mine own might also flee, As link’d with thine in love and fate, And, hovering o’er the dolorous strait To the other shore, involved in thee, Arrive at last the blessed goal, And He that died in Holy Land Would reach us out the shining hand, And take us as a single soul. What reed was that on which I leant? Ah, backward fancy, wherefore wake The old bitterness again, and break The low beginnings of content. LXXXV. This truth came borne with bier and pall, I felt it, when I sorrow’d most, ’Tis better to have loved and lost, Than never to have loved at all– O true in word, and tried in deed, Demanding, so to bring relief To this which is our common grief, What kind of life is that I lead; And whether trust in things above Be dimm’d of sorrow, or sustain’d; And whether love for him have drain’d My capabilities of love; Your words have virtue such as draws A faithful answer from the breast, Thro’ light reproaches, half exprest, And loyal unto kindly laws. 467 My blood an even tenor kept, Till on mine ear this message falls, That in Vienna’s fatal walls God’s finger touch’d him, and he slept. The great Intelligences fair That range above our mortal state, In circle round the blessed gate, Received and gave him welcome there; And led him thro’ the blissful climes, And show'd him in the fountain fresh All knowledge that the sons of flesh Shall gather in the cycled times. But I remained, whose hopes were dim, Whose life, whose thoughts were little worth, To wander on a darkened earth, Where all things round me breathed of him. friendship, equal poised control, heart, with kindliest motion warm, sacred essence, other form, solemn ghost, O crowned soul! Yet none could better know than I, How much of act at human hands The sense of human will demands By which we dare to live or die. Whatever way my days decline, I felt and feel, tho’ left alone, His being working in mine own, The footsteps of his life in mine; A life that all the Muses decked With gifts of grace, that might express All comprehensive tenderness, All-subtilising intellect: And so my passion hath not swerved To works of weakness, but I find 468 An image comforting the mind, And in my grief a strength reserved. Likewise the imaginative woe, That loved to handle spiritual strife, Diffused the shock thro’ all my life, But in the present broke the blow. My pulses therefore beat again For other friends that once I met; Nor can it suit me to forget The mighty hopes that make us men. I woo your love: I count it crime To mourn for any overmuch; I, the divided half of such A friendship as had master’d Time; Which masters Time indeed, and is Eternal, separate from fears: The all-assuming months and years Can take no part away from this: But Summer on the steaming floods, And Spring that swells the narrow brooks, And Autumn, with a noise of rooks, That gather in the waning woods, And every pulse of wind and wave Recalls, in change of light or gloom, My old affection of the tomb, And my prime passion in the grave: My old affection of the tomb, A part of stillness, yearns to speak: ‘Arise, and get thee forth and seek A friendship for the years to come. ‘I watch thee from the quiet shore; Thy spirit up to mine can reach; But in dear words of human speech We two communicate no more.’ 469 And I, ‘Can clouds of nature stain The starry clearness of the free? How is it? Canst thou feel for me Some painless sympathy with pain?’ And lightly does the whisper fall; ‘’Tis hard for thee to fathom this; I triumph in conclusive bliss, And that serene result of all.’ So hold I commerce with the dead; Or so methinks the dead would say; Or so shall grief with symbols play And pining life be fancy-fed. Now looking to some settled end, That these things pass, and I shall prove A meeting somewhere, love with love, I crave your pardon, O my friend; If not so fresh, with love as true, I, clasping brother-hands aver I could not, if I would, transfer The whole I felt for him to you. For which be they that hold apart The promise of the golden hours? First love, first friendship, equal powers, That marry with the virgin heart. Still mine, that cannot but deplore, That beats within a lonely place, That yet remembers his embrace, But at his footstep leaps no more, My heart, tho’ widow’d, may not rest Quite in the love of what is gone, But seeks to beat in time with one That warms another living breast. Ah, take the imperfect gift I bring, 470 Knowing the primrose yet is dear, The primrose of the later year, As not unlike to that of Spring. LXXXVI. Sweet after showers, ambrosial air, That rollest from the gorgeous gloom Of evening over brake and bloom And meadow, slowly breathing bare The round of space, and rapt below Thro’ all the dewy-tassell’d wood, And shadowing down the horned flood In ripples, fan my brows and blow The fever from my cheek, and sigh The full new life that feeds thy breath Throughout my frame, till Doubt and Death, Ill brethren, let the fancy fly From belt to belt of crimson seas On leagues of odour streaming far, To where in yonder orient star A hundred spirits whisper ‘Peace.’ LXXXVII. I past beside the reverend walls In which of old I wore the gown; I roved at random thro’ the town, And saw the tumult of the halls; And heard one more in college fanes The storm their high-built organs make, And thunder-music, rolling, shake The prophet blazon’d on the panes; And caught one more the distant shout, The measured pulse of racing oars 471 Among the willows; paced the shores And many a bridge, and all about The same gray flats again, and felt The same, but not the same; and last Up that long walk of limes I past To see the rooms in which he dwelt. Another name was on the door: I linger’d; all within was noise Of songs, and clapping hands, and boys That crash’d the glass and beat the floor; Where once we held debate, a band Of youthful friends, on mind and art, And labour, and the changing mart, And all the framework of the land; When one would aim an arrow fair, But send it slackly from the string; And one would pierce an outer ring, And one an inner, here and there; And last the master-bowman, he, Would cleave the mark. A willing ear We lent him. Who, but hung to hear The rapt oration flowing free From point to point, with power and grace And music in the bounds of law, To those conclusions when we saw The God within him light his face, And seem to lift the form, and glow In azure orbits heavenly wise; And over those ethereal eyes The bar of Michael Angelo. LXXXVIII. 472 Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet, Rings Eden thro’ the budded quicks, O tell me where the senses mix, O tell me where the passions meet, Whence radiate: fierce extremes employ Thy spirits in the darkening leaf, And in the midmost heart of grief Thy passion clasps a secret joy: And I–my harp would prelude woe– I cannot all command the strings; The glory of the sum of things Will flash along the chords and go. LXXXIX. Witch-elms that counterchange the floor Of this flat lawn with dusk and bright; And thou, with all thy breadth and height Of foliage, towering sycamore; How often, hither wandering down, My Arthur found your shadows fair, And shook to all the liberal air The dust and din and steam of town: He brought an eye for all he saw; He mixt in all our simple sports; They pleased him, fresh from brawling courts And dusty purlieus of the law. O joy to him in this retreat, Immantled in ambrosial dark, To drink the cooler air, and mark The landscape winking thro’ the heat: O sound to rout the brood of cares, The sweep of scythe in morning dew, The gust that round the garden flew, And tumbled half the mellowing pears! 473 O bliss, when all in circle drawn About him, heart and ear were fed To hear him, as he lay and read The Tuscan poets on the lawn: Or in the all-golden afternoon A guest, or happy sister, sung, Or here she brought the harp and flung A ballad to the brightening moon: Nor less it pleased in livelier moods, Beyond the bounding hill to stray, And break the livelong summer day With banquet in the distant woods; Whereat we glanced from theme to theme, Discuss’d the books to love or hate, Or touch’d the changes of the state, Or threaded some Socratic dream; But if I praised the busy town, He loved to rail against it still, For ‘ground in yonder social mill We rub each other’s angles down, ‘And merge’ he said ‘in form and gloss The picturesque of man and man.’ We talk’d: the stream beneath us ran, The wine-flask lying couch’d in moss, Or cool’d within the glooming wave; And last, returning from afar, Before the crimson-circled star Had fall’n into her father’s grave, And brushing ankle-deep in flowers, We heard behind the woodbine veil The milk that bubbled in the pail, And buzzings of the honied hours. 474 XC. He tasted love with half his mind, Nor ever drank the inviolate spring Where nighest heaven, who first could fling This bitter seed among mankind; That could the dead, whose dying eyes Were closed with wail, resume their life, They would but find in child and wife An iron welcome when they rise: ’Twas well, indeed, when warm with wine, To pledge them with a kindly tear, To talk them o’er, to wish them here, To count their memories half divine; But if they came who past away, Behold their brides in other hands; The hard heir strides about their lands, And will not yield them for a day. Yea, tho’ their sons were none of these, Not less the yet-loved sire would make Confusion worse than death, and shake The pillars of domestic peace. Ah dear, but come thou back to me: Whatever change the years have wrought, I find not yet one lonely thought That cries against my wish for thee. XCI. When rosy plumelets tuft the larch, And rarely pipes the mounted thrush; Or underneath the barren bush Flits by the sea-blue bird of March; Come, wear the form by which I know Thy spirit in time among thy peers; The hope of unaccomplish’d years 475 Be large and lucid round thy brow. When summer’s hourly-mellowing change May breathe, with many roses sweet, Upon the thousand waves of wheat, That ripple round the lonely grange; Come: not in watches of the night, But where the sunbeam broodeth warm, Come, beauteous in thine after form, And like a finer light in light. XCII. If any vision should reveal Thy likeness, I might count it vain As but the canker of the brain; Yea, tho’ it spake and made appeal To chances where our lots were cast Together in the days behind, I might but say, I hear a wind Of memory murmuring the past. Yea, tho’ it spake and bared to view A fact within the coming year; And tho’ the months, revolving near, Should prove the phantom-warning true, They might not seem thy prophecies, But spiritual presentiments, And such refraction of events As often rises ere they rise. XCIII. I shall not see thee. Dare I say No spirit ever brake the band That stays him from the native land 476 Where first he walk’d when claspt in clay? No visual shade of some one lost, But he, the Spirit himself, may come Where all the nerve of sense is numb; Spirit to Spirit, Ghost to Ghost. O, therefore from thy sightless range With gods in unconjectured bliss, O, from the distance of the abyss Of tenfold-complicated change, Descend, and touch, and enter; hear The wish too strong for words to name; That in this blindness of the frame My Ghost may feel that thine is near. XCIV. How pure at heart and sound in head, With what divine affections bold Should be the man whose thought would hold An hour’s