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   9 Alfred Lord Tennyson
   8 Charles Dickens
   7 Elias Lönnrot
   7 Banjo Paterson
   5 Diablo Cody
   4 Jon Landau
   3 Stephen King
   3 Sarah Vowell
   3 Ralph Waldo Emerson
   3 Ovid
   3 Mick Jagger
   3 Haruki Murakami
   3 Emma Lazarus
   3 Edgar Albert Guest
   3 Carl Sandburg
   3 Anne Brontë
   3 Alice Cooper
   3 Alexander Pope
   2 Walt Whitman
   2 Tracy Kidder

*** WISDOM TROVE ***

1:Every one who repeats it adds something to the scandal. [The rolling snow-ball.] ~ ovid, @wisdomtrove

2:Her beauty climbed the rolling slope, it came into the room, rustling ghost-like through the curtains. ~ f-scott-fitzgerald, @wisdomtrove

3:Before the Roman came to Rye or out to severn strode, / The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road. ~ g-k-chesterton, @wisdomtrove

4:I love pop culture - the Rolling Stones, the Doors, David Lynch, things like that. That's why I said I don't like elitism. ~ haruki-murakami, @wisdomtrove

5:For your popular rumour, unlike the rolling stone of the proverb, is one which gathers a deal of moss in its wanderings up and down. ~ charles-dickens, @wisdomtrove

6:When we came within sight of the sea, the waves on the horizon, caught at intervals above the rolling abyss, were like glimpses of another shore with towers and buildings. ~ charles-dickens, @wisdomtrove

7:Is it hot in the rolling mill? Are the hours long? Is $15 a day not enough? Then escape is easy. Simply throw up your job, spit on your hands, and write another "Rosenkavailer." ~ h-l-mencken, @wisdomtrove

8:As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,- Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. ~ oliver-goldsmith, @wisdomtrove

9:The Rolling Stones are truly the greatest rock and roll band in the world and always will be. The last too. Everything that came after them, metal, rap, punk, new wave, pop-rock, you name it... you can trace it all back to the Rolling Stones. They were the first and the last and no one's ever done it better. ~ bob-dylan, @wisdomtrove

10:The best thing is to go from nature's God dawn to nature; and if you once get to nature's God, and believe Him, and love Him, it is surprising how easy it is to hear music in the waves, and songs in the wild whisperings of the winds; to see God everywhere in the stones, in the rocks, in the rippling brooks, and hear Him everywhere, in the lowing of cattle, in the rolling of thunder, and in the fury of tempests. Get Christ first, put Him in the right place, and you will find Him to be the wisdom of God in your own experience. ~ charles-spurgeon, @wisdomtrove

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:The rolling stone never gathereth mosse. ~ John Heywood,

2:I believe the Rolling Stones wanted to play in Golden Gate Park. ~ Paul Kantner,

3:The early bird gathers no moss! The rolling stone catches the worm. ~ Jim Carrey,

4:Then I remember: death comes before the rolling away of the stone. ~ Mary Oliver,

5:I wanted a real band. I wanted the Rolling Stones, the Beatles. ~ Christopher Owens,

6:The rolling sound of a good hymn badly sung is particularly evocative. ~ Iain Pears,

7:Every one who repeats it adds something to the scandal. [The rolling snow-ball.] ~ Ovid,

8:They got love bigger than the Beatles, wild and free like the Rolling Stones. ~ Joe Diffie,

9:I like the Rolling Stones for karaoke. 'Sympathy For The Devil' is a great one. ~ Hugh Jackman,

10:I am really into '70s music, like The Rolling Stones, The Doors and what not. ~ Danny Masterson,

11:you can feel something in the air, the rolling boil of a pot about to run over. Not ~ Suzanne Collins,

12:Sometimes I love the marriage of art and commerce; I love Donna Summer; I like the Rolling Stones. ~ Moby,

13:I believe that the Rolling Stones and Led Zeppelin are two of the greatest rock bands ever! ~ Jesse Ventura,

14:The only band that we have never played with but have always wanted to is the Rolling Stones. ~ Lars Ulrich,

15:I've grown up with my parents' music tastes, listening to Fleetwood Mac and the Rolling Stones. ~ Saoirse Ronan,

16:I got to play on a couple of records with the Rolling Stones, and that was really special to me. ~ Benmont Tench,

17:I've been listening to the old school hip-hop stuff and rock like The Beatles and the Rolling Stones. ~ Mac Miller,

18:There was a deep boom, like the rolling in of an ocean wave. The hearse door had been slammed shut. ~ Eudora Welty,

19:These days, the Rolling Stones still have an edge, but that fangs-out ferocity has mellowed considerably. ~ Diablo Cody,

20:Maybe nobody went to see the Rolling Stones here in 1964,' said Ros. 'The dead shark was just too much fun. ~ Nick Hornby,

21:The Rolling Stones are so versatile, they're like the band version of that Infinite Dress they sell on QVC. ~ Diablo Cody,

22:Her beauty climbed the rolling slope, it came into the room, rustling ghost-like through the curtains. ~ F Scott Fitzgerald,

23:The rolling contract was designed to specifically take away some of that retirement talk and retirement issue. ~ David Gill,

24:Hatred and anger are only scars upon a beach, while love is the rolling surf that ceaselessly smooths the sand. ~ Dean Koontz,

25:Her beauty climbed the rolling slope, it came into the room, rustling ghost-like through the curtains... ~ F Scott Fitzgerald,

26:I've been meaning to write about the Rolling Stones, but I am the furthest thing from a hipster rock journalist. ~ Diablo Cody,

27:While other girls swooned over The Beatles and the Rolling Stones, I worshipped Rudolf Nureyev and Isadora Duncan. ~ Celia Imrie,

28:A life on the ocean wave! A home on the rolling deep, Where the scattered waters rave, And the winds their revels keep! ~ Epes Sargent,

29:He turned, pulled down the rolling door, and hid the terrifying proof that he’d given up everything to chase after a lie. ~ Tammy L Gray,

30:Nothing the Rolling Stones ever did was more important than the respect they showed to the music that had inspired them. ~ Stephen Davis,

31:As W. H. Auden pointed out, the Reaper takes the rolling in money, the screamingly funny, and those who are very well hung. ~ Stephen King,

32:Before the Roman came to Rye or out to severn strode, / The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road. ~ Gilbert K Chesterton,

33:I couldn't turn down The Rolling Stones. A real man would never turn down the chance of working with legends like them. ~ Steve Lillywhite,

34:I like The Beatles and I like The Kinks and I like The Rolling Stones and I like Led Zeppelin and I like Black Sabbath. ~ Rachel Trachtenburg,

35:I love pop culture -- the Rolling Stones, the Doors, David Lynch, things like that. That's why I said I don't like elitism. ~ Haruki Murakami,

36:One does not part willingly with early loyalties or early traditions, and indeed the rolling years do but confirm them. ~ Michael Moynihan,

37:As W. H. Auden pointed out, the Reaper takes the rolling in money, the screamingly funny, and those who are very well hung. But ~ Stephen King,

38:No matter what Johnny Rotten and Sid Vicious do, they can't be more disgusting than The Rolling Stones are in an orgy of biting. ~ Mick Jagger,

39:The rolling stone rolls echoing from rock to rock; but the rolling stone is dead. The moss is silent because the moss is alive. ~ G K Chesterton,

40:I love pop culture -- the Rolling Stones, the Doors, David Lynch, things like that. That's why I said I don't like elitism. ~ Haruki Murakami,

41:While the Beatles always had George Martin around to clean up their act, the Rolling Stones had Andrew Loog Oldham to coarsen theirs. ~ Jon Landau,

42:I am a child of the '70s, so I love classic rock - Bob Dylan, The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, Van Morrison, and I also love Coldplay. ~ Rachel Zoe,

43:Growing up I used to love bands like Free and ELO and the Rolling Stones. When Robert Plant got in touch it made perfect sense to me. ~ Alison Krauss,

44:For your popular rumour, unlike the rolling stone of the proverb, is one which gathers a deal of moss in its wanderings up and down. ~ Charles Dickens,

45:I see the stars. I hear the rolling thunder, thy power throughout the universe displayed. Then sings my soul, my Savior, God, to thee. ~ Reba McEntire,

46:The rolling stone rolls echoing from rock to rock; but the rolling stone is dead. The moss is silent because the moss is alive. ~ Gilbert K Chesterton,

47:I swear I see what is better than to tell the best, It is always to leave the best untold." -from "A Song of the Rolling Earth ~ Walt Whitman,

48:We idolized the Beatles, except for those of us who idolized the Rolling Stones, who in those days still had many of their original teeth. ~ Dave Barry,

49:Coachella is a festival fashion show where people dress up like hippies and pretend that Passion Pit is as good as the Rolling Stones. ~ Caroline Kepnes,

50:In all we do, and hear, and see, Is restless Toil and Vanity. While yet the rolling earth abides, Men come and go like ocean tides ~ Anne Bront,

51:The Rolling Stones set the bar to where I look to as a band. But I don't envision myself touring in the way they do. My knees won't hold out. ~ Jon Bon Jovi,

52:I like to listen to different kinds of music - it just depends on my mood. I love Madonna, Russian singers... I like the Rolling Stones a lot! ~ Oksana Baiul,

53:Whether it's a blatant homage or unconscious mimicry, the Rolling Stones have permanently, indelibly influenced how rock stars look and behave. ~ Diablo Cody,

54:In the rolling sea of new state, new school, new dangers everywere, Daniel was the only rock she had to hold on to.And he was adout to leave her? ~ Lauren Kate,

55:I always say that I am very proud of the work that I did with the Rolling Stones and that I am also proud of what I have done with the Rhythm Kings. ~ Bill Wyman,

56:When I'm 80 and sitting in a rocking chair listening to the Rolling Stones, there is absolutely no way I'm going to feel old or forget my younger days. ~ Patty Duke,

57:...In the rolling sea of new state, new school, new dangers everywere, Daniel was the only rock she had to hold on to.And he was adout to leave her?... ~ Lauren Kate,

58:If you're an American kid, you can't help but be influenced by Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath and the Rolling Stones because they're always on the radio. ~ Chris Cornell,

59:I wanted my whole life so far to slip away with the rolling waves, to begin a different kind of life. But I didn't know what that meant or how to get to it ~ Deborah Levy,

60:Both the Beatles and The Rolling Stones broke on the music scene the summer I was in England. I can vividly remember hearing She Loves You in August 1963. ~ Gordon Lightfoot,

61:The Rolling Stones are violence. Their music penetrates the raw nerve endings of their listeners and finds its way into the groove marked 'release of frustration.' ~ Jon Landau,

62:Every road I walked would take me down to the sea With every broken promise in my sack And every love would always send the ship of my heart Over the rolling sea ~ Sting,

63:My father hated rock and roll - hated it. My first real argument with my father was over the Rolling Stones. And he never, ever liked rock and roll. He just liked me. ~ Patti Smith,

64:The Beatles looked like they were in show business, and that was the important thing. And the important thing for the Rolling Stones was to look as if they were not. ~ Andrew Loog Oldham,

65:When I started covering The Beatles and The Rolling Stones in a rock 'n' roll band, it helped me realize that my natural voice is actually really high. It helped me find my voice. ~ Gotye,

66:When we came within sight of the sea, the waves on the horizon, caught at intervals above the rolling abyss, were like glimpses of another shore with towers and buildings. ~ Charles Dickens,

67:Is it hot in the rolling mill? Are the hours long? Is $15 a day not enough? Then escape is easy. Simply throw up your job, spit on your hands, and write another "Rosenkavailer." ~ H L Mencken,

68:With the groups who asked me to join them - like the Rolling Stones, Spirit, David Bowie, and Blood, Sweat & Tears - I said no right away because I was way too much into my own thing. ~ Shuggie Otis,

69:Lift every voice and sing Till earth and heaven ring, Ring with the harmonies of Liberty. Let our rejoicing rise high as the listening skies; Let it resound loud as the rolling sea. ~ James Weldon Johnson,

70:So by the time the 60s rolled in that became a huge art form in its own right with bands like the Beatles and the Rolling Stones and Hendrix doing total concept albums, same thing with Pink Floyd. ~ DJ Spooky,

71:As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,- Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. ~ Oliver Goldsmith,

72:Oh, yes, I know, I am a great deal better," said Paul, "a very great deal better. Listen, Floy; what is it the sea keeps saying?" "Nothing, dear, it is only the rolling of the waves you hear. ~ Charles Dickens,

73:When I think of Mick Jagger still singing that he can't get any satisfaction in over forty years of being in the Rolling Stones, I have to conclude that he's either lying or not all that bright. ~ Henry Rollins,

74:woman’s mouth opened and she brandished the rolling pin over her head like a Highland warrior. “PERVERRRRRRRT!” she screamed, and then she ran at him, clubbing him wherever she could reach. Edward ~ Cynthia Hand,

75:The Rolling Stones reunited for a twenty-fifth anniversary tour last week. Keith Richards said that he's happy to continue to do what he's been doing for the past twenty-five years: cheating death. ~ Norm MacDonald,

76:As W.H. Auden pointed out, the Reaper takes the rolling in money, the screamingly funny, and those who are very well hung. But that isn't where Auden starts his list. He starts with the innocent young. ~ Stephen King,

77:You don't ever want to be the wife who keeps her husband from playing poker - you don't ever want to be the shrew with the curlers and the rolling pin. So you swallow your disappointment and say okay. ~ Gillian Flynn,

78:And as I sat and looked at her and the rolling hills she sat upon I thought, what amazing luck I have that the world had created such beautiful things and given me the eyes to see them. ~ Atticus Poetry,

79:...that even while caught in a stormy sea, they must keep dancing, dance on through the rolling waves so that when they finally surged up toward the open air, their grace and joy would light up the world. ~ Minfong Ho,

80:But we weren't a phenomenon like the Beatles or Elvis Presley or the Rolling Stones: We were only as good as our last hit. We lived on our music and couldn't slide on anything - and this show is that story. ~ Bob Gaudio,

81:Most have simply seen and done too much; as the Rolling Stones have been proving for ten years, you have to work for innocence. You have to win it, or you end up with nothing more than a strained naïveté. ~ Greil Marcus,

82:Adam Levine and I remade the Rolling Stones' classic Wild Horses, and it is right up my alley, that whole style. It has a style of its own but still stays very true to the classic arrangement, and I love it. ~ Alicia Keys,

83:.... Finch, a small and somnolent village set among the rolling hills and the patchwork fields of the Cotswolds, a pastoral haven described in countless guidebooks as one of the prettiest regions in England ~ Nancy Atherton,

84:If The Beatles represent the most successful version you can be of a thing, then by that definition The Rolling Stones are The Beatles of music, not counting The Beatles. John Lennon is The Beatles of The Beatles. ~ Dana Gould,

85:Rock & roll mostly is a very butch thing, and it appeals to one hard side of the masculine character. But I don't think the Rolling Stones are only a rock band. They can be other things. They can be very feminine. ~ Mick Jagger,

86:And what if in the future we're at war again, or we still haven't elected a non-white or non-male president, or the Rolling Stones are still dragging their tired old butts on stage? That would depress me way too much. ~ Jay Asher,

87:Dorothy’s cooking was legendary. It had once been said that she could turn soil to cake. William, her husband, had remarked that he could achieve the reverse, earning himself a sharp smack with the rolling pin. ~ Jonathan Renshaw,

88:Life...moves us through all the time changes. All kinds of changes. And we're made so that we roll and move with it. Sometimes somebody gets stuck in the present and the rolling stops—but the changing doesn't. ~ Jacqueline Woodson,

89:The great music for so many artists - the Beatles, the Rolling Stones - was always at the moment when they were closest to pop. It would be easy for U2 to go off and have a concept album, but I want us to stay in the pop fray. ~ Bono,

90:At this time of the rolling year," the spectre said, "I suffer most. Why did I walk through crowds of fellow-beings with my eyes turned down, and never raise them to that blessed Star which led the Wise Men to a poor abode! ~ Charles Dickens,

91:I am a rock & roll man, and therefore, a denim man. Musicians of any era - whether it be The Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Rage Against the Machine, or, of course, Madonna - will inspire fashion. And we in turn will inspire them. ~ Renzo Rosso,

92:There's a lot of bands that get to a certain level, and it just stops. They scrap it. Compare this to, say, The Rolling Stones or The Who, where they just continued on forever and are still playing, or they quit after 20 years. ~ Eddie Vedder,

93:But I lose  Myself in Him, in Light ineffable!  Come then, expressive Silence, muse His praise.  These, as they change, Almighty Father, these  Are but the varied God. The rolling Year  Is full of Thee. ~ James Thomson, Hymn, line 116,

94:I sat on the floor behind him, putting my legs on either side of his hips so that my calves were over the edge, and I rested my cheek on his bare back. He continued to play and I recognized the tune.  Wild Horses by the Rolling Stones. ~ D D Prince,

95:The head crossed the water, and when it reached the other side, it turned around and drank all that water up. The rolling head became confused and drunk. It wanted more. More of anything. More of everything. And it just kept rolling. ~ Tommy Orange,

96:When punk came along, I found my generation's music. I grew up listening to the Beatles and the Rolling Stones and Pink Floyd, 'cause that was what got played in the house. But when I first saw the Stranglers, I thought, 'This is it.' ~ Robert Smith,

97:He that follows the advice of reason has a mind that is elevated above the reach of injury; that sits above the clouds, in a calm and quiet ether, and with a brave indifferency hears the rolling thunders grumble and burst under his feet. ~ Walter Scott,

98:Oh, it's home again and home again, America for me! I want a ship that's westward bound to plough the rolling sea To the blessed land of Room Enough beyond the ocean bars, Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars. ~ Henry Van Dyke,

99:I don't really have an ambition to become the Rolling Stones, or anything like that. For me, it's just playing music is kind of a transcendent, amazing gift, so when people come together and they play, I think it's a real special thing. ~ Jonathan Jackson,

100:It's like this - these five members have been influenced of course by other groups, because that's where this generation's groups came from - an environment like the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, the Yardbirds, and The Who. People like that. ~ Alice Cooper,

101:If you look at the history of popular music, the most successful musicians have started out being really marginal and esoteric. The Beatles and the Rolling Stones. Madonna. Prince. Bruce Springsteen. Fleetwood Mac. David Bowie. Public Enemy. Nirvana. ~ Moby,

102:Furthermore, the initial page, always crucial, passed every test, with its promises and divisions, its portentous opening paragraph like the great door of a church, its exotic setting and strange names, the rolling orchestration of its prose. ~ William H Gass,

103:Oh, sure, they’d insisted I take Washington Wife class after I’d inadvertently insulted the Prime Minster of England, but how could I have known he wasn’t willing to admit that the Rolling Stones weren’t half the band Aerosmith was and never would be? ~ Gini Koch,

104:Literally sold his soul? Like, ‘Devil Went Down to Georgia,’ Robert Johnson at the crossroads—” “Like Mephistopheles and your namesake, or the violinist Niccolò Paganini, or the Rolling Stones, yes, exactly.” She paused. “Forget I said that last one. ~ Craig Schaefer,

105:No, by God, it is false! It wasn't a minuet that we stepped; it was a prison - a prison full of screaming hysterics, tied down so that they might not outsound the rolling of our carriage wheels as we went along the shaded avenues of the Taunus Wald. ~ Ford Madox Ford,

106:There's a lot of music that we've never heard before. It's not like we're just pulling out December's Children by The Rolling Stones and listening to that again and again. We are listening to things we've never heard, but they do tend to be from the past. ~ Ira Kaplan,

107:Dad slugged back the Rolling Rock. He used to only drink Budweiser until those commercials with the frogs came out. He’d said, “Welp. Can’t drink moron beer,” finished the rest of his Budweiser that night and, as far as Dan knew, had yet to touch another ~ Stephen Markley,

108:The Rolling Stones are constantly changing, but beneath the changes they remain the most formal of rock bands. Their successive releases have been continuous extensions of their approach, not radical redefinitions, as has so often been the case with the Beatles. ~ Jon Landau,

109:She threw open the window to breathe in the spring air, heavy with the sweet perfume of roses and heather. To her right was the rolling glen beckoning her to come and walk. 'Sit here awhile and dream your thoughts on this flat rock.' How often had she done that? ~ Karen Ranney,

110:I fell into hip-hop right from the beginning. I was a teenager in the '60s, so I was putting all my pocket money into buying LPs. I followed the ascent of the Rolling Stones, the Beatles, and Stevie Wonder. I followed popular music very closely, and I've never stopped. ~ Simon de Pury,

111:The past is over. We can read about it in history books. And what if in the future we’re at war again, or we still haven’t elected a non-white or non-male president, or the Rolling Stones are still dragging their tired old butts on stage? That would depress me way too much. ~ Jay Asher,

112:I think anything that you put your life's energy into becomes part of your identity. It would be difficult for the Rolling Stones to not play rock and roll anymore, because that's their image of themselves. When you've convinced everybody that that's who you are, that's who you are. ~ Jim Bridwell,

113:My first memory of the Rolling Stones is listening to 'Satisfaction' at a sixth-grade slumber party at a friend's house in Ankara, Turkey, where my family was living at the time. In the middle of our sleepover, my friend's dad stopped the record when he heard the words 'girlie action!' ~ Gayle King,

114:The very first concert I ever went to on my own was actually Rory Gallagher. In a one-month period in 1973 or '74, I saw him, Thin Lizzy and the Rolling Stones. I wasn't really a big Rory Gallagher fan, but I thought his guitar playing was fabulous. But Thin Lizzy, they were fabulous. ~ Robert Smith,

115:At this time of the rolling year,” the specter said, “I suffer most. Why did I walk through crowds of fellow-beings with my eyes turned down, and never raise them to that blessed Star which led the Wise Men to a poor abode? Were there no poor homes to which its light would have conducted me? ~ Charles Dickens,

116:From folk to tribal to Cab Calloway, Cole Porter, Gershwin to the Rolling Stones, whose first record was all covers, to country-western, bebop, blues, and even the referencing in classic hip hop to cliched love ballads of the '80s or whatever - that is kinda gone, and that's just terrifying to me. ~ Cat Power,

117:Dana was lead singer for The Droids, Sweet Valley High’s answer to the Rolling Stones. They had a reputation for being pretty wild, but most of it was just conjecture. Not many outsiders knew what went on in the smoky confines of Max Dellon’s basement, where they held their practice sessions. ~ Francine Pascal,

118:I know, when I look into the eyes of my own children, the look of wonder when I speak of life back in the '60s. That's why the Rolling Stones are such a hit even in their 60s, why Dennis Hopper is so compelling, even when he's making pitches for something unhip as long-term financial planning. ~ Chris Matthews,

119:Very slowly, he turned a full circle, taking in the nothingness of it all. It seemed his lungs could never be large enough to breathe in this much air, his eyes could never see this much space, nor could he near the full extent of the rolling, roaring ocean. For the briefest moment, he had no edges. ~ M L Stedman,

120:The Rolling Stones are truly the greatest rock and roll band in the world and always will be. The last too. Everything that came after them, metal, rap, punk, new wave, pop-rock, you name it... you can trace it all back to the Rolling Stones. They were the first and the last and no one's ever done it better. ~ Bob Dylan,

121:Still, her plumpness was charming. Resting an ear on her hip was like lying in a meadow on an idyllic spring afternoon, her thighs as soft as freshly aired futon, the rolling flow of her curves leading gracefully to her pubis. When I complimented her on her qualities, though, all she said was, "Oh yeah? ~ Haruki Murakami,

122:So Bach, Beethoven, Duke Ellington, Thelonius Monk, these are all people who would sort of rearrange or take riffs from people. Same thing with rock, if you look at the Rolling Stones doing a cover of Otis Redding or you know if you look at literature James Joyce is pulling fragments of text from other people. ~ DJ Spooky,

123:I love everything that makes up a milieu, the rolling of the carriages and the noise of the workmen in Paris, the cries of a thousand birds in the country, the movement of the ships on the waters. I love also absolute, profound silence, and, in short, I love everything that is around me, no matter where I am. ~ George Sand,

124:I don't like answering to other people's philosophies. I don't have any philosophy, I just believe in stuff. Either I believe in something or I don't. Like, I believe in the Rolling Stones but not in the Dave Clark Five. There's nothing philosophic about it. Whenever I'm linked with a movement, it pisses me off. ~ Patti Smith,

125:She could see all of Ferenwood from here: the rolling hills, the endless explosion of color cascading down and across the lush landscape. Reds and blues: Maroon and ceruleans. Yellow and tangerine and violet and aquamarine. Every hue held a flavor, a heartbeat, a life. She took a deep breath and drew it all in. ~ Tahereh Mafi,

126:A new root had grown and in its winding search it had gripped a part of life that she had never experienced before. Her love for the child was overwhelming and gave her a new depth of purpose; the world now grasped her in a more substantial fashion. Held fast to its shifting and the rolling lurch of its futures. ~ Brian Catling,

127:Nature will be reported. All things are engaged in writing their history. The planet, the pebble, goes attended by its shadow. The rolling rock leaves its scratches on the mountain; the river, its channel in the soil; the animal, its bones in the stratum; the fern and leaf their modest epitaph in the coal. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,

128:The Rolling Stones have been the best of all possible worlds: they have the lack of pretension and sentimentality associated with the blues, the rawness and toughness of hard rock, and the depth which always makes you feel that they are in the midst of saying something. They have never impressed me as being kitsch. ~ Jon Landau,

129:Nobody dies in Austen,” Page said, as if that were reason enough to read and enjoy something. “Nobody who appears on page, that is. She keeps all her tragedy off page,” he said approvingly. “On page, it’s all very much like this,” he said, gesturing out the window once again at the rolling hills of the Cotswolds. ~ Cat Sebastian,

130:The '60s in London obviously brought about the explosion of music, the Beatles especially, and then the Rolling Stones and other forms of music, and then fashion and photography and films - kitchen-sink dramas we called them at that time, which was our nouvelle vague in Britain, films that talk about real life. ~ Charlotte Rampling,

131:The promise of the Internet-as-Alexandria is more than the rolling plenitude of information. It's the ability of individuals to choreograph that information in idiosyncratic ways, the hope that individuals might feel invited by the gravitational pull of a broad and open commons to 'rip, mix, and burn' - to curate. ~ Gideon Lewis Kraus,

132:One day, I remember it was in television. I was a fan of the Rolling Stones. One of the members, the guitarist, had died from an overdose of drugs. I cried tears – my model had died. After this, an exciting new group, the Radha Krishna Temple, came on and sang the Hare Krishna mantra. I immediately felt deep solace. ~ Sacinandana Swami,

133:Carol Burnett probably had the biggest influence on me as kid. Although I was very young and watched her a lot in reruns, I was mesmerized by the way she transformed, by her physical comedy and the rolling laughter from the live studio audience. I loved her most as Scarlett O'Hara and her well known Cleaning Lady character. ~ Christine Lakin,

134:I'm with Milton and the Rolling Stones: I don't find the Devil an unsympathetic character. But in any case, my fiction is populated as much by people who do good as it is by those who do bad. I'm interested in imaginatively accommodating as much of the human as possible, for which you need both moral extremes and everything in between. ~ Glen Duncan,

135:/Farsi Then to the rolling Heav'n itself I cried, Asking, "What Lamp had Destiny to guide "Her little Children stumbling in the Dark?" And -- "A blind Understanding!" Heav'n replied. [bk1sm.gif] -- from The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, by Omar Khayyam / Translated by Edward FitzGerald ~ Omar Khayyam, 33 - Then to the rolling Heavn itself I cried ,

136:I've been meeting with Live Nation CEO Michael Rapino for years, trying to figure out how to fix the concert industry. We're all so overpaid. It's ridiculous. People stopped going to concerts because they can't afford them. The Rolling Stones are charging $650 per ticket! That just makes me speechless. I love the Stones, but I won't be attending. ~ Kid Rock,

137:There is something I like about talking to journalists that really goes beyond promotion because you aren't just talking to the journalist, but you are talking through them to people who presumably are fans of the Rolling Stones. The interviews give you a chance to say a few things and maybe clear up some of the things people read about the band. ~ Mick Jagger,

138:With riddles as black as coals, and answers as invisible as our past, I can only depend upon the crest of the rolling wave I now traversed; a romance worshiped only by the dreamer in us all, a psithurism of trust making its way through the years of our ascension to one day climb above the kaleidoscopic canopy of this mortal coil. ~ Dave Matthes,

139:It was one of the peculiar malfunctions of technology that shore batteries on the islands were generally of inadequate caliber and range to knock out a ship approaching with hostile intent. One is moved to wonder why, if a 10-pounder gun could be mounted on the rolling deck of a sailing vessel, the same or larger could not be mounted on land? ~ Barbara W Tuchman,

140:Three invalids.—Sufferings of George and Harris.—A victim to one hundred and seven fatal maladies.—Useful prescriptions.—Cure for liver complaint in children.—We agree that we are overworked, and need rest.—A week on the rolling deep?—George suggests the River.—Montmorency lodges an objection.—Original motion carried by majority of three to one. ~ Jerome K Jerome,

141:Love, the deadliest of all things: It kills you both when you have it and when you don't. But that isn't it, exactly. The condemner and the condemned. The executioner; the blade; the last-minute reprieve; the gasping breath and the rolling sky above you and the thank you, thank you, thank you God. Love: It will kill you and save you, both. ~ Lauren Oliver,

142:What I like about music is the songs you can remember the lines of in a single second. The Beatles, The Rolling Stones... You can remember every line to their songs. But today, how often do you remember any of the lines to songs? I mean, I know that one of the Lily Allen's last albums is called It's Not Me, It's You. But I don't know how the songs go. ~ Karl Lagerfeld,

143:Love, the deadliest of all things: It kills you both when you have it and when you don’t. But that isn’t it, exactly. The condemner and the condemned. The executioner; the blade; the last-minute reprieve; the gasping breath and the rolling sky above you and the thank you, thank you, thank you, God. Love: It will kill you and save you, both. ~ Lauren Oliver,

144:Tahitians, knew that it was madness to go on alone.  So he stood waist-deep in the grass and looked regretfully across the rolling savannah and the soft-swelling foothills to the Lion’s Head, a massive peak of rock that upreared into the azure from the midmost centre of Guadalcanar, a landmark used for bearings by every coasting mariner, a mountain as yet ~ Jack London,

145:Bob Dylan was really mad with my wife. I had asked by Rolling Stone - the only assignment I ever had for them - to do a story on the Rolling Thunder Review, which was Bob Dylan, Alan Ginsberg, Joan Baez and a host of stars. My wife, some weeks before, had written in The New York Times that The Kid wasn't The Kid anymore and he wasn't all that winning anymore. ~ Nat Hentoff,

146:And little he knew of the things that ink may do, how it can mark a dead man's thought for the wonder of later years, and tell of happening that are gone clean away, and be a voice for us out of the dark of time, and save many a fragile thing from the pounding of heavy ages; or carry to us, over the rolling centuries, even a song from lips long dead on forgotten hills. ~ Lord Dunsany,

147:And little he knew of the things that ink may do, how it can mark a dead man's thought for the wonder of later years, and tell of happenings that are gone clean away, and be a voice for us out of the dark of time, and save many a fragile thing from the pounding of heavy ages; or carry to us, over the rolling centuries, even a song from lips long dead on forgotten hills. ~ Lord Dunsany,

148:Kylie Minogue - she's so great. You'd love her if you met her. Everyone would. In a way I wish everyone could, to see what a person she is. She's so sweet and no bull and really funny, man, really funny. The Rolling Stones are like a weight around your neck. All that..'you're not meant to rock after you're 30...you've got to die in a car crash or of a drug overdose. ~ Michael Hutchence,

149:There is something elegantly sinister about the Rolling Stones. They sit before you at a press conference like five unfolding switchblades; their faces set in rehearsed snarls; their hair studiously unkempt and matted; their clothes part of some private conceit; and the way they walk and talk and the songs they sing all become part of some long mean reach for the jugular. ~ Pete Hamill,

150:Whoever you are! motion and reflection are especially for you, The divine ship sails the divine sea for you. Whoever you are! you are he or she for whom the earth is solid or liquid, You are he or she for whom the sun and moon hang in the sky, For none more than you are the present and the past, For none more than you is immortality. —WALT WHITMAN, “A SONG OF THE ROLLING EARTH ~ Rolf Potts,

151:I'll find you, Will!" Then the wind filled the big, square sail of the wolfship and she heeled away from the shore, moving faster and faster towards the northeast. For a long time after she'd dropped below the horizon, the sodden figure sat there, his horse chest-deep in the rolling waves, staring after the ship. And his lips still moved, in a silent promis only he could hear. ~ John Flanagan,

152:I think a band - even a band that's been around as long as the Rolling Stones - I think that's still the formula. You know you're gonna get those songs, and you don't mind sitting through the ones that you maybe don't know very well because you know they're not gonna let you down - they're not gonna mess with you. And I kind of feel the same way about the way I structure my shows. ~ DJ Shadow,

153:My first ones were The Young Rascals. I made out with Dino Danelli, the drummer, in the alley behind the City Auditorium. Then I met Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. Mitch Ryder & The Detroit Wheels. This is all way, way back in the day. Later I got in the big leagues, like chasing around The Rolling Stones. And I hid in the bus for Paul Revere & The Raiders. And The Zombies. ~ Cassandra Peterson,

154:The earth is a machine which yields almost gratuitous service to every application of intellect. Every plant is a manufacturer of soil. In the stomach of the plant development begins. The tree can draw on the whole air, the whole earth, on all the rolling main. The plant is all suction-pipe,--imbibing from the ground by its root, from the air by its leaves, with all its might. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,

155:And the great spirit of darkness spread a shroud over me ... everything was silent--everything. But up in the heights soughed the everlasting song, the voice of the air, the distant, toneless humming which is never silent. I listened so long to this ceaseless faint murmur that it began to bewilder me; it was surely a symphony from the rolling spheres above. Stars that intone a song.... ~ Knut Hamsun,

156:I'll find you, Will!" Then the wind filled the big, square sail of the wolfship and she heeled away from the shore, moving faster and faster towards the northeast. For a long time after she'd dropped below the horizon, the sodden figure sat there, his horse chest-deep in the rolling waves, staring after the ship. And his lips still moved, in a silent promis only he could hear. ~ John Flanagan,

157:I hear there are people who actually enjoy moving. Sounds like a disease to me - they must be unstable. Though it does have it’s poetry, I’ll allow that. When an old dwelling starts looking desolate, a mixture of regret and anxiety comes over us and we feel like we are leaving a safe harbor for the rolling sea. As for the new place, it looks on us with alien eyes, it has nothing to say to us, it is cold. ~ Jan Neruda,

158:Ever since this day I have dreamt sometimes... I, a street rat in my soul, dream even now... that if it were possible to life this littered, paved Manhattan from the earth... and all its torn and dripping pipes and conduits and tunnels and tracks and cables--all of it, like a scab from new skin underneath--how seedlings would sprout and freshets bubble up, and brush and grasses would grow over the rolling hills... ~ E L Doctorow,

159:However she redefined herself, that part of one that made for the core of the self, that part that we think of as the ultimate, inner being—that was ineradicable Scottish. That part spoke with a Scottish voice; that part looked out through Scottish eyes; and it was that part that now welled within her as she gazed out through the window of the descending plane and saw below her the rolling Borders hills… ~ Alexander McCall Smith,

160:I looked upon a clock to find the truth. The hours were passing like ivory chess figures, striking piano notes, and the minutes raced on wires mounted like tin soldiers. Hours like tall ebony women with gongs between their legs, tolling continuously so that I could not count them. I heard the rolling of my heart-beats; I heard the footsteps of my dreams, and the beat of time was lost among them like the face of truth. ~ Anais Nin,

161:In the heated idleness of youth we were all rather inclined to quarrel with the implication of that proverb which says that a rolling stone gathers no moss. We were inclined to ask, "Who wants to gather moss, except silly old ladies?" But for all that we begin to perceive that the proverb is right. The rolling stone rolls echoing from rock to rock; but the rolling stone is dead. The moss is silent because the moss is alive. ~ G K Chesterton,

162:What originally established the band was cover songs like Not Fade Away. Then, later on, we got more well-known ones like Satisfaction, which you might say echoed the thinking of, well, any generation you care to name, including the present one. But we didn't set out on bits of paper that we were going to be the voice of a generation. The original aim of the Rolling Stones was to play blues. It wasn't even to play rock music. ~ William S Burroughs,

163:These crabs, Paige explained, weren’t ordinary civilian crabs, but rock ‘n’ roll royalty crabs, having been passed, via groupies, from the Rolling Stones to Aerosmith to Guns N’ Roses, for decades. It made her feel connected to something larger, a part of history. ‘Like those sourdough starts that were so popular in the seventies,’ I said. ‘Mine was supposedly a direct descendant of one that Alice Waters started in Berkeley. ~ Elissa Schappell,

164:It’s amazing how little control we have over our own lives, when you think about it. In theory, I could keep driving, back into the city, then up the M32, the M5, the M6. I could be in Scotland by the evening. But obviously that won’t happen. Family, responsibilities, fear, the awful reality of service station food. The easiest thing is to accept your role as a passenger, staring out of the window at the rolling scenery. The years pass like traffic. ~ Keith Stuart,

165:I've made a contribution to my time and my generation through being myself, not through what I shared with the Rolling Stones. It's very bad for me and very dangerous to see myself as someone who had an influence on this song or that song. It immediately puts me in the position where my worth is dependent on how much of my soul I shared with Mick Jagger, and it's just not valid. You can use the gossip you've heard. You're not getting it from me. ~ Marianne Faithfull,

166:In her mind's eye she saw it, saw it all at last: the rolling armies and the flames of battle; the graves and pits and dying cries of a hundred million souls; the spreading darkness, like a black wing stretching over the earth; the last, bitter hours of cruelty and sorrow, and the terrible, final flights; death's great dominion over all, and, at the last, empty cities, becalmed by the silence of a hundred years. Already these things were coming to pass. ~ Justin Cronin,

167:Once she was standing by her locker and her puka shells broke and scattered and she made a joke about it but he could tell she was upset. He wanted to buy her some more. He wanted to give her a million strands of little nesting polished shells, and tropical flowers and ice creams and lemonades and a pale blue surfboard to teach her to surf on and anything else she wanted. Instead he let his checkered Vans step on one of the rolling shells and crush it. ~ Francesca Lia Block,

168:The Rolling Stones were an inkling towards an appreciation of the unity of music, dance and words. Any of the black R&B people who had a stage show that involved dancing, music and words did the same thing, except that I thought Jagger's words were good, his music was good and his dancing was good. I spoke to him about Blake and tried to get him to sing [William] Blake's The Grey Monk, to use his words as lyrics. He didn't do it. In the end, I did it myself. ~ Allen Ginsberg,

169:[Amy Ray and I] both have this part of our brain that makes us think that everybody should and will be nice and friendly and forthcoming. And then we're completely disillusioned. We have all these grand plans. One of them is the Rolling Thunder Pussy Revue. There's all these women's festivals going on this summer, and we don't think they're as adventurous as they could be. Lilith Fair-right away, by the name, you know they aren't pushing the envelope hard enough. ~ Ani DiFranco,

170:It is often said that Zuma is proof that anyone, even from the humblest beginnings, can rise to the top. A son of a domestic worker mother and policeman father who died when he was a young boy, Zuma was chiselled from the land north of the Tugela River in KwaZulu-Natal. Called the land of hills, honey and cobras, it is an area tormented by poverty and stands in stark contrast to the rolling sugar estates and “white monopoly capital” on the other side of the Tugela. ~ Jacques Pauw,

171:Song - Stay, Phoebus, Stay! Stay, Phoebus, stay! The world to which you fly so fast, Conveying day From us to them, can pay your haste With no such object, not salute your rise With no such wonder, as De Mornay's eyes. Well does this prove The error of those antique books, Which made you move About the world; her charming looks Would fix your beams, and make it ever day, Did not the rolling earth snatch her away. ~ Edmund Waller,

172:I've grown fonder for Hillary Clinton since she ran for the presidency. I think that it's emblematic of the Rolling Stones song, you can't always get what you want, i.e., the grail. Sometimes you get what you need. And whatever she's gotten over the last couple of years, being humbled or be it being humbled and see the proletariat come to bat for her, getting outside of the bubble, getting out of this man's shadow, not quite getting the job she wants but a great wonk job. ~ Dennis Miller,

173:But the time will come; and when, in their changed ashes, the growth of centuries unborn has struck its roots, the restless men of distant ages will repair to these again unpeopled solitudes; and their fellows, in cities far away, that slumber now, perhaps, beneath the rolling sea, will read in language strange to any ears in being now, but very old to them, of primeval forests where the axe was never heard, and where the jungled ground was never trodden by a human foot. ~ Charles Dickens,

174:When I was a kid and my parents started talking about politics, I'd run to my room and put on the Rolling Stones as loud as I could. So when I see all these rock stars up there talking politics, it makes me sick... If you're listening to a rock star in order to get your information on who to vote for, you're a bigger moron than they are. Why are we rock stars? Because we're morons. We sleep all day, we play music at night and very rarely do we sit around reading the Washington Journal. ~ Alice Cooper,

175:If you had swum across the furthest ocean And seen the vastness of infinity Though dread of death might seize you, you'd still see The rolling waves in never-ceasing motion You'd still see something: Schools of dolphins swimming Across the green and placid waters, skimming The clouds, the sun and the moon, stars overhead - You will see nothing in that void all round You will not hear your footsteps where you tread Beneath your feet, you'll feel no solid ground ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,

176:By the late '50s, something was happening in England, and it got to be quite exciting. The music world then started to explode with the Beatles and the Rolling Stones. It was an incredible time with this mixture of independence in art, fashion, and the explosion of the pop sensibility. London was certainly at the center of it all for a few years. And as far as art is concerned, I think that sensibility of what was later called Pop art started in England even before America. And so I was lucky to be there. ~ Tony Shafrazi,

177:The Strongman continued his mental review. “And the petty little saints in the town were . . . obscure, don’t you see, far from help, far from the mainstream, alone amid the rolling farmlands . . . unknown. It was a perfect place to begin the process.” His beastly face grew tight and bitter. “Until they started praying. Until they ceased being so comfortable and started weeping before God! Until they began to reclaim the power of the . . .” The Strongman sealed his lips. “The Cross?” the aide volunteered. ~ Frank E Peretti,

178:The rolling hills we traveled through were lined with rows of crisscrossed crops- apple and pear trees, vines of grapes, and maize- creating bafflingly precise geometries. In the forested areas, the branches on the trees drooped lugubriously like the long sleeves of Druid priests. Jonathan pointed to the curved roads that cut through the hillsides and valleys. "Forged by Romans, Mina!" he said. "So many civilizations have come and gone on this land- Celts, Romans, Normans, Mongols, French. Who knows how many more? ~ Karen Essex,

179:Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow, Blow him again to me; While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon; Rest, rest, on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west Under the silver moon: Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

180:Attraversiamo.” He couldn’t understand why I liked it so much. Let’s cross the street? But to my ear, it’s the perfect combination of Italian sounds. The wistful ah of introduction, the rolling trill, the soothing s, that lingering “ee-ah-moh” combo at the end. I love this word. I say it all the time now. I invent any excuse to say it. It’s making Sofie nuts. Let’s cross over! Let’s cross over! I’m constantly dragging her back and forth across the crazy traffic of Rome. I’m going to get us both killed with this word. ~ Elizabeth Gilbert,

181:In 1969, the Rolling Stones sang the song, ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want’, but, they assured listeners, if enough effort was put in, a person could get what they needed. The song was a hit. Today a song like that would never get made. Hard work appears to be for someone who doesn’t know how to work the system – a sucker – and young men no longer have the patience or desire to learn how to build the foundations for success, nor are they inclined to expose themselves to ridicule if they were to fail along the way. ~ Philip G Zimbardo,

182:a professor of computer science at MIT named Joseph Weizenbaum writes of a malady he calls “the compulsion to program.” He describes the afflicted as “bright young men of disheveled appearance, often with sunken, glowing eyes,” who play out “megalomaniacal fantasies of omnipotence” at computer consoles; they sit at their machines, he writes, “their arms tensed and waiting to fire their fingers, already poised to strike, at the buttons and keys on which their attention seems to be as riveted as a gambler’s on the rolling dice. ~ Tracy Kidder,

183:No road offers more mystery than that first one you mount from the town you were born to, the first time you mount it of your own volition, on a trip funded by your own coffee tin of wrinkled up dollars - bills you've saved and scrounged for, worked the all-night switchboard for, missed the Rolling Stones for, sold fragrant pot with smashed flowers going brown inside twist-tie plastic baggies for. In fact, to disembark from your origins, you've done everything you can think to scrounge money save selling your spanking young pussy. ~ Mary Karr,

184:The best thing is to go from nature's God dawn to nature; and if you once get to nature's God, and believe Him, and love Him, it is surprising how easy it is to hear music in the waves, and songs in the wild whisperings of the winds; to see God everywhere in the stones, in the rocks, in the rippling brooks, and hear Him everywhere, in the lowing of cattle, in the rolling of thunder, and in the fury of tempests. Get Christ first, put Him in the right place, and you will find Him to be the wisdom of God in your own experience. ~ Charles Spurgeon,

185:It was not woman's fault, nor even love's fault, nor the fault of sex. The fault lay there, out there, in those evil electric lights and diabolical rattling of engines. There, in the world of the mechanical greedy, greedy mechanism and mechanised greed, sparkling with lights and gushing hot metal and roaring with traffic, there lay the vast evil thing, ready to destroy whatever did not conform. Soon it would destroy the wood, and the bluebells would spring no more. All vulnerable things must perish under the rolling and running of iron. ~ D H Lawrence,

186:It was not woman’s fault, nor even love’s fault, nor the fault of sex. The fault lay there, out there, in those evil electric lights and diabolical rattlings of engines. There, in the world of the mechanical greedy, greedy mechanism and mechanised greed, sparkling with lights and gushing hot metal and roaring with traffic, there lay the vast evil thing, ready to destroy whatever did not conform. Soon it would destroy the wood, and the blue-bells would spring no more. All vulnerable things must perish under the rolling and running of iron. ~ D H Lawrence,

187:In a book called Computer Power and Human Reason, a professor of computer science at MIT named Joseph Weizenbaum writes of a malady he calls “the compulsion to program.” He describes the afflicted as “bright young men of disheveled appearance, often with sunken, glowing eyes,” who play out “megalomaniacal fantasies of omnipotence” at computer consoles; they sit at their machines, he writes, “their arms tensed and waiting to fire their fingers, already poised to strike, at the buttons and keys on which their attention seems to be as riveted as a gambler’s on the rolling dice. ~ Tracy Kidder,

188:When He was challenged by Jesus to accept a life of voluntary poverty, the rich young man knew he was faced with the simple alternative of obedience or disobedience. When Levi was called from the receipt of custom and Peter from his nets, there was no doubt that Jesus meant business. Both of them were to leave everything and follow. Again, when Peter was called to walk on the rolling sea, he had to get up and risk his life. Only one thing was required in each case-to rely on Christ's word, and cling to it as offering greater security than all the securities in the world. ~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer,

189:For every trial there has been an answering blessing, for every loss, something gained. And I was right, too, that day in Westfall, because looking out over the rolling waves I know that this journey was worth every step. It has given us time to mend our broken places inside, make peace with the losses we’ve suffered, and forgive ourselves for the impossible choices we made. And now we’re here, the foam-tipped waves nibbling at our bare toes. A reminder that no matter what damage we do—to ourselves, to each other, to the world—life can still surprise us with its depth of possibility. ~ Amy Engel,

190:I was there when the first dreams came off the assembly line. I was there when the corrupted visions that had congealed in the vats were pincered up and hosed off and carried down the line to be dropped onto the rolling belts. I was there when the first workmen dropped their faceplates and turned on their welding torches. I was there when they began welding the foul things into their armor, when they began soldering the antennae, bolting on the wheels, pouring in the eye-socket jelly. I was there when they turned the juice on them and I was there when the things began to twitch. ~ Harlan Ellison,

191:Language, the homeland and receptacle of beauty and meaning, itself begins to think and speak for man and turns wholly into music, not in terms of external, audible sounds, but in terms of the swiftness and power of its inner flow. Then, like the rolling mass of a river’s current, which by its very movement polishes the stones of the bottom and turns the wheels of mills, flowing speech itself, by the force of its own laws, on its way, in passing, creates meter and rhyme and thousands of other forms and constructions, still more important, but as yet unrecognized, unconsidered, unnamed. ~ Boris Pasternak,

192:It is a dangerous thing to allow one's affections to centre too much in one person; for affection always liable to be thwarted, and life itself is frail. One learns many things as year by year adds to the burden of one's life; and I think the chief of all is the power of making all one's loves purely contemplative. Do you know Walt Whitman's 'Out of the rolling ocean the crowd'? One learns to love all that is good with the same love - a love that knows of its existence, and feels warmed to the world by that knowledge, but asks for no possession, for no private gain except the contemplation itself. ~ Bertrand Russell,

193:The symphony, a biographer wrote in 1942, tells the man who hears it, not the story of a stranger, but his own story. It makes him the hero of it; it cries out his own sorrows and celebrates his own victories. . . . Shostakovich states that at the beginning of the Seventh he depicts the peaceful life before the war in the quiet homes of Leningrad. But to a listener in Iowa it could mean the meadows and the rolling hills around his home. After the fantastic theme of war, Shostakovich has put into his music a lament for the dead — and the tears of a Russian mother and of an American mother are the same. ~ M T Anderson,

194:Sweet And Low Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow, Blow him again to me; While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon; Rest, rest, on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon; Father will come to his babe in the best, Silver sails all out of the west, Under the silver moon: Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

195:I take to slummy bars and sheisty gambling halls like a proud lion to the rolling grassy plains of the savannah. Well acquainted, am I, with the various beasts of the beer-tavern. The cackling hyena pool players—scavengers, lurking in the shadows, waiting to prey upon the unwary sucker. The sports-betting meerkat folk who poke heads out of their beer mug homes only long enough to check scores, before ducking back down in a bid to avoid the larger predators. The aloof but noble baboon bartender, dispensing suds and barroom wisdom in equal portions—kind of like Rafiki from the Lion King, sans the beer thing. ~ James A Hunter,

196:Lullaby SWEET and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow, Blow him again to me; While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon; Rest, rest, on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west Under the silver moon: Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

197:She sucked in a quick breath, paling, and he did not have to look to guess at what had drifted through the Oak’s low, wide door. He could smell them, since they used no glamour to mask themselves here. Clammy rotten dirt, decaying linen, pale metal at throat, wrist, finger, and belt. A chill went through the Rolling Oak, and there was a general rustling movement as the Folk within collectively stiffened. The lone wight moved aside, and others pressed behind him. The branches at the door shriveled to blackness, and behind the bar the half-giant, half-drow Kosthril the Mammoth’s four arms dropped to his sides. ~ Lilith Saintcrow,

198:Jav’s face was numb. Fingertips ice cold. His shirt stuck to his back with sweat and every square inch o“f skin prickled and tingled. He could feel his heart breaking down, dropping off piece by piece into the rolling boil of his stomach. Every splash sending up clouds of toxic steam, choking his throat. He was sure the next words out would be inside a scream. Instead he heard a strong, calm voice—a seasoned captain taking over the helm. “I’m with you,” Jav said. “Fucking take their ship down. I’m here. Right until the end, I won’t leave.” Excerpt From: Suanne Laqueur. “An Exaltation of Larks.” iBooks. ~ Suanne Laqueur,

199:I call it treason against rock 'n' roll because rock is the antithesis of politics. Rock should never be in bed with politics. ... When I was a kid and my parents started talking about politics, I'd run to my room and put on the Rolling Stones as loud as I could. So when I see all these rock stars up there talking politics, it makes me sick. .... If you're listening to a rock star in order to get your information on who to vote for, you're a bigger moron than they are. Why are we rock stars? Because we're morons. We sleep all day, we play music at night and very rarely do we sit around reading the Washington Journal. ~ Alice Cooper,

200:Ignosi bound the diadem upon his brows. Then advancing, he placed his foot upon the broad chest of his headless foe and broke out into a chant, or rather a pæan of triumph, so beautiful, and yet so utterly savage, that I despair of being able to give an adequate version of his words. Once I heard a scholar with a fine voice read aloud from the Greek poet Homer, and I remember that the sound of the rolling lines seemed to make my blood stand still. Ignosi's chant, uttered as it was in a language as beautiful and sonorous as the old Greek, produced exactly the same effect on me, although I was exhausted with toil and many emotions. ~ H Rider Haggard,

201:Before I could respond, he snapped his fingers, and I was suddenly standing outside the mansion, my booted feet in the sand, the smell of salt overwhelming my senses, and the rolling ocean at my back. A growl of anger rose in my throat. “I hate it when you do that.” The smile on his face increased. “I know.” I absolutely loathed it, and the bastard did it every chance he got—usually about every five minutes whenever I was in his presence and mostly without any purpose. Sometimes he would just pop me from room to room for the hell of it. The last year or so of my life had been a real test of my short patience. ~ Jennifer L Armentrout,

202:There on the landing sits the typewriter. It is clogged with dust, the ribbon dried and flimsy. Looking at it gives Felix a feeling close to vertigo. He realises he can replicate in his head the exact sound it used to make. The clac-clac-a-clac of the metal letters hitting the paper, the ribbon raising itself each time to make the impression. The machine-gun fire of it, when the work was going well. The stops and pauses when it wasn't, to allow for a sigh, a draw on a cigarette. The ding every time the carriage reached its limit. The whirr as the page was snatched out, then the rolling ratcheting as a new one was wound in. ~ Maggie O Farrell,

203:The father had long ago taken up his bundle and hidden himself away with it, when the women who had tended the bundle while it lay on the base of the fountain, sat there watching the running of the water and the rolling of the Fancy Ball—when the one woman who had stood conspicuous, knitting, still knitted on with the steadfastness of Fate. The water of the fountain ran, the swift river ran, the day ran into evening, so much life in the city ran into death according to rule, time and tide waited for no man, the rats were sleeping close together in their dark holes again, the Fancy Ball was lighted up at supper, all things ran their course. ~ Charles Dickens,

204:Shadrach O'Leary O’Leary was a poet—for a while: He sang of many ladies frail and fair, The rolling glory of their golden hair, And emperors extinguished with a smile. They foiled his years with many an ancient wile, And if they limped, O’Leary didn’t care: He turned them loose and had them everywhere, Undoing saints and senates with their guile. But this was not the end. A year ago I met him—and to meet was to admire: Forgotten were the ladies and the lyre, And the small, ink-fed Eros of his dream. By questioning I found a man to know— A failure spared, a Shadrach of the Gleam. ~ Edwin Arlington Robinson,

205:For a few moments he indulged his old joy in range and mountain, stretching, rising on his right, away into the purple distance. Something had heightened its beauty. How softly gray the rolling range land—how black the timbered slopes! The town before him sat like a hideous blotch on a fair landscape. It forced his gaze over and beyond toward the west, where the late afternoon sun had begun to mellow and redden, edging the clouds with exquisite light. To the southward lay Arizona, land of painted mesas and storied canyon walls, of thundering streams and wild pine forests, of purple-saged valleys and grassy parks, set like mosaics between the stark desert mountains. ~ Zane Grey,

206:I was almost sad when we arrived a the squat, white clubhouse. It was halfway to dark by then, with both a moon and a sun sitting high in a sky that was sugar almond pink and shot with gold. The birds were singing valiantly against the coming night, swooping over the greens in long, drunken loops. The air was grassy, with a hint of flowers and earth, and the warm, sweet outbreath of the day sighed gently into our hair and over our skin. I felt like asking Raymond whether we should keep walking, walk over the rolling greens, keep walking till the birds fell silent in their bowers and we could see only by starlight. It almost felt like he might suggest it himself. ~ Gail Honeyman,

207:The Fallen Angels 'Twas on a day, and in high, radiant heaven, An angel lay beside a lake reclined, Against whose shores the rolling waves were driven, And beat the measure to the dancing wind. There, rapt, he meditated on that story Of how Jehovah did of yore expel Heaven's aborigines from grace and gloryThose mighty angels that did dare rebel. And, as he mused upon their dread abode And endless penance, from his drooping hands His harp down sank, and scattered all abroad Its rosy garland on the golden sands; His soul mute wondering that the All-wise Spirit Should have allowed the doom of such demerit. ~ Charles Heavysege,

208:We drove out along the coast road. There was the green of the headlands, the white, red-roofed villas, patches of forest, and the ocean very blue with the tide out and the water curling far out along the beach. We drove through Saint Jean de Luz and passed through villages farther down the coast. Back of the rolling country we were going through we saw the mountains we had come over from Pamplona. The road went on ahead. Bill looked at his watch. It was time for us to go back. He knocked on the glass and told the driver to turn around. The driver backed the car out into the grass to turn it. In back of us were the woods, below a stretch of meadow, then the sea. ~ Ernest Hemingway,

209:Zane Nicholson believed in listening to his gut. At nine fifty-five that morning, it was telling him that today wasn’t going to be a good day. He glanced out the window at the rolling hills that made up the Nicholson Ranch and wondered if being a farmer would have been easier. Crops didn’t break through fences in the night and wander away. Crops didn’t try to be born breech. He could be growing corn. Or wheat. Wheat was patriotic. All those amber waves. He turned his attention back to his paperwork and shook his head. Who was he kidding? He was a fifth generation rancher. The closest he would come to farming was the vegetable garden the ranch cook grew out behind the bunkhouse. ~ Susan Mallery,

210:How small and neat and comically serious the other men looked, with their grey-flecked crew cuts and their button-down collars and their brisk little hurrying feet! There were endless desperate swarms of them, hurrying through the station and the streets, and an hour from now they would all be still. The waiting mid-town office buildings would swallow them up and contain them, so that to stand in one tower looking out across the canyon to another would be to inspect a great silent insectarium displaying hundreds of tiny pink men in white shirts, forever shifting papers and frowning into telephones, acting out their passionate little dumb show under the supreme indifference of the rolling spring clouds. ~ Richard Yates,

211:Sonnet Xviii THe rolling wheele that runneth often round, The hardest steele in tract of time doth teare: and drizling drops that often doe redound, the firmest flint doth in continuance weare. Yet cannot I with many a dropping teare, and long intreaty soften her hard hart: that she will once vouchsafe my plaint to heare, or looke with pitty on my payneful smart. But when I pleade, she bids me play my part, and when I weep, she sayes teares are but water: and when I sigh, she sayes I know the art, and when I waile she turnes hir selfe to laughter. So doe I weepe, and wayle, and pleade in vaine, whiles she as steele and flint doth still remayne. ~ Edmund Spenser,

212:In the wake of the storm, sunset lay in a pink-and-amber swath over the rolling landscape, the trees in the orchard casting elongated shadows on the hillside. To the other side of the slope were Dominic's vineyards. The vines were heavy with fruit, the dense bunches of grapes nearly black in the deepening light. They held hands like a couple of teenagers. It felt ridiculously good to hold hands with this man. His touch was both safe and sexy at once. He walked with her through the vineyards, pointing out the different grape varieties, planting dates, grafting techniques. And always, like a song playing in the background, was the sense that they were moving together toward something, and she was scared and eager all at once. ~ Susan Wiggs,

213:It is as if the moon and the trees have switched places. The sky is plunged into the heavy cloud-lidded darkness that seems to come every night, but in the valley below, the trees—or the places between the trees, it is impossible to tell the source—are fully lit, glowing. The woods are alight like an ember, bluish white and cradled by the rolling hills. It’s like a beacon, I think with a chill. So this is what happens when the world goes black. The forest steals the light from the sky. Cole straightens beside me, taking ragged breaths. I cannot stop staring at the glowing trees. It is strange and magical. Almost lovely. The wind song has become simply a song, clear and articulate, as if made by an instrument instead of the air. It is all a perfect dream. ~ Victoria Schwab,

214:Out of the rolling ocean the crowd came a drop gently to me, Whispering I love you, before long I die, I have travel'd a long way merely to look on you to touch you, For I could not die till I once look'd on you, For I fear'd I might afterward lose you. Now we have met, we have look'd, we are safe, Return in peace to the ocean my love, I too am part of that ocean my love, we are not so much separated, Behold the great rondure, the cohesion of all, how perfect! But as for me, for you, the irresistible sea is to separate us, As for an hour carrying us diverse, yet cannot carry us diverse forever; Be not impatient--a little space--know you I salute the air, the ocean and the land, Every day at sundown for your dear sake my love. ~ Walt Whitman,

215:Friendship Between Ephelia And Ardelia Eph. What Friendship is, ARDELIA shew. Ard. 'Tis to love, as I love You. Eph. This Account, so short (tho' kind) Suits not my enquiring Mind. Therefore farther now repeat; What is Friendship when complete? Ard. 'Tis to share all Joy and Grief; 'Tis to lend all due Relief From the Tongue, the Heart, the Hand; 'Tis to mortgage House and Land; For a Friend be sold a Slave; 'Tis to die upon a Grave, If a Friend therein do lie. Eph. This indeed, tho' carry'd high, This, tho' more than e'er was done Underneath the rolling Sun, This has all been said before. Can ARDELIA say no more? Ard. Words indeed no more can shew: But 'tis to love, as I love you. ~ Anne Kingsmill Finch,

216:It's one of these juvenile therapy scams,” he went on, sprinkling a pinch of the Golden Virginia tobacco along the rolling paper. “They advertise help for your troubled teen by staring at the stars and singing ‘Kumbaya’. Instead, it’s a bunch of bearded nutjobs left in charge of some of the craziest kids I’ve ever seen in my life—bulimics, nymphos, cutters trying to saw their wrists with the plastic spoons from lunch. You wouldn’t believe the shit that went on.” He shook his head. “Most of the kids had been so mentally screwed by their parents they needed more than twelve weeks of wilderness. They needed reincarnation. To die and just come back as a grasshopper, as a fucking weed. That’d be preferable to the agony they were in just by being alive. ~ Marisha Pessl,

217:Oliver liked to keep the windows and shutters wide open in the afternoon, with just the swelling sheer curtains between us and life beyond, because it was a 'crime' to block away so much sunlight and keep such a landscape from view, especially when you didn't have it all life long, he said. Then the rolling fields of the valley leading up to the hills seemed to sit in a rising mist of olive green: sunflowers, grapevines, swatches of lavender, and those squat and humble olive trees stooping like gnarled, aged scarecrows gawking through our window as we lay naked on my bed, the smell of his sweat, which was the smell of my sweat, and next to me my man-woman whose man-woman I was, and all around us Mafalda's chamomile-scented laundry detergent, which was the torrid afternoon world of our house. ~ Andr Aciman,

218:In a frenetic whirlwind we chop and dice and mince, turning anything we can think of into a possible pizza topping, and packing them all in small hotel pans in the rolling coolers we use for field shoots. When the dough has risen, I roll out fifty twelve-inch rounds, separating each with sheets of parchment, and stacking them in sheet pans, a rotini with a creamy sauce with ham and peas, and a simple rigatoni with vegetables in a light tomato sauce. Patrick discovers a big bowl of leftover risotto from Friday's testing, and heats up the deep fryer, yelling at me to set up a breeding station so he can do some arancini. While he is frying the little rice balls, I grab a huge prep bowl and fill it with romaine, shaved Parmesan, croutons and crispy capers, and I mix together a quick peppery pseudo-Caesar-style dressing. ~ Stacey Ballis,

219:One clear night while the others slept, I climbed the stairs to the roof of the house and under a sky strewn with stars I gazed at the sea, at the spread of it, the rolling crests of it raked by the wind, becoming like bits of lace tossed in the air. I stood in the long whispering night, waiting for something, a sign, the approach of a distant light, and I imagined you coming closer, the dark waves of your hair mingling with the sea, and the dark became desire, and desire the arriving light. The nearness, the momentary warmth of you as I stood on that lonely height watching the slow swells of the sea break on the shore and turn briefly into glass and disappear... Why did I believe you would come out of nowhere? Why with all that the world offers would you come only because I was here? ~ Mark Strand,

220:There was an intelligence about him (Joe Strummer) that allowed his band to change and evolve, just as Johnny Rotten and the Sex Pistols were disappearing up their own bondage trousers. And there was a generosity about Strummer, too, a warmth and humanity about the guy. He was a brilliant musician, a beautiful man, and a charismatic artist. There is a part of me that bitterly resents the fact that the Clash never replaced the Rolling Stones in rock music's hall of heroes. But the Clash were not about milking if for a lifetime...I thought they were the greatest band I had ever seen. And, half a lifetime on, in a large part of my soul, I still do...They changed lives. They certainly changed mine. Because they made me believe that, with passion and commitment and a bit of fire in your belly, you could be exactly the person you wanted to be. ~ Tony Parsons,

221:But the Grateful Dead, as the fanatic fans point out, are a way of life: someone else's. Twentieth-century teenagers, especially American ones, have been brilliant at creating their own culture, their own music, clothes, and point(s) of view. It's sad and fraudulent that the kind of wholesale worship of some historical way of life has settled over so many young people, infecting them like a noxious gas... I love the dead--grew up in the thrall of Shakespeare and Hank Williams and James Dean. And I adore the Rolling Stones. But there's a difference between cherishing "Satisfaction" and wearing Keith Richards' hair while doing Keith Richards' drugs. I don't want to be Keith Richards. I wanna be me. Not--like the neo-Deadheads--just another extra in an overblown costume drama about something that wasn't that interesting the first time around. ~ Sarah Vowell,

222:O Chatterton! how very sad thy fate! Dear child of sorrow -- son of misery! How soon the film of death obscur'd that eye, Whence Genius mildly falsh'd, and high debate. How soon that voice, majestic and elate, Melted in dying numbers! Oh! how nigh Was night to thy fair morning. Thou didst die A half-blown flow'ret which cold blasts amate. But this is past: thou art among the stars Of highest heaven: to the rolling spheres Thou sweetly singest: nought thy hymning mars, Above the ingrate world and human fears. On earth the good man base detraction bars From thy fair name, and waters it with tears. 'This sonnet was also first given in the Life, Letters &c. in 1848.' ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed. H. Buxton Forman, Crowell publ. 1895. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ John Keats, Sonnet To Chatterton ,

223:An old man walking a lonesome road, Came at the evening, cold and gray, To a chasm vast and wide and steep, With waters running cold and deep. The old man crossed in the twilight dim, The rolling stream had no fears for him; But he turned when safe on the other side, And built a bridge to span the tide. “Old man,” said a fellow traveler near, “you are wasting your strength with building here. Your journey will end with the passing day, You never again will pass this way. You’ve crossed the chasm, deep and wide— Why would you build this bridge at eventide?” The builder lifted his old gray head, “Good friend, in the path I have come,” he said, “There followeth after me today, A youth whose feet must pass this way. The chasm that was nought to me, To that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be. He too must cross in the twilight dim— Good friend, I am building this bridge for him. ~ John C Maxwell,

224:The rats had crept out of their holes to look on, and they remained looking on for hours; soldiers and police often passing between them and the spectacle, and making a barrier behind which they slunk, and through which they peeped. The father had long ago taken up his bundle and hidden himself away with it, when the women who had tended the bundle while it lay on the base of the fountain, sat there watching the running of the water and the rolling of the Fancy Ball - when the one woman who had stood conspicuous, knitting, still knitted on with the steadfastness of Fate. The water of the fountain ran, the swift river ran, the day ran into evening, so much life ran in the city ran into death according to rule, time and tide waited for no man, the rats were sleeping close together in their dark holes again, the Fancy Ball was lighted up at supper, all things ran their course ~ Charles Dickens,

225:Basically, Sam Phillips recorded Bill Haley, Johnny Cash, and all those other Memphis guys; Chuck Berry played the top two strings; Elvis appeared on The Ed Sullivan Show above the waist; the Beatles made all the girls squirm by singing about wanting to hold their “hands”; Ray Davies got lost in a sunset; Pete Townshend smashed his guitar; Brian Wilson heard magic in his head and made it come out of a studio; the Rolling Stones urinated on a garage door; and then (skipping a bit) you’ve got Joey Levine and Chapman-Chinn and Mott the Hoople and Iggy and the Runaways and KISS and the Pink Fairies and Rick Nielsen and Jonathan Richman and Johnny Ramone and Lemmy and the Young brothers and Cook and Jones and Pete Shelley and Feargal Sharkey and Rob Halford … and Foghat. You get what I’m saying. It didn’t happen in a vacuum, but it did happen, and now here we are in the aftermath. ~ Frank Portman,

226:The Windhover To Christ our Lord I CAUGHT this morning morning’s minion, king- dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing, As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing! Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier! No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear, Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion. ~ Gerard Manley Hopkins,

227:... bright young men of disheveled appearance, often with sunken glowing eyes, can be seen sitting at computer consoles, their arms tensed and waiting to fire their fingers, already poised to strike, at the buttons and keys on which their attention seems to be riveted as a gambler’s on the rolling dice. When not so transfixed, they often sit at tables strewn with computer printouts over which they pore like possessed students of a cabbalistic text. They work until they nearly drop, twenty, thirty hours at a time. Their food, if they arrange it, is brought to them: coffee, Cokes, sandwiches. If possible, they sleep on cots near the printouts. Their rumpled clothes, their unwashed and unshaven faces, and their uncombed hair all testify that they are oblivious to their bodies and to the world in which they move. These are computer bums, compulsive programmers ... ~ Joseph Weizenbaum,

228:I wish that in order to secure his party’s nomination, a presidential candidate would be required to point at the sky and name all the stars; have the periodic table of the elements memorized; rattle off the kings and queens of Spain; define the significance of the Gatling gun; joke around in Latin; interpret the symbolism in seventeenth-century Dutch painting; explain photosynthesis to a six-year-old; recite Emily Dickenson; bake a perfect popover; build a shortwave radio out of a coconut; and know all the words to Hoagy Carmichael’s “Two Sleepy People”, Johnny Cash’s “Five Feet High and Rising”, and “You Got the Silver” by the Rolling Stones...What we need is a president who is at least twelve kinds of nerd, a nerd messiah to come along every four years, acquire the Secret Service code name Poindexter, install a Revenge of the Nerds screen saver on the Oval Office computer, and one by one decrypt our woes. ~ Sarah Vowell,

229:Here, from his perch on the very summit of the mountain wall, high above forest and river, far from the tinny cacophony of Skagway, Steele, the iron man, could gaze down, godlike, on the insect figures striving to reach his eyrie—on the whimpering horses and the cursing men, and on the women bent double beneath man-sized loads. It was a scene that was almost medieval in its fervor and in its allegory, and it was enacted against a massive backdrop: the cloud-plumed mountains in the foreground, the rolling hills in the middle distance, and far below—as if in another world—the bright sheen of the ocean and the tiny outlines of shuttling boats disgorging, endlessly, more human cargo, and, glittering wetly in the pale sun, the flats of Skagway, where William Moore had once reigned as a lonely monarch. And hanging over the whole, like a encompassing pall, the sickly-sweet stench of carrion, drifting with the wind. ~ Pierre Berton,

230:The Sands Of Dee "O Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee"; The western wind was wild and dank with foam, And all alone went she. 10 11 12 The western tide crept up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see. The rolling mist came down and hid the land: And never home came she. 13 14 15 16 17 18 "Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-A tress of golden hair, A drownèd maiden's hair Above the nets at sea? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes on Dee." 19 20 21 22 23 24 They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel crawling foam, The cruel hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea: But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee. ~ Charles Kingsley,

231:A short, older man stepped up to me, sticking out his hand and saying something I couldn't hear. Thinking, "Now who's this?" I took out one of my ear monitors and said, "Sorry, I couldn't hear you." He spoke again, smiling, "Hello, I'm Charlie Watts." "Oh!" I said, taken aback, "Hello." And I shook his hand. He asked if we were going on soon, and I said yes, any minute, and he said, with a twinkle, "I'm going to watch you!" I suppose if I could have felt more pressured, that might have done it, but I was already at maximum intensity — there was no time to think of Charlie Watts and the Rolling Stones, watching them on The T.A.M.I. Show or "Ed Sullivan" when I was twelve-and-a-half, hearing "Satisfaction" snarling down the midway at Lakeside Park, Gimme Shelter at the cinema in London, listening to Charlie's beautiful solo album, Warm and Tender, so many times late at night in Quebec, or any of the other million times Charlie Watts and his band had been part of my life. ~ Neil Peart,

232:On A Certain Religious Argument Argue it pro and con as you will, And flout each other with words, But the rose will bloom and the summer still Will bring us the song of birds. How was He born who came to earth, With the Godlight in His eyes? Wrangle and quarrel about His birth, And yet you shall not be wise. And what does it matter? The clover blows And the rose blooms on the tree, And only the God in heaven knows How these things come to be. You take the flower though you cannot say Why this is red or white, You accept the warmth of the sun by day And the light of the stars by night. You joy in a thousand mysteries Which your wisdom can't explain, The green of the grass and the rolling seas And the gold of the harvest grain. So why do you bother your heads at all? And why does your faith grow dim? You take the flower on the garden wall, So why will you not take Him? ~ Edgar Albert Guest,

233:Take the glamour out of war! I mean, how the bloody hell can you do that ? Go and take the glamour out of a Huey, go take the glamour out of a Sheridan...Can you take the glamour out of a Cobra, or getting stoned at China Beach? It's like taking the glamour out of an M-79, taking the glamour out of Flynn." He pointed to a picture he'd taken, Flynn laughing maniacally ("We're winning," he'd said), triumphantly. "Nothing the matter with that boy, is there? Would you let your daughter marry that man? Ohhhh, war is good for you, you can't take the glamour out of that. It's like trying to take the glamour out of sex, trying to take the glamour out of the Rolling Stones." He was really speechless, working his hands up and down to emphasize the sheer insanity of it. "I mean, you know that it just can't be done! " We both shrugged and laughed, and Page looked very thoughtful for a moment. "The very idea! " he said. "Ohhh, what a laugh! Take the bloody glamour out of bloody war! ~ Michael Herr,

234:Was it only that explosion of atavism which is now evasively called "the cult of personality" that was so horrible? Or was it even more horrible that during those same years, in 1937 itself, we celebrated Pushkin's centennial? And that we shamelessly continued to stage those self-same Chekhov plays, even though the answers to them had already come in? Is it not still more dreadful that we are now being told, thirty years later, "Don't talk about it!"? If we start to recall the sufferings of millions, we are told it will distort the historical perspective! If we doggedly seek out the essence of our morality, we are told it will darken our material progress! Let's think rather about the blast furnaces, the rolling mills that were built, the canals that were dug... no, better not talk about the canals.... Then maybe about the gold of the Kolyma? No, maybe we ought not to talk about that either.... Well, we can talk about anything, so long as we do it adroitly, so long as we glorify it.... ~ Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn,

235:Shoulder the Sky is another story about Mureth Farm and Drumburly and the people who live there; it continues the theme of Vittoria Cottage and Music in the Hills but it is a complete novel in itself. The three books are merely strung together by the story of James and Rhoda and their friends. Mureth and Drumburly are not real places in the geographical sense of the word. There is no metalled road that leads to Drumburly (the best road to take is an easy chair before the fire on a winter’s evening), but the picture represented is artistically true of the Scottish Border Country; of the rolling hills, the rivers and the burns, of the storms and the sunshine. So, in one sense, Drumburly is real and in another it is imaginary — and the same is true of the characters in the story; they are not real individuals and yet they are true to life. To me they are real and human for I have been living amongst them and sharing their joys and sorrows for months on end. Now the time has come for me to leave Drumburly and say good-bye. D. E. STEVENSON  ~ D E Stevenson,

236:Exploring all I could find, often with reckless dedication, I devoured the philosophies and theologies of animistic and shamanistic traditions. Hungrily I began learning: how to feel connection with the wind and the waves, how to hear the songs of the land and the stories of the ancestors, how to dissolve into darkness and ride the thermals of light. Slowly I discovered how these traditions are still alive, not just in lands that, with a mix of disquiet and envy, Western cultures call primitive and uncivilized. Returning to the islands of my ancestors, with wonder and relief, I found animistic religions in the rolling hills and flowering gardens of Britain. To my surprise and delight, I found too that here my passion for science was as nurtured as my soul’s artistic creativity. There was nothing in quantum physics or molecular biology, or the theories of the physiology of consciousness that could negate my growing understanding and experience of sanctity. I found the power of reason here, naturally inherent within the language of a religion. ~ Emma Restall Orr,

237:Richard had sold Gillian's piano. He'd offered to ship it out to California, but neither Jess nor Emily played. Emily had quit her lessons at "Streets of Laredo" and Jess only got as far as "The Teddy Bears' Picnic." They had Gillian's jewelry, but she hadn't collected much. She had never liked necklaces or earrings. In fact, she'd never pierced her ears. She'd preferred a rosebush or two for her birthday, or a standing mixer. "This is very sticky dough," she would tell Emily as she rolled it out. "It's very difficult to work with this dough, because it's so short. You see?" She dusted the rolling pin and board with more flour and rolled briskly, as if to tame the stiff pastry, which she then cut into circles with an overturned teacup, or filled with honeyed poppy seeds, or spread into a glass pan to bake a cake with luscious prunes, their sweetness undercut with lemon. Nothing too sweet. That was the secret. Gillian said as much to Emily in her "Sixteenth Birthday" letter. 'Don't doctor recipes. More is less, and sugar will only get you so far. ~ Allegra Goodman,

238: The Mother of God A conscious and eternal Power is here Behind unhappiness and mortal birth And the error of Thought and blundering trudge of Time. The mother of God, his sister and his spouse, Daughter of his wisdom, of his strength the mate, She has leapt from the Transcendent's secret breast To build her rainbow worlds of mind and life. Between the superconscient absolute Light And the Inconscient's vast unthinking toil, In the rolling and routine of Matter's sleep And the somnambulist motion of the stars She forces on the cold unwilling Void Her adventure of life, the passionate dreams of her heart. Amid the work of darker Powers she is here To heal the evils and mistakes of Space And change the tragedy of the ignorant world Into a Divine Comedy of joy Lyrical Poems 643 And the laughter and the rapture of God's bliss. The Mother of God is mother of our souls; We are the partners of his birth in Time, Inheritors we share his eternity. ~ Sri Aurobindo, - The Mother of God ,

239:Fiercely intelligent, yet bearing a sensibility far more porous than most, Van Gogh was unable, or unwilling, to abstract his intellect from his body's reality, unwilling to abandon the myriad things, to tame his senses and so stifle the steady eros between his flesh and the flesh of the earth. "Again and again he slides out of himself, through his eyes, to feel the hunkard silence of the olive groves, and to taste the spreading ecstasy of the leaves as they're slowly lit by the climbing sun. And again and again he is invaded, in turn, by the visible -- penetrated by the midday langor of the rolling wheat fields, or by the sullen mood of a neighbor's face. Although he writes often to his brother and a few friends (letters of luminous candor and kindness), it is only in the act of drawing and painting that he is able to give expression to this ongoing intercourse, by offering back to the visible a trace of what the visible steadily pours into his chest. "His paintings, then, are windows through which we look onto an earth no less alive and intelligent than ourselves ~ David Abram,

240:skimmed thirty feet over the hills and grasslands. They were flying dark, with no navigation lights and all emission sources powered down: no IFF transponder, radio, or FLIR (Forward-Looking Infrared Radar). Within minutes, they’d skirted Ashgabat, which lay fifteen miles out the side window. Fisher could see headlights moving along the highways and surface streets. They passed over the black oval of a lake and a rail line, and then the terrain began to change, hillocks turning into the rolling foothills of the Köpetdag. Redding sat at the console, watching the same map Bird and Sandy were using to navigate. One by one, villages disappeared behind them. Fisher read their names on the screen—Bagir, Chuli, Firyuza—until they were all gone and there was nothing but empty land. “Five miles from the border,” Bird called. Fisher went to the cockpit and knelt between the seats. Through the windscreen he could see the Köpetdag Range, an expanse of jagged peaks and ridgelines stacked against the even darker night sky. A red light started flashing on Bird’s console, followed by a beeping. A ~ Raymond Benson,

241:I first came to Hokkaido for two reasons: miso ramen and uni, the island's most famous foods and two items on my short list for Last Supper constituents. The only thing they share in common, besides a home, is the intense fits of joy they deliver: the former made from an unholy mix of pork-bone broth, thick miso paste, and wok-crisped pork belly (with the optional addition of a slab of melting Hokkaido butter), the latter arguably the sexiest food on earth, yolk-orange tongues of raw sea urchin roe with a habit-forming blend of fat and umami, sweetness and brine. Fall for uni at your own peril; like heroin and high-stakes poker, it's an expensive addiction that's tough to kick. But my dead-simple plan- to binge on both and catch the first flight back to Tokyo- has been upended by a steam locomotive and Whole Foods foliage, and suddenly Hokkaido seems much bigger than an urchin and a bowl of soup. No one told me about the rolling farmlands, the Fuji-like volcanoes, the stunning national parks, one stacked on top of the other. Nobody said there would be wine. And cheese. And bread. ~ Matt Goulding,

242:The Captive Dove Poor restless dove, I pity thee; And when I hear thy plaintive moan, I mourn for thy captivity, And in thy woes forget mine own. To see thee stand prepared to fly, And flap those useless wings of thine, And gaze into the distant sky, Would melt a harder heart than mine. In vain ­ in vain! Thou canst not rise: Thy prison roof confines thee there; Its slender wires delude thine eyes, And quench thy longings with despair. Oh, thou wert made to wander free In sunny mead and shady grove, And, far beyond the rolling sea, In distant climes, at will to rove! Yet, hadst thou but one gentle mate Thy little drooping heart to cheer, And share with thee thy captive state, Thou couldst be happy even there. Yes, even there, if, listening by, One faithful dear companion stood, While gazing on her full bright eye, Thou mightst forget thy native wood. But thou, poor solitary dove, Must make, unheard, thy joyless moan; The heart, that Nature formed to love, Must pine, neglected, and alone. ~ Anne Brontë,

243:A closer parallel to the Rolling Stone article may be much of the media’s breathless coverage of members of the Duke University lacrosse team who were accused of gang-raping a stripper in 2006. Like “A Rape on Campus,” it was a story that seemed to conform to a lot of the public’s worst ideas about the behavior of privileged young men at elite colleges. “It was too good to not be true, and that’s what’s going on in this case as well,” said Daniel Okrent, a former public editor at The Times. “You don’t want women to be gang-raped in a fraternity house, but you want to believe this terrible thing is happening and therefore you can expose it.” On the most basic level, the writer of the Rolling Stone article, Sabrina Rubin Erdely, was seduced by an untrustworthy source. More specifically, as the report details, she was swept up by the preconceptions that she brought to the article. As much casting director as journalist, she was looking for a single character with an emblematic story that would speak to — in her words — the “pervasive culture of sexual harassment/rape culture” on college campuses. Journalists are often driven to cover atrocities ~ Anonymous,

244:The Battle Cry Of Freedom (Southern Version) Our flag is proudly floating On the land and on the main, Shout, shout the battle cry of Freedom! Beneath it oft we've conquered, And we'll conquer oft again! Shout, shout the battle cry of Freedom! CHORUS: Our Dixie forever! She's never at a loss! Down with the eagle And up with the cross! We'll rally 'round the bonny flag, We'll rally once again, Shout, shout the battle cry of Freedom! Our gallant boys have marched To the rolling of the drums, Shout, shout the battle cry of Freedom! And the leaders in charge cry out, 'Come, boys, come!' Shout, shout the battle cry of Freedom!-CHORUS They have laid down their lives On the bloody battle field, Shout, shout the battle cry of Freedom! Their motto is resistance 'To tyrants we'll not yield!' Shout, shout the battle cry of Freedom!-CHORUS While our boys have responded And to the fields have gone, Shout, shout the battle cry of Freedom! Our noble women also Have aided them at home, Shout, shout the battle cry of Freedom!-CHORUS 296 ~ Anonymous Americas,

245:Hope Is A Tattered Flag Hope is a tattered flag and a dream of time. Hope is a heartspun word, the rainbow, the shadblow in white The evening star inviolable over the coal mines, The shimmer of northern lights across a bitter winter night, The blue hills beyond the smoke of the steel works, The birds who go on singing to their mates in peace, war, peace, The ten-cent crocus bulb blooming in a used-car salesroom, The horseshoe over the door, the luckpiece in the pocket, The kiss and the comforting laugh and resolve— Hope is an echo, hope ties itself yonder, yonder. The spring grass showing itself where least expected, The rolling fluff of white clouds on a changeable sky, The broadcast of strings from Japan, bells from Moscow, Of the voice of the prime minister of Sweden carried Across the sea in behalf of a world family of nations And children singing chorals of the Christ child And Bach being broadcast from Bethlehem, Pennsylvania And tall skyscrapers practically empty of tenants And the hands of strong men groping for handholds And the Salvation Army singing God loves us…. ~ Carl Sandburg,

246:Sam scanned the orchards. U-Pickers laughed and posed for photos with apples on their heads, babies in the baskets, hugging trees. She lifted her head to study the sky, blue as her eyes. The clouds moved across the sun, blocking it out for long distances at a time, causing the landscape in front of her to become illuminated one patchwork piece at a time: the rolling hills lined with grass and endless rows of trees, peach, tart cherry, apples of every variety; blueberry bushes sitting at the bottom of the hill where the rain pooled; the old red barn where high school kids doled out baskets for fruit, which Sam's father weighed when they returned; the old shed where more high schoolers handed out free donut samples and sips of apple cider to arriving cars; the farmhouse with shutters- designed with apple cutouts- where her grandparents, Willo and Gordon, lived; the blue-green waters of Suttons Bay stretching out beyond the trees, the Old Mission Peninsula jutting into it; the family cornfields that sat across M-22 and would soon be cut into an intricate corn maze filled with spooks and goblins to scare fall visitors. This slice of northern Michigan was Sam's home, her whole world. ~ Viola Shipman,

247:I am convinced that poets are toddlers in a cathedral, slobbering on wooden blocks and piling them up in the light of the stained glass. We can hardly make anything beautiful that wasn’t beautiful in the first place. We aren’t writers, but gleeful rearrangers of words whose meanings we can’t begin to know. When we manage to make something pretty, it’s only so because we are ourselves a flourish on a greater canvas. That means there’s no end to the discovery. We may crawl around the cathedral floor for ages before we grow up enough to reach the doorknob and walk outside into a garden of delights. Beyond that, the city, then the rolling hills, then the sea. And when the world of every cell has been limned and painted and sung, we lie back on the grass, satisfied that our work is done. Then, of course, the sun sets and we see above us the dark dome of glittering stars. On and on it goes, all the way to the lightless borderlands of time and space, which we come to discover in some future age are but the beginnings or endings of a single word spoken from the mouth of God. Some nights, while I traipse down the hill, I imagine that word isn’t a word at all, but a burst of laughter. ~ Andrew Peterson,

248:[T]he mind wearies easily when it strives to grapple with the Infinite, and to trace the footsteps of the Almighty as he strides from sphere to sphere, or deduce his purpose from his works. Such things are not for us to know. Knowledge is to the strong, and we are weak. Too much wisdom would perchance blind our imperfect sight, and too much strength would make us drunk, and overweight our feeble reason till it fell, and we were drowned in the depths of our own vanity. For what is the first result of man's increased knowledge interpreted from Nature's book by the persistent effort of his purblind observation? Is it not but too often to make him question the existence of his Maker, or indeed of any intelligent purpose beyond his own? The truth is veiled, because we could no more look upon her glory than we can upon the sun. It would destroy us. Full knowledge is not for man as man is here, for his capacities, which he is apt to think so great, are indeed but small. The vessel is soon filled, and, were one thousandth part of the unutterable and silent wisdom that directs the rolling of those shining spheres, and the force which makes them roll, pressed into it, it would be shattered into fragments. ~ H Rider Haggard,

249:Last fall, I was sitting at the kitchen table of two friends who have been together since 1972. They tell me a story about how they got together. She couldn't decide between two suitors, so she left New York City to spend the summer in an ashram. (Did I mention was 1972?) One of the suitors sent her postcards while she was gone, the famous postcards that came inside the sleeve of the Rolling Stones' Exile on Main Street. Needless to say, he was the suitor that won her hand. They tell me this story, laughing and interrupting each other, as their teenage daughter walks through the kitchen on her way out to a Halloween party. I've heard of these postcards - over the years, I've heard plenty of record-collector guys boast that they own the original vinyl Exile on Main Street with the original postcards, intact and pristine in the virgin sleeve. I've never heard of anybody getting rid of their prized Exile postcards, much less actually writing on them and sending them through the mail to a girl. I watch these two, laughing over this story at the same kitchen table they've shared for thirty years. I realize that I will never fully understand the millions of bizarre ways that music brings people together. ~ Rob Sheffield,

250:Verses Iii Written by the same lady on seeing her two sons at play. SWEET age of bless'd delusion! blooming boys, Ah! revel long in childhood's thoughtless joys, With light and pliant spirits, that can stoop To follow, sportively, the rolling hoop; To watch the sleeping top with gay delight, Or mark, with raptured gaze, the sailing kite; Or, eagerly pursuing Pleasure's call, Can find it center'd in the bounding ball. Alas! the day will come, when sports like these Must lose their magic, and their power to please: Too swiftly fled, the rosy hours of youth Shall yield their fairy charms to mournful Truth; Even now, a mother's fond prophetic fear Sees the dark train of human ills appear; Views various fortune for each lovely child, Storms for the bold, and anguish for the mild; Beholds already those expressive eyes Beam a sad certainty of future sighs; And dreads each suffering those dear breasts may know In their long passage through a world of woe; Perchance predestined every pang to prove, That treacherous friends inflict, or faithless love; For, ah! how few have found existence sweet, Where grief is sure, but happiness deceit. ~ Charlotte Smith,

251:Buffalo Country Out where the grey streams glide, Sullen and deep and slow, And the alligators slide From the mud to the depths below Or drift on the stream like a floating death, Where the fever comes on the south wind's breath, There is the buffalo. Out of the big lagoons, Where the Regia lilies float, And the Nankin heron croons With a deep ill-omened note, In the ooze and the mud of the swamps below Lazily wallows the buffalo, Buried to nose and throat. From the hunter's gun he hides In the jungle's dark and damp, Where the slinking dingo glides And the flying foxes camp; Hanging like myriad fiends in line Where the trailing creepers twist and twine And the sun is a sluggish lamp. On the edge of the rolling plains Where the coarse cane grasses swell, Lush with the tropic rains In the noontide's drowsy spell, Slowly the buffalo grazes through Where the brolgas dance, and the jabiru Stands like a sentinel. All that the world can know Of the wild and the weird is here, Where the black men come and go With their boomerang and spear, And the wild duck darken the evening sky As they fly to their nests in the reed beds high When the tropic night is near. 88 ~ Banjo Paterson,

252:Lift every voice and sing, Till earth and heaven ring, Ring with the harmonies of Liberty; Let our rejoicing rise High as the list’ning skies, Let it resound loud as the rolling sea. Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us, Sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us; Facing the rising sun of our new day begun, Let us march on till victory is won. Stony the road we trod, Bitter the chast’ning rod, Felt in the days when hope unborn had died; Yet with a steady beat, Have not our weary feet Come to the place for which our fathers sighed? We have come over a way that with tears has been watered. We have come, treading our path through the blood of the slaughtered, Out from the gloomy past, Till now we stand at last Where the white gleam of our bright star is cast. God of our weary years, God of our silent tears, Thou who hast brought us thus far on the way; Thou who hast by Thy might, Led us into the light, Keep us forever in the path, we pray. Lest our feet stray from the places, our God, where we met Thee, Lest our hearts, drunk with the wine of the world, we forget Thee; Shadowed beneath Thy hand, May we forever stand, True to our God, True to our native land. ~ James Weldon Johnson,

253:To what a world does the illustrious bard carry me! To wander over pathless wilds, surrounded by impetuous whirlwinds, where, by the feeble light of the moon, we see the spirits of our ancestors; to hear from the mountain-tops, mid the roar of torrents, their plaintive sounds issuing from deep caverns, and the sorrowful lamentations of a maiden who sighs and expires on the mossy tomb of the warrior by whom she was adored. I meet this bard with silver hair; he wanders in the valley; he seeks the footsteps of his fathers, and, alas! he finds only their tombs. Then, contemplating the pale moon, as she sinks beneath the waves of the rolling sea, the memory of bygone days strikes the mind of the hero, days when approaching danger invigorated the brave, and the moon shone upon his bark laden with spoils, and returning in triumph. When I read in his countenance deep sorrow, when I see his dying glory sink exhausted into the grave, as he inhales new and heart-thrilling delight from his approaching union with his beloved, and he casts a look on the cold earth and the tall grass which is so soon to cover him, and then exclaims, "The traveller will come, -- he will come who has seen my beauty, and he will ask, 'Where is the bard, where is the illustrious son of Fingal?' He will walk over my tomb, and will seek me in vain! ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,

254:I wish it were different. I wish that we privileged knowledge in politicians, that the ones who know things didn't have to hide it behind brown pants, and that the know-not-enoughs were laughed all the way to the Maine border on their first New Hampshire meet and greet. I wish that in order to secure his party's nomination, a presidential candidate would be required to point at the sky and name all the stars; have the periodic table of the elements memorized; rattle off the kings and queens of Spain; define the significance of the Gatling gun; joke around in Latin; interpret the symbolism in seventeenth-century Dutch painting; explain photosynthesis to a six-year-old; recite Emily Dickinson; bake a perfect popover; build a shortwave radio out of a coconut; and know all the words to Hoagy Carmichael's "Two Sleepy People," Johnny Cash's "Five Feet High and Rising," and "You Got the Silver" by the Rolling Stones. After all, the United States is the greatest country on earth dealing with the most complicated problems in the history of the world--poverty, pollution, justice, Jerusalem. What we need is a president who is at least twelve kinds of nerd, a nerd messiah to come along every four years, acquire the Secret Service code name Poindexter, install a Revenge of the Nerds screen saver on the Oval Office computer, and one by one decrypt our woes. ~ Sarah Vowell,

