--- DICTIONARIES (in Dictionaries, in Quotes, in Chapters)

--- QUOTES [3 / 3 - 342 / 342] (in Dictionaries, in Quotes, in Chapters)

KEYS (10k)

   2 Sri Aurobindo
   1 William Shakespeare

NEW FULL DB (2.4M)

   38 Percy Bysshe Shelley
   9 Charlotte Smith

   8 Charles Haddon Spurgeon

   7 Robert Browning
   7 Ella Wheeler Wilcox

   6 Sri Aurobindo
   5 Charles Harpur

   5 Anonymous

   4 William Shakespeare
   4 Friedrich Schiller
   4 Elizabeth Barrett Browning

   4 Charles Baudelaire

   4 A W Tozer

   4 Anna Laetitia Barbauld

   3 Victor Hugo

   3 Ralph Waldo Emerson
   3 Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
   3 Edgar Allan Poe

   3 Dante Gabriel Rossetti

   3 Charles Churchill

   3 Bjornstjerne Bjornson

   3 Anne Bront

   3 Alfred Lord Tennyson

   3 Alexandre Dumas

   2 William Shakespeare

   2 William Butler Yeats
   2 Thomas Paine

   2 Thomas Jefferson

   2 Stephenie Meyer

   2 Sogyal Rinpoche

   2 Robert Frost

   2 Poetical Works of John Keats
   2 Ovid
   2 Michel de Montaigne

   2 Martin Buber

   2 Margaret Atwood

   2 Manly P Hall
   2 Lauren Kate

   2 James Russell Lowell

   2 Erasmus Darwin

   2 Emily Pauline Johnson

   2 Emily Jane Brontë

   2 Edward Young

   2 Edward Thomas

   2 Edgar Albert Guest

   2 Duncan Campbell Scott

   2 Dinah Maria Mulock Craik

   2 Dietrich Bonhoeffer

   2 Count Giacomo Leopardi

   2 Celia Thaxter

   2 Banana Yoshimoto

   2 Arthur Rimbaud

   2 Archibald Lampman

   2 Ambrose Bierce

   2 Alfred Austin

   2 Albert Camus

   2 Adam Lindsay Gordon

1:Nothing of him that doth fadeBut doth suffer a sea-changeInto something rich and strange. ~ William Shakespeare, The Tempest ,

2:Then if the tempest be loud and the thunderbolt leaping incessantShatters the roof, if the lintels flame at last and each corniceShrieks with the pain of the blast, if the very pillars totter,Keep yet your faith in Zeus, hold fast to the word of ~ Sri Aurobindo, Collected Poems 5.1.01 - Ilion,

3:And for the same reason, because that which we are seeking through beauty is in the end that which we are seeking through religion, the Absolute, the Divine. The search for beauty is only in its beginning a satisfaction in the beauty of form, the beauty which appeals to the physical senses and the vital impressions, impulsions, desires. It is only in the middle a satisfaction in the beauty of the ideas seized, the emotions aroused, the perception of perfect process and harmonious combination. Behind them the soul of beauty in us desires the contact, the revelation, the uplifting delight of an absolute beauty in all things which it feels to be present, but which neither the senses and instincts by themselves can give, though they may be its channels, - for it is suprasensuous, - nor the reason and intelligence, though they too are a channel, - for it is suprarational, supra-intellectual, - but to which through all these veils the soul itself seeks to arrive. When it can get the touch of this universal, absolute beauty, this soul of beauty, this sense of its revelation in any slightest or greatest thing, the beauty of a flower, a form, the beauty and power of a character, an action, an event, a human life, an idea, a stroke of the brush or the chisel or a scintillation of the mind, the colours of a sunset or the grandeur of the tempest, it is then that the sense of beauty in us is really, powerfully, entirely satisfied. It is in truth seeking, as in religion, for the Divine, the All-Beautiful in man, in nature, in life, in thought, in art; for God is Beauty and Delight hidden in the variation of his masks and forms. When, fulfilled in our growing sense and knowledge of beauty and delight in beauty and our power for beauty, we are able to identify ourselves in soul with this Absolute and Divine in all the forms and activities of the world and shape an image of our inner and our outer life in the highest image we can perceive and embody of the All-Beautiful, then the aesthetic being in us who was born for this end, has fulfilled himself and risen to his divine consummation. To find highest beauty is to find God; to reveal, to embody, to create, as we say, highest beauty is to bring out of our souls the living image and power of God. ~ Sri Aurobindo, The Human Cycle 144,

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:play The Tempest, ~ Harold Schechter

2:The tree the tempest with a crash of wood ~ Robert Frost

3:What is past is prologue.' - Shakespeare (The Tempest) ~ William Shakespeare

4:Day and night, their frail and crippled ships defy the tempest. ~ Jorge Luis Borges

5:The tempests of youth are mingled with days of brilliant sunshine. ~ Luc de Clapiers

6:Character is constructed amidst the tempests of the World ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

7:This thing of darkness I acknowledge mine. ~ Prospero [The Tempest] William Shakespeare

8:The tempest threatens before it comes; houses creak before they fall. ~ Seneca the Younger

9:Timid men prefer the calm of despotism to the tempestuous sea of Liberty. ~ Thomas Jefferson

10:Timid men prefer the calm of despotism to the tempestuous sea of liberty. ~ Thomas Jefferson

11:Hell is empty, All the devils are here. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, THE TEMPEST ~ Victoria Schwab

12:For the helmsman is recognized in the tempest; in the warfare the soldier is proved. ~ Cyprian

13:Hell is empty And all the devils are here. —William Shakespeare, The Tempest ~ Matthew FitzSimmons

14:An horrible stillness first invades our ear, And in that silence we the tempest fear. ~ John Dryden

15:If its danger you seek, come on over. I covet tranquility but beget the tempest storm. ~ Donna Lynn Hope

16:The willow which bends to the tempest often escapes better than the oak which resists it. ~ Walter Scott

17:Innovation opportunities do not come with the tempest but with the rustling of the breeze. ~ Peter Drucker

18:I was caught up in the tempest of this woman and I was in no hurry to get myself free of her. ~ Jay Crownover

19:How sharp the point of this remembrance is! ~ William Shakespeare, The Tempest, c. 1610-11, Act V, scene 1, line 137.

20:Marriage makes a man more vulnerable by doubling the expanse of sail exposed to the tempests of social life. ~ Andre Maurois

21:Do not give dalliance Too much the rein; the strongest oaths are straw To the fire i’the blood. The Tempest     As ~ Stendhal

22:On me the tempest falls. It does not make me tremble. O holy Mother Earth, O air and sun, behold me. I am wronged. ~ Aeschylus

23:Both the teardrop and the tempest are made of water, making it the most yielding and most destructive force on Earth. ~ Fiona Paul

24:Nothing of him that doth fade But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange. ~ William Shakespeare, The Tempest,

25:The characters [of The Tempest] have always been favorites of mine. It is one of his meditations on art - what it does. ~ Margaret Atwood

26:And deeper than did ever plummet sound,  I'll drown my book. ~ William Shakespeare, The Tempest (c. 1610-1612), Act V, scene 1, line 56.

27:As long as the firmament of the You is spread over me, the tempests of causality cower at my heels, and whirl of doom congeals. ~ Martin Buber

28:Not in the flight of ideas, but only in action is freedom. Make up your mind and come out into the tempest of the living. ~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer

29:The shackles and the chains, the violence and aggression, the pettiness and scorn, the jealousy and hatred, the tempest and discord. ~ Joe Walsh

30:Darcy’s got the tempestuous masculinity and brooding looks, but Knightley is a kinder, softer man with no pretense or dissimilation. ~ Katherine Reay

31:Even as the high mountain-chains remain immobile in the midst of the tempest, so the true sage remains unshaken amidst praise and blame. ~ Dhammapada

32:How fleet is a glance of the mind! Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind, And the swift-winged arrows of light. ~ William Cowper

33:It's hard to think that say Shakespeare could have written "The Tempest" when he was young. It seems to be reflective work or retrospective work. ~ Edward Hirsch

34:Jesus is in the tempest. His love wraps the night about itself as a mantle, but to the eye of faith the sable robe is scarce a disguise. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon

35:I’ll break my staff, Bury it certain fathoms in the earth, And deeper than did ever plummet sound I’ll drown my book. —William Shakespeare, The Tempest ~ Anonymous

36:He implores the expanse, the waves, the seaweed, the reef; they are deaf. He beseeches the tempest; the imperturbable tempest obeys only the infinite. ~ Victor Hugo

37:I’ll break my staff, Bury it certain fathoms in the earth, And deeper than did ever plummet sound I’ll drown my book. —William Shakespeare, The Tempest ~ Lev Grossman

38:Shakespeare's last play was called The Tempest. It wasn't called just plain Tempest. The name of my record is just plain Tempest. It's two different titles. ~ Bob Dylan

39:Whence, it may be asked, had come that plaything of the tempest? From what part of the world did it rise? It surely could not have started during the storm. ~ Jules Verne

40:Go back to bed so that, when the tempest comes, you'll be strong enough to deal with it. And the tempest is coming, dear one. Very soon. But not tonight. ~ Elizabeth Gilbert

41:My home...It is my retreat and resting place from wars, I try to keep this corner as a haven against the tempest outside, as I do another corner in my soul. ~ Michel de Montaigne

42:The tempest unleashes an alphabetletters fall through the apertures of crazy anglesto spell out the futureuprooting the course of inventionand enslaving the masters ~ Nancy Peters

43:All the fears and doubts surrounding her grief and regrets were swept up into the tempest of the music, poising here in the centre of the moment, a clear vessel of joy. ~ Alison Croggon

44:Ignorance and prejudice are the ballast of our ship of state - however, ships without ballast are not seaworthy and cannot sail in the tempests, nor reach a safe harbor. ~ George Orwell

45:The tree the tempest with a crash of wood Throws down in front of us is not to bar Our passage to our journey's end for good, But just to ask us who we think we are ~ Robert Frost

46:Knowing I lov'd my books, he furnished me  From mine own library with volumes that  I prize above my dukedom. ~ William Shakespeare, The Tempest (c. 1610-1612), Act I, scene 2, line 165.

47:Re-Edified Lord of the tempest, pray refrain From leveling this church again. Now in its doom, as so you've willed it, We acquiesce. But _you'll_ rebuild it. ~ Ambrose Bierce

48:A marriage is a solemn affair. The tempest of emotions and the myriad of arrangements are giddying, and when one is faced with these, clothing seems to be the last of one's priorities. ~ Daphne Guinness

49:The government has more data at its disposal and more ways of talking and listening to citizens—but only one-quarter as many people find it trustworthy as did in the tempestuous 1960s. ~ Anand Giridharadas

50:Hush! Still as death, The tempest holds his breath As from a sudden will; The rain stops short, but from the eaves You see it drop, and hear it from the leaves, All is so bodingly still. ~ James Russell Lowell

51:The Poet is like the prince of the clouds, who haunts the tempest and laughs at the archer. Exiled on the ground in the midst of the jeering crowd, his giant's wings keep him from walking. ~ Charles Baudelaire

52:In the broad light of day, I could not give his tale nearly so much credence as I had granted it when sitting rapt before a midnight fireplace whilst the tempest without erased the natural world. ~ Lyndsay Faye

53:Lys. How now, my love? Why is your cheek so pale? How chance the roses there do fade so fast? Her. Belike for want of rain, which I could well beteem them from the tempest of my eyes. ~ William Shakespeare

54:I saw all of the films [based on The Tempest] available, including the one with Helen Mirren in which Prospero is Prospera - you wonder, "Would it work?" But it does, because anything she does works. ~ Margaret Atwood

55:The poet resembles this prince of cloud and sky Who frequents the tempest and laughs at the bowman; When exiled on the earth, the butt of hoots and jeers, His giant wings prevent him from walking. ~ Charles Baudelaire

56:To a people caught in the tempest of the last great conflict God says, "Be still, and know that I am God," and still He says it, as if He means to tell us that our strength and safety lie not in noise but in silence. ~ A W Tozer

57:I said, “O that I had the wings of a dove! I would fly away and be at rest. I would flee far away and stay in the desert; I would hurry to my place of shelter, far from the tempest and storm.” Psalm 55: 6–8 ~ Marybeth Mayhew Whalen

58:He had no idea that I could be a female devil with an innocent face who was trying to suppress the tempests of lust boiling up inside her, a woman who remained distant from everybody else as she waited to be discovered. ~ Cezmi Ers z

59:In this snug, over-safe corner of the world… we may realize that our comfortable routine is no eternal necessity of things, but merely a little space of calm in the midst of the tempestuous, untamed and streaming world. ~ George F Will

60:Jesu, lover of my soul, Let me to thy bosom fly, While the nearer waters roll, While the tempest still is high; Hide me,O my Saviour, hide, Till the storm of life is past; Safe into the haven guide, O receive my soul at last. ~ Charles Wesley

61:The tempestuous stretch of river below that dam, however, represents something no less central to the national ethos: the fact that another aspect of our character as a people derives from an extended encounter with wilderness. ~ Kevin Fedarko

62:When we read Othello, we only behold the tempest of the passions and the wreck of a great soul; but when we see Othello, we are affronted by the color of the Moor's skin, and we are brought face to face with the vulgarities of the bolster! ~ Ouida

63:Stephen Hopkins was making his second trip to America. Eleven years earlier in 1609 he had sailed on the Sea Venture for Virginia, only to become shipwrecked in Bermudaan incident that became the basis for Shakespeare’s The Tempest. ~ Nathaniel Philbrick

64:We shall steer safely through every storm, so long as our heart is right, our intention fervent, our courage steadfast, and our trust fixed on God. If at times we are somewhat stunned by the tempest, never fear. Let us take breath, and go on afresh. ~ Saint Francis de Sales

65:The willow which bends to the tempest, often escapes better than the oak which resists it; and so in great calamities, it sometimes happens that light and frivolous spirits recover their elasticity and presence of mind sooner than those of a loftier character. ~ Albert Schweitzer

66:Other than along certain emotional tangents there was little in the book that felt as if it had actually been lived. It was a fiction produced by someone who knew only fictions, The Tempest as written by isolate Miranda, raised on the romances in her father's library. ~ Michael Chabon

67:Power exhibits itself under two distinct forms,--strength and force,--each possessing peculiar qualities, and each perfect in its own sphere. Strength is typified by the oak, the rock, the mountain. Force embodies itself in the cataract, the tempest, and the thunder-bolt. ~ James A Garfield

68:Then if the tempest be loud and the thunderbolt leaping incessant Shatters the roof, if the lintels flame at last and each cornice Shrieks with the pain of the blast, if the very pillars totter, Keep yet your faith in Zeus, hold fast to the word of ~ Sri Aurobindo, Collected Poems, Ilion,

69:Fear and trembling penetrate me, and I am enveloped with horror. And I said, "If only I had wings like the dove! I would fly off and find rest. Behold, I would wander afar, and lodge in the wilderness forever. I would hurry to find shelter for myself from the stormy wind, from the tempest. ~ Anonymous

70:The ever-new passions which consumed her gave to her life the appearance of those clouds which float in the heavens, reflecting sometimes azure, sometimes fire, sometimes the opaque blackness of the tempest, and which leave no traces upon the earth behind them but devastation and death. ~ Alexandre Dumas

71:In this snug, oversafe corner of the world we need it, that we may realize that our comfortable routine is no eternal necessity of things, but merely a little space of calm in the midst of the tempestuous untamed streaming of the world, and in order that we may be ready for danger. ~ Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr

72:do not let our princes accuse fortune for the loss of their principalities after so many years’ possession, but rather their own sloth, because in quiet times they never thought there could be a change (it is a common defect in man not to make any provision in the calm against the tempest), and ~ Niccol Machiavelli

73:After searching for it uselessly in the taste of the earth, in the perfumed letters from Pietro Crespi, in the tempestuous bed of her husband, she had found peace in that house where memories materialized through the strength of implacable evocation and walked like human beings through the cloistered rooms. ~ Gabriel Garc a M rquez

74:To blame or praise men on account of the result, is almost like praising or blaming figures on account of the sum total. Whatever is to happen, happens; whatever is to blow, blows. The eternal serenity does not suffer from these north winds. Above Revolutions, Truth and Justice reign, as the starry heavens above the tempest. ~ Victor Hugo

75:In a world of discouragement, sorrow, and overmuch sin, in times when fear and despair seem to prevail, when humanity is feverish with no worldly physicians in sigh, I too say, Trust Jesus. Let Him still the tempest and ride upon the storm. Believe that He can lift mankind from its bed of affliction, in time and in eternity. ~ Jeffrey R Holland

76:As children, we had access to all the open space imaginable. We would set up camps in rural Utah where the Tempest Company was at work laying pipe. We spent time around the West in Wyoming, Idaho, Nevada, and Colorado. Wild beautiful places. Now, many of these natural places have disappeared under the press of development. ~ Terry Tempest Williams

77:And will you love me for a day? A year? A lifetime?" She knew the answer but wanted to hear him say it in that beautiful, shattered voice. "Beyond that," he whispered, eyes shining with the tempest of emotion he'd held in check until now. "Beyond the reign of false gods and meddlesome priests. Beyond al Zafira when her bright stars fade. ~ Grace Draven

78:As long as the firmament of the You is spread over me, the tempests of causality cower at my heels, and the whirl of doom congeals. The human being to whom I say You I do not experience. But i stand in relation to him, in the sacred basic word. Only when I step out of this do I experience him again. Experience is remoteness from You. ~ Martin Buber

79:. . . For that he was a spirit too delicate To act their earthy and abhorr’d commands, Refusing their grand hests, they did confine him By help of their most potent ministers, And in their most unmitigable rage, Into a cloven pine; within which rift Imprisoned, he didst painfully remain. . . . Shakespeare. The Tempest. ~ Madeleine L Engle

80:Religion has accepted the monstrous heresy that noise, size, activity, and bluster make a man dear to God. But we may take heart. To a people caught in the tempest of the last great conflict, God says, Be still, and know that I am God, and still He says it, as if He means to tell us that our strength and safety lie not in noise but in silence. It ~ A W Tozer

81:You mean we're going chronological order within each author?" he gasped. "But no one even knows for sure when Shakespeare wrote his plays!" "Well," I blustered, "we know he wrote Romeo and Juliet before The Tempest. I'd like to see that reflected on our shelves." George says that was one of the few times he has seriously contemplated divorce. ~ Anne Fadiman

82:One could think of American society as Bishop Warburton thought of the English Church, that like the ark of Noah it “is worth saving, not for the sake of the unclean beasts that almost filled it and probably made most noise and clamour in it, but for the little corner of rationality that was as much distressed by the stink within as by the tempest without.” Nevertheless, ~ Albert Jay Nock

83:He, at this very moment, issues invitations by the millions. He whispers through the kindness of a grandparent, shouts through the tempest of a tsunami. Through the funeral he cautions, “Life is fragile.” Through a sickness he reminds, “Days are numbered.” God may speak through nature or nurture, majesty or mishap. But through all and to all he invites: “Come, enjoy me forever. ~ Max Lucado

84:Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting— “Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!” Quoth the Raven “Nevermore. ~ Edgar Allan Poe

85:Do and dare what is right, not swayed by the whim of the moment. Bravely take hold of the real, not dallying now with what might be. Not in the flight of ideas but only in action is freedom. Make up your mind and come out into the tempest of living. God’s command is enough and your faith in him to sustain you. Then at last freedom will welcome your spirit amid great rejoicing. ~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer

86:We, the Sworn Sisterhood, do solemnly vow to take back Acadia from those who are responsible for the scourge of the dragon and the tempests. We will fight them with our hands and our weapons. We will fight them with the power of our conviction. We will face the enemy without fear. We will take the enemy down and bring the enemy to justice and there is nothing that can stand in our way. ~ Mercedes Lackey

87:Art is enchantment and artists have the right of spells. ... The success of later Shakespeare is the success of spells, where every element, however uneven, however incredible, is fastened to the next with perfect authority. The enchanted world shimmers but does not waver. A Midsummer Night's Dream is the first of his plays to accomplish this, The Tempest is enchantment's apotheosis. ~ Jeanette Winterson

88:If we are encouraged to read high fantasies like The Tempest and urged to “enjoy a magic island and ‘believe’ in an Ariel and a Caliban,” then why should we not also “suspend our disbelief” and enjoy the invented world of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings? Why not enter in and believe also in the magic of barrow-wights and orc-blades, Hobbiton, Tom Bombadil, and the tree-top city of Lothlórien? ~ Diana Pavlac Glyer

89:From the bottom of my heart, I wanted to give up; I wanted to give up on living. There was no denying that tomorrow would come, and the day after tomorrow, and so next week, too. I never thought it would be this hard, but I would go on living in the midst of a glomy depression, and that made me feel sick to the depths of my soul. In spite of the tempest raging within me, I walked the night path calmly. ~ Banana Yoshimoto

90:I. When a lover clasps his fairest, Then be our dread sport the rarest. Their caresses were like the chaff In the tempest, and be our laugh His despairher epitaph! II. When a mother clasps her child, Watch till dusty Death has piled His cold ashes on the clay; She has loved it many a day-- She remains,it fades away. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, When A Lover Clasps His Fairest

91:If in some cases a bit of a nautical Murat in setting forth his person ashore, the Handsome Sailor of the period in question evinced nothing of the dandified Billy-be-Dam, an amusing character all but extinct now, but occasionally to be encountered, and in a form yet more amusing than the original, at the tiller of the boats on the tempestuous Erie Canal or, more likely, vaporing in the groggeries along the towpath. ~ Herman Melville

92:Now on the hills I hear the thunder mutter... Nearer and nearer rolls the thunder-clap, - You can hear the quick heart of the tempest beat.... Look! look! that livid flash! And instantly follows the rattling thunder, As if some cloud-crag, split asunder, Fell, splintering with a ruinous crash, On the Earth, which crouches in silence under; And now a solid gray wall of rain Shuts off the landscape, mile by mile. ~ James Russell Lowell

93:The feel of a canoe gunnel at the thigh, the splash of flying spray in the face, the rhythm of the snowshoe trail, the beckoning of far-off hills and valleys, the majesty of the tempest, the calm and silent presence of the trees that seem to muse and ponder in their silence; the trust and confidence of small living creatures, the company of simple men; these have been my inspiration and my guide. Without them I am nothing. ~ Grey Owl

94:When the tumult of war shall cease, and the tempest of present passions be succeeded by calm reflection, or when those, who, surviving its fury, shall inherit from you a legacy of debts and misfortunes, when the yearly revenue scarcely be able to discharge the interest of the one, and no possible remedy be left for the other, ideas far different from the present will arise, and embitter the remembrance of former follies. ~ Thomas Paine

95:it is better to arm and strengthen your hero, than to disarm and enfeeble the foe;—and if you were to rear an oak sapling in a hothouse, tending it carefully night and day, and shielding it from every breath of wind, you could not expect it to become a hardy tree, like that which has grown up on the mountain-side, exposed to all the action of the elements, and not even sheltered from the shock of the tempest.' 'Granted;—but ~ Anne Bront

96:For when the grace of God cometh to a man, then he becometh able to do all things, and when it departeth then he will be poor and weak and given up unto troubles. In these thou art not to be cast down nor to despair, but to rest with calm mind on the will of God, and to bear all things which come upon thee unto the praise of Jesus Christ; for after winter cometh summer, after night returneth day, after the tempest a great calm. ~ Thomas Kempis

97:Typhoons are a sort of violent whirlwinds. Before these whirlwinds come on... there appears a heavy cloud to the northeast which is very black near the horizon, but toward the upper part is a dull reddish color. The tempest came with great violence, but after a while, the winds ceased all at once and a calm succeeded. This lasted... an hour, more or less, then the gales were turned around, blowing with great fury from the southwest. ~ William Dampier

98:The machine which at first blush seems a means of isolating man from the great problems of nature, actually plunges him more deeply into them. As for the peasant so for the pilot, dawn and twilight become events of consequence. His essential problems are set him by the mountain, the sea, the wind. Alone before the vast tribunal of the tempestuous sky, the pilot defends his mails and debates on terms of equality with those three elemental divinities. ~ Antoine de Saint Exup ry

99:We picture the world as thick with conquering and elate humanity, but here, with the bugles of the tempest peeling, it was hard to imagine a peopled earth. One viewed the existence of man then as a marvel, and conceded a glamour of wonder to these lice which were caused to cling to a whirling, fire-smitten, ice-locked, disease-stricken, space-lost bulb. The conceit of man was explained by this storm to be the very engine of life. One was a coxcomb not to die in it. ~ Stephen Crane

100:If you see the fury and hear the howling of the tempest, or read of shipwrecks, think of the storm of human passions causing daily groans and disturbance in the hearts of men, wrecking the spiritual ship of the soul or the ship of human society; and pray fervently to the Lord that He may subdue the tempest of sins, as He once subdued the tempest at sea by His word, and that He may root our passions from our hearts, and re-establish in them unceasing tranquility. ~ John of Kronstadt

101:I stand still for a long time, holding the note, and let it all sink in. Her leaving is almost palpable like a gale-force wind that’s rolled into my life in the span of a single evening and left behind all this incalculable destruction, both inside and out. Yes, the tempest has passed, but the air around me feels different. I can hardly breathe. Nothing is the same without her. As the lone survivor of her particular storm, I begin to wonder just exactly what I’m supposed to do now. ~ Katherine Owen

102:Fasting is, as much as lies in us, an imitation of the angels, a contemning of things present, a school of prayer, a nourishment of the soul, a bridle of the mouth, an abatement of concupiscence: it mollifies rage, it appeases anger, it calms the tempests of nature, it excites reason, it clears the mind, it disburdens the flesh, it chases away night-pollutions, it frees from head-ache. By fasting, a man gets composed behaviour, free utterance of his tongue, right apprehensions of hismind. ~ John Piper

103:Go back to bed, said this omniscient interior voice, because you don’t need to know the final answer right now, at three o’clock in the morning on a Thursday in November. Go back to bed, because I love you. Go back to bed, because the only thing you need to do for now is get some rest and take good care of yourself until you do know the answer. Go back to bed so that, when the tempest comes, you’ll be strong enough to deal with it. And the tempest is coming, dear one. Very soon. But not tonight ~ Anonymous

104:The tempest was terrible and separated me from my [other] vessels that night, putting every one of them in desperate straits, with nothing to look forward to but death. Each was certain the others had been destroyed. What man ever born, not excepting Job, who would not have died of despair, when in such weather seeking safety for my son, my brother, shipmates, and myself, we were forbidden [access to] the land and the harbors which I, by God's will and sweating blood, had won for Spain? ~ Christopher Columbus

105:The Elements respect their Maker's seal! Still Like the scathed pine tree's height, Braving the tempests of the night Have I 'scaped the flickering flame. Like the scathed pine, which a monument stands Of faded grandeur, which the brands Of the tempest-shaken air Have riven on the desolate heath; Yet it stands majestic even in death, And rears its wild form there. Published as Shelley's by Medwin, 'Life of Shelley', 1847, 1 page 56 ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Fragment From The Wandering Jew

106:At the happy ending of the Tempest, Prospero brings the kind back togeter with his son, and finds Miranda's true love and punishes the bad duke and frees Ariel and becomes a duke himself again. Everyone - except Caliban - is happy, and everyone is forgiven, and everyone is fine, and they all sail away on calm seas. Happy endings. That's how it is in Shakespeare. But Shakespeare was wrong. Sometimes there isn't a Prospero to make everything fine again. And sometimes the quality of mercy is strained. ~ Gary D Schmidt

107:Very often, when tides start turning, great gears start shifting, and gusting winds start blowing at the onset of a really wonderful dream's alignment with your present life, there is commotion, unpredictability, even turmoil. So, hey, let's always assume that's the case whenever you experience commotion, unpredictability, even turmoil. K? Let not your senses deceive, for even as the tempest may howl, just beyond it lies a serenity that could not otherwise find you. The storm before the calm, if you will. ~ Mike Dooley

108:A Poet’s Thought TELL me, what is a poet’s thought? Is it on the sudden born? Is it from the starlight caught? Is it by the tempest taught, Or by whispering morn? Was it cradled in the brain? Chain’d awhile, or nurs’d in night? Was it wrought with toil and pain? Did it bloom and fade again, Ere it burst to light? No more question of its birth: Rather love its better part! ’T is a thing of sky and earth, Gathering all its golden worth From the Poet’s heart. ~ Barry Cornwall

109:I tensed, waiting for the fury - both his and mine - but it was only quiet and calm in the darkness of his room. I could almost taste the sweetness of reunion in the air, a separate fragrance from the perfume of his breath; the emptiness when we were apart left its own bitter aftertaste, something I didn't consciously notice until it was removed. There was no friction in the space between us. The stillness was peaceful - not like the calm before the tempest, but like a clear night untouched by even the dream of a storm. ~ Stephenie Meyer

110:This is definitely not the hour when men take kindly to an exhortation to listen, for listening is not today a part of popular religion. We are at the opposite end of the pole from there. Religion has accepted the monstrous heresy that noise, size, activity and bluster make a man dear to God. But we may take heart. To a people caught in the tempest of the last great conflict God says, "Be still, and know that I am God," and still He says it, as if He means to tell us that our strength and safety lie not in noise but in silence. ~ A W Tozer

111:The sacrificial part of the Greek religion had to do with submitting to the wild chaotic world beyond one’s own will; getting used to the idea that your rational plans will be knocked around by larger forces. The ecstatic-ritual part of ancient Greek religion was a kind of throwing oneself into the chaos, not pitting your rationality against the tempestuous world, but rather leaving your rationality on the shore, letting the waves toss you about, and coming to identify with the waves, with the storm, with the weather. ~ Jennifer Michael Hecht

112:Those of us who know not the secret of properly regulating our own existence on this tumultuous sea of foolish troubles we call life are constantly in a state of misery while vainly trying to appear happy and contented. We stagger in the attempt to keep our moral equilibrium and see forerunners of the tempest in every cloud that floats on the horizon. Yet there is joy and beauty in the roll of the billows as they sweep outward toward eternity. Why not enter into their spirit, or, like Liethse, ride upon the hurricane itself? ~ Kakuz Okakura

113:I tensed, waiting for the fury - both his and mine - but it was only quiet and calm in the darkness of his room. I could almost taste the sweetness of reunion in the air, a separate fragrance from the perfume of his breath; the emptiness when we were apart left its own bitter aftertaste, something I didn't consciously notice until it was removed. There was no friction in the space between us. The stillness was peaceful - not like the calm before the tempest, but like a clear night untouched by even the dream of a storm. ~ Stephenie Meyer

114:The whirlwind of life It was true. Sometimes life was like that, a wonderful whirlwind that fills us with joy, like a ride on a merry-go-round when we are children. A whirlwind of love and drunkenness when you sleep in someones arms, in a tiny bed, getting up for breakfast at midday because you've spent the morning making love. But sometimes a whirlwind destroys things, like a violent typhoon that tries to drag us down, when we have been caught by the storm, when we realize that we have to face the tempest alone. And we are afraid. ~ Guillaume Musso

115:Behold, a king shall reign in righteousness, and princes shall rule in judgment. 2. And a man shall be as an hiding place from the wind, and a covert from the tempest; as rivers of water in a dry place, as the shadow of a great rock in a weary land. 3. And the eyes of them that see shall not be dim, and the ears of them that hear shall hearken. 4. The heart also of the rash shall understand knowledge, and the tongue of the stammerers shall be ready to speak plainly. 5. The vile person shall be no more called liberal, nor the churl said to be bountiful. ~ Anonymous

116:It is of no use to hope that we shall be well rooted if no rough winds pass over us. Those old gnarlings on the root of the oak tree, and those strange twistings of the branches, all tell of the many storms that have swept over it, and they are also indicators of the depth into which the roots have forced their way. So the Christian is made strong, and firmly rooted by all the trials and storms of life. Shrink not then from the tempestuous winds of trial, but take comfort, believing that by their rough discipline God is fulfilling this benediction to you. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon

117:Whoever will listen will hear the speaking Heaven. This is definitely not the hour when men take kindly to an exhortation to listen, for listening is not today a part of popular religion. We are at the opposite end of the pole from there. Religion has accepted the monstrous heresy that noise, size, activity and bluster make a man dear to God. But we may take heart. To a people caught in the tempest of the last great conflict God says, "Be still, and know that I am God," and still He says it, as if He means to tell us that our strength and safety lie not in noise but in silence. ~ A W Tozer

118:Huge clouds were already careering in the skies, and distant flashes announced a tempest. About ten o'clock, the storm burst forth; and Milady found some consolation in seeing Nature partake of the commotion within her. The thunder bellowed in the air like the angry passions in her soul; and it seemed to her as if the passing gusts disturbed her brow, as they did the trees of which they bent down the branches and sept off the leaves. She howled like the tempest, but her voice was unheard Amidst the vast voice of Nature, which also appeared to be herself groaning in despair. ~ Alexandre Dumas

119:There was, I thought, something calling to me from out in the dark. It came from out in the tempest, even from the lights of the fishing boats a mile out at sea. You can be called to a last effort, a final heroic statement, because I doubt you call yourself to leave comforts and certainties for an open road. But the call is inside your own head. It's a sad summons from the depths of your own wasted past. You could call it the imperative to go out with full-tilt trumpets and gunshots instead of the quietly desperate sound of the hospital ventilator. Victory instead of defeat. ~ Lawrence Osborne

120:1103 Through Lane It Lay—through Bramble Through lane it lay—through bramble— Through clearing and through wood— Banditti often passed us Upon the lonely road. The wolf came peering curious— The owl looked puzzled down— The serpent's satin figure Glid stealthily along— The tempests touched our garments— The lightning's poinards gleamed— Fierce from the Crag above us The hungry Vulture screamed— The satyr's fingers beckoned— The valley murmured "Come"— These were the mates— This was the road Those children fluttered home. ~ Emily Dickinson

121:True Love Her love is like the hardy flower That blooms amid the Alpine snows; Deep-rooted in an icy bower, No blast can chill its sweet repose; But fresh as is the tropic rose, Drenched in mellowest sunny beams, It has as sweet delicious dreams As any flower that grows. And though an avalanche came down And robbed it of the light of day, That which withstood the tempest's frown In grief would never pine away. Hope might withhold her feeblest ray, Within her bosom's snowy tomb Love still would wear its everbloom, The gayest of the gay. ~ Charles Sangster

122:The Golden Mean. Who founded firm and sure Would ever live secure, In spite of storm and blast Immovable and fast; Whoso would fain deride The ocean's threatening tide;— His dwelling should not seek On sands or mountain-peak. Upon the mountain's height The storm-winds wreak their spite: The shifting sands disdain Their burden to sustain. Do thou these perils flee, Fair though the prospect be, And fix thy resting-place On some low rock's sure base. Then, though the tempests roar, Seas thunder on the shore, Thou in thy stronghold blest And undisturbed shalt rest; Live all thy days serene, And mock the heavens' spleen. ~ Anonymous

123:Compare with such a one the common rabble of mankind, stupid and mean-spirited, servile, instable, and continually floating with the tempest of various passions, that tosses and tumbles them to and fro, and all depending upon others, and you will find a greater distance than betwixt heaven and earth; and yet the blindness of common usage is such that we make little or no account of it; whereas if we consider a peasant and a king, a nobleman and a vassal, a magistrate and a private man, a rich man and a poor, there appears a vast disparity, though they differ no more, as a man may say, than in their breeches. ~ Michel de Montaigne

124:But for the man who watches the leaves trembling in the wind’s breath, the rivers meandering through the meadows, life twisting and turning and swirling through things, men living, doing good and evil, the sea rolling its waves and the sky with its expanse of lights, and who asks himself why these leaves are there, why the water flows, why life itself is such a terrible torrent plunging towards the boundless ocean of death in which it will lose itself, why men walk about, labor like ants, why the tempest, why the sky so pure and the earth so foul – these questions lead to a darkness from which there is no way out. ~ Gustave Flaubert

125:In our modern world, black magic finds a fertile breeding ground in man's desires. Age after age, the wants of man destroy him. In ignorance he plays with fire; in thoughtlessness he ignores the immutable laws of nature, and then wonders why the tempests break about his head, why lava and ash bury his cities, why wars lay waste his lands and mighty upheavals of the earth cause continents and nations to vanish in a single day. He neither obeys the laws of force, nor recognizes that cause and effect rule all things; that day after day, he reaps misery as the harvest of thoughtlessness. ~ Manly P Hall, Magic: A Treatise on Esoteric Ethics

126:With favoring winds, o'er sunlit seas, We sailed for the Hesperides, The land where golden apples grow; But that, ah! that was long ago. How far, since then, the ocean streams Have swept us from that land of dreams, That land of fiction and of truth, The lost Atlantis of our youth! Whither, ah, whither? Are not these The tempest-haunted Orcades, Where sea-gulls scream, and breakers roar, And wreck and sea-weed line the shore? Ultima Thule! Utmost Isle! Here in thy harbors for a while We lower our sails; a while we rest From the unending, endless quest. ~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

127:The poet must always, in every instance, have the vibrant word... that by it's trenchancy can so wound my soul that it whimpers.... One must know and recognize not merely the direct but the secret power of the word; one must be able to give one's writing unexpected effects. It must have a hectic, anguished vehemence, so that it rushes past like a gust of air, and it must have a latent, roistering tenderness so that it creeps and steals one's mind; it must be able to ring out like a sea-shanty in a tremendous hour, in the time of the tempest, and it must be able to sigh like one who, in tearful mood, sobs in his inmost heart. ~ Knut Hamsun

128:The coming of the sun was hailed with joy; the time of its departure was viewed as a period to be set aside for sorrow and unhappiness. This glorious, radiant orb of day, the true light "which lighteth every man who cometh into the world," the supreme benefactor, who raised all things from the dead, who fed the hungry multitudes, who stilled the tempest, who after dying rose again and restored all things to life--this Supreme Spirit of humanitarianism and philanthropy is known to Christendom as Christ, the Redeemer of worlds, the Only Begotten of The Father, the Word made Flesh, and the Hope of Glory. ~ Manly P Hall, The Secret Teachings of all Ages

129:I looked at the things again. Screwdriver, purple toothbrush, map. I thought about how Leo had helped me get a job and how he let us watch Times of Our Seasons at his house every day and how he listened whenever I talked about Ben and my dad but also didn’t expect me to talk about Ben or my dad and how Leo always shared the lollipops from the bank with me. (And now I’d given him one back.) How he’d shown me The Tempest with Lisette Chamberlain as Miranda. How he’d completely understood when I’d cried after I’d seen it. And a thought came to my mind. Even though I’d only known him for part of a summer. Leo Bishop might be the best friend I’d ever had. ~ Ally Condie

130:I. My faint spirit was sitting in the light Of thy looks, my love; It panted for thee like the hind at noon For the brooks, my love. Thy barb whose hoofs outspeed the tempest's flight Bore thee far from me; My heart, for my weak feet were weary soon, Did companion thee. II. Ah! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed Or the death they bear, The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove With the wings of care; In the battle, in the darkness, in the need, Shall mine cling to thee, Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love, It may bring to thee. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, From The Arabic - An Imitation

131:Phaedra NOT that on me the Cyprian fury fell, Last martyr of my love-ensanguined race; Not that my children drop the averted face When my name shames the silence; not that hell Holds me where nevermore his glance shall dwell Nightlong between my lids, my pulses race Through flying pines the tempest of the chase, Nor my heart rest with him beside the well. Not that he hates me; not, O baffled gods Not that I slew him! - yet, because your goal Is always reached, nor your rejoicing rods Fell ever yet upon insensate clods, Know, the one pang that makes your triumph whole Is, that he knows the baseness of my soul. ~ Edith Wharton

132:elsewhere and leave me here alone with a whole plantation and two hundred woolly cannibals on my hands.  Therefore you stay, and I stay.  It is very simple.  Also, it is adventure.  And furthermore, you needn’t worry for yourself.  I am not matrimonially inclined.  I came to the Solomons for a plantation, not a husband.” Sheldon flushed, but remained silent. “I know what you are thinking,” she laughed gaily.  “That if I were a man you’d wring my neck for me.  And I deserve it, too.  I’m so sorry.  I ought not to keep on hurting your feelings.” “I’m afraid I rather invite it,” he said, relieved by the signs of the tempest subsiding. “I have it,” she announced.  “Lend me a ~ Jack London

133:It is impossible to read the history of the petty republics of Greece and Italy without feeling sensations of horror and disgust at the distractions with which they were continually agitated, and at the rapid succession of revolutions by which they were kept in a state of perpetual vibration between the extremes of tyranny and anarchy. If they exhibit occasional calms, these only serve as short-lived contrast to the furious storms that are to succeed. If now and then intervals of felicity open to view, we behold them with a mixture of regret, arising from the reflection that the pleasing scenes before us are soon to be overwhelmed by the tempestuous waves of sedition and party rage. ~ Alexander Hamilton

134:MY faint spirit was sitting in the light Of thy looks, my love; It panted for thee like the hind at noon For the brooks, my love. Thy barb, whose hoofs outspeed the tempest's flight, Bore thee far from me; My heart, for my weak feet were weary soon, Did companion thee. Ah! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed, Or the death they bear, The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove With the wings of care; In the battle, in the darkness, in the need, Shall mine cling to thee, Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love, It may bring to thee. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, From the Arabic, an Imitation

135:As our ship tumbled, free-falling through the eye of a saltwater cyclone, the nine giant maidens spiraled around us, weaving in and out of the tempest so they appeared to drown over and over again. Their faces contorted in anger and glee. Their long hair lashed us with icy spray. Each time they emerged, they wailed and shrieked, but it wasn’t just random noise. Their screams had a tonal quality, like a chorus of whale songs played through heavy feedback. I even caught snippets of lyrics: boiling mead...wave daughters...death for you! It reminded me of the first time Halfborn Gunderson played Norwegian black metal for me. After a few bars, it dawned on me...Oh, wait. That’s supposed to be music! ~ Rick Riordan

136:Fragment I I round the threshold wandering here, Vainly the tempest and the rain invoke, That they may keep my lady prisoner. And yet the wind was howling in the woods, The roving thunder bellowing in the clouds, Before the dawn had risen in the sky. O ye dear clouds! O heaven! O earth! O trees! My lady goes! Have mercy, if on earth Unhappy lovers ever mercy find! Awake, ye whirlwinds! storm-charged clouds, awake, O'erwhelm me with your floods, until the sun To other lands brings back the light of day! Heaven opens; the wind falls; the grass, the leaves Are motionless, around; the dazzling sun In my tear-laden eyes remorseless shines. ~ Count Giacomo Leopardi

137:Sonnet Lxvii: On Passing Over A Dreary Tract Swift fleet the billowy clouds along the sky, Earth seems to shudder at the storm aghast; While only beings as forlorn as I, Court the chill horrors of the howling blast. Even round yon crumbling walls, in search of food, The ravenous Owl foregoes his evening flight, And in his cave, within the deepest wood, The Fox eludes the tempest of the night. But to my heart congenial is the gloom Which hides me from a World I wish to shun; That scene where Ruin saps the mouldering tomb, Suits with the sadness of a wretch undone. Nor is the deepest shade, the keenest air, Black as my fate, or cold as my despair. ~ Charlotte Smith

138:Sonnet Xlvi: Parted Love What shall be said of this embattled day And armèd occupation of this night By all thy foes beleaguered,—now when sight Nor sound denotes the loved one far away? Of these thy vanquished hours what shalt thou say,— As every sense to which she dealt delight Now labours lonely o'er the stark noon-height To reach the sunset's desolate disarray? Stand still, fond fettered wretch! while Memory's art Parades the Past before thy face, and lures Thy spirit to her passionate portraitures: Till the tempestuous tide-gates flung apart Flood with wild will the hollows of thy heart, And thy heart rends thee, and thy body endures. ~ Dante Gabriel Rossetti

139:Sonnets Of The Empire: Hawk Great sea dog, fighter in the great old way! What though thy ships were tinder, and the pest Rotted thy ruffian crews that need had prest, And all thy keels were clogged with foul decay, Yet through the roaring months thy squadron lay A watch-dog eager at the throat of Brest While all the ocean smote her from the West And all the tempests tore her in their play. Thy soul was of the whirlwind, and thy cry Still leaps from out the crash of guns and waves To hurl us headlong on the foeman’s van, As in the Bay of Death, ’mid breakers high And felon reefs whereo’er the Atlantic raves, Thy flagship foremost into glory ran. ~ Archibald Thomas Strong

140:Ii But only three in all God's universe Have heard this word thou hast said,--Himself, beside Thee speaking, and me listening ! and replied One of us . . . that was God, . . . and laid the curse So darkly on my eyelids, as to amerce My sight from seeing thee,--that if I had died, The deathweights, placed there, would have signified Less absolute exclusion. 'Nay' is worse From God than from all others, O my friend ! Men could not part us with their worldly jars, Nor the seas change us, nor the tempests bend; Our hands would touch for all the mountain-bars: And, heaven being rolled between us at the end, We should but vow the faster for the stars. ~ Elizabeth Barrett Browning

141:Sonnet Ii But only three in all God's universe Have heard this word thou hast said,--Himself, beside Thee speaking, and me listening ! and replied One of us . . . that was God, . . . and laid the curse So darkly on my eyelids, as to amerce My sight from seeing thee,--that if I had died, The deathweights, placed there, would have signified Less absolute exclusion. 'Nay' is worse From God than from all others, O my friend ! Men could not part us with their worldly jars, Nor the seas change us, nor the tempests bend; Our hands would touch for all the mountain-bars: And, heaven being rolled between us at the end, We should but vow the faster for the stars. ~ Elizabeth Barrett Browning

142:My perfect storm was nothing permanent. But of course it's far from the last storm I'll face. There will be many more. The key is building fires where you can. Warm yourself up as you wait for the tempest to pass. These fires, the routines, habits, relationships, and coping mechanisms you built, help you to look at the rain and see fertilizer instead of a flood. If you want the lushest green of life and you do, the grey is part of the natural cycle. You are not flawed. You're a human. You have gifts to share with the world and when the darkness comes, when you're fighting the demons, just remember. I'm right there fighting with you. You're not alone. The gems I found were forged in the struggle. Never, ever give up. ~ Timothy Ferriss

143:Sonnet Xxiii. By The Same. To The North Star. TO thy bright beams I turn my swimming eyes, Fair, favourite planet, which in happier days Saw my young hopes, ah, faithless hopes!--arise, And on my passion shed propitious rays. Now nightly wandering 'mid the tempests drear That howl the woods and rocky steeps among, I love to see thy sudden light appear Through the swift clouds--driven by the wind along: Or in the turbid water, rude and dark, O'er whose wild stream the gust of Winter raves, Thy trembling light with pleasure still I mark, Gleam in faint radiance on the foaming waves! So o'er my soul short rays of reason fly, Then fade:--and leave me to despair and die. ~ Charlotte Smith

144:The Sleeping Giant (Thunder Bay, Lake Superior) When did you sink to your dreamless sleep Out there in your thunder bed? Where the tempests sweep, And the waters leap, And the storms rage overhead. Were you lying there on your couch alone Ere Egypt and Rome were born? Ere the Age of Stone, Or the world had known The Man with the Crown of Thorn. The winds screech down from the open west, And the thunders beat and break On the amethyst Of your rugged breast,-But you never arise or wake. You have locked your past, and you keep the key In your heart 'neath the westing sun, Where the mighty sea And its shores will be Storm-swept till the world is done. ~ Emily Pauline Johnson

145:The Tempest The sails in shreds, the helm all smashed, the roar Of waves through blasting storm, and fearful cries As pumps are manned. From sailors' hands last ropes Have slipped. The sun in blood sinks down: hope's gone. Triumphantly the tempest howls; from sea's Abyss, on watery mountains, death's own genius Tramples on the ship like soldier who, Once walls are breached, on rampart sets his foot. Some sprawl half-dead, some wring their hands; one throws Himself into protective arms' god speed; Another, faced with death, prays mercy quick. A traveller stood silent and apart, Imbued with thought: Happy whose feeling lasts His strength, who prays and who can bid good speed! ~ Adam Mickiewicz

146:Feuilles D'Automne Gather the leaves from the forest And blow them over the world, The wind of winter follows The wind of autumn furled. Only the beech tree cherishes A leaf or two for ruth, Their stems too tough for the tempest, Like thoughts of love and of youth. You may sit by the fire and ponder While darkness veils the pane, And fear that your memories are rushing away In the wind and the rain. But you'll find them in the quiet When the clouds race with the moon, Making the tender silver sound Of a beech in the month of June. For you cannot rob the memory Of the leaves it loves the best; The wind of time may harry them, It rushes away with the rest. ~ Duncan Campbell Scott

147:Sonnet Ii: But Only Three In All God's Universe But only three in all God's universe Have heard this word thou has said,--Himself, beside Thee speaking, and me listening! and replied One of us...that was God,...and laid the curse So darkly on my eyelids, as to amerce My sight from seeing thee,--that if I had died, The deathweights, placed there, would have signified Less absolute exclusion. Nay is worse From God than from all others, O my friend! Men could not part us with their worldly jars, Nor the seas change us, nor the tempests bend; Our hands would touch for all the mountain-bars: And, heaven being rolled between us at the end, We should but vow the faster for the stars. ~ Elizabeth Barrett Browning

148:I bear my witness that the worst days I have ever had have turned out to be my best days. And when God has seemed most cruel to me he has then been most kind. If there is anything in this world for which I would bless him more than for anything else it is for pain and affliction. I am sure that in these things the richest tenderest love has been manifested to me. Our Father's wagons rumble most heavily when they are bringing us the richest freight of the bullion of his grace. Love letters from heaven are often sent in black-edged envelopes. The cloud that is black with horror is big with mercy. Fear not the storm. It brings healing in its wings and when Jesus is with you in the vessel the tempest only hastens the ship to its desired haven. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon

149:Can it be that he has only seen her in seductive visions, and that this passion has been nothing but a dream? Surely they must have spent years hand in hand together—alone the two of them, casting off all the world and each uniting his or her life with the other’s? Surely when the hour of parting came she must have lain sobbing and grieving on his bosom, heedless of the tempest raging under the sullen sky, heedless of the wind which snatches and bears away the tears from her black eyelashes? Can all of that have been a dream—and that garden, dejected, forsaken, run wild, with its little moss-grown paths, solitary, gloomy, where they used to walk so happily together, where they hoped, grieved, loved, loved each other so long, “so long and so fondly? ~ Fyodor Dostoyevsky

150:Pain's Proof I think men's great capacity for pain Proves his immortal birthright. I am sure No merely human mind could bear the strain Of some tremendous sorrows we endure. Art's most ingenious breastworks fail at length, Beat by the mighty billows of the sea; Only the God-formed shores possess the strength To stand before their onslaughts, and not flee. The structure that we build with careful toil, The tempest lays in ruins in an hour; While some grand tree that springs forth from the soil Is bended but not broken by its power. Unless our souls had root in soil divine We could not bear earth's overwhelming strife. The fiercest pain that racks this heart of mine, Convinces me of everlasting life. ~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox

151:Sonnet 02 - But Only Three In All God's Universe II But only three in all God's universe Have heard this word thou hast said,—Himself, beside Thee speaking, and me listening! and replied One of us . . . that was God, . . . and laid the curse So darkly on my eyelids, as to amerce My sight from seeing thee,—that if I had died, The deathweights, placed there, would have signified Less absolute exclusion. 'Nay' is worse From God than from all others, O my friend! Men could not part us with their worldly jars, Nor the seas change us, nor the tempests bend; Our hands would touch for all the mountain-bars: And, heaven being rolled between us at the end, We should but vow the faster for the stars. ~ Elizabeth Barrett Browning

152:Destiny has chosen me for the Wind,” he said in resonant tones as he swept out his hands in a showman’s gesture, even while he winked at her. “Atmospheres, temperature, air, these are mine to beckon.” And he did, sweeping a breeze through the room just strong enough to make Legna’s gown ruffle. Suddenly, without even a flash of light or warning, Elijah’s form dissipated into thin air, becoming the air. His voice swirled all around her as he playfully lifted her hair up from her shoulders, drawing it into a banner that fluttered high above her head, making her laugh. “The weather sways to my will, the tempests and pressures of it mine to manipulate. I can infuse a place with life-giving oxygen or remove it completely. The Wind is the breath of life, and She breathes through me. ~ Jacquelyn Frank

153:Angelus Novus <i>After Walter Benjamin </i> The angry wind has shorn the feathers off his wings. He levitates on a fixed spot by the highway. Is the wind caused by the flood of the speeding vehicles or indeed hurled by the rabid gods of heaven? The angel can't tell. He watches the atoms of his wings' debris twirl in the tempest. Why with such affection? A longing for what? For the ruins no doubt; for what's been crushed by the onslaught of the divine tragedy. Can he save any of it from irretrievable erasure? Will his suitcase have room enough for the volume of such immeasurable loss? He can't tell as yet. He floats, resists being swallowed by the storm and doesn't hitch a lift. ~ Ali Alizadeh

154:1010 The Women Of The Sailors The women of the sailors, unto them, O God, be kind! They never hear the breaking waves, they never hear the wind But that their hearts are anguish-tossed-, and every thought's a fear, For the women of the sailors it's a bitter time of year. The women of the sailors, unto them, O God, be good! 'Tis they who know and understand how frail are steel and wood; 'Tis they who never see the spray upon a rock-bound coast But what they breathe a prayer to Thee for those that love them most. The women of the sailors, unto them, O God, be nigh! They never hear the hurricane but that it means a sigh; They never hear the tempest but that they pray to Thee For the safety of their loved ones who are battling with the sea. ~ Edgar Albert Guest

155:She could see the tempest in his eyes, swarming in the blue of them with a kind of primal violence that made the breath catch in her throat and her pulse pound in response. "I need you." His fingers dived into her hair, dragging it back from her face, fisting again. "You can't know what kind of need is in me for you. There are times, do you understand me, I don't want it. I don't want this raging inside me. It won't stop." His mouth crushed down on hers, and she tasted that need, the fierce and focused intensity of it. And the greed, the desperation of it. She gave herself over to it without hesitation. Because he was wrong, as he was very rarely wrong. She understood the need, and she understood the frustration of knowing it wouldn't be controlled. The same war waged in her. ~ J D Robb

156:A Lancashire Doxology "PRAISE God from whom all blessings flow." Praise Him who sendeth joy and woe. The Lord who takes, -- the Lord who gives, -O praise Him, all that dies, and lives. He opens and He shuts his hand, But why, we cannot understand: Pours and dries up his mercies' flood, And yet is still All-perfect Good. We fathom not the mighty plan, The mystery of God and man; We women, when afflictions come, We only suffer and are dumb. And when, the tempest passing by, He gleams out, sun-like, through our sky, We look up, and through black clouds riven, We recognize the smile of Heaven. Ours is not wisdom of the wise, We have no deep philosophies: Childlike we take both kiss and rod, For he who loveth knoweth God. ~ Dinah Maria Mulock Craik

157:Rain Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me Remembering again that I shall die And neither hear the rain nor give it thanks For washing me cleaner than I have been Since I was born into this solitude. Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon: But here I pray that none whom once I loved Is dying to-night or lying still awake Solitary, listening to the rain, Either in pain or thus in sympathy Helpless among the living and the dead, Like a cold water among broken reeds, Myriads of broken reeds all still and stiff, Like me who have no love which this wild rain Has not dissolved except the love of death, If love it be towards what is perfect and Cannot, the tempest tells me, disappoint. ~ Edward Thomas

158:We claim no glory. If the tempest rolls About us we have fear, and then Having so small a stake grow bold again. We know not definitely even this But 'cause some vague half knowing half doth miss Our consciousness and leaves us feeling That somehow all is well, that sober, reeling From the last carouse, or in what measure Of so called right or so damned wrong our leisure Runs out uncounted sand beneath the sun, That, spite your carping, still the thing is done With some deep sanction, that, we know not how, Sans thought gives us this feeling; you allow That this not need we know our every thought Or see the work shop where each mask is wrought Wherefrom we view the world of box and pit, Careless of wear, just so the mask shall fit And serve our jape's turn for a night or two. ~ Ezra Pound

159:Sonnet Lix. Written Sept. 1791, during a remarkable thunder storm, in which the moon was perfectly clear, while the tempest gathered in various directions near the earth. WHAT awful pageants crowd the evening sky! The low horizon gathering vapours shroud, Sudden, from many a deep-embattled cloud Terrific thunders burst and lightnings fly-While in serenest azure, beaming high, Night's regent, of her calm pavilion proud, Gilds the dark shadows that beneath her lie, Unvex'd by all their conflicts fierce and loud. --So, in unsullied dignity elate, A spirit conscious of superior worth, In placid elevation firmly great, Scorns the vain cares that give Contention birth; And blest with peace above the shocks of Fate, Smiles at the tumult of the troubled earth. ~ Charlotte Smith

160:Bird Of Hope Soar not too high, O bird of Hope! Because the skies are fair; The tempest may come on apace And overcome thee there. When far above the mountain tops Thou soarest, over all – If, then, the storm should press thee back, How great would be thy fall! And thou wouldst lie here at my feet, A poor and lifeless thing, A torn and bleeding birdling, With limp and broken wing. Sing not too loud, O bird of Hope! Because the day is bright; The sunshine cannot always last – The morn precedes the night. And if thy song is of the day, Then when the day grows dim, Forlorn and voiceless thou wouldst sit Among the shadows grim. Oh! I would have thee soar and sing, But not too high, or loud, Remembering that day meets night – The brilliant sun the cloud. ~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox

161:When the tumult of war shall cease, and the tempest of present passions be succeeded by calm reflection, or when those, who, surviving its fury, shall inherit from you a legacy of debts and misfortunes, when the yearly revenue scarcely be able to discharge the interest of the one, and no possible remedy be left for the other, ideas far different from the present will arise, and embitter the remembrance of former follies. A mind disarmed of its rage feels no pleasure in contemplating a frantic quarrel. Sickness of thought, the sure consequence of conduct like yours, leaves no ability for enjoyment, no relish for resentment; and though, like a man in a fit, you feel not the injury of the struggle, nor distinguish between strength and disease, the weakness will nevertheless be proportioned to the violence, and the sense of pain increase with the recovery. ~ Thomas Paine

162:The Flight Of Peace TRUST and Treachery, Wisdom, Folly, Madness, Mirth and Melancholy, Love and Hatred, Thrift and Pillage, All are housed in one small village. And if such be Life’s mix’d being, Where may Peace from ruin fleeing, Find a shelter and inherit All the calm of her own merit? In a bark of gentle motion Sailing on the summer ocean? There worst war the tempest wages And the whirlpool’s hunger rages. In some lonely new-world bower, Hidden like a forest flower? There too, there, to irk the stranger, Stalks the wild-eyed spirit Danger! Vainly would she build by roving Or in hoping or in loving, Or in solitary spaces, Having in all times and places, Or in none a home of beauty In the fearless heart of Duty, Dwelling there and seeing God’s right hand all things decreeing. ~ Charles Harpur

163:From the bottom of my heart, I wanted to give up; I wanted to give up on living. There was no denying that tomorrow would come, and the day after tomorrow, and so next week, too. I never thought it would be this hard, but I would go on living in the midst of a gloomy depression, and that made me feel sick to the depths of my soul. In spite of the tempest raging within me, I walked the night path calmly.” "Bất chợt, từ sâu trong cõi lòng, tôi muốn quẳng đi tất cả, cả việc bước đi và việc phải sống tiếp. Chắc chắn rồi ngày mai sẽ tới, rồi ngày kia sẽ tới, và rất chóng, rồi tuần sau sẽ tới. Chưa bao giờ tôi cảm thấy điều ấy lại phiền lụy đến thế như lúc này. Tôi thực sự sợ khi phải nghĩ rằng, cả những lúc đó, tôi cũng sẽ phải sống trong đau buồn và u uẩn. Bão tố đang quần đảo trong lòng, vậy mà tôi vẫn bước đi bình thản, tôi bỗng thấy hình ảnh của mình khi ấy sao mà ảm đạm. ~ Banana Yoshimoto

164:The Sea-Maiden Like summer waves on sands of snow, Soft ringlets clasp her neck and brow, And wandering breezes kiss away A threaded light of glimmering spray, That drifts and floats and softly flies In a golden mist about her eyes. Her laugh is fresh as foam that springs Through tumbling shells and shining things, And where the gleaming margin dries Is heard the music of her sighs. Her gentle bosom ebbs and swells With the tide of life that deeply wells From a throbbing heart that loves to break In the tempest of love for love's sweet sake. O, the fragrance of earth, and the song of the sea, And the light of the heavens, are only three Of the thousand glories that Love can trace, In her life, and her soul, and her beautiful face. This tangled weed of poesy, Torn from the heart of a stormy sea, I fling upon the love divine Of her, who fills this heart of mine. ~ Dowell O'Reilly

165:1074 Until She Died Until she died we never knew The beauty of our faith in God. We'd seen the summer roses nod And wither as the tempests blew, Through many a spring we'd lived to see The buds returning to the tree. We had not felt the touch of woe; What cares had come, had lightly flown; Our burdens we had borne alone— The need of God we did not know. It seemed sufficient through the days To think and act in worldly ways. And then she closed her eyes in sleep; She left us for a little while; No more our lives would know her smile. And oh, the hurt of it went deep! It seemed to us that we must fall Before the anguish of it all. Our faith, which had not known the test, Then blossomed with its comfort sweet, Promised that some day we should meet And whispered to us: 'He knows best.' And when our bitter tears were dried, We found our faith was glorified. ~ Edgar Albert Guest

166:More precisely, it is a question of dissolving contradictions in the fires of love and desire and of demolishing the walls of death. Magic rites, primitive or naïve civilizations, alchemy, the language of flowers, fire, or sleepless nights, are so many miraculous stages on the way to unity and the philosophers’ stone. If surrealism did not change the world, it furnished it with a few strange myths which partly justified Nietzsche’s announcement of the return of the Greeks. Only partly, because he was referring to unenlightened Greece, the Greece of mysteries and dark gods. Finally, just as Nietzsche’s experience culminated in the acceptance of the light of day, surrealist experience culminates in the exaltation of the darkness of night, the agonized and obstinate cult of the tempest. Breton, according to his own statements, understood that, despite everything, life was a gift. But his compliance could never shed the full light of day, the light that all of us need. ~ Albert Camus

167:Though gay men have begun to understand it is something in themselves these upright men so fear, too many of us have internalized their self-hatred as shame. That the flesh and the spirit are one in love is none of the business of the celibate men of God, especially those who believe they rule the province of love. But the mission of the homophobe is more pernicious even than his morality. He wants every one of us to be all alone, never to find the beloved friend. A man ought to be free to find his reason. Not that freedom alone will serve it up: it requires the gods’ own fury of luck to get two people to meet. But when it finally happens, two men in love can’t rejoice out loud—joy of the very thing everyone burns for—without bracing for the rant of prophets, the schoolyard bully, and Rome’s “intrinsic evil.” I try to remember that we fight as a ragged people to outlast the calamity so that others can sleep as safe as my friend and I, like a raft in the tempest. ~ Paul Monette

168:It may take a decade or two before the extent of Shakespeare's collaboration passes from the graduate seminar to the undergraduate lecture, and finally to popular biography, by which time it will be one of those things about Shakespeare that we thought we knew all along. Right now, though, for those who teach the plays and write about his life, it hasn't been easy abandoning old habits of mind. I know that I am not alone in struggling to come to terms with how profoundly it alters one's sense of how Shakespeare wrote, especially toward the end of his career when he coauthored half of his last ten plays. For intermixed with five that he wrote alone, Antony and Cleopatra, Coriolanus, The Winter's Tale, Cymbeline, and The Tempest, are Timon of Athens (written with Thomas Middleton), Pericles (written with George Wilkins), and Henry the Eighth, the lost Cardenio, and The Two Noble Kinsmen (all written with John Fletcher). ~ James Shapiro

169:At that time, I well remember whatever could excite - certain accidents of the weather, for instance, were almost dreaded by me, because they woke the being I was always lulling, and stirred up a craving cry I could not satisfy. One night a thunder-storm broke; a sort of hurricane shook us in our beds: the Catholics rose in panic and prayed to their saints. As for me, the tempest took hold of me with tyranny: I was roughly roused and obliged to live. I got up and dressed myself, and creeping outside the basement close by my bed, sat on its ledge, with my feet on the roof of a lower adjoining building. It was wet, it was wild, it was pitch dark. Within the dormitory they gathered round the night-lamp in consternation, praying loud. I could not go in: too resistless was the delight of staying with the wild hour, black and full of thunder, pealing out such an ode as language never delivered to man - too terribly glorious, the spectacle of clouds, split and pierced by white and blinding bolts. ~ Charlotte Bront

170:in my voyages, when I was a man and commanded other men, I have seen the heavens overcast, the sea rage and foam, the storm arise, and, like a monstrous bird, beating the two horizons with its wings. Then I felt that my vessel was a vain refuge, that trembled and shook before the tempest. Soon the fury of the waves and the sight of the sharp rocks announced the approach of death, and death then terrified me, and I used all my skill and intelligence as a man and a sailor to struggle against the wrath of God. But I did so because I was happy, because I had not courted death, because to be cast upon a bed of rocks and seaweed seemed terrible, because I was unwilling that I, a creature made for the service of God, should serve for food to the gulls and ravens. But now it is different; I have lost all that bound me to life, death smiles and invites me to repose; I die after my own manner, I die exhausted and broken-spirited, as I fall asleep when I have paced three thousand times round my cell. ~ Alexandre Dumas

171:I. Ghosts of the dead! have I not heard your yelling Rise on the night-rolling breath of the blast, When oer the dark aether the tempest is swelling, And on eddying whirlwind the thunder-peal passed? II. For oft have I stood on the dark height of Jura Which frowns on the valley that opens beneath; Oft have I braved the chill night-tempest's fury, Whilst around me, I thought, echoed murmurs of death. III. And now, whilst the winds of the mountain are howling, O father! thy voice seems to strike on mine ear; In air whilst the tide of the night-storm is rolling, It breaks on the pause of the elements' jar. IV. On the wing of the whirlwind which roars o'er the mountain Perhaps rides the ghost of my sire who is dead: On the mist of the tempest which hangs o'er the fountain, Whilst a wreath of dark vapour encircles his head. On the Dark, etc.: without title, 1811; The Fathers Spectre, Rossetti, 1870. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, On The Dark Height of Jura

172:The Byronic hero, incapable of love, or capable only of an impossible love, suffers endlessly. He is solitary, languid, his condition exhausts him. If he wants to feel alive, it must be in the terrible exaltation of a brief and destructive action. To love someone whom one will never see again is to give a cry of exultation as one perishes in the flames of passion. One lives only in and for the moment, in order to achieve "the brief and vivid union of a tempestuous heart united to the tempest" (lermontov). The threat of mortality which hangs over us makes everything abortive. Only the cry of anguish can bring us to life; exaltation takes the place of truth. To this extent the apocalypse becomes an absolute value in which everything is confounded—love and death, conscience and culpability. In a chaotic universe no other life exists but that of the abyss where, according to Alfred Le Poittevin, human beings come "trembling with rage and exulting in their crimes" to curse the Creator. ~ Albert Camus

173:I. The fiery mountains answer each other; Their thunderings are echoed from zone to zone; The tempestuous oceans awake one another, And the ice-rocks are shaken round Winter's throne, When the clarion of the Typhoon is blown. II. From a single cloud the lightening flashes, Whilst a thousand isles are illumined around, Earthquake is trampling one city to ashes, An hundred are shuddering and tottering; the sound Is bellowing underground. III. But keener thy gaze than the lightenings glare, And swifter thy step than the earthquakes tramp; Thou deafenest the rage of the ocean; thy stare Makes blind the volcanoes; the suns bright lamp To thine is a fen-fire damp. IV. From billow and mountain and exhalation The sunlight is darted through vapour and blast; From spirit to spirit, from nation to nation, From city to hamlet thy dawning is cast,-- And tyrants and slaves are like shadows of night In the van of the morning light. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Liberty

174:Everything’s fine.” “Except that Cecily’s pregnant,” Matt Holden offered, grinning at Tate’s exasperated glare and Leta’s shocked gasp. “What do you mean, Cecily’s pregnant?” Leta burst out. She hit her son’s arm with her open hand. She hit him again. “You hooligan, how could you! How could you?” Tate defended himself with both arms. “How do you know it was me?” he teased. “Who else could it be?” Leta raged. “Do you think my baby would let another man touch her? Would she jump into bed with any other man in the world except you? Are you crazy?” Tate actually looked sheepish, and there was a new light in his eyes. Matt, after contemplating the two of them for a minute, sauntered off into the general direction of the kitchen, leaving mother and son alone together for the first time since the tempest had started. Tate stuck his hands into his pockets and stared down at his pretty little mother. “If you haven’t finished hitting me, I think there’s a spot or two you missed,” he pointed out, touching his arm and grimacing. ~ Diana Palmer

175:'Twas dead of the night when I sate in my dwelling, One glimmering lamp was expiring and low,-- Around the dark tide of the tempest was swelling, Along the wild mountains night-ravens were yelling, They bodingly presaged destruction and woe! 'Twas then that I started, the wild storm was howling, Nought was seen, save the lightning that danced on the sky, Above me the crash of the thunder was rolling, And low, chilling murmurs the blast wafted by.-- My heart sank within me, unheeded the jar Of the battling clouds on the mountain-tops broke, Unheeded the thunder-peal crashed in mine ear, This heart hard as iron was stranger to fear, But conscience in low noiseless whispering spoke. Twas then that her form on the whirlwind uprearing, The dark ghost of the murdered Victoria strode, Her right hand a blood reeking dagger was bearing, She swiftly advanced to my lonesome abode.-- I wildly then called on the tempest to bear me! ... ... ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Fragment, Or The Triumph Of Conscience

176:XXVIII For, looking up, aware I somehow grew, ’Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place All round to mountains—with such name to grace Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view. How thus they had surprised me—solve it, you! How to get from them was no clearer case. XXIX Yet half I seemed to recognise some trick Of mischief happened to me, God knows when— In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then Progress this way. When, in the very nick Of giving up, one time more, came a click As when a trap shuts—you’re inside the den. XXX Burningly it came on me all at once, This was the place! those two hills on the right, Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight; While to the left a tall scalped mountain . . . Dunce, Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce, After a life spent training for the sight! XXXI What in the midst lay but the Tower itself? The round squat turret, blind as the fool’s heart, Built of brown stone, without a counterpart In the whole world. The tempest’s mocking elf Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf He strikes on, only when the timbers start. ~ Stephen King

177:It is not that I am a genius or exceptionally gifted, not by any means. Quite the contrary. What Happened (I shall try to explain it) is that every mind is shaped by its own experiences and memories and knowledge, and what makes it unique is the grand total and extremely personal nature of the collection of all the data that have made it what it is. Each person possesses a mind with powers that are, whether great or small, always unique, powers that belong to them alone. This renders them capable of carrying out a feat, whether grandiose or banal, that only they could have carried out. In this case, all others had failed because they had counted on the simple quantitative progression of intelligence and ingenuity, when what was required was an unspecified quantity, but of the appropriate quality, of both. My own intelligence is quite minimal, a fact that I have ascertained at great cost to myself. It has been just barely adequate to keep me afloat in the tempestuous waters of life. Yet, its quality is unique; not because I decided it would be, but rather because that is how it must be. ~ C sar Aira

178:Years and years ago, there was a production of The Tempest, out of doors, at an Oxford college on a lawn, which was the stage, and the lawn went back towards the lake in the grounds of the college, and the play began in natural light. But as it developed, and as it became time for Ariel to say his farewell to the world of The Tempest, the evening had started to close in and there was some artificial lighting coming on. And as Ariel uttered his last speech, he turned and he ran across the grass, and he got to the edge of the lake and he just kept running across the top of the water — the producer having thoughtfully provided a kind of walkway an inch beneath the water. And you could see and you could hear the plish, plash as he ran away from you across the top of the lake, until the gloom enveloped him and he disappeared from your view. And as he did so, from the further shore, a firework rocket was ignited, and it went whoosh into the air, and high up there it burst into lots of sparks, and all the sparks went out, and he had gone. When you look up the stage directions, it says, ‘Exit Ariel. ~ Tom Stoppard

179:You've circled the globe to find yourself in the Globe,milady." Bill sketched a little bow. "The Globe Theatre?" Luce ducked as the woman in front of her discarded a gnawed-on turkey leg by tossing it over her shoulder. "You mean, like, Shakespeare?" "Well, he claims to be retired. You know those artist types. So moody." Bill swooped down near the ground, tugging at the hem of her dress and humming to himself. "Othello happened here," Luce said, taking a moment to let it all sink in. "The Tempest. Romeo and Juliet. We're practically standing in the center of all the greatest love stories ever written." "Actually,you're standing in walnut shells." "Why do you have to be so glib about everything? This is amazing!" "Sorry,I didn't realize we'd need a moment of bardolatry." His words came out lisped because of the needle clipped between his jagged teeth. "Now stand still." "Ouch!" Luce yelped as he jabbed sharply into her kneecap. "What are you doing?" "Un-Anachronizing you.These folks'll pay good money for a freak show, but they're expecting it to stay onstage. ~ Lauren Kate

180:The Bee's Winter Retreat Go, while the summer suns are bright, Take at large thy wandering flight, Go, and load thy tiny feet With every rich and various sweet; Cling around the flowering thorn, Dive in the woodbine's honey'd horn, Seek the wild rose that shades the dell, Explore the foxglove's freckled bell; Or in the heath-flower's fairy cup, Drink the fragrant spirit up, But when the meadows shall be mown, And summer's garlands overblown, Then come, thou little busy bee, And let thy homestead be with me:There, shelter'd by the straw-built hive, In my garden thou shalt live, And that garden shall supply Thy delicious alchymy;There, for thee, in autumn, blows The Indian pink and latest rose, The mignonette perfumes the air, And stocks, unfading flowers, are there. Yet fear not when the tempests come, And drive thee to thy waxen home, That I shall then, most treacherously, For thy honey murder thee:Oh, no! -throughout the winter drear I'll feed thee, that another year Thou may'st renew thy industry Among the flowers, thou busy bee. ~ Charlotte Smith

181:Aspens All day and night, save winter, every weather, Above the inn, the smithy and the shop, The aspens at the cross-roads talk together Of rain, until their last leaves fall from the top. Out of the blacksmith's cavern comes the ringing Of hammer, shoe and anvil; out of the inn The clink, the hum, the roar, the random singing The sounds that for these fifty years have been. The whisper of the aspens is not drowned, And over lightless pane and footless road, Empty as sky, with every other sound No ceasing, calls their ghosts from their abode, A silent smithy, a silent inn, nor fails In the bare moonlight or the thick-furred gloom, In the tempest or the night of nightingales, To turn the cross-roads to a ghostly room. And it would be the same were no house near. Over all sorts of weather, men, and times, Aspens must shake their leaves and men may hear But need not listen, more than to my rhymes. Whatever wind blows, while they and I have leaves We cannot other than an aspen be That ceaselessly, unreasonably grieves, Or so men think who like a different tree. ~ Edward Thomas

182:Squire Norton's Song The child and the old man sat alone In the quiet, peaceful shade Of the old green boughs, that had richly grown In the deep, thick forest glade. It was a soft and pleasant sound, That rustling of the oak; And the gentle breeze played lightly round As thus the fair boy spoke:'Dear father, what can honor be, Of which I hear men rave? Field, cell and cloister, land and sea, The tempest and the grave:It lives in all, 'tis sought in each, 'Tis never heard or seen: Now tell me, father, I beseech, What can this honor mean?' 'It is a name - a name, my child It lived in other days, When men were rude, their passions wild, Their sport, thick battle-frays. When, in armor bright, the warrior bold Knelt to his lady's eyes: Beneath the abbey pavement old That warrior's dust now lies. 'The iron hearts of that old day Have mouldered in the grave; And chivalry has passed away, With knights so true and brave; The honor, which to them was life, Throbs in no bosom now; It only gilds the gambler's strife, Or decks the worthless vow.' ~ Charles Dickens

183:The Carol Of Three Three kings came a-riding Through tempest and through cold; Their coats were of the silken thread, Their crowns were beaten gold. A star shone in the sky before, The storm it rolled behind, And as they rode their cloaks drew out Like clouds along the wind. Three shepherds left their shivering flocks, Came stumbling through the night; The song of angels drowned their ears, Their eyes were blind with light. They groped along the courtyard wall, Unpinned the stable door, Then halted all with steaming breath To stare upon the floor. Three strangers lodged within the barn That night of frost and storm, With ox and ass for company And straw to keep them warm. One stranger stood with hand on stall, One knelt in folds of blue, And one there lay in shadowed sleep As mortal children do. The halted shepherds bowed the head, The kings they bent the knee, And marvelling they worshipped there I silence, three by three. The tempest fell; a cock crowed thrice; The shepherds’ task was done. The kings re-mounted in a dream And rode towards the sun. ~ Clive Sansom

184:Forbidden Speech The passion you forbade my lips to utter Will not be silenced. You must hear it in The sullen thunders when they roll and mutter: And when the tempest nears, with wail and din, I know your calm forgetfulness is broken, And to your heart you whisper, 'He has spoken.' All nature understands and sympathises With human passion. When the restless sea Turns in its futile search for peace, and rises To plead and to pursue, it pleads for me. And with each desperate billow's anguished fretting. Your heart must tell you, 'He is not forgetting.' When unseen hands in lightning strokes are writing Mysterious words upon a cloudy scroll, Know that my pent-up passion is inditing A cypher message for your woman's soul; And when the lawless winds rush by you shrieking, Let your heart say, 'Now his despair is speaking.' Love comes, nor goes, at beck or call of reason, Nor is love silent, though it says no word; By day or night, in any clime or season, A dominating passion must be heard. So shall you hear, through Junes and through Decembers, The voice of Nature saying, 'He remembers.' ~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox

185:Amid the desolation of a city, Which was the cradle, and is now the grave Of an extinguished people,so that Pity Weeps oer the shipwrecks of Oblivions wave, There stands the Tower of Famine. It is built Upon some prison-homes, whose dwellers rave For bread, and gold, and blood: Pain, linked to Guilt, Agitates the light flame of their hours, Until its vital oil is spent or spilt. There stands the pile, a tower amid the towers And sacred domes; each marble-ribbed roof, The brazen-gated temples, and the bowers Of solitary wealth,--the tempest-proof Pavilions of the dark Italian air,-- Are by its presence dimmed--they stand aloof, And are withdrawnso that the world is bare; As if a spectre wrapped in shapeless terror Amid a company of ladies fair Should glide and glow, till it became a mirror Of all their beauty, and their hair and hue, The life of their sweet eyes, with all its error, Should be absorbed, till they to marble grew. Published by Mrs. Shelley in The Keepsake, 1829. Mr. C.W. Frederickson of Brooklyn possesses a transcript in Mrs. Shelleys handwriting. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Tower Of Famine

186:The Home Of Peace Trust and treachery, wisdom, folly, Madness, mirth and melancholy, Love and hatred, thrift and pillage, All are housed in every village. And in such a world’s mixed being, Where may peace, from ruin fleeing, Find fit shelter and inherit All the calm of her own merit? In a bark of gentle motion Sailing on the summer ocean? There worst war the tempest wages, And the hungry whirlpool rages. In some lonely new-world bower Hidden like a forest flower? There, too, there, to fray the stranger Stalks the wild-eyed savage, danger! In some Alpine cot, by fountains Flowing from snow-shining mountains? There the avalanches thunder, Crushing all that lieth under! In some hermit-tent, pitched lowly Mid the tombs of prophets holy? There to harry and annoy her Roams the infidel destroyer. In palatial chambers gilded, Guarded round with towers high-builded? Change may enter these to-morrow, And with change may enter sorrow. Find, O peace, thy home of beauty In the steadfast heart of duty, Dwelling ever there, and seeing God through every phase of being 184 ~ Charles Harpur

187:The fairy tale is accused of giving children a false impression of the world they live in. But I think no literature that children could read gives them less of a false impression. I think what profess to be realistic stories for children are far more likely to deceive them. I never expected the real world to be like the fairy tales. I think that I did expect school to be like the school stories. The fantasies did not deceive me: the school stories did. All stories in which children have adventures and successes which are possible, in the sense that they do not break the laws of nature, but almost infinitely improbable, are in more danger than the fairy tales of raising false expectations… This distinction holds for adult reading too. The dangerous fantasy is always superficially realistic. The real victim of wishful reverie does not batten on the Odyssey, The Tempest, or The Worm Ouroboros: he (or she) prefers stories about millionaires, irresistible beauties, posh hotels, palm beaches and bedroom scenes—things that really might happen, that ought to happen, that would have happened if the reader had had a fair chance. For, as I say, there are two kinds of longing. The one is an askesis, a spiritual exercise, and the other is a disease. ~ C S Lewis

188:The Sandpiper Across the lonely beach we flit, One little sandpiper and I, And fast I gather, but by bit, The scattered drift-wood, bleached and dry. The wild waves reach their hands for it, The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, As up and down the beach we flit, One little sandpiper and I. Above our heads the sullen clouds Scud, black and swift, across the sky: Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds Stand out the white light-houses high. Almost as far as eye can reach I see the close-reefed vessels fly, As fast we flit along the beach, One little sandpiper and I. I watch him as he skims along, Uttering his sweet and mournful cry; He starts not at my fitful song, Nor flash of fluttering drapery. He has no thought of any wrong, He scans me with a fearless eye; Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong, The little sandpiper and I. Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night, When the loosed storm breaks furiously? My drift-wood fire will burn so bright! To what warm shelter canst thou fly? I do not fear for thee, though wroth The tempest rushes through the sky; For are we not God's children both, Thou, little sandpiper, and I? ~ Celia Thaxter

189:Nothing on the horizon; nothing in heaven. He implores the expanse, the waves, the seaweed, the reef; they are deaf. He beseeches the tempest; the imperturbable tempest obeys only the infinite. Around him darkness, fog, solitude, the stormy and non- sentient tumult, the undefined curling of those wild waters. In him horror and fatigue. Beneath him the depths. Not a point of support. He thinks of the gloomy adventures of the corpse in the limitless shadow. The bottomless cold paralyzes him. His hands contract convulsively; they close, and grasp nothingness. Winds, clouds, whirlwinds, gusts, useless stars! What is to be done? The desperate man gives up; he is weary, he chooses the alternative of death; he resists not; he lets himself go; he abandons his grip; and then he tosses forevermore in the lugubrious dreary depths of engulfment. Oh, implacable march of human societies! Oh, losses of men and of souls on the way! Ocean into which falls all that the law lets slip! Disastrous absence of help! Oh, moral death! The sea is the inexorable social night into which the penal laws fling their condemned. The sea is the immensity of wretchedness. The soul, going down stream in this gulf, may become a corpse. Who shall resuscitate it? ~ Victor Hugo

190:September 15 “And a man shall be as an hiding-place from the wind, and a covert from the tempest.” Isaiah 32:2 WHO this man is we all know. Who could he be but the Second Man, the Lord from Heaven, the Man of sorrows, the Son of man? What a hiding-place he has been to his people! He bears the full force of the wind himself, and so he shelters those who hide themselves in him. We have thus escaped the wrath of God, and we shall thus escape the anger of men, the cares of this life, and the dread of death. Why do we stand in the wind when we may so readily and so surely get out of it by hiding behind our Lord? Let us this day run to him, and be at peace. Often the common wind of trouble rises in its force and becomes a tempest, sweeping everything before it. Things which looked firm and stable rock in the blast, and many and great are the falls among our carnal confidences. Our Lord Jesus, the glorious Man, is a covert which is never blown down. In him we mark the tempest sweeping by, but we ourselves rest in delightful serenity. This day let us just stow ourselves away in our hiding-place, and sit and sing under the protection of our covert. Blessed Jesus! Blessed Jesus! How we love thee! Well we may, for thou art to us a shelter in the time of storm. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon

191:Dirge Pure spirit! O where art thou now! O whisper to my soul! O let some soothing thought of thee, The bitter grief control! 'Tis not for thee the tears I shed, Thy sufferings now are o'er; The sea is calm, the tempest past, On that eternal shore. No more the storms that wrecked thy peace Shall tear that gentle breast; Nor Summer's rage, nor Winter's cold, Thy poor, poor frame molest. Thy peace is sealed, thy rest is sure, My sorrows are to come; Awhile I weep and linger here, Then follow to the tomb. And is the awful veil withdrawn, That shrouds from mortal eyes, In deep impenetrable gloom, The secrets of the skies? O, in some dream of visioned bliss, Some trance of rapture, show Where, on the bosom of thy God, Thou rest'st from human woe! Thence may thy pure devotion's flame On me, on me descend; To me thy strong aspiring hopes, They faith, thy fervours lend. Let these my lonely path illume, And teach my weakened mind To welcome all that's left of good, To all that's lost resigned. Farewell! With honour, peace, and love, Be thy dear memory blest! Thou hast no tears for me to shed, When I too am at rest. ~ Anna Laetitia Barbauld

192:And it came to pass that when the thunderings, and the lightnings, and the storm, and the tempest, and the quakings of the earth did cease—for behold, they did last for about the space of athree bhours; and it was said by some that the time was greater; nevertheless, all these great and terrible things were done in about the space of three hours—and then behold, there was cdarkness upon the face of the land. 20 And it came to pass that there was thick darkness upon all the face of the land, insomuch that the inhabitants thereof who had not fallen could afeel the bvapor of darkness; 21 And there could be no light, because of the darkness, neither candles, neither torches; neither could there be fire kindled with their fine and exceedingly dry wood, so that there could not be any light at all; 22 And there was not any light seen, neither fire, nor glimmer, neither the sun, nor the moon, nor the stars, for so great were the mists of darkness which were upon the face of the land. 23 And it came to pass that it did last for the space of three days that there was no light seen; and there was great mourning and ahowling and weeping among all the people continually; yea, great were the groanings of the people, because of the darkness and the great destruction which had come upon them. ~ The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter day Saints

193:The Chestnut Casts His Flambeaux The chestnut casts his flambeaux, and the flowers Stream from the hawthorn on the wind away, The doors clap to, the pane is blind with showers. Pass me the can, lad; there's an end of May. There's one spoilt spring to scant our mortal lot, One season ruined of your little store. May will be fine next year as like as not: But ay, but then we shall be twenty-four. We for a certainty are not the first Have sat in taverns while the tempest hurled Their hopeful plans to emptiness, and cursed Whatever brute and blackguard made the world. It is in truth iniquity on high To cheat our sentenced souls of aught they crave, And mar the merriment as you and I Fare on our long fool's-errand to the grave. Iniquity it is; but pass the can. My lad, no pair of kings our mothers bore; Our only portion is the estate of man: We want the moon, but we shall get no more. If here to-day the cloud of thunder lours To-morrow it will hie on far behests; The flesh will grieve on other bones than ours Soon, and the soul will mourn in other breasts. The troubles of our proud and angry dust Are from eternity, and shall not fail. Bear them we can, and if we can we must. Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale. ~ Alfred Edward Housman

194:Well Hast Thou Spoke Well hast thou spoken, and yet not taught A feeling strange or new; Thou hast but roused a latent thought, A cloud-closed beam of sunshine brought To gleam in open view. Deep down, concealed within my soul, That light lies hid from men; Yet glows unquenched--though shadows roll, Its gentle ray cannot control-About the sullen den. Was I not vexed, in these gloomy ways To walk alone so long? Around me, wretches uttering praise, Or howling o'er their hopeless days, And each with Frenzy's tongue;-A brotherhood of misery, Their smiles as sad as sighs; Whose madness daily maddened me, Distorting into agony The bliss before my eyes! So stood I, in Heaven's glorious sun, And in the glare of Hell; My spirit drank a mingled tone, Of seraph's song, and demon's moan; What my soul bore, my soul alone Within itself may tell! Like a soft, air above a sea, Tossed by the tempest's stir; A thaw-wind, melting quietly The snow-drift on some wintry lea; No: what sweet thing resembles thee, My thoughtful Comforter? And yet a little longer speak, 115 Calm this resentful mood; And while the savage heart grows meek, For other token do not seek, But let the tear upon my cheek Evince my gratitude! ~ Emily Jane Brontë

195:My Comforter Well hast thou spoken, and yet, not taught A feeling strange or new; Thou hast but roused a latent thought, A cloud-closed beam of sunshine, brought To gleam in open view. Deep down, concealed within my soul, That light lies hid from men; Yet, glows unquenched - though shadows roll, Its gentle ray cannot control, About the sullen den. Was I not vexed, in these gloomy ways To walk alone so long? Around me, wretches uttering praise, Or howling o'er their hopeless days, And each with Frenzy's tongue; A brotherhood of misery, Their smiles as sad as sighs; Whose madness daily maddened me, Distorting into agony The bliss before my eyes! So stood I, in Heaven's glorious sun, And in the glare of Hell; My spirit drank a mingled tone, Of seraph's song, and demon's moan; What my soul bore, my soul alone Within itself may tell! Like a soft air, above a sea, Tossed by the tempest's stir; A thaw-wind, melting quietly The snow-drift, on some wintry lea; No: what sweet thing resembles thee, My thoughtful Comforter? And yet a little longer speak, 54 Calm this resentful mood; And while the savage heart grows meek, For other token do not seek, But let the tear upon my cheek Evince my gratitude! ~ Emily Jane Brontë

196:Fairy-Land Dim vales- and shadowy floodsAnd cloudy-looking woods, Whose forms we can't discover For the tears that drip all over! Huge moons there wax and waneAgain- again- againEvery moment of the nightForever changing placesAnd they put out the star-light With the breath from their pale faces. About twelve by the moon-dial, One more filmy than the rest (A kind which, upon trial, They have found to be the best) Comes down- still down- and down, With its centre on the crown Of a mountain's eminence, While its wide circumference In easy drapery falls Over hamlets, over halls, Wherever they may beO'er the strange woods- o'er the seaOver spirits on the wingOver every drowsy thingAnd buries them up quite In a labyrinth of lightAnd then, how deep!- O, deep! Is the passion of their sleep. In the morning they arise, And their moony covering Is soaring in the skies, With the tempests as they toss, Like- almost anythingOr a yellow Albatross. They use that moon no more For the same end as beforeVidelicet, a tentWhich I think extravagant: Its atomies, however, 41 Into a shower dissever, Of which those butterflies Of Earth, who seek the skies, And so come down again, (Never-contented things!) Have brought a specimen Upon their quivering wings. ~ Edgar Allan Poe

197:I. Ah! faint are her limbs, and her footstep is weary, Yet far must the desolate wanderer roam; Though the tempest is stern, and the mountain is dreary, She must quit at deep midnight her pitiless home. I see her swift foot dash the dew from the whortle, As she rapidly hastes to the green grove of myrtle; And I hear, as she wraps round her figure the kirtle, 'Stay thy boat on the lake,--dearest Henry, I come.' II. High swelled in her bosom the throb of affection, As lightly her form bounded over the lea, And arose in her mind every dear recollection; 'I come, dearest Henry, and wait but for thee.' How sad, when dear hope every sorrow is soothing, When sympathy's swell the soft bosom is moving, And the mind the mild joys of affection is proving, Is the stern voice of fate that bids happiness flee! III. Oh! dark lowered the clouds on that horrible eve, And the moon dimly gleamed through the tempested air; Oh! how could fond visions such softness deceive? Oh! how could false hope rend, a bosom so fair? Thy love's pallid corse the wild surges are laving, O'er his form the fierce swell of the tempest is raving; But, fear not, parting spirit; thy goodness is saving, In eternity's bowers, a seat for thee there. The Drowned Lover: Song. 1811; The Lake-Storm, Rossetti, 1870. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Drowned Lover

198:Ballade Of True Wisdom While others are asking for beauty or fame, Or praying to know that for which they should pray, Or courting Queen Venus, that affable dame, Or chasing the Muses the weary and grey, The sage has found out a more excellent way To Pan and to Pallas his incense he showers, And his humble petition puts up day by day, For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers. Inventors may bow to the God that is lame, And crave from the fire on his stithy a ray; Philosophers kneel to the God without name, Like the people of Athens, agnostics are they; The hunter a fawn to Diana will slay, The maiden wild roses will wreathe for the Hours; But the wise man will ask, ere libation he pay, For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers. Oh! grant me a life without pleasure or blame (As mortals count pleasure who rush through their day With a speed to which that of the tempest is tame)! O grant me a house by the beach of a bay, Where the waves can be surly in winter, and play With the sea-weed in summer, ye bountiful powers! And I'd leave all the hurry, the noise, and the fray, For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers. ENVOY. Gods, grant or withhold it; your 'yea' and your 'nay' Are immutable, heedless of outcry of ours: But life IS worth living, and here we would stay For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers. ~ Andrew Lang

199:The Rainbow After the tempest in the sky How sweet yon rainbow to the eye! Come, my Matilda, now while some Few drops of rain are yet to come, In this honeysuckle bower Safely sheltered from the shower, We may count the colours o'er.Seven there are, there are no more; Each in each so finely blended, Where they begin, or where are ended, The finest eye can scarcely see. A fixed thing it seems to be; But, while we speak, see how it glides Away, and now observe it hides Half of its perfect arch-now we Scarce any part of it can see. What is colour? If I were A natural philosopher, I would tell you what does make This meteor every colour take: But an unlearned eye may view Nature's rare sights, and love them too. Whenever I a rainbow see, Each precious tint is dear to me; For every colour find I there, Which flowers, which fields, which ladies wear: My favourite green, the grass's hue, And the fine deep violet-blue, And the pretty pale blue-bell, And the rose I love so well, All the wondrous variations Of the tulips, pinks, carnations, This woodbine here both flower and leaf. 'Tis a truth that's past belief, That every flower and every tree, And every living thing we see, Every face which we espy, Every cheek and every eye, In all their tints, in every shade, 166 Are from the rainbow's colours made. ~ Charles Lamb

200:The Wind-Child MY FOLK’S the wind-folk, it’s there I belong, I tread the earth below them, and the earth does me wrong, Before my spirit knew itself, before this frame unfurled, I was a little wandering breeze and blew about the world. The winds of the morning that breathe against my cheek Are kisses of comfort from a love too great to speak; The whimpering airs that cry by night and never find their rest Are sobbing to be taken in and soothed upon my breast. The storm through the mountains, the tempest from the sea, That ride their cloudy horses and take no thought of me, They are my noble brothers that hasten to the fight, They fill my heart with singing, they fill my eyes with light, They’re a shield upon my shoulder, a sword by my side, A battle cry for weariness,—and a plume of pride. But sometimes in the moonlight, when the moon is in the west, Young and strange and virginal and dropping to her rest, There comes a wind from out the south, a little chill and thin, And draws me from the human warmth that houses it within. My soul streams forth to follow a soul that lures it on, The sleepy flesh calls kin to it, and murmurs to be gone; Across the dreaming dewy flowers and through the shadowy trees The sweet insistent whisper comes, and I am ill at ease. How, they have not told me, and where, I do not know, But the wind-folk is my folk, and some day I’ll go. ~ Enid Derham

201:Behold Lucius I am come, thy weeping and prayers hath mooved mee to succour thee. I am she that is the naturall mother of all things, mistresse and governesse of all the Elements, the initiall progeny of worlds, chiefe of powers divine, Queene of heaven! the principall of the Gods celestiall, the light of the goddesses: at my will the planets of the ayre, the wholesome winds of the Seas, and the silences of hell be diposed; my name, my divinity is adored throughout all the world in divers manners, in variable customes and in many names, for the Phrygians call me the mother of the Gods: the Athenians, Minerva: the Cyprians, Venus: the Candians, Diana: the Sicilians Proserpina: the Eleusians, Ceres: some Juno, other Bellona, other Hecate: and principally the Aethiopians which dwell in the Orient, and the Aegyptians which are excellent in all kind of ancient doctrine, and by their proper ceremonies accustome to worship mee, doe call mee Queene Isis. Behold I am come to take pitty of thy fortune and tribulation, behold I am present to favour and ayd thee, leave off thy weeping and lamentation, put away all thy sorrow, for behold the healthfull day which is ordained by my providence, therefore be ready to attend to my commandement. This day which shall come after this night, is dedicated to my service, by an eternall religion, my Priests and Ministers doe accustome after the tempests of the Sea, be ceased, to offer in my name a new ship as a first fruit of my Navigation. ~ Apuleius