communion with the dead. In vain shalt thou, or any, call The spirits from their golden day, Except, like them, thou too canst say, My spirit is at peace with all. They haunt the silence of the breast, Imaginations calm and fair, The memory like a cloudless air, The conscience as a sea at rest: But when the heart is full of din, And doubt beside the portal waits, They can but listen at the gates, And hear the household jar within. XCV. 477 By night we linger’d on the lawn, For underfoot the herb was dry; And genial warmth; and o’er the sky The silvery haze of summer drawn; And calm that let the tapers burn Unwavering: not a cricket chirr’d: The brook alone far-off was heard, And on the board the fluttering urn: And bats went round in fragrant skies, And wheel’d or lit the filmy shapes That haunt the dusk, with ermine capes And woolly breasts and beaded eyes; While now we sang old songs that peal’d From knoll to knoll, where, couch’d at ease, The white kine glimmer’d, and the trees Laid their dark arms about the field. But when those others, one by one, Withdrew themselves from me and night, And in the house light after light Went out, and I was all alone, A hunger seized my heart; I read Of that glad year which once had been, In those fall’n leaves which kept their green, The noble letters of the dead: And strangely on the silence broke The silent-speaking words, and strange Was love’s dumb cry defying change To test his worth; and strangely spoke The faith, the vigour, bold to dwell On doubts that drive the coward back, And keen thro’ wordy snares to track Suggestion to her inmost cell. So word by word, and line by line, The dead man touch’d me from the past, 478 And all at once it seem’d at last The living soul was flash’d on mine, And mine in this was wound, and whirl’d About empyreal heights of thought, And came on that which is, and caught The deep pulsations of the world, Æonian music measuring out The steps of Time–the shocks of Chance– The blows of Death. At length my trance Was cancell’d, stricken thro’ with doubt. Vague words! but ah, how hard to frame In matter-moulded forms of speech, Or ev’n for intellect to reach Thro’ memory that which I became: Till now the doubtful dusk reveal’d The knolls once more where, couch’d at ease, The white kine glimmer’d, and the trees Laid their dark arms about the field: And suck’d from out the distant gloom A breeze began to tremble o’er The large leaves of the sycamore, And fluctuate all the still perfume, And gathering freshlier overhead, Rock’d the full-foliaged elms, and swung The heavy-folded rose, and flung The lilies to and fro, and said ‘The dawn, the dawn,’ and died away; And East and West, without a breath, Mixt their dim lights, like life and death, To broaden into boundless day. XCVI. 479 You say, but with no touch of scorn, Sweet-hearted, you, whose light-blue eyes Are tender over drowning flies, You tell me, doubt is Devil-born. I know not: one indeed I knew In many a subtle question versed, Who touch’d a jarring lyre at first, But ever strove to make it true: Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds, At last he beat his music out. There lives more faith in honest doubt, Believe me, than in half the creeds. He fought his doubts and gather’d strength, He would not make his judgment blind, He faced the spectres of the mind And laid them: thus he came at length To find a stronger faith his own; And Power was with him in the night, Which makes the darkness and the light, And dwells not in the light alone, But in the darkness and the cloud, As over Sinaï’s peaks of old, While Israel made their gods of gold, Altho’ the trumpet blew so loud. XCVII. My love has talk’d with rocks and trees; He finds on misty mountain-ground His own vast shadow glory-crown’d; He sees himself in all he sees. Two partners of a married life– I look’d on these and thought of thee In vastness and in mystery, And of my spirit as of a wife. 480 These two–they dwelt with eye on eye, Their hearts of old have beat in tune, Their meetings made December June, Their every parting was to die. Their love has never past away; The days she never can forget Are earnest that he loves her yet, Whate’er the faithless people say. Her life is lone, he sits apart, He loves her yet, she will not weep, Tho’ rapt in matters dark and deep He seems to slight her simple heart. He He He He thrids the labyrinth of the mind, reads the secret of the star, seems so near and yet so far, looks so cold: she thinks him kind. She keeps the gift of years before, A wither’d violet is her bliss: She knows not what his greatness is, For that, for all, she loves him more. For him she plays, to him she sings Of early faith and plighted vows; She knows but matters of the house, And he, he knows a thousand things. Her faith is fixt and cannot move, She darkly feels him great and wise, She dwells on him with faithful eyes, ‘I cannot understand: I love.’ XCVIII. You leave us: you will see the Rhine, And those fair hills I sail’d below, When I was there with him; and go 481 By summer belts of wheat and vine To where he breathed his latest breath, That City. All her splendour seems No livelier than the wisp that gleams On Lethe in the eyes of Death. Let her great Danube rolling fair Enwind her isles, unmark’d of me: I have not seen, I will not see Vienna; rather dream that there, A treble darkness, Evil haunts The birth, the bridal; friend from friend Is oftener parted, fathers bend Above more graves, a thousand wants Gnarr at the heels of men, and prey By each cold hearth, and sadness flings Her shadow on the blaze of kings: And yet myself have heard him say, That not in any mother town With statelier progress to and fro The double tides of chariots flow By park and suburb under brown Of lustier leaves; nor more content, He told me, lives in any crowd, When all is gay with lamps, and loud With sport and song, in booth and tent, Imperial halls, or open plain; And wheels the circled dance, and breaks The rocket molten into flakes Of crimson or in emerald rain. XCIX. Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again, So loud with voices of the birds, 482 So thick with lowings of the herds, Day, when I lost the flower of men; Who tremblest thro’ thy darkling red On yon swoll’n brook that bubbles fast By meadows breathing of the past, And woodlands holy to the dead; Who murmurest in the foliaged eaves A song that slights the coming care, And Autumn laying here and there A fiery finger on the leaves; Who wakenest with thy balmy breath To myriads on the genial earth, Memories of bridal, or of birth, And unto myriads more, of death. O wheresoever those may be, Betwixt the slumber of the poles, To-day they count as kindred souls; They know me not, but mourn with me. C. I climb the hill: from end to end Of all the landscape underneath, I find no place that does not breathe Some gracious memory of my friend; No gray old grange, or lonely fold, Or low morass and whispering reed, Or simple stile from mead to mead, Or sheepwalk up the windy wold; Nor hoary knoll of ash and haw That hears the latest linnet trill, Nor quarry trench’d along the hill And haunted by the wrangling daw; Nor runlet tinkling from the rock; Nor pastoral rivulet that swerves 483 To left and right thro’ meadowy curves, That feed the mothers of the flock; But each has pleased a kindred eye, And each reflects a kindlier day; And, leaving these, to pass away, I think once more he seems to die. CI. Unwatch’d, the garden bough shall sway, The tender blossom flutter down, Unloved, that beech will gather brown, This maple burn itself away; Unloved, the sun-flower, shining fair, Ray round with flames her disk of seed, And many a rose-carnation feed With summer spice the humming air; Unloved, by many a sandy bar, The brook shall babble down the plain, At noon or when the lesser wain Is twisting round the polar star; Uncared for, gird the windy grove, And flood the haunts of hern and crake; Or into silver arrows break The sailing moon in creek and cove; Till from the garden and the wild A fresh association blow, And year by year the landscape grow Familiar to the stranger’s child; As year by year the labourer tills His wonted glebe, or lops the glades; And year by year our memory fades From all the circle of the hills. 484 CII. We leave the well-beloved place Where first we gazed upon the sky; The roofs, that heard our earliest cry, Will shelter one of stranger race. We go, but ere we go from home, As down the garden-walks I move, Two spirits of a diverse love Contend for loving masterdom. One whispers, ‘Here thy boyhood sung Long since its matin song, and heard The low love-language of the bird In native hazels tassel-hung.’ The other answers, ‘Yea, but here Thy feet have stray’d in after hours With thy lost friend among the bowers, And this hath made them trebly dear.’ These two have striven half the day, And each prefers his separate claim, Poor rivals in a losing game, That will not yield each other way. I turn to go: my feet are set To leave the pleasant fields and farms; They mix in one another’s arms To one pure image of regret. CIII. On that last night before we went From out the doors where I was bred, I dream’d a vision of the dead, Which left my after-morn content. Methought I dwelt within a hall, And maidens with me: distant hills 485 From hidden summits fed with rills A river sliding by the wall. The hall with harp and carol rang. They sang of what is wise and good And graceful. In the centre stood A statue veil’d, to which they sang; And which, tho’ veil’d, was known to me, The shape of him I loved, and love For ever: then flew in a dove And brought a summons from the sea: And when they learnt that I must go They wept and wail’d, but led the way To where a little shallop lay At anchor in the flood below; And on by many a level mead, And shadowing bluff that made the banks, We glided winding under ranks Of iris, and the golden reed; And still as vaster grew the shore And roll’d the floods in grander space, The maidens gather’d strength and grace And presence, lordlier than before; And I myself, who sat apart And watch’d them, wax’d in every limb; I felt the thews of Anakim, The pulses of a Titan’s heart; As one would sing the death of war, And one would chant the history Of that great race, which is to be, And one the shaping of a star; Until the forward-creeping tides Began to foam, and we to draw From deep to deep, to where we saw A great ship lift her shining sides. 486 The man we loved was there on deck, But thrice as large as man he bent To greet us. Up the side I went, And fell in silence on his neck: Whereat those maidens with one mind Bewail’d their lot; I did them wrong: ‘We served thee here’ they said, ‘so long, And wilt thou leave us now behind?’ So rapt I was, they could not win An answer from my lips, but he Replying, ‘Enter likewise ye And go with us:’ they enter’d in. And while the wind began to sweep A music out of sheet and shroud, We steer’d her toward a crimson cloud That landlike slept along the deep. CIV. The time draws near the birth of Christ; The moon is hid, the night is still; A single church below the hill Is pealing, folded in the mist. A single peal of bells below, That wakens at this hour of rest A single murmur in the breast, That these are not the bells I know. Like strangers’ voices here they sound, In lands where not a memory strays, Nor landmark breathes of other days, But all is new unhallow’d ground. CV. 487 To-night ungather’d let us leave This laurel, let this holly stand: We live within the stranger’s land, And strangely falls our Christmas-eve. Our father’s dust is left alone And silent under other snows: There in due time the woodbine blows, The violet comes, but we are gone. No more shall wayward grief abuse The genial hour with mask and mime; For change of place, like growth of time, Has broke the bond of dying use. Let cares that petty shadows cast, By which our lives are chiefly proved, A little spare the night I loved, And hold it solemn to the past. But let no footstep beat the floor, Nor bowl of wassail mantle warm; For who would keep an ancient form Thro’ which the spirit breathes no more? Be neither song, nor game, nor feast; Nor harp be touch’d, nor flute be blown; No dance, no motion, save alone What lightens in the lucid east Of rising worlds by yonder wood. Long sleeps the summer in the seed; Run out your measured arcs, and lead The closing cycle rich in good. CVI. Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light: The year is dying in the night; 488 Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true. Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind. Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws. Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in. Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good. Ring Ring Ring Ring out old shapes of foul disease; out the narrowing lust of gold; out the thousand wars of old, in the thousand years of peace. Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be. CVII. It is the day when he was born, A bitter day that early sank 489 Behind a purple-frosty bank Of vapour, leaving night forlorn. The time admits not flowers or leaves To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies The blast of North and East, and ice Makes daggers at the sharpen’d eaves, And bristles all the brakes and thorns To yon hard crescent, as she hangs Above the wood which grides and clangs Its leafless ribs and iron horns Together, in the drifts that pass To darken on the rolling brine That breaks the coast. But fetch the wine, Arrange the board and brim the glass; Bring in great logs and let them lie, To make a solid core of heat; Be cheerful-minded, talk and treat Of all things ev’n as he were by; We keep the day. With festal cheer, With books and music, surely we Will drink to him, whate’er he be, And sing the songs he loved to hear. CVIII. I will not shut me from my kind, And, lest I stiffen into stone, I will not eat my heart alone, Nor feed with sighs a passing wind: What profit lies in barren faith, And vacant yearning, tho’ with might To scale the heaven’s highest height, Or dive below the wells of Death? What find I in the highest place, But mine own phantom chanting hymns? 490 And on the depths of death there swims The reflex of a human face. I'll rather take what fruit may be Of sorrow under human skies: ’Tis held that sorrow makes us wise, Whatever wisdom sleep with thee. CIX. Heart-affluence in discursive talk From household fountains never dry; The critic clearness of an eye, That saw thro’ all the Muses’ walk; Seraphic intellect and force To seize and throw the doubts of man; Impassion’d logic, which outran The hearer in its fiery course; High nature amorous of the good, But touch’d with no ascetic gloom; And passion pure in snowy bloom Thro’ all the years of April blood; A love of freedom rarely felt, Of freedom in her regal seat Of England; not the schoolboy heat, The blind hysterics of the Celt; And manhood fused with female grace In such a sort, the child would twine A trustful hand, unask’d, in thine, And find his comfort in thy face; All these have been, and thee mine eyes Have look’d on: if they look’d in vain, My shame is greater who remain, Nor let thy wisdom make me wise. 491 CX. Thy converse drew us with delight, The men of rathe and riper years: The feeble soul, a haunt of fears, Forgot his weakness in thy sight. On thee the loyal-hearted hung, The proud was half disarm’d of pride, Nor cared the serpent at thy side To flicker with his double tongue. The stern were mild when thou wert by, The flippant put himself to school And heard thee, and the brazen fool Was soften’d, and he knew not why; While I, thy nearest, sat apart, And felt thy triumph was as mine; And loved them more, that they were thine, The graceful tact, the Christian art; Nor mine the sweetness or the skill, But mine the love that will not tire, And, born of love, the vague desire That spurs an imitative will. CXI. The churl in spirit, up or down Along the scale of ranks, thro’ all, To him who grasps a golden ball, By blood a king, at heart a clown; The churl in spirit, howe’er he veil His want in forms for fashion’s sake, Will let his coltish nature break At seasons thro’ the gilded pale: For who can always act? but he, To whom a thousand memories call, 492 Not being less but more than all The gentleness he seem’d to be, Best seem’d the thing he was, and join’d Each office of the social hour To noble manners, as the flower And native growth of noble mind; Nor ever narrowness or spite, Or villain fancy fleeting by, Drew in the expression of an eye, Where God and Nature met in light; And thus he bore without abuse The grand old name of gentleman, Defamed by every charlatan, And soil’d with all ignoble use. CXII. High wisdom holds my wisdom less, That I, who gaze with temperate eyes On glorious insufficiencies, Set light by narrower perfectness. But thou, that fillest all the room Of all my love, art reason why I seem to cast a careless eye On souls, the lesser lords of doom. For what wert thou? some novel power Sprang up for ever at a touch, And hope could never hope too much, In watching thee from hour to hour, Large elements in order brought, And tracts of calm from tempest made, And world-wide fluctuation sway’d In vassal tides that follow’d thought. 