255:That baking day was the third day Mrs G had shut herself away in the stillroom, dosing herself with medicinal waters. As I rolled the pastry I lived out a fancy I had nourished, since the first apple blossom pinked in May- the making of the perfect dish. Next day was All Hallows Eve, or Souling Night as we called it, and all our neighbors would gather for Old Ned's cider and Mrs Garland's Soul Cakes. After the stablemen acted out the Souling play, the unmarried maids would have a lark, guessing their husband's name from apple pairings thrown over their shoulders. So what better night, I thought, for Jem to announce our wedding? At the ripe age of twenty-two years, the uncertainties of maidenhood were soon to pass me by. Crimping my tarts, I passed into that forgetfulness that is a most delightful way of being. My fingers scattered flour and my elbows spun the rolling pin along the slab. Unrolling before my eyes were scenes of triumph: of me and Jem leading a cheery procession to the chapel, posies of flowers in my hand and pinned to Jem's blue jacket. In my head I turned over the makings of my Bride Cake that sat in secret in the larder- ah, wouldn't that be the richest, most hotly spiced delight? And all the bitter maidens who put it underneath their pillows would be sorrowing to think that Jem was finally taken, bound and married off to me. ~ Martine Bailey,

256:The Maranoa Drovers The night is dark and stormy, and the sky is clouded o'er; Our horses we will mount and ride away, To watch the squatters' cattle through the darkness of the night, And we'll keep them on the camp till break of day. For we're going, going, going to Gunnedah so far, And we'll soon be into sunny New South Wales; We shall bid farewell to Queensland, with its swampy coolibah Happy drovers from the sandy Maranoa. When the fires are burning bright through the darkness of the night, And the cattle camping quiet, well, I'm sure That I wish for two o'clock when I call the other watch This is droving from the sandy Maranoa. Our beds made on the ground, we are sleeping all so sound When we're wakened by the distant thunder's roar, And the lightning's vivid flash, followed by an awful crash It's rough on drovers from the sandy Maranoa. We are up at break of day, and we're all soon on the way, For we always have to go ten miles or more; It don't do to loaf about, or the squatter will come out He's strict on drovers from the sandy Maranoa. We shall soon be on the Moonie, and we'll cross the Barwon, too; Then we'll be out upon the rolling plains once more; We'll shout "Hurrah! for old Queensland, with its swampy coolibah, And the cattle that come off the Maranoa." ~ Banjo Paterson,

257:In The Beginning In the beginning was the three-pointed star, One smile of light across the empty face, One bough of bone across the rooting air, The substance forked that marrowed the first sun, And, burning ciphers on the round of space, Heaven and hell mixed as they spun. In the beginning was the pale signature, Three-syllabled and starry as the smile, And after came the imprints on the water, Stamp of the minted face upon the moon; The blood that touched the crosstree and the grail Touched the first cloud and left a sign. In the beginning was the mounting fire That set alight the weathers from a spark, A three-eyed, red-eyed spark, blunt as a flower, Life rose and spouted from the rolling seas, Burst in the roots, pumped from the earth and rock The secret oils that drive the grass. In the beginning was the word, the word That from the solid bases of the light Abstracted all the letters of the void; And from the cloudy bases of the breath The word flowed up, translating to the heart First characters of birth and death. In the beginning was the secret brain. The brain was celled and soldered in the thought Before the pitch was forking to a sun; Before the veins were shaking in their sieve, Blood shot and scattered to the winds of light The ribbed original of love. ~ Dylan Thomas,

258:Mothers And Wives Mothers and wives, 'tis the call to arms That the bugler yonder prepares to sound; We stand on the brink of war's alarms And your men may lie on a blood-stained ground. The drums may play and the flags may fly, And our boys may don the brown and blue, And the call that summons brave men to die Is the call for glorious women, too. Mothers and wives, if the summons comes, You, as ever since war has been, Must hear with courage the rolling drums And dry your tears when the flags are seen. For never has hero fought and died Who has braver been than the mother, who Buckled his sabre at his side, And sent him forward to dare and do. Mothers and wives, should the call ring out, It is you must answer your country's cry; You must furnish brave hearts and stout For the firing line where the heroes die. And never a corpse on the field of strife Should be honoured more in his country's sight Than the noble mother or noble wife Who sent him forth in the cause of right. Mothers and wives, 'tis the call for men To give their strength and to give their lives; But well we know, such a summons then Is the call for mothers and loyal wives, For you must give us the strength we need, You must give us the boys in blue, For never a boy or a man shall bleed But a mother or wife shall suffer, too. ~ Edgar Albert Guest,

259:Despite the raised voices and the wild gesticulations, nobody here is wrong. The beauty of ragù is that it's an idea as much as it is a recipe, a slow-simmered distillation of what means and circumstances have gifted you: If Zia Peppe's ragù is made with nothing but pork scraps, that's because her neighbor raises pigs. When Maria cooks her vegetables in a mix of oil and butter, it's because her family comes from a long line of dairy farmers. When Nonna Anna slips a few laurel leaves into the pot, she plucks them from the tree outside her back door. There is no need for a decree from the Chamber of Commerce to tell these women what qualifies as the authentic ragù; what's authentic is whatever is simmering under the lid. Eventually the women agree to disagree and the rolling boil of the debate calms to a gentle simmer. Alessandro opens a few bottles of pignoletto he's brought to make the peace. We drink and take photos and make small talk about tangential ragù issues such as the proper age of Parmesan and the troubled state of the prosciutto industry in the region. On my way out, Anna no. 1 grabs me by the arm. She pulls me close and looks up into my eyes with an earnestness that drowns out the rest of the chatter in the room. "Forget about these arguments. Forget about the small details. Just remember that the most important ingredient for making ragù, the one thing you can never forget, is love." Lisetta overhears from across the room and quickly adds, "And pancetta! ~ Matt Goulding,

260:Nope,” she managed. “No other questions.” Eleven centuries of captivity. Hung on his hated enemy’s study wall. Eleven centuries of not touching. Not eating. Not loving. Had he had anyone to talk to? Her face must have betrayed her thoughts, for he startled her by saying softly, “ ’Tis no longer of consequence, lass, but thank you for the compassion. ’Tis nigh over. Seventeen more days, Jessica. That’s all.” For some reason his words brought a sudden hot burn of tears to the backs of her eyes. Not only hadn’t eleven centuries turned him into a monster, he was trying to soothe her, to make her feel better about his imprisonment. “You weep for me, woman?” She turned away. “It’s been a long day. Hell, it’s been a long week.” “Jessica.” Her name was a soft command. She disobeyed it, staring out the window at the rolling hills. “Jessica, look at me.” Eyes bright with unshed tears, she whipped her head around and glared at him. “I weep for you, okay?” she snapped. “For eleven centuries stuck in there. Can I start driving again or do you need something else?” He smiled faintly, raised his hand, and splayed his palm against the inside of the silvery glass. Without an ounce of conscious thought, her hand rose to meet his, aligning on the cool silver, palm to palm, finger to finger, thumb to thumb. And though she felt only a cold hardness beneath her palm, the gesture made something go all warm and soft in her heart. Neither of them spoke or moved for a moment. ~ Karen Marie Moning,

261:The Green Of Michigan I'VE seen the Rockies in the west, I've seen the canyons wild and grim, I've seen the prairies golden dressed, And California's hedges prim. I've seen the Kansas corn fields blow, I've seen them wearing summer's tan; But there's no place on earth can show Such glorious green as Michigan. I've seen the blue of foreign skies, I've seen old England's shady lanes, The famous spots men advertise, The mountains and the rolling plains; But wearily my eyes have turned From scenes that others gayly scan, And secretly my soul has yearned To see the green of Michigan. I've traveled in a Pullman car And watched the landscape slipping by, But always though I've wandered far To fairer charms my mind would fly; And when at last the moving scenes Seem painted by some Master Man With all the cool and restful greens, I know I'm back in Michigan. Here Mother Nature never tires And droops her head upon her breast; Beneath the scorching summer fires She keeps her youth and looks her best. When other states have lost the hue They had when first the spring began, 'Tis like refreshing drink to view The splendid green of Michigan. Go search for charms on foreign shores, Enthuse of wonders, as you roam, I choose the splendors at our doors, 797 I sing the rich delights of home, The trees in garb of glory dressed, The fertile fields that round us span; I sing the charm that thrills me best, The glorious green of Michigan! ~ Edgar Albert Guest,

262:The clear liquid in our eyes is seawater and therefore there are fish in our eyes, seawater being the natural medium of fish. Since blue and green are the colours of the richest seawater, blue and green eyes are the fishiest. Dark eyes are somewhat less fecund and albino eyes are nearly fishless, sadly so. But the quantity of fish in an eye means nothing. A single tigerfish can be as beautiful, as powerful, as an entire school of seafaring tuna. That science has never observed ocular fish does nothing to refute my theory; on the contrary, it emphasizes the key hypothesis, which is: love is the food of eye fish and only love will bring them out. So to look closely into someone's eyes with cold, empirical interest is like the rude tap-tap of a finder on an aquarium, which only makes the fish flee. In a similar vein, when I took to looking at myself closely in mirrors during the turmoil of adolescence, the fact that I saw nothing in my eyes, not even the smallest guppy or tadpole, said something about my unhappiness and lack of faith in myself at the time. ...I no longer believe in eye fish in [i]fact[/i], but still do in metaphor. In the passion of an embrace, when breath, the win, is at its loudest and skin at its saltiest, I still nearly think that I could stop things and hear, feel, the rolling of the sea. I am still nearly convinced that, when my love and I kiss, we will be blessed with the sight of angelfish and sea-horses rising to the surface of our eyes, these fish being the surest proof of our love. In spite of everything, I sill profoundly believe that love is something oceanic. ~ Yann Martel,

263:We drove 22 miles into the country around Farmington. There were meadows and apple orchards. White fences trailed through the rolling fields. Soon the sign started appearing. THE MOST PHOTOGRAPHED BARN IN AMERICA. We counted five signs before we reached the site. There were 40 cars and a tour bus in the makeshift lot. We walked along a cowpath to the slightly elevated spot set aside for viewing and photographing. All the people had cameras; some had tripods, telephoto lenses, filter kits. A man in a booth sold postcards and slides -- pictures of the barn taken from the elevated spot. We stood near a grove of trees and watched the photographers. Murray maintained a prolonged silence, occasionally scrawling some notes in a little book. "No one sees the barn," he said finally. A long silence followed. "Once you've seen the signs about the barn, it becomes impossible to see the barn." He fell silent once more. People with cameras left the elevated site, replaced by others. We're not here to capture an image, we're here to maintain one. Every photograph reinforces the aura. Can you feel it, Jack? An accumulation of nameless energies." There was an extended silence. The man in the booth sold postcards and slides. "Being here is a kind of spiritual surrender. We see only what the others see. The thousands who were here in the past, those who will come in the future. We've agreed to be part of a collective perception. It literally colors our vision. A religious experience in a way, like all tourism." Another silence ensued. "They are taking pictures of taking pictures," he said. ~ Don DeLillo,

264:When I reached the end of the patch of forest I was ready to run out into the bright sunshine--but before I’d passed the last tree I saw a line of riders racing across a distant field. Ducking instinctively behind the tree, I peered over a branch, shading my eyes against the glare of the sun, and saw that they rode in two-by-two formation, and that they were not following any road. Now, it might have been the riders had nothing to do with me, but I was not about to take that chance. As I looked out across the rolling terrain, I realized that they probably had me boxed in. They knew approximately where I was---that business the night before made it pretty clear--but not exactly. As for my part, I had to spot their perimeter…and cross it. And get something to eat. Without endangering any innocent people. Standing there watching the diminishing formation, I was intensely aware of how alone I was--but it was not the same terrible, helpless feeling I’d had when I first discovered that I was a prisoner. Then I couldn’t walk and couldn’t get free. Now I was free, and I could walk, and as I remembered what Ara had said about that accursed Shevraeth and his abominable friend making sport of finding me, I got angry. There is nothing like good, honest, righteous anger to infuse a person with energy. All right, I thought. Either I keep blundering about in all four directions, or else I locate these searchers--they have to be a limited number--and then move when and where they are least expecting it. And so I turned my steps west and started stumping along in the direction the cross-country racers had gone. ~ Sherwood Smith,

265:Spring had come early that year, with warm quick rains and sudden frothing of pink peach blossoms and dogwood dappling with white stars the dark river swamp and far-off hills. Already the plowing was nearly finished, and the bloody glory of the sunset colored the fresh-cut furrows of red Georgia clay to even redder hues. The moist hungry earth, waiting upturned for the cotton seeds, showed pinkish on the sandy tops of furrows, vermilion and scarlet and maroon where shadows lay along the sides of the trenches. The whitewashed brick plantation house seemed an island set in a wild red sea, a sea of spiraling, curving, crescent billows petrified suddenly at the moment when the pink-tipped waves were breaking into surf. For here were no long, straight furrows, such as could be seen in the yellow clay fields of the flat middle Georgia country or in the lush black earth of the coastal plantations. The rolling foothill country of north Georgia was plowed in a million curves to keep the rich earth from washing down into the river bottoms. It was a savagely red land, blood-colored after rains, brick dust in droughts, the best cotton land in the world. It was a pleasant land of white houses, peaceful plowed fields and sluggish yellow rivers, but a land of contrasts, of brightest sun glare and densest shade. The plantation clearings and miles of cotton fields smiled up to a warm sun, placid, complacent. At their edges rose the virgin forests, dark and cool even in the hottest noons, mysterious, a little sinister, the soughing pines seeming to wait with an age-old patience, to threaten with soft sighs: "Be careful! Be careful! We had you once. We can take you back again. ~ Margaret Mitchell,

266:You said it was twenty feet!” “Yeah. You’ll have to trust me. Put your arms around my neck and hang on.” “How can you possibly—” “There!” cried a voice behind them. “Kill the ungrateful tourists!” The children of Nyx had found them. Annabeth wrapped her arms around Percy’s neck. “Go!” With her eyes closed, she could only guess how he managed it. Maybe he used the force of the river somehow. Maybe he was just scared out of his mind and charged with adrenaline. Percy leaped with more strength than she would have thought possible. They sailed through the air as the river churned and wailed below them, splashing Annabeth’s bare ankles with stinging brine. Then—CLUMP. They were on solid ground again. “You can open your eyes,” Percy said, breathing hard. “But you won’t like what you see.” Annabeth blinked. After the darkness of Nyx, even the dim red glow of Tartarus seemed blinding. Before them stretched a valley big enough to fit the San Francisco Bay. The booming noise came from the entire landscape, as if thunder were echoing from beneath the ground. Under poisonous clouds, the rolling terrain glistened purple with dark red and blue scar lines. “It looks like…” Annabeth fought down her revulsion. “Like a giant heart.” “The heart of Tartarus,” Percy murmured. The center of the valley was covered with a fine black fuzz of peppery dots. They were so far away, it took Annabeth a moment to realize she was looking at an army—thousands, maybe tens of thousands of monsters, gathered around a central pinpoint of darkness. It was too far to see any details, but Annabeth had no doubt what the pinpoint was. Even from the edge of the valley, Annabeth could feel its power tugging at her soul. “The Doors of Death. ~ Rick Riordan,

267:Narian was outside, leaning on the railing and gazing out over the city and the rolling hills beyond. I walked up behind him and placed my hands on his shoulders, resting my head upon his back. “Will you miss the mountains?” I asked, and he twisted to face me, lightly holding me around the waist, my hands upon his chest. “I can still see them, Alera, just from a different perspective. And I imagine I will eventually return for a visit.” I nodded and gave him a light kiss. “I want to show you something.” He looked curiously at me, and I removed my betrothal ring from the chain around my neck, placing it on my finger. “I am no longer going to hide that we are in love.” He smiled and took me into his embrace, then we went to the King’s Dining Hall on the second floor together. We entered at the perfect moment, holding hands, for everyone else had already arrived. All conversation stopped, but we calmly took chairs next to each other, ignoring the astounded expressions on the faces around us. With our attitudes unassailable, our guests glanced curiously at one another, hardly daring to ask. It was my effervescent sister who finally spoke. “When is the wedding?” At her candid question, our guests burst into animated conversation, and I leaned close to kiss Narian--entirely inappropriately--full on the lips. Much was unknown to me in that moment--when the treaty with the High Priestess would be signed, when the citizenry would accept Narian, when our wedding would take place, what life would bring to me from here--but for once I was not hiding, from anyone or anything. Instead, I was staring into deep blue eyes filled with love, acceptance and hope. Deep blue eyes that would be mine to gaze into forever. ~ Cayla Kluver,

268:Vanitas Vanitatis, Etc. In all we do, and hear, and see, Is restless Toil and Vanity; While yet the rolling earth abides, Men come and go like Ocean tides; And ere one generation dies, Another in its place shall rise. That sinking soon into the grave, Others succeed, like wave on wave; And as they rise, they pass away. The sun arises every day, And hastening onward to the west He nightly sinks but not to rest; Returning to the eastern skies, Again to light us he must rise. And still the restless wind comes forth Now blowing keenly from the north, Now from the South, the East, the West; For ever changing, ne'er at rest. The fountains, gushing from the hills, Supply the ever-running rills; The thirsty rivers drink their store, And bear it rolling to the shore, But still the ocean craves for more. 'Tis endless labour everywhere, Sound cannot satisfy the ear, Sight cannot fill the craving eye, Nor riches happiness supply, Pleasure but doubles future pain; And joy brings sorrow in her train. Laughter is mad, and reckless mirth, What does she in this weary earth? Should wealth or fame our life employ, Death comes our labour to destroy, To snatch th' untasted cup away, For which we toiled so many a day. What then remains for wretched man? To use life's comforts while he can: Enjoy the blessings God bestows, Assist his friends, forgive his foes, 132 Trust God, and keep His statutes still Upright and firm, through good and ill -Thankful for all that God has given, Fixing his firmest hopes on heaven; Knowing that earthly joys decay, But hoping through the darkest day. ~ Anne Brontë,

269:Vanitas Vanitatum, Omnia Vanitas In all we do, and hear, and see, Is restless Toil and Vanity. While yet the rolling earth abides, Men come and go like Ocean tides; And ere one generation dies, Another in its place shall rise; That, sinking soon into the grave, Others succeed, like wave on wave; And as they rise, they pass away. The sun arises every day, And, hastening onward to the West, He nightly sinks, but not to rest: Returning to the eastern skies, Again to light us, he must rise. And still the restless wind comes forth, Now blowing keenly from the North; Now from the South, the East, the West, For ever changing, ne'er at rest. The fountains, gushing from the hills, Supply the ever-running rills; The thirsty rivers drink their store, And bear it rolling to the shore, But still the ocean craves for more. 'Tis endless labour everywhere! Sound cannot satisfy the ear, Light cannot fill the craving eye, Nor riches half our wants supply; Pleasure but doubles future pain, And joy brings sorrow in her train; Laughter is mad, and reckless mirth -What does she in this weary earth? Should Wealth, or Fame, our Life employ, Death comes, our labour to destroy; 134 To snatch the untasted cup away, For which we toiled so many a day. What, then, remains for wretched man? To use life's comforts while he can, Enjoy the blessings Heaven bestows, Assist his friends, forgive his foes; Trust God, and keep his statutes still, Upright and firm, through good and ill; Thankful for all that God has given, Fixing his firmest hopes on heaven; Knowing that earthly joys decay, But hoping through the darkest day. Acton ~ Anne Brontë,

270:Ever since I had ceased to see actors solely as the depositories, in their diction and acting ability, of an artistic truth, they had begun to interest me in their own right; with the feeling that I was watching the characters from some old comic novel, I was amused to see the naïve heroine of a play, her attention drawn to the new face of some young duke who had just taken his seat in the theatre, listen abstractedly to the declaration of love the juvenile lead was addressing to her, while he, through the rolling passion of this declaration, was in turn directing an enamoured eye at an old lady seated in a stage box, whose magnificent pearls had caught his interest; and in this way, largely owing to what Saint-Loup had told me about the private lives of actors, I saw another drama, silent but telling, being played out beneath the words of the play that was being performed, yet the play itself, however uninspired, was still something that interested me too; for within it I could feel germinating and blossoming for an hour in the glare of the footlights, created out of the agglutination on the face of an actor of another face of grease-paint and pasteboard, and on his individual soul the words of a part, the ephemeral and spirited personalities, captivating too, who form the cast of a play, whom one loves, admires, pities, whom one would like to meet again after the play is over, but who by that time have already disintegrated into the actors who are no longer what they were in their roles, into a script which no longer shows the actors’ faces, into a coloured powder that can be wiped off by a handkerchief, who have reverted, in a word, to elements that contain nothing of them, because their dissolution is complete as soon as the play has ended, and this, like the dissolution of a loved one, causes one to doubt the reality of the self and to meditate on the mystery of death. ~ Marcel Proust,

271:A Souless Singer Hail! throstle, by thy ringing voice descried, Not by the wanderings of the tuneless wing! Now once again where forkëd boughs divide, Lost in green leafage thou dost perch and sing: Trilling, shrilling, far and wide, ``It is Spring.'' Thy matins peal long ere the rosy dawn Unfolds its hull and burgeons into light; Nor cease thy vespers till from darkling lawn The silent shadows steal away in flight, And the star-lit tent is drawn Round the Night. Is it in Heaven, or mid-way of the Earth, Thou learn'st to outvoice, outnumber all the Nine? What is the secret of thy madcap mirth? Wilt thou not tell it me, and make it mine? What is all my singing worth, Matched with thine? If heedless mortals only understood What the prerogatives of real renown, Hearing thee warble in umbrageous wood, Or in the dingles of the rolling down, It is thou, not I, that should Wear the Crown. And yet perchance more deep and more divine The insufficiency of my poor strain. One single solitary note is thine: Weak though they haply be, yet I have twain. Joy is all thy song; of mine Half is pain. Thou with thy carol flatterest the Year But when it frolics into happy bloom: Only those notes hast thou, wild chanticleer, That with their thoughtlessness can banish gloom 89 From its cradle; I, a tear For its tomb. Thou with the blossom and bud and baby leaf, Heartless of woe, dost revel and rejoice, But for sere sorrow and the pensive sheaf Lackest, for all thy minstrelsy, the voice: There are seasons when sweet grief Is our choice. So, throstle, be the very voice of Spring, And bring back rapture to the wrinkled bole! Of all life's chords joy is the leading string, And happiness is much, but not the whole. Leave it then to me to sing To the soul! ~ Alfred Austin,

272:Parker?” “Yeah?” He’d gotten up now, gone after his bottle of cough syrup. With one smooth motion he scooped it up, unscrewed the top, and took a satisfied gulp. “Parker, I…” Something…I know it’s there…I want to remember…“I want you to take me home.” Parker froze, the bottle at his lips, poised for another swallow. He shot her a sidelong glance. “This is so sudden, Miranda. I mean, we hardly know each other, and I do have a girlfriend. And there is, of course, the issue of my extremely high moral standards. But…okay. What the hell. I’ll take you home with me.” “Not your home. My home. Hayes House.” “What? Hayes House? Oh! Sure! Hayes House! Did you think I meant--that I wanted to--hey, I was just kidding!” The irreverence was there again, the cocky grin back in place. As Miranda climbed into the passenger seat, Parker slid behind the wheel, then gunned the engine to breakneck speed. In less than five minutes they were squealing into the driveway of Hayes House. But even when Parker reached across and shoved open her door, Miranda made no move to get out. “Let me guess.” Parker watched her expectantly. “You really do want to go home with me. You were just playing hard to get.” Slowly Miranda shook her head. She gazed down at the envelope in her lap. “I forgot to give this to Ashley.” “Forget it. Why the big rush to get here?” The sound…the rolling sound…it’s close…it’s important. “I’m not sure, Parker. There’s…something--” “No. Don’t tell me. Whatever it is, I don’t want to see it, hear it, or go through it ever again.” Getting out of the car, Miranda walked a few steps before turning back to face him. “But aren’t you even curious about what happened to you out in the storm? Don’t you even want to explore all the--” “Stop right there. There’s lots of things I want to explore, and things I most definitely will explore. But ghosts aren’t one of them. See you later. ~ Richie Tankersley Cusick,

273:Helen's Return To Greece Air by thy speed, Sidonian ship! Thine oars, familiar to the oarsman's grip, Fall fast, and make the surges bound, And lead along the dolphin train, While all around The winds forego to vex the main, And the mariners hear The sea-king's daughter calling clear, 'Now, sails to the breeze, fling out, fling out, Now pull, strong arms, to the cheering shout; Speed royal Helen, away and away, To Argos home, to the royal bay.' What sacred hour, what festal tide Shall bring fair Helen to Eurotas' side? Say, shall the Spartan maidens dance Before Leucippis then? Or meet That day perchance At Pallas' gate? Or shall they greet Thee, lost so long, With lost Hyacinthus' nightly song, How Phoebus slew him with quoit far-flown, And yearly the maidens with mourning atone? There is one of them, Helen, one fair of the fair, Who will not be wife till her mother be there! O for wings to fly Where the flocks of fowl together Quit the Afric sky, Late their refuge from the wintry weather! All the way with solemn sound Rings the leader's clarion cry O'er dewless deserts and glad harvest ground. We would bid them, as they go, Neck by neck against the cloud Racing nightly 'neath the stars, When Eurotas rolls below, Light and leave a message loud, How princely Menelaus, proud 10 With conquest, cometh from the Dardan wars. Come, eternal Pair [1], Come, Twin Brethren, from your heaven ascended; Down the steep of air Drive, by many a starry glance attended! 'Mid the waters white and blue, 'Mid the rolling waves be there, And brotherly bring safe your sister through. Airs from heaven, serene and pure, Breathe upon her; bless and speed; Breathe away her cruel shame! Never he did Paris lure, Never won her (as they rede) Of Aphrodite for his meed, Nor thither led, where never yet she came! ~ Euripides,

274:The Day Of Dead Soldiers WELCOME, thou gray and fragrant Sabbath-day, To deathless love and valor dedicate! Glorious with the richest flowers of May, With early roses, lingering lilacs late, With vivid green of grass and leaf and spray, Thou bringest memories that far outweigh The season's joy with thoughts of death and fate. What words may paint the picture on the air Of this broad land to-day from sea to sea? The rolling prairies, purple valleys rare, And royal mountains, endless rivers free, Filled full with phantoms flitting everywhere, Pale ghosts of buried armies, slowly there From countless graves uprising silently. A calm, grave day,—the sunlight does not shine But thin, gray clouds bedrape the sky o'erhead. The delicate air is filled with spirits fine, The temperate breezes whisper of the dead. What visions and what memories divine, O holy Sabbath flower-day, are thine, Painted in light against a field of red! Behold the fairest spots in all the land, To-day in this mid-season of fresh flowers, Are heroes' graves, —by many a tender hand Sprinkled With odorous, radiant-colored showers; By mild, moist breezes delicately fanned, Sending o'er distant towns their perfumes bland, Loading with sweet aroma sunless hours. Who knows what tremulous, dusky hands set free, Deck quaintly with gay flowers the graves unknown? What wealth of bloom is shed exuberantly, On the far grave in Illinois alone, Where the last hero, sleeping peacefully, Beyond detraction and mistrust, doth lie, By the glad winds of prairies overblown? 245 With hymns and prayer be this day sanctified, And consecrate to heroes' memories; Not with wild, violent grief for those who died, O wives and mothers, but with patience wise, Calm resignation, and a thankful pride, That they have left their land a fame so wide, So rich a page of thrilling histories. ~ Emma Lazarus,

275:Each And All Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown, Of thee, from the hill-top looking down; And the heifer, that lows in the upland farm, Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm; The sexton tolling the bell at noon, Dreams not that great Napoleon Stops his horse, and lists with delight, Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height; Nor knowest thou what argument Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent: All are needed by each one, Nothing is fair or good alone. I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, Singing at dawn on the alder bough; I brought him home in his nest at even; He sings the song, but it pleases not now; For I did not bring home the river and sky; He sang to my ear; they sang to my eye. The delicate shells lay on the shore; The bubbles of the latest wave Fresh pearls to their enamel gave; And the bellowing of the savage sea Greeted their safe escape to me; I wiped away the weeds and foam, And fetched my sea-born treasures home; But the poor, unsightly, noisome things Had left their beauty on the shore With the sun, and the sand, and the wild uproar. The lover watched his graceful maid As 'mid the virgin train she strayed, Nor knew her beauty's best attire Was woven still by the snow-white quire; At last she came to his hermitage, Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage, The gay enchantment was undone, A gentle wife, but fairy none. Then I said, "I covet Truth; Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat, I leave it behind with the games of youth." As I spoke, beneath my feet The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath, Running over the club-moss burrs; I inhaled the violet's breath; Around me stood the oaks and firs; Pine cones and acorns lay on the ground; Above me soared the eternal sky, Full of light and deity; Again I saw, again I heard, The rolling river, the morning bird; Beauty through my senses stole, I yielded myself to the perfect whole. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson, Each And All ,

276:Several days later Murray asked me about a tourist attraction known as the most photographed barn in America. We drove twenty-two miles into the country around Farmington. There were meadows and apple orchards. White fences trailed through the rolling fields. Soon the signs started appearing. THE MOST PHOTOGRAPHED BARN IN AMERICA. We counted five signs before we reached the site. There were forty cars and a tour bus in the makeshift lot. We walked along a cowpath to the slightly elevated spot set aside for viewing and photographing. All the people had cameras; some had tripods, telephoto lenses, filter kits. A man in a booth sold postcards and slides--pictures of the barn taken from the elevated spot. We stood near a grove of trees and watched the photographers. Murray maintained a prolonged silence, occasionally scrawling some notes in a little book. "No one sees the barn," he said finally. A long silence followed. "Once you've seen the signs about the barn, it becomes impossible to see the barn." He fell silent once more. People with cameras left the elevated site, replaced at once by others. "We're not here to capture an image, we're here to maintain one. Every photograph reinforces the aura. Can you feel it, Jack? An accumulation of nameless energies." There was an extended silence. The man in the booth sold postcards and slides. "Being here is a kind of spiritual surrender. We see only what the others see. The thousands who were here in the past, those who will come in the future. We've agreed to be part of a collective perception. This literally colors our vision. A religious experience in a way, like all tourism." Another silence ensued. "They are taking pictures of taking pictures," he said. 13 He did not speak for a while. We listened to the incessant clicking of shutter release buttons, the rustling crank of levers that advanced the film. "What was the barn like before it was photographed?" he said. "What did it look like, how was it different from other barns, how was it similar to other barns? We can't answer these questions because we've read the. signs, seen the people snapping the pictures. We can't get outside the aura. We're part of the aura. We're here, we're now." He seemed immensely pleased by this. ~ Don DeLillo,

277:The Night Of The Lion '_And that a reply be received before midnight._' _British Ultimatum_. Their Day was at twelve of the night, When the graves give up their dead. And still, from the City, no light Yellows the clouds overhead. Where the Admiral stands there's a star, But his column is lost in the gloom; For the brazen doors are ajar, And the Lion awakes, and the doom. _He is not of a chosen race. His strength is the strength of the skies, In whose glory all nations have place, In whose downfall Liberty dies. He is mighty, but he is just. He shall live to the end of years. He shall bring the proud to the dust. He shall raise the weak to the spheres._ It is night on the world's great mart, But the brooding hush is awake With the march of a steady heart That calls like the drum of Drake, _Come!_ And a muttering deep As the pulse of the distant guns, Or the thunder before the leap Thro' the rolling thoroughfare runs. And the wounded men go by Like thoughts in the Lion's brain. And the clouds lift on high Like the slow waves of his mane And the narrowing lids conceal The furnaces of his eyes. Their gold is gone out. They reveal Only two search-lights of steel 139 Steadily sweeping the skies. And we hoped he had peace in his lair Where the bones of old tyrannies lay, And the skulls that his cubs have stripped bare, The old skulls they still toss in their play. But the tyrants are risen again, And the last light dies from their path; For the midnight of his mane Lifts to the stars with his wrath. From the East to the West he is crouching. He snuffs at the North-East wind. His breast upon Britain is couching. His haunches quiver on Ind. It is night, black night, where he lies; But a kingdom and a fleet Shall burn in his terrible eyes When he leaps, and the darkness dies With the War-gods under his feet. _Till the day when a little child, Shall lay but a hand on his mane, And his eyes grow golden and mild And he stands in the heavens again; Till the day of the seventh seal, Which the Lion alone shall rend, When the stars from their courses reel, His Freedom shall not end._ ~ Alfred Noyes,

278:Ten Best Song to Strip 1. Any hip-swiveling R&B fuckjam. This category includes The Greatest Stripping Song of All Time: "Remix to Ignition" by R. Kelly. 2. "Purple Rain" by Prince, but you have to be really theatrical about it. Arch your back like Prince himself is daubing body glitter on your abdomen. Most effective in nearly empty, pathos-ridden juice bars. 3. "Honky Tonk Woman" by the Rolling Stones. Insta-attitude. Makes even the clumsiest troglodyte strut like Anita Pallenberg. (However, the Troggs will make you look like even more of a troglodyte, so avoid if possible.) 4. "Pour Some Sugar on Me" by Def Leppard. The Lep's shouted choruses and relentless programmed drums prove ideal for chicks who can really stomp. (Coincidence: I once saw a stripper who, like Rick Allen, had only one arm.) 5. "Amber" by 311. This fluid stoner anthem is a favorite of midnight tokers at strip joints everywhere. Mellow enough that even the most shitfaced dancer can make it through the song and back to her Graffix bong without breaking a sweat. Pass the Fritos Scoops, dude. 6. "Miserable" by Lit, but mostly because Pamela Anderson is in the video, and she's like Jesus for strippers (blonde, plastic, capable of parlaying a broken nail into a domestic battery charge, damaged liver). Alos, you can't go wrong stripping to a song that opens with the line "You make me come." 7. "Back Door Man" by The Doors. Almost too easy. The mere implication that you like it in the ass will thrill the average strip-club patron. Just get on all fours and crawl your way toward the down payment on that condo in Cozumel. (Unless, like most strippers, you'd rather blow your nest egg on tacky pimped-out SUVs and Coach purses.) 8. Back in Black" by AC/DC. Producer Mutt Lange wants you to strip. He does. He told me. 9. "I Touch Myself" by the Devinyls. Strip to this, and that guy at the tip rail with the bitch tits and the shop teacher glasses will actually believe that he alone has inspired you to masturbate. Take his money, then go masturbate and think about someone else. 10. "Hash Pipe" by Weezer. Sure, it smells of nerd. But River Cuomo is obsessed with Asian chicks and nose candy, and that's just the spirit you want to evoke in a strip club. I recommend busting out your most crunk pole tricks during this one. ~ Diablo Cody,

279:The Nancy's Pride ON the long slow heave of a lazy sea, To the flap of an idle sail, The Nancy's Pride went out on the tide; And the skipper stood by the rail. All down, all down by the sleepy town, With the hollyhocks a-row In the little poppy gardens, The sea had her in tow. They let her slip by the breathing rip, Where the bell is never still, And over the sounding harbour bar, And under the harbour hill. She melted into the dreaming noon, Out of the drowsy land, In sight of a flag of goldy hair, To the kiss of a girlish hand. For the lass who hailed the lad who sailed, Was —who but his April bride? And of all the fleet of Grand Latite, Her pride was the Nancy's Pride. So the little vessel faded down With her creaking boom a-swing, Till a wind from the deep came up with a creep, And caught her wing and wing. She made for the lost horizon line, Where the clouds a-castled lay, While the boil and seethe of the open sea Hung on her frothing way. She lifted her hull like a breasting gull Where the rolling valleys be, And dipped where the shining porpoises Put ploughshares through the sea. 182 A fading sail on the far sea-line, About the turn of the tide, As she made for the Banks on her maiden cruise Was the last of the Nancy's Pride. To-day a boy with goldy hair, In a garden of Grand Latite, From his mother's knee looks out to sea For the coming of the fleet. They all may home on a sleepy tide, To the flap of the idle sail; But it's never again the Nancy's Pride That answers a human hail. They all may home on a sleepy tide To the sag of an idle sheet; But it's never again the Nancy's Pride That draws men down the street. On the Banks to-night a fearsome sight The fishermen behold, Keeping the ghost-watch in the moon When the small hours are cold. When the light wind veers,and the white fog clears, They see by the after rail An unknown schooner creeping up With mildewed spar and sail. Her crew lean forth by the rotting shrouds, With the Judgment in their face; And to their mates' 'God save you!' Have never a word of grace. Then into the gray they sheer away, On the awful polar tide; And the sailors know they have seen the wraith Of the missing Nancy's Pride. 183 ~ Bliss William Carman,

280:Australia Today 1916 They came from the lower levels Deep down in the Brilliant mine; From the wastes where the whirlwind revels, Whirling the leaves of pine. On the western plains, where the Darling flows, And the dust storms wheel and shift, The teamster loosened his yokes and bows, And turned his team adrift. On the western stations, far and wide, There's many an empty pen, For the "ringers" have cast the machines aside And answered the call for men. On the lucerne flats where the stream runs slow, And the Hunter finds the sea, The women are driving the mowers now, With the children at their knee. For the men have gone, as a man must go, At the call of the rolling drums; For the men have sworn that the Turks shall know When the old battalion comes. Column of companies by the right, Steady in strong array, With the sun on the bayonets gleaming bright, The battalion marched away. They battled, the old battalion, Through the toil of the training camps, Sweated and strove at lectures, By the light of the stinking lamps. Marching, shooting, and drilling; Steady and slow and stern; Awkward and strange, but willing All of their job to learn. 65 Learning to use the rifle; Learning to use the spade; Deeming fatigue a trifle During each long parade. Till at last they welded Into a concrete whole, And there grew in the old battalion A kind of battalion's soul. Brotherhood never was like it; Friendship is not the word; But deep in that body of marching men The soul of a nation stirred. And like one man with a single thought Cheery and confident; Ready for all that the future brought, The old battalion went. Column of companies by the right, Steady in strong array, With the sun on the bayonets gleaming bright, The battalion marched away. How shall we tell of the landing By the hills where the foe were spread, And the track of the old battalion Was marked by the Turkish dead? With the dash that discipline teaches, Though the hail of the shrapnel flew, And the forts were raking the beaches, And the toll of the dead men grew. They fixed their grip on the gaunt hillside With a pluck that has won them fame; And the home-folks know that the dead men died For the pride of Australia's name. Column of companies by the right, To the beat of the rolling drums; 66 With honours gained in a stirring fight The old battalion comes! ~ Banjo Paterson,

281:The Pilot Of The Plains ``False,' they said, ``thy Pale-face lover, from the land of waking morn ; Rise and wed thy Redskin wooer, nobler warrior ne'er was born ; Cease thy watching, cease thy dreaming, Show the white thine Indian scorn.' Thus they taunted her, declaring, ``He remembers naught of thee : Likely some white maid he wooeth, far beyond the inland sea.' But she answered ever kindly, ``He will come again to me,' Till the dusk of Indian summer crept athwart the western skies ; But a deeper dusk was burning in her dark and dreaming eyes, As she scanned the rolling prairie, Where the foothills fall, and rise. Till the autumn came and vanished, till the season of the rains, Till the western world lay fettered in midwinter's crystal chains, Still she listened for his coming, Still she watched the distant plains. Then a night with nor'land tempest, nor'land snows a-swirling fast, Out upon the pathless prairie came the Pale-face through the blast, Calling, calling, ``Yakonwita, I am coming, love, at last.' Hovered night above, about him, dark its wings and cold and dread ; Never unto trail or tepee were his straying footsteps led ; Till benumbed, he sank, and pillowed On the drifting snows his head, Saying, ``O! my Yakonwita call me, call me, be my guide To the lodge beyond the prairie-for I vowed ere winter died I would come again, belovèd ; I would claim my Indian bride.' ``Yakonwita, Yakonwita! ' Oh, the dreariness that strains Through the voice that calling, quivers, till a whisper but remains, ``Yakonwita, Yakonwita, I am lost upon the plains.' But the Silent Spirit hushed him, lulled him as he cried anew, ``Save me, save me! O! beloved, I am Pale but I am true. Yakonwita, Yakonwita I am dying, love, for you.' Leagues afar, across the prairie, she had risen from her bed, Roused her kinsmen from their slumber : ``He has come to-night,' she said. ``I can hear him calling, calling ; 110 But his voice is as the dead. ``Listen! ' and they sate all silent, while the tempest louder grew, And a spirit-voice called faintly, ``I am dying, love, for you.' Then they wailed, ``O! Yakonwita. He was Pale, but he was true.' Wrapped she then her ermine round her, stepped without the tepee door, Saying, ``I must follow, follow, though he call for evermore, Yakonwita, Yakonwita ; ' And they never saw her more. Late at night, say Indian hunters, when the starlight clouds or wanes, Far away they see a maiden, misty as the autumn rains, Guiding with her lamp of moonlight Hunters lost upon the plains. ~ Emily Pauline Johnson,

282:The Plains Of Riverine I have come to tell you of the glorious news you'll all be glad to bear, Of the pleasant alterations that are taking place this year. So kindly pay attention, and I'll pass the whisper round, The squatters of their own free will this year will pay the pound. For this is a year of great prosperity, that everybody knows, We'll take no top knots off this year, nor trim them to the toes, But a level cut for a level pound, and the rations thrown in free. That's how the squatters say they'll keep their Sovereign's Jubilee. And kind Providence once more has sent the sweet, refreshing rains. The trefoil and the barley grass wave high upon the plains, The tanks all overflowing and the saltbush fresh and green, It's a pleasure for to ramble o'er the plains of Riverine. Once more upon the rippling lake the wild swan flaps her wing. Out in the lignum swamps once more frogs croak and crickets sing. Once more the wild fowl, sporting midst the crab-holes, may be seen, For prosperity is hovering o'er the plains of Riverine. Yes, 'twill be a year of full and plenty for those back-block pioneers, Though behind each scrub and saltbush you can spot the bunny's ears; And although the price for scalps is not so high as it has been, Yet the bunny snappers they will thrive on the plains of Riverine. You should see the jolly teamsters how with joy their faces beam, As they talk about the crowfoot, carrots, crab-holes, and their team. They tell you that this year they do intend to steer sixteen. They'll show the "cookies" how to plough the plains of Riverine. Yes, in more respects than one it is a year of joy and glee, And the news of our prosperity has crossed the briny sea. Once more the Maorilander and the Tassey will be seen Cooking Johnny cakes and jimmies on the plains of Riverine. They will gather like a regiment to the beating of the drum, But it matters not to us from whence our future penmates come. From New Zealand's snow-clad summits or Tasmania's meadows green, We'll always make them welcome on the plains of Riverine. 435 Down from her rocky peaks Monaro will send her champions bold; Victoria will send her "cockies," too, her honour to uphold. They'll be here from Cunnamulla, and the rolling downs between, For this is the real convincing ground, these plains of Riverine. I have a message to deliver now, before I say farewell, Some news which all the squatters have commissioned me to tell; Your backs well bent, bows long and clean, that's what they want to see, That your tallies may do you credit in this year of Jubilee. ~ Banjo Paterson,

283:Glorious France You have become a forge of snow-white fire, A crucible of molten steel, O France! Your sons are stars who cluster to a dawn And fade in light for you, O glorious France! They pass through meteor changes with a song Which to all islands and all continents Says life is neither comfort, wealth, nor fame, Nor quiet hearthstones, friendship, wife nor child, Nor love, nor youth's delight, nor manhood's power, Nor many days spent in a chosen work, Nor honored merit, nor the patterned theme Of daily labor, nor the crowns nor wreaths Of seventy years. These are not all of life, O France, whose sons amid the rolling thunder Of cannon stand in trenches where the dead Clog the ensanguined ice. But life to these Prophetic and enraptured souls in vision, And the keen ecstasy of faded strife, And divination of the loss as gain, And reading mysteries with brightened eyes In fiery shock and dazzling pain before The orient splendour of the face of Death, As a great light beside a shadowy sea; And in a high will's strenuous exercise, Where the warmed spirit finds its fullest strength And is no more afraid, and in the stroke Of azure lightning when the hidden essence And shifting meaning of man's spiritual worth And mystical significance in time Are instantly distilled to one clear drop Which mirrors earth and heaven. This is life Flaming to heaven in a minute's span When the breath of battle blows the smouldering spark. And across these seas We who cry Peace and treasure life and cling 137 To cities, happiness, or daily toil For daily bread, or trail the long routine Of seventy years, taste not the terrible wine Whereof you drink, who drain and toss the cup Empty and ringing by the finished feast; Or have it shaken from your hand by sight Of God against the olive woods. As Joan of Arc amid the apple trees With sacred joy first heard the voices, then Obeying plunged at Orleans in a field Of spears and lived her dream and died in fire, Thou, France, hast heard the voices and hast lived The dream and known the meaning of the dream, And read its riddle: how the soul of man May to one greatest purpose make itself A lens of clearness, how it loves the cup Of deepest truth, and how its bitterest gall Turns sweet to soul's surrender. And you say: Take days for repitition, stretch your hands For mocked renewal of familiar things: The beaten path, the chair beside the window, The crowded street, the task, the accustomed sleep, And waking to the task, or many springs Of lifted cloud, blue water, flowering fields The prison-house grows close no less, the feast A place of memory sick for senses dulled Down to the dusty end where pitiful Time Grown weary cries Enough! ~ Edgar Lee Masters,

284:O Glorious France You have become a forge of snow-white fire, A crucible of molten steel, O France! Your sons are stars who cluster to a dawn And fade in light for you, O glorious France! They pass through meteor changes with a song Which to all islands and all continents Says life is neither comfort, wealth, nor fame, Nor quiet hearthstones, friendship, wife nor child, Nor love, nor youth's delight, nor manhood's power, Nor many days spent in a chosen work, Nor honored merit, nor the patterned theme Of daily labor, nor the crowns nor wreaths Of seventy years. These are not all of life, O France, whose sons amid the rolling thunder Of cannon stand in trenches where the dead Clog the ensanguined ice. But life to these Prophetic and enraptured souls in vision, And the keen ecstasy of faded strife, And divination of the loss as gain, And reading mysteries with brightened eyes In fiery shock and dazzling pain before The orient splendour of the face of Death, As a great light beside a shadowy sea; And in a high will's strenuous exercise, Where the warmed spirit finds its fullest strength And is no more afraid, and in the stroke Of azure lightning when the hidden essence And shifting meaning of man's spiritual worth And mystical significance in time Are instantly distilled to one clear drop Which mirrors earth and heaven. This is life Flaming to heaven in a minute's span When the breath of battle blows the smouldering spark. And across these seas We who cry Peace and treasure life and cling 232 To cities, happiness, or daily toil For daily bread, or trail the long routine Of seventy years, taste not the terrible wine Whereof you drink, who drain and toss the cup Empty and ringing by the finished feast; Or have it shaken from your hand by sight Of God against the olive woods. As Joan of Arc amid the apple trees With sacred joy first heard the voices, then Obeying plunged at Orleans in a field Of spears and lived her dream and died in fire, Thou, France, hast heard the voices and hast lived The dream and known the meaning of the dream, And read its riddle: how the soul of man May to one greatest purpose make itself A lens of clearness, how it loves the cup Of deepest truth, and how its bitterest gall Turns sweet to soul's surrender. And you say: Take days for repitition, stretch your hands For mocked renewal of familiar things: The beaten path, the chair beside the window, The crowded street, the task, the accustomed sleep, And waking to the task, or many springs Of lifted cloud, blue water, flowering fields -The prison-house grows close no less, the feast A place of memory sick for senses dulled Down to the dusty end where pitiful Time Grown weary cries Enough! ~ Edgar Lee Masters,

285:Proletaria THE SUNNY rounds of Earth contain An obverse to its Day, Our fertile Vagrancy’s domain, Wan Proletaria. From pole to pole of Poverty We stumble through the years, With hazy-lanterned Memory And Hope that never nears. Wherever Plenty’s crop invites Our pitiful brigades, Lurk cannoneers of Vested Rights, Juristic ambuscades; And here hangs Rent, that squalid cage Within which Mammon thrusts, Bound with the fetter of a wage, The helots of his lusts. With palsied Doubt as guide, we wind Among the lanes of Need, Where meagre Hungers scouting find But slavered baits of Greed. The wet-lipped Lamias of Caste, Awaiting our advance, Our choicest squadrons’ fealty blast With magic smile and glance: Delilah-limbed temptations flit Among our drowsy rows, And on our willing captains fit The badges of our foes. What wonder sometimes if in stealth Our starker outposts wait, And, in the prowling eyes of Wealth, Dash vitriol of Hate; 33 Or if our Samsons, ere too late, Their treasons should make good By whelming in the temple’s fate Their viper owners’ brood! Our polyandrous dam has borne To Satan and to God The hordes of Night, the clans of Morn, That through our valleys plod. Ah, motherhood of misery For Christ-child as for pest! The greater her fertility The drier grows her breast! Too many linger on the track; A few outstrip the time: Some, God has tattooed yellow, black, And some disguised with crime. Art’s living archives here abound, Carraras of Despair, And those weird masks of Sight and Sound The Tragic Muses wear. Tho’ blind and dull, ’tis we supply The Painter’s dazzling dreams; The rolling flood of Poetry From our dumb chaos streams. Nay, when your world is over-tired, And Genius comatose, Our race, by Nemesis inspired, Old Order overthrows: With earthquake-life we thrill your land, Refill the cruse of Art, Revitalize spent Wisdom, and— Resume our weary part. The palace of successful Guilt 34 Is mortared with our shame; On hecatombs of Us are built The soaring towers of Fame. We are the gnomes of Titan works Whose throbbings never cease; Our unregarded signet lurks On every masterpiece. The floating isles, that shuttling tie All peoples into one By adept steermen’s sorcery Of magnet, steam, and sun; Religion’s dolmens, Sphinxes, spires, Her Biblic armouries; The helot lightning of the wires That mesh your lands and seas; The viaducts ’tween Near and Far, Whereon, o’er range and mead, Bacchantic Trade’s triumphant car And iron tigers speed; The modern steely crops that rise Where technic Jasons sow: —All these but feebly symbolize The largesse we bestow. And our reward? In this wan land, In clientage of Greed, Despised, polluted, maimed and banned, To wander and—to breed ~ Bernard O'Dowd,

286:Instead, I gave them the only salute I could think of. Two middle fingers. Held high for emphasis. The six fiery orbs winked out at once. Hopefully, they’d died from affront. Ben eyed me sideways as he maneuvered from shore. “What in the world are you doing?” “Those red-eyed jerks were on the cliff,” I spat, then immediately felt silly. “All I could think of.” Ben made an odd huffing sound I couldn’t interpret. For a shocked second, I thought he was furious with me. “Nice work, Victoria.” Ben couldn’t hold the laughter inside. “That oughta do it!” I flinched, surprised by his reaction. Ben, cracking up at a time like this? He had such a full, honest laugh—I wished I heard it more. Infectious, too. I couldn’t help joining in, though mine came out in a low Beavis and Butthead cackle. Which made Ben howl even more. In an instant, we were both in stitches at the absurdity of my one-finger salutes. At the insanity of the evening. At everything. Tears wet my eyes as Sewee bobbed over the surf, circling the southeast corner of the island. It was a release I desperately needed. Ben ran a hand through his hair, then sighed deeply. “I love it,” he snickered, steering Sewee through the breakers, keeping our speed to a crawl so the engine made less noise. “I love you, sometimes.” Abruptly, his good humor cut off like a guillotine. Ben’s body went rigid. I felt a wave of panic roll from him, as if he’d accidently triggered a nuclear bomb. I experienced a parallel stab of distress. My stomach lurched into my throat, and not because of the rolling ocean swells. Did he just . . . what did he mean when . . . Oh crap. Ben’s eyes darted to me, then shot back to open water. Even in the semidarkness, I saw a flush of red steal up his neck and into his cheeks. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. Shifted again. Debated going over the side. Did he really mean to say he . . . loved me? Like, for real? The awkward moment stretched longer than any event in human history. He said “sometimes,” which is a definite qualifier. I love Chinese food “sometimes.” Mouth opened as I searched for words that might defuse the tension. Came up with nothing. I felt trapped in a nightmare. Balanced on a beam a hundred feet off the ground. Sinking underwater in a sealed car with no idea how to get out. Ben’s lips parted, then worked soundlessly, as if he, too, sought to break the horrible awkwardness. A verbal retreat, or some way to reverse time. Is that what I want? For Ben to walk it back? A part of me was astounded by the chaos a single four-word utterance could create. Ben gulped a breath, seemed to reach a decision. As his mouth opened a second time, all the adrenaline in creation poured into my system. “I . . . I was just saying that . . .” He trailed off, then smacked the steering wheel with his palm. Ben squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head sharply as if disgusted by the effort. Ben turned. Blasted me with his full attention. “I mean it. I’m not going to act— ~ Kathy Reichs,

287:How The Sailor Rode The Brumby There was an agile sailor lad Who longed to know the bush So with his swag and billy-can He said he'd make a push. He left his ship in Moreton Bay And faced the Western run, And asked his way, ten times a day, And steered for Bandy's Run. Said Bandy: "You can start, my son, If you can ride a horse," For stockmen on the cattle-run Were wanted there, of course. Now Jack had strode the cross-bars oft On many a bounding sea, So reckoned he'd be safe enough On any moke you see. They caught him one and saddled it, And led it from the yard, It champed a bit and sidled round And at the sailor sparred. Jack towed her to him with a grin, He eyed her fore and aft; Then thrust his foot the gangway in And swung aboard the craft. The watchers tumbled off the rail, The boss lay down and roared, While Jack held tight by mane and tail And rocked about on board. But still he clung as monkeys cling To rudder, line and flap, Although at every bound and spring They thought his neck must snap. They stared to see him stick aloft - The brum. bucked fierce and free, But he had strode the cross-bars oft On many a rolling sea. 15 The saddle from the rolling back Went spinning in mid-air, Whilst two big boots were flung off Jack And four shoes off the mare. The bridle broke and left her free, He grasped her round the neck; "We're 'mong the breakers now," cried he, "There's bound to be a wreck." The brumby struck and snorted loud, She reared and pawed the air, It was the grandest sight the crowd Had ever witnessed there. For Jack with arms and legs held tight The brumby's neck hung round And yelled, "A pilot, quick as light, Or strike me I'm aground." The whites and blacks climbed on the rails, The boss stood smiling by As Jack exclaimed, "Away she sails!" - The brum. began to fly. She bounded first against the gate, And Jack cried out, "Astern!" Then struck a whirlpool - at any rate That was the sailor's yarn. The brumby spun him round and round, She reared and'kicked and struck, And with alternate bump and bound In earnest began to buck. A tree loomed on the starboard bow, And "Port your helm!" cried he; She fouled a bush and he roared "You scow!" And "Keep to the open sea!" From ears to tail he rode her hard, From tail to ears again, One mile beyond the cattle-yard And back across the plain. Now high upon the pommel bumped, Now clinging on the side, 16 And on behind the saddle lumped With arms and legs flung wide. They only laughed the louder then When the mare began to back Until she struck the fence at last Then sat and looked at Jack. He gasped, "I'm safe in port at last, I'll quit your bounding mane!" Dropped off and sang, "All danger's passed And Jack's come home again." Old Jack has been a stockman now On Bandy's Run for years Yet memories of that morning's fun To many still bring tears. ~ Anonymous Oceania,

288:home only to pine over an ex-girlfriend, so he stopped. He apologized, saying a few more things that Catherine once again just nodded her head to, smiling, and before she knew it, she had plans to go see a movie with Dickie the following Friday. It was a date, the first of many. It went like this for two months: Friday night dates. Rides home from school while other girls looked on in jealousy. Long nights parked up at The Point, the low rumble of his car idling away while they made out with the heat blowing on her legs. Him sliding his hands up her skirt. Under her shirt. Her moaning. Her face flushing red. Her toes curling. The Rolling Stones on the radio. Why did he taste so good? Never sex, though. Even when he begged for it, she would refuse. She knew what their relationship really was. It was great and fun and wild and exciting, but she knew it wouldn’t last; he was off to college soon, and she remembered how he felt about being tethered to something familiar. That conversation never left her mind for the duration of their relationship, always reminding her to be ready to lose him. At the time, she was still a virgin, and as much as she loved Dickie she did not wish to give herself fully to someone who would more than likely forget about her within months, if not weeks, of leaving. Catherine was young, but never stupid or naive. She knew how the world worked… even Dickie’s world. What she felt and experienced with him may have been real by her definition, but she understood that that did not make the relationship everlasting or meant-to-be. Their time together had been great and fun and had changed her in ways she would never be able to put into words. She would forever cherish their moments together. Or at least, that’s what she’d thought at the time, before these cherished memories soured. Everything changed the night of the dance. The night he changed. The night she changed, too. It was Dickie’s senior prom. He invited her to go and she happily accepted. She even bought a new dress with the money she’d saved working shifts down at Woolworth’s. The dance was fine and good. They had a blast. They’d even kissed in the middle of the gymnasium during the last slow dance. It had been so romantic. But afterward was a different sort of time. Dickie and some of his friends rented a few rooms at the Heartsridge Motel for a place to hang out after the dance. But it was more than just a place to hang out. It was a place to party, a place to drink alcohol purchased illegally, a place for some of the looser girls to sleep with their dates. She had been to parties with Dickie before, parties with drinking and drugs and where there were rooms dedicated to fooling around. She wasn’t a square. But this was different. This place made her skin crawl. There was a raw energy in the air. She remembered feeling it on her skin. And the fact that it was a motel made the whole scene seem depraved. It just felt off, and she wanted to beg him to go somewhere else. But instead she held her tongue and went along with Dickie. He was leaving soon, after all. Why not appease him? He seemed excited about going. A few of them—all friends of Dickie’s—ended up together in one room, drinking Schnapps, smoking cigarettes, having ~ Christian Galacar,

289:Part 2: After that, he’d turned to fighting, and not the good kind either. Finn, physically older by seven years, mentally older by about a hundred, had single-handedly saved Sean from just about every situation he’d ever landed himself in. Thanks to Finn, there’d been a lot fewer situations than there should’ve been and it hadn’t been for lack of trying. Fact was, everyone knew Sean had taken the slowest possible route on his way to growing up, complete with plenty of detours, but he’d hit his stride now. Or at least he hoped so because Finn was counting on him in a big way over the next week and Sean had let him down enough for a lifetime. He wouldn’t let him down now. Sean pulled into the B&B’s parking lot and turned to face the crowd he’d driven from San Francisco to Napa. And he did mean crowd. They’d had to rent a fourteen-seat passenger van to fit everyone, and he was the weekend’s designated driver. Oh, how times had changed. “Ready?” he asked. Finn nodded. Pru was bouncing up and down in her seat with excitement. Willa, her BFF, was doing the same. Keane, Willa’s boyfriend, opened the door for everyone to tumble out. It was two weeks before Christmas and the rolling hills of Napa Valley were lined with grape vines for as far as the eye could see, not that they could actually see them right now. It was late, pitch dark, and rain had been pouring down steadily all day, which didn’t detract from the beauty of the Victorian B&B in front of them. It did, however, detract from Sean’s eagerness to go out in the rain to get to it though. Not Pru and Willa. The two raced through the downpour laughing and holding hands with Elle, Colbie, Kylie, and Tina—the rest of Pru’s posse—moving more cautiously in deference to the preservation of their heels. Sean, Finn, and Finn’s posse—Archer, Keane, Spence, and Joe—followed. They all tumbled in the front door of the B&B and stopped short in awe of the place decorated with what had to be miles of garland and lights, along with a huge Christmas tree done up in all the bells and whistles. This place could’ve passed for Santa’s own house. Collectively the group “oohed” and “ahhhed” before turning expectedly to Sean. This was because he was actually in charge of the weekend’s activities that would lead up to the final countdown to the wedding happening next week at a winery about twenty minutes up the road. This was what a best man did apparently, take care of stuff. All the stuff. And that Finn had asked Sean to be his best man in the first place over any of the close friends with them this weekend had the pride overcoming his anxiety of screwing it all up. But the anxiety was making a real strong bid right at the moment. He shook off some of the raindrops and started to head over to the greeting desk and twelve people began to follow. He stopped and was nearly plowed over by the parade. “Wait here,” he instructed, pausing until his very excited group nodded in unison. Jesus. He shouldn’t have poured them that champagne to pre-game before they’d left O’Riley’s, the pub he and Finn owned and operated in San Francisco. And that he was the voice of reason right now was truly the irony of the century. “Stay,” he said firmly and then made his way past the towering Christmas tree lit to within an inch of its life, past the raging fire in the fireplace with candles lining the mantel . . . to the small, quaint check-in desk that had a plate with some amazing looking cookies and a sign that said: yes, these are for you—welcome! “Yum,” Pru said and took one for each hand. ~ Jill Shalvis,

290:Saltbush Bill, J.P. Beyond the land where Leichhardt went, Beyond Sturt's Western track, The rolling tide of change has sent Some strange J.P.'s out back. And Saltbush Bill, grown old and grey, And worn for want of sleep, Received the news in camp one day Behind the travelling sheep That Edward Rex, confiding in His known integrity, By hand and seal on parchment skin Had made hiim a J.P. He read the news with eager face But found no word of pay. "I'd like to see my sister's place And kids on Christmas Day. "I'd like to see green grass again, And watch clear water run, Away from this unholy plain, And flies, and dust, and sun." At last one little clause he found That might some hope inspire, "A magistrate may charge a pound For inquest on a fire." A big blacks' camp was built close by, And Saltbush Bill, says he, "I think that camp might well supply A job for a J.P." That night, by strange coincidence, A most disastrous fire Destroyed the country residence Of Jacky Jack, Esquire. 245 'Twas mostly leaves, and bark, and dirt; The party most concerned Appeared to think it wouldn't hurt If forty such were burned. Quite otherwise thought Saltbush Bill, Who watched the leaping flame. "The home is small," said he, "but still The principle's the same. "Midst palaces though you should roam, Or follow pleasure's tracks, You'll find," he said, "no place like home -At least like Jacky Jack's. "Tell every man in camp, 'Come quick,' Tell every black Maria I give tobacco, half a stick -Hold inquest long-a fire." Each juryman received a name Well suited to a Court. "Long Jack" and "Stumpy Bill" became "John Long" and "William Short". While such as "Tarpot", "Bullock Dray", And "Tommy Wait-a-While", Became, for ever and a day, "Scot", "Dickens", and "Carlyle". And twelve good sable men and true Were soon engaged upon The conflagration that o'erthrew The home of John A. John. Their verdict, "Burnt by act of Fate", They scarcely had returned When, just behind the magistrate, Another humpy burned! The jury sat again and drew Another stick of plug. 246 Said Saltbush Bill, "It's up to you Put some one long-a Jug." "I'll camp the sheep," he said, "and sift The evidence about." For quite a week he couldn't shift, The way the fires broke out. The jury thought the whole concern As good as any play. They used to "take him oath" and earn Three sticks of plug a day. At last the tribe lay down to sleep Homeless, beneath a tree; And onward with his travelling sheep Went Saltbush bill, J.P. His sheep delivered, safe and sound, His horse to town he turned, And drew some five-and-twenty pound For fees that he had earned. And where Monaro's ranges hide Their little farms away -His sister's children by his side -He spent his Christmas Day. The next J.P. that went out back Was shocked, or pained, or both, At hearing every pagan black Repeat the juror's oath. No matter how he turned and fled They followed faster still; "You make it inkwich, boss," they said, "All same like Saltbush Bill." They even said they'd let him see The fires originate. When he refused they said that he Was "No good magistrate". 247 And out beyond Sturt's western track, And Leichhardt's farthest tree, They wait till fate shall send them back Their Saltbush Bill, J.P. ~ Banjo Paterson,

291:So what brought you here?” Emilio asks. I don’t set the icing bag down, because it’s nice to have something to do with my hands, although they’re suddenly shaking. “I wanted to talk to you about Peck.” “What about her?” “I wanted to see if you’d have any objections to me asking her to marry me.” I hear a whoop from the other room. Emilio rolls his eyes. “Why do you want to marry her?” Why do I want to marry her? She’s just Peck. And I feel like she was made for me. “Um…” “The answer is no, if that’s the best you can do.” He points to the cupcakes. “Ice them,” he says. I ice quietly for a few minutes, trying to gather my thoughts. “Didn’t expect you to give up quite so easily,” he suddenly says. I look up. “Oh, I’m not giving up. I’m just thinking.” “You about done with that?” I shake my head. “Not yet.” “Keep icing.” Suddenly, Marta strolls into the room. There’s purpose in her stride and I back up against the wall, because I’m afraid I’m her target. But I quickly see I’m not. She goes for Emilio, but he must be used to this. He runs around the corner of the center island and she chases him. She picks up a rolling pin and runs, but he runs a little bit faster. Suddenly, she stops and blows a stray lock of hair from her eyes. “Stop tormenting the poor boy,” she says. She shakes the rolling pin at him. “Oh, Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “I was having fun with it!” He grins. Then he sobers completely. “Did Peck tell you about the day we met?” “Yes, sir,” I tell him. “What she didn’t tell you was my side of it.” He rubs at the back of his hand. “I had been hanging out in the boys’ ward at the home, and one of the little assholes bit me on the back of the hand, so I was in a bad mood. I wanted nothing more than to get out of there. I walked around the corner, trying to find Marta, and I saw her sitting beside a little girl. I took one look at that kid and I said to myself, She’s my daughter.” He takes a deep breath. “I know it sounds stupid, and I suppose it should. But she was sitting there on the edge of the bed and she wouldn’t speak. But when she looked at me, she said a million words with her eyes.” Marta wipes a tear from her cheek. “I have loved that little girl from the minute I met her. I never doubted that she belonged to us, and neither did she.” He waits a beat. “The first time she spoke to me was when she had a set of drumsticks in her hand.” He looks at me. “Do you know what she said?” I shake my head, and swallow past the lump in my throat. “She took my hand and said, ‘I’m glad you’re my dad.’ It was one big stutter, and I loved every syllable. She makes me so fucking proud.” He points a finger at me. “She’s fucking perfect, so if you so much as make her cry, I will find you and jam her drumsticks so far up your ass that you’ll taste them ten years from now. Do you understand?” “Yes, sir.” I swallow again. “So, yes, you can marry my daughter. And you better make her happy every day for the rest of her life, because I will be watching. Understand?” “Yes, sir.” He points to the cupcakes. “Keep icing.” “Yes, sir.” I grin. Marta lays a hand on my shoulder. “Did you get a ring yet?” “No, ma’am. I wanted to get permission first.” She looks at Emilio and quirks a brow. He nods. She disappears into a bedroom and comes back a minute later with a box. “It was my mother’s,” Emilio says. “Peck used to try it on all the time when she was small, and she loves it. So you can use it if you want to.” He’s grumbling, but I can tell he’s serious. I pop open the box and stare down at a beautiful antique ring. “It’s lovely. Are you sure it’s okay if I use it?” He nods. He points to the cupcakes. “Keep icing.” “Yes, sir.” I smile. ~ Tammy Falkner,

292:Saltbush Bill, J.P. Beyond the land where Leichhardt went, Beyond Sturt's Western track, The rolling tide of change has sent Some strange J.P.'s out back. And Saltbush Bill, grown old and grey, And worn for want of sleep, Received the news in camp one day Behind the travelling sheep That Edward Rex, confiding in His known integrity, By hand and seal on parchment skin Had made hiim a J.P. He read the news with eager face But found no word of pay. 'I'd like to see my sister's place And kids on Christmas Day. 'I'd like to see green grass again, And watch clear water run, Away from this unholy plain, And flies, and dust, and sun.' At last one little clause he found That might some hope inspire, 'A magistrate may charge a pound For inquest on a fire.' A big blacks' camp was built close by, And Saltbush Bill, says he, 'I think that camp might well supply A job for a J.P.' That night, by strange coincidence, A most disastrous fire Destroyed the country residence Of Jacky Jack, Esquire. 249 'Twas mostly leaves, and bark, and dirt; The party most concerned Appeared to think it wouldn't hurt If forty such were burned. Quite otherwise thought Saltbush Bill, Who watched the leaping flame. 'The home is small,' said he, 'but still The principle's the same. 'Midst palaces though you should roam, Or follow pleasure's tracks, You'll find,' he said, 'no place like home, At least like Jacky Jack's. 'Tell every man in camp, 'Come quick,' Tell every black Maria I give tobacco, half a stick, Hold inquest long-a fire.' Each juryman received a name Well suited to a Court. 'Long Jack' and 'Stumpy Bill' became 'John Long' and 'William Short'. While such as 'Tarpot', 'Bullock Dray', And 'Tommy Wait-a-While', Became, for ever and a day, 'Scot', 'Dickens', and 'Carlyle'. And twelve good sable men and true Were soon engaged upon The conflagration that o'erthrew The home of John A. John. Their verdict, 'Burnt by act of Fate', They scarcely had returned When, just behind the magistrate, Another humpy burned! The jury sat again and drew 250 Another stick of plug. Said Saltbush Bill, 'It's up to you Put some one long-a Jug.' 'I'll camp the sheep,' he said, 'and sift The evidence about.' For quite a week he couldn't shift, The way the fires broke out. The jury thought the whole concern As good as any play. They used to 'take him oath' and earn Three sticks of plug a day. At last the tribe lay down to sleep Homeless, beneath a tree; And onward with his travelling sheep Went Saltbush bill, J.P. His sheep delivered, safe and sound, His horse to town he turned, And drew some five-and-twenty pound For fees that he had earned. And where Monaro's ranges hide Their little farms away, His sister's children by his side, He spent his Christmas Day. The next J.P. that went out back Was shocked, or pained, or both, At hearing every pagan black Repeat the juror's oath. No matter how he turned and fled They followed faster still; 'You make it inkwich, boss,' they said, 'All same like Saltbush Bill.' They even said they'd let him see The fires originate. When he refused they said that he 251 Was 'No good magistrate'. And out beyond Sturt's western track, And Leichhardt's farthest tree, They wait till fate shall send them back Their Saltbush Bill, J.P. ~ Banjo Paterson,

293:The Bells Hear the sledges with the bellsSilver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bellsFrom the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. II Hear the mellow wedding bells, Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight! From the molten-golden notes, And an in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon! Oh, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! How it swells! How it dwells On the Future! how it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells, Of the bells, bells, bells,bells, Bells, bells, bells- 74 To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! III Hear the loud alarum bellsBrazen bells! What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright! Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, Out of tune, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire, Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavor, Now- now to sit or never, By the side of the pale-faced moon. Oh, the bells, bells, bells! What a tale their terror tells Of Despair! How they clang, and clash, and roar! What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air! Yet the ear it fully knows, By the twanging, And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows: Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling, And the wrangling, How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bellsOf the bellsOf the bells, bells, bells,bells, Bells, bells, bellsIn the clamor and the clangor of the bells! IV Hear the tolling of the bells- 75 Iron Bells! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan. And the people- ah, the peopleThey that dwell up in the steeple, All Alone And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stoneThey are neither man nor womanThey are neither brute nor humanThey are Ghouls: And their king it is who tolls; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, Rolls A paean from the bells! And his merry bosom swells With the paean of the bells! And he dances, and he yells; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the paean of the bellsOf the bells: Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the throbbing of the bellsOf the bells, bells, bellsTo the sobbing of the bells; Keeping time, time, time, As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme, To the rolling of the bellsOf the bells, bells, bells: To the tolling of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bellsBells, bells, bells- 76 To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,

294:The Courtship Of The Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo On the Coast of Coromandel Where the early pumpkins blow, In the middle of the woods Lived the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. Two old chairs, and half a candle,-One old jug without a handle,-These were all his worldly goods: In the middle of the woods, These were all the worldly goods, Of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò, Of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. II Once, among the Bong-trees walking Where the early pumpkins blow, To a little heap of stones Came the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. There he heard a Lady talking, To some milk-white Hens of Dorking,-''Tis the lady Jingly Jones! 'On that little heap of stones 'Sits the Lady Jingly Jones!' Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò, Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. III 'Lady Jingly! Lady Jingly! 'Sitting where the pumpkins blow, 'Will you come and be my wife?' Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. 'I am tired of living singly,-'On this coast so wild and shingly,-'I'm a-weary of my life: 'If you'll come and be my wife, 'Quite serene would be my life!'-- 159 Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò, Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. IV 'On this Coast of Coromandel, 'Shrimps and watercresses grow, 'Prawns are plentiful and cheap,' Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. 'You shall have my chairs and candle, 'And my jug without a handle!-'Gaze upon the rolling deep ('Fish is plentiful and cheap) 'As the sea, my love is deep!' Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò, Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. Lady Jingly answered sadly, And her tears began to flow,-'Your proposal comes too late, 'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò! 'I would be your wife most gladly!' (Here she twirled her fingers madly,) 'But in England I've a mate! 'Yes! you've asked me far too late, 'For in England I've a mate, 'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò! 'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò!' VI 'Mr. Jones -- (his name is Handel,-'Handel Jones, Esquire, & Co.) 'Dorking fowls delights to send, 'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò! 'Keep, oh! keep your chairs and candle, 'And your jug without a handle,-'I can merely be your friend! '-- Should my Jones more Dorkings send, 'I will give you three, my friend! 160 'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò! 'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò!' VII 'Though you've such a tiny body, 'And your head so large doth grow,-'Though your hat may blow away, 'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò! 'Though you're such a Hoddy Doddy-'Yet a wish that I could modi'fy the words I needs must say! 'Will you please to go away? 'That is all I have to say-'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò! 'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò!'. VIII Down the slippery slopes of Myrtle, Where the early pumpkins blow, To the calm and silent sea Fled the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. There, beyond the Bay of Gurtle, Lay a large and lively Turtle,-'You're the Cove,' he said, 'for me 'On your back beyond the sea, 'Turtle, you shall carry me!' Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò, Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. IX Through the silent-roaring ocean Did the Turtle swiftly go; Holding fast upon his shell Rode the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. With a sad primæval motion Towards the sunset isles of Boshen Still the Turtle bore him well. Holding fast upon his shell, 'Lady Jingly Jones, farewell!' 161 Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò, Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. From the Coast of Coromandel, Did that Lady never go; On that heap of stones she mourns For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. On that Coast of Coromandel, In his jug without a handle Still she weeps, and daily moans; On that little hep of stones To her Dorking Hens she moans, For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò, For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. ~ Edward Lear,

295:I Hear the sledges with the bells - Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells - From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. II Hear the mellow wedding bells - Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight! - From the molten - golden notes, And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle - dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon! Oh, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! How it swells! How it dwells On the Future! - how it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells - Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells - To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! III Hear the loud alarum bells - Brazen bells! What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright! Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, Out of tune, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire, Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavor Now - now to sit, or never, By the side of the pale - faced moon. Oh, the bells, bells, bells! What a tale their terror tells Of Despair! How they clang, and clash and roar! What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air! Yet the ear, it fully knows, By the twanging, And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows; Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling, And the wrangling, How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells - Of the bells - Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells - In the clamor and the clanging of the bells! IV Hear the tolling of the bells - Iron bells! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan. And the people - ah, the people - They that dwell up in the steeple, All alone, And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone - They are neither man nor woman - They are neither brute nor human - They are Ghouls: - And their king it is who tolls: - And he rolls, rolls, rolls, Rolls A paean from the bells! And his merry bosom swells With the paean of the bells! And he dances, and he yells; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the paean of the bells: - Of the bells: Keeping time, time, time In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the throbbing of the bells - Of the bells, bells, bells: - To the sobbing of the bells: - Keeping time, time, time, As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme, To the rolling of the bells - Of the bells, bells, bells - To the tolling of the bells - Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells, - To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,

296:Spring - The First Pastoral ; Or Damon First in these fields I try the sylvan strains, Nor blush to sport on Windsor's blissful plains: Fair Thames, flow gently from thy sacred spring, While on thy banks Sicilian Muses sing; Let vernal airs tho' trembling osiers play, And Albion's cliffs resound the rural lay. You, that too wise for pride, too good for pow'r, Enjoy the glory to be great no more, And carrying with you all the world can boast, To all the world illustriously are lost! O let my Muse her slender reed inspire, Till in your native shades you tune the lyre: So when the Nightingale to rest removes, The Thrush may chant to the forsaken groves, But, charm'd to silence, listens while she sings, And all th' aerial audience clap their wings. Soon as the flocks shook off the nightly dews, Two Swains, whom Love kept wakeful, and the Muse Pour'd o'er the whitening vale their fleecy care, Fresh as the morn, and as the season fair: The dawn now blushing on the mountain's side, Thus Daphnis spoke, and Strephon thus reply'd. Daphnis. Hear how the birds, on ev'ry bloomy spray, With joyous musick wake the dawning day! Why sit we mute when early linnets sing, When warbling Philomel salutes the spring? Why sit we sad when Phosphor shines so clear, And lavish nature paints the purple Year? Strephon. Sing, then, and Damon shall attend the strain, While yon' slow oxen turn the furrow'd Plain. Here the bright crocus and blue vi'let glow; Here western winds on breathing roses blow. I'll stake yon' lamb, that near the fountain plays, And from the brink his dancing shade surveys. 158 Daphnis. And I this bowl, where wanton Ivy twines, And swelling clusters bend the curling vines: Four figures rising from the work appear, The various seasons of the rolling year; And what is that, which binds the radiant sky, Where twelve fair Signs in beauteous order lie? Damon. Then sing by turns, by turns the Muses sing, Now hawthorns blossom, now the daisies spring, Now leaves the trees, and flow'rs adorn the ground, Begin, the vales shall ev'ry note rebound. Inspire me, Phoebus, in my Delia's praise With Waller's strains, or Granville's moving lays! A milk-white bull shall at your altars stand, That threats a fight, and spurns the rising sand. Daphnis. O Love! for Sylvia let me gain the prize, And make my tongue victorious as her eyes; No lambs or sheep for victims I'll impart, Thy victim, Love, shall be the shepherd's heart. Strephon. Me gentle Delia beckons from the plain, Then hid in shades, eludes her eager swain; But feigns a laugh, to see me search around, And by that laugh the willing fair is found. Daphnis. The sprightly Sylvia trips along the green, She runs, but hopes she does not run unseen; While a kind glance at her pursuer flies, How much at variance are her feet and eyes! Strephon. O'er golden sands let rich Pactolus flow, And trees weep amber on the banks of Po; Blest Thames's shores the brightest beauties yield, Feed here my lambs, I'll seek no distant field. 159 Daphnis. Celestial Venus haunts Idalia's groves; Diana Cynthus, Ceres Hybla loves; If Windsor-shades delight the matchless maid, Cynthus and Hybla yield to Windsor-shade. Strephon. All nature mourns, the Skies relent in show'rs, Hush'd are the birds, and clos'd the drooping flow'rs; If Delia smile, the flow'rs begin to spring, The skies to brighten, and the birds to sing. Daphnis. All nature laughs, the groves are fresh and fair, The Sun's mild lustre warms the vital air; If Sylvia smiles, new glories gild the shore, And vanquish'd nature seems to charm no more. Strephon. In spring the fields, in autumn hills I love, At morn the plains, at noon the shady grove, But Delia always; absent from her sight, Nor plains at morn, nor groves at noon delight. Daphnis. Sylvia's like autumn ripe, yet mild as May, More bright than noon, yet fresh as early day; Ev'n spring displeases, when she shines not here; But blest with her, 'tis spring throughout the year. Strephon. Say, Daphnis, say, in what glad soil appears, A wond'rous Tree that sacred Monarchs bears: Tell me but this, and I'll disclaim the prize, And give the conquest to thy Sylvia's eyes. Daphnis. Nay tell me first, in what more happy fields The Thistle springs, to which the Lily yields: And then a nobler prize I will resign; For Sylvia, charming Sylvia, shall be thine. 160 Damon. Cease to contend, for, Daphnis, I decree, The bowl to Strephon, and the lamb to thee: Blest Swains, whose Nymphs in ev'ry grace excel; Blest Nymphs, whose Swains those graces sing so well! Now rise, and haste to yonder woodbine bow'rs, A soft retreat from sudden vernal show'rs, The turf with rural dainties shall be crown'd, While op'ning blooms diffuse their sweets around. For see! the gath'ring flocks to shelter tend, And from the Pleiads fruitful show'rs descend. ~ Alexander Pope,

297:La Vie Antérieure (My Earlier Life) J'ai longtemps habité sous de vastes portiques Que les soleils marins teignaient de mille feux, Et que leurs grands piliers, droits et majestueux, Rendaient pareils, le soir, aux grottes basaltiques. Les houles, en roulant les images des cieux, Mêlaient d'une façon solennelle et mystique Les tout-puissants accords de leur riche musique Aux couleurs du couchant reflété par mes yeux. C'est là que j'ai vécu dans les voluptés calmes, Au milieu de l'azur, des vagues, des splendeurs Et des esclaves nus, tout imprégnés d'odeurs, Qui me rafraîchissaient le front avec des palmes, Et dont l'unique soin était d'approfondir Le secret douloureux qui me faisait languir. My Former Life For a long time I dwelt under vast porticos Which the ocean suns lit with a thousand colors, The pillars of which, tall, straight, and majestic, Made them, in the evening, like basaltic grottos. The billows which cradled the image of the sky Mingled, in a solemn, mystical way, The omnipotent chords of their rich harmonies With the sunsets' colors reflected in my eyes; It was there that I lived in voluptuous calm, In splendor, between the azure and the sea, And I was attended by slaves, naked, perfumed, Who fanned my brow with fronds of palms And whose sole task it was to fathom The dolorous secret that made me pine away. 253 — Translated by William Aggeler Former Life I've lived beneath huge portals where marine Suns coloured, with a myriad fires, the waves; At eve majestic pillars made the scene Resemble those of vast basaltic caves. The breakers, rolling the reflected skies, Mixed, in a solemn, enigmatic way, The powerful symphonies they seem to play With colours of the sunset in my eyes. There did I live in a voluptuous calm Where breezes, waves, and splendours roved as vagrants; And naked slaves, impregnated with fragrance, Would fan my forehead with their fronds of palm: Their only charge was to increase the anguish Of secret grief in which I loved to languish. — Translated by Roy Campbell My Former Life I can remember a country of long, high colonnades Which mirrored in their pale marble the prismatic light Cast from the bright sea billows in a thousand shades, And which resembled a cave of fluted basalt by night. The ocean, strewn with sliding images of the sky, Would mingle in a mysterious and solemn way, Under the wild brief sunsets, its tremendous cry With the reflected colors of the ruined day. There did I dwell in quiet luxury apart, Amid the slowly changing hues of clouds and waves; And there I was attended by two naked slaves Who sometimes fanned me with great fronds on either side, 254 And whose sole task was to let sink into my heart The dolorous and beautiful secret of which I died. — Translated by George Dillon La Vie antérieure aeons I dwelt beneath vast porticoes stained by the sun and sea with fiery dye, whose lordly pillars, stark against the sky, like caverned cliffs in evening's gold arose. the rolling surges and their mirror skies blent in a grave mysterious organ-air the chords all-powerful of their music rare with sunset's colours in my glowing eyes. 'twas there I lived before, 'mid azure waves, blue skies and splendours, in voluptuous calm, while, steeped in every fragrance, naked slaves made cool my brow with waving fronds of palm: — their only care to drive the secret dart of my dull sorrow, deeper in my heart. — Translated by Lewis Piaget Shanks My Earlier Life I've been home a long time among the vast porticos, Which the mariner sun has tinged with a million fires, Whose grandest pillars, upright, majestic and cold Render them the same, this evening, as caves with basalt spires. The swells' overwhelming accords of rich music, Heaving images of heaven to the skies, Mingle in a way solemn and mystic With the colors of the horizon reflected by my eyes. It was here I was true to the voluptuous calm, 255 The milieu of azure, the waves, the splendors, And the nude slaves, all impregnated with odors, Who refreshed my brow with waving palms My only care to bring to meaning from anguish The sad secret in which I languish. Translated by William A. Sigler Previous Existence For a long time I lived under vast colonnades, Stained with a thousand fires by ocean suns, Whose vast pillars, straight and majestic, Made them seem in the evening like grottos of basalt. The sea-swells, in swaying the pictures of the skies, Mingled solemnly and mystically The all-powerful harmonies of their rich music With the colors of the setting sun reflected by my eyes. It is there that I have lived in calm voluptuousness, In the center of the blue, amidst the waves and splendors And the nude slaves, heavy with perfumes, Who refreshed my forehead with palm-leaves, Their only care was to fathom The dolorous secret that made me languish. — Translated by Geoffrey Wagner ~ Charles Baudelaire,

298:Boadicea While about the shore of Mona those Neronian legionaries Burnt and broke the grove and altar of the Druid and Druidess, Far in the East Boadicea, standing loftily charioted, Mad and maddening all that heard her in her fierce volubility, Girt by half the tribes of Britain, near the colony Camulodune, Yell'd and shriek'd between her daughters o'er a wild confederacy. `They that scorn the tribes and call us Britain's barbarous populaces, Did they hear me, would they listen, did they pity me supplicating? Shall I heed them in their anguish? shall I brook to be supplicated? Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant! Must their ever-ravening eagle's beak and talon annihilate us? Tear the noble hear of Britain, leave it gorily quivering? Bark an answer, Britain's raven! bark and blacken innumerable, Blacken round the Roman carrion, make the carcase a skeleton, Kite and kestrel, wolf and wolfkin, from the wilderness, wallow in it, Till the face of Bel be brighten'd, Taranis be propitiated. Lo their colony half-defended! lo their colony, Camulodune! There the horde of Roman robbers mock at a barbarous adversary. There the hive of Roman liars worship a gluttonous emperor-idiot. Such is Rome, and this her deity: hear it, Spirit of Cassivelaun! `Hear it, Gods! the Gods have heard it, O Icenian, O Coritanian! Doubt not ye the Gods have answer'd, Catieuchlanian, Trinobant. These have told us all their anger in miraculous utterances, Thunder, a flying fire in heaven, a murmur heard aerially, Phantom sound of blows descending, moan of an enemy massacred, Phantom wail of women and children, multitudinous agonies. Bloodily flow'd the Tamesa rolling phantom bodies of horses and men; Then a phantom colony smoulder'd on the refluent estuary; Lastly yonder yester-even, suddenly giddily tottering-There was one who watch'd and told me--down their statue of Victory fell. Lo their precious Roman bantling, lo the colony Camulodune, Shall we teach it a Roman lesson? shall we care to be pitiful? Shall we deal with it as an infant? shall we dandle it amorously? `Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant! While I roved about the forest, long and bitterly meditating, There I heard them in the darkness, at the mystical ceremony, 50 Loosely robed in flying raiment, sang the terrible prophetesses. "Fear not, isle of blowing woodland, isle of silvery parapets! Tho' the Roman eagle shadow thee, tho' the gathering enemy narrow thee, Thou shalt wax and he shall dwindle, thou shalt be the mighty one yet! Thine the liberty, thine the glory, thine the deeds to be celebrated, Thine the myriad-rolling ocean, light and shadow illimitable, Thine the lands of lasting summer, many-blossoming Paradises, Thine the North and thine the South and thine the battle-thunder of God." So they chanted: how shall Britain light upon auguries happier? So they chanted in the darkness, and there cometh a victory now. Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant! Me the wife of rich Prasutagus, me the lover of liberty, Me they seized and me they tortured, me they lash'd and humiliated, Me the sport of ribald Veterans, mine of ruffian violators! See they sit, they hide their faces, miserable in ignominy! Wherefore in me burns an anger, not by blood to be satiated. Lo the palaces and the temple, lo the colony Camulodune! There they ruled, and thence they wasted all the flourishing territory, Thither at their will they haled the yellow-ringleted Britoness-Bloodily, bloodily fall the battle-axe, unexhausted, inexorable. Shout Icenian, Catieuchlanian, shout Coritanian, Trinobant, Till the victim hear within and yearn to hurry precipitously Like the leaf in a roaring whirlwind, like the smoke in a hurricane whirl'd. Lo the colony, there they rioted in the city of Cunobeline! There they drank in cups of emerald, there at tables of ebony lay, Rolling on their purple couches in their tender effeminacy. There they dwelt and there they rioted; there--there--they dwell no more. Burst the gates, and burn the palaces, break the works of the statuary, Take the hoary Roman head and shatter it, hold it abominable, Cut the Roman boy to pieces in his lust and voluptuousness, Lash the maiden into swooning, me they lash'd and humiliated, Chop the breasts from off the mother, dash the brains of the little one out, Up my Britons, on my chariot, on my chargers, trample them under us.' So the Queen Boadicea, standing loftily charioted, Brandishing in her hand a dart and rolling glances lioness-like, Yell'd and shriek'd between her daughters in her fierce volubility. Till her people all around the royal chariot agitated, Madly dash'd the darts together, writhing barbarous lineaments, Made the noise of frosty woodlands, when they shiver in January, Roar'd as when the rolling breakers boom and blanch on the precipices, 51 Yell'd as when the winds of winter tear an oak on a promontory. So the silent colony hearing her tumultuous adversaries Clash the darts and on the buckler beat with rapid unanimous hand, Thought on all her evil tyrannies, all her pitiless avarice, Till she felt the heart within her fall and flutter tremulously, Then her pulses at the clamoring of her enemy fainted away. Out of evil evil flourishes, out of tyranny tyranny buds. Ran the land with Roman slaughter, multitudinous agonies. Perish'd many a maid and matron, many a valorous legionary. Fell the colony, city, and citadel, London, Verulam, Camulodune. ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

299:The Man From Snowy River There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around That the colt from old Regret had got away, And had joined the wild bush horses - he was worth a thousand pound, So all the cracks had gathered to the fray. All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far Had mustered at the homestead overnight, For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are, And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight. There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup, The old man with his hair as white as snow; But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly upHe would go wherever horse and man could go. And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand, No better horseman ever held the reins; For never horse could throw him while the saddle girths would stand, He learnt to ride while droving on the plains. And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast, He was something like a racehorse undersized, With a touch of Timor pony - three parts thoroughbred at least And such as are by mountain horsemen prized. He was hard and tough and wiry - just the sort that won't say die There was courage in his quick impatient tread; And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye, And the proud and lofty carriage of his head. But so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay, And the old man said, "That horse will never do For a long and tiring gallop-lad, you'd better stop away, Those hills are far too rough for such as you." So he waited sad and wistful - only Clancy stood his friend "I think we ought to let him come," he said; "I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end, For both his horse and he are mountain bred." "He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side, Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough, Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride, 387 The man that holds his own is good enough. And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home, Where the river runs those giant hills between; I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam, But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen." So he went - they found the horses by the big mimosa clump They raced away towards the mountain's brow, And the old man gave his orders, "Boys, go at them from the jump, No use to try for fancy riding now. And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right. Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills, For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight, If once they gain the shelter of those hills." So Clancy rode to wheel them - he was racing on the wing Where the best and boldest riders take their place, And he raced his stockhorse past them, and he made the ranges ring With stockwhip, as he met them face to face. Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash, But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view, And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash, And off into the mountain scrub they flew. Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black Resounded to the thunder of their tread, And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead. And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their sway, Were mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide; And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the mob good day, No man can hold them down the other side." When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull, It well might make the boldest hold their breath, The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full Of wombat holes, and any slip was death. But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head, And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer, And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed, While the others stood and watched in very fear. 388 He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet, He cleared the fallen timbers in his stride, And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride. Through the stringybarks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground, Down the hillside at a racing pace he went; And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound, At the bottom of that terrible descent. He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill And the watchers on the mountain standing mute, Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still, As he raced across the clearing in pursuit. Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet, With the man from Snowy River at their heels. And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam. He followed like a bloodhound in their track, Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home, And alone and unassisted brought them back. But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot, He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur; But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot, For never yet was mountain horse a cur. And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise Their torn and rugged battlements on high, Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze At midnight in the cold and frosty sky, And where around The Overflow the reed beds sweep and sway To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide, The man from Snowy River is a household word today, And the stockmen tell the story of his ride. ~ Banjo Paterson,