202:Just as maniacs, who never enjoy tranquility, so also he who is resentful and retains an enemy will never have the enjoyment of any peace; incessantly raging and daily increasing the tempest of his thoughts calling to mind his words and acts, and detesting the very name of him who has aggrieved him. Do you but mention his enemy, he becomes furious at once, and sustains much inward anguish; and should he chance to get only a bare sight of him, he fears and trembles, as if encountering the worst evils, Indeed, if he perceives any of his relations, if but his garment, or his dwelling, or street, he is tormented by the sight of them. For as in the case of those who are beloved, their faces, their garments, their sandals, their houses, or streets, excite us, the instant we behold them; so also should we observe a servant, or friend, or house, or street, or any thing else belonging to those We hate and hold our enemies, we are stung by all these things; and the strokes we endure from the sight of each one of them are frequent and continual. What is the need then of sustaining such a siege, such torment and such punishment? For if hell did not threaten the resentful, yet for the very torment resulting from the thing itself we ought to forgive the offences of those who have aggrieved us. But when deathless punishments remain behind, what can be more senseless than the man, who both here and there brings punishment upon himself, while he thinks to be revenged upon his enemy! Homilies on the Statues, Homily XX ~ John Chrysostom

203:Just as maniacs, who never enjoy tranquility, so also he who is resentful and retains an enemy will never have the enjoyment of any peace; incessantly raging and daily increasing the tempest of his thoughts calling to mind his words and acts, and detesting the very name of him who has aggrieved him. Do you but mention his enemy, he becomes furious at once, and sustains much inward anguish; and should he chance to get only a bare sight of him, he fears and trembles, as if encountering the worst evils, Indeed, if he perceives any of his relations, if but his garment, or his dwelling, or street, he is tormented by the sight of them. For as in the case of those who are beloved, their faces, their garments, their sandals, their houses, or streets, excite us, the instant we behold them; so also should we observe a servant, or friend, or house, or street, or any thing else belonging to those We hate and hold our enemies, we are stung by all these things; and the strokes we endure from the sight of each one of them are frequent and continual. What is the need then of sustaining such a siege, such torment and such punishment? For if hell did not threaten the resentful, yet for the very torment resulting from the thing itself we ought to forgive the offences of those who have aggrieved us. But when deathless punishments remain behind, what can be more senseless than the man, who both here and there brings punishment upon himself, while he thinks to be revenged upon his enemy! Homilies on the Statues, Homily XX ~ Saint John Chrysostom

204:Yes! all is past--swift time has fled away, Yet its swell pauses on my sickening mind; How long will horror nerve this frame of clay? Im dead, and lingers yet my soul behind. Oh! powerful Fate, revoke thy deadly spell, And yet that may not ever, ever be, Heaven will not smile upon the work of Hell; Ah! no, for Heaven cannot smile on me; Fate, envious Fate, has sealed my wayward destiny. I sought the cold brink of the midnight surge, I sighed beneath its wave to hide my woes, The rising tempest sung a funeral dirge, And on the blast a frightful yell arose. Wild flew the meteors o'er the maddened main, Wilder did grief athwart my bosom glare; Stilled was the unearthly howling, and a strain, Swelled mid the tumult of the battling air, 'Twas like a spirit's song, but yet more soft and fair. I met a maniaclike he was to me, I said--'Poor victim, wherefore dost thou roam? And canst thou not contend with agony, That thus at midnight thou dost quit thine home?' 'Ah there she sleeps: cold is her bloodless form, And I will go to slumber in her grave; And then our ghosts, whilst raves the maddened storm, Will sweep at midnight oer the wildered wave; Wilt thou our lowly beds with tears of pity lave?' 'Ah! no, I cannot shed the pitying tear, This breast is cold, this heart can feel no more-- But I can rest me on thy chilling bier, Can shriek in horror to the tempest's roar.' ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Fragment - Yes! All Is Past

205:The Requital LOUD roared the tempest, Fast fell the sleet; A little Child Angel Passed down the street, With trailing pinions And weary feet. The moon was hidden; No stars were bright; So she could not shelter In heaven that night, For the Angels’ ladders Are rays of light. She beat her wings At each windowpane, And pleaded for shelter, But all in vain;— “Listen,” they said, “To the pelting rain!” She sobb’d, as the laughter And mirth grew higher, “Give me rest and shelter Beside your fire, And I will give you Your heart’s desire.” The dreamer sat watching His embers gleam, While his heart was floating Down hope’s bright stream; …So he wove her wailing Into his dream. The worker toil’d on, For his time was brief; The mourner was nursing Her own pale grief; 12 They heard not the promise That brought relief. But fiercer the tempest Rose than before, When the Angel paus’d At a humble door, And ask’d for shelter And help once more. A weary woman, Pale, worn, and thin, With the brand upon her Of want and sin, Heard the Child Angel And took her in: Took her in gently, And did her best To dry her pinions; And made her rest With tender pity Upon her breast. When the eastern morning Grew bright and red, Up the first sunbeam The Angel fled; Having kiss’d the woman And left her—dead. ~ Adelaide Anne Procter

206:Through the tempest of their passions, through the wild turbulent ride, Sarah was conscious only of sensation. It buffeted her, overwhelmed her mind, etched itself on her awareness. So that despite the heat and the delirious pleasure of his body moving over hers, despite the powerful thrusts that physically rocked her, despite the impossible clamoring urgency that had her tilting her hips to take him yet more deeply, that had her scoring his back urging him desperately to ride her yet more forcefully, the one element that shone through the raging veil was his hunger for her. It was every bit as deep and powerful and demanding as her hunger for him. No- more. For him, in him, that hunger was so potent, so deeply ingrained that she had no doubt he would give every last gasp to sate it- to consummate it, to give it life, here with her in their bed. It drove him, and controlled him, and drew her into the maelstrom, too, until she was as passionate as he in finding the way to appease it, to sate it, to discover the way into its temple and sacrifice herself at its altar. And at the last, in the final mind-shattering moment when she clung by her fingernails over the sensual void, the veils ripped apart and she saw that hungry power clearly- saw, felt, with her own senses knew what it was. Unquestionably, beyond doubt. Then he thrust one last time and with a cry she shattered; with a sob she lost her grip on reality and fell. Weightless for that moment, that briefest of journeys, falling from heavenly pleasure into satiation's soothing sea. ~ Stephanie Laurens

207:Autumn A FRAGMENT Farewell the softer hours, Spring's opening blush And Summer's deeper glow, the shepherd's pipe Tuned to the murmurs of a weeping spring, And song of birds, and gay enameled fields,— Farewell! 'T is now the sickness of the year, Not to be medicined by the skillful hand. Pale suns arise that like weak kings behold Their predecessor's empire moulder from them; While swift-increasing spreads the black domain Of melancholy Night;—no more content With equal sway, her stretching shadows gain On the bright morn, and cloud the evening sky. Farewell the careless lingering walk at eve, Sweet with the breath of kine and new-spread hay; And slumber on a bank, where the lulled youth, His head on flowers, delicious languor feels Creep in the blood. A different season now Invites a different song. The naked trees Admit the tempest; rent is Nature's robe; Fast, fast, the blush of Summer fades away From her wan cheek, and scarce a flower remains To deck her bosom; Winter follows close, Pressing impatient on, and with rude breath Fans her discoloured tresses. Yet not all Of grace and beauty from the falling year Is torn ungenial. Still the taper fir Lifts its green spire, and the dark holly edged With gold, and many a strong perennial plant, Yet cheer the waste: nor does yon knot of oaks Resign its honours to the infant blast. This is the time, and these the solemn walks, When inspiration rushes o'er the soul Sudden, as through the grove the rustling breeze. ~ Anna Laetitia Barbauld

208: THERE was a wooer blithe and gay, A son of France was he,-- Who in his arms for many a day, As though his bride were she, A poor young maiden had caress'd, And fondly kiss'd, and fondly press'd, And then at length deserted. When this was told the nut-brown maid, Her senses straightway fled; She laugh'd and wept, and vow'd and pray'd, And presently was dead. The hour her soul its farewell took, The boy was sad, with terror shook, Then sprang upon his charger. He drove his spurs into his side, And scour'd the country round; But wheresoever he might ride, No rest for him was found. For seven long days and nights he rode, It storm'd, the waters overflow'd, It bluster'd, lighten'd, thunder'd. On rode he through the tempest's din, Till he a building spied; In search of shelter crept he in, When he his steed had tied. And as he groped his doubtful way, The ground began to rock and sway,-- He fell a hundred fathoms. When he recover'd from the blow, He saw three lights pass by; He sought in their pursuit to go, The lights appear'd to fly. They led his footsteps all astray, Up, down, through many a narrow way Through ruin'd desert cellars. When lo! he stood within a hall, With hollow eyes. and grinning all; They bade him taste the fare. A hundred guests sat there. He saw his sweetheart 'midst the throng, Wrapp'd up in grave-clothes white and long; She turn'd, and---- ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, The Faithless Boy

209:A STRANGE thing surely that my Heart, when love had come unsought Upon the Norman upland or in that poplar shade, Should find no burden but itself and yet should be worn out. It could not bear that burden and therefore it went mad. The south wind brought it longing, and the east wind despair, The west wind made it pitiful, and the north wind afraid. It feared to give its love a hurt with all the tempest there; It feared the hurt that she could give and therefore it went mad. I can exchange opinion with any neighbouring mind, I have as healthy flesh and blood as any rhymer's had, But O! my Heart could bear no more when the upland caught the wind; I ran, I ran, from my love's side because my Heart went mad. HDR II The Heart behind its rib laughed out. "You have called me mad,' it said, "Because I made you turn away and run from that young child; How could she mate with fifty years that was so wildly bred? Let the cage bird and the cage bird mate and the wild bird mate in the wild.' "You but imagine lies all day, O murderer,' I replied. "And all those lies have but one end, poor wretches to betray; I did not find in any cage the woman at my side. O but her heart would break to learn my thoughts are far away.' 'Speak all your mind,' my Heart sang out, "speak all your mind; who cares, Now that your tongue cannot persuade the child till she mistake Her childish gratitude for love and match your fifty years? O let her choose a young man now and all for his wild sake.' ~ William Butler Yeats, Owen Aherne And His Dancers

210:The Monument Have they destroyed your memorial minaret? Don't you fear, comrade, We are still here A family of ten million, alert and wide awake. The base that no emperor Could ever crush At whose feet The diamond crown, the blue proclamation, The naked sabre and the tempestuous cavalry Have crumbled into dust. We are that simple hero, that unique crowd, We who work in fields, Row on rivers, Labour in factories! Have they destroyed your brick minaret? Well, let them. Don't you fear, comrade, We a family of ten million Are alert and wide awake. What kind of a death is this? Has anyone seen such a death Where no one weeps at the head Of the departed? Where all sorrow and pain from the Himalayas to the sea Only come together and blossom Into the colour of a single flag? What kind of a death is this? Has anyone seen such a death Where no one laments aloud Where only the sitar turns into the Gorgeous stream of a mighty waterfall, Where the season of many words Leads the pen on to an era of Poetry? Have they destroyed your brick minaret? Well, let them. We forty million masons Have built a minaret with a violin's tune And the bright colours of our purple heart. The lives of the martyrs float like islands In the dark deep eyes of Rainbows and palash flowers We have etched for you their names Through the ages In the foamy stones of love. That is why, comrad, On the granite peak of ou thousand fistsıShines lik the sun The sun of a mighty pledge. [Translated by Kabir Chowdhury] ~ Alauddin Al Azad

211:From 'The Hills Of Life' ERE yet the dawn Pushed rosy fingers up the arch of day And smiled its promise to the voiceless prime, Love sat and patterns wove at life's great loom. He flung the suns into the soundless arch, Appointed them their courses in the deep, To keep His great time-harmonies, and blaze As beacons in the ebon fields of night. Love balanced them and held them firm and true, Poised 'twixt attractive and repulsive drift Amid the throngs of heaven. What though this power Was ever known to us as gravity, Its first and last celestial name is Love. Love spake the word omnipotent, and lo! Upon the distant and mid deep, the earth Was flung, robed in blue skies and summer lands, Green-garlanded with leaves and bright with flowers, While songsters fluttered in the rosy skies. But sometimes, moaning through the dark-leaved pines, Or sobbing down the lonely shores of time, Or wailing in the tempest-arch of night, Love moved unresting and unsatisfied. The faces of the hills in beauty smiled, The night's deep vault blazed with configured stars, Fair nature throbbed through all her frame of light, And everywhere was Love's fine energy; But fields and forests, flowers and firmaments Had not attained to understand the throb And thrill of life, so Love made human hearts That mightily could feel and understand; Made them his constant home, centre and sweep, Channel and instrument of life and truth, The word of God on earth, Love's other self, The high ambassadors of truth and light; And Love was free where Life was wholly true. ~ Albert Durrant Watson

212:And canst thou mock mine agony, thus calm In cloudless radiance, Queen of silver night? Can you, ye flow'rets, spread your perfumed balm Mid pearly gems of dew that shine so bright? And you wild winds, thus can you sleep so still Whilst throbs the tempest of my breast so high? Can the fierce night-fiends rest on yonder hill, And, in the eternal mansions of the sky, Can the directors of the storm in powerless silence lie? Hark! I hear music on the zephyrs wing, Louder it floats along the unruffled sky; Some fairy sure has touched the viewless string-- Now faint in distant air the murmurs die. Awhile it stills the tide of agony. Now--now it loftier swells--again stern woe Arises with the awakening melody. Again fierce torments, such as demons know, In bitterer, feller tide, on this torn bosom flow. Arise ye sightless spirits of the storm, Ye unseen minstrels of the aereal song, Pour the fierce tide around this lonely form, And roll the tempest's wildest swell along. Dart the red lightning, wing the forked flash, Pour from thy cloud-formed hills the thunders roar; Arouse the whirlwind--and let ocean dash In fiercest tumult on the rocking shore,-- Destroy this life or let earth's fabric be no more. Yes! every tie that links me here is dead; Mysterious Fate, thy mandate I obey, Since hope and peace, and joy, for aye are fled, I come, terrific power, I come away. Then o'er this ruined soul let spirits of Hell, In triumph, laughing wildly, mock its pain; And though with direst pangs mine heart-strings swell, Ill echo back their deadly yells again, Cursing the power that neer made aught in vain.    ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Despair

213:A Dedication They are rhymes rudely strung with intent less Of sound than of words, In lands where bright blossoms are scentless, And songless bright birds; Where, with fire and fierce drought on her tresses, Insatiable Summer oppresses Sere woodlands and sad wildernesses, And faint flocks and herds. Where in drieariest days, when all dews end, And all winds are warm, Wild Winter's large floodgates are loosen'd, And floods, freed by storm; From broken-up fountain heads, dash on Dry deserts with long pent up passion-Here rhyme was first framed without fashion, Song shaped without form. Whence gather'd?--The locust's glad chirrup May furnish a stave; The ring os rowel and stirrup, The wash of a wave. The chauntof a marsh frog in rushes That chimes through the pauses and hushes Of nightfall, the torrent that gushes, The tempests that rave. In the deep'ning of dawn, when it dapples The dusk of the sky, With streaks like the redd'ning of apples, The ripening of rye. To eastward, when cluster by cluster, Dim stars and dull planets, that muster, Wax wan in a world of white lustre That spreads far and high. In the gathering of night gloom o'er head, in The still silent change, All fire-flush'd when forest trees redden On slopes of the range. When the gnarl'd knotted trunks Eucalyptian Seemed carved like weird columns Egyptian With curious device--quaint inscription, And heiroglyph strange. In the Spring, when the wattle gold trembles 'Twixt shadow and shine, When each dew-laden air draught resembles A long draught of wine; When the skyline's blue burnished resistance Makes deeper the dreamiest distance, Some song in all hearts hath existence,-Such songs have been mine. ~ Adam Lindsay Gordon

214:THE WRATH TO COME. — MATTHEW 3:7 I t is pleasant to pass over a country after a storm has spent itself—to smell the freshness of the herbs after the rain has passed away, and to note the drops while they glisten like purest diamonds in the sunlight. That is the position of a Christian. He is going through a land where the storm has spent itself upon His Savior’s head, and if there be a few drops of sorrow falling, they distill from clouds of mercy, and Jesus cheers him by the assurance that they are not for his destruction. But how terrible it is to witness the approach of a tempest—to note the forewarnings of the storm; to mark the birds of heaven as they droop their wings; to see the cattle as they lay their heads low in terror; to discern the face of the sky as it grows black, and to find the sun obscured, and the heavens angry and frowning! How terrible to await the dread advance of a hurricane, to wait in terrible apprehension till the wind rushes forth in fury, tearing up trees from their roots, forcing rocks from their pedestals, and hurling down all the dwelling-places of man! And yet, sinner, this is your present position. No hot drops have fallen as yet, but a shower of fire is coming. No terrible winds howl around you, but God’s tempest is gathering its dread artillery. So far the water-floods are dammed up by mercy, but the floodgates will soon be opened: The thunderbolts of God are still in His storehouse, the tempest is coming, and how awful will that moment be when God, robed in vengeance, shall march forth in fury! Where, where, where, O sinner, will you hide your head, or where will you run to? May the hand of mercy lead you now to Christ! He is freely set before you in the Gospel: His pierced side is the place of shelter. You know your need of Him; believe in Him, cast yourself upon Him, and then the fury shall be past forever. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon

215:I. It lieth, gazing on the midnight sky, Upon the cloudy mountain-peak supine; Below, far lands are seen tremblingly; Its horror and its beauty are divine. Upon its lips and eyelids seems to lie Loveliness like a shadow, from which shine, Fiery and lurid, struggling underneath, The agonies of anguish and of death. II. Yet it is less the horror than the grace Which turns the gazer's spirit into stone, Whereon the lineaments of that dead face Are graven, till the characters be grown Into itself, and thought no more can trace; Tis the melodious hue of beauty thrown Athwart the darkness and the glare of pain, Which humanize and harmonize the strain. III. And from its head as from one body grow, As grass out of a watery rock, Hairs which are vipers, and they curl and flow And their long tangles in each other lock, And with unending involutions show Their mailed radiance, as it were to mock The torture and the death within, and saw The solid air with many a ragged jaw. IV. And, from a stone beside, a poisonous eft Peeps idly into those Gorgonian eyes; Whilst in the air a ghastly bat, bereft Of sense, has flitted with a mad surprise Out of the cave this hideous light had cleft, And he comes hastening like a moth that hies After a taper; and the midnight sky Flares, a light more dread than obscurity. V. 'Tis the tempestuous loveliness of terror; For from the serpents gleams a brazen glare Kindled by that inextricable error, Which makes a thrilling vapour of the air Become a and ever-shifting mirror Of all the beauty and the terror there-- A womans countenance, with serpent-locks, Gazing in death on Heaven from those wet rocks. Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous Poems, 1824. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, On The Medusa Of Leonardo da Vinci In The Florentine Gallery

216:The fields, the lakes, the forests, and the streams, ocean, and all the living things that dwell within the daedal earth; lightning, and rain, earthquake, and fiery flood, and hurricane, the torpor of the year when feeble dreams visit the hidden buds, or dreamless sleep holds every future leaf and flower; the bound with which from that detested trance they leap; the works and ways of man, their death and birth, and that of him and all that his may be; all things that move and breathe with toil and sound are born and die; revolve, subside, and swell. Power dwells apart in its tranquillity, remote, serene, and inaccessible: and this, the naked countenance of earth, on which I gaze, even these primeval mountains teach the adverting mind. The glaciers creep like snakes that watch their prey, from their far fountains, slow rolling on; there, many a precipice frost and the sun in scorn of mortal power have pil'd: dome, pyramid, and pinnacle, a city of death, distinct with many a tower and wall impregnable of beaming ice. Yet not a city, but a flood of ruin is there, that from the boundaries of the sky rolls its perpetual stream; vast pines are strewing its destin'd path, or in the mangled soil branchless and shatter'd stand; the rocks, drawn down from yon remotest waste, have overthrown the limits of the dead and living world, never to be reclaim'd. The dwelling-place of insects, beasts, and birds, becomes its spoil; their food and their retreat for ever gone, so much of life and joy is lost. The race of man flies far in dread; his work and dwelling vanish, like smoke before the tempest's stream, and their place is not known. Below, vast caves shine in the rushing torrents' restless gleam, which from those secret chasms in tumult welling meet in the vale, and one majestic river, the breath and blood of distant lands, for ever rolls its loud waters to the ocean-waves, breathes its swift vapours to the circling air. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley

217:March 4 MORNING “My grace is sufficient for thee.” — 2 Corinthians 12:9 IF none of God’s saints were poor and tried, we should not know half so well the consolations of divine grace. When we find the wanderer who has not where to lay his head, who yet can say, “Still will I trust in the Lord;” when we see the pauper starving on bread and water, who still glories in Jesus; when we see the bereaved widow overwhelmed in affliction, and yet having faith in Christ, oh! what honour it reflects on the gospel. God’s grace is illustrated and magnified in the poverty and trials of believers. Saints bear up under every discouragement, believing that all things work together for their good, and that out of apparent evils a real blessing shall ultimately spring — that their God will either work a deliverance for them speedily, or most assuredly support them in the trouble, as long as He is pleased to keep them in it. This patience of the saints proves the power of divine grace. There is a lighthouse out at sea: it is a calm night — I cannot tell whether the edifice is firm; the tempest must rage about it, and then I shall know whether it will stand. So with the Spirit’s work: if it were not on many occasions surrounded with tempestuous waters, we should not know that it was true and strong; if the winds did not blow upon it, we should not know how firm and secure it was. The master-works of God are those men who stand in the midst of difficulties, stedfast, unmoveable, — “Calm mid the bewildering cry, Confident of victory.” He who would glorify his God must set his account upon meeting with many trials. No man can be illustrious before the Lord unless his conflicts be many. If then, yours be a much-tried path, rejoice in it, because you will the better show forth the all-sufficient grace of God. As for His failing you, never dream of it — hate the thought. The God who has been sufficient until now, should be trusted to the end. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon

218:February 25 MORNING “The wrath to come.” — Matthew 3:7 IT is pleasant to pass over a country after a storm has spent itself; to smell the freshness of the herbs after the rain has passed away, and to note the drops while they glisten like purest diamonds in the sunlight. That is the position of a Christian. He is going through a land where the storm has spent itself upon His Saviour’s head, and if there be a few drops of sorrow falling, they distil from clouds of mercy, and Jesus cheers him by the assurance that they are not for his destruction. But how terrible it is to witness the approach of a tempest: to note the forewarnings of the storm; to mark the birds of heaven as they droop their wings; to see the cattle as they lay their heads low in terror; to discern the face of the sky as it groweth black, and look to the sun which shineth not, and the heavens which are angry and frowning! How terrible to await the dread advance of a hurricane — such as occurs, sometimes, in the tropics — to wait in terrible apprehension till the wind shall rush forth in fury, tearing up trees from their roots, forcing rocks from their pedestals, and hurling down all the dwelling-places of man! And yet, sinner, this is your present position. No hot drops have as yet fallen, but a shower of fire is coming. No terrible winds howl around you, but God’s tempest is gathering its dread artillery. As yet the water-floods are dammed up by mercy, but the flood-gates shall soon be opened: the thunderbolts of God are yet in His storehouse, but lo! the tempest hastens, and how awful shall that moment be when God, robed in vengeance, shall march forth in fury! Where, where, where, O sinner, wilt thou hide thy head, or whither wilt thou flee? O that the hand of mercy may now lead you to Christ! He is freely set before you in the gospel: His riven side is the rock of shelter. Thou knowest thy need of Him; believe in Him, cast thyself upon Him, and then the fury shall be overpast for ever. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon

219:Eh? How 'bout that?" Bill nudged her. "Did I promise to show you love or did I promise to show you love?" "Sure,they seem like they're in love." Luce shrugged. "But-" "But what?Do you have any idea how painful that is? Look at that guy. He makes getting inked look like being caressed by a soft breeze." Luce squirmed on the branch. "Is that the lesson here? Pain equals love?" "You tell me," Bill said. "It may surprise you to hear this,but the ladies aren't exactly banging down Bill's door." "I mean,if I tattooed Daniel's same on my body would that mean I loved him more than I already do?" "It's a symbol,Luce." Bill let out a raspy sigh. "You're being too literal. Think about it this way: Daniel is the first good-looking boy LuLu has ever seen. Until he washed ashore a few months ago, this girl's whole world was her father and a few fat natives." "She's Miranda," Luce said, remembering the love story from The Tempest, which she'd read in her tenth-grade Shakespeare seminar. "How very civilized of you!" Bill pursed his lips with approval. "They are liek Ferdinand and Miranda: The handsome foreigner shipwrecks on her shores-" "So,of course it was love at first sight for LuLu," Luce murmured. This was what she was afraid of: the same thoughtless,automatic love that had bothered her in Helston. "Right," Bill said. "She didn't have a choice but to fall for him.But what's interesting here is Daniel. You see, he didn't have to teach her to craft a woven sail, or gain her father's trust by producing a season's worth of fish to cure,or exhibit C"-Bill pointed at the lovers on the beach-"agree to tattoo his whole body according to her local custom.It would have been enough if Daniel had just shown up.LuLu would have loved him anyway." "He's doing it because-" Luce thought aloud. "Because he wants to earn her love.Because otherwise,he would just be taking advantage of their curse. Because no matter what kind of cycle they're bound to,his love for her is...true. ~ Lauren Kate

220:February 12 MORNING “For as the sufferings of Christ abound in us, so our consolation also aboundeth by Christ.” — 2 Corinthians 1:5 HERE is a blessed proportion. The Ruler of Providence bears a pair of scales — in this side He puts His people’s trials, and in that He puts their consolations. When the scale of trial is nearly empty, you will always find the scale of consolation in nearly the same condition; and when the scale of trials is full, you will find the scale of consolation just as heavy. When the black clouds gather most, the light is the more brightly revealed to us. When the night lowers and the tempest is coming on, the Heavenly Captain is always closest to His crew. It is a blessed thing, that when we are most cast down, then it is that we are most lifted up by the consolations of the Spirit. One reason is, because trials make more room for consolation. Great hearts can only be made by great troubles. The spade of trouble digs the reservoir of comfort deeper, and makes more room for consolation. God comes into our heart — He finds it full — He begins to break our comforts and to make it empty; then there is more room for grace. The humbler a man lies, the more comfort he will always have, because he will be more fitted to receive it. Another reason why we are often most happy in our troubles, is this — then we have the closest dealings with God. When the barn is full, man can live without God: when the purse is bursting with gold, we try to do without so much prayer. But once take our gourds away, and we want our God; once cleanse the idols out of the house, then we are compelled to honour Jehovah. “Out of the depths have I cried unto thee, O Lord.” There is no cry so good as that which comes from the bottom of the mountains; no prayer half so hearty as that which comes up from the depths of the soul, through deep trials and afflictions. Hence they bring us to God, and we are happier; for nearness to God is happiness. Come, troubled believer, fret not over your heavy troubles, for they are the heralds of weighty mercies. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon

221:MANY a day and night my bark stood ready laden; Waiting fav'ring winds, I sat with true friends round me, Pledging me to patience and to courage, In the haven. And they spoke thus with impatience twofold: "Gladly pray we for thy rapid passage, Gladly for thy happy voyage; fortune In the distant world is waiting for thee, In our arms thoult find thy prize, and love too, When returning." And when morning came, arose an uproar, And the sailors' joyous shouts awoke us; All was stirring, all was living, moving, Bent on sailing with the first kind zephyr. And the sails soon in the breeze are swelling, And the sun with fiery love invites us; Fill'd the sails are, clouds on high are floating, On the shore each friend exulting raises Songs of hope, in giddy joy expecting Joy the voyage through, as on the morn of sailing, And the earliest starry nights so radiant. But by God-sent changing winds ere long he's driven Sideways from the course he had intended, And he feigns as though he would surrender, While he gently striveth to outwit them, To his goal, e'en when thus press'd, still faithful. But from out the damp grey distance rising, Softly now the storm proclaims its advent, Presseth down each bird upon the waters, Presseth down the throbbing hearts of mortals. And it cometh. At its stubborn fury, Wisely ev'ry sail the seaman striketh; With the anguish-laden ball are sporting Wind and water. And on yonder shore are gather'd standing, Friends and lovers, trembling for the bold one: "Why, alas, remain'd he here not with us! Ah, the tempest! Cast away by fortune! Must the good one perish in this fashion? Might not he perchance.... Ye great immortals!" Yet he, like a man, stands by his rudder; With the bark are sporting wind and water, Wind and water sport not with his bosom: On the fierce deep looks he, as a master,-- In his gods, or shipwreck'd, or safe landed, Trusting ever. ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, The Sea-Voyage

222:A Mother's Wail The sweet young Spring walks over the earth, It flushes and glows on moor and lea; The birds are singing in careless mirth, The brook flows cheerily on to the sea; And I know that the flowers are blooming now Over my beautiful darling's brow: Blooming and blowing in perfume now Over my poor lost darling's brow. The breath of the passionate Summer turns The green of the hills to a deeper dye; The wind from the south land blows and burns, The sun grows red in the brazen sky; And I know that the long, dank grasses wave Over my beautiful darling's grave: Rise and fall, and lift and wave Over my darling's narrow grave. The days flow on, and the summer dies, And glorious Autumn takes the crown; And toward the south the robin flies, And the green of the hills grows dull and brown; And the leaves, all purple, and gold, and red, Drift over my precious darling's bed: Drift and flutter, all gold and red, Over my darling's lowly bed. The Winter comes with its chilling snows, And wraps the world in a spotless shroud; And cold from the north the wild wind blows, And the tempest rages fierce and loud; It shrieks, and sobs, and sighs, and weeps Over the mound where my darling sleeps: In pity, it sobs, and sighs, and weeps Over the mound where my lost one sleeps. 34 He was so young, and fair, and brave: The pride of my bosom-my heart's best joy; And he lieth now in a drunkard's grave; My beautiful darling, my only boy: But down in my heart of hearts, I know He has gone where his tempters never can go: To heaven his soul has gone, I know, Where the soul of his tempters never can go. They charmed him into their licensed hell, They gave him rum, and his eye grew wild; And lower and lower down he fell, Till they made a fiend of my precious child: May the curses of God fall on the soul Who gave my darling the poison bowl! Ay, curses dark and deep on the soul Who tempted my darling to lift the bowl! ~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox

223:The Cathedral Tombs THEY lie, with upraised hands, and feet Stretched like dead feet that walk no more, And stony masks oft human sweet, As if the olden look each wore, Familiar curves of lip and eye, Were wrought by some fond memory. All waiting: the new-coffined dead, The handful of mere dust that lies Sarcophagused in stone and lead Under the weight of centuries: Knight, cardinal, bishop, abbess mild, With last week's buried year-old child. After the tempest cometh peace, After long travail sweet repose; These folded palms, these feet that cease From any motion, are but shows Of--what? What rest? How rest they? Where? The generations naught declare. Dark grave, unto whose brink we come, Drawn nearer by all nights and days; Each after each, thy solemn gloom We pierce with momentary gaze, Then go, unwilling or content, The way that all our fathers went. Is there no voice or guiding hand Arising from the awful void, To say, 'Fear not the silent land; Would He make aught to be destroyed? Would He? or can He? What know we Of Him who is Infinity? Strong Love, which taught us human love, Helped us to follow through all spheres Some soul that did sweet dead lips move, Lived in dear eyes in smiles and tears, 165 Love--once so near our flesh allied, That 'Jesus wept' when Lazarus died;-Eagle-eyed Faith that can see God, In worlds without and heart within; In sorrow by the smart o' the rod, In guilt by the anguish of the sin; In everything pure, holy, fair, God saying to man's soul, 'I am there';-These only, twin-archangels, stand Above the abyss of common doom, These only stretch the tender hand To us descending to the tomb, Thus making it a bed of rest With spices and with odors drest. So, like one weary and worn, who sinks To sleep beneath long faithful eyes, Who asks no word of love, but drinks The silence which is paradise-We only cry--'Keep angelward, And give us good rest, O good Lord!' ~ Dinah Maria Mulock Craik

224:She squirmed with delight, making him groan. Her wriggling must test him. Some devil made her move again. "Jesus, Grace," he gritted out. "You try my limits." "I hope so," she purred. He felt so wonderful inside her. As if he supplied part of her that she only realized now she'd lacked. She bent her knees and tilted her hips so he went deeper. She ran her hands down the tense muscles of his back. He flexed under her touch. "That felt good," she said breathlessly. "Do it again." "If I start, I won't stop." his voice was rough. "Start." She shifted again and felt him shudder. "Grace," he grated out. He withdrew, then plunged into her. Her nails sank into his back and her womb clenched in welcome. With deliberate slowness, he set the familiar rhythm. Except none of this was familiar. Every time he settled in her body, he forged an emotional connection that nothing could sever. On and on he went. Possession. Release. Possession. Release. Every thrust another link in the chain that bound her to him. Eventually his inhuman control fractured and he drove into her faster, more wildly. With every thrust, her excitement built. It echoed how she'd felt when he kissed her between the legs. That had been wonderful, astounding.But this was more powerful. Because he was with her. He pounded into her as though he meant to crush her. She didn't care. She never wanted this spiraling feeling to end. The storm swirled her higher and higher. Ecstasy poised her on a knife edge. She cried out and rose to meet him. He changed the angle of his penetration and went even deeper. The pleasure edged close to pain. She tensed as he pressed hard inside her. Then her womb opened and she took all of him. Her inner muscles convulsed into spasms of delight and she screamed. Violent rapture flung her against the doors of heaven itself. She was lost in a hot, dark world where nothing existed except Matthew. All she could do was hold him and prayed she survived. Through the tempest that blasted her, he reached his climax. He groaned and convulsed in her arms. For this moment, he was unequivocally hers and she reveled in the possession. ~ Anna Campbell

225:Cold, cold is the blast when December is howling, Cold are the damps on a dying man's brow,-- Stern are the seas when the wild waves are rolling, And sad is the grave where a loved one lies low; But colder is scorn from the being who loved thee, More stern is the sneer from the friend who has proved thee, More sad are the tears when their sorrows have moved thee, Which mixed with groans anguish and wild madness flow-- And ah! poor has felt all this horror, Full long the fallen victim contended with fate: Till a destitute outcast abandoned to sorrow, She sought her babe's food at her ruiner's gate-- Another had charmed the remorseless betrayer, He turned laughing aside from her moans and her prayer, She said nothing, but wringing the wet from her hair, Crossed the dark mountain side, though the hour it was late. 'Twas on the wild height of the dark Penmanmawr, That the form of the wasted -- reclined; She shrieked to the ravens that croaked from afar, And she sighed to the gusts of the wild sweeping wind.-- I call not yon rocks where the thunder peals rattle, I call not yon clouds where the elements battle, But thee, cruel -- I call thee unkind!'-- Then she wreathed in her hair the wild flowers of the mountain, And deliriously laughing, a garland entwined, She bedewed it with tears, then she hung o'er the fountain, And leaving it, cast it a prey to the wind. 'Ah! go,' she exclaimed, 'when the tempest is yelling, 'Tis unkind to be cast on the sea that is swelling, But I left, a pitiless outcast, my dwelling, My garments are torn, so they say is my mind--' Not long lived --, but over her grave Waved the desolate form of a storm-blasted yew, Around it no demons or ghosts dare to rave, But spirits of peace steep her slumbers in dew. Then stay thy swift steps mid the dark mountain heather, Though chill blow the wind and severe is the weather, For perfidy, traveller! cannot bereave her, Of the tears, to the tombs of the innocent due.-- JULY, 1810. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Song. Cold, Cold Is The Blast When December Is Howling

226:The Lost Colonel ''Tis a woeful yarn,' said the sailor man bold Who had sailed the northern-lakes 'No woefuler one has ever been told Exceptin' them called 'fakes.'' 'Go on, thou son of the wind and fog, For I burn to know the worst!' But his silent lip in a glass of grog Was dreamily immersed. Then he wiped it on his sleeve and said: 'It's never like that I drinks But what of the gallant gent that's dead I truly mournful thinks. 'He was a soldier chap-leastways As 'Colonel' he was knew; An' he hailed from some'rs where they raise A grass that's heavenly blue. 'He sailed as a passenger aboard The schooner 'Henery Jo.' O wild the waves and galeses roared, Like taggers in a show! 'But he sat at table that calm an' mild As if he never had let His sperit know that the waves was wild An' everlastin' wet!'Jest set with a bottle afore his nose, As was labeled 'Total Eclipse' (The bottle was) an' he frequent rose A glass o' the same to his lips. 'An' he says to me (for the steward slick Of the 'Henery Jo' was I): 'This sailor life's the very old Nick On the lakes it's powerful dry!' 507 'I says: 'Aye, aye, sir, it beats the Dutch. I hopes you'll outlast the trip.' But if I'd been him-an' I said as much I'd 'a' took a faster ship. 'His laughture, loud an' long an' free, Rang out o'er the tempest's roar. 'You're an elegant reasoner,' says he, 'But it's powerful dry ashore!'' 'O mariner man, why pause and don A look of so deep concern? Have another glass-go on, go on, For to know the worst I burn.' 'One day he was leanin' over the rail, When his footing some way slipped, An' (this is the woefulest part o' my tale), He was accidental unshipped! 'The empty boats was overboard hove, As he swum in the 'Henery's wake'; But 'fore we had 'bouted ship he had drove From sight on the ragin' lake!' 'And so the poor gentleman was drowned And now I'm apprised of the worst.' 'What! him? 'Twas an hour afore he was found In the yawl-stone dead o' thirst!' ~ Ambrose Bierce

227:Hawker, The Standard Bearer The grey gull sat on a floating whale, On a floating whale sat he, And he told his tale of the storm and the gale, And the ships that he saw with steam and sail, As he flew by the Northern Sea. "I have seen a sign that is strange and new, That I never before did see: A flying ship that roared as it flew, The storm and the tempest driving through, It carried a flag and it carried a crew, Now what would that be?" said he. "And the flag was a Jack with stars displayed, A flag that is new to me; For it does not ply in the Northern trade, But it drove through the storm-wrack unafraid, Now, what is that flag?" said he. "I have seen that flag that is starred with white," Said a southern gull, said he, "And saw it fly in a bloody fight, When the raider Emden turned in flight, And crashed on the Cocos lee." "And who are these folk whose flag is first Of all the flags that fly To dare the storm and the fog accurst, Of the great North Sea where the bergs are nursed, And the Northern Lights ride high?" "The Australian folk," said a lone sea-mew, "The Australian flag," said he. "It is strange that a folk that is far and few Should fly their flag where there never flew Another flag!" said he. "I have followed their flag in the fields of France, With its white stars flying free, And no misfortune and no mischance 128 Could turn them back from their line of advance, Or the line that they held," said he. "Whenever there's ever rule to break, Wherever they oughtn't to be, With a death to dare and a risk to take, A track to find or a way to make, You will find them there," said he. "They come from a land that is parched with thirst, An inland land," said he, "On risk and danger their breed is nursed, And thus it happens their flag is first To fly in the Northern Sea." "Though Hawker perished, he overcame The risks of the storm and the sea, And his name shall be written in stars of flame, On the topmost walls of the Temple of Fame, For the rest of the world to see." ~ Banjo Paterson

228:During the boisterous years of my youth nothing used to damp my wild spirits so much as to think that I was born at a time when the world had manifestly decided not to erect any more temples of fame except in honour of business people and State officials. The tempest of historical achievements seemed to have permanently subsided, so much so that the future appeared to be irrevocably delivered over to what was called peaceful competition between the nations. This simply meant a system of mutual exploitation by fraudulent means, the principle of resorting to the use of force in self-defence being formally excluded. Individual countries increasingly assumed the appearance of commercial undertakings, grabbing territory and clients and concessions from each other under any and every kind of pretext. And it was all staged to an accompaniment of loud but innocuous shouting. This trend of affairs seemed destined to develop steadily and permanently. Having the support of public approbation, it seemed bound eventually to transform the world into a mammoth department store. In the vestibule of this emporium there would be rows of monumental busts which would confer immortality on those profiteers who had proved themselves the shrewdest at their trade and those administrative officials who had shown themselves the most innocuous. The salesmen could be represented by the English and the administrative functionaries by the Germans; whereas the Jews would be sacrificed to the unprofitable calling of proprietorship, for they are constantly avowing that they make no profits and are always being called upon to 'pay out'. Moreover they have the advantage of being versed in the foreign languages. Why could I not have been born a hundred years ago? I used to ask myself. Somewhere about the time of the Wars of Liberation, when a man was still of some value even though he had no 'business'. Thus I used to think it an ill-deserved stroke of bad luck that I had arrived too late on this terrestrial globe, and I felt chagrined at the idea that my life would have to run its course along peaceful and orderly lines. As a boy I was anything but a pacifist and all attempts to make me so turned out futile. ~ Adolf Hitler

229:Thora Come under my cloak, my darling! Thou little Norwegian main! Nor wind, nor rain, nor rolling sea Shall chill or make thee afraid. Come close, little blue-eyed maiden, Nestle within my arm; Thought the lightning leaps and the thunder peals, We shall be safe from harm. Swift from the dim horizon The dark sails scud for the land. Look, how the rain-cloud drops its fringe About us on either hand! And high from our plunging bowsprit Dashes the cold white spray, And storm and tumult fill the air And trouble the summer day. But thou fearest nothing, darling, Thought the tempest mutter and brood, Though the wild wind tosses they bright brown locks, And flutters thy grass-green snood. I kiss they wise wide forehead, While the thunder rolls so grand; And I hold the curve of they lovely cheek In the hollow of my hand; And I watch the sky and the ocean, And I study they gentle face -Its lines of sweetness and power, Thy type of they strong Norse race. And I wonder what thy life will be, Thou dear and charming child, Who hast drifted so far across the world To a home so lone and wild. 37 Rude and rough and sad, perhaps; Anxious and full of toil; But I think no sorrow or hardship Thine inner peace can spoil. For better than kingly fortunes Is the wealth that thou dost hold -A nature perfectly balanced, A beauty of heart untold. Thou wilt open the door of patience, When sorry shall come and knock; But to every evil, unworthy thing Wilt thou the gates fast lock. So shall thy day be blessed, Whatever may be thy lot. But what I am silently pondering Thou understandest not, And liftest to me thy steadfast eyes, Calm as if heaven looked through. Do all the maidens in Norway Have eyes so clear and blue? See, darling, where, in the distance, The cloud breaks up in the sky, And lets a ray of sunshine fall Where our far-off islands lie! White they gleam, and the sea grows bright And silver shines the foam. A little space, and our anchor drops In the haven of Love and Home! ~ Celia Thaxter

230:Lily fought like a lynx caught in a steel trap. She scratched and bit and kicked with a force that took Connell by surprise. Her teeth sank into the sensitive flesh of his palm and forced him to let go. “Calm down, Lily. It’s just me, Connell.” The beginning of her scream died away, and she spun on him, her eyes flashing with fury. “Why did you sneak up on me like that?” “I didn’t mean to.” He brought his smarting hand to his mouth and sucked at the blood she’d drawn. “When you didn’t hear me approach, I thought I might startle you. And I didn’t want you to scream—a sure way to get every shanty boy in the camp to come running.” The tempest in her eyes turned into a low gale. He glanced at the teeth marks she’d left in his hand. “You sure know how to greet a fellow.” “And you sure know how to scare a girl half to death.” “Why exactly were you so scared?” “Because I thought you were someone else.” “And what if I had been someone else?” She paused, her pretty lips stalled around the shape of her next word. “Any number of the rough men from this camp could have followed you out here.” He’d seen the way the men were looking at her, how they hadn’t been able to take their eyes off her from the moment she’d arrived. “What would you have done then?” When she’d run off into the woods after the stupid cat, he’d had to yell at several of the men to stop them from chasing after her. “I would have screamed.” She pulled herself up to her full height, which he estimated to be five feet six inches. “Since apparently I’d get lots of attention that way.” “I’m serious,” he started. But then at the glimpse of the twinkle in her eyes, his ready lecture stalled. He stuck his aching hand into his pocket and pressed his wound against the scratchy wool. “I appreciate your concern,” she offered with the hint of a smile. “But I’m a much stronger woman than you realize.” She’d be no match for any of his strong shanty boys. “You were reckless to wander off by yourself.” He tried to soften his accusation, but he wanted her to realize the constant danger she was in simply by being an attractive woman in a place populated by lusty men. “I strongly suggest you refrain from doing so again—especially if you hope to avoid any further run-ins. ~ Jody Hedlund

231:And for the same reason, because that which we are seeking through beauty is in the end that which we are seeking through religion, the Absolute, the Divine. The search for beauty is only in its beginning a satisfaction in the beauty of form, the beauty which appeals to the physical senses and the vital impressions, impulsions, desires. It is only in the middle a satisfaction in the beauty of the ideas seized, the emotions aroused, the perception of perfect process and harmonious combination. Behind them the soul of beauty in us desires the contact, the revelation, the uplifting delight of an absolute beauty in all things which it feels to be present, but which neither the senses and instincts by themselves can give, though they may be its channels, - for it is suprasensuous, - nor the reason and intelligence, though they too are a channel, - for it is suprarational, supra-intellectual, - but to which through all these veils the soul itself seeks to arrive. When it can get the touch of this universal, absolute beauty, this soul of beauty, this sense of its revelation in any slightest or greatest thing, the beauty of a flower, a form, the beauty and power of a character, an action, an event, a human life, an idea, a stroke of the brush or the chisel or a scintillation of the mind, the colours of a sunset or the grandeur of the tempest, it is then that the sense of beauty in us is really, powerfully, entirely satisfied. It is in truth seeking, as in religion, for the Divine, the All-Beautiful in man, in nature, in life, in thought, in art; for God is Beauty and Delight hidden in the variation of his masks and forms. When, fulfilled in our growing sense and knowledge of beauty and delight in beauty and our power for beauty, we are able to identify ourselves in soul with this Absolute and Divine in all the forms and activities of the world and shape an image of our inner and our outer life in the highest image we can perceive and embody of the All-Beautiful, then the aesthetic being in us who was born for this end, has fulfilled himself and risen to his divine consummation. To find highest beauty is to find God; to reveal, to embody, to create, as we say, highest beauty is to bring out of our souls the living image and power of God. ~ Sri Aurobindo, The Human Cycle, 144,

232:Oh, Gray, she said. Oh, gray, indeed. As in, oh Gray what the holy hell has come over you and what the devil do you intend to do about it? He took the coward’s way out. He looked away. “I thought you were painting a portrait. Of me.” She turned her head, following his gaze to her easel. A vast seascape overflowed the small canvas. Towering thunderclouds and a violent, frothy sea. And slightly off center, a tiny ship cresting a massive wave. “I am painting you.” “What, am I on the little boat, then?” It was a relief to joke. The relief was short-lived. “No,” she said softly, turning back to look at him. “I’m on the little boat. You’re the storm. And the ocean. You’re…Gray, you’re everything.” And that was when things went from “very bad” to “worse.” “I can’t take credit for the composition. It’s inspired by a painting I once saw, in a gallery on Queen Anne Street. By a Mr. Turner.” “Turner. Yes, I know his work. No relation, I suppose?” “No.” She looked back at the canvas. “When I saw it that day, so brash and wild…I could feel the tempest churning in my blood. I just knew then and there, that I had something inside me-a passion too bold, too grand to keep squeezed inside a drawing room. First I tried to deny it, and then I tried to run from it…and then I met you, and I saw you have it, too. Don’t deny it, Gray. Don’t run from it and leave me alone.” She sat up, still rubbing his cheek with her thumb. Grasping his other hand, she drew it to her naked breast. Oh, God. She was every bit as soft as he’d dreamed. Softer. And there went his hand now. Trembling. “Touch me, Gray.” She leaned forward, until her lips paused a mere inch away from his. “Kiss me.” Perhaps that dagger had missed his heart after all, because the damned thing was hammering away inside his chest. And oh, he could taste her sweet breath mingling with his. Her lips were so close, so inviting. So dangerous. Panic-that’s what had his knees trembling and his heart hammering and his lips spouting foolishness. It had to be panic. Because something told Gray that he could see her mostly naked, and watch her toes curl as she reached her climax, and even cup her dream-soft breast in his palm-but somehow, if he touched his lips to hers, he would be lost. “Please,” she whispered. “Kiss me. ~ Tessa Dare

233:FIRST SPIRIT: O thou, who plumed with strong desire Wouldst float above the earth, beware! A Shadow tracks thy flight of fire-- Night is coming! Bright are the regions of the air, And among the winds and beams It were delight to wander there-- Night is coming! SECOND SPIRIT: The deathless stars are bright above; If I would cross the shade of night, Within my heart is the lamp of love, And that is day! And the moon will smile with gentle light On my golden plumes whereer they move; The meteors will linger round my flight, And make night day. FIRST SPIRIT: But if the whirlwinds of darkness waken Hail, and lightning, and stormy rain; See, the bounds of the air are shaken-- Night is coming! The red swift clouds of the hurricane Yon declining sun have overtaken, The clash of the hail sweeps over the plain-- Night is coming! SECOND SPIRIT: I see the light, and I hear the sound; 25 Ill sail on the flood of the tempest dark With the calm within and the light around Which makes night day: And thou, when the gloom is deep and stark, Look from thy dull earth, slumber-bound, My moon-like flight thou then mayst mark On high, far away. ... Some say there is a precipice Where one vast pine is frozen to ruin Oer piles of snow and chasms of ice Mid Alpine mountains; And that the languid storm pursuing That winged shape, for ever flies Round those hoar branches, aye renewing Its aery fountains. Some say when nights are dry and clear, And the death-dews sleep on the morass, Sweet whispers are heard by the traveller, Which make night day: And a silver shape like his early love doth pass Upborne by her wild and glittering hair, And when he awakes on the fragrant grass, He finds night day. Assigned to 1820 by Mary Shelley, the poet's wife. A notebook draft, whose many variants are of doubtful authority for establishing Shelley's final intention, survives. Two important variants are listed (from the Julian edition) in the notes below. 25. Light. MS. reads "glare." 41. Nights are. MS. starts to change this to the singular, correcting "are" to "is," but not going on to correct the subject. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Two Spirits - An Allegory

234:The Seven Old Men À Victor Hugo Ant-like city, city full of dreams, where the passer-by, at dawn, meets the spectre! Mysteries everywhere are the sap that streams through the narrow veins of this great ogre. One morning, when, on the dreary street, the buildings all seemed heightened, cold a swollen river’s banks carved out to greet, (their stage-set mirroring an actor’s soul), the dirty yellow fog that flooded space, arguing with my already weary soul, steeling my nerves like a hero, I paced suburbs shaken by the carts’ drum-roll. Suddenly, an old man in rags, their yellow mirroring the colour of the rain-filled sky, whose looks alone prompted alms to flow, except for the evil glittering of his eye, appeared. You’d have thought his eyeballs steeped in gall: his gaze intensified the cold, and his long beard, as rigid as a sword, was jutting out like Judas’s of old. He was not bent but broken, his spine made a sharp right angle with his legs, so that the stick, perfecting his line, gave him the awkward shape and step of three-legged usurer, or sick quadruped. Wading through snow and mud he went as if, under his feet, he crushed the dead, hostile to the world, not just indifferent. Then his double: beard, eyes, rags, stick, back, no trait distinguished his centenarian twin: they marched in step, two ghosts of the Baroque, sprung from one hell, towards some unknown end. Was I the butt of some infamous game, some evil chance, aimed at humiliation? Since minute by minute, I counted seven, of that sinister old man’s multiplication! Whoever smiles at my anxiety, and balks at shivering, the un-fraternal, 470 consider then, despite their senility, those seven vile monsters looked eternal! Could I have lived to see an eighth: yet one more ironic, fatal, inexorable replication, loathsome Phoenix, his own father and son? - I turned my back on that hell-bent procession. Exasperated, a drunk that sees things doubled, I stumbled home, slammed the door, terrified, sick, depressed, mind feverish and troubled, wounded by mystery, the absurd, outside! In vain my reason tried to take command, its efforts useless in the tempest’s roar, my soul, a mastless barge, danced, and danced, over some monstrous sea without a shore! ~ Charles Baudelaire

235:Thy trivial harp will never please Or fill my craving ear; Its chords should ring as blows the breeze, Free, peremptory, clear. No jingling serenader's art, Nor tinkle of piano strings, Can make the wild blood start In its mystic springs. The kingly bard Must smite the chords rudely and hard, As with hammer or with mace, That they may render back Artful thunder that conveys Secrets of the solar track, Sparks of the supersolar blaze. Merlin's blows are strokes of fate, Chiming with the forest-tone, When boughs buffet boughs in the wood; Chiming with the gasp and moan Of the ice-imprisoned flood; With the pulse of manly hearts, With the voice of orators, With the din of city arts, With the cannonade of wars. With the marches of the brave, And prayers of might from martyrs' cave. Great is the art, Great be the manners of the bard! He shall not his brain encumber With the coil of rhythm and number, But, leaving rule and pale forethought, He shall aye climb For his rhyme: Pass in, pass in, the angels say, In to the upper doors; Nor count compartments of the floors, But mount to Paradise By the stairway of surprise. Blameless master of the games, King of sport that never shames; He shall daily joy dispense Hid in song's sweet influence. Things more cheerly live and go, What time the subtle mind Plays aloud the tune whereto Their pulses beat, And march their feet, And their members are combined. By Sybarites beguiled He shall no task decline; Merlin's mighty line, Extremes of nature reconciled, Bereaved a tyrant of his will, And made the lion mild. Songs can the tempest still, Scattered on the stormy air, Mould the year to fair increase, And bring in poetic peace. He shall not seek to weave, In weak unhappy times, Efficacious rhymes; Wait his returning strength, Bird, that from the nadir's floor, To the zenith's top could soar, The soaring orbit of the muse exceeds that journey's length! Nor, profane, affect to hit Or compass that by meddling wit, Which only the propitious mind Publishes when 'tis inclined. There are open hours When the god's will sallies free, And the dull idiot might see The flowing fortunes of a thousand years; Sudden, at unawares, Self-moved fly-to the doors, Nor sword of angels could reveal What they conceal. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson, Merlin I

236:A New-Year Hymn Sunlight of the heavenly day, Mighty to revive and cheer, Bless our yet untrodden way, Lead us through the entered year. Where the shades of death we see, Let Thy living brightness be — Let it speed our lingering feet — Let it shine on all we meet. While before our chastened gaze Earthly pleasures fade and fail, Thou, the light of all our days — Thou, our steadfast glory, hail! Forward, though the path be hid; Though we pass the lurking foe; Though the sound of war forbid, Girt with gladness, let its go. Bold in Thy protecting care, Strong to prove Thee faithful there Through the desert or the sea, On, to reign in life with Thee. Ah, with more than fearless heart, Homeward be our faces set; Show us in our present part Wealth we have not measured yet. Open Thou beneath our tread Springs the distance could not show; From the holy Fountain–head, Let them rise where'er we go. Rather give us eyes to see — Love awake to love in Thee — Hearts that, trusting in Thy care, Find its traces everywhere. Teach us, as we pass along, In the shining of Thy face, Many a sweet thanksgiving–song, Even in a dreary place. While with firm, unyielding will For the victor's crown we strive, Gracious Savior, keep us still To Thy gentlest signs alive — Where the stormy wind is heard, Quick to every tender word, And for all our journey's length, Armed with meekness more than strength. In the shadow of Thy hand We can brave the uprooting gale, And a little child may stand Where the soldier's heart would fail Oft a desolating blast Bears the seed of comfort too, And the patient soul at last Finds a garden where it blew; So, where nothing cheers our sight, Germs of love may spring to light, Bright 'mid earth's oppressive shades, Fresh beside the leaf that fades. Let the precious seed abound — Make the tempest strong to bless, Strong to claim our thorny ground For the fruits of holiness. Lord of All! we cannot know What our paths may yet unfold; But the part that love would show — Wise to save us — Thou hast told. By our heart's unmeasured price — By Thy life–long sacrifice — By Thy death to set us free, Lead us on to joy in Thee. On, to greet the perfect day, Blessed End of time and strife, — On, throngh all the shinlng way, Brightness of our human life. ~ Anna Laetitia Waring

237: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

238:What are we doing here?” Burnes said, almost to himself. “That, Burnes, I cannot tell you. I do not know why anyone leaves his house, to travel ten thousand miles, when all the poetry that has ever been written, all the poetry since the beginning of the world all tells us the single lesson that we would be happiest in our own homes, since that is where happiness is born, and where it lives. What poetry cannot answer is the question that follows from that, whether we men actually want to be happy, or whether we would prefer to be restless. In your case—in the English, excuse me, the British case—I would say that when you have gone home, when you are all old and thinking about what this adventure, this whole centuries-long adventure meant, what it meant to you . . . well, things do not always mean something, but perhaps your adventure, perhaps it meant something. You will sit at home and look into your fires and draw your Cashmire shawls about you, and think that you came here for one reason. Of course, now, you tell yourself all sorts of fairy stories—you are here to sell us your wonderful English goods, you want to set us free, you want us to grow up, you want to educate us and make us worship three gods instead of forty thousand—” “Only one God.” “I stand corrected, Burnes-ji, and I am sure your one God is much more sensible than ours, who are quaint, who have the heads of elephants and monkeys and have blue skin. They are all very good reasons to tell yourself at the time, but they are not, at the bottom, the real reason you came here. You came here not to make yourselves rich, not to make us better and Christian and clean and dressed in Bradford cotton. You believe all this, I know. But when you are old and tired and sleeping in a thousand years’ time, you will start to realize that you came here and took possession of what was not yours for one reason. To surrender it, to give it up. That is the only reason. Do you not know your Shakespeare, Burnes? Have you never seen The Tempest in your London theatres? Do you not think it strange that, so very long ago, before your English kings owned anything at all, your English poet was dreaming of giving it all up, of surrendering what was not yet yours? Of what never would truly be yours? You are not adventurers; you are all Prosperos, waiting for the day you can give it up, drown your book, and return nobly. We endure your presence, because we see that when you look at us, you know that we will take it all back one day. And you want us to. That desire is so strong in you, it makes you build an empire; because if you never had an empire, you would not have one so nobly to surrender. That, Burnes, is what you are doing here. You asked me, and you did not think that I had an answer. But I have an answer, and that is what you are doing here. And now you are tired, and I shall leave you. ~ Philip Hensher

239:Well, Mr Markham, you that maintain that a boy should not be shielded from evil, but sent out to battle against it, alone and unassisted - not taught to avoid the snares of life, but boldly to rush into them, or over them, as he may - to seek danger rather than shun it, and feed his virtue by temptation - would you-' 'I beg your pardon, Mrs Graham - but you get on too fast. I have not yet said that a boy should be taught to rush into the snares of life - or even wilfully to seek temptation for the sake of exercising his virtue by overcoming it - I only say that it is better to arm and strengthen your hero, than to disarm and enfeeble the foe; and if you were to rear an oak sapling in a hot-house, tending it carefully night and day, and shielding it from every breath of wind, you could not expect it to become a hardy tree, like that which has grown up on the mountain-side, exposed to all the action of the elements, and not even sheltered form the shock of the tempest.' 'Granted; but would you use the same arguments with regard to a girl?' 'Certainly not.' 'No; you would have her to be tenderly and delicately nurtured, like a hot-house plant - taught to cling to others for direction and support, and guarded, as much as possible, from the very knowledge of evil. But will you be so good as to inform me why you make this distinction? Is it that you think she has no virtue?' 'Assuredly not.' 'Well, but you affirm that virtue is only elicited by temptation; and you think that a woman cannot be too little exposed to temptation, or too little acquainted with vice, or anything connected therewith. It must be, either, that you think she is essentially so vicious, or so feeble-minded that she cannot withstand temptation - and though she may be pure and innocent as long as she is kept in ignorance and restraint, yet, being destitute of real virtue, to teach her how to sin, is at once to make her a sinner, and the greater her knowledge, the wider her liberty, the deeper will be her depravity - whereas, in the nobler sex, there is a natural tendency to goodness, guarded by a superior fortitude, which, the more it is exercised by trials and dangers, it is only further developed-' 'Heaven forbid that I should think so!' I interrupted her at last. 'Well then, it must be that you think they are both weak and prone to err, and the slightest error, the nearest shadow of pollution, will ruin the one, while the character of the other will be strengthened and embellished - his education properly finished by a little practical acquaintance with forbidden things. Such experience, to him (to use a trite simile), will be like the storm to the oak, which, though it may scatter the leaves, and snap the smaller branches, serves but to rivet the roots, and to harden and condense the fibres of the tree. You would have us encourage our sons to prove all things by their own experience, while our daughters must not even profit by the experience of others. ~ Anne Bront

240:I. Now the last day of many days, All beautiful and bright as thou, The loveliest and the last, is dead, Rise, Memory, and write its praise! Up,--to thy wonted work! come, trace The epitaph of glory fled,-- For now the Earth has changed its face, A frown is on the Heavens brow. II. We wandered to the Pine Forest That skirts the Oceans foam, The lightest wind was in its nest, The tempest in its home. The whispering waves were half asleep, The clouds were gone to play, And on the bosom of the deep The smile of Heaven lay; It seemed as if the hour were one Sent from beyond the skies, Which scattered from above the sun A light of Paradise. III. We paused amid the pines that stood The giants of the waste, Tortured by storms to shapes as rude As serpents interlaced; And, soothed by every azure breath, That under Heaven is blown, To harmonies and hues beneath, As tender as its own, Now all the tree-tops lay asleep, Like green waves on the sea, As still as in the silent deep The ocean woods may be. IV. How calm it was!the silence there By such a chain was bound That even the busy woodpecker Made stiller by her sound The inviolable quietness; The breath of peace we drew With its soft motion made not less The calm that round us grew. There seemed from the remotest seat Of the white mountain waste, To the soft flower beneath our feet, A magic circle traced,-- A spirit interfused around A thrilling, silent life,-- To momentary peace it bound Our mortal natures strife; And still I felt the centre of The magic circle there Was one fair form that filled with love The lifeless atmosphere. V. We paused beside the pools that lie Under the forest bough,-- Each seemed as twere a little sky Gulfed in a world below; A firmament of purple light Which in the dark earth lay, More boundless than the depth of night, And purer than the day-- In which the lovely forests grew, As in the upper air, More perfect both in shape and hue Than any spreading there. There lay the glade and neighbouring lawn, And through the dark green wood The white sun twinkling like the dawn Out of a speckled cloud. Sweet views which in our world above Can never well be seen, Were imaged by the waters love Of that fair forest green. And all was interfused beneath With an Elysian glow, An atmosphere without a breath, A softer day below. Like one beloved the scene had lent To the dark waters breast, Its every leaf and lineament With more than truth expressed; Until an envious wind crept by, Like an unwelcome thought, Which from the minds too faithful eye Blots one dear image out. Though thou art ever fair and kind, The forests ever green, Less oft is peace in Shelleys mind, Than calm in waters, seen. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, To Jane - The Recollection

241:What was the shriek that struck Fancy's ear As it sate on the ruins of time that is past? Hark! it floats on the fitful blast of the wind, And breathes to the pale moon a funeral sigh. It is the Benshie's moan on the storm, Or a shivering fiend that thirsting for sin, Seeks murder and guilt when virtue sleeps, Winged with the power of some ruthless king, And sweeps o'er the breast of the prostrate plain. It was not a fiend from the regions of Hell That poured its low moan on the stillness of night: It was not a ghost of the guilty dead, Nor a yelling vampire reeking with gore; But aye at the close of seven years' end, That voice is mixed with the swell of the storm, And aye at the close of seven years' end, A shapeless shadow that sleeps on the hill Awakens and floats on the mist of the heath. It is not the shade of a murdered man, Who has rushed uncalled to the throne of his God, And howls in the pause of the eddying storm. This voice is low, cold, hollow, and chill, 'Tis not heard by the ear, but is felt in the soul. 'Tis more frightful far than the death-daemon's scream, Or the laughter of fiends when they howl oer the corpse Of a man who has sold his soul to Hell. It tells the approach of a mystic form, A white courser bears the shadowy sprite; More thin they are than the mists of the mountain, When the clear moonlight sleeps on the waveless lake. More pale HIS cheek than the snows of Nithona, When winter rides on the northern blast, And howls in the midst of the leafless wood. Yet when the fierce swell of the tempest is raving, And the whirlwinds howl in the caves of Inisfallen, Still secure mid the wildest war of the sky, The phantom courser scours the waste, And his rider howls in the thunder's roar. O'er him the fierce bolts of avenging Heaven Pause, as in fear, to strike his head. The meteors of midnight recoil from his figure, Yet the 'wildered peasant, that oft passes by, With wonder beholds the blue flash through his form: And his voice, though faint as the sighs of the dead, The startled passenger shudders to hear, More distinct than the thunder's wildest roar. Then does the dragon, who, chained in the caverns To eternity, curses the champion of Erin, Moan and yell loud at the lone hour of midnight, And twine his vast wreaths round the forms of the daemons; Then in agony roll his death-swimming eyeballs, Though 'wildered by death, yet never to die! Then he shakes from his skeleton folds the nightmares, Who, shrieking in agony, seek the couch Of some fevered wretch who courts sleep in vain; Then the tombless ghosts of the guilty dead In horror pause on the fitful gale. They float on the swell of the eddying tempest, And scared seek the caves of gigantic... Where their thin forms pour unearthly sounds On the blast that sweets the breast of the lake, And mingles its swell with the moonlight air. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Spectral Horseman

242:. "I Can love thee well, believe me,     As a sister true;   Other love, Sir Knight, would grieve me,     Sore my heart would rue.   Calmly would I see thee going,     Calmly, too, appear;   For those tears in silence flowing     Find no answer here."   Thus she speaks,he hears her sadly,     How his heartstrings bleed!   In his arms he clasps her madly,     Then he mounts his steed.   From the Switzer land collects he     All his warriors brave;   Cross on breast, their course directs he     To the Holy Grave.   In triumphant march advancing,     Onward moves the host,   While their morion plumes are dancing     Where the foes are most.   Mortal terror strikes the Paynim     At the chieftain's name;   But the knight's sad thoughts enchain him     Grief consumes his frame.   Twelve long months, with courage daring,     Peace he strives to find;   Then, at last, of rest despairing,     Leaves the host behind;   Sees a ship, whose sails are swelling,     Lie on Joppa's strand;   Ships him homeward for her dwelling,     In his own loved land.   Now behold the pilgrim weary     At her castle gate!   But alas! these accents dreary     Seal his mournful fate:   "She thou seek'st her troth hath plighted     To all-gracious heaven;   To her God she was united     Yesterday at even!"   To his father's home forever     Bids he now adieu;   Sees no more his arms and beaver,     Nor his steed so true.   Then descends he, sadly, slowly,     None suspect the sight,   For a garb of penance lowly     Wears the noble knight.   Soon he now, the tempest braving,     Builds an humble shed,   Where o'er the lime-trees darkly waving,     Peeps the convent's head.   From the orb of day's first gleaming,     Till his race has run,   Hope in every feature beaming,     There he sits alone.   Toward the convent straining ever     His unwearied eyes,   From her casement looking never     Till it open flies,   Till the loved one, soft advancing,     Shows her gentle face,   O'er the vale her sweet eye glancing,     Full of angel-grace.   Then he seeks his bed of rushes,     Stilled all grief and pain,   Slumbering calm, till morning's blushes     Waken life again.   Days and years fleet on, yet never     Breathes he plaint or sighs,   On her casement gazing ever     Till it open flies.   Till the loved one, soft advancing,     Shows her gentle face,   O'er the vale her sweet eyes glancing,     Full of angel-grace.   But at length, the morn returning     Finds him dead and chill;   Pale and wan, his gaze, with yearning,     Seeks her casement still.      ~ Friedrich Schiller, The Knight Of Toggenburg

243:To The Queen O loyal to the royal in thyself, And loyal to thy land, as this to thee-Bear witness, that rememberable day, When, pale as yet, and fever-worn, the Prince Who scarce had plucked his flickering life again From halfway down the shadow of the grave, Past with thee through thy people and their love, And London rolled one tide of joy through all Her trebled millions, and loud leagues of man And welcome! witness, too, the silent cry, The prayer of many a race and creed, and clime-Thunderless lightnings striking under sea From sunset and sunrise of all thy realm, And that true North, whereof we lately heard A strain to shame us 'keep you to yourselves; So loyal is too costly! friends--your love Is but a burthen: loose the bond, and go.' Is this the tone of empire? here the faith That made us rulers? this, indeed, her voice And meaning, whom the roar of Hougoumont Left mightiest of all peoples under heaven? What shock has fooled her since, that she should speak So feebly? wealthier--wealthier--hour by hour! The voice of Britain, or a sinking land, Some third-rate isle half-lost among her seas? THERE rang her voice, when the full city pealed Thee and thy Prince! The loyal to their crown Are loyal to their own far sons, who love Our ocean-empire with her boundless homes For ever-broadening England, and her throne In our vast Orient, and one isle, one isle, That knows not her own greatness: if she knows And dreads it we are fallen. --But thou, my Queen, Not for itself, but through thy living love For one to whom I made it o'er his grave Sacred, accept this old imperfect tale, New-old, and shadowing Sense at war with Soul, Ideal manhood closed in real man, Rather than that gray king, whose name, a ghost, 868 Streams like a cloud, man-shaped, from mountain peak, And cleaves to cairn and cromlech still; or him Of Geoffrey's book, or him of Malleor's, one Touched by the adulterous finger of a time That hovered between war and wantonness, And crownings and dethronements: take withal Thy poet's blessing, and his trust that Heaven Will blow the tempest in the distance back From thine and ours: for some are sacred, who mark, Or wisely or unwisely, signs of storm, Waverings of every vane with every wind, And wordy trucklings to the transient hour, And fierce or careless looseners of the faith, And Softness breeding scorn of simple life, Or Cowardice, the child of lust for gold, Or Labour, with a groan and not a voice, Or Art with poisonous honey stolen from France, And that which knows, but careful for itself, And that which knows not, ruling that which knows To its own harm: the goal of this great world Lies beyond sight: yet--if our slowly-grown And crowned Republic's crowning common-sense, That saved her many times, not fail--their fears Are morning shadows huger than the shapes That cast them, not those gloomier which forego The darkness of that battle in the West, Where all of high and holy dies away. ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson

244:Sir Galahad MY good blade carves the casques of men, My tough lance thrusteth sure, My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure. The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, The hard brands shiver on the steel, The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly, The horse and rider reel: They reel, they roll in clanging lists, And when the tide of combat stands, Perfume and flowers fall in showers, That lightly rain from ladies' hands. How sweet are looks that ladies bend On whom their favours fall ! For them I battle till the end, To save from shame and thrall: But all my heart is drawn above, My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine: I never felt the kiss of love, Nor maiden's hand in mine. More bounteous aspects on me beam, Me mightier transports move and thrill; So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer A virgin heart in work and will. When down the stormy crescent goes, A light before me swims, Between dark stems the forest glows, I hear a noise of hymns: Then by some secret shrine I ride; I hear a voice but none are there; The stalls are void, the doors are wide, The tapers burning fair. Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, The silver vessels sparkle clean, The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, And solemn chaunts resound between. 557 Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres I find a magic bark; I leap on board: no helmsman steers: I float till all is dark. A gentle sound, an awful light ! Three arngels bear the holy Grail: With folded feet, in stoles of white, On sleeping wings they sail. Ah, blessed vision! blood of God! My spirit beats her mortal bars, As down dark tides the glory slides, And star-like mingles with the stars. When on my goodly charger borne Thro' dreaming towns I go, The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, The streets are dumb with snow. The tempest crackles on the leads, And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; But o'er the dark a glory spreads, And gilds the driving hail. I leave the plain, I climb the height; No branchy thicket shelter yields; But blessed forms in whistling storms Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. A maiden knight--to me is given Such hope, I know not fear; I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven That often meet me here. I muse on joy that will not cease, Pure spaces clothed in living beams, Pure lilies of eternal peace, Whose odours haunt my dreams; And, stricken by an angel's hand, This mortal armour that I wear, This weight and size, this heart and eyes, Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air. The clouds are broken in the sky, And thro' the mountain-walls A rolling organ-harmony 558 Swells up, and shakes and falls. Then move the trees, the copses nod, Wings flutter, voices hover clear: 'O just and faithful knight of God! Ride on ! the prize is near.' So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; By bridge and ford, by park and pale, All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide, Until I find the holy Grail. ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson

245:XXIV. And more than that - a furlong on - why, there! What bad use was that engine for, that wheel, Or brake, not wheel - that harrow fit to reel Men's bodies out like silk? With all the air Of Tophet's tool, on earth left unaware Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel. XXV. Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood, Next a marsh it would seem, and now mere earth Desperate and done with; (so a fool finds mirth, Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood Changes and off he goes!) within a rood - Bog, clay and rubble, sand, and stark black dearth. XXVI. Now blotches rankling, coloured gay and grim, Now patches where some leanness of the soil's Broke into moss, or substances like boils; Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils. XXVII. And just as far as ever from the end! Naught in the distance but the evening, naught To point my footstep further! At the thought, A great black bird, Apollyon's bosom friend, Sailed past, not best his wide wing dragon-penned That brushed my cap - perchance the guide I sought. XXVIII. For, looking up, aware I somehow grew, Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place All round to mountains - with such name to grace Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view. How thus they had surprised me - solve it, you! How to get from them was no clearer case. XXIX. Yet half I seemed to recognise some trick Of mischief happened to me, God knows when - In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then Progress this way. When, in the very nick Of giving up, one time more, came a click As when a trap shuts - you're inside the den. XXX. Burningly it came on me all at once, This was the place! those two hills on the right, Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight; While to the left a tall scalped mountain ... Dunce, Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce, After a life spent training for the sight! XXXI. What in the midst lay but the Tower itself? The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart, Built of brown stone, without a counterpart In the whole world. The tempest's mocking elf Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf He strikes on, only when the timbers start. XXXII. Not see? because of night perhaps? - why day Came back again for that! before it left The dying sunset kindled through a cleft: The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay, Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay, - Now stab and end the creature - to the heft!' XXXIII. Not hear? When noise was everywhere! it tolled Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears Of all the lost adventurers, my peers - How such a one was strong, and such was bold, And such was fortunate, yet each of old Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years. XXXIV. There they stood, ranged along the hillsides, met To view the last of me, a living frame For one more picture! In a sheet of flame I saw them and I knew them all. And yet Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set, And blew. 'Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came. ~ Robert Browning

246:Elegy 'DARK gathering clouds involve the threatening skies, The sea heaves conscious of the impending gloom, Deep, hollow murmurs from the cliffs arise; They come--the Spirits of the Tempest come! 'Oh! may such terrors mark the approaching night As reign'd on that these streaming eyes deplore! Flash, ye red fires of heaven, with fatal light, And with conflicting winds ye waters roar! 'Loud and more loud, ye foaming billows, burst! Ye warring elements, more fiercely rave! Till the wide waves o'erwhelm the spot accurst 'Where ruthless Avarice finds a quiet grave!' ' Thus with clasp'd hands, wild looks, and streaming hair, While shrieks of horror broke her trembling speech, A wretched maid--the victim of despair, Survey'd the threatening storm and desert beech. Then to the tomb where now the father slept Whose rugged nature bade her sorrows flow, Frantic she turn'd--and beat her breast and wept, Invoking vengeance on the dust below. 'Lo! rising there above each humbler heap, Yon cypher'd stones his name and wealth relate, Who gave his son--remorseless--to the deep, While I, his living victim, curse my fate. 'Oh, my lost love! no tomb is placed for thee, That may to strangers' eyes thy worth impart; Thou hast no grave but in the stormy sea, And no memorial but this breaking heart. 'Forth to the world, a widow'd wanderer driven, I pour to winds and waves the unheeded tear, Try with vain effort to submit to Heaven, And fruitless call on him--'who cannot hear.' 'Oh! might I fondly clasp him once again, While o'er my head the infuriate billows pour, Forget in death this agonizing pain, And feel his father's cruelty no more! 'Part, raging waters! part, and show beneath, In your dread caves, his pale and mangled form; 37 Now, while the demons of despair and death Ride on the blast, and urge the howling storm: 'Lo! by the lightning's momentary blaze, I see him rise the whitening waves above, No longer such as when in happier days He gave the enchanted hours--to me and love. 'Such, as when daring the enchafed sea, And courting dangerous toil, he often said That every peril, one soft smile from me, One sigh of speechless tenderness o'erpaid. 'But dead, disfigured, while between the roar Of the loud waves his accents pierce mine ear, And seem to say--Ah, wretch! delay no more, But come, unhappy mourner--meet me here. 'Yet, powerful Fancy, bid the phantom stay, Still let me hear him!--'Tis already past; Along the waves his shadow glides away, I lose his voice amid the deafening blast. 'Ah, wild delusion, born of frantic pain! He hears not, comes not from his watery bed; My tears, my anguish, my despair are vain, The insatiate ocean gives not up its dead. ' 'Tis not his voice! Hark! the deep thunders roll; Upheaves the ground; the rocky barriers fail; Approach, ye horrors that delight my soul, Despair, and Death, and Desolation, hail!' The Ocean hears--The embodied waters come-Rise o'er the land, and with resistless sweep Tear from its base the proud aggressor's tomb, And bear the injured to eternal sleep. ~ Charlotte Smith

247:Ballad Of The Old Cypress In front of the temple of Chu-ko Liang there is an old cypress. Its branches are like green bronze; its roots like rocks; around its great girth of forty spans its rimy bark withstands the washing of the rain. Its jet-colored top rises two thousand feet to greet the sky. Prince and statesman have long since paid their debt to time; but the tree continues to be cherished among men. When the clouds come, continuous vapors link it with the mists of the long Wu Gorge; and when the moon appears, the cypress tree shares the chill of the Snowy Mountains' whiteness. I remember a year or so ago, where the road wound east round my Brocade River pavilion, the First Ruler and Chu-ko Liang shared the same shrine. There, too, were towering cypresses, on the ancient plain outside the city. The paintwork of the temple's dark interior gleamed dully through derelict doors and windows. But this cypress here, though it holds its ground well, clinging with wide-encompassing, snake-like hold, yet, because of its lonely height rising into the gloom of the sky, meets much of the wind's fierce blast. Nothing but the power of Divine Providence could have kept it standing for so long; its straightness must be the work of the Creator himself! If a great hall had collapsed and beams for it were needed, ten thousand oxen might turn their heads inquiringly to look at such a mountain of a load. But it is already marvel enough to astonish the world, without any need to undergo a craftsman's embellishing. It has never refused the axe: there is simply no one who could carry it away if it were felled. Its bitter heart has not escaped the ants; but there are always phoenixes roosting in its scented leaves. Men of ambition, and you who dwell unseen, do not cry out in despair! From of old the really great has never been found a use for. Another Translation: In front of K'ung-ming Shrine stands an old cypress, With branches like green bronze and roots like granite; Its hoary bark, far round, glistens with raindrops, And blueblack hues, high up, blend in with Heaven's: Long ago Statesman, King 21 kept Time's appointment, But still this standing tree has men's devotion; United with the mists of ghostly gorges, Through which the moon brings cold from snowy mountains. (I recall near my hut on Brocade River Another Shrine is shared by King and Statesman On civil, ancient plains with stately cypress: The paint there now is dim, windows shutterless. . .) Wide, wide though writhing roots maintain its station, Far, far in lonely heights, many's the tempest When its hold is the strength of Divine Wisdom And straightness by the work of the Creator. . . Yet if a crumbling Hall needed a rooftree, Yoked herds would, turning heads, balk at this mountain: By art still unexposed all have admired it; But axe though not refused, who could transport it? How can its bitter core deny ants lodging, All the while scented boughs give Phoenix housing? Oh, ambitious unknowns, sigh no more sadly: Using timber as big 22 was never easy! ~ Du Fu

248:The essence of meditation practice in Dzogchen is encapsulated by these four points: ▪ When one past thought has ceased and a future thought has not yet risen, in that gap, in between, isn’t there a consciousness of the present moment; fresh, virgin, unaltered by even a hair’s breadth of a concept, a luminous, naked awareness? Well, that is what Rigpa is! ▪ Yet it doesn’t stay in that state forever, because another thought suddenly arises, doesn’t it? This is the self-radiance of that Rigpa. ▪ However, if you do not recognize this thought for what it really is, the very instant it arises, then it will turn into just another ordinary thought, as before. This is called the “chain of delusion,” and is the root of samsara. ▪ If you are able to recognize the true nature of the thought as soon as it arises, and leave it alone without any follow-up, then whatever thoughts arise all automatically dissolve back into the vast expanse of Rigpa and are liberated. Clearly this takes a lifetime of practice to understand and realize the full richness and majesty of these four profound yet simple points, and here I can only give you a taste of the vastness of what is meditation in Dzogchen. … Dzogchen meditation is subtly powerful in dealing with the arisings of the mind, and has a unique perspective on them. All the risings are seen in their true nature, not as separate from Rigpa, and not as antagonistic to it, but actually as none other–and this is very important–than its “self-radiance,” the manifestation of its very energy. Say you find yourself in a deep state of stillness; often it does not last very long and a thought or a movement always arises, like a wave in the ocean.  Don’t reject the movement or particulary embrace the stillness, but continue the flow of your pure presence. The pervasive, peaceful state of your meditation is the Rigpa itself, and all risings are none other than this Rigpa’s self-radiance. This is the heart and the basis of Dzogchen practice. One way to imagine this is as if you were riding on the sun’s rays back to the sun: …. Of couse there are rough as well as gentle waves in the ocean; strong emotions come, like anger, desire, jealousy. The real practitioner recognizes them not as a disturbance or obstacle, but as a great opportunity. The fact that you react to arisings such as these with habitual tendencies of attachment and aversion is a sign not only that you are distracted, but also that you do not have the recognition and have lost the ground of Rigpa. To react to emotions in this way empowers them and binds us even tighter in the chains of delusion. The great secret of Dzogchen is to see right through them as soon as they arise, to what they really are: the vivid and electric manifestation of the energy of Rigpa itself. As you gradually learn to do this, even the most turbulent emotions fail to seize hold of you and dissolve, as wild waves rise and rear and sink back into the calm of the ocean. The practitioner discovers–and this is a revolutionary insight, whose subtlety and power cannot be overestimated–that not only do violent emotions not necessarily sweep you away and drag you back into the whirlpools of your own neuroses, they can actually be used to deepen, embolden, invigorate, and strengthen the Rigpa. The tempestuous energy becomes raw food of the awakened energy of Rigpa. The stronger and more flaming the emotion, the more Rigpa is strengthened. ~ Sogyal Rinpoche

249:The essence of meditation practice in Dzogchen is encapsulated by these four points: ▪ When one past thought has ceased and a future thought has not yet risen, in that gap, in between, isn’t there a consciousness of the present moment; fresh, virgin, unaltered by even a hair’s breadth of a concept, a luminous, naked awareness? Well, that is what Rigpa is! ▪ Yet it doesn’t stay in that state forever, because another thought suddenly arises, doesn’t it? This is the self-radiance of that Rigpa. ▪ However, if you do not recognize this thought for what it really is, the very instant it arises, then it will turn into just another ordinary thought, as before. This is called the “chain of delusion,” and is the root of samsara. ▪ If you are able to recognize the true nature of the thought as soon as it arises, and leave it alone without any follow-up, then whatever thoughts arise all automatically dissolve back into the vast expanse of Rigpa and are liberated. Clearly this takes a lifetime of practice to understand and realize the full richness and majesty of these four profound yet simple points, and here I can only give you a taste of the vastness of what is meditation in Dzogchen. … Dzogchen meditation is subtly powerful in dealing with the arisings of the mind, and has a unique perspective on them. All the risings are seen in their true nature, not as separate from Rigpa, and not as antagonistic to it, but actually as none other–and this is very important–than its “self-radiance,” the manifestation of its very energy. Say you find yourself in a deep state of stillness; often it does not last very long and a thought or a movement always arises, like a wave in the ocean.  Don’t reject the movement or particulary embrace the stillness, but continue the flow of your pure presence. The pervasive, peaceful state of your meditation is the Rigpa itself, and all risings are none other than this Rigpa’s self-radiance. This is the heart and the basis of Dzogchen practice. One way to imagine this is as if you were riding on the sun’s rays back to the sun: …. Of couse there are rough as well as gentle waves in the ocean; strong emotions come, like anger, desire, jealousy. The real practitioner recognizes them not as a disturbance or obstacle, but as a great opportunity. The fact that you react to arisings such as these with habitual tendencies of attachment and aversion is a sign not only that you are distracted, but also that you do not have the recognition and have lost the ground of Rigpa. To react to emotions in this way empowers them and binds us even tighter in the chains of delusion. The great secret of Dzogchen is to see right through them as soon as they arise, to what they really are: the vivid and electric manifestation of the energy of Rigpa itself. As you gradually learn to do this, even the most turbulent emotions fail to seize hold of you and dissolve, as wild waves rise and rear and sink back into the calm of the ocean. The practitioner discovers–and this is a revolutionary insight, whose subtlety and power cannot be overestimated–that not only do violent emotions not necessarily sweep you away and drag you back into the whirlpools of your own neuroses, they can actually be used to deepen, embolden, invigorate, and strengthen the Rigpa. The tempestuous energy becomes raw food of the awakened energy of Rigpa. The stronger and more flaming the emotion, the more Rigpa is strengthened. ~ Sogyal Rinpoche

250:The Ocean ... Oceanward I am ever yearning, Where far it rolls in its calm and grandeur, The weight of mountain-like fogbanks bearing, Forever wandering and returning. The skies may lower, the land may call it, It knows no resting and knows no yielding. In nights of summer, in storms of winter, Its surges murmur the self-same longing. Yes, oceanward I am ever yearning, Where far is lifted its broad, cold forehead! Thereon the world throws its deepest shadow And mirrors whispering all its anguish. Though warm and blithesome the bright sun stroke it With joyous message, that life is gladness, Yet ice-cold, changelessly melancholy, It drowns the sorrow and drowns the solace. The full moon pulling, the tempest lifting, Must loose their hold on the flowing water. Down whirling lowlands and crumbling mountains It to eternity tireless washes. What forth it draws must the one way wander. What once is sunken arises never. No message comes thence, no cry is heard thence; Its voice, its silence, can none interpret. Yes, toward the ocean, far out toward ocean, That knows no hour of self-atonement! For all that suffer release it offers, But trails forever its own enigma. A strange alliance with Death unites it, That all it give Him,--itself excepting! I feel, vast Ocean, thy solemn sadness, To thee abandon my weak devices, To thee let fly all my anxious longings: May thy cool breath to my heart bring healing! Let Death now follow, his booty seeking: 169 The moves are many before the checkmate! Awhile I'll harass thy love of plunder, As on I scud 'neath thy angry eyebrows; Thou only fillest my swelling mainsail, Though Death ride fast on thy howling tempest; Thy billows raging shall bear the faster My little vessel to quiet waters. Ah! Thus alone at the helm in darkness, By all forsaken, by Death forgotten, When sails unknown far away are wafted And some swift-coursing by night are passing, To note the ground-swell's resistless current, The sighing heart of the breathing ocean -Or small waves plashing along the planking, Its quiet pastime amid its sadness. Then glide my lingering longings over Into the ocean-deep grief of nature, The night's, the water's united coldness Prepares my spirit for death's dark dwelling. Then comes day's dawning! My soul bounds upward On beams of light to the vault of heaven; My ship-steed sniffing its flank is laving With buoyant zest in the cooling billow. With song the sailor to masthead clambers To clear the sail that shall swell more freely, And thoughts are flying like birds aweary Round mast and yard-arm, but find no refuge. ... Yes, toward the ocean! To follow Vikar! To sail like him and to sink as he did, For great King Olaf the prow defending! With keel unswerving the cold thought cleaving, But hope deriving from lightest breezes! Death's eager fingers so near the rudder, While heaven's clearness the way illumines! And then at last in the final hour To feel the bolts and the nails are yielding And Death is pressing the seams asunder, That in may stream the absolving water! Wet winding-sheets shall be folded round me, 170 And I descend to eternal silence, While rolling billows my name bear shoreward In spacious nights 'neath the cloudless moonlight! ~ Bjornstjerne Bjornson

251:Occasional Address Written for the benefit of a distressed Player, detained at Brighthelmstone for Debt, November 1792. WHEN in a thousand swarms, the summer o'er, The birds of passage quit our English shore, By various routs the feather'd myriad moves; The Becca-Fica seeks Italian groves, No more a Wheat-ear ; while the soaring files Of sea-fowl gather round the Hebrid isles. But if by bird-lime touch'd, unplumed, confined, Some poor ill-fated straggler stays behind, Driven from his transient perch, beneath your eaves On his unshelter'd head the tempest raves, While drooping round, redoubling every pain, His mate and nestlings ask his help in vain. So we, the buskin and the sock who wear, And 'strut and fret,' our little season here, Dismiss'd at length, as fortune bids divide-Some (lucky rogues!) sit down on Thames's side; Others to Liffy's western banks proceed, And some--driven far a-field, across the Tweed: But, pinion'd here, alas! I cannot fly: The hapless, unplumed, lingering straggler I! Unless the healing pity you bestow, Shall imp my shatter'd wings, and let me go. Hard is his fate, whom evil stars have led To seek in scenic art precarious bread, While still, through wild vicissitudes afloat, A hero now, and now a Sans Culotte! That eleemosynary bread he gains Mingling, with real distresses, mimic pains. See in our group, a pale, lank Falstaff stare! Much needs he stuffing:--while young Ammon there Rehearses--in a garret--ten feet square! And as his soft Statira sighs consent, Roxana comes not--but a dun for rent! Here shiv'ring Edgar, in his blanket roll'd, Exclaims--with too much reason, 'Tom's a-cold! ' And vainly tries his sorrows to divert, 55 While Goneril or Regan --wash his shirt! Lo! fresh from Calais, Edward, mighty king! Revolves--a mutton chop upon a string! And Hotspur, plucking 'honour from the moon,' Feeds a sick infant with a pewter spoon! More bless'd the fisher, who undaunted braves In his small bark, the impetuous winds and waves; For though he plough the sea when others sleep, He draws, like Glendower, spirits from the deep. And while the storm howls round, amidst his trouble, Bright moonshine still illuminates the cobble. Pale with her fears for him, some fair Poissarde , Watches his nearing boat; with fond regard Smiles when she sees his little canvass handing, And clasps her dripping lover on his landing. More bless'd the peasant , who, with nervous toil Hews the rough oak, or breaks the stubborn soil: Weary, indeed, he sees the evening come, But then, the rude, yet tranquil hut, his home, Receives its rustic inmate; then are his, Secure repose, and dear domestic bliss. The orchard's blushing fruit, the garden's store, The pendant hop, that mantles round the door, Are his:--and while cheerful faggots burn, 'His lisping children hail their site's return.' But wandering Players, 'unhousel'd, unanneal'd,' And unappointed, scour life's common field, A flying squadron!--disappointments cross 'em, And the campaign concludes, perhaps, at Horsham. Oh! ye, whose timely bounty deigns to shed Compassion's balm upon my luckless head, Benevolence, with warm and glowing breast, And soft, celestial mercy, doubly bless'd! Smile on the generous act!--where means are given, To aid the wretched--is to merit heaven. ~ Charlotte Smith

252:Primroses Latest, earliest of the year, Primroses that still were here, Snugly nestling round the boles Of the cut-down chestnut poles, When December's tottering tread Rustled 'mong the deep leaves dead, And with confident young faces Peeped from out the sheltered places When pale January lay In its cradle day by day, Dead or living, hard to say; Now that mid-March blows and blusters, Out you steal in tufts and clusters, Making leafless lane and wood Vernal with your hardihood. Other lovely things are rare, You are prodigal as fair. First you come by ones and ones, Lastly in battalions, Skirmish along hedge and bank, Turn old Winter's wavering flank, Round his flying footsteps hover, Seize on hollow, ridge, and cover, Leave nor slope nor hill unharried, Till, his snowy trenches carried, O'er his sepulchre you laugh, Winter's joyous epitaph. II This, too, be your glory great, Primroses, you do not wait, As the other flowers do, For the Spring to smile on you, But with coming are content, Asking no encouragement. Ere the hardy crocus cleaves Sunny border 'neath the eaves, Ere the thrush his song rehearse, 378 Sweeter than all poets' verse, Ere the early bleating lambs Cling like shadows to their dams, Ere the blackthorn breaks to white, Snowy-hooded anchorite; Out from every hedge you look, You are bright by every brook, Wearing for your sole defence Fearlessness of innocence. While the daffodils still waver, Ere the jonquil gets its savour, While the linnets yet but pair, You are fledged, and everywhere. Nought can daunt you, nought distress, Neither cold nor sunlessness. You, when Lent sleet flies apace, Look the tempest in the face; As descend the flakes more slow, From your eyelids shake the snow, And when all the clouds have flown, Meet the sun's smile with your own. Nothing ever makes you less Gracious to ungraciousness. March may bluster up and down, Pettish April sulk and frown; Closer to their skirts you cling, Coaxing Winter to be Spring. III Then when your sweet task is done, And the wild-flowers, one by one, Here, there, everywhere do blow, Primroses, you haste to go, Satisfied with what you bring, Fading morning-stars of Spring. You have brightened doubtful days, You have sweetened long delays, Fooling our enchanted reason To miscalculate the season. But when doubt and fear are fled, When the kine leave wintry shed, And 'mid grasses green and tall 379 Find their fodder, make their stall; When the wintering swallow flies Homeward back from southern skies, To the dear old cottage thatch Where it loves to build and hatch, That its young may understand, Nor forget, this English land; When the cuckoo, mocking rover, Laughs that April loves are over; When the hawthorn, all ablow, Mimics the defeated snow; Then you give one last look round, Stir the sleepers underground, Call the campion to awake, Tell the speedwell courage take, Bid the eyebright have no fear, Whisper in the bluebell's ear Time has come for it to flood With its blue waves all the wood, Mind the stichwort of its pledge To replace you in the hedge, Bid the ladysmocks good-bye, Close your bonnie lids and die; And, without one look of blame, Go as gently as you came. ~ Alfred Austin

253:The Death Of Shelley Fit winding-sheet for thee Was the upheaving eternal sea, Fit dirge the tempest’s slave-alarming roll For yokeless as the waves alway Thy thoughts went sounding forth, as they Were marshalling to the trumpet of the universal soul. Yet tell me, spirit bright, Did nature sorrow not for thee? That day, veiled not the sun his light When rolling over Italy? Paled not the stricken moon, that night, When gazing down upon the doomful sea? Yet tell me, for from under them Was never reft away before a richer, purer gem Than was thy being, wherein love did dwell With joy and natural piety as well,— Inraying it with a deep life, So sweetly deep, so wildly bright, Such as no words may tell! And never in their day and night Did ruin, with the beautiful at strife, Compass before so horrible a spite! Never trod down at once so much of musical delight. Whom the gods love die young; Flowers wither where rank weeds still thrive apace; Nor is the battle always to the strong, Nor to the swift for ever sure the race. Yet if the odours of the flowers remain, Are they not, even to regret, A sweet consolatory gain? Nor vainly forth was the lost battle set, Nor the race urged in vain, Whence flow inspiriting examples yet. Yet, poetry and passion’s darling son! Though thou didst walk the world as one Proscribed by stars inimical to mankind, 166 While mitred persecution, dread And deadly, raged in mortal hate behind, With ignorance, her dull slave abhorred; And these, in mercy as they said, With many a madly mystic word, And vengeful, hot, God-wounding glance upthrown, Implored the heavens to thunder down Their Christian wrath on thy devoted head; And yet, O good and kind! This was for thee the meet memorial crown By the great Spirit of all good designed, That men, to nobler motions born, And more to a large charity inclined, Should well reverse their bigot fathers’scorn, And, yearning o’er thy story, Shall learn therefrom how gnomelike are spirits freedom-blind, And live glorying in the glory Of thy love-illumined mind. All then was well—yea, very well; Though brief, too brief, here on the earth thy stay. Thy name is with us for a strengthening spell To all who, banding against wrong’s bad brood, Would do the unwilling world some good, Nor idly pass away, A vapour, nothing more—a cloudlet grey By every wind transformed and driven A dull and wasting stain in the blue dome of heaven! And though the heart and brain be food For hungry death, where erst the sisterhood Of thy bright dreams (a seraph choir) did dwell, What light around us these remaining fling! For lovelier splendours never fell In star-showers from Urania’s wing, And freedom in her golden age Shall constellate her spheres with glories from thy page. But hark! Yet from her ghostly cell Built on the dubious brink of the Unknown, Cowled Superstition’s sullen bell Tolls thee to her deepest hell! 167 Blind Fury! She alone Can darkly dare to think A soul like thine, though in its earthly shell Bedimmed by error, Should at her bidding sink Lossward-down, in penal terror! Enough! Wherever love may soar Beyond that mound which mortals blench to see— That last low mound on time’s change-beaten shore— There is thy spirit now, fire-wing’d and free, And there a shining dweller shall it be For evermore ~ Charles Harpur