493 CXIII. ’Tis held that sorrow makes us wise; Yet how much wisdom sleeps with thee Which not alone had guided me, But served the seasons that may rise; For can I doubt, who knew thee keen In intellect, with force and skill To strive, to fashion, to fulfil– I doubt not what thou wouldst have been: life in civic action warm, soul on highest mission sent, potent voice of Parliament, pillar steadfast in the storm, Should licensed boldness gather force, Becoming, when the time has birth, A lever to uplift the earth And roll it in another course, With thousand shocks that come and go, With agonies, with energies, With overthrowings, and with cries, And undulations to and fro. CXIV. Who loves not Knowledge? Who shall rail Against her beauty? May she mix With men and prosper! Who shall fix Her pillars? Let her work prevail. But on her forehead sits a fire: She sets her forward countenance And leaps into the future chance, Submitting all things to desire. Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain– She cannot fight the fear of death. 494 What is she, cut from love and faith, But some wild Pallas from the brain Of Demons? fiery-hot to burst All barriers in her onward race For power. Let her know her place; She is the second, not the first. A higher hand must make her mild, If all be not in vain; and guide Her footsteps, moving side by side With wisdom, like the younger child: For she is earthly of the mind, But Wisdom heavenly of the soul. O, friend, who camest to thy goal So early, leaving me behind, I would the great world grew like thee, Who grewest not alone in power And knowledge, but by year and hour In reverence and in charity. CXV. Now fades the last long streak of snow, Now burgeons every maze of quick About the flowering squares, and thick By ashen roots the violets blow. Now rings the woodland loud and long, The distance takes a lovelier hue, And drown’d in yonder living blue The lark becomes a sightless song. Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, The flocks are whiter down the vale, And milkier every milky sail On winding stream or distant sea; Where now the seamew pipes, or dives 495 In yonder greening gleam, and fly The happy birds, that change their sky To build and brood; that live their lives From land to land; and in my breast Spring wakens too; and my regret Becomes an April violet, And buds and blossoms like the rest. CXVI. Is it, then, regret for buried time That keenlier in sweet April wakes, And meets the year, and gives and takes The colours of the crescent prime? Not all: the songs, the stirring air, The life re-orient out of dust, Cry thro’ the sense to hearten trust In that which made the world so fair. Not all regret: the face will shine Upon me, while I muse alone; And that dear voice, I once have known, Still speak to me of me and mine: Yet less of sorrow lives in me For days of happy commune dead; Less yearning for the friendship fled, Than some strong bond which is to be. CXVII. O days and hours, your work is this To hold me from my proper place, A little while from his embrace For fuller gain of after bliss: That out of distance might ensue Desire of nearness doubly sweet; 496 And unto meeting when we meet, Delight a hundredfold accrue, For every grain of sand that runs, And every span of shade that steals, And every kiss of toothed wheels, And all the courses of the suns. CXVIII. Contemplate all this work of Time, The giant labouring in his youth; Nor dream of human love and truth, As dying Nature’s earth and lime; But trust that those we call the dead Are breathers of an ampler day For ever nobler ends. They say, The solid earth whereon we tread In tracts of fluent heat began, And grew to seeming-random forms, The seeming prey of cyclic storms, Till at the last arose the man; Who throve and branch’d from clime to clime, The herald of a higher race, And of himself in higher place, If so he type this work of time Within himself, from more to more; Or, crown’d with attributes of woe Like glories, move his course, and show That life is not as idle ore, But iron dug from central gloom, And heated hot with burning fears, And dipt in baths of hissing tears, And batter’d with the shocks of doom To shape and use. Arise and fly 497 The reeling Faun, the sensual feast; Move upward, working out the beast, And let the ape and tiger die. CXIX. Doors, where my heart was used to beat So quickly, not as one that weeps I come once more; the city sleeps; I smell the meadow in the street; I hear a chirp of birds; I see Betwixt the black fronts long-withdrawn A light-blue lane of early dawn, And think of early days and thee, And bless thee, for thy lips are bland, And bright the friendship of thine eye; And in my thoughts with scarce a sigh I take the pressure of thine hand. CXX. I trust I have not wasted breath: I think we are not wholly brain, Magnetic mockeries; not in vain, Like Paul with beasts, I fought with Death; Not only cunning casts in clay: Let Science prove we are, and then What matters Science unto men, At least to me? I would not stay. Let him, the wiser man who springs Hereafter, up from childhood shape His action like the greater ape, But I was born to other things. 