300:'The Old Leaven' Mark: So, Maurice, you sail to-morrow, you say? And you may or may not return? Be sociable, man! for once in a way, Unless you're too old to learn. The shadows are cool by the water side Where the willows grow by the pond, And the yellow laburnum's drooping pride Sheds a golden gleam beyond. For the blended tints of the summer flowers, For the scents of the summer air, For all nature's charms in this world of ours, 'Tis little or naught you care. Yet I know for certain you haven't stirred Since noon from your chosen spot; And you've hardly spoken a single wordAre you tired, or cross, or what? You're fretting about those shares you bought, They were to have gone up fast; But I heard how they fell to nothing-in short, They were given away at last. Maurice: No, Mark, I'm not so easily cross'd; 'Tis true that I've had a run Of bad luck lately; indeed, I've lost; Well! somebody else has won. Mark: The glass has fallen, perhaps you fear A return of your ancient stitchThat souvenir of the Lady's Mere, Park palings and double ditch. Maurice: You're wrong. I'm not in the least afraid Of that. If the truth be told, When the stiffness visits my shoulder-blade, I think on the days of old; 261 It recalls the rush of the freshening wind, The strain of the chestnut springing, And the rolling thunder of hoofs behind, Like the Rataplan chorus ringing. Mark: Are you bound to borrow, or loth to lend? Have you purchased another screw? Or backed a bill for another friend? Or had a bad night at loo? Maurice: Not one of those, you're all in the dark, If you choose you can guess again; But you'd better give over guessing, Mark, It's only labour in vain. Mark: I'll try once more; does it plague you still, That trifle of lead you carry? A guest that lingers against your will, Unwelcome, yet bound to tarry. Maurice: Not so! That burden I'm used to bear, 'Tis seldom it gives me trouble; And to earn it as I did then and there, I'd carry a dead weight double. A shock like that for a splintered rib Can a thousand-fold repayAs the swallow skims through the spider's web, We rode through their ranks that day! Mark: Come, Maurice, you sha'n't escape me so! I'll hazard another guess: That girl that jilted you long ago, You're thinking of her, confess! Maurice: Tho' the blue lake flush'd with a rosy light, Reflected from yonder sky, 262 Might conjure a vision of Aphrodite To a poet's or painter's eye; Tho' the golden drop, with its drooping curl, Between the water and wood, Hangs down like the tress of a wayward girl In her dreamy maidenhood: Such boyish fancies seem out of date To one half inclined to censure Their folly, and yet-your shaft flew straight, Though you drew your bow at a venture. I saw my lady the other night In the crowded opera hall, When the boxes sparkled with faces bright, I knew her amongst them all. Tho' little for these things now I reck, I singled her from the throng By the queenly curves of her head and neck, By the droop of her eyelash long. Oh! passionless, placid, and calm, and cold, Does the fire still lurk within That lit her magnificent eyes of old, And coloured her marble skin? For a weary look on the proud face hung, While the music clash'd and swell'd, And the restless child to the silk skirt clung Unnoticed tho' unrepelled. They've paled, those rosebud lips that I kist, That slim waist has thickened rather, And the cub has the sprawling mutton fist, And the great splay foot of the father. May the blight-Mark: Hold hard there, Maurice, my son, Let her rest, since her spell is broken; We can neither recall deeds rashly done, Nor retract words hastily spoken. Maurice: Time was when to pleasure her girlish whim, In my blind infatuation, I've freely endangered life and limb; Aye, perilled my soul's salvation. 263 Mark: With the best intentions we all must work But little good and much harm; Be a Christian for once, not a Pagan Turk, Nursing wrath and keeping it warm. Maurice: If our best intentions pave the way To a place that is somewhat hot, Can our worst intentions lead us, say, To a still more sultry spot? Mark: 'Tis said that charity makes amends For a multitude of transgressions. Maurice: But our perjured loves and our faithless friends Are entitled to no concessions. Mark: Old man, these many years side by side Our parallel paths have lain; Now, in life's long journey, diverging wide, They can scarcely unite again; And tho', from all that I've seen and heard, You're prone to chafe and to fret At the least restraint, not one angry word Have we two exchanged as yet. We've shared our peril, we've shared our sport, Our sunshine and gloomy weather, Feasted and flirted, and fenced and fought, Struggled and toiled together; In happier moments lighter of heart, Stouter of heart in sorrow; We've met and we've parted, and now we part For ever, perchance, to-morrow. She's a matron now; when you knew her first She was but a child, and your hate, Fostered and cherished, nourished and nursed, Will it never evaporate? 264 Your grievance is known to yourself alone, But, Maurice, I say, for shame, If in ten long years you haven't outgrown Ill-will to an ancient flame. Maurice: Well, Mark, you're right; if I spoke in spite, Let the shame and the blame be mine; At the risk of a headache we'll drain this night Her health in a flask of wine; For a castle in Spain, tho' it never was built; For a dream, tho' it never came true; For a cup, just tasted, tho' rudely spilt, At least she can hold me due. Those hours of pleasure she dealt of yore, As well as those hours of pain, I ween they would flit as they flitted before, If I had them over again. Against her no word from my lips shall pass, Betraying the grudge I've cherished, Till the sand runs down in my hour-glass, And the gift of my speech has perished. Say! why is the spirit of peace so weak, And the spirit of wrath so strong, That the right we must steadily search and seek, Tho' we readily find the wrong? Mark: Our parents of old entailed the curse Which must to our children cling; Let us hope, at least, that we're not much worse Than the founder from whom we spring. Fit sire was he of a selfish race, Who first to temptation yielded, Then to mend his case tried to heap disgrace On the woman he should have shielded. Say! comrade mine, the forbidden fruit We'd have plucked, that I well believe, But I trust we'd rather have suffered mute Than have laid the blame upon Eve. Maurice (yawning): 265 Who knows? not I; I can hardly vouch For the truth of what little I see; And now, if you've any weed in your pouch, Just hand it over to me. ~ Adam Lindsay Gordon,

301:Smoke And Steel SMOKE of the fields in spring is one, Smoke of the leaves in autumn another. Smoke of a steel-mill roof or a battleship funnel, They all go up in a line with a smokestack, Or they twist … in the slow twist … of the wind. If the north wind comes they run to the south. If the west wind comes they run to the east. By this sign all smokes know each other. Smoke of the fields in spring and leaves in autumn, Smoke of the finished steel, chilled and blue, By the oath of work they swear: 'I know you.' Hunted and hissed from the center Deep down long ago when God made us over, Deep down are the cinders we came from— You and I and our heads of smoke. Some of the smokes God dropped on the job Cross on the sky and count our years And sing in the secrets of our numbers; Sing their dawns and sing their evenings, Sing an old log-fire song: You may put the damper up, You may put the damper down, The smoke goes up the chimney just the same. Smoke of a city sunset skyline, Smoke of a country dusk horizon— They cross on the sky and count our years. Smoke of a brick-red dust Winds on a spiral Out of the stacks For a hidden and glimpsing moon. This, said the bar-iron shed to the blooming mill, 386 This is the slang of coal and steel. The day-gang hands it to the night-gang, The night-gang hands it back. Stammer at the slang of this— Let us understand half of it. In the rolling mills and sheet mills, In the harr and boom of the blast fires, The smoke changes its shadow And men change their shadow; A ****, a wop, a bohunk changes. A bar of steel—it is only Smoke at the heart of it, smoke and the blood of a man. A runner of fire ran in it, ran out, ran somewhere else, And left—smoke and the blood of a man And the finished steel, chilled and blue. So fire runs in, runs out, runs somewhere else again, And the bar of steel is a gun, a wheel, a nail, a shovel, A rudder under the sea, a steering-gear in the sky; And always dark in the heart and through it, Smoke and the blood of a man. Pittsburg, Youngstown, Gary—they make their steel with men. In the blood of men and the ink of chimneys The smoke nights write their oaths: Smoke into steel and blood into steel; Homestead, Braddock, Birmingham, they make their steel with men. Smoke and blood is the mix of steel. The birdmen drone in the blue; it is steel a motor sings and zooms. Steel barb-wire around The Works. Steel guns in the holsters of the guards at the gates of The Works. Steel ore-boats bring the loads clawed from the earth by steel, lifted and lugged by arms of steel, sung on its way by the clanking clam-shells. The runners now, the handlers now, are steel; they dig and clutch and haul; they hoist their automatic knuckles from job to 387 job; they are steel making steel. Fire and dust and air fight in the furnaces; the pour is timed, the billets wriggle; the clinkers are dumped: Liners on the sea, skyscrapers on the land; diving steel in the sea, climbing steel in the sky. Finders in the dark, you Steve with a dinner bucket, you Steve clumping in the dusk on the sidewalks with an evening paper for the woman and kids, you Steve with your head wondering where we all end up— Finders in the dark, Steve: I hook my arm in cinder sleeves; we go down the street together; it is all the same to us; you Steve and the rest of us end on the same stars; we all wear a hat in hell together, in hell or heaven. Smoke nights now, Steve. Smoke, smoke, lost in the sieves of yesterday; Dumped again to the scoops and hooks today. Smoke like the clocks and whistles, always. Smoke nights now. To-morrow something else. Luck moons come and go: Five men swim in a pot of red steel. Their bones are kneaded into the bread of steel: Their bones are knocked into coils and anvils And the sucking plungers of sea-fighting turbines. Look for them in the woven frame of a wireless station. So ghosts hide in steel like heavy-armed men in mirrors. Peepers, skulkers—they shadow-dance in laughing tombs. They are always there and they never answer. One of them said: 'I like my job, the company is good to me, America is a wonderful country.' One: 'Jesus, my bones ache; the company is a liar; this is a free country, like hell.' One: 'I got a girl, a peach; we save up and go on a farm and raise pigs and be the boss ourselves.' And the others were roughneck singers a long ways from home. Look for them back of a steel vault door. They laugh at the cost. 388 They lift the birdmen into the blue. It is steel a motor sings and zooms. In the subway plugs and drums, In the slow hydraulic drills, in gumbo or gravel, Under dynamo shafts in the webs of armature spiders, They shadow-dance and laugh at the cost. The ovens light a red dome. Spools of fire wind and wind. Quadrangles of crimson sputter. The lashes of dying maroon let down. Fire and wind wash out the slag. Forever the slag gets washed in fire and wind. The anthem learned by the steel is: Do this or go hungry. Look for our rust on a plow. Listen to us in a threshing-engine razz. Look at our job in the running wagon wheat. Fire and wind wash at the slag. Box-cars, clocks, steam-shovels, churns, pistons, boilers, scissors— Oh, the sleeping slag from the mountains, the slag-heavy pig-iron will go down many roads. Men will stab and shoot with it, and make butter and tunnel rivers, and mow hay in swaths, and slit hogs and skin beeves, and steer airplanes across North America, Europe, Asia, round the world. Hacked from a hard rock country, broken and baked in mills and smelters, the rusty dust waits Till the clean hard weave of its atoms cripples and blunts the drills chewing a hole in it. The steel of its plinths and flanges is reckoned, O God, in one-millionth of an inch. Once when I saw the curves of fire, the rough scarf women dancing, Dancing out of the flues and smoke-stacks—flying hair of fire, flying feet upside down; Buckets and baskets of fire exploding and chortling, fire running wild out of the steady and fastened ovens; Sparks cracking a harr-harr-huff from a solar-plexus of rock-ribs of the earth taking a laugh for themselves; 389 Ears and noses of fire, gibbering gorilla arms of fire, gold mud-pies, gold birdwings, red jackets riding purple mules, scarlet autocrats tumbling from the humps of camels, assassinated czars straddling vermillion balloons; I saw then the fires flash one by one: good-by: then smoke, smoke; And in the screens the great sisters of night and cool stars, sitting women arranging their hair, Waiting in the sky, waiting with slow easy eyes, waiting and half-murmuring: 'Since you know all and I know nothing, tell me what I dreamed last night.' Pearl cobwebs in the windy rain, in only a flicker of wind, are caught and lost and never known again. A pool of moonshine comes and waits, but never waits long: the wind picks up loose gold like this and is gone. A bar of steel sleeps and looks slant-eyed on the pearl cobwebs, the pools of moonshine; sleeps slant-eyed a million years, sleeps with a coat of rust, a vest of moths, a shirt of gathering sod and loam. The wind never bothers … a bar of steel. The wind picks only.. pearl cobwebs.. pools of moonshine. ~ Carl Sandburg,

302:Seasons Of The Soul To the memory of John Peale Bishop, 1892-1944 Attor porsi la mano un poco avante, e colsi un ramicel da un gran pruno; e U tronco suo gridd: Perchd mi schiante? I. SUMMER Summer, this is our flesh, The body you let mature; If now while the body is fresh You take it, shall we give The heart, lest heart endure The mind's tattering Blow of greedy claws? Shall mind itself still live If like a hunting king It falls to the lion's jaws? Under the summer's blast The soul cannot endure Unless by sleight or fast It seize or deny its day To make the eye secure. Brothers-in-arms, remember The hot wind dries and draws With circular delay The flesh, ash from the ember, Into the summer's jaws. It was a gentle sun When, at the June solstice Green France was overrun With caterpillar feet. No head knows where its rest is Or may lie down with reason When war's usurping claws Shall take the heart escheatGreen field in burning season 61 To stain the weevil's jaws. The southern summer dies Evenly in the fall: We raise our tired eyes Into a sky of glass, Blue, empty, and tall Without tail or head Where burn the equal laws For Balaam and his ass Above the invalid dead, Who cannot lift their jaws. When was it that the summer (Daylong a liquid light) And a child, the new-comer, Bathed in the same green spray, Could neither guess the night? The summer had no reason; Then, like a primal cause It had its timeless day Before it kept the season Of time's engaging jaws. Two men of our summer world Descended winding hell And when their shadows curled They fearfully confounded The vast concluding shell: Stopping, they saw in the narrow Light a centaur pause And gaze, then his astounded Beard, with a notched arrow, Part back upon his jaws. II. AUTUMN It had an autumn smell And that was how I knew That I was down a well: I was no longer young; 62 My lips were numb and blue, The air was like fine sand In a butcher's stall Or pumice to the tongue: And when I raised my hand I stood in the empty hall. The round ceiling was high And the gray light like shale Thin, crumbling, and dry: No rug on the bare floor Nor any carved detail To which the eye could glide; I counted along the wall Door after closed door Through which a shade might slide To the cold and empty hall. I will leave this house, I said, There is the autumn weatherHere, nor living nor dead; The lights burn in the town Where men fear together. Then on the bare floor, But tiptoe lest I fall, I walked years down Towards the front door At the end of the empty hall. Two men of our summer world Descended winding hell And when their shadows curled They fearfully confounded The vast concluding shell: Stopping, they saw in the narrow Light a centaur pause And gaze, then his astounded Beard, with a notched arrow, Part back upon his jaws, It had an autumn smell And that was how I knew 63 That I was down a well: I was no longer young; My lips were numb and blue, The air was like fine sand In a butcher's stall Or pumice to the tongue: And when I raised my hand I stood in the empty hall. The round ceiling was high And the gray light like shale Thin, crumbling, and dry: No rug on the bare floor Nor any carved detail To which the eye could glide; I counted along the wall Door after closed door Through which a shade might slide To the cold and empty hall. I will leave this house, I said, There is the autumn weatherHere, nor living nor dead; The lights burn in the town Where men fear together. Then on the bare floor, But tiptoe lest I fall, I walked years down Towards the front door At the end of the empty hall. The door was false-no key Or lock, and I was caught In the house; yet I could see I had been born to it For miles of running brought Me back where I began. I saw now in the wall A door open a slit And a fat grizzled man Come out into the hall: 64 As in a moonlit street Men meeting are too shy To check their hurried feet But raise their eyes and squint As through a needle's eye Into the faceless gloom,My father in a gray shawl Gave me an unseeing glint And entered another room! I stood in the empty hall And watched them come and go From one room to another, Old men, old women slow, Familiar; girls, boys; I saw my downcast mother Clad in her street-clothes, Her blue eyes long and small. Who had no look or voice For him whose vision froze Him in the empty hall. III. WINTER Goddess sea-born and bright, Return into the sea Where eddying twilight Gathers upon your peopleCold goddess, hear our plea! Leave the burnt earth, Venus, For the drying God above, Hanged in his windy steeple, No longer bears for us The living wound of love. All the sea-gods are dead. You, Venus, come home To your salt maidenhead, The tossed anonymous sea Under shuddering foamShade for lovers, where 65 A shark swift as your dove Shall pace our company All night to nudge and tear The livid wound of love. And now the winter sea: Within her hollow rind What sleek facility Of sea-conceited scop To plumb the nether mind! Eternal winters blow Shivering flakes, and shove Bodies that wheel and dropCold soot upon the snow Their livid wound of love. Beyond the undertow The gray sea-foliage Transpires a phosphor glow Into the circular miles: In the centre of his cage The pacing animal Surveys the jungle cove And slicks his slithering wiles To turn the venereal awl In the livid wound of love. Beyond the undertow The rigid madrepore Resists the winter's flowHeadless, unageing oak That gives the leaf no more. Wilfully as I stood Within the thickest grove I seized a branch, which broke; I heard the speaking blood (From the livid wound of love) Drip down upon my toe: 'We are the men who died Of self-inflicted woe, Lovers whose stratagem 66 Led to their suicide.' I touched my sanguine hair And felt it drip above Their brother who, like them, Was maimed and did not bear The living wound of love. IV. SPRING Irritable spring, infuse Into the burning breast Your combustible juice That as a liquid soul Shall be the body's guest Who lights, but cannot stay To comfort this unease Which, like a dying coal, Hastens the cooler day Of the mother of silences. Back in my native prime I saw the orient corn All space but no time, Reaching for the sun Of the land where I was born: It was a pleasant land Where even death could please Us with an ancient punAll dying for the hand Of the mother of silences. In time of bloody war Who will know the time? Is it a new spring star Within the timing chill, Talking, or just a mime, That rises in the bloodThin Jack-and-Jilling seas Without the human will? Its light is at the flood, Mother of silences! 67 It burns us each alone Whose burning arrogance Burns up the rolling stone, This earth-Platonic cave Of vertiginous chance! Come, tired Sisyphus, Cover the cave's egress Where light reveals the slave, Who rests when sleeps with us The mother of silences. Come, old woman, save Your sons who have gone down Into the burning cave: Come, mother, and lean At the window with your son And gaze through its light frame These fifteen centuries Upon the shirking scene Where men, blind, go lame: Then, mother of silences, Speak, that we may hear; Listen, while we confess That we conceal our fear; Regard us, while the eye Discerns by sight or guess Whether, as sheep foregather Upon their crooked knees, We have begun to die; Whether your kindness, mother, Is mother of silences. ~ Allen Tate,

303: ON THE THREE EVILS I In a dream, in the last dream of the morning, I stood in the foothills today-beyond the world, held scales, 187 and weighed the world. Alas, the jealous dawn came too early and glowed me awakel She is always jealous of my glowing morning dreams. Measurable by him who has time, weighable by a good weigher, reachable by strong wings, guessable by divine nutcrackers: thus my dream found the worldmy dream, a bold sailor, half ship, half hurricane, taciturn as butterflies, impatient as falcons: how did it have the patience or the time to weigh the world? Did my wisdom secretly urge it, my laughing, wide-awake day-wisdom which mocks all "infinite worlds"? For it speaks: "Wherever there is force, number will become Mistress: she has more force." How surely my dream looked upon this finite world, not inquisitively, not acquisitively, not afraid, not begging, as if a full apple offered itself to my hand, a ripe golden apple with cool, soft, velvet skin, thus the world offered itself to me; as if a tree waved to me, broadbranched, strong-willed, bent as a support, even as a footstool for one weary of his way, thus the world stood on my foothills; as if delicate hands carried a shrine toward me, a shrine open for the delight of bashful, adoring eyes, thus the world offered itself to me today; not riddle enough to frighten away human love, not solution enough to put to sleep human wisdom: a humanly good thing the world was to me today, though one speaks so much evil of it. How shall I thank my morning dream that I thus weighed the world this morning? As a humanly good thing it came to me, this dream and heart-comforter. And to imitate it by day and to learn from it what was best in it, I shall now place the three most evil things on the scales and weigh them humanly well. He that taught to bless also taught to curse; what are the three 188 best cursed things in the world? I shall put them on the scales. Sex, the lust to rule, selfishness: these three have so far been best cursed and worst reputed and lied about; these three I will weigh humanly well. Well then, here are my foothills and there the sea: that rolls toward me, shaggy, flattering, the faithful old hundred-headed canine monster that I love. Well then, here I will hold the scales over the rolling sea; and a witness I choose too, to look on-you, solitary tree, fragrant and broad-vaulted, that I love. On what bridge does the present pass to the future? By what compulsion does the higher compel itself to the lower? And what bids even the highest grow still higher? Now the scales are balanced and still: three weighty questions I threw on it; three weighty answers balance the other scale. Sex: to all hair-shirted despisers of the body, their thorn and stake, and cursed as "world" among all the afterworldly because it mocks and fools all teachers of error and confusion. Sex: for the rabble, the slow fire on which they are burned; for all worm-eaten wood and all stinking rags, the ever-ready rut and oven. Sex: for free hearts, innocent and free, the garden happiness of the earth, the future's exuberant gratitude to the present. Sex: only for the wilted, a sweet poison; for the lionwilled, however, the great invigoration of the heart and the reverently reserved wine of wines. Sex: the happiness that is the great parable of a higher happiness and the highest hope. For to many is 189 marriage promised, and more than marriage-to many who are stranger to each other than man and woman. And who can wholly comprehend how strange man and woman are to each other? Sex-but I want to have fences around my thoughts and even around my words, lest swine and swooners break into my garden! The lust to rule: the scalding scourge of the hardest among the hardhearted; the hideous torture that is saved up for the cruelest; the dark flame of living pyres. The lust to rule: the malicious gadfly imposed on the vainest peoples; the mocker of all uncertain virtues; the rider on every horse and every pride. The lust to rule: the earthquake that breaks and breaks open everything worm-eaten and hollow; the rumbling, grumbling punisher that breaks open whited sepulchers; the lightning-like question mark beside premature answers. The lust to rule: before whose glances man crawls and ducks and slaves and becomes lower than snake and swine, until finally the great contempt cries out of him. The lust to rule: the terrible teacher of the great contempt, who preaches "away with you" to the very faces of cities and empires, until it finally cries out of them themselves, "Away with me!" The lust to rule: which, however, also ascends luringly to the pure and lonely and up to self-sufficient heights, glowing like a love that luringly paints crimson fulfillments on earthly skies. The lust to rule-but who would call it lust when what is high longs downward for power? Verily, there is nothing diseased or lustful in such longing and condescending. That the lonely heights should not remain lonely and self-sufficient eternally; that the mountain should descend to the valley and the winds of the height to the low plains-oh, who were to find the right name for such longing? "Gift-giving virtue"-thus Zarathustra once named the unnamable. And at that time it also happened-and verily, it happened for the first time-that his word pronounced selfishness blessed, the wholesome, healthy selfishness that wells from a powerful soul-from a powerful soul to which belongs the high body, beautiful, triumphant, refreshing, around which everything becomes a mirror -the supple, persuasive body, the dancer whose parable and epitome is the self-enjoying soul. The selfenjoyment of such bodies and souls calls itself "virtue." With its words about good and bad, such self-enjoyment screens itself as with sacred groves; with the names of its happiness it banishes from its presence whatever is contemptible. From its presence it banishes whatever is cowardly; it says: bad-that is cowardly Contemptible to its mind is anyone who always worries, sighs, is miserable, and also anyone who picks up even the smallest advantages. It also despises all wisdom that wallows in grief; for verily, there is also wisdom that blooms in the dark, a nightshade wisdom, which always sighs: all is vain. Shy mistrust it holds in low esteem, also anyone who wants oaths instead of eyes and hands; also all wisdom that is all-too-mistrustful, for that is the manner of cowardly souls. In still lower esteem it holds the subservient, the doglike, who immediately lie on their backs, the humble; and there is wisdom too that is humble and doglike and pious and subservient. Altoge ther hateful and nauseating it finds those who never offer resistance, who swallow poisonous spittle and evil 191 glances, the all-too-patient, all-suffering, always satisfied; for that is servile. Whether one be servile before gods and gods' kicks or before men and stupid men's opinions-whatever is servile it spits on, this blessed selfishness. Bad: that is what it calls everything that is sorely stooped and sordidly servile, unfree blink-eyes, oppressed hearts, and that false yielding manner that kisses with wide cowardly lips. And sham wisdom: that is what it calls the would-be wit of the servile and old and weary, and especially the whole wicked, nitwitted, witless foolishness of priests. The sham-wise, however-all the priests, the worldweary, and all those whose souls are womanish and servile-oh, what wicked tricks has their trickery always played on selfishness And what was considered virtue and called virtue was playing wicked tricks on selfishnessl And "selfless"-that is how all these world-weary cowards and cross-marked spiders wanted themselves, for good reasons. But for all these the day is now at hand, the change, the sword of judgment, the great noon: much shall be revealed there. And whoever proclaims the ego wholesome and holy, and selfishness blessed, verily, he will also tell what he knows, foretelling: "Verily, it is at hand, it is near, the great noonl" Thus spoke Zarathustra. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche, ON THE THREE EVILS ,

304:The Kalevala - Rune Vi WAINAMOINEN'S HAPLESS JOURNEY. Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Now arranges for a journey To the village of the Northland, To the land of cruel winters, To the land of little sunshine, To the land of worthy women; Takes his light-foot, royal racer, Then adjusts the golden bridle, Lays upon his back the saddle, Silver-buckled, copper-stirruped, Seats himself upon his courser, And begins his journey northward; Plunges onward, onward, onward, Galloping along the highway, In his saddle, gaily fashioned, On his dappled steed of magic, Plunging through Wainola's meadows, O'er the plains of Kalevala. Fast and far he galloped onward, Galloped far beyond Wainola, Bounded o'er the waste of waters, Till he reached the blue-sea's margin, Wetting not the hoofs in running. But the evil Youkahainen Nursed a grudge within his bosom, In his heart the worm of envy, Envy of this Wainamoinen, Of this wonderful enchanter. He prepares a cruel cross-bow, Made of steel and other metals, Paints the bow in many colors, Molds the top-piece out or copper, Trims his bow with snowy silver, Gold he uses too in trimming, Then he hunts for strongest sinews, Finds them in the stag of Hisi, 90 Interweaves the flax of Lempo. Ready is the cruel cross-bow, String, and shaft, and ends are finished, Beautiful the bow and mighty, Surely cost it not a trifle; On the back a painted courser, On each end a colt of beauty, Near the curve a maiden sleeping Near the notch a hare is bounding, Wonderful the bow thus fashioned; Cuts some arrows for his quiver, Covers them with finest feathers, From the oak the shafts be fashions, Makes the tips of keenest metal. As the rods and points are finished, Then he feathers well his arrows From the plumage of the swallow, From the wing-quills of the sparrow; Hardens well his feathered arrows, And imparts to each new virtues, Steeps them in the blood of serpents, In the virus of the adder. Ready now are all his arrows, Ready strung, his cruel cross-bow. Waiting for wise Wainamoinen. Youkahainen, Lapland's minstrel, Waits a long time, is not weary, Hopes to spy the ancient singer; Spies at day-dawn, spies at evening, Spies he ceaselessly at noontide, Lies in wait for the magician, Waits, and watches, as in envy; Sits he at the open window, Stands behind the hedge, and watches In the foot-path waits, and listens, Spies along the balks of meadows; On his back he hangs his quiver, In his quiver, feathered arrows Dipped in virus of the viper, On his arm the mighty cross-bow, Waits, and watches, and unwearied, Listens from the boat-house window, 91 Lingers at the end of Fog-point, By the river flowing seaward, Near the holy stream and whirlpool, Near the sacred river's fire-fall. Finally the Lapland minstrel, Youkahainen of Pohyola, At the breaking of the day-dawn, At the early hour of morning, Fixed his gaze upon the North-east, Turned his eyes upon the sunrise, Saw a black cloud on the ocean, Something blue upon the waters, And soliloquized as follows: 'Are those clouds on the horizon, Or perchance the dawn of morning? Neither clouds on the horizon, Nor the dawning of the morning; It is ancient Wainamoinen, The renowned and wise enchanter, Riding on his way to Northland; On his steed, the royal racer, Magic courser of Wainola.' Quickly now young Youkahainen, Lapland's vain and evil minstrel, Filled with envy, grasps his cross-bow, Makes his bow and arrows ready For the death of Wainamoinen. Quick his aged mother asked him, Spake these words to Youkahainen: 'For whose slaughter is thy cross-bow, For whose heart thy poisoned arrows?' Youkahainen thus made answer: 'I have made this mighty cross-bow, Fashioned bow and poisoned arrows For the death of Wainamoinen, Thus to slay the friend of waters; I must shoot the old magician, The eternal bard and hero, Through the heart, and through the liver, Through the head, and through the shoulders, With this bow and feathered arrows Thus destroy my rival minstrel.' 92 Then the aged mother answered, Thus reproving, thus forbidding. Do not slay good Wainamoinen, Ancient hero of the Northland, From a noble tribe descended, He, my sister's son, my nephew. If thou slayest Wainamoinen, Ancient son of Kalevala, Then alas! all joy will vanish, Perish all our wondrous singing; Better on the earth the gladness, Better here the magic music, Than within the nether regions, In the kingdom of Tuoni, In the realm of the departed, In the land of the hereafter.' Then the youthful Youkahainen Thought awhile and well considered, Ere he made a final answer. With one hand he raised the cross-bow But the other seemed to weaken, As he drew the cruel bow-string. Finally these words he uttered As his bosom swelled with envy: 'Let all joy forever vanish, Let earth's pleasures quickly perish, Disappear earth's sweetest music, Happiness depart forever; Shoot I will this rival minstrel, Little heeding what the end is.' Quickly now he bends his fire-bow, On his left knee rests the weapon, With his right foot firmly planted, Thus he strings his bow of envy; Takes three arrows from his quiver, Choosing well the best among them, Carefully adjusts the bow-string, Sets with care the feathered arrow, To the flaxen string he lays it, Holds the cross-bow to his shoulder, Aiming well along the margin, At the heart of Wainamoinen, 93 Waiting till he gallops nearer; In the shadow of a thicket, Speaks these words while he is waiting 'Be thou, flaxen string, elastic; Swiftly fly, thou feathered ash-wood, Swiftly speed, thou deadly missile, Quick as light, thou poisoned arrow, To the heart of Wainamoinen. If my hand too low should hold thee, May the gods direct thee higher; If too high mine eye should aim thee, May the gods direct thee lower.' Steady now he pulls the trigger; Like the lightning flies the arrow O'er the head of Wainamoinen; To the upper sky it darteth, And the highest clouds it pierces, Scatters all the flock of lamb-clouds, On its rapid journey skyward. Not discouraged, quick selecting, Quick adjusting, Youkahainen, Quickly aiming shoots a second. Speeds the arrow swift as lightning; Much too low he aimed the missile, Into earth the arrow plunges, Pierces to the lower regions, Splits in two the old Sand Mountain. Nothing daunted, Youkahainen, Quick adjusting shoots a third one. Swift as light it speeds its journey, Strikes the steed of Wainamoinen, Strikes the light-foot, ocean-swimmer, Strikes him near his golden girdle, Through the shoulder of the racer. Thereupon wise Wainamoinen Headlong fell upon the waters, Plunged beneath the rolling billows, From the saddle of the courser, From his dappled steed of magic. Then arose a mighty storm-wind, Roaring wildly on the waters, Bore away old Wainamoinen 94 Far from land upon the billows, On the high and rolling billows, On the broad sea's great expanses. Boasted then young Youkahainen, Thinking Waino dead and buried, These the boastful words be uttered: 'Nevermore, old Wainamoinen, Nevermore in all thy life-time, While the golden moonlight glistens, Nevermore wilt fix thy vision On the meadows of Wainola, On the plains of Kalevala; Full six years must swim the ocean, Tread the waves for seven summers, Eight years ride the foamy billows, In the broad expanse of water; Six long autumns as a fir-tree, Seven winters as a pebble; Eight long summers as an aspen.' Thereupon the Lapland minstrel Hastened to his room delighting, When his mother thus addressed him 'Hast thou slain good Wainamoinen, Slain the son of Kalevala?' Youkahainen thus made answer: 'I have slain old Wainamoinen, Slain the son of Kalevala, That he now may plow the ocean, That he now may sweep the waters, On the billows rock and slumber. In the salt-sea plunged he headlong, In the deep sank the magician, Sidewise turned he to the sea-shore On his back to rock forever, Thus the boundless sea to travel, Thus to ride the rolling billows.' This the answer of the mother: 'Woe to earth for this thine action, Gone forever, joy and singing, Vanished is the wit of ages! Thou hast slain good Wainamoinen. Slain the ancient wisdom-singer, 95 Slain the pride of Suwantala, Slain the hero of Wainola, Slain the joy of Kalevala.' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

305:The Kalevala - Rune I BIRTH OF WAINAMOINEN. In primeval times, a maiden, Beauteous Daughter of the Ether, Passed for ages her existence In the great expanse of heaven, O'er the prairies yet enfolded. Wearisome the maiden growing, Her existence sad and hopeless, Thus alone to live for ages In the infinite expanses Of the air above the sea-foam, In the far outstretching spaces, In a solitude of ether, She descended to the ocean, Waves her coach, and waves her pillow. Thereupon the rising storm-wind Flying from the East in fierceness, Whips the ocean into surges, Strikes the stars with sprays of ocean Till the waves are white with fervor. To and fro they toss the maiden, Storm-encircled, hapless maiden; With her sport the rolling billows, With her play the storm-wind forces, On the blue back of the waters; On the white-wreathed waves of ocean, Play the forces of the salt-sea, With the lone and helpless maiden; Till at last in full conception, Union now of force and beauty, Sink the storm-winds into slumber; Overburdened now the maiden Cannot rise above the surface; Seven hundred years she wandered, Ages nine of man's existence, Swam the ocean hither, thither, Could not rise above the waters, Conscious only of her travail; Seven hundred years she labored Ere her first-born was delivered. Thus she swam as water-mother, Toward the east, and also southward, Toward the west, and also northward; Swam the sea in all directions, Frightened at the strife of storm-winds, Swam in travail, swam unceasing, Ere her first-born was delivered. Then began she gently weeping, Spake these measures, heavy-hearted: 'Woe is me, my life hard-fated! Woe is me, in this my travail! Into what have I now fallen? Woe is me, that I unhappy, Left my home in subtle ether, Came to dwell amid the sea-foam, To be tossed by rolling billows, To be rocked by winds and waters, On the far outstretching waters, In the salt-sea's vast expanses, Knowing only pain and trouble! Better far for me, O Ukko! Were I maiden in the Ether, Than within these ocean-spaces, To become a water-mother! All this life is cold and dreary, Painful here is every motion, As I linger in the waters, As I wander through the ocean. Ukko, thou O God, up yonder, Thou the ruler of the heavens, Come thou hither, thou art needed, Come thou hither, I implore thee, To deliver me from trouble, To deliver me in travail. Come I pray thee, hither hasten, Hasten more that thou art needed, Haste and help this helpless maiden!' When she ceased her supplications, Scarce a moment onward passes, Ere a beauteous duck descending, Hastens toward the water-mother, Comes a-flying hither, thither, Seeks herself a place for nesting. Flies she eastward, flies she westward, Circles northward, circles southward, Cannot find a grassy hillock, Not the smallest bit of verdure; Cannot find a spot protected, Cannot find a place befitting, Where to make her nest in safety. Flying slowly, looking round her, She descries no place for resting, Thinking loud and long debating, And her words are such as follow: 'Build I in the winds my dwelling, On the floods my place of nesting? Surely would the winds destroy it, Far away the waves would wash it.' Then the daughter of the Ether, Now the hapless water-mother, Raised her shoulders out of water, Raised her knees above the ocean, That the duck might build her dwelling, Build her nesting-place in safety. Thereupon the duck in beauty, Flying slowly, looking round her, Spies the shoulders of the maiden, Sees the knees of Ether's daughter, Now the hapless water-mother, Thinks them to be grassy hillocks, On the blue back of the ocean. Thence she flies and hovers slowly, Lightly on the knee she settles, Finds a nesting-place befitting, Where to lay her eggs in safety. Here she builds her humble dwelling, Lays her eggs within, at pleasure, Six, the golden eggs she lays there, Then a seventh, an egg of iron; Sits upon her eggs to hatch them, Quickly warms them on the knee-cap Of the hapless water-mother; Hatches one day, then a second, Then a third day sits and hatches. Warmer grows the water round her, Warmer is her bed in ocean, While her knee with fire is kindled, And her shoulders too are burning, Fire in every vein is coursing. Quick the maiden moves her shoulders, Shakes her members in succession, Shakes the nest from its foundation, And the eggs fall into ocean, Dash in pieces on the bottom Of the deep and boundless waters. In the sand they do not perish, Not the pieces in the ocean; But transformed, in wondrous beauty All the fragments come together Forming pieces two in number, One the upper, one the lower, Equal to the one, the other. From one half the egg, the lower, Grows the nether vault of Terra: From the upper half remaining, Grows the upper vault of Heaven; From the white part come the moonbeams, From the yellow part the sunshine, From the motley part the starlight, From the dark part grows the cloudage; And the days speed onward swiftly, Quickly do the years fly over, From the shining of the new sun From the lighting of the full moon. Still the daughter of the Ether, Swims the sea as water-mother, With the floods outstretched before her, And behind her sky and ocean. Finally about the ninth year, In the summer of the tenth year, Lifts her head above the surface, Lifts her forehead from the waters, And begins at last her workings, Now commences her creations, On the azure water-ridges, On the mighty waste before her. Where her hand she turned in water, There arose a fertile hillock; Wheresoe'er her foot she rested, There she made a hole for fishes; Where she dived beneath the waters, Fell the many deeps of ocean; Where upon her side she turned her, There the level banks have risen; Where her head was pointed landward, There appeared wide bays and inlets; When from shore she swam a distance, And upon her back she rested, There the rocks she made and fashioned, And the hidden reefs created, Where the ships are wrecked so often, Where so many lives have perished. Thus created were the islands, Rocks were fastened in the ocean, Pillars of the sky were planted, Fields and forests were created, Checkered stones of many colors, Gleaming in the silver sunlight, All the rocks stood well established; But the singer, Wainamoinen, Had not yet beheld the sunshine, Had not seen the golden moonlight, Still remaining undelivered. Wainamoinen, old and trusty, Lingering within his dungeon Thirty summers altogether, And of winters, also thirty, Peaceful on the waste of waters, On the broad-sea's yielding bosom, Well reflected, long considered, How unborn to live and flourish In the spaces wrapped in darkness, In uncomfortable limits, Where he had not seen the moonlight, Had not seen the silver sunshine. 10 Thereupon these words be uttered, Let himself be heard in this wise: 'Take, O Moon, I pray thee, take me, Take me, thou, O Sun above me, Take me, thou O Bear of heaven, From this dark and dreary prison, From these unbefitting portals, From this narrow place of resting, From this dark and gloomy dwelling, Hence to wander from the ocean, Hence to walk upon the islands, On the dry land walk and wander, Like an ancient hero wander, Walk in open air and breathe it, Thus to see the moon at evening, Thus to see the silver sunlight, Thus to see the Bear in heaven, That the stars I may consider.' Since the Moon refused to free him, And the Sun would not deliver, Nor the Great Bear give assistance, His existence growing weary, And his life but an annoyance, Bursts he then the outer portals Of his dark and dismal fortress; With his strong, but unnamed finger, Opens he the lock resisting; With the toes upon his left foot, With the fingers of his right hand, Creeps he through the yielding portals To the threshold of his dwelling; On his knees across the threshold, Throws himself head foremost, forward Plunges into deeps of ocean, Plunges hither, plunges thither, Turning with his hands the water; Swims he northward, swims he southward, Swims he eastward, swims he westward, Studying his new surroundings. Thus our hero reached the water, Rested five years in the ocean, Six long years, and even seven years, 11 Till the autumn of the eighth year, When at last he leaves the waters, Stops upon a promontory, On a coast bereft of verdure; On his knees he leaves the ocean, On the land he plants his right foot, On the solid ground his left foot, Quickly turns his hands about him, Stands erect to see the sunshine, Stands to see the golden moonlight, That he may behold the Great Bear, That he may the stars consider. Thus our hero, Wainamoinen, Thus the wonderful enchanter Was delivered from his mother, Ilmatar, the Ether's daughter. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

306:Bahaman To T. B. M. IN the crowd that thronged the pierhead, come to see their friends take ship For new ventures in seafaring, when the hawsers were let slip And we swung out in the current, with good-byes on every lip, 'Midst the waving caps and kisses, as we dropped down with the tide And the faces blurred and faded, last of all your hand I spied Signalling, Farewell, Good fortune! then my heart rose up and cried: 'While the world holds one such comrade, whose sweet durable regard Would so speed my safe departure, lest home-leaving should be hard, What care I who keeps the ferry, whether Charon or Cunard!' Then we cleared the bar, and laid her on the course, the thousand miles From the Hook to the Bahamas, from midwinter to the isles Where frost never laid a finger, and eternal summer smiles. Three days through the surly storm-beat, while the surf-heads threshed and flew, And the rolling mountains thundered to the trample of the screw, The black liner heaved and scuffled and strained on, as if she knew. On the fourth, the round blue morning sparkled there, all light and breeze, Clean and tenuous as a bubble blown from two immensities, Shot and coloured with sheer sunlight and the magic of those seas. In that bright new world of wonder, it was life enough to laze All day underneath the awnings, and through half-shut eyes to gaze At the marvel of the sea-blue; and I faltered for a phrase Should half give you the impression, tell you how the very tint Justified your finest daring, as if Nature gave the hint, 'Plodders, see Imagination set his pallet without stint!' Cobalt, gobelin, and azure, turquoise, sapphire, indigo, Changing from the spectral bluish of a shadow upon snow To the deep of Canton china,—one unfathomable glow. And the flying-fish,—to see them in a scurry lift and flee, Silvery as the foam they sprang from, fragile people of the sea, Whom their heart's great aspiration for a moment had set free. From the dim and cloudy ocean, thunder-centred, rosy-verged, At the lord sun's Sursum Corda, as implicit impulse urged, Frail as vapour, fine as music, these bright spirit-things emerged; Like those flocks of small white snowbirds we have seen start up before Our brisk walk in winter weather by the snowy Scituate shore; And the tiny shining sea-folk brought you back to me once more. So we ran down Abaco; and passing that tall sentinel 54 Black against the sundown, sighted, as the sudden twilight fell, Nassau light; and the warm darkness breathed on us from breeze and swell. Stand-by bell and stop of engine; clank of anchor going down; And we're riding in the roadstead off a twinkling-lighted town, Low dark shore with boom of breakers and white beach the palm-trees crown. In the soft wash of the sea air, on the long swing of the tide, Here for once the dream came true, the voyage ended close beside The Hesperides in moonlight on mid-ocean where they ride! And those Hesperidean joy-lands were not strange to you and me. Just beyond the lost horizon, every time we looked to sea From Testudo, there they floated, looming plain as plain could be. Who believed us? 'Myth and fable are a science in our time.' 'Never saw the sea that colour. ''Never heard of such a rhyme.' Well, we've proved it, prince of idlers,—knowledge wrong and faith sublime. Right were you to follow fancy, give the vaguer instinct room In a heaven of clear colour, where the spirit might assume All her elemental beauty, past the fact of sky or bloom. Paint the vision, not the view,—the touch that bids the sense good-bye, Lifting spirit at a bound beyond the frontiers of the eye, To suburb unguessed dominions of the soul's credulity. Never yet was painter, poet, born content with things that are,— Must divine from every beauty other beauties greater far, Till the arc of truth be circled, and her lantern blaze, a star. This alone is art's ambition, to arrest with form and hue Dominant ungrasped ideals, known to credence, hid from view, In a mimic of creation,—to the life, yet fairer too,— Where the soul may take her pleasure, contemplate perfection's plan, And returning bring the tidings of his heritage to man,— News of continents uncharted she has stood tip-toe to scan. So she fires his gorgeous fancy with a cadence, with a line, Till the artist wakes within him, and the toiler grows divine, Shaping the rough world about him nearer to some fair design. Every heart must have its Indies,—an inheritance unclaimed In the unsubstantial treasure of a province never named, Loved and longed for through a lifetime, dull, laborious, and unfamed, Never wholly disillusioned. Spiritus, read, haeres sit Patriæ quæ tristia mescit. This alone the great king writ O'er the tomb of her he cherished in this fair world she must quit. Love in one farewell for ever, taking counsel to implore Best of human benedictions on its dead, could ask no more. The heart's country for a dwelling, this at last is all our lore. But the fairies at your cradle gave you craft to build a home 55 In the wide bright world of colour, with the cunning of a gnome; Blessed you so above your fellows of the tribe that still must roam. Still across the world they go, tormented by a strange unrest, And the unabiding spirit knocks for ever at their breast, Bidding them away to fortune in some undiscovered West; While at home you sit and call the Orient up at your command, Master of the iris seas and Prospero of the purple land. Listen, here was one world-corner matched the cunning of your hand. Not, my friend, since we were children, and all wonder-tales were true,— Jason, Hengest, Hiawatha, fairy prince or pirate crew— Was there ever such a landing in a country strange and new? Up the harbour where there gathered, fought and revelled many a year, Swarthy Spaniard, lost Lucayan, Loyalist, and Buccaneer, 'Once upon a time' was now, and 'far across the sea' was here. Tropic moonlight, in great floods and fathoms pouring through the trees On a ground as white as sea-froth its fantastic traceries, While the poincianas, rustling like the rain, moved in the breeze, Showed a city, coral-streeted, melting in the mellow shine, Built of creamstone and enchantment, fairy work in every line, In a velvet atmosphere that bids the heart her haste resign. Thanks to Julian Hospitator, saint of travellers by sea, Roving minstrels and all boatmen,—just such vagabonds as we— On the shaded wharf we landed, rich in leisure, hale and free. What more would you for God's creatures, but the little tide of sleep? In a clean white room I wakened, saw the careless sunlight peep Through the roses at the window, lay and listened to the creep Of the soft wind in the shutters, heard the palm-tops stirring high, And that strange mysterious shuffle of the slipshod foot go by. In a world all glad with colour, gladdest of all things was I; In a quiet convent garden, tranquil as the day is long, Here to sit without intrusion of the world or strife or wrong,— Watch the lizards chase each other, and the green bird make his song; Warmed and freshened, lulled yet quickened in that Paradisal air, Motherly and uncapricious, healing every hurt or care, Wooing body, mind, and spirit, firmly back to strong and fair; By the Angelus reminded, silence waits the touch of sound, As the soul waits her awaking to some Gloria profound; Till the mighty Southern Cross is lighted at the day's last bound. And if ever your fair fortune make you good Saint Vincent's guest, At his door take leave of trouble, welcomed to his decent rest, Of his ordered peace partaker, by his solace healed and blessed; Where this flowered cloister garden, hidden from the passing view, 56 Lies behind its yellow walls in prayer the holy hours through: And beyond, that fairy harbour, floored in malachite and blue. In that old white-streeted city gladness has her way at last Under burdens finely poised, and with a freedom unsurpassed, Move the naked-footed bearers in the blue day deep and vast. This is Bay Street broad and low-built, basking in its quiet trade; Here the sponging fleet is anchored; here shell trinkets are displayed; Here the cable news is posted daily; here the market's made, With its oranges from Andros, heaps of yam and tamarind, Red-juiced shadducks from the Current, ripened in the long trade-wind, Gaudy fish from their sea-gardens, yellow-tailed and azure-tinned. Here a group of diving boys in bronze and ivory, bright and slim, Sparkling copper in the high noon, dripping loin-cloth, polished limb, Poised a moment and then plunged in that deep daylight green and dim. Here the great rich Spanish laurels spread across the public square Their dense, solemn shade; and near by, half within the open glare, Mannerly in their clean cottons, knots of blacks are waiting there By the court-house, where a magistrate is hearing cases through, Dealing justice prompt and level, as the sturdy English do,— One more tent-peg of the Empire, holding that great shelter true. Last the picture from the town's end, palmed and foam-fringed through the cane, Where the gorgeous sunset yellows pour aloft and spill and stain The pure amethystine sea and far faint islands of the main. Loveliest of the Lucayas, peace be yours till time be done! In the gray North I shall see you, with your white streets in the sun, Old pink walls and purple gateways, where the lizards bask and run, Where the great hibiscus blossoms in their scarlet loll and glow, And the idling gay bandannas through the hot noons come and go, While the ever-stirring sea-wind sways the palm-tops to and fro. Far from stress and storm for ever, dream behind your jalousies, While the long white lines of breakers crumble on your reefs and keys, And the crimson oleanders burn against the peacock seas. ~ Bliss William Carman,

307:Prairie I WAS born on the prairie and the milk of its wheat, the red of its clover, the eyes of its women, gave me a song and a slogan. Here the water went down, the icebergs slid with gravel, the gaps and the valleys hissed, and the black loam came, and the yellow sandy loam. Here between the sheds of the Rocky Mountains and the Appalachians, here now a morning star fixes a fire sign over the timber claims and cow pastures, the corn belt, the cotton belt, the cattle ranches. Here the gray geese go five hundred miles and back with a wind under their wings honking the cry for a new home. Here I know I will hanker after nothing so much as one more sunrise or a sky moon of fire doubled to a river moon of water. The prairie sings to me in the forenoon and I know in the night I rest easy in the prairie arms, on the prairie heart.. . After the sunburn of the day handling a pitchfork at a hayrack, after the eggs and biscuit and coffee, the pearl-gray haystacks in the gloaming are cool prayers to the harvest hands. In the city among the walls the overland passenger train is choked and the pistons hiss and the wheels curse. On the prairie the overland flits on phantom wheels and the sky and the soil between them muffle the pistons and cheer the wheels.. . . I am here when the cities are gone. I am here before the cities come. I nourished the lonely men on horses. I will keep the laughing men who ride iron. I am dust of men. The running water babbled to the deer, the cottontail, the gopher. You came in wagons, making streets and schools, 340 Kin of the ax and rifle, kin of the plow and horse, Singing Yankee Doodle, Old Dan Tucker, Turkey in the Straw, You in the coonskin cap at a log house door hearing a lone wolf howl, You at a sod house door reading the blizzards and chinooks let loose from Medicine Hat, I am dust of your dust, as I am brother and mother To the copper faces, the worker in flint and clay, The singing women and their sons a thousand years ago Marching single file the timber and the plain. I hold the dust of these amid changing stars. I last while old wars are fought, while peace broods mother-like, While new wars arise and the fresh killings of young men. I fed the boys who went to France in great dark days. Appomattox is a beautiful word to me and so is Valley Forge and the Marne and Verdun, I who have seen the red births and the red deaths Of sons and daughters, I take peace or war, I say nothing and wait. Have you seen a red sunset drip over one of my cornfields, the shore of night stars, the wave lines of dawn up a wheat valley? Have you heard my threshing crews yelling in the chaff of a strawpile and the running wheat of the wagonboards, my cornhuskers, my harvest hands hauling crops, singing dreams of women, worlds, horizons?. . . Rivers cut a path on flat lands. The mountains stand up. The salt oceans press in And push on the coast lines. The sun, the wind, bring rain And I know what the rainbow writes across the east or west in a half-circle: A love-letter pledge to come again.. . . Towns on the Soo Line, Towns on the Big Muddy, Laugh at each other for cubs And tease as children. Omaha and Kansas City, Minneapolis and St. Paul, sisters in a house together, throwing slang, growing up. Towns in the Ozarks, Dakota wheat towns, Wichita, Peoria, Buffalo, sisters throwing slang, growing up.. . . 341 Out of prairie-brown grass crossed with a streamer of wigwam smoke—out of a smoke pillar, a blue promise—out of wild ducks woven in greens and purples— Here I saw a city rise and say to the peoples round world: Listen, I am strong, I know what I want. Out of log houses and stumps—canoes stripped from tree-sides—flatboats coaxed with an ax from the timber claims—in the years when the red and the white men met—the houses and streets rose. A thousand red men cried and went away to new places for corn and women: a million white men came and put up skyscrapers, threw out rails and wires, feelers to the salt sea: now the smokestacks bite the skyline with stub teeth. In an early year the call of a wild duck woven in greens and purples: now the riveter's chatter, the police patrol, the song-whistle of the steamboat. To a man across a thousand years I offer a handshake. I say to him: Brother, make the story short, for the stretch of a thousand years is short.. . . What brothers these in the dark? What eaves of skyscrapers against a smoke moon? These chimneys shaking on the lumber shanties When the coal boats plow by on the river— The hunched shoulders of the grain elevators— The flame sprockets of the sheet steel mills And the men in the rolling mills with their shirts off Playing their flesh arms against the twisting wrists of steel: what brothers these in the dark of a thousand years?. . . A headlight searches a snowstorm. A funnel of white light shoots from over the pilot of the Pioneer Limited crossing Wisconsin. In the morning hours, in the dawn, The sun puts out the stars of the sky And the headlight of the Limited train. The fireman waves his hand to a country school teacher on a bobsled. 342 A boy, yellow hair, red scarf and mittens, on the bobsled, in his lunch box a pork chop sandwich and a V of gooseberry pie. The horses fathom a snow to their knees. Snow hats are on the rolling prairie hills. The Mississippi bluffs wear snow hats.. . . Keep your hogs on changing corn and mashes of grain, O farmerman. Cram their insides till they waddle on short legs Under the drums of bellies, hams of fat. Kill your hogs with a knife slit under the ear. Hack them with cleavers. Hang them with hooks in the hind legs.. . . A wagonload of radishes on a summer morning. Sprinkles of dew on the crimson-purple balls. The farmer on the seat dangles the reins on the rumps of dapple-gray horses. The farmer's daughter with a basket of eggs dreams of a new hat to wear to the county fair.. . . On the left-and right-hand side of the road, Marching corn— I saw it knee high weeks ago—now it is head high—tassels of red silk creep at the ends of the ears.. . . I am the prairie, mother of men, waiting. They are mine, the threshing crews eating beefsteak, the farmboys driving steers to the railroad cattle pens. They are mine, the crowds of people at a Fourth of July basket picnic, listening to a lawyer read the Declaration of Independence, watching the pinwheels and Roman candles at night, the young men and women two by two hunting the bypaths and kissing bridges. They are mine, the horses looking over a fence in the frost of late October saying good-morning to the horses hauling wagons of rutabaga to market. They are mine, the old zigzag rail fences, the new barb wire.. . . The cornhuskers wear leather on their hands. There is no let-up to the wind. Blue bandannas are knotted at the ruddy chins. Falltime and winter apples take on the smolder of the five-o'clock November sunset: falltime, leaves, bonfires, stubble, the old things go, and the earth is grizzled. The land and the people hold memories, even among the anthills and the 343 angleworms, among the toads and woodroaches—among gravestone writings rubbed out by the rain—they keep old things that never grow old. The frost loosens corn husks. The Sun, the rain, the wind loosen corn husks. The men and women are helpers. They are all cornhuskers together. I see them late in the western evening in a smoke-red dust.. . . The phantom of a yellow rooster flaunting a scarlet comb, on top of a dung pile crying hallelujah to the streaks of daylight, The phantom of an old hunting dog nosing in the underbrush for muskrats, barking at a coon in a treetop at midnight, chewing a bone, chasing his tail round a corncrib, The phantom of an old workhorse taking the steel point of a plow across a fortyacre field in spring, hitched to a harrow in summer, hitched to a wagon among cornshocks in fall, These phantoms come into the talk and wonder of people on the front porch of a farmhouse late summer nights. "The shapes that are gone are here," said an old man with a cob pipe in his teeth one night in Kansas with a hot wind on the alfalfa.. . . Look at six eggs In a mockingbird's nest. Listen to six mockingbirds Flinging follies of O-be-joyful Over the marshes and uplands. Look at songs Hidden in eggs.. . . When the morning sun is on the trumpet-vine blossoms, sing at the kitchen pans: Shout All Over God's Heaven. When the rain slants on the potato hills and the sun plays a silver shaft on the last shower, sing to the bush at the backyard fence: Mighty Lak a Rose. When the icy sleet pounds on the storm windows and the house lifts to a great breath, sing for the outside hills: The Ole Sheep Done Know the Road, the Young Lambs Must Find the Way.. . . Spring slips back with a girl face calling always: "Any new songs for me? 344 Any new songs?" O prairie girl, be lonely, singing, dreaming, waiting—your lover comes—your child comes—the years creep with toes of April rain on new-turned sod. O prairie girl, whoever leaves you only crimson poppies to talk with, whoever puts a good-by kiss on your lips and never comes back— There is a song deep as the falltime redhaws, long as the layer of black loam we go to, the shine of the morning star over the corn belt, the wave line of dawn up a wheat valley.. . . O prairie mother, I am one of your boys. I have loved the prairie as a man with a heart shot full of pain over love. Here I know I will hanker after nothing so much as one more sunrise or a sky moon of fire doubled to a river moon of water.. . . I speak of new cities and new people. I tell you the past is a bucket of ashes. I tell you yesterday is a wind gone down, a sun dropped in the west. I tell you there is nothing in the world only an ocean of to-morrows, a sky of to-morrows. I am a brother of the cornhuskers who say at sundown: To-morrow is a day. ~ Carl Sandburg,

308:Sappho To Phaon (Ovid Heroid Xv) Say, lovely youth, that dost my heart command, Can Phaon's eyes forget his Sappho's hand? Must then her name the wretched writer prove, To thy remembrance lost, as to thy love? Ask not the cause that I new numbers choose, The Lute neglected, and the Lyric muse; Love taught my tears in adder notes to flow, And tun'd my heart to Elegies of woe, I burn, I burn, as when thro' ripen'd corn By driving winds the spreading flames are borne! Phaon to Aetna's scorching fields retires, While I consume with more than Aetna's fires! No more my soul a charm in music finds, Music has charms alone for peaceful minds. Soft scenes of solitude no more can please, Love enters there, and I'm my own disease. No more the Lesbian dames my passion move, Once the dear objects of my guilty love; All other loves are lost in only thine, Ah youth ungrateful to a flame like mine! Whom would not all those blooming charms surprize, Those heav'nly looks, and dear deluding eyes? The harp and bow would you like Phoebus bear, A brighter Phoebus Phaon might appear; Would you with ivy wreath your flowing hair, Not Bacchus' self with Phaon could compare: Yet Phoebus lov'd, and Bacchus felt the flame, One Daphne warm'd, and one the Cretan dame, Nymphs that in verse no more could rival me, That ev'n those Gods contend in charms with thee. The Muses teach me all their softest lays, And the wide world resounds with Sappho's praise. Tho' great Alcaeus more sublimely sings, And strikes with bolder rage the sounding strings, No less renown attends the moving lyre, Which Venus tunes, and all her loves inspire; To me what nature has in charms deny'd, Is well by wit's more lasting flames supply'd. Tho' short my stature, yet my name extends 146 To heav'n itself, and earth's remotest ends. Brown as I am, an Ethiopian dame Inspir'd young Perseus with a gen'rous flame; Turtles and doves of diff'ring hues unite, And glossy jet is pair'd with shining white. If to no charms thou wilt thy heart resign, But such as merit, such as equal thine, By none, alas! by none thou canst be mov'd, Phaon alone by Phaon must be lov'd! Yet once thy Sappho could thy cares employ, Once in her arms you center'd all your joy: No time the dear remembrance can remove, For oh! how vast a memory has love! My music, then, you could for ever hear, And all my words were music to your ear; You stopp'd with kisses my enchanting tongue, And found my kisses sweeter than my song. In all I pleas'd, but most in what was best; And the last joy was dearer than the rest. Then with each word, each glance, each motion fir'd, You still enjoy'd, and yet you still desir'd, 'Till all dissolving in the trance we lay, And in tumultuous raptures died away. The fair Sicilians now thy soul inflame; Why was I born, ye Gods, a Lesbian dame? But ah beware, Sicilian nymphs! nor boast That wand'ring heart which I so lately lost; Nor be with all those tempting words abus'd, Those tempting words were all to Sappho us'd. And you that rule Sicilia's happy plains, Have pity, Venus, on your Poet's pains! Shall fortune still in one sad tenor run, And still increase the woes so soon begun? Inur'd to sorrow from my tender years, My parent's ashes drank my early tears: My brother next, neglecting wealth and fame, Ignobly burn'd in a destructive flame: An infant daughter late my griefs increas'd, And all a mother's cares distract my breast. Alas, what more could fate itself impose, But thee, the last and greatest of my woes? No more my robes in waving purple flow, 147 Nor on my hand the sparkling di'monds glow; No more my locks in ringlets curl'd diffuse The costly sweetness of Arabian dews, Nor braids of gold the varied tresses bind, That fly disorder'd with the wanton wind, For whom should Sappho use such arts as these? He's gone, whom only she desir'd to please! Cupid's light darts my tender bosom move, Still is there cause for Sappho still to love: So from my birth the Sisters fix'd my doom, And gave to Venus all my life to come; Or while my Muse in melting notes complains, My yielding heart keeps measure to my strains. By charms like thine which all my soul have won, Who might not - ah! who would not be undone? For those Aurora Cephalus might scorn, And with fresh blushes paint the conscious morn. For those might Cynthia lengthen Phaon's sleep, And bit Endymion nightly tend his sheep. Venus for those had rapt thee to the skies, But Mars on thee might look with Venus' eyes. O scarce a youth, yet scarce a tender boy! O useful time for lovers to employ! Pride of thy age, and glory of thy race, Come to these arms, and melt in this embrace! The vows you never will return, receive; And take at least the love you will not give. See, while I write, my words are lost in tears; The less my sense, the more my love appears. Sure 'twas not much to bid one kind adieu, (At least to feign was never hard to you) Farewell, my Lesbian love, you might have said, Or coldly thus, Farewell, oh Lesbian maid! No tear did you, no parting kiss receive, Nor knew I then how much I was to grieve. No lover's gift your Sappho could confer, And wrongs and woes were all you left with her. No charge I gave you, and no charge could give, But this, Be mindful of our loves, and live. Now by the Nine, those pow'rs ador'd by me, And Love, the God that ever waits on thee, When first I heard (from whom I hardly knew) 148 That you were fled, and all my joys with you, Like some sad statue, speechless, pale I stood, Grief chill'd my breast, and stopp'd my freezing blood; No sigh to rise, no tear had powr to flow, Fix'd in a stupid lethargy of woe: But when its way th' impetuous passion found, I rend my tresses, and my breast I wound, I rave, then weep, I curse, and then complain, Now swell to rage, no melt in tears again. Not fiercer pangs distract the mournful dame, Whose first-born infant feeds the fun'ral flame. My scornful brother with a smile appears, Insults my woes, and triumphs in my tears; His hated image ever haunts my eyes, And why this grief? thy daughter lives, he cries. Stung with my Love, and furious with despair, All torn my garments, and my bosom bare, My woes, thy crimes, I to the world proclaim; Such inconsistent things are love and shame! 'Tis thou art all my care and my delight, My daily longing, and my dream by night: Oh night more pleasing than the brightest day, When fancy gives what absence takes away, And, dress'd in all its visionary charms, Restores my fair deserter to my arms! Then round your neck in wanton wreaths I twine, Then you, methinks, as fondly circle mine: A thousand tender words I hear and speak; A thousand melting kisses give, and take: Then fiercer joys, I blush to mention these, Yet while I blush, confess how much they please. But when, with day, the sweet delusions fly, And all things wake to life and joy, but I, As if once more forsaken, I complain, And close my eyes to dream of you again; Then frantic rise, and like some Fury rove Thro' lonely plains, and thro' the silent grove, As if the silent grove, and lonely plains, That knew my pleasures, could relieve my pains. I view the Grotto, once the scene of love, The rocks around, the hanging roofs above, That charm'd me more, with native moss o'ergrown, 149 Than Phyrgian marble, or the Parian stone. I find the shades that veil'd our joys before; But, Phaon gone, those shades delight no more. Here the press'd herbs with bending tops betray Where oft entwin'd in am'rous folds we lay; I kiss that earth which once was press'd by you, And all with tears the with'ring herbs bedew. For thee the fading trees appear to mourn, And birds defer their songs till thy return; Night shades the grove,s and all in silence lie, All but the mournful Philomel and I: With mournful Philomel I join my strain, Of Tereus she, of Phaeon I complain. A spring there is, whose silver waters show, Clear as a glass, the shining sands below: A flow'ry Lotos spreads its arms above, Shades all the banks, and seems itself a grove; Eternal greens the mossy margin grace, Watch'd by the sylvan Genius of the place. Here as I lay, and swell'd with tears the flood, Before my sight a wat'ry Virgin stood: She stood and cry'd, 'O you that love in vain! 'Fly hence, and seek the fair Leucadian main; 'There stands a rock, from whose impending steep 'Apollo's fane surveys the rolling deep; 'There injur'd lovers, leaping from above, 'Their flames extinguish, and forget to love. 'Deucalion once, with hopeless fury burn'd, 'In vain he lov'd, relentless Pyrrha scorn'd; 'But when from hence he plung'd into the main, 'Deucalion scorn'd, and Pyrrha lov'd in vain. Haste, Sappho, haste, from high Leucadia throw 'Thy wretched weight, nor dread the deeps below!' She spoke, and vanish'd with the voice - I rise, And silent tears fall trickling from my eyes. I go, ye Nymphs! those rocks and seas to prove; How much I fear, but ah, how much I love! I go, ye Nymphs! where furious love inspires; Let female fears submit to female fires. To rocks and seas I fly from Phaon's hate, And hope from seas and rocks a milder fate. 150 Ye gentle gales, beneath my body blow, And softly lay me on the waves below! And thou, kind Love, my sinking limbs sustain, Spread thy soft wings, and waft me o'er the main, Nor let a Lover's death the guiltless flood profane! On Phoebus' shrine my harp I'll then bestow, And this Inscription shall be plac'd below. 'Here she who sung, to him that did inspire, 'Sappho to Phoebus consecrates her Lyre; 'What suits with Sappho, Phoebus, suits with thee; The Gift, the giver, and the God agree.' But why, alas, relentless youth, ah why To distant seas must tender Sappho fly? Thy charms than those may far more pow'rful be, And Phoebus' self is less a God to me. Ah! canst thou doom me to the rocks and sea, O far more faithless and more hard than they? Ah! canst thou rather see this tender breast Dash'd on these rocks than to thy bosom prest? This breast which once, in vain! you lik'd so well; Where Loves play'd, and where the Muses dwell. Alas! the Muses now no more inspire, Untun'd my lute, and silent is my lyre, My languid numbers have forgot to flow, And fancy sinks beneath a weight of woe. Ye Lesbian virgins, and ye Lesbian dames, Themes of my verse, and objects of my flames, No more your groves with my glad songs shall ring, No more these hands shall touch the trembling string: My Phaon's fled, and I those arts resign (Wretch that I am, to call that Phaon mine!) Return, fair youth, return, and bring along Joy to my soul, and vigour to my song: Absent from thee, the Poet's flame expires; But ah! how fiercely burn the Lover's fires! Gods! can no pray'rs, no sighs, no numbers move One savage heart, or teach it how to love? The winds my pray'rs, my sighs, my numbers bear, The flying winds have lost them all in air! Oh when, alas! shall more auspicious gales To these fond eyes restore thy welcome sails? If you return - ah why these long delays? 151 Poor Sappho dies while careless Phaon stays. O launch thy bark, secure of prosp'rous gales; Cupid for thee shall spread the swelling gales; I you will fly - (yet ah! what cause can be, Too cruel youth, that you should fly from me?) If not from Phaon I must hope for ease, Ah let me seek it from the raging seas: To raging seas unpity'd I'll remove, And either cease to live or cease to love! ~ Alexander Pope,

309:Charades I. She stood at Greenwich, motionless amid The ever-shifting crowd of passengers. I marked a big tear quivering on the lid Of her deep-lustrous eye, and knew that hers Were days of bitterness. But, 'Oh! what stirs' I said 'such storm within so fair a breast?' Even as I spoke, two apoplectic curs Came feebly up: with one wild cry she prest Each singly to her heart, and faltered, 'Heaven be blest!' Yet once again I saw her, from the deck Of a black ship that steamed towards Blackwall. She walked upon MY FIRST. Her stately neck Bent o'er an object shrouded in her shawl: I could not see the tears--the glad tears--fall, Yet knew they fell. And 'Ah,' I said, 'not puppies, Seen unexpectedly, could lift the pall From hearts who KNOW what tasting misery's cup is, As Niobe's, or mine, or Mr. William Guppy's.' *** Spake John Grogblossom the coachman to Eliza Spinks the cook: 'Mrs. Spinks,' says he, 'I've foundered: 'Liza dear, I'm overtook. Druv into a corner reglar, puzzled as a babe unborn; Speak the word, my blessed 'Liza; speak, and John the coachman's yourn.' Then Eliza Spinks made answer, blushing, to the coachman John: 'John, I'm born and bred a spinster: I've begun and I'll go on. Endless cares and endless worrits, well I knows it, has a wife: Cooking for a genteel family, John, it's a goluptious life! 'I gets 20 pounds per annum--tea and things o' course not reckoned, There's a cat that eats the butter, takes the coals, and breaks MY SECOND: There's soci'ty--James the footman;--(not that I look after him; But he's aff'ble in his manners, with amazing length of limb - 'Never durst the missis enter here until I've said 'Come in': If I saw the master peeping, I'd catch up the rolling-pin. Christmas-boxes, that's a something; perkisites, that's something too; And I think, take all together, John, I won't be on with you.' John the coachman took his hat up, for he thought he'd had enough; Rubbed an elongated forehead with a meditative cuff; Paused before the stable doorway; said, when there, in accents mild, 'She's a fine young 'oman, cook is; but that's where it is, she's spiled.' *** I have read in some not marvellous tale, (Or if I have not, I've dreamed) Of one who filled up the convivial cup Till the company round him seemed To be vanished and gone, tho' the lamps upon Their face as aforetime gleamed: And his head sunk down, and a Lethe crept O'er his powerful brain, and the young man slept. Then they laid him with care in his moonlit bed: But first--having thoughtfully fetched some tar Adorned him with feathers, aware that the weather's Uncertainty brings on at nights catarrh. They staid in his room till the sun was high: But still did the feathered one give no sign Of opening a peeper--he might be a sleeper Such as rests on the Northern or Midland line. At last he woke, and with profound Bewilderment he gazed around; Dropped one, then both feet to the ground, But never spake a word: Then to my WHOLE he made his way; Took one long lingering survey; And softly, as he stole away, 10 Remarked, 'By Jove, a bird!' II. If you've seen a short man swagger tow'rds the footlights at Shoreditch, Sing out 'Heave aho! my hearties,' and perpetually hitch Up, by an ingenious movement, trousers innocent of brace, Briskly flourishing a cudgel in his pleased companion's face; If he preluded with hornpipes each successive thing he did, From a sun-browned cheek extracting still an ostentatious quid; And expectorated freely, and occasionally cursed:Then have you beheld, depicted by a master's hand, MY FIRST. O my countryman! if ever from thy arm the bolster sped, In thy school-days, with precision at a young companion's head; If 'twas thine to lodge the marble in the centre of the ring, Or with well-directed pebble make the sitting hen take wing: Then do thou--each fair May morning, when the blue lake is as glass, And the gossamers are twinkling star-like in the beaded grass; When the mountain-bee is sipping fragrance from the bluebell's lip, And the bathing-woman tells you, Now's your time to take a dip: When along the misty valleys fieldward winds the lowing herd, And the early worm is being dropped on by the early bird; And Aurora hangs her jewels from the bending rose's cup, And the myriad voice of Nature calls thee to MY SECOND up:Hie thee to the breezy common, where the melancholy goose Stalks, and the astonished donkey finds that he is really loose; There amid green fern and furze-bush shalt thou soon MY WHOLE behold, Rising 'bull-eyed and majestic'--as Olympus queen of old: Kneel,--at a respectful distance,--as they kneeled to her, and try With judicious hand to put a ball into that ball-less eye: Till a stiffness seize thy elbows, and the general public wake Then return, and, clear of conscience, walk into thy well-earned steak. 11 III. Ere yet 'knowledge for the million' Came out 'neatly bound in boards;' When like Care upon a pillion Matrons rode behind their lords: Rarely, save to hear the Rector, Forth did younger ladies roam; Making pies, and brewing nectar From the gooseberry-trees at home. They'd not dreamed of Pan or Vevay; Ne'er should into blossom burst At the ball or at the levee; Never come, in fact, MY FIRST: Nor illumine cards by dozens With some labyrinthine text, Nor work smoking-caps for cousins Who were pounding at MY NEXT. Now have skirts, and minds, grown ampler; Now not all they seek to do Is create upon a sampler Beasts which Buffon never knew: But their venturous muslins rustle O'er the cragstone and the snow, Or at home their biceps muscle Grows by practising the bow. Worthier they those dames who, fable Says, rode 'palfreys' to the war With gigantic Thanes, whose 'sable Destriers caracoled' before; Smiled, as--springing from the war-horse As men spring in modern 'cirques' They plunged, ponderous as a four-horse Coach, among the vanished Turks:In the good times when the jester Asked the monarch how he was, And the landlady addrest her 12 Guests as 'gossip' or as 'coz'; When the Templar said, 'Gramercy,' Or, ''Twas shrewdly thrust, i' fegs,' To Sir Halbert or Sir Percy As they knocked him off his legs: And, by way of mild reminders That he needed coin, the Knight Day by day extracted grinders From the howling Israelite: And MY WHOLE in merry Sherwood Sent, with preterhuman luck, Missiles--not of steel but firwood Thro' the two-mile-distant buck. IV. Evening threw soberer hue Over the blue sky, and the few Poplars that grew just in the view Of the hall of Sir Hugo de Wynkle: 'Answer me true,' pleaded Sir Hugh, (Striving to woo no matter who,) 'What shall I do, Lady, for you? 'Twill be done, ere your eye may twinkle. Shall I borrow the wand of a Moorish enchanter, And bid a decanter contain the Levant, or The brass from the face of a Mormonite ranter? Shall I go for the mule of the Spanish Infantar (That _R_, for the sake of the line, we must grant her,) And race with the foul fiend, and beat in a canter, Like that first of equestrians Tam o' Shanter? I talk not mere banter--say not that I can't, or By this MY FIRST--(a Virginia planter Sold it me to kill rats)--I will die instanter.' The Lady bended her ivory neck, and Whispered mournfully, 'Go for--MY SECOND.' She said, and the red from Sir Hugh's cheek fled, And 'Nay,' did he say, as he stalked away The fiercest of injured men: 13 'Twice have I humbled my haughty soul, And on bended knee I have pressed MY WHOLE But I never will press it again!' V. On pinnacled St. Mary's Lingers the setting sun; Into the street the blackguards Are skulking one by one: Butcher and Boots and Bargeman Lay pipe and pewter down; And with wild shout come tumbling out To join the Town and Gown. And now the undergraduates Come forth by twos and threes, From the broad tower of Trinity, From the green gate of Caius: The wily bargeman marks them, And swears to do his worst; To turn to impotence their strength, And their beauty to MY FIRST. But before Corpus gateway MY SECOND first arose, When Barnacles the freshman Was pinned upon the nose: Pinned on the nose by Boxer, Who brought a hobnailed herd From Barnwell, where he kept a van, Being indeed a dogsmeat man, Vendor of terriers, blue or tan, And dealer in MY THIRD. 'Twere long to tell how Boxer Was 'countered' on the cheek, And knocked into the middle Of the ensuing week: How Barnacles the Freshman 14 Was asked his name and college; And how he did the fatal facts Reluctantly acknowledge. He called upon the Proctor Next day at half-past ten; Men whispered that the Freshman cut A different figure then:That the brass forsook his forehead, The iron fled his soul, As with blanched lip and visage wan Before the stony-hearted Don He kneeled upon MY WHOLE. VI. Sikes, housebreaker, of Houndsditch, Habitually swore; But so surpassingly profane He never was before, As on a night in winter, When--softly as he stole In the dim light from stair to stair, Noiseless as boys who in her lair Seek to surprise a fat old hare He barked his shinbone, unaware Encountering MY WHOLE. As pours the Anio plainward, When rains have swollen the dykes, So, with such noise, poured down MY FIRST, Stirred by the shins of Sikes. The Butler Bibulus heard it; And straightway ceased to snore, And sat up, like an egg on end, While men might count a score: Then spake he to Tigerius, A Buttons bold was he: 'Buttons, I think there's thieves about; Just strike a light and tumble out; 15 If you can't find one, go without, And see what you may see.' But now was all the household, Almost, upon its legs, Each treading carefully about As if they trod on eggs. With robe far-streaming issued Paterfamilias forth; And close behind him,--stout and true And tender as the North, Came Mrs. P., supporting On her broad arm her fourth. Betsy the nurse, who never From largest beetle ran, And--conscious p'raps of pleasing caps The housemaids, formed the van: And Bibulus the Butler, His calm brows slightly arched; (No mortal wight had ere that night Seen him with shirt unstarched And Bob, the shockhaired knifeboy, Wielding two Sheffield blades, And James Plush of the sinewy legs, The love of lady's maids: And charwoman and chaplain Stood mingled in a mass, And 'Things,' thought he of Houndsditch, 'Is come to a pretty pass.' Beyond all things a Baby Is to the schoolgirl dear; Next to herself the nursemaid loves Her dashing grenadier; Only with life the sailor Parts from the British flag; While one hope lingers, the cracksman's fingers Drop not his hard-earned 'swag.' But, as hares do MY SECOND Thro' green Calabria's copses, 16 As females vanish at the sight Of short-horns and of wopses; So, dropping forks and teaspoons, The pride of Houndsditch fled, Dumbfoundered by the hue and cry He'd raised up overhead. *** They gave him--did the Judges As much as was his due. And, Saxon, should'st thou e'er be led To deem this tale untrue; Then--any night in winter, When the cold north wind blows, And bairns are told to keep out cold By tallowing the nose: When round the fire the elders Are gathered in a bunch, And the girls are doing crochet, And the boys are reading Punch:Go thou and look in Leech's book; There haply shalt thou spy A stout man on a staircase stand, With aspect anything but bland, And rub his right shin with his hand, To witness if I lie. ~ Charles Stuart Calverley,

310:La Chevelure (Her Hair) Ô toison, moutonnant jusque sur l'encolure! Ô boucles! Ô parfum chargé de nonchaloir! Extase! Pour peupler ce soir l'alcôve obscure Des souvenirs dormant dans cette chevelure, Je la veux agiter dans l'air comme un mouchoir! La langoureuse Asie et la brûlante Afrique, Tout un monde lointain, absent, presque défunt, Vit dans tes profondeurs, forêt aromatique! Comme d'autres esprits voguent sur la musique, Le mien, ô mon amour! nage sur ton parfum. J'irai là-bas où l'arbre et l'homme, pleins de sève, Se pâment longuement sous l'ardeur des climats; Fortes tresses, soyez la houle qui m'enlève! Tu contiens, mer d'ébène, un éblouissant rêve De voiles, de rameurs, de flammes et de mâts: Un port retentissant où mon âme peut boire À grands flots le parfum, le son et la couleur Où les vaisseaux, glissant dans l'or et dans la moire Ouvrent leurs vastes bras pour embrasser la gloire D'un ciel pur où frémit l'éternelle chaleur. Je plongerai ma tête amoureuse d'ivresse Dans ce noir océan où l'autre est enfermé; Et mon esprit subtil que le roulis caresse Saura vous retrouver, ô féconde paresse, Infinis bercements du loisir embaumé! Cheveux bleus, pavillon de ténèbres tendues Vous me rendez l'azur du ciel immense et rond; Sur les bords duvetés de vos mèches tordues Je m'enivre ardemment des senteurs confondues De l'huile de coco, du musc et du goudron. Longtemps! toujours! ma main dans ta crinière lourde Sèmera le rubis, la perle et le saphir, Afin qu'à mon désir tu ne sois jamais sourde! 214 N'es-tu pas l'oasis où je rêve, et la gourde Où je hume à longs traits le vin du souvenir? Head of Hair O fleecy hair, falling in curls to the shoulders! O black locks! O perfume laden with nonchalance! Ecstasy! To people the dark alcove tonight With memories sleeping in that thick head of hair. I would like to shake it in the air like a scarf! Sweltering Africa and languorous Asia, A whole far-away world, absent, almost defunct, Dwells in your depths, aromatic forest! While other spirits glide on the wings of music, Mine, O my love! floats upon your perfume. I shall go there, where trees and men, full of vigor, Are plunged in a deep swoon by the heat of the land; Heady tresses be the billows that carry me away! Ebony sea, you hold a dazzling dream Of rigging, of rowers, of pennons and of masts: A clamorous harbor where my spirit can drink In great draughts the perfume, the sound and the color; Where the vessels gliding through the gold and the moire Open wide their vast arms to embrace the glory Of a clear sky shimmering with everlasting heat. I shall bury my head enamored with rapture In this black sea where the other is imprisoned; And my subtle spirit caressed by the rolling Will find you once again, O fruitful indolence, Endless lulling of sweet-scented leisure! Blue-black hair, pavilion hung with shadows, You give back to me the blue of the vast round sky; In the downy edges of your curling tresses I ardently get drunk with the mingled odors Of oil of coconut, of musk and tar. A long time! Forever! my hand in your thick mane 215 Will scatter sapphires, rubies and pearls, So that you will never be deaf to my desire! Aren't you the oasis of which I dream, the gourd From which I drink deeply, the wine of memory? — Translated by William Aggeler Her Hair O fleece that down her nape rolls, plume on plume! O curls! O scent of nonchalance and ease! What ecstasy! To populate this room With memories it harbours in its gloom, I'd shake it like a banner on the breeze. Hot Africa and languid Asia play (An absent world, defunct, and far away) Within that scented forest, dark and dim. As other souls on waves of music swim, Mine on its perfume sails, as on the spray. I'll journey there, where man and sap-filled tree Swoon in hot light for hours. Be you my sea, Strong tresses! Be the breakers and gales That waft me. Your black river holds, for me, A dream of masts and rowers, flames and sails. A port, resounding there, my soul delivers With long deep draughts of perfumes, scent, and clamour, Where ships, that glide through gold and purple rivers, Fling wide their vast arms to embrace the glamour Of skies wherein the heat forever quivers. I'll plunge my head in it, half drunk with pleasure — In this black ocean that engulfs her form. My soul, caressed with wavelets there may measure Infinite rocking& in embalmed leisure, Creative idleness that fears no storm! Blue tresses, like a shadow-stretching tent, 216 You shed the blue of heavens round and far. Along its downy fringes as I went I reeled half-drunken to confuse the scent Of oil of coconuts, with musk and tar. My hand forever in your mane so dense, Rubies and pearls and sapphires there will sow, That you to my desire be never slow — Oasis of my dreams, and gourd from whence Deep-draughted wines of memory will flow. — Translated by Roy Campbell The Fleece O shadowy fleece that falls and curls upon those bare Lithe shoulders! O rich perfume of forgetfulness! O ecstasy! To loose upon the midnight air The memories asleep in this tumultuous hair, I long to rake it in my fingers, tress by tress! Asia the languorous, the burning solitude Of Africa — a whole world, distant, all but dead — Survives in thy profundities, O odorous wood! My soul, as other souls put forth on the deep flood Of music, sails away upon thy scent instead. There where the sap of life mounts hot in man and tree, And lush desire untamed swoons in the torrid zone, Undulant tresses, wild strong waves, oh, carry me! Dream, like a dazzling sun, from out this ebony sea Rises; and sails and banks of rowers propel me on. All the confusion, all the mingled colors, cries, Smells of a busy port, upon my senses beat; Where smoothly on the golden streakèd ripples flies The barque, its arms outspread to gather in the skies, Against whose glory trembles the unabating heat. In this black ocean where the primal ocean roars, Drunken, in love with drunkenness, I plunge and drown; 217 Over my dubious spirit the rolling tide outpours Its peace — oh, fruitful indolence, upon thy shores, Cradled in languor, let me drift and lay me down! Blue hair, darkness made palpable, like the big tent Of desert sky all glittering with many a star Thou coverest me — oh, I am drugged as with the blent Effluvia of a sleeping caravan, the scent Of coco oil impregnated with musk and tar. Fear not! Upon this savage mane for ever thy lord Will sow pearls, sapphires, rubies, every stone that gleams, To keep thee faithful! Art not thou the sycamored Oasis whither my thoughts journey, and the dark gourd Whereof I drink in long slow draughts the wine of dreams? — Translated by George Dillon Of Her Hair O fleece, billowing on her neck! O ecstasy! O curls, O perfume rich with nonchalance, O rare!. Tonight to fill the alcove's warm obscurity, To make that hair evoke each dormant memory, I long to wave it like a kerchief in the air. Africa smoldering and Asia languorous, A whole far distant world, absent and almost spent, Dwells in your forest depths, mystic and odorous! As others lose themselves in the harmonious, So, love, my heart floats lost upon your haunting scent. I shall go where both man and tree, albeit strong, Swoon deep beneath the rays of sunlight's blazing fires. Thick tresses, be the waves to bear my dreams along! Ebony sea, your dazzling dream contains a throng Of sails, of wafts, of oarsmen, and of masts like spires. A noisy harbor where my thirsty soul may drain Hues, sounds and fragrances, in draughts heavy and sweet, 218 Where vessels gliding down a moiré-and-gold sea lane Open their vast arms wide to clutch at the domain Of a pure sky ashimmer with eternal beat. Deep shall I plunge my head, avid of drunkenness, In this black sea wherein the other sea lies captured, And my soul buoyant at its undulant caress Shall find you once again, O fruitful idleness, O long lullings of ease, soft, honeyed and enraptured. O blue-black hair, pennon with sheen and shadow fraught, You give me back the vast blue skies of dawn and dusk, As on the downy edges of your tresses, caught In your soft curls, I grow drunken and hot, distraught By mingled scents of cocoanut and tar and musk. Sapphires, rubies, pearls — my hand shall never tire Of strewing these through your thick mane — how lavishly! — Lest Life should ever turn you deaf to my desire! You are the last oasis where I dream, afire, The gourd whence deep I quaff the wine of memory. — Translated by Jacques LeClercq The Head of Hair O Fleece, foaming to the neck! O curls! O scent of laziness! Ecstasy! This evening, to people the dark comers Of memories that are sleeping in these locks, I would wave them in the air like a handkerchief! Languorous Asia and burning Africa, A whole world, distant, absent, almost extinct, Lives in the depths of your perfumed jungle; As other souls sail along on music, So mine, O my love, swims on your scent. I shall go over there where trees and men, full of sap, Faint away slowly in the passionate climate; O strong locks, be the sea-swell that transports me! 219 You keep, O sea of ebony, a dazzling dream Of sails and sailormen, flames and masts: A resounding haven where in great waves My soul can drink the scent, the sound and color; Where ships, sliding in gold and watered silk, Part their vast arms to embrace the glory Of the pure sky shuddering with eternal heat I shall plunge my head, adoring drunkenness, Into this black ocean where the other is imprisoned; And my subtle spirit caressed by the sway Will know how to find you, O pregnant idleness! In an infinite cradle of scented leisure! Blue hair, house of taut darkness, You make the blue of the sky seem huge and round for me; On the downy edges of your twisted locks I hungrily get drunk on the muddled fragrances Of coconut oil, of musk and tar For a long time! For ever! Amongst your heavy mane My hand will strew the ruby, pearl and sapphire To make you never deaf to my desire! For are you not the oasis where I dream, the gourd Where in great draughts I gulp the wine of memory? — Translated by Geoffrey Wagner O fleece, that down the neck waves to the nape! O curls! O perfume nonchalant and rare! O ecstasy! To fill this alcove shape With memories that in these tresses sleep, I would shake them like penions in the air! Languorous Asia, burning Africa, And a far world, defunct almost, absent, Within your aromatic forest stay! As other souls on music drift away, Mine, O my love! still floats upon your scent. 220 I shall go there where, full of sap, both tree And man swoon in the heat of the southern climates; Strong tresses be the swell that carries me! I dream upon your sea of amber Of dazzling sails, of oarsmen, masts, and flames: A sun-drenched and reverberating port, Where I imbibe colour and sound and scent; Where vessels, gliding through the gold and moiré, Open their vast arms as they leave the shore To clasp the pure and shimmering firmament. I'll plunge my head, enamored of its pleasure, In this black ocean where the other hides; My subtle spirit then will know a measure Of fertile idleness and fragrant leisure, Lulled by the infinite rhythm of its tides! Pavilion, of autumn-shadowed tresses spun, You give me back the azure from afar; And where the twisted locks are fringed with down Lurk mingled odors I grow drunk upon Of oil of coconut, of musk, and tar. A long time! always! my hand in your hair Will sow the stars of sapphire, pearl, ruby, That you be never deaf to my desire, My oasis and my gourd whence I aspire To drink deep of the wine of memory. Translated by Anonymous ~ Charles Baudelaire,

311:Lucretius Lucilla, wedded to Lucretius, found Her master cold; for when the morning flush Of passion and the first embrace had died Between them, tho' he loved her none the less, Yet often when the woman heard his foot Return from pacings in the field, and ran To greet him with a kiss, the master took Small notice, or austerely, for his mind Half buried in some weightier argument, Or fancy-borne perhaps upon the rise And long roll of the hexameter -- he past To turn and ponder those three hundred scrolls Left by the Teacher, whom he held divine. She brook'd it not, but wrathful, petulant Dreaming some rival, sought and found a witch Who brew'd the philtre which had power, they said To lead an errant passion home again. And this, at times, she mingled with his drink, And this destroy'd him; for the wicked broth Confused the chemic labor of the blood, And tickling the brute brain within the man's Made havoc among those tender cells, and check'd His power to shape. He loathed himself, and once After a tempest woke upon a morn That mock'd him with returning calm, and cried: "Storm in the night! for thrice I heard the rain Rushing; and once the flash of a thunderbolt -Methought I never saw so fierce a fork -Struck out the streaming mountain-side, and show'd A riotous confluence of watercourses Blanching and billowing in a hollow of it, Where all but yester-eve was dusty-dry. "Storm, and what dreams, ye holy Gods, what dreams! For thrice I waken'd after dreams. Perchance We do but recollect the dreams that come Just ere the waking. Terrible: for it seem'd A void was made in Nature, all her bonds 338 Crack'd; and I saw the flaring atom-streams And torrents of her myriad universe, Ruining along the illimitable inane, Fly on to clash together again, and make Another and another frame of things For ever. That was mine, my dream, I knew it -Of and belonging to me, as the dog With inward yelp and restless forefoot plies His function of the woodland; but the next! I thought that all the blood by Sylla shed Came driving rainlike down again on earth, And where it dash'd the reddening meadow, sprang No dragon warriors from Cadmean teeth, For these I thought my dream would show to me, But girls, Hetairai, curious in their art, Hired animalisms, vile as those that made The mulberry-faced Dictator's orgies worse Than aught they fable of the quiet Gods. And hands they mixt, and yell'd and round me drove In narrowing circles till I yell'd again Half-suffocated, and sprang up, and saw -Was it the first beam of my latest day? "Then, then, from utter gloom stood out the The breasts of Helen, and hoveringly a sword Now over and now under, now direct, Pointed itself to pierce, but sank down shamed At all that beauty; and as I stared, a fire, The fire that left a roofless Ilion, Shot out of them, and scorch'd me that I woke. "Is this thy vengeance, holy Venus, thine, Because I would not one of thine own doves, Not even a rose, were offered to thee? thine, Forgetful how my rich proemion makes Thy glory fly along the Italian field, In lays that will outlast thy deity? "Deity? nay, thy worshippers. My tongue Trips, or I speak profanely. Which of these Angers thee most, or angers thee at all? Not if thou be'st of those who, far aloof 339 From envy, hate and pity, and spite and scorn, Live the great life which all our greatest fain Would follow, centred in eternal calm. "Nay, if thou canst, Goddess, like ourselves Touch, and be touch'd, then would I cry to thee To kiss thy Mavors, roll thy tender arms Round him, and keep him from the lust of blood That makes a steaming slaughter-house of Rome. "Ay, but I meant not thee; I meant riot her Whom all the pines of Ida shook to see Slide from that quiet heaven of hers, and tempt The Trojan, while his neatherds were abroad Nor her that o'er her wounded hunter wept Her deity false in human-amorous tears; Nor whom her beardless apple-arbiter Decided fairest. Rather, O ye Gods, Poet-like, as the great Sicilian called Calliope to grace his golden verse -Ay, and this Kypris also -- did I take That popular name of thine to shadow forth The all-generating powers and genial heat Of Nature, when she strikes thro' the thick blood Of cattle, and light is large, and lambs are glad Nosing the mother's udder, and the bird Makes his heart voice amid the blaze of flowers; Which things appear the work of mighty Gods. "The Gods! and if I go my work is left Unfinish'd -- if I go. The Gods, who haunt The lucid interspace of world and world, Where never creeps a cloud, or moves a wind, Nor ever falls the least white star of mow Nor ever lowest roll of thunder moans, Nor sound of human sorrow mounts to mar Their sacred everlasting calm! and such, Not all so fine, nor so divine a calm Not such, nor all unlike it, man may gain Letting his own life go. The Gods, the Godsl If all be atoms, how then should the Gods 340 Being atomic not be dissoluble, Not follow the great law? My master held That Gods there are, for all men so believe. I prest my footsteps into his, and meant Surely to lead my Memmius in a train Of fiowery clauses onward to the proof That Gods there are, and deathless. Meant? I meant? I have forgotten what I meant, my mind Stumbles, and all my faculties are lamed. "Look where another of our Gods, the Sun Apollo, Delius, or of older use All-seeing Hyperion -- what you will -Has mounted yonder; since he never sware, Except his wrath were wreak'd on wretched man, That he would only shine among the dead Hereafter -- tales! for never yet on earth Could dead flesh creep, or bits of roasting ox Moan round the spit -- nor knows he what he sees; King of the East altho' he seem, and girt With song and flame and fragrance, slowly lifts His golden feet on those empurpled stairs That climb into the windy halls of heaven And here he glances on an eye new-born, And gets for greeting but a wail of pain; And here he stays upon a freezing orb That fain would gaze upon him to the last; And here upon a yellow eyelid fallen And closed by those who mourn a friend in vain, Not thankful that his troubles are no more. And me, altho' his fire is on my face Blinding, he sees not, nor at all can tell Whether I mean this day to end myself. Or lend an ear to Plato where he says, That men like soldiers may not quit the post Allotted by the Gods. But he that holds The Gods are careless, wherefore need he care Greatly for them, nor rather plunge at once, Being troubled, wholly out of sight, and sink Past earthquake -- ay, and gout and stone, that break Body toward death, and palsy, death-in-life, And wretched age -- and worst disease of all, 341 These prodigies of myriad nakednesses, And twisted shapes of lust, unspeakable, Abominable, strangers at my hearth Not welcome, harpies miring every dish, The phantom husks of something foully done, And fleeting thro' the boundless universe, And blasting the long quiet of my breast With animal heat and dire insanity? "How should the mind, except it loved them, clasp These idols to herself? or do they fly Now thinner, and now thicker, like the flakes In a fall of snow, and so press in, perforce Of multitude, as crowds that in an hour Of civic tumult jam the doors, and bear The keepers down, and throng, their rags and the The basest, far into that council-hall Where sit the best and stateliest of the land? ³Can I not fling this horror off me again, Seeing with how great ease Nature can smile Balmier and nobler from her bath of storm, At random ravage? and how easily The mountain there has cast his cloudy slough, Now towering o'er him in serenest air, A mountain o'er a mountain, -- ay, and within All hollow as the hopes and fears of men? "But who was he that in the garden snared Picus and Faunus, rustic Gods? a tale To laugh at -- more to laugh at in myself -For look! what is it? there? yon arbutus Totters; a noiseless riot underneath Strikes through the wood, sets all the tops quivering -- ; The mountain quickens into Nymph and Faun, And here an Oread -- how the sun delights To glance and shift about her slippery sides, And rosy knees and supple roundedness, And budded bosom-peaks -- who this way runs Before the rest! -- a satyr, a satyr, see, Follows; but him I proved impossible Twy-natured is no nature. Yet he draws 342 Nearer and nearer, and I scan him now Beastlier than any phantom of his kind That ever butted his rough brother-brute For lust or lusty blood or provender. I hate, abhor, spit, sicken at him; and she Loathes him as well; such a precipitate heel, Fledged as it were with Mercury's ankle-wing, Whirls her to me -- ;but will she fling herself Shameless upon me? Catch her, goatfoot! nay, Hide, hide them, million-myrtled wilderness, And cavern-shadowing laurels, hide! do I wish -What? -- ;that the bush were leafless? or to whelm All of them in one massacre? O ye Gods I know you careless, yet, behold, to you From childly wont and ancient use I call -I thought I lived securely as yourselves -No lewdness, narrowing envy, monkey-spite, No madness of ambition, avarice, none; No larger feast than under plane or pine With neighbors laid along the grass, to take Only such cups as left us friendly-warm, Affirming each his own philosophy Nothing to mar the sober majesties Of settled, sweet, Epicurean life. But now it seems some unseen monster lays His vast and filthy hands upon my will, Wrenching it backward into his, and spoils My bliss in being; and it was not great, For save when shutting reasons up in rhythm, Or Heliconian honey in living words, To make a truth less harsh, I often grew Tired of so much within our little life Or of so little in our little life -Poor little life that toddles half an hour Crown'd with a flower or two, and there an end -And since the nobler pleasure seems to fade, Why should I, beastlike as I find myself, Not manlike end myself? -- our privilege -- ; What beast has heart to do it? And what man What Roman would be dragg'd in triumph thus? Not I; not he, who bears one name with her 343 Whose death-blow struck the dateless doom of kings, When, brooking not the Tarquin in her veins, She made her blood in sight of Collatine And all his peers, flushing the guiltless air, Spout from the maiden fountain in her heart. And from it sprang the Commonwealth, which breaks As I am breaking now! "And therefore now Let her, that is the womb and tomb of all Great Nature, take, and forcing far apart Those blind beginnings that have made me man, Dash them anew together at her will Thro' all her cycles -- into man once more, Or beast or bird or fish, or opulent flower. But till this cosmic order everywhere Shatter'd into one earthquake m one day Cracks all to pieces, -- and that hour perhaps Is not so far when momentary man Shall seem no more a something to himself, But he, his hopes and hates, his homes and fanes And even his bones long laid within the grave, The very sides of the grave itself shall pass, Vanishing, atom and void, atom and void, Into the unseen for ever, -- till that hour, My golden work in which I told a truth That stays the rolling Ixionian wheel, And numbs the Fury's ringlet-snake, and plucks The mortal soul from out immortal hell Shall stand. Ay, surely; then it fails at last And perishes as I must, for O Thou Passionless bride, divine Tranquillity, Yearn'd after by the wisest of the wise Who fail to find thee, being as thou art Without one pleasure and without one pain, Howbeit I know thou surely must be mine Or soon or late, yet out of season, thus I woo thee roughly, for thou carest not How roughly men may woo thee so they win -- ; Thus -- thus -- the soul flies out and dies in the air With that he drove the knife into his side. 344 She heard him raging, heard him fall, ran in, Beat breast, tore hair, cried out upon herself As having fail'd in duty to him, shriek'd That she but meant to win him back, fell on him Clasp'd, kiss'd him, wail'd. He answer'd, "Care not thou! Thy duty? What is duty? Fare thee well!" ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