254:The Break It was also my violent heart that broke, falling down the front hall stairs. It was also a message I never spoke, calling, riser after riser, who cares about you, who cares, splintering up the hip that was merely made of crystal, the post of it and also the cup. I exploded in the hallway like a pistol. So I fell apart. So I came all undone. Yes. I was like a box of dog bones. But now they've wrapped me in like a nun. Burst like firecrackers! Held like stones! What a feat sailing queerly like Icarus until the tempest undid me and I broke. The ambulance drivers made such a fuss. But when I cried, 'Wait for my courage!' they smoked and then they placed me, tied me up on their plate, and wheeled me out to their coffin, my nest. Slowly the siren slowly the hearse, sedate as a dowager. At the E. W. they cut off my dress. I cried, 'Oh Jesus, help me! Oh Jesus Christ!' and the nurse replied, 'Wrong name. My name is Barbara,' and hung me in an odd device, a buck's extension and a Balkan overhead frame. The orthopedic man declared, 'You'll be down for a year.' His scoop. His news. He opened the skin. He scraped. He pared and drilled through bone for his four-inch screws. That takes brute strength like pushing a cow up hill. I tell you, it takes skill and bedside charm and all that know how. The body is a damn hard thing to kill. 208 But please don't touch or jiggle my bed. I'm Ethan Frome's wife. I'll move when I'm able. The T. V. hangs from the wall like a moose head. I hide a pint of bourbon in my bedside table. A bird full of bones, now I'm held by a sand bag. The fracture was twice. The fracture was double. The days are horizontal. The days are a drag. All of the skeleton in me is in trouble. Across the hall is the bedpan station. The urine and stools pass hourly by my head in silver bowls. They flush in unison in the autoclave. My one dozen roses are dead. The have ceased to menstruate. They hang there like little dried up blood clots. And the heart too, that cripple, how it sang once. How it thought it could call the shots! Understand what happened the day I fell. My heart had stammered and hungered at a marriage feast until the angel of hell turned me into the punisher, the acrobat. My bones are loose as clothespins, as abandoned as dolls in a toy shop and my heart, old hunger motor, with its sins revved up like an engine that would not stop. And now I spend all day taking care of my body, that baby. Its cargo is scarred. I anoint the bedpan. I brush my hair, waiting in the pain machine for my bones to get hard, for the soft, soft bones that were laid apart and were screwed together. They will knit. And the other corpse, the fractured heart, I feed it piecemeal, little chalice. I'm good to it. Yet lie a fire alarm it waits to be known. 209 It is wired. In it many colors are stored. While my body's in prison, heart cells alone have multiplied. My bones are merely bored with all this waiting around. But the heart, this child of myself that resides in the flesh, this ultimate signature of the me, the start of my blindness and sleep, builds a death crèche. The figures are placed at the grave of my bones. All figures knowing it is the other death they came for. Each figure standing alone. The heart burst with love and lost its breath. This little town, this little country is real and thus it is so of the post and the cup and thus of the violent heart. The zeal of my house doth eat me up. ~ Anne Sexton

255:I beg your pardon, Mrs. Graham - but you get on too fast. I have not yet said that a boy should be taught to rush into the snares of life, - or even wilfully to seek temptation for the sake of exercising his virtue by overcoming it; - I only say that it is better to arm and strengthen your hero, than to disarm and enfeeble the foe; - and if you were to rear an oak sapling in a hothouse, tending it carefully night and day, and shielding it from every breath of wind, you could not expect it to become a hardy tree, like that which has grown up on the mountain-side, exposed to all the action of the elements, and not even sheltered from the shock of the tempest.' 'Granted; - but would you use the same argument with regard to a girl?' 'Certainly not.' 'No; you would have her to be tenderly and delicately nurtured, like a hot-house plant - taught to cling to others for direction and support, and guarded, as much as possible, from the very knowledge of evil. But will you be so good as to inform me why you make this distinction? Is it that you think she has no virtue?' 'Assuredly not.' 'Well, but you affirm that virtue is only elicited by temptation; - and you think that a woman cannot be too little exposed to temptation, or too little acquainted with vice, or anything connected therewith. It must be either that you think she is essentially so vicious, or so feeble-minded, that she cannot withstand temptation, - and though she may be pure and innocent as long as she is kept in ignorance and restraint, yet, being destitute of real virtue, to teach her how to sin is at once to make her a sinner, and the greater her knowledge, the wider her liberty, the deeper will be her depravity, - whereas, in the nobler sex, there is a natural tendency to goodness, guarded by a superior fortitude, which, the more it is exercised by trials and dangers, is only the further developed - ' 'Heaven forbid that I should think so!' I interrupted her at last." 'Well, then, it must be that you think they are both weak and prone to err, and the slightest error, the merest shadow of pollution, will ruin the one, while the character of the other will be strengthened and embellished - his education properly finished by a little practical acquaintance with forbidden things. Such experience, to him (to use a trite simile), will be like the storm to the oak, which, though it may scatter the leaves, and snap the smaller branches, serves but to rivet the roots, and to harden and condense the fibres of the tree. You would have us encourage our sons to prove all things by their own experience, while our daughters must not even profit by the experience of others. Now I would have both so to benefit by the experience of others, and the precepts of a higher authority, that they should know beforehand to refuse the evil and choose the good, and require no experimental proofs to teach them the evil of transgression. I would not send a poor girl into the world, unarmed against her foes, and ignorant of the snares that beset her path; nor would I watch and guard her, till, deprived of self-respect and self-reliance, she lost the power or the will to watch and guard herself; - and as for my son - if I thought he would grow up to be what you call a man of the world - one that has "seen life," and glories in his experience, even though he should so far profit by it as to sober down, at length, into a useful and respected member of society - I would rather that he died to-morrow! - rather a thousand times!' she earnestly repeated, pressing her darling to her side and kissing his forehead with intense affection. He had already left his new companion, and been standing for some time beside his mother's knee, looking up into her face, and listening in silent wonder to her incomprehensible discourse. Anne Bronte, "The Tenant of Wildfell Hall" (24,25) ~ Anne Bront

256:To The Lacedemonians An old soldier on the night before the veterans reunion talks partly to himself, partly to imaginary comrades: The people—people of my kind, my own People but strange with a white light In the face: the streets hard with motion And the hard eyes that look one way. Listen! the high whining tone Of the motors, I hear the dull commotion: I am come, a child in an old play. I am here with a secret in the night; Because I am here the dead wear gray. It is a privilege to be dead; for you Cannot know what absence is nor seize The ordour of pure distance until From you, slowly dying in the head, All sights and sounds of the moment, all The life of sweet intimacy shall fall Like a swift at dusk. Sheer time! Stroke of the heart Towards retirement. . . . Gentlemen, my secret is Damnation: where have they, the citizens, all Come from? They were not born in my father's House, nor in their fathers': on a street corner By motion sired, not born; by rest dismayed. The tempest will unwind-the hurricane Consider, knowing its end, the headlong pace? I have watched it and endured it, I have delayed Judgment: it warn't in my time, by God, so That the mere breed absorbed the generation! Yet I, hollow head, do see but little; Old man: no memory: aimless distractions. 116 I was a boy, I never knew cessation Of the bright course of blood along the vein; Moved, an old dog by me, to field and stream In the speaking ease of the fall rain; When I was a boy the light on the hills Was there because I could see it, not because Some special gift of God had put it there. Men expect too much, do too little, Put the contraption before the accomplishment, Lack skill of the interior mind To fashion dignity with shapes of air. Luxury, yes-but not elegance! Where have they come from? Go you tell them That we their servants, well-trained, gray-coated And haired (both foot and horse) or in The grave, them obey . . . obey them, What commands? My father said That everything but kin was less than kind. The young men like swine argue for a rind, A flimsy shell to put their weakness in; Will-less, ruled by what they cannot see; Hunched like savages in a rotten tree They wait for the thunder to speak: Union! That joins their separate fear. I fought But did not care; a leg shot off at Bethel, Given up for dead; but knew neither shell-shock Nor any self-indulgence. Well may war be Terrible to those who have nothing to gain For the illumination of the sense: When the peace is a trade route, figures For the budget, reduction of population, Life grown sullen and immense Lusts after immunity to pain. There is no civilization without death; There is now the wind for breath. 117 Waken, lords and ladies gay, we cried, And marched to Cedar Run and Malvern Hill, Kinsmen and friends from Texas to the TideVain chivalry of the personal will! Waken, we shouted, lords and ladies gay, We go to win the precincts of the light, Unshadowing restriction of our day. . . . Regard now, in the seventy years of night, Them, the young men who watch us from the curbs: They hold the glaze of wonder in their stareOur crooked backs, hands fetid as old herbs, The tallow eyes, wax face, the foreign hair! Soldiers, march! we shall not fight again The Yankees with our guns well-aimed and rammedAll are born Yankees of the race of men And this, too, now the country of the damned: Poor bodies crowding round us! The white face Eyeless with eyesight only, the modern powerHuddled sublimities of time and space, They are the echoes of a raging tower That reared its moment upon a gone land, Pouring a long cold wrath into the mindDamned souls, running the way of sand Into the destination of the wind! ~ Allen Tate

257:The Woodcutter's Hut Far up in the wild and wintery hills in the heart of the cliff-broken woods, Where the mounded drifts lie soft and deep in the noiseless solitudes, The hut of the lonely woodcutter stands, a few rough beams that show A blunted peak and a low black line, from the glittering waste of snow. In the frost-still dawn from his roof goes up in the windless, motionless air, The thin, pink curl of leisurely smoke; through the forest white and bare The woodcutter follows his narrow trail, and the morning rings and cracks With the rhythmic jet of his sharp-blown breath and the echoing shout of his axe. Only the waft of the wind besides, or the stir of some hardy bird-The call of the friendly chickadee, or the pat of the nuthatch--is heard; Or a rustle comes from a dusky clump, where the busy siskins feed, And scatter the dimpled sheet of the snow with the shells of the cedar-seed. Day after day the woodcutter toils untiring with axe and wedge, Till the jingling teams come up from the road that runs by the valley's edge, With plunging of horses, and hurling of snow, and many a shouted word, And carry away the keen-scented fruit of his cutting, cord upon cord. Not the sound of a living foot comes else, not a moving visitant there, Save the delicate step of some halting doe, or the sniff of a prowling bear. And only the stars are above him at night, and the trees that creak and groan, And the frozen, hard-swept mountain-crests with their silent fronts of stone, As he watches the sinking glow of his fire and the wavering flames upcaught, Cleaning his rifle or mending his moccasins, sleepy and slow of thought. Or when the fierce snow comes, with the rising wind, from the grey north-east, He lies through the leaguering hours in his bunk like a winter-hidden beast, 237 Or sits on the hard-packed earth, and smokes by his draught-blown guttering fire, Without thought or remembrance, hardly awake, and waits for the storm to tire. Scarcely he hears from the rock-rimmed heights to the wild ravines below, Near and far-off, the limitless wings of the tempest hurl and go In roaring gusts that plunge through the cracking forest, and lull, and lift, All day without stint and all night long with the sweep of the hissing drift. But winter shall pass ere long with its hills of snow and its fettered dreams, And the forest shall glimmer with living gold, and chime with the gushing of streams; Millions of little points of plants shall prick through its matted floor, And the wind-flower lift and uncurl her silken buds by the woodman's door; The sparrow shall see and exult; but lo! as the spring draws gaily on, The woodcutter's hut is empty and bare, and the master that made it is gone. He is gone where the gathering of valley men another labour yields, To handle the plough, and the harrow, and scythe, in the heat of the summer fields. He is gone with his corded arms, and his ruddy face, and his moccasined feet, The animal man in his warmth and vigour, sound, and hard, and complete. And all summer long, round the lonely hut, the black earth burgeons and breeds, Till the spaces are filled with the tall-plumed ferns and the triumphing forest-weeds; The thick wild raspberries hem its walls, and, stretching on either hand, The red-ribbed stems and the giant-leaves of the sovereign spikenard stand. So lonely and silent it is, so withered and warped with the sun and snow, You would think it the fruit of some dead man's toil a hundred years ago; And he who finds it suddenly there, as he wanders far and alone, Is touched with a sweet and beautiful sense of something tender and 238 gone, The sense of a struggling life in the waste, and the mark of a soul's command, The going and coming of vanished feet, the touch of a human hand. ~ Archibald Lampman

258:The Parisian Orgy O cowards! There she is! Pile out into the stations! The sun with its fiery lungs blew clear the boulevards that, one evening, the Barbarians filled. Here is the holy City, seated in the West! Come! We'll stave off the return of the fires; here are the quays, here are the boulevards, here are the houses against the pale, radiant blue-starred, one evening, by the red flashes of bombs! Hide the dead places with forests of planks! Affrighted, the dying daylight freshens your looks. Look at the red-headed troop of the wrigglers of hips: be mad, you'll be comical, being haggard! Pack of bitches on heat, eating poultices: the cry from the houses of gold calls you! Plunder! Eat! See the night of joy and deep twitchings coming down on the street. O desolate drinkers, Drink! When the light comes, intense and crazed, to ransack round you the rustling luxuries, you're not going to dribbe into your glasses without motion or sound, with your eyes lost in white distances? Knock it back: to the Queen whose buttocks cascade in folds! Listen to the working of stupid tearing hiccups! Listen to them leaping n the fiery night: the panting idiots, the aged, the nonentities, the lackeys! O hearts of filth, appalling mouths; work harder, mouths of foul stenches! Wine for these ignoble torpors, at these tables… Your bellies are melting with shame, O Conquerors! Open your nostrils to these superb nauseas! 188 Steep the tendons of your necks in strong poisons! Laying his crossed hands on the napes of your childish necks, the Poet says to you: 'O cowards! Be mad! Because you are ransacking the guts of Woman, you fear another convulsion from her, crying out, and stifling your infamous perching on her breast with a horrible pressure. Syphilitics, madmen, kings, puppets, ventriloquists! What can you matter to Paris the whore? Your souls or your bodies, your poisons or your rags? She'll shake you off, you pox-rotten snarlers! And when you are down, whimpering on your bellies, your sides wrung, clamouring for your money back, distracted, the red harlot with her breasts swelling with battles will clench her hard fists, far removed from your stupor!' When your feet, Paris, danced so hard in anger! When you had so many knife wounds; when you lay helpless, still retaining in your clear eyes a little of the goodness of the tawny spring; O city in pain; O city almost dead, with your face and your two breasts pointing towards the Future which opens to your pallor its thousand million gates; city whom the dark Past could bless: Body galvanized back to life to suffer tremendous pains, you are drinking in dreadful life once more! You feel he ghastly pale worms flooding back in your veins, the icy fingers prowling on your unclouded love! And it does you no harm. The worms, the pale worms, will obstruct your breath of Progress no more than the Stryx could extinguish the eyes of the Caryatides, from whose blue sills fell tears of sidereal gold. Although it is frightful to see you again covered in this fashion; although no city was ever made into a more foul-smelling ulcer on the face of green Nature, the Poet says to you: 'Your beauty is Marvelous!' The tempest sealed you in supreme poetry; the huge stirring of strength comes to your aid; your work comes to the boil, death groans, O chosen City! Hoard in your heart the stridors of the ominous trumpet. The Poet will take the sobs of the Infamous the hate of the Galley-slaves, the clamour of the Damned; 189 and the beams of his love will scourge Womankind. His verses will leap out: There's for you! There! Villains! -Society, and everything, is restored: - the orgies are weeping with dry sobs in the old brothels: and on the reddened walls the gaslights in frenzy flare balefully upwards to the wan blue skies! ~ Arthur Rimbaud

259:"Throughout these infinite orbs of mingling light, Of which yon earth is one, is wide diffus'd A Spirit of activity and life, That knows no term, cessation, or decay; That fades not when the lamp of earthly life, Extinguish'd in the dampness of the grave, Awhile there slumbers, more than when the babe In the dim newness of its being feels The impulses of sublunary things, And all is wonder to unpractis'd sense: But, active, steadfast and eternal, still Guides the fierce whirlwind, in the tempest roars, Cheers in the day, breathes in the balmy groves, Strengthens in health, and poisons in disease; And in the storm of change, that ceaselessly Rolls round the eternal universe and shakes Its undecaying battlement, presides, Apportioning with irresistible law The place each spring of its machine shall fill; So that when waves on waves tumultuous heap Confusion to the clouds, and fiercely driven Heaven's lightnings scorch the uprooted ocean-fords, Whilst, to the eye of shipwreck'd mariner, Lone sitting on the bare and shuddering rock, All seems unlink'd contingency and chance, No atom of this turbulence fulfils A vague and unnecessitated task, Or acts but as it must and ought to act. Even the minutest molecule of light, That in an April sunbeam's fleeting glow Fulfils its destin'd, though invisible work, The universal Spirit guides; nor less, When merciless ambition, or mad zeal, Has led two hosts of dupes to battlefield, That, blind, they there may dig each other's graves, And call the sad work glory, does it rule All passions: not a thought, a will, an act, No working of the tyrant's moody mind, Nor one misgiving of the slaves who boast Their servitude to hide the shame they feel, Nor the events enchaining every will, That from the depths of unrecorded time Have drawn all-influencing virtue, pass Unrecogniz'd or unforeseen by thee, Soul of the Universe! eternal spring Of life and death, of happiness and woe, Of all that chequers the phantasmal scene That floats before our eyes in wavering light, Which gleams but on the darkness of our prison, Whose chains and massy walls We feel, but cannot see. "Spirit of Nature! all-sufficing Power, Necessity! thou mother of the world! Unlike the God of human error, thou Requir'st no prayers or praises; the caprice Of man's weak will belongs no more to thee Than do the changeful passions of his breast To thy unvarying harmony: the slave, Whose horrible lusts spread misery o'er the world, And the good man, who lifts with virtuous pride His being in the sight of happiness That springs from his own works; the poison-tree, Beneath whose shade all life is wither'd up, And the fair oak, whose leafy dome affords A temple where the vows of happy love Are register'd, are equal in thy sight: No love, no hate thou cherishest; revenge And favouritism, and worst desire of fame Thou know'st not: all that the wide world contains Are but thy passive instruments, and thou Regard'st them all with an impartial eye, Whose joy or pain thy nature cannot feel, Because thou hast not human sense, Because thou art not human mind. "Yes! when the sweeping storm of time Has sung its death-dirge o'er the ruin'd fanes And broken altars of the almighty Fiend Whose name usurps thy honours, and the blood Through centuries clotted there has floated down The tainted flood of ages, shalt thou live Unchangeable! A shrine is rais'd to thee, Which, nor the tempest-breath of time, Nor the interminable flood Over earth's slight pageant rolling, Availeth to destroy-- The sensitive extension of the world. That wondrous and eternal fane, Where pain and pleasure, good and evil join, To do the will of strong necessity, And life, in multitudinous shapes, Still pressing forward where no term can be, Like hungry and unresting flame Curls round the eternal columns of its strength." ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Queen Mab - Part Vi (Excerpts)

260:Dearest, best and brightest, Come away, To the woods and to the fields! Dearer than this fairest day Which, like thee to those in sorrow, Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow To the rough Year just awake In its cradle in the brake. The eldest of the Hours of Spring, Into the Winter wandering, Looks upon the leafless wood, And the banks all bare and rude; Found, it seems, this halcyon Morn In Februarys bosom born, Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth, Kissed the cold forehead of the Earth, And smiled upon the silent sea, And bade the frozen streams be free; And waked to music all the fountains, And breathed upon the rigid mountains, And made the wintry world appear Like one on whom thou smilest, Dear. Radiant Sister of the Day, Awake! arise! and come away! To the wild woods and the plains, To the pools where winter rains Image all the roof of leaves, Where the pine its garland weaves Sapless, gray, and ivy dun Round stems that never kiss the sun-- To the sandhills of the sea, Where the earliest violets be. Now the last day of many days, All beautiful and bright as thou, The loveliest and the last, is dead, Rise, Memory, and write its praise! And do thy wonted work and trace The epitaph of glory fled; For now the Earth has changed its face, A frown is on the Heavens brow. We wandered to the Pine Forest That skirts the Ocean's foam, The lightest wind was in its nest, The tempest in its home. The whispering waves were half asleep, The clouds were gone to play, And on the woods, and on the deep The smile of Heaven lay. It seemed as if the day were one Sent from beyond the skies, Which shed to earth above the sun A light of Paradise. We paused amid the pines that stood, The giants of the waste, Tortured by storms to shapes as rude With stems like serpents interlaced. How calm it was--the silence there By such a chain was bound, That even the busy woodpecker Made stiller by her sound The inviolable quietness; The breath of peace we drew With its soft motion made not less The calm that round us grew. It seemed that from the remotest seat Of the white mountain's waste To the bright flower beneath our feet, A magic circle traced;-- A spirit interfused around, A thinking, silent life; To momentary peace it bound Our mortal natures strife;-- And still, it seemed, the centre of The magic circle there, Was one whose being filled with love The breathless atmosphere. Were not the crocuses that grew Under that ilex-tree As beautiful in scent and hue As ever fed the bee? We stood beneath the pools that lie Under the forest bough, And each seemed like a sky Gulfed in a world below; A purple firmament of light Which in the dark earth lay, More boundless than the depth of night, And clearer than the day In which the massy forests grew As in the upper air, More perfect both in shape and hue Than any waving there. Like one beloved the scene had lent To the dark water's breast Its every leaf and lineament With that clear truth expressed; There lay far glades and neighbouring lawn, And through the dark green crowd The white sun twinkling like the dawn Under a speckled cloud. Sweet views, which in our world above Can never well be seen, Were imaged by the water's love Of that fair forest green. And all was interfused beneath With an Elysian air, An atmosphere without a breath, A silence sleeping there. Until a wandering wind crept by, Like an unwelcome thought, Which from my mind's too faithful eye Blots thy bright image out. For thou art good and dear and kind, The forest ever green, But less of peace in S---'s mind, Than calm in waters, seen. This, the first draft of To Jane: The Invitation, The Recollection, was published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous Poems, 1824, and reprinted, Poetical Works, 1839, 1st edition. See Editors Prefatory Note to The Invitation, above ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Pine Forest Of The Cascine Near Pisa

261:On An Old Sepuchral Bas-Relief WHERE IS SEEN A YOUNG MAIDEN, DEAD, IN THE ACT OF DEPARTING, TAKING LEAVE OF HER FAMILY. Where goest thou? Who calls Thee from my dear ones far away? Most lovely maiden, say! Alone, a wanderer, dost thou leave Thy father's roof so soon? Wilt thou unto its threshold e'er return? Wilt thou make glad one day, Those, who now round thee, weeping, mourn? Fearless thine eye, and spirited thy act; And yet thou, too, art sad. If pleasant or unpleasant be the road, If gay or gloomy be the new abode, To which thou journeyest, indeed, In that grave face, how difficult to read! Ah, hard to me the problem still hath seemed; Not hath the world, perhaps, yet understood, If thou beloved, or hated by the gods, If happy, or unhappy shouldst be deemed. Death calls thee; in thy morn of life, Its latest breath. Unto the nest Thou leavest, thou wilt ne'er return; wilt ne'er The faces of thy kindred more behold; And under ground, The place to which thou goest will be found; And for all time will be thy sojourn there. Happy, perhaps, thou art: but he must sigh Who, thoughtful, contemplates thy destiny. Ne'er to have seen the light, e'en at the time, I think; but, born, e'en at the time, When regal beauty all her charms displays, Alike in form and face, And at her feet the admiring world 53 Its distant homage pays; When every hope is in its flower, Long, long ere dreary winter flash His baleful gleams against the joyous brow; Like vapor gathered in the summer cloud, That melting in the evening sky is seen To disappear, as if one ne'er had been; And to exchange the brilliant days to come, For the dark silence of the tomb; The intellect, indeed, May call this, happiness; but still It may the stoutest breasts with pity fill. Thou mother, dreaded and deplored From birth, by all the world that lives, Nature, ungracious miracle, That bringest forth and nourishest, to kill, If death untimely be an evil thing, Why on these innocent heads Wilt thou that evil bring? If good, why, why, Beyond all other misery, To him who goes, to him who must remain, Hast thou such parting crowned with hopeless pain? Wretched, where'er we look, Whichever way we turn, Thy suffering children are! Thee it hath pleased, that youthful hope Should ever be by life beguiled; The current of our years with woes be filled, And death against all ills the only shield: And this inevitable seal, And this immutable decree, Hast thou assigned to human destiny, Why, after such a painful race, Should not the goal, at least, Present to us a cheerful face? Why that, which we in constant view, Must, while we live, forever bear, Sole comfort in our hour of need, Thus dress in weeds of woe, 54 And gird with shadows so, And make the friendly port to us appear More frightful than the tempest drear? If death, indeed, be a calamity, Which thou intendest for us all, Whom thou, against our knowledge and our will, Hast forced to draw this mortal breath, Then, surely, he who dies, A lot more enviable hath Then he who feels his loved one's death. But, if the truth it be, As I most firmly think, That life is the calamity, And death the boon, alas! who ever _could_, What yet he _should_, Desire the dying day of those so dear, That he may linger here, Of his best self deprived, May see across his threshold borne, The form beloved of her, With whom so many years he lived, And say to her farewell, Without the hope of meeting here again; And then alone on earth to dwell, And, looking round, the hours and places all, Of lost companionship recall? Ah, Nature! how, how _couldst_ thou have the heart, From the friend's arms the friend to tear, The brother from the brother part, The father from the child, The lover from his love, And, killing one, the other keep alive? What dire necessity Compels such misery That lover should the loved one e'er survive? But Nature in her cruel dealings still, Pays little heed unto our good or ill. ~ Count Giacomo Leopardi

262:To Stang May Seventeenth in Eidsvold's church united, To hallow after fifty years the day When they who there our charter free indited, Together for our land were met to pray,We both were there with thanks to those great men, With thanks to God, who to our people then In days of danger courage gave unbounded. And when so mighty through the church now sounded 'Praise ye the Lord!' lifting our pallid prayer To fellowship with all her sons, our brothers, I saw you, child-like, weep in secret there Upon the breast we love, our common mother's. Then I remembered that from boyhood's hour With all your strength to serve her you have striven, Your youthful fire, your counsel cool have given, And till it waned, your manhood's wealth of power. With blessing then and praise of you I thought In thankful prayer, as one of those who fought To shield our land from storms of fate's hard weather, Till 'neath the roof in peace we sat together. Of you I thought;-but so think few and fewer. Your manhood's fame ere you yourself has crumbled, And you, alas, will not find justice truer, Till you and yours one day have fallen, humbled. For see, the roads you drew o'er hill and plain For all our people's onward-pressing longing, You dare not travel with the joyous train, That greater grows while towards its future thronging. You knew not what it was your labor wrought, When steam and powder, bursting every barrier, Gave new-born cravings each its speedy carrier And to the people's spirit power brought. The new day's work, as 't were the tempest's welter, In din about you seemed a dream, a fable, And with your like you built in fear a shelter 207 From soul-unrest, a looming tower of Babel. While now you wait for the impending fight, With gentle eye and stately head all hoary, And o'er the mountains gleams the morning's glory,Your foes half hid amid the mists of night,As from an outpost in the wooded wild, These words I send, of peace a token mild. You fear the people? 'Tis your own that rally, And like the fog arisen from the valley. You think them rebels, void of sense and oneness? Yes, spring's full floods obey no rule precise; Storm-squalls and slush render the roads less nice, The snow's pure white is partly soiled to dunness. But spring is born! The man of genius free, Prophetic, heeds its holy harmony; For genius shares the soul of what shall be. This you have not and never had an hour, And so you shrink before the people's power. You were a foreman with the gift of leading, When pioneers cleared up a pathless tract; Your lucid thinking and your gracious tact Oft helped them over obstacles impeding. But what new growths the ancient fields have filled, From western seed to feed our land's wants tilled, And what new light shines through your window-pane, Longing for truth beneath religion's reign, And what new things but whispering we say,And what foretells the dawning reckoning-day,You fail to understand and find but madness In our young nation's fairest growth and gladness. You answer: Poet's deeming is but dreaming, And in the statesman's art most unbeseeming. I answer: None has might men's life to sway, If impotent the worth of dreams to weigh. From cravings, powers that seek their form, ascending, They fill the air; their right to be defending, Till all men wakened to one goal are tending. His nation's dreams are all the statesman's life, 208 Create his might, direct his aim in strife, And if he this forgets, the next dreams blooming Bring forth another, unto death him dooming. The tempest-clouds that mount afresh and thicken Cannot so dense before the morn's light hover That we may not through cloud-rifts clear discover Great thoughts that new-born victories shall quicken. Such thoughts are radiant over me to-day, And to my heart the warmer blood is streaming, And all we live for, all that we are dreaming, Its summons sends and strengthens for the fray. The war-horns soon beneath the woods shall bray, Through dewy night th' assailing columns dash, Amid the sudden gleams of shot and slash The fog dissolve before our new-born day. Soon, though you threaten, will the heights be taken For future ages, and our nation's soul Can thence o'erlook the land in might unshaken, With even hand and right to rule the whole. It soon shall roll war's billows on to battle, While from the clouds the fathers' weapons rattle! O aged man, look round you where you stand, For soon you have against you all our land. But when you fall defeated on the field, Then shall we say by your inverted shield: He stood against us, since he knew not better, A noble knight and never honor's debtor. ~ Bjornstjerne Bjornson

263:L'Albatros (The Albatross) Souvent, pour s'amuser, les hommes d'équipage Prennent des albatros, vastes oiseaux des mers, Qui suivent, indolents compagnons de voyage, Le navire glissant sur les gouffres amers. À peine les ont-ils déposés sur les planches, Que ces rois de l'azur, maladroits et honteux, Laissent piteusement leurs grandes ailes blanches Comme des avirons traîner à côté d'eux. Ce voyageur ailé, comme il est gauche et veule! Lui, naguère si beau, qu'il est comique et laid! L'un agace son bec avec un brûle-gueule, L'autre mime, en boitant, l'infirme qui volait! Le Poète est semblable au prince des nuées Qui hante la tempête et se rit de l'archer; Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées, Ses ailes de géant l'empêchent de marcher. The Albatross Often, to amuse themselves, the men of a crew Catch albatrosses, those vast sea birds That indolently follow a ship As it glides over the deep, briny sea. Scarcely have they placed them on the deck Than these kings of the sky, clumsy, ashamed, Pathetically let their great white wings Drag beside them like oars. That winged voyager, how weak and gauche he is, So beautiful before, now comic and ugly! One man worries his beak with a stubby clay pipe; Another limps, mimics the cripple who once flew! The poet resembles this prince of cloud and sky 257 Who frequents the tempest and laughs at the bowman; When exiled on the earth, the butt of hoots and jeers, His giant wings prevent him from walking. — Translated by William Aggeler The Albatross Sometimes for sport the men of loafing crews Snare the great albatrosses of the deep, The indolent companions of their cruise As through the bitter vastitudes they sweep. Scarce have they fished aboard these airy kings When helpless on such unaccustomed floors, They piteously droop their huge white wings And trail them at their sides like drifting oars. How comical, how ugly, and how meek Appears this soarer of celestial snows! One, with his pipe, teases the golden beak, One, limping, mocks the cripple as he goes. The Poet, like this monarch of the clouds, Despising archers, rides the storm elate. But, stranded on the earth to jeering crowds, The great wings of the giant baulk his gait. — Translated by Roy Campbell The Albatross Sometimes, to entertain themselves, the men of the crew Lure upon deck an unlucky albatross, one of those vast Birds of the sea that follow unwearied the voyage through, Flying in slow and elegant circles above the mast. No sooner have they disentangled him from their nets Than this aerial colossus, shorn of his pride, 258 Goes hobbling pitiably across the planks and lets His great wings hang like heavy, useless oars at his side. How droll is the poor floundering creature, how limp and weak — He, but a moment past so lordly, flying in state! They tease him: One of them tries to stick a pipe in his beak; Another mimics with laughter his odd lurching gait. The Poet is like that wild inheritor of the cloud, A rider of storms, above the range of arrows and slings; Exiled on earth, at bay amid the jeering crowd, He cannot walk for his unmanageable wings. — Translated by George Dillon Albatrosses Often our sailors, for Catch albatrosses on Through which these As it skims down the an hour of fun, the after breeze trail the ship from sun to sun deep and briny seas. Scarce have these birds been set upon the poop, Than, awkward now, they, the sky's emperors, Piteous and shamed, let their great white wings droop Beside them like a pair of idle oars. These wingèd voyagers, how gauche their gait! Once noble, now how ludicrous to view! One sailor bums them with his pipe, his mate Limps, mimicking these cripples who once flew. Poets are like these lords of sky and cloud, Who ride the storm and mock the bow's taut strings, Exiled on earth amid a jeering crowd, Prisoned and palsied by their giant wings. — Translated by Jacques LeClercq 259 The Albatross Often, to amuse themselves, the men of the crew Catch those great birds of the seas, the albatrosses, lazy companions of the voyage, who follow The ship that slips through bitter gulfs. Hardly have they put them on the deck, Than these kings of the skies, awkward and ashamed, Piteously let their great white wings Draggle like oars beside them. This winged traveler, how weak he becomes and slack! He who of late was so beautiful, how comical and ugly! Someone teases his beak with a branding iron, Another mimics, limping, the crippled flyer! The Poet is like the prince of the clouds, Haunting the tempest and laughing at the archer; Exiled on earth amongst the shouting people, His giant's wings hinder him from walking. — Translated by Geoffrey Wagner ~ Charles Baudelaire

264:Song Of America And now, when poets are singing Their songs of olden days, And now, when the land is ringing With sweet Centennial lays, My muse goes wandering backward, To the groundwork of all these, To the time when our Pilgrim Fathers Came over the winter seas. The sons of a mighty kingdom, Of a cultured folk were they; Born amidst pomp and splendor, Bred in it day by day. Children of bloom and beauty, Reared under skies serene, Where the daisy and hawthorne blossomed, And the ivy was always green. And yet, for the sake of freedom, For a free religious faith, They turned from home and people, And stood face to face with death. They turned from a tyrant ruler, And stood on the new world's shore, With a waste of waters behind them, And a waste of land before. O, men of a great Republic; Of a land of untold worth; Of a nation that has no equal Upon God's round green earth: I hear you sighing and crying Of the hard, close times at hand; What think you of those old heroes, On the rock 'twixt sea and land? The bells of a million churches Go ringing out to-night, And the glitter of palace windows Fills all the land with light; And there is the home and college, And here is the feast and ball, And the angels of peace and freedom 515 Are hovering over all. They had no church, no college, No banks, no mining stock; They had but the waste before them, The sea, and Plymouth Rock. But there in the night and tempest, With gloom on every hand, They laid the first foundation Of a nation great and grand. There were no weak repinings, No shrinking from what might be, But with their brows to the tempest, And with their backs to the sea, They planned out a noble future, And planted the corner stone Of the grandest, greatest republic, The world has ever known. O women in homes of splendor, O lily-buds frail and fair, With fortunes upon your fingers, And milk-white pearls in your hair: I hear you longing and sighing For some new, fresh delight; But what of those Pilgrim mothers On that December night? I hear you talking of hardships, I hear you moaning of loss; Each has her fancied sorrow, Each bears her self-made cross. But they, they had only their husbands, The rain, the rock, and the sea, Yet, they looked up to God and blessed Him, And were glad because they were free. O grand old Pilgrim heroes, O souls that were tried and true, With all of our proud possessions We are humbled at thought of you: Men of such might and muscle, Women so brave and strong, Whose faith was fixed as the mountain, Through a night so dark and long. We know of your grim, grave errors, 516 As husbands and as wives; Of the rigid bleak ideas That starved your daily lives; Of pent-up, curbed emotions, Of feelings crushed, suppressed, That God with the heart created In every human breast; We know of that little remnant Of British tyranny, When you hunted Quakers and witches, And swumg them from a tree; Yet back to a holy motive, To live in the fear of God, To a purpose, high, exalted, To walk where martyrs trod, We can trace your gravest errors; Your aim was fixed and sure, And e'en if your acts were fanatic, We know your hearts were pure. You lived so near to heaven, You over-reached your trust, And deemed yourselves creators, Forgetting you were but dust. But we with our broader visions, With our wider realm of thought, I often think would be better If we lived as our fathers taught. Their lives seemed bleak and rigid, Narrow, and void of bloom; Our minds have too much freedom, And conscience too much room. They over-reached in duty, They starved their hearts for the right; We live too much in the senses, We bask too long in the light. They proved by their clinging to Him The image of God in man; And we, by our love of license, Strengthen a Darwin's plan. But bigotry reached its limit, And license must have its sway, And both shall result in profit 517 To those of a latter day. With the fetters of slavery broken, And freedom's flag unfurled, Our nation strides onward and upward, And stands the peer of the world. Spires and domes and steeples, Glitter from shore to shore; The waters are white with commerce, The earth is studded with ore; Peace is sitting above us, And Plenty with laden hand, Wedded to sturdy Labor, Goes singing through the land. Then let each child of the nation, Who glories in being free, Remember the Pilgrim Fathers Who stood on the rock by the sea; For there in the rain and tempest Of a night long passed away, They sowed the seeds of a harvest We gather in sheaves to-day. ~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox

265:Our boat is asleep on Serchio's stream, Its sails are folded like thoughts in a dream, The helm sways idly, hither and thither; Dominic, the boatman, has brought the mast, And the oars, and the sails; but tis sleeping fast, Like a beast, unconscious of its tether. The stars burnt out in the pale blue air, And the thin white moon lay withering there; To tower, and cavern, and rift, and tree, The owl and the bat fled drowsily. Day had kindled the dewy woods, And the rocks above and the stream below, And the vapours in their multitudes, And the Apennines shroud of summer snow, And clothed with light of aery gold The mists in their eastern caves uprolled. Day had awakened all things that be, The lark and the thrush and the swallow free, And the milkmaids song and the mowers scythe And the matin-bell and the mountain bee: Fireflies were quenched on the dewy corn, Glow-worms went out on the rivers brim, Like lamps which a student forgets to trim: The beetle forgot to wind his horn, The crickets were still in the meadow and hill: Like a flock of rooks at a farmers gun Nights dreams and terrors, every one, Fled from the brains which are their prey From the lamps death to the morning ray. All rose to do the task He set to each, Who shaped us to His ends and not our own; The million rose to learn, and one to teach What none yet ever knew or can be known. And many rose Whose woe was such that fear became desire;-- Melchior and Lionel were not among those; They from the throng of men had stepped aside, And made their home under the green hill-side. It was that hill, whose intervening brow Screens Lucca from the Pisans envious eye, Which the circumfluous plain waving below, Like a wide lake of green fertility, With streams and fields and marshes bare, Divides from the far Apennineswhich lie Islanded in the immeasurable air. What think you, as she lies in her green cove, Our little sleeping boat is dreaming of? If morning dreams are true, why I should guess That she was dreaming of our idleness, And of the miles of watery way We should have led her by this time of day.-- Never mind, said Lionel, Give care to the winds, they can bear it well About yon poplar-tops; and see The white clouds are driving merrily, And the stars we miss this morn will light More willingly our return to-night.-- How it whistles, Dominics long black hair! List, my dear fellow; the breeze blows fair: Hear how it sings into the air-- --Of us and of our lazy motions, Impatiently said Melchior, If I can guess a boats emotions; And how we ought, two hours before, To have been the devil knows where. And then, in such transalpine Tuscan As would have killed a Della-Cruscan, ... So, Lionel according to his art Weaving his idle words, Melchior said: She dreams that we are not yet out of bed; Well put a soul into her, and a heart Which like a dove chased by a dove shall beat. ... Ay, heave the ballast overboard, And stow the eatables in the aft locker. Would not this keg be best a little lowered? No, now alls right. Those bottles of warm tea-- (Give me some straw)must be stowed tenderly; Such as we used, in summer after six, To cram in greatcoat pockets, and to mix Hard eggs and radishes and rolls at Eton, And, couched on stolen hay in those green harbours Farmers called gaps, and we schoolboys called arbours, Would feast till eight. ... With a bottle in one hand, As if his very soul were at a stand Lionel stoodwhen Melchior brought him steady:-- Sit at the helmfasten this sheet--all ready! The chain is loosed, the sails are spread, The living breath is fresh behind, As with dews and sunrise fed, Comes the laughing morning wind;-- The sails are full, the boat makes head Against the Serchios torrent fierce, Then flags with intermitting course, And hangs upon the wave, and stems The tempest of the... Which fervid from its mountain source Shallow, smooth and strong doth come,-- Swift as fire, tempestuously It sweeps into the affrighted sea; In mornings smile its eddies coil, Its billows sparkle, toss and boil, Torturing all its quiet light Into columns fierce and bright. The Serchio, twisting forth Between the marble barriers which it clove At Ripafratta, leads through the dread chasm The wave that died the death which lovers love, Living in what it sought; as if this spasm Had not yet passed, the toppling mountains cling, But the clear stream in full enthusiasm Pours itself on the plain, then wandering Down one clear path of effluence crystalline Sends its superfluous waves, that they may fling At Arnos feet tribute of corn and wine; Then, through the pestilential deserts wild Of tangled marsh and woods of stunted pine, It rushes to the Ocean. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Boat On The Serchio

266:Studies By The Sea AH ! wherefore do the incurious say, That this stupendous ocean wide, No change presents from day to day, Save only the alternate tide; Or save when gales of summer glide Across the lightly crisped wave; Or, when against the cliff's rough side, As equinoctial tempests rave, It wildly bursts; o'erwhelms the deluged strand, Tears down its bounds, and desolates the land ? He who with more enquiring eyes Doth this extensive scene survey, Beholds innumerous changes rise, As various winds its surface sway; Now o'er its heaving bosom play Small sparkling waves of silver gleam, And as they lightly glide away Illume with fluctuating beam The deepening surge; green as the dewy corn That undulates in April's breezy morn. The far off waters then assume A glowing amethystine shade, That changing like the peacock's plume Seems in celestial blue to fade; Or paler, colder hues of lead, As lurid vapours float on high, Along the ruffling billows spread, While darkly lours the threatening sky; And the small scatter'd barks with outspread shrouds, Catch the long gleams, that fall between the clouds. Then day's bright star with blunted rays Seems struggling thro' the sea-fog pale, And doubtful in the heavy haze, Is dimly seen the nearing sail; 'Till from the land a fresher gale Disperses the white mist, and clear, As melts away the gauzy veil, 148 The sun-reflecting waves appear; So, brighter genuine virtue seems to rise From envy's dark invidious calumnies. What glories on the sun attend, When the full tides of evening flow, Where in still changing beauty, blend With amber light, the opal's glow; While in the east the diamond bow Rises in virgin lustre bright, And from the horizon seems to throw, A partial line of trembling light To the hush'd shore; and all the tranquil deep Beneath the modest moon, is sooth'd to sleep. Forgotten then, the thundering break Of waves, that in the tempest rise, The falling cliff, the shatter'd wreck, The howling blast, the sufferer's cries; For soft the breeze of evening sighs, And murmuring seems in Fancy's ear To whisper fairy lullabies, That tributary waters bear From precipices, dark with piny woods, And inland rocks, and heathy solitudes. The vast encircling seas within, What endless swarms of creatures hide , Of burnish'd scale, and spiny fin ! These providential instincts guide, And bid them know the annual tide, When, from unfathom'd waves that swell, Beyond Fuego's stormy side, They come, to cheer the tribes that dwell In Boreal climes; and thro' his half year's night Give to the Lapland savage, food and light. From cliffs, that pierce the northern sky; Where eagles rear their sanguine brood, With long awaiting patient eye, Baffled by many a sailing cloud, The Highland native marks the flood, Till bright the quickening billows roll, 149 And hosts of sea-birds, clamouring loud, Track with wild wing the welcome shoal, Swift o'er the animated current sweep, And bear their silver captives from the deep. Sons of the North ! your streamy vales With no rich sheaves rejoice and sing; Her flowery robe no fruit conceals, Tho' sweetly smile your tardy spring; Yet every mountain, clothed with ling, Doth from its purple brow survey Your busy sails, that ceaseless bring To the broad frith, and sheltering bay, Riches, by Heaven's parental power supplied,­ The harvest of the far embracing tide. And, where those fractur'd mountains lift O'er the blue wave their towering crest, Each salient ledge and hollow cleft To sea-fowl give a rugged nest. But with instinctive love is drest The Eider's downy cradle; where The mother-bird, her glossy breast Devotes, and with maternal care, And plumeless bosom, stems the toiling seas, That foam round the tempestuous Orcades. From heights, whence shuddering sense recoils, And cloud-capped headlands, steep and bare, Sons of the North ! your venturous toils Collect your poor and scanty fare. Urged by imperious Want, you dare Scale the loose cliff, where Gannets hide, Or scarce suspended, in the air Hang perilous; and thus provide The soft voluptuous couch, which not secures To Luxury's pamper'd minions, sleep like yours. Revolving still, the waves that now Just ripple on the level shore, Have borne perchance the Indian's prow, Or half congeal'd, 'mid ice rocks hoar, Raved to the Walrus' hollow roar; 150 Or have by currents swift convey'd To the cold coast of Labrador, The relics of the tropic shade; And to the wondering Esquimaux have shown Leaves of strange shape, and fruits unlike their own. No more then, let the incurious say, No change this world of water shows, But as the tides the moon obey, Or tempests rave, or calms repose.­ Shew them, its bounteous breast bestows On myriads life; and bid them see In every wave that circling flows, Beauty and use, and harmony­ Works of the Power Supreme, who poured the flood, Round the green peopled earth, and call'd it good ! ~ Charlotte Smith

267:A: Not far from hence. From yonder pointed hill, Crowned with a ring of oaks, you may behold A dark and barren field, through which there flows, Sluggish and black, a deep but narrow stream, Which the wind ripples not, and the fair moon Gazes in vain, and finds no mirror there. Follow the herbless banks of that strange brook Until you pause beside a darksome pond, The fountain of this rivulet, whose gush Cannot be seen, hid by a rayless night That lives beneath the overhanging rock That shades the poolan endless spring of gloom, Upon whose edge hovers the tender light, Trembling to mingle with its paramour,-- But, as Syrinx fled Pan, so night flies day, Or, with most sullen and regardless hate, Refuses stern her heaven-born embrace. On one side of this jagged and shapeless hill There is a cave, from which there eddies up A pale mist, like aereal gossamer, Whose breath destroys all life--awhile it veils The rockthen, scattered by the wind, it flies Along the stream, or lingers on the clefts, Killing the sleepy worms, if aught bide there. Upon the beetling edge of that dark rock There stands a group of cypresses; not such As, with a graceful spire and stirring life, Pierce the pure heaven of your native vale, Whose branches the air plays among, but not Disturbs, fearing to spoil their solemn grace; But blasted and all wearily they stand, One to another clinging; their weak boughs Sigh as the wind buffets them, and they shake Beneath its blastsa weatherbeaten crew! CHORUS: What wondrous sound is that, mournful and faint, But more melodious than the murmuring wind Which through the columns of a temple glides? A: It is the wandering voice of Orpheus lyre, Borne by the winds, who sigh that their rude king Hurries them fast from these air-feeding notes; But in their speed they bear along with them The waning sound, scattering it like dew Upon the startled sense. CHORUS: Does he still sing? Methought he rashly cast away his harp When he had lost Eurydice. A: Ah, no! Awhile he paused. As a poor hunted stag A moment shudders on the fearful brink Of a swift streamthe cruel hounds press on With deafening yell, the arrows glance and wound,-- He plunges in: so Orpheus, seized and torn By the sharp fangs of an insatiate grief, Maenad-like waved his lyre in the bright air, And wildly shrieked Where she is, it is dark! And then he struck from forth the strings a sound Of deep and fearful melody. Alas! In times long past, when fair Eurydice With her bright eyes sat listening by his side, He gently sang of high and heavenly themes. As in a brook, fretted with little waves By the light airs of springeach riplet makes A many-sided mirror for the sun, While it flows musically through green banks, Ceaseless and pauseless, ever clear and fresh, So flowed his song, reflecting the deep joy And tender love that fed those sweetest notes, The heavenly offspring of ambrosial food. But that is past. Returning from drear Hell, He chose a lonely seat of unhewn stone, Blackened with lichens, on a herbless plain. Then from the deep and overflowing spring Of his eternal ever-moving grief There rose to Heaven a sound of angry song. Tis as a mighty cataract that parts Two sister rocks with waters swift and strong, And casts itself with horrid roar and din Adown a steep; from a perennial source It ever flows and falls, and breaks the air With loud and fierce, but most harmonious roar, And as it falls casts up a vaporous spray Which the sun clothes in hues of Iris light. Thus the tempestuous torrent of his grief Is clothed in sweetest sounds and varying words Of poesy. Unlike all human works, It never slackens, and through every change Wisdom and beauty and the power divine Of mighty poesy together dwell, Mingling in sweet accord. As I have seen A fierce south blast tear through the darkened sky, Driving along a rack of winged clouds, Which may not pause, but ever hurry on, As their wild shepherd wills them, while the stars, Twinkling and dim, peep from between the plumes. Anon the sky is cleared, and the high dome Of serene Heaven, starred with fiery flowers, Shuts in the shaken earth; or the still moon Swiftly, yet gracefully, begins her walk, Rising all bright behind the eastern hills. I talk of moon, and wind, and stars, and not Of song; but, would I echo his high song, Nature must lend me words neer used before, Or I must borrow from her perfect works, To picture forth his perfect attributes. He does no longer sit upon his throne Of rock upon a desert herbless plain, For the evergreen and knotted ilexes, And cypresses that seldom wave their boughs, And sea-green olives with their grateful fruit, And elms dragging along the twisted vines, Which drop their berries as they follow fast, And blackthorn bushes with their infant race Of blushing rose-blooms; beeches, to lovers dear, And weeping willow trees; all swift or slow, As their huge boughs or lighter dress permit, Have circled in his throne, and Earth herself Has sent from her maternal breast a growth Of starlike flowers and herbs of odour sweet, To pave the temple that his poesy Has framed, while near his feet grim lions couch, And kids, fearless from love, creep near his lair. Even the blind worms seem to feel the sound. The birds are silent, hanging down their heads, Perched on the lowest branches of the trees; Not even the nightingale intrudes a note In rivalry, but all entranced she listens. Published by Dr. Garnett, Relics of Shelley, 1862; revised and enlarged by Rossetti, Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S., 1870. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Orpheus

268:To Johan Sverdrup When now my song selects and praises Your forceful name, think not it raises The rallying-flag for battle near; The street-fight shall not reach us here. If sacred poetry's fair hill Lies open to assassination,Is this the newer revelation, Then I withdraw and hold me still. Then I the words of Einar borrow, When southern change of kings brought sorrow, And Harald's hosts their ravage spread: I follow rather Magnus dead Than Harald living thus,-and then I sail away with ships and men. Nor therefore do I lift anew The flag of song just now for you, Because my spirit's deepest yearning To you for new light now is turning. No, where the greatest questions started, Just there it is our ways were partedFrom where the deepest thought can reach, To plan and goal of daily speech. My childhood's faith unshaken stands, And thence our equal rights deriving, I for a people free am striving And brotherhood in kindred lands. Though both of us are Christian men, So wide a gulf between us lies; Though both are true Norwegian men, We Norway see with different eyes. If but to-day we victory gain, 195 We must to-morrow fight amain. But now I honor you in singing, Because what ought just now to be With strongest will you clearly see, And foremost to the fight are springing. When sinks the land 'neath heavy fogs And no fair prospect cheers the eye, The thickening air our breathing clogs, Yes, all things dull in torpor lie,Then mounts your mind with freest motion, Its thunder-wings the mist-banks driving, Its lightning-talons cloud-walls riving, Till sunlight spreads o'er land and ocean. You are the freshening shower clean Upon our sluggish day's routine. You are the salt sea-current poured Into each close and sultry fjord. Your speech a mine-shaft is, deep-going To where the veins of ore are showing. And by your flashing eyes far-sighted The past is for our future lighted. So long as Sverre's sword you wield, So long as you our hosts are heading, We know we'll win on every field; Foes flee, your battle trumpet dreading. We see their struggling ranks soon rifted, We see them set so many a snare: Your head unharmed in thought's pure air Above the waves of war is lifted. We love you for this courage good, That e'er before the banner stood, We love the strength you boldly stored In your self-forged and tempered sword. Your vigilance we love and prize, That sickness, slander, loss defies, We love you, that at duty's call 196 You gave your peace, your future, all, We love you still-hate cannot cleave!Because you dared in us believe. How can they hope that backward here Our land shall go? No, year by year, Forward in freedom and in song, Forward the truly Norse disclosing. What might can now avail, opposing The travail of the centuries long? People and power no more divided; In peace to save or war to kill, Our freedom with one guard provided, One nation only and one will. The spirit of our nation's morn, The unity of free gods dreaming, And all things great to be great deeming, Forever must the spurious scorn. The spirit that impelled the viking 'Gainst kingly power for freedom striking,That, threatened, sailed to Iceland strong With hero-fame and hero-song, And further on through all the ages,That spirit never dwells in cages. The spirit that at Hjörung broke For thousand years the foreign yoke, By might of king ne'er made to cower, Defying e'en the papal power,The spirit that, to weakness worn, Held free our soil with rights unshorn, Held free, with tongue and hand combined, 'Gainst foreign host and foreign mind,By which our Holberg's wit was whetted, And Wessel's sword and Wessel's pen, And to whose silent forge indebted The thoughts that armed our Eidsvold-men,The spirit that in faith so high 197 Through Odin could to God draw nigh, As bridge the myth of Balder threw, And almost found the free way new To truth's fair home in radiant Gimle, When this was closed and warded grimly By monkish lies and papal speech,That threw a second bridge to reach On freedom's lightly soaring arches To heights whereon the free soul marches,So, when for Luther blood was shed, The North but razed a fence instead, -The spirit that, when men were deeming True faith in all the world were dead, Brun, Hauge, and their lineage spread, From soul-springs in our nation streaming,Though pietism's fog now thickens, Still guards the altar lights and quickens;Can this they make the fashion better, By modern bishop-synod's letter? Is this by politics provided, When into 'Chambers' 't is divided? Can this into a box be juggled And o'er the boundary be smuggled? And that just now when beacons lighted On all the mountain-tops are sighted, And when our folk-high-school's young day The Norse heart kindles with its ray, Renewing mem'ries, courage bringing, While they are hearing, trusting, singing;Just when the deep in billows surges, Responsive to the tempest's might, And over it the Northern Light Of Youth's refulgent hope emerges;Just when the spirit everywhere, While walls lie low as trumpets blare, 198 Is breaking from the ancient forms, And will of youth the heights now storms. A battle-age,-and we are in it! The greatest thing on earth: to be Where powers that are bursting free, Self-shaping seek their place and win it;Our fusing passion all to give, To cast the statue that shall live, To press the mold of our own form On what shall be the future's norm, Into the age's soul thus breathed The spirit God to us bequeathed. 'T was this that now I wished to say To you, who late and early, aye Within time's workshop great are going, What is, what shall be, ever knowing;To you, who all our people's might Have roused for freedom new to fight;To whom our people gave this power, And sorrow, its eternal dower. ~ Bjornstjerne Bjornson

269:The Forest Boy THE trees have now hid at the edge of the hurst The spot where the ruins decay Of the cottage, where Will of the Woodland was nursed, And lived so beloved, till the moment accursed When he went from the woodland away. Among all the lads of the plough or the fold; Best esteem'd by the sober and good, Was Will of the Woodlands; and often the old Would tell of his frolics, for active and bold Was William the boy of the wood. Yet gentle was he, as the breath of the May, And when sick and declining was laid The woodman his father, young William away Would go to the forest to labour all day, And perform his hard task in his stead. And when his poor father the forester died, And his mother was sad, and alone, He toil'd from the dawn, and at evening he hied In storm or in snow, or whate'er might betide, To supply all her wants from the town. One neighbour they had on the heath to the west, And no other the cottage was near, But she would send Phoebe, the child she loved best, To stay with the widow, thus sad and distress'd, Her hours of dejection to cheer. As the buds of wild roses, the cheeks of the maid Were just tinted with youth's lovely hue, Her form, like the aspen, wild graces display'd, And the eyes, over which her luxuriant locks stray'd, As the skies of the summer were blue. Still labouring to live, yet reflecting the while, Young William consider'd his lot; 'Twas hard, yet 'twas honest; and one tender smile From Phoebe at night overpaid ev'ry toil, And then all his fatigues were forgot. By the brook where it glides through the copse of Arbeal, When to eat his cold fare he reclined, Then soft from her home his sweet Phoebe would steal, 178 And bring him wood-strawberries to finish his meal, And would sit by his side while he dined. And though when employed in the deep forest glade, His days have seem'd slowly to move, Yet Phoebe going home, through the wood-walk has stray'd To bid him good night!--and whatever she said Was more sweet than the voice of the dove. Fair Hope, that the lover so fondly believes, Then repeated each soul-soothing speech, And touch'd with illusion, that often deceives The future with light; as the sun through the leaves Illumines the boughs of the beech. But once more the tempests of chill winter blow, To depress and disfigure the earth; And now ere the dawn, the young woodman must go To his work in the forest, half buried in snow, And at night bring home wood for the hearth. The bridge on the heath by the flood was wash'd down, And fast fell the sleet and the rain, The stream to a wild rapid river was grown, And long might the widow sit sighing alone Ere sweet Phoebe could see her again. At the town was a market--and now for supplies, Such as needed her humble abode, Young William went forth; and his mother with sighs Watch'd long at the window, with tears in her eyes, Till he turn'd through the fields to the road. Then darkness came on; and she heard with affright The wind every moment more high; She look'd from the door; not a star lent its light, But the tempest redoubled the gloom of the night, And the rain pour'd in sheets from the sky. The clock in her cottage now mournfully told The hours that went heavily on; 'Twas midnight: her spirits sank hopeless and cold, And it seem'd as each blast of wind fearfully told That long, long would her William be gone. Then heart-sick and cold to her sad bed she crept, Yet first made up the fire in the room To guide his dark steps; but she listen'd and wept, Or if for a moment forgetful she slept, 179 Soon she started!--and thought he was come. 'Twas morn; and the wind with a hoarse sullen moan Now seem'd dying away in the wood, When the poor wretched mother still drooping, alone, Beheld on the threshold a figure unknown, In gorgeous apparel who stood. 'Your son is a soldier,' abruptly cried he, 'And a place in our corps has obtain'd, Nay, be not cast down; you perhaps may soon see Your William a captain, he now sends by me The purse he already has gain'd.' So William entrapp'd 'twixt persuasion and force, Is embark'd for the isles of the West, But he seem'd to begin with ill omens his course, And felt recollection, regret, and remorse Continually weigh on his breast. With useless repentance he eagerly eyed The high coast as it faded from view, And saw the green hills, on whose northernmost side Was his own silvan home: and he falter'd, and cried, 'Adieu! ah! for ever adieu! 'Who now, my poor mother, thy life shall sustain, Since thy son has thus left thee forlorn? Ah! canst thou forgive me? And not in the pain Of this cruel desertion, of William complain, And lament that he ever was born? 'Sweet Phoebe!--if ever thy lover was dear, Now forsake not the cottage of woe, But comfort my mother; and quiet her fear, And help her to dry up the vain fruitless tear, That too long for my absence will flow. 'Yet what if my Phoebe another should wed, And lament her lost William no more?' The thought was too cruel; and anguish now sped The dart of disease--With the brave numerous dead He has fall'n on the plague-tainted shore. In the lone village church-yard, the chancel-wall near, High grass now waves over the spot, Where the mother of William, unable to bear His loss, who to her widow'd heart was so dear, Has both him and her sorrows forgot. 180 By the brook where it winds through the wood of Arbeal, Or amid the deep forest, to moan, The poor wandering Phoebe will silently steal; The pain of her bosom no reason can heal, And she loves to indulge it alone. Her senses are injured; her eyes dim with tears; She sits by the river and weaves Reed garlands, against her dear William appears, Then breathlessly listens, and fancies she hears His step in the half wither'd leaves. Ah! such are the miseries to which ye give birth, Ye statesmen! ne'er dreading a scar; Who from pictured saloon, or the bright sculptured hearth Disperse desolation and death through the earth, When ye let loose the demons of war. ~ Charlotte Smith

270:The Raven Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. ''Tis some visitor,' I muttered, 'tapping at my chamber doorOnly this, and nothing more.' Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow- sorrow for the lost LenoreFor the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name LenoreNameless here for evermore. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, ''Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber doorSome late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;This it is, and nothing more.' Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, 'Sir,' said I, 'or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you'- here I opened wide the door;Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, 'Lenore!' This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, 'Lenore!'Merely this, and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. 'Surely,' said I, 'surely that is something at my window lattice: 93 Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery exploreLet my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;'Tis the wind and nothing more.' Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber doorPerched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber doorPerched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore. 'Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, 'art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shoreTell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!' Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.' Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber doorBird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as 'Nevermore.' But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he flutteredTill I scarcely more than muttered, 'other friends have flown beforeOn the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.' Then the bird said, 'Nevermore.' Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, 'Doubtless,' said I, 'what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden boreTill the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of 'Never- nevermore'.' 94 But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yoreWhat this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking 'Nevermore.' This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. 'Wretch,' I cried, 'thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he hath sent thee Respite- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!' Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.' 'Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil!- prophet still, if bird or devil!Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchantedOn this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I imploreIs there- is there balm in Gilead?- tell me- tell me, I implore!' Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.' 'Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil- prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adoreTell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name LenoreClasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.' Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.' 'Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend,' I shrieked, upstarting- 95 'Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!' Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.' And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted- nevermore! ~ Edgar Allan Poe

271:The Height Of Land Here is the height of land: The watershed on either hand Goes down to Hudson Bay Or Lake Superior; The stars are up, and far away The wind sounds in the wood, wearier Than the long Ojibwa cadence In which Potàn the Wise Declares the ills of life And Chees-que-ne-ne makes a mournful sound Of acquiescence. The fires burn low With just sufficient glow To light the flakes of ash that play At being moths, and flutter away To fall in the dark and die as ashes: Here there is peace in the lofty air, And Something comes by flashes Deeper than peace: -The spruces have retired a little space And left a field of sky in violet shadow With stars like marigolds in a water-meadow. Now the Indian guides are dead asleep; There is no sound unless the soul can hear The gathering of the waters in their sources. We have come up through the spreading lakes From level to level, -Pitching our tents sometimes over a revel Of roses that nodded all night, Dreaming within our dreams, To wake at dawn and find that they were captured With no dew on their leaves; Sometimes mid sheaves Of bracken and dwarf-cornel, and again On a wide blueberry plain Brushed with the shimmer of a bluebird's wing; A rocky islet followed With one lone poplar and a single nest Of white-throat-sparrows that took no rest 116 But sang in dreams or woke to sing, -To the last portage and the height of land --: Upon one hand The lonely north enlaced with lakes and streams, And the enormous targe of Hudson Bay, Glimmering all night In the cold arctic light; On the other hand The crowded southern land With all the welter of the lives of men. But here is peace, and again That Something comes by flashes Deeper than peace, -- a spell Golden and inappellable That gives the inarticulate part Of our strange being one moment of release That seems more native than the touch of time, And we must answer in chime; Though yet no man may tell The secret of that spell Golden and inappellable. Now are there sounds walking in the wood, And all the spruces shiver and tremble, And the stars move a little in their courses. The ancient disturber of solitude Breathes a pervasive sigh, And the soul seems to hear The gathering of the waters at their sources; Then quiet ensues and pure starlight and dark; The region-spirit murmurs in meditation, The heart replies in exaltation And echoes faintly like an inland shell Ghost tremors of the spell; Thought reawakens and is linked again With all the welter of the lives of men. Here on the uplands where the air is clear We think of life as of a stormy scene, -Of tempest, of revolt and desperate shock; And here, where we can think, on the brights uplands Where the air is clear, we deeply brood on life Until the tempest parts, and it appears 117 As simple as to the shepherd seems his flock: A Something to be guided by ideals -That in themselves are simple and serene -Of noble deed to foster noble thought, And noble thought to image noble deed, Till deed and thought shall interpenetrate, Making life lovelier, till we come to doubt Whether the perfect beauty that escapes Is beauty of deed or thought or some high thing Mingled of both, a greater boon than either: Thus we have seen in the retreating tempest The victor-sunlight merge with the ruined rain, And from the rain and sunlight spring the rainbow. The ancient disturber of solitude Stirs his ancestral potion in the gloom, And the dark wood Is stifled with the pungent fume Of charred earth burnt to the bone That takes the place of air. Then sudden I remember when and where, -The last weird lakelet foul with weedy growths And slimy viscid things the spirit loathes, Skin of vile water over viler mud Where the paddle stirred unutterable stenches, And the canoes seemed heavy with fear, Not to be urged toward the fatal shore Where a bush fire, smouldering, with sudden roar Leaped on a cedar and smothered it with light And terror. It had left the portage-height A tangle of slanted spruces burned to the roots, Covered still with patches of bright fire Smoking with incense of the fragment resin That even then began to thin and lessen Into the gloom and glimmer of ruin. 'Tis overpast. How strange the stars have grown; The presage of extinction glows on their crests And they are beautied with impermanence; They shall be after the race of men And mourn for them who snared their fiery pinions, Entangled in the meshes of bright words. 118 A lemming stirs the fern and in the mosses Eft-minded things feel the air change, and dawn Tolls out from the dark belfries of the spruces. How often in the autumn of the world Shall the crystal shrine of dawning be rebuilt With deeper meaning! Shall the poet then, Wrapped in his mantle on the height of land, Brood on the welter of the lives of men And dream of his ideal hope and promise In the blush sunrise? Shall he base his flight Upon a more compelling law than Love As Life's atonement; shall the vision Of noble deed and noble thought immingled Seem as uncouth to him as the pictograph Scratched on the cave side by the cave-dweller To us of the Christ-time? Shall he stand With deeper joy, with more complex emotion, In closer commune with divinity, With the deep fathomed, with the firmament charted, With life as simple as a sheep-boy's song, What lies beyond a romaunt that was read Once on a morn of storm and laid aside Memorious with strange immortal memories? Or shall he see the sunrise as I see it In shoals of misty fire the deluge-light Dashes upon and whelms with purer radiance, And feel the lulled earth, older in pulse and motion, Turn the rich lands and inundant oceans To the flushed color, and hear as now I hear The thrill of life beat up the planet's margin And break in the clear susurrus of deep joy That echoes and reëchoes in my being? O Life is intuition the measure of knowledge And do I stand with heart entranced and burning At the zenith of our wisdom when I feel The long light flow, the long wind pause, the deep Influx of spirit, of which no man may tell The Secret, golden and inappellable? ~ Duncan Campbell Scott

272:The Character Of Holland Holland, that scarce deserves the name of Land, As but th'Off-scouring of the Brittish Sand; And so much Earth as was contributed By English Pilots when they heav'd the Lead; Or what by th' Oceans slow alluvion fell, Of shipwrackt Cockle and the Muscle-shell; This indigested vomit of the Sea Fell to the Dutch by just Propriety. Glad then, as Miners that have found the Oar, They with mad labour fish'd the Land to Shoar; And div'd as desperately for each piece Of Earth, as if't had been of Ambergreece; Collecting anxiously small Loads of Clay, Less then what building Swallows bear away; Transfursing into them their Dunghil Soul. How did they rivet, with Gigantick Piles, Thorough the Center their new-catched Miles; And to the stake a strugling Country bound, Where barking Waves still bait the forced Ground; Building their watry Babel far more high To reach the Sea, then those to scale the Sky. Yet still his claim the Injur'd Ocean laid, And oft at Leap-frog ore their Steeples plaid: As if on purpose it on Land had come To shew them what's their Mare Liberum. A daily deluge over them does boyl; The Earth and Water play at Level-coyl; The Fish oft-times the Burger dispossest, And sat not as a Meat but as a Guest; And oft the Tritons and the Sea-Nymphs saw Whole sholes of Dutch serv'd up for Cabillan; Or as they over the new Level rang'd For pickled Herring, pickled Heeren chang'd. Nature, it seem'd, asham'd of her mistake, Would throw their land away at Duck and Drake. Therefore Necessity, that first made Kings, Something like Government among them brings. For as with Pygmees who best kills the Crane, Among the hungry he that treasures Grain, 120 Among the blind the one-ey'd blinkard reigns, So rules among the drowned he that draines. Not who first see the rising Sun commands, But who could first discern the rising Lands. Who best could know to pump an Earth so leak Him they their Lord and Country's Father speak. To make a Bank was a great Plot of State; Invent a Shov'l and be a Magistrate. Hence some small Dyke-grave unperceiv'd invades The Pow'r, and grows as 'twere a King of Spades. But for less envy some Joynt States endures, Who look like a Commission of the Sewers. For these Half-anders, half wet, and half dry, Nor bear strict service, nor pure Liberty. 'Tis probable Religion after this Came next in order; which they could not miss. How could the Dutch but be converted, when Th' Apostles were so many Fishermen? Besides the Waters of themselves did rise, And, as their Land, so them did re-baptise. Though Herring for their God few voices mist, And Poor-John to have been th' Evangelist. Faith, that could never Twins conceive before, Never so fertile, spawn'd upon this shore: More pregnant then their Marg'ret, that laid down For Hans-in-Kelder of a whole Hans-Town. Sure when Religion did it self imbark, And from the east would Westward steer its Ark, It struck, and splitting on this unknown ground, Each one thence pillag'd the first piece he found: Hence Amsterdam, Turk-Christian-Pagan-Jew, Staple of Sects and Mint of Schisme grew; That Bank of Conscience, where not one so strange Opinion but finds Credit, and Exchange. In vain for Catholicks our selves we bear; The Universal Church is onely there. Nor can Civility there want for Tillage, Where wisely for their Court they chose a Village. How fit a Title clothes their Governours, Themselves the Hogs as all their Subjects Bores Let it suffice to give their Country Fame That it had one Civilis call'd by Name, 121 Some Fifteen hundred and more years ago, But surely never any that was so. See but their Mairmaids with their Tails of Fish, Reeking at Church over the Chafing-Dish. A vestal Turf enshrin'd in Earthen Ware Fumes through the loop-holes of wooden Square. Each to the Temple with these Altars tend, But still does place it at her Western End: While the fat steam of Female Sacrifice Fills the Priests Nostrils and puts out his Eyes. Or what a Spectacle the Skipper gross, A Water-Hercules Butter-Coloss, Tunn'd up with all their sev'ral Towns of Beer; When Stagg'ring upon some Land, Snick and Sneer, They try, like Statuaries, if they can, Cut out each others Athos to a Man: And carve in their large Bodies, where they please, The Armes of the United Provinces. But when such Amity at home is show'd; What then are their confederacies abroad? Let this one court'sie witness all the rest; When their hole Navy they together prest, Not Christian Captives to redeem from Bands: Or intercept the Western golden Sands: No, but all ancient Rights and Leagues must vail, Rather then to the English strike their sail; to whom their weather-beaten Province ows It self, when as some greater Vessal tows A Cock-boat tost with the same wind and fate; We buoy'd so often up their Sinking State. Was this Jus Belli & Pacis; could this be Cause why their Burgomaster of the Sea Ram'd with Gun-powder, flaming with Brand wine, Should raging hold his Linstock to the Mine? While, with feign'd Treaties, they invade by stealth Our sore new circumcised Common wealth. Yet of his vain Attempt no more he sees Then of Case-Butter shot and Bullet-Cheese. And the torn Navy stagger'd with him home, While the Sea laught it self into a foam, 'Tis true since that (as fortune kindly sports,) A wholesome Danger drove us to our ports. 122 While half their banish'd keels the Tempest tost, Half bound at home in Prison to the frost: That ours mean time at leisure might careen, In a calm Winter, under Skies Serene. As the obsequious Air and waters rest, Till the dear Halcyon hatch out all its nest. The Common wealth doth by its losses grow; And, like its own Seas, only Ebbs to flow. Besides that very Agitation laves, And purges out the corruptible waves. And now again our armed Bucentore Doth yearly their Sea-Nuptials restore. And how the Hydra of seaven Provinces Is strangled by our Infant Hercules. Their Tortoise wants its vainly stretched neck; Their Navy all our Conquest or our Wreck: Or, what is left, their Carthage overcome Would render fain unto our better Rome. Unless our Senate, lest their Youth disuse, The War, (but who would) Peace if begg'd refuse. For now of nothing may our State despair, Darling of Heaven, and of Men the Care; Provided that they be what they have been, Watchful abroad, and honest still within. For while our Neptune doth a Trident shake, Blake, Steel'd with those piercing Heads, Dean, Monck and And while Jove governs in the highest Sphere, Vainly in Hell let Pluto domineer. ~ Andrew Marvell

273:A Storm In The Mountains A lonely boy, far venturing from home Out on the half-wild herd’s faint tracks I roam; Mid rock-browned mountains, which with stony frown Glare into haggard chasms deep adown; A rude and craggy world, the prospect lies Bounded in circuit by the bending skies. Now at some clear pool scooped out by the shocks Of rain-floods plunging from the upper rocks Whose liquid disc in its undimpled rest Glows like a mighty gem brooching the mountain’s breast, I drink and must, or mark the wide-spread herd, Or list the thinking of the dingle-bird; And now towards some wild-hanging shade I stray, To shun the bright oppression of the day; For round each crag, and o’er each bosky swell, The fierce refracted heat flares visible, Lambently restless, like the dazzling hem Of some else viewless veil held trembling over them. Why congregate the swallows in the air, And northward then in rapid flight repair? With sudden swelling din, remote yet harsh, Why roar the bull-frogs in the tea-tree marsh? Why cease the locusts to throng up in flight And clap their gay wings in the fervent light? Why climb they, bodingly demure, instead The tallest spear-grass to the bending head? Instinctively, along the sultry sky, I turn a listless, yet inquiring, eye; And mark that now with a slow gradual pace A solemn trance creams northward o’er its face; Yon clouds that late were labouring past the sun, Reached by its sure arrest, one after one, Come to a heavy halt; the airs that played About the rugged mountains all are laid: While drawing nearer far-off heights appear, As in a dream’s wild prospect, strangely near! Till into wood resolves their robe of blue, And the grey crags rise bluffly on the view. Such are the signs and tokens that presage 25 A summer hurricane’s forthcoming rage. At length the south sends out her cloudy heaps And up the glens at noontide dimness creeps; The birds, late warbling in the hanging green Off steep-set brakes, seek now some safer screen; The herd, in doubt, no longer wanders wide, But fast ingathering throngs yon mountain’s side, Whose echoes, surging to its tramp, might seem The muttered troubles of some Titan’s dream. Fast the dim legions of the muttering storm Throng denser, or protruding columns form; While splashing forward from their cloudy lair, Convolving flames, like scouting dragons, glare: Low thunders follow, labouring up the sky; And as fore-running blasts go blaring by, At once the forest, with a mighty stir, Bows, as in homage to the thunderer! Hark! From the dingoes blood-polluted dens In the gloom-hidden chasms of the glens, Long fitful howls wail up; and in the blast Strange hissing whispers seem to huddle past; As if the dread stir had aroused from sleep Weird spirits, cloistered in yon cavy steep (On which, in the grim past, some Cain’s offence Hath haply outraged heaven!) Who rising thence Wrapped in the boding vapours, laughed again To wanton in the wild-willed hurricane. See in the storm’s front, sailing dark and dread, A wide-winged eagle like a black flag spread! The clouds aloft flash doom! Short stops his flight! He seems to shrivel in the blasting light! The air is shattered with a crashing sound, And he falls stonelike, lifeless, to the ground. Now, like a shadow at great nature’s heart, The turmoil grows. Now wonder, with a start, Marks where right overhead the storm careers, Girt with black horrors and wide-flaming fears! Arriving thunders, mustering on his path, 26 Swell more and more the roarings of his wrath, As out in widening circles they extend, And then—at once—in utter silence end. Portentous silence! Time keeps breathing past, Yet it continues! May this marvel last? This wild weird silence in the midst of gloom So manifestly big with coming doom? Tingles the boding ear; and up the glens Instinctive dread comes howling from the wild-dogs dens. Terrific vision! Heaven’s great ceiling splits, And a vast globe of writhing fire emits, Which pouring down in one continuous stream, Spans the black concave like a burning beam, A moment;—then from end to end it shakes With a quick motion—and in thunder breaks! Peal rolled on peal! While heralding the sound, As each concussion thrills the solid ground, Fierce glares coil, snake-like, round the rocky wens Of the red hills, or hiss into the glens, Or thick through heaven like flaming falchions swarm, Cleaving the teeming cisterns of the storm, From which rain-torrents, searching every gash, Split by the blast come sheeting with a dash. On yon grey peak, from rock-encrusted roots, The mighty patriarch of the wood upshoots, In whose proud-spreading top’s imperial height, The mountain-eagle loveth most to light: Now dimly seen through the tempestuous air, His form seems harrowed by a mad despair, As with his ponderous arms uplifted high, He wrestles with the storm and threshes at the sky! A swift bolt hurtles through the lurid air, Another thundering crash! The peak is bare! Huge hurrying fragments all around are cast, The wild-winged, mad-limbed monsters of the blast. The darkness thickens! With despairing cry From shattering boughs the rain-drenched parrtos fly; Loose rocks roll rumbling from the mountains round, 27 And half the forest strews the smoking ground; To the bared crags the blasts now wilder moan, And the caves labour with a ghostlier groan. Wide raging torrents down the gorges flow Swift bearing with them to the vale below Those sylvan wrecks that littered late the path Of the loud hurricane s all-trampling wrath. The storm is past. Yet booming on afar Is heard the rattling of the thunder-car, And that low muffled moaning, as of grief, Which follows with a wood-sigh wide and brief. The clouds break up; the sun s forth-bursting rays Clothe the wet landscape with a dazzling blaze; The birds begin to sing a lively strain, And merry echoes ring it o’er again; The clustered herd is spreading out to graze, Though lessening torrents still a hundred ways Flash downward, and from many a rock ledge A mantling gush comes quick and shining o er the edge. ’Tis evening; and the torrent’s furious flow Runs gentlier now into the lake below, O’er all the freshened scene no sound is heard, Save the short twitter of some busied bird, Or a faint rustle made amongst the trees By wasting fragments of a broken breeze. Along the wild and wreck-strewed paths I wind, Watching earth’s happiness with quiet mind, And see a beauty all unmarked till now Flushing each flowery nook and sunny brow; Wished peace returning like a bird of calm, Brings to the wounded world its blessed healing balm. On nerveless, tuneless lines how sadly Ringing rhymes may wasted be, While blank verse oft is mere prose madly Striving to be poetry: While prose that’s craggy as a mountain May Apollo’s sun-robe don, Or hold the well-spring of a fountain Bright as that in Helicon. 28 ~ Charles Harpur

274:"What knight or what vassal will be so bold As to plunge in the gulf below? See! I hurl in its depths a goblet of gold, Already the waters over it flow. The man who can bring back the goblet to me, May keep it henceforward,his own it shall be." Thus speaks the king, and he hurls from the height Of the cliffs that, rugged and steep, Hang over the boundless sea, with strong might, The goblet afar, in the bellowing deep. "And who'll be so daring,I ask it once more, As to plunge in these billows that wildly roar?" And the vassals and knights of high degree Hear his words, but silent remain. They cast their eyes on the raging sea, And none will attempt the goblet to gain. And a third time the question is asked by the king: "Is there none that will dare in the gulf now to spring?" Yet all as before in silence stand, When a page, with a modest pride, Steps out of the timorous squirely band, And his girdle and mantle soon throws aside, And all the knights, and the ladies too, The noble stripling with wonderment view. And when he draws nigh to the rocky brow, And looks in the gulf so black, The waters that she had swallowed but now, The howling Charybdis is giving back; And, with the distant thunder's dull sound. From her gloomy womb they all-foaming rebound. And it boils and it roars, and it hisses and seethes, As when water and fire first blend; To the sky spurts the foam in steam-laden wreaths, And wave presses hard upon wave without end. And the ocean will never exhausted be, As if striving to bring forth another sea. But at length the wild tumult seems pacified, And blackly amid the white swell A gaping chasm its jaws opens wide, As if leading down to the depths of hell: And the howling billows are seen by each eye Down the whirling funnel all madly to fly. Then quickly, before the breakers rebound, The stripling commends him to Heaven, Anda scream of horror is heard around, And now by the whirlpool away he is driven, And secretly over the swimmer brave Close the jaws, and he vanishes 'neath the dark wave. O'er the watery gulf dread silence now lies, But the deep sends up a dull yell, And from mouth to mouth thus trembling it flies: "Courageous stripling, oh, fare thee well!" And duller and duller the howls recommence, While they pause in anxious and fearful suspense. "If even thy crown in the gulf thou shouldst fling, And shouldst say, 'He who brings it to me Shall wear it henceforward, and be the king,' Thou couldst tempt me not e'en with that precious foe; What under the howling deep is concealed To no happy living soul is revealed!" Full many a ship, by the whirlpool held fast, Shoots straightway beneath the mad wave, And, dashed to pieces, the hull and the mast Emerge from the all-devouring grave, And the roaring approaches still nearer and nearer, Like the howl of the tempest, still clearer and clearer. And it boils and it roars, and it hisses and seethes, As when water and fire first blend; To the sky spurts the foam in steam-laden wreaths, And wave passes hard upon wave without end. And, with the distant thunder's dull sound, From the ocean-womb they all-bellowing bound. And lo! from the darkly flowing tide Comes a vision white as a swan, And an arm and a glistening neck are descried, With might and with active zeal steering on; And 'tis he, and behold! his left hand on high Waves the goblet, while beaming with joy is his eye. Then breathes he deeply, then breathes he long, And blesses the light of the day; While gladly exclaim to each other the throng: "He lives! he is here! he is not the sea's prey! From the tomb, from the eddying waters' control, The brave one has rescued his living soul!" And he comes, and they joyously round him stand; At the feet of the monarch he falls, The goblet he, kneeling, puts in his hand, And the king to his beauteous daughter calls, Who fills it with sparkling wine to the brim; The youth turns to the monarch, and speaks thus to him: "Long life to the king! Let all those be glad Who breathe in the light of the sky! For below all is fearful, of moment sad; Let not man to tempt the immortals e'er try, Let him never desire the thing to see That with terror and night they veil graciously." "I was torn below with the speed of light, When out of a cavern of rock Rushed towards me a spring with furious might; I was seized by the twofold torrent's wild shock, And like a top, with a whirl and a bound, Despite all resistance, was whirled around." "Then God pointed out,for to Him I cried In that terrible moment of need, A craggy reef in the gulf's dark side; I seized it in haste, and from death was then freed. And there, on sharp corals, was hanging the cup, The fathomless pit had else swallowed it up." "For under me lay it, still mountain-deep, In a darkness of purple-tinged dye, And though to the ear all might seem then asleep With shuddering awe 'twas seen by the eye How the salamanders' and dragons' dread forms Filled those terrible jaws of hell with their swarms." "There crowded, in union fearful and black, In a horrible mass entwined, The rock-fish, the ray with the thorny back, And the hammer-fish's misshapen kind, And the shark, the hyena dread of the sea, With his angry teeth, grinned fiercely on me." "There hung I, by fulness of terror possessed, Where all human aid was unknown, Amongst phantoms, the only sensitive breast, In that fearful solitude all alone, Where the voice of mankind could not reach to mine ear, 'Mid the monsters foul of that wilderness drear." "Thus shuddering methoughtwhen a something crawled near, And a hundred limbs it out-flung, And at me it snapped;in my mortal fear, I left hold of the coral to which I had clung; Then the whirlpool seized on me with maddened roar, Yet 'twas well, for it brought me to light once more." The story in wonderment hears the king, And he says, "The cup is thine own, And I purpose also to give thee this ring, Adorned with a costly, a priceless stone, If thou'lt try once again, and bring word to me What thou saw'st in the nethermost depths of the sea." His daughter hears this with emotions soft, And with flattering accent prays she: "That fearful sport, father, attempt not too oft! What none other would dare, he hath ventured for thee; If thy heart's wild longings thou canst not tame, Let the knights, if they can, put the squire to shame." The king then seizes the goblet in haste, In the gulf he hurls it with might: "When the goblet once more in my hands thou hast placed, Thou shalt rank at my court as the noblest knight, And her as a bride thou shalt clasp e'en to-day, Who for thee with tender compassion doth pray." Then a force, as from Heaven, descends on him there, And lightning gleams in his eye, And blushes he sees on her features so fair, And he sees her turn pale, and swooning lie; Then eager the precious guerdon to win, For life or for death, lo! he plunges him in! The breakers they hear, and the breakers return, Proclaimed by a thundering sound; They bend o'er the gulf with glances that yearn, And the waters are pouring in fast around; Though upwards and downwards they rush and they rave, The youth is brought back by no kindly wave. ~ Friedrich Schiller, The Driver

275:The Three Guides Spirit of earth! thy hand is chill. I've felt its icy clasp; And shuddering I remember still That stony-hearted grasp. Thine eye bids love and joy depart, O turn its gaze from me! It presses down my sinking heart; -I will not walk with thee! 'Wisdom is mine,' I've heard thee say, 'Beneath my searching eye, All mist and darkness melt away, Phantoms and fables fly. Before me, truth can stand alone, The naked, solid truth: And man matured my worth will own, If I am shunned by youth. 'Firm is my tread, and sure, though slow: My footsteps never slide: And he that follows me shall know I am the surest guide.' Thy boast is vain: but were it true That thou couldst safely steer Life's rough and devious pathway through Such guidance I should fear. How could I bear to walk for aye, With eyes to earthward prone, O'er trampled weeds, and miry clay, And sand, and flinty stone. Never the glorious view to greet Of hill and dale and sky, To see that Nature's charms are sweet Or feel that Heaven is nigh? 121 5 If, in my heart arose a spring -A gush of thought divine, At once stagnation thou wouldst bring With that cold touch of thine! If glancing up, I sought to snatch But one glimpse of the sky, My baffled gaze would only catch Thy heartless, cold grey eye. If, to the breezes wandering near, I listened eagerly, And deemed an angel's tongue to hear That whispered hope to me, That heavenly music would be drowned In thy harsh, droning voice, Nor inward thought, nor sight, nor sound Might my sad soul rejoice. Dull is thine ear; unheard by thee The still small voice of Heaven. Thine eyes are dim, and cannot see The helps that God has given. There is a bridge, o'er every flood, Which thou canst not perceive, A path, through every tangled wood; But thou will not believe. Striving to make thy way by force, Toil-spent and bramble torn, Thou'lt fell the tree that stops thy course, And burst through briar and thorn; And pausing by the river's side, Poor reasoner, thou wilt deem, By casting pebbles in its tide To cross the swelling stream. 122 Right through the flinty rock thou'lt try Thy toilsome way to bore, Regardless of the pathway nigh That would conduct thee o'er. Not only are thou, then, unkind, And freezing cold to me, But unbelieving, deaf, and blind -I will not walk with thee! 10 Spirit of Pride! thy wings are strong; Thine eyes like lightning shine; Ecstatic joys to thee belong And powers almost divine. But 'tis a false destructive blaze, Within those eyes I see, Turn hence their fascinating gaze -I will not follow thee! 11 'Coward and fool!' thou mayst reply; 'Walk on the common sod; Go trace, with timid foot and eye, The steps by others trod. 'Tis best the beaten path to keep, The ancient faith to hold, To pasture with thy fellow sheep, And lie within the fold. 12 'Cling to the earth, poor grovelling worm, 'Tis not for thee to soar Against the fury of the storm, Amid the thunder's roar. There's glory in that daring strife Unknown, undreamt by thee; There's speechless rapture in the life Of those who follow me!' 13 Yes; I have seen thy votaries oft, Upheld by thee their guide, 123 In strength and courage mount aloft The steepy mountain-side; I've seen them stand against the sky, And gazing from below Beheld thy lightning in their eye, Thy triumph on their brow. 14 Oh! I have felt what glory then -What transport must be theirs' So far above their fellow men, Above their toils and cares, Inhaling nature's purest breath, Her riches round them spread, The wide expanse of earth beneath, Heaven's glories overhead! 15 But -- I have seen them downwards dashed, Down to a bloody grave; And still thy ruthless eye has flashed, Thy strong hand did not save! I've seen some o'er the mountain's brow Sustained a while by thee, O'er rocks of ice and hills of snow Bound fearless, wild, and free. 16 Bold and exultant was their mien While thou didst cheer them on; But evening fell -- and then, I ween, Their faithless guide was gone. Alas! how fared thy favourites then -Lone, helpless, weary, cold -Did ever wanderer find again The path he left of old? 17 Where is their glory, where the pride That swelled their hearts before; Where now the courage that defied The mightiest tempest's roar? 124 What shall they do when night grows black, When angry storms arise? Who now will lead them to the track Thou taught'st them to despise? 18 Spirit of Pride! it needs not this To make me shun thy wiles, Renounce thy triumph and thy bliss, Thy honours and thy smiles. Bright as thou art, and bold, and strong, That fierce glance wins not me, And I abhor thy scoffing tongue -I will not walk with thee! 19 Spirit of Faith! be thou my guide, O, clasp my hand in thine, And let me never quit thy side: Thy comforts are divine! Earth calls thee 'blind misguided one', But who can show like thee Past things that have been seen and done, And things that are to be? 20 Secrets concealed from Nature's ken, Who like thee can declare; Or who like thee to erring men God's holy will can bear? Pride scorns thee for thy lowly mien; But who like thee can rise Above this restless, clouded scene, -Beyond the holy skies? 21 Meek is thine eye and soft thy voice But wondrous is thy might To make the wretched soul rejoice, To give the simple light. And still to all that seek thy way, Such magic power is given -- 125 E'en while their footsteps press the clay Their souls ascend to heaven. 22 Danger surrounds them, pain and woe Their portion here must be; But only they that trust thee know What comfort dwells with thee, Strength to sustain their drooping powers And vigour to defend. Thou pole-star of my darkest hours, Affliction's firmest friend! 23 Day does not always mark our way; Night's terrors oft appal, But lead me, and I cannot stray; Hold me: I shall not fall; Sustain me, I shall never faint, How rough soe'er may be My upward road, -- nor moan nor plaint Shall mar my trust in thee. 24 Narrow the path by which we go; And oft it turns aside, From pleasant meads where roses blow And murmuring waters glide; Where flowery turf lies green and soft, And gentle gales are sweet, To where dark mountains frown aloft, Hard rocks distress the feet. 25 Deserts beyond lie bleak and bare, And keen winds round us blow; But if thy hand conducts me there, The way is right, I know. I have no wish to turn away: My spirit does not quail. How can it while I hear thee say, 'Press forward -- and prevail.'? 126 26 Even above the tempest's swell, I hear thy voice of love. Of hope and peace I hear thee tell, And that blest home above. Through pain and death, I can rejoice, If but thy strength be mine. Earth hath no music like thy voice; Life owns no joy like thine! 27 Spirit of Faith! I'll go with thee: Thou, if I hold thee fast, Wilt guide, defend, and strengthen me, And bring me home at last. By thy help, all things I can do; In thy strength all things bear. Teach me, for thou art just and true, Smile on me, -- thou art fair! ~ Anne Brontë

276:Hark! the owlet flaps her wing, In the pathless dell beneath, Hark! night ravens loudly sing, Tidings of despair and death.-- Horror covers all the sky, Clouds of darkness blot the moon, Prepare! for mortal thou must die, Prepare to yield thy soul up soon-- Fierce the tempest raves around, Fierce the volleyed lightnings fly, Crashing thunder shakes the ground, Fire and tumult fill the sky. Hark! the tolling village bell, Tells the hour of midnight come, Now can blast the powers of Hell, Fiend-like goblins now can roam-- See! his crest all stained with rain, A warrior hastening speeds his way, He starts, looks round him, starts again, And sighs for the approach of day. See! his frantic steed he reins, See! he lifts his hands on high, Implores a respite to his pains, From the powers of the sky.-- He seeks an Inn, for faint from toil, Fatigue had bent his lofty form, To rest his wearied limbs awhile, Fatigued with wandering and the storm. ... ... Slow the door is opened wide-- With trackless tread a stranger came, His form Majestic, slow his stride, He sate, nor spake,--nor told his name-- Terror blanched the warrior's cheek, Cold sweat from his forehead ran, In vain his tongue essayed to speak,-- At last the stranger thus began: 'Mortal! thou that saw'st the sprite, Tell me what I wish to know, Or come with me before 'tis light, Where cypress trees and mandrakes grow. 'Fierce the avenging Demon's ire, Fiercer than the wintry blast, Fiercer than the lightning's fire, When the hour of twilight's past'-- The warrior raised his sunken eye. It met the stranger's sullen scowl, 'Mortal! Mortal! thou must die,' In burning letters chilled his soul. WARRIOR: Stranger! whoso'er you are, I feel impelled my tale to tell-- Horrors stranger shalt thou hear, Horrors drear as those of Hell. O'er my Castle silence reigned, Late the night and drear the hour, When on the terrace I observed, A fleeting shadowy mist to lower.-- Light the cloud as summer fog, Which transient shuns the morning beam; Fleeting as the cloud on bog, That hangs or on the mountain stream.-- Horror seized my shuddering brain, Horror dimmed my starting eye. In vain I tried to speak,--In vain My limbs essayed the spot to fly-- At last the thin and shadowy form, With noiseless, trackless footsteps came,-- Its light robe floated on the storm, Its head was bound with lambent flame. In chilling voice drear as the breeze Which sweeps along th' autumnal ground, Which wanders through the leafless trees, Or the mandrake's groan which floats around. 'Thou art mine and I am thine, 'Till the sinking of the world, I am thine and thou art mine, 'Till in ruin death is hurled-- 'Strong the power and dire the fate, Which drags me from the depths of Hell, Breaks the tomb's eternal gate, Where fiendish shapes and dead men yell, 'Haply I might ne'er have shrank From flames that rack the guilty dead, Haply I might ne'er have sank On pleasure's flowery, thorny bed-- --'But stay! no more I dare disclose, Of the tale I wish to tell, On Earth relentless were my woes, But fiercer are my pangs in Hell-- 'Now I claim thee as my love, Lay aside all chilling fear, My affection will I prove, Where sheeted ghosts and spectres are! 'For thou art mine, and I am thine, 'Till the dreaded judgement day, I am thine, and thou art mine-- Night is past--I must away.' Still I gazed, and still the form Pressed upon my aching sight, Still I braved the howling storm, When the ghost dissolved in night.-- Restless, sleepless fled the night, Sleepless as a sick mans bed, When he sighs for morning light, When he turns his aching head,-- Slow and painful passed the day. Melancholy seized my brain, Lingering fled the hours away, Lingering to a wretch in pain.-- At last came night, ah! horrid hour, Ah! chilling time that wakes the dead, When demons ride the clouds that lower, --The phantom sat upon my bed. In hollow voice, low as the sound Which in some charnel makes its moan, What floats along the burying ground, The phantom claimed me as her own. Her chilling finger on my head, With coldest touch congealed my soul-- Cold as the finger of the dead, Or damps which round a tombstone roll-- Months are passed in lingering round, Every night the spectre comes, With thrilling step it shakes the ground, With thrilling step it round me roams-- Stranger! I have told to thee, All the tale I have to tell-- Stranger! canst thou tell to me, How to scape the powers of Hell?-- STRANGER: Warrior! I can ease thy woes, Wilt thou, wilt thou, come with me-- Warrior! I can all disclose, Follow, follow, follow me. Yet the tempest's duskiest wing, Its mantle stretches o'er the sky, Yet the midnight ravens sing, 'Mortal! Mortal! thou must die.' At last they saw a river clear, That crossed the heathy path they trod, The Strangers look was wild and drear, The firm Earth shook beneath his nod-- He raised a wand above his head, He traced a circle on the plain, In a wild verse he called the dead, The dead with silent footsteps came. A burning brilliance on his head, Flaming filled the stormy air, In a wild verse he called the dead, The dead in motley crowd were there.-- 'Ghasta! Ghasta! come along, Bring thy fiendish crowd with thee, Quickly raise th' avenging Song, Ghasta! Ghasta! come to me.' Horrid shapes in mantles gray, Flit athwart the stormy night, 'Ghasta! Ghasta! come away, Come away before 'tis light.' See! the sheeted Ghost they bring, Yelling dreadful oer the heath, Hark! the deadly verse they sing, Tidings of despair and death! The yelling Ghost before him stands, See! she rolls her eyes around, Now she lifts her bony hands, Now her footsteps shake the ground. STRANGER: Phantom of Theresa say, Why to earth again you came, Quickly speak, I must away! Or you must bleach for aye in flame,-- PHANTOM: Mighty one I know thee now, Mightiest power of the sky, Know thee by thy flaming brow, Know thee by thy sparkling eye. That fire is scorching! Oh! I came, From the caverned depth of Hell, My fleeting false Rodolph to claim, Mighty one! I know thee well.-- STRANGER: Ghasta! seize yon wandering sprite, Drag her to the depth beneath, Take her swift, before 'tis light, Take her to the cells of death! Thou that heardst the trackless dead, In the mouldering tomb must lie, Mortal! look upon my head, Mortal! Mortal! thou must die. Of glowing flame a cross was there, Which threw a light around his form, Whilst his lank and raven hair, Floated wild upon the storm.-- The warrior upwards turned his eyes, Gazed upon the cross of fire, There sat horror and surprise, There sat Gods eternal ire.-- A shivering through the Warrior flew, Colder than the nightly blast, Colder than the evening dew, When the hour of twilights past.-- Thunder shakes th' expansive sky, Shakes the bosom of the heath, 'Mortal! Mortal! thou must die'-- The warrior sank convulsed in death. JANUARY, 1810. The idea of the following tale was taken from a few unconnected German Stanzas.--The principal Character is evidently the Wandering Jew, and although not mentioned by name, the burning Cross on his forehead undoubtedly alludes to that superstition, so prevalent in the part of Germany called the Black Forest, where this scene is supposed to lie. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Ghasta Or, The Avenging Demon!!!