498 CXXI. Sad Hesper o’er the buried sun And ready, thou, to die with him, Thou watchest all things ever dim And dimmer, and a glory done: The team is loosen’d from the wain, The boat is drawn upon the shore; Thou listenest to the closing door, And life is darken’d in the brain. Bright Phosphor, fresher for the night, By thee the world’s great work is heard Beginning, and the wakeful bird; Behind thee comes the greater light: The market boat is on the stream, And voices hail it from the brink; Thou hear’st the village hammer clink, And see’st the moving of the team. Sweet Hesper-Phosphor, double name For what is one, the first, the last, Thou, like my present and my past, Thy place is changed; thou art the same. CXXII. Oh, wast thou with me, dearest, then, While I rose up against my doom, And yearn’d to burst the folded gloom, To bare the eternal Heavens again, To feel once more, in placid awe, The strong imagination roll A sphere of stars about my soul, In all her motion one with law; If thou wert with me, and the grave Divide us not, be with me now, And enter in at breast and brow, 499 Till all my blood, a fuller wave, Be quicken’d with a livelier breath, And like an inconsiderate boy, As in the former flash of joy, I slip the thoughts of life and death; And all the breeze of Fancy blows, And every dew-drop paints a bow, The wizard lightnings deeply glow, And every thought breaks out a rose. CXXIII. There rolls the deep where grew the tree. O earth, what changes hast thou seen! There where the long street roars, hath been The stillness of the central sea. The hills are shadows, and they flow From form to form, and nothing stands; They melt like mist, the solid lands, Like clouds they shape themselves and go. But in my spirit will I dwell, And dream my dream, and hold it true; For tho’ my lips may breathe adieu, I cannot think the thing farewell. CXXIV. That which we dare invoke to bless; Our dearest faith; our ghastliest doubt; He, They, One, All; within, without; The Power in darkness whom we guess; I found Him not in world or sun, Or eagle’s wing, or insect’s eye; Nor thro’ the questions men may try, The petty cobwebs we have spun: 500 If e’er when faith had fall’n asleep, I heard a voice ‘believe no more’ And heard an ever-breaking shore That tumbled in the Godless deep; A warmth within the breast would melt The freezing reason’s colder part, And like a man in wrath the heart Stood up and answer’d ‘I have felt.’ No, like a child in doubt and fear: But that blind clamour made me wise; Then was I as a child that cries, But, crying, knows his father near; And what I am beheld again What is, and no man understands; And out of darkness came the hands That reach thro’ nature, moulding men. CXXV. Whatever I have said or sung, Some bitter notes my harp would give, Yea, tho’ there often seem’d to live A contradiction on the tongue, Yet Hope had never lost her youth; She did but look through dimmer eyes; Or Love but play’d with gracious lies, Because he felt so fix’d in truth: And if the song were full of care, He breathed the spirit of the song; And if the words were sweet and strong He set his royal signet there; Abiding with me till I sail To seek thee on the mystic deeps, And this electric force, that keeps 501 A thousand pulses dancing, fail. CXXVI. Love is and was my Lord and King, And in his presence I attend To hear the tidings of my friend, Which every hour his couriers bring. Love is and was my King and Lord, And will be, tho’ as yet I keep Within his court on earth, and sleep Encompass’d by his faithful guard, And hear at times a sentinel Who moves about from place to place, And whispers to the worlds of space, In the deep night, that all is well. CXXVII. And all is well, tho’ faith and form Be sunder’d in the night of fear; Well roars the storm to those that hear A deeper voice across the storm, Proclaiming social truth shall spread, And justice, ev’n tho’ thrice again The red fool-fury of the Seine Should pile her barricades with dead. But ill for him that wears a crown, And him, the lazar, in his rags: They tremble, the sustaining crags; The spires of ice are toppled down, And molten up, and roar in flood; The fortress crashes from on high, The brute earth lightens to the sky, And the great Æon sinks in blood, 502 And compass’d by the fires of Hell; While thou, dear spirit, happy star, O’erlook’st the tumult from afar, And smilest, knowing all is well. CXXVIII. The love that rose on stronger wings, Unpalsied when he met with Death, Is comrade of the lesser faith That sees the course of human things. No doubt vast eddies in the flood Of onward time shall yet be made, And throned races may degrade; Yet O ye mysteries of good, Wild Hours that fly with Hope and Fear, If all your office had to do With old results that look like new; If this were all your mission here, To To To To draw, to sheathe a useless sword, fool the crowd with glorious lies, cleave a creed in sects and cries, change the bearing of a word, To shift an arbitrary power, To cramp the student at his desk, To make old bareness picturesque And tuft with grass a feudal tower; Why then my scorn might well descend On you and yours. I see in part That all, as in some piece of art, Is toil coöperant to an end. CXXIX. 503 Dear friend, far off, my lost desire, So far, so near in woe and weal; O loved the most, when most I feel There is a lower and a higher; Known and unknown; human, divine; Sweet human hand and lips and eye; Dear heavenly friend that canst not die, Mine, mine, for ever, ever mine; Strange friend, past, present, and to be; Loved deeplier, darklier understood; Behold, I dream a dream of good, And mingle all the world with thee. CXXX. Thy voice is on the rolling air; I hear thee where the waters run; Thou standest in the rising sun, And in the setting thou art fair. What art thou then? I cannot guess; But tho’ I seem in star and flower To feel thee some diffusive power, I do not therefore love thee less: My love involves the love before; My love is vaster passion now; Tho’ mix’d with God and Nature thou, I seem to love thee more and more. Far off thou art, but ever nigh; I have thee still, and I rejoice; I prosper, circled with thy voice; I shall not lose thee tho’ I die. CXXXI. 