312:The Kalevala - Rune Xxxv KULLERVO'S EVIL DEEDS. Kullerwionen, youthful wizard, In his blue and scarlet stockings, Henceforth lingered with his parents; But he could not change his nature, Could not gain a higher wisdom, Could not win a better judgment; As a child he was ill-nurtured, Early rocked in stupid cradles, By a nurse of many follies, By a minister of evil. To his work went Kullerwoinen, Strove to make his labors worthy; First, Kullervo went a-fishing, Set his fishing-nets in ocean; With his hands upon the row-locks, Kullerwoinen spake as follows: 'Shall I pull with all my forces, Pull with strength of youthful heroes, Or with weakness of the aged?' From the stern arose a gray-beard, And he answered thus Kullervo: 'Pull with all thy youthful vigor; Shouldst thou row with magic power, Thou couldst not destroy this vessel, Couldst not row this boat to fragments.' Thereupon the youth, Kullervo, Rowed with all his youthful vigor, With the mighty force of magic, Rowed the bindings from the vessel, Ribs of juniper he shattered, Rowed the aspen-oars to pieces. When the aged sire, Kalervo, Saw the work of Kullerwoinen, He addressed his son as follows: 'Dost not understand the rowing; Thou hast burst the bands asunder, 544 Bands of juniper and willow, Rowed my aspen-boat to pieces; To the fish-nets drive the salmon, This, perchance, will suit thee better.' Thereupon the son, Kullervo, Hastened to his work as bidden, Drove the salmon to the fish-nets, Spake in innocence as follows: 'Shall I with my youthful vigor Scare the salmon to the fish-nets, Or with little magic vigor Shall I drive them to their capture? Spake the master of the fish-nets: 'That would be but work of women, Shouldst thou use but little power In the frighting of the salmon!' Kullerwoinen does as bidden, Scares the salmon with the forces Of his mighty arms and shoulders, With the strength of youth and magic, Stirs the water thick with black-earth, Beats the scare-net into pieces, Into pulp he beats the salmon. When the aged sire, Kalervo, Saw the work of Kullerwoinen, To his son these words he uttered: 'Dost not understand this labor, For this work thou art not suited, Canst not scare the perch and salmon To the fish-nets of thy father; Thou hast ruined all my fish-nets, Torn my scare-net into tatters, Beaten into pulp the whiting, Torn my net-props into fragments, Beaten into bits my wedges. Leave the fishing to another; See if thou canst pay the tribute, Pay my yearly contribution; See if thou canst better travel, On the way show better judgment!' Thereupon the son, Kullervo, Hapless youth in purple vestments, 545 In his magic shoes of deer-skin, In his locks of golden color, Sallied forth to pay the taxes, Pay the tribute for his people. When the youth had paid the tribute, Paid the yearly contribution, He returned to join the snow-sledge, Took his place upon the cross-bench, Snapped his whip above the courser, And began his journey homeward; Rattled on along the highway, Measured as he galloped onward Wainamoinen's hills and valleys, And his fields in cultivation. Came a golden maid to meet him, On her snow-shoes came a virgin, O'er the hills of Wainamoinen, O'er his cultivated lowlands. Quick the wizard-son, Kullervo, Checked the motion of his racer, Thus addressed the charming maiden 'Come, sweet maiden, to my snow-sledge, In my fur-robes rest and linger!' As she ran, the maiden answered: 'Let the Death-maid sit beside thee, Rest and linger in thy fur-robes!' Thereupon the youth, Kullervo, Snapped his whip above the courser; Fleet as wind he gallops homeward, Dashes down along the highway; With the roar of falling waters, Gallops onward, onward, onward, O'er the broad-back of the ocean, O'er the icy plains of Lapland. Comes a winsome maid to meet him, Golden-haired, and wearing snow-shoes, On the far outstretching ice-plains; Quick the wizard checks his racer, Charmingly accosts the maiden, Chanting carefully these measures: 'Come, thou beauty, to my snow-sledge, Hither come, and rest, and linger! 546 Tauntingly the maiden answered: 'Take Tuoni to thy snow-sledge, At thy side let Manalainen Sit with thee, and rest, and linger!' Quick the wizard, Kullerwoinen, Struck his fiery, prancing racer, With the birch-whip of his father. Like the lightning flew the fleet-foot, Galloped on the highway homeward; O'er the hills the snow-sledge bounded, And the coming mountains trembled. Kullerwoinen, wild magician, Measures, on his journey homeward, Northland's far-extending borders, And the fertile plains of Pohya. Comes a beauteous maid to meet him, With a tin-pin on her bosom, On the heather of Pohyola, O'er the Pohya-hills and moorlands. Quick the wizard son, Kullervo, Holds the bridle of his courser, Charmingly intones these measures: 'Come, fair maiden, to my snow-sledge, In these fur-robes rest, and linger; Eat with me the golden apples, Eat the hazel-nut in joyance, Drink with me the beer delicious, Eat the dainties that I give thee.' This the answer of the maiden With the tin-pin on her bosom: 'I have scorn to give thy snow-sledge, Scorn for thee, thou wicked wizard; Cold is it beneath thy fur-robes, And thy sledge is chill and cheerless. Thereupon the youth, Kullervo, Wicked wizard of the Northland, Drew the maiden to his snow-sledge, Drew her to a seat beside him, Quickly in his furs enwrapped her; And the tin-adorned made answer, These the accents of the maiden: 'Loose me from thy magic power, 547 Let me leave at once thy presence, Lest I speak in wicked accents, Lest I say the prayer of evil; Free me now as I command thee, Or I'll tear thy sledge to pieces, Throw these fur-robes to the north-winds.' Straightway wicked Kullerwoinen, Evil wizard and magician, Opens all his treasure-boxes, Shows the maiden gold and silver, Shows her silken wraps of beauty, Silken hose with golden borders, Golden belts with silver buckles, Jewelry that dims the vision, Blunts the conscience of the virgin. Silver leads one to destruction, Gold entices from uprightness. Kullerwoinen, wicked wizard, Flatters lovingly the maiden, One hand on the reins of leather, One upon the maiden's shoulder; Thus they journey through the evening, Pass the night in merry-making. When the day-star led the morning, When the second day was dawning, Then the maid addressed Kullervo, Questioned thus the wicked wizard: 'Of what tribe art thou descended, Of what race thy hero-father? Tell thy lineage and kindred.` This, Kullervo's truthful answer: 'Am not from a mighty nation, Not the greatest, nor the smallest, But my lineage is worthy: Am Kalervo's son of folly, Am a child of contradictions, Hapless son of cold misfortune. Tell me of thy race of heroes, Tell thine origin and kindred.' This the answer of the maiden: 'Came not from a race primeval, Not the largest, nor the smallest, 548 But my lineage is worthy; Am Kalervo's wretched daughter, Am his long-lost child of error, Am a maid of contradictions, Hapless daughter of misfortune. 'When a child I lived in plenty In the dwellings of my mother; To the woods I went for berries, Went for raspberries to uplands, Gathered strawberries on mountains, Gathered one day then a second; But, alas! upon the third day, Could not find the pathway homeward, Forestward the highways led me, All the footpaths, to the woodlands. Long I sat in bitter weeping, Wept one day and then a second, Wept the third from morn till even. Then I climbed a. lofty mountain, There I called in wailing accents, And the woodlands gave this answer, Thus the distant hills re-echoed: 'Call no longer, foolish virgin, All thy calls and tears are useless; There is none to give thee answer, Far away, thy home and people.' 'On the third and on the fourth days, On the fifth, and sixth, and seventh, Constantly I sought to perish; But in vain were all my efforts, Could not die upon the mountains. If this wretched maid had perished, In the summer of the third year, She had fed earth's vegetation, She had blossomed as a flower, Knowing neither pain nor sorrow.' Scarcely had the maiden spoken, When she bounded from the snow-sledge, Rushed upon the rolling river, To the cataract's commotion, To the fiery stream and whirlpool. Thus Kullervo's lovely sister 549 Hastened to her own destruction, To her death by fire and water, Found her peace in Tuonela, In the sacred stream of Mana. Then the wicked Kullerwoinen Fell to weeping, sorely troubled, Wailed, and wept, and heavy-hearted, Spake these words in bitter sorrow: 'Woe is me, my life hard-fated! I have slain my virgin-sister, Shamed the daughter of my mother; Woe to thee, my ancient father! Woe to thee, my gray-haired mother! Wherefore was I born and nurtured, Why this hapless child's existence? Better fate to Kullerwoinen, Had he never seen the daylight, Or, if born, had never thriven In these mournful days of evil! Death has failed to do his duty, Sickness sinned in passing by me, Should have slain me in the cradle, When the seventh day had ended!' Thereupon he slips the collar Of his prancing royal racer, Mounts the silver-headed fleet-foot, Gallops like the lightning homeward; Gallops only for a moment, When he halts his foaming courser At the cabin of his father. In the court-yard stood the mother, Thus the wicked son addressed her: 'Faithful mother, fond and tender, Hadst thou slain me when an infant, Smoked my life out in the chamber, In a winding-sheet hadst thrown me To the cataract and whirlpool, In the fire hadst set my cradle, After seven nights had ended, Worthy would have been thy service. Had the village-maidens asked thee: 'Where is now the little cradle, 550 Wherefore is the bath-room empty?' This had been a worthy answer: 'I have burned the wizard's cradle, Cast the infant to the fire-dogs; In the bath-room corn is sprouting, From the barley malt is brewing.'' Thereupon the aged mother Asks her wizard-son these questions: 'What has happened to my hero, What new fate has overcome thee? Comest thou as from Tuoni, From the castles of Manala?' This, Kullervo's frank confession: 'Infamous the tale I bring thee, My confession is dishonor: On the way I met a maiden, Met thy long-lost, wayward daughter, Did not recognize my sister, Fatal was the sin committed! When the taxes had been settled, When the tribute had been gathered, Came a matchless maid to meet me, Whom I witless led to sorrow, This my mother's long-lost daughter. When she saw in me her brother, Quick she bounded from the snow-sledge, Hastened to the roaring waters, To the cataract's commotion, To the fiery stream and whirlpool, Hastened to her full destruction. 'Now, alas! must I determine, Now must find a spot befitting, Where thy sinful son may perish; Tell me, all-forgiving mother, Where to end my life of trouble; Let me stop the black-wolf's howling, Let me satisfy the hunger Of the vicious bear of Northland; Let the shark or hungry sea-dog Be my dwelling-place hereafter!' This the answer of the mother: 'Do not go to stop the howling 551 Of the hungry wolf of Northland; Do not haste to still the black-bear Growling in his forest-cavern; Let not shark, nor vicious sea-dog Be thy dwelling-place hereafter. Spacious are the rooms of Suomi, Limitless the Sawa-borders, Large enough to hide transgression, Man's misdeeds to hide for ages, With his sins and evil actions. Six long years man's sins lie hidden In the border-land of Kalma, Even nine for magic heroes, Till the years bring consolation, Till they quiet all his mourning.' Kullerwoinen, wicked wizard, Answers thus his grieving mother: 'I can never hide from sorrow, Cannot flee from my misconduct; To the jaws of death I hasten, To the open courts of Kalma, To the hunting-grounds of Pohya, To the battle-fields of heroes. Untamoinen still is living, Unmolested roams the wicked, Unavenged my father's grievance, Unavenged my mother's tortures, Unavenged the wrongs I suffer!' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

313:An Hymne Of Heavenly Love Love, lift me up upon thy golden wings From this base world unto thy heavens hight, Where I may see those admirable things Which there thou workest by thy soveraine might, Farre above feeble reach of earthly sight, That I thereof an heavenly hymne may sing Unto the God of Love, high heavens king. Many lewd layes (ah! woe is me the more!) In praise of that mad fit which fooles call Love, I have in th'heat of youth made heretofore, That in light wits did loose affection move; But all those follies now I do reprove, And turned have the tenor of my string, The heavenly prayses of true Love to sing. And ye that wont with greedy vaine desire To reade my fault, and, wondring at my flame, To warme your selves at my wide sparckling fire, Sith now that heat is quenched, quench my blame, And in her ashes shrowd my dying shame; For who my passed follies now pursewes, Beginnes his owne, and my old fault renewes. BEFORE THIS WORLDS GREAT FRAME, in which al things Are now containd, found any being-place, Ere flitting Time could wag his eyas wings About that mightie bound which doth embrace The rolling spheres, and parts their houres by space, That high eternall Powre, which now doth move In all these things, mov'd in it selfe by love. It lovd it selfe, because it selfe was faire; (For fair is lov'd); and of it self begot Like to it selfe his eldest Sonne and Heire, Eternall, pure, and voide of sinfull blot, The firstling of his ioy, in whom no iot Of loves dislike or pride was to be found, Whom he therefore with equall honour crownd. 61 With him he raignd, before all time prescribed, In endlesse glorie and immortall might, Together with that Third from them derived, Most wise, most holy, most almightie Spright! Whose kingdomes throne no thoughts of earthly wight Can comprehend, much lesse my trembling verse With equall words can hope it to reherse. Yet, O most blessed Spirit! pure lampe of light, Eternall spring of grace and wisedom trew, Vouchsafe to shed into my barren spright Some little drop of thy celestiall dew, That may my rymes with sweet infuse embrew, And give me words equall unto my thought, To tell the marveiles by thy mercie wrought. Yet being pregnant still with powrefull grace, And full of fruitfull Love, that loves to get Things like himselfe and to enlarge his race, His second brood, though not of powre so great, Yet full of beautie, next he did beget, An infinite increase of angels bright, All glistring glorious in their Makers light. To them the heavens illimitable hight (Not this round heaven which we from hence behold, Adornd with thousand lamps of burning light, And with ten thousand gemmes of shyning gold) He gave as their inheritance to hold, That they might serve him in eternall blis, And be partakers of those ioyes of his. There they in their trinall triplicities About him wait, and on his will depend, Either with nimble wings to cut the skies, When he them on his messages doth send, Or on his owne dread presence to attend, Where they behold the glorie of his light, And caroll hymnes of love both day and night. Both day and night is unto them all one; 62 For he his beames doth unto them extend, That darknesse there appeareth never none; Ne hath their day, ne hath their blisse, an end, But there their termelesse time in pleasure spend; Ne ever should their happinesse decay, Had not they dar'd their Lord to disobay. But pride, impatient of long resting peace, Did puffe them up with greedy bold ambition, That they gan cast their state how to increase Above the fortune of their first condition, And sit in Gods own seat without commission: The brightest angel, even the Child of Light, Drew millions more against their God to fight. Th'Almighty, seeing their so bold assay, Kindled the flame of his consuming yre, And with his onely breath them blew away From heavens hight, to which they did aspyre, To deepest hell, and lake of damned fyre, Where they in darknesse and dread horror dwell, Hating the happie light from which they fell. So that next off-spring of the Makers love, Next to himselfe in glorious degree, Degendering to hate, fell from above Through pride; (for pride and love may ill agree); And now of sinne to all ensample bee: How then can sinfull flesh it selfe assure, Sith purest angels fell to be impure? But that Eternall Fount of love and grace, Still flowing forth his goodnesse unto all, Now seeing left a waste and emptie place In his wyde pallace through those angels fall, Cast to supply the same, and to enstall A new unknowen colony therein, Whose root from earths base groundworke should begin. Therefore of clay, base, vile, and nest to nought, Yet form'd by wondrous skill, and by his might According to an heavenly patterne wrought, 63 Which he had fashiond in his wise foresight, He man did make, and breathd a living spright Into his face, most beautifull and fayre, Endewd with wisedomes riches, heavenly, rare. Such he him made, that he resemble might Himselfe, as mortall thing immortall could; Him to be lord of every living wight He made by love out of his owne like mould, In whom he might his mightie selfe behould; For Love doth love the thing belov'd to see, That like it selfe in lovely shape may bee. But man, forgetfull of his Makers grace No lesse than angels, whom he did ensew, Fell from the hope of promist heavenly place, Into the mouth of Death, to sinners dew, And all his off-spring into thraldome threw, Where they for ever should in bonds remaine Of never-dead, yet ever-dying paine; Till that great Lord of Love, which him at first Made of meere love, and after liked well, Seeing him lie like creature long accurst In that deep horor of despeyred hell, Him, wretch, in doole would let no lenger dwell, But cast out of that bondage to redeeme, And pay the price, all@ were his debt extreeme. Out of the bosome of eternall blisse, In which he reigned with his glorious Syre, He downe descended, like a most demisse And abiect thrall, in fleshes fraile attyre, That he for him might pay sinnes deadly hyre, And him restore unto that happie state In which he stood before his haplesse fate. In flesh at first the guilt committed was, Therefore in flesh it must be satisfyde; Nor spirit, nor angel, though they man surpas, Could make amends to God for mans misguyde, But onely man himselfe, who selfe did slyde: 64 So, taking flesh of sacred virgins wombe, For mans deare sake he did a man become. And that most blessed bodie, which was borne Without all blemish or reprochfull blame, He freely gave to be both rent and torne Of cruell hands, who with despightfull shame Revyling him, (that them most vile became,) At length him nayled on a gallow-tree, And slew the iust by most uniust decree. O huge and most unspeakeable impression Of Loves deep wound, that pierst the piteous hart Of that deare Lord with so entyre affection, And, sharply launcing every inner part, Dolours of death into his soule did dart, Doing him die that never it deserved, To free his foes, that from his heast had swerved! What hart can feel least touch of so sore launch, Or thought can think the depth of so deare wound? Whose bleeding sourse their streames yet never staunch, But stil do flow, and freshly still redownd, To heale the sores of sinfull soules unsound, And clense the guilt of that infected cryme, Which was enrooted in all fleshly slyme. O blessed Well of Love! O Floure of Grace! O glorious Morning-Starre! O Lampe of Light! Most lively image of thy Fathers face, Eternal King of Glorie, Lord of Might, Meeke Lambe of God, before all worlds behight, How can we thee requite for all this good? Or what can prize** that thy most precious blood? Yet nought thou ask'st in lieu of all this love But love of us, for guerdon of thy paine: Ay me! what can us lesse than that behove? Had he required life for us againe, Had it beene wrong to ask his owne with game? He gave us life, he it restored lost; Then life were least, that us so little cost. 65 But he our life hath left unto us free, Free that was thrall, and blessed that was band; Ne ought demaunds but that we loving bee, As he himselfe hath lov'd us afore-hand, And bound therto with an eternall band; Him first to love that was so dearely bought, And next our brethren, to his image wrought. Him first to love great right and reason is, Who first to us our life and being gave, And after, when we fared had amisse, Us wretches from the second death did save; And last, the food of life, which now we have, Even he himselfe, in his dear sacrament, To feede our hungry soules, unto us lent. Then next, to love our brethren, that were made Of that selfe* mould and that self Maker's hand That we, and to the same againe shall fade, Where they shall have like heritage of land, However here on higher steps we stand, Which also were with selfe-same price redeemed That we, however of us light esteemed. And were they not, yet since that loving Lord Commaunded us to love them for his sake, Even for his sake, and for his sacred word Which in his last bequest he to us spake, We should them love, and with their needs partake; Knowing that whatsoere to them we give We give to him by whom we all doe live. Such mercy he by his most holy reede Unto us taught, and, to approve it trew, Ensampled it by his most righteous deede, Shewing us mercie, miserable crew! That we the like should to the wretches shew, And love our brethren; thereby to approve How much himselfe that loved us we love. Then rouze thy selfe, O Earth! out of thy soyle, 66 In which thou wallowest like to filthy swyne, And doest thy mynd in durty pleasures moyle, Unmindfull of that dearest Lord of thyne; Lift up to him thy heavie clouded eyne, That thou this soveraine bountie mayst behold, And read, through love, his mercies manifold. Beginne from first, where he encradled was In simple cratch*, wrapt in a wad of hay, Betweene the toylfull oxe and humble asse, And in what rags, and in how base aray, The glory of our heavenly riches lay, When him the silly shepheards came to see, Whom greatest princes sought on lowest knee. From thence reade on the storie of his life, His humble carriage, his unfaulty wayes, His cancred foes, his fights, his toyle, his strife, His paines, his povertie, his sharpe assayes, Through which he past his miserable dayes, Offending none, and doing good to all, Yet being malist both by great and small. And look at last, how of most wretched wights He taken was, betrayd, and false accused; How with most scornfull taunts and fell despights, He was revyld, disgrast, and foule abused; How scourgd, how crownd, how buffeted, how brused; And, lastly, how twixt robbers crucifyde, With bitter wounds through hands, through feet, and syde! Then let thy flinty hart, that feeles no paine, Empierced he with pittifull remorse, And let thy bowels bleede in every vaine, At sight of his most sacred heavenly corse, So torne and mangled with malicious forse; And let thy soule, whose sins his sorrows wrought, Melt into teares, and grone in grieved thought. With sence whereof whilest so thy softened spirit Is inly toucht, and humbled with meeke zeale Through meditation of his endlesse merit, 67 Lift up thy mind to th'author of thy weale, And to his soveraine mercie doe appeale; Learne him to love that loved thee so deare, And in thy brest his blessed image beare. With all thy hart, with all thy soule and mind, Thou must him love, and his beheasts embrace; All other loves, with which the world doth blind Weake fancies, and stirre up affections base, Thou must renounce and utterly displace, And give thy self unto him full and free, That full and freely gave himselfe to thee. Then shalt thou feele thy spirit so possest, And ravisht with devouring great desire Of his dear selfe, that shall thy feeble brest Inflame with love, and set thee all on fire With burning zeale, through every part entire, That in no earthly thing thou shalt delight, But in his sweet and amiable sight. Thenceforth all worlds desire will in thee dye, And all earthes glorie, on which men do gaze, Seeme durt and drosse in thy pure-sighted eye, Compar'd to that celestiall beauties blaze, Whose glorious beames all fleshly sense doth daze With admiration of their passing light, Blinding the eyes, and lumining the spright. Then shall thy ravisht soul inspired bee With heavenly thoughts, farre above humane skil, And thy bright radiant eyes shall plainely see Th'idee of his pure glorie present still Before thy face, that all thy spirits shall fill With sweete enragement of celestiall love, Kindled through sight of those faire things above. ~ Edmund Spenser,

314:The Kalevala - Rune Xliii THE SAMPO LOST IN THE SEA. Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Called her many tribes together, Gave the archers bows and arrows, Gave her brave men spears and broadswords; Fitted out her mightiest war-ship, In the vessel placed her army, With their swords a hundred heroes, With their bows a thousand archers; Quick erected masts and sail-yards, On the masts her sails of linen Hanging like the clouds of heaven, Like the white-clouds in the ether, Sailed across the seas of Pohya, To re-take the wondrous Sampo From the heroes of Wainola. Wainamoinen, old and faithful, Sailed across the deep, blue waters, Spake these words to Lemminkainen: 'O thou daring son of Lempo, Best of all my friends and heroes, Mount the highest of the topmasts, Look before you into ether, Look behind you at the heavens, Well examine the horizon, Whether clear or filled with trouble.' Climbed the daring Lemminkainen, Ever ready for a venture, To the highest of the mastheads; Looked he eastward, also westward, Looked he northward, also southward, Then addressed wise Wainamoinen. 'Clear the sky appears before me, But behind a dark horizon; In the north a cloud is rising, And a longer cloud at north-west.' Wainamoinen thus made answer: 205 Art thou speaking truth or fiction? I am fearful that the war-ships Of Pohyola are pursuing; Look again with keener vision.' Thereupon wild Lemminkainen Looked again and spake as follows: 'In the distance seems a forest, In the south appears an island, Aspen-groves with falcons laden, Alders laden with the wood-grouse.' Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Surely thou art speaking falsehood; 'Tis no forest in the distance, Neither aspen, birch, nor alders, Laden with the grouse, or falcon; I am fearful that Pohyola Follows with her magic armies; Look again with keener vision.' Then the daring Lemminkainen Looked the third time from the topmast, Spake and these the words be uttered: 'From the north a boat pursues us, Driven by a hundred rowers, Carrying a thousand heroes!' Knew at last old Wainamoinen, Knew the truth of his inquiry, Thus addressed his fleeing people: 'Row, O blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Row, O mighty Lemminkainen, Row, all ye my noble oarsmen, That our boat may skim the waters, May escape from our pursuers!' Rowed the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Rowed the mighty Lemminkainen, With them rowed the other heroes; Heavily groaned the helm of birch-wood, Loudly rattled all the row-locks; All the vessel shook and trembled, Like a cataract it thundered As it plowed the waste of waters, Tossing sea-foam to the heavens. Strongly rowed Wainola's forces, 206 Strongly were their arms united; But the distance did not widen Twixt the boat and their pursuers. Quick the hero, Wainamoinen, Saw misfortune hanging over, Saw destruction in the distance Heavy-hearted, long reflecting, Trouble-laden, spake as follows: 'Only is there one salvation, Know one miracle for safety!' Then he grasped his box of tinder, From the box he took a flint-stone, Of the tinder took some fragments, Cast the fragments on the waters, Spake these words of master-magic. 'Let from these arise a mountain From the bottom of the deep-sea, Let a rock arise in water, That the war-ship of Pohyola, With her thousand men and heroes, May be wrecked upon the summit, By the aid of surging billows.' Instantly a reef arises, In the sea springs up a mountain, Eastward, westward, through the waters. Came the war-ship of the Northland, Through the floods the boat came steering, Sailed against the mountain-ledges, Fastened on the rocks in water, Wrecked upon the Mount of Magic. In the deep-sea fell the topmasts, Fell the sails upon the billows, Carried by the winds and waters O'er the waves of toil and trouble. Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Tries to free her sinking vessel, Tries to rescue from destruction; But she cannot raise the war-ship, Firmly fixed upon the mountain; Shattered are the ribs and rudder, Ruined is the ship of Pohya. Then the hostess of the Northland, 207 Much disheartened, spake as follows: 'Where the force, in earth or heaven, That will help a soul in trouble?' Quick she changes form and feature, Makes herself another body; Takes five sharpened scythes of iron, Also takes five goodly sickles, Shapes them into eagle-talons; Takes the body of the vessel, Makes the frame-work of an eagle; Takes the vessel's ribs and flooring Makes them into wings and breastplate; For the tail she shapes the rudder; In the wings she plants a thousand Seniors with their bows and arrows; Sets a thousand magic heroes In the body, armed with broadswords In the tail a hundred archers, With their deadly spears and cross-bows, Thus the bird is hero-feathered. Quick she spreads her mighty pinions, Rises as a monster-eagle, Flies on high, and soars, and circles With one wing she sweeps the heavens, While the other sweeps the waters. Spake the hero's ocean-mother: 'O thou ancient Wainamoinen, Turn thy vision to the north-east, Cast thine eyes upon the sunrise, Look behind thy fleeing vessel, See the eagle of misfortune!' Wainamoinen turned as bidden, Turned his vision to the north-east, Cast his eyes upon the sunrise, There beheld the Northland-hostess, Wicked witch of Sariola, Flying as a monster-eagle, Swooping on his mighty war-ship; Flies and perches on the topmast, On the sail-yards firmly settles; Nearly overturns the vessel Of the heroes of Wainola, 208 Underneath the weight of envy. Then the hero, Ilmarinen, Turned to Ukko as his refuge, Thus entreated his Creator: 'Ukko, thou O God in heaven, Thou Creator full of mercy, Guard us from impending danger, That thy children may not perish, May not meet with fell destruction. Hither bring thy magic fire-cloak, That thy people, thus protected, May resist Pohyola's forces, Well may fight against the hostess Of the dismal Sariola, May not fall before her weapons, May not in the deep-sea perish!' Then the ancient Wainamoinen Thus addressed the ancient Louhi: 'O thou hostess of Pohyola, Wilt thou now divide the Sampo, On the fog-point in the water, On the island forest-covered? Thus the Northland hostess answered: 'I will not divide the Sampo, Not with thee, thou evil wizard, Not with wicked Wainamoinen!' Quick the mighty eagle, Louhi, Swoops upon the lid in colors, Grasps the Sampo in her talons; But the daring Lemminkainen Straightway draws his blade of battle, Draws his broadsword from his girdle, Cleaves the talons of the eagle, One toe only is uninjured, Speaks these magic words of conquest: 'Down, ye spears, and down, ye broadswords, Down, ye thousand witless heroes, Down, ye feathered hosts of Louhi!' Spake the hostess of Pohyola, Calling, screeching, from the sail-yards: 'O thou faithless Lemminkainen, Wicked wizard, Kaukomieli, 209 To deceive thy trusting mother! Thou didst give to her thy promise, Not to go to war for ages, Not to war for sixty summers, Though desire for gold impels thee, Though thou wishest gold and silver! Wainamoinen, ancient hero, The eternal wisdom-singer, Thinking he had met destruction, Snatched the rudder from the waters, With it smote the monster-eagle, Smote the, eagle's iron talons, Smote her countless feathered heroes. From her breast her hosts descended, Spearmen fell upon the billows, From the wings descend a thousand, From the tail, a hundred archers. Swoops again the bird of Pohya To the bottom of the vessel, Like the hawk from birch or aspen, Like the falcon from the linden; Grasps the Sampo with one talon, Drags the treasure to the waters, Drops the magic lid in colors From the red rim of the war-ship To the bottom of the deep-sea, Where the Sampo breaks in pieces, Scatters through the Alue-waters, In the mighty deeps for ages, To increase the ocean's treasures, Treasures for the hosts of Ahto. Nevermore will there be wanting Richness for the Ahto-nation, Never while the moonlight brightens On the waters of the Northland. Many fragments of the Sampo Floated on the purple waters, On the waters deep and boundless, Rocked by winds and waves of Suomi, Carried by the rolling billows To the sea-sides of Wainola. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, 210 Saw the fragments of the treasure Floating on the billows landward, Fragments of the lid in colors, Much rejoicing, spake as follows: 'Thence will come the sprouting seed-grain, The beginning of good fortune, The unending of resources, From the plowing and the sowing, From the glimmer of the moonlight, From the splendor of the sunshine, On the fertile plains of Suomi, On the meads of Kalevala.' Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Thus addressed old Wainamoinen: 'Know I other mighty measures, Know I means that are efficient, And against thy golden moonlight, And the splendor of thy sunshine, And thy plowing, and thy reaping; In the rocks I'll sink the moonbeams, Hide the sun within the mountain, Let the frost destroy thy sowings, Freeze the crops on all thy corn-fields; Iron-hail I'll send from heaven, On the richness of thine acres, On the barley of thy planting; I will drive the bear from forests, Send thee Otso from the thickets, That he may destroy thy cattle, May annihilate thy sheep-folds, May destroy thy steeds at pasture. I will send thee nine diseases, Each more fatal than the other, That will sicken all thy people, Make thy children sink and perish, Nevermore to visit Northland, Never while the moonlight glimmers On the plains of Kalevala!' Thus the ancient bard made answer: 'Not a Laplander can banish Wainamoinen and his people; Never can a Turyalander 211 Drive my tribes from Kalevala; God alone has power to banish, God controls the fate of nations, Never trusts the arms of evil, Never gives His strength to others. As I trust in my Creator, Call upon benignant Ukko, He will guard my crops from danger Drive the Frost-fiend from my corn-fields, Drive great Otso to his caverns. 'Wicked Louhi of Pohyola, Thou canst banish evil-doers, In the rocks canst hide the wicked, In thy mountains lock the guilty; Thou canst never hide the moonlight, Never bide the silver sunshine, In the caverns of thy kingdom. Freeze the crops of thine own planting, Freeze the barley of thy sowing, Send thine iron-hail from heaven To destroy the Lapland corn-fields, To annihilate thy people, To destroy the hosts of Pohya; Send great Otso from the heather, Send the sharp-tooth from the forest, To the fields of Sariola, On the herds and flocks of Louhi!' Thus the wicked hostess answered: 'All my power has departed, All my strength has gone to others, All my hope is in the deep-sea; In the waters lies my Sampo!' Then the hostess of Pohyola Home departed, weeping, wailing, To the land of cold and darkness; Only took some worthless fragments Of the Sampo to her people; Carried she the lid to Pohya, In the blue-sea left the handle; Hence the poverty of Northland, And the famines of Pohyola. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, 212 Hastened to the broad-sea's margin, Stepped upon the shore in joyance; Found there fragments of the Sampo, Fragments of the lid in colors, On the borders of the waters, On the curving sands and sea-sides; Gathered well the Sampo-relics From the waters near the fog-point, On the island forest-covered. Spake the ancient Wainamoinen, Spake these words in supplication: 'Grant, O Ukko, our Creator, Grant to us, thy needful children, Peace, and happiness, and plenty, That our lives may be successful, That our days may end in honor, On the vales and hills of Suomi, On the prairies of Wainola, In the homes of Kalevala! 'Ukko, wise and good Creator, Ukko, God of love and mercy, Shelter and protect thy people From the evil-minded heroes, From the wiles of wicked women, That our country's plagues may leave us, That thy faithful tribes may prosper. Be our friend and strong protector, Be the helper of thy children, In the night a roof above them, In the day a shield around them, That the sunshine may not vanish, That the moonlight may not lessen, That the killing frosts may leave them, And destructive hail pass over. Build a metal wall around us, From the valleys to the heavens; Build of stone a mighty fortress On the borders of Wainola, Where thy people live and labor, As their dwelling-place forever, Sure protection to thy people, Where the wicked may not enter, 213 Nor the thieves break through and pilfer, Never while the moonlight glistens, And the Sun brings golden blessings To the plains of Kalevala.' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

315:Rubáiyát Of Omar Khayyám AWAKE! for Morning in the Bowl of Night Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight: And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught The Sultan's Turret in a Noose of Light. II Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry, "Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry." III And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before The Tavern shouted--"Open then the Door! You know how little while we have to stay, And, once departed, may return no more." IV Now the New Year reviving old Desires, The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires, Where the WHITE HAND OF MOSES on the Bough Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires. Irám indeed is gone with all its Rose, And Jamsh{'y}d's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows; But still the Vine her ancient Ruby yields, And still a Garden by the Water blows. VI And David's Lips are lock't; but in divine High piping Pehleví, with "Wine! Wine! Wine! Red Wine!"--the Nightingale cries to the Rose That yellow Cheek of hers to' incarnadine. 55 VII Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring The Winter Garment of Repentance fling: The Bird of Time has but a little way To fly--and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing. VIII And look--a thousand Blossoms with the Day Woke--and a thousand scatter'd into Clay: And this first Summer Month that brings the Rose Shall take Jamsh{'y}d and Kaikobád away. IX But come with old Khayyám, and leave the Lot Of Kaikobád and Kaikhosrú forgot: Let Rustum lay about him as he will, Or Hátim Tai cry Supper--heed them not. With me along some Strip of Herbage strown That just divides the desert from the sown, Where name of Slave and Sultán scarce is known, And pity Sultán Mahmúd on his Throne. XI Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough, A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse--and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness-And Wilderness is Paradise enow. XII "How sweet is mortal Sovranty!"--think some: Others--"How blest the Paradise to come!" Ah, take the Cash in hand and wave the Rest; Oh, the brave Music of a distant Drum! 56 XIII Look to the Rose that blows 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." XIV The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon Turns Ashes--or it prospers; and anon, Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face Lighting a little Hour or two--is gone. XV 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. XVI Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai Whose Doorways are alternate Night and Day, How Sultán after Sultán with his Pomp Abode his Hour or two, and went his way. XVII They say the Lion and the Lizard keep The Courts where Jamsh{'y}d gloried and drank deep: And Bahrám, that great Hunter--the Wild Ass Stamps o'er his Head, and he lies fast asleep. XVIII I sometimes think that never blows so red The Rose as where some buried Cæsar bled; That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropt in its Lap from some once lovely Head. XIX 57 And this delightful Herb whose tender Green Fledges the River's Lip on which we lean-Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen! XX 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. XXI Lo! some we lov'd, the loveliest and best That Time and Fate of all their Vintage prest, Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before, And one by one crept silently to Rest. XXII 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? XXIII Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, Before we too into the Dust descend; Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie, Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and--sans End! XXIV Alike for those who for TO-DAY prepare, And those that after a TO-MORROW stare, A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries "Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There!" XXV 58 Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd Of the Two Worlds so learnedly are thrust Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust. XXVI Oh, come with old Khayyám, and leave the Wise To talk; one thing is certain, that Life flies; One thing is certain, and the Rest is Lies; The Flower that once has blown for ever dies. XXVII Myself when young did eagerly frequent Doctor and Saint, and heard great Argument About it and about: but evermore Came out by the same Door as in I went. XXVIII With them the Seed of Wisdom did I sow, And with my own hand labour'd it to grow: And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd-"I came like Water, and like Wind I go." XXIX Into this Universe, and why not knowing, Nor whence like Water willy-nilly flowing: And out of it, as Wind along the Waste, I know not whither willy-nilly blowing. XXX What, without asking, hither hurried whence? 59 And, without asking, whither hurried hence! Another and another Cup to drown The Memory of this Impertinence! XXXI Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh Gate I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate, And many Knots unravel'd by the Road; But not the Knot of Human Death and Fate. XXXII There was a Door to which I found no Key: There was a Veil past which I could not see: Some little Talk awhile of ME and THEE There seem'd--and then no more of THEE and ME. XXXIII Then to the rolling Heav'n itself I cried, Asking, "What Lamp had Destiny to guide Her little Children stumbling in the Dark?" And--"A blind Understanding!" Heav'n replied. XXXIV Then to this earthen Bowl did I adjourn My Lip the secret Well of Life to learn: And Lip to Lip it murmur'd--"While you live Drink!--for once dead you never shall return." XXXV I think the Vessel, that with fugitive Articulation answer'd, once did live, And merry-make; and the cold Lip I kiss'd 60 How many Kisses might it take--and give! XXXVI For in the Market-place, one Dusk of Day, I watch'd the Potter thumping his wet Clay: And with its all obliterated Tongue It murmur'd--"Gently, Brother, gently, pray!" XXXVII Ah, fill the Cup:--what boots it to repeat How Time is slipping underneath our Feet: Unborn TO-MORROW, and dead YESTERDAY, Why fret about them if TO-DAY be sweet! XXXVIII One Moment in Annihilation's Waste, One Moment, of the Well of Life to taste-The Stars are setting and the Caravan Starts for the Dawn of Nothing--Oh, make haste! XXXIX How long, how long, in infinite Pursuit Of This and That endeavour and dispute? Better be merry with the fruitful Grape Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit. XL You know, my Friends, how long since in my House For a new Marriage I did make Carouse: Divorc'd old barren Reason from my Bed, And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse. 61 XLI For "Is" and "IS-NOT" though with Rule and Line, And "UP-AND-DOWN" without I could define, I yet in all I only cared to know, Was never deep in anything but--Wine. XLII And lately, by the Tavern Door agape, Came stealing through the Dusk an Angel Shape Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and He bid me taste of it; and 'twas--the Grape! XLIII The Grape that can with Logic absolute The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects confute: The subtle Alchemist that in a Trice Life's leaden Metal into Gold transmute: XLIV The mighty Mahmúd, the victorious Lord, That all the misbelieving and black Horde Of Fears and Sorrows that infest the Soul Scatters and slays with his enchanted Sword. XLV But leave the Wise to wrangle, and with me The Quarrel of the Universe let be: And, in some corner of the Hubbub coucht, Make Game of that which makes as much of Thee. XLVI 62 For in and out, above, about, below, 'Tis nothing but a Magic Shadow-show, Play'd in a Box whose Candle is the Sun, Round which we Phantom Figures come and go. XLVII And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press, End in the Nothing all Things end in--Yes-Then fancy while Thou art, Thou art but what Thou shalt be--Nothing--Thou shalt not be less. XLVIII While the Rose blows along the River Brink, With old Khayyám the Ruby Vintage drink: And when the Angel with his darker Draught Draws up to Thee--take that, and do not shrink. XLIX 'Tis all a Chequer-board of Nights and Days Where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays: Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays, And one by one back in the Closet lays. The Ball no Question makes of Ayes and Noes, But Right or Left as strikes the Player goes; And He that toss'd Thee down into the Field, He knows about it all--HE knows--HE knows! LI The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, 63 Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it. LII And that inverted Bowl we call The Sky, Whereunder crawling coop't we live and die, Lift not thy hands to It for help--for It Rolls impotently on as Thou or I. LIII With Earth's first Clay They did the Last Man's knead, And then of the Last Harvest sow'd the Seed: Yea, the first Morning of Creation wrote What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read. LIV I tell Thee this--When, starting from the Goal, Over the shoulders of the flaming Foal Of Heav'n Parwín and Mushtara they flung, In my predestin'd Plot of Dust and Soul LV The Vine had struck a Fibre; which about If clings my Being--let the Súfi flout; Of my Base Metal may be fil'd a Key That shall unlock the Door he howls without. LVI And this I know: whether the one True Light Kindle to Love, or Wrath consume me quite, One Glimpse of It within the Tavern caught 64 Better than in the Temple lost outright. LVII Oh Thou, who didst with Pitfall and with Gin Beset the Road I was to wander in, Thou wilt not with Predestination round Enmesh me, and impute my Fall to Sin? LVIII Oh, Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make, And who with Eden didst devise the Snake; For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man Is blacken'd, Man's Forgiveness give--and take! KÚZA-NÁMALIX Listen again. One Evening at the Close Of Ramazán, ere the better Moon arose, In that old Potter's Shop I stood alone With the clay Population round in Rows. LX And, strange to tell, among that Earthen Lot Some could articulate, while others not: And suddenly one more impatient cried-"Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?" LXI Then said another--"Surely not in vain My Substance from the common Earth was ta'en, That He who subtly wrought me into Shape Should stamp me back to common Earth again." LXII 65 Another said--"Why, ne'er a peevish Boy Would break the Bowl from which he drank in Joy; Shall He that made the Vessel in pure Love And Fancy, in an after Rage destroy!" LXIII None answer'd this; but after Silence spake A Vessel of a more ungainly Make: "They sneer at me for leaning all awry; What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?" LXIV Said one--"Folks of a surly Tapster tell, And daub his Visage with the Smoke of Hell; They talk of some strict Testing of us--Pish! He's a Good Fellow, and 'twill all be well." LXV Then said another with a long-drawn Sigh, "My Clay with long oblivion is gone dry: But, fill me with the old familiar Juice, Methinks I might recover by-and-bye!" LXVI So while the Vessels one by one were speaking, One spied the little Crescent all were seeking: And then they jogg'd each other, "Brother! Brother! Hark to the Porter's Shoulder-knot a-creaking!" LXVII 66 Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide, And wash my Body whence the Life has died, And in a Windingsheet of Vine-leaf wrapt, So bury me by some sweet Garden-side. LXVIII That ev'n my buried Ashes such a Snare Of Perfume shall fling up into the Air, As not a True Believer passing by But shall be overtaken unaware. LXIX Indeed the Idols I have lov'd so long Have done my Credit in Men's Eye much wrong: Have drown'd my Honour in a shallow Cup, And sold my Reputation for a Song. LXX Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before I swore--but was I sober when I swore? And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore. LXXI And much as Wine has play'd the Infidel, And robb'd me of my Robe of Honour--well I often wonder what the Vintners buy One half so precious as the Goods they sell. LXXII Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose! That Youth's sweet-scented Manuscript should close! 67 The Nightingale that in the Branches sang, Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows! LXXIII Ah Love! could thou and I with Fate conspire To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire, Would not we shatter it to bits--and then Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire! LXXIV Ah, Moon of my Delight who know'st no wane, The Moon of Heav'n is rising once again: How oft hereafter rising shall she look Through this same Garden after me in vain! LXXV And when Thyself with shining Foot shall pass Among the Guests Star-scatter'd on the Grass And in thy joyous Errand reach the Spot Where I made one--turn down an empty Glass!TAMÁM SHUD ~ Edward Fitzgerald,

316:The Kalevala - Rune Xxxix WAINAMOINEN'S SAILING. Wainamoinen, old and faithful, Spake these words to Ilmarinen: 'O thou wonder-working brother, Let us go to Sariola, There to gain the magic Sampo, There to see the lid in colors.' Ilmarinen gave this answer: 'Hard indeed to seize the Sampo, Neither can the lid be captured From the never-pleasant Northland, From the dismal Sariola. Louhi took away the Sampo, Carried off the lid in colors To the stone-mount of Pohyola; Hid it in the copper mountain, Where nine locks secure the treasure. Many young roots sprout around it, Grow nine fathoms deep in sand-earth, One great root beneath the mountain, In the cataract a second, And a third beneath the castle Built upon the mount of ages.' Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Brother mine, and wonder-worker, Let us go to Sariola, That we may secure the Sampo; Let us build a goodly vessel, Bring the Sampo to Wainola, Bring away the lid in colors, From the stone-berg of Pohyola, From the copper-bearing mountain. Where the miracle lies anchored.' Ilmarinen thus made answer: 'By the land the way is safer, Lempo travels on the ocean, Ghastly Death upon his shoulder; 534 On the sea the waves will drift us, And the storm-winds wreck our vessel; Then our bands must do the rowing, And our feet must steer us homeward.' Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Safe indeed by land to journey, But the way is rough and trying, Long the road and full of turnings; Lovely is the ship on ocean, Beautiful to ride the billows, Journey easy o'er the waters, Sailing in a trusty vessel; Should the West-wind cross our pathway, Will the South-wind drive us northward. Be that as it may, my brother, Since thou dost not love the water, By the land then let us journey. Forge me now the sword of battle, Forge for me the mighty fire-sword, That I may destroy the wild-beasts, Frighten all the Northland people, As we journey for the Sampo To the cold and dismal village, To the never-pleasant Northland, To the dismal Sariola.' Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, The eternal forger-artist, Laid the metals in the furnace, In the fire laid steel and iron, In the hot-coals, gold and silver, Rightful measure of the metals; Set the workmen at the furnace, Lustily they plied the bellows. Like the wax the iron melted, Like the dough the hard steel softened, Like the water ran the silver, And the liquid gold flowed after. Then the minstrel, Ilmarinen, The eternal wonder-forger, Looks within his magic furnace, On the border of his oven, There beholds the fire-sword forming, 535 Sees the blade with golden handle; Takes the weapon from the furnace, Lays it on his heavy anvil For the falling of the hammer; Forges well the blade of magic, Well the heavy sword be tempers, Ornaments the hero-weapon With the finest gold and silver. Wainamoinen, the magician, Comes to view the blade of conquest, Lifts admiringly the fire-sword, Then these words the hero utters: 'Does the weapon match the soldier, Does the handle suit the bearer? Yea, the blade and hilt are molded To the wishes of the minstrel.' On the sword-point gleams the moonlight, On the blade the sun is shining, On the hilt the bright stars twinkle, On the edge a horse is neighing, On the handle plays a kitten, On the sheath a dog is barking. Wainamoinen wields his fire-sword, Tests it on the iron-mountain, And these words the hero utters: 'With this broadsword I could quickly Cleave in twain the mount of Pohya, Cut the flinty rocks asunder.' Spake the blacksmith, Ilmarinen: 'Wherewith shall I guard from danger, How protect myself from evil, From the ills by land and water? Shall I wear an iron armor, Belt of steel around my body? Stronger is a man in armor, Safer in a mail of copper.' Now the time has come to journey To the never-pleasant Northland; Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, And his brother, Ilmarinen, Hasten to the field and forest, Searching for their fiery coursers, 536 In each shining belt a bridle, With a harness on their shoulders. In the woods they find a race; In the glen a steed of battle, Ready for his master's service. Wainamoinen, old and trusty, And the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Throw the harness on the courser, Hitch him to the sledge of conquest, Hasten on their journey Northward; Drive along the broad-sea's margin Till they bear some one lamenting On the strand hear something wailing Near the landing-place of vessels. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Speaks these words in wonder, guessing, 'This must be some maiden weeping, Some fair daughter thus lamenting; Let us journey somewhat nearer, To discover whence this wailing.' Drew they nearer, nearer, nearer, Hoping thus to find a maiden Weeping on the sandy sea-shore. It was not a maiden weeping, But a vessel, sad, and lonely, Waiting on the shore and wailing. Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Why art weeping, goodly vessel, What the cause of thy lamenting? Art thou mourning for thy row-locks, Is thy rigging ill-adjusted? Dost thou weep since thou art anchored On the shore in times of trouble?' Thus the war-ship spake in answer: 'To the waters would this vessel Haste upon the well-tarred rollers, As a happy maiden journeys To the cottage of her husband. I, alas! a goodly vessel, Weep because I lie at anchor, Weep and wail because no hero Sets me free upon the waters, 537 Free to ride the rolling billows. It was said when I was fashioned, Often sung when I was building, That this bark should be for battle, Should become a mighty war-ship, Carry in my hull great treasures, Priceless goods across the ocean. Never have I sailed to conquest, Never have I carried booty; Other vessels not as worthy To the wars are ever sailing, Sailing to the songs of battle. Three times in the summer season Come they home with treasures laden, In their hulls bring gold and silver; I, alas! a worthy vessel, Many months have lain at anchor, I, a war-ship well constructed, Am decaying in the harbor, Never having sailed to conquest; Worms are gnawing at my vitals, In my hull their dwelling-places, And ill-omened birds of heaven Build their nests within my rigging; Frogs and lizards of the forest Play about my oars and rudder; Three times better for this vessel Were he but a valley birch-tree, Or an aspen on the heather, With the squirrels in his branches, And the dogs beneath them barking!' Wainamoinen, old and faithfull Thus addressed the ship at anchor: 'Weep no more, thou goodly vessel, Man-of-war, no longer murmur; Thou shalt sail to Sariola, Sing the war-songs of the Northland, Sail with us to deadly combat. Wert thou built by the Creator, Thou canst sail the roughest waters, Sidewise journey o'er the ocean; Dost not need the hand to touch thee, 538 Dost not need the foot to turn thee, Needing nothing to propel thee.' Thus the weeping boat made answer: 'Cannot sail without assistance, Neither can my brother-vessels Sail unaided o'er the waters, Sail across the waves undriven.' Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Should I lead thee to the broad-sea, Wilt thou journey north unaided, Sail without the help of rowers, Sail without the aid of south-winds, Sail without the b elm to guide thee? Thus the wailing ship replying: Cannot sail without assistance, Neither can my brother-vessels Sail without the aid of rowers, Sail without the help of south-winds, Nor without the helm to guide them.' These the words of Wainamoinen: 'Wilt thou run with aid of oarsmen When the south-winds give assistance, Guided by a skillful pilot?' This the answer of the war-ship: 'Quickly can I course these waters, When my oars are manned by rowers, When my sails are filled with south-winds, All my goodly brother-vessels Sail the ocean with assistance, When the master holds the rudder.' Then the ancient Wainamoinen Left the racer on the sea-side, Tied him to the sacred birch-tree, Hung the harness on a willow, Rolled the vessel to the waters, Sang the ship upon the broad-sea, Asked the boat this simple question: 'O thou vessel, well-appearing From the mighty oak constructed, Art thou strong to carry treasures As in view thou art commanding? Thus the goodly ship made answer: 539 'Strong am I to carry treasures, In my hull a golden cargo; I can bear a hundred oarsmen, And of warriors a thousand.' Wainamoinen, the magician, Then began his wondrous singing. On one side the magic vessel, Sang he youth with golden virtues, Bearded youth with strength of heroes, Sang them into mail of copper. On the other side the vessel, Sang he silver-tinselled maidens, Girded them with belts of copper, Golden rings upon their fingers. Sings again the great magician, Fills the magic ship with heroes, Ancient heroes, brave and mighty; Sings them into narrow limits, Since the young men came before them. At the helm himself be seated, Near the last beam of the vessel, Steered his goodly boat in joyance, Thus addressed the willing war-ship: 'Glide upon the trackless waters, Sail away, my ship of magic, Sail across the waves before thee, Speed thou like a dancing bubble, Like a flower upon the billows!' Then the ancient Wainamoinen Set the young men to the rowing, Let the maidens sit in waiting. Eagerly the youthful heroes Bend the oars and try the row-locks, But the distance is not lessened. Then the minstrel, Wainamoinen, Set the maidens to the rowing, Let the young men rest in waiting. Eagerly the merry maidens Bend the aspen-oars in rowing, But the distance is not lessened. Then the master, Wainamoinen, Set the old men to the rowing, 540 Let the youth remain in waiting. Lustily the aged heroes Bend and try the oars of aspen, But the distance is not lessened. Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Grasped the oars with master-magic, And the boat leaped o'er the surges, Swiftly sped across the billows; Far and wide the oars resounded, Quickly was the distance lessened. With a rush and roar of waters Ilmarinen sped his vessel, Benches, ribs, and row-locks creaking, Oars of aspen far resounding; Flap the sails like wings of moor-cocks, And the prow dips like a white-swan; In the rear it croaks like ravens, Loud the oars and rigging rattle. Straightway ancient Wainamoinen Sitting by the bending rudder, Turns his magic vessel landward, To a jutting promontory, Where appears a Northland-village. On the point stands Lemminkainen, Kaukomieli, black magician, Ahti, wizard of Wainola, Wishing for the fish of Pohya, Weeping for his fated dwelling, For his perilous adventures, Hard at work upon a vessel, On the sail-yards of a fish-boat, Near the hunger-point and island, Near the village-home deserted. Good the ears of the magician, Good the wizard's eyes for seeing; Casts his vision to the South-east, Turns his eyes upon the sunset, Sees afar a wondrous rainbow, Farther on, a cloudlet hanging; But the bow was a deception, And the cloudlet a delusion; 'Tis a vessel swiftly sailing, 541 'Tis a war-ship flying northward, O'er the blue-back of the broad-sea, On the far-extending waters, At the helm the master standing, At the oars a mighty hero. Spake the reckless Lemminkainen: 'Do not know this wondrous vessel, Not this well-constructed war-ship, Coming from the distant Suomi, Rowing for the hostile Pohya.' Thereupon wild Lemminkainen Called aloud in tones of thunder O'er the waters to the vessel; Made the distant hills re-echo With the music of his calling: 'Whence this vessel on the waters, Whose the war-ship sailing hither?' Spake the master of the vessel To the reckless Lemminkainen: 'Who art thou from fen or forest, Senseless wizard from the woodlands, That thou dost not know this vessel, Magic war-ship of Wainola? Dost not know him at the rudder, Nor the hero at the row-locks?' Spake the wizard, Lemminkainen: 'Well I know the helm-director, And I recognize the rower; Wainamoinen, old and trusty, At the helm directs the vessel; Ilmarinen does the rowing. Whither is the vessel sailing, Whither wandering, my heroes? Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'We are sailing to the Northland, There to gain the magic Sampo, There to get the lid in colors, From the stone-berg of Pohyola, From the copper-bearing mountain.' Spake the evil Lemminkainen: 'O, thou good, old Wainamoinen, Take me with thee to Pohyola, 542 Make me third of magic heroes, Since thou goest for the Sampo, Goest for the lid in colors; I shall prove a valiant soldier, When thy wisdom calls for fighting; I am skilled in arts of warfare!' Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Gave assent to Ahti's wishes; Thereupon wild Lemminkainen Hastened to Wainola's war-ship, Bringing floats of aspen-timber, To the ships of Wainamoinen. Thus the hero of the Northland Speaks to reckless Lemminkainen: 'There is aspen on my vessel, Aspen-floats in great abundance, And the boat is heavy-laden. Wherefore dost thou bring the aspen To the vessel of Wainola?' Lemminkainen gave this answer: 'Not through caution sinks a vessel, Nor a hay-stack by its proppings; Seas abound in hidden dangers, Heavy storms arise and threaten Fell destruction to the sailor That would brave the angry billows.' Spake the good, old Wainamoinen: 'Therefore is this warlike vessel Built of trusty steel and copper, Trimmed and bound in toughest iron, That the winds may, not destroy it, May not harm my ship of magic.' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

317:A Poem On The Last Day - Book Iii The book unfolding, the resplendent seat Of saints and angels, the tremendous fate Of guilty souls, the gloomy realms of woe, And all the horrors of the world below, I next presume to sing. What yet remains Demands my last, but most exalted, strains. And let the Muse or now affect the sky, Or in inglorious shades for ever lie. She kindles, she's inflamed so near the goal; She mounts, she gains upon the starry pole; The world grows less as she pursues her flight, And the sun darkens to her distant sight. Heaven, opening, all its sacred pomp displays, And overwhelms her with the rushing blaze! The triumph rings! archangels shout around! And echoing Nature lengthens out the sound! Ten thousand trumpets now at once advance; Now deepest silence lulls the vast expanse; So deep the silence, and so strong the blast, As Nature died when she had groan'd her last. Nor man nor angel moves: the Judge on high Looks round, and with His glory fills the sky: Then on the fatal book His hand He lays, Which high to view supporting seraphs raise; In solemn form the rituals are prepared, The seal is broken, and a groan is heard. And thou, my soul, (O fall to sudden prayer, And let the thought sink deep!) shalt thou be there? See on the left, (for by the great command The throng divided falls on either hand,) How weak, how pale, how haggard, how obscene! What more than death in every face and mien! With what distress, and glarings of affright, They shock the heart, and turn away the sight! In gloomy orbs their trembling eye-balls roll, And tell the horrid secrets of the soul. 25 Each gesture mourns, each look is black with care, And every groan is loaden with despair. Reader, if guilty, spare the Muse, and find A truer image pictured in thy mind. Shouldst thou behold thy brother, father, wife, And all the soft companions of thy life, Whose blended interests levell'd at one aim, Whose mix'd desires sent up one common flame, Divided far; thy wretched self alone Cast on the left, of all whom thou hast known; How would it wound! What millions wouldst thou give For one more trial, one day more to live! Flung back in time an hour, a moment's space, To grasp with eagerness the means of grace; Contend for mercy with a pious rage, And in that moment to redeem an age! Drive back the tide, suspend a storm in air, Arrest the sun; but still of this despair. Mark, on the right, how amiable a grace! Their Maker's image fresh in every face! What purple bloom my ravish'd soul admires, And their eyes sparkling with immortal fires! Triumphant beauty! charms that rise above This world, and in bless'd angels kindle love! To the great Judge with holy pride they turn, And dare behold the' Almighty's anger burn; Its flash sustain, against its terror rise, And on the dread tribunal fix their eyes. Are these the forms that moulder'd in the dust? O the transcendent glory of the just! Yet still some thin remains of fear and doubt The' infected brightness of their joy pollute. Thus the chaste bridegroom, when the priest draws nigh, Beholds his blessing with a trembling eye, Feels doubtful passions throb in every vein, And in his cheeks are mingled joy and pain, Lest still some intervening chance should rise, Leap forth at once, and snatch the golden prize; 26 Inflame his woe by bringing it so late, And stab him in the crisis of his fate. Since Adam's family, from first to last, Now into one distinct survey is cast; Look round, vain-glorious Muse, and you whoe'er Devote yourselves to Fame, and think her fair; Look round, and seek the lights of human race, Whose shining acts Time's brightest annals grace; Who founded sects; crowns conquer'd, or resign'd; Gave names to nations, or famed empires join'd; Who raised the vale, and laid the mountain low, And taught obedient rivers where to flow; Who with vast fleets, as with a mighty chain, Could bind the madness of the roaring main: All lost! all undistinguish'd! nowhere found! How will this truth in Bourbon's palace sound? That hour, on which the' Almighty King on high From all eternity has fix'd His eye, Whether His right hand favour'd, or annoy'd, Continued, alter'd, threaten'd, or destroy'd; Southern or eastern sceptre downward hurl'd, Gave north or west dominion o'er the world; The point of time, for which the world was built, For which the blood of God Himself was spilt, That dreadful moment is arrived. Aloft, the seats of bliss their pomp display, Brighter than brightness this distinguish'd day; Less glorious, when of old the' eternal Son From realms of night return'd with trophies won; Through heaven's high gates when He triumphant rode, And shouting angels hail'd the victor God. Horrors, beneath, darkness in darkness, hell Of hell, where torments behind torments dwell; A furnace formidable, deep, and wide, O'er-boiling with a mad sulphureous tide, Expands its jaws, most dreadful to survey, And roars outrageous for the destined prey. The sons of light scarce unappall'd look down, 27 And nearer press Heaven's everlasting throne. Such is the scene; and one short moment's space Concludes the hopes and fears of human race. Proceed who dares!-I tremble as I write; The whole creation swims before my sight: I see, I see, the Judge's frowning brow: Say not, 'tis distant; I behold it now. I faint, my tardy blood forgets to flow, My soul recoils at the stupendous woe; That woe, those pangs, which from the guilty breast, In these, or words like these, shall be express'd:``Who burst the barriers of my peaceful grave? Ah, cruel Death! that would no longer save, But grudged me e'en that narrow dark abode, And cast me out into the wrath of God; Where shrieks, the roaring flame, the rattling chain, And all the dreadful eloquence of pain, Our only song; black fire's malignant light, The sole refreshment of the blasted sight. ``Must all those powers Heaven gave me to supply My soul with pleasure, and bring-in my joy, Rise up in arms against me, join the foe, Sense, Reason, Memory, increase my woe? And shall my voice, ordain'd on hymns to dwell, Corrupt to groans, and blow the fires of hell? O! must I look with terror on my gain, And with existence only measure pain? What! no reprieve, no least indulgence given, No beam of hope from any point of heaven? Ah, Mercy! Mercy! art thou dead above? Is love extinguish'd in the Source of Love? ``Bold that I am! did Heaven stoop down to hell? The' expiring Lord of Life my ransom seal? Have not I been industrious to provoke? From His embraces obstinately broke? Pursued, and panted for His mortal hate, Earn'd my destruction, labour'd out my fate? And dare I on extinguish'd love exclaim? 28 Take, take full vengeance, rouse the slackening flame; Just is my lot-but O! must it transcend The reach of time, despair a distant end? With dreadful growth shoot forward, and arise, Where Thought can't follow, and bold Fancy dies? ``NEVER! Where falls the soul at that dread sound? Down an abyss how dark, and how profound! Down, down, (I still am falling,-horrid pain!) Ten thousand thousand fathoms still remain; My plunge but still begun.-And this for sin? Could I offend, if I had never been, But still increased the senseless happy mass, Flow'd in the stream, or shiver'd in the grass? ``Father of Mercies! why from silent earth Didst Thou awake, and curse me into birth? Tear me from quiet, ravish me from night, And make a thankless present of Thy light? Push into being a reverse of Thee, And animate a clod with misery? ``The beasts are happy; they come forth, and keep Short watch on earth, and then lie down to sleep. Pain is for man; and O! how vast a pain, For crimes which made the Godhead bleed in vain, Annull'd His groans, as far as in them lay, And flung His agonies and death away! As our dire punishment for ever strong, Our constitution too for ever young; Cursed with returns of vigour, still the same, Powerful to bear and satisfy the flame; Still to be caught, and still to be pursued; To perish still, and still to be renew'd! ``And this, my Help! my God! at Thy decree? Nature is changed, and hell should succour me. And canst Thou, then, look down from perfect bliss, And see me plunging in the dark abyss? Calling Thee Father in a sea of fire? Or pouring blasphemies at Thy desire? With mortals' anguish wilt Thou raise Thy name, 29 And by my pangs Omnipotence proclaim? ``Thou, who canst toss the planets to and fro, Contract not Thy great vengeance to my woe; Crush worlds; in hotter flames fallen angels lay: On me Almighty wrath is cast away. Call back Thy thunders, Lord, hold-in Thy rage, Nor with a speck of wretchedness engage: Forget me quite, nor stoop a worm to blame; But lose me in the greatness of Thy name. Thou art all love, all mercy, all Divine; And shall I make those glories cease to shine? Shall sinful man grow great by his offence, And from its course turn back Omnipotence? ``Forbid it! and O! grant, great God, at least This one, this slender, almost no request: When I have wept a thousand lives away, When torment is grown weary of its prey, When I have raved ten thousand years in fire, Ten thousand thousand, let me then expire.'' Deep anguish, but too late! The hopeless soul, Bound to the bottom of the burning pool, Though loath, and ever loud blaspheming, owns, He's justly doom'd to pour eternal groans; Enclosed with horrors, and transfix'd with pain, Rolling in vengeance, struggling with his chain; To talk to fiery tempests; to implore The raging flame to give its burnings o'er; To toss, to writhe, to pant beneath his load, And bear the weight of an offended God. The favour'd of their Judge in triumph move To take possession of their thrones above; Satan's accursed desertion to supply, And fill the vacant stations of the sky; Again to kindle long-extinguish'd rays, And with new lights dilate the heavenly blaze; To crop the roses of immortal youth, And drink the fountain-head of sacred truth; 30 To swim in seas of bliss, to strike the string, And lift the voice to their Almighty King; To lose eternity in grateful lays, And fill heaven's wide circumference with praise. But I attempt the wondrous height in vain, And leave unfinish'd the too lofty strain; What boldly I begin, let others end; My strength exhausted, fainting I descend, And choose a less, but no ignoble, theme,Dissolving elements, and worlds in flame. The fatal period, the great hour, is come, And Nature shrinks at her approaching doom; Loud peals of thunder give the sign, and all Heaven's terrors in array surround the ball; Sharp lightnings with the meteors' blaze conspire, And, darted downward, set the world on fire; Black rising clouds the thicken'd ether choke, And spiry flames dart through the rolling smoke, With keen vibrations cut the sullen night, And strike the darken'd sky with dreadful light; From heaven's four regions, with immortal force, Angels drive-on the wind's impetuous course To' enrage the flame: it spreads, it soars on high, Swells in the storm, and billows through the sky: Here winding pyramids of fire ascend, Cities and deserts in one ruin blend; Here blazing volumes, wafted, overwhelm The spacious face of a far-distant realm; There, undermined, down rush eternal hills, The neighbouring vales the vast destruction fills. Hear'st thou that dreadful crack? that sound which broke Like peals of thunder, and the centre shook? What wonders must that groan of Nature tell! Olympus there, and mightier Atlas, fell; Which seem'd above the reach of fate to stand, A towering monument of God's right hand; Now dust and smoke, whose brow so lately spread O'er shelter'd countries its diffusive shade. 31 Show me that celebrated spot, where all The various rulers of the sever'd ball Have humbly sought wealth, honour, and redress, That land which Heaven seem'd diligent to bless, Once call'd Britannia: can her glories end? And can't surrounding seas her realms defend? Alas! in flames behold surrounding seas! Like oil, their waters but augment the blaze. Some angel say, Where ran proud Asia's bound? Or where with fruits was fair Europa crown'd? Where stretch'd waste Libya? Where did India's store Sparkle in diamonds, and her golden ore? Each lost in each, their mingling kingdoms glow, And all, dissolved, one fiery deluge flow: Thus earth's contending monarchies are join'd, And a full period of ambition find. And now whate'er or swims, or walks, or flies, Inhabitants of sea, or earth, or skies; All on whom Adam's wisdom fix'd a name; All plunge and perish in the conquering flame. This globe alone would but defraud the fire, Starve its devouring rage: the flakes aspire, And catch the clouds, and make the heavens their prey; The sun, the moon, the stars, all melt away; All, all is lost; no monument, no sign, Where once so proudly blazed the gay machine. So bubbles on the foaming stream expire, So sparks that scatter from the kindling fire. The devastations of one dreadful hour The great Creator's six days' work devour. A mighty, mighty ruin! yet one soul Has more to boast, and far outweighs the whole; Exalted in superior excellence, Casts down to nothing such a vast expense. Have you not seen the' eternal mountains nod, An earth dissolving, a descending God? What strange surprises through all nature ran! For whom these revolutions, but for man? 32 For him, Omnipotence new measures takes, For him, through all eternity awakes; Pours on him gifts sufficient to supply Heaven's loss, and with fresh glories fill the sky. Think deeply then, O man, how great thou art; Pay thyself homage with a trembling heart. What angels guard, no longer dare neglect; Slighting thyself, affront not God's respect. Enter the sacred temple of thy breast, And gaze, and wander there, a ravish'd guest; Gaze on those hidden treasures thou shalt find, Wander through all the glories of thy mind. Of perfect knowledge, see, the dawning light Foretells a noon most exquisitely bright! Here springs of endless joy are breaking forth! There buds the promise of celestial worth! Worth, which must ripen in a happier clime, And brighter sun, beyond the bounds of time. Thou, minor, canst not guess thy vast estate, What stores, on foreign coasts, thy landing wait: Lose not thy claim: let virtue's path be trod; Thus glad all heaven, and please that bounteous God, Who, to light thee to pleasures, hung on high Yon radiant orb, proud regent of the sky; That service done, its beams shall fade away, And God shine forth in one eternal day. ~ Edward Young,

318:The Dunciad: Book I. The Mighty Mother, and her son who brings The Smithfield muses to the ear of kings, I sing. Say you, her instruments the great! Called to this work by Dulness, Jove, and Fate; You by whose care, in vain decried and cursed, Still Dunce the second reigns like Dunce the first; Say how the Goddess bade Britannia sleep, And poured her spirit o’er the land and deep. In eldest time, e’er mortals writ or read, E’er Pallas issued from the Thunderer’s head, Dulness o’er all possessed her ancient right, Daughter of Chaos and eternal Night: Fate in their dotage this fair idiot gave, Gross as her sire, and as her mother grave, Laborious, heavy, busy, bold, and blind, She ruled, in native anarchy, the mind. Still her old empire to restore she tries, For, born a goddess, Dulness never dies. O thou! whatever title please thine ear, Dean, Drapier, Bickerstaff, or Gulliver! Whether thou choose Cervantes’ serious air, Or laugh and shake in Rabelais’ easy chair, Or praise the court, or magnify mankind, Or thy grieved country’s copper chains unbind; From thy Boeotia though her power retires, Mourn not, my SWIFT, at ought our realm acquires, Here pleased behold her mighty wings out-spread To hatch a new Saturnian age of lead. Close to those walls where Folly holds her throne, And laughs to think Monroe would take her down, Where o’er the gates, by his famed by father’s hand Great Cibber’s brazen, brainless brothers stand; One cell there is, concealed from vulgar eye, The cave of poverty and poetry. Keen, hollow winds howl through the bleak recess, Emblem of music caused by emptiness. Hence bards, like Proteus long in vain tied down, Escape in monsters, and amaze the town. Hence miscellanies spring, the weekly boast 170 Of Curll’s chaste press, and Lintot’s rubric post : Hence hymning Tyburn’s elegiac lines, Hence Journals, Medleys, Merc’ries, Magazines: Sepulchral lies, our holy walls to grace, And new Year odes, and all the Grub Street race. In clouded majesty here Dulness shone; Four guardian virtues, round, support her throne: Fierce champion Fortitude, that knows no fears Of hisses, blows, or want, or loss of ears: Calm Temperance, whose blessings those partake Who hunger, and who thirst for scribbling sake: Prudence, whose glass presents th’ approaching goal. Poetic justice, with her lifted scale, Where, in nice balance, truth with gold she weighs, And solid pudding against empty praise. Here she beholds the chaos dark and deep, Where nameless somethings in their causes sleep, Till genial Jacob, or a warm third day, Call forth each mass, a poem, or a play: How hints, like spawn, scarce quick in embryo lie, How new-born nonsense first is taught to cry. Maggots half-formed in rhyme exactly meet, And learn to crawl upon poetic feet. Here one poor word an hundred clenches makes, And ductile dullness new meanders takes; There motley images her fancy strike, Figures ill paired, and similes unlike. She sees a mob of metaphors advance, Pleased with the madness of the mazy dance: How tragedy and comedy embrace; How farce and epic get a jumbled race; How time himself stands still at her command, Realms shift their place, and ocean turns to land. Here gay description Egypt glads with showers, Or gives to Zembla fruits, to Barca flowers; Glittering with ice here hoary hills are seen, There painted valleys of eternal green, In cold December fragrant chaplets blow, And heavy harvests nod beneath the snow. All these, and more, the cloud-compelling Queen Beholds through fogs, that magnify the scene. She, tinselled o’er in robes of varying hues, 171 With self-applause her wild creation views; Sees momentary monsters rise and fall, And with her own fools-colours gilds them all. ’Twas on the day, when rich and grave, Like Cimon, triumphed both on land and wave: (Pomps without guilt, of bloodless swords and maces, Glad chains, warm furs, broad banners, and broad faces) Now night descending, the proud scene was o’er, But lived, in Settle’s numbers, one day more. Now mayors and shrieves all hushed and satiate lay, Yet eat, in dreams, the custard of the day; While pensive poets painful vigils keep, Sleepless themselves, to give their readers sleep. Much to the mindful Queen the feast recalls What city swans once sung within the walls; Much she revolves their arts, their ancient praise, And sure succession down from Heywood’s days. She saw, with joy, the line immortal run, Each sire impressed and glaring in his son: So watchful Bruin forms, with plastic care, Each growing lump, and brings it to a bear. She saw old Prynne in restless Daniel shine, And Eusden eke out Blackmore’s endless line; She saw slow Philips creep like Tate’s poor page, And all the mighty mad in Dennis rage. In each she marks her image full expressed, But chief in BAY’S monster-breeding breast; Bays, formed by nature stage and town to bless, And act, and be, a coxcomb with success. Dulness with transport eyes the lively dunce, Remembering she herself was pertness once. Now (shame to fortune!) an ill run at play Blanked his bold visage, and a thin third day: Swearing and supperless the hero sate, Blasphemed his gods, the dice, and damned his fate. Then gnawed his pen, then dashed it on the ground, Sinking from thought to thought, a vast profound! Plunged for his sense, but found no bottom there, Yet wrote and floundered on, in mere despair. Round him much embryo, much abortion lay, 172 Much future ode, and abdicated play; Nonsense precipitate, like running lead, That slipped through cracks and zigzags of the head; All that on folly frenzy could beget, Fruits of dull heat, and sooterkins of wit. Next, o’er his books his eyes began to roll, In pleasing memory of all he stole, How here he sipped, how there he plundered snug And sucked all o’er, like an industrious bug. Here lay poor Fletcher’s half-eat scenes, and here The frippery of crucified Molière; There hapless Shakespeare, yet of Tibbald sore, Wished he had blotted for himself before. The rest on outside merit but presume, Or serve (like other fools) to fill a room; Such with their shelves as due proportion hold, Or their fond parents dressed in red and gold; Or where the pictures for the page atone, And Quarles is saved by beauties not his own. Here swells the shelf with Ogibly the great; There, stamped with arms, Newcastle shines complete: Here all his suffering brotherhood retire, And ’scape the martyrdom of jakes and fire: A Gothic library! Of Greece and Rome Well purged, and worthy Settle, Banks, and Broome. But, high above, more solid learning shone, The classics of an age that heard of none; There Caxton slept, with Wynkyn at his side, One clasped in wood, and one in strong cow-hide; There, saved by spice, like mummies, many a year, Dry bodies of divinity appear: De Lyra there a dreadful front extends, And here the groaning shelves Philemon bends. Of these twelve volumes, twelve of amplest size, Redeemed from tapers and defrauded pies, Inspired he seizes: these an altar raise: An hetatomb of pure, unsullied lays That altar crowns: a folio commonplace Founds the whole pile, of all his works the base: Quartos, octavos, shape the lessening pyre; A twisted birthday ode completes the spire. Then he: ‘Great tamer of all human art! 173 First in my care, and ever at my heart; Dulness! Whose good old cause I yet defend, With whom my muse began, with whom shall end; E’er since Sir Fopling’s periwig was praise To the last honours of the butt and bays: O thou! of business the directing soul! To this our head like bias to the bowl, Which, as more ponderous, made its aim more true, Obliquely waddling to the mark in view: O! ever gracias to perplexed mankind, Still spread a healing mist before the mind; And lest we err by wit’s wild dancing light, Secure us kindly in our native night. Or, if to wit a coxcomb make pretence, Guard the sure barrier between that and sense; Or quite unravel all the reasoning thread, And hang some curious cobweb in its stead! As, forced from wind-guns, lead itself can fly, And ponderous slugs cut swiftly through the sky; As clocks to weight their nimble motion owe, The wheels above urged by the load below: Me emptiness, and Dulness could inspire, And were my elasticity, and fire. Some daemon stole my pen(forgive th’offence) And once betrayed me into common sense: Else all my prose and verse were much the same; This, prose on stilts, that, poetry fallen lame. Did on the stage my fops appear confined? My life gave ampler lessons to mankind. Did the dead letter unsuccessful prove? The brisk example never failed to move. Yet sure had heaven decreed to save the state, Heaven had decreed these works a longer date. Could Troy be saved by any single hand, This grey-goose weapon must have made her stand. What can I now? my Fletcher cast aside, Take up the Bible, once my better guide? Or tread the path by venturous heroes trod, This box my thunder, this right hand my god? Or chaired at White’s amidst the doctors sit, Teach oaths to gamesters, and to nobles wit? Or bidst thou rather party to embrace? 174 (A friend to party thou, and all her race; ’Tis the same rope at different ends they twist; To Dulness Ridpath is as dear as Mist.) Shall I, like Curtius, desperate in my zeal, O’er head and ears plunge for the commonweal? Or rob Rome’s ancient geese of all their glories, And cackling save the monarchy of Tories? Hold—to the minister I more incline; To serve his cause, O Queen! is serving thine. And see! Thy very gazetteers give o’er, Ev’n Ralph repents, and Henley writes no more. What then remains? Ourself. Still, still remain Cibberian forehead, and Cibberian brain. This brazen brightness, to the ‘squire so dear; This polished hardness, that reflects the peer; This arch absurd, that sit and fool delights; This mess, tossed up of Hockley Hole and White’s; Where dukes and butchers join to wreathe my crown, At once the bear and fiddle of the town. O born in sin, and forth in folly brought! Works damned, or to be damned! (your father’s fault) Go, purified by flames ascend the sky, My better and more Christian progeny! Unstained, untouched, and yet in maiden sheets; While all your smutty sisters walk the streets. Ye shall not beg, like gratis-given Bland, Sent with a pass, and vagrant through the land; Not sail, with Ward, to ape-and-monkey climes, Where vile mundungus trucks for viler rhymes; Not sulphur-tipped, emblaze an alehouse fire; Not wrap up oranges, to pelt your sire! O! pass more innocent, in infant state, To the mild limbo of our father Tate: Or peaceably forgot, at once be blessed In Shadwell’s bosom with eternal rest! Soon to that mass of nonsense to return, Where things destroyed are swept to things unborn.’ With that, a tear (portentous sign of grace!) Stole from the master of the sevenfold face: And thrice he lifted high the birthday brand, And thrice he dropped it from his quivering hand; Then lights the structure, with averted eyes: 175 The rolling smokes involve the sacrifice. The opening clouds disclose each work by turns, Now flames the Cid, and now Perolla burns; Great Ceasar roars, and hisses in the fires; King John in silence modestly expires: No merit now the dear Nonjuror claims, Molière’s old stubble in a moment flames. Tears gushed again, as from pale Priam’s eyes When the last blaze sent Ilion to the skies. Roused by the light, old Dulness heaved the head; Then snatched a sheet of Thulè from her bed, Sudden she flies, and whelms it o’er the pyre; Down sink the flames, and with a hiss expire. Her ample presence fills up all the place; A veil of fogs dilates her awful face; Great in her charms! as when on shrieves and mayors She looks, and breathes herself into their airs. She bids him wait her to her sacred dome: Well pleased he entered, and confessed his home. So spirits ending their terrestrial race, Ascend, and recognize their native place. This the Great Mother dearer held than all The clubs of quidnuncs, or her own Guildhall: Here stood her opium, here she nursed her owls, And here she planned th’ imperial seat of Fools. Here to her chosen all her works she shows; Prose swelled to verse, verse loitering into prose: How random thoughts now meaning chance to find, Now leave all memory of sense behind: How prologues into prefaces decay, And these to notes are frittered quite away: How index-learning turns no student pale, Yet holds the eel of science by the tail: How, with less reading than makes felons ’scape, Less human genius than God gives an ape, Small thanks to France, and none to Rome or Greece, A past, vamped, future, old, revived, new piece, ’Twixt Plautus, Fletcher, Shakespeare, and Corneille, Can make a Cibber, Tibbald, or Ozell. The Goddess then, o’er his anointed head, With mystic words, the sacred opium shed. And lo! her bird, (a monster of a fowl, 176 Something betwixt a Heidegger and owl,) Perched on his crown: ‘ All hail! and hail again, My son! The promised land expects thy reign. Know, Eusden thirsts no more for sack or praise; He sleeps among the dull of ancient days; Safe, where no critics damn, no duns molest, Where wretched Withers, Ward, and Gildon rest, And high-born Howard, more majestic sire, With fool of quality completes the quire. Thou Cibber! thou, his laurel shalt support, Folly, my son, has still a friend at court. Lift up your gates, ye princes, see him come! Sound, sound ye viols, be the catcall dumb! Bring, bring the madding bay, the drunken vine; The creeping, dirty, courtly ivy join. And thou! his aide de camp, lead on my sons, Light-armed with points, antitheses, and puns. Let bawdry, Billingsgate, my daughters dear, Support his front, and oaths bring up the rear: And under his, and under Archer’s wing, Gaming and Grub Street skulk behind the king. O! when shall rise a monarch all our own, And I, a nursing-mother, rock the throne, ’Twixt prince and people close the curtain draw, Shade him from light, and cover him from law; Fatten the courtier, starve the learned band, And suckle armies, and dry-nurse the land: Till senates nod to lullabies divine, And all be asleep, as at an ode of thine.’ She ceased. Then swells the Chapel Royal throat: ‘God save King Cibber!’ mounts in every note. Familiar White’s, ‘God save king Colley!’ cries; ‘God save King Colley!’ Drury Lane replies: To Needham’s quick the voice triumphal rode, But pious Needham dropped the name of God; Back to the Devil the last echoes roll, And ‘Coll!’ each butcher roars at Hockley Hole. So when Jove’s block descended from on high (As sings thy great forefather Ogilby) Loud thunder to its bottom shook the bog, And the hoarse nation croaked, ‘God save King Log! 177 ~ Alexander Pope,