277:Look Seaward, Sentinel! Look seaward, Sentinel, and tell the land What you behold. Sentinel I see the deep-ploughed furrows of the main Bristling with harvest; funnel, and keel, and shroud, Heaving and hurrying hither through gale and cloud, Winged by their burdens; argosies of grain, Flocks of strange breed and herds of southern strain, Fantastic stuffs and fruits of tropic bloom, Antarctic fleece and equatorial spice, Cargoes of cotton, and flax, and silk, and rice, Food for the hearth and staples for the loom: Huge vats of sugar, casks of wine and oil, Summoned from every sea to one sole shore By Empire's sceptre; the converging store Of Trade's pacific universal spoil. And heaving and hurrying hitherward to bring Tribute from every zone, they lift their voices, And, as a strong man revels and rejoices, They loudly and lustily chant, and this the song they sing. Chorus of Home-coming Ships From the uttermost bound Of the wind and the foam, From creek and from sound, We are hastening home. We are laden with treasure From ransacked seas, To charm your leisure, To grace your ease. We have trodden the billows, And tracked the ford, To soften your pillows, To heap your board. The hills have been shattered, The forests scattered, Our white sails tattered, 333 To swell your hoard. Is it blossom, or fruit, or Seed, you crave? The land is your suitor, The sea your slave. We have raced with the swallows, And threaded the floes Where the walrus wallows Mid melting snows; Sought regions torrid, And realms of sleet, To gem your forehead, To swathe your feet. And behold, now we tender, With pennons unfurled, For your comfort and splendour, The wealth of the world. II Look landward, Sentinel, and tell the sea What you behold. Sentinel I see a land of liberty and peace, Ancient in glory and strength, but young in mien, Like immemorial forest Spring makes green, And whose boughs broaden as the years increase: Where ruminating hide and grazing fleece Dapple lush meadows diapered with flowers, Lambs bleat, birds carol, rosy children roam, The glad hind whistles as he wendeth home, And red roofs nestle under gray church-towers: Whose sons have in their fearless eyes the light Of centuries of fame and battles won And Empire ranging roundward with the sun; Whose fair frank daughters gleam upon the sight Fresh as the dawn and florid as the Spring; And, as from lowly porch and lordly dwelling They sally forth and meet, with voices swelling Harmoniously they chant, and this the song they sing. Chorus of Islanders 334 Blest be the cliffs and the crags that girdle Our island home, And blest, thrice blest, the tempests that scourge and curdle The sea into foam. For the nations over the wave eat, sleep, and labour, In doubt and dread; The spear is the child at their threshold, the naked sabre The bride by their bed. But we behind bulwarks of brine and rampart of breakers, Year after year, Drop the seed in the drill and the furrow, and harvest our acres, And feel no fear. While they wattle their flocks, and remember the past, and shudder, And finger the sword, Our lambs go safe to the ewes, our calves to the udder, Our fruits to the board. Welcome the sleet that blinds and the blasts that buffet, And welcome the roar Of the storms that swoop on the sea and rend and rough it Around our shore. For in safety the yearling fattens, the heifer browses, The herds increase; In safety we fondle our babes, in safety our spouses, In safety, freedom, and peace. III Look again seaward, but beyond the sea, And say what you behold. Sentinel I see weeping and wailing, and the bridegroom ruthlessly torn From the clinging arms of the bride, and I see and I hear Clanking of steel and clarions clamouring clear, And suckling mothers, wedded but forlorn, Cradling their babes amid the half-cut corn; Whose fathers, as the homely days grew ripe When fruits are plucked and mellow harvest stored, Felt the soft curving sickle from their gripe Timelessly wrenched, and in its place a sword. And I see the nations, like to restless waves, Surging against each other, withal afraid To close and clash, lest blade prove strong as blade, 335 And even the victor win but worthless graves. And, wearying of the days and nights that bring No respite nor reward, they moan and murmur Under their breath, until with accents firmer They sadly and surlily chant, and this the song they sing. Chorus of Armed Nations How long shall we, we only, bear the burden And sweat beneath the strain Of iron Peace, while others gain the guerdon, And prosper on our pain? Lo! in their fancied fortress girt with waters That neither fall nor fail, They hear of rapine and they read of slaughters, As of some touching tale. No more they care to subjugate the billow, Or dominate the blast; Supine they lie on the luxurious pillow Of their resplendent Past. Lulled into arrogant languor by the glories Of their adventurous sires, They tell each other old heroic stories By comfortable fires. Why should they pile up wealth who do not labour? Why, sowing not, should reap? Let us steal out, and with unslumbering sabre Assassinate their sleep. IV Look again landward, Sentinel, and say What there you now behold. Sentinel I see the sports deserted on the green, And song and revel hushed within the hall; And I hear strong voices to strong voices call To muster round the shore in martial sheen. And north of Trent and south of Thames are seen Furnace and forge and factory vomiting fire, While swarthy faces, labouring through the night, On giant anvils giant hammers smite, 336 From molten metal moulding hoop and tire. In port and arsenal rhythmic thunders ring, And through their gateways laden tumbrils rattle; And England's sinewy striplings, trim for battle, In unison cheer and chant, and this the song they sing. Chorus of Islanders Sweet are the ways of peace, and sweet The gales that fan the foam That sports with silvery-twinkling feet Around our island home. But, should the winds of battle shrill, And the billows crisp their mane, Down to the shore, from vale, from hill, From hamlet, town, and plain! The ocean our forefathers trod In many a forest keel, Shall feel our feet once more, but shod With ligaments of steel. Ours is the Sea, to rule, to keep, Our realm, and, if ye would Challenge dominion of the deep, Then make that challenge good. But ware ye lest your vauntings proud Be coffined in the surge, Our breakers be for you a shroud, Our battle-song your dirge. Peaceful within our peaceful home We ply the loom and share, Peaceful above the peaceful foam Our pennons float and fare; Bearing, for other peaceful lands, Through sunshine, storm, and snow, The harvest of industrious hands Peacefully to and fro. But, so ye will it, then our sails The blasts of war shall swell, And hold and hulk, now choked with bales, Be crammed with shot and shell. The waves impregnably shall bear Our bulwarks on their breast, And eyes of steel unsleeping glare 337 Across each billowy crest; Along the trenches of the deep Unflinching faces shine, And Britain's stalwart sailors keep The bastions of the brine. Ocean itself, from strand to strand, Our citadel shall be, And, though the world together band, Not all the legions of the land Shall ever wrest from England's hand The Sceptre of the Sea. ~ Alfred Austin

278:Winter-Store Subtly conscious, all awake, Let us clear our eyes, and break Through the cloudy chrysalis, See the wonder as it is. Down a narrow alley, blind, Touch and vision, heart and mind, Turned sharply inward, still we plod, Till the calmly smiling god Leaves us, and our spirits grow More thin, more acrid, as we go. Creeping by the sullen wall, We forego the power to see, The threads that bind us to the All, God or the Immensity; Whereof on the eternal road Man is but a passing mode. Too blind we are, too little see Of the magic pageantry, Every minute, every hour, From the cloudflake to the flower, Forever old, forever strange, Issuing in perpetual change From the rainbow gates of Time. But he who through this common air Surely knows the great and fair, What is lovely, what sublime, Becomes in an increasing span, One with earth and one with man, One, despite these mortal scars, With the planets and the stars; And Nature from her holy place, Bending with unveiled face, Fills him in her divine employ With her own majestic joy. Up the fielded slopes at morn, Where light wefts of shadow pass, 278 Films upon the bending corn, I shall sweep the purple grass. Sun-crowned heights and mossy woods, And the outer solitudes, Mountain-valleys, dim with pine, Shall be home and haunt of mine. I shall search in crannied hollows, Where the sunlight scarcely follows, And the secret forest brook Murmurs, and from nook to nook Forever downward curls and cools, Frothing in the bouldered pools. Many a noon shall find me laid In the pungent balsam shade, Where sharp breezes spring and shiver On some deep rough-coasted river, And the plangent waters come, Amber-hued and streaked with foam; Where beneath the sunburnt hills All day long the crowded mills With remorseless champ and scream Overlord the sluicing stream, And the rapids' iron roar Hammers at the forest's core; Where corded rafts creep slowly on, Glittering in the noonday sun, And the tawny river-dogs, Shepherding the branded logs, Bind and heave with cadenced cry; Where the blackened tugs go by, Panting hard and straining slow, Laboring at the weighty tow, Flat-nosed barges all in trim, Creeping in long cumbrous line, Loaded to the water's brim With the clean, cool-scented pine. Perhaps in some low meadow-land, Stretching wide on either hand, I shall see the belted bees Rocking with the tricksy breeze 279 In the spired meadow-sweet, Or with eager trampling feet Burrowing in the boneset blooms, Treading out the dry perfumes. Where sun-hot hay-fields newly mown Climb the hillside ruddy brown, I shall see the haymakers, While the noonday scarcely stirs, Brown of neck and booted gray, Tossing up the rustling hay, While the hay-racks bend and rock, As they take each scented cock, Jolting over dip and rise; And the wavering butterflies O'er the spaces brown and bare Light and wander here and there. I shall stray by many a stream, Where the half-shut lilies gleam, Napping out the sultry days In the quiet secluded bays; Where the tasseled rushes tower, O'er the purple pickerel-flower, And the floating dragon-flyAzure glint and crystal gleamWatches o'er the burnished stream With his eye of ebony; Where the bull-frog lolls at rest On his float of lily-leaves, That the swaying water weaves, And distends his yellow breast, Lowing out from shore to shore With a hollow vibrant roar; Where the softest wind that blows, As it lightly comes and goes, O'er the jungled river meads, Stirs a whisper in the reeds, And wakes the crowded bull-rushes From their stately reveries, Flashing through their long-leaved hordes Like a brandishing of swords; There, too, the frost-like arrow-flowers 280 Tremble to the golden core, Children of enchanted hours, Whom the rustling river bore In the night's bewildered noon, Woven of water and the moon. I shall hear the grasshoppers From the parched grass rehearse, And with drowsy note prolong Evermore the same thin song. I shall hear the crickets tell Stories by the humming well, And mark the locust, with quaint eyes, Caper in his cloak of gray Like a jester in disguise Rattling by the dusty way. I shall dream by upland fences, Where the season's wealth condenses Over many a weedy wreck, Wild, uncared-for, desert places, That sovereign Beauty loves to deck With her softest, dearest graces. There the long year dreams in quiet, And the summer's strength runs riot. Shall I not remember these, Deep in winter reveries? Berried brier and thistle-bloom, And milkweed with its dense perfume; Slender vervain towering up In a many-branched cup, Like a candlestick, each spire Kindled with a violet fire; Matted creepers and wild cherries, Purple-bunched elderberries, And on scanty plots of sod Groves of branchy goldenrod. What though autumn mornings now, Winterward with glittering brow, Stiffen in the silver grass; And what though robins flock and pass, 281 With subdued and sober call, To the old year's funeral; Though October's crimson leaves Rustle at the gusty door, And the tempest round the eaves Alternate with pipe and roar; I sit, as erst, unharmed, secure, Conscious that my store is sure, Whatsoe'er the fenced fields, Or the untilled forest yields Of unhurt remembrances, Or thoughts, far-glimpsed, half-followed, these I have reaped and laid away, A treasure of unwinnowed grain, To the garner packed and gray Gathered without toil or strain. And when the darker days shall come, And the fields are white and dumb; When our fires are half in vain, And the crystal starlight weaves Mockeries of summer leaves, Pictured on the icy pane; When the high aurora gleams Far above the Arctic streams Like a line of shifting spears, And the broad pine-circled meres, Glimmering in that spectral light, Thunder through the northern night; Then within the bolted door I shall con my summer store; Though the fences scarcely show Black above the drifted snow, Though the icy sweeping wind Whistle in the empty tree, Safe within the sheltered mind, I shall feed on memory. Yet across the windy night Comes upon its wings a cry; Fashioned forms and modes take flight, And a vision sad and high 282 Of the laboring world down there, Where the lights burn red and warm, Pricks my soul with sudden stare, Glowing through the veils of storm. In the city yonder sleep Those who smile and those who weep, Those whose lips are set with care, Those whose brows are smooth and fair; Mourners whom the dawning light Shall grapple with an old distress; Lovers folded at midnight In their bridal happiness; Pale watchers by beloved beds, Fallen a-drowse with nodding heads, Whom sleep captured by surprise, With the circles round their eyes; Maidens with quiet-taken breath, Dreaming of enchanted bowers; Old men with the mask of death; Little children soft as flowers; Those who wake wild-eyed and start In some madness of the heart; Those whose lips and brows of stone Evil thoughts have graven upon, Shade by shade and line by line, Refashioning what was once divine. All these sleep, and through the night, Comes a passion and a cry, With a blind sorrow and a might, I know not whence, I know not why, A something I cannot control, A nameless hunger of the soul. It holds me fast. In vain, in vain, I remember how of old I saw the ruddy race of men, Through the glittering world outrolled, A gay-smiling multitude, All immortal, all divine, Treading in a wreathed line By a pathway through a wood. 283 ~ Archibald Lampman

279:Dedication To Churchill's Sermons. The manuscript of this unfinished poem was found among the few papers Churchill left behind him. Health to great Glo'ster!--from a man unknown, Who holds thy health as dearly as his own, Accept this greeting--nor let modest fear Call up one maiden blush--I mean not here To wound with flattery; 'tis a villain's art, And suits not with the frankness of my heart. Truth best becomes an orthodox divine, And, spite of Hell, that character is mine: To speak e'en bitter truths I cannot fear; But truth, my lord, is panegyric here. Health to great Glo'ster!--nor, through love of ease, Which all priests love, let this address displease. I ask no favour, not one _note_ I crave, And when this busy brain rests in the grave, (For till that time it never can have rest) I will not trouble you with one bequest. Some humbler friend, my mortal journey done, More near in blood, a nephew or a son, In that dread hour executor I'll leave, For I, alas! have many to receive; To give, but little.--To great Glo'ster health! Nor let thy true and proper love of wealth Here take a false alarm--in purse though poor, In spirit I'm right proud, nor can endure The mention of a bribe--thy pocket's free: I, though a dedicator, scorn a fee. Let thy own offspring all thy fortunes share; I would not Allen rob, nor Allen's heir. Think not,--a thought unworthy thy great soul, Which pomps of this world never could control, Which never offer'd up at Power's vain shrine,-Think not that pomp and power can work on mine. 'Tis not thy name, though that indeed is great, 'Tis not the tinsel trumpery of state, 20 'Tis not thy title, Doctor though thou art, 'Tis not thy mitre, which hath won my heart. State is a farce; names are but empty things, Degrees are bought, and, by mistaken kings, Titles are oft misplaced; mitres, which shine So bright in other eyes, are dull in mine, Unless set off by virtue; who deceives Under the sacred sanction of lawn sleeves Enhances guilt, commits a double sin; So fair without, and yet so foul within. 'Tis not thy outward form, thy easy mien, Thy sweet complacency, thy brow serene, Thy open front, thy love-commanding eye, Where fifty Cupids, as in ambush, lie, Which can from sixty to sixteen impart The force of Love, and point his blunted dart; 'Tis not thy face, though that by Nature's made An index to thy soul; though there display'd We see thy mind at large, and through thy skin Peeps out that courtesy which dwells within; 'Tis not thy birth, for that is low as mine, Around our heads no lineal glories shine-But what is birth,--when, to delight mankind, Heralds can make those arms they cannot find, When thou art to thyself, thy sire unknown, A whole Welsh genealogy alone? No; 'tis thy inward man, thy proper worth, Thy right just estimation here on earth, Thy life and doctrine uniformly join'd, And flowing from that wholesome source, thy mind; Thy known contempt of Persecution's rod, Thy charity for man, thy love of God, Thy faith in Christ, so well approved 'mongst men, Which now give life and utterance to my pen. Thy virtue, not thy rank, demands my lays; 'Tis not the Bishop, but the Saint, I praise: Raised by that theme, I soar on wings more strong, And burst forth into praise withheld too long. Much did I wish, e'en whilst I kept those sheep Which, for my curse, I was ordain'd to keep,-Ordain'd, alas! to keep, through need, not choice, Those sheep which never heard their shepherd's voice, 21 Which did not know, yet would not learn their way, Which stray'd themselves, yet grieved that I should stray; Those sheep which my good father (on his bier Let filial duty drop the pious tear) Kept well, yet starved himself, e'en at that time Whilst I was pure and innocent of rhyme, Whilst, sacred Dulness ever in my view, Sleep at my bidding crept from pew to pew,-Much did I wish, though little could I hope, A friend in him who was the friend of Pope. His hand, said I, my youthful steps shall guide, And lead me safe where thousands fall beside; His temper, his experience, shall control, And hush to peace the tempest of my soul; His judgment teach me, from the critic school, How not to err, and how to err by rule; Instruct me, mingle profit with delight, Where Pope was wrong, where Shakspeare was not right; Where they are justly praised, and where, through whim, How little's due to them, how much to him. Raised 'bove the slavery of common rules, Of common-sense, of modern, ancient schools, Those feelings banish'd which mislead us all, Fools as we are, and which we Nature call, He by his great example might impart A better something, and baptize it Art; He, all the feelings of my youth forgot, Might show me what is taste by what is not; By him supported, with a proper pride, I might hold all mankind as fools beside; He (should a world, perverse and peevish grown, Explode his maxims and assert their own) Might teach me, like himself, to be content, And let their folly be their punishment; Might, like himself, teach his adopted son, 'Gainst all the world, to quote a Warburton. Fool that I was! could I so much deceive My soul with lying hopes? could I believe That he, the servant of his Maker sworn, The servant of his Saviour, would be torn From their embrace, and leave that dear employ, The cure of souls, his duty and his joy, 22 For toys like mine, and waste his precious time, On which so much depended, for a rhyme? Should he forsake the task he undertook, Desert his flock, and break his pastoral crook? Should he (forbid it, Heaven!) so high in place, So rich in knowledge, quit the work of grace, And, idly wandering o'er the Muses' hill, Let the salvation of mankind stand still? Far, far be that from thee--yes, far from thee Be such revolt from grace, and far from me The will to think it--guilt is in the thought-Not so, not so, hath Warburton been taught, Not so learn'd Christ. Recall that day, well known, When (to maintain God's honour, and his own) He call'd blasphemers forth; methinks I now See stern Rebuke enthroned on his brow, And arm'd with tenfold terrors--from his tongue, Where fiery zeal and Christian fury hung, Methinks I hear the deep-toned thunders roll, And chill with horror every sinner's soul, In vain they strive to fly--flight cannot save. And Potter trembles even in his grave-With all the conscious pride of innocence, Methinks I hear him, in his own defence, Bear witness to himself, whilst all men knew, By gospel rules his witness to be true. O glorious man! thy zeal I must commend, Though it deprived me of my dearest friend; The real motives of thy anger known, Wilkes must the justice of that anger own; And, could thy bosom have been bared to view, Pitied himself, in turn had pitied you. Bred to the law, you wisely took the gown, Which I, like Demas, foolishly laid down; Hence double strength our Holy Mother drew, Me she got rid of, and made prize of you. I, like an idle truant fond of play, Doting on toys, and throwing gems away, Grasping at shadows, let the substance slip; But you, my lord, renounced attorneyship With better purpose, and more noble aim, And wisely played a more substantial game: 23 Nor did Law mourn, bless'd in her younger son, For Mansfield does what Glo'ster would have done. Doctor! Dean! Bishop! Glo'ster! and My Lord! If haply these high titles may accord With thy meek spirit; if the barren sound Of pride delights thee, to the topmost round Of Fortune's ladder got, despise not one For want of smooth hypocrisy undone, Who, far below, turns up his wondering eye, And, without envy, sees thee placed so high: Let not thy brain (as brains less potent might) Dizzy, confounded, giddy with the height, Turn round, and lose distinction, lose her skill And wonted powers of knowing good from ill, Of sifting truth from falsehood, friends from foes; Let Glo'ster well remember how he rose, Nor turn his back on men who made him great; Let him not, gorged with power, and drunk with state, Forget what once he was, though now so high, How low, how mean, and full as poor as I. ~ Charles Churchill

280:'Tis the terror of tempest. The rags of the sail Are flickering in ribbons within the fierce gale: From the stark night of vapours the dim rain is driven, And when lightning is loosed, like a deluge from Heaven, She sees the black trunks of the waterspouts spin And bend, as if Heaven was ruining in, Which they seemed to sustain with their terrible mass As if ocean had sunk from beneath them: they pass To their graves in the deep with an earthquake of sound, And the waves and the thunders, made silent around, Leave the wind to its echo. The vessel, now tossed Through the low-trailing rack of the tempest, is lost In the skirts of the thunder-cloud: now down the sweep Of the wind-cloven wave to the chasm of the deep It sinks, and the walls of the watery vale Whose depths of dread calm are unmoved by the gale, Dim mirrors of ruin, hang gleaming about; While the surf, like a chaos of stars, like a rout Of death-flames, like whirlpools of fire-flowing iron, With splendour and terror the black ship environ, Or like sulphur-flakes hurled from a mine of pale fire In fountains spout oer it. In many a spire The pyramid-billows with white points of brine In the cope of the lightning inconstantly shine, As piercing the sky from the floor of the sea. The great ship seems splitting! it cracks as a tree, While an earthquake is splintering its root, ere the blast Of the whirlwind that stripped it of branches has passed. The intense thunder-balls which are raining from Heaven Have shattered its mast, and it stands black and riven. The chinks suck destruction. The heavy dead hulk On the living sea rolls an inanimate bulk, Like a corpse on the clay which is hungering to fold Its corruption around it. Meanwhile, from the hold, One deck is burst up by the waters below, And it splits like the ice when the thaw-breezes blow Oer the lakes of the desert! Who sit on the other? Is that all the crew that lie burying each other, Like the dead in a breach, round the foremast? Are those Twin tigers, who burst, when the waters arose, In the agony of terror, their chains in the hold; (What now makes them tame, is what then made them bold); Who crouch, side by side, and have driven, like a crank, The deep grip of their claws through the vibrating plank Are these all? Nine weeks the tall vessel had lain On the windless expanse of the watery plain, Where the death-darting sun cast no shadow at noon, And there seemed to be fire in the beams of the moon, Till a lead-coloured fog gathered up from the deep, Whose breath was quick pestilence; then, the cold sleep Crept, like blight through the ears of a thick field of corn, Oer the populous vessel. And even and morn, With their hammocks for coffins the seamen aghast Like dead men the dead limbs of their comrades cast Down the deep, which closed on them above and around, And the sharks and the dogfish their grave-clothes unbound, And were glutted like Jews with this manna rained down From God on their wilderness. One after one The mariners died; on the eve of this day, When the tempest was gathering in cloudy array, But seven remained. Six the thunder has smitten, And they lie black as mummies on which Time has written His scorn of the embalmer; the seventh, from the deck An oak-splinter pierced through his breast and his back, And hung out to the tempest, a wreck on the wreck. No more? At the helm sits a woman more fair Than Heaven, when, unbinding its star-braided hair, It sinks with the sun on the earth and the sea. She clasps a bright child on her upgathered knee; It laughs at the lightning, it mocks the mixed thunder Of the air and the sea, with desire and with wonder It is beckoning the tigers to rise and come near, It would play with those eyes where the radiance of fear Is outshining the meteors; its bosom beats high, The heart-fire of pleasure has kindled its eye, While its mothers is lustreless. Smile not, my child, But sleep deeply and sweetly, and so be beguiled Of the pang that awaits us, whatever that be, So dreadful since thou must divide it with me! Dream, sleep! This pale bosom, thy cradle and bed, Will it rock thee not, infant? Tis beating with dread! Alas! what is life, what is death, what are we, That when the ship sinks we no longer may be? What! to see thee no more, and to feel thee no more? To be after life what we have been before? Not to touch those sweet hands? Not to look on those eyes, Those lips, and that hair,all the smiling disguise Thou yet wearest, sweet Spirit, which I, day by day, Have so long called my child, but which now fades away Like a rainbow, and I the fallen shower?Lo! the ship Is settling, it topples, the leeward ports dip; The tigers leap up when they feel the slow brine Crawling inch by inch on them; hair, ears, limbs, and eyne, Stand rigid with horror; a loud, long, hoarse cry Bursts at once from their vitals tremendously, And tis borne down the mountainous vale of the wave, Rebounding, like thunder, from crag to cave, Mixed with the clash of the lashing rain, Hurried on by the might of the hurricane: The hurricane came from the west, and passed on By the path of the gate of the eastern sun, Transversely dividing the stream of the storm; As an arrowy serpent, pursuing the form Of an elephant, bursts through the brakes of the waste. Black as a cormorant the screaming blast, Between Ocean and Heaven, like an ocean, passed, Till it came to the clouds on the verge of the world Which, based on the sea and to Heaven upcurled, Like columns and walls did surround and sustain The dome of the tempest; it rent them in twain, As a flood rends its barriers of mountainous crag: And the dense clouds in many a ruin and rag, Like the stones of a temple ere earthquake has passed, Like the dust of its fall. on the whirlwind are cast; They are scattered like foam on the torrent; and where The wind has burst out through the chasm, from the air Of clear morning the beams of the sunrise flow in, Unimpeded, keen, golden, and crystalline, Banded armies of light and of air; at one gate They encounter, but interpenetrate. And that breach in the tempest is widening away, And the caverns of cloud are torn up by the day, And the fierce winds are sinking with weary wings, Lulled by the motion and murmurings And the long glassy heave of the rocking sea, And overhead glorious, but dreadful to see, The wrecks of the tempest, like vapours of gold, Are consuming in sunrise. The heaped waves behold The deep calm of blue Heaven dilating above, And, like passions made still by the presence of Love, Beneath the clear surface reflecting it slide Tremulous with soft influence; extending its tide From the Andes to Atlas, round mountain and isle, Round sea-birds and wrecks, paved with Heavens azure smile, The wide world of waters is vibrating. Where Is the ship? On the verge of the wave where it lay One tiger is mingled in ghastly affray With a sea-snake. The foam and the smoke of the battle Stain the clear air with sunbows; the jar, and the rattle Of solid bones crushed by the infinite stress Of the snakes adamantine voluminousness; And the hum of the hot blood that spouts and rains Where the gripe of the tiger has wounded the veins Swollen with rage, strength, and effort; the whirl and the splash As of some hideous engine whose brazen teeth smash The thin winds and soft waves into thunder; the screams And hissings crawl fast o'er the smooth ocean-streams, Each sound like a centipede. Near this commotion, A blue shark is hanging within the blue ocean, The fin-winged tomb of the victor. The other Is winning his way from the fate of his brother To his own with the speed of despair. Lo! a boat Advances; twelve rowers with the impulse of thought Urge on the keen keel,the brine foams. At the stern Three marksmen stand levelling. Hot bullets burn In the breast of the tiger, which yet bears him on To his refuge and ruin. One fragment alone,-- Tis dwindling and sinking, tis now almost gone,-- Of the wreck of the vessel peers out of the sea. With her left hand she grasps it impetuously. With her right she sustains her fair infant. Death, Fear, Love, Beauty, are mixed in the atmosphere, Which trembles and burns with the fervour of dread Around her wild eyes, her bright hand, and her head, Like a meteor of light oer the waters! her child Is yet smiling, and playing, and murmuring; so smiled The false deep ere the storm. Like a sister and brother The child and the ocean still smile on each other, Whilst Composed at Pisa early in 1820, and published with Prometheus Unbound in the same year. A transcript in Mrs. Shelleys handwriting is included in the Harvard manuscript book, where it is dated 'April, 1820.' ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, A Vision Of The Sea

281:I.   The everlasting universe of things   Flows through the mind, and rolls its rapid waves,   Now darknow glittering--now reflecting gloom--   Now lending splendour, where from secret springs   The source of human thought its tribute brings   Of waters--with a sound but half its own,   Such as a feeble brook will oft assume,   In the wild woods, among the mountains lone,   Where waterfalls around it leap for ever, Where woods and winds contend, and a vast river Over its rocks ceaselessly bursts and raves. II. Thus thou, Ravine of Arvedark, deep Ravine-- Thou many-colour'd, many-voiced vale, Over whose pines, and crags, and caverns sail Fast cloud-shadows and sunbeams: awful scene, Where Power in likeness of the Arve comes down From the ice-gulfs that gird his secret throne, Bursting through these dark mountains like the flame Of lightning through the tempest;--thou dost lie, Thy giant brood of pines around thee clinging, Children of elder time, in whose devotion The chainless winds still come and ever came To drink their odours, and their mighty swinging To hearan old and solemn harmony; Thine earthly rainbows stretch'd across the sweep Of the aethereal waterfall, whose veil Robes some unsculptur'd image; the strange sleep Which when the voices of the desert fail Wraps all in its own deep eternity; Thy caverns echoing to the Arve's commotion, A loud, lone sound no other sound can tame; Thou art pervaded with that ceaseless motion, Thou art the path of that unresting sound Dizzy Ravine! and when I gaze on thee I seem as in a trance sublime and strange To muse on my own separate fantasy, My own, my human mind, which passively Now renders and receives fast influencings, Holding an unremitting interchange With the clear universe of things around; One legion of wild thoughts, whose wandering wings Now float above thy darkness, and now rest Where that or thou art no unbidden guest, In the still cave of the witch Poesy, Seeking among the shadows that pass by Ghosts of all things that are, some shade of thee, Some phantom, some faint image; till the breast From which they fled recalls them, thou art there! III. Some say that gleams of a remoter world Visit the soul in sleep, that death is slumber, And that its shapes the busy thoughts outnumber Of those who wake and live.I look on high; Has some unknown omnipotence unfurl'd The veil of life and death? or do I lie In dream, and does the mightier world of sleep Spread far around and inaccessibly Its circles? For the very spirit fails, Driven like a homeless cloud from steep to steep That vanishes among the viewless gales!   Far, far above, piercing the infinite sky, Mont Blanc appearsstill, snowy, and serene; Its subject mountains their unearthly forms Pile around it, ice and rock; broad vales between Of frozen floods, unfathomable deeps, Blue as the overhanging heaven, that spread And wind among the accumulated steeps; A desert peopled by the storms alone, Save when the eagle brings some hunter's bone, And the wolf tracks her there--how hideously Its shapes are heap'd around! rude, bare, and high, Ghastly, and scarr'd, and riven. --Is this the scene Where the old Earthquake-daemon taught her young Ruin? Were these their toys? or did a sea Of fire envelop once this silent snow? None can reply -- all seems eternal now. The wilderness has a mysterious tongue Which teaches awful doubt, or faith so mild, So solemn, so serene, that man may be, But for such faith, with Nature reconcil'd; Thou hast a voice, great Mountain, to repeal Large codes of fraud and woe; not understood By all, but which the wise, and great, and good Interpret, or make felt, or deeply feel. IV. The fields, the lakes, the forests, and the streams, Ocean, and all the living things that dwell Within the daedal earth; lightning, and rain, Earthquake, and fiery flood, and hurricane, The torpor of the year when feeble dreams Visit the hidden buds, or dreamless sleep Holds every future leaf and flower; the bound With which from that detested trance they leap; The works and ways of man, their death and birth, And that of him and all that his may be; All things that move and breathe with toil and sound Are born and die; revolve, subside, and swell. Power dwells apart in its tranquillity, Remote, serene, and inaccessible: And this, the naked countenance of earth, On which I gaze, even these primeval mountains Teach the adverting mind. The glaciers creep Like snakes that watch their prey, from their far fountains, Slow rolling on; there, many a precipice Frost and the Sun in scorn of mortal power Have pil'd: dome, pyramid, and pinnacle, A city of death, distinct with many a tower And wall impregnable of beaming ice. Yet not a city, but a flood of ruin Is there, that from the boundaries of the sky Rolls its perpetual stream; vast pines are strewing Its destin'd path, or in the mangled soil Branchless and shatter'd stand; the rocks, drawn down From yon remotest waste, have overthrown The limits of the dead and living world, Never to be reclaim'd. The dwelling-place Of insects, beasts, and birds, becomes its spoil; Their food and their retreat for ever gone, So much of life and joy is lost. The race Of man flies far in dread; his work and dwelling Vanish, like smoke before the tempest's stream, And their place is not known. Below, vast caves Shine in the rushing torrents' restless gleam, Which from those secret chasms in tumult welling Meet in the vale, and one majestic River, The breath and blood of distant lands, for ever Rolls its loud waters to the ocean-waves, Breathes its swift vapours to the circling air. V. Mont Blanc yet gleams on high:--the power is there, The still and solemn power of many sights, And many sounds, and much of life and death. In the calm darkness of the moonless nights, In the lone glare of day, the snows descend Upon that Mountain; none beholds them there, Nor when the flakes burn in the sinking sun, Or the star-beams dart through them. Winds contend Silently there, and heap the snow with breath Rapid and strong, but silently! Its home The voiceless lightning in these solitudes Keeps innocently, and like vapour broods Over the snow. The secret Strength of things Which governs thought, and to the infinite dome Of Heaven is as a law, inhabits thee! And what were thou, and earth, and stars, and sea, If to the human mind's imaginings Silence and solitude were vacancy? Composed in Switzerland, July, 1816 (see date below). Printed at the end of the History of a Six Weeks' Tour published by Shelley in 1817, and reprinted with Posthumous Poems, 1824. Amongst the Boscombe manuscripts is a draft of this Ode, mainly in pencil, which has been collated by Dr. Garnett. 1. In the preface of Mary Shelley's History of a Six Weeks Tour (1817), Shelley writes: "the poem was composed under the immediate impression of the deep and powerful feelings excited by the objects which it attempts to describe\; and, as an undisciplined overflowing of the soul, rests its claim to approbation on an attempt to imitate the untamable wildness and inaccessible solemnity from which those feelings sprang." Shelley's prose account of his reaction to the first sight of Mont Blanc is in a letter written on July 24 to T. L. Peacock. 1-2. For a prose exposition of what Shelley calls "the intellectual philosophy," see his essay On Life: "I confess that I am one of those who am unable to refuse my assent to the conclusions of those philosophers who assert that nothing exists but as it is perceived .... The difference is merely nominal between those two classes of thought which are vulgarly distinguished by the names of ideas and of external objects. ... The existence of distinct individual minds ... is likewise found to be a delusion. The words, I, you, they, are ... merely marks employed to denote the different modifications of the one mind. ... By the word things is to be understood any object of thought. ... The relations of things remain unchanged [in the intellectual philosophy]\; and such is the material of our knowledge." 53. Unfurl'd. "Rolled back" or merely "furled" is the meaning required by the sense of the passage. "Upfurled" has been suggested as the word Shelley intended. 76-83. For a related argument see Queen Mab, VI, 197-219. 79. But for such faith. A surviving pencil draft of the poem reads "in such a faith," which confirms the likelihood that this phrase is intended to mean "even with such faith alone," rather than "except for such faith." ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Mont Blanc - Lines Written In The Vale of Chamouni

282:See you the towers, that, gray and old, Frown through the sunlight's liquid gold, Steep sternly fronting steep? The Hellespont beneath them swells, And roaring cleaves the Dardanelles, The rock-gates of the deep! Hear you the sea, whose stormy wave, From Asia, Europe clove in thunder? That sea which rent a world, cannot Rend love from love asunder! In Hero's, in Leander's heart, Thrills the sweet anguish of the dart Whose feather flies from love. All Hebe's bloom in Hero's cheek And his the hunter's steps that seek Delight, the hills above! Between their sires the rival feud Forbids their plighted hearts to meet; Love's fruits hang over danger's gulf, By danger made more sweet. Alone on Sestos' rocky tower, Where upward sent in stormy shower, The whirling waters foam, Alone the maiden sits, and eyes The cliffs of fair Abydos rise Afarher lover's home. Oh, safely thrown from strand to strand, No bridge can love to love convey; No boatman shoots from yonder shore, Yet Love has found the way. That love, which could the labyrinth pierce Which nerves the weak, and curbs the fierce, And wings with wit the dull; That love which o'er the furrowed land Bowedtame beneath young Jason's hand The fiery-snorting bull! Yes, Styx itself, that ninefold flows, Has love, the fearless, ventured o'er, And back to daylight borne the bride, From Pluto's dreary shore! What marvel then that wind and wave, Leander doth but burn to brave, When love, that goads him, guides! Still when the day, with fainter glimmer, Wanes palehe leaps, the daring swimmer, Amid the darkening tides; With lusty arms he cleaves the waves, And strikes for that dear strand afar; Where high from Hero's lonely tower Lone streams the beacon-star. In vain his blood the wave may chill, These tender arms can warm it still And, weary if the way, By many a sweet embrace, above All earthly boonscan liberal love The lover's toil repay, Until Aurora breaks the dream, And warns the loiterer to depart Back to the ocean's icy bed, Scared from that loving heart. So thirty suns have sped their flight Still in that theft of sweet delight Exult the happy pair; Caress will never pall caress, And joys that gods might envy, bless The single bride-night there. Ah! never he has rapture known, Who has not, where the waves are driven Upon the fearful shores of hell, Plucked fruits that taste of heaven! Now changing in their season are, The morning and the Hesper star; Nor see those happy eyes The leaves that withering droop and fall, Nor hear, when, from its northern hall, The neighboring winter sighs; Or, if they see, the shortening days But seem to them to close in kindness; For longer joys, in lengthening nights, They thank the heaven in blindness. It is the time, when night and day, In equal scales contend for sway Lone, on her rocky steep, Lingers the girl with wistful eyes That watch the sun-steeds down the skies, Careering towards the deep. Lulled lay the smooth and silent sea, A mirror in translucent calm, The breeze, along that crystal realm, Unmurmuring, died in balm. In wanton swarms and blithe array, The merry dolphins glide and play Amid the silver waves. In gray and dusky troops are seen, The hosts that serve the ocean-queen, Upborne from coral caves: Theyonly theyhave witnessed love To rapture steal its secret way: And Hecate [36] seals the only lips That could the tale betray! She marks in joy the lulled water, And Sestos, thus thy tender daughter, Soft-flattering, woos the sea! "Fair godand canst thou then betray? No! falsehood dwells with them that say That falsehood dwells with thee! Ah! faithless is the race of man, And harsh a father's heart can prove; But thee, the gentle and the mild, The grief of love can move!" "Within these hated walls of stone, Should I, repining, mourn alone, And fade in ceaseless care, But thou, though o'er thy giant tide, Nor bridge may span, nor boat may glide, Dost safe my lover bear. And darksome is thy solemn deep, And fearful is thy roaring wave; But wave and deep are won by love Thou smilest on the brave!" "Nor vainly, sovereign of the sea, Did Eros send his shafts to thee What time the rain of gold, Bright Helle, with her brother bore, How stirred the waves she wandered o'er, How stirred thy deeps of old! Swift, by the maiden's charms subdued, Thou cam'st from out the gloomy waves, And in thy mighty arms, she sank Into thy bridal caves." "A goddess with a god, to keep In endless youth, beneath the deep, Her solemn ocean-court! And still she smooths thine angry tides, Tames thy wild heart, and favoring guides The sailor to the port! Beautiful Helle, bright one, hear Thy lone adoring suppliant pray! And guide, O goddessguide my love Along the wonted way!" Now twilight dims the waters' flow, And from the tower, the beacon's glow Waves flickering o'er the main. Ah, where athwart the dismal stream, Shall shine the beacon's faithful beam The lover's eyes shall strain! Hark! sounds moan threatening from afar From heaven the blessed stars are gone More darkly swells the rising sea The tempest labors on! Along the ocean's boundless plains Lies nightin torrents rush the rains From the dark-bosomed cloud Red lightning skirs the panting air, And, loosed from out their rocky lair, Sweep all the storms abroad. Huge wave on huge wave tumbling o'er, The yawning gulf is rent asunder, And shows, as through an opening pall, Grim earththe ocean under! Poor maiden! bootless wail or vow "Have mercy, Jovebe gracious, thou! Dread prayer was mine before!" What if the gods have heardand he, Lone victim of the stormy sea, Now struggles to the shore! There's not a sea-bird on the wave Their hurrying wings the shelter seek; The stoutest ship the storms have proved, Takes refuge in the creek. "Ah, still that heart, which oft has braved The danger where the daring saved, Love lureth o'er the sea; For many a vow at parting morn, That naught but death should bar return, Breathed those dear lips to me; And whirled around, the while I weep, Amid the storm that rides the wave, The giant gulf is grasping down The rash one to the grave! "False Pontus! and the calm I hailed, The awaiting murder darkly veiled The lulled pellucid flow, The smiles in which thou wert arrayed, Were but the snares that love betrayed To thy false realm below! Now in the midway of the main, Return relentlessly forbidden, Thou loosenest on the path beyond The horrors thou hadst hidden." Loud and more loud the tempest raves In thunder break the mountain waves, White-foaming on the rock No ship that ever swept the deep Its ribs of gnarled oak could keep Unshattered by the shock. Dies in the blast the guiding torch To light the struggler to the strand; 'Tis death to battle with the wave, And death no less to land! On Venus, daughter of the seas, She calls the tempest to appease To each wild-shrieking wind Along the ocean-desert borne, She vows a steer with golden horn Vain vowrelentless wind! On every goddess of the deep, On all the gods in heaven that be, She callsto soothe in calm, awhile The tempest-laden sea! "Hearken the anguish of my cries! From thy green halls, arisearise, Leucothoe the divine! Who, in the barren main afar, Oft on the storm-beat mariner Dost gently-saving shine. Oh,reach to him thy mystic veil, To which the drowning clasp may cling, And safely from that roaring grave, To shore my lover bring!" And now the savage winds are hushing. And o'er the arched horizon, blushing, Day's chariot gleams on high! Back to their wonted channels rolled, In crystal calm the waves behold One smile on sea and sky! All softly breaks the rippling tide, Low-murmuring on the rocky land, And playful wavelets gently float A corpse upon the strand! 'Tis he!who even in death would still Not fail the sweet vow to fulfil; She looksseesknows him there! From her pale lips no sorrow speaks, No tears glide down her hueless cheeks; Cold-numbed in her despair She looked along the silent deep, She looked upon the brightening heaven, Till to the marble face the soul Its light sublime had given! "Ye solemn powers men shrink to name, Your might is here, your rights ye claim Yet think not I repine Soon closed my course; yet I can bless The life that brought me happiness The fairest lot was mine! Living have I thy temple served, Thy consecrated priestess been My last glad offering now receive Venus, thou mightiest queen!" Flashed the white robe along the air, And from the tower that beetled there She sprang into the wave; Roused from his throne beneath the waste, Those holy forms the god embraced A god himself their grave! Pleased with his prey, he glides along More blithe the murmured music seems, A gush from unexhausted urns His everlasting streams! ~ Friedrich Schiller, Hero And Leander

283:Corsica --- A manly race Of unsubmitting spirit, wise and brave; Who still through bleeding ages struggled hard To hold a generous undiminished state; Too much in vain! Thomson Hail, generous Corsica! unconquered isle! The fort of freedom; that amidst the waves Stands like a rock of adamant, and dares The wildest fury of the beating storm. And are there yet, in this late sickly age, Unkindly to the towering growths of virtue, Such bold exalted spirits? Men whose deeds, To the bright annals of old Greece opposed, Would throw in shades her yet unrivaled name, And dim the lustre of her fairest page! And glows the flame of Liberty so strong In this lone speck of earth! this spot obscure, Shaggy with woods, and crusted o'er with rock, By slaves surrounded, and by slaves oppressed! What then should Britons feel?—should they not catch The warm contagion of heroic ardour, And kindle at a fire so like their own? Such were the working thoughts which swelled the breast Of generous Boswel; when with nobler aim And views beyond the narrow beaten track By trivial fancy trod, he turned his course From polished Gallia's soft delicious vales, From the grey reliques of imperial Rome, From her long galleries of laureled stone, Her chiseled heroes and her marble gods, Whose dumb majestic pomp yet awes the world, To animated forms of patriot zeal; Warm in the living majesty of virtue; Elate with fearless spirit; firm; resolved; 37 By fortune nor subdued, nor awed by power. How raptured fancy burns, while warm in thought I trace the pictured landscape; while I kiss With pilgrim lips devout the sacred soil Stained with the blood of heroes. Cyrnus, hail! Hail to thy rocky, deep indented shores, And pointed cliffs, which hear the chafing deep Incessant foaming round their shaggy sides. Hail to thy winding bays, thy sheltering ports And ample harbours, which inviting stretch Their hospitable arms to every sail: Thy numerous streams, that bursting from the cliffs Down the steep channeled rock impetuous pour With grateful murmur: on the fearful edge Of the rude precipice, thy hamlets brown And straw-roofed cots, which from the level vale Scarce seen, amongst the craggy hanging cliffs Seem like an eagle's nest aerial built. Thy swelling mountains, brown with solemn shade Of various trees, that wave their giant arms O'er the rough sons of freedom; lofty pines, And hardy fir, and ilex ever green, And spreading chesnut, with each humbler plant, And shrub of fragrant leaf, that clothes their sides With living verdure; whence the clustering bee Extracts her golden dews: the shining box, And sweet-leaved myrtle, aromatic thyme, The prickly juniper, and the green leaf Which feeds the spinning worm; while glowing bright Beneath the various foliage, wildly spreads The arbutus, and rears his scarlet fruit Luxuriant, mantling o'er the craggy steeps; And thy own native laurel crowns the scene. Hail to thy savage forests, awful, deep; Thy tangled thickets, and thy crowded woods, The haunt of herds untamed; which sullen bound From rock to rock with fierce unsocial air, And wilder gaze, as conscious of the power That loves to reign amid the lonely scenes Of unquelled nature: precipices huge, And tumbling torrents; trackless deserts, plains 38 Fenced in with guardian rocks, whose quarries teem With shining steel, that to the cultured fields And sunny hills which wave with bearded grain Defends their homely produce. Liberty, The mountain Goddess, loves to range at large Amid such scenes, and on the iron soil Prints her majestic step. For these she scorns The green enameled vales, the velvet lap Of smooth savannahs, where the pillowed head Of Luxury reposes; balmy gales, And bowers that breathe of bliss. For these, when first This isle emerging like a beauteous gem From the dark bosom of the Tyrrhene main Reared its fair front, she marked it for her own, And with her spirit warmed. Her genuine sons, A broken remnant, from the generous stock Of ancient Greece, from Sparta's sad remains, True to their high descent, preserved unquenched The sacred fire through many a barbarous age: Whom, nor the iron rod of cruel Carthage, Nor the dread sceptre of imperial Rome, Nor bloody Goth, nor grisly Saracen, Nor the long galling yoke of proud Liguria, Could crush into subjection. Still unquelled They rose superior, bursting from their chains, And claimed man's dearest birthright, liberty: And long, through many a hard unequal strife Maintained the glorious conflict; long withstood, With single arm, the whole collected force Of haughty Genoa, and ambitious Gaul. And shall withstand it—Trust the faithful Muse! It is not in the force of mortal arm, Scarcely in fate, to bind the struggling soul That galled by wanton power, indignant swells Against oppression; breathing great revenge, Careless of life, determined to be free. And favouring Heaven approves: for see the Man, Born to exalt his own, and give mankind A glimpse of higher natures: just, as great; The soul of council, and the nerve of war; Of high unshaken spirit, tempered sweet With soft urbanity, and polished grace, 39 And attic wit, and gay unstudied smiles: Whom Heaven in some propitious hour endowed With every purer virtue: gave him all That lifts the hero, or adorns the man. Gave him the eye sublime; the searching glance, Keen, scanning deep, that smites the guilty soul As with a beam from heaven; on his brow Serene, and spacious front, set the broad seal Of dignity and rule; then smiled benign On this fair pattern of a God below, High wrought, and breathed into his swelling breast The large ambitious wish to save his country. O beauteous title to immortal fame! The man devoted to the public, stands In the bright records of superior worth A step below the skies: if he succeed, The first fair lot which earth affords, is his; And if he falls, he falls above a throne. When such their leader, can the brave despair? Freedom the cause, and Paoli the chief! Success to your fair hopes! A British Muse, Though weak and powerless, lifts her fervent voice, And breathes a prayer for your success. O could She scatter blessings as the morn sheds dews, To drop upon your heads! But patient hope Must wait the appointed hour; secure of this, That never with the indolent and weak Will Freedom deign to dwell; she must be seized By that bold arm that wrestles for the blessing: 'Tis Heaven's best prize, and must be bought with blood. When the storm thickens, when the combat burns, And pain and death in every horrid shape That can appal the feeble, prowl around, Then Virtue triumphs; then her towering form Dilates with kindling majesty; her mien Breathes a diviner spirit, and enlarged Each spreading feature, with an ampler port And bolder tone, exulting, rides the storm, And joys amidst the tempest. Then she reaps Her golden harvest; fruits of nobler growth And higher relish than meridian suns 40 Can ever ripen; fair, heroic deeds, And godlike action. 'Tis not meats and drinks, And balmy airs, and vernal suns and showers, That feed and ripen minds; 'tis toil and danger; And wrestling with the stubborn gripe of fate; And war, and sharp distress, and paths obscure And dubious. The bold swimmer joys not so To feel the proud waves under him, and beat With strong repelling arm the billowy surge; The generous courser does not so exult To toss his floating mane against the wind, And neigh amidst the thunder of the war, As Virtue to oppose her swelling breast Like a firm shield against the darts of fate. And when her sons in that rough school have learned To smile at danger, then the hand that raised Shall hush the storm, and lead the shining train Of peaceful years in bright procession on. Then shall the shepherd's pipe, the Muse's lyre, On Cyrnus' shores be heard: her grateful sons With loud acclaim and hymns of cordial praise Shall hail their high deliverers; every name To Virtue dear be from oblivion snatched And placed among the stars: but chiefly thine, Thine, Paoli, with sweetest sound shall dwell On their applauding lips; thy sacred name, Endeared to long posterity, some Muse, More worthy of the theme, shall consecrate To after-ages, and applauding worlds Shall bless the godlike man who saved his country. So vainly wished, so fondly hoped the Muse: Too fondly hoped. The iron fates prevail, And Cyrnus is no more. Her generous sons, Less vanquished than o'erwhelmed, by numbers crushed, Admired, unaided fell. So strives the moon In dubious battle with the gathering clouds, And strikes a splendour through them; till at length Storms rolled on storms involve the face of heaven And quench her struggling fires. Forgive the zeal That, too presumptuous, whispered better things, And read the book of destiny amiss. 41 Not with the purple colouring of success Is virtue best adorned: the attempt is praise. There yet remains a freedom, nobler far Than kings or senates can destroy or give; Beyond the proud oppressor's cruel grasp Seated secure, uninjured, undestroyed; Worthy of Gods:….the freedom of the mind. ~ Anna Laetitia Barbauld

284:The Coming Of The Rauparaha BLUE, the wreaths of smoke, like drooping banners From the flaming battlements of sunset Hung suspended; and within his whare Hipe, last of Ngatiraukawa's chieftains, Lay a-dying! Ringed about his death-bed, Like a palisade of carven figures, Stood the silent people of the village— Warriors and women of his hapu— Waiting. Then a sudden spilth of sunlight Splashed upon the mountain-peak above them, And it blossomed redly like a rata. With his people and the twilight pausing; Withering to death in regal patience, Taciturn and grim, lay Hipe dying. Shuddering and green, a little lizard Made a ripple through the whare's darkness, Writhing close to Hipe! Then a whisper On the women's dry lips hesitated As the ring of figures fluttered backwards; “ 'T is the Spirit-Thing that comes to carry Hipe's tardy soul across the waters To the world of stars!” And Hipe, grimly, Felt its hungry eyes a-glitter on him; Then he knew the spirit-world had called him; Knew the lizard-messenger must hasten, And would carry back a soul for answer. Twenty days in silence he had listened, Dumb with thoughts of death, and sorely troubled For his tribe left leaderless and lonely. Now like sullen thunder from the blackness Of the whare swept a voice untinctured With a stain of sickness; and the women, Breaking backwards, shrieked in sudden terror, “ 'T is the weird Thing's voice, the greenish lizard, All-impatient for the soul of Hipe!” But the warriors in the shadow straightened Drooping shoulders, gripped their greenstone meres, And the rhythmic tumult of the war-dance 77 Swept the great pah with its throbbing thunder: While their glad throats chanted, “E, 't is Hipe! Hipe's voice that led us in the battle; Hipe, young, come back to lead us ever!” “Warriors and women of my hapu,” Whirled the voice of Hipe from the darkness, “I have had communion with the spirits; Listen while I chant the song they taught me! “I have seen the coming end of all things, Seen the Maori shattered 'neath the onrush Of the white-faced strangers. Like the flashing Of the Sun-God through the ranks of darkness, Like the Fire-God rippling through the forest, Like the winter's silent blight of snowflakes— Lo, the strange outbreak of pallid blossoms!— Sweeps this surging wave of stranger-faces, Frothing irresistibly upon us. “Lo, the Pakeha shall come and conquer; We have failed; the Gods are angry with us. See, the withered autumn of our greatness! “Old ancestral myths and sacred legends That we deemed immortal—(priest and wizard Died, and yet their stories, like a river, Through the long years ran on, ever changeless!)— Shall be buried; and the names long given To each hill, and stream, and path and gully, Shall be like a yesterday forgotten, Blown like trembling froth before the sea-breeze. “And the gods that people all our islands— This great sea of presences immortal, Living, real, alert for charm or evil, Hurrying in every breeze, and haunting, Heavy-winged, the vistas of the forest, Deluging the daylight with their presence, Teeming, flooding, brimming in the shadows— Shall be banished to their spirit-regions, And the world be lorn of gods and lonely. “And the Maori shall no long time linger Ere, a tardy exile, he shall journey To the under-world. Yet he shall never Break before this influx, but shall fight on 78 Till, a mangled thing, the tide o'erwhelm him. And my tribe, the mighty Ngatiraukawa, Had they left one worthy chieftain only Who could lead my people on to victory, Who could follow where my feet have trodden, Might yet rear their name into a pillar Carved with fame, until their stubborn story From the mists of legend broke tremendous. Flaming through the chilly years to follow With a sunset-splendour, huge, heroic! “Yes, the time is yours to rear a nation From one conquering tribe, the Ngatiraukawa; But my pah is leaderless and lonely; I am left, the last of Maori chieftains; And the gods have called me now to lead them In their mighty battles! There is no one Worthy now to wield my dying mana!” So he ceased, and tremulous the silence Sighed to voice in one long wail of sorrow. So; it was the truth that Hipe taught them: None was left to lead them on to victory; None could follow where his feet had trodden. Then by name old Hipe called the chieftains— Weakling sons of that gaunt wrinkled giant, Stunted saplings blanching in the shadow Of the old tree's overarching greatness. One by one he called them, and they shivered, For they knew no answer to his question, “Can you lead my people on to victory? Can you follow where my feet have trodden?” One by one a great hope burned within them, And their feeble hearts beat fast and proudly; One by one a chill of terror took them, And the challenge on their lips was frozen. Then the old chief in his anger chaunted Frenziedly a song of scorn of all things, And the frightened people of the village— Warriors and women of his hapu— Quavered into murmurs 'neath the whirlwind Of his lashing words; and then he fretted 79 Into gusts of anger; and the lizard Made a greenish ripple in the darkness, Shuddering closer to him. And the people Bending heard a whisper pass above them, “Is there none to lead you on to victory, None to follow where my feet have trodden?” Lo, a sudden rumour from the edges Of the silent concourse, where the humblest Of the village crouched in utter baseness— There among the outcasts one leapt upright, Clean-limbed, straight and comely as a sunbeam. Eager muscles clad in tawny velvet, Eyes aflash with prescience of his power, Yet a boy, untried in warriors' warfare, Virgin to the battle! And untroubled Rang a daring voice across the darkness, “Yes, my people, one there is to lead you; I dare point you on to fame and victory, I dare tread where Hipe's feet have trodden. Yea,” and prouder sang the voice above them, “I can promise mightier fame unending; I shall lead where Hipe dared not tempt you; I shall make new footprints through the future— I, the youth Te Rauparaha, have spoken!” On the boy who braved them stormed the people, Swept with fear and anger, and they clamoured, “Who so proudly speaks, though not a chieftain? Rank and name and fame he has none; how then Dare he lead when sons of chieftains falter?” But the boy leapt forward to the whare, Clean-limbed, straight and comely as a sunbeam, Eager muscles clad in tawny velvet, Eyes aflash with prescience of his power, Swinging high the mere he had fashioned Out of wood, and carven like a chieftain's— Aye, and with the toy had slain a foeman! Flinging fiery speech out like a hailstorm, “If ye choose me chieftain I shall lead you Down to meet the white one on the sea-coast, Where his hordes shall break like scattered billows From our wall of meres. Him o'erwhelming, 80 I shall wrest his flaming weapons from him, Fortify for pah the rugged island Kapiti; then like a black-hawk swooping I shall whirl upon the Southern Island, Sweep it with my name as with a tempest, Overrun it like the play of sunlight, Sigh across it like a flame, till Terror Runs before me shrieking! And our pathway Shall be sullen red with flames and bloodshed, And shall moan with massacre and battle! “Quenching every foe, beneath my mana Tribe shall stand with tribe, till all my nation Like a harsh impassive wall of forest Imperturbably shall front the strangers; And with frown inscrutable shall wither All this buzz and stir of stinging insects That persist about us; then our islands Garlanded with peace are ours for ever! “Then the name of me, Te Rauparaha, And the tribe I lead, the Ngatitoa, Shall be shrined in sacred myth and legend With the glamour of our oft-told prowess Wreathed about them! Think, we shall be saviours Of a race, a nation! And this island We have sown so thick with names—each hillock, Glen and gully, stream and tribal limit— Shall for ever blossom like a garden With the liquid softness of their music! And the flute shall still across the evening Lilt and waver, brimming with love's yearning! And the exiled gods and banished spirits Shall steal back to people all our islands With their sea of presences immortal, Living, real, alert for charm or evil, Hurrying in every breeze and haunting, Heavy-winged, the vistas of the forest, Deluging the daylight with their presence, Teeming, flooding, brimming in the shadows, Till the world, a tawny world of gladness, Shall no more of gods be lorn and lonely! 81 I, the youth Te Rauparaha, have spoken!” Hipe heard, and, dying, cried in triumph, “Warriors and women of my hapu, He shall lead you, he, Te Rauparaha! He shall do the things that he has promised. He may fail; but think how grand his failure! He alone can lift against the tempest That proud head of his, and hugely daring, God-like, hugely fail, or hugely conquer!” Still he spoke, but suddenly the lizard Made a greenish ripple through the darkness, And was gone! Upon the long lone journey To Te Reinga and the world of spirits It had started with the soul of Hipe! Then the plaintive wailing of the women Quavered through the darkness, and a shudder Took the slaves that in a horror waited For the mercy of the blow to send them— Ah! the sombre, slowly-stepping phalanx— To the twilight world with Hipe's spirit. ~ Arthur Henry Adams

285:From House To House The first was like a dream through summer heat, The second like a tedious numbing swoon, While the half-frozen pulses lagged to beat Beneath a winter moon. 'But,' says my friend, 'what was this thing and where?' It was a pleasure-place within my soul; An earthly paradise supremely fair That lured me from the goal. The first part was a tissue of hugged lies; The second was its ruin fraught with pain: Why raise the fair delusion to the skies But to be dashed again? My castle stood of white transparent glass Glittering and frail with many a fretted spire, But when the summer sunset came to pass It kindled into fire. My pleasaunce was an undulating green, Stately with trees whose shadows slept below, With glimpses of smooth garden-beds between Like flame or sky or snow. Swift squirrels on the pastures took their ease, With leaping lambs safe from the unfeared knife; All singing-birds rejoicing in those trees Fulfilled their careless life. Woodpigeons cooed there, stockdoves nestled there; My trees were full of songs and flowers and fruit, Their branches spread a city to the air And mice lodged in their root. My heath lay farther off, where lizards lived In strange metallic mail, just spied and gone; Like darted lightnings here and there perceived But nowhere dwelt upon. 158 Frogs and fat toads were there to hop or plod And propagate in peace, an uncouth crew, Where velvet-headed rushes rustling nod And spill the morning dew. All caterpillars throve beneath my rule, With snails and slugs in corners out of sight; I never marred the curious sudden stool That perfects in a night. Safe in his excavated gallery The burrowing mole groped on from year to year; No harmless hedgehog curled because of me His prickly back for fear. Oft times one like an angel walked with me, With spirit-discerning eyes like flames of fire, But deep as the unfathomed endless sea, Fulfilling my desire: And sometimes like a snowdrift he was fair, And sometimes like a sunset glorious red, And sometimes he had wings to scale the air With aureole round his head. We sang our songs together by the way, Calls and recalls and echoes of delight; So communed we together all the day, And so in dreams by night. I have no words to tell what way we walked. What unforgotten path now closed and sealed; I have no words to tell all things we talked, All things that he revealed: This only can I tell: that hour by hour I waxed more feastful, lifted up and glad; I felt no thorn-prick when I plucked a flower, Felt not my friend was sad. 'To-morrow,' once I said to him with smiles: 159 'To-night,' he answered gravely and was dumb, But pointed out the stones that numbered miles And miles to come. 'Not so,' I said: 'to-morrow shall be sweet; To-night is not so sweet as coming days.' Then first I saw that he had turned his feet, Had turned from me his face: Running and flying miles and miles he went, But once looked back to beckon with his hand And cry: 'Come home, O love, from banishment: Come to the distant land.' That night destroyed me like an avalanche; One night turned all my summer back to snow: Next morning not a bird upon my branch, Not a lamb woke below,— No bird, no lamb, no living breathing thing; No squirrel scampered on my breezy lawn, No mouse lodged by his hoard: all joys took wing And fled before that dawn. Azure and sun were starved from heaven above, No dew had fallen, but biting frost lay hoar: O love, I knew that I should meet my love, Should find my love no more. 'My love no more,' I muttered stunned with pain: I shed no tear, I wrung no passionate hand, Till something whispered: 'You shall meet again, Meet in a distant land.' Then with a cry like famine I arose, I lit my candle, searched from room to room, Searched up and down; a war of winds that froze Swept through the blank of gloom. I searched day after day, night after night; Scant change there came to me of night or day: 'No more,' I wailed, 'no more:' and trimmed my light, 160 And gnashed but did not pray, Until my heart broke and my spirit broke: Upon the frost-bound floor I stumbled, fell, And moaned: 'It is enough: withhold the stroke. Farewell, O love, farewell.' Then life swooned from me. And I heard the song Of spheres and spirits rejoicing over me: One cried: 'Our sister, she hath suffered long.'— One answered: 'Make her see.'— One cried: 'Oh blessed she who no more pain, Who no more disappointment shall receive.'— One answered: 'Not so: she must live again; Strengthen thou her to live.' So while I lay entranced a curtain seemed To shrivel with crackling from before my face; Across mine eyes a waxing radiance beamed And showed a certain place. I saw a vision of a woman, where Night and new morning strive for domination; Incomparably pale, and almost fair, And sad beyond expression. Her eyes were like some fire-enshrining gem, Were stately like the stars, and yet were tender; Her figure charmed me like a windy stem Quivering and drooped and slender. I stood upon the outer barren ground, She stood on inner ground that budded flowers; While circling in their never-slackening round Danced by the mystic hours. But every flower was lifted on a thorn, And every thorn shot upright from its sands To gall her feet; hoarse laughter pealed in scorn With cruel clapping hands. 161 She bled and wept, yet did not shrink; her strength Was strung up until daybreak of delight: She measured measureless sorrow toward its length, And breadth, and depth, and height. Then marked I how a chain sustained her form, A chain of living links not made nor riven: It stretched sheer up through lighting, wind, and storm, And anchored fast in heaven. One cried: 'How long? yet founded on the Rock She shall do battle, suffer, and attain.'— One answered: 'Faith quakes in the tempest shock: Strengthen her soul again.' I saw a cup sent down and come to her Brimfull of loathing and of bitterness: She drank with livid lips that seemed to stir The depth, not make it less. But as she drank I spied a hand distil New wine and virgin honey; making it First bitter-sweet, then sweet indeed, until She tasted only sweet. Her lips and cheeks waxed rosy-fresh and young; Drinking she sang: 'My soul shall nothing want;' And drank anew: while soft a song was sung, A mystical slow chant. One cried: 'The wounds are faithful of a friend: The wilderness shall blossom as a rose.'— One answered: 'Rend the veil, declare the end, Strengthen her ere she goes.' Then earth and heaven were rolled up like a scroll; Time and space, change and death, had passed away; Weight, number, measure, each had reached its whole; The day had come, that day. Multitudes—multitudes—stood up in bliss, Made equal to the angels, glorious, fair; 162 With harps, palms, wedding-garments, kiss of peace And crowned and haloed hair. They sang a song, a new song in the height, Harping with harps to Him Who is Strong and True: They drank new wine, their eyes saw with new light, Lo, all things were made new. Tier beyond tier they rose and rose and rose So high that it was dreadful, flames with flames: No man could number them, no tongue disclose Their secret sacred names. As though one pulse stirred all, one rush of blood Fed all, one breath swept through them myriad-voiced, They struck their harps, cast down their crowns, they stood And worshipped and rejoiced. Each face looked one way like a moon new-lit, Each face looked one way towards its Sun of Love; Drank love and bathed in love and mirrored it And knew no end thereof. Glory touched glory on each blessed head, Hands locked dear hands never to sunder more: These were the new-begotten from the dead Whom the great birthday bore. Heart answered heart, soul answered soul at rest, Double against each other, filled, sufficed: All loving, loved of all; but loving best And best beloved of Christ. I saw that one who lost her love in pain, Who trod on thorns, who drank the loathsome cup; The lost in night, in day was found again; The fallen was lifted up. They stood together in the blessed noon, They sang together through the length of days; Each loving face bent Sunwards like a moon New-lit with love and praise. 163 Therefore, O friend, I would not if I might Rebuild my house of lies, wherein I joyed One time to dwell: my soul shall walk in white, Cast down but not destroyed. Therefore in patience I possess my soul; Yea, therefore as a flint I set my face, To pluck down, to build up again the whole— But in a distant place. These thorns are sharp, yet I can tread on them; This cup is loathsome, yet He makes it sweet: My face is steadfast toward Jerusalem, My heart remembers it. I lift the hanging hands, the feeble knees— I, precious more than seven times molten gold— Until the day when from his storehouses God shall bring new and old; Beauty for ashes, oil of joy for grief, Garment of praise for spirit of heaviness: Although to-day I fade as doth a leaf, I languish and grow less. Although to-day He prunes my twigs with pain, Yet doth His blood nourish and warm my root: To-morrow I shall put forth buds again And clothe myself with fruit. Although to-day I walk in tedious ways, To-day His staff is turned into a rod, Yet will I wait for Him the appointed days And stay upon my God. ~ Christina Georgina Rossetti

286:I. My first thought was, he lied in every word, That hoary cripple, with malicious eye Askance to watch the working of his lie On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby. II. What else should he be set for, with his staff? What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare All travellers who might find him posted there, And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like laugh Would break, what crutch 'gin write my epitaph For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare, III. If at his counsel I should turn aside Into that ominous tract which, all agree, Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly I did turn as he pointed: neither pride Nor hope rekindling at the end descried, So much as gladness that some end might be. IV. For, what with my whole world-wide wandering, What with my search drawn out thro' years, my hope Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope With that obstreperous joy success would bring, I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring My heart made, finding failure in its scope. V. As when a sick man very near to death Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end The tears and takes the farewell of each friend, And hears one bid the other go, draw breath Freelier outside, (``since all is o'er,'' he saith, ``And the blow falIen no grieving can amend;'') VI. While some discuss if near the other graves Be room enough for this, and when a day Suits best for carrying the corpse away, With care about the banners, scarves and staves: And still the man hears all, and only craves He may not shame such tender love and stay. VII. Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest, Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ So many times among ``The Band''-to wit, The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressed Their steps-that just to fail as they, seemed best, And all the doubt was now-should I be fit? VIII. So, quiet as despair, I turned from him, That hateful cripple, out of his highway Into the path he pointed. All the day Had been a dreary one at best, and dim Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim Red leer to see the plain catch its estray. IX. For mark! no sooner was I fairly found Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two, Than, pausing to throw backward a last view O'er the safe road, 'twas gone; grey plain all round: Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound. I might go on; nought else remained to do. X. So, on I went. I think I never saw Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve: For flowers-as well expect a cedar grove! But cockle, spurge, according to their law Might propagate their kind, with none to awe, You'd think; a burr had been a treasure-trove. XI. No! penury, inertness and grimace, In some strange sort, were the land's portion. ``See ``Or shut your eyes,'' said nature peevishly, ``It nothing skills: I cannot help my case: ``'Tis the Last judgment's fire must cure this place, ``Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free.'' XII. If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk Above its mates, the head was chopped; the bents Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to baulk All hope of greenness?'tis a brute must walk Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents. XIII. As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood. One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare, Stood stupefied, however he came there: Thrust out past service from the devil's stud! XIV. Alive? he might be dead for aught I know, With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane; Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe; I never saw a brute I hated so; He must be wicked to deserve such pain. XV. I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart. As a man calls for wine before he fights, I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights, Ere fitly I could hope to play my part. Think first, fight afterwards-the soldier's art: One taste of the old time sets all to rights. XVI. Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face Beneath its garniture of curly gold, Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold An arm in mine to fix me to the place, That way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace! Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold. XVII. Giles then, the soul of honour-there he stands Frank as ten years ago when knighted first. What honest man should dare (he said) he durst. Good-but the scene shifts-faugh! what hangman hands Pin to his breast a parchment? His own bands Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst! XVIII. Better this present than a past like that; Back therefore to my darkening path again! No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain. Will the night send a howlet or a bat? I asked: when something on the dismal flat Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train. XIX. A sudden little river crossed my path As unexpected as a serpent comes. No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms; This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath For the fiend's glowing hoof-to see the wrath Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes. XX. So petty yet so spiteful! All along, Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it; Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit Of route despair, a suicidal throng: The river which had done them all the wrong, Whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit. XXI. Which, while I forded,-good saints, how I feared To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek, Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to seek For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard! -It may have been a water-rat I speared, But, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek. XXII. Glad was I when I reached the other bank. Now for a better country. Vain presage! Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage, Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank Soil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned tank, Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage- XXIII. The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque. What penned them there, with all the plain to choose? No foot-print leading to that horrid mews, None out of it. Mad brewage set to work Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the Turk Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews. XXIV. And more than that-a furlong on-why, there! What bad use was that engine for, that wheel, Or brake, not wheel-that harrow fit to reel Men's bodies out like silk? with all the air Of Tophet's tool, on earth left unaware, Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel. XXV. Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood, Next a marsh, it would seem, and now mere earth Desperate and done with; (so a fool finds mirth, Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood Changes and off he goes!) within a rood- Bog, clay and rubble, sand and stark black dearth. XXVI. Now blotches rankling, coloured gay and grim, Now patches where some leanness of the soil's Broke into moss or substances like boils; Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils. XXVII. And just as far as ever from the end! Nought in the distance but the evening, nought To point my footstep further! At the thought, great black bird, Apollyon's bosom-friend, Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon-penned That brushed my cap-perchance the guide I sought. XXVIII. For, looking up, aware I somehow grew, 'Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place All round to mountains-with such name to grace Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view. How thus they had surprised me,-solve it, you! How to get from them was no clearer case. XXIX. Yet half I seemed to recognize some trick Of mischief happened to me, God knows when- In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then, Progress this way. When, in the very nick Of giving up, one time more, came a click As when a trap shuts-you're inside the den! XXX. Burningly it came on me all at once, This was the place! those two hills on the right, Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight; While to the left, a tall scalped mountain Dunce, Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce, After a life spent training for the sight! XXXI. What in the midst lay but the Tower itself? The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart, Built of brown stone, without a counter-part In the whole world. The tempest's mocking elf Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf He strikes on, only when the timbers start. XXXII. Not see? because of night perhaps?-why, day Came back again for that! before it left, The dying sunset kindled through a cleft: The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay, Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay,- ``Now stab and end the creature-to the heft!'' XXXIII. Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears Of all the lost adventurers my peers,- How such a one was strong, and such was bold, And such was fortunate, yet, each of old Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years. XXXIV. There they stood, ranged along the hill-sides, met To view the last of me, a living frame For one more picture! in a sheet of flame I saw them and I knew them all. And yet Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set, And blew. ``Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came.'' ~ Robert Browning, Childe Roland To The Dark Tower Came

287:PIANO DI SORRENTO Fort, Fort, my beloved one, Sit here by my side, On my knees put up both little feet! I was sure, if I tried, I could make you laugh spite of Scirocco. Now, open your eyes, Let me keep you amused till he vanish In black from the skies, With telling my memories over As you tell your beads; All the Plain saw me gather, I garland -The flowers or the weeds. Time for rain! for your long hot dry Autumn Had net-worked with brown The white skin of each grape on the bunches, Marked like a quail's crown, Those creatures you make such account of, Whose heads,-speckled white Over brown like a great spider's back, As I told you last night,- Your mother bites off for her supper. Red-ripe as could be, Pomegranates were chapping and splitting In halves on the tree: And betwixt the loose walls of great flint-stone, Or in the thick dust On the path, or straight out of the rock-side, Wherever could thrust Some burnt sprig of bold hardy rock-flower Its yellow face up, For the prize were great butterflies fighting, Some five for one cup. So, I guessed, ere I got up this morning, What change was in store, By the quick rustle-down of the quail-nets Which woke me before I could open my shutter, made fast With a bough and a stone, And look thro' the twisted dead vine-twigs, Sole lattice that's known. Quick and sharp rang the rings down the net-poles, While, busy beneath, Your priest and his brother tugged at them, The rain in their teeth. And out upon all the flat house-roofs Where split figs lay drying, The girls took the frails under cover: Nor use seemed in trying To get out the boats and go fishing, For, under the cliff, Fierce the black water frothed o'er the blind-rock. No seeing our skiff Arrive about noon from Amalfi, -Our fisher arrive And pitch down his basket before us, All trembling alive With pink and grey jellies, your sea-fruit; You touch the strange lumps, And mouths gape there, eyes open, all manner Of horns and of humps, Which only the fisher looks grave at, While round him like imps Cling screaming the children as naked And brown as his shrimps; Himself too as bare to the middle -You see round his neck The string and its brass coin suspended, That saves him from wreck. But to-day not a bout reached Salerno, So back, to a man, Came our friends, with whose help in the vineyards Grape-harvest began. In the vat, halfway up in our house-side, Like blood the juice spins, While your brother all bare-legged is dancing Till breathless he grins Dead-beaten in effort on effort To keep the grapes under, Since still when he seems all but master, In pours the fresh plunder From girls who keep coming and going With basket on shoulder, And eyes shut against the rain's driving; Your girls that are older,- For under the hedges of aloe, And where, on its bed Of the orchard's black mould, the love-apple Lies pulpy and red, All the young ones are kneeling and filling Their laps with the snails Tempted out by this first rainy weather,- Your best of regales, As to-night will be proved to my sorrow, When, supping in state, We shall feast our grape-gleaners (two dozen, Three over one plate) With lasagne so tempting to swallow In slippery ropes, And gourds fried in great purple slices, That colour of popes. Meantime, see the grape bunch they've brought you: The rain-water slips O'er the heavy blue bloom on each globe Which the wasp to your lips Still follows with fretful persistence: Nay, taste, while awake, This half of a curd-white smooth cheese-ball That peels, flake by flake, Like an onion, each smoother and whiter; Next, sip this weak wine From the thin green glass flask, with its stopper, A leaf of the vine; And end with the prickly-pear's red flesh That leaves thro' its juice The stony black seeds on your pearl-teeth. Scirocco is loose! Hark, the quick, whistling pelt of the olives Which, thick in one's track, Tempt the stranger to pick up and bite them, Tho' not yet half black! How the old twisted olive trunks shudder, The medlars let fall Their hard fruit, and the brittle great fig-trees Snap off, figs and all, For here comes the whole of the tempest! No refuge, but creep Back again to my side and my shoulder, And listen or sleep. O how will your country show next week, When all the vine-boughs Have been stripped of their foliage to pasture The mules and the cows? Last eve, I rode over the mountains; Your brother, my guide, Soon left me, to feast on the myrtles That offered, each side, Their fruit-balls, black, glossy and luscious,- Or strip from the sorbs A treasure, or, rosy and wondrous, Those hairy gold orbs! But my mule picked his sure sober path out, Just stopping to neigh When he recognized down in the valley His mates on their way With the ****s and barrels of water; And soon we emerged From the plain, where the woods could scarce follow; And still as we urged Our way, the woods wondered, and left us, As up still we trudged Though the wild path grew wilder each instant, And place was e'en grudged 'Mid the rock-chasms and piles of loose stones Like the loose broken teeth Of some monster which climbed there to die From the ocean beneath- Place was grudged to the silver-grey fume-weed That clung to the path, And dark rosemary ever a-dying That, 'spite the wind's wrath, So loves the salt rock's face to seaward, And lentisks as staunch To the stone where they root and bear berries, And what shows a branch Coral-coloured, transparent, with circlets Of pale seagreen leaves; Over all trod my mule with the caution Of gleaners o'er sheaves, Still, foot after foot like a lady, Till, round after round, He climbed to the top of Calvano, And God's own profound Was above me, and round me the mountains, And under, the sea, And within me my heart to bear witness What was and shall be. Oh, heaven and the terrible crystal! No rampart excludes Your eye from the life to be lived In the blue solitudes. Oh, those mountains, their infinite movement! Still moving with you; For, ever some new head and breast of them Thrusts into view To observe the intruder; you see it If quickly you turn And before they escape you surprise them. They grudge you should learn How the soft plains they look on, lean over And love (they pretend) -Cower beneath them, the flat sea-pine crouches, The wild fruit-trees bend, E'en the myrtle-leaves curl, shrink and shut: All is silent and grave: 'Tis a sensual and timorous beauty, How fair! but a slave. So, I turned to the sea; and there slumbered As greenly as ever Those isles of the siren, your Galli; No ages can sever The Three, nor enable their sister To join them,-halfway On the voyage, she looked at Ulysses- No farther to-day, Tho' the small one, just launched in the wave, Watches breast-high and steady From under the rock, her bold sister Swum halfway already. Fort, shall we sail there together And see from the sides Quite new rocks show their faces, new haunts Where the siren abides? Shall we sail round and round them, close over The rocks, tho' unseen, That ruffle the grey glassy water To glorious green? Then scramble from splinter to splinter, Reach land and explore, On the largest, the strange square black turret With never a door, Just a loop to admit the quick lizards; Then, stand there and hear The birds' quiet singing, that tells us What life is, so clear? -The secret they sang to Ulysses When, ages ago, He heard and he knew this life's secret I hear and I know. Ah, see! The sun breaks o'er Calvano; He strikes the great gloom And flutters it o'er the mount's summit In airy gold fume. All is over. Look out, see the gipsy, Our tinker and smith, Has arrived, set up bellows and forge, And down-squatted forthwith To his hammering, under the wall there; One eye keeps aloof The urchins that itch to be putting His jews'-harps to proof, While the other, thro' locks of curled wire, Is watching how sleek Shines the hog, come to share in the windfall -Chew, abbot's own cheek! All is over. Wake up and come out now, And down let us go, And see the fine things got in order At church for the show Of the Sacrament, set forth this evening. To-morrow's the Feast Of the Rosary's Virgin, by no means Of Virgins the least, As you'll hear in the off-hand discourse Which (all nature, no art) The Dominican brother, these three weeks, Was getting by heart. Not a pillar nor post but is dizened With red and blue papers; All the roof waves with ribbons, each altar A-blaze with long tapers; But the great masterpiece is the scaffold Rigged glorious to hold All the fiddlers and fifers and drummers And trumpeters bold, Not afraid of Bellini nor Auber, Who, when the priest's hoarse, Will strike us up something that's brisk For the feast's second course. And then will the flaxen-wigged Image Be carried in pomp Thro' the plain, while in gallant procession The priests mean to stomp. All round the glad church lie old bottles With gunpowder stopped, Which will be, when the Image re-enters, Religiously popped; And at night from the crest of Calvano Great bonfires will hang, On the plain will the trumpets join chorus, And more poppers bang. At all events, come-to the garden As far as the wall; See me tap with a hoe on the plaster Till out there shall fall A scorpion with wide angry nippers! -``Such trifles!'' you say? Fort, in my England at home, Men meet gravely to-day And debate, if abolishing Corn-laws Be righteous and wise -If 'twere proper, Scirocco should vanish In black from the skies! The mastic tree (resinous). ~ Robert Browning, The Englishman In Italy

288:The south-wind brings Life, sunshine, and desire, And on every mount and meadow Breathes aromatic fire, But over the dead he has no power, The lost, the lost he cannot restore, And, looking over the hills, I mourn The darling who shall not return. I see my empty house, I see my trees repair their boughs, And he, the wondrous child, Whose silver warble wild Outvalued every pulsing sound Within the air's cerulean round, The hyacinthine boy, for whom Morn well might break, and April bloom, The gracious boy, who did adorn The world whereinto he was born, And by his countenance repay The favor of the loving Day, Has disappeared from the Day's eye; Far and wide she cannot find him, My hopes pursue, they cannot bind him. Returned this day the south-wind searches And finds young pines and budding birches, But finds not the budding man; Nature who lost him, cannot remake him; Fate let him fall, Fate can't retake him; Nature, Fate, men, him seek in vain. And whither now, my truant wise and sweet, Oh, whither tend thy feet? I had the right, few days ago, Thy steps to watch, thy place to know; How have I forfeited the right? Hast thou forgot me in a new delight? I hearken for thy household cheer, O eloquent child! Whose voice, an equal messenger, Conveyed thy meaning mild. What though the pains and joys Whereof it spoke were toys Fitting his age and ken; Yet fairest dames and bearded men, Who heard the sweet request So gentle, wise, and grave, Bended with joy to his behest, And let the world's affairs go by, Awhile to share his cordial game, Or mend his wicker wagon frame, Still plotting how their hungry ear That winsome voice again might hear, For his lips could well pronounce Words that were persuasions. Gentlest guardians marked serene His early hope, his liberal mien, Took counsel from his guiding eyes To make this wisdom earthly wise. Ah! vainly do these eyes recall The school-march, each day's festival, When every morn my bosom glowed To watch the convoy on the road; The babe in willow wagon closed, With rolling eyes and face composed, With children forward and behind, Like Cupids studiously inclined, And he, the Chieftain, paced beside, The centre of the troop allied, With sunny face of sweet repose, To guard the babe from fancied foes, The little Captain innocent Took the eye with him as he went, Each village senior paused to scan And speak the lovely caravan. From the window I look out To mark thy beautiful parade Stately marching in cap and coat To some tune by fairies played; A music heard by thee alone To works as noble led thee on. Now love and pride, alas, in vain, Up and down their glances strain. The painted sled stands where it stood, The kennel by the corded wood, The gathered sticks to stanch the wall Of the snow-tower, when snow should fall, The ominous hole he dug in the sand, And childhood's castles built or planned. His daily haunts I well discern, The poultry yard, the shed, the barn, And every inch of garden ground Paced by the blessed feet around, From the road-side to the brook; Whereinto he loved to look. Step the meek birds where erst they ranged, The wintry garden lies unchanged, The brook into the stream runs on, But the deep-eyed Boy is gone. On that shaded day, Dark with more clouds than tempests are, When thou didst yield thy innocent breath In bird-like heavings unto death, Night came, and Nature had not thee, I said, we are mates in misery. The morrow dawned with needless glow, Each snow-bird chirped, each fowl must crow, Each tramper started, but the feet Of the most beautiful and sweet Of human youth had left the hill And garden,they were bound and still, There's not a sparrow or a wren, There's not a blade of autumn grain, Which the four seasons do not tend, And tides of life and increase lend, And every chick of every bird, And weed and rock-moss is preferred. O ostriches' forgetfulness! O loss of larger in the less! Was there no star that could be sent, No watcher in the firmament, No angel from the countless host, That loiters round the crystal coast, Could stoop to heal that only child, Nature's sweet marvel undefiled, And keep the blossom of the earth, Which all her harvests were not worth? Not mine, I never called thee mine, But nature's heir, if I repine, And, seeing rashly torn and moved, Not what I made, but what I loved. Grow early old with grief that then Must to the wastes of nature go, 'Tis because a general hope Was quenched, and all must doubt and grope For flattering planets seemed to say, This child should ills of ages stay, By wondrous tongue and guided pen Bring the flown muses back to men. Perchance, not he, but nature ailed, The world, and not the infant failed, It was not ripe yet, to sustain A genius of so fine a strain, Who gazed upon the sun and moon As if he came unto his own, And pregnant with his grander thought, Brought the old order into doubt. Awhile his beauty their beauty tried, They could not feed him, and he died, And wandered backward as in scorn To wait an on to be born. Ill day which made this beauty waste; Plight broken, this high face defaced! Some went and came about the dead, And some in books of solace read, Some to their friends the tidings say, Some went to write, some went to pray, One tarried here, there hurried one, But their heart abode with none. Covetous death bereaved us all To aggrandize one funeral. The eager Fate which carried thee Took the largest part of me. For this losing is true dying, This is lordly man's down-lying, This is slow but sure reclining, Star by star his world resigning. O child of Paradise! Boy who made dear his father's home In whose deep eyes Men read the welfare of the times to come; I am too much bereft; The world dishonored thou hast left; O truths and natures costly lie; O trusted, broken prophecy! O richest fortune sourly crossed; Born for the future, to the future lost! The deep Heart answered, Weepest thou? Worthier cause for passion wild, If I had not taken the child. And deemest thou as those who pore With aged eyes short way before? Think'st Beauty vanished from the coast Of matter, and thy darling lost? Taught he not thee, the man of eld, Whose eyes within his eyes beheld Heaven's numerous hierarchy span The mystic gulf from God to man? To be alone wilt thou begin, When worlds of lovers hem thee in? To-morrow, when the masks shall fall That dizen nature's carnival, The pure shall see, by their own will, Which overflowing love shall fill, 'Tis not within the force of Fate The fate-conjoined to separate. But thou, my votary, weepest thou? I gave thee sight, where is it now? I taught thy heart beyond the reach Of ritual, Bible, or of speech; Wrote in thy mind's transparent table As far as the incommunicable; Taught thee each private sign to raise Lit by the supersolar blaze. Past utterance and past belief, And past the blasphemy of grief, The mysteries of nature's heart, And though no muse can these impart, Throb thine with nature's throbbing breast, And all is clear from east to west. I came to thee as to a friend, Dearest, to thee I did not send Tutors, but a joyful eye, Innocence that matched the sky, Lovely locks a form of wonder, Laughter rich as woodland thunder; That thou might'st entertain apart The richest flowering of all art; And, as the great all-loving Day Through smallest chambers takes its way, That thou might'st break thy daily bread With Prophet, Saviour, and head; That thou might'st cherish for thine own The riches of sweet Mary's Son, Boy-Rabbi, Israel's Paragon: And thoughtest thou such guest Would in thy hall take up his rest? Would rushing life forget its laws, Fate's glowing revolution pause? High omens ask diviner guess, Not to be conned to tediousness. And know, my higher gifts unbind The zone that girds the incarnate mind, When the scanty shores are full With Thought's perilous whirling pool, When frail Nature can no more, Then the spirit strikes the hour, My servant Death with solving rite Pours finite into infinite. Wilt thou freeze love's tidal flow, Whose streams through nature circling go? Nail the star struggling to its track On the half-climbed Zodiack? Light is light which radiates, Blood is blood which circulates, Life is life which generates, And many-seeming life is one, Wilt thou transfix and make it none, Its onward stream too starkly pent In figure, bone, and lineament? Wilt thou uncalled interrogate Talker! the unreplying fate? Nor see the Genius of the whole Ascendant in the private soul, Beckon it when to go and come, Self-announced its hour of doom. Fair the soul's recess and shrine, Magic-built, to last a season, Masterpiece of love benign! Fairer than expansive reason Whose omen 'tis, and sign. Wilt thou not ope this heart to know What rainbows teach and sunsets show, Verdict which accumulates From lengthened scroll of human fates, Voice of earth to earth returned, Prayers of heart that inly burned; Saying, what is excellent, As God lives, is permanent Hearts are dust, hearts' loves remain, Heart's love will meet thee again. Revere the Maker; fetch thine eye Up to His style, and manners of the sky. Not of adamant and gold Built He heaven stark and cold, No, but a nest of bending reeds, Flowering grass and scented weeds, Or like a traveller's fleeting tent, Or bow above the tempest pent, Built of tears and sacred flames, And virtue reaching to its aims; Built of furtherance and pursuing, Not of spent deeds, but of doing. Silent rushes the swift Lord Through ruined systems still restored, Broad-sowing, bleak and void to bless, Plants with worlds the wilderness, Waters with tears of ancient sorrow Apples of Eden ripe to-morrow; House and tenant go to ground, Lost in God, in Godhead found. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson, Threnody

289:Ocean: An Ode. Concluding With A Wish.* I. Sweet rural scene! Of flocks and green! At careless ease my limbs are spread; All nature still But yonder rill; And listening pines not o'er my head: II In prospect wide, The boundless tide! Waves cease to foam, and winds to roar; Without a breeze, The curling seas Dance on, in measure, to the shore. III Who sings the source Of wealth and force? Vast field of commerce and big war: Where wonders dwell! Where terrors swell! And Neptune thunders from his car? IV Where? where are they, Whom Pean's ray Has touch'd, and bid divinely rave? What, none aspire? I snatch the lyre, And plunge into the foaming wave. The wave resounds! The rock rebounds! The Nereids to my song reply! I lead the choir, And they conspire With voice and shell to lift it high; VI They spread in air Their bosoms fair; Their verdant tresses pour behind. 36 The billows beat With nimble feet, With notes triumphant swell the wind. VII Who love the shore, And they conspire With voice and shell to lift it high; Let those adore The God Apollo, and his Nine, Parnassus' hill, And Orpheus' skill; But let Arion's harp be mine. VIII The main! the main! Is Britain's reign; Her strength, her glory, is her fleet; The main! the main! Be Briton's strain; As Triton's strong, as Syren's sweet. IX Through nature wide, Is nought descry'd So rich in pleasure, or surprize; When all-serene How sweet the scene! How dreadful, when the billows rise. And storms deface The fluid glass In which ere-while Britannia fair Look'd down with pride, Like Ocean's bride, Adjusting her majestic air. XI When tempests cease, And hush'd in peace The flatten'd surges smoothly spread Deep silence keep, And seem to sleep Recumbent on their oozy bed; XII With what a trance 37 The level glance, Unbroken, shoots along the seas! Whichtempt from shore the painted oar; And every canvas courts the breeze! XIII When rushes forth The frowning North On blackening billows, with what dread My shuddering soul Beholds them roll, And hears their roarings o'er my head! XIV With terror mark Yon flying bark! Now, center-deep descend the brave; Now, toss'd on high It takes the sky, A feather on the towering wave! XV Now, spins around In whirls profound; Now, whelm'd; now, pendant near the clouds; Now, stunn'd, it reels Midst thunder's peals; And, now, fierce lightening fires the shrouds. XVI All aether burns! Chaos returns! And blends once more the seas and skies; No space between Thy bosom green, O Deep! and the blue concave, lies. XVII The northern blast, The shatter'd mast, The fyrt, the whirlpool, and the rock, The breaking spout, the stars gone out, The boiling sreight, the monsters shock. XVIII Let others fear; 38 To Britain dear What'er promotes her daring claim; Those terrors charm, Which keep her warm In chace of honest gain or fame. XIX The stars are bright To chear the night, And shed, through shadows, temper'd fire; And Phoebus flames With burnish'd beams, Which some adore, and all admire. XX Are then the seas Outshone by these? Bright Thetys! thou art not outshone; With kinder beams And softer gleams, Thy bosom wears them as thy own XXI There, set in green, Gold-stars are seen, A mantle rich! thy charms to wrap; And when the sun His race has run He falls enamour'd in thy lap. XXII Those clouds, whose dyes Adorn the skies, That silver snow, that pearly rain; Has Phoebus stole To grace the pole, The plunder of th' invaded main! XXIII The gaudy bow, Whose colours glow, Whose arch with so much skill is bent, To Phoebus' ray Which paints so gay, By thee the watery woof was lent. XXIV In chambers deep, 39 Where waters sleep, What unknown treasures pave the floor! The pearl in rows Pale lustre throws; The wealth immense, which storms devour. XXV From Indian mines, With proud designs, the merchant, swoin, digs golden ore. The tempests rise, And seize the prize, And toss him breathless on the shore. XXVI His son complains In pious strains "Ah! cruel thirst of gold!" he cries; Then ploughs the main, In zeal for gain, The tears yet swelling in his eyes. XXVII Thou watery vast! What mounds are cast To bar thy dreadful flowings-o'er? Thy proudest foam Must know its home; But rage of gold disdains a shore. XXVIII Gold Pleasure buys; But Pleasure dies, Too soon the tross fruition cloys: Though raptures court, The sense is short; But Virtue kindles living joys; XXIX Joys felt alone! Joys ask'd of none! Which Time's and Fortune's arrows miss; Joys that subsist, Though Fates resist, And unprecarious endless bliss! XXX The soul refin'd 40 Is most inclin'd To every moral excellence; All Vice is dull, A knave's a fool; And Virtue is the child of Sense XXXI The virtuous mind Nor wave, nor wind, Nor civil rage, nor tyrant's frown, The shaken ball Nor planets fall, From its firm basis can dethrone. XXXII This Britain knows, And therefore glows With generous passions, and expends Her wealth and zeal On public weal, And brightens both by godlike ends. XXXIII What end so great, As that which late Awoke the Genius of the main, Which towering rose With George to close, And rival great Eliza's reign? XXXIV A voice has flown From Britain's throne To reinflame a grand design; That voice shall rear Yon fabrick fair,1 As Nature's rose at the divine. XXXV When nature sprung, Blest angels sung, And shouted o'er the rising balll; For strains as high As main's can fly, These sea-devoted honours call. XXXVI From boisterous seas, 41 The lap of ease Receives our wounded and our old; High domes ascend! Stretc'd arches bend! Proud columns swell! wide gates unfold! XXXVII So sleeps the grain, In fostering rain, And vital beams, till Jove descend; Then bursts the root! the verdures shoot! And earth enrich, adorn, defend! XXXVIII Here, soft-reclin'd From wave, from wind, And Fortune's tempest safe ashore, To cheat their care, Of former war They talk the pleasing shadows o'er. XXXIX In lengthen'd tales, Our fleet prevails; In tales the lenitives of age! And, o'er the bowl, They fire the soul Of listening youth, to martial rage. XL The story done, Their setting sun, Serenely smiling down the West, In soft decay, They drop away; And Honour leads them to their rest. XLI Unhappy they! And falsely gay! Who bask for ever in success; A constant feast Quite palls the taste, And long enjoyment is distress. XLII What charms us most, 42 Our joy, our boast, Familiar, loses all its bloss; And gold refin'd The fated mind Fastidious turns to perfect dross. XLIII When, after toil, His native soil The panting mariner regains What transport flows From bare repose! We reap our pleasure from our pains. XLIV Ye warlike slain! Beneath the main, Wrapt in a watery winding sheet; Who bought with blood Your country's good, Your country's full-blown glorys greet. XLV What powerful charm Can death disarm? Your long, your iron slumbers break? By Jove, by Fame, By George's name, Awake! awake! awake! XLVI Our joy so proud, Our shout so loud, Without a charm the dead might hear: And see, they rouze! Their awful brows, Deep-scar'd, froomm oozy pillows rear! XLVII With spiral shell, Full-blasted, tell That all your watery realms should sing; Your pearl-alcoves, Your coral-groves, Should echo theirs, and Britain's king. XLVIII As long as stars 43 Guide mariners, As Carolina's virtues please, Or suns invite The ravish'd sight, The British flag shall sweep the seas. XLIX Pecular both! Our soil's strong growth, And our bold natives hardy mind; Sure Heaven bespoke Our hearts, and oak, To give a master to minkind. That noblest birth Of teaming earth, Of forests fair that daughter proud, To foreign coasts Our grandeur boasts And Britain's pleasure speaks aloud. LI Now big with war Sends Fate from far, If rebel realms their Fate demand; Now, sumptuous spoils Of foreign soils Pours in the bottom of our land. LII Hence, Britain lays In scales, and weighs The fates of kingdoms and of kings; And as she frowns Or smiles, on crown A night or day of glory springs. LIII Thus Ocean swells The streams and rills, And to their borders lifts them high; Or else withdraws The mighty cause, And leaves their famish'd channels dry. LIV How mixt, how frail, 44 How sure to fail, Is every pleasure of mankind! A damp destroys My blooming joys, While Britain's glory fires my mind. LV For who can gaze On restless seas, Unstruck with life's more restless state? Where all are toss'd, And most are lost By tides of passion, blasts of fate? LVI The world's the main, How vext! how vain! Ambition swells, and Anger foams; May good men find, Beneath the wind, A noiseless shore, unruffled homes! LVII The public scene Of harden'd men Teach me, O teach me to despise! The world few know But to their woe, Our crimes with our experience rise; LVIII All tender sense Is banish'd thence,. All maiden nature's first alarms; What shock'd before Disgusts no more, And what disgusted has its charms LIX In landskips green True Bliss is seen, With Innocence, in shades, the sports; In wealthy towns Proud labour frowns, And painted Sorrow smiles in courts. LX These scenes untry'd 45 Seduc'd my pride, To Fortune's arrows bar'd my breast; Till Wisdom came, A hoary dame! And told me pleasure was in rest. LXI "O may I steal "Along the vale "Of humble life, secure from foes! "My friend sincere! "My judgment clear! "And gentle business my repose! ~ Edward Young

290:THE FAIRY 'The present and the past thou hast beheld. It was a desolate sight. Now, Spirit, learn,   The secrets of the future--Time! Unfold the brooding pinion of thy gloom, Render thou up thy half-devoured babes, And from the cradles of eternity, Where millions lie lulled to their portioned sleep By the deep murmuring stream of passing things, Tear thou that gloomy shroud--Spirit, behold    Thy glorious destiny!'    Joy to the Spirit came. Through the wide rent in Time's eternal veil, Hope was seen beaming through the mists of fear;    Earth was no longer hell;    Love, freedom, health had given Their ripeness to the manhood of its prime,    And all its pulses beat Symphonious to the planetary spheres;    Then dulcet music swelled Concordant with the life-strings of the soul; It throbbed in sweet and languid beatings there, Catching new life from transitory death; Like the vague sighings of a wind at even That wakes the wavelets of the slumbering sea And dies on the creation of its breath, And sinks and rises, falls and swells by fits,   Was the pure stream of feeling   That sprung from these sweet notes, And o'er the Spirit's human sympathies With mild and gentle motion calmly flowed.    Joy to the Spirit came--   Such joy as when a lover sees The chosen of his soul in happiness    And witnesses her peace Whose woe to him were bitterer than death;    Sees her unfaded cheek Glow mantling in first luxury of health,    Thrills with her lovely eyes, Which like two stars amid the heaving main    Sparkle through liquid bliss. Then in her triumph spoke the Fairy Queen: 'I will not call the ghost of ages gone To unfold the frightful secrets of its lore;    The present now is past, And those events that desolate the earth Have faded from the memory of Time, Who dares not give reality to that Whose being I annul. To me is given The wonders of the human world to keep, Space, matter, time and mind. Futurity Exposes now its treasure; let the sight Renew and strengthen all thy failing hope. O human Spirit! spur thee to the goal Where virtue fixes universal peace, And, 'midst the ebb and flow of human things, Show somewhat stable, somewhat certain still, A light-house o'er the wild of dreary waves.   'The habitable earth is full of bliss; Those wastes of frozen billows that were hurled By everlasting snow-storms round the poles, Where matter dared not vegetate or live, But ceaseless frost round the vast solitude Bound its broad zone of stillness, are unloosed; And fragrant zephyrs there from spicy isles Ruffle the placid ocean-deep, that rolls Its broad, bright surges to the sloping sand, Whose roar is wakened into echoings sweet To murmur through the heaven-breathing groves And melodize with man's blest nature there. 'Those deserts of immeasurable sand, Whose age-collected fervors scarce allowed A bird to live, a blade of grass to spring, Where the shrill chirp of the green lizard's love Broke on the sultry silentness alone, Now teem with countless rills and shady woods, Cornfields and pastures and white cottages; And where the startled wilderness beheld A savage conqueror stained in kindred blood, A tigress sating with the flesh of lambs The unnatural famine of her toothless cubs, Whilst shouts and howlings through the desert rang-- Sloping and smooth the daisy-spangled lawn, Offering sweet incense to the sunrise, smiles To see a babe before his mother's door,    Sharing his morning's meal   With the green and golden basilisk    That comes to lick his feet. 'Those trackless deeps, where many a weary sail Has seen above the illimitable plain Morning on night and night on morning rise, Whilst still no land to greet the wanderer spread Its shadowy mountains on the sun-bright sea, Where the loud roarings of the tempest-waves So long have mingled with the gusty wind In melancholy loneliness, and swept The desert of those ocean solitudes But vocal to the sea-bird's harrowing shriek, The bellowing monster, and the rushing storm; Now to the sweet and many-mingling sounds Of kindliest human impulses respond. Those lonely realms bright garden-isles begem, With lightsome clouds and shining seas between, And fertile valleys, resonant with bliss, Whilst green woods overcanopy the wave, Which like a toil-worn laborer leaps to shore To meet the kisses of the flowrets there. 'All things are recreated, and the flame Of consentaneous love inspires all life. The fertile bosom of the earth gives suck To myriads, who still grow beneath her care, Rewarding her with their pure perfectness; The balmy breathings of the wind inhale Her virtues and diffuse them all abroad; Health floats amid the gentle atmosphere, Glows in the fruits and mantles on the stream; No storms deform the beaming brow of heaven, Nor scatter in the freshness of its pride The foliage of the ever-verdant trees; But fruits are ever ripe, flowers ever fair, And autumn proudly bears her matron grace, Kindling a flush on the fair cheek of spring, Whose virgin bloom beneath the ruddy fruit Reflects its tint and blushes into love. 'The lion now forgets to thirst for blood; There might you see him sporting in the sun Beside the dreadless kid; his claws are sheathed, His teeth are harmless, custom's force has made His nature as the nature of a lamb. Like passion's fruit, the nightshade's tempting bane Poisons no more the pleasure it bestows; All bitterness is past; the cup of joy Unmingled mantles to the goblet's brim And courts the thirsty lips it fled before.   But chief, ambiguous man, he that can know More misery, and dream more joy than all; Whose keen sensations thrill within his breast To mingle with a loftier instinct there, Lending their power to pleasure and to pain, Yet raising, sharpening, and refining each; Who stands amid the ever-varying world, The burden or the glory of the earth; He chief perceives the change; his being notes The gradual renovation and defines Each movement of its progress on his mind. 'Man, where the gloom of the long polar night Lowers o'er the snow-clad rocks and frozen soil, Where scarce the hardiest herb that braves the frost Basks in the moonlight's ineffectual glow, Shrank with the plants, and darkened with the night; His chilled and narrow energies, his heart Insensible to courage, truth or love, His stunted stature and imbecile frame, Marked him for some abortion of the earth, Fit compeer of the bears that roamed around, Whose habits and enjoyments were his own; His life a feverish dream of stagnant woe, Whose meagre wants, but scantily fulfilled, Apprised him ever of the joyless length Which his short being's wretchedness had reached; His death a pang which famine, cold and toil Long on the mind, whilst yet the vital spark Clung to the body stubbornly, had brought: All was inflicted here that earth's revenge Could wreak on the infringers of her law; One curse alone was sparedthe name of God. 'Nor, where the tropics bound the realms of day With a broad belt of mingling cloud and flame, Where blue mists through the unmoving atmosphere Scattered the seeds of pestilence and fed Unnatural vegetation, where the land Teemed with all earthquake, tempest and disease, Was man a nobler being; slavery Had crushed him to his country's blood-stained dust; Or he was bartered for the fame of power, Which, all internal impulses destroying, Makes human will an article of trade; Or he was changed with Christians for their gold And dragged to distant isles, where to the sound Of the flesh-mangling scourge he does the work Of all-polluting luxury and wealth, Which doubly visits on the tyrants' heads The long-protracted fulness of their woe; Or he was led to legal butchery, To turn to worms beneath that burning sun Where kings first leagued against the rights of men And priests first traded with the name of God. 'Even where the milder zone afforded man A seeming shelter, yet contagion there, Blighting his being with unnumbered ills, Spread like a quenchless fire; nor truth till late Availed to arrest its progress or create That peace which first in bloodless victory waved Her snowy standard o'er this favored clime; There man was long the train-bearer of slaves, The mimic of surrounding misery, The jackal of ambition's lion-rage, The bloodhound of religion's hungry zeal. 'Here now the human being stands adorning This loveliest earth with taintless body and mind; Blest from his birth with all bland impulses, Which gently in his noble bosom wake All kindly passions and all pure desires. Him, still from hope to hope the bliss pursuing Which from the exhaustless store of human weal Draws on the virtuous mind, the thoughts that rise In time-destroying infiniteness gift With self-enshrined eternity, that mocks The unprevailing hoariness of age; And man, once fleeting o'er the transient scene Swift as an unremembered vision, stands Immortal upon earth; no longer now He slays the lamb that looks him in the face, And horribly devours his mangled flesh, Which, still avenging Nature's broken law, Kindled all putrid humors in his frame, All evil passions and all vain belief, Hatred, despair and loathing in his mind, The germs of misery, death, disease and crime. No longer now the winged habitants, That in the woods their sweet lives sing away, Flee from the form of man; but gather round, And prune their sunny feathers on the hands Which little children stretch in friendly sport Towards these dreadless partners of their play. All things are void of terror; man has lost His terrible prerogative, and stands An equal amidst equals; happiness And science dawn, though late, upon the earth; Peace cheers the mind, health renovates the frame; Disease and pleasure cease to mingle here, Reason and passion cease to combat there; Whilst each unfettered o'er the earth extend Their all-subduing energies, and wield The sceptre of a vast dominion there; Whilst every shape and mode of matter lends Its force to the omnipotence of mind, Which from its dark mine drags the gem of truth To decorate its paradise of peace.' ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Queen Mab - Part VIII.