504 O living will that shalt endure When all that seems shall suffer shock, Rise in the spiritual rock, Flow thro’ our deeds and make them pure, That we may lift from out of dust A voice as unto him that hears, A cry above the conquer’d years To one that with us works, and trust, With faith that comes of self-control, The truths that never can be proved Until we close with all we loved, And all we flow from, soul in soul. _________ O true and tried, so well and long, Demand not thou a marriage lay; In that it is thy marriage day Is music more than any song. Nor have I felt so much of bliss Since first he told me that he loved A daughter of our house; nor proved Since that dark day a day like this; Tho’ I since then have number’d o’er Some thrice three years: they went and came, Remade the blood and changed the frame, And yet is love not less, but more; No longer caring to embalm In dying songs a dead regret, But like a statue solid-set, And moulded in colossal calm. Regret is dead, but love is more Than in the summers that are flown, For I myself with these have grown To something greater than before; Which makes appear the songs I made 505 As echoes out of weaker times, As half but idle brawling rhymes, The sport of random sun and shade. But where is she, the bridal flower, That must he made a wife ere noon? She enters, glowing like the moon Of Eden on its bridal bower: On me she bends her blissful eyes And then on thee; they meet thy look And brighten like the star that shook Betwixt the palms of paradise. O when her life was yet in bud, He too foretold the perfect rose. For thee she grew, for thee she grows For ever, and as fair as good. And thou art worthy; full of power; As gentle; liberal-minded, great, Consistent; wearing all that weight Of learning lightly like a flower. But now set out: the noon is near, And I must give away the bride; She fears not, or with thee beside And me behind her, will not fear. For I that danced her on my knee, That watch’d her on her nurse’s arm, That shielded all her life from harm At last must part with her to thee; Now waiting to be made a wife, Her feet, my darling, on the dead; Their pensive tablets round her head, And the most living words of life Breathed in her ear. The ring is on, The ‘wilt thou’ answer’d, and again The ‘wilt thou’ ask’d, till out of twain 506 Her sweet ‘I will’ has made you one. Now sign your names, which shall be read, Mute symbols of a joyful morn, By village eyes as yet unborn; The names are sign’d, and overhead Begins the clash and clang that tells The joy to every wandering breeze; The blind wall rocks, and on the trees The dead leaf trembles to the bells. O happy hour, and happier hours Await them. Many a merry face Salutes them–maidens of the place, That pelt us in the porch with flowers. O happy hour, behold the bride With him to whom her hand I gave. They leave the porch, they pass the grave That has to-day its sunny side. To-day the grave is bright for me, For them the light of life increased, Who stay to share the morning feast, Who rest to-night beside the sea. Let all my genial spirits advance To meet and greet a whiter sun; My drooping memory will not shun The foaming grape of eastern France. It circles round, and fancy plays, And hearts are warm’d and faces bloom, As drinking health to bride and groom We wish them store of happy days. Nor count me all to blame if I Conjecture of a stiller guest, Perchance, perchance, among the rest, And, tho’ in silence, wishing joy. 507 But they must go, the time draws on, And those white-favour’d horses wait; They rise, but linger; it is late; Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone. A shade falls on us like the dark From little cloudlets on the grass, But sweeps away as out we pass To range the woods, to roam the park, Discussing how their courtship grew, And talk of others that are wed, And how she look’d, and what he said, And back we come at fall of dew. Again the feast, the speech, the glee, The shade of passing thought, the wealth Of words and wit, the double health, The crowning cup, the three-times-three, And last the dance;–till I retire: Dumb is that tower which spake so loud, And high in heaven the streaming cloud, And on the downs a rising fire: And rise, O moon, from yonder down, Till over down and over dale All night the shining vapour sail And pass the silent-lighted town, The white-faced halls, the glancing rills, And catch at every mountain head, And o’er the friths that branch and spread Their sleeping silver thro’ the hills; And touch with shade the bridal doors, With tender gloom the roof, the wall; And breaking let the splendour fall To spangle all the happy shores By which they rest, and ocean sounds, And, star and system rolling past, 508 A soul shall draw from out the vast And strike his being into bounds, And, moved thro’ life of lower phase, Result in man, be born and think, And act and love, a closer link Betwixt us and the crowning race Of those that, eye to eye, shall look On knowledge; under whose command Is Earth and Earth’s, and in their hand Is Nature like an open book; No longer half-akin to brute, For all we thought and loved and did, And hoped, and suffer’d, is but seed Of what in them is flower and fruit; Whereof the man, that with me trod This planet, was a noble type Appearing ere the times were ripe, That friend of mine who lives in God, That God, which ever lives and loves, One God, one law, one element, And one far-off divine event, To which the whole creation moves. ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,