319: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,

320:Beauty And The Beast A Merchant, who by generous pains Prospered in honourable gains, Could boast, his wealth and fame to share, Three manly Sons, three Daughters fair; With these he felt supremely blest.His latest born surpass'd the rest: She was so gentle, good and kind, So fair in feature, form, and mind, So constant too in filial duty, The neighbours called her Little Beauty! And when fair childhood's days were run, That title still she wore and won; Lovelier as older still she grew, Improv'd in grace and goodness too.Her elder Sisters, gay and vain, View'd her with envy and disdain, Toss'd up their heads with haughty air; Dress, Fashion, Pleasure, all their care. 'Twas thus, improving and improv'd; Loving, and worthy to be lov'd, Sprightly, yet grave, each circling day Saw Beauty innocently gay. Thus smooth the May-like moments past; Blest times! but soon by clouds o'ercast! Sudden as winds that madd'ning sweep The foaming surface of the deep, Vast treasures, trusted to the wave, Were buried in the billowy grave! Our Merchant, late of boundless store, Saw Famine hasting to his door. With willing hand and ready grace, Mild Beauty takes the Servant's place; Rose with the sun to household cares, 22 And morn's repast with zeal prepares, The wholesome meal, the cheerful fire: What cannot filial love inspire? And when the task of day was done, Suspended till the rising sun, Music and song the hours employ'd, As more deserv'd, the more enjoy'd; Till Industry, with Pastime join'd, Refresh'd the body and the mind; And when the groupe retir'd to rest, Father and Brothers Beauty blest. Not so the Sisters; as before 'Twas rich and idle, now 'twas poor. In shabby finery array'd, They still affected a parade: While both insulted gentle Beauty, Unwearied in the housewife's duty; They mock'd her robe of modest brown, And view'd her with a taunting frown; Yet scarce could hold their rage to see The blithe effects of Industry. In this retreat a year had past, When happier tidings came at last, And in the Merchant's smile appear'd Prospects that all the Cotters cheer'd: A letter came; its purport good; Part of his ventures brav'd the flood: 'With speed,' said he, 'I must to town, 'And what, my girls, must I bring down?' The envious Sisters, all confusion, Commissions gave in wild profusion; Caps, hats, and bonnets, bracelets, broaches, To cram the pockets of the coaches, With laces, linens, to complete The order, and to fill the seat. Such wants and wishes now appear'd, 23 To make them larger Beauty fear'd; Yet lest her silence might produce From jealous Sisters more abuse, Considerately good, she chose, The emblem of herself,-a Rose. The good man on his journey went, His thoughts on generous Beauty bent. 'If Heav'n,' he said, and breath'd a prayer, 'If Heav'n that tender child should spare, 'Whate'er my lot, I must be bless'd, 'I must be rich:'-he wept the rest. Timely such feelings!-Fortune still, Unkind and niggard, crost his will. Of all his hopes, alas, the gains Were far o'erbalanc'd by the pains; For after a long tedious round, He had to measure back his ground. A short day's travel from his Cot, New misadventures were his lot; Dark grew the air, the wind blew high, And spoke the gathering tempest nigh; Hail, snow, and night-fog join'd their force, Bewildering rider and his horse. Dismay'd, perplext, the road they crost, And in the dubious maze were lost. When glimmering through the vapours drear, A taper shew'd a dwelling near. And guess our Merchant's glad surprise, When a rich palace seemed to rise As on he mov'd! The knee be bent, Thankful to Heaven; then nearer went. But, O! how much his wonder grew, When nothing living met his view!Entering a splendid hall, he found, 24 With every luxury around, A blazing fire, a plenteous board, A costly cellaret, well stor'd, All open'd wide, as if to say, 'Stranger, refresh thee on thy way!' The Merchant to the fire drew near, Deeming the owner would appear, And pardon one who, drench'd in rain, Unask'd, had ventured to remain. The court-yard clock had number'd seven, When first he came; but when eleven Struck on his ear as mute he sate, It sounded like the knoll of Fate. And yet so hungry was he grown, He pick'd a capon to the bone; And as choice wines before him stood, He needs must taste if they were good: So much he felt his spirits cheer'dThe more he drank, the less he fear'd. Now bolder grown, he pac'd along, (Still hoping he might do no wrong), When, entering at a gilded door, High-rais'd upon a sumptuous floor, A sofa shew'd all Persia's pride, And each magnificence beside: So down at once the Merchant lay, Tir'd with the wonders of the day. But had it been a rushy bed, Tuck'd in the corner of a shed, With no less joy had it been press'd: The good man pray'd, and sank to rest. Nor woke he till the noon of day; And as he thus enchanted lay, 'Now for my storm-sopp'd clothes,' he cries: 25 When lo! a suit complete he spies; 'Yes, 'tis all fairy-work, no doubt, 'By gentle Pity brought about!' Tenfold, when risen, amazement grew; For bursting on his gazing view, Instead of snow, he saw fair bowers In all the pride of summer flowers. Entering again the hall, behold, Serv'd up in silver, pearl, and gold, A breakfast, form'd of all things rare, As if Queen Mab herself were there. As now he past, with spirits gay, A shower of Roses strew'd the way, E'en to his hand the branches bent: 'One of these boughs-I go content! 'Beauty, dear Beauty-thy request 'If I may bear away, I'm blest.' The Merchant pull'd-the branches broke!A hideous growling while he spoke, Assail'd his startled ears; and then A frightful Beast, as from a den, Rushing to view, exclaimed, 'Ingrate! 'That stolen branch has seal'd thy fate. 'All that my castle own'd was thine, 'My food, my fire, my bed, my wine: 'Thou robb'st my Rose-trees in return, 'For this, base Plunderer, thou shalt mourn!' 'My Lord, I swear upon my knees, 'I did not mean to harm your trees; 'But a lov'd Daughter, fair as spring, 'Intreated me a Rose to bring; 'O didst thou know, my lord, the Maid!'- 'I am no Lord,' Beast angry said, 'And so no flattery!-but know, 'If, on your oath before you go, 'Within three wasted Moons you here 26 'Cause that lov'd Daughter to appear, 'And visit Beast a volunteer 'To suffer for thee, thou mayest live:'Speak not!-do this!-and I forgive.' Mute and deprest the Merchant fled, Unhappy traveller, evil sped! Beauty was first her sire to meet, Springing impatient from her seat; Her Brothers next assembled round; Her straying Sisters soon were found. While yet the Father fondly press'd The Child of Duty to his Breast,'Accept these Roses, ill-starr'd Maid! 'For thee thy Father's life is paid.' The Merchant told the tale of Beast; And loud lamentings, when he ceas'd, From both the jealous Sisters broke, As thus with taunting rage they spoke: 'And so thou kill'st thy Father, Miss, 'Proud, sinful creature, heardst thou this? 'We only wish'd a few new clothes; 'Beauty, forsooth, must have her Rose! 'Yet, harden'd Wretch, her eyes are dry, 'Tho' for her Pride our Sire must die!' 'Die! Not for worlds!' exclaim'd the Maid; 'Beast kindly will take me instead: 'And O, a thousand deaths I'd prove 'To shew my Father how I love!' The Brothers cried, 'Let us away, 'We'll perish, or the Monster slay.' 'Vain hope, my gen'rous Sons, his power 'Can troops of men and horse devour: 'Your offer, Beauty, moves my soul; 'But no man can his fate controul: 27 'Mine was the fault; you, Love, are free; 'And mine the punishment shall be.' Beauty was firm! the Sire caress'd Again his Darling to his breast; With blended love and awe survey'd, And each good Brother blest the Maid! Three months elaps'd, her Father's heart Heav'd high, as she prepar'd to part; The Sisters try'd a tear to force, While Beauty smil'd as she took horse; Yet smil'd thro' many a generous tear, To find the parting moment near! And just as evening's shades came on, The splendid Palace court they won. Beauty, now lost in wonder all, Gain'd with her Sire the spacious hall; Where, of the costliest viands made, Behold, a sumptuous table laid! The Merchant, sickening at the sight, Sat down with looks of dire affright, But nothing touch'd; tho' Beauty prest, And strove to lull his fears to rest. Just as she spoke, a hideous noise Announc'd the growling monster's voice. And now Beast suddenly stalk'd forth, While Beauty well nigh sank to earth: Scarce could she conquer her alarms, Tho' folded in a father's arms. Grim Beast first question'd fierce, if she Had hither journey'd willingly? 'Yes,' Beauty cried-in trembling tone: 'That's kind,' said Beast, and thus went on'Good Merchant, at to-morrow's dawn, 'I charge and warn you to be gone! 'And further, on life's penalty, 'Dare not again to visit me. 'Beauty, farewell!' he now withdrew, As she return'd the dread adieu. 28 Each then their separate pillow prest, And slumber clos'd their eyes in rest. As zephyr light, from magic sleep, Soon as the sun began to peep, Sprang Beauty; and now took her way To where her anguish'd father lay,But envious time stole swiftly on; 'Begone! lov'd Father! ah! begone! 'The early dew now gems the thorn, 'The sun-beams gain upon the morn. 'Haste, Father, haste! Heaven guards the good!' In wonder rapt the Merchant stood; And while dread fears his thoughts employ, A child so generous still was joy. 'My Father's safe!' she cried, 'blest Heaven! 'The rest is light, this bounty given.' She now survey'd th' enchanting scene, Sweet gardens of eternal green; Mirrors, and chandeliers of glass, And diamonds bright which those surpass; All these her admiration gain'd; But how was her attention chain'd, When she in golden letters trac'd, High o'er an arch of emeralds plac'd, 'Beauty's apartment! Enter, blest! 'This, but an earnest of the rest!' The fair one was rejoic'd to find, Beast studied less her eye, than mind. But, wishing still a nearer view, Forth from the shelves a book she drew, In whose first page, in lines of gold, She might heart-easing words behold: 'Welcome Beauty, banish fear! 'You are Queen, and Mistress here: 29 'Speak your wishes, speak your will, 'Swift obedience meets them still.' 'Alas!' said she, with heartfelt sighs, The daughter rushing to her eyes, 'There's nothing I so much desire, 'As to behold my tender Sire.' Beauty had scarce her wish express'd, When it was granted by the Beast: A wond'rous mirror to her eye, Brought all her cottage family. Here her good Brothers at their toil, For still they dress'd the grateful soil; And there with pity she perceiv'd, How much for her the Merchant griev'd; How much her Sisters felt delight To know her banish'd from their sight, Altho' with voice and looks of guile, Their bosoms full of joy the while, They labour'd hard to force a tear, And imitate a grief sincere. At noon's repast, she heard a sound Breathing unseen sweet music round; But when the evening board was spread, The voice of Beast recall'd her dread: 'May I observe you sup?' he said; 'Ah, tremble not; your will is law; 'One question answer'd, I withdraw.'Am I not hideous to your eyes?' 'Your temper's sweet,' she mild replies. 'Yes, but I'm ugly, have no sense:''That's better far, than vain pretence.''Try to be happy, and at ease,' Sigh'd Beast, 'as I will try to please.''Your outward form is scarcely seen 'Since I arriv'd, so kind you've been.' 30 One quarter of the rolling year, No other living creature near, Beauty with Beast had past serene, Save some sad hours that stole between. That she her Father's life had sav'd, Upon her heart of hearts was grav'd: While yet she view'd the Beast with dread, This was the balm that conscience shed. But now a second solace grew, Whose cause e'en conscience scarcely knew. Here on a Monster's mercy cast,Yet, when her first dire fears were past, She found that Monster, timid, mild, Led like the lion by the child. Custom and kindness banish'd fear; Beauty oft wish'd that Beast were near. Nine was the chosen hour that Beast Constant attended Beauty's feast, Yet ne'er presum'd to touch the food, Sat humble, or submissive stood, Or, audience crav'd, respectful spoke, Nor aim'd at wit, or ribald joke, But oftner bent the raptur'd ear Or ravish'd eye, to see or hear. And if th' appointed hour pass'd by, 'Twas marked by Beauty with a sigh. 'Swear not to leave me,' sigh'd the Beast: 'I swear'-for now her fears were ceas'd, 'And willing swear,-so now and then 'I might my Father see again'One little week-he's now alone.' 'Granted!' quoth Beast: your will be done!' 'Your Ring upon the table lay 'At night,-you're there at peep of day: 'But oh,-remember, or I die!' He gaz'd, and went without reply. At early morn, she rang to rise; 31 The Maid beholds with glad surprise: Summons her Father to her side, Who, kneeling and embracing, cried, With rapture and devotion wild, 'O bless'd be Heaven, and blest my Child!' Beauty the Father now address'd, And strait to see her Sisters press'd. They both were married, and both prov'd Neither was happy or belov'd. And when she told them she was blest With days of ease, and nights of rest; To hide the malice of the soul, Into the garden sly they stole, And there in floods of tears they vent Their hate, and feel its punishment. 'If,' said the eldest, 'you agree, 'We'll make that wench more curs'd than we! 'I have a plot, my sister dear: 'More than her week let's keep her here. 'No more with Monster shall she sup, 'Who, in his rage, shall eat her up.' And now such art they both employ'd, While Beauty wept, yet was o'erjoy'd; And when the stated hour was come,'Ah! can you quit so soon your home?' Eager they question'd-tore their hairAnd look'd the Pictures of Despair. Beauty, tho' blushing at delay, Promis'd another week to stay. Meantime, altho' she err'd from love, Her conscious heart could ill approve'Thy vow was giv'n, thy vow was broke!' Thus Conscience to her bosom spoke. Thoughts such as these assail'd her breast, 32 And a sad vision broke her rest! The palace-garden was the place, Which her imaginations trace: There, on a lawn, as if to die, She saw poor Beast extended lie, Reproaching with his latest breath Beauty's ingratitude in death. Rous'd from her sleep, the contrite Maid The Ring upon her toilette laid, And Conscience gave a sound repose: Balmy her rest; and when she rose, The palace of poor Beast she found, Groves, gardens, arbours, blooming round: The morning shone in summer's pride, Beauty for fairer evening sigh'dSigh'd for the object once so fear'd, By worth, by kindness now endear'd. But when had past the wonted hour, And no wish'd footstep pass'd the door;When yet another hour lagg'd on,Then to the wide canal she ran: 'For there in vision,' said the fair, 'Was stretch'd the object of my care!' And there, alas! he now was found, Extended on the flowery ground. 'Ah! fond and faithful Beast,' she cried, 'Hast thou for me perfidious died? 'O! could'st thou hear my fervid prayer, ''Twould ease the anguish of despair.' Beast open'd now his long-clos'd eyes, And saw the fair with glad surprise. 'In my last moments you are sent; 'You pity, and I die content.' 'Thou shalt not die,' rejoin'd the Maid; 'O rather live to hate, upbraid'But no! my grievous fault forgive! 'I feel I can't without thee live.' 33 Beauty had scarce pronounc'd the word, When magic sounds of sweet accord, The music of celestial spheres As if from seraph harps she hears; Amaz'd she stood,-new wonders grew; For Beast now vanish'd from her view; And, lo! a Prince, with every grace Of figure, fashion, feature, face, In whom all charms of Nature meet, Was kneeling at fair Beauty's feet. 'But where is Beast?' still Beauty cried: 'Behold him here!' the Prince replied. 'Orasmyn, lady, is my name, 'In Persia not unknown to fame; 'Till this re-humanizing hour, 'The victim of a Fairy's pow'r;'Till a deliverer could be found, 'Who, while the accursed spell still bound, 'Could first endure, tho' with alarm, 'And break at last by love the charm!' Beauty delighted gave her hand, And bade the Prince her fate command; The Prince now led through rooms of state, Where Beauty's family await, In bridal vestments all array'd, By some superior power convey'd. 'Beauty,' pronounc'd a heavenly voice, 'Now take from me your princely choice. 'Virtue, to every good beside 'While wit and beauty were denied, 'Fix'd your pure heart! for which, unseen, 'I led your steps; and now a Queen, 'Seated on Persia's glittering throne, ''Tis mine and Virtue's task to crown! 'But as for you, ye Sisters vain, 34 'Still first and last in envy's train, 'Before fair Beauty's Palace-gate, 'Such Justice has decreed your fate, 'Transform'd to statues you must dwell, 'Curs'd with the single power, to feel'Unless by penitence and prayer'But this will ask long years of care, 'Of promise and performance too, 'A change of mind from false to true'A change I scarce can hope from you.' Instant the Power stretch'd forth her wand, Her sceptre of supreme command, When lo! at her resistless call, Gay crowds came thronging through the hall, The blissful hour to celebrate When Persia's Prince resum'd his state: At once the dome with music rang, And virgins danc'd, and minstrels sang; It was the Jubilee of Youth, Led on by Virtue and by Truth; The pride of Persia fill'd the scene, To hail Orasmyn and his Queen! THE END ~ Charles Lamb,

321:Lohengrin THE holy bell, untouched by human hands, Clanged suddenly, and tolled with solemn knell. Between the massive, blazoned temple-doors, Thrown wide, to let the summer morning in, Sir Lohengrin, the youngest of the knights, Had paused to taste the sweetness of the air. All sounds came up the mountain-side to him, Softened to music,— noise of laboring men, The cheerful cock-crow and the low of kine, Bleating of sheep, and twittering of the birds, Commingled into murmurous harmonies— When harsh, and near, and clamorous tolled the bell. He started, with his hand upon his sword; His face, an instant since serene and fair, And simple with the beauty of a boy, Heroic, flushed, expectant all at once. The lovely valley stretching out beneath Was now a painted picture,— nothing more; All music of the mountain or the vale Rang meaningless to him who heard the bell. 'I stand upon the threshold, and am called,' His clear, young voice shrilled gladly through the air, And backward through the sounding corridors. 'And have ye heard the bell, my brother knights, Untouched by human hands or winds of heaven? It called me, yea, it called my very name!' So, breathing still of morning, Lohengrin Sprang 'midst the gathering circle of the knights, Eager, exalted. 'Nay, it called us all: It rang as it hath often rung before,— Because the good cause, somewhere on the earth, Requires a champion,' with a serious smile, An older gravely answered. 'Where to go? We know not, and we know not whom to serve.' Then spake Sir Percivale, their holiest knight, And father of the young Sir Lohengrin: 'All that to us seems old, familiar, stale, 106 Unto the boy is vision, miracle. Cross him not, brethren, in his first desire. I will dare swear the summons rang to him, Not sternly solemn, as it tolled to us, But gracious, sweet, and gay as marriage-bells.' His pious hands above the young man's head Wandered in blessing, lightly touching it, As fondly as a mother. 'Lohengrin, My son, farewell,— God send thee faith and strength.' ' God send me patience and humility,' Murmured the boyish knight, from contrite heart, With head downcast for those anointing hands. Then raising suddenly wide, innocent eyes,— 'Father, my faith is boundless as God's love.' Complete in glittering silver armor clad, With silver maiden-shield, blank of device, Sir Lohengrin rode down the Montsalvatsch, With Percivale and Tristram, Frimutelle And Eliduc, to speed him on his quest. They fared in silence, for the elder knights Were filled with grave misgivings, solemn thoughts Of fate and sorrow, and they heard the bell Tolling incessant; while Sir Lohengrin, Buoyant with hope, and dreaming like a girl, With wild blood dancing in his veins, had made The journey down the mount unconsciously, Surprised to find that he had reached the vale. Distinct and bowered in green the mountain loomed, Topped with the wondrous temple, with its cross Smitten to splendor by the eastern sun. Around them lay the valley beautiful, Imparadised with flowers and light of June; And through the valley flowed a willowy stream, Golden and gray, at this delicious hour, With purity and sunshine. Here the knights, Irresolute, gave pause — which path to choose? 'God lead me right!' said meek Sir Lohengrin; And as he spoke afar upon the stream, He saw a shining swan approaching them. Full-breasted, with the current it sailed down, Dazzling in sun and shadow, air and wave, 107 With unseen movement, wings a little spread, Their downy under-feathers fluttering, Stirred by its stately progress; in its beak It held a silver chain, and drew thereby A dainty carven shallop after it, Embossed with silver and with ivory. 'Lead ye my charger up the mount again,' Cried Lohengrin, and leaped unto the ground, 'For I will trust my guidance to the swan.' ' Nay, hold, Sir Lohengrin,' said Eliduc, ' Thou hast not made provision for this quest.' ' God will provide,' the pious knight replied. Then Percival: 'Be faithful to thy vows; Bethink thee of thine oath when thou art asked Thy mission in the temple, or thy race. Farewell, farewell.' 'Farewell,' cried Lohengrin, And sprang into the shallop as it passed, And waved farewells unto his brother knights, Until they saw the white and silver shine Of boat and swan and armor less and less, Till in the willowy distance they were lost. Skirting the bases of the rolling hills, He glided on the river hour by hour, All through the endless summer day. At first On either side the willows brushed his boat, Then underneath their sweeping arch he passed, Into a rich, enchanted wilderness, Cool, full of mystic shadows and rare lights, Wherein the very river changed its hue, Reflecting tender shades of waving green, And mossy undergrowth of grass and fern. Here yellow lilies floated 'midst broad leaves, Upon their reedy stalks, and far below, Beneath the flags and rushes, coppery bream Sedately sailed, and flickering perch, and dace With silvery lustres caught the glancing rays Of the June sun upon their mottled scales. 'Midst the close sedge the bright-eyed water-mouse Nibbled its food, while overhead, its kin, The squirrel, frisked among the trees. The air Was full of life and sound of restless birds, 108 Darting with gayer tints of red and blue And speckled plumage 'mid gray willow leaves, And sober alders, and light-foliaged birch. Unnumbered insects fluttered o'er the banks, Some dimpling the smooth river's slippery floor, Leaping from point to point. Then passed the knight 'Twixt broad fields basking in excess of light, And girt around by range on range of hills, Green, umber, purple, waving limitless, Unto the radiant crystal of the sky. Through unfamiliar solitudes the swan Still led him, and he saw no living thing Save creatures of the wood, no human face, Nor sign of human dwelling. But he sailed, Holding high thoughts and vowing valorous vows, Filled with vast wonder and keen happiness, At the world's very beauty, and his life Opened in spacious vistas measureless, As lovely as the stream that bore him on. So dazzled was the boyish Lohengrin By all the vital beauty of the real, And the yet wilder beauty of his dreams, That he had lost all sense of passing time, And woke as from a trance of centuries, To find himself within the heart of hills, The river widened to an ample lake, And the swan faring towards a narrow gorge, That seemed to lead him to the sunset clouds. Suffused with color were the extremest heights; The river rippled in a glassy flood, Glorying in the glory of the sky. O what a moment for a man to take Down with him in his memory to the grave! Life at that hour appeared as infinite As expectation, sacred, wonderful, A vision and a privilege. The stream Lessened to force its way through rocky walls, Then swerved and flowed, a purple brook, through woods Dewy with evening, sunless, odorous. There Lohengrin, with eyes upon the stream, Now brighter than the earth, saw, deep and clear, The delicate splendor of the earliest star. 109 All night, too full of sweet expectancy, Too reverent of the loveliness, for sleep, He watched the rise and setting of the stars.. All things were new upon that magic day, Suggesting nobler possibilities, For a life passed in wise serenity, Confided with sublimely simple faith Unto the guidance of the higher will. In the still heavens hung the large round moon, White on the blue-black ripples glittering, And rolled soft floods of slumberous, misty light Over dim fields and colorless, huge hills. But the pure swan still bore its burden on, The ivory shallop and the silver knight, Pale-faced in that white lustre, neither made For any port, but seemed to float at will Aimlessly in a strange, unpeopled land. So passed the short fair night, and morning broke Upon the river where it flowed through flats Wide, fresh, and vague in gray, uncertain dawn, With cool air sweet from leagues of dewy grass. Then 'midst the flush and beauty of the east, The risen sun made all the river flow, Smitten with light, in gold and gray again. Rightly he judged his voyage but begun, When the swan loitered by low banks set thick With cresses, and red berries, and sweet herbs, That he might pluck and taste thereof; for these Such wondrous vigor in his frame infused, They seemed enchanted and ambrosial fruits. Day waxed and waned and vanished many times, And many suns still found him journeying; But when the sixth night darkened hill and wold, He seemed bewitched as by a wizard's spell, By this slow, constant progress, and deep sleep Possessed his spirit, and his head drooped low On the hard pillow of his silver shield. Unconscious he was borne through silent hours, Nor wakened by the dawn of a new day, But in his dreamless sleep he never lost The sense of moving forward on a stream. Now fared the swan through tilled and cultured lands, 110 Dappled with sheep and kine on pastures soft, Sprinkled with trim and pleasant cottages, With men and women working noiselessly, As in a picture; nearer then they drew, And sounds of rural labor, spoken words, Sir Lohengrin might hear, but still he slept, Nor saw the shining turrets of a town, Gardens and castles, domes and cross-topped spires Fair in the distance, and the flowing stream, Cleaving its liquid path 'midst many men, And glittering galleries filled with courtly folk, Ranged for a tourney-show in open air. Ah! what a miracle it seemed to these,— The white bird bearing on the river's breast That curious, sparkling shallop, and within The knight in silver armor, with bared head, And crisp hair blown about his angel face, Asleep upon his shield! They gazed on him As on the incarnate spirit of pure faith, And as the very ministrant of God. But one great damsel throned beside a king, With coroneted head and white, wan face, Flushed suddenly, and clasped her hands in prayer, And raised large, lucid eyes in thanks to Heaven. Then, in his dreamless slumber, Lohengrin, Feeling the steady motion of the boat Suddenly cease, awoke. Refreshed, alert, He knew at once that he had reached his port, And saw that peerless maiden thanking Heaven For his own advent, and his heart leaped up Into his throat, and love o'ermastered him. After the blare of flourished trumpets died, A herald thus proclaimed the tournament: 'Greetings and glory to the majesty Of the imperial Henry. By his grace, This tourney has been granted to the knight, Frederick of Telramund, who claims the hand Of Lady Elsie, Duchess of Brabant, His ward, and stands prepared to prove in arms His rights against all champions in the lists, Whom his unwilling mistress may select. Sir Frederick, Lord of Telramund, is here: 111 What champion will espouse the lady's cause?' Sir Frederick, huge in stature and in bulk, In gleaming armor terribly equipped, Advanced defiant, as the herald ceased. Then Lohengrin, with spear and shield in hand, Sprang lightly, from his shallop, in the lists. His beaver raised disclosed his ardent face, His whole soul shining from inspired eyes. With cast-back head, sun-smitten silver mail, Quivering with spirit, light, and life, he stood, And flung his gauntlet at Sir Frederick's feet, Crying with shrill, clear voice that rang again, 'Sir Lohengrin adopts the lady's cause.' Then these with shock of conflict couched their spears In deadly combat; but their weapons clanged Harmless against their mail impregnable, Or else were nimbly foiled by dexterous shields. Unequal and unjust it seemed at first,— The slender boy matched with the warrior huge, Who bore upon him with the skill and strength Of a tried conqueror; but the stranger knight Displayed such agile grace in parrying blows, Such fiery valor dealing his own strokes, That men looked on in wonder, and his foe Was hardly put upon it for his life. Thrice they gave praise, to breathe, and to prepare For fiercer battle, and the galleries rang With plaudits, and the names of both the knights. And they, with spirits whetted by the strife, Met for the fourth, last time, and fenced and struck, And the keen lance of Lohengrin made way, Between the meshes of Sir Frederick's mail, Through cuirass and through jerkin, to the flesh, With pain so sharp and sudden that he fell. Then Henry threw his warder to the ground, And cried the stranger knight had won the day; And all the lesser voices, following his, Called, ' Lohengrin—Sir Lohengrin hath won!' He, flushed with victory, standing in the lists, Deafened with clamor of his very name, Reëchoed to the heavens, felt himself Alone and alien, and would fain float back 112 Unto the temple, had he not recalled The fair, great damsel throned beside the king. But lo! the swan had vanished, and the boat He fancied he descried a tiny star, Glimmering in the shining distances. 'His Majesty would greet Sir Lohengrin; And Lady Elsie, Duchess of Brabant, Would thank him for his prowess.' Thus proclaimed The herald, while the unknown knight was led To the imperial throne. Then Elsie spake: 'Thou hast redeemed my life from misery; How may I worthily reward or thank? Be thou the nearest to our ducal throne, The highest knight of Limburg and Brabant, The greatest gentleman,— unless thy rank, In truth, be suited to thine own deserts, And thou, a prince, art called to higher aims.' 'Madam, my thanks are rather due to Fate, For having chosen so poor an instrument For such a noble end. A knight am I, The champion of the helpless and oppressed, Bound by fast vows to own no other name Than Lohengrin, the Stranger, in this land, And to depart when asked my race or rank. Trusting in God I came, and, trusting Him, I must remain, for all my fate hath changed, All my desires and hopes, since I am here.' So ended that great joust, and in the days Thereafter Elsie and Sir Lohengrin, United by a circumstance so strange, Loved and were wedded. A more courteous duke, A braver chevalier, Brabant ne'er saw. Such grace breathed from his person and his deeds, Such simple innocence and faith looked forth From eyes well-nigh too beautiful for man, That whom he met, departed as his friend. But Elsie, bound to him by every bond Of love and honor and vast gratitude, Being of lesser faith and confidence, Tortured herself with envious jealousies, Misdoubting her own beauty, and her power 113 To win and to retain so great a heart. Each year Sir Lohengrin proclaimed a joust In memory of the tourney where he won His lovely Duchess, and his lance prevailed Against all lesser knights. When his twain sons, Loyal and brave and gentle as their sire, Had grown to stalwart men, and his one girl, Eyed like himself and as his Duchess fair, Floramie, grew to gracious maidenhood, He gave a noble tourney, and o'erthrew The terrible and potent Duke of Cleves. 'Ha!' sneered the Dame of Cleves, 'this Lohengrin May be a knight adroit and valorous, But who knows whence he sprang?' and lightly laughed, Seeing the hot blood kindle Elsie's cheek. That night Sir Lohengrin sought rest betimes, By hours of crowded action quite forespent, And found the Duchess Elsie on her couch, Staining the silken broideries with her tears. 'Why dost thou weep?' he questioned tenderly, Kissing her delicate hands, and parting back Her heavy yellow hair from brow and face. 'The Duchess Anne of Cleves hath wounded me.' 'Sweet, am not I at hand to comfort thee?' And he caressed her as an ailing child, Until she smiled and slept. But the next night He found her weeping, and he questioned her, With the same answer, and again she slept; Then the third night he asked her why she grieved And she uprising, white, with eager eyes, Cried, 'Lohengrin, my lord, my only love, For our sons' sake, who know not whence they spring, Our daughter who remains a virgin yet, Let me not hear folk girding at thy race. I know thy blood is royal, I have faith; But tell me all, that I may publish it Unto our dukedom.' Hurt and wondering, He answered simply, 'I am Lohengrin, Son to Sir Percivale, and ministrant Within the holy temple of the Grail. I would thy faith were greater, this is all. Now must I bid farewell.' ' O Lohengrin, 114 What have I done?' She clung about his neck, And moistened all his beard with streaming tears; But he with one long kiss relaxed her arms Calmly from his embrace, and stood alone. ' Blame not thy nature now with vain reproofs. This also is our fate: in all things else. We have submitted,—let us yield in this, With no less grace now that God tries our hearts, Than when He sent us victory and love.' ' Yea, go, — you never loved me,' faltered she; ' I will not blame my nature, but your own. Through all our wedded years I doubted you; Your eyes have never brightened meeting mine As I have seen them in religious zeal, Or in exalted hours of victory.' A look of perfect weariness, unmixed With wrath or grief, o'erspread the knight's pale face; But with the pity that a god might show Towards one with ills impossible to him, He drew anear, caressing her, and sighed: ' Through all our wedded years you doubted me? Poor child, poor child! and it has come to this. Thank Heaven, I gave no cause for your mistrust, Desiring never an ideal more fair Of womanhood than was my chosen wife.' She, broken, sobbing, leaned her delicate head On his great shoulder, and remorseful cried, ' O loyal, honest, simple Lohengrin, Thy wife has been unworthy: this is why Thou sayest farewell in accents cold and strange, With alien eyes that even now behold Things fairer, better, than her mournful face.' But he with large allowance answered her: 'If this be truth, it is because I feel That I belong no more unto myself, Neither to thee, for God withdraws my soul Beyond all earthly passions unto Him. Now that we know our doom, with serious calm, Beside thee I will sit, till break of day, Thus holding thy chill hand and tell thee all. This will resign thee, for I cannot think How any human soul that hath beheld 115 Life's compensations and its miracles, Can fail to trust in what is yet to come.' Then he began from that auroral hour When he first heard the temple bell, and told The wonder of the swan that came for him, His journey down the stream, the tournament, His strength unwonted, combating the knight Who towered above him with superior force Of flesh and sinew,— how he prayed through all, Imploring God to let the just cause win, Unconscious of the close-thronged galleries, Feeling two eyes alone that burned his soul. She knew the rest. Therewith he kissed her brow And ended,—' Now the knights will take me back Into the temple; all who keep their vows, Are welcomed there again to peace and rest. There will my years fall from me like a cloak, And I will stand again at manhood's prime. Then when all errors of the flesh are purged From these I loved here, they may follow me, Unto perpetual worship and to peace.' She lay quite calm, and smiling heard his voice, Already grown to her remote and changed, And when he ceased, arose and gazed in awe On his transfigured face and kissed his brow, And understood, accepting all her fate. Anon he called his children, and to these: 'Farewell, sweet Florance and dear Percivale; Here is my horn, and here mine ancient sword,— Guard them with care and win with them repute. Here, Elsie, is the ring my mother gave,— Part with it never; and thou, Floramie, Take thou my love,—I have naught else to give; Be of strong faith in him thou mean'st to wed.' So these communed together, till the night Died from the brightening skies, and in the east The morning star hung in aerial rose, And the blue deepened; while moist lawn and hedge Breathed dewy freshness through the windows oped. Then on the stream, that nigh the palace flowed, A stainless swan approached them; in its beak It held a silver chain, and drew thereby 116 A dainty, carven shallop after it, Embossed with silver and with ivory. Followed by waved farewells and streaming eyes, Sir Lohengrin embarked and floated forth Unto perpetual worship and to peace. ~ Emma Lazarus,

322: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,

323:The Princess (Part 2) At break of day the College Portress came: She brought us Academic silks, in hue The lilac, with a silken hood to each, And zoned with gold; and now when these were on, And we as rich as moths from dusk cocoons, She, curtseying her obeisance, let us know The Princess Ida waited: out we paced, I first, and following through the porch that sang All round with laurel, issued in a court Compact of lucid marbles, bossed with lengths Of classic frieze, with ample awnings gay Betwixt the pillars, and with great urns of flowers. The Muses and the Graces, grouped in threes, Enringed a billowing fountain in the midst; And here and there on lattice edges lay Or book or lute; but hastily we past, And up a flight of stairs into the hall. There at a board by tome and paper sat, With two tame leopards couched beside her throne, All beauty compassed in a female form, The Princess; liker to the inhabitant Of some clear planet close upon the Sun, Than our man's earth; such eyes were in her head, And so much grace and power, breathing down From over her arched brows, with every turn Lived through her to the tips of her long hands, And to her feet. She rose her height, and said: 'We give you welcome: not without redound Of use and glory to yourselves ye come, The first-fruits of the stranger: aftertime, And that full voice which circles round the grave, Will rank you nobly, mingled up with me. What! are the ladies of your land so tall?' 'We of the court' said Cyril. 'From the court' She answered, 'then ye know the Prince?' and he: 'The climax of his age! as though there were One rose in all the world, your Highness that, 726 He worships your ideal:' she replied: 'We scarcely thought in our own hall to hear This barren verbiage, current among men, Light coin, the tinsel clink of compliment. Your flight from out your bookless wilds would seem As arguing love of knowledge and of power; Your language proves you still the child. Indeed, We dream not of him: when we set our hand To this great work, we purposed with ourself Never to wed. You likewise will do well, Ladies, in entering here, to cast and fling The tricks, which make us toys of men, that so, Some future time, if so indeed you will, You may with those self-styled our lords ally Your fortunes, justlier balanced, scale with scale.' At those high words, we conscious of ourselves, Perused the matting: then an officer Rose up, and read the statutes, such as these: Not for three years to correspond with home; Not for three years to cross the liberties; Not for three years to speak with any men; And many more, which hastily subscribed, We entered on the boards: and 'Now,' she cried, 'Ye are green wood, see ye warp not. Look, our hall! Our statues!--not of those that men desire, Sleek Odalisques, or oracles of mode, Nor stunted squaws of West or East; but she That taught the Sabine how to rule, and she The foundress of the Babylonian wall, The Carian Artemisia strong in war, The Rhodope, that built the pyramid, Clelia, Cornelia, with the Palmyrene That fought Aurelian, and the Roman brows Of Agrippina. Dwell with these, and lose Convention, since to look on noble forms Makes noble through the sensuous organism That which is higher. O lift your natures up: Embrace our aims: work out your freedom. Girls, Knowledge is now no more a fountain sealed: Drink deep, until the habits of the slave, The sins of emptiness, gossip and spite 727 And slander, die. Better not be at all Than not be noble. Leave us: you may go: Today the Lady Psyche will harangue The fresh arrivals of the week before; For they press in from all the provinces, And fill the hive.' She spoke, and bowing waved Dismissal: back again we crost the court To Lady Psyche's: as we entered in, There sat along the forms, like morning doves That sun their milky bosoms on the thatch, A patient range of pupils; she herself Erect behind a desk of satin-wood, A quick brunette, well-moulded, falcon-eyed, And on the hither side, or so she looked, Of twenty summers. At her left, a child, In shining draperies, headed like a star, Her maiden babe, a double April old, Aglaïa slept. We sat: the Lady glanced: Then Florian, but not livelier than the dame That whispered 'Asses' ears', among the sedge, 'My sister.' 'Comely, too, by all that's fair,' Said Cyril. 'Oh hush, hush!' and she began. 'This world was once a fluid haze of light, Till toward the centre set the starry tides, And eddied into suns, that wheeling cast The planets: then the monster, then the man; Tattooed or woaded, winter-clad in skins, Raw from the prime, and crushing down his mate; As yet we find in barbarous isles, and here Among the lowest.' Thereupon she took A bird's-eye-view of all the ungracious past; Glanced at the legendary Amazon As emblematic of a nobler age; Appraised the Lycian custom, spoke of those That lay at wine with Lar and Lucumo; Ran down the Persian, Grecian, Roman lines Of empire, and the woman's state in each, How far from just; till warming with her theme She fulmined out her scorn of laws Salique 728 And little-footed China, touched on Mahomet With much contempt, and came to chivalry: When some respect, however slight, was paid To woman, superstition all awry: However then commenced the dawn: a beam Had slanted forward, falling in a land Of promise; fruit would follow. Deep, indeed, Their debt of thanks to her who first had dared To leap the rotten pales of prejudice, Disyoke their necks from custom, and assert None lordlier than themselves but that which made Woman and man. She had founded; they must build. Here might they learn whatever men were taught: Let them not fear: some said their heads were less: Some men's were small; not they the least of men; For often fineness compensated size: Besides the brain was like the hand, and grew With using; thence the man's, if more was more; He took advantage of his strength to be First in the field: some ages had been lost; But woman ripened earlier, and her life Was longer; and albeit their glorious names Were fewer, scattered stars, yet since in truth The highest is the measure of the man, And not the Kaffir, Hottentot, Malay, Nor those horn-handed breakers of the glebe, But Homer, Plato, Verulam; even so With woman: and in arts of government Elizabeth and others; arts of war The peasant Joan and others; arts of grace Sappho and others vied with any man: And, last not least, she who had left her place, And bowed her state to them, that they might grow To use and power on this Oasis, lapt In the arms of leisure, sacred from the blight Of ancient influence and scorn. At last She rose upon a wind of prophecy Dilating on the future; 'everywhere Who heads in council, two beside the hearth, Two in the tangled business of the world, Two in the liberal offices of life, 729 Two plummets dropt for one to sound the abyss Of science, and the secrets of the mind: Musician, painter, sculptor, critic, more: And everywhere the broad and bounteous Earth Should bear a double growth of those rare souls, Poets, whose thoughts enrich the blood of the world.' She ended here, and beckoned us: the rest Parted; and, glowing full-faced welcome, she Began to address us, and was moving on In gratulation, till as when a boat Tacks, and the slackened sail flaps, all her voice Faltering and fluttering in her throat, she cried 'My brother!' 'Well, my sister.' 'O,' she said, 'What do you here? and in this dress? and these? Why who are these? a wolf within the fold! A pack of wolves! the Lord be gracious to me! A plot, a plot, a plot to ruin all!' 'No plot, no plot,' he answered. 'Wretched boy, How saw you not the inscription on the gate, LET NO MAN ENTER IN ON PAIN OF DEATH?' 'And if I had,' he answered, 'who could think The softer Adams of your Academe, O sister, Sirens though they be, were such As chanted on the blanching bones of men?' 'But you will find it otherwise' she said. 'You jest: ill jesting with edge-tools! my vow Binds me to speak, and O that iron will, That axelike edge unturnable, our Head, The Princess.' 'Well then, Psyche, take my life, And nail me like a weasel on a grange For warning: bury me beside the gate, And cut this epitaph above my bones; ~Here lies a brother by a sister slain, All for the common good of womankind.~' 'Let me die too,' said Cyril, 'having seen And heard the Lady Psyche.' I struck in: 'Albeit so masked, Madam, I love the truth; Receive it; and in me behold the Prince Your countryman, affianced years ago To the Lady Ida: here, for here she was, 730 And thus (what other way was left) I came.' 'O Sir, O Prince, I have no country; none; If any, this; but none. Whate'er I was Disrooted, what I am is grafted here. Affianced, Sir? love-whispers may not breathe Within this vestal limit, and how should I, Who am not mine, say, live: the thunderbolt Hangs silent; but prepare: I speak; it falls.' 'Yet pause,' I said: 'for that inscription there, I think no more of deadly lurks therein, Than in a clapper clapping in a garth, To scare the fowl from fruit: if more there be, If more and acted on, what follows? war; Your own work marred: for this your Academe, Whichever side be Victor, in the halloo Will topple to the trumpet down, and pass With all fair theories only made to gild A stormless summer.' 'Let the Princess judge Of that' she said: 'farewell, Sir--and to you. I shudder at the sequel, but I go.' 'Are you that Lady Psyche,' I rejoined, 'The fifth in line from that old Florian, Yet hangs his portrait in my father's hall (The gaunt old Baron with his beetle brow Sun-shaded in the heat of dusty fights) As he bestrode my Grandsire, when he fell, And all else fled? we point to it, and we say, The loyal warmth of Florian is not cold, But branches current yet in kindred veins.' 'Are you that Psyche,' Florian added; 'she With whom I sang about the morning hills, Flung ball, flew kite, and raced the purple fly, And snared the squirrel of the glen? are you That Psyche, wont to bind my throbbing brow, To smoothe my pillow, mix the foaming draught Of fever, tell me pleasant tales, and read My sickness down to happy dreams? are you That brother-sister Psyche, both in one? You were that Psyche, but what are you now?' 'You are that Psyche,' said Cyril, 'for whom I would be that for ever which I seem, 731 Woman, if I might sit beside your feet, And glean your scattered sapience.' Then once more, 'Are you that Lady Psyche,' I began, 'That on her bridal morn before she past From all her old companions, when the kind Kissed her pale cheek, declared that ancient ties Would still be dear beyond the southern hills; That were there any of our people there In want or peril, there was one to hear And help them? look! for such are these and I.' 'Are you that Psyche,' Florian asked, 'to whom, In gentler days, your arrow-wounded fawn Came flying while you sat beside the well? The creature laid his muzzle on your lap, And sobbed, and you sobbed with it, and the blood Was sprinkled on your kirtle, and you wept. That was fawn's blood, not brother's, yet you wept. O by the bright head of my little niece, You were that Psyche, and what are you now?' 'You are that Psyche,' Cyril said again, 'The mother of the sweetest little maid, That ever crowed for kisses.' 'Out upon it!' She answered, 'peace! and why should I not play The Spartan Mother with emotion, be The Lucius Junius Brutus of my kind? Him you call great: he for the common weal, The fading politics of mortal Rome, As I might slay this child, if good need were, Slew both his sons: and I, shall I, on whom The secular emancipation turns Of half this world, be swerved from right to save A prince, a brother? a little will I yield. Best so, perchance, for us, and well for you. O hard, when love and duty clash! I fear My conscience will not count me fleckless; yet-Hear my conditions: promise (otherwise You perish) as you came, to slip away Today, tomorrow, soon: it shall be said, These women were too barbarous, would not learn; They fled, who might have shamed us: promise, all.' 732 What could we else, we promised each; and she, Like some wild creature newly-caged, commenced A to-and-fro, so pacing till she paused By Florian; holding out her lily arms Took both his hands, and smiling faintly said: 'I knew you at the first: though you have grown You scarce have altered: I am sad and glad To see you, Florian. ~I~ give thee to death My brother! it was duty spoke, not I. My needful seeming harshness, pardon it. Our mother, is she well?' With that she kissed His forehead, then, a moment after, clung About him, and betwixt them blossomed up From out a common vein of memory Sweet household talk, and phrases of the hearth, And far allusion, till the gracious dews Began to glisten and to fall: and while They stood, so rapt, we gazing, came a voice, 'I brought a message here from Lady Blanche.' Back started she, and turning round we saw The Lady Blanche's daughter where she stood, Melissa, with her hand upon the lock, A rosy blonde, and in a college gown, That clad her like an April daffodilly (Her mother's colour) with her lips apart, And all her thoughts as fair within her eyes, As bottom agates seen to wave and float In crystal currents of clear morning seas. So stood that same fair creature at the door. Then Lady Psyche, 'Ah--Melissa--you! You heard us?' and Melissa, 'O pardon me I heard, I could not help it, did not wish: But, dearest Lady, pray you fear me not, Nor think I bear that heart within my breast, To give three gallant gentlemen to death.' 'I trust you,' said the other, 'for we two Were always friends, none closer, elm and vine: But yet your mother's jealous temperament-Let not your prudence, dearest, drowse, or prove 733 The Danaïd of a leaky vase, for fear This whole foundation ruin, and I lose My honour, these their lives.' 'Ah, fear me not' Replied Melissa; 'no--I would not tell, No, not for all Aspasia's cleverness, No, not to answer, Madam, all those hard things That Sheba came to ask of Solomon.' 'Be it so' the other, 'that we still may lead The new light up, and culminate in peace, For Solomon may come to Sheba yet.' Said Cyril, 'Madam, he the wisest man Feasted the woman wisest then, in halls Of Lebanonian cedar: nor should you (Though, Madam, ~you~ should answer, ~we~ would ask) Less welcome find among us, if you came Among us, debtors for our lives to you, Myself for something more.' He said not what, But 'Thanks,' she answered 'Go: we have been too long Together: keep your hoods about the face; They do so that affect abstraction here. Speak little; mix not with the rest; and hold Your promise: all, I trust, may yet be well.' We turned to go, but Cyril took the child, And held her round the knees against his waist, And blew the swollen cheek of a trumpeter, While Psyche watched them, smiling, and the child Pushed her flat hand against his face and laughed; And thus our conference closed. And then we strolled For half the day through stately theatres Benched crescent-wise. In each we sat, we heard The grave Professor. On the lecture slate The circle rounded under female hands With flawless demonstration: followed then A classic lecture, rich in sentiment, With scraps of thunderous Epic lilted out By violet-hooded Doctors, elegies And quoted odes, and jewels five-words-long That on the stretched forefinger of all Time Sparkle for ever: then we dipt in all That treats of whatsoever is, the state, 734 The total chronicles of man, the mind, The morals, something of the frame, the rock, The star, the bird, the fish, the shell, the flower, Electric, chemic laws, and all the rest, And whatsoever can be taught and known; Till like three horses that have broken fence, And glutted all night long breast-deep in corn, We issued gorged with knowledge, and I spoke: 'Why, Sirs, they do all this as well as we.' 'They hunt old trails' said Cyril 'very well; But when did woman ever yet invent?' 'Ungracious!' answered Florian; 'have you learnt No more from Psyche's lecture, you that talked The trash that made me sick, and almost sad?' 'O trash' he said, 'but with a kernel in it. Should I not call her wise, who made me wise? And learnt? I learnt more from her in a flash, Than in my brainpan were an empty hull, And every Muse tumbled a science in. A thousand hearts lie fallow in these halls, And round these halls a thousand baby loves Fly twanging headless arrows at the hearts, Whence follows many a vacant pang; but O With me, Sir, entered in the bigger boy, The Head of all the golden-shafted firm, The long-limbed lad that had a Psyche too; He cleft me through the stomacher; and now What think you of it, Florian? do I chase The substance or the shadow? will it hold? I have no sorcerer's malison on me, No ghostly hauntings like his Highness. I Flatter myself that always everywhere I know the substance when I see it. Well, Are castles shadows? Three of them? Is she The sweet proprietress a shadow? If not, Shall those three castles patch my tattered coat? For dear are those three castles to my wants, And dear is sister Psyche to my heart, And two dear things are one of double worth, And much I might have said, but that my zone Unmanned me: then the Doctors! O to hear The Doctors! O to watch the thirsty plants 735 Imbibing! once or twice I thought to roar, To break my chain, to shake my mane: but thou, Modulate me, Soul of mincing mimicry! Make liquid treble of that bassoon, my throat; Abase those eyes that ever loved to meet Star-sisters answering under crescent brows; Abate the stride, which speaks of man, and loose A flying charm of blushes o'er this cheek, Where they like swallows coming out of time Will wonder why they came: but hark the bell For dinner, let us go!' And in we streamed Among the columns, pacing staid and still By twos and threes, till all from end to end With beauties every shade of brown and fair In colours gayer than the morning mist, The long hall glittered like a bed of flowers. How might a man not wander from his wits Pierced through with eyes, but that I kept mine own Intent on her, who rapt in glorious dreams, The second-sight of some Astræan age, Sat compassed with professors: they, the while, Discussed a doubt and tost it to and fro: A clamour thickened, mixt with inmost terms Of art and science: Lady Blanche alone Of faded form and haughtiest lineaments, With all her autumn tresses falsely brown, Shot sidelong daggers at us, a tiger-cat In act to spring. At last a solemn grace Concluded, and we sought the gardens: there One walked reciting by herself, and one In this hand held a volume as to read, And smoothed a petted peacock down with that: Some to a low song oared a shallop by, Or under arches of the marble bridge Hung, shadowed from the heat: some hid and sought In the orange thickets: others tost a ball Above the fountain-jets, and back again With laughter: others lay about the lawns, Of the older sort, and murmured that their May Was passing: what was learning unto them? 736 They wished to marry; they could rule a house; Men hated learned women: but we three Sat muffled like the Fates; and often came Melissa hitting all we saw with shafts Of gentle satire, kin to charity, That harmed not: then day droopt; the chapel bells Called us: we left the walks; we mixt with those Six hundred maidens clad in purest white, Before two streams of light from wall to wall, While the great organ almost burst his pipes, Groaning for power, and rolling through the court A long melodious thunder to the sound Of solemn psalms, and silver litanies, The work of Ida, to call down from Heaven A blessing on her labours for the world. Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow, Blow him again to me; While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon; Rest, rest, on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west Under the silver moon: Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

324:The Passing Of Arthur That story which the bold Sir Bedivere, First made and latest left of all the knights, Told, when the man was no more than a voice In the white winter of his age, to those With whom he dwelt, new faces, other minds. For on their march to westward, Bedivere, Who slowly paced among the slumbering host, Heard in his tent the moanings of the King: 'I found Him in the shining of the stars, I marked Him in the flowering of His fields, But in His ways with men I find Him not. I waged His wars, and now I pass and die. O me! for why is all around us here As if some lesser god had made the world, But had not force to shape it as he would, Till the High God behold it from beyond, And enter it, and make it beautiful? Or else as if the world were wholly fair, But that these eyes of men are dense and dim, And have not power to see it as it is: Perchance, because we see not to the close;-For I, being simple, thought to work His will, And have but stricken with the sword in vain; And all whereon I leaned in wife and friend Is traitor to my peace, and all my realm Reels back into the beast, and is no more. My God, thou hast forgotten me in my death; Nay--God my Christ--I pass but shall not die.' Then, ere that last weird battle in the west, There came on Arthur sleeping, Gawain killed In Lancelot's war, the ghost of Gawain blown Along a wandering wind, and past his ear Went shrilling, 'Hollow, hollow all delight! Hail, King! tomorrow thou shalt pass away. Farewell! there is an isle of rest for thee. And I am blown along a wandering wind, 706 And hollow, hollow, hollow all delight.' And fainter onward, like wild birds that change Their season in the night and wail their way From cloud to cloud, down the long wind the dream Shrilled; but in going mingled with dim cries Far in the moonlit haze among the hills, As of some lonely city sacked by night, When all is lost, and wife and child with wail Pass to new lords; and Arthur woke and called, 'Who spake? A dream. O light upon the wind, Thine, Gawain, was the voice--are these dim cries Thine? or doth all that haunts the waste and wild Mourn, knowing it will go along with me?' This heard the bold Sir Bedivere and spake: 'O me, my King, let pass whatever will, Elves, and the harmless glamour of the field; But in their stead thy name and glory cling To all high places like a golden cloud For ever: but as yet thou shalt not pass. Light was Gawain in life, and light in death Is Gawain, for the ghost is as the man; And care not thou for dreams from him, but rise-I hear the steps of Modred in the west, And with him many of thy people, and knights Once thine, whom thou hast loved, but grosser grown Than heathen, spitting at their vows and thee. Right well in heart they know thee for the King. Arise, go forth and conquer as of old.' Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: 'Far other is this battle in the west Whereto we move, than when we strove in youth, And brake the petty kings, and fought with Rome, Or thrust the heathen from the Roman wall, And shook him through the north. Ill doom is mine To war against my people and my knights. The king who fights his people fights himself. And they my knights, who loved me once, the stroke That strikes them dead is as my death to me. Yet let us hence, and find or feel a way Through this blind haze, which ever since I saw 707 One lying in the dust at Almesbury, Hath folded in the passes of the world.' Then rose the King and moved his host by night, And ever pushed Sir Modred, league by league, Back to the sunset bound of Lyonnesse-A land of old upheaven from the abyss By fire, to sink into the abyss again; Where fragments of forgotten peoples dwelt, And the long mountains ended in a coast Of ever-shifting sand, and far away The phantom circle of a moaning sea. There the pursuer could pursue no more, And he that fled no further fly the King; And there, that day when the great light of heaven Burned at his lowest in the rolling year, On the waste sand by the waste sea they closed. Nor ever yet had Arthur fought a fight Like this last, dim, weird battle of the west. A deathwhite mist slept over sand and sea: Whereof the chill, to him who breathed it, drew Down with his blood, till all his heart was cold With formless fear; and even on Arthur fell Confusion, since he saw not whom he fought. For friend and foe were shadows in the mist, And friend slew friend not knowing whom he slew; And some had visions out of golden youth, And some beheld the faces of old ghosts Look in upon the battle; and in the mist Was many a noble deed, many a base, And chance and craft and strength in single fights, And ever and anon with host to host Shocks, and the splintering spear, the hard mail hewn, Shield-breakings, and the clash of brands, the crash Of battleaxes on shattered helms, and shrieks After the Christ, of those who falling down Looked up for heaven, and only saw the mist; And shouts of heathen and the traitor knights, Oaths, insults, filth, and monstrous blasphemies, Sweat, writhings, anguish, labouring of the lungs In that close mist, and cryings for the light, Moans of the dying, and voices of the dead. 708 Last, as by some one deathbed after wail Of suffering, silence follows, or through death Or deathlike swoon, thus over all that shore, Save for some whisper of the seething seas, A dead hush fell; but when the dolorous day Grew drearier toward twilight falling, came A bitter wind, clear from the North, and blew The mist aside, and with that wind the tide Rose, and the pale King glanced across the field Of battle: but no man was moving there; Nor any cry of Christian heard thereon, Nor yet of heathen; only the wan wave Brake in among dead faces, to and fro Swaying the helpless hands, and up and down Tumbling the hollow helmets of the fallen, And shivered brands that once had fought with Rome, And rolling far along the gloomy shores The voice of days of old and days to be. Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere, And whiter than the mist that all day long Had held the field of battle was the King: 'Hearest thou this great voice that shakes the world, And wastes the narrow realm whereon we move, And beats upon the faces of the dead, My dead, as though they had not died for me?-O Bedivere, for on my heart hath fallen Confusion, till I know not what I am, Nor whence I am, nor whether I be King. Behold, I seem but King among the dead.' Then spake the bold Sir Bedivere: 'My King, King everywhere! and so the dead have kings, There also will I worship thee as King. Yet still thy life is whole, and still I live Who love thee; but who hates thee, he that brought The heathen back among us, yonder stands, Modred, unharmed, the traitor of thine house.' Then spake the King: 'My house hath been my doom. 709 But call not thou this traitor of my house Who hath but dwelt beneath one roof with me. My house are rather they who sware my vows, Yea, even while they brake them, owned me King. And well for thee, saying in my dark hour, When all the purport of my throne hath failed, That quick or dead thou holdest me for King. King am I, whatsoever be their cry; And one last act of kinghood shalt thou see Yet, ere I pass.' And uttering this the King Made at the man: then Modred smote his liege Hard on that helm which many a heathen sword Had beaten thin; while Arthur at one blow, Striking the last stroke with Excalibur, Slew him, and all but slain himself, he fell. So all day long the noise of battle rolled Among the mountains by the winter sea; Until King Arthur's Table, man by man, Had fallen in Lyonnesse about their lord, King Arthur. Then, because his wound was deep, The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, A broken chancel with a broken cross, That stood on a dark strait of barren land: On one side lay the Ocean, and on one Lay a great water, and the moon was full. Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: 'The sequel of today unsolders all The goodliest fellowship of famous knights Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep They sleep--the men I loved. I think that we Shall never more, at any future time, Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, Walking about the gardens and the halls Of Camelot, as in the days that were. I perish by this people which I made,-Though Merlin sware that I should come again To rule once more; but, let what will be, be, I am so deeply smitten through the helm That without help I cannot last till morn. 710 Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how In those old days, one summer noon, an arm Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, Holding the sword--and how I rowed across And took it, and have worn it, like a king; And, wheresoever I am sung or told In aftertime, this also shall be known: But now delay not: take Excalibur, And fling him far into the middle mere: Watch what thou se st, and lightly bring me word.' To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere: 'It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus, Aidless, alone, and smitten through the helm-A little thing may harm a wounded man; Yet I thy hest will all perform at full, Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word.' So saying, from the ruined shrine he stept, And in the moon athwart the place of tombs, Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men, Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock, Came on the shining levels of the lake. There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon, Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt: For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long That both his eyes were dazzled as he stood, This way and that dividing the swift mind, In act to throw: but at the last it seemed Better to leave Excalibur concealed There in the many-knotted waterflags, That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. So strode he back slow to the wounded King. 711 Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: 'Hast thou performed my mission which I gave? What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?' And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 'I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, And the wild water lapping on the crag.' To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale: 'Thou hast betrayed thy nature and thy name, Not rendering true answer, as beseemed Thy f alty, nor like a noble knight: For surer sign had followed, either hand, Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. This is a shameful thing for men to lie. Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again, As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word.' Then went Sir Bedivere the second time Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere, Counting the dewy pebbles, fixed in thought; But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, How curiously and strangely chased, he smote His palms together, and he cried aloud: 'And if indeed I cast the brand away, Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, Should thus be lost for ever from the earth, Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. What good should follow this, if this were done? What harm, undone? Deep harm to disobey, Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. Were it well to obey then, if a king demand An act unprofitable, against himself? The King is sick, and knows not what he does. What record, or what relic of my lord Should be to aftertime, but empty breath And rumours of a doubt? But were this kept, Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings, Some one might show it at a joust of arms, 712 Saying, "King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps Upon the hidden bases of the hills." So might some old man speak in the aftertime To all the people, winning reverence. But now much honour and much fame were lost.' So spake he, clouded with his own conceit, And hid Excalibur the second time, And so strode back slow to the wounded King. Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily: 'What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?' And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 'I heard the water lapping on the crag, And the long ripple washing in the reeds.' To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath: 'Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me! Authority forgets a dying king, Laid widowed of the power in his eye That bowed the will. I see thee what thou art, For thou, the latest-left of all my knights, In whom should meet the offices of all, Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt; Either from lust of gold, or like a girl Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, And the third time may prosper, get thee hence: But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, I will arise and slay thee with my hands.' Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran, And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged Among the bulrush beds, and clutched the sword, And strongly wheeled and threw it. The great brand Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon, And flashing round and round, and whirled in an arch, Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, 713 Seen where the moving isles of winter shock By night, with noises of the Northern Sea. So flashed and fell the brand Excalibur: But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, And caught him by the hilt, and brandished him Three times, and drew him under in the mere. And lightly went the other to the King. Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath: 'Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?' And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 'Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems Should blind my purpose, for I never saw, Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die, Not though I live three lives of mortal men, So great a miracle as yonder hilt. Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him; But when I looked again, behold an arm, Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, That caught him by the hilt, and brandished him Three times, and drew him under in the mere.' And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard: 'My end draws nigh; 'tis time that I were gone. Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight, And bear me to the margin; yet I fear My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die.' So saying, from the pavement he half rose, Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm, And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere Remorsefully regarded through his tears, And would have spoken, but he found not words; Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee, O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands, And rising bore him through the place of tombs. But, as he walked, King Arthur panted hard, 714 Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed When all the house is mute. So sighed the King, Muttering and murmuring at his ear, 'Quick, quick! I fear it is too late, and I shall die.' But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge, Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walked, Larger than human on the frozen hills. He heard the deep behind him, and a cry Before. His own thought drove him like a goad. Dry clashed his harness in the icy caves And barren chasms, and all to left and right The bare black cliff clanged round him, as he based His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang Sharp-smitten with the dint of armd heels-And on a sudden, lo! the level lake, And the long glories of the winter moon. Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge, Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern, Beneath them; and descending they were ware That all the decks were dense with stately forms, Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream--by these Three Queens with crowns of gold: and from them rose A cry that shivered to the tingling stars, And, as it were one voice, an agony Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills All night in a waste land, where no one comes, Or hath come, since the making of the world. Then murmured Arthur, 'Place me in the barge.' So to the barge they came. There those three Queens Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. But she, that rose the tallest of them all And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, And loosed the shattered casque, and chafed his hands, And called him by his name, complaining loud, And dropping bitter tears against a brow Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white And colourless, and like the withered moon Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east; And all his greaves and cuisses dashed with drops 715 Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls-That made his forehead like a rising sun High from the das-throne--were parched with dust; Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, Mixed with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. So like a shattered column lay the King; Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest, From spur to plume a star of tournament, Shot through the lists at Camelot, and charged Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere: 'Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go? Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes? For now I see the true old times are dead, When every morning brought a noble chance, And every chance brought out a noble knight. Such times have been not since the light that led The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. But now the whole Round Table is dissolved Which was an image of the mighty world, And I, the last, go forth companionless, And the days darken round me, and the years, Among new men, strange faces, other minds.' And slowly answered Arthur from the barge: 'The old order changeth, yielding place to new, And God fulfils himself in many ways, Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? I have lived my life, and that which I have done May He within himself make pure! but thou, If thou shouldst never see my face again, Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice Rise like a fountain for me night and day. For what are men better than sheep or goats That nourish a blind life within the brain, If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Both for themselves and those who call them friend? For so the whole round earth is every way Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 716 But now farewell. I am going a long way With these thou se st--if indeed I go (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)-To the island-valley of Avilion; Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard lawns And bowery hollows crowned with summer sea, Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.' So said he, and the barge with oar and sail Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere Revolving many memories, till the hull Looked one black dot against the verge of dawn, And on the mere the wailing died away. But when that moan had past for evermore, The stillness of the dead world's winter dawn Amazed him, and he groaned, 'The King is gone.' And therewithal came on him the weird rhyme, 'From the great deep to the great deep he goes.' Whereat he slowly turned and slowly clomb The last hard footstep of that iron crag; Thence marked the black hull moving yet, and cried, 'He passes to be King among the dead, And after healing of his grievous wound He comes again; but--if he come no more-O me, be yon dark Queens in yon black boat, Who shrieked and wailed, the three whereat we gazed On that high day, when, clothed with living light, They stood before his throne in silence, friends Of Arthur, who should help him at his need?' Then from the dawn it seemed there came, but faint As from beyond the limit of the world, Like the last echo born of a great cry, Sounds, as if some fair city were one voice Around a king returning from his wars. 717 Thereat once more he moved about, and clomb Even to the highest he could climb, and saw, Straining his eyes beneath an arch of hand, Or thought he saw, the speck that bare the King, Down that long water opening on the deep Somewhere far off, pass on and on, and go From less to less and vanish into light. And the new sun rose bringing the new year. ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

325:Idylls Of The King: The Passing Of Arthur (Excerpt) That story which the bold Sir Bedivere, First made and latest left of all the knights, Told, when the man was no more than a voice In the white winter of his age, to those With whom he dwelt, new faces, other minds. For on their march to westward, Bedivere, Who slowly paced among the slumbering host, Heard in his tent the moanings of the King: "I found Him in the shining of the stars, I mark'd Him in the flowering of His fields, But in His ways with men I find Him not. I waged His wars, and now I pass and die. O me! for why is all around us here As if some lesser god had made the world, But had not force to shape it as he would, Till the High God behold it from beyond, And enter it, and make it beautiful? Or else as if the world were wholly fair, But that these eyes of men are dense and dim, And have not power to see it as it is: Perchance, because we see not to the close;-For I, being simple, thought to work His will, And have but stricken with the sword in vain; And all whereon I lean'd in wife and friend Is traitor to my peace, and all my realm Reels back into the beast, and is no more. My God, thou hast forgotten me in my death: Nay--God my Christ--I pass but shall not die." Then, ere that last weird battle in the west, There came on Arthur sleeping, Gawain kill'd In Lancelot's war, the ghost of Gawain blown Along a wandering wind, and past his ear Went shrilling, "Hollow, hollow all delight! Hail, King! to-morrow thou shalt pass away. Farewell! there is an isle of rest for thee. And I am blown along a wandering wind, And hollow, hollow, hollow all delight." And fainter onward, like wild birds that change 218 Their season in the night and wail their way From cloud to cloud, down the long wind the dream Shrill'd; but in going mingled with dim cries Far in the moonlit haze among the hills, As of some lonely city sack'd by night, When all is lost, and wife and child with wail Pass to new lords; and Arthur woke and call'd, "Who spake? A dream. O light upon the wind, Thine, Gawain, was the voice--are these dim cries Thine? or doth all that haunts the waste and wild Mourn, knowing it will go along with me?" This heard the bold Sir Bedivere and spake: "O me, my King, let pass whatever will, Elves, and the harmless glamour of the field; But in their stead thy name and glory cling To all high places like a golden cloud For ever: but as yet thou shalt not pass. Light was Gawain in life, and light in death Is Gawain, for the ghost is as the man; And care not thou for dreams from him, but rise-I hear the steps of Modred in the west, And with him many of thy people, and knights Once thine, whom thou hast loved, but grosser grown Than heathen, spitting at their vows and thee. Right well in heart they know thee for the King. Arise, go forth and conquer as of old." Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: "Far other is this battle in the west Whereto we move, than when we strove in youth, And brake the petty kings, and fought with Rome, Or thrust the heathen from the Roman wall, And shook him thro' the north. Ill doom is mine To war against my people and my knights. The king who fights his people fights himself. And they my knights, who loved me once, the stroke That strikes them dead is as my death to me. Yet let us hence, and find or feel a way Thro' this blind haze, which ever since I saw One lying in the dust at Almesbury, Hath folded in the passes of the world." 219 Then rose the King and moved his host by night, And ever push'd Sir Modred, league by league, Back to the sunset bound of Lyonnesse-A land of old upheaven from the abyss By fire, to sink into the abyss again; Where fragments of forgotten peoples dwelt, And the long mountains ended in a coast Of ever-shifting sand, and far away The phantom circle of a moaning sea. There the pursuer could pursue no more, And he that fled no further fly the King; And there, that day when the great light of heaven Burn'd at his lowest in the rolling year, On the waste sand by the waste sea they closed. Nor ever yet had Arthur fought a fight Like this last, dim, weird battle of the west. A deathwhite mist slept over sand and sea: Whereof the chill, to him who breathed it, drew Down with his blood, till all his heart was cold With formless fear; and ev'n on Arthur fell Confusion, since he saw not whom he fought. For friend and foe were shadows in the mist, And friend slew friend not knowing whom he slew; And some had visions out of golden youth, And some beheld the faces of old ghosts Look in upon the battle; and in the mist Was many a noble deed, many a base, And chance and craft and strength in single fights, And ever and anon with host to host Shocks, and the splintering spear, the hard mail hewn, Shield-breakings, and the clash of brands, the crash Of battleaxes on shatter'd helms, and shrieks After the Christ, of those who falling down Look'd up for heaven, and only saw the mist; And shouts of heathen and the traitor knights, Oaths, insult, filth, and monstrous blasphemies, Sweat, writhings, anguish, labouring of the lungs In that close mist, and cryings for the light, Moans of the dying, and voices of the dead. 220 Last, as by some one deathbed after wail Of suffering, silence follows, or thro' death Or deathlike swoon, thus over all that shore, Save for some whisper of the seething seas, A dead hush fell; but when the dolorous day Grew drearier toward twilight falling, came A bitter wind, clear from the North, and blew The mist aside, and with that wind the tide Rose, and the pale King glanced across the field Of battle: but no man was moving there; Nor any cry of Christian heard thereon, Nor yet of heathen; only the wan wave Brake in among dead faces, to and fro Swaying the helpless hands, and up and down Tumbling the hollow helmets of the fallen, And shiver'd brands that once had fought with Rome, And rolling far along the gloomy shores The voice of days of old and days to be. Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere, And whiter than the mist that all day long Had held the field of battle was the King: "Hearest thou this great voice that shakes the world, And wastes the narrow realm whereon we move, And beats upon the faces of the dead, My dead, as tho' they had not died for me?-O Bedivere, for on my heart hath fall'n Confusion, till I know not what I am, Nor whence I am, nor whether I be King. Behold, I seem but King among the dead." Then spake the bold Sir Bedivere: "My King, King everywhere! and so the dead have kings, There also will I worship thee as King. Yet still thy life is whole, and still I live Who love thee; but who hates thee, he that brought 221 The heathen back among us, yonder stands, Modred, unharm'd, the traitor of thine house." Then spake the King: "My house hath been my doom. But call not thou this traitor of my house Who hath but dwelt beneath one roof with me. My house are rather they who sware my vows, Yea, even while they brake them, own'd me King. And well for thee, saying in my dark hour, When all the purport of my throne hath fail'd, That quick or dead thou hottest me for King. King am I, whatsoever be their cry; And one last act of kinghood shalt thou see Yet, ere I pass." And uttering this the King Made at the man: then Modred smote his liege Hard on that helm which many a heathen sword Had beaten thin; while Arthur at one blow, Striking the last stroke with Excalibur, Slew him, and all but slain himself, he fell. So all day long the noise of battle roll'd Among the mountains by the winter sea; Until King Arthur's Table, man by man, Had fall'n in Lyonnesse about their lord, King Arthur. Then, because his wound was deep, The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, A broken chancel with a broken cross, That stood on a dark strait of barren land: On one side lay the Ocean, and on one Lay a great water, and the moon was full. Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: "The sequel of to-day unsolders all The goodliest fellowship of famous knights Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep They sleep--the men I loved. I think that we Shall never more, at any future time, Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, 222 Walking about the gardens and the halls Of Camelot, as in the days that were. I perish by this people which I made,-Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again To rule once more; but, let what will be, be, I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm That without help I cannot last till morn. Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how In those old days, one summer noon, an arm Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, Holding the sword--and how I row'd across And took it, and have worn it, like a king; And, wheresoever I am sung or told In aftertime, this also shall be known: But now delay not: take Excalibur, And fling him far into the middle mere: Watch what thou seëst, and lightly bring me word." To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere: "It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus, Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm-A little thing may harm a wounded man; Yet I thy hest will all perform at full, Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word." So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept, And in the moon athwart the place of tombs, Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men, Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock, Came on the shining levels of the lake. There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon, Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt: 223 For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long That both his eyes were dazzled as he stood, This way and that dividing the swift mind, In act to throw: but at the last it seem'd Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd There in the many-knotted waterflags, That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. So strode he back slow to the wounded King. Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: "Hast thou perform'd my mission which I gave? What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?" And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: "I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, And the wild water lapping on the crag." To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale: "Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name, Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight: For surer sign had follow'd, either hand Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. This is a shameful thing for men to lie. Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again, As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word." Then went Sir Bedivere the second time Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere, Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought; But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, How curiously and strangely chased, he smote His palms together, and he cried aloud: 224 "And if indeed I cast the brand away, Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, Should thus be lost for ever from the earth, Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. What good should follow this, if this were done? What harm, undone? Deep harm to disobey, Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. Were it well to obey then, if a king demand An act unprofitable, against himself? The King is sick, and knows not what he does. What record, or what relic of my lord Should be to aftertime, but empty breath And rumours of a doubt? But were this kept, Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings, Some one might show it at a joust of arms, Saying, 'King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps Upon the hidden bases of the hills.' So might some old man speak in the aftertime To all the people, winning reverence. But now much honour and much fame were lost." So spake he, clouded with his own conceit, And hid Excalibur the second time, And so strode back slow to the wounded King. Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily: "What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?' And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: "I heard the water lapping on the crag, And the long ripple washing in the reeds." To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath: "Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me! Authority forgets a dying king, 225 Laid widow'd of the power in his eye That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art, For thou, the latest-left of all my knights, In whom should meet the offices of all, Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt; Either from lust of gold, or like a girl Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, And the third time may prosper, get thee hence: But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, I will arise and slay thee with my hands." Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran, And, leaping down the ridges, lightly, plunged Among the bulrush beds, and clutch'd the sword, And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brand Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon, And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch, Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, Seen where the moving isles of winter shock By night, with noises of the Northern Sea. So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur: But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm Clothed in white samite, mystic wonderful, And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him Three times, and drew him under in the mere. And lightly went the other to the King. Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath: "Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?" And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: "Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems Should blind my purpose, for I never saw, Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die, Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men, So great a miracle as yonder hilt. Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him; 226 But when I look'd again, behold an arm, Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him Three times, and drew him under in the mere." And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard: "My end draws nigh; 'tis time that I were gone. Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight, And bear me to the margin; yet I fear My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die." So saying, from the pavement he half rose, Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm, And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears, And would have spoken, but he found not words; Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee, O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands, And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs. But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard, Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King, Muttering and murmuring at his ear, "Quick, quick! I fear it is too late, and I shall die." But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge, Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd, Larger than human on the frozen hills. He heard the deep behind him, and a cry Before. His own thought drove him like a goad. Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves And barren chasms, and all to left and right The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels-And on a sudden, lo! the level lake, And the long glories of the winter moon. 227 Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge, Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern, Beneath them; and descending they were ware That all the decks were dense with stately forms, Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream--by these Three Queens with crowns of gold: and from them rose A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars, And, as it were one voice, an agony Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills All night in a waste land, where no one comes, Or hath come, since the making of the world. Then murmur'd Arthur, "Place me in the barge." So to the barge they came. There those three Queens Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. But she, that rose the tallest of them all And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands, And call'd him by his name, complaining loud, And dropping bitter tears against a brow Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white And colourless, and like the wither'd moon Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east; And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls-That made his forehead like a rising sun High from the daïs-throne--were parch'd with dust Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. So like a shatter'd column lay the King; Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest, From spur to plume a star of tournament, Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere: "Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go? Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes? For now I see the true old times are dead, 228 When every morning brought a noble chance, And every chance brought out a noble knight. Such times have been not since the light that led The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. But now the whole Round Table is dissolved Which was an image of the mighty world, And I, the last, go forth companionless, And the days darken round me, and the years, Among new men, strange faces, other minds." And slowly answer'd Arthur from the barge: "The old order changeth, yielding place to new, And God fulfils himself in many ways, Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? I have lived my life, and that which I have done May He within himself make pure! but thou, If thou shouldst never see my face again, Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice Rise like a fountain for me night and day. For what are men better than sheep or goats That nourish a blind life within the brain, If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Both for themselves and those who call them friend? For so the whole round earth is every way Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. But now farewell. I am going a long way With these thou seëst--if indeed I go (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)-To the island-valley of Avilion; Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea, Where I will heal me of my grievous wound." So said he, and the barge with oar and sail Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, 229 Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere Revolving many memories, till the hull Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn, And on the mere the wailing died away. But when that moan had past for evermore, The stillness of the dead world's winter dawn Amazed him, and he groan'd, ``The King is gone.'' And therewithal came on him the weird rhyme, "From the great deep to the great deep he goes." Whereat he slowly turn'd and slowly clomb The last hard footstep of that iron crag; Thence mark'd the black hull moving yet, and cried, "He passes to be King among the dead, And after healing of his grievous wound He comes again; but--if he come no more-O me, be yon dark Queens in yon black boat, Who shriek'd and wail'd, the three whereat we gazed On that high day, when, clothed with living light, They stood before his throne in silence, friends Of Arthur, who should help him at his need?" Then from the dawn it seem'd there came, but faint As from beyond the limit of the world, Like the last echo born of a great cry, Sounds, as if some fair city were one voice Around a king returning from his wars. Thereat once more he moved about, and clomb Ev'n to the highest he could climb, and saw, Straining his eyes beneath an arch of hand, Or thought he saw, the speck that bare the King, Down that long water opening on the deep Somewhere far off, pass on and on, and go From less to less and vanish into light. And the new sun rose bringing the new year. 230 ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

326:The Holy Grail From noiseful arms, and acts of prowess done In tournament or tilt, Sir Percivale, Whom Arthur and his knighthood called The Pure, Had passed into the silent life of prayer, Praise, fast, and alms; and leaving for the cowl The helmet in an abbey far away From Camelot, there, and not long after, died. And one, a fellow-monk among the rest, Ambrosius, loved him much beyond the rest, And honoured him, and wrought into his heart A way by love that wakened love within, To answer that which came: and as they sat Beneath a world-old yew-tree, darkening half The cloisters, on a gustful April morn That puffed the swaying branches into smoke Above them, ere the summer when he died The monk Ambrosius questioned Percivale: `O brother, I have seen this yew-tree smoke, Spring after spring, for half a hundred years: For never have I known the world without, Nor ever strayed beyond the pale: but thee, When first thou camest--such a courtesy Spake through the limbs and in the voice--I knew For one of those who eat in Arthur's hall; For good ye are and bad, and like to coins, Some true, some light, but every one of you Stamped with the image of the King; and now Tell me, what drove thee from the Table Round, My brother? was it earthly passion crost?' `Nay,' said the knight; `for no such passion mine. But the sweet vision of the Holy Grail Drove me from all vainglories, rivalries, And earthly heats that spring and sparkle out Among us in the jousts, while women watch Who wins, who falls; and waste the spiritual strength Within us, better offered up to Heaven.' 601 To whom the monk: `The Holy Grail!--I trust We are green in Heaven's eyes; but here too much We moulder--as to things without I mean-Yet one of your own knights, a guest of ours, Told us of this in our refectory, But spake with such a sadness and so low We heard not half of what he said. What is it? The phantom of a cup that comes and goes?' `Nay, monk! what phantom?' answered Percivale. `The cup, the cup itself, from which our Lord Drank at the last sad supper with his own. This, from the blessd land of Aromat-After the day of darkness, when the dead Went wandering o'er Moriah--the good saint Arimathan Joseph, journeying brought To Glastonbury, where the winter thorn Blossoms at Christmas, mindful of our Lord. And there awhile it bode; and if a man Could touch or see it, he was healed at once, By faith, of all his ills. But then the times Grew to such evil that the holy cup Was caught away to Heaven, and disappeared.' To whom the monk: `From our old books I know That Joseph came of old to Glastonbury, And there the heathen Prince, Arviragus, Gave him an isle of marsh whereon to build; And there he built with wattles from the marsh A little lonely church in days of yore, For so they say, these books of ours, but seem Mute of this miracle, far as I have read. But who first saw the holy thing today?' `A woman,' answered Percivale, `a nun, And one no further off in blood from me Than sister; and if ever holy maid With knees of adoration wore the stone, A holy maid; though never maiden glowed, But that was in her earlier maidenhood, With such a fervent flame of human love, 602 Which being rudely blunted, glanced and shot Only to holy things; to prayer and praise She gave herself, to fast and alms. And yet, Nun as she was, the scandal of the Court, Sin against Arthur and the Table Round, And the strange sound of an adulterous race, Across the iron grating of her cell Beat, and she prayed and fasted all the more. `And he to whom she told her sins, or what Her all but utter whiteness held for sin, A man wellnigh a hundred winters old, Spake often with her of the Holy Grail, A legend handed down through five or six, And each of these a hundred winters old, From our Lord's time. And when King Arthur made His Table Round, and all men's hearts became Clean for a season, surely he had thought That now the Holy Grail would come again; But sin broke out. Ah, Christ, that it would come, And heal the world of all their wickedness! "O Father!" asked the maiden, "might it come To me by prayer and fasting?" "Nay," said he, "I know not, for thy heart is pure as snow." And so she prayed and fasted, till the sun Shone, and the wind blew, through her, and I thought She might have risen and floated when I saw her. `For on a day she sent to speak with me. And when she came to speak, behold her eyes Beyond my knowing of them, beautiful, Beyond all knowing of them, wonderful, Beautiful in the light of holiness. And "O my brother Percivale," she said, "Sweet brother, I have seen the Holy Grail: For, waked at dead of night, I heard a sound As of a silver horn from o'er the hills Blown, and I thought, `It is not Arthur's use To hunt by moonlight;' and the slender sound As from a distance beyond distance grew Coming upon me--O never harp nor horn, Nor aught we blow with breath, or touch with hand, 603 Was like that music as it came; and then Streamed through my cell a cold and silver beam, And down the long beam stole the Holy Grail, Rose-red with beatings in it, as if alive, Till all the white walls of my cell were dyed With rosy colours leaping on the wall; And then the music faded, and the Grail Past, and the beam decayed, and from the walls The rosy quiverings died into the night. So now the Holy Thing is here again Among us, brother, fast thou too and pray, And tell thy brother knights to fast and pray, That so perchance the vision may be seen By thee and those, and all the world be healed." `Then leaving the pale nun, I spake of this To all men; and myself fasted and prayed Always, and many among us many a week Fasted and prayed even to the uttermost, Expectant of the wonder that would be. `And one there was among us, ever moved Among us in white armour, Galahad. "God make thee good as thou art beautiful," Said Arthur, when he dubbed him knight; and none, In so young youth, was ever made a knight Till Galahad; and this Galahad, when he heard My sister's vision, filled me with amaze; His eyes became so like her own, they seemed Hers, and himself her brother more than I. `Sister or brother none had he; but some Called him a son of Lancelot, and some said Begotten by enchantment--chatterers they, Like birds of passage piping up and down, That gape for flies--we know not whence they come; For when was Lancelot wanderingly lewd? `But she, the wan sweet maiden, shore away Clean from her forehead all that wealth of hair Which made a silken mat-work for her feet; And out of this she plaited broad and long 604 A strong sword-belt, and wove with silver thread And crimson in the belt a strange device, A crimson grail within a silver beam; And saw the bright boy-knight, and bound it on him, Saying, "My knight, my love, my knight of heaven, O thou, my love, whose love is one with mine, I, maiden, round thee, maiden, bind my belt. Go forth, for thou shalt see what I have seen, And break through all, till one will crown thee king Far in the spiritual city:" and as she spake She sent the deathless passion in her eyes Through him, and made him hers, and laid her mind On him, and he believed in her belief. `Then came a year of miracle: O brother, In our great hall there stood a vacant chair, Fashioned by Merlin ere he past away, And carven with strange figures; and in and out The figures, like a serpent, ran a scroll Of letters in a tongue no man could read. And Merlin called it "The Siege perilous," Perilous for good and ill; "for there," he said, "No man could sit but he should lose himself:" And once by misadvertence Merlin sat In his own chair, and so was lost; but he, Galahad, when he heard of Merlin's doom, Cried, "If I lose myself, I save myself!" `Then on a summer night it came to pass, While the great banquet lay along the hall, That Galahad would sit down in Merlin's chair. `And all at once, as there we sat, we heard A cracking and a riving of the roofs, And rending, and a blast, and overhead Thunder, and in the thunder was a cry. And in the blast there smote along the hall A beam of light seven times more clear than day: And down the long beam stole the Holy Grail All over covered with a luminous cloud. And none might see who bare it, and it past. But every knight beheld his fellow's face 605 As in a glory, and all the knights arose, And staring each at other like dumb men Stood, till I found a voice and sware a vow. `I sware a vow before them all, that I, Because I had not seen the Grail, would ride A twelvemonth and a day in quest of it, Until I found and saw it, as the nun My sister saw it; and Galahad sware the vow, And good Sir Bors, our Lancelot's cousin, sware, And Lancelot sware, and many among the knights, And Gawain sware, and louder than the rest.' Then spake the monk Ambrosius, asking him, `What said the King? Did Arthur take the vow?' `Nay, for my lord,' said Percivale, `the King, Was not in hall: for early that same day, Scaped through a cavern from a bandit hold, An outraged maiden sprang into the hall Crying on help: for all her shining hair Was smeared with earth, and either milky arm Red-rent with hooks of bramble, and all she wore Torn as a sail that leaves the rope is torn In tempest: so the King arose and went To smoke the scandalous hive of those wild bees That made such honey in his realm. Howbeit Some little of this marvel he too saw, Returning o'er the plain that then began To darken under Camelot; whence the King Looked up, calling aloud, "Lo, there! the roofs Of our great hall are rolled in thunder-smoke! Pray Heaven, they be not smitten by the bolt." For dear to Arthur was that hall of ours, As having there so oft with all his knights Feasted, and as the stateliest under heaven. `O brother, had you known our mighty hall, Which Merlin built for Arthur long ago! For all the sacred mount of Camelot, And all the dim rich city, roof by roof, Tower after tower, spire beyond spire, 606 By grove, and garden-lawn, and rushing brook, Climbs to the mighty hall that Merlin built. And four great zones of sculpture, set betwixt With many a mystic symbol, gird the hall: And in the lowest beasts are slaying men, And in the second men are slaying beasts, And on the third are warriors, perfect men, And on the fourth are men with growing wings, And over all one statue in the mould Of Arthur, made by Merlin, with a crown, And peaked wings pointed to the Northern Star. And eastward fronts the statue, and the crown And both the wings are made of gold, and flame At sunrise till the people in far fields, Wasted so often by the heathen hordes, Behold it, crying, "We have still a King." `And, brother, had you known our hall within, Broader and higher than any in all the lands! Where twelve great windows blazon Arthur's wars, And all the light that falls upon the board Streams through the twelve great battles of our King. Nay, one there is, and at the eastern end, Wealthy with wandering lines of mount and mere, Where Arthur finds the brand Excalibur. And also one to the west, and counter to it, And blank: and who shall blazon it? when and how?-O there, perchance, when all our wars are done, The brand Excalibur will be cast away. `So to this hall full quickly rode the King, In horror lest the work by Merlin wrought, Dreamlike, should on the sudden vanish, wrapt In unremorseful folds of rolling fire. And in he rode, and up I glanced, and saw The golden dragon sparkling over all: And many of those who burnt the hold, their arms Hacked, and their foreheads grimed with smoke, and seared, Followed, and in among bright faces, ours, Full of the vision, prest: and then the King Spake to me, being nearest, "Percivale," (Because the hall was all in tumult--some 607 Vowing, and some protesting), "what is this?" `O brother, when I told him what had chanced, My sister's vision, and the rest, his face Darkened, as I have seen it more than once, When some brave deed seemed to be done in vain, Darken; and "Woe is me, my knights," he cried, "Had I been here, ye had not sworn the vow." Bold was mine answer, "Had thyself been here, My King, thou wouldst have sworn." "Yea, yea," said he, "Art thou so bold and hast not seen the Grail?" `"Nay, lord, I heard the sound, I saw the light, But since I did not see the Holy Thing, I sware a vow to follow it till I saw." `Then when he asked us, knight by knight, if any Had seen it, all their answers were as one: "Nay, lord, and therefore have we sworn our vows." `"Lo now," said Arthur, "have ye seen a cloud? What go ye into the wilderness to see?" `Then Galahad on the sudden, and in a voice Shrilling along the hall to Arthur, called, "But I, Sir Arthur, saw the Holy Grail, I saw the Holy Grail and heard a cry-`O Galahad, and O Galahad, follow me.'" `"Ah, Galahad, Galahad," said the King, "for such As thou art is the vision, not for these. Thy holy nun and thou have seen a sign-Holier is none, my Percivale, than she-A sign to maim this Order which I made. But ye, that follow but the leader's bell" (Brother, the King was hard upon his knights) "Taliessin is our fullest throat of song, And one hath sung and all the dumb will sing. Lancelot is Lancelot, and hath overborne Five knights at once, and every younger knight, Unproven, holds himself as Lancelot, Till overborne by one, he learns--and ye, 608 What are ye? Galahads?--no, nor Percivales" (For thus it pleased the King to range me close After Sir Galahad); "nay," said he, "but men With strength and will to right the wronged, of power To lay the sudden heads of violence flat, Knights that in twelve great battles splashed and dyed The strong White Horse in his own heathen blood-But one hath seen, and all the blind will see. Go, since your vows are sacred, being made: Yet--for ye know the cries of all my realm Pass through this hall--how often, O my knights, Your places being vacant at my side, This chance of noble deeds will come and go Unchallenged, while ye follow wandering fires Lost in the quagmire! Many of you, yea most, Return no more: ye think I show myself Too dark a prophet: come now, let us meet The morrow morn once more in one full field Of gracious pastime, that once more the King, Before ye leave him for this Quest, may count The yet-unbroken strength of all his knights, Rejoicing in that Order which he made." `So when the sun broke next from under ground, All the great table of our Arthur closed And clashed in such a tourney and so full, So many lances broken--never yet Had Camelot seen the like, since Arthur came; And I myself and Galahad, for a strength Was in us from this vision, overthrew So many knights that all the people cried, And almost burst the barriers in their heat, Shouting, "Sir Galahad and Sir Percivale!" `But when the next day brake from under ground-O brother, had you known our Camelot, Built by old kings, age after age, so old The King himself had fears that it would fall, So strange, and rich, and dim; for where the roofs Tottered toward each other in the sky, Met foreheads all along the street of those Who watched us pass; and lower, and where the long 609 Rich galleries, lady-laden, weighed the necks Of dragons clinging to the crazy walls, Thicker than drops from thunder, showers of flowers Fell as we past; and men and boys astride On wyvern, lion, dragon, griffin, swan, At all the corners, named us each by name, Calling, "God speed!" but in the ways below The knights and ladies wept, and rich and poor Wept, and the King himself could hardly speak For grief, and all in middle street the Queen, Who rode by Lancelot, wailed and shrieked aloud, "This madness has come on us for our sins." So to the Gate of the three Queens we came, Where Arthur's wars are rendered mystically, And thence departed every one his way. `And I was lifted up in heart, and thought Of all my late-shown prowess in the lists, How my strong lance had beaten down the knights, So many and famous names; and never yet Had heaven appeared so blue, nor earth so green, For all my blood danced in me, and I knew That I should light upon the Holy Grail. `Thereafter, the dark warning of our King, That most of us would follow wandering fires, Came like a driving gloom across my mind. Then every evil word I had spoken once, And every evil thought I had thought of old, And every evil deed I ever did, Awoke and cried, "This Quest is not for thee." And lifting up mine eyes, I found myself Alone, and in a land of sand and thorns, And I was thirsty even unto death; And I, too, cried, "This Quest is not for thee." `And on I rode, and when I thought my thirst Would slay me, saw deep lawns, and then a brook, With one sharp rapid, where the crisping white Played ever back upon the sloping wave, And took both ear and eye; and o'er the brook Were apple-trees, and apples by the brook 610 Fallen, and on the lawns. "I will rest here," I said, "I am not worthy of the Quest;" But even while I drank the brook, and ate The goodly apples, all these things at once Fell into dust, and I was left alone, And thirsting, in a land of sand and thorns. `And then behold a woman at a door Spinning; and fair the house whereby she sat, And kind the woman's eyes and innocent, And all her bearing gracious; and she rose Opening her arms to meet me, as who should say, "Rest here;" but when I touched her, lo! she, too, Fell into dust and nothing, and the house Became no better than a broken shed, And in it a dead babe; and also this Fell into dust, and I was left alone. `And on I rode, and greater was my thirst. Then flashed a yellow gleam across the world, And where it smote the plowshare in the field, The plowman left his plowing, and fell down Before it; where it glittered on her pail, The milkmaid left her milking, and fell down Before it, and I knew not why, but thought "The sun is rising," though the sun had risen. Then was I ware of one that on me moved In golden armour with a crown of gold About a casque all jewels; and his horse In golden armour jewelled everywhere: And on the splendour came, flashing me blind; And seemed to me the Lord of all the world, Being so huge. But when I thought he meant To crush me, moving on me, lo! he, too, Opened his arms to embrace me as he came, And up I went and touched him, and he, too, Fell into dust, and I was left alone And wearying in a land of sand and thorns. `And I rode on and found a mighty hill, And on the top, a city walled: the spires Pricked with incredible pinnacles into heaven. 611 And by the gateway stirred a crowd; and these Cried to me climbing, "Welcome, Percivale! Thou mightiest and thou purest among men!" And glad was I and clomb, but found at top No man, nor any voice. And thence I past Far through a ruinous city, and I saw That man had once dwelt there; but there I found Only one man of an exceeding age. "Where is that goodly company," said I, "That so cried out upon me?" and he had Scarce any voice to answer, and yet gasped, "Whence and what art thou?" and even as he spoke Fell into dust, and disappeared, and I Was left alone once more, and cried in grief, "Lo, if I find the Holy Grail itself And touch it, it will crumble into dust." `And thence I dropt into a lowly vale, Low as the hill was high, and where the vale Was lowest, found a chapel, and thereby A holy hermit in a hermitage, To whom I told my phantoms, and he said: `"O son, thou hast not true humility, The highest virtue, mother of them all; For when the Lord of all things made Himself Naked of glory for His mortal change, `Take thou my robe,' she said, `for all is thine,' And all her form shone forth with sudden light So that the angels were amazed, and she Followed Him down, and like a flying star Led on the gray-haired wisdom of the east; But her thou hast not known: for what is this Thou thoughtest of thy prowess and thy sins? Thou hast not lost thyself to save thyself As Galahad." When the hermit made an end, In silver armour suddenly Galahad shone Before us, and against the chapel door Laid lance, and entered, and we knelt in prayer. And there the hermit slaked my burning thirst, And at the sacring of the mass I saw The holy elements alone; but he, 612 "Saw ye no more? I, Galahad, saw the Grail, The Holy Grail, descend upon the shrine: I saw the fiery face as of a child That smote itself into the bread, and went; And hither am I come; and never yet Hath what thy sister taught me first to see, This Holy Thing, failed from my side, nor come Covered, but moving with me night and day, Fainter by day, but always in the night Blood-red, and sliding down the blackened marsh Blood-red, and on the naked mountain top Blood-red, and in the sleeping mere below Blood-red. And in the strength of this I rode, Shattering all evil customs everywhere, And past through Pagan realms, and made them mine, And clashed with Pagan hordes, and bore them down, And broke through all, and in the strength of this Come victor. But my time is hard at hand, And hence I go; and one will crown me king Far in the spiritual city; and come thou, too, For thou shalt see the vision when I go." `While thus he spake, his eye, dwelling on mine, Drew me, with power upon me, till I grew One with him, to believe as he believed. Then, when the day began to wane, we went. `There rose a hill that none but man could climb, Scarred with a hundred wintry water-courses-Storm at the top, and when we gained it, storm Round us and death; for every moment glanced His silver arms and gloomed: so quick and thick The lightnings here and there to left and right Struck, till the dry old trunks about us, dead, Yea, rotten with a hundred years of death, Sprang into fire: and at the base we found On either hand, as far as eye could see, A great black swamp and of an evil smell, Part black, part whitened with the bones of men, Not to be crost, save that some ancient king Had built a way, where, linked with many a bridge, A thousand piers ran into the great Sea. 613 And Galahad fled along them bridge by bridge, And every bridge as quickly as he crost Sprang into fire and vanished, though I yearned To follow; and thrice above him all the heavens Opened and blazed with thunder such as seemed Shoutings of all the sons of God: and first At once I saw him far on the great Sea, In silver-shining armour starry-clear; And o'er his head the Holy Vessel hung Clothed in white samite or a luminous cloud. And with exceeding swiftness ran the boat, If boat it were--I saw not whence it came. And when the heavens opened and blazed again Roaring, I saw him like a silver star-And had he set the sail, or had the boat Become a living creature clad with wings? And o'er his head the Holy Vessel hung Redder than any rose, a joy to me, For now I knew the veil had been withdrawn. Then in a moment when they blazed again Opening, I saw the least of little stars Down on the waste, and straight beyond the star I saw the spiritual city and all her spires And gateways in a glory like one pearl-No larger, though the goal of all the saints-Strike from the sea; and from the star there shot A rose-red sparkle to the city, and there Dwelt, and I knew it was the Holy Grail, Which never eyes on earth again shall see. Then fell the floods of heaven drowning the deep. And how my feet recrost the deathful ridge No memory in me lives; but that I touched The chapel-doors at dawn I know; and thence Taking my war-horse from the holy man, Glad that no phantom vext me more, returned To whence I came, the gate of Arthur's wars.' `O brother,' asked Ambrosius,--`for in sooth These ancient books--and they would win thee--teem, Only I find not there this Holy Grail, With miracles and marvels like to these, Not all unlike; which oftentime I read, 614 Who read but on my breviary with ease, Till my head swims; and then go forth and pass Down to the little thorpe that lies so close, And almost plastered like a martin's nest To these old walls--and mingle with our folk; And knowing every honest face of theirs As well as ever shepherd knew his sheep, And every homely secret in their hearts, Delight myself with gossip and old wives, And ills and aches, and teethings, lyings-in, And mirthful sayings, children of the place, That have no meaning half a league away: Or lulling random squabbles when they rise, Chafferings and chatterings at the market-cross, Rejoice, small man, in this small world of mine, Yea, even in their hens and in their eggs-O brother, saving this Sir Galahad, Came ye on none but phantoms in your quest, No man, no woman?' Then Sir Percivale: `All men, to one so bound by such a vow, And women were as phantoms. O, my brother, Why wilt thou shame me to confess to thee How far I faltered from my quest and vow? For after I had lain so many nights A bedmate of the snail and eft and snake, In grass and burdock, I was changed to wan And meagre, and the vision had not come; And then I chanced upon a goodly town With one great dwelling in the middle of it; Thither I made, and there was I disarmed By maidens each as fair as any flower: But when they led me into hall, behold, The Princess of that castle was the one, Brother, and that one only, who had ever Made my heart leap; for when I moved of old A slender page about her father's hall, And she a slender maiden, all my heart Went after her with longing: yet we twain Had never kissed a kiss, or vowed a vow. And now I came upon her once again, 615 And one had wedded her, and he was dead, And all his land and wealth and state were hers. And while I tarried, every day she set A banquet richer than the day before By me; for all her longing and her will Was toward me as of old; till one fair morn, I walking to and fro beside a stream That flashed across her orchard underneath Her castle-walls, she stole upon my walk, And calling me the greatest of all knights, Embraced me, and so kissed me the first time, And gave herself and all her wealth to me. Then I remembered Arthur's warning word, That most of us would follow wandering fires, And the Quest faded in my heart. Anon, The heads of all her people drew to me, With supplication both of knees and tongue: "We have heard of thee: thou art our greatest knight, Our Lady says it, and we well believe: Wed thou our Lady, and rule over us, And thou shalt be as Arthur in our land." O me, my brother! but one night my vow Burnt me within, so that I rose and fled, But wailed and wept, and hated mine own self, And even the Holy Quest, and all but her; Then after I was joined with Galahad Cared not for her, nor anything upon earth.' Then said the monk, `Poor men, when yule is cold, Must be content to sit by little fires. And this am I, so that ye care for me Ever so little; yea, and blest be Heaven That brought thee here to this poor house of ours Where all the brethren are so hard, to warm My cold heart with a friend: but O the pity To find thine own first love once more--to hold, Hold her a wealthy bride within thine arms, Or all but hold, and then--cast her aside, Foregoing all her sweetness, like a weed. For we that want the warmth of double life, We that are plagued with dreams of something sweet Beyond all sweetness in a life so rich,-- 616 Ah, blessd Lord, I speak too earthlywise, Seeing I never strayed beyond the cell, But live like an old badger in his earth, With earth about him everywhere, despite All fast and penance. Saw ye none beside, None of your knights?' `Yea so,' said Percivale: `One night my pathway swerving east, I saw The pelican on the casque of our Sir Bors All in the middle of the rising moon: And toward him spurred, and hailed him, and he me, And each made joy of either; then he asked, "Where is he? hast thou seen him--Lancelot?--Once," Said good Sir Bors, "he dashed across me--mad, And maddening what he rode: and when I cried, `Ridest thou then so hotly on a quest So holy,' Lancelot shouted, `Stay me not! I have been the sluggard, and I ride apace, For now there is a lion in the way.' So vanished." `Then Sir Bors had ridden on Softly, and sorrowing for our Lancelot, Because his former madness, once the talk And scandal of our table, had returned; For Lancelot's kith and kin so worship him That ill to him is ill to them; to Bors Beyond the rest: he well had been content Not to have seen, so Lancelot might have seen, The Holy Cup of healing; and, indeed, Being so clouded with his grief and love, Small heart was his after the Holy Quest: If God would send the vision, well: if not, The Quest and he were in the hands of Heaven. `And then, with small adventure met, Sir Bors Rode to the lonest tract of all the realm, And found a people there among their crags, Our race and blood, a remnant that were left Paynim amid their circles, and the stones They pitch up straight to heaven: and their wise men 617 Were strong in that old magic which can trace The wandering of the stars, and scoffed at him And this high Quest as at a simple thing: Told him he followed--almost Arthur's words-A mocking fire: "what other fire than he, Whereby the blood beats, and the blossom blows, And the sea rolls, and all the world is warmed?" And when his answer chafed them, the rough crowd, Hearing he had a difference with their priests, Seized him, and bound and plunged him into a cell Of great piled stones; and lying bounden there In darkness through innumerable hours He heard the hollow-ringing heavens sweep Over him till by miracle--what else?-Heavy as it was, a great stone slipt and fell, Such as no wind could move: and through the gap Glimmered the streaming scud: then came a night Still as the day was loud; and through the gap The seven clear stars of Arthur's Table Round-For, brother, so one night, because they roll Through such a round in heaven, we named the stars, Rejoicing in ourselves and in our King-And these, like bright eyes of familiar friends, In on him shone: "And then to me, to me," Said good Sir Bors, "beyond all hopes of mine, Who scarce had prayed or asked it for myself-Across the seven clear stars--O grace to me-In colour like the fingers of a hand Before a burning taper, the sweet Grail Glided and past, and close upon it pealed A sharp quick thunder." Afterwards, a maid, Who kept our holy faith among her kin In secret, entering, loosed and let him go.' To whom the monk: `And I remember now That pelican on the casque: Sir Bors it was Who spake so low and sadly at our board; And mighty reverent at our grace was he: A square-set man and honest; and his eyes, An out-door sign of all the warmth within, Smiled with his lips--a smile beneath a cloud, But heaven had meant it for a sunny one: 618 Ay, ay, Sir Bors, who else? But when ye reached The city, found ye all your knights returned, Or was there sooth in Arthur's prophecy, Tell me, and what said each, and what the King?' Then answered Percivale: `And that can I, Brother, and truly; since the living words Of so great men as Lancelot and our King Pass not from door to door and out again, But sit within the house. O, when we reached The city, our horses stumbling as they trode On heaps of ruin, hornless unicorns, Cracked basilisks, and splintered cockatrices, And shattered talbots, which had left the stones Raw, that they fell from, brought us to the hall. `And there sat Arthur on the das-throne, And those that had gone out upon the Quest, Wasted and worn, and but a tithe of them, And those that had not, stood before the King, Who, when he saw me, rose, and bad me hail, Saying, "A welfare in thine eye reproves Our fear of some disastrous chance for thee On hill, or plain, at sea, or flooding ford. So fierce a gale made havoc here of late Among the strange devices of our kings; Yea, shook this newer, stronger hall of ours, And from the statue Merlin moulded for us Half-wrenched a golden wing; but now--the Quest, This vision--hast thou seen the Holy Cup, That Joseph brought of old to Glastonbury?" `So when I told him all thyself hast heard, Ambrosius, and my fresh but fixt resolve To pass away into the quiet life, He answered not, but, sharply turning, asked Of Gawain, "Gawain, was this Quest for thee?" `"Nay, lord," said Gawain, "not for such as I. Therefore I communed with a saintly man, Who made me sure the Quest was not for me; For I was much awearied of the Quest: 619 But found a silk pavilion in a field, And merry maidens in it; and then this gale Tore my pavilion from the tenting-pin, And blew my merry maidens all about With all discomfort; yea, and but for this, My twelvemonth and a day were pleasant to me." `He ceased; and Arthur turned to whom at first He saw not, for Sir Bors, on entering, pushed Athwart the throng to Lancelot, caught his hand, Held it, and there, half-hidden by him, stood, Until the King espied him, saying to him, "Hail, Bors! if ever loyal man and true Could see it, thou hast seen the Grail;" and Bors, "Ask me not, for I may not speak of it: I saw it;" and the tears were in his eyes. `Then there remained but Lancelot, for the rest Spake but of sundry perils in the storm; Perhaps, like him of Cana in Holy Writ, Our Arthur kept his best until the last; "Thou, too, my Lancelot," asked the king, "my friend, Our mightiest, hath this Quest availed for thee?" `"Our mightiest!" answered Lancelot, with a groan; "O King!"--and when he paused, methought I spied A dying fire of madness in his eyes-"O King, my friend, if friend of thine I be, Happier are those that welter in their sin, Swine in the mud, that cannot see for slime, Slime of the ditch: but in me lived a sin So strange, of such a kind, that all of pure, Noble, and knightly in me twined and clung Round that one sin, until the wholesome flower And poisonous grew together, each as each, Not to be plucked asunder; and when thy knights Sware, I sware with them only in the hope That could I touch or see the Holy Grail They might be plucked asunder. Then I spake To one most holy saint, who wept and said, That save they could be plucked asunder, all My quest were but in vain; to whom I vowed 620 That I would work according as he willed. And forth I went, and while I yearned and strove To tear the twain asunder in my heart, My madness came upon me as of old, And whipt me into waste fields far away; There was I beaten down by little men, Mean knights, to whom the moving of my sword And shadow of my spear had been enow To scare them from me once; and then I came All in my folly to the naked shore, Wide flats, where nothing but coarse grasses grew; But such a blast, my King, began to blow, So loud a blast along the shore and sea, Ye could not hear the waters for the blast, Though heapt in mounds and ridges all the sea Drove like a cataract, and all the sand Swept like a river, and the clouded heavens Were shaken with the motion and the sound. And blackening in the sea-foam swayed a boat, Half-swallowed in it, anchored with a chain; And in my madness to myself I said, `I will embark and I will lose myself, And in the great sea wash away my sin.' I burst the chain, I sprang into the boat. Seven days I drove along the dreary deep, And with me drove the moon and all the stars; And the wind fell, and on the seventh night I heard the shingle grinding in the surge, And felt the boat shock earth, and looking up, Behold, the enchanted towers of Carbonek, A castle like a rock upon a rock, With chasm-like portals open to the sea, And steps that met the breaker! there was none Stood near it but a lion on each side That kept the entry, and the moon was full. Then from the boat I leapt, and up the stairs. There drew my sword. With sudden-flaring manes Those two great beasts rose upright like a man, Each gript a shoulder, and I stood between; And, when I would have smitten them, heard a voice, `Doubt not, go forward; if thou doubt, the beasts Will tear thee piecemeal.' Then with violence 621 The sword was dashed from out my hand, and fell. And up into the sounding hall I past; But nothing in the sounding hall I saw, No bench nor table, painting on the wall Or shield of knight; only the rounded moon Through the tall oriel on the rolling sea. But always in the quiet house I heard, Clear as a lark, high o'er me as a lark, A sweet voice singing in the topmost tower To the eastward: up I climbed a thousand steps With pain: as in a dream I seemed to climb For ever: at the last I reached a door, A light was in the crannies, and I heard, `Glory and joy and honour to our Lord And to the Holy Vessel of the Grail.' Then in my madness I essayed the door; It gave; and through a stormy glare, a heat As from a seventimes-heated furnace, I, Blasted and burnt, and blinded as I was, With such a fierceness that I swooned away-O, yet methought I saw the Holy Grail, All palled in crimson samite, and around Great angels, awful shapes, and wings and eyes. And but for all my madness and my sin, And then my swooning, I had sworn I saw That which I saw; but what I saw was veiled And covered; and this Quest was not for me." `So speaking, and here ceasing, Lancelot left The hall long silent, till Sir Gawain--nay, Brother, I need not tell thee foolish words,-A reckless and irreverent knight was he, Now boldened by the silence of his King,-Well, I will tell thee: "O King, my liege," he said, "Hath Gawain failed in any quest of thine? When have I stinted stroke in foughten field? But as for thine, my good friend Percivale, Thy holy nun and thou have driven men mad, Yea, made our mightiest madder than our least. But by mine eyes and by mine ears I swear, I will be deafer than the blue-eyed cat, And thrice as blind as any noonday owl, 622 To holy virgins in their ecstasies, Henceforward." `"Deafer," said the blameless King, "Gawain, and blinder unto holy things Hope not to make thyself by idle vows, Being too blind to have desire to see. But if indeed there came a sign from heaven, Blessd are Bors, Lancelot and Percivale, For these have seen according to their sight. For every fiery prophet in old times, And all the sacred madness of the bard, When God made music through them, could but speak His music by the framework and the chord; And as ye saw it ye have spoken truth. `"Nay--but thou errest, Lancelot: never yet Could all of true and noble in knight and man Twine round one sin, whatever it might be, With such a closeness, but apart there grew, Save that he were the swine thou spakest of, Some root of knighthood and pure nobleness; Whereto see thou, that it may bear its flower. `"And spake I not too truly, O my knights? Was I too dark a prophet when I said To those who went upon the Holy Quest, That most of them would follow wandering fires, Lost in the quagmire?--lost to me and gone, And left me gazing at a barren board, And a lean Order--scarce returned a tithe-And out of those to whom the vision came My greatest hardly will believe he saw; Another hath beheld it afar off, And leaving human wrongs to right themselves, Cares but to pass into the silent life. And one hath had the vision face to face, And now his chair desires him here in vain, However they may crown him otherwhere. `"And some among you held, that if the King Had seen the sight he would have sworn the vow: 623 Not easily, seeing that the King must guard That which he rules, and is but as the hind To whom a space of land is given to plow. Who may not wander from the allotted field Before his work be done; but, being done, Let visions of the night or of the day Come, as they will; and many a time they come, Until this earth he walks on seems not earth, This light that strikes his eyeball is not light, This air that smites his forehead is not air But vision--yea, his very hand and foot-In moments when he feels he cannot die, And knows himself no vision to himself, Nor the high God a vision, nor that One Who rose again: ye have seen what ye have seen." `So spake the King: I knew not all he meant.' ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