291:Hail to thee, mountain beloved, with thy glittering purple-dyed summit! Hail to thee also, fair sun, looking so lovingly on! Thee, too, I hail, thou smiling plain, and ye murmuring lindens, Ay, and the chorus so glad, cradled on yonder high boughs; Thee, too, peaceably azure, in infinite measure extending Round the dusky-hued mount, over the forest so green, Round about me, who now from my chamber's confinement escaping, And from vain frivolous talk, gladly seek refuge with thee. Through me to quicken me runs the balsamic stream of thy breezes, While the energetical light freshens the gaze as it thirsts. Bright o'er the blooming meadow the changeable colors are gleaming, But the strife, full of charms, in its own grace melts away Freely the plain receives me,with carpet far away reaching, Over its friendly green wanders the pathway along. Round me is humming the busy bee, and with pinion uncertain Hovers the butterfly gay over the trefoil's red flower. Fiercely the darts of the sun fall on me,the zephyr is silent, Only the song of the lark echoes athwart the clear air. Now from the neighboring copse comes a roar, and the tops of the alders Bend low down,in the wind dances the silvery grass; Night ambrosial circles me round; in the coolness so fragrant Greets me a beauteous roof, formed by the beeches' sweet shade. In the depths of the wood the landscape suddenly leaves me And a serpentine path guides up my footsteps on high. Only by stealth can the light through the leafy trellis of branches Sparingly pierce, and the blue smilingly peeps through the boughs, But in a moment the veil is rent, and the opening forest Suddenly gives back the day's glittering brightness to me! Boundlessly seems the distance before my gaze to be stretching, And in a purple-tinged hill terminates sweetly the world. Deep at the foot of the mountain, that under me falls away steeply, Wanders the greenish-hued stream, looking like glass as it flows. Endlessly under me see I the ether, and endlessly o'er Giddily look I above, shudderingly look I below, But between the infinite height and the infinite hollow Safely the wanderer moves over a well-guarded path. Smilingly past me are flying the banks all teeming with riches, And the valley so bright boasts of its industry glad. See how yonder hedgerows that sever the farmer's possessions Have by Demeter been worked into the tapestried plain! Kindly decree of the law, of the Deity mortal-sustaining, Since from the brazen world love vanished forever away. But in freer windings the measured pastures are traversed (Now swallowed up in the wood, now climbing up to the hills) By a glimmering streak, the highway that knits lands together; Over the smooth-flowing stream, quietly glide on the rafts. Ofttimes resound the bells of the flocks in the fields that seem living, And the shepherd's lone song wakens the echo again. Joyous villages crown the stream, in the copse others vanish, While from the back of the mount, others plunge wildly below. Man still lives with the land in neighborly friendship united, And round his sheltering roof calmly repose still his fields; Trustingly climbs the vine high over the low-reaching window, While round the cottage the tree circles its far-stretching boughs. Happy race of the plain! Not yet awakened to freedom, Thou and thy pastures with joy share in the limited law; Bounded thy wishes all are by the harvest's peaceable circuit, And thy lifetime is spent e'en as the task of the day! But what suddenly hides the beauteous view? A strange spirit Over the still-stranger plain spreads itself quickly afar Coyly separates now, what scarce had lovingly mingled, And 'tis the like that alone joins itself on to the like. Orders I see depicted; the haughty tribes of the poplars Marshalled in regular pomp, stately and beauteous appear. All gives token of rule and choice, and all has its meaning, 'Tis this uniform plan points out the Ruler to me. Brightly the glittering domes in far-away distance proclaim him. Out of the kernel of rocks rises the city's high wall. Into the desert without, the fauns of the forest are driven, But by devotion is lent life more sublime to the stone. Man is brought into nearer union with man, and around him Closer, more actively wakes, swifter moves in him the world. See! the emulous forces in fiery conflict are kindled, Much, they effect when they strive, more they effect when they join. Thousands of hands by one spirit are moved, yet in thousands of bosoms Beats one heart all alone, by but one feeling inspired Beats for their native land, and glows for their ancestors' precepts; Here on the well-beloved spot, rest now time-honored bones. Down from the heavens descends the blessed troop of immortals, In the bright circle divine making their festal abode; Granting glorious gifts, they appear: and first of all, Ceres Offers the gift of the plough, Hermes the anchor brings next, Bacchus the grape, and Minerva the verdant olive-tree's branches, Even his charger of war brings there Poseidon as well. Mother Cybele yokes to the pole of her chariot the lions, And through the wide-open door comes as a citizen in. Sacred stones! 'Tis from ye that proceed humanity's founders, Morals and arts ye sent forth, e'en to the ocean's far isles. 'Twas at these friendly gates that the law was spoken by sages; In their Penates' defence, heroes rushed out to the fray. On the high walls appeared the mothers, embracing their infants, Looking after the march, till the distance 'twas lost. Then in prayer they threw themselves down at the deities' altars, Praying for triumph and fame, praying for your safe return. Honor and triumph were yours, but naught returned save your glory, And by a heart-touching stone, told are your valorous deeds. "Traveller! when thou com'st to Sparta, proclaim to the people That thou hast seen us lie here, as by the law we were bid." Slumber calmly, ye loved ones! for sprinkled o'er by your life-blood, Flourish the olive-trees there, joyously sprouts the good seed. In its possessions exulting, industry gladly is kindled. And from the sedge of the stream smilingly signs the blue god. Crushingly falls the axe on the tree, the Dryad sighs sadly; Down from the crest of the mount plunges the thundering load. Winged by the lever, the stone from the rocky crevice is loosened; Into the mountain's abyss boldly the miner descends. Mulciber's anvil resounds with the measured stroke of the hammer; Under the fist's nervous blow, spurt out the sparks of the steel. Brilliantly twines the golden flax round the swift-whirling spindles, Through the strings of the yarn whizzes the shuttle away. Far in the roads the pilot calls, and the vessels are waiting, That to the foreigner's land carry the produce of home; Others gladly approach with the treasures of far-distant regions, High on the mast's lofty head flutters the garland of mirth. See how yon markets, those centres of life and of gladness, are swarming! Strange confusion of tongues sounds in the wondering ear. On to the pile the wealth of the earth is heaped by the merchant, All that the sun's scorching rays bring forth on Africa's soil, All that Arabia prepares, that the uttermost Thule produces, High with heart-gladdening stores fills Amalthea her horn. Fortune wedded to talent gives birth there to children immortal, Suckled in liberty's arms, flourish the arts there of joy. With the image of life the eyes by the sculptor are ravished, And by the chisel inspired, speaks e'en the sensitive stone. Skies artificial repose on slender Ionian columns, And a Pantheon includes all that Olympus contains. Light as the rainbow's spring through the air, as the dart from the bowstring, Leaps the yoke of the bridge over the boisterous stream. But in his silent chamber the thoughtful sage is projecting Magical circles, and steals e'en on the spirit that forms, Proves the force of matter, the hatreds and loves of the magnet, Follows the tune through the air, follows through ether the ray, Seeks the familiar law in chance's miracles dreaded, Looks for the ne'er-changing pole in the phenomena's flight. Bodies and voices are lent by writing to thought ever silent, Over the centuries' stream bears it the eloquent page. Then to the wondering gaze dissolves the cloud of the fancy, And the vain phantoms of night yield to the dawning of day. Man now breaks through his fetters, the happy one! Oh, let him never Break from the bridle of shame, when from fear's fetters he breaks Freedom! is reason's cry,ay, freedom! The wild raging passions Eagerly cast off the bonds Nature divine had imposed. Ah! in the tempest the anchors break loose, that warningly held him On to the shore, and the stream tears him along in its flood, Into infinity whirls him,the coasts soon vanish before him, High on the mountainous waves rocks all-dismasted the bark; Under the clouds are hid the steadfast stars of the chariot, Naught now remains,in the breast even the god goes astray. Truth disappears from language, from life all faith and all honor Vanish, and even the oath is but a lie on the lips. Into the heart's most trusty bond, and into love's secrets, Presses the sycophant base, tearing the friend from the friend. Treason on innocence leers, with looks that seek to devour, And the fell slanderer's tooth kills with its poisonous bite. In the dishonored bosom, thought is now venal, and love, too, Scatters abroad to the winds, feelings once god-like and free. All thy holy symbols, O truth, deceit has adopted, And has e'en dared to pollute Nature's own voices so fair, That the craving heart in the tumult of gladness discovers; True sensations are now mute and can scarcely be heard. Justice boasts at the tribune, and harmony vaunts in the cottage, While the ghost of the law stands at the throne of the king. Years together, ay, centuries long, may the mummy continue, And the deception endure, apeing the fulness of life. Until Nature awakes, and with hands all-brazen and heavy 'Gainst the hollow-formed pile time and necessity strikes. Like a tigress, who, bursting the massive grating iron, Of her Numidian wood suddenly, fearfully thinks, So with the fury of crime and anguish, humanity rises Hoping nature, long-lost in the town's ashes, to find. Oh then open, ye walls, and set the captive at freedom To the long desolate plains let him in safety return! But where am I? The path is now hid, declivities rugged Bar, with their wide-yawning gulfs, progress before and behind. Now far behind me is left the gardens' and hedges' sure escort, Every trace of man's hand also remains far behind. Only the matter I see piled up, whence life has its issue, And the raw mass of basalt waits for a fashioning hand. Down through its channel of rock the torrent roaringly rushes, Angrily forcing a path under the roots of the trees. All is here wild and fearfully desolate. Naught but the eagle Hangs in the lone realms of air, knitting the world to the clouds. Not one zephyr on soaring pinion conveys to my hearing Echoes, however remote, marking man's pleasures and pains. Am I in truth, then, alone? Within thine arms, on thy bosom, Nature, I lie once again!Ah, and 'twas only a dream That assailed me with horrors so fearful; with life's dreaded phantom, And with the down-rushing vale, vanished the gloomy one too. Purer my life I receive again from thine altar unsullied, Purer receive the bright glow felt by my youth's hopeful days. Ever the will is changing its aim and its rule, while forever, In a still varying form, actions revolve round themselves. But in enduring youth, in beauty ever renewing. Kindly Nature, with grace thou dost revere the old law! Ever the same, for the man in thy faithful hands thou preservest That which the child in its sport, that which the youth lent to thee; At the same breast thou dost suckle the ceaselessly-varying ages; Under the same azure vault, over the same verdant earth, Races, near and remote, in harmony wander together, See, even Homer's own sun looks on us, too, with a smile! ~ Friedrich Schiller, The Walk

292:Many a green isle needs must be In the deep wide sea of Misery, Or the mariner, worn and wan, Never thus could voyage on - Day and night, and night and day, Drifting on his dreary way, With the solid darkness black Closing round his vessel's track: Whilst above the sunless sky, Big with clouds, hangs heavily, And behind the tempest fleet Hurries on with lightning feet, He is ever drifted on O'er the unreposing wave To the haven of the grave. What, if there no friends will greet; What, if there no heart will meet His with love's impatient beat; Wander wheresoe'er he may, Can he dream before that day To find refuge from distress In friendship's smile, in love's caress? Then 'twill wreak him little woe Whether such there be or no: Senseless is the breast, and cold, Which relenting love would fold; Bloodless are the veins and chill Which the pulse of pain did fill; Every little living nerve That from bitter words did swerve Round the tortured lips and brow, Are like sapless leaflets now Frozen upon December's bough. On the beach of a northern sea Which tempests shake eternally, As once the wretch there lay to sleep, Lies a solitary heap, One white skull and seven dry bones, On the margin of the stones, Where a few grey rushes stand, Boundaries of the sea and land: Nor is heard one voice of wail But the sea-mews, as they sail O'er the billows of the gale; Or the whirlwind up and down Howling, like a slaughtered town, When a king in glory rides Through the pomp and fratricides: Those unburied bones around There is many a mournful sound; There is no lament for him, Like a sunless vapour, dim, Who once clothed with life and thought What now moves nor murmurs not. Ay, many flowering islands lie In the waters of wide Agony: To such a one this morn was led, My bark by soft winds piloted: 'Mid the mountains Euganean I stood listening to the paean With which the legioned rooks did hail The sun's uprise majestical; Gathering round with wings all hoar, Through the dewy mist they soar Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven Bursts, and then, as clouds of even, Flecked with fire and azure, lie In the unfathomable sky, So their plumes of purple grain, Starred with drops of golden rain, Gleam above the sunlight woods, As in silent multitudes On the morning's fitful gale Through the broken mist they sail, And the vapours cloven and gleaming Follow, down the dark steep streaming, Till all is bright, and clear, and still, Round the solitary hill. Beneath is spread like a green sea The waveless plain of Lombardy, Bounded by the vaporous air, Islanded by cities fair; Underneath Day's azure eyes Ocean's nursling, Venice, lies, A peopled labyrinth of walls, Amphitrite's destined halls, Which her hoary sire now paves With his blue and beaming waves. Lo! the sun upsprings behind, Broad, red, radiant, half-reclined On the level quivering line Of the waters crystalline; And before that chasm of light, As within a furnace bright, Column, tower, and dome, and spire, Shine like obelisks of fire, Pointing with inconstant motion From the altar of dark ocean To the sapphire-tinted skies; As the flames of sacrifice From the marble shrines did rise, As to pierce the dome of gold Where Apollo spoke of old. Sea-girt City, thou hast been Ocean's child, and then his queen; Now is come a darker day, And thou soon must be his prey, If the power that raised thee here Hallow so thy watery bier. A less drear ruin then than now, With thy conquest-branded brow Stooping to the slave of slaves From thy throne, among the waves Wilt thou be, when the sea-mew Flies, as once before it flew, O'er thine isles depopulate, And all is in its ancient state, Save where many a palace gate With green sea-flowers overgrown Like a rock of Ocean's own, Topples o'er the abandoned sea As the tides change sullenly. The fisher on his watery way, Wandering at the close of day, Will spread his sail and seize his oar Till he pass the gloomy shore, Lest thy dead should, from their sleep Bursting o'er the starlight deep, Lead a rapid masque of death O'er the waters of his path. Those who alone thy towers behold Quivering through aereal gold, As I now behold them here, Would imagine not they were Sepulchres, where human forms, Like pollution-nourished worms, To the corpse of greatness cling, Murdered, and now mouldering: But if Freedom should awake In her omnipotence and shake From the Celtic Anarch's hold All the keys of dungeons cold, Where a hundred cities lie Chained like thee, ingloriously, Thou and all thy sister band Might adorn this sunny land, Twining memories of old time With new virtues more sublime; If not, perish thou ldering: But if Freedom should awake In her omnipotence and shake From the Celtic Anarch's hold All the keys of dungeons cold, Where a hundred cities lie Chained like thee, ingloriously, Thou and all thy sister band Might adorn this sunny land, Twining memories of old time With new virtues more sublime; If not, perish thou and they! - Clouds which stain truth's rising day By her sun consumed away - Earth can spare ye; while like flowers, In the waste of years and hours, From your dust new nations spring With more kindly blossoming. Perish -let there only be Floating o'er thy heartless sea As the garment of thy sky Clothes the world immortally, One remembrance, more sublime Than the tattered pall of time, Which scarce hides thy visage wan; - That a tempest-cleaving Swan Of the sons of Albion, Driven from his ancestral streams By the might of evil dreams, Found a nest in thee; and Ocean Welcomed him with such emotion That its joy grew his, and sprung From his lips like music flung O'er a mighty thunder-fit, Chastening terror: -what though yet Poesy's unfailing River, Which through Albion winds forever Lashing with melodious wave Many a sacred Poet's grave, Mourn its latest nursling fled? What though thou with all thy dead Scarce can for this fame repay Aught thine own? oh, rather say Though thy sins and slaveries foul Overcloud a sunlike soul? As the ghost of Homer clings Round Scamander's wasting springs; As divinest Shakespeare's might Fills Avon and the world with light Like omniscient power which he Imaged 'mid mortality; As the love from Petrarch's urn, Yet amid yon hills doth burn, A quenchless lamp by which the heart Sees things unearthly; -so thou art, Mighty spirit -so shall be The City that did refuge thee. Lo, the sun floats up the sky Like thought-winged Liberty, Till the universal light Seems to level plain and height; From the sea a mist has spread, And the beams of morn lie dead On the towers of Venice now, Like its glory long ago. By the skirts of that gray cloud Many-domed Padua proud Stands, a peopled solitude, 'Mid the harvest-shining plain, Where the peasant heaps his grain In the garner of his foe, And the milk-white oxen slow With the purple vintage strain, Heaped upon the creaking wain, That the brutal Celt may swill Drunken sleep with savage will; And the sickle to the sword Lies unchanged, though many a lord, Like a weed whose shade is poison, Overgrows this region's foison, Sheaves of whom are ripe to come To destruction's harvest-home: Men must reap the things they sow, Force from force must ever flow, Or worse; but 'tis a bitter woe That love or reason cannot change The despot's rage, the slave's revenge. Padua, thou within whose walls Those mute guests at festivals, Son and Mother, Death and Sin, Played at dice for Ezzelin, Till Death cried, "I win, I win!" And Sin cursed to lose the wager, But Death promised, to assuage her, That he would petition for Her to be made Vice-Emperor, When the destined years were o'er, Over all between the Po And the eastern Alpine snow, Under the mighty Austrian. She smiled so as Sin only can, And since that time, ay, long before, Both have ruled from shore to shore, - That incestuous pair, who follow Tyrants as the sun the swallow, As Repentance follows Crime, And as changes follow Time. In thine halls the lamp of learning, Padua, now no more is burning; Like a meteor, whose wild way Is lost over the grave of day, It gleams betrayed and to betray: Once remotest nations came To adore that sacred flame, When it lit not many a hearth On this cold and gloomy earth: Now new fires from antique light Spring beneath the wide world's might; But their spark lies dead in thee, Trampled out by Tyranny. As the Norway woodman quells, In the depth of piny dells, One light flame among the brakes, While the boundless forest shakes, And its mighty trunks are torn By the fire thus lowly born: The spark beneath his feet is dead, He starts to see the flames it fed Howling through the darkened sky With a myriad tongues victoriously, And sinks down in fear: so thou, O Tyranny, beholdest now Light around thee, and thou hearest The loud flames ascend, and fearest: Grovel on the earth; ay, hide In the dust thy purple pride! Noon descends around me now: 'Tis the noon of autumn's glow, When a soft and purple mist Like a vapourous amethyst, Or an air-dissolved star Mingling light and fragrance, far From the curved horizon's bound To the point of Heaven's profound, Fills the overflowing sky; And the plains that silent lie Underneath the leaves unsodden Where the infant Frost has trodden With his morning-winged feet, Whose bright print is gleaming yet; And the red and golden vines, Piercing with their trellised lines The rough, dark-skirted wilderness; The dun and bladed grass no less, Pointing from this hoary tower In the windless air; the flower Glimmering at my feet; the line Of the olive-sandalled Apennine In the south dimly islanded; And the Alps, whose snows are spread High between the clouds and sun; And of living things each one; And my spirit which so long Darkened this swift stream of song, - Interpenetrated lie By the glory of the sky: Be it love, light, harmony, Odour, or the soul of all Which from Heaven like dew doth fall, Or the mind which feeds this verse Peopling the lone universe. Noon descends, and after noon Autumn's evening meets me soon, Leading the infantine moon, And that one star, which to her Almost seems to minister Half the crimson light she brings From the sunset's radiant springs: And the soft dreams of the morn (Which like winged winds had borne To that silent isle, which lies Mid remembered agonies, The frail bark of this lone being) Pass, to other sufferers fleeing, And its ancient pilot, Pain, Sits beside the helm again. Other flowering isles must be In the sea of Life and Agony: Other spirits float and flee O'er that gulf: even now, perhaps, On some rock the wild wave wraps, With folded wings they waiting sit For my bark, to pilot it To some calm and blooming cove, Where for me, and those I love, May a windless bower be built, Far from passion, pain, and guilt, In a dell mid lawny hills, Which the wild sea-murmur fills, And soft sunshine, and the sound Of old forests echoing round, And the light and smell divine Of all flowers that breathe and shine: We may live so happy there, That the Spirits of the Air, Envying us, may even entice To our healing Paradise The polluting multitude; But their rage would be subdued By that clime divine and calm, And the winds whose wings rain balm On the uplifted soul, and leaves Under which the bright sea heaves; While each breathless interval In their whisperings musical The inspired soul supplies With its own deep melodies; And the love which heals all strife Circling, like the breath of life, All things in that sweet abode With its own mild brotherhood: They, not it, would change; and soon Every sprite beneath the moon Would repent its envy vain, And the earth grow young again. Composed at Este, October, 1818. Published with Rosalind and Helen, 1819. Amongst the late Mr. Fredk. Locker-Lampsons collections at Rowfant there is a manuscript of the lines (167-205) on Byron, interpolated after the completion of the poem. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Lines Written Among The Euganean Hills

293:Custer: Book Third As in the long dead days marauding hosts Of Indians came from far Siberian coasts, And drove the peaceful Aztecs from their grounds, Despoiled their homes (but left their tell-tale mounds), So has the white man with the Indians done. Now with their backs against the setting sun The remnants of a dying nation stand And view the lost domain, once their beloved land. II Upon the vast Atlantic's leagues of shore The happy red man's tent is seen no more; And from the deep blue lakes which mirror heaven His bounding bark canoe was long since driven. The mighty woods, those temples where his God Spoke to his soul, are leveled to the sod; And in their place tall church spires point above, While priests proclaim the law of Christ, the King of Love. III The avaricious and encroaching rail Seized the wide fields which knew the Indians' trail. Back to the reservations in the West The native owners of the land were pressed, And selfish cities, harbingers of want, Shut from their vision each accustomed haunt. Yet hungry Progress, never satisfied, Gazed on the western plains, and gazing, longed and sighed. IV As some strange bullock in a pasture field Compels the herds to fear him, and to yield The juicy grass plots and the cooling shade Until, despite their greater strength, afraid, 200 They huddle in some corner spot and cower Before the monarch's all controlling power, So has the white man driven from its place By his aggressive greed, Columbia's native race. Yet when the bull pursues the herds at bay, Incensed they turn, and dare dispute his sway. And so the Indians turned, when men forgot Their sacred word, and trespassed on the spot, The lonely little spot of all their lands, The reservation of the peaceful bands. But lust for gold all conscience kills in man, 'Gold in the Black Hills, gold!' the cry arose and ran VI From lip to lip, as flames from tree to tree Leap till the forest is one fiery sea, And through the country surged that hot unrest Which thirst for riches wakens in the breast. In mighty throngs the fortune hunters came, Despoiled the red man's lands and slew his game, Broke solemn treaties and defied the law. And all these ruthless acts the Nation knew and saw. VII Man is the only animal that kills Just for the wanton love of slaughter; spills The blood of lesser things to see it flow; Lures like a friend, to murder like a foe The trusting bird and beast; and, coward like, Deals covert blows he dare not boldly strike. The brutes have finer souls, and only slay When torn by hunger's pangs, or when to fear a prey. VIII The pale-faced hunter, insolent and bold, Pursued the bison while he sought for gold. 201 And on the hungry red man's own domains He left the rotting and unused remains To foul with sickening stench each passing wind And rouse the demon in the savage mind, Save in the heart where virtues dominate Injustice always breeds its natural offspring-hate. IX The chieftain of the Sioux, great Sitting Bull, Mused o'er their wrongs, and felt his heart swell full Of bitter vengeance. Torn with hate's unrest He called a council and his braves addressed. 'From fair Wisconsin's shimmering lakes of blue Long years ago the white man drove the Sioux. Made bold by conquest, and inflamed by greed, He still pursues our tribes, and still our ranks recede. 'Fair are the White Chief's promises and words, But dark his deeds who robs us of our herds. He talks of treaties, asks the right to buy, Then takes by force, not waiting our reply. He grants us lands for pastures and abodes To devastate them by his iron roads. But now from happy Spirit Lands, a friend Draws near the hunted Sioux, to strengthen and defend. XI 'While walking in the fields I saw a star; Unconsciously I followed it afarIt led me on to valleys filled with light, Where danced our noble chieftains slain in fight. Black Kettle, first of all that host I knew, He whom the strong armed Custer foully slew. And then a spirit took me by the hand, The Great Messiah King who comes to free the land. XII 202 'Suns were his eyes, a speaking tear his voice, Whose rainbow sounds made listening hearts rejoice And thus he spake: 'The red man's hour draws near When all his lost domains shall reappear. The elk, the deer, the bounding antelope, Shall here return to grace each grassy slope.' He waved his hand above the fields, and lo! Down through the valleys came a herd of buffalo. XIII 'The wondrous vision vanished, but I knew That Sitting Bull must make the promise true. Great Spirits plan what mortal man achieves, The hand works magic when the heart believes. Arouse, ye braves! let not the foe advance. Arm for the battle and begin the danceThe sacred dance in honor of our slain, Who will return to earth, ere many moons shall wane.' XIV Thus Sitting Bull, the chief of wily knaves, Worked on the superstitions of his braves. Mixed truth with lies; and stirred to mad unrest The warlike instinct in each savage breast. A curious product of unhappy times, The natural offspring of unnumbered crimes, He used low cunning and dramatic arts To startle and surprise those crude untutored hearts. XV Out from the lodges pour a motley throng, Slow measures chanting of a dirge-like song. In one great circle dizzily they swing, A squaw and chief alternate in the ring. Coarse raven locks stream over robes of white, Their deep set orbs emit a lurid light, And as through pine trees moan the winds refrains, So swells and dies away, the ghostly graveyard strains. 203 XVI Like worded wine is music to the ear, And long indulged makes mad the hearts that hear. The dancers, drunken with the monotone Of oft repeated notes, now shriek and groan And pierce their ruddy flesh with sharpened spears; Still more excited when the blood appears, With warlike yells, high in the air they bound, Then in a deathlike trance fall prostrate on the ground. XVII They wake to tell weird stories of the dead, While fresh performers to the ring are led. The sacred nature of the dance is lost, War is their cry, red war, at any cost. Insane for blood they wait for no command, But plunge marauding through the frightened land. Their demon hearts on devils' pleasures bent, For each new foe surprised, new torturing deaths invent. XVIII Staked to the earth one helpless creature lies, Flames at his feet and splinters in his eyes. Another groans with coals upon his breast, While 'round the pyre the Indians dance and jest. A crying child is brained upon a tree, The swooning mother saved from death, to be The slave and plaything of a filthy knave, Whose sins would startle hell, whose clay defile a grave. XIX Their cause was right, their methods all were wrong. Pity and censure both to them belong. Their woes were many, but their crimes were more. The soulless Satan holds not in his store Such awful tortures as the Indians' wrath Keeps for the hapless victim in his path. And if the last lone remnants of that race 204 Were by the white man swept from off the earth's fair face, XX Were every red man slaughtered in a day, Still would that sacrifice but poorly pay For one insulted woman captive's woes. Again great Custer in his strength arose, More daring, more intrepid than of old. The passing years had touched and turned to gold The ever widening aureole of fame That shone upon his brow, and glorified his name. XXI Wise men make laws, then turn their eyes away, While fools and knaves ignore them day by day; And unmolested, fools and knaves at length Induce long wars which sap a country's strength. The sloth of leaders, ruling but in name, Has dragged full many a nation down to shame. A word unspoken by the rightful lips Has dyed the land with blood, and blocked the sea with ships. XXII The word withheld, when Indians asked for aid, Came when the red man started on his raid. What Justice with a gesture might have done Was left for noisy war with bellowing gun. And who save Custer and his gallant men Could calm the tempest into peace again? What other hero in the land could hope With Sitting Bull, the fierce and lawless one to cope? XXIII What other warrior skilled enough to dare Surprise that human tiger in his lair? Sure of his strength, unconscious of his fame Out from the quiet of the camp he came; 205 And stately as Diana at his side Elizabeth, his wife and alway bride, And Margaret, his sister, rode apace; Love's clinging arms he left to meet death's cold embrace. XXIV As the bright column wound along its course, The smiling leader turned upon his horse To gaze with pride on that superb command. Twelve hundred men, the picked of all the land, Innured to hardship and made strong by strife Their lithe limbed bodies breathed of out-door life; While on their faces, resolute and brave, Hope stamped its shining seal, although their thoughts were grave. XXV The sad eyed women halted in the dawn, And waved farewell to dear ones riding on. The modest mist picked up her robes and ran Before the Sun god's swift pursuing van. And suddenly there burst on startled eyes, The sight of soldiers, marching in the skies; That phantom host, a phantom Custer led; Mirage of dire portent, forecasting days ahead. XXVI The soldiers' children, flaunting mimic flags, Played by the roadside, striding sticks for nags. Their mothers wept, indifferent to the crowd Who saw their tears and heard them sob aloud. Old Indian men and squaws crooned forth a rhyme Sung by their tribes from immemorial time; And over all the drums' incessant beat Mixed with the scout's weird rune, and tramp of myriad feet. XXVII So flawless was the union of each part The mighty column (moved as by one heart) 206 Pulsed through the air, like some sad song well sung, Which gives delight, although the soul is wrung. Farther and fainter to the sight and sound The beautiful embodied poem wound; Till like a ribbon, stretched across the land Seemed the long narrow line of that receding band. XXVIII The lot of those who in the silence wait Is harder than the fighting soldiers' fate. Back to the lonely post two women passed, With unaccustomed sorrow overcast. Two sad for sighs, too desolate for tears, The dark forebodings of long widowed years In preparation for the awful blow Hung on the door of hope the sable badge of woe. XXIX Unhappy Muse! for thee no song remains, Save the sad miséréré of the plains. Yet though defeat, not triumph, ends the tale, Great victors sometimes are the souls that fail. All glory lies not in the goals we reach, But in the lessons which our actions teach. And he who, conquered, to the end believes In God and in himself, though vanquished, still achieves. XXX Ah, grand as rash was that last fatal raid The little group of daring heroes made. Two hundred and two score intrepid men Rode out to war; not one came back again. Like fiends incarnate from the depths of hell Five thousand foemen rose with deafening yell, And swept that vale as with a simoon's breath, But like the gods of old, each martyr met his death. XXXI 207 Like gods they battled and like gods they died. Hour following hour that little band defied The hordes of red men swarming o'er the plain, Till scarce a score stood upright 'mid the slain. Then in the lull of battle, creeping near, A scout breathed low in Custer's listening ear: 'Death lies before, dear life remains behind Mount thy sure-footed steed, and hasten with the wind.' XXXII A second's silence. Custer dropped his head, His lips slow moving as when prayers are saidTwo words he breathed-'God and Elizabeth,' Then shook his long locks in the face of death, And with a final gesture turned away To join that fated few who stood at bay. Ah! deeds like that the Christ in man reveal Let Fame descend her throne at Custer's shrine to kneel. XXXIII Too late to rescue, but in time to weep, His tardy comrades came. As if asleep He lay, so fair, that even hellish hate Withheld its hand and dared not mutilate. By fiends who knew not honor, honored still, He smiled and slept on that far western hill. Cast down thy lyre, oh Muse! thy song is done! Let tears complete the tale of him who failed, yet won. ~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox

294:All touch, all eye, all ear, The Spirit felt the Fairy's burning speech.    O'er the thin texture of its frame The varying periods painted changing glows,      As on a summer even, When soul-enfolding music floats around,    The stainless mirror of the lake    Re-images the eastern gloom, Mingling convulsively its purple hues      With sunset's burnished gold.      Then thus the Spirit spoke: 'It is a wild and miserable world!      Thorny, and full of care, Which every fiend can make his prey at will!    O Fairy! in the lapse of years,      Is there no hope in store?      Will yon vast suns roll on    Interminably, still illuming    The night of so many wretched souls,      And see no hope for them? Will not the universal Spirit e'er Revivify this withered limb of Heaven?'      The Fairy calmly smiled In comfort, and a kindling gleam of hope Suffused the Spirit's lineaments. 'Oh! rest thee tranquil; chase those fearful doubts Which ne'er could rack an everlasting soul That sees the chains which bind it to its doom. Yes! crime and misery are in yonder earth,      Falsehood, mistake and lust;      But the eternal world Contains at once the evil and the cure. Some eminent in virtue shall start up,      Even in perversest time; The truths of their pure lips, that never die, Shall bind the scorpion falsehood with a wreath      Of ever-living flame, Until the monster sting itself to death.   'How sweet a scene will earth become! Of purest spirits a pure dwelling-place, Symphonious with the planetary spheres; When man, with changeless Nature coalescing, Will undertake regeneration's work, When its ungenial poles no longer point      To the red and baleful sun      That faintly twinkles there!      'Spirit, on yonder earth,   Falsehood now triumphs; deadly power Has fixed its seal upon the lip of truth!    Madness and misery are there! The happiest is most wretched! Yet confide Until pure health-drops from the cup of joy Fall like a dew of balm upon the world. Now, to the scene I show, in silence turn, And read the blood-stained charter of all woe, Which Nature soon with recreating hand Will blot in mercy from the book of earth. How bold the flight of passion's wandering wing, How swift the step of reason's firmer tread, How calm and sweet the victories of life, How terrorless the triumph of the grave! How powerless were the mightiest monarch's arm, Vain his loud threat, and impotent his frown! How ludicrous the priest's dogmatic roar! The weight of his exterminating curse How light! and his affected charity, To suit the pressure of the changing times, What palpable deceit!but for thy aid, Religion! but for thee, prolific fiend, Who peoplest earth with demons, hell with men, And heaven with slaves! 'Thou taintest all thou lookest upon!the stars, Which on thy cradle beamed so brightly sweet, Were gods to the distempered playfulness Of thy untutored infancy; the trees, The grass, the clouds, the mountains and the sea, All living things that walk, swim, creep or fly, Were gods; the sun had homage, and the moon Her worshipper. Then thou becamest, a boy, More daring in thy frenzies; every shape, Monstrous or vast, or beautifully wild, Which from sensation's relics fancy culls; The spirits of the air, the shuddering ghost, The genii of the elements, the powers That give a shape to Nature's varied works, Had life and place in the corrupt belief Of thy blind heart; yet still thy youthful hands Were pure of human blood. Then manhood gave Its strength and ardor to thy frenzied brain; Thine eager gaze scanned the stupendous scene, Whose wonders mocked the knowledge of thy pride; Their everlasting and unchanging laws Reproached thine ignorance. Awhile thou stood'st Baffled and gloomy; then thou didst sum up The elements of all that thou didst know; The changing seasons, winter's leafless reign, The budding of the heaven-breathing trees, The eternal orbs that beautify the night, The sunrise, and the setting of the moon, Earthquakes and wars, and poisons and disease, And all their causes, to an abstract point Converging thou didst bend, and called it God! The self-sufficing, the omnipotent, The merciful, and the avenging God! Who, prototype of human misrule, sits High in heaven's realm, upon a golden throne, Even like an earthly king; and whose dread work, Hell, gapes forever for the unhappy slaves Of fate, whom he created in his sport To triumph in their torments when they fell! Earth heard the name; earth trembled as the smoke Of his revenge ascended up to heaven, Blotting the constellations; and the cries Of millions butchered in sweet confidence And unsuspecting peace, even when the bonds Of safety were confirmed by wordy oaths Sworn in his dreadful name, rung through the land; Whilst innocent babes writhed on thy stubborn spear, And thou didst laugh to hear the mother's shriek Of maniac gladness, as the sacred steel Felt cold in her torn entrails! 'Religion! thou wert then in manhood's prime; But age crept on; one God would not suffice For senile puerility; thou framedst A tale to suit thy dotage and to glut Thy misery-thirsting soul, that the mad fiend Thy wickedness had pictured might afford A plea for sating the unnatural thirst For murder, rapine, violence and crime, That still consumed thy being, even when Thou heard'st the step of fate; that flames might light Thy funeral scene; and the shrill horrent shrieks Of parents dying on the pile that burned To light their children to thy paths, the roar Of the encircling flames, the exulting cries Of thine apostles loud commingling there,     Might sate thine hungry ear     Even on the bed of death! 'But now contempt is mocking thy gray hairs; Thou art descending to the darksome grave, Unhonored and unpitied but by those Whose pride is passing by like thine, and sheds, Like thine, a glare that fades before the sun Of truth, and shines but in the dreadful night That long has lowered above the ruined world. 'Throughout these infinite orbs of mingling light Of which yon earth is one, is wide diffused A Spirit of activity and life, That knows no term, cessation or decay; That fades not when the lamp of earthly life, Extinguished in the dampness of the grave, Awhile there slumbers, more than when the babe In the dim newness of its being feels The impulses of sublunary things, And all is wonder to unpractised sense; But, active, steadfast and eternal, still Guides the fierce whirlwind, in the tempest roars, Cheers in the day, breathes in the balmy groves, Strengthens in health, and poisons in disease; And in the storm of change, that ceaselessly Rolls round the eternal universe and shakes Its undecaying battlement, presides, Apportioning with irresistible law The place each spring of its machine shall fill; So that, when waves on waves tumultuous heap Confusion to the clouds, and fiercely driven Heaven's lightnings scorch the uprooted ocean-fords Whilst, to the eye of shipwrecked mariner, Lone sitting on the bare and shuddering rock, All seems unlinked contingency and chance No atom of this turbulence fulfils A vague and unnecessitated task Or acts but as it must and ought to act. Even the minutest molecule of light, That in an April sunbeam's fleeting glow Fulfils its destined though invisible work, The universal Spirit guides; nor less When merciless ambition, or mad zeal, Has led two hosts of dupes to battle-field, That, blind, they there may dig each other's graves And call the sad work glory, does it rule All passions; not a thought, a will, an act, No working of the tyrant's moody mind, Nor one misgiving of the slaves who boast Their servitude to hide the shame they feel, Nor the events enchaining every will, That from the depths of unrecorded time Have drawn all-influencing virtue, pass Unrecognized or unforeseen by thee, Soul of the Universe! eternal spring Of life and death, of happiness and woe, Of all that chequers the phantasmal scene That floats before our eyes in wavering light, Which gleams but on the darkness of our prison    Whose chains and massy walls    We feel but cannot see. 'Spirit of Nature! all-sufficing Power, Necessity! thou mother of the world! Unlike the God of human error, thou Requirest no prayers or praises; the caprice Of man's weak will belongs no more to thee Than do the changeful passions of his breast To thy unvarying harmony; the slave, Whose horrible lusts spread misery o'er the world, And the good man, who lifts with virtuous pride His being in the sight of happiness That springs from his own works; the poison-tree, Beneath whose shade all life is withered up, And the fair oak, whose leafy dome affords A temple where the vows of happy love Are registered, are equal in thy sight; No love, no hate thou cherishest; revenge And favoritism, and worst desire of fame Thou knowest not; all that the wide world contains Are but thy passive instruments, and thou Regard'st them all with an impartial eye, Whose joy or pain thy nature cannot feel,   Because thou hast not human sense,   Because thou art not human mind. 'Yes! when the sweeping storm of time Has sung its death-dirge o'er the ruined fanes And broken altars of the almighty fiend, Whose name usurps thy honors, and the blood Through centuries clotted there has floated down The tainted flood of ages, shalt thou live Unchangeable! A shrine is raised to thee,   Which nor the tempest breath of time,   Nor the interminable flood   Over earth's slight pageant rolling,     Availeth to destroy, The sensitive extension of the world;   That wondrous and eternal fane, Where pain and pleasure, good and evil join, To do the will of strong necessity,   And life, in multitudinous shapes, Still pressing forward where no term can be,   Like hungry and unresting flame Curls round the eternal columns of its strength.' 198. Necessity! thou mother of the world! Shelley annotates this line (in part) as follows: "He who asserts the doctrine of Necessity means that, contemplating the events which compose the moral and material universe, he beholds only an immense and uninterrupted chain of causes and effects, no one of which could occupy any other place than it does occupy, or act in any other place than it does act. The idea of necessity is obtained by our experience of the connection between objects, the uniformity of the operations of nature, the constant conjunction of similar events, and the consequent inference of one from the other. Mankind are therefore agreed in the admission of necessity, if they admit that these two circumstances take place in voluntary action. Motive is to voluntary action in the human mind what cause is to effect in the material universe. The word liberty, as applied to mind, is analogous to the word chance as applied to matter: they spring from an ignorance of the certainty of the conjunction of antecedents and consequents. ... Religion is the perception of the relation in which we stand to the principle of the universe. But if the principle of the universe be not an organic being, the model and prototype of man, the relation between it and human beings is absolutely none. Without some insight into its will respecting our actions religion is nugatory and vain. But will is only a mode of animal mind; moral qualities are also such as only a human being can possess; to attribute them to the principle of the universe is to annex to it properties incompatible with any possible definition of its nature. It is probable that the word God was originally only an expression denoting the unknown cause of the known events which men perceived in the universe. By the vulgar mistake of a metaphor for a real being, of a word for a thing, it became a man, endowed with human qualities and governing the universe as an earthly monarch governs his kingdom. Their addresses to this imaginary being, indeed, are much in the same style as those of subjects to a king. They acknowledge his benevolence, deprecate his anger and supplicate his favour." ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Queen Mab - Part VI.

295:Yet, Freedom, yet, thy banner, torn but flying, Streams like a thunder-storm against the wind.--BYRON. I. A glorious people vibrated again The lightning of the nations: Liberty From heart to heart, from tower to tower, o'er Spain, Scattering contagious fire into the sky, Gleamed. My soul spurned the chains of its dismay, And in the rapid plumes of song Clothed itself, sublime and strong; As a young eagle soars the morning clouds among, Hovering inverse o'er its accustomed prey; Till from its station in the Heaven of fame The Spirit's whirlwind rapped it, and the ray Of the remotest sphere of living flame Which paves the void was from behind it flung, As foam from a ship's swiftness, when there came A voice out of the deep: I will record the same. II. The Sun and the serenest Moon sprang forth: The burning stars of the abyss were hurled Into the depths of Heaven. The daedal earth, That island in the ocean of the world, Hung in its cloud of all-sustaining air: But this divinest universe Was yet a chaos and a curse, For thou wert not: but, power from worst producing worse, The spirit of the beasts was kindled there, And of the birds, and of the watery forms, And there was war among them, and despair Within them, raging without truce or terms: The bosom of their violated nurse Groaned, for beasts warred on beasts, and worms on worms, And men on men; each heart was as a hell of storms. III. Man, the imperial shape, then multiplied His generations under the pavilion Of the Suns throne: palace and pyramid, Temple and prison, to many a swarming million Were, as to mountain-wolves their ragged caves. This human living multitude Was savage, cunning, blind, and rude, For thou wert not; but oer the populous solitude, Like one fierce cloud over a waste of waves, Hung Tyranny; beneath, sate deified The sister-pest, congregator of slaves; Into the shadow of her pinions wide Anarchs and priests, who feed on gold and blood Till with the stain their inmost souls are dyed, Drove the astonished herds of men from every side. IV. The nodding promontories, and blue isles, And cloud-like mountains, and dividuous waves Of Greece, basked glorious in the open smiles Of favouring Heaven: from their enchanted caves Prophetic echoes flung dim melody. On the unapprehensive wild The vine, the corn, the olive mild, Grew savage yet, to human use unreconciled; And, like unfolded flowers beneath the sea, Like the mans thought dark in the infants brain, Like aught that is which wraps what is to be, Arts deathless dreams lay veiled by many a vein Of Parian stone; and, yet a speechless child, Verse murmured, and Philosophy did strain Her lidless eyes for thee; when oer the Aegean main. V. Athens arose: a city such as vision Builds from the purple crags and silver towers Of battlemented cloud, as in derision Of kingliest masonry: the ocean-floors Pave it; the evening sky pavilions it; Its portals are inhabited By thunder-zoned winds, each head Within its cloudy wings with sun-fire garlanded,-- A divine work! Athens, diviner yet, Gleamed with its crest of columns, on the will Of man, as on a mount of diamond, set; For thou wert, and thine all-creative skill Peopled, with forms that mock the eternal dead In marble immortality, that hill Which was thine earliest throne and latest oracle. VI. Within the surface of Times fleeting river Its wrinkled image lies, as then it lay Immovably unquiet, and for ever It trembles, but it cannot pass away! The voices of thy bards and sages thunder With an earth-awakening blast Through the caverns of the past: (Religion veils her eyes; Oppression shrinks aghast): A winged sound of joy, and love, and wonder, Which soars where Expectation never flew, Rending the veil of space and time asunder! One ocean feeds the clouds, and streams, and dew; One Sun illumines Heaven; one Spirit vast With life and love makes chaos ever new, As Athens doth the world with thy delight renew. VII. Then Rome was, and from thy deep bosom fairest, Like a wolf-cub from a Cadmaean Maenad, She drew the milk of greatness, though thy dearest From that Elysian food was yet unweaned; And many a deed of terrible uprightness By thy sweet love was sanctified; And in thy smile, and by thy side, Saintly Camillus lived, and firm Atilius died. But when tears stained thy robe of vestal-whiteness, And gold profaned thy Capitolian throne, 100 Thou didst desert, with spirit-winged lightness, The senate of the tyrants: they sunk prone Slaves of one tyrant: Palatinus sighed Faint echoes of Ionian song; that tone Thou didst delay to hear, lamenting to disown VIII. From what Hyrcanian glen or frozen hill, Or piny promontory of the Arctic main, Or utmost islet inaccessible, Didst thou lament the ruin of thy reign, Teaching the woods and waves, and desert rocks, And every Naiads ice-cold urn, To talk in echoes sad and stern Of that sublimest lore which man had dared unlearn? For neither didst thou watch the wizard flocks Of the Scald's dreams, nor haunt the Druid's sleep. What if the tears rained through thy shattered locks Were quickly dried? for thou didst groan, not weep, When from its sea of death, to kill and burn, The Galilean serpent forth did creep, And made thy world an undistinguishable heap. IX. A thousand years the Earth cried, 'Where art thou?' And then the shadow of thy coming fell On Saxon Alfreds olive-cinctured brow: And many a warrior-peopled citadel. Like rocks which fire lifts out of the flat deep, Arose in sacred Italy, Frowning o'er the tempestuous sea Of kings, and priests, and slaves, in tower-crowned majesty; That multitudinous anarchy did sweep And burst around their walls, like idle foam, Whilst from the human spirits deepest deep Strange melody with love and awe struck dumb Dissonant arms; and Art, which cannot die, With divine wand traced on our earthly home Fit imagery to pave Heavens everlasting dome. X. Thou huntress swifter than the Moon! thou terror Of the worlds wolves! thou bearer of the quiver, Whose sunlike shafts pierce tempest-winged Error, As light may pierce the clouds when they dissever In the calm regions of the orient day! Luther caught thy wakening glance; Like lightning, from his leaden lance Reflected, it dissolved the visions of the trance In which, as in a tomb, the nations lay; And Englands prophets hailed thee as their queen, In songs whose music cannot pass away, Though it must flow forever: not unseen Before the spirit-sighted countenance Of Milton didst thou pass, from the sad scene Beyond whose night he saw, with a dejected mien. XI. The eager hours and unreluctant years As on a dawn-illumined mountain stood. Trampling to silence their loud hopes and fears, Darkening each other with their multitude, And cried aloud, 'Liberty!' Indignation Answered Pity from her cave; Death grew pale within the grave, And Desolation howled to the destroyer, Save! When like Heavens Sun girt by the exhalation Of its own glorious light, thou didst arise. Chasing thy foes from nation unto nation Like shadows: as if day had cloven the skies At dreaming midnight oer the western wave, Men started, staggering with a glad surprise, Under the lightnings of thine unfamiliar eyes. XII. Thou Heaven of earth! what spells could pall thee then In ominous eclipse? a thousand years Bred from the slime of deep Oppressions den. Dyed all thy liquid light with blood and tears. Till thy sweet stars could weep the stain away; How like Bacchanals of blood Round France, the ghastly vintage, stood Destruction's sceptred slaves, and Follys mitred brood! When one, like them, but mightier far than they, The Anarch of thine own bewildered powers, Rose: armies mingled in obscure array, Like clouds with clouds, darkening the sacred bowers Of serene Heaven. He, by the past pursued, Rests with those dead, but unforgotten hours, Whose ghosts scare victor kings in their ancestral towers. XIII. England yet sleeps: was she not called of old? Spain calls her now, as with its thrilling thunder Vesuvius wakens Aetna, and the cold Snow-crags by its reply are cloven in sunder: Oer the lit waves every Aeolian isle 185 From Pithecusa to Pelorus Howls, and leaps, and glares in chorus: They cry, 'Be dim; ye lamps of Heaven suspended o'er us!' Her chains are threads of gold, she need but smile And they dissolve; but Spains were links of steel, Till bit to dust by virtues keenest file. Twins of a single destiny! appeal To the eternal years enthroned before us In the dim West; impress us from a seal, All ye have thought and done! Time cannot dare conceal. XIV. Tomb of Arminius! render up thy dead Till, like a standard from a watch-towers staff, His soul may stream over the tyrants head; Thy victory shall be his epitaph, Wild Bacchanal of truths mysterious wine, King-deluded Germany, His dead spirit lives in thee. Why do we fear or hope? thou art already free! And thou, lost Paradise of this divine And glorious world! thou flowery wilderness! Thou island of eternity! thou shrine Where Desolation, clothed with loveliness, Worships the thing thou wert! O Italy, Gather thy blood into thy heart; repress The beasts who make their dens thy sacred palaces. XV. Oh, that the free would stamp the impious name Of KING into the dust! or write it there, So that this blot upon the page of fame Were as a serpents path, which the light air Erases, and the flat sands close behind! Ye the oracle have heard: Lift the victory-flashing sword. And cut the snaky knots of this foul gordian word, Which, weak itself as stubble, yet can bind Into a mass, irrefragably firm, The axes and the rods which awe mankind; The sound has poison in it, tis the sperm Of what makes life foul, cankerous, and abhorred; Disdain not thou, at thine appointed term, To set thine armed heel on this reluctant worm. XVI. Oh, that the wise from their bright minds would kindle Such lamps within the dome of this dim world, That the pale name of PRIEST might shrink and dwindle Into the hell from which it first was hurled, A scoff of impious pride from fiends impure; Till human thoughts might kneel alone, Each before the judgement-throne Of its own aweless soul, or of the Power unknown! Oh, that the words which make the thoughts obscure From which they spring, as clouds of glimmering dew From a white lake blot Heavens blue portraiture, Were stripped of their thin masks and various hue And frowns and smiles and splendours not their own, Till in the nakedness of false and true They stand before their Lord, each to receive its due! XVII. He who taught man to vanquish whatsoever Can be between the cradle and the grave Crowned him the King of Life. Oh, vain endeavour! If on his own high will, a willing slave, He has enthroned the oppression and the oppressor What if earth can clothe and feed Amplest millions at their need, And power in thought be as the tree within the seed? Or what if Art, an ardent intercessor, Driving on fiery wings to Natures throne, Checks the great mother stooping to caress her, And cries: Give me, thy child, dominion Over all height and depth? if Life can breed New wants, and wealth from those who toil and groan, Rend of thy gifts and hers a thousandfold for one! XVIII. Come thou, but lead out of the inmost cave Of mans deep spirit, as the morning-star Beckons the Sun from the Eoan wave, Wisdom. I hear the pennons of her car Self-moving, like cloud charioted by flame; Comes she not, and come ye not, Rulers of eternal thought, To judge, with solemn truth, lifes ill-apportioned lot? Blind Love, and equal Justice, and the Fame Of what has been, the Hope of what will be? O Liberty! if such could be thy name Wert thou disjoined from these, or they from thee: If thine or theirs were treasures to be bought By blood or tears, have not the wise and free Wept tears, and blood like tears?The solemn harmony XIX. Paused, and the Spirit of that mighty singing To its abyss was suddenly withdrawn; Then, as a wild swan, when sublimely winging Its path athwart the thunder-smoke of dawn, Sinks headlong through the aereal golden light On the heavy-sounding plain, When the bolt has pierced its brain; As summer clouds dissolve, unburthened of their rain; As a far taper fades with fading night, As a brief insect dies with dying day,-- My song, its pinions disarrayed of might, Drooped; oer it closed the echoes far away Of the great voice which did its flight sustain, As waves which lately paved his watery way Hiss round a drowners head in their tempestuous play. Composed early in 1820, and published, with Prometheus Unbound, in the same year. A transcript in Shelley's hand of lines 1-21 is included in the Harvard manuscript book, and amongst the Boscombe manuscripts there is a fragment of a rough draft (Garnett). ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Ode To Liberty

296:WRITTEN ON THE OCCASION OF THE MASSACRE AT MANCHESTER I. As I lay asleep in Italy There came a voice from over the Sea, And with great power it forth led me To walk in the visions of Poesy. II. I met Murder on the way He had a mask like Castlereagh Very smooth he looked, yet grim; Seven blood-hounds followed him: III. All were fat; and well they might Be in admirable plight, For one by one, and two by two, He tossed them human hearts to chew Which from his wide cloak he drew. IV. Next came Fraud, and he had on, Like Eldon, an ermined gown; His big tears, for he wept well, Turned to mill-stones as they fell. V. And the little children, who Round his feet played to and fro, Thinking every tear a gem, Had their brains knocked out by them. VI. Clothed with the Bible, as with light, And the shadows of the night, Like Sidmouth, next, Hypocrisy On a crocodile rode by. VII. And many more Destructions played In this ghastly masquerade, All disguised, even to the eyes, Like Bishops, lawyers, peers, or spies. VIII. Last came Anarchy: he rode On a white horse, splashed with blood; He was pale even to the lips, Like Death in the Apocalypse. IX. And he wore a kingly crown; And in his grasp a sceptre shone; On his brow this mark I saw 'I am God, and King, and Law!' X. With a pace stately and fast, Over English land he passed, Trampling to a mire of blood The adoring multitude. XI. And a mighty troop around, With their trampling shook the ground, Waving each a bloody sword, For the service of their Lord. XII. And with glorious triumph, they Rode through England proud and gay, Drunk as with intoxication Of the wine of desolation. XIII. O'er fields and towns, from sea to sea, Passed the Pageant swift and free, Tearing up, and trampling down; Till they came to London town. XIV. And each dweller, panic-stricken, Felt his heart with terror sicken Hearing the tempestuous cry Of the triumph of Anarchy. XV. For with pomp to meet him came, Clothed in arms like blood and flame, The hired murderers, who did sing 'Thou art God, and Law, and King. XVI. 'We have waited, weak and lone For thy coming, Mighty One! Our purses are empty, our swords are cold, Give us glory, and blood, and gold.' XVII. Lawyers and priests, a motley crowd, To the earth their pale brows bowed; Like a bad prayer not over loud, Whispering'Thou art Law and God.' XVIII. Then all cried with one accord, 'Thou art King, and God, and Lord; Anarchy, to thee we bow, Be thy name made holy now!' XIX. And Anarchy, the Skeleton, Bowed and grinned to every one, As well as if his education Had cost ten millions to the nation. XX. For he knew the Palaces Of our Kings were rightly his; His the sceptre, crown, and globe, And the gold-inwoven robe. XXI. So he sent his slaves before To seize upon the Bank and Tower, And was proceeding with intent To meet his pensioned Parliament XXII. When one fled past, a maniac maid, And her name was Hope, she said: But she looked more like Despair, And she cried out in the air: XXIII. 'My father Time is weak and gray With waiting for a better day; See how idiot-like he stands, Fumbling with his palsied hands! XXIV. 'He has had child after child, And the dust of death is piled Over every one but me Misery, oh, Misery!' XXV. Then she lay down in the street, Right before the horses' feet, Expecting, with a patient eye, Murder, Fraud, and Anarchy. XXVI. When between her and her foes A mist, a light, an image rose, Small at first, and weak, and frail Like the vapour of a vale: XXVII. Till as clouds grow on the blast, Like tower-crowned giants striding fast, And glare with lightnings as they fly, And speak in thunder to the sky, XXVIII. It grewa Shape arrayed in mail Brighter than the viper's scale, And upborne on wings whose grain Was as the light of sunny rain. XXIX. On its helm, seen far away, A planet, like the Morning's, lay; And those plumes its light rained through Like a shower of crimson dew. XXX. With step as soft as wind it passed O'er the heads of menso fast That they knew the presence there, And looked,but all was empty air. XXXI. As flowers beneath May's footstep waken, As stars from Night's loose hair are shaken, As waves arise when loud winds call, Thoughts sprung where'er that step did fall. XXXII. And the prostrate multitude Looked-and ankle-deep in blood, Hope, that maiden most serene, Was walking with a quiet mien: XXXIII. And Anarchy, the ghastly birth, Lay dead earth upon the earth; The Horse of Death tameless as wind Fled, and with his hoofs did grind To dust the murderers thronged behind. XXXIV. A rushing light of clouds and splendour, A sense awakening and yet tender Was heard and feltand at its close These words of joy and fear arose XXXV. As if their own indignant Earth Which gave the sons of England birth Had felt their blood upon her brow, And shuddering with a mother's throe XXXVI. Had turnd every drop of blood By which her face had been bedewed To an accent unwithstood, As if her heart had cried aloud: XXXVII. 'Men of England, heirs of Glory, Heroes of unwritten story, Nurslings of one mighty Mother, Hopes of her, and one another; XXXVIII. 'Rise like Lions after slumber In unvanquishable number, Shake your chains to earth like dew Which in sleep had fallen on you Ye are manythey are few. XXXIX. 'What is Freedom?ye can tell That which slavery is, too well For its very name has grown To an echo of your own. XL. ''Tis to work and have such pay As just keeps life from day to day In your limbs, as in a cell For the tyrants' use to dwell, XLI. 'So that ye for them are made Loom, and plough, and sword, and spade, With or without your own will bent To their defence and nourishment. XLII. ''Tis to see your children weak With their mothers pine and peak, When the winter winds are bleak, They are dying whilst I speak. XLIII. ''Tis to hunger for such diet As the rich man in his riot Casts to the fat dogs that lie Surfeiting beneath his eye; XLIV. ''Tis to let the Ghost of Gold Take from Toil a thousandfold More than e'er its substance could In the tyrannies of old. XLV. 'Paper cointhat forgery Of the title-deeds, which ye Hold to something of the worth Of the inheritance of Earth. XLVI. ''Tis to be a slave in soul And to hold no strong control Over your own wills, but be All that others make of ye. XLVII. 'And at length when ye complain With a murmur weak and vain 'Tis to see the Tyrant's crew Ride over your wives and you Blood is on the grass like dew. XLVIII. 'Then it is to feel revenge Fiercely thirsting to exchange Blood for bloodand wrong for wrong Do not thus when ye are strong. XLIX. 'Birds find rest, in narrow nest When weary of their wingd quest; Beasts find fare, in woody lair When storm and snow are in the air[1]. L. 'Asses, swine, have litter spread And with fitting food are fed; All things have a home but one Thou, Oh, Englishman, hast none! LI. 'This is Slaverysavage men, Or wild beasts within a den Would endure not as ye do But such ills they never knew. LII. 'What art thou Freedom? O! could slaves Answer from their living graves This demandtyrants would flee Like a dream's dim imagery: LIII. 'Thou art not, as impostors say, A shadow soon to pass away, A superstition, and a name Echoing from the cave of Fame. LIV. 'For the labourer thou art bread, And a comely table spread From his daily labour come In a neat and happy home. LV. 'Thou art clothes, and fire, and food For the trampled multitude Noin countries that are free Such starvation cannot be As in England now we see. LVI. 'To the rich thou art a check, When his foot is on the neck Of his victim, thou dost make That he treads upon a snake. LVII. 'Thou art Justicene'er for gold May thy righteous laws be sold As laws are in Englandthou Shield'st alike the high and low. LVIII. 'Thou art WisdomFreemen never Dream that God will damn for ever All who think those things untrue Of which Priests make such ado. LIX. 'Thou art Peacenever by thee Would blood and treasure wasted be As tyrants wasted them, when all Leagued to quench thy flame in Gaul. LX. 'What if English toil and blood Was poured forth, even as a flood? It availed, Oh, Liberty, To dim, but not extinguish thee. LXI. 'Thou art Lovethe rich have kissed Thy feet, and like him following Christ, Give their substance to the free And through the rough world follow thee, LXII. 'Or turn their wealth to arms, and make War for thy belovd sake On wealth, and war, and fraudwhence they Drew the power which is their prey. LXIII. 'Science, Poetry, and Thought Are thy lamps; they make the lot Of the dwellers in a cot So serene, they curse it not. LXIV. 'Spirit, Patience, Gentleness, All that can adorn and bless Art thoulet deeds, not words, express Thine exceeding loveliness. LXV. 'Let a great Assembly be Of the fearless and the free On some spot of English ground Where the plains stretch wide around. LXVI. 'Let the blue sky overhead, The green earth on which ye tread, All that must eternal be Witness the solemnity. LXVII. 'From the corners uttermost Of the bounds of English coast; From every hut, village, and town Where those who live and suffer moan For others' misery or their own[2], LXVIII. 'From the workhouse and the prison Where pale as corpses newly risen, Women, children, young and old Groan for pain, and weep for cold LXIX. 'From the haunts of daily life Where is waged the daily strife With common wants and common cares Which sows the human heart with tares LXX. 'Lastly from the palaces Where the murmur of distress Echoes, like the distant sound Of a wind alive around LXXI. 'Those prison halls of wealth and fashion, Where some few feel such compassion For those who groan, and toil, and wail As must make their brethren pale LXXII. 'Ye who suffer woes untold, Or to feel, or to behold Your lost country bought and sold With a price of blood and gold LXXIII. 'Let a vast assembly be, And with great solemnity Declare with measured words that ye Are, as God has made ye, free LXXIV. 'Be your strong and simple words Keen to wound as sharpened swords, And wide as targes let them be, With their shade to cover ye. LXXV. 'Let the tyrants pour around With a quick and startling sound, Like the loosening of a sea, Troops of armed emblazonry. LXXVI. 'Let the charged artillery drive Till the dead air seems alive With the clash of clanging wheels, And the tramp of horses' heels. LXXVII. 'Let the fixd bayonet Gleam with sharp desire to wet Its bright point in English blood Looking keen as one for food. LXXVIII. 'Let the horsemen's scimitars Wheel and flash, like sphereless stars Thirsting to eclipse their burning In a sea of death and mourning. LXXIX. 'Stand ye calm and resolute, Like a forest close and mute, With folded arms and looks which are Weapons of unvanquished war, LXXX. 'And let Panic, who outspeeds The career of armd steeds Pass, a disregarded shade Through your phalanx undismayed. LXXXI. 'Let the laws of your own land, Good or ill, between ye stand Hand to hand, and foot to foot, Arbiters of the dispute, LXXXII. 'The old laws of Englandthey Whose reverend heads with age are gray, Children of a wiser day; And whose solemn voice must be Thine own echoLiberty! LXXXIII. 'On those who first should violate Such sacred heralds in their state Rest the blood that must ensue, And it will not rest on you. LXXXIV. 'And if then the tyrants dare Let them ride among you there, Slash, and stab, and maim, and hew, What they like, that let them do. LXXXV. 'With folded arms and steady eyes, And little fear, and less surprise, Look upon them as they slay Till their rage has died away. LXXXVI. 'Then they will return with shame To the place from which they came, And the blood thus shed will speak In hot blushes on their cheek. LXXXVII. 'Every woman in the land Will point at them as they stand They will hardly dare to greet Their acquaintance in the street. LXXXVIII. 'And the bold, true warriors Who have hugged Danger in wars Will turn to those who would be free, Ashamed of such base company. 'And that slaughter to the Nation Shall steam up like inspiration, Eloquent, oracular; A volcano heard afar. LXXXIX. 'And these words shall then become Like Oppression's thundered doom Ringing through each heart and brain, Heard againagainagain XC. 'Rise like Lions after slumber In unvanquishable number Shake your chains to earth like dew Which in sleep had fallen on you Ye are manythey are few.' ''Composed at the Villa Valsovano near Leghorn -- or possibly later, during Shelley's sojourn at Florence -- in the autumn of 1819, shortly after the Peterloo riot at Manchester, August 16; edited with Preface by Leigh Hunt, and published under the poet's name by Edward Moxon, 1832 (Bradbury & Evans, printers). Two MSS. are extant: a transcript by Mrs. Shelley with Shelley's autograph corrections, known as the 'Hunt MS.'; and an earlier draft, not quite complete, in the poet's handwriting, presented by Mrs. Shelley to (Sir) John Bowring in 1826, and now in the possession of Mr. Thomas J. Wise (the 'Wise MS.').'' this note taken from the Oxford Edition, Hutchinson's Poetical Works of Percy Shelley, 1905. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Mask Of Anarchy

297:Gracious Ganapati! with Thy hand bless me, that I may make this marital garland of letters worthy of Sri Arunachala, the Bridegroom! REFRAIN Arunachala Shiva! Arunachala Shiva! Arunachala Shiva! Arunachala! Arunachala Shiva! Arunachala Shiva! Arunachala Shiva! Arunachala! 1. Arunachala! Thou dost root out the ego of those who meditate on Thee in the heart, Oh Arunachala! Arunachala! Thou dost root out the ego of those who dwell on their identity with Thee, Oh Arunachala! 2. May Thou and I be one and inseparable like Alagu and Sundara, Oh Arunachala! 3. Entering my home and luring me to Thine, why didst Thou keep me prisoner in Thy heart's cavern, Oh Arunachala? 4. Was it for Thy pleasure or for my sake Thou didst win me? If now Thou turn me away, the world will blame Thee, Oh Arunachala! 5. Escape this blame! Why didst Thou then recall Thyself to me? How can I leave Thee now, Oh Arunachala? 6. Kinder far art Thou than one's own mother. Is this then Thy all-kindness, Oh Arunachala? Kinder indeed art Thou than one's own mother, such is Thy Love, Oh Arunachala! 7. Sit firmly in my mind lest it elude Thee, Oh Arunachala! Change not Thy nature and flee, but hold fast in my mind, Oh Arunachala! Be watchful in my mind, lest it change even Thee into me and rush away, Oh Arunachala! 8. Display Thy beauty, for the fickle mind to see Thee for ever and to rest, Oh Arunachala! The strumpet mind will cease to walk the streets if only she find Thee. Disclose Thy Beauty then and hold her bound, Oh Arunachala! The mind by her unsteadiness prevents my seeking Thee and finding peace; grant me the vision of Thy Beauty, Oh Arunachala! 9. After abducting me if now Thou dost not embrace me, where is Thy chivalry, Oh Arunachala? 10. Does it become Thee thus to sleep when I am outraged by others, Oh Arunachala? 11. Even when the thieves of the five senses break in upon me, art Thou not still in my heart, Oh Arunachala! 12. One art Thou without a second; who then could dare elude Thee and come in? This is only Thy jugglery, Oh Arunachala! 13. Significance of OM unrivalled -- unsurpassed! Who can comprehend Thee, Oh Arunachala? 14. As Universal Mother, it is Thy duty to dispense Thy Grace and save me, Oh Arunachala! 15. Who can ever find Thee? The Eye of the eye art Thou, and without eyes Thou seest, Oh Arunachala! Being the sight of the eye, even without eyes find me out Thyself. Who but Thyself can find out Thee, Oh Arunachala? 16. As a lode-stone attracts iron, magnetizing it and holding it fast, so do Thou to me, Oh Arunachala! 17. Unmoving Hill, melting into a Sea of Grace, have mercy I pray, Oh Arunachala! 18. Fiery Gem, shining in all directions, do Thou burn up my dross, Oh Arunachala! 19. Shine as my Guru, making me free from faults and worthy of Thy Grace, Oh Arunachala! 20. Save me from the cruel snares of fascinating women and honour me with union with Thyself, Oh Arunachala! 21. Though I beg, Thou art callous and dost not condescend. I pray Thee! say to me 'Fear not!' Oh Arunachala! 22. Unasked Thou givest; this is Thy imperishable fame. Do not belie Thy name, Oh Arunachala! 23. Sweet fruit within my hands, let me be mad with ecstasy, drunk with the Bliss of Thy Essence, Oh Arunachala! 24. Blazoned as the Devourer of Thy votaries, how can I survive who have embraced Thee, Oh Arunachala? 25. Thou, unruffled by anger! What crime has marked me off for Thy wrath, Oh Arunachala? Thou, unruffled by anger! What austerities left incomplete have won me Thy special favour, Oh Arunachala? 26. Glorious Mountain of Love, celebrated by Gautama, rule me with Thy gracious glance, Oh Arunachala! 27. Dazzling Sun that swallowest up all the universe in Thy rays, in Thy Light open the lotus of my heart I pray, Oh Arunachala! 28. Let me, Thy prey, surrender unto Thee and be consumed, and so have Peace, Oh Arunachala! I came to feed on Thee, but Thou has fed on me; now there is Peace, Oh Arunachala! 29. O Moon of Grace, with Thy cool rays as hands, open within me the ambrosial orifice and let my heart rejoice, Arunachala! 30. Tear off these robes, expose me naked, then robe me with Thy Love, Oh Arunachala! 31. There in the heart rest quiet! Let the sea of joy surge, speech and feeling cease, Oh Arunachala! 32. Do not continue to deceive and prove me; disclose instead Thy Transcendental Self, Oh Arunachala! 33. Vouchsafe the knowledge of Eternal Life that I may learn the glorious Primal Wisdom, and shun the delusion of this world, Oh Arunachala! 34. Unless Thou embrace me, I shall melt away in tears of anguish, Oh Arunachala! 35. If spurned by Thee, alas! what rests for me but the torment of my prarabdha? What hope is left for me, Arunachala? 36. In silence Thou saidst, 'Stay silent!' and Thyself stood silent, Oh Arunachala! 37. Happiness lies in peaceful repose enjoyed when resting in the Self. Beyond speech indeed is This my State, Oh Arunachala! 38. Thou didst display Thy prowess once, and, the perils ended, return to Thy repose, Oh Arunachala! Sun! Thou didst sally forth and illusion was ended. Then didst Thou shine motionless, Oh Arunachala! 39. A dog can scent out its master; am I then worse than a dog? Steadfastly will I seek Thee and regain Thee, Oh Arunachala! Worse than a dog for want of a scent, how can I track Thee, Oh Arunachala? 40. Grant me wisdom, I beseech Thee, so that I may not pine for love of Thee in ignorance, Oh Arunachala! 41. Not finding the flower open, Thou didst stay, no better than a bee trapped in the bud of my mind, Oh Arunachala! In sunlight the lotus blossoms, how then couldst Thou, the Sun of suns, hover before me like a flower bee, saying 'Thou art not yet in blossom,' Oh Arunachala? 42. 'Thou hast realized the Self even without knowing that it was the Truth. It is the Truth Itself!' Speak thus if it be so, Oh Arunachala! Thou art the subject of most diverse views yet art Thou not this only, Oh Arunachala? Not known to the tattvas, though Thou art their being! What does this mean, Oh Arunachala? 43. That each one is Reality Itself, Thou wilt of Thy Nature show, Oh Arunachala! Reveal Thyself! Thou only art Reality, Oh Arunachala! 'Reality is nothing but the Self;' is this not all Thy message, Oh Arunachala? 44. 'Look within, ever seeking the Self with the inner eye, then will It be found.' Thus didst Thou direct me, beloved Arunachala! 45. Seeking Thee within but weakly, I came back unrewarded. Aid me, Oh Arunachala! Weak though my effort was, by Thy Grace I gained the Self, Oh Arunachala! Seeking Thee in the Infinite Self, I regained my own Self, Oh Arunachala! 46. What value has the birth without Knowledge born of realization? It is not even worth speaking about, Oh Arunachala! 47. Let me dive into the true Self, wherein merge only the pure in mind and speech, Oh Arunachala! I, by Thy Grace, am sunk in Thy Self, wherein merge only those divested of their minds and thus made pure, Oh Arunachala! 48. When I took shelter under Thee as my One God, Thou didst destroy me altogether, Oh Arunachala! 49. Treasure of benign and holy Grace, found without seeking, steady my wandering mind, Oh Arunachala! 50. On seeking Thy Real Self with courage, my raft capsized and the waters came over me. Have mercy on me Arunachala! 51. Unless Thou extend Thy hand of Grace in mercy and embrace me, I am lost, Oh Arunachala! Enfold me body to body, limb to limb, or I am lost, Oh Arunachala! 52. O Undefiled, abide Thou in my heart so that there may be everlasting joy, Arunachala! 53. Mock me not, who seek Thy protection! Adorn me with Thy Grace and then regard me, Oh Arunachala! Smile with Grace and not with scorn on me, who come Thee, Oh Arunachala! 54. When I approached, Thou didst not bend; Thou stoodst unmoved, at one with me, Oh Arunachala! Does it not shame Thee to stand there like a post, leaving me to find Thee by myself, Oh Arunachala? 55. Rain Thy Mercy on me ere Thy Knowledge burn me to ashes, Oh Arunachala! 56. Unite with me to destroy Thou and me, and bless me with the state of ever-vibrant joy, Oh Arunachala! 57. When shall I become like the ether and reach Thee, subtle of being, that the tempest of thoughts may end, Oh Arunachala? When will waves of thought cease to rise? When shall I reach Thee, subtler than the subtlest ether, Oh Arunachala! 58. I am a simpleton devoid of learning. Do Thou dispel illusion, Oh Arunachala! Destroy Thou my wrong knowledge, I beseech Thee, for I lack the knowledge which the Scriptures lead to, Oh Arunachala! 59. When I melted away and entered Thee, my Refuge, I found Thee standing naked, Oh Arunachala! 60. In my unloving self Thou didst create a passion for Thee, therefore forsake me not, Oh Arunachala! 61. Fruit shriveled and spoilt is worthless; take and enjoy it ripe, Oh Arunachala! I am not a fruit which is overripe and spoilt; draw me, then, into the inmost recess and fix me in Eternity, Oh Arunachala! 62. Hast Thou not bartered cunningly Thyself for me? Oh, Thou art death to me, Arunachala! Hast Thou not bartered happily Thyself for me, giving all and taking nothing? Art Thou not blind, Oh Arunachala? 63. Regard me! Take thought of me! Touch me! Mature me! Make me one with Thee, Oh Arunachala! 64. Grant me Thy Grace ere the poison of delusion grips me and, rising to my head, kills me, Oh Arunachala! 65. Thyself regard me and dispel illusion! Unless Thou do so who can intercede with Grace Itself made manifest, Oh Arunachala? 66. With madness for Thee hast Thou freed me of madness; grant me now the cure of all madness, Oh Arunachala! 67. Fearless I seek Thee, Fearlessness Itself! How canst Thou fear to take me, Oh Arunachala? 68. Where is ignorance or Wisdom, if I am blessed with union to Thee, Oh Arunachala? 69. My mind has blossomed, scent it with Thy fragrance and perfect it. Oh Arunachala! Espouse me, I beseech Thee, and let this mind, now wedded to the world, be wedded to Perfection, Oh Arunachala! 70. Mere thought of Thee has drawn me to Thee, and who can gauge Thy Glory, Oh Arunachala? 71. Thou hast possessed me, unexorcizable Spirit! and made me mad for Thee, that I may cease to be a ghost wandering the world, Oh Arunachala! 72. Be Thou my stay and my support lest I droop helpless like a tender creeper, Oh Arunachala! 73. Thou didst benumb my faculties with stupefying powder, then rob me of my understanding and reveal the Knowledge of Thy Self, Oh Arunachala! 74. Show me the warfare of Thy Grace, in the Open Field where there is no coming and going. Oh Arunachala! 75. Unattached to the physical frame composed of the elements, let me for ever repose happy in the sight of Thy Splendour, Oh Arunachala! 76. Thou hast administered the medicine of confusion to me, so must I be confounded! Shine Thou as Grace, the cure of all confusion, Oh Arunachala! 77. Shine Thou selfless, sapping the pride of those who boast of their free will, Oh Arunachala! 78. I am a fool who prays only when overwhelmed, yet disappoint me not, Oh Arunachala! 79. Guard me lest I flounder storm-tossed like a ship without a helmsman, Oh Arunachala! 80. Thou hast cut the knot which hid the vision of Thy Head and Foot. Motherlike, shouldst Thou not complete Thy task, Oh Arunachala? 81. Be not like a mirror held up to a noseless man, but raise me and embrace me, Oh Arunachala! 82. Let us embrace upon the bed of tender flowers, which is the mind, within the room of the body, Oh Arunachala! 83. How is it that Thou hast become famous from Thy constant union with the poor and humble, Oh Arunachala? 84. Thou hast removed the blindness of ignorance with the unguent of Thy Grace, and made me truly Thine, Oh Arunachala! 85. Thou didst shave clean my head; then Thou didst show Thyself dancing in Transcendent Space, Oh Arunachala! 86. Though Thou hast loosed me from the mists of error and made me mad for Thee, why hast Thou not yet freed me from illusion, Oh Arunachala? Though Thou hast detached me from the world and made me cleave to Thee, Thy passion for me has not cooled, Oh Arunachala! 87. Is it true Silence to rest like a stone, inert and unexpansive, Oh Arunachala? 88. Who was it that threw mud to me for food and robbed me of my livelihood, Oh Arunachala? 89. Unknown to all, stupefying me, Who was it that ravished my soul, Oh Arunachala? 90. I spoke thus to Thee, because Thou art my Lord; be not offended but come and give me happiness, Oh Arunachala! 91. Let us enjoy one another in the House of Open Space, where there is neither night nor day, Oh Arunachala! 92. Thou didst take aim at me with darts of Love and then devoured me alive, Oh Arunachala! 93. Thou art the Primal Being, whereas I count not in this nor in the other world. What didst Thou gain then by my worthless self, Oh Arunachala? 94. Didst Thou not call me in? I have come in. Now measure out for me, my maintenance is now Thy burden. Hard is Thy lot, Oh Arunachala! 95. The moment Thou didst welcome me, didst enter into me and grant me Thy divine life, I lost my individuality, Oh Arunachala! 96. Bless me that I may die without losing hold of Thee, or miserable is my fate, Oh Arunachala! 97. From my home Thou didst entice me, then stealing into my heart didst draw me gently into Thine, such is Thy Grace, Oh Arunachala! 98. I have betrayed Thy secret workings. Be not offended! Show me Thy Grace now openly and save me, Oh Arunachala! 99. Grant me the essence of the Vedas, which shine in the Vedanta, One without a second, Oh Arunachala! 100. Even my slanders, treat as praise and guard me for ever as Thine own, I pray, Oh Arunachala! Let even slander be as praise to me, and guard me for ever as Thine own, I pray, Oh Arunachala! Place Thy hand upon my head! make me partaker of Thy Grace! do not abandon me, I pray, Oh Arunachala! 101. As snow in water, let me melt as Love in Thee, who art Love itself, Oh Arunachala! 102. I had but thought of Thee as Aruna, and lo! I was caught in the trap of Thy Grace! Can the net of Thy Grace ever fail, Oh Arunachala? 103. Watching like a spider to trap me in the web of Thy Grace, Thou didst entwine me and when imprisoned feed upon me, Oh Arunachala! 104. Let me be the votary of the votaries of those who hear Thy name with love, Oh Arunachala! 105. Shine Thou for ever as the loving Saviour of helpless suppliants like myself, Oh Arunachala! 106. Familiar to Thine ears are the sweet songs of votaries who melt to the very bones with love for Thee, yet let my poor strains also be acceptable, Oh Arunachala! 107. Hill of Patience, bear with my foolish words, as hymns of joy or as Thou please, Oh Arunachala! 108. Oh Arunachala! my Loving Lord! Throw Thy garland about my shoulders, wearing Thyself this one strung by me, Arunachala! Blessed be Arunachala! blessed be His devotees! Blessed be this Marital Garland of Letters! [1468.jpg] -- from The Collected Works of Ramana Maharshi, Edited by Arthur Osborne ~ Sri Ramana Maharshi, The Marital Garland of Letters