327:Scene. Salzburg; a cell in the Hospital of St. Sebastian. 1541. Festus, Paracelsus. Festus. No change! The weary night is well-nigh spent, The lamp burns low, and through the casement-bars Grey morning glimmers feebly: yet no change! Another night, and still no sigh has stirred That fallen discoloured mouth, no pang relit Those fixed eyes, quenched by the decaying body, Like torch-flame choked in dust. While all beside Was breaking, to the last they held out bright, As a stronghold where life intrenched itself; But they are dead nowvery blind and dead: He will drowse into death without a groan. My Aureolemy forgotten, ruined Aureole! The days are gone, are gone! How grand thou wast! And now not one of those who struck thee down Poor glorious spiritconcerns him even to stay And satisfy himself his little hand Could turn God's image to a livid thing. Another night, and yet no change! 'T is much That I should sit by him, and bathe his brow, And chafe his hands; 't is much: but he will sure Know me, and look on me, and speak to me Once morebut only once! His hollow cheek Looked all night long as though a creeping laugh At his own state were just about to break From the dying man: my brain swam, my throat swelled, And yet I could not turn away. In truth, They told me how, when first brought here, he seemed Resolved to live, to lose no faculty; Thus striving to keep up his shattered strength, Until they bore him to this stifling cell: When straight his features fell, an hour made white The flushed face, and relaxed the quivering limb, Only the eye remained intense awhile As though it recognized the tomb-like place, And then he lay as here he lies.                  Ay, here! Here is earth's noblest, nobly garlanded Her bravest champion with his well-won prize Her best achievement, her sublime amends For countless generations fleeting fast And followed by no trace;the creature-god She instances when angels would dispute The title of her brood to rank with them. Angels, this is our angel! Those bright forms We clothe with purple, crown and call to thrones, Are human, but not his; those are but men Whom other men press round and kneel before; Those palaces are dwelt in by mankind; Higher provision is for him you seek Amid our pomps and glories: see it here! Behold earth's paragon! Now, raise thee, clay! God! Thou art love! I build my faith on that Even as I watch beside thy tortured child Unconscious whose hot tears fall fast by him, So doth thy right hand guide us through the world Wherein we stumble. God! what shall we say? How has he sinned? How else should he have done? Surely he sought thy praisethy praise, for all He might be busied by the task so much As half forget awhile its proper end. Dost thou well, Lord? Thou canst not but prefer That I should range myself upon his side How could he stop at every step to set Thy glory forth? Hadst thou but granted him Success, thy honour would have crowned success, A halo round a star. Or, say he erred, Save him, dear God; it will be like thee: bathe him In light and life! Thou art not made like us; We should be wroth in such a case; but thou Forgivestso, forgive these passionate thoughts Which come unsought and will not pass away! I know thee, who hast kept my path, and made Light for me in the darkness, tempering sorrow So that it reached me like a solemn joy; It were too strange that I should doubt thy love. But what am I? Thou madest him and knowest How he was fashioned. I could never err That way: the quiet place beside thy feet, Reserved for me, was ever in my thoughts: But hethou shouldst have favoured him as well! Ah! he wakens! Aureole, I am here! 't is Festus! I cast away all wishes save one wish Let him but know me, only speak to me! He mutters; louder and louder; any other Than I, with brain less laden, could collect What he pours forth. Dear Aureole, do but look! Is it talking or singing, this he utters fast? Misery that he should fix me with his eye, Quick talking to some other all the while! If he would husband this wild vehemence Which frustrates its intent!I heard, I know I heard my name amid those rapid words. Oh, he will know me yet! Could I divert This current, lead it somehow gently back Into the channels of the past!His eye Brighter than ever! It must recognize me! I am Erasmus: I am here to pray That Paracelsus use his skill for me. The schools of Paris and of Padua send These questions for your learning to resolve. We are your students, noble master: leave This wretched cell, what business have you here? Our class awaits you; come to us once more! (O agony! the utmost I can do Touches him not; how else arrest his ear?) I am commissioned . . . I shall craze like him. Better be mute and see what God shall send. Paracelsus. Stay, stay with me! Festus.           I will; I am come here To stay with youFestus, you loved of old; Festus, you know, you must know! Paracelsus.                  Festus! Where's Aprile, then? Has he not chanted softly The melodies I heard all night? I could not Get to him for a cold hand on my breast, But I made out his music well enough, O well enough! If they have filled him full With magical music, as they freight a star With light, and have remitted all his sin, They will forgive me too, I too shall know! Festus. Festus, your Festus! Paracelsus.            Ask him if Aprile Knows as he Lovesif I shall Love and Know? I try; but that cold hand, like leadso cold! Festus. My hand, see! Paracelsus.        Ah, the curse, Aprile, Aprile! We get so nearso very, very near! 'T is an old tale: Jove strikes the Titans down, Not when they set about their mountain-piling But when another rock would crown the work. And Phaetondoubtless his first radiant plunge Astonished mortals, though the gods were calm, And Jove prepared his thunder: all old tales! Festus. And what are these to you? Paracelsus.               Ay, fiends must laugh So cruelly, so well! most like I never Could tread a single pleasure underfoot, But they were grinning by my side, were chuckling To see me toil and drop away by flakes! Hell-spawn! I am glad, most glad, that thus I fail! Your cunning has o'ershot its aim. One year, One month, perhaps, and I had served your turn! You should have curbed your spite awhile. But now, Who will believe 't was you that held me back? Listen: there's shame and hissing and contempt, And none but laughs who names me, none but spits Measureless scorn upon me, me alone, The quack, the cheat, the liar,all on me! And thus your famous plan to sink mankind In silence and despair, by teaching them One of their race had probed the inmost truth, Had done all man could do, yet failed no less Your wise plan proves abortive. Men despair? Ha, ha! why, they are hooting the empiric, The ignorant and incapable fool who rushed Madly upon a work beyond his wits; Nor doubt they but the simplest of themselves Could bring the matter to triumphant issue. So, pick and choose among them all, accursed! Try now, persuade some other to slave for you, To ruin body and soul to work your ends! No, no; I am the first and last, I think. Festus. Dear friend, who are accursed? who has done Paracelsus. What have I done? Fiends dare ask that? or you, Brave men? Oh, you can chime in boldly, backed By the others! What had you to do, sage peers? Here stand my rivals; Latin, Arab, Jew, Greek, join dead hands against me: all I ask Is, that the world enrol my name with theirs, And even this poor privilege, it seems, They range themselves, prepared to disallow. Only observe! why, fiends may learn from them! How they talk calmly of my throes, my fierce Aspirings, terrible watchings, each one claiming Its price of blood and brain; how they dissect And sneeringly disparage the few truths Got at a life's cost; they too hanging the while About my neck, their lies misleading me And their dead names browbeating me! Grey crew, Yet steeped in fresh malevolence from hell, Is there a reason for your hate? My truths Have shaken a little the palm about each prince? Just think, Aprile, all these leering dotards Were bent on nothing less than to be crowned As we! That yellow blear-eyed wretch in chief To whom the rest cringe low with feigned respect, Galen of Pergamos and hellnay speak The tale, old man! We met there face to face: I said the crown should fall from thee. Once more We meet as in that ghastly vestibule: Look to my brow! Have I redeemed my pledge? Festus. Peace, peace; ah, see! Paracelsus.            Oh, emptiness of fame! Oh Persic Zoroaster, lord of stars! Who said these old renowns, dead long ago, Could make me overlook the living world To gaze through gloom at where they stood, indeed, But stand no longer? What a warm light life After the shade! In truth, my delicate witch, My serpent-queen, you did but well to hide The juggles I had else detected. Fire May well run harmless o'er a breast like yours! The cave was not so darkened by the smoke But that your white limbs dazzled me: oh, white, And panting as they twinkled, wildly dancing! I cared not for your passionate gestures then, But now I have forgotten the charm of charms, The foolish knowledge which I came to seek, While I remember that quaint dance; and thus I am come back, not for those mummeries, But to love you, and to kiss your little feet Soft as an ermine's winter coat! Festus.                  A light Will struggle through these thronging words at last. As in the angry and tumultuous West A soft star trembles through the drifting clouds. These are the strivings of a spirit which hates So sad a vault should coop it, and calls up The past to stand between it and its fate. Were he at Einsiedelnor Michal here! Paracelsus. Cruel! I seek her nowI kneelI shriek I clasp her vesturebut she fades, still fades; And she is gone; sweet human love is gone! 'T is only when they spring to heaven that angels Reveal themselves to you; they sit all day Beside you, and lie down at night by you Who care not for their presence, muse or sleep, And all at once they leave you, and you know them! We are so fooled, so cheated! Why, even now I am not too secure against foul play; The shadows deepen and the walls contract: No doubt some treachery is going on. 'T is very dusk. Where are we put, Aprile? Have they left us in the lurch? This murky loathsome Death-trap, this slaughter-house, is not the hall In the golden city! Keep by me, Aprile! There is a hand groping amid the blackness To catch us. Have the spider-fingers got you, Poet? Hold on me for your life! If once They pull you!Hold!            'Tis but a dreamno more! I have you still; the sun comes out again; Let us be happy: all will yet go well! Let us confer: is it not like, Aprile, That spite of trouble, this ordeal passed, The value of my labours ascertained, Just as some stream foams long among the rocks But after glideth glassy to the sea, So, full content shall henceforth be my lot? What think you, poet? Louder! Your clear voice Vibrates too like a harp-string. Do you ask How could I still remain on earth, should God Grant me the great approval which I seek? I, you, and God can comprehend each other, But men would murmur, and with cause enough; For when they saw me, stainless of all sin, Preserved and sanctified by inward light, They would complain that comfort, shut from them, I drank thus unespied; that they live on, Nor taste the quiet of a constant joy, For ache and care and doubt and weariness, While I am calm; help being vouchsafed to me, And hid from them.'T were best consider that! You reason well, Aprile; but at least Let me know this, and die! Is this too much? I will learn this, if God so please, and die! If thou shalt please, dear God, if thou shalt please! We are so weak, we know our motives least In their confused beginning. If at first I sought . . . but wherefore bare my heart to thee? I know thy mercy; and already thoughts Flock fast about my soul to comfort it, And intimate I cannot wholly fail, For love and praise would clasp me willingly Could I resolve to seek them. Thou art good, And I should be content. Yetyet first show I have done wrong in daring! Rather give The supernatural consciousness of strength Which fed my youth! Only one hour of that With thee to helpO what should bar me then! Lost, lost! Thus things are ordered here! God's creatures, And yet he takes no pride in us!none, none! Truly there needs another life to come! If this be all(I must tell Festus that) And other life await us notfor one, I say 't is a poor cheat, a stupid bungle, A wretched failure. I, for one, protest Against it, and I hurl it back with scorn. Well, onward though alone! Small time remains, And much to do: I must have fruit, must reap Some profit from my toils. I doubt my body Will hardly serve me through; while I have laboured It has decayed; and now that I demand Its best assistance, it will crumble fast: A sad thought, a sad fate! How very full Of wormwood 't is, that just at altar-service, The rapt hymn rising with the rolling smoke, When glory dawns and all is at the best, The sacred fire may flicker and grow faint And die for want of a wood-piler's help! Thus fades the flagging body, and the soul Is pulled down in the overthrow. Well, well Let men catch every word, let them lose nought Of what I say; something may yet be done. They are ruins! Trust me who am one of you! All ruins, glorious once, but lonely now. It makes my heart sick to behold you crouch Beside your desolate fane: the arches dim, The crumbling columns grand against the moon, Could I but rear them up once morebut that May never be, so leave them! Trust me, friends, Why should you linger here when I have built A far resplendent temple, all your own? Trust me, they are but ruins! See, Aprile, Men will not heed! Yet were I not prepared With better refuge for them, tongue of mine Should ne'er reveal how blank their dwelling is: I would sit down in silence with the rest. Ha, what? you spit at me, you grin and shriek Contempt into my earmy ear which drank God's accents once? you curse me? Why men, men, I am not formed for it! Those hideous eyes Will be before me sleeping, waking, praying, They will not let me even die. Spare, spare me, Sinning or no, forget that, only spare me The horrible scorn! You thought I could support it. But now you see what silly fragile creature Cowers thus. I am not good nor bad enough, Not Christ nor Cain, yet even Cain was saved From Hate like this. Let me but totter back! Perhaps I shall elude those jeers which creep Into my very brain, and shut these scorched Eyelids and keep those mocking faces out. Listen, Aprile! I am very calm: Be not deceived, there is no passion here Where the blood leaps like an imprisoned thing: I am calm: I will exterminate the race! Enough of that: 't is said and it shall be. And now be merry: safe and sound am I Who broke through their best ranks to get at you. And such a havoc, such a rout, Aprile! Festus. Have you no thought, no memory for me, Aureole? I am so wretchedmy pure Michal Is gone, and you alone are left me now, And even you forget me. Take my hand Lean on me thus. Do you not know me, Aureole? Paracelsus. Festus, my own friend, you are come at last? As you say, 't is an awful enterprise; But you believe I shall go through with it: 'T is like you, and I thank you. Thank him for me, Dear Michal! See how bright St. Saviour's spire Flames in the sunset; all its figures quaint Gay in the glancing light: you might conceive them A troop of yellow-vested white-haired Jews Bound for their own land where redemption dawns. Festus. Not that blest timenot our youth's time, dear God! Paracelsus. Hastay! true, I forgetall is done since, And he is come to judge me. How he speaks, How calm, how well! yes, it is true, all true; All quackery; all deceit; myself can laugh The first at it, if you desire: but still You know the obstacles which taught me tricks So foreign to my natureenvy and hate, Blind opposition, brutal prejudice, Bald ignorancewhat wonder if I sunk To humour men the way they most approved? My cheats were never palmed on such as you, Dear Festus! I will kneel if you require me, Impart the meagre knowledge I possess, Explain its bounded nature, and avow My insufficiencywhate'er you will: I give the fight up: let there be an end, A privacy, an obscure nook for me. I want to be forgotten even by God. But if that cannot be, dear Festus, lay me, When I shall die, within some narrow grave, Not by itselffor that would be too proud But where such graves are thickest; let it look Nowise distinguished from the hillocks round, So that the peasant at his brother's bed May tread upon my own and know it not; And we shall all be equal at the last, Or classed according to life's natural ranks, Fathers, sons, brothers, friendsnot rich, nor wise, Nor gifted: lay me thus, then say, "He lived "Too much advanced before his brother men; "They kept him still in front: 't was for their good "But yet a dangerous station. It were strange "That he should tell God he had never ranked "With men: so, here at least he is a man." Festus. That God shall take thee to his breast, dear spirit, Unto his breast, be sure! and here on earth Shall splendour sit upon thy name for ever. Sun! all the heaven is glad for thee: what care If lower mountains light their snowy phares At thine effulgence, yet acknowledge not The source of day? Their theft shall be their bale: For after-ages shall retrack thy beams, And put aside the crowd of busy ones And worship thee alonethe master-mind, The thinker, the explorer, the creator! Then, who should sneer at the convulsive throes With which thy deeds were born, would scorn as well The sheet of winding subterraneous fire Which, pent and writhing, sends no less at last Huge islands up amid the simmering sea. Behold thy might in me! thou hast infused Thy soul in mine; and I am grand as thou, Seeing I comprehend theeI so simple, Thou so august. I recognize thee first; I saw thee rise, I watched thee early and late, And though no glance reveal thou dost accept My homagethus no less I proffer it, And bid thee enter gloriously thy rest. Paracelsus. Festus! Festus.    I am for noble Aureole, God! I am upon his side, come weal or woe. His portion shall be mine. He has done well. I would have sinned, had I been strong enough, As he has sinned. Reward him or I waive Reward! If thou canst find no place for him, He shall be king elsewhere, and I will be His slave for ever. There are two of us. Paracelsus. Dear Festus! Festus.       Here, dear Aureole! ever by you!       Paracelsus. Nay, speak on, or I dream again. Speak on! Some story, anythingonly your voice. I shall dream else. Speak on! ay, leaning so! Festus.                          Thus the Mayne glideth Where my Love abideth. Sleep's no softer: it proceeds On through lawns, on through meads, On and on, whate'er befall, Meandering and musical, Though the ****rd pasturage Bears not on its shaven ledge Aught but weeds and waving grasses To view the river as it passes, Save here and there a scanty patch Of primroses too faint to catch A weary bee. Paracelsus. More, more; say on! Festus.           And scarce it pushes Its gentle way through strangling rushes Where the glossy kingfisher Flutters when noon-heats are near, Glad the shelving banks to shun, Red and steaming in the sun, Where the shrew-mouse with pale throat Burrows, and the speckled stoat; Where the quick sandpipers flit In and out the marl and grit That seems to breed them, brown as they: Nought disturbs its quiet way, Save some lazy stork that springs, Trailing it with legs and wings, Whom the shy fox from the hill Rouses, creep he ne'er so still. Paracelsus. My heart! they loose my heart, those simple words; Its darkness passes, which nought else could touch: Like some dark snake that force may not expel, Which glideth out to music sweet and low. What were you doing when your voice broke through A chaos of ugly images? You, indeed! Are you alone here? Festus.           All alone: you know me? This cell? Paracelsus.      An unexceptionable vault: Good brick and stone: the bats kept out, the rats Kept in: a snug nook: how should I mistake it? Festus. But wherefore am I here? Paracelsus.              Ah, well remembered! Why, for a purposefor a purpose, Festus! 'T is like me: here I trifle while time fleets, And this occasion, lost, will ne'er return. You are here to be instructed. I will tell God's message; but I have so much to say, I fear to leave half out. All is confused No doubt; but doubtless you will learn in time. He would not else have brought you here: no doubt I shall see clearer soon. Festus.              Tell me but this You are not in despair? Paracelsus.             I? and for what?             Festus. Alas, alas! he knows not, as I feared! Paracelsus. What is it you would ask me with that earnest Dear searching face? Festus.            How feel you, Aureole?            Paracelsus.                        Well: Well. 'T is a strange thing: I am dying, Festus, And now that fast the storm of life subsides, I first perceive how great the whirl has been. I was calm then, who am so dizzy now Calm in the thick of the tempest, but no less A partner of its motion and mixed up With its career. The hurricane is spent, And the good boat speeds through the brightening weather; But is it earth or sea that heaves below? The gulf rolls like a meadow-swell, o'erstrewn With ravaged boughs and remnants of the shore; And now some slet, loosened from the land, Swims past with all its trees, sailing to ocean; And now the air is full of uptorn canes, Light strippings from the fan-trees, tamarisks Unrooted, with their birds still clinging to them, All high in the wind. Even so my varied life Drifts by me; I am young, old, happy, sad, Hoping, desponding, acting, taking rest, And all at once: that is, those past conditions Float back at once on me. If I select Some special epoch from the crowd, 't is but To will, and straight the rest dissolve away, And only that particular state is present With all its long-forgotten circumstance Distinct and vivid as at firstmyself A careless looker-on and nothing more, Indifferent and amused, but nothing more. And this is death: I understand it all. New being waits me; new perceptions must Be born in me before I plunge therein; Which last is Death's affair; and while I speak, Minute by minute he is filling me With power; and while my foot is on the threshold Of boundless lifethe doors unopened yet, All preparations not complete within I turn new knowledge upon old events, And the effect is . . . but I must not tell; It is not lawful. Your own turn will come One day. Wait, Festus! You will die like me. Festus. 'T is of that past life that I burn to hear. Paracelsus. You wonder it engages me just now? In truth, I wonder too. What 's life to me? Where'er I look is fire, where'er I listen Music, and where I tend bliss evermore. Yet how can I refrain? 'T is a refined Delight to view those chances,one last view. I am so near the perils I escape, That I must play with them and turn them over, To feel how fully they are past and gone. Still, it is like, some further cause exists For this peculiar moodsome hidden purpose; Did I not tell you something of it, Festus? I had it fast, but it has somehow slipt Away from me; it will return anon. Festus. (Indeed his cheek seems young again, his voice Complete with its old tones: that little laugh Concluding every phrase, with upturned eye, As though one stooped above his head to whom He looked for confirmation and approval, Where was it gone so long, so well preserved? Then, the fore-finger pointing as he speaks, Like one who traces in an open book The matter he declares; 't is many a year Since I remarked it last: and this in him, But now a ghastly wreck!)              And can it be, Dear Aureole, you have then found out at last That worldly things are utter vanity? That man is made for weakness, and should wait In patient ignorance, till God appoint . . . Paracelsus. Ha, the purpose: the true purpose: that is it! How could I fail to apprehend! You here, I thus! But no more trifling: I see all, I know all: my last mission shall be done If strength suffice. No trifling! Stay; this posture Hardly befits one thus about to speak: I will arise. Festus.        Nay, Aureole, are you wild? You cannot leave your couch. Paracelsus.                No help; no help; Not even your hand. So! there, I stand once more! Speak from a couch? I never lectured thus. My gownthe scarlet lined with fur; now put The chain about my neck; my signet-ring Is still upon my hand, I thinkeven so; Last, my good sword; ah, trusty Azoth, leapest Beneath thy master's grasp for the last time? This couch shall be my throne: I bid these walls Be consecrate, this wretched cell become A shrine, for here God speaks to men through me. Now, Festus, I am ready to begin. Festus. I am dumb with wonder. Paracelsus.            Listen, therefore, Festus! There will be time enough, but none to spare. I must content myself with telling only The most important points. You doubtless feel That I am happy, Festus; very happy. Festus. 'T is no delusion which uplifts him thus! Then you are pardoned, Aureole, all your sin? Paracelsus. Ay, pardoned: yet why pardoned? Festus.                  'T is God's praise That man is bound to seek, and you . . . Paracelsus.                      Have lived! We have to live alone to set forth well God's praise. 'T is true, I sinned much, as I thought, And in effect need mercy, for I strove To do that very thing; but, do your best Or worst, praise rises, and will rise for ever Pardon from him, because of praise denied Who calls me to himself to exalt himself? He might laugh as I laugh! Festus.               But all comes To the same thing. 'T is fruitless for mankind To fret themselves with what concerns them not; They are no use that way: they should lie down Content as God has made them, nor go mad In thriveless cares to better what is ill. Paracelsus. No, no; mistake me not; let me not work More harm than I have worked! This is my case: If I go joyous back to God, yet bring No offering, if I render up my soul Without the fruits it was ordained to bear, If I appear the better to love God For sin, as one who has no claim on him,- Be not deceived! It may be surely thus With me, while higher prizes still await The mortal persevering to the end. Beside I am not all so valueless: I have been something, though too soon I left Following the instincts of that happy time. Festus. What happy time? For God's sake, for man's sake, What time was happy? All I hope to know That answer will decide. What happy time? Paracelsus. When but the time I vowed myself to man? Festus. Great God, thy judgments are inscrutable! Paracelsus. Yes, it was in me; I was born for it I, Paracelsus: it was mine by right. Doubtless a searching and impetuous soul Might learn from its own motions that some task Like this awaited it about the world; Might seek somewhere in this blank life of ours For fit delights to stay its longings vast; And, grappling Nature, so prevail on her To fill the creature full she dared thus frame Hungry for joy; and, bravely tyrannous, Grow in demand, still craving more and more, And make each joy conceded prove a pledge Of other joy to followbating nought Of its desires, still seizing fresh pretence To turn the knowledge and the rapture wrung As an extreme, last boon, from destiny, Into occasion for new coyetings, New strifes, new triumphs:doubtless a strong soul, Alone, unaided might attain to this, So glorious is our nature, so august Man's inborn uninstructed impulses, His naked spirit so majestical! But this was born in me; I was made so; Thus much time saved: the feverish appeties, The tumult of unproved desire, the unaimed Uncertain yearnings, aspirations blind, Distrust, mistake, and all that ends in tears Were saved me; thus I entered on my course. You may be sure I was not all exempt From human trouble; just so much of doubt As bade me plant a surer foot upon The sun-road, kept my eye unruined 'mid The fierce and flashing splendour, set my heart Trembling so much as warned me I stood there On sufferancenot to idly gaze, but cast Light on a darkling race; save for that doubt, I stood at first where all aspire at last To stand: the secret of the world was mine. I knew, I felt, (perception unexpressed, Uncomprehended by our narrow thought, But somehow felt and known in every shift And change in the spirit,nay, in every pore Of the body, even,)what God is, what we are, What life ishow God tastes an infinite joy In infinite waysone everlasting bliss, From whom all being emanates, all power Proceeds; in whom is life for evermore, Yet whom existence in its lowest form Includes; where dwells enjoyment there is he; With still a flying point of bliss remote, A happiness in store afar, a sphere Of distant glory in full view; thus climbs Pleasure its heights for ever and for ever. The centre-fire heaves underneath the earth, And the earth changes like a human face; The molten ore bursts up among the rocks, Winds into the stone's heart, outbranches bright In hidden mines, spots barren river-beds, Crumbles into fine sand where sunbeams bask God joys therein. The wroth sea's waves are edged With foam, white as the bitten lip of hate, When, in the solitary waste, strange groups Of young volcanos come up, cyclops-like, Staring together with their eyes on flame God tastes a pleasure in their uncouth pride. Then all is still; earth is a wintry clod: But spring-wind, like a dancing psaltress, passes Over its breast to waken it, rare verdure Buds tenderly upon rough banks, between The withered tree-roots and the cracks of frost, Like a smile striving with a wrinkled face; The grass grows bright, the boughs are swoln with blooms Like chrysalids impatient for the air, The shining dorrs are busy, beetles run Along the furrows, ants make their ado; Above, birds fly in merry flocks, the lark Soars up and up, shivering for very joy; Afar the ocean sleeps; white fishing-gulls Flit where the strand is purple with its tribe Of nested limpets; savage creatures seek Their loves in wood and plainand God renews His ancient rapture. Thus he dwells in all, From life's minute beginnings, up at last To manthe consummation of this scheme Of being, the completion of this sphere Of life: whose attributes had here and there Been scattered o'er the visible world before, Asking to be combined, dim fragments meant To be united in some wondrous whole, Imperfect qualities throughout creation, Suggesting some one creature yet to make, Some point where all those scattered rays should meet Convergent in the faculties of man. Powerneither put forth blindly, nor controlled Calmly by perfect knowledge; to be used At risk, inspired or checked by hope and fear: Knowledgenot intuition, but the slow Uncertain fruit of an enhancing toil, Strengthened by love: lovenot serenely pure, But strong from weakness, like a chance-sown plant Which, cast on stubborn soil, puts forth changed buds And softer stains, unknown in happier climes; Love which endures and doubts and is oppressed And cherished, suffering much and much sustained, And blind, oft-failing, yet believing love, A half-enlightened, often-chequered trust: Hints and previsions of which faculties, Are strewn confusedly everywhere about The inferior natures, and all lead up higher, All shape out dimly the superior race, The heir of hopes too fair to turn out false, And man appears at last. So far the seal Is put on life; one stage of being complete, One scheme wound up: and from the grand result A supplementary reflux of light, Illustrates all the inferior grades, explains Each back step in the circle. Not alone For their possessor dawn those qualities, But the new glory mixes with the heaven And earth; man, once descried, imprints for ever His presence on all lifeless things: the winds Are henceforth voices, wailing or a shout, A querulous mutter or a quick gay laugh, Never a senseless gust now man is born. The herded pines commune and have deep thoughts A secret they assemble to discuss When the sun drops behind their trunks which glare Like grates of hell: the peerless cup afloat Of the lake-lily is an urn, some nymph Swims bearing high above her head: no bird Whistles unseen, but through the gaps above That let light in upon the gloomy woods, A shape peeps from the breezy forest-top, Arch with small puckered mouth and mocking eye. The morn has enterprise, deep quiet droops With evening, triumph takes the sunset hour, Voluptuous transport ripens with the corn Beneath a warm moon like a happy face: And this to fill us with regard for man. With apprehension of his passing worth, Desire to work his proper nature out, And ascertain his rank and final place, For these things tend still upward, progress is The law of life, man is not Man as yet. Nor shall I deem his object served, his end Attained, his genuine strength put fairly forth, While only here and there a star dispels The darkness, here and there a towering mind O'erlooks its prostrate fellows: when the host Is out at once to the despair of night, When all mankind alike is perfected, Equal in full-blown powersthen, not till then, I say, begins man's general infancy. For wherefore make account of feverish starts Of restless members of a dormant whole, Impatient nerves which quiver while the body Slumbers as in a grave? Oh long ago The brow was twitched, the tremulous lids astir, The peaceful mouth disturbed; half-uttered speech Ruffled the lip, and then the teeth were set, The breath drawn sharp, the strong right-hand clenched stronger, As it would pluck a lion by the jaw; The glorious creature laughed out even in sleep! But when full roused, each giant-limb awake, Each sinew strung, the great heart pulsing fast, He shall start up and stand on his own earth, Then shall his long triumphant march begin, Thence shall his being date,thus wholly roused, What he achieves shall be set down to him. When all the race is perfected alike As man, that is; all tended to mankind, And, man produced, all has its end thus far: But in completed man begins anew A tendency to God. Prognostics told Man's near approach; so in man's self arise August anticipations, symbols, types Of a dim splendour ever on before In that eternal circle life pursues. For men begin to pass their nature's bound, And find new hopes and cares which fast supplant Their proper joys and griefs; they grow too great For narrow creeds of right and wrong, which fade Before the unmeasured thirst for good: while peace Rises within them ever more and more. Such men are even now upon the earth, Serene amid the half-formed creatures round Who should be saved by them and joined with them. Such was my task, and I was born to it Free, as I said but now, from much that chains Spirits, high-dowered but limited and vexed By a divided and delusive aim, A shadow mocking a reality Whose truth avails not wholly to disperse The flitting mimic called up by itself, And so remains perplexed and nigh put out By its fantastic fellow's wavering gleam. I, from the first, was never cheated thus; I never fashioned out a fancied good Distinct from man's; a service to be done, A glory to be ministered unto With powers put forth at man's expense, withdrawn From labouring in his behalf; a strength Denied that might avail him. I cared not Lest his success ran counter to success Elsewhere: for God is glorified in man, And to man's glory vowed I soul and limb. Yet, constituted thus, and thus endowed, I failed: I gazed on power till I grew blind. Power; I could not take my eyes from that: That only, I thought, should be preserved, increased At any risk, displayed, struck out at once- The sign and note and character of man. I saw no use in the past: only a scene Of degradation, ugliness and tears, The record of disgraces best forgotten, A sullen page in human chronicles Fit to erase. I saw no cause why man Should not stand all-sufficient even now, Or why his annals should be forced to tell That once the tide of light, about to break Upon the world, was sealed within its spring: I would have had one day, one moment's space, Change man's condition, push each slumbering claim Of mastery o'er the elemental world At once to full maturity, then roll Oblivion o'er the work, and hide from man What night had ushered morn. Not so, dear child Of after-days, wilt thou reject the past Big with deep warnings of the proper tenure By which thou hast the earth: for thee the present Shall have distinct and trembling beauty, seen Beside that past's own shade when, in relief, Its brightness shall stand out: nor yet on thee Shall burst the future, as successive zones Of several wonder open on some spirit Flying secure and glad from heaven to heaven: But thou shalt painfully attain to joy, While hope and fear and love shall keep thee man! All this was hid from me: as one by one My dreams grew dim, my wide aims circumscribed, As actual good within my reach decreased, While obstacles sprung up this way and that To keep me from effecting half the sum, Small as it proved; as objects, mean within The primal aggregate, seemed, even the least, Itself a match for my concentred strength What wonder if I saw no way to shun Despair? The power I sought for man, seemed God's. In this conjuncture, as I prayed to die, A strange adventure made me know, one sin Had spotted my career from its uprise; I saw Aprilemy Aprile there! And as the poor melodious wretch disburthened His heart, and moaned his weakness in my ear, I learned my own deep error; love's undoing Taught me the worth of love in man's estate, And what proportion love should hold with power In his right constitution; love preceding Power, and with much power, always much more love; Love still too straitened in his present means, And earnest for new power to set love free. I learned this, and supposed the whole was learned: And thus, when men received with stupid wonder My first revealings, would have worshipped me, And I despised and loathed their proffered praise When, with awakened eyes, they took revenge For past credulity in casting shame On my real knowledge, and I hated them It was not strange I saw no good in man, To overbalance all the wear and waste Of faculties, displayed in vain, but born To prosper in some better sphere: and why? In my own heart love had not been made wise To trace love's faint beginnings in mankind, To know even hate is but a mask of love's, To see a good in evil, and a hope In ill-success; to sympathize, be proud Of their half-reasons, faint aspirings, dim Struggles for truth, their poorest fallacies, Their prejudice and fears and cares and doubts; All with a touch of nobleness, despite Their error, upward tending all though weak, Like plants in mines which never saw the sun, But dream of him, and guess where he may be, And do their best to climb and get to him. All this I knew not, and I failed. Let men Regard me, and the poet dead long ago Who loved too rashly; and shape forth a third And better-tempered spirit, warned by both: As from the over-radiant star too mad To drink the life-springs, beamless thence itself And the dark orb which borders the abyss, Ingulfed in icy night,might have its course A temperate and equidistant world. Meanwhile, I have done well, though not all well. As yet men cannot do without contempt; 'T is for their good, and therefore fit awhile That they reject the weak, and scorn the false, Rather than praise the strong and true, in me: But after, they will know me. If I stoop Into a dark tremendous sea of cloud, It is but for a time; I press God's lamp Close to my breast; its splendour, soon or late, Will pierce the gloom: I shall emerge one day. You understand me? I have said enough? Festus. Now die, dear Aureole! Paracelsus.            Festus, let my hand This hand, lie in your own, my own true friend! Aprile! Hand in hand with you, Aprile! Festus. And this was Paracelsus! ~ Robert Browning, Paracelsus - Part V - Paracelsus Attains ,

328:class:Classics BOOK THE NINTH The Story of Achelous and Hercules Theseus requests the God to tell his woes, Whence his maim'd brow, and whence his groans arose Whence thus the Calydonian stream reply'd, With twining reeds his careless tresses ty'd: Ungrateful is the tale; for who can bear, When conquer'd, to rehearse the shameful war? Yet I'll the melancholy story trace; So great a conqu'ror softens the disgrace: Nor was it still so mean the prize to yield, As great, and glorious to dispute the field. Perhaps you've heard of Deianira's name, For all the country spoke her beauty's fame. Long was the nymph by num'rous suitors woo'd, Each with address his envy'd hopes pursu'd: I joyn'd the loving band; to gain the fair, Reveal'd my passion to her father's ear. Their vain pretensions all the rest resign, Alcides only strove to equal mine; He boasts his birth from Jove, recounts his spoils, His step-dame's hate subdu'd, and finish'd toils. Can mortals then (said I), with Gods compare? Behold a God; mine is the watry care: Through your wide realms I take my mazy way, Branch into streams, and o'er the region stray: No foreign guest your daughter's charms adores, But one who rises in your native shores. Let not his punishment your pity move; Is Juno's hate an argument for love? Though you your life from fair Alcmena drew, Jove's a feign'd father, or by fraud a true. Chuse then; confess thy mother's honour lost, Or thy descent from Jove no longer boast. While thus I spoke, he look'd with stern disdain, Nor could the sallies of his wrath restrain, Which thus break forth. This arm decides our right; Vanquish in words, be mine the prize in fight. Bold he rush'd on. My honour to maintain, I fling my verdant garments on the plain, My arms stretch forth, my pliant limbs prepare, And with bent hands expect the furious war. O'er my sleek skin now gather'd dust he throws, And yellow sand his mighty muscles strows. Oft he my neck, and nimble legs assails, He seems to grasp me, but as often fails. Each part he now invades with eager hand; Safe in my bulk, immoveable I stand. So when loud storms break high, and foam and roar Against some mole that stretches from the shore; The firm foundation lasting tempests braves, Defies the warring winds, and driving waves. A-while we breathe, then forward rush amain, Renew the combat, and our ground maintain; Foot strove with foot, I prone extend my breast, Hands war with hands, and forehead forehead prest. Thus have I seen two furious bulls engage, Inflam'd with equal love, and equal rage; Each claims the fairest heifer of the grove, And conquest only can decide their love: The trembling herds survey the fight from far, 'Till victory decides th' important war. Three times in vain he strove my joints to wrest, To force my hold, and throw me from his breast; The fourth he broke my gripe, that clasp'd him round, Then with new force he stretch'd me on the ground; Close to my back the mighty bur then clung, As if a mountain o'er my limbs were flung. Believe my tale; nor do I, boastful, aim By feign'd narration to extol my fame. No sooner from his grasp I freedom get, Unlock my arms, that flow'd with trickling sweat, But quick he seized me, and renew'd the strife, As my exhausted bosom pants for life: My neck he gripes, my knee to earth he strains; I fall, and bite the sand with shame, and pains. O'er-match'd in strength, to wiles, and arts I take, And slip his hold, in form of speckled snake; Who, when I wreath'd in spires my body round, Or show'd my forky tongue with hissing sound, Smiles at my threats: Such foes my cradle knew, He cries, dire snakes my infant hand o'erthrew; A dragon's form might other conquests gain, To war with me you take that shape in vain. Art thou proportion'd to the Hydra's length, Who by his wounds receiv'd augmented strength? He rais'd a hundred hissing heads in air; When one I lopt, up-sprung a dreadful pair. By his wounds fertile, and with slaughter strong, Singly I quell'd him, and stretch'd dead along. What canst thou do, a form precarious, prone, To rouse my rage with terrors not thy own? He said; and round my neck his hands he cast, And with his straining fingers wrung me fast; My throat he tortur'd, close as pincers clasp, In vain I strove to loose the forceful grasp. Thus vanquish'd too, a third form still remains, Chang'd to a bull, my lowing fills the plains. Strait on the left his nervous arms were thrown Upon my brindled neck, and tugg'd it down; Then deep he struck my horn into the sand, And fell'd my bulk among the dusty land. Nor yet his fury cool'd; 'twixt rage and scorn, From my maim'd front he tore the stubborn horn: This, heap'd with flow'rs, and fruits, the Naiads bear, Sacred to plenty, and the bounteous year. He spoke; when lo, a beauteous nymph appears, Girt like Diana's train, with flowing hairs; The horn she brings in which all Autumn's stor'd, And ruddy apples for the second board. Now morn begins to dawn, the sun's bright fire Gilds the high mountains, and the youths retire; Nor stay'd they, 'till the troubled stream subsides, And in its bounds with peaceful current glides. But Achelous in his oozy bed Deep hides his brow deform'd, and rustick head: No real wound the victor's triumph show'd, But his lost honours griev'd the watry God; Yet ev'n that loss the willow's leaves o'erspread, And verdant reeds, in garlands, bind his head. The Death of Nessus the Centaur This virgin too, thy love, O Nessus, found, To her alone you owe the fatal wound. As the strong son of Jove his bride conveys, Where his paternal lands their bulwarks raise; Where from her slopy urn, Evenus pours Her rapid current, swell'd by wintry show'rs, He came. The frequent eddies whirl'd the tide, And the deep rolling waves all pass deny'd. As for himself, he stood unmov'd by fears, For now his bridal charge employ'd his cares, The strong-limb'd Nessus thus officious cry'd (For he the shallows of the stream had try'd), Swim thou, Alcides, all thy strength prepare, On yonder bank I'll lodge thy nuptial care. Th' Aonian chief to Nessus trusts his wife, All pale, and trembling for her heroe's life: Cloath'd as he stood in the fierce lion's hide, The laden quiver o'er his shoulder ty'd (For cross the stream his bow and club were cast), Swift he plung'd in: These billows shall be past, He said, nor sought where smoother waters glide, But stem'd the rapid dangers of the tide. The bank he reach'd; again the bow he bears; When, hark! his bride's known voice alarms his ears. Nessus, to thee I call (aloud he cries) Vain is thy trust in flight, be timely wise: Thou monster double-shap'd, my right set free; If thou no rev'rence owe my fame and me, Yet kindred should thy lawless lust deny; Think not, perfidious wretch, from me to fly, Tho' wing'd with horse's speed; wounds shall pursue; Swift as his words the fatal arrow flew: The centaur's back admits the feather'd wood, And thro' his breast the barbed weapon stood; Which when, in anguish, thro' the flesh he tore, From both the wounds gush'd forth the spumy gore Mix'd with Lernaean venom; this he took, Nor dire revenge his dying breast forsook. His garment, in the reeking purple dy'd, To rouse love's passion, he presents the bride. The Death of Hercules Now a long interval of time succeeds, When the great son of Jove's immortal deeds, And step-dame's hate, had fill'd Earth's utmost round; He from Oechalia, with new lawrels crown'd, In triumph was return'd. He rites prepares, And to the King of Gods directs his pray'rs; When Fame (who falshood cloaths in truth's disguise, And swells her little bulk with growing lies) Thy tender ear, o Deianira, mov'd, That Hercules the fair Iole lov'd. Her love believes the tale; the truth she fears Of his new passion, and gives way to tears. The flowing tears diffus'd her wretched grief, Why seek I thus, from streaming eyes, relief? She cries; indulge not thus these fruitless cares, The harlot will but triumph in thy tears: Let something be resolv'd, while yet there's time; My bed not conscious of a rival's crime. In silence shall I mourn, or loud complain? Shall I seek Calydon, or here remain? What tho', ally'd to Meleager's fame, I boast the honours of a sister's name? My wrongs, perhaps, now urge me to pursue Some desp'rate deed, by which the world shall view How far revenge, and woman's rage can rise, When weltring in her blood the harlot dies. Thus various passions rul'd by turns her breast, She now resolves to send the fatal vest, Dy'd with Lernaean gore, whose pow'r might move His soul anew, and rouse declining love. Nor knew she what her sudden rage bestows, When she to Lychas trusts her future woes; With soft endearments she the boy commands, To bear the garment to her husband's hands. Th' unwitting hero takes the gift in haste, And o'er his shoulders Lerna's poison cast, As first the fire with frankincense he strows, And utters to the Gods his holy vows; And on the marble altar's polish'd frame Pours forth the grapy stream; the rising flame Sudden dissolves the subtle pois'nous juice, Which taints his blood, and all his nerves bedews. With wonted fortitude he bore the smart, And not a groan confess'd his burning heart. At length his patience was subdu'd by pain, He rends the sacred altar from the plain; Oete's wide forests echo with his cries: Now to rip off the deathful robe he tries. Where-e'er he plucks the vest, the skin he tears, The mangled muscles, and huge bones he bares (A ghastful sight!), or raging with his pain, To rend the sticking plague he tugs in vain. As the red iron hisses in the flood, So boils the venom in his curdling blood. Now with the greedy flame his entrails glow, And livid sweats down all his body flow; The cracking nerves burnt up are burst in twain, The lurking venom melts his swimming brain. Then, lifting both his hands aloft, he cries, Glut thy revenge, dread Empress of the skies; Sate with my death the rancour of thy heart, Look down with pleasure, and enjoy my smart. Or, if e'er pity mov'd a hostile breast (For here I stand thy enemy profest), Take hence this hateful life, with tortures torn, Inur'd to trouble, and to labours born. Death is the gift most welcome to my woe, And such a gift a stepdame may bestow. Was it for this Busiris was subdu'd, Whose barb'rous temples reek'd with strangers' blood? Press'd in these arms his fate Antaeus found, Nor gain'd recruited vigour from the ground. Did I not triple-form'd Geryon fell? Or did I fear the triple dog of Hell? Did not these hands the bull's arm'd forehead hold? Are not our mighty toils in Elis told? Do not Stymphalian lakes proclaim thy fame? And fair Par thenian woods resound thy name? Who seiz'd the golden belt of Thermodon? And who the dragon-guarded apples won? Could the fierce centaur's strength my force withstand, Or the fell boar that spoil'd th' Arcadian land? Did not these arms the Hydra's rage subdue, Who from his wounds to double fury grew? What if the Thracian horses, fat with gore, Who human bodies in their mangers tore, I saw, and with their barb'rous lord o'erthrew? What if these hands Nemaea's lion slew? Did not this neck the heav'nly globe sustain? The female partner of the Thunderer's reign Fatigu'd, at length suspends her harsh commands, Yet no fatigue hath slack'd these valiant hands. But now new plagues pursue me, neither force, Nor arms, nor darts can stop their raging course. Devouring flame thro' my rack'd entrails strays, And on my lungs and shrivel'd muscles preys. Yet still Eurystheus breathes the vital air. What mortal now shall seek the Gods with pray'r? The Transformation of Lychas into a Rock The hero said; and with the torture stung, Furious o'er Oete's lofty hills he sprung. Stuck with the shaft, thus scours the tyger round, And seeks the flying author of his wound. Now might you see him trembling, now he vents His anguish'd soul in groans, and loud laments; He strives to tear the clinging vest in vain, And with up-rooted forests strows the plain; Now kindling into rage, his hands he rears, And to his kindred Gods directs his pray'rs. When Lychas, lo, he spies; who trembling flew, And in a hollow rock conceal'd from view, Had shun'd his wrath. Now grief renew'd his pain, His madness chaf'd, and thus he raves again. Lychas, to thee alone my fate I owe, Who bore the gift, the cause of all my woe. The youth all pale, with shiv'ring fear was stung, And vain excuses falter'd on his tongue. Alcides snatch'd him, as with suppliant face He strove to clasp his knees, and beg for grace: He toss'd him o'er his head with airy course, And hurl'd with more than with an engine's force; Far o'er th' Eubaean main aloof he flies, And hardens by degrees amid the skies. So showry drops, when chilly tempests blow, Thicken at first, then whiten into snow, In balls congeal'd the rolling fleeces bound, In solid hail result upon the ground. Thus, whirl'd with nervous force thro' distant air, The purple tide forsook his veins, with fear; All moisture left his limbs. Transform'd to stone, In ancient days the craggy flint was known; Still in the Eubaean waves his front he rears, Still the small rock in human form appears, And still the name of hapless Lychas bears. The Apotheosis of Hercules But now the hero of immortal birth Fells Oete's forests on the groaning Earth; A pile he builds; to Philoctetes' care He leaves his deathful instruments of war; To him commits those arrows, which again Shall see the bulwarks of the Trojan reign. The son of Paean lights the lofty pyre, High round the structure climbs the greedy fire; Plac'd on the top, thy nervous shoulders spread With the Nemaean spoils, thy careless head Rais'd on a knotty club, with look divine, Here thou, dread hero, of celestial line, Wert stretch'd at ease; as when a chearful guest, Wine crown'd thy bowls, and flow'rs thy temples drest. Now on all sides the potent flames aspire, And crackle round those limbs that mock the fire A sudden terror seiz'd th' immortal host, Who thought the world's profess'd defender lost. This when the Thund'rer saw, with smiles he cries, 'Tis from your fears, ye Gods, my pleasures rise; Joy swells my breast, that my all-ruling hand O'er such a grateful people boasts command, That you my suff'ring progeny would aid; Tho' to his deeds this just respect be paid, Me you've oblig'd. Be all your fears forborn, Th' Oetean fires do thou, great hero, scorn. Who vanquish'd all things, shall subdue the flame. That part alone of gross maternal frame Fire shall devour; while what from me he drew Shall live immortal, and its force subdue; That, when he's dead, I'll raise to realms above; May all the Pow'rs the righteous act approve. If any God dissent, and judge too great The sacred honours of the heav'nly seat, Ev'n he shall own his deeds deserve the sky, Ev'n he reluctant, shall at length comply. Th' assembled Pow'rs assent. No frown 'till now Had mark'd with passion vengeful Juno's brow, Mean-while whate'er was in the pow'r of flame Was all consum'd; his body's nervous frame No more was known, of human form bereft, Th' eternal part of Jove alone was left. As an old serpent casts his scaly vest, Wreathes in the sun, in youthful glory drest; So when Alcides mortal mold resign'd, His better part enlarg'd, and grew refin'd; August his visage shone; almighty Jove In his swift carr his honour'd offspring drove; High o'er the hollow clouds the coursers fly, And lodge the hero in the starry sky. The Transformation of Galanthis Atlas perceiv'd the load of Heav'n's new guest. Revenge still rancour'd in Eurystheus' breast Against Alcides' race. Alcmena goes To Iole, to vent maternal woes; Here she pours forth her grief, recounts the spoils Her son had bravely reap'd in glorious toils. This Iole, by Hercules' commands, Hyllus had lov'd, and joyn'd in nuptial bands. Her swelling womb the teeming birth confess'd, To whom Alcmena thus her speech address'd. O, may the Gods protect thee, in that hour, When, 'midst thy throws, thou call'st th' Ilithyan Pow'r! May no delays prolong thy racking pain, As when I su'd for Juno's aid in vain. When now Alcides' mighty birth drew nigh, And the tenth sign roll'd forward on the sky, My womb extends with such a mighty load, As Jove the parent of the bur then show'd. I could no more th' encreasing smart sustain, My horror kindles to recount the pain; Cold chills my limbs while I the tale pursue, And now methinks I feel my pangs anew. Seven days and nights amidst incessant throws, Fatigu'd with ills I lay, nor knew repose; When lifting high my hands, in shrieks I pray'd, Implor'd the Gods, and call'd Lucina's aid. She came, but prejudic'd, to give my Fate A sacrifice to vengeful Juno's hate. She hears the groaning anguish of my fits, And on the altar at my door she sits. O'er her left knee her crossing leg she cast, Then knits her fingers close, and wrings them fast: This stay'd the birth; in mutt'ring verse she pray'd, The mutt'ring verse th' unfinish'd birth delay'd. Now with fierce struggles, raging with my pain, At Jove's ingratitude I rave in vain. How did I wish for death! such groans I sent, As might have made the flinty heart relent. Now the Cadmeian matrons round me press, Offer their vows, and seek to bring redress; Among the Theban dames Galanthis stands, Strong limb'd, red hair'd, and just to my commands: She first perceiv'd that all these racking woes From the persisting hate of Juno rose. As here and there she pass'd, by chance she sees The seated Goddess; on her close-press'd knees Her fast-knit hands she leans; with chearful voice Galanthis cries, Whoe'er thou art, rejoyce, Congratulate the dame, she lies at rest, At length the Gods Alcmena's womb have blest. Swift from her seat the startled Goddess springs, No more conceal'd, her hands abroad she flings; The charm unloos'd, the birth my pangs reliev'd; Galanthis' laughter vex'd the Pow'r deceiv'd. Fame says, the Goddess dragg'd the laughing maid Fast by the hair; in vain her force essay'd Her grov'ling body from the ground to rear; Chang'd to fore-feet her shrinking arms appear: Her hairy back her former hue retains, The form alone is lost; her strength remains; Who, since the lye did from her mouth proceed, Shall from her pregnant mouth bring forth her breed; Nor shall she quit her long-frequented home, But haunt those houses where she lov'd to roam. The Fable of Dryope She said, and for her lost Galanthis sighs; When the fair consort of her son replies; Since you a servant's ravish'd form bemoan, And kindly sigh for sorrows not your own, Let me (if tears and grief permit) relate A nearer woe, a sister's stranger fate. No nymph of all Oechaloa could compare For beauteous form with Dryope the fair; Her tender mother's only hope and pride (My self the offspring of a second bride), This nymph, compress'd by him who rules the day, Whom Delphi, and the Delian isle obey, Andraemon lov'd; and blest in all those charms That pleas'd a God, succeeded to her arms. A lake there was, with shelving banks around, Whose verdant summit fragrant myrtles crown'd. Those shades, unknowing of the fates, she sought; And to the Naiads flow'ry garlands brought; Her smiling babe (a pleasing charge) she prest Between her arms, and nourish'd at her breast. Not distant far a watry lotos grows; The Spring was new, and all the verdant boughs, Acorn'd with blossoms, promis'd fruits that vye In glowing colours with the Tyrian dye. Of these she cropt, to please her infant son, And I my self the same rash act had done, But, lo! I saw (as near her side I stood) The violated blossoms drop with blood; Upon the tree I cast a frightful look, The trembling tree with sudden horror shook. Lotis the nymph (if rural tales be true) As from Priapus' lawless lust she flew, Forsook her form; and fixing here became A flow'ry plant, which still preserves her name. This change unknown, astonish'd at the sight, My trembling sister strove to urge her flight; Yet first the pardon of the Nymphs implor'd, And those offended Sylvan pow'rs ador'd: But when she backward would have fled, she found Her stiff'ning feet were rooted to the ground: In vain to free her fasten'd feet she strove, And as she struggles only moves above; She feels th' incroaching bark around her grow, By slow degrees, and cover all below: Surpriz'd at this, her trembling hand she heaves To rend her hair; her hand is fill'd with leaves; Where late was hair, the shooting leaves are seen To rise, and shade her with a sudden green. The Child Amphisus, to her bosom prest, Perceiv'd a colder and a harder breast, And found the springs, that n'er 'till then deny'd Their milky moisture, on a sudden dry'd. I saw, unhappy, what I now relate, And stood the helpless witness of thy fate; Embrac'd thy boughs, the rising bark delay'd, There wish'd to grow, and mingle shade with shade. Behold Andraemon, and th' unhappy sire Appear, and for their Dryope enquire; A springing tree for Dryope they find, And print warm kisses on the panting rind; Prostrate, with tears their kindred plant bedew, And close embrac'd, as to the roots they grew; The face was all that now remain'd of thee; No more a woman, nor yet quite a tree: Thy branches hung with humid pearls appear, From ev'ry leaf distills a trickling tear; And strait a voice, while yet a voice remains, Thus thro' the trembling boughs in sighs complains. If to the wretched any faith be giv'n, I swear by all th' unpitying Pow'rs of Heav'n, No wilful crime this heavy vengeance bred, In mutual innocence our lives we led. If this be false, let these new greens decay, Let sounding axes lop my limbs away, And crackling flames on all my honours prey. Now from my branching arms this infant bear, Let some kind nurse supply a mother's care; Yet to his mother let him oft be led, Sport in her shades, and in her shades be fed; Teach him, when first his infant voice shall frame Imperfect words, and lisp his mother's name, To hail this tree, and say with weeping eyes, Within this plant my hapless parent lies; And when in youth he seeks the shady woods, Oh, let him fly the chrystal lakes and floods, Nor touch the fatal flow'rs; but warn'd by me, Believe a Goddess shrin'd in ev'ry tree. My sire, my sister, and my spouse farewel! If in your breasts or love, or pity, dwell, Protect your plant, nor let my branches feel The browzing cattle, or the piercing steel. Farewel! and since I cannot bend to join My lips to yours, advance at least to mine. My son, thy mother's parting kiss receive, While yet thy mother has a kiss to give. I can no more; the creeping rind invades My closing lips, and hides my head in shades: Remove your hands; the bark shall soon suffice, Without their aid, to seal these dying eyes. She ceas'd at once to speak, and ceas'd to be; And all the nymph was lost within the tree: Yet latent life thro' her new branches reign'd, And long the plant a human heat retain'd. Iolaus restor'd to Youth While Iole the fatal change declares, Alcmena's pitying hand oft wip'd her tears. Grief too stream'd down her cheeks; soon sorrow flies, And rising joy the trickling moisture dries, Lo Iolaus stands before their eyes. A youth he stood; and the soft down began O'er his smooth chin to spread, and promise man. Hebe submitted to her husband's pray'rs, Instill'd new vigour, and restor'd his years. The Prophecy of Themis Now from her lips a solemn oath had past, That Iolaus this gift alone shou'd taste, Had not just Themis thus maturely said (Which check'd her vow, and aw'd the blooming maid). Thebes is embroil'd in war. Capaneus stands Invincible, but by the Thund'rer's hands. Ambition shall the guilty brothers fire, Both rush to mutual wounds, and both expire. The reeling Earth shall ope her gloomy womb, Where the yet breathing bard shall find his tomb. The son shall bath his hands in parents' blood, And in one act be both unjust, and good. Of home, and sense depriv'd, where-e'er he flies, The Furies, and his mother's ghost he spies. His wife the fatal bracelet shall implore, And Phegeus stain his sword in kindred gore. Callirhoe shall then with suppliant pray'r Prevail on Jupiter's relenting ear. Jove shall with youth her infant sons inspire, And bid their bosoms glow with manly fire. The Debate of the Gods When Themis thus with prescient voice had spoke, Among the Gods a various murmur broke; Dissention rose in each immortal breast, That one should grant, what was deny'd the rest. Aurora for her aged spouse complains, And Ceres grieves for Jason's freezing veins; Vulcan would Erichthonius' years renew, Her future race the care of Venus drew, She would Anchises' blooming age restore; A diff'rent care employ'd each heav'nly Pow'r: Thus various int'rests did their jars encrease, 'Till Jove arose; he spoke, their tumults cease. Is any rev'rence to our presence giv'n, Then why this discord 'mong the Pow'rs of Heav'n? Who can the settled will of Fate subdue? 'Twas by the Fates that Iolaus knew A second youth. The Fates' determin'd doom Shall give Callirhoe's race a youthful bloom. Arms, nor ambition can this pow'r obtain; Quell your desires; ev'n me the Fates restrain. Could I their will controul, no rolling years Had Aeacus bent down with silver hairs; Then Rhadamanthus still had youth possess'd, And Minos with eternal bloom been bless'd. Jove's words the synod mov'd; the Pow'rs give o'er, And urge in vain unjust complaint no more. Since Rhadamanthus' veins now slowly flow'd, And Aeacus, and Minos bore the load; Minos, who in the flow'r of youth, and fame, Made mighty nations tremble at his name, Infirm with age, the proud Miletus fears, Vain of his birth, and in the strength of years, And now regarding all his realms as lost, He durst not force him from his native coast. But you by choice, Miletus, fled his reign, And thy swift vessel plow'd th' Aegean main; On Asiatick shores a town you frame, Which still is honour'd with the founder's name. Here you Cyanee knew, the beauteous maid, As on her father's winding banks she stray'd: Caunus and Byblis hence their lineage trace, The double offspring of your warm embrace. The Passion of of Byblis Let the sad fate of wretched Byblis prove A dismal warning to unlawful love; One birth gave being to the hapless pair, But more was Caunus than a sister's care; Unknown she lov'd, for yet the gentle fire Rose not in flames, nor kindled to desire, 'Twas thought no sin to wonder at his charms, Hang on his neck, and languish in his arms; Thus wing'd with joy, fled the soft hours away, And all the fatal guilt on harmless Nature lay. But love (too soon from piety declin'd) Insensibly deprav'd her yielding mind. Dress'd she appears, with nicest art adorn'd, And ev'ry youth, but her lov'd brother, scorn'd; For him alone she labour'd to be fair, And curst all charms that might with hers compare. 'Twas she, and only she, must Caunus please, Sick at her heart, yet knew not her disease: She call'd him lord, for brother was a name Too cold, and dull for her aspiring flame; And when he spoke, if sister he reply'd, For Byblis change that frozen word, she cry'd. Yet waking still she watch'd her strugling breast, And love's approaches were in vain address'd, 'Till gentle sleep an easy conquest made, And in her soft embrace the conqueror was laid. But oh too soon the pleasing vision fled, And left her blushing on the conscious bed: Ah me! (she cry'd) how monstrous do I seem? Why these wild thoughts? and this incestuous dream? Envy herself ('tis true) must own his charms, But what is beauty in a sister's arms? Oh were I not that despicable she, How bless'd, how pleas'd, how happy shou'd I be! But unregarded now must bear my pain, And but in dreams, my wishes can obtain. O sea-born Goddess! with thy wanton boy! Was ever such a charming scene of joy? Such perfect bliss! such ravishing delight! Ne'er hid before in the kind shades of night. How pleas'd my heart! in what sweet raptures tost! Ev'n life it self in the soft combat lost, While breathless he on my heav'd bosom lay, And snatch'd the treasures of my soul away. If the bare fancy so affects my mind, How shou'd I rave if to the substance join'd? Oh, gentle Caunus! quit thy hated line, Or let thy parents be no longer mine! Oh that in common all things were enjoy'd, But those alone who have our hopes destroy'd. Were I a princess, thou an humble swain, The proudest kings shou'd rival thee in vain. It cannot be, alas! the dreadful ill Is fix'd by Fate, and he's my brother still. Hear me, ye Gods! I must have friends in Heav'n, For Jove himself was to a sister giv'n: But what are their prerogatives above, To the short liberties of human love? Fantastick thoughts! down, down, forbidden fires, Or instant death extinguish my desires. Strict virtue, then, with thy malicious leave, Without a crime I may a kiss receive: But say shou'd I in spight of laws comply, Yet cruel Caunus might himself deny, No pity take of an afflicted maid (For love's sweet game must be by couples play'd). Yet why shou'd youth, and charms like mine, despair? Such fears ne'er startled the Aeolian pair; No ties of blood could their full hopes destroy, They broke thro' all, for the prevailing joy; And who can tell but Caunus too may be Rack'd and tormented in his breast for me? Like me, to the extreamest anguish drove, Like me, just waking from a dream of love? But stay! Oh whither wou'd my fury run! What arguments I urge to be undone! Away fond Byblis, quench these guilty flames; Caunus thy love but as brother claims; Yet had he first been touch'd with love of me, The charming youth cou'd I despairing see? Oppress'd with grief, and dying by disdain? Ah no! too sure I shou'd have eas'd his pain! Since then, if Caunus ask'd me, it were done; Asking my self, what dangers can I run? But canst thou ask? and see that right betray'd, From Pyrrha down to thy whole sex convey'd? That self-denying gift we all enjoy, Of wishing to be won, yet seeming to be coy. Well then, for once, let a fond mistress woo; The force of love no custom can subdue; This frantick passion he by words shall know, Soft as the melting heart from whence they flow. The pencil then in her fair hand she held, By fear discourag'd, but by love compell'd She writes, then blots, writes on, and blots again, Likes it as fit, then razes it as vain: Shame, and assurance in her face appear, And a faint hope just yielding to despair; Sister was wrote, and blotted as a word Which she, and Caunus too (she hop'd) abhorr'd; But now resolv'd to be no more controul'd By scrup'lous virtue, thus her grief she told. Thy lover (gentle Caunus) wishes thee That health, which thou alone canst give to me. O charming youth! the gift I ask bestow, Ere thou the name of the fond writer know; To thee without a name I would be known, Since knowing that, my frailty I must own. Yet why shou'd I my wretched name conceal? When thousand instances my flames reveal: Wan looks, and weeping eyes have spoke my pain, And sighs discharg'd from my heav'd heart in vain; Had I not wish'd my passion might be seen, What cou'd such fondness and embraces mean? Such kisses too! (Oh heedless lovely boy) Without a crime no sister cou'd enjoy: Yet (tho' extreamest rage has rack'd my soul, And raging fires in my parch'd bosom roul) Be witness, Gods! how piously I strove, To rid my thoughts of this enchanting love. But who cou'd scape so fierce, and sure a dart, Aim'd at a tender, and defenceless heart? Alas! what maid cou'd suffer, I have born, Ere the dire secret from my breast was torn; To thee a helpless vanquish'd wretch I come, 'Tis you alone can save, or give my doom; My life, or death this moment you may chuse. Yet think, oh think, no hated stranger sues, No foe; but one, alas! too near ally'd, And wishing still much nearer to be ty'd. The forms of decency let age debate, And virtue's rules by their cold morals state; Their ebbing joys give leisure to enquire, And blame those noble flights our youth inspire: Where Nature kindly summons let us go, Our sprightly years no bounds in love shou'd know, Shou'd feel no check of guilt, and fear no ill; Lovers, and Gods act all things at their will: We gain one blessing from our hated kin, Since our paternal freedom hides the sin; Uncensur'd in each other's arms we lye, Think then how easie to compleat our joy. Oh, pardon and oblige a blushing maid, Whose rage the pride of her vain sex betray'd; Nor let my tomb thus mournfully complain, Here Byblis lies, by her lov'd Caunus slain. Forc'd here to end, she with a falling tear Temper'd the pliant wax, which did the signet bear: The curious cypher was impress'd by art, But love had stamp'd one deeper in her heart; Her page, a youth of confidence, and skill, (Secret as night) stood waiting on her will; Sighing (she cry'd): Bear this, thou faithful boy, To my sweet partner in eternal joy: Here a long pause her secret guilt confess'd, And when at length she would have spoke the rest, Half the dear name lay bury'd in her breast. Thus as he listned to her vain command, Down fell the letter from her trembling hand. The omen shock'd her soul. Yet go, she cry'd; Can a request from Byblis be deny'd? To the Maeandrian youth this message's born, The half-read lines by his fierce rage were torn; Hence, hence, he cry'd, thou pandar to her lust, Bear hence the triumph of thy impious trust: Thy instant death will but divulge her shame, Or thy life's blood shou'd quench the guilty flame. Frighted, from threatning Caunus he withdrew, And with the dreadful news to his lost mistress flew. The sad repulse so struck the wounded fair, Her sense was bury'd in her wild despair; Pale was her visage, as the ghastly dead; And her scar'd soul from the sweet mansion fled; Yet with her life renew'd, her love returns, And faintly thus her cruel fate she mourns: 'Tis just, ye Gods! was my false reason blind? To write a secret of this tender kind? With female craft I shou'd at first have strove, By dubious hints to sound his distant love; And try'd those useful, tho' dissembled, arts, Which women practise on disdainful hearts: I shou'd have watch'd whence the black storm might rise; Ere I had trusted the unfaithful skies. Now on the rouling billows I am tost, And with extended sails, on the blind shelves am lost. Did not indulgent Heav'n my doom foretell, When from my hand the fatal letter fell? What madness seiz'd my soul? and urg'd me on To take the only course to be undone? I cou'd my self have told the moving tale With such alluring grace as must prevail; Then had his eyes beheld my blushing fears, My rising sighs, and my descending tears; Round his dear neck these arms I then had spread, And, if rejected, at his feet been dead: If singly these had not his thoughts inclin'd, Yet all united would have shock'd his mind. Perhaps, my careless page might be in fault, And in a luckless hour the fatal message brought; Business, and worldly thoughts might fill his breast, Sometimes ev'n love itself may be an irksome guest: He cou'd not else have treated me with scorn, For Caunus was not of a tygress born; Nor steel, nor adamant has fenc'd his heart; Like mine, 'tis naked to the burning dart. Away false fears! he must, he shall be mine; In death alone I will my claim resign; 'Tis vain to wish my written crime unknown, And for my guilt much vainer to atone. Repuls'd and baffled, fiercer still she burns, And Caunus with disdain her impious love returns. He saw no end of her injurious flame, And fled his country to avoid the shame. Forsaken Byblis, who had hopes no more; Burst out in rage, and her loose robes she tore; With her fair hands she smote her tender breast, And to the wond'ring world her love confess'd; O'er hills and dales, o'er rocks and streams she flew, But still in vain did her wild lust pursue: Wearied at length, on the cold earth she fell, And now in tears alone could her sad story tell. Relenting Gods in pity fix'd her there, And to a fountain turn'd the weeping fair. The Fable of Iphis and Ian the The fame of this, perhaps, thro' Crete had flown: But Crete had newer wonders of her own, In Iphis chang'd; for, near the Gnossian bounds (As loud report the miracle resounds), At Phaestus dwelt a man of honest blood, But meanly born, and not so rich as good; Esteem'd, and lov'd by all the neighbourhood; Who to his wife, before the time assign'd For child-birth came, thus bluntly spoke his mind. If Heav'n, said Lygdus, will vouchsafe to hear, I have but two petitions to prefer; Short pains for thee, for me a son and heir. Girls cost as many throes in bringing forth; Beside, when born, the titts are little worth; Weak puling things, unable to sustain Their share of labour, and their bread to gain. If, therefore, thou a creature shalt produce, Of so great charges, and so little use (Bear witness, Heav'n, with what reluctancy), Her hapless innocence I doom to die. He said, and common tears the common grief display, Of him who bad, and her who must obey. Yet Telethusa still persists, to find Fit arguments to move a father's mind; T' extend his wishes to a larger scope, And in one vessel not confine his hope. Lygdus continues hard: her time drew near, And she her heavy load could scarcely bear; When slumbring, in the latter shades of night, Before th' approaches of returning light, She saw, or thought she saw, before her bed, A glorious train, and Isis at their head: Her moony horns were on her forehead plac'd, And yellow shelves her shining temples grac'd: A mitre, for a crown, she wore on high; The dog, and dappl'd bull were waiting by; Osyris, sought along the banks of Nile; The silent God: the sacred crocodile; And, last, a long procession moving on, With timbrels, that assist the lab'ring moon. Her slumbers seem'd dispell'd, and, broad awake, She heard a voice, that thus distinctly spake. My votary, thy babe from death defend, Nor fear to save whate'er the Gods will send. Delude with art thy husband's dire decree: When danger calls, repose thy trust on me: And know thou hast not serv'd a thankless deity. This promise made, with night the Goddess fled; With joy the woman wakes, and leaves her bed; Devoutly lifts her spotless hands on high, And prays the Pow'rs their gift to ratifie. Now grinding pains proceed to bearing throes, 'Till its own weight the burden did disclose. 'Twas of the beauteous kind, and brought to light With secrecy, to shun the father's sight. Th' indulgent mother did her care employ, And past it on her husb and for a boy. The nurse was conscious of the fact alone; The father paid his vows as for a son; And call'd him Iphis, by a common name, Which either sex with equal right may claim. Iphis his grandsire was; the wife was pleas'd, Of half the fraud by Fortune's favour eas'd: The doubtful name was us'd without deceit, And truth was cover'd with a pious cheat. The habit show'd a boy, the beauteous face With manly fierceness mingled female grace. Now thirteen years of age were swiftly run, When the fond father thought the time drew on Of settling in the world his only son. Ian the was his choice; so wondrous fair, Her form alone with Iphis cou'd compare; A neighbour's daughter of his own degree, And not more bless'd with Fortune's goods than he. They soon espous'd; for they with ease were join'd, Who were before contracted in the mind. Their age the same, their inclinations too; And bred together, in one school they grew. Thus, fatally dispos'd to mutual fires, They felt, before they knew, the same desires. Equal their flame, unequal was their care; One lov'd with hope, one languish'd in despair. The maid accus'd the lingring day alone: For whom she thought a man, she thought her own. But Iphis bends beneath a greater grief; As fiercely burns, but hopes for no relief. Ev'n her despair adds fuel to her fire; A maid with madness does a maid desire. And, scarce refraining tears, Alas, said she, What issue of my love remains for me! How wild a passion works within my breast, With what prodigious flames am I possest! Could I the care of Providence deserve, Heav'n must destroy me, if it would preserve. And that's my fate, or sure it would have sent Some usual evil for my punishment: Not this unkindly curse; to rage, and burn, Where Nature shews no prospect of return. Nor cows for cows consume with fruitless fire; Nor mares, when hot, their fellow-mares desire: The father of the fold supplies his ewes; The stag through secret woods his hind pursues; And birds for mates the males of their own species chuse. Her females Nature guards from female flame, And joins two sexes to preserve the game: Wou'd I were nothing, or not what I am! Crete, fam'd for monsters, wanted of her store, 'Till my new love produc'd one monster more. The daughter of the sun a bull desir'd, And yet ev'n then a male a female fir'd: Her passion was extravagantly new, But mine is much the madder of the two. To things impossible she was not bent, But found the means to compass her intent. To cheat his eyes she took a different shape; Yet still she gain'd a lover, and a leap. Shou'd all the wit of all the world conspire, Shou'd Daedalus assist my wild desire, What art can make me able to enjoy, Or what can change Ian the to a boy? Extinguish then thy passion, hopeless maid, And recollect thy reason for thy aid. Know what thou art, and love as maidens ought, And drive these golden wishes from thy thought. Thou canst not hope thy fond desires to gain; Where hope is wanting, wishes are in vain. And yet no guards against our joys conspire; No jealous husb and hinders our desire; My parents are propitious to my wish, And she herself consenting to the bliss. All things concur to prosper our design; All things to prosper any love but mine. And yet I never can enjoy the fair; 'Tis past the pow'r of Heav'n to grant my pray'r. Heav'n has been kind, as far as Heav'n can be; Our parents with our own desires agree; But Nature, stronger than the Gods above, Refuses her assistance to my love; She sets the bar that causes all my pain; One gift refus'd, makes all their bounty vain. And now the happy day is just at hand, To bind our hearts in Hymen's holy band: Our hearts, but not our bodies: thus accurs'd, In midst of water I complain of thirst. Why com'st thou, Juno, to these barren rites, To bless a bed defrauded of delights? But why shou'd Hymen lift his torch on high, To see two brides in cold embraces lye? Thus love-sick Iphis her vain passion mourns; With equal ardour fair Ian the burns, Invoking Hymen's name, and Juno's pow'r, To speed the work, and haste the happy hour. She hopes, while Telethusa fears the day, And strives to interpose some new delay: Now feigns a sickness, now is in a fright For this bad omen, or that boding sight. But having done whate'er she could devise, And empty'd all her magazine of lies, The time approach'd; the next ensuing day The fatal secret must to light betray. Then Telethusa had recourse to pray'r, She, and her daughter with dishevel'd hair; Trembling with fear, great Isis they ador'd, Embrac'd her altar, and her aid implor'd. Fair queen, who dost on fruitful Egypt smile, Who sway'st the sceptre of the Pharian isle, And sev'n-fold falls of disemboguing Nile, Relieve, in this our last distress, she said, A suppliant mother, and a mournful maid. Thou, Goddess, thou wert present to my sight; Reveal'd I saw thee by thy own fair light: I saw thee in my dream, as now I see, With all thy marks of awful majesty: The glorious train that compass'd thee around; And heard the hollow timbrels holy sound. Thy words I noted, which I still retain; Let not thy sacred oracles be vain. That Iphis lives, that I myself am free From shame, and punishment, I owe to thee. On thy protection all our hopes depend. Thy counsel sav'd us, let thy pow'r defend. Her tears pursu'd her words; and while she spoke, The Goddess nodded, and her altar shook: The temple doors, as with a blast of wind, Were heard to clap; the lunar horns that bind The brows of Isis cast a blaze around; The trembling timbrel made a murm'ring sound. Some hopes these happy omens did impart; Forth went the mother with a beating heart: Not much in fear, nor fully satisfy'd; But Iphis follow'd with a larger stride: The whiteness of her skin forsook her face; Her looks embolden'd with an awful grace; Her features, and her strength together grew, And her long hair to curling locks withdrew. Her sparkling eyes with manly vigour shone, Big was her voice, audacious was her tone. The latent parts, at length reveal'd, began To shoot, and spread, and burnish into man. The maid becomes a youth; no more delay Your vows, but look, and confidently pay. Their gifts the parents to the temple bear: The votive tables this inscription wear; Iphis the man, has to the Goddess paid The vows, that Iphis offer'd when a maid. Now when the star of day had shewn his face, Venus and Juno with their presence grace The nuptial rites, and Hymen from above Descending to compleat their happy love; The Gods of marriage lend their mutual aid; And the warm youth enjoys the lovely maid. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- ~ Ovid, BOOK THE NINTH ,