298:Eighteen Hundred And Eleven Still the loud death drum, thundering from afar, O'er the vext nations pours the storm of war: To the stern call still Britain bends her ear, Feeds the fierce strife, the' alternate hope and fear; Bravely, though vainly, dares to strive with Fate, And seeks by turns to prop each sinking state. Colossal power with overwhelming force Bears down each fort of Freedom in its course; Prostrate she lies beneath the Despot's sway, While the hushed nations curse him—and obey. Bounteous in vain, with frantic man at strife, Glad Nature pours the means—the joys of life; In vain with orange-blossoms scents the gale, The hills with olives clothes, with corn the vale; Man calls to Famine, nor invokes in vain, Disease and Rapine follow in her train; The tramp of marching hosts disturbs the plough, The sword, not sickle, reaps the harvest now, And where the soldier gleans the scant supply, The helpless peasant but retires to die; No laws his hut from licensed outrage shield, And war's least horror is the' ensanguined field. Fruitful in vain, the matron counts with pride The blooming youths that grace her honoured side; No son returns to press her widowed hand, Her fallen blossoms strew a foreign strand. —Fruitful in vain, she boasts her virgin race, Whom cultured arts adorn and gentlest grace; Defrauded of its homage, Beauty mourns, And the rose withers on its virgin thorns. Frequent, some stream obscure, some uncouth name, By deeds of blood is lifted into fame; Oft o'er the daily page some soft one bends To learn the fate of husband, brothers, friends, Or the spread map with anxious eye explores, Its dotted boundaries and penciled shores, 48 Asks where the spot that wrecked her bliss is found, And learns its name but to detest the sound. And think'st thou, Britain, still to sit at ease, An island queen amidst thy subject seas, While the vext billows, in their distant roar, But soothe thy slumbers, and but kiss thy shore? To sport in wars, while danger keeps aloof, Thy grassy turf unbruised by hostile hoof? So sing thy flatterers;—but, Britain, know, Thou who hast shared the guilt must share the woe. Nor distant is the hour; low murmurs spread, And whispered fears, creating what they dread; Ruin, as with an earthquake shock, is here, There, the heart-witherings of unuttered fear, And that sad death, whence most affection bleeds, Which sickness, only of the soul, precedes. Thy baseless wealth dissolves in air away, Like mists that melt before the morning ray: No more on crowded mart or busy street Friends, meeting friends, with cheerful hurry greet; Sad, on the ground thy princely merchants bend Their altered looks, and evil days portend, And fold their arms, and watch with anxious breast The tempest blackening in the distant West. Yes, thou must droop; thy Midas dream is o'er; The golden tide of Commerce leaves thy shore, Leaves thee to prove the' alternate ills that haunt Enfeebling Luxury and ghastly Want; Leaves thee, perhaps, to visit distant lands, And deal the gifts of Heaven with equal hands. Yet, O my Country, name beloved, revered, By every tie that binds the soul endeared, Whose image to my infant senses came Mixt with Religion's light and Freedom's holy flame! If prayers may not avert, if 'tis thy fate To rank amongst the names that once were great, Not like the dim, cold Crescent shalt thou fade, Thy debt to Science and the Muse unpaid; 49 Thine are the laws surrounding states revere, Thine the full harvest of the mental year, Thine the bright stars in Glory's sky that shine, And arts that make it life to live are thine. If westward streams the light that leaves thy shores, Still from thy lamp the streaming radiance pours. Wide spreads thy race from Ganges to the pole, O'er half the western world thy accents roll: Nations beyond the Apalachian hills Thy hand has planted and thy spirit fills: Soon as their gradual progress shall impart The finer sense of morals and of art, Thy stores of knowledge the new states shall know, And think thy thoughts, and with thy fancy glow; Thy Lockes, thy Paleys shall instruct their youth, Thy leading star direct their search for truth; Beneath the spreading platan's tent-like shade, Or by Missouri's rushing waters laid, “Old father Thames” shall be the poet's theme, Of Hagley's woods the' enamoured virgin dream, And Milton's tones the raptured ear enthrall, Mixt with the roaring of Niagara's fall; In Thomson's glass the' ingenuous youth shall learn A fairer face of Nature to discern; Nor of the bards that swept the British lyre Shall fade one laurel, or one note expire. Then, loved Joanna, to admiring eyes Thy storied groups in scenic pomp shall rise; Their high-souled strains and Shakespear's noble rage Shall with alternate passion shake the stage. Some youthful Basil from thy moral lay With stricter hand his fond desires shall sway; Some Ethwald, as the fleeting shadows pass, Start at his likeness in the mystic glass; The tragic Muse resume her just controul, With pity and with terror purge the soul, While wide o'er transatlantic realms thy name Shall live in light, and gather all its fame. Where wanders Fancy down the lapse of years Shedding o'er imaged woes untimely tears? 50 Fond moody power! as hopes—as fears prevail, She longs, or dreads, to lift the awful veil, On visions of delight now loves to dwell, Now hears the shriek of woe or Freedom's knell: Perhaps, she says, long ages past away, And set in western waves our closing day, Night, Gothic night, again may shade the plains Where Power is seated, and where Science reigns; England, the seat of arts, be only known By the grey ruin and the mouldering stone; That Time may tear the garland from her brow, And Europe sit in dust, as Asia now. Yet then the' ingenuous youth whom Fancy fires With pictured glories of illustrious sires, With duteous zeal their pilgrimage shall take From the Blue Mountains, or Ontario's lake, With fond adoring steps to press the sod By statesmen, sages, poets, heroes trod; On Isis' banks to draw inspiring air, From Runnymede to send the patriot's prayer; In pensive thought, where Cam's slow waters wind, To meet those shades that ruled the realms of mind; In silent halls to sculptured marbles bow, And hang fresh wreaths round Newton's awful brow. Oft shall they seek some peasant's homely shed, Who toils, unconscious of the mighty dead, To ask where Avon's winding waters stray, And thence a knot of wild flowers bear away; Anxious inquire where Clarkson, friend of man, Or all-accomplished Jones his race began; If of the modest mansion aught remains Where Heaven and Nature prompted Cowper's strains; Where Roscoe, to whose patriot breast belong The Roman virtue and the Tuscan song, Led Ceres to the black and barren moor Where Ceres never gained a wreath before: With curious search their pilgrim steps shall rove By many a ruined tower and proud alcove, Shall listen for those strains that soothed of yore Thy rock, stern Skiddaw, and thy fall, Lodore; Feast with Dun Edin's classic brow their sight, 51 And “visit Melross by the pale moonlight.” But who their mingled feelings shall pursue When London's faded glories rise to view? The mighty city, which by every road, In floods of people poured itself abroad; Ungirt by walls, irregularly great, No jealous drawbridge, and no closing gate; Whose merchants (such the state which commerce brings) Sent forth their mandates to dependent kings; Streets, where the turban'd Moslem, bearded Jew, And woolly Afric, met the brown Hindu; Where through each vein spontaneous plenty flowed, Where Wealth enjoyed, and Charity bestowed. Pensive and thoughtful shall the wanderers greet Each splendid square, and still, untrodden street; Or of some crumbling turret, mined by time, The broken stairs with perilous step shall climb, Thence stretch their view the wide horizon round, By scattered hamlets trace its ancient bound, And, choked no more with fleets, fair Thames survey Through reeds and sedge pursue his idle way. With throbbing bosoms shall the wanderers tread The hallowed mansions of the silent dead, Shall enter the long isle and vaulted dome Where Genius and where Valour find a home; Awe-struck, midst chill sepulchral marbles breathe, Where all above is still, as all beneath; Bend at each antique shrine, and frequent turn To clasp with fond delight some sculptured urn, The ponderous mass of Johnson's form to greet, Or breathe the prayer at Howard's sainted feet. Perhaps some Briton, in whose musing mind Those ages live which Time has cast behind, To every spot shall lead his wondering guests On whose known site the beam of glory rests: Here Chatham's eloquence in thunder broke, Here Fox persuaded, or here Garrick spoke; Shall boast how Nelson, fame and death in view, 52 To wonted victory led his ardent crew, In England's name enforced, with loftiest tone, Their duty,—and too well fulfilled his own: How gallant Moore, as ebbing life dissolved, But hoped his country had his fame absolved. Or call up sages whose capacious mind Left in its course a track of light behind; Point where mute crowds on Davy's lips reposed, And Nature's coyest secrets were disclosed; Join with their Franklin, Priestley's injured name, Whom, then, each continent shall proudly claim. Oft shall the strangers turn their eager feet The rich remains of ancient art to greet, The pictured walls with critic eye explore, And Reynolds be what Raphael was before. On spoils from every clime their eyes shall gaze, Egyptian granites and the' Etruscan vase; And when midst fallen London, they survey The stone where Alexander's ashes lay, Shall own with humbled pride the lesson just By Time's slow finger written in the dust. There walks a Spirit o'er the peopled earth, Secret his progress is, unknown his birth; Moody and viewless as the changing wind, No force arrests his foot, no chains can bind; Where'er he turns, the human brute awakes, And, roused to better life, his sordid hut forsakes: He thinks, he reasons, glows with purer fires, Feels finer wants, and burns with new desires: Obedient Nature follows where he leads; The steaming marsh is changed to fruitful meads; The beasts retire from man's asserted reign, And prove his kingdom was not given in vain. Then from its bed is drawn the ponderous ore, Then Commerce pours her gifts on every shore, Then Babel's towers and terraced gardens rise, And pointed obelisks invade the skies; The prince commands, in Tyrian purple drest, 53 And Egypt's virgins weave the linen vest. Then spans the graceful arch the roaring tide, And stricter bounds the cultured fields divide. Then kindles Fancy, then expands the heart, Then blow the flowers of Genius and of Art; Saints, heroes, sages, who the land adorn, Seem rather to descend than to be born; Whilst History, midst the rolls consigned to fame, With pen of adamant inscribes their name. The Genius now forsakes the favoured shore, And hates, capricious, what he loved before; Then empires fall to dust, then arts decay, And wasted realms enfeebled despots sway; Even Nature's changed; without his fostering smile Ophir no gold, no plenty yields the Nile; The thirsty sand absorbs the useless rill, And spotted plagues from putrid fens distill. In desert solitudes then Tadmor sleeps, Stern Marius then o'er fallen Carthage weeps; Then with enthusiast love the pilgrim roves To seek his footsteps in forsaken groves, Explores the fractured arch, the ruined tower, Those limbs disjointed of gigantic power; Still at each step he dreads the adder's sting, The Arab's javelin, or the tiger's spring; With doubtful caution treads the echoing ground, And asks where Troy or Babylon is found. And now the vagrant Power no more detains The vale of Tempe, or Ausonian plains; Northward he throws the animating ray, O'er Celtic nations bursts the mental day: And, as some playful child the mirror turns, Now here now there the moving lustre burns; Now o'er his changeful fancy more prevail Batavia's dykes than Arno's purple vale, And stinted suns, and rivers bound with frost, Than Enna's plains or Baia's viny coast; Venice the Adriatic weds in vain, And Death sits brooding o'er Campania's plain; O'er Baltic shores and through Hercynian groves, 54 Stirring the soul, the mighty impulse moves; Art plies his tools, and Commerce spreads her sail, And wealth is wafted in each shifting gale. The sons of Odin tread on Persian looms, And Odin's daughters breathe distilled perfumes Loud minstrel bards, in Gothic halls, rehearse The Runic rhyme, and “build the lofty verse:” The Muse, whose liquid notes were wont to swell To the soft breathings of the' Æolian shell, Submits, reluctant, to the harsher tone, And scarce believes the altered voice her own. And now, where Cæsar saw with proud disdain The wattled hut and skin of azure stain, Corinthian columns rear their graceful forms, And light varandas brave the wintry storms, While British tongues the fading fame prolong Of Tully's eloquence and Maro's song. Where once Bonduca whirled the scythed car, And the fierce matrons raised the shriek of war, Light forms beneath transparent muslins float, And tutored voices swell the artful note. Light-leaved acacias and the shady plane And spreading cedar grace the woodland reign; While crystal walls the tenderer plants confine, The fragrant orange and the nectared pine; The Syrian grape there hangs her rich festoons, Nor asks for purer air, or brighter noons: Science and Art urge on the useful toil, New mould a climate and create the soil, Subdue the rigour of the northern Bear, O'er polar climes shed aromatic air, On yielding Nature urge their new demands, And ask not gifts but tribute at her hands. London exults:—on London Art bestows Her summer ices and her winter rose; Gems of the East her mural crown adorn, And Plenty at her feet pours forth her horn; While even the exiles her just laws disclaim, People a continent, and build a name: August she sits, and with extended hands Holds forth the book of life to distant lands. 55 But fairest flowers expand but to decay; The worm is in thy core, thy glories pass away; Arts, arms and wealth destroy the fruits they bring; Commerce, like beauty, knows no second spring. Crime walks thy streets, Fraud earns her unblest bread, O'er want and woe thy gorgeous robe is spread, And angel charities in vain oppose: With grandeur's growth the mass of misery grows. For see,—to other climes the Genius soars, He turns from Europe's desolated shores; And lo, even now, midst mountains wrapt in storm, On Andes' heights he shrouds his awful form; On Chimborazo's summits treads sublime, Measuring in lofty thought the march of Time; Sudden he calls:—“'Tis now the hour!” he cries, Spreads his broad hand, and bids the nations rise. La Plata hears amidst her torrents' roar; Potosi hears it, as she digs the ore: Ardent, the Genius fans the noble strife, And pours through feeble souls a higher life, Shouts to the mingled tribes from sea to sea, And swears—Thy world, Columbus, shall be free. ~ Anna Laetitia Barbauld

299:"Thou thoughtest that I was altogether such a one as thyself."    (David, Psalms 50.21) ['Will sprawl, now that the heat of day is best, Flat on his belly in the pit's much mire, With elbows wide, fists clenched to prop his chin. And, while he kicks both feet in the cool slush, And feels about his spine small eft-things course, Run in and out each arm, and make him laugh: And while above his head a pompion-plant, Coating the cave-top as a brow its eye, Creeps down to touch and tickle hair and beard, And now a flower drops with a bee inside, And now a fruit to snap at, catch and crunch, He looks out o'er yon sea which sunbeams cross And recross till they weave a spider-web (Meshes of fire, some great fish breaks at times) And talks to his own self, howe'er he please, Touching that other, whom his dam called God. Because to talk about Him, vexesha, Could He but know! and time to vex is now, When talk is safer than in winter-time. Moreover Prosper and Miranda sleep In confidence he drudges at their task, And it is good to cheat the pair, and gibe, Letting the rank tongue blossom into speech.] Setebos, Setebos, and Setebos! 'Thinketh, He dwelleth i' the cold o' the moon. 'Thinketh He made it, with the sun to match, But not the stars; the stars came otherwise; Only made clouds, winds, meteors, such as that: Also this isle, what lives and grows thereon, And snaky sea which rounds and ends the same. 'Thinketh, it came of being ill at ease: He hated that He cannot change His cold, Nor cure its ache. 'Hath spied an icy fish That longed to 'scape the rock-stream where she lived, And thaw herself within the lukewarm brine O' the lazy sea her stream thrusts far amid, A crystal spike 'twixt two warm walls of wave; Only, she ever sickened, found repulse At the other kind of water, not her life, (Green-dense and dim-delicious, bred o' the sun) Flounced back from bliss she was not born to breathe, And in her old bounds buried her despair, Hating and loving warmth alike: so He. 'Thinketh, He made thereat the sun, this isle, Trees and the fowls here, beast and creeping thing. Yon otter, sleek-wet, black, lithe as a leech; Yon auk, one fire-eye in a ball of foam, That floats and feeds; a certain badger brown He hath watched hunt with that slant white-wedge eye By moonlight; and the pie with the long tongue That pricks deep into oak warts for a worm, And says a plain word when she finds her prize, But will not eat the ants; the ants themselves That build a wall of seeds and settled stalks About their holeHe made all these and more, Made all we see, and us, in spite: how else? He could not, Himself, make a second self To be His mate; as well have made Himself: He would not make what He mislikes or slights, An eyesore to Him, or not worth His pains: But did, in envy, listlessness or sport, Make what Himself would fain, in a manner, be Weaker in most points, stronger in a few, Worthy, and yet mere playthings all the while, Things He admires and mocks too,that is it. Because, so brave, so better though they be, It nothing skills if He begin to plague. Look, now, I melt a gourd-fruit into mash, Add honeycomb and pods, I have perceived, Which bite like finches when they bill and kiss, Then, when froth rises bladdery, drink up all, Quick, quick, till maggots scamper through my brain; Last, throw me on my back i' the seeded thyme, And wanton, wishing I were born a bird. Put case, unable to be what I wish, I yet could make a live bird out of clay: Would not I take clay, pinch my Caliban Able to fly?for, there, see, he hath wings, And great comb like the hoopoe's to admire, And there, a sting to do his foes offence, There, and I will that he begin to live, Fly to yon rock-top, nip me off the horns Of grigs high up that make the merry din, Saucy through their veined wings, and mind me not. In which feat, if his leg snapped, brittle clay, And he lay stupid-like,why, I should laugh; And if he, spying me, should fall to weep, Beseech me to be good, repair his wrong, Bid his poor leg smart less or grow again, Well, as the chance were, this might take or else Not take my fancy: I might hear his cry, And give the mankin three sound legs for one, Or pluck the other off, leave him like an egg And lessoned he was mine and merely clay. Were this no pleasure, lying in the thyme, Drinking the mash, with brain become alive, Making and marring clay at will? So He. 'Thinketh, such shows nor right nor wrong in Him, Nor kind, nor cruel: He is strong and Lord. 'Am strong myself compared to yonder crabs That march now from the mountain to the sea; 'Let twenty pass, and stone the twenty-first, Loving not, hating not, just choosing so. 'Say, the first straggler that boasts purple spots Shall join the file, one pincer twisted off; 'Say, this bruised fellow shall receive a worm, And two worms he whose nippers end in red; As it likes me each time, I do: so He. Well then, 'supposeth He is good i' the main, Placable if His mind and ways were guessed, But rougher than His handiwork, be sure! Oh, He hath made things worthier than Himself, And envieth that, so helped, such things do more Than He who made them! What consoles but this? That they, unless through Him, do nought at all, And must submit: what other use in things? 'Hath cut a pipe of pithless elder-joint That, blown through, gives exact the scream o' the jay When from her wing you twitch the feathers blue: Sound this, and little birds that hate the jay Flock within stone's throw, glad their foe is hurt: Put case such pipe could prattle and boast forsooth "I catch the birds, I am the crafty thing, I make the cry my maker cannot make With his great round mouth; he must blow through mine!' Would not I smash it with my foot? So He. But wherefore rough, why cold and ill at ease? Aha, that is a question! Ask, for that, What knows,the something over Setebos That made Him, or He, may be, found and fought, Worsted, drove off and did to nothing, perchance. There may be something quiet o'er His head, Out of His reach, that feels nor joy nor grief, Since both derive from weakness in some way. I joy because the quails come; would not joy Could I bring quails here when I have a mind: This Quiet, all it hath a mind to, doth. 'Esteemeth stars the outposts of its couch, But never spends much thought nor care that way. It may look up, work up,the worse for those It works on! 'Careth but for Setebos The many-handed as a cuttle-fish, Who, making Himself feared through what He does, Looks up, first, and perceives he cannot soar To what is quiet and hath happy life; Next looks down here, and out of very spite Makes this a bauble-world to ape yon real, These good things to match those as hips do grapes. 'Tis solace making baubles, ay, and sport. Himself peeped late, eyed Prosper at his books Careless and lofty, lord now of the isle: Vexed, 'stitched a book of broad leaves, arrow-shaped, Wrote thereon, he knows what, prodigious words; Has peeled a wand and called it by a name; Weareth at whiles for an enchanter's robe The eyed skin of a supple oncelot; And hath an ounce sleeker than youngling mole, A four-legged serpent he makes cower and couch, Now snarl, now hold its breath and mind his eye, And saith she is Miranda and my wife: 'Keeps for his Ariel a tall pouch-bill crane He bids go wade for fish and straight disgorge; Also a sea-beast, lumpish, which he snared, Blinded the eyes of, and brought somewhat tame, And split its toe-webs, and now pens the drudge In a hole o' the rock and calls him Caliban; A bitter heart that bides its time and bites. 'Plays thus at being Prosper in a way, Taketh his mirth with make-believes: so He. His dam held that the Quiet made all things Which Setebos vexed only: 'holds not so. Who made them weak, meant weakness He might vex. Had He meant other, while His hand was in, Why not make horny eyes no thorn could prick, Or plate my scalp with bone against the snow, Or overscale my flesh 'neath joint and joint Like an orc's armour? Ay,so spoil His sport! He is the One now: only He doth all. 'Saith, He may like, perchance, what profits Him. Ay, himself loves what does him good; but why? 'Gets good no otherwise. This blinded beast Loves whoso places flesh-meat on his nose, But, had he eyes, would want no help, but hate Or love, just as it liked him: He hath eyes. Also it pleaseth Setebos to work, Use all His hands, and exercise much craft, By no means for the love of what is worked. 'Tasteth, himself, no finer good i' the world When all goes right, in this safe summer-time, And he wants little, hungers, aches not much, Than trying what to do with wit and strength. 'Falls to make something: 'piled yon pile of turfs, And squared and stuck there squares of soft white chalk, And, with a fish-tooth, scratched a moon on each, And set up endwise certain spikes of tree, And crowned the whole with a sloth's skull a-top, Found dead i' the woods, too hard for one to kill. No use at all i' the work, for work's sole sake; 'Shall some day knock it down again: so He. 'Saith He is terrible: watch His feats in proof! One hurricane will spoil six good months' hope. He hath a spite against me, that I know, Just as He favours Prosper, who knows why? So it is, all the same, as well I find. 'Wove wattles half the winter, fenced them firm With stone and stake to stop she-tortoises Crawling to lay their eggs here: well, one wave, Feeling the foot of Him upon its neck, Gaped as a snake does, lolled out its large tongue, And licked the whole labour flat: so much for spite. 'Saw a ball flame down late (yonder it lies) Where, half an hour before, I slept i' the shade: Often they scatter sparkles: there is force! 'Dug up a newt He may have envied once And turned to stone, shut up Inside a stone. Please Him and hinder this?What Prosper does? Aha, if He would tell me how! Not He! There is the sport: discover how or die! All need not die, for of the things o' the isle Some flee afar, some dive, some run up trees; Those at His mercy,why, they please Him most When . . . when . . . well, never try the same way twice! Repeat what act has pleased, He may grow wroth. You must not know His ways, and play Him off, Sure of the issue. 'Doth the like himself: 'Spareth a squirrel that it nothing fears But steals the nut from underneath my thumb, And when I threat, bites stoutly in defence: 'Spareth an urchin that contrariwise, Curls up into a ball, pretending death For fright at my approach: the two ways please. But what would move my choler more than this, That either creature counted on its life To-morrow and next day and all days to come, Saying, forsooth, in the inmost of its heart, "Because he did so yesterday with me, And otherwise with such another brute, So must he do henceforth and always."Ay? Would teach the reasoning couple what "must" means! 'Doth as he likes, or wherefore Lord? So He. 'Conceiveth all things will continue thus, And we shall have to live in fear of Him So long as He lives, keeps His strength: no change, If He have done His best, make no new world To please Him more, so leave off watching this, If He surprise not even the Quiet's self Some strange day,or, suppose, grow into it As grubs grow butterflies: else, here are we, And there is He, and nowhere help at all. 'Believeth with the life, the pain shall stop. His dam held different, that after death He both plagued enemies and feasted friends: Idly! He doth His worst in this our life, Giving just respite lest we die through pain, Saving last pain for worst,with which, an end. Meanwhile, the best way to escape His ire Is, not to seem too happy. 'Sees, himself, Yonder two flies, with purple films and pink, Bask on the pompion-bell above: kills both. 'Sees two black painful beetles roll their ball On head and tail as if to save their lives: Moves them the stick away they strive to clear. Even so, 'would have Him misconceive, suppose This Caliban strives hard and ails no less, And always, above all else, envies Him; Wherefore he mainly dances on dark nights, Moans in the sun, gets under holes to laugh, And never speaks his mind save housed as now: Outside, 'groans, curses. If He caught me here, O'erheard this speech, and asked "What chucklest at?" 'Would, to appease Him, cut a finger off, Or of my three kid yearlings burn the best, Or let the toothsome apples rot on tree, Or push my tame beast for the orc to taste: While myself lit a fire, and made a song And sung it, "What I hate, be consecrate To celebrate Thee and Thy state, no mate For Thee; what see for envy in poor me?" Hoping the while, since evils sometimes mend, Warts rub away and sores are cured with slime, That some strange day, will either the Quiet catch And conquer Setebos, or likelier He Decrepit may doze, doze, as good as die. NOTES Form: unrhyming 1. The motto is from Psalms 1: 21. For the title character, see The Tempest, I, ii. The subtitle and the motto indicate much of Browning's intention in the poem. "Natural theology" is distinguished from (and here opposed to) "revealed theology"\; natural theology being that system of thought about God which man arrives at through the unaided use of his natural reason. To the Victorian secularists, all theology was "natural theology"--that is, man-made. Their favourite theory was that all religion was a projection by man of his own qualities. This is the theory which the text chosen as motto condemns, and which Caliban's musings illustrate. Throughout he looks at his own characteristics, and then ascribes them to his god, Setebos: "So he." What is conspicuous in the poem is that there is no glimpse of what to Browning is true theology: the theology of a God of Love. This comes to man (as to David in Saul) by revelation. The highest conception Caliban can achieve by natural reason is of the Quiet--an indifferent, absentee, Epicurean God. His Setebos is merely a God of arbitrary and jealous power. It is also noteworthy that Browning includes in Caliban's theology not merely most of the doctrines of primitive religions, but also some elements associated with branches of Christianity, particularly the narrower kind of Calvinist sect. He is by implication rejecting these elements as part of his own definition of true Christianity in terms of a God of Love. The passages in brackets at the beginning and end of the poem represent Caliban's silent thoughts. The main part of the poem is spoken aloud, and presents his attempt at a system. He is very much the "natural" man, but Browning gives him not only a quick and vivid imagination, but a mind that follows the general systematic pattern of thought used by writers on natural religion. He starts with the relation of his god to the universe, and the problem of cosmology, and then moves systematically to consider his god's attributes, and to try to evolve rules for worship and service. Caliban throughout speaks of himself in the third person, usually without the pronoun. Browning indicates the omission of the pronoun by an apostrophe. ~ Robert Browning, Caliban upon Setebos or, Natural Theology in the Island

300:Fled foam underneath us, and round us, a wandering and milky smoke, High as the Saddle-girth, covering away from our glances the tide; And those that fled, and that followed, from the foam-pale distance broke; The immortal desire of Immortals we saw in their faces, and sighed. I mused on the chase with the Fenians, and Bran, Sceolan, Lomair, And never a song sang Niamh, and over my finger-tips Came now the sliding of tears and sweeping of mist-cold hair, And now the warmth of sighs, and after the quiver of lips. Were we days long or hours long in riding, when, rolled in a grisly peace, An isle lay level before us, with dripping hazel and oak? And we stood on a sea's edge we saw not; for whiter than new-washed fleece Fled foam underneath us, and round us, a wandering and milky smoke. And we rode on the plains of the sea's edge; the sea's edge barren and grey, Grey sand on the green of the grasses and over the dripping trees, Dripping and doubling landward, as though they would hasten away, Like an army of old men longing for rest from the moan of the seas. But the trees grew taller and closer, immense in their wrinkling bark; Dropping; a murmurous dropping; old silence and that one sound; For no live creatures lived there, no weasels moved in the dark: Long sighs arose in our spirits, beneath us bubbled the ground. And the ears of the horse went sinking away in the hollow night, For, as drift from a sailor slow drowning the gleams of the world and the sun, Ceased on our hands and our faces, on hazel and oak leaf, the light, And the stars were blotted above us, and the whole of the world was one. Till the horse gave a whinny; for, cumbrous with stems of the hazel and oak, A valley flowed down from his hoofs, and there in the long grass lay, Under the starlight and shadow, a monstrous slumbering folk, Their naked and gleaming bodies poured out and heaped in the way. And by them were arrow and war-axe, arrow and shield and blade; And dew-blanched horns, in whose hollow a child of three years old Could sleep on a couch of rushes, and all inwrought and inlaid, And more comely than man can make them with bronze and silver and gold. And each of the huge white creatures was huger than fourscore men; The tops of their ears were feathered, their hands were the claws of birds, And, shaking the plumes of the grasses and the leaves of the mural glen, The breathing came from those bodies, long warless, grown whiter than curds. The wood was so Spacious above them, that He who has stars for His flocks Could fondle the leaves with His fingers, nor go from His dew-cumbered skies; So long were they sleeping, the owls had builded their nests in their locks, Filling the fibrous dimness with long generations of eyes. And over the limbs and the valley the slow owls wandered and came, Now in a place of star-fire, and now in a shadow-place wide; And the chief of the huge white creatures, his knees in the soft star-flame, Lay loose in a place of shadow: we drew the reins by his side. Golden the nails of his bird-clawS, flung loosely along the dim ground; In one was a branch soft-shining with bells more many than sighs In midst of an old man's bosom; owls ruffling and pacing around Sidled their bodies against him, filling the shade with their eyes. And my gaze was thronged with the sleepers; no, not since the world began, In realms where the handsome were many, nor in glamours by demons flung, Have faces alive with such beauty been known to the salt eye of man, Yet weary with passions that faded when the sevenfold seas were young. And I gazed on the bell-branch, sleep's forebear, far sung by the Sennachies. I saw how those slumbererS, grown weary, there camping in grasses deep, Of wars with the wide world and pacing the shores of the wandering seas, Laid hands on the bell-branch and swayed it, and fed of unhuman sleep. Snatching the horn of Niamh, I blew a long lingering note. Came sound from those monstrous sleepers, a sound like the stirring of flies. He, shaking the fold of his lips, and heaving the pillar of his throat, Watched me with mournful wonder out of the wells of his eyes. I cried, 'Come out of the shadow, king of the nails of gold! And tell of your goodly household and the goodly works of your hands, That we may muse in the starlight and talk of the battles of old; Your questioner, Oisin, is worthy, he comes from the Fenian lands.' Half open his eyes were, and held me, dull with the smoke of their dreams; His lips moved slowly in answer, no answer out of them came; Then he swayed in his fingers the bell-branch, slow dropping a sound in faint streams Softer than snow-flakes in April and piercing the marrow like flame. Wrapt in the wave of that music, with weariness more than of earth, The moil of my centuries filled me; and gone like a sea-covered stone Were the memories of the whole of my sorrow and the memories of the whole of my mirth, And a softness came from the starlight and filled me full to the bone. In the roots of the grasses, the sorrels, I laid my body as low; And the pearl-pale Niamh lay by me, her brow on the midst of my breast; And the horse was gone in the distance, and years after years 'gan flow; Square leaves of the ivy moved over us, binding us down to our rest. And, man of the many white croziers, a century there I forgot How the fetlocks drip blood in the battle, when the fallen on fallen lie rolled; How the falconer follows the falcon in the weeds of the heron's plot, And the name of the demon whose hammer made Conchubar's sword-blade of old. And, man of the many white croziers, a century there I forgot That the spear-shaft is made out of ashwood, the shield out of osier and hide; How the hammers spring on the anvil, on the spearhead's burning spot; How the slow, blue-eyed oxen of Finn low sadly at evening tide. But in dreams, mild man of the croziers, driving the dust with their throngs, Moved round me, of seamen or landsmen, all who are winter tales; Came by me the kings of the Red Branch, with roaring of laughter and songs, Or moved as they moved once, love-making or piercing the tempest with sails. Came Blanid, Mac Nessa, tall Fergus who feastward of old time slunk, Cook Barach, the traitor; and warward, the spittle on his beard never dry, Dark Balor, as old as a forest, car-borne, his mighty head sunk Helpless, men lifting the lids of his weary and death making eye. And by me, in soft red raiment, the Fenians moved in loud streams, And Grania, walking and smiling, sewed with her needle of bone. So lived I and lived not, so wrought I and wrought not, with creatures of dreams, In a long iron sleep, as a fish in the water goes dumb as a stone. At times our slumber was lightened. When the sun was on silver or gold; When brushed with the wings of the owls, in the dimness they love going by; When a glow-worm was green on a grass-leaf, lured from his lair in the mould; Half wakening, we lifted our eyelids, and gazed on the grass with a sigh. So watched I when, man of the croziers, at the heel of a century fell, Weak, in the midst of the meadow, from his miles in the midst of the air, A starling like them that forgathered 'neath a moon waking white as a shell When the Fenians made foray at morning with Bran, Sceolan, Lomair. I awoke: the strange horse without summons out of the distance ran, Thrusting his nose to my shoulder; he knew in his bosom deep That once more moved in my bosom the ancient sadness of man, And that I would leave the Immortals, their dimness, their dews dropping sleep. O, had you seen beautiful Niamh grow white as the waters are white, Lord of the croziers, you even had lifted your hands and wept: But, the bird in my fingers, I mounted, remembering alone that delight Of twilight and slumber were gone, and that hoofs impatiently stept. I died, 'O Niamh! O white one! if only a twelve-houred day, I must gaze on the beard of Finn, and move where the old men and young In the Fenians' dwellings of wattle lean on the chessboards and play, Ah, sweet to me now were even bald Conan's slanderous tongue! 'Like me were some galley forsaken far off in Meridian isle, Remembering its long-oared companions, sails turning to threadbare rags; No more to crawl on the seas with long oars mile after mile, But to be amid shooting of flies and flowering of rushes and flags.' Their motionless eyeballs of spirits grown mild with mysterious thought, Watched her those seamless faces from the valley's glimmering girth; As she murmured, 'O wandering Oisin, the strength of the bell-branch is naught, For there moves alive in your fingers the fluttering sadness of earth. 'Then go through the lands in the saddle and see what the mortals do, And softly come to your Niamh over the tops of the tide; But weep for your Niamh, O Oisin, weep; for if only your shoe Brush lightly as haymouse earth's pebbles, you will come no more to my side. 'O flaming lion of the world, O when will you turn to your rest?' I saw from a distant saddle; from the earth she made her moan: 'I would die like a small withered leaf in the autumn, for breast unto breast We shall mingle no more, nor our gazes empty their sweetness lone 'In the isles of the farthest seas where only the spirits come. Were the winds less soft than the breath of a pigeon who sleeps on her nest, Nor lost in the star-fires and odours the sound of the sea's vague drum? O flaming lion of the world, O when will you turn to your rest?' The wailing grew distant; I rode by the woods of the wrinkling bark, Where ever is murmurous dropping, old silence and that one sound; For no live creatures live there, no weasels move in the dark: In a reverie forgetful of all things, over the bubbling' ground. And I rode by the plains of the sea's edge, where all is barren and grey, Grey sand on the green of the grasses and over the dripping trees, Dripping and doubling landward, as though they would hasten away', Like an army of old men longing for rest from the moan of the seas. And the winds made the sands on the sea's edge turning and turning go, As my mind made the names of the Fenians. Far from the hazel and oak, I rode away on the surges, where, high aS the saddle-bow, Fled foam underneath me, and round me, a wandering and milky smoke. Long fled the foam-flakes around me, the winds fled out of the vast, Snatching the bird in secret; nor knew I, embosomed apart, When they froze the cloth on my body like armour riveted fast, For Remembrance, lifting her leanness, keened in the gates of my heart. Till, fattening the winds of the morning, an odour of new-mown hay Came, and my forehead fell low, and my tears like berries fell down; Later a sound came, half lost in the sound of a shore far away, From the great grass-barnacle calling, and later the shore-weeds brown. If I were as I once was, the strong hoofs crushing the sand and the shells, Coming out of the sea as the dawn comes, a chaunt of love on my lips, Not coughing, my head on my knees, and praying, and wroth with the bells, I would leave no saint's head on his body from Rachlin to Bera of ships. Making way from the kindling surges, I rode on a bridle-path Much wondering to see upon all hands, of wattles and woodwork made, Your bell-mounted churches, and guardless the sacred cairn and the rath, And a small and a feeble populace stooping with mattock and spade, Or weeding or ploughing with faces a-shining with much-toil wet; While in this place and that place, with bodies unglorious, their chieftains stood, Awaiting in patience the straw-death, croziered one, caught in your net: Went the laughter of scorn from my mouth like the roaring of wind in a wood. And before I went by them so huge and so speedy with eyes so bright, Came after the hard gaze of youth, or an old man lifted his head: And I rode and I rode, and I cried out, 'The Fenians hunt wolves in the night, So sleep thee by daytime.' A voice cried, 'The Fenians a long time are dead.' A whitebeard stood hushed on the pathway, the flesh of his face as dried grass, And in folds round his eyes and his mouth, he sad as a child without milk- And the dreams of the islands were gone, and I knew how men sorrow and pass, And their hound, and their horse, and their love, and their eyes that glimmer like silk. And wrapping my face in my hair, I murmured, 'In old age they ceased'; And my tears were larger than berries, and I murmured, 'Where white clouds lie spread On Crevroe or broad Knockfefin, with many of old they feast On the floors of the gods.' He cried, 'No, the gods a long time are dead.' And lonely and longing for Niamh, I shivered and turned me about, The heart in me longing to leap like a grasshopper into her heart; I turned and rode to the westward, and followed the sea's old shout Till I saw where Maeve lies sleeping till starlight and midnight part. And there at the foot of the mountain, two carried a sack full of sand, They bore it with staggering and sweating, but fell with their burden at length. Leaning down from the gem-studded saddle, I flung it five yards with my hand, With a sob for men waxing so weakly, a sob for the Fenians' old strength. The rest you have heard of, O croziered man; how, when divided the girth, I fell on the path, and the horse went away like a summer fly; And my years three hundred fell on me, and I rose, and walked on the earth, A creeping old man, full of sleep, with the spittle on his beard never dry'. How the men of the sand-sack showed me a church with its belfry in air; Sorry place, where for swing of the war-axe in my dim eyes the crozier gleams; What place have Caoilte and Conan, and Bran, Sceolan, Lomair? Speak, you too are old with your memories, an old man surrounded with dreams. S. Patrick. Where the flesh of the footsole clingeth on the burning stones is their place; Where the demons whip them with wires on the burning stones of wide Hell, Watching the blessed ones move far off, and the smile on God's face, Between them a gateway of brass, and the howl of the angels who fell. Oisin. Put the staff in my hands; for I go to the Fenians, O cleric, to chaunt The war-songs that roused them of old; they will rise, making clouds with their Breath, Innumerable, singing, exultant; the clay underneath them shall pant, And demons be broken in pieces, and trampled beneath them in death. And demons afraid in their darkness; deep horror of eyes and of wings, Afraid, their ears on the earth laid, shall listen and rise up and weep; Hearing the shaking of shields and the quiver of stretched bowstrings, Hearing Hell loud with a murmur, as shouting and mocking we sweep. We will tear out the flaming stones, and batter the gateway of brass And enter, and none sayeth 'No' when there enters the strongly armed guest; Make clean as a broom cleans, and march on as oxen move over young grass; Then feast, making converse of wars, and of old wounds, and turn to our rest. S. Patrick. On the flaming stones, without refuge, the limbs of the Fenians are lost; None war on the masters of Hell, who could break up the world in their rage; But kneel and wear out the flags and pray for your soul that is lost Through the demon love of its youth and its godless and passionate age. Oisin. Ah me! to be Shaken with coughing and broken with old age and pain, Without laughter, a show unto children, alone with remembrance and fear; All emptied of purple hours as a beggar's cloak in the rain, As a hay-cock out on the flood, or a wolf sucked under a weir. It were sad to gaze on the blessed and no man I loved of old there; I throw down the chain of small stones! when life in my body has ceased, I will go to Caoilte, and Conan, and Bran, Sceolan, Lomair, And dwell in the house of the Fenians, be they in flames or at feast. ~ William Butler Yeats, The Wanderings Of Oisin - Book III

301:I WHEN the pine tosses its cones To the song of its waterfall tones, Who speeds to the woodland walks? To birds and trees who talks? Csar of his leafy Rome, There the poet is at home. He goes to the river-side, Not hook nor line hath he; He stands in the meadows wide, Nor gun nor scythe to see. Sure some god his eye enchants: What he knows nobody wants. In the wood he travels glad, Without better fortune had, Melancholy without bad. Knowledge this man prizes best Seems fantastic to the rest: Pondering shadows, colors, clouds, Grass-buds and caterpillar-shrouds, Boughs on which the wild bees settle, Tints that spot the violet's petal, Why Nature loves the number five, And why the star-form she repeats: Lover of all things alive, Wonderer at all he meets, Wonderer chiefly at himself, Who can tell him what he is? Or how meet in human elf Coming and past eternities? 2 And such I knew, a forest seer, A minstrel of the natural year, Foreteller of the vernal ides, Wise harbinger of spheres and tides, A lover true, who knew by heart Each joy the mountain dales impart; It seemed that Nature could not raise A plant in any secret place, In quaking bog, on snowy hill, Beneath the grass that shades the rill, Under the snow, between the rocks, In damp fields known to bird and fox. But he would come in the very hour It opened in its virgin bower, As if a sunbeam showed the place, And tell its long-descended race. It seemed as if the breezes brought him, It seemed as if the sparrows taught him; As if by secret sight he knew Where, in far fields, the orchis grew. Many haps fall in the field Seldom seen by wishful eyes, But all her shows did Nature yield, To please and win this pilgrim wise. He saw the partridge drum in the woods; He heard the woodcock's evening hymn; He found the tawny thrushes' broods; And the shy hawk did wait for him; What others did at distance hear, And guessed within the thicket's gloom, Was shown to this philosopher, And at his bidding seemed to come. 3 In unploughed Maine he sought the lumberers' gang Where from a hundred lakes young rivers sprang; He trod the unplanted forest floor, whereon The all-seeing sun for ages hath not shone; Where feeds the moose, and walks the surly bear, And up the tall mast runs the woodpecker. He saw beneath dim aisles, in odorous beds, The slight Linna hang its twin-born heads, And blessed the monument of the man of flowers, Which breathes his sweet fame'through the northern bowers. He heard, when in the grove, at intervals, With sudden roar the aged pine-tree falls, One crash, the death-hymn of the perfect tree, Declares the close of its green century. Low lies the plant to whose creation went Sweet influence from every element; Whose living towers the years conspired to build, Whose giddy top the morning loved to gild. Through these green tents, by eldest Nature dressed, He roamed, content alike with man and beast. Where darkness found him he lay glad at night; There the red morning touched him with its light. Three moons his great heart him a hermit made, So long he roved at will the boundless shade. The timid it concerns to ask their way, And fear what foe in caves and swamps can stray, To make no step until the event is known, And ills to come as evils past bemoan. Not so the wise; no coward watch he keeps To spy what danger on his pathway creeps; Go where he will, the wise man is at home, His hearth the earth,his hall the azure dome; Where his clear spirit leads him, there's his road By God's own light illumined and foreshowed. 4 'T was one of the charmd days When the genius of God doth flow; The wind may alter twenty ways, A tempest cannot blow; It may blow north, it still is warm; Or south, it still is clear; Or east, it smells like a clover-farm; Or west, no thunder fear. The musing peasant, lowly great, Beside the forest water sate; The rope-like pine-roots crosswise grown Composed the network of his throne; The wide lake, edged with sand and grass, Was burnished to a floor of glass, Painted with shadows green and proud Of the tree and of the cloud. He was the heart of all the scene; On him the sun looked more serene; To hill and cloud his face was known, It seemed the likeness of their own; They knew by secret sympathy The public child of earth and sky. 'You ask,' he said,'what guide Me through trackless thickets led, Through thick-stemmed woodlands rough and wide. I found the water's bed. The watercourses were my guide; I travelled grateful by their side, Or through their channel dry; They led me through the thicket damp, Through brake and fern, the beavers' camp, Through beds of granite cut my road, And their resistless friendship showed. The falling waters led me, The foodful waters fed me, And brought me to the lowest land Unerring to the ocean sand. The moss upon the forest bark Was pole-star when the night was dark; The purple berries in the wood Supplied me necessary food; For Nature ever faithful is To such as trust her faithfulness. When the forest shall mislead me, When the night and morning lie, When sea and land refuse to feed me, 'T will be time enough to die; Then will yet my mother yield A pillow in her greenest field, Nor the June flowers scorn to cover The clay of their departed lover.' II As sunbeams stream through liberal space And nothing jostle or displace, So waved the pine-tree through my thought And fanned the dreams it never brought. 'Whether is better, the gift or the donor? Come to me,' Quoth the pine-tree, 'I am the giver of honor. My garden is the cloven rock, And my manure the snow; And drifting sand-heaps feed my stock, In summer's scorching glow. He is great who can live by me: The rough and bearded forester Is better than the lord; God fills the scrip and canister, Sin piles the loaded board. The lord is the peasant that was, The peasant the lord that shall be; The lord is hay, the peasant grass, One dry, and one the living tree. Who liveth by the ragged pine Foundeth a heroic line; Who liveth in the palace hall Waneth fast and spendeth all. He goes to my savage haunts, With his chariot and his care; My twilight realm he disenchants, And finds his prison there. 'What prizes the town and the tower? Only what the pine-tree yields; Sinew that subdued the fields; The wild-eyed boy, who in the woods Chants his hymn to hills and floods, Whom the city's poisoning spleen Made not pale, or fat, or lean; Whom the rain and the wind purgeth, Whom the dawn and the day-star urgeth, In whose cheek the rose-leaf blusheth, In whose feet the lion rusheth, Iron arms, and iron mould, That know not fear, fatigue, or cold. I give my rafters to his boat, My billets to his boiler's throat, And I will swim the ancient sea To float my child to victory, And grant to dwellers with the pine Dominion o'er the palm and vine. Who leaves the pine-tree, leaves his friend, Unnerves his strength, invites his end. Cut a bough from my parent stem, And dip it in thy porcelain vase; A little while each russet gem Will swell and rise with wonted grace; But when it seeks enlarged supplies, The orphan of the forest dies. Whoso walks in solitude And inhabiteth the wood, Choosing light, wave, rock and bird, Before the money-loving herd, Into that forester shall pass, From these companions, power and grace. Clean shall he be, without, within, From the old adhering sin, All ill dissolving in the light Of his triumphant piercing sight: Not vain, sour, nor frivolous; Not mad, athirst, nor garrulous; Grave, chaste, contented, though retired, And of all other men desired. On him the light of star and moon Shall fall with purer radiance down; All constellations of the sky Shed their virtue through his eye. Him Nature giveth for defence His formidable innocence; The mounting sap, the shells, the sea, All spheres, all stones, his helpers be; He shall meet the speeding year, Without wailing, without fear; He shall be happy in his love, Like to like shall joyful prove; He shall be happy whilst he wooes, Muse-born, a daughter of the Muse. But if with gold she bind her hair, And deck her breast with diamond, Take off thine eyes, thy heart forbear, Though thou lie alone on the ground. ' Heed the old oracles, Ponder my spells; Song wakes in my pinnacles When the wind swells. Soundeth the prophetic wind, The shadows shake on the rock behind, And the countless leaves of the pine are strings Tuned to the lay the wood-god sings. Hearken! Hearken! If thou wouldst know the mystic song Chanted when the sphere was young. Aloft, abroad, the pan swells; O wise man! hear'st thou half it tells? O wise man! hear'st thou the least part? 'T is the chronicle of art. To the open ear it sings Sweet the genesis of things, Of tendency through endless ages, Of star-dust, and star-pilgrimages, Of rounded worlds, of space and time, Of the old flood's subsiding slime, Of chemic matter, force and form, Of poles and powers, cold, wet, and warm: The rushing metamorphosis Dissolving all that fixture is, Melts things that be to things that seem, And solid nature to a dream. O, listen to the undersong, The ever old, the ever young; And, far within those cadent pauses, The chorus of the ancient Causes! Delights the dreadful Destiny To fling his voice into the tree, And shock thy weak ear with a note Breathed from the everlasting throat. In music he repeats the pang Whence the fair flock of Nature sprang. O mortal! thy ears are stones; These echoes are laden with tones Which only the pure can hear; Thou canst not catch what they recite Of Fate and Will, of Want and Right, Of man to come, of human life, Of Death and Fortune, Growth and Strife.' Once again the pine-tree sung: ' Speak not thy speech my boughs among: Put off thy years, wash in the breeze; My hours are peaceful centuries. Talk no more with feeble tongue; No more the fool of space and time, Come weave with mine a nobler rhyme. Only thy Americans Can read thy line, can meet thy glance, But the runes that I rehearse Understands the universe; The least breath my boughs which tossed Brings again the Pentecost; To every soul resounding clear In a voice of solemn cheer, "Am I not thine? Are not these thine?" And they reply, "Forever mine!" My branches speak Italian, English, German, Basque, Castilian, Mountain speech to Highlanders, Ocean tongues to islanders, To Fin and Lap and swart Malay, To each his bosom-secret say. 'Come learn with me the fatal song Which knits the world in music strong, Come lift thine eyes to lofty rhymes, Of things with things, of times with times, Primal chimes of sun and shade, Of sound and echo, man and maid, The land reflected in the flood, Body with shadow still pursued. For Nature beats in perfect tune, And rounds with rhyme her every rune, Whether she work in land or sea, Or hide underground her alchemy. Thou canst not wave thy staff in air, Or dip thy paddle in the lake, But it carves the bow of beauty there, And the ripples in rhymes the oar forsake. The wood is wiser far than thou; The wood and wave each other know Not unrelated, unaffied, But to each thought and thing allied, Is perfect Nature's every part, Rooted in the mighty Heart. But thou, poor child! unbound, unrhymed, Whence camest thou, misplaced, mistimed, Whence, O thou orphan and defrauded? Is thy land peeled, thy realm marauded? Who thee divorced, deceived and left? Thee of thy faith who hath bereft, And torn the ensigns from thy brow, And sunk the immortal eye so low? Thy cheek too white, thy form too slender, Thy gait too slow, thy habits tender For royal man;they thee confess An exile from the wilderness, The hills where health with health agrees, And the wise soul expels disease. Hark! in thy ear I will tell the sign By which thy hurt thou may'st divine. 'When thou shalt climb the mountain cliff, Or see the wide shore from thy skiff, To thee the horizon shall express But emptiness on emptiness; There lives no man of Nature's worth In the circle of the earth; And to thine eye the vast skies fall, Dire and satirical, On clucking hens and prating fools, On thieves, on drudges and on dolls. And thou shalt say to the Most High, "Godhead! all this astronomy, And fate and practice and invention, Strong art and beautiful pretension, This radiant pomp of sun and star, Throes that were, and worlds that are, Behold! were in vain and in vain; It cannot be,I will look again. Surely now will the curtain rise, And earth's fit tenant me surprise; But the curtain doth not rise, And Nature has miscarried wholly Into failure, into folly." 'Alas! thine is the bankruptcy, Blessed Nature so to see. Come, lay thee in my soothing shade, And heal the hurts which sin has made. I see thee in the crowd alone; I will be thy companion. Quit thy friends as the dead in doom, And build to them a final tomb; Let the starred shade that nightly falls Still celebrate their funerals, And the bell of beetle and of bee Knell their melodious memory. Behind thee leave thy merchandise, Thy churches and thy charities; And leave thy peacock wit behind; Enough for thee the primal mind That flows in streams, that breathes in wind: Leave all thy pedant lore apart; God hid the whole world in thy heart. Love shuns the sage, the child it crowns, Gives all to them who all renounce. The rain comes when the wind calls; The river knows the way to the sea; Without a pilot it runs and falls, Blessing all lands with its charity; The sea tosses and foams to find Its way up to the cloud and wind; The shadow sits close to the flying ball; The date fails not on the palm-tree tall; And thou,go burn thy wormy pages, Shalt outsee seers, and outwit sages. Oft didst thou thread the woods in vain To find what bird had piped the strain: Seek not, and the little eremite Flies gayly forth and sings in sight. 'Hearken once more! I will tell thee the mundane lore. Older am I than thy numbers wot, Change I may, but I pass not. Hitherto all things fast abide, And anchored in the tempest ride. Trenchant time behoves to hurry All to yean and all to bury: All the forms are fugitive, But the substances survive. Ever fresh the broad creation, A divine improvisation, From the heart of God proceeds, A single will, a million deeds. Once slept the world an egg of stone, And pulse, and sound, and light was none; And God said, "Throb!" and there was motion And the vast mass became vast ocean. Onward and on, the eternal Pan, Who layeth the world's incessant plan, Halteth never in one shape, But forever doth escape, Like wave or flame, into new forms Of gem, and air, of plants, and worms. I, that to-day am a pine, Yesterday was a bundle of grass. He is free and libertine, Pouring of his power the wine To every age, to every race;. Unto every race and age He emptieth the beverage; Unto each, and unto all, Maker and original. The world is the ring of his spells, And the play of his miracles. As he giveth to all to drink, Thus or thus they are and think. With one drop sheds form and feature; With the next a special nature; The third adds heat's indulgent spark; The fourth gives light which eats the dark; Into the fifth himself he flings, And conscious Law is King of kings. As the bee through the garden ranges, From world to world the godhead changes; As the sheep go feeding in the waste, From form to form He maketh haste; This vault which glows immense with light Is the inn where he lodges for a night. What reeks such Traveller if the bowers Which bloom and fade like meadow flowers A bunch of fragrant lilies be, Or the stars of eternity? Alike to him the better, the worse, The glowing angel, the outcast corse. Thou metest him by centuries, And lo! he passes like the breeze; Thou seek'st in globe and galaxy, He hides in pure transparency; Thou askest in fountains and in fires, He is the essence that inquires. He is the axis of the star; He is the sparkle of the spar; He is the heart of every creature; He is the meaning of each feature; And his mind is the sky. Than all it holds more deep, more high.' by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson, Woodnotes

302:The Emigrants: Book I Scene, on the Cliffs to the Eastward of the Town of Brighthelmstone in Sussex. Time, a Morning in November, 1792. Slow in the Wintry Morn, the struggling light Throws a faint gleam upon the troubled waves; Their foaming tops, as they approach the shore And the broad surf that never ceasing breaks On the innumerous pebbles, catch the beams Of the pale Sun, that with reluctance gives To this cold northern Isle, its shorten'd day. Alas! how few the morning wakes to joy! How many murmur at oblivious night For leaving them so soon; for bearing thus Their fancied bliss (the only bliss they taste!) , On her black wings away! - Changing the dreams That sooth'd their sorrows, for calamities (And every day brings its own sad proportion) For doubts, diseases, abject dread of Death, And faithless friends, and fame and fortune lost; Fancied or real wants; and wounded pride, That views the day star, but to curse his beams. Yet He, whose Spirit into being call'd This wond'rous World of Waters; He who bids The wild wind lift them till they dash the clouds, And speaks to them in thunder; or whose breath, Low murmuring, o'er the gently heaving tides, When the fair Moon, in summer night serene, Irradiates with long trembling lines of light Their undulating surface; that great Power, Who, governing the Planets, also knows If but a Sea-Mew falls, whose nest is hid In these incumbent cliffs; He surely means To us, his reasoning Creatures, whom He bids Acknowledge and revere his awful hand, Nothing but good: Yet Man, misguided Man, Mars the fair work that he was bid enjoy, And makes himself the evil he deplores. How often, when my weary soul recoils 154 From proud oppression, and from legal crimes (For such are in this Land, where the vain boast Of equal Law is mockery, while the cost Of seeking for redress is sure to plunge Th' already injur'd to more certain ruin And the wretch starves, before his Counsel pleads) How often do I half abjure Society, And sigh for some lone Cottage, deep embower'd In the green woods, that these steep chalky Hills Guard from the strong South West; where round their base The Beach wide flourishes, and the light Ash With slender leaf half hides the thymy turf! There do I wish to hide me; well content If on the short grass, strewn with fairy flowers, I might repose thus shelter'd; or when Eve In Orient crimson lingers in the west, Gain the high mound, and mark these waves remote (Lucid tho' distant) , blushing with the rays Of the far-flaming Orb, that sinks beneath them; For I have thought, that I should then behold The beauteous works of God, unspoil'd by Man And less affected then, by human woes I witness'd not; might better learn to bear Those that injustice, and duplicity And faithlessness and folly, fix on me: For never yet could I derive relief, When my swol'n heart was bursting with its sorrows, From the sad thought, that others like myself Live but to swell affliction's countless tribes! - Tranquil seclusion I have vainly sought; Peace, who delights solitary shade, No more will spread for me her downy wings, But, like the fabled Danaïds- or the wretch, Who ceaseless, up the steep acclivity, Was doom'd to heave the still rebounding rock, Onward I labour; as the baffled wave, Which yon rough beach repulses, that returns With the next breath of wind, to fail again.Ah! Mourner- cease these wailings: cease and learn, That not the Cot sequester'd, where the briar And wood-bine wild, embrace the mossy thatch, (Scarce seen amid the forest gloom obscure!) 155 Or more substantial farm, well fenced and warm, Where the full barn, and cattle fodder'd round Speak rustic plenty; nor the statelier dome By dark firs shaded, or the aspiring pine, Close by the village Church (with care conceal'd By verdant foliage, lest the poor man's grave Should mar the smiling prospect of his Lord) , Where offices well rang'd, or dove-cote stock'd, Declare manorial residence; not these Or any of the buildings, new and trim With windows circling towards the restless Sea, Which ranged in rows, now terminate my walk, Can shut out for an hour the spectre Care, That from the dawn of reason, follows still Unhappy Mortals, 'till the friendly grave (Our sole secure asylum) 'ends the chace 1.' Behold, in witness of this mournful truth, A group approach me, whose dejected looks, Sad Heralds of distress! proclaim them Men Banish'd for ever and for conscience sake From their distracted Country, whence the name Of Freedom misapplied, and much abus'd By lawless Anarchy, has driven them far To wander; with the prejudice they learn'd From Bigotry (the Tut'ress of the blind) , Thro' the wide World unshelter'd; their sole hope, That German spoilers, thro' that pleasant land May carry wide the desolating scourge Of War and Vengeance; yet unhappy Men, Whate'er your errors, I lament your fate: And, as disconsolate and sad ye hang Upon the barrier of the rock, and seem To murmur your despondence, waiting long Some fortunate reverse that never comes; Methinks in each expressive face, I see Discriminated anguish; there droops one, Who in a moping cloister long consum'd This life inactive, to obtain a better, And thought that meagre abstinence, to wake From his hard pallet with the midnight bell, To live on eleemosynary bread, And to renounce God's works, would please that God. 156 And now the poor pale wretch receives, amaz'd, The pity, strangers give to his distress, Because these Strangers are, by his dark creed, Condemn'd as Heretics- and with sick heart Regrets 2 his pious prison, and his beads.Another, of more haughty port, declines The aid he needs not; while in mute despair His high indignant thoughts go back to France, Dwelling on all he lost- the Gothic dome, That vied with splendid palaces 3; the beds Of silk and down, the silver chalices, Vestments with gold enwrought for blazing altars; Where, amid clouds of incense, he held forth To kneeling crowds the imaginary bones Of Saints suppos'd, in pearl and gold enchas'd, And still with more than living Monarchs' pomp Surrounded; was believ'd by mumbling bigots To hold the keys of Heaven, and to admit Whom he thought good to share it- Now alas! He, to whose daring soul and high ambition The World seem'd circumscrib'd; who, wont to dream, Of Fleuri, Richelieu, Alberoni, men Who trod on Empire, and whose politics Were not beyond the grasp of his vast mind, Is, in a Land once hostile, still prophan'd By disbelief, and rites un-orthodox, The object of compassion- At his side, Lighter of heart than these, but heavier far Than he was wont, another victim comes, An Abbé- who with less contracted brow Still smiles and flatters, and still talks of Hope; Which, sanguine as he is, he does not feel, And so he cheats the sad and weighty pressure Of evils present; - - Still, as Men misled By early prejudice (so hard to break) , I mourn your sorrows; for I too have known Involuntary exile; and while yet England had charms for me, have felt how sad It is to look across the dim cold sea, That melancholy rolls its refluent tides Between us and the dear regretted land We call our own- as now ye pensive wait 157 On this bleak morning, gazing on the waves That seem to leave your shore; from whence the wind Is loaded to your ears, with the deep groans Of martyr'd Saints and suffering Royalty, While to your eyes the avenging power of Heaven Appears in aweful anger to prepare The storm of vengeance, fraught with plagues and death. Even he of milder heart, who was indeed The simple shepherd in a rustic scene, And, 'mid the vine-clad hills of Languedoc, Taught to the bare-foot peasant, whose hard hands Produc'd 4 the nectar he could seldom taste, Submission to the Lord for whom he toil'd; He, or his brethren, who to Neustria's sons Enforc'd religious patience, when, at times, On their indignant hearts Power's iron hand Too strongly struck; eliciting some sparks Of the bold spirit of their native North; Even these Parochial Priests, these humbled men; Whose lowly undistinguish'd cottages Witness'd a life of purest piety, While the meek tenants were, perhaps, unknown Each to the haughty Lord of his domain, Who mark'd them not; the Noble scorning still The poor and pious Priest, as with slow pace He glided thro' the dim arch'd avenue Which to the Castle led; hoping to cheer The last sad hour of some laborious life That hasten'd to its close- even such a Man Becomes an exile; staying not to try By temperate zeal to check his madd'ning flock, Who, at the novel sound of Liberty (Ah! most intoxicating sound to slaves!) , Start into licence- Lo! dejected now, The wandering Pastor mourns, with bleeding heart, His erring people, weeps and prays for them, And trembles for the account that he must give To Heaven for souls entrusted to his care.Where the cliff, hollow'd by the wintry storm, Affords a seat with matted sea-weed strewn, A softer form reclines; around her run, On the rough shingles, or the chalky bourn, 158 Her gay unconscious children, soon amus'd; Who pick the fretted stone, or glossy shell, Or crimson plant marine: or they contrive The fairy vessel, with its ribband sail And gilded paper pennant: in the pool, Left by the salt wave on the yielding sands, They launch the mimic navy- Happy age! Unmindful of the miseries of Man! Alas! too long a victim to distress, Their Mother, lost in melancholy thought, Lull'd for a moment by the murmurs low Of sullen billows, wearied by the task Of having here, with swol'n and aching eyes Fix'd on the grey horizon, since the dawn Solicitously watch'd the weekly sail From her dear native land, now yields awhile To kind forgetfulness, while Fancy brings, In waking dreams, that native land again! Versailles appears- its painted galleries, And rooms of regal splendour, rich with gold, Where, by long mirrors multiply'd, the crowd Paid willing homage- and, united there, Beauty gave charms to empire- Ah! too soon From the gay visionary pageant rous'd, See the sad mourner start! - and, drooping, look With tearful eyes and heaving bosom round On drear reality- where dark'ning waves, Urg'd by the rising wind, unheeded foam Near her cold rugged seat:- To call her thence A fellow-sufferer comes: dejection deep Checks, but conceals not quite, the martial air, And that high consciousness of noble blood, Which he has learn'd from infancy to think Exalts him o'er the race of common men: Nurs'd in the velvet lap of luxury, And fed by adulation- could he learn, That worth alone is true Nobility? And that the peasant who, 'amid 5 the sons 'Of Reason, Valour, Liberty, and Virtue, 'Displays distinguish'd merit, is a Noble 'Of Nature's own creation! '- If even here, If in this land of highly vaunted Freedom, 159 Even Britons controvert the unwelcome truth, Can it be relish'd by the sons of France? Men, who derive their boasted ancestry From the fierce leaders of religious wars, The first in Chivalry's emblazon'd page; Who reckon Gueslin, Bayard, or De Foix, Among their brave Progenitors? Their eyes, Accustom'd to regard the splendid trophies Of Heraldry (that with fantastic hand Mingles, like images in feverish dreams, 'Gorgons and Hydras, and Chimeras dire,' With painted puns, and visionary shapes ;) , See not the simple dignity of Virtue, But hold all base, whom honours such as these Exalt not from the crowd 6 - As one, who long Has dwelt amid the artificial scenes Of populous City, deems that splendid shows, The Theatre, and pageant pomp of Courts, Are only worth regard; forgets all taste For Nature's genuine beauty; in the lapse Of gushing waters hears no soothing sound, Nor listens with delight to sighing winds, That, on their fragrant pinions, waft the notes Of birds rejoicing in the trangled copse; Nor gazes pleas'd on Ocean's silver breast, While lightly o'er it sails the summer clouds Reflected in the wave, that, hardly heard, Flows on the yellow sands: so to his mind, That long has liv'd where Despotism hides His features harsh, beneath the diadem Of worldly grandeur, abject Slavery seems, If by that power impos'd, slavery no more: For luxury wreathes with silk the iron bonds, And hides the ugly rivets with her flowers, Till the degenerate triflers, while they love The glitter of the chains, forget their weight. But more the Men, whose ill acquir'd wealth Was wrung from plunder'd myriads, by the means Too often legaliz'd by power abus'd, Feel all the horrors of the fatal change, When their ephemeral greatness, marr'd at once (As a vain toy that Fortune's childish hand 160 Equally joy'd to fashion or to crush) , Leaves them expos'd to universal scorn For having nothing else; not even the claim To honour, which respect for Heroes past Allows to ancient titles; Men, like these, Sink even beneath the level, whence base arts Alone had rais'd them; - unlamented sink, And know that they deserve the woes they feel. Poor wand'ring wretches! whosoe'er ye are, That hopeless, houseless, friendless, travel wide O'er these bleak russet downs; where, dimly seen, The solitary Shepherd shiv'ring tends His dun discolour'd flock (Shepherd, unlike Him, whom in song the Poet's fancy crowns With garlands, and his crook with vi'lets binds): Poor vagrant wretches! outcasts of the world! Whom no abode receives, no parish owns; Roving, like Nature's commoners, the land That boasts such general plenty: if the sight Of wide-extended misery softens yours Awhile, suspend your murmurs! - here behold The strange vicissitudes of fate- while thus The exil'd Nobles, from their country driven, Whose richest luxuries were their's, must feel More poignant anguish, than the lowest poor, Who, born to indigence, have learn'd to brave Rigid Adversity's depressing breath! Ah! rather Fortune's worthless favourites! Who feed on England's vitals- Pensioners Of base corruption, who, in quick ascent To opulence unmerited, become Giddy with pride, and as ye rise, forgetting The dust ye lately left, with scorn look down On those beneath ye (tho' your equals once In fortune, and in worth superior still, They view the eminence, on which ye stand, With wonder, not with envy; for they know The means, by which ye reach'd it, have been such As, in all honest eyes, degrade ye far Beneath the poor dependent, whose sad heart Reluctant pleads for what your pride denies): Ye venal, worthless hirelings of a Court! 161 Ye pamper'd Parasites! whom Britons pay For forging fetters for them; rather here Study a lesson that concerns ye much; And, trembling, learn, that if oppress'd too long, The raging multitude, to madness stung, Will turn on their oppressors; and, no more By sounding titles and parading forms Bound like tame victims, will redress themselves! Then swept away by the resistless torrent, Not only all your pomp may disappear, But, in the tempest lost, fair Order sink Her decent head, and lawless Anarchy O'erturn celestial Freedom's radiant throne; As now in Gallia; where Confusion, born Of party rage and selfish love of rule, Sully the noblest cause that ever warm'd The heart of Patriot Virtue 8 - There arise The infernal passions; Vengeance, seeking blood, And Avarice; and Envy's harpy fangs Pollute the immortal shrine of Liberty, Dismay her votaries, and disgrace her name. Respect is due to principle; and they, Who suffer for their conscience, have a claim, Whate'er that principle may be, to praise. These ill-starr'd Exiles then, who, bound by ties, To them the bonds of honour; who resign'd Their country to preserve them, and now seek In England an asylum- well deserve To find that (every prejudice forgot, Which pride and ignorance teaches) , we for them Feel as our brethren; and that English hearts, Of just compassion ever own the sway, As truly as our element, the deep, Obeys the mild dominion of the MoonThis they have found; and may they find it still! Thus may'st thou, Britain, triumph! - May thy foes, By Reason's gen'rous potency subdued, Learn, that the God thou worshippest, delights In acts of pure humanity! - May thine Be still such bloodless laurels! nobler far Than those acquir'd at Cressy or Poictiers, Or of more recent growth, those well bestow'd 162 On him who stood on Calpe's blazing height Amid the thunder of a warring world, Illustrious rather from the crowds he sav'd From flood and fire, than from the ranks who fell Beneath his valour! - Actions such as these, Like incense rising to the Throne of Heaven, Far better justify the pride, that swells In British bosoms, than the deafening roar Of Victory from a thousand brazen throats, That tell with what success wide-wasting War Has by our brave Compatriots thinned the world. ~ Charlotte Smith

303: XXI - WALPURGIS-NIGHT THE HARTZ MOUNTAINS. District of Schierke and Elend. FAUST MEPHISTOPHELES MEPHISTOPHELES DOST thou not wish a broomstick-steed's assistance? The sturdiest he-goat I would gladly see: The way we take, our goal is yet some distance. FAUST So long as in my legs I feel the fresh existence. This knotted staff suffices me. What need to shorten so the way? Along this labyrinth of vales to wander, Then climb the rocky ramparts yonder, Wherefrom the fountain flings eternal spray, Is such delight, my steps would fain delay. The spring-time stirs within the fragrant birches, And even the fir-tree feels it now: Should then our limbs escape its gentle searches? MEPHISTOPHELES I notice no such thing, I vow! 'Tis winter still within my body: Upon my path I wish for frost and snow. How sadly rises, incomplete and ruddy, The moon's lone disk, with its belated glow, And lights so dimly, that, as one advances, At every step one strikes a rock or tree! Let us, then, use a Jack-o'-lantern's glances: I see one yonder, burning merrily. Ho, there! my friend! I'll levy thine attendance: Why waste so vainly thy resplendence? Be kind enough to light us up the steep! WILL-O'-THE-WISP My reverence, I hope, will me enable To curb my temperament unstable; For zigzag courses we are wont to keep. MEPHISTOPHELES Indeed? he'd like mankind to imitate! Now, in the Devil's name, go straight, Or I'll blow out his being's flickering spark! WILL-O'-THE-WISP You are the master of the house, I mark, And I shall try to serve you nicely. But then, reflect: the mountain's magic-mad to-day, And if a will-o'-the-wisp must guide you on the way, You mustn't take things too precisely. FAUST, MEPHISTOPHELES, WILL-O'-THE-WISP (in alternating song) We, it seems, have entered newly In the sphere of dreams enchanted. Do thy bidding, guide us truly, That our feet be forwards planted In the vast, the desert spaces! See them swiftly changing places, Trees on trees beside us trooping, And the crags above us stooping, And the rocky snouts, outgrowing, Hear them snoring, hear them blowing! O'er the stones, the grasses, flowing Stream and streamlet seek the hollow. Hear I noises? songs that follow? Hear I tender love-petitions? Voices of those heavenly visions? Sounds of hope, of love undying! And the echoes, like traditions Of old days, come faint and hollow. Hoo-hoo! Shoo-hoo! Nearer hover Jay and screech-owl, and the plover, Are they all awake and crying? Is't the salamander pushes, Bloated-bellied, through the bushes? And the roots, like serpents twisted, Through the sand and boulders toiling, Fright us, weirdest links uncoiling To entrap us, unresisted: Living knots and gnarls uncanny Feel with polypus-antennae For the wanderer. Mice are flying, Thousand-colored, herd-wise hieing Through the moss and through the heather! And the fire-flies wink and darkle, Crowded swarms that soar and sparkle, And in wildering escort gather! Tell me, if we still are standing, Or if further we're ascending? All is turning, whirling, blending, Trees and rocks with grinning faces, Wandering lights that spin in mazes, Still increasing and expanding! MEPHISTOPHELES Grasp my skirt with heart undaunted! Here a middle-peak is planted, Whence one seeth, with amaze, Mammon in the mountain blaze. FAUST How strangely glimmers through the hollows A dreary light, like that of dawn! Its exhalation tracks and follows The deepest gorges, faint and wan. Here steam, there rolling vapor sweepeth; Here burns the glow through film and haze: Now like a tender thread it creepeth, Now like a fountain leaps and plays. Here winds away, and in a hundred Divided veins the valley braids: There, in a corner pressed and sundered, Itself detaches, spreads and fades. Here gush the sparkles incandescent Like scattered showers of golden sand; But, see! in all their height, at present, The rocky ramparts blazing stand. Under the old ribs of the rock retreating Under the old ribs of the rock retreating MEPHISTOPHELES Has not Sir Mammon grandly lighted His palace for this festal night? 'Tis lucky thou hast seen the sight; The boisterous guests approach that were invited. FAUST How raves the tempest through the air! With what fierce blows upon my neck 'tis beating! MEPHISTOPHELES Under the old ribs of the rock retreating, Hold fast, lest thou be hurled down the abysses there! The night with the mist is black; Hark! how the forests grind and crack! Frightened, the owlets are scattered: Hearken! the pillars are shattered. The evergreen palaces shaking! Boughs are groaning and breaking, The tree-trunks terribly thunder, The roots are twisting asunder! In frightfully intricate crashing Each on the other is dashing, And over the wreck-strewn gorges The tempest whistles and surges! Hear'st thou voices higher ringing? Far away, or nearer singing? Yes, the mountain's side along, Sweeps an infuriate glamouring song! WITCHES (in chorus) The witches ride to the Brocken's top, The stubble is yellow, and green the crop. There gathers the crowd for carnival: Sir Urian sits over all. And so they go over stone and stock; The witch she-s, and-s the buck. A VOICE Alone, old Baubo's coming now; She rides upon a farrow-sow. CHORUS Then honor to whom the honor is due! Dame Baubo first, to lead the crew! A tough old sow and the mother thereon, Then follow the witches, every one. A VOICE Which way com'st thou hither? VOICE O'er the Ilsen-stone. I peeped at the owl in her nest alone: How she stared and glared! VOICE Betake thee to Hell! Why so fast and so fell? VOICE She has scored and has flayed me: See the wounds she has made me! WITCHES (chorus) The way is wide, the way is long: See, what a wild and crazy throng! The broom it scratches, the fork it thrusts, The child is stifled, the mother bursts. WIZARDS (semichorus) As doth the snail in shell, we crawl: Before us go the women all. When towards the Devil's House we tread, Woman's a thousand steps ahead. OTHER SEMICHORUS We do not measure with such care: Woman in thousand steps is theft. But howsoe'er she hasten may, Man in one leap has cleared the way. VOICE (from above) Come on, come on, from Rocky Lake! VOICE (from below) Aloft we'd fain ourselves betake. We've washed, and are bright as ever you will, Yet we're eternally sterile still. BOTH CHORUSES The wind is hushed, the star shoots by. The dreary moon forsakes the sky; The magic notes, like spark on spark, Drizzle, whistling through the dark. VOICE (from below) Halt, there! Ho, there! VOICE (from above) Who calls from the rocky cleft below there? VOICE (below) Take me, too! take me, too! I'm climbing now three hundred years, And yet the summit cannot see: Among my equals I would be. BOTH CHORUSES Bears the broom and bears the stock, Bears the fork and bears the buck: Who cannot raise himself to-night Is evermore a ruined wight. HALF-WITCH (below) So long I stumble, ill bestead, And the others are now so far ahead! At home I've neither rest nor cheer, And yet I cannot gain them here. CHORUS OF WITCHES To cheer the witch will salve avail; A rag will answer for a sail; Each trough a goodly ship supplies; He ne'er will fly, who now not flies. BOTH CHORUSES When round the summit whirls our flight, Then lower, and on the ground alight; And far and wide the heather press With witchhood's swarms of wantonness! (They settle down.) MEPHISTOPHELES They crowd and push, they roar and clatter! They whirl and whistle, pull and chatter! They shine, and spirt, and stink, and burn! The true witch-element we learn. Keep close! or we are parted, in our turn, Where art thou? FAUST (in the distance) Here! MEPHISTOPHELES What! whirled so far astray? Then house-right I must use, and clear the way. Make room! Squire Voland comes! Room, gentle rabble, room! Here, Doctor, hold to me: in one jump we'll resume An easier space, and from the crowd be free: It's too much, even for the like of me. Yonder, with special light, there's something shining clearer Within those bushes; I've a mind to see. Come on! we'll slip a little nearer. FAUST Spirit of Contradiction! On! I'll follow straight. 'Tis planned most wisely, if I judge aright: We climb the Brocken's top in the Walpurgis-Night, That arbitrarily, here, ourselves we isolate. MEPHISTOPHELES But see, what motley flames among the heather! There is a lively club together: In smaller circles one is not alone. FAUST Better the summit, I must own: There fire and whirling smoke I see. They seek the Evil One in wild confusion: Many enigmas there might find solution. MEPHISTOPHELES But there enigmas also knotted be. Leave to the multitude their riot! Here will we house ourselves in quiet. It is an old, transmitted trade, That in the greater world the little worlds are made. I see stark-nude young witches congregate, And old ones, veiled and hidden shrewdly: On my account be kind, nor treat them rudely! The trouble's small, the fun is great. I hear the noise of instruments attuning, Vile din! yet one must learn to bear the crooning. Come, come along! It must be, I declare! I'll go ahead and introduce thee there, Thine obligation newly earning. That is no little space: what say'st thou, friend? Look yonder! thou canst scarcely see the end: A hundred fires along the ranks are burning. They dance, they chat, they cook, they drink, they court: Now where, just tell me, is there better sport? FAUST Wilt thou, to introduce us to the revel, Assume the part of wizard or of devil? MEPHISTOPHELES I'm mostly used, 'tis true, to go incognito, But on a gala-day one may his orders show. The Garter does not deck my suit, But honored and at home is here the cloven foot. Perceiv'st thou yonder snail? It cometh, slow and steady; So delicately its feelers pry, That it hath scented me already: I cannot here disguise me, if I try. But come! we'll go from this fire to a newer: I am the go-between, and thou the wooer. (To some, who are sitting around dying embers:) Old gentlemen, why at the outskirts? Enter! I'd praise you if I found you snugly in the centre, With youth and revel round you like a zone: You each, at home, are quite enough alone. GENERAL Say, who would put his trust in nations, Howe'er for them one may have worked and planned? For with the people, as with women, Youth always has the upper hand. MINISTER They're now too far from what is just and sage. I praise the old ones, not unduly: When we were all-in-all, then, truly, Then was the real golden age. PARVENU We also were not stupid, either, And what we should not, often did; But now all things have from their bases slid, Just as we meant to hold them fast together. AUTHOR Who, now, a work of moderate sense will read? Such works are held as antiquate and mossy; And as regards the younger folk, indeed, They never yet have been so pert and saucy. MEPHISTOPHELES (who all at once appears very old) I feel that men are ripe for Judgment-Day, Now for the last time I've the witches'-hill ascended: Since to the lees my cask is drained away, The world's, as well, must soon be ended. HUCKSTER-WITCH Ye gentlemen, don't pass me thus! Let not the chance neglected be! Behold my wares attentively: The stock is rare and various. And yet, there's nothing I've collected No shop, on earth, like this you'll find! Which has not, once, sore hurt inflicted Upon the world, and on mankind. No dagger's here, that set not blood to flowing; No cup, that hath not once, within a healthy frame Poured speedy death, in poison glowing: No gems, that have not brought a maid to shame; No sword, but severed ties for the unwary, Or from behind struck down the adversary. MEPHISTOPHELES Gossip! the times thou badly comprehendest: What's done has happedwhat haps, is done! 'Twere better if for novelties thou sendest: By such alone can we be won. FAUST Let me not lose myself in all this pother! This is a fair, as never was another! MEPHISTOPHELES The whirlpool swirls to get above: Thou'rt shoved thyself, imagining to shove. FAUST But who is that? MEPHISTOPHELES Note her especially, Tis Lilith. FAUST Who? MEPHISTOPHELES Adam's first wife is she. Beware the lure within her lovely tresses, The splendid sole adornment of her hair! When she succeeds therewith a youth to snare, Not soon again she frees him from her jesses. FAUST Those two, the old one with the young one sitting, They've danced already more than fitting. MEPHISTOPHELES No rest to-night for young or old! They start another dance: come now, let us take hold! FAUST (dancing with the young witch) A lovely dream once came to me; I then beheld an apple-tree, And there two fairest apples shone: They lured me so, I climbed thereon. THE FAIR ONE Apples have been desired by you, Since first in Paradise they grew; And I am moved with joy, to know That such within my garden grow. MEPHISTOPHELES (dancing with the old one) A dissolute dream once came to me: Therein I saw a cloven tree, Which had a; Yet,as 'twas, I fancied it. THE OLD ONE I offer here my best salute Unto the knight with cloven foot! Let him aprepare, If himdoes not scare. PROKTOPHANTASMIST Accursd folk! How dare you venture thus? Had you not, long since, demonstration That ghosts can't stand on ordinary foundation? And now you even dance, like one of us! THE FAIR ONE (dancing) Why does he come, then, to our ball? FAUST (dancing) O, everywhere on him you fall! When others dance, he weighs the matter: If he can't every step bechatter, Then 'tis the same as were the step not made; But if you forwards go, his ire is most displayed. If you would whirl in regular gyration As he does in his dull old mill, He'd show, at any rate, good-will, Especially if you heard and heeded his hortation. PROKTOPHANTASMIST You still are here? Nay, 'tis a thing unheard! Vanish, at once! We've said the enlightening word. The pack of devils by no rules is daunted: We are so wise, and yet is Tegel haunted. To clear the folly out, how have I swept and stirred! Twill ne'er be clean: why, 'tis a thing unheard! THE FAIR ONE Then cease to bore us at our ball! PROKTOPHANTASMIST I tell you, spirits, to your face, I give to spirit-despotism no place; My spirit cannot practise it at all. (The dance continues) Naught will succeed, I see, amid such revels; Yet something from a tour I always save, And hope, before my last step to the grave, To overcome the poets and the devils. MEPHISTOPHELES He now will seat him in the nearest puddle; The solace this, whereof he's most assured: And when upon his rump the leeches hang and fuddle, He'll be of spirits and of Spirit cured. (To FAUST, who has left the dance:) Wherefore forsakest thou the lovely maiden, That in the dance so sweetly sang? FAUST Ah! in the midst of it there sprang A red mouse from her mouthsufficient reason. MEPHISTOPHELES That's nothing! One must not so squeamish be; So the mouse was not gray, enough for thee. Who'd think of that in love's selected season? FAUST Then saw I. MEPHISTOPHELES What? FAUST Mephisto, seest thou there, Alone and far, a girl most pale and fair? She falters on, her way scarce knowing, As if with fettered feet that stay her going. I must confess, it seems to me As if my kindly Margaret were she. MEPHISTOPHELES Let the thing be! All thence have evil drawn: It is a magic shape, a lifeless eidolon. Such to encounter is not good: Their blank, set stare benumbs the human blood, And one is almost turned to stone. Medusa's tale to thee is known. FAUST Forsooth, the eyes they are of one whom, dying, No hand with loving pressure closed; That is the breast whereon I once was lying, The body sweet, beside which I reposed! MEPHISTOPHELES Tis magic all, thou fool, seduced so easily! Unto each man his love she seems to be. FAUST The woe, the rapture, so ensnare me, That from her gaze I cannot tear me! And, strange! around her fairest throat A single scarlet band is gleaming, No broader than a knife-blade seeming! MEPHISTOPHELES Quite right! The mark I also note. Her head beneath her arm she'll sometimes carry; Twas Perseus lopped it, her old adversary. Thou crav'st the same illusion still! Come, let us mount this little hill; The Prater shows no livelier stir, And, if they've not bewitched my sense, I verily see a theatre. What's going on? SERVIBILIS 'Twill shortly recommence: A new performance'tis the last of seven. To give that number is the custom here: 'Twas by a Dilettante written, And Dilettanti in the parts appear. That now I vanish, pardon, I entreat you! As Dilettante I the curtain raise. MEPHISTOPHELES When I upon the Blocksberg meet you, I find it good: for that's your proper place. Faust ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, WALPURGIS-NIGHT

304:He gazed and gazed and gazed and gazed, Amazed, amazed, amazed, amazed. Like (7) 2 Saul I. Said Abner, ``At last thou art come! Ere I tell, ere thou speak, ``Kiss my cheek, wish me well!'' Then I wished it, and did kiss his cheek. And he, ``Since the King, O my friend, for thy countenance sent, ``Neither drunken nor eaten have we; nor until from his tent ``Thou return with the joyful assurance the King liveth yet, ``Shall our lip with the honey be bright, with the water be wet. ``For out of the black mid-tent's silence, a space of three days, ``Not a sound hath escaped to thy servants, of prayer nor of praise, ``To betoken that Saul and the Spirit have ended their strife, ``And that, faint in his triumph, the monarch sinks back upon life. II. ``Yet now my heart leaps, O beloved! God's child with his dew ``On thy gracious gold hair, and those lilies still living and blue ``Just broken to twine round thy harp-strings, as if no wild beat ``Were now raging to torture the desert!'' III.                      Then I, as was meet, Knelt down to the God of my fathers, and rose on my feet, And ran o'er the sand burnt to powder. The tent was unlooped; I pulled up the spear that obstructed, and under I stooped Hands and knees on the slippery grass-patch, all withered and gone, That extends to the second enclosure, I groped my way on Till I felt where the foldskirts fly open. Then once more I prayed, And opened the foldskirts and entered, and was not afraid But spoke, ``Here is David, thy servant!'' And no voice replied. At the first I saw nought but the blackness but soon I descried A something more black than the blackness-the vast, the upright Main prop which sustains the pavilion: and slow into sight Grew a figure against it, gigantic and blackest of all. Then a sunbeam, that burst thro' the tent-roof, showed Saul. IV. He stood as erect as that tent-prop, both arms stretched out wide On the great cross-support in the centre, that goes to each side; He relaxed not a muscle, but hung there as, caught in his pangs And waiting his change, the king-serpent all heavily hangs, Far away from his kind, in the pine, till deliverance come With the spring-time,-so agonized Saul, drear and stark, blind and dumb. V. Then I tuned my harp,-took off the lilies we twine round its chords Lest they snap 'neath the stress of the noon-tide-those sunbeams like swords! And I first played the tune all our sheep know, as, one after one, So docile they come to the pen-door till folding be done. They are white and untorn by the bushes, for lo, they have fed Where the long grasses stifle the water within the stream's bed; And now one after one seeks its lodging, as star follows star Into eve and the blue far above us,-so blue and so far! VI. -Then the tune, for which quails on the cornland will each leave his mate To fly after the player; then, what makes the crickets elate Till for boldness they fight one another: and then, what has weight To set the quick jerboa amusing outside his sand house- There are none such as he for a wonder, half bird and half mouse! God made all the creatures and gave them our love and our fear, To give sign, we and they are his children, one family here. VII. Then I played the help-tune of our reapers, their wine-song, when hand Grasps at hand, eye lights eye in good friendship, and great hearts expand And grow one in the sense of this world's life.-And then, the last song When the dead man is praised on his journey-``Bear, bear him along ``With his few faults shut up like dead flowerets! Are balm-seeds not here ``To console us? The land has none left such as he on the bier. ``Oh, would we might keep thee, my brother!''-And then, the glad chaunt Of the marriage,-first go the young maidens, next, she whom we vaunt As the beauty, the pride of our dwelling.-And then, the great march Wherein man runs to man to assist him and buttress an arch Nought can break; who shall harm them, our friends?-Then, the chorus intoned As the Levites go up to the altar in glory enthroned. But I stopped here: for here in the darkness Saul groaned. VIII. And I paused, held my breath in such silence, and listened apart; And the tent shook, for mighty Saul shuddered: and sparkles 'gan dart From the jewels that woke in his turban, at once with a start, All its lordly male-sapphires, and rubies courageous at heart. So the head: but the body still moved not, still hung there erect. And I bent once again to my playing, pursued it unchecked, As I sang,- IX.      ``Oh, our manhood's prime vigour! No spirit feels waste, ``Not a muscle is stopped in its playing nor sinew unbraced. ``Oh, the wild joys of living! the leaping from rock up to rock, ``The strong rending of boughs from the fir-tree, the cool silver shock ``Of the plunge in a pool's living water, the hunt of the bear, ``And the sultriness showing the lion is couched in his lair. ``And the meal, the rich dates yellowed over with gold dust divine, ``And the locust-flesh steeped in the pitcher, the full draught of wine, ``And the sleep in the dried river-channel where bulrushes tell ``That the water was wont to go warbling so softly and well. ``How good is man's life, the mere living! how fit to employ ``All the heart and the soul and the senses for ever in joy! ``Hast thou loved the white locks of thy father, whose sword thou didst guard ``When he trusted thee forth with the armies, for glorious reward? ``Didst thou see the thin hands of thy mother, held up as men sung ``The low song of the nearly-departed, and bear her faint tongue ``Joining in while it could to the witness, `Let one more attest, `` `I have lived, seen God's hand thro'a lifetime, and all was for best'? ``Then they sung thro' their tears in strong triumph, not much, but the rest. ``And thy brothers, the help and the contest, the working whence grew ``Such result as, from seething grape-bundles, the spirit strained true: ``And the friends of thy boyhood-that boyhood of wonder and hope, ``Present promise and wealth of the future beyond the eye's scope,- ``Till lo, thou art grown to a monarch; a people is thine; ``And all gifts, which the world offers singly, on one head combine! ``On one head, all the beauty and strength, love and rage (like the throe ``That, a-work in the rock, helps its labour and lets the gold go) ``High ambition and deeds which surpass it, fame crowning them,-all ``Brought to blaze on the head of one creature-King Saul!'' X. And lo, with that leap of my spirit,-heart, hand, harp and voice, Each lifting Saul's name out of sorrow, each bidding rejoice Saul's fame in the light it was made for-as when, dare I say, The Lord's army, in rapture of service, strains through its array, And up soareth the cherubim-chariot-``Saul!'' cried I, and stopped, And waited the thing that should follow. Then Saul, who hung propped By the tent's cross-support in the centre, was struck by his name. Have ye seen when Spring's arrowy summons goes right to the aim, And some mountain, the last to withstand her, that held (he alone, While the vale laughed in freedom and flowers) on a broad bust of stone A year's snow bound about for a breastplate,-leaves grasp of the sheet? Fold on fold all at once it crowds thunderously down to his feet, And there fronts you, stark, black, but alive yet, your mountain of old, With his rents, the successive bequeathings of ages untold- Yea, each harm got in fighting your battles, each furrow and scar Of his head thrust 'twixt you and the tempest-all hail, there they are! -Now again to be softened with verdure, again hold the nest Of the dove, tempt the goat and its young to the green on his crest For their food in the ardours of summer. One long shudder thrilled All the tent till the very air tingled, then sank and was stilled At the King's self left standing before me, released and aware. What was gone, what remained? All to traverse, 'twixt hope and despair; Death was past, life not come: so he waited. Awhile his right hand Held the brow, helped the eyes left too vacant forthwith to remand To their place what new objects should enter: 'twas Saul as before. I looked up and dared gaze at those eyes, nor was hurt any more Than by slow pallid sunsets in autumn, ye watch from the shore, At their sad level gaze o'er the ocean-a sun's slow decline Over hills which, resolved in stern silence, o'erlap and entwine Base with base to knit strength more intensely: so, arm folded arm O'er the chest whose slow heavings subsided. XI.                      What spell or what charm, (For, awhile there was trouble within me) what next should I urge To sustain him where song had restored him?-Song filled to the verge His cup with the wine of this life, pressing all that it yields Of mere fruitage, the strength and the beauty: beyond, on what fields, Glean a vintage more potent and perfect to brighten the eye And bring blood to the lip, and commend them the cup they put by? He saith, ``It is good;'' still he drinks not: he lets me praise life, Gives assent, yet would die for his own part. XII.                       Then fancies grew rife Which had come long ago on the pasture, when round me the sheep Fed in silence-above, the one eagle wheeled slow as in sleep; And I lay in my hollow and mused on the world that might lie 'Neath his ken, though I saw but the strip 'twixt the hill and the sky: And I laughed-``Since my days are ordained to be passed with my flocks, ``Let me people at least, with my fancies, the plains and the rocks, ``Dream the life I am never to mix with, and image the show ``Of mankind as they live in those fashions I hardly shall know! ``Schemes of life, its best rules and right uses, the courage that gains, ``And the prudence that keeps what men strive for.'' And now these old trains Of vague thought came again; I grew surer; so, once more the string Of my harp made response to my spirit, as thus- XIII.                         ``Yea, my King,'' I began-``thou dost well in rejecting mere comforts that spring ``From the mere mortal life held in common by man and by brute: ``In our flesh grows the branch of this life, in our soul it bears fruit. ``Thou hast marked the slow rise of the tree,-how its stem trembled first ``Till it passed the kid's lip, the stag's antler then safely outburst ``The fan-branches all round; and thou mindest when these too, in turn ``Broke a-bloom and the palm-tree seemed perfect: yet more was to learn, ``E'en the good that comes in with the palm-fruit. Our dates shall we slight, ``When their juice brings a cure for all sorrow? or care for the plight ``Of the palm's self whose slow growth produced them? Not so! stem and branch ``Shall decay, nor be known in their place, while the palm-wine shall staunch ``Every wound of man's spirit in winter. I pour thee such wine. ``Leave the flesh to the fate it was fit for! the spirit be thine! ``By the spirit, when age shall o'ercome thee, thou still shalt enjoy ``More indeed, than at first when inconscious, the life of a boy. ``Crush that life, and behold its wine running! Each deed thou hast done ``Dies, revives, goes to work in the world; until e'en as the sun ``Looking down on the earth, though clouds spoil him, though tempests efface, ``Can find nothing his own deed produced not, must everywhere trace ``The results of his past summer-prime'-so, each ray of thy will, ``Every flash of thy passion and prowess, long over, shall thrill ``Thy whole people, the countless, with ardour, till they too give forth ``A like cheer to their sons, who in turn, fill the South and the North ``With the radiance thy deed was the germ of. Carouse in the past! ``But the license of age has its limit; thou diest at last: ``As the lion when age dims his eyeball, the rose at her height ``So with man-so his power and his beauty for ever take flight. ``No! Again a long draught of my soul-wine! Look forth o'er the years! ``Thou hast done now with eyes for the actual; begin with the seer's! ``Is Saul dead? In the depth of the vale make his tomb-bid arise ``A grey mountain of marble heaped four-square, till, built to the skies, ``Let it mark where the great First King slumbers: whose fame would ye know? ``Up above see the rock's naked face, where the record shall go ``In great characters cut by the scribe,-Such was Saul, so he did; ``With the sages directing the work, by the populace chid,- ``For not half, they'll affirm, is comprised there! Which fault to amend, ``In the grove with his kind grows the cedar, whereon they shall spend ``(See, in tablets 'tis level before them) their praise, and record ``With the gold of the graver, Saul's story,-the statesman's great word ``Side by side with the poet's sweet comment. The river's a-wave ``With smooth paper-reeds grazing each other when prophet-winds rave: ``So the pen gives unborn generations their due and their part ``In thy being! Then, first of the mighty, thank God that thou art!'' XIV. And behold while I sang but O Thou who didst grant me that day, And before it not seldom hast granted thy help to essay, Carry on and complete an adventure,-my shield and my sword In that act where my soul was thy servant, thy word was my word,- Still be with me, who then at the summit of human endeavour And scaling the highest, man's thought could, gazed hopeless as ever On the new stretch of heaven above me-till, mighty to save, Just one lift of thy hand cleared that distance-God's throne from man's grave! Let me tell out my tale to its ending-my voice to my heart Which can scarce dare believe in what marvels last night I took part, As this morning I gather the fragments, alone with my sheep, And still fear lest the terrible glory evanish like sleep! For I wake in the grey dewy covert, while Hebron upheaves The dawn struggling with night on his shoulder, and Kidron retrieves Slow the damage of yesterday's sunshine. XV.                    I say then,-my song While I sang thus, assuring the monarch, and ever more strong Made a proffer of good to console him-he slowly resumed His old motions and habitudes kingly. The right-hand replumed His black locks to their wonted composure, adjusted the swathes Of his turban, and see-the huge sweat that his countenance bathes, He wipes off with the robe; and he girds now his loins as of yore, And feels slow for the armlets of price, with the clasp set before. He is Saul, ye remember in glory,-ere error had bent The broad brow from the daily communion; and still, though much spent Be the life and the bearing that front you, the same, God did choose, To receive what a man may waste, desecrate, never quite lose. So sank he along by the tent-prop till, stayed by the pile Of his armour and war-cloak and garments, he leaned there awhile, And sat out my singing,-one arm round the tent-prop, to raise His bent head, and the other hung slack-till I touched on the praise I foresaw from all men in all time, to the man patient there; And thus ended, the harp falling forward. Then first I was 'ware That he sat, as I say, with my head just above his vast knees Which were thrust out on each side around me, like oak-roots which please To encircle a lamb when it slumbers. I looked up to know If the best I could do had brought solace: he spoke not, but slow Lifted up the hand slack at his side, till he laid it with care Soft and grave, but in mild settled will, on my brow: thro' my hair The large fingers were pushed, and he bent back my bead, with kind power- All my face back, intent to peruse it, as men do a flower. Thus held he me there with his great eyes that scrutinized mine- And oh, all my heart how it loved him! but where was the sign? I yearned-``Could I help thee, my father, inventing a bliss, ``I would add, to that life of the past, both the future and this; ``I would give thee new life altogether, as good, ages hence, ``As this moment,-had love but the warrant, love's heart to dispense!'' XVI. Then the truth came upon me. No harp more-no song more! outbroke- XVII. ``I have gone the whole round of creation: I saw and I spoke: ``I, a work of God's hand for that purpose, received in my brain ``And pronounced on the rest of his hand-work-returned him again ``His creation's approval or censure: I spoke as I saw: ``I report, as a man may of God's work-all's love, yet all's law. ``Now I lay down the judgeship he lent me. Each faculty tasked ``To perceive him, has gained an abyss, where a dewdrop was asked. ``Have I knowledge? confounded it shrivels at Wisdom laid bare. ``Have I forethought? how purblind, how blank, to the Infinite Care! ``Do I task any faculty highest, to image success? ``I but open my eyes,-and perfection, no more and no less, ``In the kind I imagined, full-fronts me, and God is seen God ``In the star, in the stone, in the flesh, in the soul and the clod. ``And thus looking within and around me, I ever renew ``(With that stoop of the soul which in bending upraises it too) ``The submission of man's nothing-perfect to God's all-complete, ``As by each new obeisance in spirit, I climb to his feet. ``Yet with all this abounding experience, this deity known, ``I shall dare to discover some province, some gift of my own. ``There's a faculty pleasant to exercise, hard to hoodwink, ``I am fain to keep still in abeyance, (I laugh as I think) ``Lest, insisting to claim and parade in it, wot ye, I worst ``E'en the Giver in one gift.-Behold, I could love if I durst! ``But I sink the pretension as fearing a man may o'ertake ``God's own speed in the one way of love: I abstain for love's sake. ``-What, my soul? see thus far and no farther? when doors great and small, ``Nine-and-ninety flew ope at our touch, should the hundredth appal? ``In the least things have faith, yet distrust in the greatest of all? ``Do I find love so full in my nature, God's ultimate gift, ``That I doubt his own love can compete with it? Here, the parts shift? ``Here, the creature surpass the Creator,-the end, what Began? ``Would I fain in my impotent yearning do all for this man, ``And dare doubt he alone shall not help him, who yet alone can? ``Would it ever have entered my mind, the bare will, much less power, ``To bestow on this Saul what I sang of, the marvellous dower ``Of the life he was gifted and filled with? to make such a soul, ``Such a body, and then such an earth for insphering the whole? ``And doth it not enter my mind (as my warm tears attest) ``These good things being given, to go on, and give one more, the best? ``Ay, to save and redeem and restore him, maintain at the height ``This perfection,-succeed with life's day-spring, death's minute of night? ``Interpose at the difficult minute, snatch Saul the mistake, ``Saul the failure, the ruin he seems now,-and bid him awake ``From the dream, the probation, the prelude, to find himself set ``Clear and safe in new light and new life,-a new harmony yet ``To be run, and continued, and ended-who knows?-or endure! ``The man taught enough, by life's dream, of the rest to make sure; ``By the pain-throb, triumphantly winning intensified bliss, ``And the next world's reward and repose, by the struggles in this. XVIII. ``I believe it! 'Tis thou, God, that givest, 'tis I who receive: ``In the first is the last, in thy will is my power to believe. ``All's one gift: thou canst grant it moreover, as prompt to my prayer ``As I breathe out this breath, as I open these arms to the air. ``From thy will, stream the worlds, life and nature, thy dread Sabaoth: ``I will?-the mere atoms despise me! Why am I not loth ``To look that, even that in the face too? Why is it I dare ``Think but lightly of such impuissance? What stops my despair? ``This;-'tis not what man Does which exalts him, but what man Would do! ``See the King-I would help him but cannot, the wishes fall through. ``Could I wrestle to raise him from sorrow, grow poor to enrich, ``To fill up his life, starve my own out, I would-knowing which, ``I know that my service is perfect. Oh, speak through me now! ``Would I suffer for him that I love? So wouldst thou-so wilt thou! ``So shall crown thee the topmost, ineffablest, uttermost crown- ``And thy love fill infinitude wholly, nor leave up nor down ``One spot for the creature to stand in! It is by no breath, ``Turn of eye, wave of hand, that salvation joins issue with death! ``As thy Love is discovered almighty, almighty be proved ``Thy power, that exists with and for it, of being Beloved! ``He who did most, shall bear most; the strongest shall stand the most weak. ``'Tis the weakness in strength, that I cry for! my flesh, that I seek ``In the Godhead! I seek and I find it. O Saul, it shall be ``A Face like my face that receives thee; a Man like to me, ``Thou shalt love and be loved by, for ever: a Hand like this hand ``Shall throw open the gates of new life to thee! See the Christ stand!'' XIX. I know not too well how I found my way home in the night. There were witnesses, cohorts about me, to left and to right, Angels, powers, the unuttered, unseen, the alive, the aware: I repressed, I got through them as hardly, as strugglingly there, As a runner beset by the populace famished for news- Life or death. The whole earth was awakened, hell loosed with her crews; And the stars of night beat with emotion, and tingled and shot Out in fire the strong pain of pent knowledge: but I fainted not, For the Hand still impelled me at once and supported, suppressed All the tumult, and quenched it with quiet, and holy behest, Till the rapture was shut in itself, and the earth sank to rest. Anon at the dawn, all that trouble had withered from earth- Not so much, but I saw it die out in the day's tender birth; In the gathered intensity brought to the grey of the hills; In the shuddering forests' held breath; in the sudden wind-thrills; In the startled wild beasts that bore off, each with eye sidling still Though averted with wonder and dread; in the birds stiff and chill That rose heavily, as I approached them, made stupid with awe: E'en the serpent that slid away silent,-he felt the new law. The same stared in the white humid faces upturned by the flowers; The same worked in the heart of the cedar and moved the vine-bowers: And the little brooks witnessing murmured, persistent and low, With their obstinate, all but hushed voices-``E'en so, it is so!'' The jumping hare. One of the three cities of Refuge. * A brook in Jerusalem. ~ Robert Browning, Rhyme for a Child Viewing a Naked Venus in a Painting of 'The Judgement of Paris'