329:BOOK THE FOURTH The Story of Alcithoe and her Sisters Yet still Alcithoe perverse remains, And Bacchus still, and all his rites, disdains. Too rash, and madly bold, she bids him prove Himself a God, nor owns the son of Jove. Her sisters too unanimous agree, Faithful associates in impiety. Be this a solemn feast, the priest had said; Be, with each mistress, unemploy'd each maid. With skins of beasts your tender limbs enclose, And with an ivy-crown adorn your brows, The leafy Thyrsus high in triumph bear, And give your locks to wanton in the air. These rites profan'd, the holy seer foreshow'd A mourning people, and a vengeful God. Matrons and pious wives obedience show, Distaffs, and wooll, half spun, away they throw: Then incense burn, and, Bacchus, thee adore, Or lov'st thou Nyseus, or Lyaeus more? O! doubly got, O! doubly born, they sung, Thou mighty Bromius, hail, from light'ning sprung! Hail, Thyon, Eleleus! each name is thine: Or, listen parent of the genial vine! Iachus! Evan! loudly they repeat, And not one Grecian attri bute forget, Which to thy praise, great Deity, belong, Stil'd justly Liber in the Roman song. Eternity of youth is thine! enjoy Years roul'd on years, yet still a blooming boy. In Heav'n thou shin'st with a superior grace; Conceal thy horns, and 'tis a virgin's face. Thou taught'st the tawny Indian to obey, And Ganges, smoothly flowing, own'd thy sway. Lycurgus, Pentheus, equally profane, By thy just vengeance equally were slain. By thee the Tuscans, who conspir'd to keep Thee captive, plung'd, and cut with finns the deep. With painted reins, all-glitt'ring from afar, The spotted lynxes proudly draw thy car. Around, the Bacchae, and the satyrs throng; Behind, Silenus, drunk, lags slow along: On his dull ass he nods from side to side, Forbears to fall, yet half forgets to ride. Still at thy near approach, applauses loud Are heard, with yellings of the female crowd. Timbrels, and boxen pipes, with mingled cries, Swell up in sounds confus'd, and rend the skies. Come, Bacchus, come propitious, all implore, And act thy sacred orgies o'er and o'er. But Mineus' daughters, while these rites were pay'd, At home, impertinently busie, stay'd. Their wicked tasks they ply with various art, And thro' the loom the sliding shuttle dart; Or at the fire to comb the wooll they stand, Or twirl the spindle with a dext'rous hand. Guilty themselves, they force the guiltless in; Their maids, who share the labour, share the sin. At last one sister cries, who nimbly knew To draw nice threads, and winde the finest clue, While others idly rove, and Gods revere, Their fancy'd Gods! they know not who, or where; Let us, whom Pallas taught her better arts, Still working, cheer with mirthful chat our hearts, And to deceive the time, let me prevail With each by turns to tell some antique tale. She said: her sisters lik'd the humour well, And smiling, bad her the first story tell. But she a-while profoundly seem'd to muse, Perplex'd amid variety to chuse: And knew not, whether she should first relate The poor Dircetis, and her wond'rous fate. The Palestines believe it to a man, And show the lake, in which her scales began. Or if she rather should the daughter sing, Who in the hoary verge of life took wing; Who soar'd from Earth, and dwelt in tow'rs on high, And now a dove she flits along the sky. Or how lewd Nais, when her lust was cloy'd, To fishes turn'd the youths, she had enjoy'd, By pow'rful verse, and herbs; effect most strange! At last the changer shar'd herself the change. Or how the tree, which once white berries bore, Still crimson bears, since stain'd with crimson gore. The tree was new; she likes it, and begins To tell the tale, and as she tells, she spins. The Story of Pyramus and Thisbe In Babylon, where first her queen, for state Rais'd walls of brick magnificently great, Liv'd Pyramus, and Thisbe, lovely pair! He found no eastern youth his equal there, And she beyond the fairest nymph was fair. A closer neighbourhood was never known, Tho' two the houses, yet the roof was one. Acquaintance grew, th' acquaintance they improve To friendship, friendship ripen'd into love: Love had been crown'd, but impotently mad, What parents could not hinder, they forbad. For with fierce flames young Pyramus still burn'd, And grateful Thisbe flames as fierce return'd. Aloud in words their thoughts they dare not break, But silent stand; and silent looks can speak. The fire of love the more it is supprest, The more it glows, and rages in the breast. When the division-wall was built, a chink Was left, the cement unobserv'd to shrink. So slight the cranny, that it still had been For centuries unclos'd, because unseen. But oh! what thing so small, so secret lies, Which scapes, if form'd for love, a lover's eyes? Ev'n in this narrow chink they quickly found A friendly passage for a trackless sound. Safely they told their sorrows, and their joys, In whisper'd murmurs, and a dying noise, By turns to catch each other's breath they strove, And suck'd in all the balmy breeze of love. Oft as on diff'rent sides they stood, they cry'd, Malicious wall, thus lovers to divide! Suppose, thou should'st a-while to us give place To lock, and fasten in a close embrace: But if too much to grant so sweet a bliss, Indulge at least the pleasure of a kiss. We scorn ingratitude: to thee, we know, This safe conveyance of our minds we owe. Thus they their vain petition did renew 'Till night, and then they softly sigh'd adieu. But first they strove to kiss, and that was all; Their kisses dy'd untasted on the wall. Soon as the morn had o'er the stars prevail'd, And warm'd by Phoebus, flow'rs their dews exhal'd, The lovers to their well-known place return, Alike they suffer, and alike they mourn. At last their parents they resolve to cheat (If to deceive in love be call'd deceit), To steal by night from home, and thence unknown To seek the fields, and quit th' unfaithful town. But, to prevent their wand'ring in the dark, They both agree to fix upon a mark; A mark, that could not their designs expose: The tomb of Ninus was the mark they chose. There they might rest secure beneath the shade, Which boughs, with snowy fruit encumber'd, made: A wide-spread mulberry its rise had took Just on the margin of a gurgling brook. Impatient for the friendly dusk they stay; And chide the slowness of departing day; In western seas down sunk at last the light, From western seas up-rose the shades of night. The loving Thisbe ev'n prevents the hour, With cautious silence she unlocks the door, And veils her face, and marching thro' the gloom Swiftly arrives at th' assignation-tomb. For still the fearful sex can fearless prove; Boldly they act, if spirited by love. When lo! a lioness rush'd o'er the plain, Grimly besmear'd with blood of oxen slain: And what to the dire sight new horrors brought, To slake her thirst the neighb'ring spring she sought. Which, by the moon, when trembling Thisbe spies, Wing'd with her fear, swift, as the wind, she flies; And in a cave recovers from her fright, But drop'd her veil, confounded in her flight. When sated with repeated draughts, again The queen of beasts scour'd back along the plain, She found the veil, and mouthing it all o'er, With bloody jaws the lifeless prey she tore. The youth, who could not cheat his guards so soon, Late came, and noted by the glimm'ring moon Some savage feet, new printed on the ground, His cheeks turn'd pale, his limbs no vigour found; But when, advancing on, the veil he spied Distain'd with blood, and ghastly torn, he cried, One night shall death to two young lovers give, But she deserv'd unnumber'd years to live! 'Tis I am guilty, I have thee betray'd, Who came not early, as my charming maid. Whatever slew thee, I the cause remain, I nam'd, and fix'd the place where thou wast slain. Ye lions from your neighb'ring dens repair, Pity the wretch, this impious body tear! But cowards thus for death can idly cry; The brave still have it in their pow'r to die. Then to th' appointed tree he hastes away, The veil first gather'd, tho' all rent it lay: The veil all rent yet still it self endears, He kist, and kissing, wash'd it with his tears. Tho' rich (he cry'd) with many a precious stain, Still from my blood a deeper tincture gain. Then in his breast his shining sword he drown'd, And fell supine, extended on the ground. As out again the blade lie dying drew, Out spun the blood, and streaming upwards flew. So if a conduit-pipe e'er burst you saw, Swift spring the gushing waters thro' the flaw: Then spouting in a bow, they rise on high, And a new fountain plays amid the sky. The berries, stain'd with blood, began to show A dark complexion, and forgot their snow; While fatten'd with the flowing gore, the root Was doom'd for ever to a purple fruit. Mean-time poor Thisbe fear'd, so long she stay'd, Her lover might suspect a perjur'd maid. Her fright scarce o'er, she strove the youth to find With ardent eyes, which spoke an ardent mind. Already in his arms, she hears him sigh At her destruction, which was once so nigh. The tomb, the tree, but not the fruit she knew, The fruit she doubted for its alter'd hue. Still as she doubts, her eyes a body found Quiv'ring in death, and gasping on the ground. She started back, the red her cheeks forsook, And ev'ry nerve with thrilling horrors shook. So trembles the smooth surface of the seas, If brush'd o'er gently with a rising breeze. But when her view her bleeding love confest, She shriek'd, she tore her hair, she beat her breast. She rais'd the body, and embrac'd it round, And bath'd with tears unfeign'd the gaping wound. Then her warm lips to the cold face apply'd, And is it thus, ah! thus we meet, she cry'd! My Pyramus! whence sprung thy cruel fate? My Pyramus!- ah! speak, ere 'tis too late. I, thy own Thisbe, but one word implore, One word thy Thisbe never ask'd before. At Thisbe's name, awak'd, he open'd wide His dying eyes; with dying eyes he try'd On her to dwell, but clos'd them slow, and dy'd. The fatal cause was now at last explor'd, Her veil she knew, and saw his sheathless sword: From thy own hand thy ruin thou hast found, She said, but love first taught that hand to wound, Ev'n I for thee as bold a hand can show, And love, which shall as true direct the blow. I will against the woman's weakness strive, And never thee, lamented youth, survive. The world may say, I caus'd, alas! thy death, But saw thee breathless, and resign'd my breath. Fate, tho' it conquers, shall no triumph gain, Fate, that divides us, still divides in vain. Now, both our cruel parents, hear my pray'r; My pray'r to offer for us both I dare; Oh! see our ashes in one urn confin'd, Whom love at first, and fate at last has join'd. The bliss, you envy'd, is not our request; Lovers, when dead, may sure together rest. Thou, tree, where now one lifeless lump is laid, Ere-long o'er two shalt cast a friendly shade. Still let our loves from thee be understood, Still witness in thy purple fruit our blood. She spoke, and in her bosom plung'd the sword, All warm and reeking from its slaughter'd lord. The pray'r, which dying Thisbe had preferr'd, Both Gods, and parents, with compassion heard. The whiteness of the mulberry soon fled, And rip'ning, sadden'd in a dusky red: While both their parents their lost children mourn, And mix their ashes in one golden urn. Thus did the melancholy tale conclude, And a short, silent interval ensu'd. The next in birth unloos'd her artful tongue, And drew attentive all the sister-throng. The Story of Leucothoe and the Sun The Sun, the source of light, by beauty's pow'r Once am'rous grew; then hear the Sun's amour. Venus, and Mars, with his far-piercing eyes This God first spy'd; this God first all things spies. Stung at the sight, and swift on mischief bent, To haughty Juno's shapeless son he went: The Goddess, and her God gallant betray'd, And told the cuckold, where their pranks were play'd. Poor Vulcan soon desir'd to hear no more, He drop'd his hammer, and he shook all o'er: Then courage takes, and full of vengeful ire He heaves the bellows, and blows fierce the fire: From liquid brass, tho' sure, yet subtile snares He forms, and next a wond'rous net prepares, Drawn with such curious art, so nicely sly, Unseen the mashes cheat the searching eye. Not half so thin their webs the spiders weave, Which the most wary, buzzing prey deceive. These chains, obedient to the touch, he spread In secret foldings o'er the conscious bed: The conscious bed again was quickly prest By the fond pair, in lawless raptures blest. Mars wonder'd at his Cytherea's charms, More fast than ever lock'd within her arms. While Vulcan th' iv'ry doors unbarr'd with care, Then call'd the Gods to view the sportive pair: The Gods throng'd in, and saw in open day, Where Mars, and beauty's queen, all naked, lay. O! shameful sight, if shameful that we name, Which Gods with envy view'd, and could not blame; But, for the pleasure, wish'd to bear the shame. Each Deity, with laughter tir'd, departs, Yet all still laugh'd at Vulcan in their hearts. Thro' Heav'n the news of this surprizal run, But Venus did not thus forget the Sun. He, who stol'n transports idly had betray'd, By a betrayer was in kind repay'd. What now avails, great God, thy piercing blaze, That youth, and beauty, and those golden rays? Thou, who can'st warm this universe alone, Feel'st now a warmth more pow'rful than thy own: And those bright eyes, which all things should survey, Know not from fair Leucothoe to stray. The lamp of light, for human good design'd, Is to one virgin niggardly confin'd. Sometimes too early rise thy eastern beams, Sometimes too late they set in western streams: 'Tis then her beauty thy swift course delays, And gives to winter skies long summer days. Now in thy face thy love-sick mind appears, And spreads thro' impious nations empty fears: For when thy beamless head is wrapt in night, Poor mortals tremble in despair of light. 'Tis not the moon, that o'er thee casts a veil 'Tis love alone, which makes thy looks so pale. Leucothoe is grown thy only care, Not Phaeton's fair mother now is fair. The youthful Rhodos moves no tender thought, And beauteous Porsa is at last forgot. Fond Clytie, scorn'd, yet lov'd, and sought thy bed, Ev'n then thy heart for other virgins bled. Leucothoe has all thy soul possest, And chas'd each rival passion from thy breast. To this bright nymph Eurynome gave birth In the blest confines of the spicy Earth. Excelling others, she herself beheld By her own blooming daughter far excell'd. The sire was Orchamus, whose vast command, The sev'nth from Belus, rul'd the Persian Land. Deep in cool vales, beneath th' Hesperian sky, For the Sun's fiery steeds the pastures lye. Ambrosia there they eat, and thence they gain New vigour, and their daily toils sustain. While thus on heav'nly food the coursers fed, And night, around, her gloomy empire spread, The God assum'd the mother's shape and air, And pass'd, unheeded, to his darling fair. Close by a lamp, with maids encompass'd round, The royal spinster, full employ'd, he found: Then cry'd, A-while from work, my daughter, rest; And, like a mother, scarce her lips he prest. Servants retire!- nor secrets dare to hear, Intrusted only to a daughter's ear. They swift obey'd: not one, suspicious, thought The secret, which their mistress would be taught. Then he: since now no witnesses are near, Behold! the God, who guides the various year! The world's vast eye, of light the source serene, Who all things sees, by whom are all things seen. Believe me, nymph! (for I the truth have show'd) Thy charms have pow'r to charm so great a God. Confus'd, she heard him his soft passion tell, And on the floor, untwirl'd, the spindle fell: Still from the sweet confusion some new grace Blush'd out by stealth, and languish'd in her face. The lover, now inflam'd, himself put on, And out at once the God, all-radiant, shone. The virgin startled at his alter'd form, Too weak to bear a God's impetuous storm: No more against the dazling youth she strove, But silent yielded, and indulg'd his love. This Clytie knew, and knew she was undone, Whose soul was fix'd, and doated on the Sun. She rag'd to think on her neglected charms, And Phoebus, panting in another's arms. With envious madness fir'd, she flies in haste, And tells the king, his daughter was unchaste. The king, incens'd to hear his honour stain'd, No more the father nor the man retain'd. In vain she stretch'd her arms, and turn'd her eyes To her lov'd God, th' enlightner of the skies. In vain she own'd it was a crime, yet still It was a crime not acted by her will. The brutal sire stood deaf to ev'ry pray'r, And deep in Earth entomb'd alive the fair. What Phoebus could do, was by Phoebus done: Full on her grave with pointed beams he shone: To pointed beams the gaping Earth gave way; Had the nymph eyes, her eyes had seen the day, But lifeless now, yet lovely still, she lay. Not more the God wept, when the world was fir'd, And in the wreck his blooming boy expir'd. The vital flame he strives to light again, And warm the frozen blood in ev'ry vein: But since resistless Fates deny'd that pow'r, On the cold nymph he rain'd a nectar show'r. Ah! undeserving thus (he said) to die, Yet still in odours thou shalt reach the sky. The body soon dissolv'd, and all around Perfum'd with heav'nly fragrancies the ground, A sacrifice for Gods up-rose from thence, A sweet, delightful tree of frankincense. The Transformation of Clytie Tho' guilty Clytie thus the sun betray'd, By too much passion she was guilty made. Excess of love begot excess of grief, Grief fondly bad her hence to hope relief. But angry Phoebus hears, unmov'd, her sighs, And scornful from her loath'd embraces flies. All day, all night, in trackless wilds, alone She pin'd, and taught the list'ning rocks her moan. On the bare earth she lies, her bosom bare, Loose her attire, dishevel'd is her hair. Nine times the morn unbarr'd the gates of light, As oft were spread th' alternate shades of night, So long no sustenance the mourner knew, Unless she drunk her tears, or suck'd the dew. She turn'd about, but rose not from the ground, Turn'd to the Sun, still as he roul'd his round: On his bright face hung her desiring eyes, 'Till fix'd to Earth, she strove in vain to rise. Her looks their paleness in a flow'r retain'd, But here, and there, some purple streaks they gain'd. Still the lov'd object the fond leafs pursue, Still move their root, the moving Sun to view, And in the Heliotrope the nymph is true. The sisters heard these wonders with surprise, But part receiv'd them as romantick lies; And pertly rally'd, that they could not see In Pow'rs divine so vast an energy. Part own'd, true Gods such miracles might do, But own'd not Bacchus, one among the true. At last a common, just request they make, And beg Alcithoe her turn to take. I will (she said) and please you, if I can. Then shot her shuttle swift, and thus began. The fate of Daphnis is a fate too known, Whom an enamour'd nymph transform'd to stone, Because she fear'd another nymph might see The lovely youth, and love as much as she: So strange the madness is of jealousie! Nor shall I tell, what changes Scython made, And how he walk'd a man, or tripp'd a maid. You too would peevish frown, and patience want To hear, how Celmis grew an adamant. He once was dear to Jove, and saw of old Jove, when a child; but what he saw, he told. Crocus, and Smilax may be turn'd to flow'rs, And the Curetes spring from bounteous show'rs; I pass a hundred legends stale, as these, And with sweet novelty your taste will please. The Story of Salmacis and Hermaphroditus How Salmacis, with weak enfeebling streams Softens the body, and unnerves the limbs, And what the secret cause, shall here be shown; The cause is secret, but th' effect is known. The Naids nurst an infant heretofore, That Cytherea once to Hermes bore: From both th' illustrious authors of his race The child was nam'd, nor was it hard to trace Both the bright parents thro' the infant's face. When fifteen years in Ida's cool retreat The boy had told, he left his native seat, And sought fresh fountains in a foreign soil: The pleasure lessen'd the attending toil, With eager steps the Lycian fields he crost, A river here he view'd so lovely bright, It shew'd the bottom in a fairer light, Nor kept a sand conceal'd from human sight. The stream produc'd nor slimy ooze, nor weeds, Nor miry rushes, nor the spiky reeds; But dealt enriching moisture all around, The fruitful banks with chearful verdure crown'd, And kept the spring eternal on the ground. A nymph presides, not practis'd in the chace, Nor skilful at the bow, nor at the race; Of all the blue-ey'd daughters of the main, The only stranger to Diana's train: Her sisters often, as 'tis said, wou'd cry, "Fie Salmacis: what, always idle! fie. Or take thy quiver, or thy arrows seize, And mix the toils of hunting with thy ease." Nor quiver she nor arrows e'er wou'd seize, Nor mix the toils of hunting with her ease. But oft would ba the her in the chrystal tide, Oft with a comb her dewy locks divide; Now in the limpid streams she views her face, And drest her image in the floating glass: On beds of leaves she now repos'd her limbs, Now gather'd flow'rs that grew about her streams, And then by chance was gathering, as he stood To view the boy, and long'd for what she view'd. Fain wou'd she meet the youth with hasty feet, She fain wou'd meet him, but refus'd to meet Before her looks were set with nicest care, And well deserv'd to be reputed fair. "Bright youth," she cries, "whom all thy features prove A God, and, if a God, the God of love; But if a mortal, blest thy nurse's breast, Blest are thy parents, and thy sisters blest: But oh how blest! how more than blest thy bride, Ally'd in bliss, if any yet ally'd. If so, let mine the stoln enjoyments be; If not, behold a willing bride in me." The boy knew nought of love, and toucht with shame, He strove, and blusht, but still the blush became: In rising blushes still fresh beauties rose; The sunny side of fruit such blushes shows, And such the moon, when all her silver white Turns in eclipses to a ruddy light. The nymph still begs, if not a nobler bliss, A cold salute at least, a sister's kiss: And now prepares to take the lovely boy Between her arms. He, innocently coy, Replies, "Or leave me to my self alone, You rude uncivil nymph, or I'll be gone." "Fair stranger then," says she, "it shall be so"; And, for she fear'd his threats, she feign'd to go: But hid within a covert's neighbouring green, She kept him still in sight, herself unseen. The boy now fancies all the danger o'er, And innocently sports about the shore, Playful and wanton to the stream he trips, And dips his foot, and shivers as he dips. The coolness pleas'd him, and with eager haste His airy garments on the banks he cast; His godlike features, and his heav'nly hue, And all his beauties were expos'd to view. His naked limbs the nymph with rapture spies, While hotter passions in her bosom rise, Flush in her cheeks, and sparkle in her eyes. She longs, she burns to clasp him in her arms, And looks, and sighs, and kindles at his charms. Now all undrest upon the banks he stood, And clapt his sides, and leapt into the flood: His lovely limbs the silver waves divide, His limbs appear more lovely through the tide; As lillies shut within a chrystal case, Receive a glossy lustre from the glass. He's mine, he's all my own, the Naid cries, And flings off all, and after him she flies. And now she fastens on him as he swims, And holds him close, and wraps about his limbs. The more the boy resisted, and was coy, The more she clipt, and kist the strugling boy. So when the wrigling snake is snatcht on high In Eagle's claws, and hisses in the sky, Around the foe his twirling tail he flings, And twists her legs, and wriths about her wings. The restless boy still obstinately strove To free himself, and still refus'd her love. Amidst his limbs she kept her limbs intwin'd, "And why, coy youth," she cries, "why thus unkind! Oh may the Gods thus keep us ever join'd! Oh may we never, never part again!" So pray'd the nymph, nor did she pray in vain: For now she finds him, as his limbs she prest, Grow nearer still, and nearer to her breast; 'Till, piercing each the other's flesh, they run Together, and incorporate in one: Last in one face are both their faces join'd, As when the stock and grafted twig combin'd Shoot up the same, and wear a common rind: Both bodies in a single body mix, A single body with a double sex. The boy, thus lost in woman, now survey'd The river's guilty stream, and thus he pray'd. (He pray'd, but wonder'd at his softer tone, Surpriz'd to hear a voice but half his own.) You parent-Gods, whose heav'nly names I bear, Hear your Hermaphrodite, and grant my pray'r; Oh grant, that whomsoe'er these streams contain, If man he enter'd, he may rise again Supple, unsinew'd, and but half a man! The heav'nly parents answer'd from on high, Their two-shap'd son, the double votary Then gave a secret virtue to the flood, And ting'd its source to make his wishes good. Alcithoe and her Sisters transform'd to Bats But Mineus' daughters still their tasks pursue, To wickedness most obstinately true: At Bacchus still they laugh, when all around, Unseen, the timbrels hoarse were heard to sound. Saffron and myrrh their fragrant odours shed, And now the present deity they dread. Strange to relate! Here ivy first was seen, Along the distaff crept the wond'rous green. Then sudden-springing vines began to bloom, And the soft tendrils curl'd around the loom: While purple clusters, dangling from on high, Ting'd the wrought purple with a second die. Now from the skies was shot a doubtful light, The day declining to the bounds of night. The fabrick's firm foundations shake all o'er, False tigers rage, and figur'd lions roar. Torches, aloft, seem blazing in the air, And angry flashes of red light'nings glare. To dark recesses, the dire sight to shun, Swift the pale sisters in confusion run. Their arms were lost in pinions, as they fled, And subtle films each slender limb o'er-spread. Their alter'd forms their senses soon reveal'd; Their forms, how alter'd, darkness still conceal'd. Close to the roof each, wond'ring, upwards springs, Born on unknown, transparent, plumeless wings. They strove for words; their little bodies found No words, but murmur'd in a fainting sound. In towns, not woods, the sooty bats delight, And, never, 'till the dusk, begin their flight; 'Till Vesper rises with his ev'ning flame; From whom the Romans have deriv'd their name. The Transformation of Ino and Melicerta to Sea-Gods The pow'r of Bacchus now o'er Thebes had flown: With awful rev'rence soon the God they own. Proud Ino, all around the wonder tells, And on her nephew deity still dwells. Of num'rous sisters, she alone yet knew No grief, but grief, which she from sisters drew. Imperial Juno saw her with disdain, Vain in her offspring, in her consort vain, Who rul'd the trembling Thebans with a nod, But saw her vainest in her foster-God. Could then (she cry'd) a bastard-boy have pow'r To make a mother her own son devour? Could he the Tuscan crew to fishes change, And now three sisters damn to forms so strange? Yet shall the wife of Jove find no relief? Shall she, still unreveng'd, disclose her grief? Have I the mighty freedom to complain? Is that my pow'r? is that to ease my pain? A foe has taught me vengeance; and who ought To scorn that vengeance, which a foe has taught? What sure destruction frantick rage can throw, The gaping wounds of slaughter'd Pentheus show. Why should not Ino, fir'd with madness, stray, Like her mad sisters her own kindred slay? Why, she not follow, where they lead the way? Down a steep, yawning cave, where yews display'd In arches meet, and lend a baleful shade, Thro' silent labyrinths a passage lies To mournful regions, and infernal skies. Here Styx exhales its noisome clouds, and here, The fun'ral rites once paid, all souls appear. Stiff cold, and horror with a ghastly face And staring eyes, infest the dreary place. Ghosts, new-arriv'd, and strangers to these plains, Know not the palace, where grim Pluto reigns. They journey doubtful, nor the road can tell, Which leads to the metropolis of Hell. A thousand avenues those tow'rs command, A thousand gates for ever open stand. As all the rivers, disembogu'd, find room For all their waters in old Ocean's womb: So this vast city worlds of shades receives, And space for millions still of worlds she leaves. Th' unbody'd spectres freely rove, and show Whate'er they lov'd on Earth, they love below. The lawyers still, or right, or wrong, support, The courtiers smoothly glide to Pluto's court. Still airy heroes thoughts of glory fire, Still the dead poet strings his deathless lyre, And lovers still with fancy'd darts expire. The Queen of Heaven, to gratify her hate, And sooth immortal wrath, forgets her state. Down from the realms of day, to realms of night, The Goddess swift precipitates her flight. At Hell arriv'd, the noise Hell's porter heard, Th' enormous dog his triple head up-rear'd: Thrice from three grizly throats he howl'd profound, Then suppliant couch'd, and stretch'd along the ground. The trembling threshold, which Saturnia prest, The weight of such divinity confest. Before a lofty, adamantine gate, Which clos'd a tow'r of brass, the Furies sate: Mis-shapen forms, tremendous to the sight, Th' implacable foul daughters of the night. A sounding whip each bloody sister shakes, Or from her tresses combs the curling snakes. But now great Juno's majesty was known; Thro' the thick gloom, all heav'nly bright, she shone: The hideous monsters their obedience show'd, And rising from their seats, submissive bow'd. This is the place of woe, here groan the dead; Huge Tityus o'er nine acres here is spread. Fruitful for pain th' immortal liver breeds, Still grows, and still th' insatiate vulture feeds. Poor Tantalus to taste the water tries, But from his lips the faithless water flies: Then thinks the bending tree he can command, The tree starts backwards, and eludes his hand. The labour too of Sisyphus is vain, Up the steep mount he heaves the stone with pain, Down from the summet rouls the stone again. The Belides their leaky vessels still Are ever filling, and yet never fill: Doom'd to this punishment for blood they shed, For bridegrooms slaughter'd in the bridal bed. Stretch'd on the rolling wheel Ixion lies; Himself he follows, and himself he flies. Ixion, tortur'd, Juno sternly ey'd, Then turn'd, and toiling Sisyphus espy'd: And why (she said) so wretched is the fate Of him, whose brother proudly reigns in state? Yet still my altars unador'd have been By Athamas, and his presumptuous queen. What caus'd her hate, the Goddess thus confest, What caus'd her journey now was more than guest. That hate, relentless, its revenge did want, And that revenge the Furies soon could grant: They could the glory of proud Thebes efface, And hide in ruin the Cadmean race. For this she largely promises, entreats, And to intreaties adds imperial threats. Then fell Tisiphone with rage was stung, And from her mouth th' untwisted serpents flung. To gain this trifling boon, there is no need (She cry'd) in formal speeches to proceed. Whatever thou command'st to do, is done; Believe it finish'd, tho' not yet begun. But from these melancholly seats repair To happier mansions, and to purer air. She spoke: the Goddess, darting upwards, flies, And joyous re-ascends her native skies: Nor enter'd there, till 'round her Iris threw Ambrosial sweets, and pour'd celestial dew. The faithful Fury, guiltless of delays, With cruel haste the dire comm and obeys. Girt in a bloody gown, a torch she shakes, And round her neck twines speckled wreaths of snakes. Fear, and dismay, and agonizing pain, With frantick rage, compleat her loveless train. To Thebes her flight she sped, and Hell forsook; At her approach the Theban turrets shook: The sun shrunk back, thick clouds the day o'er-cast, And springing greens were wither'd as she past. Now, dismal yellings heard, strange spectres seen, Confound as much the monarch as the queen. In vain to quit the palace they prepar'd, Tisiphone was there, and kept the ward. She wide extended her unfriendly arms, And all the Fury lavish'd all her harms. Part of her tresses loudly hiss, and part Spread poyson, as their forky tongues they dart. Then from her middle locks two snakes she drew, Whose merit from superior mischief grew: Th' envenom'd ruin, thrown with spiteful care, Clung to the bosoms of the hapless pair. The hapless pair soon with wild thoughts were fir'd, And madness, by a thousand ways inspir'd. 'Tis true, th' unwounded body still was sound, But 'twas the soul which felt the deadly wound. Nor did th' unsated monster here give o'er, But dealt of plagues a fresh, unnumber'd store. Each baneful juice too well she understood, Foam, churn'd by Cerberus, and Hydra's blood. Hot hemlock, and cold aconite she chose, Delighted in variety of woes. Whatever can untune th' harmonious soul, And its mild, reas'ning faculties controul, Give false ideas, raise desires profane, And whirl in eddies the tumultuous brain, Mix'd with curs'd art, she direfully around Thro' all their nerves diffus'd the sad compound. Then toss'd her torch in circles still the same, Improv'd their rage, and added flame to flame. The grinning Fury her own conquest spy'd, And to her rueful shades return'd with pride, And threw th' exhausted, useless snakes aside. Now Athamas cries out, his reason fled, Here, fellow-hunters, let the toils be spread. I saw a lioness, in quest of food, With her two young, run roaring in this wood. Again the fancy'd savages were seen, As thro' his palace still he chac'd his queen; Then tore Learchus from her breast: the child Stretch'd little arms, and on its father smil'd: A father now no more, who now begun Around his head to whirl his giddy son, And, quite insensible to Nature's call, The helpless infant flung against the wall. The same mad poyson in the mother wrought, Young Melicerta in her arms she caught, And with disorder'd tresses, howling, flies, O! Bacchus, Evoe, Bacchus! loud she cries. The name of Bacchus Juno laugh'd to hear, And said, Thy foster-God has cost thee dear. A rock there stood, whose side the beating waves Had long consum'd, and hollow'd into caves. The head shot forwards in a bending steep, And cast a dreadful covert o'er the deep. The wretched Ino, on destruction bent, Climb'd up the cliff; such strength her fury lent: Thence with her guiltless boy, who wept in vain, At one bold spring she plung'd into the main. Her neice's fate touch'd Cytherea's breast, And in soft sounds she Neptune thus addrest: Great God of waters, whose extended sway Is next to his, whom Heav'n and Earth obey: Let not the suit of Venus thee displease, Pity the floaters on th' Ionian seas. Encrease thy Subject-Gods, nor yet disdain To add my kindred to that glorious train. If from the sea I may such honours claim, If 'tis desert, that from the sea I came, As Grecian poets artfully have sung, And in the name confest, from whence I sprung. Pleas'd Neptune nodded his assent, and free Both soon became from frail mortality. He gave them form, and majesty divine, And bad them glide along the foamy brine. For Melicerta is Palaemon known, And Ino once, Leucothoe is grown. The Transformation of the Theban Matrons The Theban matrons their lov'd queen pursu'd, And tracing to the rock, her footsteps view'd. Too certain of her fate, they rend the skies With piteous shrieks, and lamentable cries. All beat their breasts, and Juno all upbraid, Who still remember'd a deluded maid: Who, still revengeful for one stol'n embrace, Thus wreak'd her hate on the Cadmean race. This Juno heard: And shall such elfs, she cry'd, Dispute my justice, or my pow'r deride? You too shall feel my wrath not idly spent; A Goddess never for insults was meant. She, who lov'd most, and who most lov'd had been, Said, Not the waves shall part me from my queen. She strove to plunge into the roaring flood; Fix'd to the stone, a stone her self she stood. This, on her breast would fain her blows repeat, Her stiffen'd hands refus'd her breast to beat. That, stretch'd her arms unto the seas; in vain Her arms she labour'd to unstretch again. To tear her comely locks another try'd, Both comely locks, and fingers petryfi'd. Part thus; but Juno with a softer mind Part doom'd to mix among the feather'd kind. Transform'd, the name of Theban birds they keep, And skim the surface of that fatal deep. Cadmus and his Queen transform'd to Serpents Mean-time, the wretched Cadmus mourns, nor knows, That they who mortal fell, immortal rose. With a long series of new ills opprest, He droops, and all the man forsakes his breast. Strange prodigies confound his frighted eyes; From the fair city, which he rais'd, he flies: As if misfortune not pursu'd his race, But only hung o'er that devoted place. Resolv'd by sea to seek some distant land, At last he safely gain'd th' Illyrian strand. Chearless himself, his consort still he chears, Hoary, and loaden'd both with woes and years. Then to recount past sorrows they begin, And trace them to the gloomy origin. That serpent sure was hallow'd, Cadmus cry'd, Which once my spear transfix'd with foolish pride; When the big teeth, a seed before unknown, By me along the wond'ring glebe were sown, And sprouting armies by themselves o'erthrown. If thence the wrath of Heav'n on me is bent, May Heav'n conclude it with one sad event; To an extended serpent change the man: And while he spoke, the wish'd-for change began. His skin with sea-green spots was vary'd 'round, And on his belly prone he prest the ground. He glitter'd soon with many a golden scale, And his shrunk legs clos'd in a spiry tail. Arms yet remain'd, remaining arms he spread To his lov'd wife, and human tears yet shed. Come, my Harmonia, come, thy face recline Down to my face; still touch, what still is mine. O! let these hands, while hands, be gently prest, While yet the serpent has not all possest. More he had spoke, but strove to speak in vain, The forky tongue refus'd to tell his pain, And learn'd in hissings only to complain. Then shriek'd Harmonia, Stay, my Cadmus, stay, Glide not in such a monstrous shape away! Destruction, like impetuous waves, rouls on. Where are thy feet, thy legs, thy shoulders gone? Chang'd is thy visage, chang'd is all thy frame; Cadmus is only Cadmus now in name. Ye Gods, my Cadmus to himself restore, Or me like him transform; I ask no more. The husband-serpent show'd he still had thought, With wonted fondness an embrace he sought; Play'd 'round her neck in many a harmless twist, And lick'd that bosom, which, a man, he kist. The lookers-on (for lookers-on there were) Shock'd at the sight, half-dy'd away with fear. The transformation was again renew'd, And, like the husband, chang'd the wife they view'd. Both, serpents now, with fold involv'd in fold, To the next covert amicably roul'd. There curl'd they lie, or wave along the green, Fearless see men, by men are fearless seen, Still mild, and conscious what they once have been. The Story of Perseus Yet tho' this harsh, inglorious fate they found, Each in the deathless grandson liv'd renown'd. Thro' conquer'd India Bacchus nobly rode, And Greece with temples hail'd the conqu'ring God. In Argos only proud Acrisius reign'd, Who all the consecrated rites profan'd. Audacious wretch! thus Bacchus to deny, And the great Thunderer's great son defie! Nor him alone: thy daughter vainly strove, Brave Perseus of celestial stem to prove, And her self pregnant by a golden Jove. Yet this was true, and truth in time prevails; Acrisius now his unbelief bewails. His former thought, an impious thought he found, And both the heroe, and the God were own'd. He saw, already one in Heav'n was plac'd, And one with more than mortal triumphs grac'd, The victor Perseus with the Gorgon-head, O'er Libyan sands his airy journey sped. The gory drops distill'd, as swift he flew, And from each drop envenom'd serpents grew, The mischiefs brooded on the barren plains, And still th' unhappy fruitfulness remains. Atlas transform'd to a Mountain Thence Perseus, like a cloud, by storms was driv'n, Thro' all th' expanse beneath the cope of Heaven. The jarring winds unable to controul, He saw the southern, and the northern pole: And eastward thrice, and westward thrice was whirl'd, And from the skies survey'd the nether world. But when grey ev'ning show'd the verge of night, He fear'd in darkness to pursue his flight. He pois'd his pinions, and forgot to soar, And sinking, clos'd them on th' Hesperian shore: Then beg'd to rest, 'till Lucifer begun To wake the morn, the morn to wake the sun. Here Atlas reign'd, of more than human size, And in his kingdom the world's limit lies. Here Titan bids his weary'd coursers sleep, And cools the burning axle in the deep. The mighty monarch, uncontrol'd, alone, His sceptre sways: no neighb'ring states are known. A thousand flocks on shady mountains fed, A thousand herds o'er grassy plains were spread. Here wond'rous trees their shining stores unfold, Their shining stores too wond'rous to be told, Their leafs, their branches, and their apples, gold. Then Perseus the gigantick prince addrest, Humbly implor'd a hospitable rest. If bold exploits thy admiration fire, He said, I fancy, mine thou wilt admire. Or if the glory of a race can move, Not mean my glory, for I spring from Jove. At this confession Atlas ghastly star'd, Mindful of what an oracle declar'd, That the dark womb of Time conceal'd a day, Which should, disclos'd, the bloomy gold betray: All should at once be ravish'd from his eyes, And Jove's own progeny enjoy the prize. For this, the fruit he loftily immur'd, And a fierce dragon the strait pass secur'd. For this, all strangers he forbad to land, And drove them from th' inhospitable strand. To Perseus then: Fly quickly, fly this coast, Nor falsly dare thy acts and race to boast. In vain the heroe for one night entreats, Threat'ning he storms, and next adds force to threats. By strength not Perseus could himself defend, For who in strength with Atlas could contend? But since short rest to me thou wilt not give, A gift of endless rest from me receive, He said, and backward turn'd, no more conceal'd The present, and Medusa's head reveal'd. Soon the high Atlas a high mountain stood, His locks, and beard became a leafy wood. His hands, and shoulders, into ridges went, The summit-head still crown'd the steep ascent. His bones a solid, rocky hardness gain'd: He, thus immensely grown (as fate ordain'd), The stars, the Heav'ns, and all the Gods sustain'd. Andromeda rescu'd from the Sea Monster Now Aeolus had with strong chains confin'd, And deep imprison'd e'vry blust'ring wind, The rising Phospher with a purple light Did sluggish mortals to new toils invite. His feet again the valiant Perseus plumes, And his keen sabre in his hand resumes: Then nobly spurns the ground, and upwards springs, And cuts the liquid air with sounding wings. O'er various seas, and various lands he past, 'Till Aethiopia's shore appear'd at last. Andromeda was there, doom'd to attone By her own ruin follies not her own: And if injustice in a God can be, Such was the Libyan God's unjust decree. Chain'd to a rock she stood; young Perseus stay'd His rapid flight, to view the beauteous maid. So sweet her frame, so exquisitely fine, She seem'd a statue by a hand divine, Had not the wind her waving tresses show'd, And down her cheeks the melting sorrows flow'd. Her faultless form the heroe's bosom fires; The more he looks, the more he still admires. Th' admirer almost had forgot to fly, And swift descended, flutt'ring from on high. O! Virgin, worthy no such chains to prove, But pleasing chains in the soft folds of love; Thy country, and thy name (he said) disclose, And give a true rehearsal of thy woes. A quick reply her bashfulness refus'd, To the free converse of a man unus'd. Her rising blushes had concealment found From her spread hands, but that her hands were bound. She acted to her full extent of pow'r, And bath'd her face with a fresh, silent show'r. But by degrees in innocence grown bold, Her name, her country, and her birth she told: And how she suffer'd for her mother's pride, Who with the Nereids once in beauty vy'd. Part yet untold, the seas began to roar, And mounting billows tumbled to the shore. Above the waves a monster rais'd his head, His body o'er the deep was widely spread: Onward he flounc'd; aloud the virgin cries; Each parent to her shrieks in shrieks replies: But she had deepest cause to rend the skies. Weeping, to her they cling; no sign appears Of help, they only lend their helpless tears. Too long you vent your sorrows, Perseus said, Short is the hour, and swift the time of aid, In me the son of thund'ring Jove behold, Got in a kindly show'r of fruitful gold. Medusa's snaky head is now my prey, And thro' the clouds I boldly wing my way. If such desert be worthy of esteem, And, if your daughter I from death redeem, Shall she be mine? Shall it not then be thought, A bride, so lovely, was too cheaply bought? For her my arms I willingly employ, If I may beauties, which I save, enjoy. The parents eagerly the terms embrace: For who would slight such terms in such a case? Nor her alone they promise, but beside, The dowry of a kingdom with the bride. As well-rigg'd gallies, which slaves, sweating, row, With their sharp beaks the whiten'd ocean plough; So when the monster mov'd, still at his back The furrow'd waters left a foamy track. Now to the rock he was advanc'd so nigh, Whirl'd from a sling a stone the space would fly. Then bounding, upwards the brave Perseus sprung, And in mid air on hov'ring pinions hung. His shadow quickly floated on the main; The monster could not his wild rage restrain, But at the floating shadow leap'd in vain. As when Jove's bird, a speckl'd serpent spies, Which in the shine of Phoebus basking lies, Unseen, he souses down, and bears away, Truss'd from behind, the vainly-hissing prey. To writh his neck the labour nought avails, Too deep th' imperial talons pierce his scales. Thus the wing'd heroe now descends, now soars, And at his pleasure the vast monster gores. Full in his back, swift stooping from above, The crooked sabre to its hilt he drove. The monster rag'd, impatient of the pain, First bounded high, and then sunk low again. Now, like a savage boar, when chaf'd with wounds, And bay'd with opening mouths of hungry hounds, He on the foe turns with collected might, Who still eludes him with an airy flight; And wheeling round, the scaly armour tries Of his thick sides; his thinner tall now plies: 'Till from repeated strokes out gush'd a flood, And the waves redden'd with the streaming blood. At last the dropping wings, befoam'd all o'er, With flaggy heaviness their master bore: A rock he spy'd, whose humble head was low, Bare at an ebb, but cover'd at a flow. A ridgy hold, he, thither flying, gain'd, And with one hand his bending weight sustain'd; With th' other, vig'rous blows he dealt around, And the home-thrusts the expiring monster own'd. In deaf'ning shouts the glad applauses rise, And peal on peal runs ratling thro' the skies. The saviour-youth the royal pair confess, And with heav'd hands their daughter's bridegroom bless. The beauteous bride moves on, now loos'd from chains, The cause, and sweet reward of all the heroe's pains, Mean-time, on shore triumphant Perseus stood, And purg'd his hands, smear'd with the monster's blood: Then in the windings of a sandy bed Compos'd Medusa's execrable head. But to prevent the roughness, leafs he threw, And young, green twigs, which soft in waters grew, There soft, and full of sap; but here, when lay'd, Touch'd by the head, that softness soon decay'd. The wonted flexibility quite gone, The tender scyons harden'd into stone. Fresh, juicy twigs, surpriz'd, the Nereids brought, Fresh, juicy twigs the same contagion caught. The nymphs the petrifying seeds still keep, And propagate the wonder thro' the deep. The pliant sprays of coral yet declare Their stiff'ning Nature, when expos'd to air. Those sprays, which did, like bending osiers, move, Snatch'd from their element, obdurate prove, And shrubs beneath the waves, grow stones above. The great immortals grateful Perseus prais'd, And to three Pow'rs three turfy altars rais'd. To Hermes this; and that he did assign To Pallas: the mid honours, Jove, were thine, He hastes for Pallas a white cow to cull, A calf for Hermes, but for Jove a bull. Then seiz'd the prize of his victorious fight, Andromeda, and claim'd the nuptial rite. Andromeda alone he greatly sought, The dowry kingdom was not worth his thought. Pleas'd Hymen now his golden torch displays; With rich oblations fragrant altars blaze, Sweet wreaths of choicest flow'rs are hung on high, And cloudless pleasure smiles in ev'ry eye. The melting musick melting thoughts inspires, And warbling songsters aid the warbling lyres. The palace opens wide in pompous state, And by his peers surrounded, Cepheus sate. A feast was serv'd, fit for a king to give, And fit for God-like heroes to receive. The banquet ended, the gay, chearful bowl Mov'd round, and brighten'd, and enlarg'd each soul. Then Perseus ask'd, what customs there obtain'd, And by what laws the people were restrain'd. Which told; the teller a like freedom takes, And to the warrior his petition makes, To know, what arts had won Medusa's snakes. The Story of Medusa's Head The heroe with his just request complies, Shows, how a vale beneath cold Atlas lies, Where, with aspiring mountains fenc'd around, He the two daughters of old Phorcus found. Fate had one common eye to both assign'd, Each saw by turns, and each by turns was blind. But while one strove to lend her sister sight, He stretch'd his hand, and stole their mutual light, And left both eyeless, both involv'd in night. Thro' devious wilds, and trackless woods he past, And at the Gorgon-seats arriv'd at last: But as he journey'd, pensive he survey'd, What wasteful havock dire Medusa made. Here, stood still breathing statues, men before; There, rampant lions seem'd in stone to roar. Nor did he, yet affrighted, quit the field, But in the mirror of his polish'd shield Reflected saw Medusa slumbers take, And not one serpent by good chance awake. Then backward an unerring blow he sped, And from her body lop'd at once her head. The gore prolifick prov'd; with sudden force Sprung Pegasus, and wing'd his airy course. The Heav'n-born warrior faithfully went on, And told the num'rous dangers which he run. What subject seas, what lands he had in view, And nigh what stars th' advent'rous heroe flew. At last he silent sate; the list'ning throng Sigh'd at the pause of his delightful tongue. Some beg'd to know, why this alone should wear, Of all the sisters, such destructive hair. Great Perseus then: With me you shall prevail, Worth the relation, to relate a tale. Medusa once had charms; to gain her love A rival crowd of envious lovers strove. They, who have seen her, own, they ne'er did trace More moving features in a sweeter face. Yet above all, her length of hair, they own, In golden ringlets wav'd, and graceful shone. Her Neptune saw, and with such beauties fir'd, Resolv'd to compass, what his soul desir'd. In chaste Minerva's fane, he, lustful, stay'd, And seiz'd, and rifled the young, blushing maid. The bashful Goddess turn'd her eyes away, Nor durst such bold impurity survey; But on the ravish'd virgin vengeance takes, Her shining hair is chang'd to hissing snakes. These in her Aegis Pallas joys to bear, The hissing snakes her foes more sure ensnare, Than they did lovers once, when shining hair. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- ~ Ovid, BOOK THE FOURTH ,

330:Tannhauser The Landgrave Hermann held a gathering Of minstrels, minnesingers, troubadours, At Wartburg in his palace, and the knight, Sir Tannhauser of France, the greatest bard, Inspired with heavenly visions, and endowed With apprehension and rare utterance Of noble music, fared in thoughtful wise Across the Horsel meadows. Full of light, And large repose, the peaceful valley lay, In the late splendor of the afternoon, And level sunbeams lit the serious face Of the young knight, who journeyed to the west, Towards the precipitous and rugged cliffs, Scarred, grim, and torn with savage rifts and chasms, That in the distance loomed as soft and fair And purple as their shadows on the grass. The tinkling chimes ran out athwart the air, Proclaiming sunset, ushering evening in, Although the sky yet glowed with yellow light. The ploughboy, ere he led his cattle home, In the near meadow, reverently knelt, And doffed his cap, and duly crossed his breast, Whispering his 'Ave Mary,' as he heard The pealing vesper-bell. But still the knight, Unmindful of the sacred hour announced, Disdainful or unconscious, held his course. 'Would that I also, like yon stupid wight, Could kneel and hail the Virgin and believe!' He murmured bitterly beneath his breath. 'Were I a pagan, riding to contend For the Olympic wreath, O with what zeal, What fire of inspiration, would I sing The praises of the gods! How may my lyre Glorify these whose very life I doubt? The world is governed by one cruel God, Who brings a sword, not peace. A pallid Christ, Unnatural, perfect, and a virgin cold, They give us for a heaven of living gods, Beautiful, loving, whose mere names were song; 207 A creed of suffering and despair, walled in On every side by brazen boundaries, That limit the soul's vision and her hope To a red hell or and unpeopled heaven. Yea, I am lost already,-even now Am doomed to flaming torture for my thoughts. O gods! O gods! where shall my soul find peace?' He raised his wan face to the faded skies, Now shadowing into twilight; no response Came from their sunless heights; no miracle, As in the ancient days of answering gods. With a long, shuddering sigh he glanced to earth, Finding himself among the Horsel cliffs. Gray, sullen, gaunt, they towered on either side; Scant shrubs sucked meagre life between the rifts Of their huge crags, and made small darker spots Upon their wrinkled sides; the jaded horse Stumbled upon loose, rattling, fallen stones, Amidst the gathering dusk, and blindly fared Through the weird, perilous pass. As darkness waxed, And an oppressive mystery enwrapped The roadstead and the rocks, Sir Tannhauser Fancied he saw upon the mountain-side The fluttering of white raiment. With a sense Of wild joy and horror, he gave pause, For his sagacious horse that reeked of sweat, Trembling in every limb, confirmed his thought, That nothing human scaled that haunted cliff. The white thing seemed descending,-now a cloud It looked, and now a rag of drifted mist, Torn in the jagged gorge precipitous, And now an apparition clad in white, Shapely and real,-then he lost it quite, Gazing on nothing with blank, foolish face. As with wide eyes he stood, he was aware Of a strange splendor at his very side, A presence and a majesty so great, That ere he saw, he felt it was divine. He turned, and, leaping from his horse, fell prone, In speechless adoration, on the earth, Before the matchless goddess, who appeared With no less freshness of immortal youth 208 Than when first risen from foam of Paphian seas. He heard delicious strains of melody, Such as his highest muse had ne'er attained, Float in the air, while in the distance rang, Harsh and discordant, jarring with those tones, The gallop of his frightened horse's hoofs, Clattering in sudden freedom down the pass. A voice that made all music dissonance Then thrilled through heart and flesh of that prone knight, Triumphantly: 'The gods need but appear, And their usurped thrones are theirs again!' Then tenderly: 'Sweet knight, I pray thee, rise; Worship me not, for I desire thy love. Look on me, follow me, for I am fain Of thy fair, human face.' He rose and looked, Stirred by that heavenly flattery to the soul. Her hair, unbraided and unfilleted, Rained in a glittering shower to the ground, And cast forth lustre. Round her zone was clasped The scintillant cestus, stiff with flaming gold, Thicker with restless gems than heaven with stars. She might have flung the enchanted wonder forth; Her eyes, her slightest gesture would suffice To bind all men in blissful slavery. She sprang upon the mountain's dangerous side, With feet that left their print in flowers divine,Flushed amaryllis and blue hyacinth, Impurpled amaranth and asphodel, Dewy with nectar, and exhaling scents Richer than all the roses of mid-June. The knight sped after her, with wild eyes fixed Upon her brightness, as she lightly leapt From crag to crag, with flying auburn hair, Like a gold cloud, that lured him ever on, Higher and higher up the haunted cliff. At last amidst a grove of pines she paused, Until he reached her, breathing hard with haste, Delight, and wonder. Then upon his hand She placed her own, and all his blood at once Tingled and hotly rushed to brow and cheek, At the supreme caress; but the mere touch Infused fresh life, and when she looked at him 209 With gracious tenderness, he felt himself Strong suddenly to bear the blinding light Of those great eyes. 'Dear knight,' she murmured low, 'For love of me, wilt thou accord this boon,To grace my weary home in banishment?' His hungry eyes gave answer ere he spoke, In tones abrupt that startled his own ears With their strange harshness; but with thanks profuse She guided him, still holding his cold hand In her warm, dainty palm, unto a cave, Whence a rare glory issued, and a smell Of spice and roses, frankincense and balm. They entering stood within a marble hall, With straight, slim pillars, at whose farther end The goddess led him to a spiral flight Of stairs, descending always 'midst black gloom Into the very bowels of the earth. Down these, with fearful swiftness, they made way, The knight's feet touching not the solid stair, But sliding down as in a vexing dream, Blind, feeling but that hand divine that still Empowered him to walk on empty air. Then he was dazzled by a sudden blaze, In vast palace filled with reveling folk. Cunningly pictured on the ivory walls Were rolling hills, cool lakes, and boscage green, And all the summer landscape's various pomp. The precious canopy aloft was carved In semblance of the pleached forest trees, Enameled with the liveliest green, wherethrough A light pierced, more resplendent than the day. O'er the pale, polished jasper of the floor Of burnished metal, fretted and embossed With all the marvelous story of her birth Painted in prodigal splendor of rich tincts, And carved by heavenly artists,-crystal seas, And long-haired Nereids in their pearly shells, And all the wonder of her lucent limbs Sphered in a vermeil mist. Upon the throne She took her seat, the knight beside her still, Singing on couches of fresh asphodel, And the dance ceased, and the flushed revelers came 210 In glittering phalanx to adore their queen. Beautiful girls, with shining delicate heads, Crested with living jewels, fanned the air With flickering wings from naked shoulders soft. Then with preluding low, a thousand harps, And citherns, and strange nameless instruments, Sent through the fragrant air sweet symphonies, And the winged dancers waved in mazy rounds, With changing lustres like a summer sea. Fair boys, with charming yellow hair crisp-curled, And frail, effeminate beauty, the knight saw, But of strong, stalwart men like him were none. He gazed thereon bewitched, until the hand Of Venus, erst withdrawn, now fell again Upon his own, and roused him from his trance. He looked on her, and as he looked, a cloud Auroral, flaming as at sunrising, Arose from nothing, floating over them In luminous folds, like that vermilion mist Penciled upon the throne, and as it waxed In density and brightness, all the throng Of festal dancers, less and less distinct, Grew like pale spirits in a vague, dim dream, And vanished altogether; and these twain, Shut from the world in that ambrosial cloud, Now with a glory inconceivable, Vivid and conflagrant, looked each on each. All hours came laden with their own delights In that enchanted place, wherein Time Knew no divisions harsh of night and day, But light was always, and desire of sleep Was satisfied at once with slumber soft, Desire of food with magical repast, By unseen hands on golden tables spread. But these the knight accepted like a god, All less was lost in that excess of joy, The crowning marvel of her love for him, Assuring him of his divinity. Meanwhile remembrance of the earth appeared Like the vague trouble of a transient dream,The doubt, the scruples, the remorse for thoughts 211 Beyond his own control, the constant thirst For something fairer than his life, more real Than airy revelations of his Muse. Here was his soul's desire satisfied. All nobler passions died; his lyre he flung Recklessly forth, with vows to dedicate His being to herself. She knew and seized The moment of her mastery, and conveyed The lyre beyond his sight and memory. With blandishment divine she changed for him, Each hour, her mood; a very woman now, Fantastic, voluble, affectionate, And jealous of the vague, unbodied air, Exacting, penitent, and pacified, All in a breath. And often she appeared Majestic with celestial wrath, with eyes That shot forth fire, and a heavy brow, Portentous as the lowering front of heaven, When the reverberant, sullen thunder rolls Among the echoing clouds. Thus she denounced Her ancient, fickle worshippers, who left Her altars desecrate, her fires unfed, Her name forgotten. 'But I reign, I reign!' She would shrill forth, triumphant; 'yea, I reign. Men name me not, but worship me unnamed, Beauty and Love within their heart of hearts; Not with bent knees and empty breath of words, But with devoted sacrifice of lives.' Then melting in a moment, she would weep Ambrosial tears, pathetic, full of guile, Accusing her own base ingratitude, In craving worship, when she had his heart, Her priceless knight, her peerless paladin, Her Tannhauser; then, with an artful glance Of lovely helplessness, entreated him Not to desert her, like the faithless world, For these unbeautiful and barbarous gods, Or she would never cease her prayers to Jove, Until he took from her the heavy curse Of immortality. With closer vows, The knight then sealed his worship and forswore All other aims and deeds to serve her cause. 212 Thus passed unnoted seven barren years Of reckless passion and voluptuous sloth, Undignified by any lofty thought In his degraded mind, that sometime was Endowed with noble capability. From revelry to revelry he passed, Craving more pungent pleasure momently, And new intoxications, and each hour The siren goddess answered his desires. Once when she left him with a weary sense Of utter lassitude, he sat alone, And, raising listless eyes, he saw himself In a great burnished mirror, wrought about With cunning imagery of twisted vines. He scarcely knew those sunken, red-rimmed eyes, For his who in the flush of manhood rode Among the cliffs, and followed up the crags The flying temptress; and there fell on him A horror of her beauty, a disgust For his degenerate and corrupted life, With irresistible, intense desire, To feel the breath of heaven on his face. Then as Fate willed, who rules above the gods, He saw, within the glass, behind him glide The form of Venus. Certain of her power, She had laid by, in fond security, The enchanted cestus, and Sir Tannhauser, With surfeited regard, beheld her now, No fairer than the women of the earth, Whom with serenity and health he left, Duped by a lovely witch. Before he moved, She knew her destiny; and when he turned, He seemed to drop a mask, disclosing thus An alien face, and eyes with vision true, That for long time with glamour had been blind. Hiding the hideous rage within her breast, With girlish simpleness of folded hands, Auroral blushes, and sweet, shamefast mien, She spoke: 'Behold, my love, I have cast forth All magic, blandishments and sorcery, For I have dreamed a dream so terrible, That I awoke to find my pillow stained 213 With tears as of real woe. I thought my belt, By Vulcan wrought with matchless skill and power, Was the sole bond between us; this being doffed, I seemed to thee an old, unlovely crone, Wrinkled by every year that I have seen. Thou turnedst from me with a brutal sneer, So that I woke with weeping. Then I rose, And drew the glittering girdle from my zone, Jealous thereof, yet full of fears, and said, 'If it be this he loves, then let him go! I have no solace as a mortal hath, No hope of change or death to comfort me Through all eternity; yet he is free, Though I could hold him fast with heavy chains, Bound in perpetual imprisonment.' Tell me my vision was a baseless dream; See, I am kneeling, and kiss thy hands,In pity, look on me, before thy word Condemns me to immortal misery!' As she looked down, the infernal influence Worked on his soul again; for she was fair Beyond imagination, and her brow Seemed luminous with high self-sacrifice. He bent and kissed her head, warm, shining, soft, With its close-curling gold, and love revived. But ere he spoke, he heard the distant sound Of one sweet, smitten lyre, and a gleam Of violent anger flashed across the face Upraised to his in feigned simplicity And singleness of purpose. Then he sprang, Well-nigh a god himself, with sudden strength to vanquish and resist, beyond her reach, Crying, 'My old Muse calls me, and I hear! Thy fateful vision is no baseless dream; I will be gone from this accursed hall!' Then she, too, rose, dilating over him, And sullen clouds veiled all her rosy limbs, Unto her girdle, and her head appeared Refulgent, and her voice rang wrathfully: 'Have I cajoled and flattered thee till now, To lose thee thus! How wilt thou make escape? 214 ONCE BEING MINE THOU ART FOREVER MINE: Yea, not my love, but my poor slave and fool.' But he, with both hands pressed upon his eyes, Against that blinding lustre, heeded not Her thundered words, and cried in sharp despair, 'Help me, O Virgin Mary! and thereat, The very bases of the hall gave way, The roof was rived, the goddess disappeared, And Tannhauser stood free upon the cliff, Amidst the morning sunshine and fresh air. Around him were the tumbled blocks and crags, Huge ridges and sharp juts of flinty peaks, Black caves, and masses of the grim, bald rock. The ethereal, unfathomable sky, Hung over him, the valley lay beneath, Dotted with yellow hayricks, that exhaled Sweet, healthy odors to the mountain-top. He breathed intoxicate the infinite air, And plucked the heather blossoms where they blew, Reckless with light and dew, in crannies green, And scarcely saw their darling bells for tears. No sounds of labor reached him from the farms And hamlets trim, nor from the furrowed glebe; But a serene and sabbath stillness reigned, Till broken by the faint, melodious chimes Of the small village church that called to prayer. He hurried down the rugged, scarped cliff, And swung himself from shelving granite slopes To narrow foot-holds, near wide-throated chasms, Tearing against the sharp stones his bleeding hands, With long hair flying from his dripping brow, Uncovered head, and white, exalted face. No memory had he of his smooth ascent, No thought of fear upon those dreadful hills; He only heard the bell, inviting him To satisfy the craving of his heart, For worship 'midst his fellow men. He reached The beaten, dusty road, and passed thereon The pious peasants faring towards the church, And scarce refrained from greeting them like friends Dearly beloved, after long absence met. 215 How more than fair the sunburnt wenches looked, In their rough, homespun gowns and coifs demure, After the beauty of bare, rosy limbs, And odorous, loose hair! He noted not Suspicious glances on his garb uncouth, His air extravagant and face distraught, With bursts of laughter from the red-cheeked boys, And prudent crossings of the women's breasts. He passed the flowering close about the church, And trod the well worn-path, with throbbing heart, The little heather-bell between his lips, And his eyes fastened on the good green grass. Thus entered he the sanctuary, lit With frequent tapers, and with sunbeams stained Through painted glass. How pure and innocent The waiting congregation seemed to him, Kneeling, or seated with calm brows upraised! With faltering strength, he cowered down alone, And held sincere communion with the Lord, For one brief moment, in a sudden gush Of blessed tears. The minister of God Rose to invoke a blessing on his flock, And then began the service,-not in words To raise the lowly, and to heal the sick, But an alien tongue, with phrases formed, And meaningless observances. The knight, Unmoved, yet thirsting for the simple word That might have moved him, held his bitter thoughts, But when in his own speech a new priest spake, Looked up with hope revived, and heard the text: 'Go, preach the Gospel unto all the world. He that believes and is baptized, is saved. He that believeth not, is damned in hell!' He sat with neck thrust forth and staring eyes; The crowded congregation disappeared; He felt alone in some black sea of hell, While a great light smote one exalted face, Vivid already with prophetic fire, Whose fatal mouth now thundered forth his doom. He longed in that void circle to cry out, With one clear shriek, but sense and voice seemed bound, And his parched tongue clave useless to his mouth. 216 As the last words resounded through the church, And once again the pastor blessed his flock, Who, serious and subdued, passed slowly down The arrow aisle, none noted, near the wall, A fallen man with face upon his knees, A heap of huddled garments and loose hair, Unconscious 'mid the rustling, murmurous stir, 'Midst light and rural smell of grass and flowers, Let in athwart the doorway. One lone priest, Darkening the altar lights, moved noiselessly, Now with the yellow glow upon his face, Now a black shadow gliding farther on, Amidst the smooth, slim pillars of hewn ash. But from the vacant aisles he heard at once A hollow sigh, heaved from a depth profound. Upholding his last light above his head, And peering eagerly amidst the stalls, He cried, 'Be blest who cometh in God's name.' Then the gaunt form of Tannhauser arose. 'Father, I am a sinner, and I seek Forgiveness and help, by whatso means I can regain the joy of peace with God.' 'The Lord hath mercy on the penitent. 'Although thy sins be scarlet,' He hath said, 'Will I not make them white as wool?' Confess, And I will shrive you.' Thus the good priest moved Towards the remorseful knight and pressed his hand. But shrinking down, he drew his fingers back From the kind palm, and kissed the friar's feet. 'Thy pure hand is anointed, and can heal. The cool, calm pressure brings back sanity, And what serene, past joys! yet touch me not, My contact is pollution,-hear, O hear, While I disburden my charged soul.' He lay, Casting about for words and strength to speak. 'O father, is there help for such a one,' In tones of deep abasement he began, 'Who hath rebelled against the laws of God, With pride no less presumptuous than his Who lost thereby his rank in heaven?' 'My son, There is atonement for all sins,-or slight Or difficult, proportioned to the crime. 217 Though this may be the staining of thy hands With blood of kinsmen or of fellow-men.' 'My hands are white,-my crime hath found no name, This side of hell; yet though my heart-strings snap To live it over, let me make the attempt. I was a knight and bard, with such a gift Of revelation that no hour of life Lacked beauty and adornment, in myself The seat and centre of all happiness. What inspiration could my lofty Muse Draw from those common and familiar themes, Painted upon the windows and the walls Of every church,-the mother and her child, The miracle and mystery of the birth, The death, the resurrection? Fool and blind! That saw not symbols of eternal truth In that grand tragedy and victory, Significant and infinite as life. What tortures did my skeptic soul endure, At war against herself and all mankind! The restless nights of feverish sleeplessness, With balancing of reasons nicely weighed; The dawn that brought no hope nor energy, The blasphemous arraignment of the Lord, Taxing His glorious divinity With all the grief and folly of the world. Then came relapses into abject fear, And hollow prayer and praise from craven heart. Before a sculptured Venus I would kneel, Crown her with flowers, worship her, and cry, 'O large and noble type of our ideal, At least my heart and prayer return to thee, Amidst a faithless world of proselytes. Madonna Mary, with her virgin lips, And eyes that look perpetual reproach, Insults and is a blasphemy on youth. Is she to claim the worship of a man Hot with the first rich flush of ripened life?' Realities, like phantoms, glided by, Unnoted 'midst the torment and delights Of my conflicting spirit, and I doffed the modest Christian weeds of charity 218 And fit humility, and steeled myself In pagan panoply of stoicism And self-sufficing pride. Yet constantly I gained men's charmed attention and applause, With the wild strains I smote from out my lyre, To me the native language of my soul, To them attractive and miraculous, As all things whose solution and whose source Remain a mystery. Then came suddenly The summons to attend the gathering Of minstrels at the Landgrave Hermann's court. Resolved to publish there my pagan creed In harmonies so high and beautiful That all the world would share my zeal and faith, I journeyed towards the haunted Horsel cliffs. O God! how may I tell you how SHE came, The temptress of a hundred centuries, Yet fresh as April? She bewitched my sense, Poisoned my judgment with sweet flatteries, And for I may not guess how many years Held me a captive in degrading bonds. There is no sin of lust so lewd and foul, Which I learned not in that alluring hell, Until this morn, I snapped the ignoble tie, By calling on the Mother of our Lord. O for the power to stand again erect, And look men in the eyes! What penitence, What scourging of the flesh, what rigid fasts, What terrible privations may suffice To cleanse me in the sight of God and man?' Ill-omened silence followed his appeal. Patient and motionless he lay awhile, Then sprang unto his feet with sudden force, Confronting in his breathless vehemence, With palpitating heart, the timid priest. 'Answer me, as you hope for a response, One day, at the great judgment seat yourself.' 'I cannot answer,' said the timid priest, 'I have not understood.' 'Just God! is this The curse Thou layest upon me? I outstrip The sympathy and brotherhood of men, So far removed is my experience 219 From their clean innocence. Inspire me, Prompt me to words that bring me near to them! Father,' in gentler accents he resumed, 'Thank Heaven at your every orison That sin like mine you cannot apprehend. More than the truth perchance I have confessed, But I have sinned, and darkly,-this is true; And I have suffered, and am suffering now. Is there no help in your great Christian creed Of liberal charity, for such a one?' 'My son,' the priest replied, 'your speech distraught Hath quite bewildered me. I fain would hope That Christ's large charity can reach your sin, But I know naught. I cannot but believe That the enchantress who first tempted you Must be the Evil one,-your early doubt Was the possession of your soul by him. Travel across the mountain to the town, The first cathedral town upon the road That leads to Rome,-a sage and reverend priest, The Bishop Adrian, bides there. Say you have come From his leal servant, Friar Lodovick; He hath vast lore and great authority, And may absolve you freely of your sin.' Over the rolling hills, through summer fields, By noisy villages and lonely lanes, Through glowing days, when all the landscape stretched Shimmering in the heat, a pilgrim fared Towards the cathedral town. Sir Tannhauser Had donned the mournful sackcloth, girt his loins With a coarse rope that ate into his flesh, Muffled a cowl about his shaven head, Hung a great leaden cross around his neck; And bearing in his hands a knotty staff, With swollen, sandaled feet he held his course. He snatched scant rest at twilight or at dawn, When his forced travel was least difficult. But most he journeyed when the sky, o'ercast, Uprolled its threatening clouds of dusky blue, And angry thunder grumbled through the hills, And earth grew dark at noonday, till the flash 220 Of the thin lightning through the wide sky leapt. And tumbling showers scoured along the plain. Then folk who saw the pilgrim penitent, Drenched, weird, and hastening as as to some strange doom, Swore that the wandering Jew had crossed their land, And the Lord Christ had sent the deadly bolt Harmless upon his cursed, immortal head. At length the hill-side city's spires and roofs, With all its western windows smitten red By a rich sunset, and with massive towers Of its cathedral overtopping all, greeted his sight. Some weary paces more, And as the twilight deepened in the streets, He stood within the minster. How serene, In sculptured calm of centuries, it seemed! How cool and spacious all the dim-lit aisles, Still hazy with fumes of frankincense! The vesper had been said, yet here and there A wrinkled beldam, or mourner veiled, Or burly burgher on the cold floor knelt, And still the organist, with wandering hands, Drew from the keys mysterious melodies, And filled the church with flying waifs of song, That with ethereal beauty moved the soul To a more tender prayer and gentler faith Than choral anthems and the solemn mass. A thousand memories, sweet to bitterness, Rushed on the knight and filled his eyes with tears; Youth's blamelessness and faith forever lost, The love of his neglected lyre, his art, Revived by these aerial harmonies. He was unworthy now to touch the strings, Too base to stir men's soul to ecstasy And high resolves, as in the days agone; And yet, with all his spirit's earnestness, He yearned to feel the lyre between his hands, To utter all the trouble of his life Unto the Muse who understands and helps. Outworn with travel, soothed to drowsiness By dying music and sweet-scented air, His limbs relaxed, and sleep possessed his frame. Auroral light the eastern oriels touched, 221 When with delicious sense of rest he woke, Amidst the cast and silent empty aisles. 'God's peace hath fallen upon me in this place; This is my Bethel; here I feel again A holy calm, if not of innocence, Yet purest after that, the calm serene Of expiation and forgiveness.' He spake, and passed with staff and wallet forth Through the tall portal to the open square, And turning, paused to look upon the pile. The northern front against the crystal sky Loomed dark and heavy, full of sombre shade, With each projecting buttress, carven cross, Gable and mullion, tipped with laughing light By the slant sunbeams of the risen morn. The noisy swallows wheeled above their nests, Builded in hidden nooks about the porch. No human life was stirring in the square, Save now and then a rumbling market-team, Fresh from the fields and farms without the town. He knelt upon the broad cathedral steps, And kissed the moistened stone, while overhead The circling swallows sang, and all around The mighty city lay asleep and still. To stranger's ears must yet again be made The terrible confession; yet again A deathly chill, with something worse than fear, Seized the knight's heart, who knew his every word Widened the gulf between his kind and him. The Bishop sat with pomp of mitred head, In pride of proven virtue, hearkening to all With cold, official apathy, nor made A sign of pity nor encouragement. The friar understood the pilgrim's grief, The language of his eyes; his speech alone Was alien to these kind, untutored ears. But this was truly to be misconstrued, To tear each palpitating word alive From out the depths of his remorseful soul, And have it weighed with the precision cool And the nice logic of a reasoning mind. 222 This spiritual Father judged his crime As the mad mischief of a reckless boy, That call for strict, immediate punishment. But Tannhauser, who felt himself a man, Though base, yet fallen through passions and rare gifts Of an exuberant nature rankly rich, And knew his weary head was growing gray With a life's terrible experience, Found his old sense of proper worth revive; But modestly he ended: 'Yet I felt, O holy Father, in the church, this morn, A strange security, a peace serene, As though e'en yet the Lord regarded me With merciful compassion; yea, as though Even so vile a worm as I might work Mine own salvation, through repentant prayers.' 'Presumptuous man, it is no easy task To expiate such sin; a space of prayer That deprecates the anger of the Lord, A pilgrimage through pleasant summer lands, May not atone for years of impious lust; Thy heart hath lied to thee in offering hope.' 'Is there no hope on earth?' the pilgrim sighed. 'None through thy penance,' said the saintly man. 'Yet there may be through mediation, help. There is a man who by a blameless life Hath won the right to intercede with God. No sins of his own flesh hath he to purge,The Cardinal Filippo,-he abides, Within the Holy City. Seek him out; This is my only counsel,-through thyself Can be no help and no forgiveness.' How different from the buoyant joy of morn Was this discouraged sense of lassitude, The Bishop's words were ringing in his ears, Measured and pitiless, and blent with these, The memory of the goddess' last wild cry,'ONCE BEING MINE, THOU ART FOREVER MINE.' Was it the truth, despite his penitence, And the dedication of his thought to God, That still some portion of himself was hers, 223 Some lust survived, some criminal regret, For her corrupted love? He searched his heart: All was remorse, religious and sincere, And yet her dreadful curse still haunted him; For all men shunned him, and denied him help, Knowing at once in looking on his face, Ploughed with deep lines and prematurely old, That he had struggled with some deadly fiend, And that he was no longer kin to them. Just past the outskirts of the town, he stopped, To strengthen will and courage to proceed. The storm had broken o'er the sultry streets, But now the lessening clouds were flying east, And though the gentle shower still wet his face, The west was cloudless while the sun went down, And the bright seven-colored arch stood forth, Against the opposite dull gray. There was A beauty in the mingled storm and peace, Beyond clear sunshine, as the vast, green fields Basked in soft light, though glistening yet with rain. The roar of all the town was now a buzz Less than the insects' drowsy murmuring That whirred their gauzy wings around his head. The breeze that follows on the sunsetting Was blowing whiffs of bruised and dripping grass Into the heated city. But he stood, Disconsolate with thoughts of fate and sin, Still wrestling with his soul to win it back From her who claimed it to eternity. Then on the delicate air there came to him The intonation of the minster bells, Chiming the vespers, musical and faint. He knew not what of dear and beautiful There was in those familiar peals, that spake Of his first boyhood and his innocence, Leading him back, with gracious influence, To pleasant thoughts and tender memories, And last, recalling the fair hour of hope He passed that morning in the church. Again, The glad assurance of God's boundless love Filled all his being, and he rose serene, And journeyed forward with a calm content. 224 Southward he wended, and the landscape took A warmer tone, the sky a richer light. The gardens of the graceful, festooned with hops, With their slight tendrils binding pole to pole, Gave place to orchards and the trellised grape, The hedges were enwreathed with trailing vines, With clustering, shapely bunches, 'midst the growth Of tangled greenery. The elm and ash Less frequent grew than cactus, cypresses, And golden-fruited or large-blossomed trees. The far hills took the hue of the dove's breast, Veiled in gray mist of olive groves. No more He passed dark, moated strongholds of grim knights, But terraces with marble-paven steps, With fountains leaping in the sunny air, And hanging gardens full of sumptuous bloom. Then cloisters guarded by their dead gray walls, Where now and then a golden globe of fruit Or full-flushed flower peered out upon the road, Nodding against the stone, and where he heard Sometimes the voices of the chanting monks, Sometimes the laugh of children at their play, Amidst the quaint, old gardens. But these sights Were in the suburbs of the wealthy towns. For many a day through wildernesses rank, Or marshy, feverous meadow-lands he fared, The fierce sun smiting his close-muffled head; Or 'midst the Alpine gorges faced the storm, That drave adown the gullies melted snow And clattering boulders from the mountain-tops. At times, between the mountains and the sea Fair prospects opened, with the boundless stretch Of restless, tideless water by his side, And their long wash upon the yellow sand. Beneath this generous sky the country-folk Could lead a freer life,-the fat, green fields Offered rich pasturage, athwart the air Rang tinkling cow-bells and the shepherds' pipes. The knight met many a strolling troubadour, Bearing his cithern, flute, or dulcimer; And oft beneath some castle's balcony, 225 At night, he heard their mellow voices rise, Blent with stringed instruments or tambourines, Chanting some lay as natural as a bird's. Then Nature stole with healthy influence Into his thoughts; his love of beauty woke, His Muse inspired dreams as in the past. But after this came crueler remorse, And he would tighten round his loins the rope, And lie for hours beside some wayside cross, And feel himself unworthy to enjoy The splendid gift and privilege of life. Then forth he hurried, spurred by his desire To reach the City of the Seven Hills, And gain his absolution. Some leagues more Would bring him to the vast Campagna land, When by a roadside well he paused to rest. 'T was noon, and reapers in the field hard by Lay neath the trees upon the sun-scorched grass. But from their midst one came towards the well, Not trudging like a man forespent with toil, But frisking like a child at holiday, With light steps. The pilgrim watched him come, And found him scarcely older than a child, A large-mouthed earthen pitcher in his hand, And a guitar upon his shoulder slung. A wide straw hat threw all his face in shade, But doffing this, to catch whatever breeze Might stir among the branches, he disclosed A charming head of rippled, auburn hair, A frank, fair face, as lovely as a girls, With great, soft eyes, as mild and grave as kine's. Above his head he slipped the instrument, And laid it with his hat upon the turf, Lowered his pitcher down the well-head cool, And drew it dripping upward, ere he saw The watchful pilgrim, craving (as he thought) The precious draught. 'Your pardon, holy sir, Drink first,' he cried, 'before I take the jar Unto my father in the reaping-field.' Touched by the cordial kindness of the lad, The pilgrim answered,-'Thanks, my thirst is quenched From mine own palm.' The stranger deftly poised 226 The brimming pitcher on his head, and turned Back to the reaping-folk, while Tannhauser Looked after him across the sunny fields, Clasping each hand about his waist to bear The balanced pitcher; then, down glancing, found The lad's guitar near by, and fell at once To striking its tuned string with wandering hands, And pensive eyes filled full of tender dreams. 'Yea, holy sir, it is a worthless thing, And yet I love it, for I make it speak.' The boy again stood by him and dispelled His train of fantasies half sweet, half sad. 'That was not in my thought,' the knight replied. 'Its worth is more than rubies; whoso hath The art to make this speak is raised thereby Above all loneliness or grief or fear.' More to himself than to the lad he spake, Who, understanding not, stood doubtfully At a loss for answer; but the knight went on: 'How came it in your hands, and who hath tuned your voice to follow it.' 'I am unskilled, Good father, but my mother smote its strings To music rare.' Diverted from one theme, Pleased with the winsome candor of the boy, The knight encouraged him to confidence; Then his own gift of minstrelsy revealed, And told bright tales of his first wanderings, When in lords' castles and kings' palaces Men still made place for him, for in his land The gift was rare and valued at its worth, And brought great victory and sounding fame. Thus, in retracing all his pleasant youth, His suffering passed as though it had not been. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed the boy gave ear, His fair face flushing with the sudden thoughts That went and came,-then, as the pilgrim ceased, Drew breath and spake: 'And where now is your lyre?' The knight with both hands hid his changed, white face, Crying aloud, 'Lost! lost! forever lost!' Then, gathering strength, he bared his face again Unto the frightened, wondering boy, and rose With hasty fear. 'Ah, child, you bring me back 227 Unwitting to remembrance of my grief, For which I donned eternal garb of woe; And yet I owe you thanks for one sweet hour Of healthy human intercourse and peace. 'T is not for me to tarry by the way. Farewell!' The impetuous, remorseful boy, Seeing sharp pain on that kind countenance, Fell at his feet and cried, 'Forgive my words, Witless but innocent, and leave me not Without a blessing.' Moved unutterably, The pilgrim kissed with trembling lips his head, And muttered, 'At this moment would to God That I were worthy!' Then waved wasted hands Over the youth in act of blessing him, But faltered, 'Cleanse me through his innocence, O heavenly Father!' and with quickening steps Hastened away upon the road to Rome. The noon was past, the reapers drew broad swaths With scythes sun-smitten 'midst the ripened crop. Thin shadows of the afternoon slept soft On the green meadows as the knight passed forth. He trudged amidst the sea of poisonous flowers On the Campagna's undulating plain, With Rome, the many-steepled, many-towered, Before him regnant on her throne of hills. A thick blue cloud of haze o'erhung the town, But the fast-sinking sun struck fiery light From shining crosses, roofs, and flashing domes. Across his path an arching bridge of stone Was raised above a shrunken yellow stream, Hurrying with the light on every wave Towards the great town and outward to the sea. Upon the bridge's crest he paused, and leaned Against the barrier, throwing back his cowl, And gazed upon the dull, unlovely flood That was the Tiber. Quaggy banks lay bare, Muddy and miry, glittering in the sun, And myriad insects hovered o'er the reeds, Whose lithe, moist tips by listless airs were stirred. When the low sun had dropped behind the hills, He found himself within the streets of Rome, 228 Walking as in a sleep, where naught seemed real. The chattering hubbub of the market-place Was over now; but voices smote his ear Of garrulous citizens who jostled past. Loud cries, gay laughter, snatches of sweet song, The tinkling fountains set in gardens cool About the pillared palaces, and blent With trickling of the conduits in the squares, The noisy teams within the narrow streets,All these the stranger heard and did not hear, While ringing bells pealed out above the town, And calm gray twilight skies stretched over it. Wide open stood the doors of every church, And through the porches pressed a streaming throng. Vague wonderment perplexed him, at the sight Of broken columns raised to Jupiter Beside the cross, immense cathedrals reared Upon a dead faith's ruins; all the whirl And eager bustle of the living town Filling the storied streets, whose very stones Were solemn monuments, and spake of death. Although he wrestled with himself, the thought Of that poor, past religion smote his heart With a huge pity and deep sympathy, Beyond the fervor which the Church inspired. Where was the noble race who ruled the world, Moulded of purest elements, and stuffed With sternest virtues, every man a king, Wearing the purple native in his heart? These lounging beggars, stealthy monks and priests, And womanish patricians filled their place. Thus Tannhauser, still half an infidel, Pagan through mind and Christian through the heart, Fared thoughtfully with wandering, aimless steps, Till in the dying glimmer of the day He raised his eyes and found himself alone Amid the ruined arches, broken shafts, And huge arena of the Coliseum. He did not see it as it was, dim-lit By something less than day and more than night, With wan reflections of the rising moon Rather divined than seen on ivied walls, 229 And crumbled battlements, and topless columnsBut by the light of all the ancient days, Ringed with keen eager faces, living eyes, Fixed on the circus with a savage joy, Where brandished swords flashed white, and human blood Streamed o'er the thirsty dust, and Death was king. He started, shuddering, and drew breath to see The foul pit choked with weeds and tumbled stones, The cross raised midmost, and the peaceful moon Shining o'er all; and fell upon his knees, Restored to faith in one wise, loving God. Day followed day, and still he bode in Rome, Waiting his audience with the Cardinal, And from the gates, on pretext frivolous, Passed daily forth,-his Eminency slept,Again, his Eminency was fatigued By tedious sessions of the Papal court, And thus the patient pilgrim was referred Unto a later hour. At last the page Bore him a missive with Filippo's seal, That in his name commended Tannhauser Unto the Pope. The worn, discouraged knight Read the brief scroll, then sadly forth again, Along the bosky alleys of the park, Passed to the glare and noise of summer streets. 'Good God!' he muttered, 'Thou hast ears for all, And sendest help and comfort; yet these men, Thy saintly ministers, must deck themselves With arrogance, and from their large delight In all the beauty of the beauteous earth, And peace of indolent, untempted souls, Deny the hungry outcast a bare word.' Yet even as he nourished bitter thoughts, He felt a depth of clear serenity, Unruffled in his heart beneath it all. No outward object now had farther power To wound him there, for the brooding o'er those deeps Of vast contrition was boundless hope. Yet not to leave a human chance untried, He sought the absolution of the Pope. In a great hall with airy galleries, 230 Thronged with high dignitaries of the Church, He took his seat amidst the humblest friars. Through open windows came sweet garden smells, Bright morning light, and twittered song of birds. Around the hall flashed gold and sunlit gems, And splendid wealth of color,-white-stoled priests, And scarlet cardinals, and bishops clad In violet vestments,-while beneath the shade Of the high gallery huddled dusky shapes, With faded, travel-tattered, sombre smocks, And shaven heads, and girdles of coarse hemp; Some, pilgrims penitent like Tannhauser; Some, devotees to kiss the sacred feet. The brassy blare of trumpets smote the air, Shrill pipes and horns with swelling clamor came, And through the doorway's wide-stretched tapestries Passed the Pope's trumpeters and mace-bearers, His vergers bearing slender silver wands, Then mitred bishops, red-clad cardinals, The stalwart Papal Guard with halberds raised, And then, with white head crowned with gold ingemmed, The vicar of the lowly Galilean, Holding his pastoral rod of smooth-hewn wood, With censer swung before and peacock fans Waved constantly by pages, either side. Attended thus, they bore him to his throne, And priests and laymen fell upon their knees. Then, after pause of brief and silent prayer, The pilgrims singly through the hall defiled, To kiss the borders of the papal skirts, Smiting their foreheads on the paven stone; Some silent, abject, some accusing them Of venial sins in accents of remorse, Craving his grace, and passing pardoned forth. Sir Tannhauser came last, no need for him To cry 'Peccavi,' and crook suppliant knees. His gray head rather crushed than bowed, his face Livid and wasted, his deep thoughtful eyes, His tall gaunt form in those unseemly weeds, Spake more than eloquence. His hollow voice Brake silence, saying, 'I am Tannhauser. For seven years I lived apart from men, 231 Within the Venusberg.' A horror seized The assembled folk; some turbulently rose; Some clamored, 'From the presence cast him forth!' But the knight never ceased his steady gaze Upon the Pope. At last,-'I have not spoken To be condemned,' he said, 'by such as these. Thou, spiritual Father, answer me. Look thou upon me with the eyes of Christ. Can I through expiation gain my shrift, And work mine own redemption?' 'Insolent man!' Thundered the outraged Pope, 'is this the tone Wherewith thou dost parade thy loathsome sin? Down on thy knees, and wallow on the earth! Nay, rather go! there is no ray of hope, No gleam, through cycles of eternity, For the redemption of a soul like thine. Yea, sooner shall my pastoral rod branch forth In leaf and blossom, and green shoots of spring, Than Christ will pardon thee.' And as he spoke, He struck the rod upon the floor with force That gave it entrance 'twixt two loosened tiles, So that it stood, fast-rooted and alone. The knight saw naught, he only heard his judge Ring forth his curses, and the court cry out 'Anathema!' and loud, and blent therewith, Derisive laughter in the very hall, And a wild voice that thrilled through flesh and heart: 'ONCE BEING MINE, THOU ART FOREVER MINE!' Half-mad he clasped both hands upon his brow, Amidst the storm of voices, till they died, And all was silence, save the reckless song Of a young bird upon a twig without. Then a defiant, ghastly face he raised, And shrieked, ''T is false! I am no longer thine!' And through the windows open to the park, Rushed forth, beyond the sight and sound of men. By church nor palace paused he, till he passed All squares and streets, and crossed the bridge of stone, And stood alone amidst the broad expanse Of the Campagna, twinkling in the heat. He knelt upon a knoll of turf, and snapped 232 The cord that held the cross about his neck, And far from him the leaden burden flung. 'O God! I thank Thee, that my faith in Thee Subsists at last, through all discouragements. Between us must no type nor symbol stand, No mediator, were he more divine Than the incarnate Christ. All forms, all priests, I part aside, and hold communion free Beneath the empty sky of noon, with naught Between my nothingness and thy high heavensSpirit with spirit. O, have mercy, God! Cleanse me from lust and bitterness and pride, Have mercy in accordance with my faith.' Long time he lay upon the scorching grass, With his face buried in the tangled weeds. Ah! who can tell the struggles of his soul Against its demons in that sacred hour, The solitude, the anguish, the remorse? When shadows long and thin lay on the ground, Shivering with fever, helpless he arose, But with a face divine, ineffable, Such as we dream the face of Israel, When the Lord's wrestling angel, at gray dawn, Blessed him, and disappeared. Upon the marsh, All night, he wandered, striving to emerge From the wild, pathless plain,-now limitless And colorless beneath the risen moon; Outstretching like a sea, with landmarks none, Save broken aqueducts and parapets, And ruined columns glinting 'neath the moon. His dress was dank and clinging with the dew; A thousand insects fluttered o'er his head, With buzz and drone; unseen cicadas chirped Among the long, rank grass, and far and near The fire-flies flickered through the summer air. Vague thoughts and gleams prophetic filled his brain. 'Ah, fool!' he mused, 'to look for help from men. Had they the will to aid, they lack the power. In mine own flesh and soul the sin had birth, Through mine own anguish it must be atoned. Our saviours are not saints and ministers, 233 But tear-strung women, children soft of heart, Or fellow-sufferers, who, by some chance word, Some glance of comfort, save us from despair. These I have found, thank heaven! to strengthen trust In mine own kind, when all the world grew dark. Make me not proud in spirit, O my God! Yea, in thy sight I am one mass of sin, One black and foul corruption, yet I know My frailty is exceeded by thy love. Neither is this the slender straw of hope, Whereto I, drowning, cling, but firm belief, That fills my inmost soul with vast content. As surely as the hollow faiths of old Shriveled to dust before one ray of Truth, So will these modern temples pass away, Piled upon rotten doctrines, baseless forms, And man will look in his own breast for help, Yea, search for comfort his own inward reins, Revere himself, and find the God within. Patience and patience!' Through the sleepless night He held such thoughts; at times before his eyes Flashed glimpses of the Church that was to be, Sublimely simple in the light serene Of future ages; then the vision changed To the Pope's hall, thronged with high priests, who hurled Their curses on him. Staggering, he awoke Unto the truth, and found himself alone, Beneath the awful stars. When dawn's first chill Crept though the shivering grass and heavy leaves, Giddy and overcome, he fell and slept Upon the dripping weeds, nor dreamed nor stirred, Until the wide plain basked in noon's broad light. He dragged his weary frame some paces more, Unto a solitary herdsman's hut, Which, in the vagueness of the moonlit night, Was touched with lines of beauty, till it grew Fair as the ruined works of ancient art, Now squat and hideous with its wattled roof, Decaying timbers, and loose door wide oped, Half-fallen from the hinge. A drowsy man, Bearded and burnt, in shepherd habit lay, Stretched on the floor, slow-munching, half asleep, 234 His frugal fare; for thus, at blaze of noon, The shepherds sought a shelter from the sun, Leaving their vigilant dogs beside their flock. The knight craved drink and bread, and with respect For pilgrim weeds, the Roman herdsman stirred His lazy length, and shared with him his meal. Refreshed and calm, Sir Tannhauser passed forth, Yearning with morbid fancy once again To see the kind face of the minstrel boy He met beside the well. At set of sun He reached the place; the reaping-folk were gone, The day's toil over, yet he took his seat. A milking-girl with laden buckets full, Came slowly from the pasture, paused and drank. From a near cottage ran a ragged boy, And filled his wooden pail, and to his home Returned across the fields. A herdsman came, And drank and gave his dog to drink, and passed, Greeting the holy man who sat there still, Awaiting. But his feeble pulse beat high When he descried at last a youthful form, Crossing the field, a pitcher on his head, Advancing towards the well. Yea, this was he, The same grave eyes, and open, girlish face. But he saw not, amidst the landscape brown, The knight's brown figure, who, to win his ear, Asked the lad's name. 'My name is Salvator, To serve you, sir,' he carelessly replied, With eyes and hands intent upon his jar, Brimming and bubbling. Then he cast one glance Upon his questioner, and left the well, Crying with keen and sudden sympathy, 'Good Father, pardon me, I knew you not. Ah! you have travelled overmuch: your feet Are grimed with mud and wet, your face is changed, Your hands are dry with fever.' But the knight: 'Nay, as I look on thee, I think the Lord Wills not that I should suffer any more.' 'Then you have suffered much,' sighed Salvator, With wondering pity. 'You must come with me; My father knows of you, I told him all. A knight and minstrel who cast by his lyre, 235 His health and fame, to give himself to God,Yours is a life indeed to be desired! If you will lie with us this night, our home Will verily be blessed.' By kindness crushed, Wandering in sense and words, the broken knight Resisted naught, and let himself be led To the boy's home. The outcast and accursed Was welcomed now by kindly human hands; Once more his blighted spirit was revived By contact with refreshing innocence. There, when the morning broke upon the world, The humble hosts no longer knew their guest. His fleshly weeds of sin forever doffed, Tannhauser lay and smiled, for in the night The angel came who brings eternal peace. __________ Far into Wartburg, through all Italy, In every town the Pope sent messengers, Riding in furious haste; among them, one Who bore a branch of dry wood burst in bloom; The pastoral rod had borne green shoots of spring, And leaf and blossom. God is merciful. ~ Emma Lazarus,