305:The Botanic Garden (Part V) THE LOVES OF THE PLANTS. CANTO I. Descend, ye hovering Sylphs! aerial Quires, And sweep with little hands your silver lyres; With fairy footsteps print your grassy rings, Ye Gnomes! accordant to the tinkling strings; While in soft notes I tune to oaten reed Gay hopes, and amorous sorrows of the mead.From giant Oaks, that wave their branches dark, To the dwarf Moss, that clings upon their bark, What Beaux and Beauties crowd the gaudy groves, And woo and win their vegetable Loves. How Snowdrops cold, and blue-eyed Harebels blend Their tender tears, as o'er the stream they bend; The lovesick Violet, and the Primrose pale Bow their sweet heads, and whisper to the gale; With secret sighs the Virgin Lily droops, And jealous Cowslips hang their tawny cups. How the young Rose in beauty's damask pride Drinks the warm blushes of his bashful bride; With honey'd lips enamour'd Woodbines meet, Clasp with fond arms, and mix their kisses sweet.Stay thy soft-murmuring waters, gentle Rill; Hush, whispering Winds, ye ruflling Leaves, be still; Rest, silver Butterflies, your quivering wings; Alight, ye Beetles, from your airy rings; Ye painted Moths, your gold-eyed plumage furl, Bow your wide horns, your spiral trunks uncurl; Glitter, ye Glow-worms, on your mossy beds; Descend, ye Spiders, on your lengthen'd threads; Slide here, ye horned Snails, with varnish'd shells; Ye Bee-nymphs, listen in your waxen cells!BOTANIC MUSE! who in this latter age Led by your airy hand the Swedish sage, Bad his keen eye your secret haunts explore On dewy dell, high wood, and winding shore; Say on each leaf how tiny Graces dwell; 27 How laugh the Pleasures in a blossom's bell; How insect Loves arise on cobweb wings, Aim their light shafts, and point their little stings. First the tall CANNA lifts his curled brow Erect to heaven, and plights his nuptial vow; The virtuous pair, in milder regions born, Dread the rude blast of Autumn's icy morn; Round the chill fair he folds his crimson vest, And clasps the timorous beauty to his breast. Thy love, CALLITRICHE, two Virgins share, Smit with thy starry eye and radiant hair;On the green margin sits the youth, and laves His floating train of tresses in the waves; Sees his fair features paint the streams that pass, And bends for ever o'er the watery glass. Two brother swains, of COLLIN'S gentle name, The same their features, and their forms the same, With rival love for fair COLLINIA sigh, Knit the dark brow, and roll the unsteady eye. With sweet concern the pitying beauty mourns, And sooths with smiles the jealous pair by turns. Sweet blooms GENISTA in the myrtle shade, And ten fond brothers woo the haughty maid. Two knights before thy fragrant altar bend, Adored MELISSA! and two squires attend. MEADIA'S soft chains five suppliant beaux confess, And hand in hand the laughing belle address; Alike to all, she bows with wanton air, Rolls her dark eye, and waves her golden hair. Woo'd with long care, CURCUMA cold and shy 28 Meets her fond husband with averted eye: Four beardless youths the obdurate beauty move With soft attentions of Platonic love. With vain desires the pensive ALCEA burns, And, like sad ELOISA, loves and mourns. The freckled IRIS owns a fiercer flame, And three unjealous husbands wed the dame. CUPRESSUS dark disdains his dusky bride, One dome contains them, but two beds divide. The proud OSYRIS flies his angry fair, Two houses hold the fashionable pair. With strange deformity PLANTAGO treads, A Monster-birth! and lifts his hundred heads; Yet with soft love a gentle belle he charms, And clasps the beauty in his hundred arms. So hapless DESDEMONA, fair and young, Won by OTHELLO'S captivating tongue, Sigh'd o'er each strange and piteous tale, distress'd, And sunk enamour'd on his sooty breast. Two gentle shepherds and their sister-wives With thee, ANTHOXA! lead ambrosial lives; Where the wide heath in purple pride extends, And scatter'd furze its golden lustre blends, Closed in a green recess, unenvy'd lot! The blue smoak rises from their turf-built cot; Bosom'd in fragrance blush their infant train, Eye the warm sun, or drink the silver rain. The fair OSMUNDA seeks the silent dell, The ivy canopy, and dripping cell; There hid in shades 29 clandestine rites approves, Till the green progeny betrays her loves. With charms despotic fair CHONDRILLA reigns O'er the soft hearts of five fraternal swains; If sighs the changeful nymph, alike they mourn; And, if she smiles, with rival raptures burn. So, tun'd in unison, Eolian Lyre! Sounds in sweet symphony thy kindred wire; Now, gently swept by Zephyr's vernal wings, Sink in soft cadences the love-sick strings; And now with mingling chords, and voices higher, Peal the full anthems of the aerial choir. Five sister-nymphs to join Diana's train With thee, fair LYCHNIS! vow,-but vow in vain; Beneath one roof resides the virgin band, Flies the fond swain, and scorns his offer'd hand; But when soft hours on breezy pinions move, And smiling May attunes her lute to love, Each wanton beauty, trick'd in all her grace, Shakes the bright dew-drops from her blushing face; In gay undress displays her rival charms, And calls her wondering lovers to her arms. When the young Hours amid her tangled hair Wove the fresh rose-bud, and the lily fair, Proud GLORIOSA led three chosen swains, The blushing captives of her virgin chains.-When Time's rude hand a bark of wrinkles spread Round her weak limbs, and silver'd o'er her head, Three other youths her riper years engage, The flatter'd victims of her wily age. So, in her wane of beauty, NINON won With fatal smiles her gay unconscious son.Clasp'd in his arms she own'd a mother's name,- 30 'Desist, rash youth! restrain your impious flame, 'First on that bed your infant-form was press'd, 'Born by my throes, and nurtured at my breast.'Back as from death he sprung, with wild amaze Fierce on the fair he fix'd his ardent gaze; Dropp'd on one knee, his frantic arms outspread, And stole a guilty glance toward the bed; Then breath'd from quivering lips a whisper'd vow, And bent on heaven his pale repentant brow; 'Thus, thus!' he cried, and plung'd the furious dart, And life and love gush'd mingled from his heart. The fell SILENE and her sisters fair, Skill'd in destruction, spread the viscous snare. The harlot-band ten lofty bravoes screen, And frowning guard the magic nets unseen.Haste, glittering nations, tenants of the air, Oh, steer from hence your viewless course afar! If with soft words, sweet blushes, nods, and smiles, The three dread Syrens lure you to their toils, Limed by their art in vain you point your stings, In vain the efforts of your whirring wings!Go, seek your gilded mates and infant hives, Nor taste the honey purchas'd with your lives! When heaven's high vault condensing clouds deform, Fair AMARYLLIS flies the incumbent storm, Seeks with unsteady step the shelter'd vale, And turns her blushing beauties from the gale.Six rival youths, with soft concern impress'd, Calm all her fears, and charm her cares to rest.So shines at eve the sun-illumin'd fane, Lifts its bright cross, and waves its golden vane; From every breeze the polish'd axle turns, And high in air the dancing meteor burns. Four of the giant brood with ILEX stand, 31 Each grasps a thousand arrows in his hand; A thousand steely points on every scale Form the bright terrors of his bristly male.So arm'd, immortal Moore uncharm'd the spell, And slew the wily dragon of the well.Sudden with rage their injur'd bosoms burn, Retort the insult, or the wound return; Unwrong'd , as gentle as the breeze that sweeps The unbending harvests or undimpled deeps, They guard, the Kings of Needwood's wide domains, Their sister-wives and fair infantine trains; Lead the lone pilgrim through the trackless glade, Or guide in leafy wilds the wand'ring maid. So WRIGHT's bold pencil from Vesuvio's hight Hurls his red lavas to the troubled night; From Calpè starts the intolerable flash, Skies burst in flames, and blazing oceans dash;Or bids in sweet repose his shades recede, Winds the still vale, and slopes the velvet mead; On the pale stream expiring Zephyrs sink, And Moonlight sleeps upon its hoary brink. Gigantic Nymph! the fair KLEINHOVIA reigns, The grace and terror of Orixa's plains; O'er her warm cheek the blush of beauty swims, And nerves Herculean bend her sinewy limbs; With frolic eye she views the affrighted throng, And shakes the meadows, as she towers along, With playful violence displays her charms, And bears her trembling lovers in her arms. So fair THALESTRIS shook her plumy crest, And bound in rigid mail her jutting breast; Poised her long lance amid the walks of war, And Beauty thunder'd from Bellona's car; Greece arm'd in vain, her captive heroes wove The chains of conquest with the wreaths of love. When o'er the cultured lawns and dreary wastes Retiring Autumn flings her howling blasts, Bends in tumultuous waves the struggling woods, 32 And showers their leafy honours on the floods, In withering heaps collects the flowery spoil, And each chill insect sinks beneath the soil; Quick flies fair TULIPA the loud alarms, And folds her infant closer in her arms; In some lone cave, secure pavilion, lies, And waits the courtship of serener skies.So, six cold moons, the Dormouse charm'd to rest, Indulgent Sleep! beneath thy eider breast, In fields of Fancy climbs the kernel'd groves, Or shares the golden harvest with his loves.But bright from earth amid the troubled air Ascends fair COLCHICA with radiant hair, Warms the cold bosom of the hoary year, And lights with Beauty's blaze the dusky sphere. Three blushing Maids the intrepid Nymph attend, And six gay Youths, enamour'd train! defend. So shines with silver guards the Georgian star, And drives on Night's blue arch his glittering car; Hangs o'er the billowy clouds his lucid form, Wades through the mist, and dances in the storm. GREAT HELIANTHUS guides o'er twilight plains In gay solemnity his Dervise-trains; Marshall'd in fives each gaudy band proceeds, Each gaudy band a plumed Lady leads; With zealous step he climbs the upland lawn, And bows in homage to the rising dawn; Imbibes with eagle-eye the golden ray, And watches, as it moves, the orb of day. Queen of the marsh, imperial DROSERA treads Rush-fringed banks, and moss-embroider'd beds; Redundant folds of glossy silk surround Her slender waist, and trail upon the ground; Five sister-nymphs collect with graceful ease, 33 Or spread the floating purple to the breeze; And five fair youths with duteous love comply With each soft mandate of her moving eye. As with sweet grace her snowy neck she bows, A zone of diamonds trembles round her brows; Bright shines the silver halo, as she turns; And, as she steps, the living lustre burns. Fair LONICERA prints the dewy lawn, And decks with brighter blush the vermil dawn; Winds round the shadowy rocks, and pansied vales, And scents with sweeter breath the summer-gales; With artless grace and native ease she charms, And bears the Horn of Plenty in her arms. Five rival Swains their tender cares unfold, And watch with eye askance the treasured gold. Where rears huge Tenerif his azure crest, Aspiring DRABA builds her eagle nest; Her pendant eyry icy caves surround, Where erst Volcanos min'd the rocky ground. Pleased round the Fair four rival Lords ascend The shaggy steeps, two menial youths attend. High in the setting ray the beauty stands, And her tall shadow waves on distant lands. Stay, bright inhabitant of air, alight, Ambitious VISCA, from thy eagle-flight!--Scorning the sordid soil, aloft she springs, Shakes her white plume, and claps her golden wings; High o'er the fields of boundless ether roves, And seeks amid the clouds her soaring loves! Stretch'd on her mossy couch, in trackless deeps, Queen of the coral groves, ZOSTERA sleeps; The silvery sea-weed matted round her bed, And distant surges murmuring o'er her head.High in the flood her azure dome ascends, 34 The crystal arch on crystal columns bends; Roof'd with translucent shell the turrets blaze, And far in ocean dart their colour'd rays; O'er the white floor successive shadows move, As rise and break the ruffled waves above.Around the nymph her mermaid-trains repair, And weave with orient pearl her radiant hair; With rapid fins she cleaves the watery way, Shoots like a diver meteor up to day; Sounds a loud conch, convokes a scaly band, Her sea-born lovers, and ascends the strand. E'en round the pole the flames of Love aspire, And icy bosoms feel the secret fire!Cradled in snow and fann'd by arctic air Shines, gentle BAROMETZ! thy golden hair; Rooted in earth each cloven hoof descends, And round and round her flexile neck she bends; Crops the grey coral moss, and hoary thyme, Or laps with rosy tongue the melting rime; Eyes with mute tenderness her distant dam, Or seems to bleat, a Vegetable Lamb -So, warm and buoyant in his oily mail, Gambols on seas of ice the unwieldy Whale; Wide-waving fins round floating islands urge His bulk gigantic through the troubled surge; With hideous yawn the flying shoals He seeks, Or clasps with fringe of horn his massy cheeks; Lifts o'er the tossing wave his nostrils bare, And spouts pellucid columns into air; The silvery arches catch the setting beams, And transient rainbows tremble o'er the streams. Weak with nice sense, the chaste MIMOSA stands, From each rude touch withdraws her timid hands; Oft as light clouds o'er-pass the Summer-glade, Alarm'd she trembles at the moving shade; And feels, alive through all her tender form, The whisper'd murmurs of the gathering storm; Shuts her sweet eye-lids to approaching night; 35 And hails with freshen'd charms the rising light. Veil'd, with gay decency and modest pride, Slow to the mosque she moves, an eastern bride; There her soft vows unceasing love record, Queen of the bright seraglio of her Lord.So sinks or rises with the changeful hour The liquid silver in its glassy tower. So turns the needle to the pole it loves, With fine librations quivering as it moves. All wan and shivering in the leafless glade The sad ANEMONE reclined her head; Grief on her cheeks had paled the roseate hue, And her sweet eye-lids dropp'd with pearly dew. -'See, from bright regions, borne on odorous gales The Swallow, herald of the summer, sails; 'Breathe, gentle AIR! from cherub-lips impart Thy balmy influence to my anguish'd heart; Thou, whose soft voice calls forth the tender blooms, Whose pencil paints them, and whose breath perfumes; O chase the Fiend of Frost, with leaden mace Who seals in death-like sleep my hapless race; Melt his hard heart, release his iron hand, And give my ivory petals to expand. So may each bud, that decks the brow of spring, Shed all its incense on thy wafting wing!'To her fond prayer propitious Zephyr yields, Sweeps on his sliding shell through azure fields, O'er her fair mansion waves his whispering wand, And gives her ivory petals to expand; Gives with new life her filial train to rise, And hail with kindling smiles the genial skies. So shines the Nymph in beauty's blushing pride, When Zephyr wafts her deep calash aside; Tears with rude kiss her bosom's gauzy veil, And flings the fluttering kerchief to the gale. So bright, the folding canopy undrawn, Glides the gilt Landau o'er the velvet lawn, Of beaux and belles displays the glittering throng; And soft airs fan them, as they roll along. Where frowning Snowden bends his dizzy brow O'er Conway, listening to the surge below; Retiring LICHEN climbs the topmost stone, 36 And 'mid the airy ocean dwells alone.Bright shine the stars unnumber'd o'er her head And the cold moon-beam gilds her flinty bed; While round the rifted rocks hoarse whirlwinds breathe, And dark with thunder sail the clouds beneath .The steepy path her plighted swain pursues, And tracks her light step o'er th' imprinted dews, Delighted Hymen gives his torch to blaze, Winds round the craggs, and lights the mazy ways; Sheds o'er their secret vows his influence chaste, And decks with roses the admiring waste. High in the front of heaven when Sirius glares, And o'er Britannia shakes his fiery hairs; When no soft shower descends, no dew distills, Her wave-worn channels dry, and mute her rills; When droops the sickening herb, the blossom fades, And parch'd earth gapes beneath the withering glades. -With languid step fair DYPSACA retreats; 'Fall gentle dews!' the fainting nymph repeats; Seeks the low dell, and in the sultry shade Invokes in vain the Naiads to her aid.Four silvan youths in crystal goblets bear The untasted treasure to the grateful fair; Pleased from their hands with modest grace she sips, And the cool wave reflects her coral lips. With nice selection modest RUBIA blends, Her vermil dyes, and o'er the cauldron bends; Warm 'mid the rising steam the Beauty glows, As blushes in a mist the dewy rose. With chemic art four favour'd youths aloof Stain the white fleece, or stretch the tinted woof; O'er Age's cheek the warmth of youth diffuse, 37 Or deck the pale-eyed nymph in roseate hues. So when MEDEA to exulting Greece From plunder'd COLCHIS bore the golden fleece; On the loud shore a magic pile she rais'd, The cauldron bubbled, and the faggots blaz'd;-Pleased on the boiling wave old ÆSON swims, And feels new vigour stretch his swelling limbs; Through his thrill'd nerves forgotten ardors dart, And warmer eddies circle round his heart; With softer fires his kindling eye-balls glow, And darker tresses wanton round his brow. As dash the waves on India's breezy strand, Her flush'd cheek press'd upon her lily hand, VALLISNER sits, up-turns her tearful eyes, Calls her lost lover, and upbraids the skies; For him she breathes the silent sigh, forlorn, Each setting-day; for him each rising morn.'Bright orbs, that light yon high etherial plain, Or bathe your radiant tresses in the main; Pale moon, that silver'st o'er night's sable brow;For ye were witness to his parting vow!Ye shelving rocks, dark waves, and sounding shore,Ye echoed sweet the tender words he swore!Can stars or seas the sails of love retain? O guide my wanderer to my arms again!'Her buoyant skiff intrepid ULVA guides, And seeks her Lord amid the trackless tides; Her secret vows the Cyprian Queen approves, And hovering halcyons guard her infant-loves; Each in his floating cradle round they throng, And dimpling Ocean bears the fleet along.Thus o'er the waves, which gently bend and swell, Fair GALATEA steers her silver shell; Her playful Dolphins stretch the silken rein, Hear her sweet voice, and glide along the main. As round the wild meandering coast she moves By gushing rills, rude cliffs, and nodding groves; Each by her pine the Wood-nymphs wave their locks, And wondering Naiads peep amid the rocks; Pleased trains of Mermaids rise from coral cells, 38 Admiring Tritons sound their twisted shells; Charm'd o'er the car pursuing Cupids sweep, Their snow-white pinions twinkling in the deep; And, as the lustre of her eye she turns, Soft sighs the Gale, and amorous Ocean burns. On DOVE'S green brink the fair TREMELLA stood, And view'd her playful image in the flood; To each rude rock, lone dell, and echoing grove Sung the sweet sorrows of her secret love. 'Oh, stay!-return!'-along the sounding shore Cry'd the sad Naiads,-she return'd no more!Now girt with clouds the sullen Evening frown'd, And withering Eurus swept along the ground; The misty moon withdrew her horned light, And sunk with Hesper in the skirt of night; No dim electric streams, (the northern dawn,) With meek effulgence quiver'd o'er the lawn; No star benignant shot one transient ray To guide or light the wanderer on her way. Round the dark craggs the murmuring whirlwinds blow, Woods groan above, and waters roar below; As o'er the steeps with pausing foot she moves, The pitying Dryads shriek amid their groves; She flies,-she stops,-she pants-she looks behind, And hears a demon howl in every wind. -As the bleak blast unfurls her fluttering vest, Cold beats the snow upon her shuddering breast; Through her numb'd limbs the chill sensations dart, And the keen ice bolt trembles at her heart. 'I sink, I fall! oh, help me, help!' she cries, Her stiffening tongue the unfinish'd sound denies; Tear after tear adown her cheek succeeds, And pearls of ice bestrew the glittering meads; Congealing snows her lingering feet surround, Arrest her flight, and root her to the ground; With suppliant arms she pours the silent prayer; Her suppliant arms hang crystal in the air; Pellucid films her shivering neck o'erspread, Seal her mute lips, and silver o'er her head, Veil her pale bosom, glaze her lifted hands, 39 And shrined in ice the beauteous statue stands. -DOVE'S azure nymphs on each revolving year For fair TREMELLA shed the tender tear; With rush-wove crowns in sad procession move, And sound the sorrowing shell to hapless love.' Here paused the MUSE,-across the darken'd pole Sail the dim clouds, the echoing thunders roll; The trembling Wood-nymphs, as the tempest lowers, Lead the gay Goddess to their inmost bowers; Hang the mute lyre the laurel shade beneath, And round her temples bind the myrtle wreath. -Now the light swallow with her airy brood Skims the green meadow, and the dimpled flood; Loud shrieks the lone thrush from his leafless thorn, Th' alarmed beetle sounds his bugle horn; Each pendant spider winds with fingers fine His ravel'd clue, and climbs along the line; Gay Gnomes in glittering circles stand aloof Beneath a spreading mushroom's fretted roof; Swift bees returning seek their waxen cells, And Sylphs cling quivering in the lily's bells. Through the still air descend the genials showers, And pearly rain-drops deck the laughing flowers. ~ Erasmus Darwin

306:Resignation Pt 1 The days how few, how short the years Of man's too rapid race! Each leaving, as it swiftly flies, A shorter in its place. They who the longest lease enjoy, Have told us with a sigh, That to be born seems little more Than to begin to die. Numbers there are who feel this truth With fears alarm'd; and yet, In life's delusions lull'd asleep, This weighty truth forget: And am not I to these akin? Age slumbers o'er the quill; Its honour blots, whate'er it writes, And am I writing still? Conscious of nature in decline, And languor in my thoughts; To soften censure, and abate Its rigour on my faults Permit me, madam! ere to you The promis'd verse I pay, To touch on felt infirmity, Sad sister of decay. One world deceas'd, another born, Like Noah they behold, O'er whose white hairs, and furrow'd brows, Too many suns have roll'd: Happy the patriarch! he rejoic'd His second world to see: My second world, though gay the scene, Can boast no charms for me. 48 To me this brilliant age appears With desolation spread; Near all with whom I liv'd, and smil'd, Whilst life was life, are dead; And with them died my joys; the grave Has broken nature's laws; And clos'd, against this feeble frame, Its partial cruel jaws; Cruel to spare! condemn'd to life! A cloud impairs my sight; My weak hand disobeys my will, And trembles as I write. What shall I write? Thalia, tell; Say, long abandon'd muse! What field of fancy shall I range? What subject shall I choose? A choice of moment high inspire, And rescue me from shame, For doting on thy charms so late, By grandeur in my theme. Beyond Which Beyond Bright the themes, which most admire, dazzle, or amaze, renown'd exploits of war, charms, or empire's blaze, Are themes, which, in a world of woe Can best appease our pain; And, in an age of gaudy guilt, Gay folly's flood restrain; Amidst the storms of life support A calm, unshaken mind; And with unfading laurels crown The brow of the resign'd. O resignation! yet unsung, 49 Untouch'd by former strains; Though claiming every muse's smile, And every poet's pains, Beneath life's evening, solemn shade, I dedicate my page To thee, thou safest guard of youth! Thou sole support of age! All other duties crescents are Of virtue faintly bright, The glorious consummation, thou! Which fills her orb with light: How rarely fill'd! the love divine In evils to discern, This the first lesson which we want, The latest, which we learn; A melancholy truth! for know, Could our proud hearts resign, The distance greatly would decrease 'Twixt human and divine. But though full noble is my theme, Full urgent is my call To soften sorrow, and forbid The bursting tear to fall: The task I dread; dare I to leave Of humble prose the shore, And put to sea? a dangerous sea? What throngs have sunk before! How proud the poet's billow swells! The God! the God! his boast: A boast how vain! What wrecks abound! Dead bards stench every coast. What then am I? Shall I presume, On such a moulten wing, Above the general wreck to rise, 50 And in my winter, sing; When nightingales, when sweetest bards Confine their charming song To summer's animating heats, Content to warble young? Yet write I must; a lady(49) sues; How shameful her request! My brain in labour for dull rhyme! Hers teeming with the best! But you a stranger will excuse, Nor scorn his feeble strain; To you a stranger, but, through fate, No stranger to your pain. The ghost of grief deceas'd ascends, His old wound bleeds anew; His sorrows are recall'd to life By those he sees in you; Too well he knows the twisting strings Of ardent hearts combin'd When rent asunder, how they bleed, How hard to be resign'd: Those tears you pour, his eyes have shed; The pang you feel, he felt; Thus nature, loud as virtue, bids His heart at yours to melt. But what can heart, or head, suggest? What sad experience say? Through truths austere, to peace we work Our rugged, gloomy way: What are we? whence? for what? and whither? Who know not, needs must mourn; But thought, bright daughter of the skies! Can tears to triumph turn. 51 Thought is our armour, 'tis the mind's Impenetrable shield, When, sent by fate, we meet our foes, In sore affliction's field; It plucks the frightful mask from ills, Forbids pale fear to hide, Beneath that dark disguise, a friend, Which turns affection's tide. Affection frail! train'd up by sense, From reason's channel strays: And whilst it blindly points at peace, Our peace to pain betrays. Thought winds its fond, erroneous stream From daily dying flowers, To nourish rich immortal blooms, In amaranthine bowers; Whence throngs, in ecstasy, look down On what once shock'd their sight; And thank the terrors of the past For ages of delight. All withers here; who most possess Are losers by their gain, Stung by full proof, that, bad at best, Life's idle all is vain: Vain, in its course, life's murmuring stream; Did not its course offend, But murmur cease; life, then, would seem Still vainer, from its end. How wretched! who, through cruel fate, Have nothing to lament! With the poor alms this world affords Deplorably content! Had not the Greek his world mistook, His wish had been most wise; 52 To be content with but one world, Like him, we should despise. Of earth's revenue would you state A full account and fair? We hope; and hope; and hope; then cast The total up--_Despair._ Since vain all here, all future, vast, Embrace the lot assign'd; Heaven wounds to heal; its frowns are friends; Its stroke severe, most kind. But in laps'd nature rooted deep, Blind error domineers; And on fools' errands, in the dark, Sends out our hopes and fears; Bids us for ever pains deplore, Our pleasures overprize; These oft persuade us to be weak; Those urge us to be wise. From virtue's rugged path to right By pleasure are we brought, To flowery fields of wrong, and there Pain chides us for our fault: Yet whilst it chides, it speaks of peace If folly is withstood; And says, time pays an easy price, For our eternal good. In earth's dark cot, and in an hour, And in delusion great, What an economist is man To spend his whole estate, And beggar an eternity! For which as he was born, More worlds than one against it weigh'd, 53 As feathers he should scorn. Say not, your loss in triumph leads Religion's feeble strife; Joys future amply reimburse Joys bankrupts of this life. But not deferr'd your joy so long, It bears an early date; Affliction's ready pay in hand, Befriends our present state; What are the tears, which trickle down Her melancholy face, Like liquid pearl? Like pearls of price, They purchase lasting peace. Grief softens hearts, and curbs the will, Impetuous passion tames, And keeps insatiate, keen desire From launching in extremes. Through time's dark womb, our judgment right, If our dim eye was thrown, Clear should we see, the will divine Has but forestall'd our own; At variance with our future wish, Self-sever'd we complain; If so, the wounded, not the wound, Must answer for the pain: The day shall come, and swift of wing, Though you may think it slow, When, in the list of fortune's smiles, You'll enter frowns of woe. For mark the path of Providence; This course it has pursued'Pain is the parent, woe the womb, Of sound, important good:' 54 Our hearts are fasten'd to this world By strong and endless ties: And every sorrow cuts a string, And urges us to rise: 'Twill sound severe-Yet rest assur'd I'm studious of your peace; Though I should dare to give you joyYes, joy of his decease: An hour shall come, (you question this,) An hour, when you shall bless, Beyond the brightest beams of life, Dark days of your distress. Hear then without surprise a truth, A daughter truth to this, Swift turns of fortune often tie A bleeding heart to bliss: Esteem you this a paradox? My sacred motto read; A glorious truth! divinely sung By one, whose heart had bled; To resignation swift he flew, In her a friend he found, A friend, which bless'd him with a smile When gasping with his wound. On earth nought precious is obtain'd But what is painful too; By travel, and to travel born, Our sabbaths are but few: To real joy we work our way, Encountering many a shock, Ere found what truly charms; as found A Venus in the block. In some disaster, some severe Appointment for our sins, 55 That mother blessing, (not so call'd,) True happiness, begins. No martyr e'er defied the flames, By stings of life unvext; First rose some quarrel with this world, Then passion for the next. You see, then, pangs are parent pangs, The pangs of happy birth; Pangs, by which only can be born True happiness on earth. The peopled earth look all around, Or through time's records run! And say, what is a man unstruck? It is a man undone. This moment, am I deeply stungMy bold pretence is tried; When vain man boasts, heaven puts to proof The vauntings of his pride; Now need I, madam! your support.How exquisite the smart; How critically tim'd the news(50) Which strikes me to the heart! The pangs of which I spoke, I feel: If worth like thine is born, O long-belov'd! I bless the blow, And triumph, whilst I mourn. Nor mourn I long; by grief subdued, By reason's empire shown; Deep anguish comes by heaven's decree, Continues by our own; And when continued past its point, Indulg'd in length of time, Grief is disgrac'd, and, what was fate, Corrupts into a crime: 56 And shall I, criminally mean, Myself and subject wrong? No; my example shall support The subject of my song. Madam! I grant your loss is great; Nor little is your gain? Let that be weigh'd; when weigh'd aright, It richly pays your pain: When heaven would kindly set us free, And earth's enchantment end; It takes the most effectual means, And robs us of a friend. But such a friend! and sigh no more? 'Tis prudent; but severe: Heaven aid my weakness, and I drop All sorrow-with this tear. Perhaps your settled grief to soothe, I should not vainly strive, But with soft balm your pain assuage, Had he been still alive; Whose frequent aid brought kind relief, In my distress of thought, Ting'd with his beams my cloudy page, And beautified a fault: To touch our passions' secret springs Was his peculiar care; And deep his happy genius div'd In bosoms of the fair; Nature, which favours to the few, All art beyond, imparts, To him presented, at his birth, The key of human hearts. But not to me by him bequeath'd 57 His gentle, smooth address; His tender hand to touch the wound In throbbing of distress; Howe'er, proceed I must, unbless'd With Esculapian art: Know, love sometimes, mistaken love! Plays disaffection's part: Nor lands, nor seas, nor suns, nor stars, Can soul from soul divide; They correspond from distant worlds, Though transports are denied: Are you not, then, unkindly kind? Is not your love severe? O! stop that crystal source of woe; Nor wound him with a tear. As those above from human bliss Receive increase of joy; May not a stroke from human woe, In part, their peace destroy? He lives in those he left;-to what? Your, now, paternal care, Clear from its cloud your brighten'd eye, It will discern him there; In features, not of form alone, But those, I trust, of mind; Auspicious to the public weal, And to their fate resign'd. Think on the tempests he sustain'd; Revolve his battles won; And let those prophesy your joy From such a father's son: Is consolation what you seek? Fan, then, his martial fire: And animate to flame the sparks 58 Bequeath'd him by his sire: As nothing great is born in haste, Wise nature's time allow; His father's laurels may descend, And flourish on his brow. Nor, madam! be surpris'd to hear That laurels may be due Not more to heroes of the field, (Proud boasters!) than to you: Tender as is the female frame, Like that brave man you mourn, You are a soldier, and to fight Superior battles born; Beneath a banner nobler far Than ever was unfurl'd In fields of blood; a banner bright! High wav'd o'er all the world. It, like a streaming meteor, casts A universal light; Sheds day, sheds more, eternal day On nations whelm'd in night. Beneath that banner, what exploit Can mount our glory higher, Than to sustain the dreadful blow, When those we love expire? Go forth a moral Amazon; Arm'd with undaunted thought; The battle won, though costing dear, You'll think it cheaply bought: The passive hero, who sits down Unactive, and can smile Beneath affliction's galling load, Out-acts a Caesar's toil: 59 The billows stain'd by slaughter'd foes Inferior praise afford; Reason's a bloodless conqueror, More glorious than the sword. Nor can the thunders of huzzas, From shouting nations, cause Such sweet delight, as from your heart Soft whispers of applause: The dear deceas'd so fam'd in arms, With what delight he'll view His triumphs on the main outdone, Thus conquer'd, twice, by you. Share his delight; take heed to shun Of bosoms most diseas'd That odd distemper, an absurd Reluctance to be pleas'd: Some seem in love with sorrow's charms, And that foul fiend embrace: This temper let me justly brand, And stamp it with disgrace: Sorrow! of horrid parentage! Thou second-born of hell! Against heaven's endless mercies pour'd How dar'st thou to rebel? From black and noxious vapours bred, And nurs'd by want of thought, And to the door of phrensy's self By perseverance brought, Thy most inglorious, coward tears From brutal eyes have ran: Smiles, incommunicable smiles! Are radiant marks of man; They cast a sudden glory round Th' illumin'd human face; 60 And light in sons of honest joy Some beams of Moses' face: Is resignation's lesson hard? Examine, we shall find That duty gives up little more Than anguish of the mind; Resign; and all the load of life That moment you remove, Its heavy tax, ten thousand cares Devolve on one above; Who bids us lay our burthen down On his almighty hand, Softens our duty to relief, To blessing a command. For joy what cause! how every sense Is courted from above The year around, with presents rich, The growth of endless love! But most o'erlook the blessings pour'd, Forget the wonders done, And terminate, wrapp'd up in sense, Their prospect at the sun; From that, their final point of view, From that their radiant goal, On travel infinite of thought, Sets out the nobler soul, Broke loose from time's tenacious ties, And earth's involving gloom, To range at last its vast domain, And talk with worlds to come: They let unmark'd, and unemploy'd, Life's idle moments run; And doing nothing for themselves, Imagine nothing done; 61 Fatal mistake! their fate goes on, Their dread account proceeds, And their not doing is set down Amongst their darkest deeds; Though man sits still, and takes his ease; God is at work on man; No means, no moment unemployed, To bless him, if he can. But man consents not, boldly bent To fashion his own fate; Man, a mere bungler in the trade, Repents his crime too late; Hence loud laments: let me thy cause, Indulgent father! plead; Of all the wretches we deplore, Not one by thee was made. What is thy whole creation fair? Of love divine the child; Love brought it forth; and, from its birth, Has o'er it fondly smil'd: Now, and through periods distant far, Long ere the world began, Heaven is, and has in travail been, Its birth the good of man; Man holds in constant service bound The blustering winds and seas; Nor suns disdain to travel hard Their master, man, to please: To final good the worst events Through secret channels run; Finish for man their destin'd course, As 'twas for man begun. One point (observ'd, perhaps, by few) 62 Has often smote, and smites My mind, as demonstration strong; That heaven in man delights: What's known to man of things unseen, Of future worlds, or fates? So much, nor more, than what to man's Sublime affairs relates; What's revelation then? a list, An inventory just Of that poor insect's goods, so late Call'd out of night and dust. What various motives to rejoice! To render joy sincere, Has this no weight? our joy is felt Beyond this narrow sphere: Would we in heaven new heaven create, And double its delight? A smiling world, when heaven looks down, How pleasing in its sight! Angels stoop forward from their thrones To hear its joyful lays; As incense sweet enjoy, and join, Its aromatic praise: Have we no cause to fear the stroke Of heaven's avenging rod, When we presume to counteract A sympathetic God? If we resign, our patience makes His rod an armless wand; If not, it darts a serpent's sting, Like that in Moses' hand; Like that, it swallows up whate'er Earth's vain magicians bring, Whose baffled arts would boast below 63 Of joys a rival spring. Consummate love! the list how large Of blessings from thy hand! To banish sorrow, and be blest, Is thy supreme command. Are such commands but ill obey'd? Of bliss, shall we complain? The man, who dares to be a wretch, Deserves still greater pain. Joy is our duty, glory, health; The sunshine of the soul; Our best encomium on the power Who sweetly plans the whole: Joy is our Eden still possess'd: Begone, ignoble grief! 'Tis joy makes gods, and men exalts, Their nature, our relief; Relief, for man to that must stoop, And his due distance know; Transport's the language of the sides, Content the style below. Content is joy, and joy in pain Is joy and virtue too; Thus, whilst good present we possess, More precious we pursue: Of joy the more we have in hand, The more have we to come; Joy, like our money, interest bears, Which daily swells the sum. 'But how to smile; to stem the tide Of nature in our veins; Is it not hard to weep in joy? What then to smile in pains?' 64 Victorious joy! which breaks the clouds, And struggles through a storm; Proclaims the mind as great, as good And bids it doubly charm: If doubly charming in our sex, A sex, by nature, bold; What then in yours? 'tis diamond there Triumphant o'er our gold. And should not this complaint repress, And check the rising sigh? Yet farther opiate to your pain I labour to supply. Since spirits greatly damp'd distort Ideas of delight, Look through the medium of a friend, To set your notions right: As tears the sight, grief dims the soul; Its object dark appears; True friendship, like a rising sun, The soul's horizon clears. A friend's an optic to the mind With sorrow clouded o'er; And gives it strength of sight to see Redress unseen before. Reason is somewhat rough in man; Extremely smooth and fair, When she, to grace her manly strength, Assumes a female air: A friend(51) you have, and I the same, Whose prudent, soft address Will bring to life those healing thoughts Which died in your distress; That friend, the spirit of my theme Extracting for your ease, 65 Will leave to me the dreg, in thoughts Too common; such as these: Let those lament to whom full bowls Of sparkling joys are given; That triple bane inebriates life, Imbitters death, and hazards heaven: Woe to the soul at perfect ease! 'Tis brewing perfect pains; Lull'd reason sleeps, the pulse is king; Despotic body reigns; Have you(52) ne'er pitied joy's gay scenes, And deem'd their glory dark? Alas! poor envy! she's stone-blind, And quite mistakes her mark: Her mark lies hid in sorrow's shades, But sorrow well subdu'd; And in proud fortune's frown defied By meek, unborrow'd good. By resignation; all in that A double friend may find, A wing to heaven, and, while on earth, The pillow of mankind: On pillows void of down, for rest Our restless hopes we place; When hopes of heaven lie warm at heart, Our hearts repose in peace: The peace, which resignation yields, Who feel alone can guess; 'Tis disbeliev'd by murmuring minds, They must conclude it less: The loss, or gain, of that alone Have we to hope or fear; That fate controls, and can invert The seasons of the year: 66 O! the dark days, the year around, Of an impatient mind! Thro' clouds, and storms, a summer breaks, To shine on the resign'd: While man by that of every grace, And virtue, is possess'd; Foul vice her pandaemonium builds In the rebellious breast; By resignation we defeat The worst that can annoy; And suffer, with far more repose, Than worldlings can enjoy. From small experience this I speak; O! grant to those I love Experience fuller far, ye powers, Who form our fates above! My love were due, if not to those Who, leaving grandeur, came To shine on age in mean recess, And light me to my theme! A theme themselves! A theme, how rare! The charms, which they display, To triumph over captive heads, Are set in bright array: With his own arms proud man's o'ercome, His boasted laurels die: Learning and genius, wiser grown, To female bosoms fly. This revolution, fix'd by fate, In fable was foretold; The dark prediction puzzled wits, Nor could the learn'd unfold: But as those ladies'(53) works I read, 67 They darted such a ray, The latent sense burst out at once, And shone in open day: So burst, full ripe, distended fruits, When strongly strikes the sun; And from the purple grape unpress'd Spontaneous nectars run. Pallas, ('tis said,) when Jove grew dull, Forsook his drowsy brain; And sprightly leap'd into the throne Of wisdom's brighter reign; Her helmet took; that is, shot rays Of formidable wit; And lance,-or, genius most acute, Which lines immortal writ; And gorgon shield,-or, power to fright Man's folly, dreadful shone, And many a blockhead (easy change!) Turn'd, instantly, to stone. Our authors male, as, then, did Jove, Now scratch a damag'd head, And call for what once quarter'd there, But find the goddess fled. The fruit of knowledge, golden fruit! That once forbidden tree, Hedg'd-in by surly man, is now To Britain's daughters free: In Eve (we know) of fruit so fair The noble thirst began; And they, like her, have caus'd a fall, A fall of fame in man: And since of genius in our sex, O Addison! with thee The sun is set; how I rejoice 68 This sister lamp to see! It sheds, like Cynthia, silver beams On man's nocturnal state; His lessen'd light, and languid powers, I show, whilst I relate. ~ Edward Young

307:I. I weep for Adonais -he is dead! O, weep for Adonais! though our tears Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head! And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers, And teach them thine own sorrow, say: "With me Died Adonais; till the Future dares Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be An echo and a light unto eternity!" II. Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay, When thy Son lay, pierced by the shaft which flies In darkness? where was lorn Urania When Adonais died? With veiled eyes, Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise She sate, while one, with soft enamoured breath, Rekindled all the fading melodies With which, like flowers that mock the corse beneath, He had adorned and hid the coming bulk of death. III. O, weep for Adonais -he is dead! Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep! Yet wherefore? Quench within their burning bed Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep; For he is gone, where all things wise and fair Descend; -oh, dream not that the amorous Deep Will yet restore him to the vital air; Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair. IV. Most musical of mourners, weep again! Lament anew, Urania! -He died, Who was the Sire of an immortal strain, Blind, old, and lonely, when his country's pride, The priest, the slave, and the liberticide Trampled and mocked with many a loathed rite Of lust and blood; he went, unterrified, Into the gulf of death; but his clear Sprite Yet reigns o'er earth; the third among the sons of light. V. Most musical of mourners, weep anew! Not all to that bright station dared to climb; And happier they their happiness who knew, Whose tapers yet burn through that night of time In which suns perished; others more sublime, Struck by the envious wrath of man or god, Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent prime; And some yet live, treading the thorny road Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame's serene abode. VI. But now, thy youngest, dearest one, has perished - The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew, Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cherished, And fed with true-love tears, instead of dew; Most musical of mourners, weep anew! Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the last, The bloom, whose petals nipped before they blew Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste; The broken lily lies -the storm is overpast. VII. To that high Capital, where kingly Death Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay, He came; and bought, with price of purest breath, A grave among the eternal. -Come away! Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day Is yet his fitting charnel-roof! while still He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay; Awake him not! surely he takes his fill Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill. VIII. He will awake no more, oh, never more! - Within the twilight chamber spreads apace The shadow of white Death, and at the door Invisible Corruption waits to trace His extreme way to her dim dwelling-place; The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and awe Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to deface So fair a prey, till darkness, and the law Of change, shall o'er his sleep the mortal curtain draw. IX. O, weep for Adonais! -The quick Dreams, The passion-winged Ministers of thought, Who were his flocks, whom near the living streams Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he taught The love which was its music, wander not, - Wander no more, from kindling brain to brain, But droop there, whence they sprung; and mourn their lot Round the cold heart, where, after their sweet pain, They ne'er will gather strength, or find a home again. X. And one with trembling hands clasps his cold head, And fans him with her moonlight wings, and cries, "Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not dead; See, on the silken fringe of his faint eyes, Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there lies A tear some Dream has loosened from his brain." Lost Angel of a ruined Paradise! She knew not 'twas her own; as with no stain She faded, like a cloud which had outwept its rain. XI. One from a lucid urn of starry dew Washed his light limbs as if embalming them; Another clipped her profuse locks, and threw The wreath upon him, like an anadem, Which frozen tears instead of pearls begem; Another in her wilful grief would break Her bow and winged reeds, as if to stem A greater loss with one which was more weak; And dull the barbed fire against his frozen cheek. XII. Another Splendour on his mouth alit, That mouth, whence it was wont to draw the breath Which gave it strength to pierce the guarded wit, And pass into the panting heart beneath With lightning and with music: the damp death Quenched its caress upon his icy lips; And, as a dying meteor stains a wreath Of moonlight vapour, which the cold night clips, It flushed through his pale limbs, and passed to its eclipse. XIII. And others came Desires and Adorations, Winged Persuasions and veiled Destinies, Splendours, and Glooms, and glimmering Incarnations Of hopes and fears, and twilight Phantasies; And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs, And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the gleam Of her own dying smile instead of eyes, Came in slow pomp; -the moving pomp might seem Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal stream. XIV. All he had loved, and moulded into thought, From shape, and hue, and odour, and sweet sound, Lamented Adonais. Morning sought Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair unbound, Wet with the tears which should adorn the ground, Dimmed the aereal eyes that kindle day; Afar the melancholy thunder moaned, Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay, And the wild Winds flew round, sobbing in their dismay. XV. Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains, And feeds her grief with his remembered lay, And will no more reply to winds or fountains, Or amorous birds perched on the young green spray, Or herdsman's horn, or bell at closing day; Since she can mimic not his lips, more dear Than those for whose disdain she pined away Into a shadow of all sounds: -a drear Murmur, between their songs, is all the woodmen hear. XVI. Grief made the young Spring wild, and she threw down Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn were, Or they dead leaves; since her delight is flown, For whom should she have waked the sullen year? To Phoebus was not Hyacinth so dear Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both Thou, Adonais: wan they stand and sere Amid the faint companions of their youth, With dew all turned to tears; odour, to sighing ruth. XVII. Thy spirit's sister, the lorn nightingale Mourns not her mate with such melodious pain; Not so the eagle, who like thee could scale Heaven, and could nourish in the sun's domain Her mighty youth with morning, doth complain, Soaring and screaming round her empty nest, As Albion wails for thee: the curse of Cain Light on his head who pierced thy innocent breast, And scared the angel soul that was its earthly guest! XVIII. Ah, woe is me! Winter is come and gone, But grief returns with the revolving year; The airs and streams renew their joyous tone; The ants, the bees, the swallows reappear; Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead Season's bier; The amorous birds now pair in every brake, And build their mossy homes in field and brere; And the green lizard, and the golden snake, Like unimprisoned flames, out of their trance awake. XIX. Through wood and stream and field and hill and Ocean A quickening life from the Earth's heart has burst As it has ever done, with change and motion, From the great morning of the world when first God dawned on Chaos; in its stream immersed, The lamps of Heaven flash with a softer light; All baser things pant with life's sacred thirst; Diffuse themselves; and spend in love's delight The beauty and the joy of their renewed might. XX. The leprous corpse, touched by this spirit tender, Exhales itself in flowers of gentle breath; Like incarnations of the stars, when splendour Is changed to fragrance, they illumine death And mock the merry worm that wakes beneath; Nought we know, dies. Shall that alone which knows Be as a sword consumed before the sheath By sightless lightning? -the intense atom glows A moment, then is quenched in a most cold repose. XXI. Alas! that all we loved of him should be, But for our grief, as if it had not been, And grief itself be mortal! Woe is me! Whence are we, and why are we? of what scene The actors or spectators? Great and mean Meet massed in death, who lends what life must borrow. As long as skies are blue, and fields are green, Evening must usher night, night urge the morrow, Month follow month with woe, and year wake year to sorrow. XXII. He will awake no more, oh, never more! "Wake thou," cried Misery, "childless Mother, rise Out of thy sleep, and slake, in thy heart's core, A wound more fierce than his with tears and sighs." And all the Dreams that watched Urania's eyes, And all the Echoes whom their sister's song Had held in holy silence, cried: "Arise!" Swift as a Thought by the snake Memory stung, From her ambrosial rest the fading Splendour sprung. XXIII. She rose like an autumnal Night, that springs Our of the East, and follows wild and drear The golden Day, which, on eternal wings, Even as a ghost abandoning a bier, Had left the Earth a corpse. Sorrow and fear So struck, so roused, so rapt Urania; So saddened round her like an atmosphere Of stormy mist; so swept her on her way Even to the mournful place where Adonais lay. XXIV. Our of her secret Paradise she sped, Through camps and cities rough with stone, and steel, And human hearts, which to her aery tread Yielding not, wounded the invisible Palms of her tender feet where'er they fell: And barbed tongues, and thoughts more sharp than they, Rent the soft Form they never could repel, Whose sacred blood, like the young tears of May, Paved with eternal flowers that undeserving way. XXV. In the death-chamber for a moment Death, Shamed by the presence of that living Might, Blushed to annihilation, and the breath Revisited those lips, and Life's pale light Flashed through those limbs, so late her dear delight. "Leave me not wild and drear and comfortless, As silent lightning leaves the starless night! Leave me not!" cried Urania: her distress Roused Death: Death rose and smiled, and met her vain caress. XXVI. "'Stay yet awhile! speak to me once again; Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may live; And in my heartless breast and burning brain That word, that kiss, shall all thoughts else survive, With food of saddest memory kept alive, Now thou art dead, as if it were a part Of thee, my Adonais! I would give All that I am to be as thou now art! But I am chained to Time, and cannot thence depart! XXVII. "O gentle child, beautiful as thou wert, Why didst thou leave the trodden paths of men Too soon, and with weak hands though mighty heart Dare the unpastured dragon in his den? Defenceless as thou wert, oh, where was then Wisdom the mirrored shield, or scorn the spear? Or hadst thou waited the full cycle, when Thy spirit should have filled its crescent sphere, The monsters of life's waste had fled from thee like deer. XXVIII. "The herded wolves, bold only to pursue; The obscene ravens, clamorous o'er the dead; The vultures to the conqueror's banner true Who feed where Desolation first has fed, And whose wings rain contagion; -how they fled, When, like Apollo, from his golden bow The Pythian of the age one arrow sped And smiled! -The spoilers tempt no second blow, They fawn on the proud feet that spurn them lying low. XXIX. "The sun comes forth, and many reptiles spawn; He sets, and each ephemeral insect then Is gathered into death without a dawn, And the immortal stars awake again; So is it in the world of living men: A godlike mind soars forth, in its delight Making earth bare and veiling heaven, and when It sinks, the swarms that dimmed or shared its light Leave to its kindred lamps the spirit's awful night." XXX. Thus ceased she: and the mountain shepherds came, Their garlands sere, their magic mantles rent; The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame Over his living head like Heaven is bent, An early but enduring monument, Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song In sorrow; from her wilds Irene sent The sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong, And Love taught Grief to fall like music from his tongue. XXXI. Midst others of less note, came one frail Form, A phantom among men; companionless As the last cloud of an expiring storm Whose thunder is its knell; he, as I guess, Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness, Actaeon-like, and now he fled astray With feeble steps o'er the world's wilderness, And his own thoughts, along that rugged way, Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and their prey. XXXII. A pardlike Spirit beautiful and swift - A Love in desolation masked; -a Power Girt round with weakness; -it can scarce uplift The weight of the superincumbent hour; It is a dying lamp, a falling shower, A breaking billow; -even whilst we speak Is it not broken? On the withering flower The killing sun smiles brightly: on a cheek The life can burn in blood, even while the heart may break. XXXIII. His head was bound with pansies overblown, And faded violets, white, and pied, and blue; And a light spear topped with a cypress cone, Round whose rude shaft dark ivy-tresses grew Yet dripping with the forest's noonday dew, Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart Shook the weak hand that grasped it; of that crew He came the last, neglected and apart; A herd-abandoned deer struck by the hunter's dart. XXXIV. All stood aloof, and at his partial moan Smiled through their tears; well knew that gentle band Who in another's fate now wept his own, As in the accents of an unknown land He sung new sorrow; sad Urania scanned The Stranger's mien, and murmured: "Who art thou?" He answered not, but with a sudden hand Made bare his branded and ensanguined brow, Which was like Cain's or Christ's -oh! that it should be so! XXXV. What softer voice is hushed over the dead? Athwart what brow is that dark mantle thrown? What form leans sadly o'er the white death-bed, In mockery of monumental stone, The heavy heart heaving without a moan? If it be He, who, gentlest of the wise, Taught, soothed, loved, honoured the departed one, Let me not vex, with inharmonious sighs, The silence of that heart's accepted sacrifice. XXXVI. Our Adonais has drunk poison -oh! What deaf and viperous murderer could crown Life's early cup with such a draught of woe? The nameless worm would now itself disown: It felt, yet could escape, the magic tone Whose prelude held all envy, hate, and wrong, But what was howling in one breast alone, Silent with expectation of the song, Whose master's hand is cold, whose silver lyre unstrung. XXXVII. Live thou, whose infamy is not thy fame! Live! fear no heavier chastisement from me, Thou noteless blot on a remembered name! But be thyself, and know thyself to be! And ever at thy season be thou free To spill the venom when thy fangs o'erflow: Remorse and Self-contempt shall cling to thee; Hot Shame shall burn upon thy secret brow, And like a beaten hound tremble thou shalt -as now. XXXVIII. Nor let us weep that our delight is fled Far from these carrion kites that scream below; He wakes or sleeps with the enduring dead; Thou canst not soar where he is sitting now - Dust to the dust! but the pure spirit shall flow Back to the burning fountain whence it came, A portion of the Eternal, which must glow Through time and change, unquenchably the same, Whilst thy cold embers choke the sordid hearth of shame. XXXIX. Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep - He hath awakened from the dream of life - 'Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keep With phantoms an unprofitable strife, And in mad trance, strike with our spirit's knife Invulnerable nothings. -We decay Like corpses in a charnel; fear and grief Convulse us and consume us day by day, And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay. XL. He has outsoared the shadow of our night; Envy and calumny and hate and pain, And that unrest which men miscall delight, Can touch him not and torture not again; From the contagion of the world's slow stain He is secure, and now can never mourn A heart grown cold, a head grown grey in vain; Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to burn, With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn. XLI. He lives, he wakes -'tis Death is dead, not he; Mourn not for Adonais. -Thou young Dawn, Turn all thy dew to splendour, for from thee The spirit thou lamentest is not gone; Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan! Cease, ye faint flowers and fountains, and thou Air Which like a mourning veil thy scarf hadst thrown O'er the abandoned Earth, now leave it bare Even to the joyous stars which smile on its despair! XLII. He is made one with Nature: there is heard His voice in all her music, from the moan Of thunder, to the song of night's sweet bird; He is a presence to be felt and known In darkness and in light, from herb and stone, Spreading itself where'er that Power may move Which has withdrawn his being to its own; Which wields the world with never-wearied love, Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above. XLIII. He is a portion of the loveliness Which once he made more lovely: he doth bear His part, while the one Spirit's plastic stress Sweeps through the dull dense world, compelling there All new successions to the forms they wear; Torturing th' unwilling dross that checks its flight To its own likeness, as each mass may bear; And bursting in its beauty and its might From trees and beasts and men into the Heavens' light. XLIV. The splendours of the firmament of time May be eclipsed, but are extinguished not; Like stars to their appointed height they climb, And death is a low mist which cannot blot The brightness it may veil. When lofty thought Lifts a young heart above its mortal lair, And love and life contend in it, for what Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live there And move like winds of light on dark and stormy air. XLV. The inheritors of unfulfilled renown Rose from their thrones, built beyond mortal thought, Far in the Unapparent. Chatterton Rose pale, -his solemn agony had not Yet faded from him; Sidney, as he fought And as he fell and as he lived and loved Sublimely mild, a Spirit without spot, Arose; and Lucan, by his death approved: Oblivion as they rose shrank like a thing reproved. XLVI. And many more, whose names on Earth are dark, But whose transmitted effluence cannot die So long as fire outlives the parent spark, Rose, robed in dazzling immortality. "Thou art become as one of us," they cry, "It was for thee yon kingless sphere has long Swung blind in unascended majesty, Silent alone amid an Heaven of Song. Assume thy winged throne, thou Vesper of our throng!" XLVII. Who mourns for Adonais? Oh, come forth, Fond wretch! and know thyself and him aright. Clasp with thy panting soul the pendulous Earth; As from a centre, dart thy spirit's light Beyond all worlds, until its spacious might Satiate the void circumference: then shrink Even to a point within our day and night; And keep thy heart light lest it make thee sink When hope has kindled hope, and lured thee to the brink. XLVIII. Or go to Rome, which is the sepulchre, Oh, not of him, but of our joy: 'tis nought That ages, empires, and religions there Lie buried in the ravage they have wrought; For such as he can lend, -they borrow not Glory from those who made the world their prey; And he is gathered to the kings of thought Who waged contention with their time's decay, And of the past are all that cannot pass away. XLIX. Go thou to Rome, -at once the Paradise, The grave, the city, and the wilderness; And where its wrecks like shattered mountains rise, And flowering weeds, and fragrant copses dress The bones of Desolation's nakedness Pass, till the spirit of the spot shall lead Thy footsteps to a slope of green access Where, like an infant's smile, over the dead A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread; L. And grey walls moulder round, on which dull Time Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand; And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime, Pavilioning the dust of him who planned This refuge for his memory, doth stand Like flame transformed to marble; and beneath, A field is spread, on which a newer band Have pitched in Heaven's smile their camp of death, Welcoming him we lose with scarce extinguished breath. LI. Here pause: these graves are all too young as yet To have outgrown the sorrow which consigned Its charge to each; and if the seal is set, Here, on one fountain of a mourning mind, Break it not thou! too surely shalt thou find Thine own well full, if thou returnest home, Of tears and gall. From the world's bitter wind Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb. What Adonais is, why fear we to become? LII. The One remains, the many change and pass; Heaven's light forever shines, Earth's shadows fly; Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass, Stains the white radiance of Eternity, Until Death tramples it to fragments. -Die, If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost seek! Follow where all is fled! -Rome's azure sky, Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, are weak The glory they transfuse with fitting truth to speak. LIII. Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my Heart? Thy hopes are gone before: from all things here They have departed; thou shouldst now depart! A light is passed from the revolving year, And man, and woman; and what still is dear Attracts to crush, repels to make thee wither. The soft sky smiles, -the low wind whispers near: 'Tis Adonais calls! oh, hasten thither, No more let Life divide what Death can join together. LIV. That Light whose smile kindles the Universe, That Beauty in which all things work and move, That Benediction which the eclipsing Curse Of birth can quench not, that sustaining Love Which through the web of being blindly wove By man and beast and earth and air and sea, Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors of The fire for which all thirst, now beams on me, Consuming the last clouds of cold mortality. LV. The breath whose might I have invoked in song Descends on me; my spirit's bark is driven Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng Whose sails were never to the tempest given; The massy earth and sphered skies are riven! I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar; Whilst, burning through the inmost veil of Heaven, The soul of Adonais, like a star, Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are. Adonais was composed at Pisa during the early days of June, 1821, and printed, with the author's name, at Pisa, 'with the types of Didot,'by July 13, 1821. Part of the impression was sent to the brothers Ollier for sale in London. An exact reprint of this Pisa edition (a few typographical errors only being corrected) was issued in 1829 by Gee & Bridges, Cambridge, at the instance of Arthur Hallan and Richard Monckton Milnes (Lord Houghton). The poem was included in Galignani's edition of Coleridge, Shelley and Keats, Paris, 1829, and by Mrs. Shelley in the Poetical Works of 1839. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Adonais - An elegy on the Death of John Keats

308:The Drunken Boat As I drifted on a river I could not control, No longer guided by the bargemen's ropes. They were captured by howling Indians Who nailed them naked to coloured posts. I cared no more for other boats or cargoes: Flemish wheat or English cottons, all were gone When my bargemen could no longer haul me I forgot about everything and drifted on. Amid the fury of the loudly chopping tides Last winter, deaf as a child's dark night, Ah, how I raced! And the drifting Peninsulas Have never known such conquering delight. Lighter than cork, I revolved upon waves That roll the dead forever in the deep, Ten days, beyond the blinking eyes of land! Lulled by storms, I drifted seaward from sleep. Sweeter than apples to a child its pungent edge; The wash of green water on my shell of pine. Anchor and rudder went drifting away, Washed in vomit and stained with blue wine. Now I drift through the poem of the sea; This gruel of stars mirrors the milky sky, Devours green azures; ecstatic flotsam, Drowned men, pale and thoughtful, sometimes drift by. Staining the sudden blueness, the slow sounds, Deliriums that streak the glowing sky, Stronger than drink and the songs we sing, It is boiling, bitter, red; it is love! I know how lightening split the sky apart, I know the surf and waterspouts and evening's fall, I've seen the dawn arisen like a flock of doves; I've seen what men have only dreamed they saw! 166 I saw the sun with mystic horrors darken And shimmer through a violet haze; With a shiver of shutters the waves fell Like actors in ancient, forgotten plays! I dreamed of green nights and glittering snow, Slow kisses rising in the eyes of the sea, Unknown liquids flowing, the blue and yellow Stirring of phosphorescent melody! For months I watched the surge of the sea, Hysterical herds attacking the reefs; I never thought the bright feet of Mary Could muzzle up the heavy-breathing waves! I have jostled - you know? - unbelievable Floridas And seen among the flowers the wild eyes Of panthers in the skins of men! Rainbows Birdling blind flocks beneath the horizons! In stinking swamps I have seen great hulks: A Leviathan that rotted in the reeds! Water crumbling in the midst of calm And distances that shatter into foam. Glaciers, silver suns, waves of pearl, fiery skies, Giant serpents stranded where lice consume Them, falling in the depths of dark gulfs From contorted trees, bathed in black perfume! I wanted to show children these fishes shining In the blue wave, the golden fish that sing A froth of flowers cradled my wandering And delicate winds tossed me on their wings. Sometimes, a martyr of poles and latitudes, The sea rocked me softly in sighing air, And brought me dark blooms with yellow stems I remained there like a woman on her knees. Almost an island, I balanced on my boat's sides 167 Rapacious blond-eyed birds, their dung, their screams. I drifted on through fragile tangled lines Drowned men, still staring up, sank down to sleep. Now I, a little lost boat, in swirling debris, Tossed by the storm into the birdless upper air - All the Hansa Merchants and Monitors Could not fish up my body drunk with the sea; Free, smoking, touched the violet haze above, I, who the lurid heavens breached like some rare wall Which boasts - confection that the poets love Lichens of sunlight, and snots of bright blue sky; Lost branch spinning in a herd of hippocamps, Covered over with electric animals, An everlasting July battering The glittering sky and its fiery funnels; Shaking at the sound of monsters roaring, Rutting Behemoths in thick whirlpools, Eternal weaver of unmoving blues, I thought of Europe and its ancient walls! I have seen archipelagos in the stars, Feverish skies where I was free to roam! Are these bottomless nights your exiled nests, Swarm of golden birds, O Strength to come? True, I've cried too much; I am heartsick at dawn. The moon is bitter and the sun is sour… Love burns me; I am swollen and slow. Let my keel break! Oh, let me sink in the sea! If I long for a shore in Europe, It's a small pond, dark, cold, remote, The odour of evening, and a child full of sorrow Who stoops to launch a crumpled paper boat. Washed in your languors, sea, I cannot trace The wake of tankers foaming through the cold, Nor assault the pride of pennants and flags, 168 Nor endure the slave ship's stinking hold. ____________________________________________________ Translation by Rebecca Seiferle: As I descended impassible Rivers, I felt no longer steered by bargemen; they were captured by howling Redskins, nailed as targets, naked, to painted stakes. What did I care for cargo or crews, bearers of English cotton or Flemish grain— having left behind the bargemen and racket, the Rivers let me descend where I wished. In the furious splashing of the waves, I — that other winter, deafer than the minds of children — ran! And the unanchored Peninsulas never knew a more triumphant brouhaha. The tempest blessed my sea awakening. Lighter than cork, I danced the waves scrolling out the eternal roll of the dead— ten nights, without longing for the lantern's silly eye. Sweeter than the flesh of tart apples to children, the green water penetrated my pine hull and purged me of vomit and the stain of blue wines— my rudder and grappling hooks drifting away. Since then, I have bathed in the Poem of the Sea, a milky way, infused with stars, devouring the azure greens where, flotsam-pale and ravished, drowned and pensive men float by. Where, suddenly staining the blues, delirious and slow rhythms under the glowing red of day, stronger than alcohol, vaster than our lyrics, ferment the red bitters of love! I know heavens pierced by lightning, the waterspouts 169 and undertows and currents: I know night, Dawn rising like a nation of doves, and I've seen, sometimes, what men only dreamed they saw! I've seen the sun, low, a blot of mystic dread, illuminating with far-reaching violet coagulations, like actors in antique tragedies, the waves rolling away in a shiver of shutters. I've dreamed a green night to dazzling snows, kisses slowly rising to the eyelids of the sea, unknown saps flowing, and the yellow and blue rising of phosphorescent songs. For months, I've followed the swells assaulting the reefs like hysterical herds, without ever thinking that the luminous feet of some Mary could muzzle the panting Deep. I've touched, you know, incredible Floridas where, inside flowers, the eyes of panthers mingle with the skins of men! And rainbows bridle glaucous flocks beneath the rim of the sea! I've seen fermenting— enormous marshes, nets where a whole Leviathan rots in the rushes! Such a ruin of water in the midst of calm, and the distant horizon worming into whirlpools! Glaciers, silver suns, pearly tides, ember skies! Hideous wrecks at the bottom of muddy gulfs where giant serpents, devoured by lice, drop with black perfume out of twisted trees! I wanted to show children these dorados of the blue wave, these golden, singing fish. A froth of flowers has cradled my vagrancies, and ineffable winds have winged me on. Sometimes like a martyr, tired of poles and zones, the sea has rolled me softly in her sigh and held out to me the yellow cups of shadow flowers, 170 and I've remained there, like a woman, kneeling . . . Almost an island, balancing the quarrels, the dung, the cries of blond-eyed birds on the gunnels of my boat, I sailed on, and through my frail lines, drowned men, falling backwards, sank to sleep. Now, I, a boat lost in the hair of the coves, tossed by hurricane into the birdless air, me, whom all the Monitors and Hansa sailing ships could not salvage, my carcass drunk with sea; free, rising like smoke, riding violet mists, I who pierced the sky turning red like a wall, who bore the exquisite jam of all good poets, lichens of sun and snots of azure, who, spotted with electric crescents, ran on, a foolish plank escorted by black hippocamps, when the Julys brought down with a single blow the ultramarine sky with its burning funnels; I who tremble, feeling the moan fifty leagues away of the Behemoth rutting and the dull Maelstrom, eternal weaver of the unmovable blue— I grieve for Europe with its ancient breastworks! I've seen thunderstruck archipelagos! and islands that open delirious skies for wanderers: Are these bottomless nights your nest of exile, O millions of gold birds, O Force to come? True, I've cried too much! Dawns are harrowing. All moons are cruel and all suns, bitter: acrid love puffs me up with drunken slowness. Let my keel burst! Give me to the sea! If I desire any of the waters of Europe, it's the pond black and cold, in the odor of evening, where a child full of sorrow gets down on his knees to launch a paperboat as frail as a May butterfly. 171 Bathed in your languors, o waves, I can no longer wash away the wake of ships bearing cotton, nor penetrate the arrogance of pennants and flags, nor swim past the dreadful eyes of slave ships. ______________________________________________________ As I was floating down impassive Rivers, I no longer felt myself steered by the haulers: gaudy Redskins had taken them for targets, nailing them naked to coloured stakes. I cared nothing for all my crews, carrying Flemish wheat or English cotton. When, along with my haulers, those uproars stopped, the Rivers let me sail downstream where I pleased. Into the ferocious tide-rips, last winter, more absorbed than the minds of children, I ran! And the unmoored Peninsulas never endured more triumphant clamourings. The storm made bliss of my sea-borne awakenings. Lighter than a cork, I danced on the waves which men call the eternal rollers of victims, for ten nights, without once missing the foolish eye of the harbor lights! Sweeter than the flesh of sour apples to children, the green water penetrated my pinewood hull and washed me clean of the bluish wine-stains and the splashes of vomit, carrying away both rudder and anchor. And from that time on I bathed in the Poem of the Sea, star-infused and churned into milk, devouring the green azures where, entranced in pallid flotsam, a dreaming drowned man sometimes goes down; where, suddenly dyeing the blueness, deliriums and slow rhythms under the gleams of the daylight, stronger than alcohol, vaster than music, ferment the bitter rednesses of love! 172 I have come to know the skies splitting with lightning, and the waterspouts, and the breakers and currents; I know the evening, and dawn rising up like a flock of doves, and sometimes I have seen what men have imagined they saw! I have seen the low-hanging sun speckled with mystic horrors lighting up long violet coagulations like the performers in antique dramas; waves rolling back into the distances their shiverings of venetian blinds! I have dreamed of the green night of the dazzled snows, the kiss rising slowly to the eyes of the seas, the circulation of undreamed-of saps, and the yellow-blue awakenings of singing phosphorus! I have followed, for whole months on end, the swells battering the reefs like hysterical herds of cows, never dreaming that the luminous feet of the Marys could muzzle by force the snorting Oceans! I have struck, do you realize, incredible Floridas, where mingle with flowers the eyes of panthers in human skins! Rainbows stretched like bridles under the sea's horizon to glaucous herds! I have seen the enormous swamps seething, traps where a whole leviathan rots in the reeds! Downfalls of waters in the midst of the calm, and distances cataracting down into abysses! Glaciers, suns of silver, waves of pearl, skies of red-hot coals! Hideous wrecks at the bottom of brown gulfs where the giant snakes, devoured by vermin, fall from the twisted trees with black odours! I should have liked to show to children those dolphins of the blue wave, those golden, those singing fish. -Foam of flowers rocked my driftings, and at times ineffable winds would lend me wings. Sometimes, a martyr weary of poles and zones, the sea whose sobs sweetened my rollings 173 lifted my shadow-flowers with their yellow sucking disks toward me, and I hung there like a kneeling woman... Resembling an island, tossing on my sides the brawls and droppings of pale-eyed, clamouring birds. And I was scudding along when across my frayed ropes drowned men sank backwards into sleep!... But now I, a boat lost under the hair of coves, hurled by the hurricane into the birdless ether; I, whose wreck, dead-drunk and sodden with water, neither Monitor nor Hanseatic ships would have fished up; free, smoking, risen from violet fogs, I who bored through the wall of the reddening sky which bears a sweetmeat good poets find delicious: lichens of sunlight mixed with azure snot; who ran, speckled with tiny electric moons, a crazy plank with black sea-horses for escort, when Julys were crushing with cudgel blows skies of ultramarine into burning funnels; I who trembled to feel at fifty leagues off the groans of Behemoths rutting, and the dense Maelstroms; eternal spinner of blue immobilities, I long for Europe with it's age-old parapets! I have seen archipelagos of stars! and islands whose delirious skies are open to sea wanderers: -Do you sleep, are you exiled in those bottomless nights, O million golden birds, Life Force of the future? But, truly, I have wept too much! Dawns are heartbreaking. Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter: sharp love has swollen me up with intoxicating torpor. O let my keel split! O let me sink to the bottom! If there is one water in Europe I want, it is the black cold pool where into the scented twilight a child squatting full of sadness launches a boat as fragile as a butterfly in May. 174 I can no more, bathed in your langours, O waves, sail in the wake of the carriers of cottons; nor undergo the pride of the flags and pennants; nor pull past the horrible eyes of prison hulks. _____________________________________________________ Translation by Wallace Fowlie: As I was going down impassive rivers, I no longer felt myself guided by haulers! Yelping redskins had taken them as targets, And had nailed them naked to colored stakes. I was indifferent to all crews, The bearer of Flemish wheat or English cottons, When with my haulers this uproar stopped, The Rivers let me go where I wanted. Into the furious lashing of the tides, More heedless than children's brains, the other winter I ran! And loosened peninsulas Have not undergone a more triumphant hubbub. The storm blessed my sea vigils. Lighter than a cork I danced on the waves That are called eternal rollers of victims, Ten nights, without missing the stupid eye of the lighthouses! Sweeter than the flesh of hard apples is to children, The green water penetrated my hull of fir And washed me of spots of blue wine And vomit, scattering rudder and grappling-hook. And from then on I bathed in the Poem Of the Sea, infused with stars and lactescent, Devouring the green azure where, like a pale elated Piece of flotsam, a pensive drowned figure sometimes sinks; Where, suddenly dyeing the blueness, delirium And slow rhythms under the streaking of daylight, Stronger than alcohol, vaster than our lyres, 175 The bitter redness of love ferments! I know the skies bursting with lighting, and the waterspouts And the surf and the currents; I know the evening, And dawn as exhalted as a flock of doves, And at times I have seen what man thought he saw! I have seen the low sun spotted with mystic horrors, Lighting up, with long violet clots, Resembling actors of very ancient dramas, The waves rolling far off their quivering of shutters! I have dreamed of the green night with dazzled snows, A kiss slowly rising to the eyes of the sea, The circulation of unknown saps, And the yellow and blue awakening of singing phosphorous! I followed during pregnant months the swell, Like hysterical cows, in its assault on the reefs, Without dreaming that the luminous feet of the Marys Could restrain the snout of the wheezing Oceans! I struck against, you know, unbelievable Floridas Mingling with flowers panthers' eyes and human Skin! Rainbows stretched like bridal reins Under the horizon of the seas to greenish herds! I have seen enormous swamps ferment, fish-traps Where a whole Leviathan rots in the rushes! Avalanches of water in the midst of a calm, And the distances cataracting toward the abyss! Glaciers, suns of silver, nacreous waves, skies of embers! Hideous strands at the end of brown gulfs Where giant serpents devoured by bedbugs Fall down from gnarled tress with black scent! I should have liked to show children those sunfish Of the blue wave, the fish of gold, the singing fish. --Foam of flowers rocked my drifting And ineffable winds winged me at times. 176 At times a martyr weary of poles and zones, The sea, whose sob created my gentle roll, Brought up to me her dark flowers with yellow suckers And I remained like a woman on her knees... Resembling an island tossing on my sides the quarrels And droppings of noisy birds with yellow eyes. And I sailed on, when through my fragile ropes Drowned men sank backward to sleep! Now I, a boat lost in the foliage of caves, Thrown by the storm into the birdless air, I whose water-drunk carcass would not have been rescued By the Monitors and the Hanseatic sailboats; Free, smoking, topped with violet fog, I who pierced the reddening sky like a wall Bearing--delicious jam for good poets-Lichens of sunlight and mucus of azure; Who ran, spotted with small electric moons, A wild plank, escorted by black seahorses, When Julys beat down with blows of cudgels The ultramarine skies with burning funnels; I, who trembled, hearing at fifty leagues off The moaning of the Behemoths in heat and the thick Maelstroms, I, eternal spinner of the blue immobility, Miss Europe with its ancient parapets! I have seen sidereal archipelagos! and islands Whose delirious skies are open to the sea-wanderer: --Is it in these bottomless nights that you sleep and exile yourself, Million golden birds, O future Vigor? But, in truth, I have wept too much! Dawns are heartbreaking. Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter. Acrid love has swollen me with intoxicating torpor. O let my keel burst! O let me go into the sea! If I want a water of Europe, it is the black Cold puddle where in the sweet-smelling twilight 177 A squatting child full of sadness releases A boat as fragile as a May butterfly. No longer can I, bathed in your languor, O waves, Follow in the wake of the cotton boats, Nor cross through the pride of flags and flames, Nor swim under the terrible eyes of prison ships. ______________________________________________________ Translation by A. S. Kline As I floated down impassive Rivers, I felt myself no longer pulled by ropes: The Redskins took my hauliers for targets, And nailed them naked to their painted posts. Carrying Flemish wheat or English cotton, I was indifferent to all my crews. The Rivers let me float down as I wished, When the victims and the sounds were through. Into the furious breakers of the sea, Deafer than the ears of a child, last winter, I ran! And the Peninsulas sliding by me Never heard a more triumphant clamour. The tempest blessed my sea-borne arousals. Lighter than a cork I danced those waves They call the eternal churners of victims, Ten nights, without regret for the lighted bays! Sweeter than sour apples to the children The green ooze spurting through my hull’s pine, Washed me of vomit and the blue of wine, Carried away my rudder and my anchor. Then I bathed in the Poem of the Sea, Infused with stars, the milk-white spume blends, Grazing green azures: where ravished, bleached Flotsam, a drowned man in dream descends. Where, staining the blue, sudden deliriums 178 And slow tremors under the gleams of fire, Stronger than alcohol, vaster than our rhythms, Ferment the bitter reds of our desire! I knew the skies split apart by lightning, Waterspouts, breakers, tides: I knew the night, The Dawn exalted like a crowd of doves, I saw what men think they’ve seen in the light! I saw the low sun, stained with mystic terrors, Illuminate long violet coagulations, Like actors in a play, a play that’s ancient, Waves rolling back their trembling of shutters! I dreamt the green night of blinded snows, A kiss lifted slow to the eyes of seas, The circulation of unheard-of flows, Sung phosphorus’s blue-yellow awakenings! For months on end, I’ve followed the swell That batters at the reefs like terrified cattle, Not dreaming the Three Marys’ shining feet Could muzzle with their force the Ocean’s hell! I’ve struck Floridas, you know, beyond belief, Where eyes of panthers in human skins, Merge with the flowers! Rainbow bridles, beneath the seas’ horizon, stretched out to shadowy fins! I’ve seen the great swamps boil, and the hiss Where a whole whale rots among the reeds! Downfalls of water among tranquilities, Distances showering into the abyss. Nacrous waves, silver suns, glaciers, ember skies! Gaunt wrecks deep in the brown vacuities Where the giant eels riddled with parasites Fall, with dark perfumes, from the twisted trees! I would have liked to show children dolphins Of the blue wave, the golden singing fish. – Flowering foams rocked me in my drift, 179 At times unutterable winds gave me wings. Sometimes, a martyr tired of poles and zones, The sea whose sobs made my roilings sweet Showed me its shadow flowers with yellow mouths And I rested like a woman on her knees… Almost an isle, blowing across my sands, quarrels And droppings of pale-eyed clamorous gulls, And I scudded on while, over my frayed lines, Drowned men sank back in sleep beneath my hull!… Now I, a boat lost in the hair of bays, Hurled by the hurricane through bird-less ether, I, whose carcass, sodden with salt-sea water, No Monitor or Hanseatic vessel could recover: Freed, in smoke, risen from the violet fog, I, who pierced the red skies like a wall, Bearing the sweets that delight true poets, Lichens of sunlight, gobbets of azure: Who ran, stained with electric moonlets, A crazed plank, companied by black sea-horses, When Julys were crushing with cudgel blows Skies of ultramarine in burning funnels: I, who trembled to hear those agonies Of rutting Behemoths and dark Maelstroms, Eternal spinner of blue immobilities, I regret the ancient parapets of Europe! I’ve seen archipelagos of stars! And isles Whose maddened skies open for the sailor: – Is it in depths of night you sleep, exiled, Million birds of gold, O future Vigour? – But, truly, I’ve wept too much! The Dawns Are heartbreaking, each moon hell, each sun bitter: Fierce love has swallowed me in drunken torpors. O let my keel break! Tides draw me down! 180 If I want one pool in Europe, it’s the cold Black pond where into the scented night A child squatting filled with sadness launches A boat as frail as a May butterfly. Bathed in your languor, waves, I can no longer Cut across the wakes of cotton ships, Or sail against the pride of flags, ensigns, Or swim the dreadful gaze of prison ships. ~ Arthur Rimbaud

309:SCENE 1.PROLOGUE IN HEAVEN. THE LORD AND THE HOST OF HEAVEN. ENTER THREE ARCHANGELS. RAPHAEL: The sun makes music as of old Amid the rival spheres of Heaven, On its predestined circle rolled With thunder speed: the Angels even Draw strength from gazing on its glance, Though none its meaning fathom may:-- The worlds unwithered countenance Is bright as at Creations day. GABRIEL: And swift and swift, with rapid lightness, The adorned Earth spins silently, Alternating Elysian brightness With deep and dreadful night; the sea Foams in broad billows from the deep Up to the rocks, and rocks and Ocean, Onward, with spheres which never sleep, Are hurried in eternal motion. MICHAEL: And tempests in contention roar From land to sea, from sea to land; And, raging, weave a chain of power, Which girds the earth, as with a band.-- A flashing desolation there, Flames before the thunders way; But Thy servants, Lord, revere The gentle changes of Thy day. CHORUS OF THE THREE: The Angels draw strength from Thy glance, Though no one comprehend Thee may;-- Thy worlds unwithered countenance Is bright as on Creation's day. The sun sounds, according to ancient custom, In the song of emulation of his brother-spheres. And its fore-written circle Fulfils with a step of thunder. Its countenance gives the Angels strength Though no one can fathom it. The incredible high works Are excellent as at the first day. GABRIEL: And swift, and inconceivably swift The adornment of earth winds itself round, And exchanges Paradise--clearness With deep dreadful night. The sea foams in broad waves From its deep bottom, up to the rocks, And rocks and sea are torn on together In the eternal swift course of the spheres. MICHAEL: And storms roar in emulation From sea to land, from land to sea, And make, raging, a chain Of deepest operation round about. There flames a flashing destruction Before the path of the thunderbolt. But Thy servants, Lord, revere The gentle alternations of Thy day. CHORUS: Thy countenance gives the Angels strength, Though none can comprehend Thee: And all Thy lofty works Are excellent as at the first day. [ENTER MEPHISTOPHELES.] MEPHISTOPHELES: As thou, O Lord, once more art kind enough To interest Thyself in our affairs, And ask, How goes it with you there below? And as indulgently at other times Thou tookest not my visits in ill part, Thou seest me here once more among Thy household. Though I should scandalize this company, You will excuse me if I do not talk In the high style which they think fashionable; My pathos certainly would make You laugh too, Had You not long since given over laughing. Nothing know I to say of suns and worlds; I observe only how men plague themselves;-- The little god o the world keeps the same stamp, As wonderful as on creations day:-- A little better would he live, hadst Thou Not given him a glimpse of Heavens light Which he calls reason, and employs it only To live more beastlily than any beast. With reverence to Your Lordship be it spoken, Hes like one of those long-legged grasshoppers, Who flits and jumps about, and sings for ever The same old song i the grass. There let him lie, Burying his nose in every heap of dung. THE LORD: Have you no more to say? Do you come here Always to scold, and cavil, and complain? Seems nothing ever right to you on earth? MEPHISTOPHELES: No, Lord! I find all there, as ever, bad at best. Even I am sorry for mans days of sorrow; I could myself almost give up the pleasure Of plaguing the poor things. THE LORD: Knowest thou Faust? MEPHISTOPHELES: The Doctor? THE LORD: Ay; My servant Faust. MEPHISTOPHELES: In truth He serves You in a fashion quite his own; And the fools meat and drink are not of earth. His aspirations bear him on so far That he is half aware of his own folly, For he demands from Heaven its fairest star, And from the earth the highest joy it bears, Yet all things far, and all things near, are vain To calm the deep emotions of his breast. THE LORD: Though he now serves Me in a cloud of error, I will soon lead him forth to the clear day. When trees look green, full well the gardener knows That fruits and blooms will deck the coming year. MEPHISTOPHELES: What will You bet?--now am sure of winning-- Only, observe You give me full permission To lead him softly on my path. THE LORD: As long As he shall live upon the earth, so long Is nothing unto thee forbiddenMan Must err till he has ceased to struggle. MEPHISTOPHELES: Thanks. And that is all I ask; for willingly I never make acquaintance with the dead. The full fresh cheeks of youth are food for me, And if a corpse knocks, I am not at home. For I am like a cat--I like to play A little with the mouse before I eat it. THE LORD: Well, well! it is permitted thee. Draw thou His spirit from its springs; as thou findst power Seize him and lead him on thy downward path; And stand ashamed when failure teaches thee That a good man, even in his darkest longings, Is well aware of the right way. MEPHISTOPHELES: Well and good. I am not in much doubt about my bet, And if I lose, then tis Your turn to crow; Enjoy Your triumph then with a full breast. Ay; dust shall he devour, and that with pleasure, Like my old paramour, the famous Snake. THE LORD: Pray come here when it suits you; for I never Had much dislike for people of your sort. And, among all the Spirits who rebelled, The knave was ever the least tedious to Me. The active spirit of man soon sleeps, and soon 100 He seeks unbroken quiet; therefore I Have given him the Devil for a companion, Who may provoke him to some sort of work, And must create forever.--But ye, pure Children of God, enjoy eternal beauty;-- Let that which ever operates and lives Clasp you within the limits of its love; And seize with sweet and melancholy thoughts The floating phantoms of its loveliness. [HEAVEN CLOSES; THE ARCHANGELS EXEUNT.] MEPHISTOPHELES: From time to time I visit the old fellow, And I take care to keep on good terms with Him. Civil enough is the same God Almighty, To talk so freely with the Devil himself. SCENE 2.MAY-DAY NIGHT. THE HARTZ MOUNTAIN, A DESOLATE COUNTRY. FAUST, MEPHISTOPHELES. MEPHISTOPHELES: Would you not like a broomstick? As for me I wish I had a good stout ram to ride; For we are still far from the appointed place. FAUST: This knotted staff is help enough for me, Whilst I feel fresh upon my legs. What good Is there in making short a pleasant way? To creep along the labyrinths of the vales, And climb those rocks, where ever-babbling springs, Precipitate themselves in waterfalls, Is the true sport that seasons such a path. Already Spring kindles the birchen spray, And the hoar pines already feel her breath: Shall she not work also within our limbs? MEPHISTOPHELES: Nothing of such an influence do I feel. My body is all wintry, and I wish The flowers upon our path were frost and snow. But see how melancholy rises now, Dimly uplifting her belated beam, The blank unwelcome round of the red moon, And gives so bad a light, that every step One stumbles gainst some crag. With your permission, Ill call on Ignis-fatuus to our aid: I see one yonder burning jollily. Halloo, my friend! may I request that you Would favour us with your bright company? Why should you blaze away there to no purpose? Pray be so good as light us up this way. IGNIS-FATUUS: With reverence be it spoken, I will try To overcome the lightness of my nature; Our course, you know, is generally zigzag. MEPHISTOPHELES: Ha, ha! your worship thinks you have to deal With men. Go straight on, in the Devils name, Or I shall puff your flickering life out. IGNIS-FATUUS: Well, I see you are the master of the house; I will accommodate myself to you. Only consider that to-night this mountain Is all enchanted, and if Jack-a-lantern Shows you his way, though you should miss your own, You ought not to be too exact with him. FAUST, MEPHISTOPHELES, AND IGNIS-FATUUS, IN ALTERNATE CHORUS: The limits of the sphere of dream, The bounds of true and false, are past. Lead us on, thou wandering Gleam, Lead us onward, far and fast, To the wide, the desert waste. But see, how swift advance and shift Trees behind trees, row by row,-- How, clift by clift, rocks bend and lift Their frowning foreheads as we go. The giant-snouted crags, ho! ho! How they snort, and how they blow! Through the mossy sods and stones, Stream and streamlet hurry down A rushing throng! A sound of song Beneath the vault of Heaven is blown! Sweet notes of love, the speaking tones Of this bright day, sent down to say That Paradise on Earth is known, Resound around, beneath, above. All we hope and all we love Finds a voice in this blithe strain, Which wakens hill and wood and rill, And vibrates far oer field and vale, And which Echo, like the tale Of old times, repeats again. To-whoo! to-whoo! near, nearer now The sound of song, the rushing throng! Are the screech, the lapwing, and the jay, All awake as if twere day? See, with long legs and belly wide, A salamander in the brake! Every root is like a snake, And along the loose hillside, With strange contortions through the night, Curls, to seize or to affright; And, animated, strong, and many, They dart forth polypus-antennae, To blister with their poison spume The wanderer. Through the dazzling gloom The many-coloured mice, that thread The dewy turf beneath our tread, In troops each others motions cross, Through the heath and through the moss; And, in legions intertangled, The fire-flies flit, and swarm, and throng, Till all the mountain depths are spangled. Tell me, shall we go or stay? Shall we onward? Come along! Everything around is swept Forward, onward, far away! Trees and masses intercept The sight, and wisps on every side Are puffed up and multiplied. MEPHISTOPHELES: Now vigorously seize my skirt, and gain This pinnacle of isolated crag. One may observe with wonder from this point, How Mammon glows among the mountains. FAUST: Ay-- And strangely through the solid depth below A melancholy light, like the red dawn, Shoots from the lowest gorge of the abyss Of mountains, lightning hitherward: there rise Pillars of smoke, here clouds float gently by; Here the light burns soft as the enkindled air, Or the illumined dust of golden flowers; And now it glides like tender colours spreading; And now bursts forth in fountains from the earth; And now it winds, one torrent of broad light, Through the far valley with a hundred veins; And now once more within that narrow corner Masses itself into intensest splendour. And near us, see, sparks spring out of the ground, Like golden sand scattered upon the darkness; The pinnacles of that black wall of mountains That hems us in are kindled. MEPHISTOPHELES: Rare: in faith! Does not Sir Mammon gloriously illuminate His palace for this festival?--it is A pleasure which you had not known before. I spy the boisterous guests already. FAUST: How The children of the wind rage in the air! With what fierce strokes they fall upon my neck! MEPHISTOPHELES: Cling tightly to the old ribs of the crag. Beware! for if with them thou warrest In their fierce flight towards the wilderness, Their breath will sweep thee into dust, and drag Thy body to a grave in the abyss. A cloud thickens the night. Hark! how the tempest crashes through the forest! The owls fly out in strange affright; The columns of the evergreen palaces Are split and shattered; The roots creak, and stretch, and groan; And ruinously overthrown, The trunks are crushed and shattered By the fierce blasts unconquerable stress. Over each other crack and crash they all In terrible and intertangled fall; And through the ruins of the shaken mountain The airs hiss and howl-- It is not the voice of the fountain, Nor the wolf in his midnight prowl. Dost thou not hear? Strange accents are ringing Aloft, afar, anear? The witches are singing! The torrent of a raging wizard song Streams the whole mountain along. CHORUS OF WITCHES: The stubble is yellow, the corn is green, Now to the Brocken the witches go; The mighty multitude here may be seen Gathering, wizard and witch, below. Sir Urian is sitting aloft in the air; Hey over stock! and hey over stone! 'Twixt witches and incubi, what shall be done? Tell it who dare! tell it who dare! A VOICE: Upon a sow-swine, whose farrows were nine, Old Baubo rideth alone. CHORUS: Honour her, to whom honour is due, Old mother Baubo, honour to you! An able sow, with old Baubo upon her, Is worthy of glory, and worthy of honour! The legion of witches is coming behind, Darkening the night, and outspeeding the wind-- A VOICE: Which way comest thou? A VOICE: Over Ilsenstein; The owl was awake in the white moonshine; I saw her at rest in her downy nest, And she stared at me with her broad, bright eyne. VOICES: And you may now as well take your course on to Hell, Since you ride by so fast on the headlong blast. A VOICE: She dropped poison upon me as I passed. Here are the wounds-- CHORUS OF WITCHES: Come away! come along! The way is wide, the way is long, But what is that for a Bedlam throng? Stick with the prong, and scratch with the broom. The child in the cradle lies strangled at home, And the mother is clapping her hands.-- SEMICHORUS OF WIZARDS 1: We glide in Like snails when the women are all away; And from a house once given over to sin Woman has a thousand steps to stray. SEMICHORUS 2: A thousand steps must a woman take, Where a man but a single spring will make. VOICES ABOVE: Come with us, come with us, from Felsensee. VOICES BELOW: With what joy would we fly through the upper sky! We are washed, we are nointed, stark naked are we; But our toil and our pain are forever in vain. BOTH CHORUSES: The wind is still, the stars are fled, The melancholy moon is dead; The magic notes, like spark on spark, Drizzle, whistling through the dark. Come away! VOICES BELOW: Stay, Oh, stay! VOICES ABOVE: Out of the crannies of the rocks Who calls? VOICES BELOW: Oh, let me join your flocks! I, three hundred years have striven To catch your skirt and mount to Heaven,-- And still in vain. Oh, might I be With company akin to me! BOTH CHORUSES: Some on a ram and some on a prong, On poles and on broomsticks we flutter along; Forlorn is the wight who can rise not to-night. A HALF-WITCH BELOW: I have been tripping this many an hour: Are the others already so far before? No quiet at home, and no peace abroad! And less methinks is found by the road. CHORUS OF WITCHES: Come onward, away! aroint thee, aroint! A witch to be strong must anoint--anoint-- Then every trough will be boat enough; With a rag for a sail we can sweep through the sky, Who flies not to-night, when means he to fly? BOTH CHORUSES: We cling to the skirt, and we strike on the ground; Witch-legions thicken around and around; Wizard-swarms cover the heath all over. [THEY DESCEND.] MEPHISTOPHELES: What thronging, dashing, raging, rustling; What whispering, babbling, hissing, bustling; What glimmering, spurting, stinking, burning, As Heaven and Earth were overturning. There is a true witch element about us; Take hold on me, or we shall be divided:-- Where are you? FAUST [FROM A DISTANCE]: Here! MEPHISTOPHELES: What! I must exert my authority in the house. Place for young Voland! pray make way, good people. Take hold on me, doctor, an with one step Let us escape from this unpleasant crowd: They are too mad for people of my sort. Just there shines a peculiar kind of light-- Something attracts me in those bushes. Come This way: we shall slip down there in a minute. FAUST: Spirit of Contradiction! Well, lead on-- Twere a wise feat indeed to wander out Into the Brocken upon May-day night, And then to isolate oneself in scorn, Disgusted with the humours of the time. MEPHISTOPHELES: See yonder, round a many-coloured flame A merry club is huddled altogether: Even with such little people as sit there One would not be alone. FAUST: Would that I were Up yonder in the glow and whirling smoke, Where the blind million rush impetuously To meet the evil ones; there might I solve Many a riddle that torments me. MEPHISTOPHELES: Yet Many a riddle there is tied anew Inextricably. Let the great world rage! We will stay here safe in the quiet dwellings. Tis an old custom. Men have ever built Their own small world in the great world of all. I see young witches naked there, and old ones Wisely attired with greater decency. Be guided now by me, and you shall buy A pound of pleasure with a dram of trouble. I hear them tune their instruments--one must Get used to this damned scraping. Come, Ill lead you Among them; and what there you do and see, As a fresh compact twixt us two shall be. How say you now? this space is wide enough-- Look forth, you cannot see the end of it-- An hundred bonfires burn in rows, and they Who throng around them seem innumerable: Dancing and drinking, jabbering, making love, And cooking, are at work. Now tell me, friend, What is there better in the world than this? FAUST: In introducing us, do you assume The character of Wizard or of Devil? MEPHISTOPHELES: In truth, I generally go about In strict incognito; and yet one likes To wear ones orders upon gala days. I have no ribbon at my knee; but here At home, the cloven foot is honourable. See you that snail there?she comes creeping up, And with her feeling eyes hath smelt out something. I could not, if I would, mask myself here. Come now, well go about from fire to fire: Ill be the Pimp, and you shall be the Lover. [TO SOME OLD WOMEN, WHO ARE SITTING ROUND A HEAP OF GLIMMERING COALS.] Old gentlewomen, what do you do out here? You ought to be with the young rioters Right in the thickest of the revelry-- But every one is best content at home. General. Who dare confide in right or a just claim? So much as I had done for them! and now-- With women and the people tis the same, Youth will stand foremost ever,--age may go To the dark grave unhonoured. MINISTER: Nowadays People assert their rights: they go too far; 280 But as for me, the good old times I praise; Then we were all in all--twas something worth Ones while to be in place and wear a star; That was indeed the golden age on earth. PARVENU: We too are active, and we did and do What we ought not, perhaps; and yet we now Will seize, whilst all things are whirled round and round, A spoke of Fortunes wheel, and keep our ground. AUTHOR: Who now can taste a treatise of deep sense And ponderous volume? tis impertinence To write what none will read, therefore will I To please the young and thoughtless people try. MEPHISTOPHELES [WHO AT ONCE APPEARS TO HAVE GROWN VERY OLD]: I find the people ripe for the last day, Since I last came up to the wizard mountain; And as my little cask runs turbid now, So is the world drained to the dregs. PEDLAR-WITCH: Look here, Gentlemen; do not hurry on so fast; And lose the chance of a good pennyworth. I have a pack full of the choicest wares Of every sort, and yet in all my bundle Is nothing like what may be found on earth; Nothing that in a moment will make rich Men and the world with fine malicious mischief-- There is no dagger drunk with blood; no bowl From which consuming poison may be drained By innocent and healthy lips; no jewel, The price of an abandoned maidens shame; No sword which cuts the bond it cannot loose, Or stabs the wearers enemy in the back; No-- MEPHISTOPHELES: Gossip, you know little of these times. What has been, has been; what is done, is past, They shape themselves into the innovations They breed, and innovation drags us with it. The torrent of the crowd sweeps over us: You think to impel, and are yourself impelled. FAUST: What is that yonder? MEPHISTOPHELES: Mark her well. It is Lilith. FAUST: Who? MEPHISTOPHELES: Lilith, the first wife of Adam. Beware of her fair hair, for she excels All women in the magic of her locks; And when she winds them round a young mans neck, She will not ever set him free again. FAUST: There sit a girl and an old woman--they Seem to be tired with pleasure and with play. MEPHISTOPHELES: There is no rest to-night for any one: When one dance ends another is begun; Come, let us to it. We shall have rare fun. [FAUST DANCES AND SINGS WITH A GIRL, AND MEPHISTOPHELES WITH AN OLD WOMAN.] FAUST: I had once a lovely dream In which I saw an apple-tree, Where two fair apples with their gleam To climb and taste attracted me. THE GIRL: She with apples you desired From Paradise came long ago: With you I feel that if required, Such still within my garden grow. ... PROCTO-PHANTASMIST: What is this cursed multitude about? Have we not long since proved to demonstration That ghosts move not on ordinary feet? But these are dancing just like men and women. THE GIRL: What does he want then at our ball? FAUST: Oh! he Is far above us all in his conceit: Whilst we enjoy, he reasons of enjoyment; And any step which in our dance we tread, If it be left out of his reckoning, Is not to be considered as a step. There are few things that scandalize him not: And when you whirl round in the circle now, As he went round the wheel in his old mill, He says that you go wrong in all respects, Especially if you congratulate him Upon the strength of the resemblance. PROCTO-PHANTASMIST: Fly! Vanish! Unheard-of impudence! What, still there! In this enlightened age too, since you have been Proved not to exist!--But this infernal brood Will hear no reason and endure no rule. Are we so wise, and is the POND still haunted? How long have I been sweeping out this rubbish Of superstition, and the world will not Come clean with all my pains!--it is a case Unheard of! THE GIRL: Then leave off teasing us so. PROCTO-PHANTASMIST: I tell you, spirits, to your faces now, That I should not regret this despotism Of spirits, but that mine can wield it not. To-night I shall make poor work of it, Yet I will take a round with you, and hope Before my last step in the living dance To beat the poet and the devil together. MEPHISTOPHELES: At last he will sit down in some foul puddle; That is his way of solacing himself; Until some leech, diverted with his gravity, Cures him of spirits and the spirit together. [TO FAUST, WHO HAS SECEDED FROM THE DANCE.] Why do you let that fair girl pass from you, Who sung so sweetly to you in the dance? FAUST: A red mouse in the middle of her singing Sprung from her mouth. MEPHISTOPHELES: That was all right, my friend: Be it enough that the mouse was not gray. Do not disturb your hour of happiness With close consideration of such trifles. FAUST: Then saw I-- MEPHISTOPHELES: What? FAUST: Seest thou not a pale, Fair girl, standing alone, far, far away? She drags herself now forward with slow steps, And seems as if she moved with shackled feet: I cannot overcome the thought that she Is like poor Margaret. MEPHISTOPHELES: Let it be--pass on-- No good can come of it--it is not well To meet itit is an enchanted phantom, A lifeless idol; with its numbing look, It freezes up the blood of man; and they Who meet its ghastly stare are turned to stone, Like those who saw Medusa. FAUST: Oh, too true! Her eyes are like the eyes of a fresh corpse Which no beloved hand has closed, alas! That is the breast which Margaret yielded to me-- Those are the lovely limbs which I enjoyed! MEPHISTOPHELES: It is all magic, poor deluded fool! She looks to every one like his first love. FAUST: Oh, what delight! what woe! I cannot turn My looks from her sweet piteous countenance. How strangely does a single blood-red line, Not broader than the sharp edge of a knife, Adorn her lovely neck! MEPHISTOPHELES: Ay, she can carry Her head under her arm upon occasion; Perseus has cut it off for her. These pleasures End in delusion.Gain this rising ground, It is as airy here as in a... And if I am not mightily deceived, I see a theatre.What may this mean? ATTENDANT: Quite a new piece, the last of seven, for tis The custom now to represent that number. Tis written by a Dilettante, and The actors who perform are Dilettanti; Excuse me, gentlemen; but I must vanish. I am a Dilettante curtain-lifter. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Scenes From The Faust Of Goethe