331: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,

332:A Lyrical Drama, In Four Acts. Audisne haec amphiarae, sub terram abdite? ACT I Scene.A Ravine of Icy Rocks in the Indian Caucasus. Prometheus is discovered bound to the Precipice. Panthea andIone are seated at his feet. Time, night. During the Scene, morning slowly breaks. Prometheus. Monarch of Gods and Dmons, and all Spirits But One, who throng those bright and rolling worlds Which Thou and I alone of living things Behold with sleepless eyes! regard this Earth Made multitudinous with thy slaves, whom thou Requitest for knee-worship, prayer, and praise, And toil, and hecatombs of broken hearts, With fear and self-contempt and barren hope. Whilst me, who am thy foe, eyeless in hate, Hast thou made reign and triumph, to thy scorn, O'er mine own misery and thy vain revenge. Three thousand years of sleep-unsheltered hours, And moments aye divided by keen pangs Till they seemed years, torture and solitude, Scorn and despair,these are mine empire: More glorious far than that which thou surveyest From thine unenvied throne, O Mighty God! Almighty, had I deigned to share the shame Of thine ill tyranny, and hung not here Nailed to this wall of eagle-baffling mountain, Black, wintry, dead, unmeasured; without herb, Insect, or beast, or shape or sound of life. Ah me! alas, pain, pain ever, for ever! No change, no pause, no hope! Yet I endure. I ask the Earth, have not the mountains felt? I ask yon Heaven, the all-beholding Sun, Has it not seen? The Sea, in storm or calm, Heaven's ever-changing Shadow, spread below, Have its deaf waves not heard my agony? Ah me! alas, pain, pain ever, for ever! The crawling glaciers pierce me with the spears Of their moon-freezing crystals, the bright chains Eat with their burning cold into my bones. Heaven's wingd hound, polluting from thy lips His beak in poison not his own, tears up My heart; and shapeless sights come wandering by, The ghastly people of the realm of dream, Mocking me: and the Earthquake-fiends are charged To wrench the rivets from my quivering wounds When the rocks split and close again behind: While from their loud abysses howling throng The genii of the storm, urging the rage Of whirlwind, and afflict me with keen hail. And yet to me welcome is day and night, Whether one breaks the hoar frost of the morn, Or starry, dim, and slow, the other climbs The leaden-coloured east; for then they lead The wingless, crawling hours, one among whom As some dark Priest hales the reluctant victim Shall drag thee, cruel King, to kiss the blood From these pale feet, which then might trample thee If they disdained not such a prostrate slave. Disdain! Ah no! I pity thee. What ruin Will hunt thee undefended through wide Heaven! How will thy soul, cloven to its depth with terror, Gape like a hell within! I speak in grief, Not exultation, for I hate no more, As then ere misery made me wise. The curse Once breathed on thee I would recall. Ye Mountains, Whose many-voicd Echoes, through the mist Of cataracts, flung the thunder of that spell! Ye icy Springs, stagnant with wrinkling frost, Which vibrated to hear me, and then crept Shuddering through India! Thou serenest Air, Through which the Sun walks burning without beams! And ye swift Whirlwinds, who on poisd wings Hung mute and moveless o'er yon hushed abyss, As thunder, louder than your own, made rock The orbd world! If then my words had power, Though I am changed so that aught evil wish Is dead within; although no memory be Of what is hate, let them not lose it now! What was that curse? for ye all heard me speak. First Voice (from the Mountains). Thrice three hundred thousand years O'er the Earthquake's couch we stood: Oft, as men convulsed with fears, We trembled in our multitude. Second Voice (from the Springs). Thunderbolts had parched our water, We had been stained with bitter blood, And had run mute, 'mid shrieks of slaughter, Thro' a city and a solitude. Third Voice (from the Air). I had clothed, since Earth uprose, Its wastes in colours not their own, And oft had my serene repose Been cloven by many a rending groan. Fourth Voice (from the Whirlwinds). We had soared beneath these mountains Unresting ages; nor had thunder, Nor yon volcano's flaming fountains, Nor any power above or under Ever made us mute with wonder. First Voice. But never bowed our snowy crest As at the voice of thine unrest. Second Voice. Never such a sound before To the Indian waves we bore. A pilot asleep on the howling sea Leaped up from the deck in agony, And heard, and cried, 'Ah, woe is me!' And died as mad as the wild waves be. Third Voice. By such dread words from Earth to Heaven My still realm was never riven: When its wound was closed, there stood Darkness o'er the day like blood. Fourth Voice. And we shrank back: for dreams of ruin To frozen caves our flight pursuing Made us keep silencethusand thus Though silence is as hell to us. The Earth. The tongueless Caverns of the craggy hills Cried, 'Misery!' then; the hollow Heaven replied, 'Misery!' And the Ocean's purple waves, Climbing the land, howled to the lashing winds, And the pale nations heard it, 'Misery!' Prometheus. I heard a sound of voices: not the voice Which I gave forth. Mother, thy sons and thou Scorn him, without whose all-enduring will Beneath the fierce omnipotence of Jove, Both they and thou had vanished, like thin mist Unrolled on the morning wind. Know ye not me, The Titan? He who made his agony The barrier to your else all-conquering foe? Oh, rock-embosomed lawns, and snow-fed streams, Now seen athwart frore vapours, deep below, Through whose o'ershadowing woods I wandered once With Asia, drinking life from her loved eyes; Why scorns the spirit which informs ye, now To commune with me? me alone, who checked, As one who checks a fiend-drawn charioteer, The falsehood and the force of him who reigns Supreme, and with the groans of pining slaves Fills your dim glens and liquid wildernesses: Why answer ye not, still? Brethren! The Earth.                    They dare not.                    Prometheus. Who dares? for I would hear that curse again. Ha, what an awful whisper rises up! 'Tis scarce like sound: it tingles through the frame As lightning tingles, hovering ere it strike. Speak, Spirit! from thine inorganic voice I only know that thou art moving near And love. How cursed I him? The Earth.                How canst thou hear Who knowest not the language of the dead? Prometheus. Thou art a living spirit; speak as they. The Earth. I dare not speak like life, lest Heaven's fell King Should hear, and link me to some wheel of pain More torturing than the one whereon I roll. Subtle thou art and good, and though the Gods Hear not this voice, yet thou art more than God, Being wise and kind: earnestly hearken now. Prometheus. Obscurely through my brain, like shadows dim, Sweep awful thoughts, rapid and thick. I feel Faint, like one mingled in entwining love; Yet 'tis not pleasure. The Earth.             No, thou canst not hear: Thou art immortal, and this tongue is known Only to those who die. Prometheus.             And what art thou, O, melancholy Voice? The Earth.            I am the Earth, Thy mother; she within whose stony veins, To the last fibre of the loftiest tree Whose thin leaves trembled in the frozen air, Joy ran, as blood within a living frame, When thou didst from her bosom, like a cloud Of glory, arise, a spirit of keen joy! And at thy voice her pining sons uplifted Their prostrate brows from the polluting dust, And our almighty Tyrant with fierce dread Grew pale, until his thunder chained thee here. Then, see those million worlds which burn and roll Around us: their inhabitants beheld My spherd light wane in wide Heaven; the sea Was lifted by strange tempest, and new fire From earthquake-rifted mountains of bright snow Shook its portentous hair beneath Heaven's frown; Lightning and Inundation vexed the plains; Blue thistles bloomed in cities; foodless toads Within voluptuous chambers panting crawled: When Plague had fallen on man, and beast, and worm, And Famine; and black blight on herb and tree; And in the corn, and vines, and meadow-grass, Teemed ineradicable poisonous weeds Draining their growth, for my wan breast was dry With grief; and the thin air, my breath, was stained With the contagion of a mother's hate Breathed on her child's destroyer; ay, I heard Thy curse, the which, if thou rememberest not, Yet my innumerable seas and streams, Mountains, and caves, and winds, and yon wide air, And the inarticulate people of the dead, Preserve, a treasured spell. We meditate In secret joy and hope those dreadful words, But dare not speak them. Prometheus.              Venerable mother! All else who live and suffer take from thee Some comfort; flowers, and fruits, and happy sounds, And love, though fleeting; these may not be mine. But mine own words, I pray, deny me not. The Earth. They shall be told. Ere Babylon was dust, The Magus Zoroaster, my dead child, Met his own image walking in the garden. That apparition, sole of men, he saw. For know there are two worlds of life and death: One that which thou beholdest; but the other Is underneath the grave, where do inhabit The shadows of all forms that think and live Till death unite them and they part no more; Dreams and the light imaginings of men, And all that faith creates or love desires, Terrible, strange, sublime and beauteous shapes. There thou art, and dost hang, a writhing shade, 'Mid whirlwind-peopled mountains; all the gods Are there, and all the powers of nameless worlds, Vast, sceptred phantoms; heroes, men, and beasts; And Demogorgon, a tremendous gloom; And he, the supreme Tyrant, on his throne Of burning gold. Son, one of these shall utter The curse which all remember. Call at will Thine own ghost, or the ghost of Jupiter, Hades or Typhon, or what mightier Gods From all-prolific Evil, since thy ruin Have sprung, and trampled on my prostrate sons. Ask, and they must reply: so the revenge Of the Supreme may sweep through vacant shades, As rainy wind through the abandoned gate Of a fallen palace. Prometheus.           Mother, let not aught Of that which may be evil, pass again My lips, or those of aught resembling me. Phantasm of Jupiter, arise, appear! Ione. My wings are folded o'er mine ears:   My wings are crossd o'er mine eyes: Yet through their silver shade appears,   And through their lulling plumes arise, A Shape, a throng of sounds;   May it be no ill to thee O thou of many wounds! Near whom, for our sweet sister's sake, Ever thus we watch and wake. Panthea. The sound is of whirlwind underground,   Earthquake, and fire, and mountains cloven; The shape is awful like the sound,   Clothed in dark purple, star-inwoven. A sceptre of pale gold   To stay steps proud, o'er the slow cloud His veind hand doth hold. Cruel he looks, but calm and strong, Like one who does, not suffers wrong. Phantasm of Jupiter. Why have the secret powers of this strange world Driven me, a frail and empty phantom, hither On direst storms? What unaccustomed sounds Are hovering on my lips, unlike the voice With which our pallid race hold ghastly talk In darkness? And, proud sufferer, who art thou? Prometheus. Tremendous Image, as thou art must be He whom thou shadowest forth. I am his foe, The Titan. Speak the words which I would hear, Although no thought inform thine empty voice. The Earth. Listen! And though your echoes must be mute, Gray mountains, and old woods, and haunted springs, Prophetic caves, and isle-surrounding streams, Rejoice to hear what yet ye cannot speak. Phantasm. A spirit seizes me and speaks within: It tears me as fire tears a thunder-cloud. Panthea. See, how he lifts his mighty looks, the Heaven Darkens above. Ione.        He speaks! O shelter me!        Prometheus. I see the curse on gestures proud and cold, And looks of firm defiance, and calm hate, And such despair as mocks itself with smiles, Written as on a scroll: yet speak: Oh, speak! Phantasm. Fiend, I defy thee! with a calm, fixed mind,   All that thou canst inflict I bid thee do; Foul Tyrant both of Gods and Human-kind,   One only being shalt thou not subdue. Rain then thy plagues upon me here, Ghastly disease, and frenzying fear; And let alternate frost and fire Eat into me, and be thine ire Lightning, and cutting hail, and legioned forms Of furies, driving by upon the wounding storms. Ay, do thy worst. Thou art omnipotent.   O'er all things but thyself I gave thee power, And my own will. Be thy swift mischiefs sent   To blast mankind, from yon ethereal tower. Let thy malignant spirit move In darkness over those I love: On me and mine I imprecate The utmost torture of thy hate; And thus devote to sleepless agony, This undeclining head while thou must reign on high. But thou, who art the God and Lord: O, thou,   Who fillest with thy soul this world of woe, To whom all things of Earth and Heaven do bow   In fear and worship: all-prevailing foe! I curse thee! let a sufferer's curse Clasp thee, his torturer, like remorse; Till thine Infinity shall be A robe of envenomed agony; And thine Omnipotence a crown of pain, To cling like burning gold round thy dissolving brain. Heap on thy soul, by virtue of this Curse,   Ill deeds, then be thou damned, beholding good; Both infinite as is the universe,   And thou, and thy self-torturing solitude. An awful image of calm power Though now thou sittest, let the hour Come, when thou must appear to be That which thou art internally; And after many a false and fruitless crime Scorn track thy lagging fall through boundless space and time. Prometheus. Were these my words, O Parent? The Earth.                 They were thine.                 Prometheus. It doth repent me: words are quick and vain; Grief for awhile is blind, and so was mine. I wish no living thing to suffer pain. The Earth. Misery, Oh misery to me, That Jove at length should vanquish thee. Wail, howl aloud, Land and Sea, The Earth's rent heart shall answer ye. Howl, Spirits of the living and the dead, Your refuge, your defence lies fallen and vanquishd. First Echo. Lies fallen and vanquishd! Second Echo. Fallen and vanquishd! Ione. Fear not: 'tis but some passing spasm, The Titan is unvanquished still. But see, where through the azure chasm Of yon forked and snowy hill Trampling the slant winds on high With golden-sandalled feet, that glow Under plumes of purple dye, Like rose-ensanguined ivory, A Shape comes now, Stretching on high from his right hand A serpent-cinctured wand. Panthea. 'Tis Jove's world-wandering herald, Mercury. Ione. And who are those with hydra tresses And iron wings that climb the wind, Whom the frowning God represses Like vapours steaming up behind, Clanging loud, an endless crowd Panthea. These are Jove's tempest-walking hounds, Whom he gluts with groans and blood, When charioted on sulphurous cloud He bursts Heaven's bounds. Ione. Are they now led, from the thin dead On new pangs to be fed? Panthea. The Titan looks as ever, firm, not proud. First Fury. Ha! I scent life! Second Fury.          Let me but look into his eyes!          Third Fury. The hope of torturing him smells like a heap Of corpses, to a death-bird after battle. First Fury. Darest thou delay, O Herald! take cheer, Hounds Of Hell: what if the Son of Maia soon Should make us food and sportwho can please long The Omnipotent? Mercury.         Back to your towers of iron, And gnash, beside the streams of fire and wail, Your foodless teeth. Geryon, arise! and Gorgon, Chimra, and thou Sphinx, subtlest of fiends Who ministered to Thebes Heaven's poisoned wine, Unnatural love, and more unnatural hate: These shall perform your task. First Fury.                 Oh, mercy! mercy! We die with our desire: drive us not back! Mercury. Crouch then in silence.             Awful Sufferer! To thee unwilling, most unwillingly I come, by the great Father's will driven down, To execute a doom of new revenge. Alas! I pity thee, and hate myself That I can do no more: aye from thy sight Returning, for a season, Heaven seems Hell, So thy worn form pursues me night and day, Smiling reproach. Wise art thou, firm and good, But vainly wouldst stand forth alone in strife Against the Omnipotent; as yon clear lamps That measure and divide the weary years From which there is no refuge, long have taught And long must teach. Even now thy Torturer arms With the strange might of unimagined pains The powers who scheme slow agonies in Hell, And my commission is to lead them here, Or what more subtle, foul, or savage fiends People the abyss, and leave them to their task. Be it not so! there is a secret known To thee, and to none else of living things, Which may transfer the sceptre of wide Heaven, The fear of which perplexes the Supreme: Clothe it in words, and bid it clasp his throne In intercession; bend thy soul in prayer, And like a suppliant in some gorgeous fane, Let the will kneel within thy haughty heart: For benefits and meek submission tame The fiercest and the mightiest. Prometheus.                  Evil minds Change good to their own nature. I gave all He has; and in return he chains me here Years, ages, night and day: whether the Sun Split my parched skin, or in the moony night The crystal-wingd snow cling round my hair: Whilst my belovd race is trampled down By his thought-executing ministers. Such is the tyrant's recompense: 'tis just: He who is evil can receive no good; And for a world bestowed, or a friend lost, He can feel hate, fear, shame; not gratitude: He but requites me for his own misdeed. Kindness to such is keen reproach, which breaks With bitter stings the light sleep of Revenge. Submission, thou dost know I cannot try: For what submission but that fatal word, The death-seal of mankind's captivity, Like the Sicilian's hair-suspended sword, Which trembles o'er his crown, would he accept, Or could I yield? Which yet I will not yield. Let others flatter Crime, where it sits throned In brief Omnipotence: secure are they: For Justice, when triumphant, will weep down Pity, not punishment, on her own wrongs, Too much avenged by those who err. I wait, Enduring thus, the retributive hour Which since we spake is even nearer now. But hark, the hell-hounds clamour: fear delay: Behold! Heaven lowers under thy Father's frown. Mercury. Oh, that we might be spared: I to inflict And thou to suffer! Once more answer me: Thou knowest not the period of Jove's power? Prometheus. I know but this, that it must come. Mercury.                    Alas! Thou canst not count thy years to come of pain? Prometheus. They last while Jove must reign: nor more, nor less Do I desire or fear. Mercury.            Yet pause, and plunge Into Eternity, where recorded time, Even all that we imagine, age on age, Seems but a point, and the reluctant mind Flags wearily in its unending flight, Till it sink, dizzy, blind, lost, shelterless; Perchance it has not numbered the slow years Which thou must spend in torture, unreprieved? Prometheus. Perchance no thought can count them, yet they pass. Mercury. If thou might'st dwell among the Gods the while Lapped in voluptuous joy? Prometheus.               I would not quit This bleak ravine, these unrepentant pains. Mercury. Alas! I wonder at, yet pity thee. Prometheus. Pity the self-despising slaves of Heaven, Not me, within whose mind sits peace serene, As light in the sun, throned: how vain is talk! Call up the fiends. Ione.           O, sister, look! White fire Has cloven to the roots yon huge snow-loaded cedar; How fearfully God's thunder howls behind! Mercury. I must obey his words and thine: alas! Most heavily remorse hangs at my heart! Panthea. See where the child of Heaven, with wingd feet, Runs down the slanted sunlight of the dawn. Ione. Dear sister, close thy plumes over thine eyes Lest thou behold and die: they come: they come Blackening the birth of day with countless wings, And hollow underneath, like death. First Fury.                   Prometheus!                   Second Fury. Immortal Titan! Third Fury.         Champion of Heaven's slaves!         Prometheus. He whom some dreadful voice invokes is here, Prometheus, the chained Titan. Horrible forms, What and who are ye? Never yet there came Phantasms so foul through monster-teeming Hell From the all-miscreative brain of Jove; Whilst I behold such execrable shapes, Methinks I grow like what I contemplate, And laugh and stare in loathsome sympathy. First Fury. We are the ministers of pain, and fear, And disappointment, and mistrust, and hate, And clinging crime; and as lean dogs pursue Through wood and lake some struck and sobbing fawn, We track all things that weep, and bleed, and live, When the great King betrays them to our will. Prometheus. Oh! many fearful natures in one name, I know ye; and these lakes and echoes know The darkness and the clangour of your wings. But why more hideous than your loathd selves Gather ye up in legions from the deep? Second Fury. We knew not that: Sisters, rejoice, rejoice! Prometheus. Can aught exult in its deformity? Second Fury. The beauty of delight makes lovers glad, Gazing on one another: so are we. As from the rose which the pale priestess kneels To gather for her festal crown of flowers The areal crimson falls, flushing her cheek, So from our victim's destined agony The shade which is our form invests us round, Else we are shapeless as our mother Night. Prometheus. I laugh your power, and his who sent you here, To lowest scorn. Pour forth the cup of pain. First Fury. Thou thinkest we will rend thee bone from bone, And nerve from nerve, working like fire within? Prometheus. Pain is my element, as hate is thine; Ye rend me now: I care not. Second Fury.                Dost imagine We will but laugh into thy lidless eyes? Prometheus. I weigh not what ye do, but what ye suffer, Being evil. Cruel was the power which called You, or aught else so wretched, into light. Third Fury. Thou think'st we will live through thee, one by one, Like animal life, and though we can obscure not The soul which burns within, that we will dwell Beside it, like a vain loud multitude Vexing the self-content of wisest men: That we will be dread thought beneath thy brain, And foul desire round thine astonished heart, And blood within thy labyrinthine veins Crawling like agony? Prometheus.            Why, ye are thus now; Yet am I king over myself, and rule The torturing and conflicting throngs within, As Jove rules you when Hell grows mutinous. Chorus of Furies. From the ends of the earth, from the ends of the earth, Where the night has its grave and the morning its birth,      Come, come, come! Oh, ye who shake hills with the scream of your mirth, When cities sink howling in ruin; and ye Who with wingless footsteps trample the sea, And close upon Shipwreck and Famine's track, Sit chattering with joy on the foodless wreck;      Come, come, come! Leave the bed, low, cold, and red, Strewed beneath a nation dead; Leave the hatred, as in ashes   Fire is left for future burning: It will burst in bloodier flashes   When ye stir it, soon returning: Leave the self-contempt implanted In young spirits, sense-enchanted,   Misery's yet unkindled fuel:   Leave Hell's secrets half unchanted    To the maniac dreamer; cruel   More than ye can be with hate     Is he with fear.      Come, come, come! We are steaming up from Hell's wide gate And we burthen the blast of the atmosphere, But vainly we toil till ye come here. Ione. Sister, I hear the thunder of new wings. Panthea. These solid mountains quiver with the sound Even as the tremulous air: their shadows make The space within my plumes more black than night. First Fury. Your call was as a wingd car Driven on whirlwinds fast and far; It rapped us from red gulfs of war. Second Fury. From wide cities, famine-wasted; Third Fury. Groans half heard, and blood untasted; Fourth Fury. Kingly conclaves stern and cold, Where blood with gold is bought and sold; Fifth Fury. From the furnace, white and hot, In which A Fury.      Speak not: whisper not: I know all that ye would tell, But to speak might break the spell Which must bend the Invincible, The stern of thought; He yet defies the deepest power of Hell. A Fury. Tear the veil! Another Fury.        It is torn.        Chorus.               The pale stars of the morn Shine on a misery, dire to be borne. Dost thou faint, mighty Titan? We laugh thee to scorn. Dost thou boast the clear knowledge thou waken'dst for man? Then was kindled within him a thirst which outran Those perishing waters; a thirst of fierce fever, Hope, love, doubt, desire, which consume him for ever.   One came forth of gentle worth   Smiling on the sanguine earth;   His words outlived him, like swift poison    Withering up truth, peace, and pity.   Look! where round the wide horizon    Many a million-peopled city   Vomits smoke in the bright air.   Hark that outcry of despair!   'Tis his mild and gentle ghost    Wailing for the faith he kindled:   Look again, the flames almost    To a glow-worm's lamp have dwindled: The survivors round the embers Gather in dread.     Joy, joy, joy! Past ages crowd on thee, but each one remembers, And the future is dark, and the present is spread Like a pillow of thorns for thy slumberless head. Semichorus I. Drops of bloody agony flow From his white and quivering brow. Grant a little respite now: See a disenchanted nation Springs like day from desolation; To Truth its state is dedicate, And Freedom leads it forth, her mate; A legioned band of linkd brothers Whom Love calls children Semichorus II.               'Tis another's: See how kindred murder kin: 'Tis the vintage-time for death and sin: Blood, like new wine, bubbles within:   Till Despair smothers The struggling world, which slaves and tyrants win. [All the Furies vanish, except one. Ione. Hark, sister! what a low yet dreadful groan Quite unsuppressed is tearing up the heart Of the good Titan, as storms tear the deep, And beasts hear the sea moan in inland caves. Darest thou observe how the fiends torture him? Panthea. Alas! I looked forth twice, but will no more. Ione. What didst thou see? Panthea.            A woful sight: a youth With patient looks nailed to a crucifix. Ione. What next? Panthea.      The heaven around, the earth below Was peopled with thick shapes of human death, All horrible, and wrought by human hands, And some appeared the work of human hearts, For men were slowly killed by frowns and smiles: And other sights too foul to speak and live Were wandering by. Let us not tempt worse fear By looking forth: those groans are grief enough. Fury. Behold an emblem: those who do endure Deep wrongs for man, and scorn, and chains, but heap Thousandfold torment on themselves and him. Prometheus. Remit the anguish of that lighted stare; Close those wan lips; let that thorn-wounded brow Stream not with blood; it mingles with thy tears! Fix, fix those tortured orbs in peace and death, So thy sick throes shake not that crucifix, So those pale fingers play not with thy gore. O, horrible! Thy name I will not speak, It hath become a curse. I see, I see, The wise, the mild, the lofty, and the just, Whom thy slaves hate for being like to thee, Some hunted by foul lies from their heart's home, An early-chosen, late-lamented home; As hooded ounces cling to the driven hind; Some linked to corpses in unwholesome cells: SomeHear I not the multitude laugh loud? Impaled in lingering fire: and mighty realms Float by my feet, like sea-uprooted isles, Whose sons are kneaded down in common blood By the red light of their own burning homes. Fury. Blood thou canst see, and fire; and canst hear groans; Worse things, unheard, unseen, remain behind. Prometheus. Worse? Fury.    In each human heart terror survives The ravin it has gorged: the loftiest fear All that they would disdain to think were true: Hypocrisy and custom make their minds The fanes of many a worship, now outworn. They dare not devise good for man's estate, And yet they know not that they do not dare. The good want power, but to weep barren tears. The powerful goodness want: worse need for them. The wise want love; and those who love want wisdom; And all best things are thus confused to ill. Many are strong and rich, and would be just, But live among their suffering fellow-men As if none felt: they know not what they do. Prometheus. Thy words are like a cloud of wingd snakes; And yet I pity those they torture not. Fury. Thou pitiest them? I speak no more! [Vanishes. Prometheus.                    Ah woe! Ah woe! Alas! pain, pain ever, for ever! I close my tearless eyes, but see more clear Thy works within my woe-illumd mind, Thou subtle tyrant! Peace is in the grave. The grave hides all things beautiful and good: I am a God and cannot find it there, Nor would I seek it: for, though dread revenge, This is defeat, fierce king, not victory. The sights with which thou torturest gird my soul With new endurance, till the hour arrives When they shall be no types of things which are. Panthea. Alas! what sawest thou more? Prometheus.                There are two woes: To speak, and to behold; thou spare me one. Names are there, Nature's sacred watchwords, they Were borne aloft in bright emblazonry; The nations thronged around, and cried aloud, As with one voice, Truth, liberty, and love! Suddenly fierce confusion fell from heaven Among them: there was strife, deceit, and fear: Tyrants rushed in, and did divide the spoil. This was the shadow of the truth I saw. The Earth. I felt thy torture, son; with such mixed joy As pain and virtue give. To cheer thy state I bid ascend those subtle and fair spirits, Whose homes are the dim caves of human thought, And who inhabit, as birds wing the wind, Its world-surrounding aether: they behold Beyond that twilight realm, as in a glass, The future: may they speak comfort to thee! Panthea. Look, sister, where a troop of spirits gather, Like flocks of clouds in spring's delightful weather, Thronging in the blue air! Ione.               And see! more come, Like fountain-vapours when the winds are dumb, That climb up the ravine in scattered lines. And, hark! is it the music of the pines? Is it the lake? Is it the waterfall? Panthea. 'Tis something sadder, sweeter far than all. Chorus of Spirits. From unremembered ages we Gentle guides and guardians be Of heaven-oppressed mortality; And we breathe, and sicken not, The atmosphere of human thought: Be it dim, and dank, and gray, Like a storm-extinguished day, Travelled o'er by dying gleams; Be it bright as all between Cloudless skies and windless streams, Silent, liquid, and serene; As the birds within the wind, As the fish within the wave, As the thoughts of man's own mind Float through all above the grave; We make there our liquid lair, Voyaging cloudlike and unpent Through the boundless element: Thence we bear the prophecy Which begins and ends in thee! Ione. More yet come, one by one: the air around them Looks radiant as the air around a star. First Spirit. On a battle-trumpet's blast I fled hither, fast, fast, fast, 'Mid the darkness upward cast. From the dust of creeds outworn, From the tyrant's banner torn, Gathering 'round me, onward borne, There was mingled many a cry Freedom! Hope! Death! Victory! Till they faded through the sky; And one sound, above, around, One sound beneath, around, above, Was moving; 'twas the soul of Love; 'Twas the hope, the prophecy, Which begins and ends in thee. Second Spirit. A rainbow's arch stood on the sea, Which rocked beneath, immovably; And the triumphant storm did flee, Like a conqueror, swift and proud, Between, with many a captive cloud, A shapeless, dark and rapid crowd, Each by lightning riven in half: I heard the thunder hoarsely laugh: Mighty fleets were strewn like chaff And spread beneath a hell of death O'er the white waters. I alit On a great ship lightning-split, And speeded hither on the sigh Of one who gave an enemy His plank, then plunged aside to die. Third Spirit. I sate beside a sage's bed, And the lamp was burning red Near the book where he had fed, When a Dream with plumes of flame, To his pillow hovering came, And I knew it was the same Which had kindled long ago Pity, eloquence, and woe; And the world awhile below Wore the shade, its lustre made. It has borne me here as fleet As Desire's lightning feet: I must ride it back ere morrow, Or the sage will wake in sorrow. Fourth Spirit. On a poet's lips I slept Dreaming like a love-adept In the sound his breathing kept; Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses, But feeds on the areal kisses Of shapes that haunt thought's wildernesses. He will watch from dawn to gloom The lake-reflected sun illume The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom, Nor heed nor see, what things they be; But from these create he can Forms more real than living man, Nurslings of immortality! One of these awakened me, And I sped to succour thee. Ione. Behold'st thou not two shapes from the east and west Come, as two doves to one belovd nest, Twin nurslings of the all-sustaining air On swift still wings glide down the atmosphere? And, hark! their sweet, sad voices! 'tis despair Mingled with love and then dissolved in sound. Panthea. Canst thou speak, sister? all my words are drowned. Ione. Their beauty gives me voice. See how they float On their sustaining wings of skiey grain, Orange and azure deepening into gold: Their soft smiles light the air like a star's fire. Chorus of Spirits. Hast thou beheld the form of Love? Fifth Spirit.                   As over wide dominions I sped, like some swift cloud that wings the wide air's wildernesses, That planet-crested shape swept by on lightning-braided pinions, Scattering the liquid joy of life from his ambrosial tresses: His footsteps paved the world with light; but as I passed 'twas fading, And hollow Ruin yawned behind: great sages bound in madness, And headless patriots, and pale youths who perished, unupbraiding, Gleamed in the night. I wandered o'er, till thou, O King of sadness, Turned by thy smile the worst I saw to recollected gladness. Sixth Spirit. Ah, sister! Desolation is a delicate thing: It walks not on the earth, it floats not on the air, But treads with lulling footstep, and fans with silent wing The tender hopes which in their hearts the best and gentlest bear; Who, soothed to false repose by the fanning plumes above And the music-stirring motion of its soft and busy feet, Dream visions of areal joy, and call the monster, Love, And wake, and find the shadow Pain, as he whom now we greet. Chorus. Though Ruin now Love's shadow be, Following him, destroyingly, On Death's white and wingd steed, Which the fleetest cannot flee, Trampling down both flower and weed, Man and beast, and foul and fair, Like a tempest through the air; Thou shalt quell this horseman grim, Woundless though in heart or limb. Prometheus. Spirits! how know ye this shall be? Chorus. In the atmosphere we breathe, As buds grow red when the snow-storms flee, From Spring gathering up beneath, Whose mild winds shake the elder brake, And the wandering herdsmen know That the white-thorn soon will blow: Wisdom, Justice, Love, and Peace, When they struggle to increase,   Are to us as soft winds be   To shepherd boys, the prophecy   Which begins and ends in thee.   Ione. Where are the Spirits fled? Panthea.                Only a sense Remains of them, like the omnipotence Of music, when the inspired voice and lute Languish, ere yet the responses are mute, Which through the deep and labyrinthine soul, Like echoes through long caverns, wind and roll. Prometheus. How fair these airborn shapes! and yet I feel Most vain all hope but love; and thou art far, Asia! who, when my being overflowed, Wert like a golden chalice to bright wine Which else had sunk into the thirsty dust. All things are still: alas! how heavily This quiet morning weighs upon my heart; Though I should dream I could even sleep with grief If slumber were denied not. I would fain Be what it is my destiny to be, The saviour and the strength of suffering man, Or sink into the original gulf of things: There is no agony, and no solace left; Earth can console, Heaven can torment no more. Panthea. Hast thou forgotten one who watches thee The cold dark night, and never sleeps but when The shadow of thy spirit falls on her? Prometheus. I said all hope was vain but love: thou lovest. Panthea. Deeply in truth; but the eastern star looks white, And Asia waits in that far Indian vale, The scene of her sad exile; rugged once And desolate and frozen, like this ravine; But now invested with fair flowers and herbs, And haunted by sweet airs and sounds, which flow Among the woods and waters, from the aether Of her transforming presence, which would fade If it were mingled not with thine. Farewell! END OF THE FIRST ACT. ACT II Scene I. Morning. A lovely Vale in the Indian Caucasus. Asia alone. Asia. From all the blasts of heaven thou hast descended: Yes, like a spirit, like a thought, which makes Unwonted tears throng to the horny eyes, And beatings haunt the desolated heart, Which should have learnt repose: thou hast descended Cradled in tempests; thou dost wake, O Spring! O child of many winds! As suddenly Thou comest as the memory of a dream, Which now is sad because it hath been sweet; Like genius, or like joy which riseth up As from the earth, clothing with golden clouds The desert of our life. This is the season, this the day, the hour; At sunrise thou shouldst come, sweet sister mine, Too long desired, too long delaying, come! How like death-worms the wingless moments crawl! The point of one white star is quivering still Deep in the orange light of widening morn Beyond the purple mountains. through a chasm Of wind-divided mist the darker lake Reflects it: now it wanes: it gleams again As the waves fade, and as the burning threads Of woven cloud unravel in pale air: 'Tis lost! and through yon peaks of cloud-like snow The roseate sunlight quivers: hear I not The olian music of her sea-green plumes Winnowing the crimson dawn? [Panthea enters.                I feel, I see Those eyes which burn through smiles that fade in tears, Like stars half quenched in mists of silver dew. Belovd and most beautiful, who wearest The shadow of that soul by which I live, How late thou art! the spherd sun had climbed The sea; my heart was sick with hope, before The printless air felt thy belated plumes. Panthea. Pardon, great Sister! but my wings were faint With the delight of a remembered dream, As are the noontide plumes of summer winds Satiate with sweet flowers. I was wont to sleep Peacefully, and awake refreshed and calm Before the sacred Titan's fall, and thy Unhappy love, had made, through use and pity, Both love and woe familiar to my heart As they had grown to thine: erewhile I slept Under the glaucous caverns of old Ocean Within dim bowers of green and purple moss, Our young Ione's soft and milky arms Locked then, as now, behind my dark, moist hair, While my shut eyes and cheek were pressed within The folded depth of her life-breathing bosom: But not as now, since I am made the wind Which fails beneath the music that I bear Of thy most wordless converse; since dissolved Into the sense with which love talks, my rest Was troubled and yet sweet; my waking hours Too full of care and pain. Asia.               Lift up thine eyes, And let me read thy dream. Panthea.               As I have said With our sea-sister at his feet I slept. The mountain mists, condensing at our voice Under the moon, had spread their snowy flakes, From the keen ice shielding our linkd sleep. Then two dreams came. One, I remember not. But in the other his pale wound-worn limbs Fell from Prometheus, and the azure night Grew radiant with the glory of that form Which lives unchanged within, and his voice fell Like music which makes giddy the dim brain, Faint with intoxication of keen joy: 'Sister of her whose footsteps pave the world With lovelinessmore fair than aught but her, Whose shadow thou artlift thine eyes on me.' I lifted them: the overpowering light Of that immortal shape was shadowed o'er By love; which, from his soft and flowing limbs, And passion-parted lips, and keen, faint eyes, Steamed forth like vaporous fire; an atmosphere Which wrapped me in its all-dissolving power, As the warm aether of the morning sun Wraps ere it drinks some cloud of wandering dew. I saw not, heard not, moved not, only felt His presence flow and mingle through my blood Till it became his life, and his grew mine, And I was thus absorbed, until it passed, And like the vapours when the sun sinks down, Gathering again in drops upon the pines, And tremulous as they, in the deep night My being was condensed; and as the rays Of thought were slowly gathered, I could hear His voice, whose accents lingered ere they died Like footsteps of weak melody: thy name Among the many sounds alone I heard Of what might be articulate; though still I listened through the night when sound was none. Ione wakened then, and said to me: 'Canst thou divine what troubles me to-night? I always knew what I desired before, Nor ever found delight to wish in vain. But now I cannot tell thee what I seek; I know not; something sweet, since it is sweet Even to desire; it is thy sport, false sister; Thou hast discovered some enchantment old, Whose spells have stolen my spirit as I slept And mingled it with thine: for when just now We kissed, I felt within thy parted lips The sweet air that sustained me, and the warmth Of the life-blood, for loss of which I faint, Quivered between our intertwining arms.' I answered not, for the Eastern star grew pale, But fled to thee. Asia.          Thou speakest, but thy words Are as the air: I feel them not: Oh, lift Thine eyes, that I may read his written soul! Panthea. I lift them though they droop beneath the load Of that they would express: what canst thou see But thine own fairest shadow imaged there? Asia. Thine eyes are like the deep, blue, boundless heaven Contracted to two circles underneath Their long, fine lashes; dark, far, measureless, Orb within orb, and line through line inwoven. Panthea. Why lookest thou as if a spirit passed? Asia. There is a change: beyond their inmost depth I see a shade, a shape: 'tis He, arrayed In the soft light of his own smiles, which spread Like radiance from the cloud-surrounded moon. Prometheus, it is thine! depart not yet! Say not those smiles that we shall meet again Within that bright pavilion which their beams Shall build o'er the waste world? The dream is told. What shape is that between us? Its rude hair Roughens the wind that lifts it, its regard Is wild and quick, yet 'tis a thing of air, For through its gray robe gleams the golden dew Whose stars the noon has quenched not. Dream.                      Follow! Follow!                      Panthea. It is mine other dream. Asia.             It disappears.             Panthea. It passes now into my mind. Methought As we sate here, the flower-infolding buds Burst on yon lightning-blasted almond-tree, When swift from the white Scythian wilderness A wind swept forth wrinkling the Earth with frost: I looked, and all the blossoms were blown down; But on each leaf was stamped, as the blue bells Of Hyacinth tell Apollo's written grief, O, follow, follow! Asia.           As you speak, your words Fill, pause by pause, my own forgotten sleep With shapes. Methought among these lawns together We wandered, underneath the young gray dawn, And multitudes of dense white fleecy clouds Were wandering in thick flocks along the mountains Shepherded by the slow, unwilling wind; And the white dew on the new-bladed grass, Just piercing the dark earth, hung silently; And there was more which I remember not: But on the shadows of the morning clouds, Athwart the purple mountain slope, was written Follow, O, follow! as they vanished by; And on each herb, from which Heaven's dew had fallen, The like was stamped, as with a withering fire; A wind arose among the pines; it shook The clinging music from their boughs, and then Low, sweet, faint sounds, like the farewell of ghosts, Were heard: O, follow, follow, follow me! And then I said: 'Panthea, look on me.' But in the depth of those belovd eyes Still I saw, follow, follow! Echo.                Follow, follow!                Panthea. The crags, this clear spring morning, mock our voices As they were spirit-tongued. Asia.                It is some being Around the crags. What fine clear sounds! O, list! Echoes (unseen). Echoes we: listen! We cannot stay: As dew-stars glisten Then fade away   Child of Ocean!   Asia. Hark! Spirits speak. The liquid responses Of their areal tongues yet sound. Panthea.                   I hear.                   Echoes. O, follow, follow, As our voice recedeth Through the caverns hollow, Where the forest spreadeth; (More distant.) O, follow, follow! Through the caverns hollow, As the song floats thou pursue, Where the wild bee never flew, Through the noontide darkness deep, By the odour-breathing sleep Of faint night flowers, and the waves At the fountain-lighted caves, While our music, wild and sweet, Mocks thy gently falling feet,   Child of Ocean!   Asia. Shall we pursue the sound? It grows more faint And distant. Panthea. List! the strain floats nearer now. Echoes. In the world unknown Sleeps a voice unspoken; By thy step alone Can its rest be broken;   Child of Ocean!   Asia. How the notes sink upon the ebbing wind! Echoes. O, follow, follow! Through the caverns hollow, As the song floats thou pursue, By the woodland noontide dew; By the forest, lakes, and fountains, Through the many-folded mountains; To the rents, and gulfs, and chasms, Where the Earth reposed from spasms, On the day when He and thou Parted, to commingle now;   Child of Ocean!   Asia. Come, sweet Panthea, link thy hand in mine, And follow, ere the voices fade away. Scene II. A Forest, intermingled with Rocks and Caverns. Asia and Panthea pass into it. Two young Fauns are sitting on a Rock listening. Semichorus I. of Spirits. The path through which that lovely twain Have passed, by cedar, pine, and yew, And each dark tree that ever grew, Is curtained out from Heaven's wide blue; Nor sun, nor moon, nor wind, nor rain,   Can pierce its interwoven bowers, Nor aught, save where some cloud of dew, Drifted along the earth-creeping breeze, Between the trunks of the hoar trees,   Hangs each a pearl in the pale flowers Of the green laurel, blown anew; And bends, and then fades silently, One frail and fair anemone: Or when some star of many a one That climbs and wanders through steep night, Has found the cleft through which alone Beams fall from high those depths upon Ere it is borne away, away, By the swift Heavens that cannot stay, It scatters drops of golden light, Like lines of rain that ne'er unite: And the gloom divine is all around, And underneath is the mossy ground. Semichorus II. There the voluptuous nightingales, Are awake through all the broad noonday. When one with bliss or sadness fails,   And through the windless ivy-boughs, Sick with sweet love, droops dying away On its mate's music-panting bosom; Another from the swinging blossom,   Watching to catch the languid close Of the last strain, then lifts on high The wings of the weak melody, 'Till some new strain of feeling bear The song, and all the woods are mute; When there is heard through the dim air The rush of wings, and rising there Like many a lake-surrounded flute, Sounds overflow the listener's brain So sweet, that joy is almost pain. Semichorus I. There those enchanted eddies play Of echoes, music-tongued, which draw, By Demogorgon's mighty law, With melting rapture, or sweet awe, All spirits on that secret way; As inland boats are driven to Ocean Down streams made strong with mountain-thaw:   And first there comes a gentle sound   To those in talk or slumber bound, And wakes the destined soft emotion, Attracts, impels them; those who saw Say from the breathing earth behind There steams a plume-uplifting wind Which drives them on their path, while they Believe their own swift wings and feet The sweet desires within obey: And so they float upon their way, Until, still sweet, but loud and strong, The storm of sound is driven along, Sucked up and hurrying: as they fleet Behind, its gathering billows meet And to the fatal mountain bear Like clouds amid the yielding air. First Faun. Canst thou imagine where those spirits live Which make such delicate music in the woods? We haunt within the least frequented caves And closest coverts, and we know these wilds, Yet never meet them, though we hear them oft: Where may they hide themselves? Second Faun.                  'Tis hard to tell: I have heard those more skilled in spirits say, The bubbles, which the enchantment of the sun Sucks from the pale faint water-flowers that pave The oozy bottom of clear lakes and pools, Are the pavilions where such dwell and float Under the green and golden atmosphere Which noontide kindles through the woven leaves; And when these burst, and the thin fiery air, The which they breathed within those lucent domes, Ascends to flow like meteors through the night, They ride on them, and rein their headlong speed, And bow their burning crests, and glide in fire Under the waters of the earth again. First Faun. If such live thus, have others other lives, Under pink blossoms or within the bells Of meadow flowers, or folded violets deep, Or on their dying odours, when they die, Or in the sunlight of the spherd dew? Second Faun. Ay, many more which we may well divine. But, should we stay to speak, noontide would come, And thwart Silenus find his goats undrawn, And grudge to sing those wise and lovely songs Of Fate, and Chance, and God, and Chaos old, And Love, and the chained Titan's woful doom, And how he shall be loosed, and make the earth One brotherhood: delightful strains which cheer Our solitary twilights, and which charm To silence the unenvying nightingales. Scene III. A Pinnacle of Rock among Mountains. Asia and Panthea. Panthea. Hither the sound has borne usto the realm Of Demogorgon, and the mighty portal, Like a volcano's meteor-breathing chasm, Whence the oracular vapour is hurled up Which lonely men drink wandering in their youth, And call truth, virtue, love, genius, or joy, That maddening wine of life, whose dregs they drain To deep intoxication; and uplift, Like Mnads who cry loud, Evoe! Evoe! The voice which is contagion to the world. Asia. Fit throne for such a Power! Magnificent! How glorious art thou, Earth! And if thou be The shadow of some spirit lovelier still, Though evil stain its work, and it should be Like its creation, weak yet beautiful, I could fall down and worship that and thee. Even now my heart adoreth: Wonderful! Look, sister, ere the vapour dim thy brain: Beneath is a wide plain of billowy mist, As a lake, paving in the morning sky, With azure waves which burst in silver light, Some Indian vale. Behold it, rolling on Under the curdling winds, and islanding The peak whereon we stand, midway, around, Encinctured by the dark and blooming forests, Dim twilight-lawns, and stream-illumd caves, And wind-enchanted shapes of wandering mist; And far on high the keen sky-cleaving mountains From icy spires of sun-like radiance fling The dawn, as lifted Ocean's dazzling spray, From some Atlantic islet scattered up, Spangles the wind with lamp-like water-drops. The vale is girdled with their walls, a howl Of cataracts from their thaw-cloven ravines, Satiates the listening wind, continuous, vast, Awful as silence. Hark! the rushing snow! The sun-awakened avalanche! whose mass, Thrice sifted by the storm, had gathered there Flake after flake, in heaven-defying minds As thought by thought is piled, till some great truth Is loosened, and the nations echo round, Shaken to their roots, as do the mountains now. Panthea. Look how the gusty sea of mist is breaking In crimson foam, even at our feet! it rises As Ocean at the enchantment of the moon Round foodless men wrecked on some oozy isle. Asia. The fragments of the cloud are scattered up; The wind that lifts them disentwines my hair; Its billows now sweep o'er mine eyes; my brain Grows dizzy; see'st thou shapes within the mist? Panthea. A countenance with beckoning smiles: there burns An azure fire within its golden locks! Another and another: hark! they speak! Song of Spirits. To the deep, to the deep,   Down, down! Through the shade of sleep, Through the cloudy strife Of Death and of Life; Through the veil and the bar Of things which seem and are Even to the steps of the remotest throne,   Down, down!    While the sound whirls around,   Down, down! As the fawn draws the hound, As the lightning the vapour, As a weak moth the taper; Death, despair; love, sorrow; Time both; to-day, to-morrow; As steel obeys the spirit of the stone,   Down, down!    Through the gray, void abysm,   Down, down! Where the air is no prism, And the moon and stars are not, And the cavern-crags wear not The radiance of Heaven, Nor the gloom to Earth given, Where there is One pervading, One alone,   Down, down!    In the depth of the deep,   Down, down! Like veiled lightning asleep, Like the spark nursed in embers, The last look Love remembers, Like a diamond, which shines On the dark wealth of mines, A spell is treasured but for thee alone.   Down, down!    We have bound thee, we guide thee;   Down, down! With the bright form beside thee; Resist not the weakness, Such strength is in meekness That the Eternal, the Immortal, Most unloose through life's portal The snake-like Doom coiled underneath his throne   By that alone.   Scene IV. The Cave of Demogorgon. Asia and Panthea. Panthea. What viled form sits on that ebon throne? Asia. The veil has fallen. Panthea.            I see a mighty darkness Filling the seat of power, and rays of gloom Dart round, as light from the meridian sun. Ungazed upon and shapeless; neither limb, Nor form, nor outline; yet we feel it is A living Spirit. Demogorgon.          Ask what thou wouldst know.          Asia. What canst thou tell? Demogorgon.            All things thou dar'st demand.            Asia. Who made the living world? Demogorgon.               God.               Asia.                 Who made all That it contains? thought, passion, reason, will, Imagination? Demogorgon. God: Almighty God. Asia. Who made that sense which, when the winds of Spring In rarest visitation, or the voice Of one belovd heard in youth alone, Fills the faint eyes with falling tears which dim The radiant looks of unbewailing flowers, And leaves this peopled earth a solitude When it returns no more? Demogorgon.              Merciful God.              Asia. And who made terror, madness, crime, remorse, Which from the links of the great chain of things, To every thought within the mind of man Sway and drag heavily, and each one reels Under the load towards the pit of death; Abandoned hope, and love that turns to hate; And self-contempt, bitterer to drink than blood; Pain, whose unheeded and familiar speech Is howling, and keen shrieks, day after day; And Hell, or the sharp fear of Hell? Demogorgon.                     He reigns.                     Asia. Utter his name: a world pining in pain Asks but his name: curses shall drag him down. Demogorgon. He reigns. Asia.      I feel, I know it: who?      Demogorgon.                   He reigns.                   Asia. Who reigns? There was the Heaven and Earth at first, And Light and Love; then Saturn, from whose throne Time fell, an envious shadow: such the state Of the earth's primal spirits beneath his sway, As the calm joy of flowers and living leaves Before the wind or sun has withered them And semivital worms; but he refused The birthright of their being, knowledge, power, The skill which wields the elements, the thought Which pierces this dim universe like light, Self-empire, and the majesty of love; For thirst of which they fainted. Then Prometheus Gave wisdom, which is strength, to Jupiter, And with this law alone, 'Let man be free,' Clothed him with the dominion of wide Heaven. To know nor faith, nor love, nor law; to be Omnipotent but friendless is to reign; And Jove now reigned; for on the race of man First famine, and then toil, and then disease, Strife, wounds, and ghastly death unseen before, Fell; and the unseasonable seasons drove With alternating shafts of frost and fire, Their shelterless, pale tribes to mountain caves: And in their desert hearts fierce wants he sent, And mad disquietudes, and shadows idle Of unreal good, which levied mutual war, So ruining the lair wherein they raged. Prometheus saw, and waked the legioned hopes Which sleep within folded Elysian flowers, Nepenthe, Moly, Amaranth, fadeless blooms, That they might hide with thin and rainbow wings The shape of Death; and Love he sent to bind The disunited tendrils of that vine Which bears the wine of life, the human heart; And he tamed fire which, like some beast of prey, Most terrible, but lovely, played beneath The frown of man; and tortured to his will Iron and gold, the slaves and signs of power, And gems and poisons, and all subtlest forms Hidden beneath the mountains and the waves. He gave man speech, and speech created thought, Which is the measure of the universe; And Science struck the thrones of earth and heaven, Which shook, but fell not; and the harmonious mind Poured itself forth in all-prophetic song; And music lifted up the listening spirit Until it walked, exempt from mortal care, Godlike, o'er the clear billows of sweet sound; And human hands first mimicked and then mocked, With moulded limbs more lovely than its own, The human form, till marble grew divine; And mothers, gazing, drank the love men see Reflected in their race, behold, and perish. He told the hidden power of herbs and springs, And Disease drank and slept. Death grew like sleep. He taught the implicated orbits woven Of the wide-wandering stars; and how the sun Changes his lair, and by what secret spell The pale moon is transformed, when her broad eye Gazes not on the interlunar sea: He taught to rule, as life directs the limbs, The tempest-wingd chariots of the Ocean, And the Celt knew the Indian. Cities then Were built, and through their snow-like columns flowed The warm winds, and the azure aether shone, And the blue sea and shadowy hills were seen. Such, the alleviations of his state, Prometheus gave to man, for which he hangs Withering in destined pain: but who rains down Evil, the immedicable plague, which, while Man looks on his creation like a God And sees that it is glorious, drives him on, The wreck of his own will, the scorn of earth, The outcast, the abandoned, the alone? Not Jove: while yet his frown shook Heaven, ay, when His adversary from adamantine chains Cursed him, he trembled like a slave. Declare Who is his master? Is he too a slave? Demogorgon. All spirits are enslaved which serve things evil: Thou knowest if Jupiter be such or no. Asia. Whom calledst thou God? Demogorgon.             I spoke but as ye speak, For Jove is the supreme of living things. Asia. Who is the master of the slave? Demogorgon.                  If the abysm Could vomit forth its secrets. . . But a voice Is wanting, the deep truth is imageless; For what would it avail to bid thee gaze On the revolving world? What to bid speak Fate, Time, Occasion, Chance, and Change? To these All things are subject but eternal Love. Asia. So much I asked before, and my heart gave The response thou hast given; and of such truths Each to itself must be the oracle. One more demand; and do thou answer me As mine own soul would answer, did it know That which I ask. Prometheus shall arise Henceforth the sun of this rejoicing world: When shall the destined hour arrive? Demogorgon.                     Behold!                     Asia. The rocks are cloven, and through the purple night I see cars drawn by rainbow-wingd steeds Which trample the dim winds: in each there stands A wild-eyed charioteer urging their flight. Some look behind, as fiends pursued them there, And yet I see no shapes but the keen stars: Others, with burning eyes, lean forth, and drink With eager lips the wind of their own speed, As if the thing they loved fled on before, And now, even now, they clasped it. Their bright locks Stream like a comet's flashing hair: they all Sweep onward. Demogorgon.        These are the immortal Hours, Of whom thou didst demand. One waits for thee. Asia. A spirit with a dreadful countenance Checks its dark chariot by the craggy gulf. Unlike thy brethren, ghastly charioteer, Who art thou? Whither wouldst thou bear me? Speak! Spirit. I am the shadow of a destiny More dread than is my aspect: ere yon planet Has set, the darkness which ascends with me Shall wrap in lasting night heaven's kingless throne. Asia. What meanest thou? Panthea.           That terrible shadow floats Up from its throne, as may the lurid smoke Of earthquake-ruined cities o'er the sea. Lo! it ascends the car; the coursers fly Terrified: watch its path among the stars Blackening the night! Asia.            Thus I am answered: strange!            Panthea. See, near the verge, another chariot stays; An ivory shell inlaid with crimson fire, Which comes and goes within its sculptured rim Of delicate strange tracery; the young spirit That guides it has the dove-like eyes of hope; How its soft smiles attract the soul! as light Lures wingd insects through the lampless air. Spirit. My coursers are fed with the lightning, They drink of the whirlwind's stream, And when the red morning is bright'ning They bathe in the fresh sunbeam; They have strength for their swiftness I deem, Then ascend with me, daughter of Ocean. I desire: and their speed makes night kindle; I fear: they outstrip the Typhoon; Ere the cloud piled on Atlas can dwindle We encircle the earth and the moon: We shall rest from long labours at noon: Then ascend with me, daughter of Ocean. Scene V. The Car pauses within a Cloud on the top of a snowy Mountain. Asia, Panthea, and the Spirit of the Hour. Spirit. On the brink of the night and the morning My coursers are wont to respire; But the Earth has just whispered a warning That their flight must be swifter than fire: They shall drink the hot speed of desire! Asia. Thou breathest on their nostrils, but my breath Would give them swifter speed. Spirit.                 Alas! it could not.                 Panthea. Oh Spirit! pause, and tell whence is the light Which fills this cloud? the sun is yet unrisen. Spirit. The sun will rise not until noon. Apollo Is held in heaven by wonder; and the light Which fills this vapour, as the areal hue Of fountain-gazing roses fills the water, Flows from thy mighty sister. Panthea.                 Yes, I feel                 Asia. What is it with thee, sister? Thou art pale. Panthea. How thou art changed! I dare not look on thee; I feel but see thee not. I scarce endure The radiance of thy beauty. Some good change Is working in the elements, which suffer Thy presence thus unveiled. The Nereids tell That on the day when the clear hyaline Was cloven at thine uprise, and thou didst stand Within a veind shell, which floated on Over the calm floor of the crystal sea, Among the gean isles, and by the shores Which bear thy name; love, like the atmosphere Of the sun's fire filling the living world, Burst from thee, and illumined earth and heaven And the deep ocean and the sunless caves And all that dwells within them; till grief cast Eclipse upon the soul from which it came: Such art thou now; nor is it I alone, Thy sister, thy companion, thine own chosen one, But the whole world which seeks thy sympathy. Hearest thou not sounds i' the air which speak the love Of all articulate beings? Feelest thou not The inanimate winds enamoured of thee? List! [Music. Asia. Thy words are sweeter than aught else but his Whose echoes they are: yet all love is sweet, Given or returned. Common as light is love, And its familiar voice wearies not ever. Like the wide heaven, the all-sustaining air, It makes the reptile equal to the God: They who inspire it most are fortunate, As I am now; but those who feel it most Are happier still, after long sufferings, As I shall soon become. Panthea.             List! Spirits speak.             Voice in the Air, singing. Life of Life! thy lips enkindle With their love the breath between them; And thy smiles before they dwindle Make the cold air fire; then screen them In those looks, where whoso gazes Faints, entangled in their mazes. Child of Light! thy limbs are burning Through the vest which seems to hide them; As the radiant lines of morning Through the clouds ere they divide them; And this atmosphere divinest Shrouds thee wheresoe'er thou shinest. Fair are others; none beholds thee, But thy voice sounds low and tender Like the fairest, for it folds thee From the sight, that liquid splendour, And all feel, yet see thee never, As I feel now, lost for ever! Lamp of Earth! where'er thou movest Its dim shapes are clad with brightness, And the souls of whom thou lovest Walk upon the winds with lightness, Till they fail, as I am failing, Dizzy, lost, yet unbewailing! Asia. My soul is an enchanted boat, Which, like a sleeping swan, doth float Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing; And thine doth like an angel sit Beside a helm conducting it, Whilst all the winds with melody are ringing. It seems to float ever, for ever, Upon that many-winding river, Between mountains, woods, abysses, A paradise of wildernesses! Till, like one in slumber bound, Borne to the ocean, I float down, around, Into a sea profound, of ever-spreading sound: Meanwhile thy spirit lifts its pinions In music's most serene dominions; Catching the winds that fan that happy heaven. And we sail on, away, afar, Without a course, without a star, But, by the instinct of sweet music driven; Till through Elysian garden islets By thee, most beautiful of pilots, Where never mortal pinnace glided, The boat of my desire is guided: Realms where the air we breathe is love, Which in the winds and on the waves doth move, Harmonizing this earth with what we feel above. We have passed Age's icy caves, And Manhood's dark and tossing waves, And Youth's smooth ocean, smiling to betray: Beyond the glassy gulfs we flee Of shadow-peopled Infancy, Through Death and Birth, to a diviner day; A paradise of vaulted bowers, Lit by downward-gazing flowers, And watery paths that wind between Wildernesses calm and green, Peopled by shapes too bright to see, And rest, having beheld; somewhat like thee; Which walk upon the sea, and chant melodiously! END OF THE SECOND ACT. ACT III Scene I. Heaven. Jupiter on his Throne; Thetis and the other Deities assembled. Jupiter. Ye congregated powers of heaven, who share The glory and the strength of him ye serve, Rejoice! henceforth I am omnipotent. All else had been subdued to me; alone The soul of man, like unextinguished fire, Yet burns towards heaven with fierce reproach, and doubt, And lamentation, and reluctant prayer, Hurling up insurrection, which might make Our antique empire insecure, though built On eldest faith, and hell's coeval, fear; And though my curses through the pendulous air, Like snow on herbless peaks, fall flake by flake, And cling to it; though under my wrath's night It climbs the crags of life, step after step, Which wound it, as ice wounds unsandalled feet, It yet remains supreme o'er misery, Aspiring, unrepressed, yet soon to fall: Even now have I begotten a strange wonder, That fatal child, the terror of the earth, Who waits but till the destined hour arrive, Bearing from Demogorgon's vacant throne The dreadful might of ever-living limbs Which clothed that awful spirit unbeheld, To redescend, and trample out the spark. Pour forth heaven's wine, Idan Ganymede, And let it fill the Ddal cups like fire, And from the flower-inwoven soil divine Ye all-triumphant harmonies arise, As dew from earth under the twilight stars: Drink! be the nectar circling through your veins The soul of joy, ye ever-living Gods, Till exultation burst in one wide voice Like music from Elysian winds.                 And thou Ascend beside me, veild in the light Of the desire which makes thee one with me, Thetis, bright image of eternity! When thou didst cry, 'Insufferable might! God! Spare me! I sustain not the quick flames, The penetrating presence; all my being, Like him whom the Numidian seps did thaw Into a dew with poison, is dissolved, Sinking through its foundations:' even then Two mighty spirits, mingling, made a third Mightier than either, which, unbodied now, Between us floats, felt, although unbeheld, Waiting the incarnation, which ascends, (Hear ye the thunder of the fiery wheels Griding the winds?) from Demogorgon's throne. Victory! victory! Feel'st thou not, O world, The earthquake of his chariot thundering up Olympus? [The Car of the Hour arrives. Demogorgon descends, and moves towards the Throne of Jupiter.     Awful shape, what art thou? Speak!     Demogorgon. Eternity. Demand no direr name. Descend, and follow me down the abyss. I am thy child, as thou wert Saturn's child; Mightier than thee: and we must dwell together Henceforth in darkness. Lift thy lightnings not. The tyranny of heaven none may retain, Or reassume, or hold, succeeding thee: Yet if thou wilt, as 'tis the destiny Of trodden worms to writhe till they are dead, Put forth thy might. Jupiter.            Detested prodigy! Even thus beneath the deep Titanian prisons I trample thee! thou lingerest?                  Mercy! mercy! No pity, no release, no respite! Oh, That thou wouldst make mine enemy my judge, Even where he hangs, seared by my long revenge, On Caucasus! he would not doom me thus. Gentle, and just, and dreadless, is he not The monarch of the world? What then art thou? No refuge! no appeal!            Sink with me then, We two will sink on the wide waves of ruin, Even as a vulture and a snake outspent Drop, twisted in inextricable fight, Into a shoreless sea. Let hell unlock Its mounded oceans of tempestuous fire, And whelm on them into the bottomless void This desolated world, and thee, and me, The conqueror and the conquered, and the wreck Of that for which they combated.                  Ai! Ai! The elements obey me not. I sink Dizzily down, ever, for ever, down. And, like a cloud, mine enemy above Darkens my fall with victory! Ai, Ai! Scene II. The Mouth of a great River in the Island Atlantis.Ocean is discovered reclining near the Shore; Apollo stands beside him. Ocean. He fell, thou sayest, beneath his conqueror's frown? Apollo. Ay, when the strife was ended which made dim The orb I rule, and shook the solid stars, The terrors of his eye illumined heaven With sanguine light, through the thick ragged skirts Of the victorious darkness, as he fell: Like the last glare of day's red agony, Which, from a rent among the fiery clouds, Burns far along the tempest-wrinkled deep. Ocean. He sunk to the abyss? To the dark void? Apollo. An eagle so caught in some bursting cloud On Caucasus, his thunder-baffled wings Entangled in the whirlwind, and his eyes Which gazed on the undazzling sun, now blinded By the white lightning, while the ponderous hail Beats on his struggling form, which sinks at length Prone, and the areal ice clings over it. Ocean. Henceforth the fields of heaven-reflecting sea Which are my realm, will heave, unstained with blood, Beneath the uplifting winds, like plains of corn Swayed by the summer air; my streams will flow Round many-peopled continents, and round Fortunate isles; and from their glassy thrones Blue Proteus and his humid nymphs shall mark The shadow of fair ships, as mortals see The floating bark of the light-laden moon With that white star, its sightless pilot's crest, Borne down the rapid sunset's ebbing sea; Tracking their path no more by blood and groans, And desolation, and the mingled voice Of slavery and command; but by the light Of wave-reflected flowers, and floating odours, And music soft, and mild, free, gentle voices, And sweetest music, such as spirits love. Apollo. And I shall gaze not on the deeds which make My mind obscure with sorrow, as eclipse Darkens the sphere I guide; but list, I hear The small, clear, silver lute of the young Spirit That sits i' the morning star. Ocean.                 Thou must away; Thy steeds will pause at even, till when farewell: The loud deep calls me home even now to feed it With azure calm out of the emerald urns Which stand for ever full beside my throne. Behold the Nereids under the green sea, Their wavering limbs borne on the wind-like stream, Their white arms lifted o'er their streaming hair With garlands pied and starry sea-flower crowns, Hastening to grace their mighty sister's joy. [A sound of waves is heard. It is the unpastured sea hungering for calm. Peace, monster; I come now. Farewell. Apollo.                     Farewell.                     Scene III. Caucasus. Prometheus, Hercules, Ione, the Earth, Spirits, Asia, and Panthea, borne in the Car with the Spirit of the Hour. Hercules unbinds Prometheus, who descends. Hercules. Most glorious among Spirits, thus doth strength To wisdom, courage, and long-suffering love, And thee, who art the form they animate, Minister like a slave. Prometheus.             Thy gentle words Are sweeter even than freedom long desired And long delayed.          Asia, thou light of life, Shadow of beauty unbeheld: and ye, Fair sister nymphs, who made long years of pain Sweet to remember, through your love and care: Henceforth we will not part. There is a cave, All overgrown with trailing odorous plants, Which curtain out the day with leaves and flowers, And paved with veind emerald, and a fountain Leaps in the midst with an awakening sound. From its curved roof the mountain's frozen tears Like snow, or silver, or long diamond spires, Hang downward, raining forth a doubtful light: And there is heard the ever-moving air, Whispering without from tree to tree, and birds, And bees; and all around are mossy seats, And the rough walls are clothed with long soft grass; A simple dwelling, which shall be our own; Where we will sit and talk of time and change, As the world ebbs and flows, ourselves unchanged. What can hide man from mutability? And if ye sigh, then I will smile; and thou, Ione, shalt chant fragments of sea-music, Until I weep, when ye shal smile away The tears she brought, which yet were sweet to shed. We will entangle buds and flowers and beams Which twinkle on the fountain's brim, and make Strange combinations out of common things, Like human babes in their brief innocence; And we will search, with looks and words of love, For hidden thoughts, each lovelier than the last, Our unexhausted spirits; and like lutes Touched by the skill of the enamoured wind, Weave harmonies divine, yet ever new, From difference sweet where discord cannot be; And hither come, sped on the charmd winds, Which meet from all the points of heaven, as bees From every flower areal Enna feeds, At their known island-homes in Himera, The echoes of the human world, which tell Of the low voice of love, almost unheard, And dove-eyed pity's murmured pain, and music, Itself the echo of the heart, and all That tempers or improves man's life, now free; And lovely apparitions,dim at first, Then radiant, as the mind, arising bright From the embrace of beauty (whence the forms Of which these are the phantoms) casts on them The gathered rays which are reality Shall visit us, the progeny immortal Of Painting, Sculpture, and rapt Poesy, And arts, though unimagined, yet to be. The wandering voices and the shadows these Of all that man becomes, the mediators Of that best worship love, by him and us Given and returned; swift shapes and sounds, which grow More fair and soft as man grows wise and kind, And, veil by veil, evil and error fall: Such virtue has the cave and place around. [Turning to the Spirit of the Hour. For thee, fair Spirit, one toil remains. Ione, Give her that curvd shell, which Proteus old Made Asia's nuptial boon, breathing within it A voice to be accomplished, and which thou Didst hide in grass under the hollow rock. Ione. Thou most desired Hour, more loved and lovely Than all thy sisters, this is the mystic shell; See the pale azure fading into silver Lining it with a soft yet glowing light: Looks it not like lulled music sleeping there? Spirit. It seems in truth the fairest shell of Ocean: Its sound must be at once both sweet and strange. Prometheus. Go, borne over the cities of mankind On whirlwind-footed coursers: once again Outspeed the sun around the orbd world; And as thy chariot cleaves the kindling air, Thou breathe into the many-folded shell, Loosening its mighty music; it shall be As thunder mingled with clear echoes: then Return; and thou shalt dwell beside our cave. And thou, O, Mother Earth! The Earth.                I hear, I feel; Thy lips are on me, and their touch runs down Even to the adamantine central gloom Along these marble nerves; 'tis life, 'tis joy, And through my withered, old, and icy frame The warmth of an immortal youth shoots down Circling. Henceforth the many children fair Folded in my sustaining arms; all plants, And creeping forms, and insects rainbow-winged, And birds, and beasts, and fish, and human shapes, Which drew disease and pain from my wan bosom, Draining the poison of despair, shall take And interchange sweet nutriment; to me Shall they become like sister-antelopes By one fair dam, snow-white and swift as wind, Nursed among lilies near a brimming stream. The dew-mists of my sunless sleep shall float Under the stars like balm: night-folded flowers Shall suck unwithering hues in their repose: And men and beasts in happy dreams shall gather Strength for the coming day, and all its joy: And death shall be the last embrace of her Who takes the life she gave, even as a mother Folding her child, says, 'Leave me not again.' Asia. Oh, mother! wherefore speak the name of death? Cease they to love, and move, and breathe, and speak, Who die? The Earth.     It would avail not to reply: Thou art immortal, and this tongue is known But to the uncommunicating dead. Death is the veil which those who live call life: They sleep, and it is lifted: and meanwhile In mild variety the seasons mild With rainbow-skirted showers, and odorous winds, And long blue meteors cleansing the dull night, And the life-kindling shafts of the keen sun's All-piercing bow, and the dew-mingled rain Of the calm moonbeams, a soft influence mild, Shall clothe the forests and the fields, ay, even The crag-built deserts of the barren deep, With ever-living leaves, and fruits, and flowers. And thou! There is a cavern where my spirit Was panted forth in anguish whilst thy pain Made my heart mad, and those who did inhale it Became mad too, and built a temple there, And spoke, and were oracular, and lured The erring nations round to mutual war, And faithless faith, such as Jove kept with thee; Which breath now rises, as amongst tall weeds A violet's exhalation, and it fills With a serener light and crimson air Intense, yet soft, the rocks and woods around; It feeds the quick growth of the serpent vine, And the dark linkd ivy tangling wild, And budding, blown, or odour-faded blooms Which star the winds with points of coloured light, As they rain through them, and bright golden globes Of fruit, suspended in their own green heaven, And through their veind leaves and amber stems The flowers whose purple and translucid bowls Stand ever mantling with areal dew, The drink of spirits: and it circles round, Like the soft waving wings of noonday dreams, Inspiring calm and happy thoughts, like mine, Now thou art thus restored. This cave is thine. Arise! Appear! [A Spirit rises in the likeness of a winged child.        This is my torch-bearer; Who let his lamp out in old time with gazing On eyes from which he kindled it anew With love, which is as fire, sweet daughter mine, For such is that within thine own. Run, wayward, And guide this company beyond the peak Of Bacchic Nysa, Mnad-haunted mountain, And beyond Indus and its tribute rivers, Trampling the torrent streams and glassy lakes With feet unwet, unwearied, undelaying, And up the green ravine, across the vale, Beside the windless and crystalline pool, Where ever lies, on unerasing waves, The image of a temple, built above, Distinct with column, arch, and architrave, And palm-like capital, and over-wrought, And populous with most living imagery, Praxitelean shapes, whose marble smiles Fill the hushed air with everlasting love. It is deserted now, but once it bore Thy name, Prometheus; there the emulous youths Bore to thy honour through the divine gloom The lamp which was thine emblem; even as those Who bear the untransmitted torch of hope Into the grave, across the night of life, As thou hast borne it most triumphantly To this far goal of Time. Depart, farewell. Beside that temple is the destined cave. Scene IV. A Forest. In the Background a Cave. Prometheus, Asia, Panthea, Ione, and the Spirit of the Earth. Ione. Sister, it is not earthly: how it glides Under the leaves! how on its head there burns A light, like a green star, whose emerald beams Are twined with its fair hair! how, as it moves, The splendour drops in flakes upon the grass! Knowest thou it? Panthea.          It is the delicate spirit That guides the earth through heaven. From afar The populous constellations call that light The loveliest of the planets; and sometimes It floats along the spray of the salt sea, Or makes its chariot of a foggy cloud, Or walks through fields or cities while men sleep, Or o'er the mountain tops, or down the rivers, Or through the green waste wilderness, as now, Wondering at all it sees. Before Jove reigned It loved our sister Asia, and it came Each leisure hour to drink the liquid light Out of her eyes, for which it said it thirsted As one bit by a dipsas, and with her It made its childish confidence, and told her All it had known or seen, for it saw much, Yet idly reasoned what it saw; and called her For whence it sprung it knew not, nor do I Mother, dear mother. The Spirit of the Earth (running to Asia).            Mother, dearest mother; May I then talk with thee as I was wont? May I then hide my eyes in thy soft arms, After thy looks have made them tired of joy? May I then play beside thee the long noons, When work is none in the bright silent air? Asia. I love thee, gentlest being, and henceforth Can cherish thee unenvied: speak, I pray: Thy simple talk once solaced, now delights. Spirit of the Earth. Mother, I am grown wiser, though a child Cannot be wise like thee, within this day; And happier too; happier and wiser both. Thou knowest that toads, and snakes, and loathly worms, And venomous and malicious beasts, and boughs That bore ill berries in the woods, were ever An hindrance to my walks o'er the green world: And that, among the haunts of humankind, Hard-featured men, or with proud, angry looks, Or cold, staid gait, or false and hollow smiles, Or the dull sneer of self-loved ignorance, Or other such foul masks, with which ill thoughts Hide that fair being whom we spirits call man; And women too, ugliest of all things evil, (Though fair, even in a world where thou art fair, When good and kind, free and sincere like thee), When false or frowning made me sick at heart To pass them, though they slept, and I unseen. Well, my path lately lay through a great city Into the woody hills surrounding it: A sentinel was sleeping at the gate: When there was heard a sound, so loud, it shook The towers amid the moonlight, yet more sweet Than any voice but thine, sweetest of all; A long, long sound, as it would never end: And all the inhabitants leaped suddenly Out of their rest, and gathered in the streets, Looking in wonder up to Heaven, while yet The music pealed along. I hid myself Within a fountain in the public square, Where I lay like the reflex of the moon Seen in a wave under green leaves; and soon Those ugly human shapes and visages Of which I spoke as having wrought me pain, Passed floating through the air, and fading still Into the winds that scattered them; and those From whom they passed seemed mild and lovely forms After some foul disguise had fallen, and all Were somewhat changed, and after brief surprise And greetings of delighted wonder, all Went to their sleep again: and when the dawn Came, wouldst thou think that toads, and snakes, and efts, Could e'er be beautiful? yet so they were, And that with little change of shape or hue: All things had put their evil nature off: I cannot tell my joy, when o'er a lake Upon a drooping bough with nightshade twined, I saw two azure halcyons clinging downward And thinning one bright bunch of amber berries, With quick long beaks, and in the deep there lay Those lovely forms imaged as in a sky; So, with my thoughts full of these happy changes, We meet again, the happiest change of all. Asia. And never will we part, till thy chaste sister Who guides the frozen and inconstant moon Will look on thy more warm and equal light Till her heart thaw like flakes of April snow And love thee. Spirit of the Earth.        What; as Asia loves Prometheus?        Asia. Peace, wanton, thou art yet not old enough. Think ye by gazing on each other's eyes To multiply your lovely selves, and fill With spherd fires the interlunar air? Spirit of the Earth. Nay, mother, while my sister trims her lamp 'Tis hard I should go darkling. Asia.                  Listen; look!                  [The Spirit of the Hour enters. Prometheus. We feel what thou hast heard and seen: yet speak. Spirit of the Hour. Soon as the sound had ceased whose thunder filled The abysses of the sky and the wide earth, There was a change: the impalpable thin air And the all-circling sunlight were transformed, As if the sense of love dissolved in them Had folded itself round the spherd world. My vision then grew clear, and I could see Into the mysteries of the universe: Dizzy as with delight I floated down, Winnowing the lightsome air with languid plumes, My coursers sought their birthplace in the sun, Where they henceforth will live exempt from toil, Pasturing flowers of vegetable fire; And where my moonlike car will stand within A temple, gazed upon by Phidian forms Of thee, and Asia, and the Earth, and me, And you fair nymphs looking the love we feel, In memory of the tidings it has borne, Beneath a dome fretted with graven flowers, Poised on twelve columns of resplendent stone, And open to the bright and liquid sky. Yoked to it by an amphisbaenic snake The likeness of those wingd steeds will mock The flight from which they find repose. Alas, Whither has wandered now my partial tongue When all remains untold which ye would hear? As I have said, I floated to the earth: It was, as it is still, the pain of bliss To move, to breathe, to be; I wandering went Among the haunts and dwellings of mankind, And first was disappointed not to see Such mighty change as I had felt within Expressed in outward things; but soon I looked, And behold, thrones were kingless, and men walked One with the other even as spirits do, None fawned, none trampled; hate, disdain, or fear, Self-love or self-contempt, on human brows No more inscribed, as o'er the gate of hell, 'All hope abandon ye who enter here;' None frowned, none trembled, none with eager fear Gazed on another's eye of cold command, Until the subject of a tyrant's will Became, worse fate, the abject of his own, Which spurred him, like an outspent horse, to death. None wrought his lips in truth-entangling lines Which smiled the lie his tongue disdained to speak; None, with firm sneer, trod out in his own heart The sparks of love and hope till there remained Those bitter ashes, a soul self-consumed, And the wretch crept a vampire among men, Infecting all with his own hideous ill; None talked that common, false, cold, hollow talk Which makes the heart deny the yes it breathes, Yet question that unmeant hypocrisy With such a self-mistrust as has no name. And women, too, frank, beautiful, and kind As the free heaven which rains fresh light and dew On the wide earth, past; gentle radiant forms, From custom's evil taint exempt and pure; Speaking the wisdom once they could not think, Looking emotions once they feared to feel, And changed to all which once they dared not be, Yet being now, made earth like heaven; nor pride, Nor jealousy, nor envy, nor ill shame, The bitterest of those drops of treasured gall, Spoilt the sweet taste of the nepenthe, love. Thrones, altars, judgement-seats, and prisons; wherein, And beside which, by wretched men were borne Sceptres, tiaras, swords, and chains, and tomes Of reasoned wrong, glozed on by ignorance, Were like those monstrous and barbaric shapes, The ghosts of a no-more-remembered fame, Which, from their unworn obelisks, look forth In triumph o'er the palaces and tombs Of those who were their conquerors: mouldering round, These imaged to the pride of kings and priests A dark yet mighty faith, a power as wide As is the world it wasted, and are now But an astonishment; even so the tools And emblems of its last captivity, Amid the dwellings of the peopled earth, Stand, not o'erthrown, but unregarded now. And those foul shapes, abhorred by god and man, Which, under many a name and many a form Strange, savage, ghastly, dark and execrable, Were Jupiter, the tyrant of the world; And which the nations, panic-stricken, served With blood, and hearts broken by long hope, and love Dragged to his altars soiled and garlandless, And slain amid men's unreclaiming tears, Flattering the thing they feared, which fear was hate, Frown, mouldering fast, o'er their abandoned shrines: The painted veil, by those who were, called life, Which mimicked, as with colours idly spread, All men believed or hoped, is torn aside; The loathsome mask has fallen, the man remains Sceptreless, free, uncircumscribed, but man Equal, unclassed, tribeless, and nationless, Exempt from awe, worship, degree, the king Over himself; just, gentle, wise: but man Passionless?no, yet free from guilt or pain, Which were, for his will made or suffered them, Nor yet exempt, though ruling them like slaves, From chance, and death, and mutability, The clogs of that which else might oversoar The loftiest star of unascended heaven, Pinnacled dim in the intense inane. END OF THE THIRD ACT. ACT IV Scene.A Part of the Forest near the Cave of Prometheus.Panthea and Ione are sleeping: they awaken gradually during the first Song. Voice of unseen Spirits. The pale stars are gone! For the sun, their swift shepherd, To their folds them compelling, In the depths of the dawn, Hastes, in meteor-eclipsing array, and they flee Beyond his blue dwelling, As fawns flee the leopard.   But where are ye?   A Train of dark Forms and Shadows passes by confusedly, singing. Here, oh, here: We bear the bier Of the Father of many a cancelled year! Spectres we Of the dead Hours be, We bear Time to his tomb in eternity. Strew, oh, strew Hair, not yew! Wet the dusty pall with tears, not dew! Be the faded flowers Of Death's bare bowers Spread on the corpse of the King of Hours! Haste, oh, haste! As shades are chased, Trembling, by day, from heaven's blue waste. We melt away, Like dissolving spray, From the children of a diviner day, With the lullaby Of winds that die On the bosom of their own harmony! Ione. What dark forms were they? Panthea. The past Hours weak and gray, With the spoil which their toil Raked together From the conquest but One could foil. Ione. Have they passed? Panthea.          They have passed; They outspeeded the blast, While 'tis said, they are fled: Ione. Whither, oh, whither? Panthea. To the dark, to the past, to the dead. Voice of unseen Spirits. Bright clouds float in heaven, Dew-stars gleam on earth, Waves assemble on ocean, They are gathered and driven By the storm of delight, by the panic of glee! They shake with emotion, They dance in their mirth.   But where are ye?    The pine boughs are singing Old songs with new gladness, The billows and fountains Fresh music are flinging, Like the notes of a spirit from land and from sea; The storms mock the mountains With the thunder of gladness.   But where are ye?   Ione. What charioteers are these? Panthea.                Where are their chariots?                Semichorus of Hours. The voice of the Spirits of Air and of Earth Have drawn back the figured curtain of sleep Which covered our being and darkened our birth In the deep. A Voice.       In the deep?       Semichorus II.              Oh, below the deep.              Semichorus I. An hundred ages we had been kept Cradled in visions of hate and care, And each one who waked as his brother slept, Found the truth Semichorus II.           Worse than his visions were!           Semichorus I. We have heard the lute of Hope in sleep; We have known the voice of Love in dreams; We have felt the wand of Power, and leap Semichorus II. As the billows leap in the morning beams! Chorus. Weave the dance on the floor of the breeze, Pierce with song heaven's silent light, Enchant the day that too swiftly flees, To check its flight ere the cave of Night. Once the hungry Hours were hounds Which chased the day like a bleeding deer, And it limped and stumbled with many wounds Through the nightly dells of the desert year. But now, oh weave the mystic measure Of music, and dance, and shapes of light, Let the Hours, and the spirits of might and pleasure, Like the clouds and sunbeams, unite. A Voice.                     Unite!                     Panthea. See, where the Spirits of the human mind Wrapped in sweet sounds, as in bright veils, approach. Chorus of Spirits. We join the throng Of the dance and the song, By the whirlwind of gladness borne along; As the flying-fish leap From the Indian deep, And mix with the sea-birds, half asleep. Chorus of Hours. Whence come ye, so wild and so fleet, For sandals of lightning are on your feet, And your wings are soft and swift as thought, And your eyes are as love which is veild not? Chorus of Spirits. We come from the mind Of human kind Which was late so dusk, and obscene, and blind, Now 'tis an ocean Of clear emotion, A heaven of serene and mighty motion From that deep abyss Of wonder and bliss, Whose caverns are crystal palaces; From those skiey towers Where Thought's crowned powers Sit watching your dance, ye happy Hours! From the dim recesses Of woven caresses, Where lovers catch ye by your loose tresses From the azure isles, Where sweet Wisdom smiles, Delaying your ships with her siren wiles. From the temples high Of Man's ear and eye, Roofed over Sculpture and Poesy; From the murmurings Of the unsealed springs Where Science bedews her Ddal wings. Years after years, Through blood, and tears, And a thick hell of hatreds, and hopes, and fears; We waded and flew, And the islets were few Where the bud-blighted flowers of happiness grew. Our feet now, every palm, Are sandalled with calm, And the dew of our wings is a rain of balm; And, beyond our eyes, The human love lies Which makes all it gazes on Paradise. Chorus of Spirits and Hours. Then weave the web of the mystic measure; From the depths of the sky and the ends of the earth, Come, swift Spirits of might and of pleasure, Fill the dance and the music of mirth, As the waves of a thousand streams rush by To an ocean of splendour and harmony! Chorus of Spirits. Our spoil is won, Our task is done, We are free to dive, or soar, or run; Beyond and around, Or within the bound Which clips the world with darkness round. We'll pass the eyes Of the starry skies Into the hoar deep to colonize: Death, Chaos, and Night, From the sound of our flight, Shall flee, like mist from a tempest's might. And Earth, Air, and Light, And the Spirit of Might, Which drives round the stars in their fiery flight; And Love, Thought, and Breath, The powers that quell Death, Wherever we soar shall assemble beneath. And our singing shall build In the void's loose field A world for the Spirit of Wisdom to wield; We will take our plan From the new world of man, And our work shall be called the Promethean. Chorus of Hours. Break the dance, and scatter the song; Let some depart, and some remain. Semichorus I. We, beyond heaven, are driven along: Semichorus II. Us the enchantments of earth retain: Semichorus I. Ceaseless, and rapid, and fierce, and free, With the Spirits which build a new earth and sea, And a heaven where yet heaven could never be. Semichorus II. Solemn, and slow, and serene, and bright, Leading the Day and outspeeding the Night, With the powers of a world of perfect light. Semichorus I. We whirl, singing loud, round the gathering sphere, Till the trees, and the beasts, and the clouds appear From its chaos made calm by love, not fear. Semichorus II. We encircle the ocean and mountains of earth, And the happy forms of its death and birth Change to the music of our sweet mirth. Chorus of Hours and Spirits. Break the dance, and scatter the song, Let some depart, and some remain, Wherever we fly we lead along In leashes, like starbeams, soft yet strong, The clouds that are heavy with love's sweet rain. Panthea. Ha! they are gone! Ione.           Yet feel you no delight From the past sweetness? Panthea.              As the bare green hill When some soft cloud vanishes into rain, Laughs with a thousand drops of sunny water To the unpavilioned sky! Ione.              Even whilst we speak New notes arise. What is that awful sound? Panthea. 'Tis the deep music of the rolling world Kindling within the strings of the waved air olian modulations. Ione.           Listen too, How every pause is filled with under-notes, Clear, silver, icy, keen, awakening tones, Which pierce the sense, and live within the soul, As the sharp stars pierce winter's crystal air And gaze upon themselves within the sea. Panthea. But see where through two openings in the forest Which hanging branches overcanopy, And where two runnels of a rivulet, Between the close moss violet-inwoven, Have made their path of melody, like sisters Who part with sighs that they may meet in smiles, Turning their dear disunion to an isle Of lovely grief, a wood of sweet sad thoughts; Two visions of strange radiance float upon The ocean-like enchantment of strong sound, Which flows intenser, keener, deeper yet Under the ground and through the windless air. Ione. I see a chariot like that thinnest boat, In which the Mother of the Months is borne By ebbing light into her western cave, When she upsprings from interlunar dreams; O'er which is curved an orblike canopy Of gentle darkness, and the hills and woods, Distinctly seen through that dusk aery veil, Regard like shapes in an enchanter's glass; Its wheels are solid clouds, azure and gold, Such as the genii of the thunderstorm Pile on the floor of the illumined sea When the sun rushes under it; they roll And move and grow as with an inward wind; Within it sits a wingd infant, white Its countenance, like the whiteness of bright snow, Its plumes are as feathers of sunny frost, Its limbs gleam white, through the wind-flowing folds Of its white robe, woof of ethereal pearl. Its hair is white, the brightness of white light Scattered in strings; yet its two eyes are heavens Of liquid darkness, which the Deity Within seems pouring, as a storm is poured From jaggd clouds, out of their arrowy lashes, Tempering the cold and radiant air around, With fire that is not brightness; in its hand It sways a quivering moonbeam, from whose point A guiding power directs the chariot's prow Over its wheeld clouds, which as they roll Over the grass, and flowers, and waves, wake sounds, Sweet as a singing rain of silver dew. Panthea. And from the other opening in the wood Rushes, with loud and whirlwind harmony, A sphere, which is as many thousand spheres, Solid as crystal, yet through all its mass Flow, as through empty space, music and light: Ten thousand orbs involving and involved, Purple and azure, white, and green, and golden, Sphere within sphere; and every space between Peopled with unimaginable shapes, Such as ghosts dream dwell in the lampless deep, Yet each inter-transpicuous, and they whirl Over each other with a thousand motions, Upon a thousand sightless axles spinning, And with the force of self-destroying swiftness, Intensely, slowly, solemnly roll on, Kindling with mingled sounds, and many tones, Intelligible words and music wild. With mighty whirl the multitudinous orb Grinds the bright brook into an azure mist Of elemental subtlety, like light; And the wild odour of the forest flowers, The music of the living grass and air, The emerald light of leaf-entangled beams Round its intense yet self-conflicting speed, Seem kneaded into one areal mass Which drowns the sense. Within the orb itself, Pillowed upon its alabaster arms, Like to a child o'erwearied with sweet toil, On its own folded wings, and wavy hair, The Spirit of the Earth is laid asleep, And you can see its little lips are moving, Amid the changing light of their own smiles, Like one who talks of what he loves in dream. Ione. 'Tis only mocking the orb's harmony. Panthea. And from a star upon its forehead, shoot, Like swords of azure fire, or golden spears With tyrant-quelling myrtle overtwined, Embleming heaven and earth united now, Vast beams like spokes of some invisible wheel Which whirl as the orb whirls, swifter than thought, Filling the abyss with sun-like lightenings, And perpendicular now, and now transverse, Pierce the dark soil, and as they pierce and pass, Make bare the secrets of the earth's deep heart; Infinite mines of adamant and gold, Valueless stones, and unimagined gems, And caverns on crystalline columns poised With vegetable silver overspread; Wells of unfathomed fire, and water springs Whence the great sea, even as a child is fed, Whose vapours clothe earth's monarch mountain-tops With kingly, ermine snow. The beams flash on And make appear the melancholy ruins Of cancelled cycles; anchors, beaks of ships; Planks turned to marble; quivers, helms, and spears, And gorgon-headed targes, and the wheels Of scythd chariots, and the emblazonry Of trophies, standards, and armorial beasts, Round which death laughed, sepulchred emblems Of dead destruction, ruin within ruin! The wrecks beside of many a city vast, Whose population which the earth grew over Was mortal, but not human; see, they lie, Their monstrous works, and uncouth skeletons, Their statues, homes and fanes; prodigious shapes Huddled in gray annihilation, split, Jammed in the hard, black deep; and over these, The anatomies of unknown wingd things, And fishes which were isles of living scale, And serpents, bony chains, twisted around The iron crags, or within heaps of dust To which the tortuous strength of their last pangs Had crushed the iron crags; and over these The jaggd alligator, and the might Of earth-convulsing behemoth, which once Were monarch beasts, and on the slimy shores, And weed-overgrown continents of earth, Increased and multiplied like summer worms On an abandoned corpse, till the blue globe Wrapped deluge round it like a cloak, and they Yelled, gasped, and were abolished; or some God Whose throne was in a comet, passed, and cried, 'Be not!' And like my words they were no more. The Earth. The joy, the triumph, the delight, the madness! The boundless, overflowing, bursting gladness, The vaporous exultation not to be confined! Ha! ha! the animation of delight Which wraps me, like an atmosphere of light, And bears me as a cloud is borne by its own wind. The Moon. Brother mine, calm wanderer, Happy globe of land and air, Some Spirit is darted like a beam from thee, Which penetrates my frozen frame, And passes with the warmth of flame, With love, and odour, and deep melody   Through me, through me!   The Earth. Ha! ha! the caverns of my hollow mountains, My cloven fire-crags, sound-exulting fountains Laugh with a vast and inextinguishable laughter. The oceans, and the deserts, and the abysses, And the deep air's unmeasured wildernesses, Answer from all their clouds and billows, echoing after. They cry aloud as I do. Sceptred curse, Who all our green and azure universe Threatenedst to muffle round with black destruction, sending A solid cloud to rain hot thunderstones, And splinter and knead down my children's bones, All I bring forth, to one void mass battering and blending, Until each crag-like tower, and storied column, Palace, and obelisk, and temple solemn, My imperial mountains crowned with cloud, and snow, and fire; My sea-like forests, every blade and blossom Which finds a grave or cradle in my bosom, Were stamped by thy strong hate into a lifeless mire: How art thou sunk, withdrawn, covered, drunk up By thirsty nothing, as the brackish cup Drained by a desert-troop, a little drop for all; And from beneath, around, within, above, Filling thy void annihilation, love Burst in like light on caves cloven by the thunder-ball. The Moon. The snow upon my lifeless mountains Is loosened into living fountains, My solid oceans flow, and sing, and shine: A spirit from my heart bursts forth, It clothes with unexpected birth My cold bare bosom: Oh! it must be thine   On mine, on mine!    Gazing on thee I feel, I know Green stalks burst forth, and bright flowers grow, And living shapes upon my bosom move: Music is in the sea and air, Wingd clouds soar here and there, Dark with the rain new buds are dreaming of:   'Tis love, all love!   The Earth. It interpenetrates my granite mass, Through tangled roots and trodden clay doth pass Into the utmost leaves and delicatest flowers; Upon the winds, among the clouds 'tis spread, It wakes a life in the forgotten dead, They breathe a spirit up from their obscurest bowers. And like a storm bursting its cloudy prison With thunder, and with whirlwind, has arisen Out of the lampless caves of unimagined being: With earthquake shock and swiftness making shiver Thought's stagnant chaos, unremoved for ever, Till hate, and fear, and pain, light-vanquished shadows, fleeing, Leave Man, who was a many-sided mirror, Which could distort to many a shape of error, This true fair world of things, a sea reflecting love; Which over all his kind, as the sun's heaven Gliding o'er ocean, smooth, serene, and even, Darting from starry depths radiance and life, doth move: Leave Man, even as a leprous child is left, Who follows a sick beast to some warm cleft Of rocks, through which the might of healing springs is poured; Then when it wanders home with rosy smile, Unconscious, and its mother fears awhile It is a spirit, then, weeps on her child restored. Man, oh, not men! a chain of linkd thought, Of love and might to be divided not, Compelling the elements with adamantine stress; As the sun rules, even with a tyrant's gaze, The unquiet republic of the maze Of planets, struggling fierce towards heaven's free wilderness. Man, one harmonious soul of many a soul, Whose nature is its own divine control, Where all things flow to all, as rivers to the sea; Familiar acts are beautiful through love; Labour, and pain, and grief, in life's green grove Sport like tame beasts, none knew how gentle they could be! His will, with all mean passions, bad delights, And selfish cares, its trembling satellites, A spirit ill to guide, but mighty to obey, Is as a tempest-wingd ship, whose helm Love rules, through waves which dare not overwhelm, Forcing life's wildest shores to own its sovereign sway. All things confess his strength. Through the cold mass Of marble and of colour his dreams pass; Bright threads whence mothers weave the robes their children wear; Language is a perpetual Orphic song, Which rules with Ddal harmony a throng Of thoughts and forms, which else senseless and shapeless were. The lightning is his slave; heaven's utmost deep Gives up her stars, and like a flock of sheep They pass before his eye, are numbered, and roll on! The tempest is his steed, he strides the air; And the abyss shouts from her depth laid bare, Heaven, hast thou secrets? Man unveils me; I have none. The Moon. The shadow of white death has passed From my path in heaven at last, A clinging shroud of solid frost and sleep; And through my newly-woven bowers, Wander happy paramours, Less mighty, but as mild as those who keep   Thy vales more deep.   The Earth. As the dissolving warmth of dawn may fold A half unfrozen dew-globe, green, and gold, And crystalline, till it becomes a wingd mist, And wanders up the vault of the blue day, Outlives the moon, and on the sun's last ray Hangs o'er the sea, a fleece of fire and amethyst. The Moon. Thou art folded, thou art lying In the light which is undying Of thine own joy, and heaven's smile divine; All suns and constellations shower On thee a light, a life, a power Which doth array thy sphere; thou pourest thine   On mine, on mine!   The Earth. I spin beneath my pyramid of night, Which points into the heavens dreaming delight, Murmuring victorious joy in my enchanted sleep; As a youth lulled in love-dreams faintly sighing, Under the shadow of his beauty lying, Which round his rest a watch of light and warmth doth keep. The Moon. As in the soft and sweet eclipse, When soul meets soul on lovers' lips, High hearts are calm, and brightest eyes are dull; So when thy shadow falls on me, Then am I mute and still, by thee Covered; of thy love, Orb most beautiful,   Full, oh, too full!    Thou art speeding round the sun Brightest world of many a one; Green and azure sphere which shinest With a light which is divinest Among all the lamps of Heaven To whom life and light is given; I, thy crystal paramour Borne beside thee by a power Like the polar Paradise, Magnet-like of lovers' eyes; I, a most enamoured maiden Whose weak brain is overladen With the pleasure of her love, Maniac-like around thee move Gazing, an insatiate bride, On thy form from every side Like a Mnad, round the cup Which Agave lifted up In the weird Cadman forest. Brother, wheresoe'er thou soarest I must hurry, whirl and follow Through the heavens wide and hollow, Sheltered by the warm embrace Of thy soul from hungry space, Drinking from thy sense and sight Beauty, majesty, and might, As a lover or a chameleon Grows like what it looks upon, As a violet's gentle eye Gazes on the azure sky Until its hue grows like what it beholds, As a gray and watery mist Glows like solid amethyst Athwart the western mountain it enfolds, When the sunset sleeps   Upon its snow   The Earth.   And the weak day weeps    That it should be so. Oh, gentle Moon, the voice of thy delight Falls on me like thy clear and tender light Soothing the seaman, borne the summer night, Through isles for ever calm; Oh, gentle Moon, thy crystal accents pierce The caverns of my pride's deep universe, Charming the tiger joy, whose tramplings fierce Made wounds which need thy balm. Panthea. I rise as from a bath of sparkling water, A bath of azure light, among dark rocks, Out of the stream of sound. Ione.                Ah me! sweet sister, The stream of sound has ebbed away from us, And you pretend to rise out of its wave, Because your words fall like the clear, soft dew Shaken from a bathing wood-nymph's limbs and hair. Panthea. Peace! peace! A mighty Power, which is as darkness, Is rising out of Earth, and from the sky Is showered like night, and from within the air Bursts, like eclipse which had been gathered up Into the pores of sunlight: the bright visions, Wherein the singing spirits rode and shone, Gleam like pale meteors through a watery night. Ione. There is a sense of words upon mine ear. Panthea. An universal sound like words: Oh, list! Demogorgon. Thou, Earth, calm empire of a happy soul, Sphere of divinest shapes and harmonies, Beautiful orb! gathering as thou dost roll The love which paves thy path along the skies: The Earth. I hear: I am as a drop of dew that dies. Demogorgon. Thou, Moon, which gazest on the nightly Earth With wonder, as it gazes upon thee; Whilst each to men, and beasts, and the swift birth Of birds, is beauty, love, calm, harmony: The Moon. I hear: I am a leaf shaken by thee! Demogorgon. Ye Kings of suns and stars, Dmons and Gods, Aetherial Dominations, who possess Elysian, windless, fortunate abodes Beyond Heaven's constellated wilderness: A Voice from above. Our great Republic hears, we are blest, and bless. Demogorgon. Ye happy Dead, whom beams of brightest verse Are clouds to hide, not colours to portray, Whether your nature is that universe Which once ye saw and suffered A Voice from beneath.                  Or as they Whom we have left, we change and pass away. Demogorgon. Ye elemental Genii, who have homes From man's high mind even to the central stone Of sullen lead; from heaven's star-fretted domes To the dull weed some sea-worm battens on: A confused Voice. We hear: thy words waken Oblivion. Demogorgon. Spirits, whose homes are flesh: ye beasts and birds, Ye worms, and fish; ye living leaves and buds; Lightning and wind; and ye untameable herds, Meteors and mists, which throng air's solitudes: A Voice. Thy voice to us is wind among still woods. Demogorgon. Man, who wert once a despot and a slave; A dupe and a deceiver; a decay; A traveller from the cradle to the grave Through the dim night of this immortal day: All. Speak: thy strong words may never pass away. Demogorgon. This is the day, which down the void abysm At the Earth-born's spell yawns for Heaven's despotism, And Conquest is dragged captive through the deep: Love, from its awful throne of patient power In the wise heart, from the last giddy hour Of dread endurance, from the slippery, steep, And narrow verge of crag-like agony, springs And folds over the world its healing wings. Gentleness, Virtue, Wisdom, and Endurance, These are the seals of that most firm assurance Which bars the pit over Destruction's strength; And if, with infirm hand, Eternity, Mother of many acts and hours, should free The serpent that would clasp her with his length; These are the spells by which to reassume An empire o'er the disentangled doom. To suffer woes which Hope thinks infinite; To forgive wrongs darker than death or night; To defy Power, which seems omnipotent; To love, and bear; to hope till Hope creates From its own wreck the thing it contemplates; Neither to change, nor falter, nor repent; This, like thy glory, Titan, is to be Good, great and joyous, beautiful and free; This is alone Life, Joy, Empire, and Victory. Composed at Este, Sept., Oct., 1818 (Act I); at Rome, March - April 6, 1819 (Acts II, III); at Florence, close of 1819 (Act IV). Published by C. and J. Ollier, London, summer of 1820. Note from Mrs. Shelley: 'On the 12th of March, 1818, Shelley quitted England, never to return. His principal motive was the hope that his health would be improved by a milder climate; he suffered very much during the winter previous to his emigration, and this decided his vacillating purpose. .....Through the whole poem there reigns a sort of calm and holy spirit of love; it soothes the tortured, and is hope to the expectant, till the prophecy is fulfilled, and Love, untainted by any evil, becomes the law of the world. ....And, as he wandered among the ruins made one with Nature in their decay, or gaed on the Praxitelean shapes that throng the Vatican, the Capitol, and the palaces of Rome, his soul imbibed forms of loveliness which became a portion of itself. There are many passages in the Prometheus which show the intense delight he received from such studies, and give back the impression with a beauty of poetical description peculiarly his own. He felt this, as a poet must feel when he satisfies himself by the result of his labours; and he wrote from Rome, ''My Prometheus Unbound is just finished, and in a month or two I shall send it. It is a drama, with characters and mechanism of a kind yet unattempted; and I think the execution is better than any of my former attempts.''' ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Prometheus Unbound ,