310:A FRAGMENT PART I Nec tantum prodere vati, Quantum scire licet. Venit aetas omnis in unam Congeriem, miserumque premunt tot saecula pectus. Lucan, Phars. v. 176. How wonderful is Death, Death and his brother Sleep! One pale as yonder wan and hornd moon, With lips of lurid blue, The other glowing like the vital morn, When throned on ocean's wave It breathes over the world: Yet both so passing strange and wonderful! Hath then the iron-sceptred Skeleton, Whose reign is in the tainted sepulchres, To the hell dogs that couch beneath his throne Cast that fair prey? Must that divinest form, Which love and admiration cannot view Without a beating heart, whose azure veins Steal like dark streams along a field of snow, Whose outline is as fair as marble clothed In light of some sublimest mind, decay? Nor putrefaction's breath Leave aught of this pure spectacle But loathsomeness and ruin? Spare aught but a dark theme, On which the lightest heart might moralize? Or is it but that downy-wingd slumbers Have charmed their nurse coy Silence near her lids To watch their own repose? Will they, when morning's beam Flows through those wells of light, Seek far from noise and day some western cave, Where woods and streams with soft and pausing winds A lulling murmur weave? Ianthe doth not sleep The dreamless sleep of death: Nor in her moonlight chamber silently Doth Henry hear her regular pulses throb, Or mark her delicate cheek With interchange of hues mock the broad moon. Outwatching weary night, Without assured reward. Her dewy eyes are closed; On their translucent lids, whose texture fine Scarce hides the dark blue orbs that burn below With unapparent fire, The baby Sleep is pillowed: Her golden tresses shade The bosom's stainless pride, Twining like tendrils of the parasite Around a marble column. Hark! whence that rushing sound? 'Tis like a wondrous strain that sweeps Around a lonely ruin When west winds sigh and evening waves respond In whispers from the shore: 'Tis wilder than the unmeasured notes Which from the unseen lyres of dells and groves The genii of the breezes sweep. Floating on waves of music and of light, The chariot of the Daemon of the World Descends in silent power: Its shape reposed within: slight as some cloud That catches but the palest tinge of day When evening yields to night, Bright as that fibrous woof when stars indue Its transitory robe. Four shapeless shadows bright and beautiful Draw that strange car of glory, reins of light Check their unearthly speed; they stop and fold Their wings of braided air: The Daemon leaning from the ethereal car Gazed on the slumbering maid. Human eye hath ne'er beheld A shape so wild, so bright, so beautiful, As that which o'er the maiden's charmd sleep Waving a starry wand, Hung like a mist of light. Such sounds as breathed around like odorous winds Of wakening spring arose, Filling the chamber and the moonlight sky. Maiden, the world's supremest spirit Beneath the shadow of her wings Folds all thy memory doth inherit From ruin of divinest things, Feelings that lure thee to betray, And light of thoughts that pass away. For thou hast earned a mighty boon, The truths which wisest poets see Dimly, thy mind may make its own, Rewarding its own majesty, Entranced in some diviner mood Of self-oblivious solitude. Custom, and Faith, and Power thou spurnest; From hate and awe thy heart is free; Ardent and pure as day thou burnest, For dark and cold mortality A living light, to cheer it long, The watch-fires of the world among. Therefore from nature's inner shrine, Where gods and fiends in worship bend, Majestic spirit, be it thine The flame to seize, the veil to rend, Where the vast snake Eternity In charmd sleep doth ever lie. All that inspires thy voice of love, Or speaks in thy unclosing eyes, Or through thy frame doth burn or move, Or think or feel, awake, arise! Spirit, leave for mine and me Earth's unsubstantial mimicry! It ceased, and from the mute and moveless frame A radiant spirit arose, All beautiful in naked purity. Robed in its human hues it did ascend, Disparting as it went the silver clouds, It moved towards the car, and took its seat Beside the Daemon shape. Obedient to the sweep of ary song, The mighty ministers Unfurled their prismy wings. The magic car moved on; The night was fair, innumerable stars Studded heaven's dark blue vault; The eastern wave grew pale With the first smile of morn. The magic car moved on. From the swift sweep of wings The atmosphere in flaming sparkles flew; And where the burning wheels Eddied above the mountain's loftiest peak Was traced a line of lightning. Now far above a rock the utmost verge Of the wide earth it flew, The rival of the Andes, whose dark brow Frowned o'er the silver sea. Far, far below the chariot's stormy path, Calm as a slumbering babe, Tremendous ocean lay. Its broad and silent mirror gave to view The pale and waning stars, The chariot's fiery track, And the grey light of morn Tingeing those fleecy clouds That cradled in their folds the infant dawn. The chariot seemed to fly Through the abyss of an immense concave, Radiant with million constellations, tinged With shades of infinite colour, And semicircled with a belt Flashing incessant meteors. As they approached their goal, The wingd shadows seemed to gather speed. The sea no longer was distinguished; earth Appeared a vast and shadowy sphere, suspended In the black concave of heaven With the sun's cloudless orb, Whose rays of rapid light Parted around the chariot's swifter course, And fell like ocean's feathery spray Dashed from the boiling surge Before a vessel's prow. The magic car moved on. Earth's distant orb appeared The smallest light that twinkles in the heavens, Whilst round the chariot's way Innumerable systems widely rolled, And countless spheres diffused An ever varying glory. It was a sight of wonder! Some were horned. And like the moon's argentine crescent hung In the dark dome of heaven; some did shed A clear mild beam like Hesperus, while the sea Yet glows with fading sunlight; others dashed Athwart the night with trains of bickering fire, Like spherd worlds to death and ruin driven; Some shone like stars, and as the chariot passed Bedimmed all other light. Spirit of Nature! here In this interminable wilderness Of worlds, at whose involved immensity Even soaring fancy staggers, Here is thy fitting temple. Yet not the lightest leaf That quivers to the passing breeze Is less instinct with thee, Yet not the meanest worm, That lurks in graves and fattens on the dead, Less shares thy eternal breath. Spirit of Nature! thou Imperishable as this glorious scene, Here is thy fitting temple. If solitude hath ever led thy steps To the shore of the immeasurable sea, And thou hast lingered there Until the sun's broad orb Seemed resting on the fiery line of ocean, Thou must have marked the braided webs of gold That without motion hang Over the sinking sphere: Thou must have marked the billowy mountain clouds, Edged with intolerable radiancy, Towering like rocks of jet Above the burning deep: And yet there is a moment When the sun's highest point Peers like a star o'er ocean's western edge, When those far clouds of feathery purple gleam Like fairy lands girt by some heavenly sea: Then has thy rapt imagination soared Where in the midst of all existing things The temple of the mightiest Daemon stands. Yet not the golden islands That gleam amid yon flood of purple light, Nor the feathery curtains That canopy the sun's resplendent couch, Nor the burnished ocean waves Paving that gorgeous dome, So fair, so wonderful a sight As the eternal temple could afford. The elements of all that human thought Can frame of lovely or sublime, did join To rear the fabric of the fane, nor aught Of earth may image forth its majesty. Yet likest evening's vault that fary hall, As heaven low resting on the wave it spread Its floors of flashing light, Its vast and azure dome; And on the verge of that obscure abyss Where crystal battlements o'erhang the gulf Of the dark world, ten thousand spheres diffuse Their lustre through its adamantine gates. The magic car no longer moved; The Daemon and the Spirit Entered the eternal gates. Those clouds of ary gold That slept in glittering billows Beneath the azure canopy, With the ethereal footsteps trembled not; While slight and odorous mists Floated to strains of thrilling melody Through the vast columns and the pearly shrines. The Daemon and the Spirit Approached the overhanging battlement, Below lay stretched the boundless universe! There, far as the remotest line That limits swift imagination's flight, Unending orbs mingled in mazy motion, Immutably fulfilling Eternal Nature's law. Above, below, around, The circling systems formed A wilderness of harmony, Each with undeviating aim In eloquent silence through the depths of space Pursued its wondrous way. Awhile the Spirit paused in ecstasy. Yet soon she saw, as the vast spheres swept by, Strange things within their belted orbs appear. Like animated frenzies, dimly moved Shadows, and skeletons, and fiendly shapes, Thronging round human graves, and o'er the dead Sculpturing records for each memory In verse, such as malignant gods pronounce, Blasting the hopes of men, when heaven and hell Confounded burst in ruin o'er the world: And they did build vast trophies, instruments Of murder, human bones, barbaric gold, Skins torn from living men, and towers of skulls With sightless holes gazing on blinder heaven, Mitres, and crowns, and brazen chariots stained With blood, and scrolls of mystic wickedness, The sanguine codes of venerable crime. The likeness of a thrond king came by, When these had passed, bearing upon his brow A threefold crown; his countenance was calm, His eye severe and cold; but his right hand Was charged with bloody coin, and he did gnaw By fits, with secret smiles, a human heart Concealed beneath his robe; and motley shapes, A multitudinous throng, around him knelt, With bosoms bare, and bowed heads, and false looks Of true submission, as the sphere rolled by. Brooking no eye to witness their foul shame, Which human hearts must feel, while human tongues Tremble to speak, they did rage horribly, Breathing in self-contempt fierce blasphemies Against the Daemon of the World, and high Hurling their armd hands where the pure Spirit, Serene and inaccessibly secure, Stood on an isolated pinnacle, The flood of ages combating below, The depth of the unbounded universe Above, and all around Necessity's unchanging harmony. PART II O happy Earth! reality of Heaven! To which those restless powers that ceaselessly Throng through the human universe aspire; Thou consummation of all mortal hope! Thou glorious prize of blindly-working will! Whose rays, diffused throughout all space and time, Verge to one point and blend for ever there: Of purest spirits thou pure dwelling-place! Where care and sorrow, impotence and crime, Languor, disease, and ignorance dare not come: O happy Earth, reality of Heaven! Genius has seen thee in her passionate dreams, And dim forebodings of thy loveliness, Haunting the human heart, have there entwined Those rooted hopes, that the proud Power of Evil Shall not for ever on this fairest world Shake pestilence and war, or that his slaves With blasphemy for prayer, and human blood For sacrifice, before his shrine for ever In adoration bend, or Erebus With all its banded fiends shall not uprise To overwhelm in envy and revenge The dauntless and the good, who dare to hurl Defiance at his throne, girt tho' it be With Death's omnipotence. Thou hast beheld His empire, o'er the present and the past; It was a desolate sightnow gaze on mine, Futurity. Thou hoary giant Time, Render thou up thy half-devoured babes, And from the cradles of eternity, Where millions lie lulled to their portioned sleep By the deep murmuring stream of passing things, Tear thou that gloomy shroud.Spirit, behold Thy glorious destiny!            The Spirit saw The vast frame of the renovated world Smile in the lap of Chaos, and the sense Of hope thro' her fine texture did suffuse Such varying glow, as summer evening casts On undulating clouds and deepening lakes. Like the vague sighings of a wind at even, That wakes the wavelets of the slumbering sea And dies on the creation of its breath, And sinks and rises, fails and swells by fits, Was the sweet stream of thought that with wild motion Flowed o'er the Spirit's human sympathies. The mighty tide of thought had paused awhile, Which from the Daemon now like Ocean's stream Again began to pour.            To me is given The wonders of the human world to keep Space, matter, time and mindlet the sight Renew and strengthen all thy failing hope. All things are recreated, and the flame Of consentaneous love inspires all life: The fertile bosom of the earth gives suck To myriads, who still grow beneath her care, Rewarding her with their pure perfectness: The balmy breathings of the wind inhale Her virtues, and diffuse them all abroad: Health floats amid the gentle atmosphere, Glows in the fruits, and mantles on the stream; No storms deform the beaming brow of heaven, Nor scatter in the freshness of its pride The foliage of the undecaying trees; But fruits are ever ripe, flowers ever fair, And Autumn proudly bears her matron grace, Kindling a flush on the fair cheek of Spring, Whose virgin bloom beneath the ruddy fruit Reflects its tint and blushes into love. The habitable earth is full of bliss; Those wastes of frozen billows that were hurled By everlasting snow-storms round the poles, Where matter dared not vegetate nor live, But ceaseless frost round the vast solitude Bound its broad zone of stillness, are unloosed; And fragrant zephyrs there from spicy isles Ruffle the placid ocean-deep, that rolls Its broad, bright surges to the sloping sand, Whose roar is wakened into echoings sweet To murmur through the heaven-breathing groves And melodise with man's blest nature there. The vast tract of the parched and sandy waste Now teems with countless rills and shady woods, Corn-fields and pastures and white cottages; And where the startled wilderness did hear A savage conqueror stained in kindred blood, Hymning his victory, or the milder snake Crushing the bones of some frail antelope Within his brazen foldsthe dewy lawn, Offering sweet incense to the sunrise, smiles To see a babe before his mother's door, Share with the green and golden basilisk That comes to lick his feet, his morning's meal. Those trackless deeps, where many a weary sail Has seen, above the illimitable plain, Morning on night and night on morning rise, Whilst still no land to greet the wanderer spread Its shadowy mountains on the sunbright sea, Where the loud roarings of the tempest-waves So long have mingled with the gusty wind In melancholy loneliness, and swept The desert of those ocean solitudes, But vocal to the sea-bird's harrowing shriek, The bellowing monster, and the rushing storm. Now to the sweet and many-mingling sounds Of kindliest human impulses respond: Those lonely realms bright garden-isles begem, With lightsome clouds and shining seas between, And fertile valleys, resonant with bliss, Whilst green woods overcanopy the wave, Which like a toil-worn labourer leaps to shore, To meet the kisses of the flowerets there. Man chief perceives the change, his being notes The gradual renovation, and defines Each movement of its progress on his mind. Man, where the gloom of the long polar night Lowered o'er the snow-clad rocks and frozen soil, Where scarce the hardiest herb that braves the frost Basked in the moonlight's ineffectual glow, Shrank with the plants, and darkened with the night: Nor where the tropics bound the realms of day With a broad belt of mingling cloud and flame, Where blue mists through the unmoving atmosphere Scattered the seeds of pestilence, and fed Unnatural vegetation, where the land Teemed with all earthquake, tempest and disease, Was man a nobler being; slavery Had crushed him to his country's blood-stained dust. Even where the milder zone afforded man A seeming shelter, yet contagion there, Blighting his being with unnumbered ills, Spread like a quenchless fire; nor truth availed Till late to arrest its progress, or create That peace which first in bloodless victory waved Her snowy standard o'er this favoured clime: There man was long the train-bearer of slaves, The mimic of surrounding misery, The jackal of ambition's lion-rage, The bloodhound of religion's hungry zeal. Here now the human being stands adorning This loveliest earth with taintless body and mind: Blest from his birth with all bland impulses, Which gently in his noble bosom wake All kindly passions and all pure desires. Him, still from hope to hope the bliss pursuing, Which from the exhaustless lore of human weal Dawns on the virtuous mind, the thoughts that rise In time-destroying infiniteness gift With self-enshrined eternity, that mocks The unprevailing hoariness of age, And man, once fleeting o'er the transient scene Swift as an unremembered vision, stands Immortal upon earth: no longer now He slays the beast that sports around his dwelling And horribly devours its mangled flesh, Or drinks its vital blood, which like a stream Of poison thro' his fevered veins did flow Feeding a plague that secretly consumed His feeble frame, and kindling in his mind Hatred, despair, and fear and vain belief, The germs of misery, death, disease, and crime. No longer now the wingd habitants, That in the woods their sweet lives sing away, Flee from the form of man; but gather round, And prune their sunny feathers on the hands Which little children stretch in friendly sport Towards these dreadless partners of their play. All things are void of terror: man has lost His desolating privilege, and stands An equal amidst equals: happiness And science dawn though late upon the earth; Peace cheers the mind, health renovates the frame; Disease and pleasure cease to mingle here, Reason and passion cease to combat there; Whilst mind unfettered o'er the earth extends Its all-subduing energies, and wields The sceptre of a vast dominion there. Mild is the slow necessity of death: The tranquil spirit fails beneath its grasp, Without a groan, almost without a fear, Resigned in peace to the necessity, Calm as a voyager to some distant land, And full of wonder, full of hope as he. The deadly germs of languor and disease Waste in the human frame, and Nature gifts With choicest boons her human worshippers. How vigorous now the athletic form of age! How clear its open and unwrinkled brow! Where neither avarice, cunning, pride, or care, Had stamped the seal of grey deformity On all the mingling lineaments of time. How lovely the intrepid front of youth! How sweet the smiles of taintless infancy. Within the massy prison's mouldering courts, Fearless and free the ruddy children play, Weaving gay chaplets for their innocent brows With the green ivy and the red wall-flower, That mock the dungeon's unavailing gloom; The ponderous chains, and gratings of strong iron, There rust amid the accumulated ruins Now mingling slowly with their native earth: There the broad beam of day, which feebly once Lighted the cheek of lean captivity With a pale and sickly glare, now freely shines On the pure smiles of infant playfulness: No more the shuddering voice of hoarse despair Peals through the echoing vaults, but soothing notes Of ivy-fingered winds and gladsome birds And merriment are resonant around. The fanes of Fear and Falsehood hear no more The voice that once waked multitudes to war Thundering thro' all their aisles: but now respond To the death dirge of the melancholy wind: It were a sight of awfulness to see The works of faith and slavery, so vast, So sumptuous, yet withal so perishing! Even as the corpse that rests beneath their wall. A thousand mourners deck the pomp of death To-day, the breathing marble glows above To decorate its memory, and tongues Are busy of its life: to-morrow, worms In silence and in darkness seize their prey. These ruins soon leave not a wreck behind: Their elements, wide-scattered o'er the globe, To happier shapes are moulded, and become Ministrant to all blissful impulses: Thus human things are perfected, and earth, Even as a child beneath its mother's love, Is strengthened in all excellence, and grows Fairer and nobler with each passing year. Now Time his dusky pennons o'er the scene Closes in steadfast darkness, and the past Fades from our charmd sight. My task is done: Thy lore is learned. Earth's wonders are thine own. With all the fear and all the hope they bring. My spells are past: the present now recurs. Ah me! a pathless wilderness remains Yet unsubdued by man's reclaiming hand. Yet, human Spirit, bravely hold thy course, Let virtue teach thee firmly to pursue The gradual paths of an aspiring change: For birth and life and death, and that strange state Before the naked powers that thro' the world Wander like winds have found a human home, All tend to perfect happiness, and urge The restless wheels of being on their way, Whose flashing spokes, instinct with infinite life, Bicker and burn to gain their destined goal: For birth but wakes the universal mind Whose mighty streams might else in silence flow Thro' the vast world, to individual sense Of outward shows, whose unexperienced shape New modes of passion to its frame may lend; Life is its state of action, and the store Of all events is aggregated there That variegate the eternal universe; Death is a gate of dreariness and gloom, That leads to azure isles and beaming skies And happy regions of eternal hope. Therefore, O Spirit! fearlessly bear on: Though storms may break the primrose on its stalk, Though frosts may blight the freshness of its bloom, Yet spring's awakening breath will woo the earth, To feed with kindliest dews its favourite flower, That blooms in mossy banks and darksome glens, Lighting the green wood with its sunny smile. Fear not then, Spirit, death's disrobing hand, So welcome when the tyrant is awake, So welcome when the bigot's hell-torch flares; 'Tis but the voyage of a darksome hour, The transient gulf-dream of a startling sleep. For what thou art shall perish utterly, But what is thine may never cease to be; Death is no foe to virtue: earth has seen Love's brightest roses on the scaffold bloom, Mingling with freedom's fadeless laurels there, And presaging the truth of visioned bliss. Are there not hopes within thee, which this scene Of linked and gradual being has confirmed? Hopes that not vainly thou, and living fires Of mind as radiant and as pure as thou, Have shone upon the paths of menreturn, Surpassing Spirit, to that world, where thou Art destined an eternal war to wage With tyranny and falsehood, and uproot The germs of misery from the human heart. Thine is the hand whose piety would soothe The thorny pillow of unhappy crime, Whose impotence an easy pardon gains, Watching its wanderings as a friend's disease: Thine is the brow whose mildness would defy Its fiercest rage, and brave its sternest will, When fenced by power and master of the world. Thou art sincere and good; of resolute mind, Free from heart-withering custom's cold control, Of passion lofty, pure and unsubdued. Earth's pride and meanness could not vanquish thee. And therefore art thou worthy of the boon Which thou hast now received: virtue shall keep Thy footsteps in the path that thou hast trod, And many days of beaming hope shall bless Thy spotless life of sweet and sacred love. Go, happy one, and give that bosom joy Whose sleepless spirit waits to catch Light, life and rapture from thy smile. The Daemon called its wingd ministers. Speechless with bliss the Spirit mounts the car, That rolled beside the crystal battlement, Bending her beamy eyes in thankfulness. The burning wheels inflame The steep descent of Heaven's untrodden way. Fast and far the chariot flew: The mighty globes that rolled Around the gate of the Eternal Fane Lessened by slow degrees, and soon appeared Such tiny twinklers as the planet orbs That ministering on the solar power With borrowed light pursued their narrower way. Earth floated then below: The chariot paused a moment; The Spirit then descended: And from the earth departing The shadows with swift wings Speeded like thought upon the light of Heaven. The Body and the Soul united then, A gentle start convulsed Ianthe's frame: Her veiny eyelids quietly unclosed; Moveless awhile the dark blue orbs remained: She looked around in wonder and beheld Henry, who kneeled in silence by her couch, Watching her sleep with looks of speechless love, And the bright beaming stars That through the casement shone. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Daemon Of The World

311:The Teares Of The Muses Rehearse to me ye sacred Sisters nine: The golden brood of great Apolloes wit, Those piteous plaints and sorrowful sad tine, Which late ye powred forth as ye did sit Beside the siluer Springs of Helicone, Making your musick of hart-breaking mone. For since the time that Phoebus foolish sonne Ythundered through Ioues auengefull wrath, For trauersing the charret of the Sunne Beyond the compasse of his pointed path, Of you his mournfull Sisters was lamented, Such mournfull tunes were neuer since inuented. Nor since that faire Calliope did lose Her loued Twinnes, the dearlings of her ioy, Her Palici, whom her vnkindly foes The fatall Sisters, did for spight destroy, Whom all the Muses did bewaile long space; Was euer heard such wayling in this place. For all their groues, which with the heauenly noyses, Of their sweete instruments were wont to sound, And th' hollow hills, from which their siluer voyces Were wont redoubled Echoes to rebound, Did now rebound with nought but rufull cries, And yelling shrieks throwne vp into the skies. The trembling streames, which wont in chanels cleare To romble gently downe with murmur soft, And were by them right tunefull taught to beare A Bases part amongst their consorts oft; Now forst to ouerflowe with brackish teares, With troublous noyse did dull their daintie eares. The ioyous Nymphes and lightfoote Faeries Which thether came to heare their musick sweet, And to the measure of their melodies Did learne to moue their nimble shifting feete; Now hearing them so heauily lament, 412 Like heauily lamenting from them went. And all that els was wont to worke delight Through the diuine infusion of their skill, And all that els seemd faire and fresh in sight, So made by nature for to serue their will, Was turned now to dismall heauinesse, Was turned now to dreadfull vglinesse. Ay me, what thing on earth that all thing breeds, Might be the cause of so impatient plight? What furie, or what feend with felon deeds Hath stirred vp so mischieuous despight? Can griefe then enter into heauenly harts, And pierce immortall breasts with mortall smarts? Vouchsafe ye then, whom onely it concernes, To me those secret causes to display; For none but you, or who of you it learnes Can rightfully aread so dolefull lay. Begin thou eldest Sister of the crew, And let the rest in order thee ensew. Clio. HEARE thou great Father of the Gods on hie That most art dreaded for thy thunder darts And thou our Syre that raignst in Castalie And mount Parnasse, the God of goodly Arts: Heare and behold the miserable state Of vs thy daughters, dolefull desolate. Behold the fowle reproach and open shame, The which is day by day vnto vs wrought By such as hate the honour of our name, The foes of learning, and each gentle thought; They not contented vs themselues to scorne, Doo seeke to make vs of the world forlorne. Ne onely they that dwell in lowly dust, The sonnes of darknes and of ignoraunce; But they whom thou, great Iove, by doome vniust 413 Didst to the type of honour earst aduaunce; They now puft vp with sdeignfull insolence, Despite the brood of blessed Sapience. The sectaries of my celestiall skill, That wont to be the worlds cheife ornament, And learned Impes that wont to shoot vp still, And grow to hight of kingdomes gouernment They vnderkeep, and with their spredding armes Do beat their buds, that perish through their harmes. It most behoues the honorable race Of mightie Peeres, true wisedome to sustaine, And with their noble countenaunce to grace The learned forheads, without gifts or gaine: Or rather learnd themselues behooues to bee; That is the girlond of Nobilitie. But (ah) all otherwise they doo esteeme Of th'heauenly gift of wisedomes influence, And to be learned it a base thing deeme; Base minded they that want intelligence: For God himselfe for wisedome most is praised, And men to God thereby are nighest raised. But they doo onely striue themselues to raise Through pompous pride, and foolish vanitie; In th'eyes of people they put all their praise, And onely boast of Armes and Auncestrie: But vertuous deeds, which did those Armes first giue To their Grandsyres, they care not to atchiue. So I, that doo all noble feates professe, To register, and sound in trump of gold; Through their bad dooings, or base slothfulnesse, Finde nothing worthie to be writ, or told: For better farre it were to hide their names, Than telling them to blazon out their blames. So shall succeeding ages haue no light Of things forepast, nor moniments of time, And all that in this world is worthie hight 414 Shall die in darknesse, and lie hid in slime: Therefore I mourne with deep harts sorrowing, Because I nothing noble haue to sing. With that she raynd such store of streaming teares, That could haue made a stonie heart to weep, And all her Sisters rent their golden heares, And their faire faces with salt humour steep. So ended shee: and then the next [in rew], Began her greiuous plaint as doth ensew. Melpomene O WHO shall powre into my swollen eyes A sea of teares that neuer may be dryde, A brasen voice that many with shrilling cryes Pierce the dull heauens and fill the ayer wide, And yron sides that sighing may endure, To waile the wretchednes of world impure? Ah, wretched world the den of wickednesse, Deformd with filth and fowle iniquitie; Ah wretched world the house of heauinesse, Fild with the wreaks of mortall miserie: Ah wretched world, and all that is therein, The vassals of Gods wrath, amd slaues of sin. Most miserable creature vnder sky Man without vnderstanding doth appeare; For all this worlds affliction he thereby, And Fortunes freakes is wisely taught to beare: Of wretched life the onely ioy shee is, And th'only comfort in calamities. She armes the brest with constant patience Against the bitter throwes of dolours darts, She solaceth with rules of Sapience The gentle minds, in midst of worldlie smarts: When he is sad, shee seeks to make him merie, And doth refresh his sprights when they be werie. But he that is of reasons skill bereft, 415 And wants the staffe of wisedome him to stay, Is like a ship in midst of tempest left Withouten helme or Pilot her to sway, Full sad and dreadfull is that ships euent: So is the man that wants intendiment. Whie then doo foolish men so much despize The precious store of this celestiall riches? Why doo they banish vs, that patronize The name of learning? Most vnhappie wretches, The which lie drowned in deep wretchednes, Yet doo not see their owne vnhappines. My part it is and my professed skill The Stage with Tragick buskin to adorne, And fill the Scene with plaint, and outcries shrill Of wretched persons, to misfortune borne: But none more tragick matter I can finde Then this, of men depriu'd of sense and minde. For all mans life me seemes a Tragedy, Full of sad sights and sore Catastrophees; First comming to the world with weeping eye, Where all his dayes like dolorous Trophees, Are heapt with spyles of fortune and of feare, And he at last laid forth on balefull beare. So all with rufull spectacles is fild, Fit for Megara or Persephone; But I, that in true Tragedies am skild, The flowre of wit, finde nought to busie me: Therefore I mourne, and pitifully mone, Because that mourning matter I haue none. Then gan she wofully to waile, and wring Her wretched hands in lamentable wise: And all her Sisters thereto answering, Threw forth lowd shrieks and drerie dolefull cries. So rested she: and then the next in rew, Began her grieuous plaint as doth ensew. 416 Thalia. WHERE be the sweete delights of learnings treasure, That wont with Comick sock to beautefie The painted Theaters, and fill with pleasure The listners eyes, and eares with melodie; In which I late was wont to raine as Queene, And maske in mirth with Graces well beseene? O all is gone, and all that goodly glee, Which wont to be the glorie of gay wits, Is layd abed, and no where now to see; And in her roome vnseemly Sorrow sits, With hollow browes and greisly countenaunce, Marring my ioyous gentle dalliaunce. And him beside sits ugly Barbarisme, And brutish Ignorance, ycrept of late Out of dredd darknes of the deepe Abysme, Where being bredd, he light and heauen does hate: They in the mindes of men now tyrannize, And the faire Scene with rudenes foule disguize. All places they with follie haue possest, And with vaine toyes the vulgare entertaine; But me haue banished, with all the rest That whilome wont to wait vpon my traine, Fine Counterfesaunce, and vnhurtfull Sport, Delight, and Laughter deckt in seemly sort. All these and all that els the Comick Stage With season'd wit and goodly pleasance graced; By which mans life in his likest image Was limned forth, are wholly now defaced; And those sweete wits which wont the like to frame, Are now despizd, and made a laughing game. And he the man, whom Nature selfe had made To mock her selfe, and Truth to imitate, With kindly counter vnder Mimick shade, Our pleasant Willy, ah is dead of late: With whom all ioy and iolly meriment Is also deaded, and in dolour drent. 417 In stead thereof scoffing Scurrilitie, And scornfull Follie with Contempt is crept, Rolling in rymes of shameles ribaudrie Without regard, or due Decorum kept, Each idle wit at will presumes to make, And doth the Learneds taske vpon him take. But that same gentle Spirit, from whose pen Large streames of honnie and sweete Nectar flowe, Scorning the boldnes of such base-borne men, Which dare their follies forth so rashlie throwe; Doth rather choose to sit in idle Cell, Than so himselfe to mockerie to sell. So am I made the seruant of the manie, And laughing stocke of all that list to scorne, Not honored nor cared for of anie; But loath'd of losels as a thing forlorne: Therefore I mourne and sorrow with the rest, Vntill my cause of sorrow be redrest. There with she lowdly did lament and shrike, Pouring forth stremes of teares abundantly, And all her Sisters with compassion like, The breaches of her singul[t]s did supply. So rested she: and then the next in rew Began her grieuous plaint, as doth ensew. Euterpe. LIKE as the Dearling of the Summers pryde, Faire Philomele, when winters stormie wrath The goodly fields, that earst so gay were dyde In colours diuers, quite despoyled hath, All comfortlesse doth hide her chearlesse head During the time of that her widowhead: So we, that earst were wont in sweet accord All places with our pleasant notes to fill, Whilest fauourable times did vs afford Free libertie to chaunt our charmes at will: 418 All comfortlesse vpon the bared bow, Like wofull Culuers doo sit wayling now. For far more bitter storme than winters stowre The beautie of the world hath lately wasted, And those fresh buds, which wont so faire to flowre, Hath marred quite, and all their blossoms blasted: And those yong plants, which wont with fruit t' abound, Now without fruite or leaues are to be found. A stonie coldnesse hath benumbd the sence And liuelie spirits of each liuing wight, And dimd with darknesse their intelligence, Darknesse more than Cymerians daylie night? And monstrous error flying in the ayre, Hath mard the face of all that semed fayre. Image of hellish horrour Ignorance, Borne in the bosome of the black Abysse, And fed with furies milke, for sustenaunce Of his weake infancie, begot amisse By yawning Sloth on his owne mother Night; So hee his sonnes both Syre and brother hight. Her armd with blindnesse and with boldnes stout, (For blind is bold) hath our fayre light defaced; And, gathering vnto him a ragged rout Of Faunes and Satyres, hath our dwellings raced And our chast bowers, in which all vertue rained, With brutishnesse and beastlie filth hath stained. The sacred springs of horsefoot Helicon, So oft bedeawed with our learned layes, And speaking streames of pure Castalion, The famous witnesse of our wonted praise, They trampled haue their fowle footings trade, And like to troubled puddles haue them made. Our pleasant groues, which planted were with paines, That with our musick wont so oft to ring, And arbors sweet, in which the Shepheards swaines Were wont so oft their Pastoralls to sing, 419 They haue cut downe, and all their pleasaunce mard, That now no pastorall is to bee hard. In stead of them fowle Goblins and Shreikowles With fearfull howling do all places fill; And feeble Eccho now laments and howles, The dreadfull accents of their outcries shrill. So all is turned into wildernesse, Whilest Ignorance the Muses doth oppresse. And I whose ioy was earst with Spirit full To teach the warbling pipe to sound aloft, My spirits now dismayd with sorrow dull, Doo mone my miserie with silence soft. Therefore I mourne and waile incessantly, Till please the heauens afford me remedy. Therewith she wayled with exceeding woe, And piteous lamentation did make, And all her sisters seeing her doo soe, With equall plaints her sorrowe did partake. So rested shee: and then the next in rew, Began her grieuous plaint, as doth ensew. Terpsichore. WHO so hath in the lap of soft delight Beene long time luld, and fed with pleasures sweet, Feareles through his owne fault or Fortunes spight, To tumble into sorrow and regreet, Yf chaunce him fall into calamitie, Finds greater burthen of his miserie. So wee that earst in ioyance did abound And in the bosome of all blis did sit, Like virgin Queenes with laurell garlands cround For vertues meed and ornament of wit, Sith ignorance our kingdome did confound, Bee now become most wretched wightes on ground: And in our royall thrones which lately stood In th' hearts of men to rule them carefully, 420 He now hath placed his accursed brood, By him begotten of fowle infamy; Blind Error, scornefull Follie, and base Spight, Who hold by wrong, that wee should haue by right. They to the vulgar sort now pipe and sing, And make them merrie with their fooleries, They cherelie chaunt and rymes at randon fling, The fruitfull spawne of their ranke fantasies: They feede the eares of fooles with flattery, And good men blame, and losels magnify: All places they doo with their toyes possesse, And raigne in liking of the multitude, The schooles they fill with fond new fanglenesse, And sway in Court with pride and rashnes rude; Mongst simple shepheards they do boast their skill, And say their musicke matches Phoebus quill. The noble hearts to pleasures they allure, And tell their Prince that learning is but vaine, Faire Ladies loues they spot with thoughts impure, And gentle mindes with lewd delights distaine: Clerks they to loathly idlenes entice, And fill their bookes with discipline of vice. So euery where they rule and tyrannize, For their vsurped kingdomes maintenaunce, The whiles we silly Maides, whom they dispize, And with reproachfull scorne discountenance, From our owne natiue heritage exilde, Walk through the world of euery one reuilde. Nor anie one doth care to call vs in, Or once vouchsafeth vs to entertaine, Vnlesse some one perhaps of gentle kin, For pitties sake compassion our paine: And yeeld vs some reliefe in this distresse: Yet to be so relieu'd is wretchednesse. So wander we all carefull comfortlesse, Yet none doth care to comfort vs at all; 421 So seeke we helpe our sorrow to redresse, Yet none vouchsafes to answere to our call: Therefore we mourne and pittilesse complaine, Because none liuing pittieth our paine. With that she wept and wofullie waymented, That naught on earth her griefe might pacifie; And all the rest her dolefull din augmented With shrikes and goanes and grieuous agonie. So ended shee: and then the next in rew, Began her piteous plaint as doth ensew. Erato. YE gentle Spirits breathing from aboue, Where ye in Venus siluer bowre were bred, Thoughts halfe deuine, full of the fire of loue, With beawtie kindled and with pleasure fed, Which ye now in securitie possesse, Forgetfull of your former heauinesse: Now change the tenor of your ioyous layes, With which ye vse your loues to deifie, And blazon foorth an earthlie beauties praise, Aboue the compasse of the arched skie: Now change your praises into piteous cries, And Eulogies turne into Elegies: Such as ye wont whenas those bitter stounds Of raging loue first gan you to torment, And launch your hearts with lamentable wounds Of secret sorrow and sad languishment, Before your Loues did take you vnto grace; Those now renew as fitter for this place. For I that rule in measure moderate The tempest of that stormie passion, And vse to paint in rimes the troublous state Of Louers life in likest fashion, Am put from practise of my kindlie skill, Banisht by those that Loue with leawdnes fill. 422 Loue wont to be schoolmaster of my skill, And the sweet deuicefull matter of my song; Sweete Loue deuoyd of villanie or ill, But pure and spotles, as at first he sprong Out of th'Almighties bosome, where he nests; From thence infused into mortall brests. Such high conceipt of that celstiall fire, The base-borne brood of blindnes cannot gesse, Ne euer dare their dunghill thoughts aspire Vnto so loftie pitch of perfectnesse, But rime at riot, and doo rage in loue; Yet little wot what doth thereto behoue. Faire Cytheree the Mother of delight, And Queene of beautie, now thou maist go pack; For lo thy Kingdome is defaced quight, Thy scepter rent, and power put to wrack; And thy gay Sonne, that winged God of Loue, May now goe prune his plumes like ruffed Doue. And ye three Twins to light by Venus brought, The sweete companions of the Muses late, From whom what euer thing is goodly thought Doth borrow grace, the fancie to aggrate; Go beg with vs, and be companions still As heretofore of good, so now of ill. For neither you nor we shall anie more Find entertainment, or in Court or Schoole: For that which was accounted heretofore The learneds meed, is now lent to the foole, He sings of loue, and maketh louing layes, And they him heare, and they him highly prayse. With that she powred foorth a brackish flood Of bitter teares, and made exceeding mone; And all her Sisters seeing her sad mood, With lowd laments her answered all at one. So ended she: and then the next in rew Began her grieuous plaint, as doth ensew. 423 Calliope. TO whom shall I my euill case complaine, Or tell the anguish of my inward smart, Sith none is left to remedie my paine, Or deignes to pitie a perplexed hart; But rather seekes my sorrow to augment With fowle reproach, and cruell banishment. For they, to whom I vsed to applie The faithfull seruice of my learned skill, The goodly off-spring of Ioues progenie, That wont the world with famous acts to fill; Whose liuing praises in heroick style, It is my cheife posession to compyle. They, all corrupted through the rust of time, That doth all fairest things on earth deface, Or through vnnoble sloth, or sinfull crime, That doth degenerate the noble race; Haue both desire of worthie deeds forlorne, And name of learning vtterly doo scorne. Ne doo they care to haue the auncestrie Of th' old Heroës memorizde anew, Ne doo they care that late posteritie Should know their names, or speak their praises dew: But die forgot from whence at first they sprong, As they themselues shalbe forgot ere long. What bootes it then to come from glorious Forefathers, or to haue been nobly bredd? What oddes twixt Irus and old Inachus, Twixt best and worst, when both alike are dedd; If none of neither mention should make, Nor out of dust their memories awake? Or who would euer care to doo braue deed, Or striue in vertue others to excell; If none should yeeld him his deserued meed, Due praise, that is the spur of dooing well? For if good were not praised more than ill, 424 None would choose goodnes of his owne freewill. Therefore the nurse of vertue I am hight, And golden Trompet of eternitie, That lowly thoughts lift vp to heauens hight, And mortall men haue powre to deifie: Bacchus and Hercules I raisd to heauen, And Charlemaine, amongst the Starris seauen. But now I will my golden Clarion rend, And will henceforth immortalize no more: Sith I no more find worthie to commend For prize of value, or for learned lore: For noble Peeres whom I was wont to raise, Now onely seeke for pleasure, nought for praise. Their great reuenues all in sumptuous pride They spend, that nought to learning they may spare; And the rich fee which Poets wont diuide, Now Parasites and Sycophants doo share: Therefore I mourne and endlesse sorrow make, Both for my selfe and for my Sisters sake. With that she lowdly gan to waile and shrike, And from her eyes a sea of teares did powre, And all her sisters with compassion like, Did more increase the sharpnes of her showre. So ended she: and then the next in rew Began her plaint, as doth herein ensew. Urania. What wrath of Gods, or wicked influence Of Starres conspiring wretched men t' afflict, Hath powrd on earth this noyous pestilence, That mortall mindes doth inwardly infect With loue of blindnesse and of ignorance, To dwell in darknesse without souerance? What difference twixt man and beast is left, When th' heauenlie light of knowledge is put out, 425 And th' ornaments of wisdome are bereft? Then wandreth he in error and in doubt, Vnweeting of the danger hee is in, Through fleshes frailtie, and deceit of sin. In this wide world in which they wretches stray, It is the onelie comfort which they haue, It is their light, their loadstarre and their day; But hell, and darknesse and the grislie graue, Is ignorance, the enemie of grace, That mindes of men borne heauenlie doth debace. Through knowledge we behold the worlds creation, How in his cradle first he fostred was: And iudge of Natures cunning operation, How things she formed of a formlesse mas: By knowledge wee doo learne our selues to knowe, And what to man, and what to God wee owe. From hence wee mount aloft vnto the skie, And looke into the Christall firmament, There we behold the heauens great Hierarchie, The Starres pure light, the Spheres swift mouement, The Spirites and Intelligences fayre, And Angels waighting on th' Almighties chayre. And there with humble minde and high insight, Th'eternall Makers maiestie wee viewe, His loue, his truth, his glorie, and his might, And mercie more than mortall men can vew. O soueraigne Lord, ô soueraigne happinesse To see thee, and thy mercie measurelesse: Such happiness haue they, that do embrace The precepts of my heauenlie discipline; But shame and sorrow and accursed case Haue they, that scorne the schoole of arts diuine, And banish me, which do professe the skill To make men heauenly wise, through humbled will. How euer yet they mee despise and spight, I feede on sweet contentment of my thought, 426 And please my selfe with mine owne selfe-delight, In contemplation of things heauenlie wrought: So loathing earth, I looke vp to the sky, And being driuen hence I thether fly. Thence I behold the miserie of men, Which want the blis that wisedom would them breed, And like brute beasts doo lie in loathsome den, Of ghostly darkenes, and of gastlie dreed: For whom I mourne and for my selfe complaine, And for my Sisters eake whom they disdaine. With that shee wept and waild so pityouslie, As if her eyes had been two springing wells: And all the rest her sorrow to supplie, Did throw forth shrieks and cries and dreery yells. So ended shee, and then the next in rew, Began her mournfull plaint as doth ensew. Polyhymnia. A DOLEFULL case desires a dolefull song, Without vaine art or curious complements, And squallid Fortune into basenes flong, Doth scorne the pride of wonted ornaments. Then fittest are these ragged rimes for mee, To tell my sorrowes that exceeding bee: For the sweet numbers and melodious measures, With which I wont the winged words to tie, And make a tuneful Diapase of pleasures, Now being let to runne at libertie By those which haue no skill to rule them right, Haue now quite lost their naturall delight. Heapes of huge words vphoorded hideously, With horrid sound though hauing little sence, They thinke to be chiefe praise of Poëtry: And thereby wanting due intelligence, Haue mard the face of goodly Poësie, And made a monster of their fantasie: 427 Whilom in ages past none might professe But Princes and high Priests that secret skill, The sacred lawes therein they wont expresse, And with deepe Oracles their verses fill: Then was shee held in soueraigne dignitie, And made the noursling of Nobilitie. But now nor Prince nor Priest doth her maintayne, But suffer her prophaned for to bee Of the base vulgar, that with hands vncleane Dares to pollute her hidden mysterie, And treadeth vnder foote hir holie things, Which was the care of Kesars and of Kings. One onelie liues, her ages ornament, And myrrour of her Makers maiestie; That with rich bountie and deare cherishment, Supports the praise of noble Poësie: Ne onelie fauours them which it professe, But is herselfe a peereles Poëtresse. Most peereles Prince, most peereles Poëtresse, The true Pandora of all heauenly graces, Diuine Elisa, sacred Emperesse: Liue she for euer, and her royall P'laces Be fild with praises of diuinest wits, That her eternize with their heauenlie writs. Some few beside, this sacred skill esteme, Admirers of her glorious excellence, Which being lightned with her beawties beme, Are thereby fild with happie influence: And lifted vp aboue the worldes gaze, To sing with Angels her immortall praize. But all the rest as borne of saluage brood, And hauing beene with Acorns alwaies fed; Can no whit fauour this celestiall food, But with base thoughts are into blindnesse led, And kept from looking on the lightsome day: For whome I waile and weepe all that I may. 428 Eftsoones such store of teares she forth did powre, As if shee all to water would haue gone; And all her sisters seeing her sad stowre, Did weep and waile and make exceeding mone, And all their learned instruments did breake: The rest vntold no louing tongue can speake. ~ Edmund Spenser

312:The Ancient Banner In boundless mercy, the Redeemer left, The bosom of his Father, and assumed A servant's form, though he had reigned a king, In realms of glory, ere the worlds were made, Or the creating words, 'Let there be light' In heaven were uttered. But though veiled in flesh, His Deity and his Omnipotence, Were manifest in miracles. Disease Fled at his bidding, and the buried dead Rose from the sepulchre, reanimate, At his command, or, on the passing bier Sat upright, when he touched it. But he came, Not for this only, but to introduce A glorious dispensation, in the place Of types and shadows of the Jewish code. Upon the mount, and round Jerusalem, He taught a purer, and a holier law,— His everlasting Gospel, which is yet To fill the earth with gladness; for all climes Shall feel its influence, and shall own its power. He came to suffer, as a sacrifice Acceptable to God. The sins of all Were laid upon Him, when in agony He bowed upon the cross. The temple's veil Was rent asunder, and the mighty rocks, Trembled, as the incarnate Deity, By his atoning blood, opened that door, Through which the soul, can have communion with Its great Creator; and when purified, From all defilements, find acceptance too, Where it can finally partake of all The joys of His salvation. But the pure Church he planted,—the pure Church Which his apostles watered,—and for which, The blood of countless martyrs freely flowed, In Roman Amphitheatres,—on racks,— And in the dungeon's gloom,—this blessed Church, Which grew in suffering, when it overspread Surrounding nations, lost its purity. 278 Its truth was hidden, and its light obscured By gross corruption, and idolatry. As things of worship, it had images, And even painted canvas was adored. It had a head and bishop, but this head Was not the Saviour, but the Pope of Rome. Religion was a traffic. Men defiled, Professed to pardon sin, and even sell, The joys of heaven for money,—and to raise Souls out of darkness to eternal light, For paltry silver lavished upon them. And thus thick darkness, overspread the Church As with a mantle. At length the midnight of apostacy Passed by, and in the horizon appeared, Day dawning upon Christendom. The light, Grew stronger, as the Reformation spread. For Luther, and Melancthon, could not be Silenced by papal bulls, nor by decrees Of excommunication thundered forth Out of the Vatican. And yet the light, Of Luther's reformation, never reached Beyond the morning's dawn. The noontide blaze Of Truth's unclouded day, he never saw. Yet after him, its rising sun displayed More and more light upon the horizon. Though thus enlightened, the professing Church, Was far from many of the precious truths Of the Redeemer's gospel; and as yet, Owned not his Spirit's government therein. But now the time approached, when he would pour A larger measure of his light below; And as he chose unlearned fishermen To spread his gospel when first introduced, So now he passed mere human learning by, And chose an instrument, comparable To the small stone the youthful David used, To smite the champion who defied the Lord. Apart from human dwellings, in a green Rich pasturage of England, sat a youth, Who seemed a shepherd, for around him there A flock was feeding, and the sportive lambs 279 Gambolled amid the herbage. But his face Bore evidence of sadness. On his knee The sacred book lay open, upon which The youth looked long and earnestly, and then, Closing the book, gazed upward, in deep thought This was the instrument by whom the Lord Designed to spread a clearer light below And fuller reformation. He appeared, Like ancient Samuel, to be set apart For the Lord's service from his very birth. Even in early childhood, he refrained From youthful follies, and his mind was turned To things of highest moment. He was filled With awful feelings, by the wickedness He saw around him. As he grew in years, Horror of sin grew stronger; and his mind Became so clothed with sadness, and so full Of soul-felt longings, for the healing streams Of heavenly consolation, that he left His earthly kindred, seeking quietude In solitary places, where he read The book of inspiration, and in prayer, Sought heavenly counsel. In this deep-proving season he was told, Of priests, whose reputation had spread wide For sanctity and wisdom; and from these He sought for consolation,—but in vain. One of these ministers became enraged, Because the youth had inadvertently Misstepped within his garden; and a priest Of greater reputation, counselled him To use tobacco, and sing holy psalms! And the inquirer found a third to be But as an empty, hollow cask at best. Finding no help in man, the youthful Fox, Turned to a higher and a holier source, For light and knowledge. In his Saviour's school, He sat a scholar, and was clearly shown The deep corruption, that had overspread Professing Christendom. And one by one, The doctrines of the Gospel, were unveiled, To the attentive student,—doctrines, which, 280 Though clearly written on the sacred page, Had long been hidden, by the rubbish man's Perversions and inventions heaped thereon. He saw that colleges, could not confer, A saving knowledge of the way of Truth, Nor qualify a minister to preach The everlasting Gospel; but that Christ, Is the true Teacher, and that he alone Has power to call, anoint, and qualify, And send a Gospel minister to preach Glad tidings of salvation. He was shown, No outward building, made of wood and stone Could be a holy place,—and that the Church— The only true and living Church—must be A holy people gathered to the Lord, And to his teaching. He was clearly taught, The nature of baptism, by which souls Are purified and fitted for this Church; That this was not, by being dipped into, Or sprinkled with clear water, but it was The one baptism of the Holy Ghost. He saw the Supper was no outward food, Made and administered by human hands,— But the Lord's Table was within the heart; Where in communion with him, holy bread Was blessed and broken, and the heavenly wine, Which cheers the fainting spirit, handed forth. The Saviour showed him that all outward wars, Are now forbidden,—that the warfare here, Is to be waged within. Its weapons too, Though mighty, even to the pulling down, Of the strong holds of Satan, are yet all The Spirit's weapons. He was shown, that oaths Judicial or profane, are banished from The Christian dispensation, which commands, 'Swear not at all.' He saw the compliments,— Hat honour, and lip service of the world, Sprang from pride's evil root, and were opposed To the pure spirit of Christ's holy law. And by His inward Light, was clearly seen The perfect purity of heart and life For which that Saviour calls, who never asked, 281 Things unattainable. These truths and others, being thus revealed, Fox was prepared and qualified to preach, The unveiled Gospel, to the sons of men. Clothed with divine authority, he went Abroad through Britain, and proclaimed that Light, Which Christ's illuminating Spirit sheds, In the dark heart of man. Some heard of this, Who seemed prepared and waiting, to receive His Gospel message, and were turned to Him, Whose Holy Spirit sealed it on their hearts. And not a few of these, were called upon, To take the message, and themselves declare The way of Truth to others. But the Priests, Carnal professors, and some magistrates, Heard of the inward light, and purity, With indignation, and they seized upon, And thrust the Preacher within prison walls. Not once alone, but often was he found, Amid the very dregs of wickedness— With robbers, and with blood-stained criminals, Locked up in loathsome jails. And when abroad Upon his Master's service, he was still Reviled and buffeted, and spit upon. But none of these things moved him, for within He felt that soul-sustaining evidence, Which bore his spirit high above the waves, Of bitter persecution. But now the time approached, for his release From suffering and from labour. He had spent, Long years in travel for the cause of Truth,— Not all in Britain,—for he preached its light, And power in Holland,—the West Indian isles, And North America. Far through the wild, And trackless wilderness, this faithful man, Carried his Master's message; he lived, To see Truth's banner fearlessly displayed Upon both continents. He lived to see, Pure hearted men and women gathered to The inward teaching of the Saviour's will,— Banded together in the covenant, Of light and life. But his allotted work, 282 Was now accomplished, and his soul prepared, For an inheritance with saints in light, And with his loins all girded, he put off His earthly shackles, triumphing in death, That the Seed reigned, and Truth was over all! Where the dark waters of the Delaware, Roll onward to the ocean, sweeping by, Primeval forests, where the red man still, Built his rude wigwam, and the timid deer Fled for concealment from the Indian's eye, And the unerring arrow of his bow; There, in the shadow of these ancient woods, A sea-worn ship has anchored. On her deck, Men of grave mien are gathered. One of whom, Of noble figure, and quick searching eyes, Surveys the scene, wrapt in the deepest thought. And this is William Penn. He stands among, Fellow believers, who have sought a home, And place of refuge, in this wilderness. Born of an ancient family, his sire An English Admiral, the youthful Penn, Might, with his talents, have soon ranked among The proudest subjects of the British throne. He chose the better part—to serve that King Who is immortal and invisible. While yet a student within college halls, He heard Truth's message, and his heart was reached, And fully owned it, though it came through one Of that despised and persecuted class, Called in derision Quakers. Thus convinced, He left the college worship, to commune In spirit with his Maker. And for this, He was expelled from Oxford; and was soon Maltreated by his father, who, enraged, Because his only son, had turned away From brilliant prospects, to pursue the path Of self-denial, drove him harshly forth From the paternal roof. But William Penn, Had still a Father, who supported him, With strength and courage to perform his will; And he was called and qualified to preach, And to bear witness of that blessed Light 283 Which shines within. He suffered in the cause, His share of trial. He was dragged before Judges and juries, and was shut within The walls of prisons. Looking abroad through England, he was filled With deep commiseration, for the jails— The loathsome, filthy jails—were crowded with His brethren in the Truth. For their relief, He sought the ear of royalty, and plead Their cruel sufferings; and their innocence; And thus became the instrument through which Some prison doors were opened. But he sought A place of refuge from oppression's power, That Friends might worship the Creator there, Free from imprisonment and penalties. And such a place soon opened to his view, Far in the Western Wilderness, beyond The Atlantic's wave. And here is William Penn, and here a band Of weary emigrants, who now behold The promised land before them; but it is The Indian's country, and the Indian's home. Penn had indeed, received a royal grant, To occupy it; but a grant from one Who had no rightful ownership therein; He therefore buys it honestly from those Whose claims are aboriginal, and just. With these inhabitants, behold, he stands Beneath an ancient elm, whose spreading limbs O'erhang the Delaware. The forest chiefs Sit in grave silence, while the pipe of peace Goes round the circle. They have made a league With faithful Onas—a perpetual league, And treaty of true friendship, to endure While the sun shines, and while the waters run. And here was founded in the wilderness, A refuge from oppression, where all creeds Found toleration, and where truth and right Were the foundation of its government, And its protection. In that early day, The infant colony sought no defence But that of justice and of righteousness; 284 The only guarantees of peace on earth, Because they ever breathe, good will to men. His colony thus planted, William Penn Sought his old field of labour, and again, Both through the press and vocally, he plead The right of conscience, and the rights of man; And frequently, and forcibly he preached Christ's universal and inshining Light. His labour was incessant; and the cares, And the perplexities connected with His distant province, which he visited A second time, bore heavily upon His burdened spirit, which demanded rest;— That rest was granted. In the midst of all His labour and his trials, there was drawn A veil, in mercy, round his active mind, Which dimmed all outward things; but he still saw The beauty and the loveliness of Truth, And found sweet access to the Source of good. And thus, shut out from the perplexities And sorrows of the world, he was prepared To hear the final summons, to put off His tattered garments, and be clothed upon With heavenly raiment. Scotland, thou hadst a noble citizen, In him of Ury! Born amid thy hills, Though educated where enticing scenes, Crowd giddy Paris, he rejected all The world's allurements, and unlike the youth Who talked with Jesus, Barclay turned away From great possessions, and embraced the Truth. He early dedicated all the powers Of a well cultivated intellect To the Redeemer and His holy cause. He was a herald, to proclaim aloud, Glad tidings of salvation; and his life Preached a loud sermon by its purity. Not only were his lips made eloquent, By the live coal that touched them, but his pen, Moved by a force from the same altar, poured Light, truth, and wisdom. From it issued forth The great Apology, which yet remains 285 One of the best expositors of Truth That man has published, since that sacred book Anciently written. Seekers are still led By its direction, to that blessed Light, And inward Teacher, who is Jesus Christ. But now, this noble servant of the Lord, Rests from his faithful labour, while his works Yet follow him. Early believers in the light of Truth, Dwelt not at ease in Zion. They endured Conflicts and trials, and imprisonments. Even the humble Penington, whose mind Seemed purged and purified from all the dross Of human nature—who appeared as meek And harmless as an infant—was compelled To dwell in loathsome prisons. But he had, Though in the midst of wickedness, sublime And holy visions of the purity, And the true nature of Christ's living Church. While Edmundson, the faithful pioneer Of Truth in Ireland, was compelled to drink Deeply of suffering for the blessed cause. Dragged from his home, half naked, by a mob Who laid that home in ashes, he endured Heart-rending cruelties. But all of these, Stars of the morning, felt oppression's hand, And some endured it to the closing scene. Burroughs, a noble servant of the Lord, Whose lips and pen were eloquent for Truth, Drew his last breath in prison. Parnel, too, A young and valiant soldier of the Lamb, Died, a true martyr in a dungeon's gloom. Howgill and Hubberthorn, both ministers Of Christ's ordaining, were released from all Their earthly trials within prison walls. And beside these, there was a multitude Of faithful men, and noble women too, Who past from scenes of conflict, to the joys Of the Redeemer's kingdom, within jails, And some in dungeons. But amid it all, Light spread in Britain, and a living Church Was greatly multiplied. The tender minds, 286 Even of children, felt the power of Truth, And showed the fruit and firmness it affords. When persecution, rioted within The town of Bristol, and all older Friends Were locked in prison, little children met, Within their place of worship, by themselves, To offer praises, in the very place From which their parents had been dragged to jail. But let us turn from Britain, and look down, Upon an inland sea whose swelling waves Encircle Malta. There a cloudless sun, In Eastern beauty, pours its light upon The Inquisition. All without its walls Seems calm and peaceful, let us look within. There, stretched upon the floor, within a close, Dark, narrow cell, inhaling from a crack A breath of purer air, two women lie. But who are these, and wherefore are they here? These are two ministers of Christ, who left Their homes in England, faithfully to bear, The Saviour's message into eastern lands. And here at Malta they were seized upon By bigotted intolerance, and shut Within this fearful engine of the Pope. Priests and Inquisitor assail them here, And urge the claims of popery. The rack, And cruel deaths are threatened; and again Sweet liberty is offered, as the price Of their apostacy. All, all in vain! For years these tender women have been thus, Victims of cruelty. At times apart, Confined in gloomy, solitary cells. But all these efforts to convert them failed: The Inquisition had not power enough To shake their faith and confidence in Him, Whose holy presence was seen anciently To save his children from devouring flames; He, from this furnace of affliction, brought These persecuted women, who came forth Out of the burning, with no smell of fire Upon their garments, and again they trod, Their native land rejoicing. 287 In Hungary, two ministers of Christ, Were stretched upon the rack. Their tortured limbs Were almost torn asunder, but no force Could tear them from their Master, and they came Out of the furnace, well refined gold. Nor were these all who suffered for the cause Of truth and righteousness, in foreign lands. For at Mequinez and Algiers, some toiled, And died in slavery. But nothing could Discourage faithful messengers of Christ From his required service. They were found Preaching repentance where the Israelites Once toiled in Egypt, and the ancient Nile Still rolls its waters. And the holy light Of the eternal Gospel was proclaimed, Where its great Author had first published it— Where the rich temple of King Solomon, Stood in its ancient glory. Even there, The haughty Musselmen, were told of Him, The one great Prophet, who now speaks within. For their refusing to participate In carnal warfare, many early Friends, Were made to suffer. On a ship of war Equipped for battle, Richard Sellers bore, With a meek, Christian spirit, cruelties The most atrocious, for obeying Him Who was his heavenly Captain, and by whom, War is forbidden. Sellers would not touch, The instruments of carnage, nor could all The cruelties inflicted, move his soul From a reliance on that holy Arm, Which had sustained him in the midst of all His complicated trials; and he gained A peaceful, but a greater victory Than that of battle, for he wearied out Oppression, by his constancy, and left A holy savor, with that vessel's crew. But let us turn from persecuting scenes, That stain the annals of the older world, To young America, whose virgin shores Offer a refuge from oppression's power. Here lies a harbour in the noble bay 288 Of Massachusetts. Many little isles Dot its expanding waters, and Nahant Spreads its long beach and eminence beyond, A barrier to the ocean. The whole scene, Looks beautiful, in the clear northern air, And loveliness of morning. On the heights That overlook the harbour, there is seen An infant settlement. Let us approach, And anchor where the Puritans have sought, For liberty of conscience. But there seems, Disquietude in Boston. Men appear Urged on by stormy passions, and some wear A look of unrelenting bitterness. But what is that now rising into view, Where crowds are gathered on an eminence? These are the Puritans. They now surround A common gallows. On its platform, stands A lovely woman in the simple garb Worn by the early Quakers. Of the throng, She only seems unmoved, although her blood They madly thirst for. The first professors of Christ's inward Light, Who brought this message into Boston bay, Were inoffensive women. They were searched For signs of witchcraft, and their books were burned. The captain who had brought them, was compelled To carry them away. But others came, Both men and women, zealous for the Truth. These were received with varied cruelties— By frequent whippings and imprisonments. Law after law was made excluding them; But all in vain, for still these faithful ones Carried their Master's message undismayed Among the Puritans, and still they found Those who received it, and embraced the Truth, And steadily maintained it, in the midst Of whipping posts, and pillories, and jails! A law was then enacted, by which all The banished Quakers, who were found again Within the province, were to suffer death. But these, though ever ready to obey All just enactments, when laws trespassed on 289 The rights of conscience, and on God's command, Could never for a moment hesitate, Which to obey.—And soon there stood upon A scaffold of New England, faithful friends, Who, in obeying Christ, offended man! Of these was Mary Dyer, who exclaimed, While passing to this instrument of death, 'No eye can witness, and no ear can hear, No tongue can utter, nor heart understand The incomes and refreshings from the Lord Which now I feel.' And in the spirit which These words a little pictured, Robinson, Past to the presence of that Holy One For whom he laboured, and in whom he died. Then Stevenson, another faithful steward And servant of the Lamb, was ushered from Deep scenes of suffering into scenes of joy. But Mary Dyer, who was all prepared, To join these martyrs in their heavenward flight, Was left a little longer upon earth. But a few fleeting months had rolled away, Ere this devoted woman felt constrained, Again to go among the Puritans, In Massachusetts, and in Boston too. And here she stands! the second time, upon A gallows of New England. No reprieve Arrests her sentence now. But still she feels The same sweet incomes, and refreshing streams From the Lord's Holy Spirit. In the midst Of that excited multitude, she seems The most resigned and peaceful.—But the deed Is now accomplished, and the scene is closed! Among the faithful martyrs of the Lamb, Gathered forever round His Holy Throne, She doubtless wears a pure and spotless robe, And bears the palm of victory. The blood of Leddra was soon after shed, Which closed the scene of martyrdom among The early Quakers in this colony, But not the scene of suffering. Women were Dragged through its towns half-naked, tied to carts, While the lash fell upon their unclothed backs, 290 And bloody streets, showed where they past along. And such inhuman treatment was bestowed On the first female minister of Christ, Who preached the doctrine of his inward Light. But in New England, there was really found A refuge from oppression, justice reigned Upon Rhode Island. In that early day, The rights of conscience were held sacred there, And persecution was a thing unknown. A bright example, as a governor, Was William Coddington. He loved the law— The perfect law of righteousness—and strove To govern by it; and all faithful Friends Felt him a brother in the blessed Truth. In North America, the Puritans Stood not alone in efforts to prevent The introduction and the spread of light. The Dutch plantation of New Amsterdam, Sustained a measure of the evil work. The savage cruelties inflicted on The faithful Hodgson, have few parallels In any age or country; but the Lord Was with His servant in the midst of all, And healed his tortured and his mangled frame. The early Friends were bright and shining stars, For they reflected the clear holy light The Sun of Righteousness bestowed on them. They followed no deceiving, transient glare— No ignis fatuus of bewildered minds; They followed Jesus in the holiness Of His unchanging Gospel. They endured Stripes and imprisonment and pillories, Torture and slavery and banishment, And even death; but they would not forsake Their Holy Leader, or His blessed cause. Their patient suffering, and firm steadfastness, Secured a rich inheritance for those Who have succeeded them. Do these now feel That firm devotion to the cause of Truth—That singleheartedness their fathers felt? Do they appreciate the price and worth Of the great legacy and precious trust 291 Held for their children? The great cruelties Borne by the fathers, have not been entailed On their descendants, who now dwell at ease. The world does not revile them. Do not some Love it the more for this? and do they not Make more alliance with it, and partake More and more freely of its tempting baits, Its fashions and its spirit? but are these More pure and holy than they were of old, When in the light of Truth, their fathers saw That deep corruption overspread the world? Other professors latterly have learned To speak of Quakers with less bitterness Than when the name reproachfully was cast In ridicule upon them. Has not this Drawn watchmen from the citadel of Truth? Has it not opened doors that had been closed, And should have been forever? And by these, Has not an enemy been stealing in, To spoil the goods of many; to assail, And strive in secrecy to gather strength, To overcome the citadel at last? Is it not thought illiberal to refuse Alliances with those who now profess Respect and friendship? Must the Quaker then Bow in the house of Rimmon, saying, Lord Pardon in this thy servant? Do not some Fail to resist encroachments, when they come Clothed in enticing words, and wear the guise Of charity and kindness, and are veiled, Or sweetened to the taste, by courtesy? But is a snare less certain, when concealed By some enticing bait? or is a ball Less sure and fatal, when it flies unheard, Or, when the hand that sends it is unseen, Or offers friendship? Did not Joab say, 'Art thou in health my brother?' and appeared To kiss Amasa, while he thrust his sword Into his life-blood? And when Jonas fled From the Lord's service, and the stormy waves Threatened the ship that bore him, was the cause Not found within it? Was there not a calm 292 When he, whose disobedience to the Lord Had raised the tempest, was no longer there? Truth has a standard openly displayed, Untorn—unsullied. Man indeed may change, And may forsake it; but the Standard still Remains immutable. May all who love This Holy Banner, rally to it now! May all whose dwellings are upon the sand, Seek for a building on that living Rock, Which stands forever;—for a storm has come— A storm that tries foundations! Even now, The flooding rains are falling, and the winds Rapidly rising to a tempest, beat Upon all dwellings. They alone can stand Which have the Rock beneath them, and above The Omnipresent and Omnipotent Creator and Defender of His Church! ~ Anonymous Americas

313:Swift as a spirit hastening to his task Of glory & of good, the Sun sprang forth Rejoicing in his splendour, & the mask Of darkness fell from the awakened Earth. The smokeless altars of the mountain snows Flamed above crimson clouds, & at the birth Of light, the Ocean's orison arose To which the birds tempered their matin lay, All flowers in field or forest which unclose Their trembling eyelids to the kiss of day, Swinging their censers in the element, With orient incense lit by the new ray Burned slow & inconsumably, & sent Their odorous sighs up to the smiling air, And in succession due, did Continent, Isle, Ocean, & all things that in them wear The form & character of mortal mould Rise as the Sun their father rose, to bear Their portion of the toil which he of old Took as his own & then imposed on them; But I, whom thoughts which must remain untold Had kept as wakeful as the stars that gem The cone of night, now they were laid asleep, Stretched my faint limbs beneath the hoary stem Which an old chestnut flung athwart the steep Of a green Apennine: before me fled The night; behind me rose the day; the Deep Was at my feet, & Heaven above my head When a strange trance over my fancy grew Which was not slumber, for the shade it spread Was so transparent that the scene came through As clear as when a veil of light is drawn O'er evening hills they glimmer; and I knew That I had felt the freshness of that dawn, Bathed in the same cold dew my brow & hair And sate as thus upon that slope of lawn Under the self same bough, & heard as there The birds, the fountains & the Ocean hold Sweet talk in music through the enamoured air. And then a Vision on my brain was rolled. As in that trance of wondrous thought I lay This was the tenour of my waking dream. Methought I sate beside a public way Thick strewn with summer dust, & a great stream Of people there was hurrying to & fro Numerous as gnats upon the evening gleam, All hastening onward, yet none seemed to know Whither he went, or whence he came, or why He made one of the multitude, yet so Was borne amid the crowd as through the sky One of the million leaves of summer's bier. Old age & youth, manhood & infancy, Mixed in one mighty torrent did appear, Some flying from the thing they feared & some Seeking the object of another's fear, And others as with steps towards the tomb Pored on the trodden worms that crawled beneath, And others mournfully within the gloom Of their own shadow walked, and called it death   And some fled from it as it were a ghost, Half fainting in the affliction of vain breath. But more with motions which each other crost Pursued or shunned the shadows the clouds threw Or birds within the noonday ether lost, Upon that path where flowers never grew; And weary with vain toil & faint for thirst Heard not the fountains whose melodious dew Out of their mossy cells forever burst Nor felt the breeze which from the forest told Of grassy paths, & wood lawns interspersed With overarching elms & caverns cold, And violet banks where sweet dreams brood, but they Pursued their serious folly as of old. And as I gazed methought that in the way The throng grew wilder, as the woods of June When the South wind shakes the extinguished day. And a cold glare, intenser than the noon But icy cold, obscured with [[blank]] light The Sun as he the stars. Like the young moon When on the sunlit limits of the night Her white shell trembles amid crimson air And whilst the sleeping tempest gathers might Doth, as a herald of its coming, bear The ghost of her dead Mother, whose dim form Bends in dark ether from her infant's chair, So came a chariot on the silent storm Of its own rushing splendour, and a Shape So sate within as one whom years deform Beneath a dusky hood & double cape Crouching within the shadow of a tomb, And o'er what seemed the head, a cloud like crape, Was bent a dun & faint etherial gloom Tempering the light; upon the chariot's beam A Janus-visaged Shadow did assume The guidance of that wonder-winged team. The Shapes which drew it in thick lightnings Were lost: I heard alone on the air's soft stream The music of their ever moving wings. All the four faces of that charioteer Had their eyes banded . . . little profit brings Speed in the van & blindness in the rear, Nor then avail the beams that quench the Sun Or that his banded eyes could pierce the sphere Of all that is, has been, or will be done. So ill was the car guided, but it past With solemn speed majestically on . . . The crowd gave way, & I arose aghast, Or seemed to rise, so mighty was the trance, And saw like clouds upon the thunder blast The million with fierce song and maniac dance Raging around; such seemed the jubilee As when to greet some conqueror's advance Imperial Rome poured forth her living sea From senatehouse & prison & theatre When Freedom left those who upon the free Had bound a yoke which soon they stooped to bear. Nor wanted here the true similitude Of a triumphal pageant, for where'er The chariot rolled a captive multitude Was driven; althose who had grown old in power Or misery,all who have their age subdued, By action or by suffering, and whose hour Was drained to its last sand in weal or woe, So that the trunk survived both fruit & flower; All those whose fame or infamy must grow Till the great winter lay the form & name Of their own earth with them forever low, All but the sacred few who could not tame Their spirits to the Conqueror, but as soon As they had touched the world with living flame Fled back like eagles to their native noon, Of those who put aside the diadem Of earthly thrones or gems, till the last one Were there;for they of Athens & Jerusalem Were neither mid the mighty captives seen Nor mid the ribald crowd that followed them Or fled before . . Now swift, fierce & obscene The wild dance maddens in the van, & those Who lead it, fleet as shadows on the green, Outspeed the chariot & without repose Mix with each other in tempestuous measure To savage music. Wilder as it grows, They, tortured by the agonizing pleasure, Convulsed & on the rapid whirlwinds spun Of that fierce spirit, whose unholy leisure Was soothed by mischief since the world begun, Throw back their heads & loose their streaming hair, And in their dance round her who dims the Sun Maidens & youths fling their wild arms in air As their feet twinkle; they recede, and now Bending within each other's atmosphere Kindle invisibly; and as they glow Like moths by light attracted & repelled, Oft to new bright destruction come & go. Till like two clouds into one vale impelled That shake the mountains when their lightnings mingle And die in rain,the fiery band which held Their natures, snaps . . . ere the shock cease to tingle One falls and then another in the path Senseless, nor is the desolation single, Yet ere I can say where the chariot hath Past over them; nor other trace I find But as of foam after the Ocean's wrath Is spent upon the desert shore.Behind, Old men, and women foully disarrayed Shake their grey hair in the insulting wind, Limp in the dance & strain, with limbs decayed, Seeking to reach the light which leaves them still Farther behind & deeper in the shade. But not the less with impotence of will They wheel, though ghastly shadows interpose Round them & round each other, and fulfill Their work and to the dust whence they arose Sink & corruption veils them as they lie And frost in these performs what fire in those. Struck to the heart by this sad pageantry, Half to myself I said, "And what is this? Whose shape is that within the car? & why"- I would have added"is all here amiss?" But a voice answered . . "Life" . . . I turned & knew (O Heaven have mercy on such wretchedness!) That what I thought was an old root which grew To strange distortion out of the hill side Was indeed one of that deluded crew, And that the grass which methought hung so wide And white, was but his thin discoloured hair, And that the holes it vainly sought to hide Were or had been eyes."lf thou canst forbear To join the dance, which I had well forborne," Said the grim Feature, of my thought aware, "I will now tell that which to this deep scorn Led me & my companions, and relate The progress of the pageant since the morn; "If thirst of knowledge doth not thus abate, Follow it even to the night, but I Am weary" . . . Then like one who with the weight Of his own words is staggered, wearily He paused, and ere he could resume, I cried, "First who art thou?" . . . "Before thy memory "I feared, loved, hated, suffered, did, & died, And if the spark with which Heaven lit my spirit Earth had with purer nutriment supplied "Corruption would not now thus much inherit Of what was once Rousseaunor this disguise Stained that within which still disdains to wear it. "If I have been extinguished, yet there rise A thousand beacons from the spark I bore." "And who are those chained to the car?" "The Wise, "The great, the unforgotten: they who wore Mitres & helms & crowns, or wreathes of light, Signs of thought's empire over thought; their lore "Taught them not thisto know themselves; their might Could not repress the mutiny within, And for the morn of truth they feigned, deep night "Caught them ere evening." "Who is he with chin Upon his breast and hands crost on his chain?" "The Child of a fierce hour; he sought to win "The world, and lost all it did contain Of greatness, in its hope destroyed; & more Of fame & peace than Virtue's self can gain "Without the opportunity which bore Him on its eagle's pinion to the peak From which a thousand climbers have before "Fall'n as Napoleon fell."I felt my cheek Alter to see the great form pass away Whose grasp had left the giant world so weak That every pigmy kicked it as it lay And much I grieved to think how power & will In opposition rule our mortal day And why God made irreconcilable Good & the means of good; and for despair I half disdained mine eye's desire to fill With the spent vision of the times that were And scarce have ceased to be . . . "Dost thou behold," Said then my guide, "those spoilers spoiled, Voltaire, "Frederic, & Kant, Catherine, & Leopold, Chained hoary anarch, demagogue & sage Whose name the fresh world thinks already old "For in the battle Life & they did wage She remained conquerorI was overcome By my own heart alone, which neither age "Nor tears nor infamy nor now the tomb Could temper to its object.""Let them pass" I cried"the world & its mysterious doom "Is not so much more glorious than it was That I desire to worship those who drew New figures on its false & fragile glass "As the old faded.""Figures ever new Rise on the bubble, paint them how you may; We have but thrown, as those before us threw, "Our shadows on it as it past away. But mark, how chained to the triumphal chair The mighty phantoms of an elder day "All that is mortal of great Plato there Expiates the joy & woe his master knew not; That star that ruled his doom was far too fair "And Life, where long that flower of Heaven grew not, Conquered the heart by love which gold or pain Or age or sloth or slavery could subdue not "And near [[blank]] walk the [[blank]] twain, The tutor & his pupil, whom Dominion Followed as tame as vulture in a chain. "The world was darkened beneath either pinion Of him whom from the flock of conquerors Fame singled as her thunderbearing minion; "The other long outlived both woes & wars, Throned in new thoughts of men, and still had kept The jealous keys of truth's eternal doors "If Bacon's spirit [[blank]] had not leapt Like lightning out of darkness; he compelled The Proteus shape of Nature's as it slept "To wake & to unbar the caves that held The treasure of the secrets of its reign See the great bards of old who inly quelled "The passions which they sung, as by their strain May well be known: their living melody Tempers its own contagion to the vein "Of those who are infected with itI Have suffered what I wrote, or viler pain! "And so my words were seeds of misery Even as the deeds of others.""Not as theirs," I saidhe pointed to a company In which I recognized amid the heirs Of Caesar's crime from him to Constantine, The Anarchs old whose force & murderous snares Had founded many a sceptre bearing line And spread the plague of blood & gold abroad, And Gregory & John and men divine Who rose like shadows between Man & god Till that eclipse, still hanging under Heaven, Was worshipped by the world o'er which they strode For the true Sun it quenched."Their power was given But to destroy," replied the leader"I Am one of those who have created, even "If it be but a world of agony." "Whence camest thou & whither goest thou? How did thy course begin," I said, "& why? "Mine eyes are sick of this perpetual flow Of people, & my heart of one sad thought. Speak.""Whence I came, partly I seem to know, "And how & by what paths I have been brought To this dread pass, methinks even thou mayst guess; Why this should be my mind can compass not; "Whither the conqueror hurries me still less. But follow thou, & from spectator turn Actor or victim in this wretchedness, "And what thou wouldst be taught I then may learn From thee.Now listen . . . In the April prime When all the forest tops began to burn "With kindling green, touched by the azure clime Of the young year, I found myself asleep Under a mountain which from unknown time "Had yawned into a cavern high & deep, And from it came a gentle rivulet Whose water like clear air in its calm sweep "Bent the soft grass & kept for ever wet The stems of the sweet flowers, and filled the grove With sound which all who hear must needs forget "All pleasure & all pain, all hate & love, Which they had known before that hour of rest: A sleeping mother then would dream not of "The only child who died upon her breast At eventide, a king would mourn no more The crown of which his brow was dispossest "When the sun lingered o'er the Ocean floor To gild his rival's new prosperity. Thou wouldst forget thus vainly to deplore "Ills, which if ills, can find no cure from thee, The thought of which no other sleep will quell Nor other music blot from memory "So sweet & deep is the oblivious spell. Whether my life had been before that sleep The Heaven which I imagine, or a Hell "Like this harsh world in which I wake to weep, I know not. I arose & for a space The scene of woods & waters seemed to keep, "Though it was now broad day, a gentle trace Of light diviner than the common Sun Sheds on the common Earth, but all the place "Was filled with many sounds woven into one Oblivious melody, confusing sense Amid the gliding waves & shadows dun; "And as I looked the bright omnipresence Of morning through the orient cavern flowed, And the Sun's image radiantly intense "Burned on the waters of the well that glowed Like gold, and threaded all the forest maze With winding paths of emerald firethere stood "Amid the sun, as he amid the blaze Of his own glory, on the vibrating Floor of the fountain, paved with flashing rays, "A shape all light, which with one hand did fling Dew on the earth, as if she were the Dawn Whose invisible rain forever seemed to sing "A silver music on the mossy lawn, And still before her on the dusky grass Iris her many coloured scarf had drawn. "In her right hand she bore a crystal glass Mantling with bright Nepenthe;the fierce splendour Fell from her as she moved under the mass "Of the deep cavern, & with palms so tender Their tread broke not the mirror of its billow, Glided along the river, and did bend her "Head under the dark boughs, till like a willow Her fair hair swept the bosom of the stream That whispered with delight to be their pillow. "As one enamoured is upborne in dream O'er lily-paven lakes mid silver mist To wondrous music, so this shape might seem "Partly to tread the waves with feet which kist The dancing foam, partly to glide along The airs that roughened the moist amethyst, "Or the slant morning beams that fell among The trees, or the soft shadows of the trees; And her feet ever to the ceaseless song "Of leaves & winds & waves & birds & bees And falling drops moved in a measure new Yet sweet, as on the summer evening breeze "Up from the lake a shape of golden dew Between two rocks, athwart the rising moon, Moves up the east, where eagle never flew. "And still her feet, no less than the sweet tune To which they moved, seemed as they moved, to blot The thoughts of him who gazed on them, & soon "All that was seemed as if it had been not, As if the gazer's mind was strewn beneath Her feet like embers, & she, thought by thought, "Trampled its fires into the dust of death, As Day upon the threshold of the east Treads out the lamps of night, until the breath "Of darkness reillumines even the least Of heaven's living eyeslike day she came, Making the night a dream; and ere she ceased "To move, as one between desire and shame Suspended, I said'If, as it doth seem, Thou comest from the realm without a name, " 'Into this valley of perpetual dream, Shew whence I came, and where I am, and why Pass not away upon the passing stream.' " 'Arise and quench thy thirst,' was her reply, And as a shut lily, stricken by the wand Of dewy morning's vital alchemy, "I rose; and, bending at her sweet command, Touched with faint lips the cup she raised, And suddenly my brain became as sand "Where the first wave had more than half erased The track of deer on desert Labrador, Whilst the fierce wolf from which they fled amazed "Leaves his stamp visibly upon the shore Until the second burstsso on my sight Burst a new Vision never seen before. "And the fair shape waned in the coming light As veil by veil the silent splendour drops From Lucifer, amid the chrysolite "Of sunrise ere it strike the mountain tops And as the presence of that fairest planet Although unseen is felt by one who hopes "That his day's path may end as he began it In that star's smile, whose light is like the scent Of a jonquil when evening breezes fan it, "Or the soft note in which his dear lament The Brescian shepherd breathes, or the caress That turned his weary slumber to content. "So knew I in that light's severe excess The presence of that shape which on the stream Moved, as I moved along the wilderness, "More dimly than a day appearing dream, The ghost of a forgotten form of sleep A light from Heaven whose half extinguished beam "Through the sick day in which we wake to weep Glimmers, forever sought, forever lost. So did that shape its obscure tenour keep "Beside my path, as silent as a ghost; But the new Vision, and its cold bright car, With savage music, stunning music, crost "The forest, and as if from some dread war Triumphantly returning, the loud million Fiercely extolled the fortune of her star. "A moving arch of victory the vermilion And green & azure plumes of Iris had Built high over her wind-winged pavilion, "And underneath aetherial glory clad The wilderness, and far before her flew The tempest of the splendour which forbade Shadow to fall from leaf or stone;the crew Seemed in that light like atomies that dance Within a sunbeam.Some upon the new "Embroidery of flowers that did enhance The grassy vesture of the desart, played, Forgetful of the chariot's swift advance; "Others stood gazing till within the shade Of the great mountain its light left them dim. Others outspeeded it, and others made "Circles around it like the clouds that swim Round the high moon in a bright sea of air, And more did follow, with exulting hymn, "The chariot & the captives fettered there, But all like bubbles on an eddying flood Fell into the same track at last & were "Borne onward.I among the multitude Was swept; me sweetest flowers delayed not long, Me not the shadow nor the solitude, "Me not the falling stream's Lethean song, Me, not the phantom of that early form Which moved upon its motion,but among "The thickest billows of the living storm I plunged, and bared my bosom to the clime Of that cold light, whose airs too soon deform. "Before the chariot had begun to climb The opposing steep of that mysterious dell, Behold a wonder worthy of the rhyme "Of him whom from the lowest depths of Hell Through every Paradise & through all glory Love led serene, & who returned to tell "In words of hate & awe the wondrous story How all things are transfigured, except Love; For deaf as is a sea which wrath makes hoary "The world can hear not the sweet notes that move The sphere whose light is melody to lovers- A wonder worthy of his rhymethe grove "Grew dense with shadows to its inmost covers, The earth was grey with phantoms, & the air Was peopled with dim forms, as when there hovers "A flock of vampire-bats before the glare Of the tropic sun, bring ere evening Strange night upon some Indian isle,thus were "Phantoms diffused around, & some did fling Shadows of shadows, yet unlike themselves, Behind them, some like eaglets on the wing "Were lost in the white blaze, others like elves Danced in a thousand unimagined shapes Upon the sunny streams & grassy shelves; "And others sate chattering like restless apes On vulgar paws and voluble like fire. Some made a cradle of the ermined capes "Of kingly mantles, some upon the tiar Of pontiffs sate like vultures, others played Within the crown which girt with empire "A baby's or an idiot's brow, & made Their nests in it; the old anatomies Sate hatching their bare brood under the shade "Of demon wings, and laughed from their dead eyes To reassume the delegated power Arrayed in which these worms did monarchize "Who make this earth their charnel.Others more Humble, like falcons sate upon the fist Of common men, and round their heads did soar, "Or like small gnats & flies, as thick as mist On evening marshes, thronged about the brow Of lawyer, statesman, priest & theorist, "And others like discoloured flakes of snow On fairest bosoms & the sunniest hair Fell, and were melted by the youthful glow "Which they extinguished; for like tears, they were A veil to those from whose faint lids they rained In drops of sorrow.I became aware "Of whence those forms proceeded which thus stained The track in which we moved; after brief space From every form the beauty slowly waned, "From every firmest limb & fairest face The strength & freshness fell like dust, & left The action & the shape without the grace "Of life; the marble brow of youth was cleft With care, and in the eyes where once hope shone Desire like a lioness bereft "Of its last cub, glared ere it died; each one Of that great crowd sent forth incessantly These shadows, numerous as the dead leaves blown "In Autumn evening from a popular tree Each, like himself & like each other were, At first, but soon distorted, seemed to be "Obscure clouds moulded by the casual air; And of this stuff the car's creative ray Wrought all the busy phantoms that were there "As the sun shapes the cloudsthus, on the way Mask after mask fell from the countenance And form of all, and long before the day "Was old, the joy which waked like Heaven's glance The sleepers in the oblivious valley, died, And some grew weary of the ghastly dance "And fell, as I have fallen by the way side, Those soonest from whose forms most shadows past And least of strength & beauty did abide." "Then, what is Life?" I said . . . the cripple cast His eye upon the car which now had rolled Onward, as if that look must be the last, And answered. "Happy those for whom the fold Of Composed at Lerici on the Gulf of Spezzia in the spring and early summer of 1822 -- the poem on which Shelley was engaged at the time of his death. Published by Mrs. Shelley in the Posthumous Poems of 1824, from a MS. (now in the Bodleian library), whose corrections, omitted words, passages of unrevised improvisation, difficult hand, and long inaccessibility have so far prevented much certainty in the establishment of a text. Form: terza rima. The reference to Dante's Divine Comedy in lines 471-76 and to Petrarch's Triumphs in the title (both of which, like The Triumph of Life, are written in terza rima stanzas) suggests two probable models for the poem. 132-34. Mary Shelley's text seems impossible, but no textual authority has been adduced for amending it. Misreading or miswriting of some kind must be responsible for that apparently parallel, but conflicting, pair, "were there" and "were neither." W. M. Rossetti makes some sense out of the passage by amending "or" in 132 to "for" and "were there" in 134 to "whether", and by placing a semi-colon at the end of 131. 134. Of Athens or Jerusalem. Commentators assume that the renouncing figures of which Shelley is thinking are Socrates in Athens and Jesus in Jerusalem. But the corruption of the text here makes any interpretation doubtful. 190. Grim Feature: a reminiscence of Paradise Lost, X, 279, where it represents Death and carries the Latin meaning of "factura" or "creature." 204. Rousseau. Compare Byron's portrait of Rousseau in Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, III, lxxvii-lxxxii. 236. Frederick and Paul, Catherine and Leopold: Frederick the Great of Prussia, Czar Paul and Catherine the Great of Russia, and Leopold II of the Holy Roman Empire. 254. Plato. In the lines which follow, Shelley refers to the legend that Plato in his old age fell in love with a boy, whose name, Aster, is Greek for a star as well as for a particular (and short-lived) flower. 261. The tutor and his pupil: Aristotle and Alexander the Great. 283-84. The heirs of Caesar's crime from him to Constantine. Julius Caesar's crime was to undermine the Roman republic and prepare the way for the Roman emperors ("anarch chiefs" in 286), a procession of which up to Constantine Shelley now observes. 288. Gregory and John. "Gregory the Great is appropriate, as the true founder of the independent political power of the papacy. Which of many Johns is involved, there is no way of telling" (H. Bloom). 414. Lucifer: the Morning Star. 421-22. The soft note in which his dear lament the Brescian shepherd breathes. "The favourite song, 'Stanco di pascolar le peccorelle, [being weary of pasturing the little sheep], is a Brescian national air" (Mrs. Shelley's note). 439. Iris: classical goddess of the rainbow. 472. Him: Dante in The Divine Comedy. 544. Here the MS. breaks off. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Triumph Of Life

314:I rode one evening with Count Maddalo Upon the bank of land which breaks the flow Of Adria towards Venice: a bare strand Of hillocks, heaped from ever-shifting sand, Matted with thistles and amphibious weeds, Such as from earth's embrace the salt ooze breeds, Is this; an uninhabited sea-side, Which the lone fisher, when his nets are dried, Abandons; and no other object breaks The waste, but one dwarf tree and some few stakes Broken and unrepaired, and the tide makes A narrow space of level sand thereon, Where 'twas our wont to ride while day went down. This ride was my delight. I love all waste And solitary places; where we taste The pleasure of believing what we see Is boundless, as we wish our souls to be: And such was this wide ocean, and this shore More barren than its billows; and yet more Than all, with a remembered friend I love To ride as then I rode;for the winds drove The living spray along the sunny air Into our faces; the blue heavens were bare, Stripped to their depths by the awakening north; And, from the waves, sound like delight broke forth Harmonising with solitude, and sent Into our hearts areal merriment. So, as we rode, we talked; and the swift thought. Winging itself with laughter, lingered not, But flew from brain to brain,such glee was ours. Charged with light memories of remembered hours. None slow enough for sadness: till we came Homeward, which always makes the spirit tame. This day had been cheerful but cold, and now The sun was sinking, and the wind also. Our talk grew somewhat serious, as may be Talk interrupted with such raillery As mocks itself, because it cannot scorn The thoughts it would extinguish:'twas forlorn, Yet pleasing, such as once, so poets tell, The devils held within the dales of Hell Concerning God, freewill and destiny: Of all that earth has been or yet may be, All that vain men imagine or believe, Or hope can paint or suffering may achieve, We descanted, and I (for ever still Is it not wise to make the best of ill?) Argued against despondency, but pride Made my companion take the darker side. The sense that he was greater than his kind Had struck, methinks, his eagle spirit blind By gazing on its own exceeding light. Meanwhile the sun paused ere it should alight, Over the horizon of the mountains;Oh, How beautiful is sunset, when the glow Of Heaven descends upon a land like thee, Thou Paradise of exiles, Italy! Thy mountains, seas, and vineyards, and the towers Of cities they encircle!it was ours To stand on thee, beholding it: and then, Just where we had dismounted, the Count's men Were waiting for us with the gondola. As those who pause on some delightful way Though bent on pleasant pilgrimage, we stood Looking upon the evening, and the flood Which lay between the city and the shore. Paved with the image of the sky . . . the hoar And ary Alps towards the North appeared Through mist, an heaven-sustaining bulwark reared Between the East and West; and half the sky Was roofed with clouds of rich emblazonry Dark purple at the zenith, which still grew Down the steep West into a wondrous hue Brighter than burning gold, even to the rent Where the swift sun yet paused in his descent Among the many-folded hills: they were These famous Euganean hills, which bear, As seen from Lido thro' the harbour piles, The likeness of a clump of peakd isles And thenas if the Earth and Sea had been Dissolved into one lake of fire, were seen Those mountains towering as from waves of flame Around the vaporous sun, from which there came The inmost purple spirit of light, and made Their very peaks transparent. 'Ere it fade,' Said my companion, 'I will show you soon A better station'so, o'er the lagune We glided; and from that funereal bark I leaned, and saw the city, and could mark How from their many isles, in evening's gleam, Its temples and its palaces did seem Like fabrics of enchantment piled to Heaven. I was about to speak, when'We are even Now at the point I meant,' said Maddalo, And bade the gondolieri cease to row. 'Look, Julian, on the west, and listen well If you hear not a deep and heavy bell.' I looked, and saw between us and the sun A building on an island; such a one As age to age might add, for uses vile, A windowless, deformed and dreary pile; And on the top an open tower, where hung A bell, which in the radiance swayed and swung; We could just hear its hoarse and iron tongue: The broad sun sunk behind it, and it tolled In strong and black relief.'What we behold Shall be the madhouse and its belfry tower,' Said Maddalo, 'and ever at this hour Those who may cross the water, hear that bell Which calls the maniacs, each one from his cell, To vespers.''As much skill as need to pray In thanks or hope for their dark lot have they To their stern maker,' I replied. 'O ho! You talk as in years past,' said Maddalo. ''Tis strange men change not. You were ever still Among Christ's flock a perilous infidel, A wolf for the meek lambsif you can't swim Beware of Providence.' I looked on him, But the gay smile had faded in his eye. 'And such,'he cried, 'is our mortality. And this must be the emblem and the sign Of what should be eternal and divine! And like that black and dreary bell, the soul, Hung in a heaven-illumined tower, must toll Our thoughts and our desires to meet below Round the rent heart and prayas madmen do For what? they know not,till the night of death As sunset that strange vision, severeth Our memory from itself, and us from all We sought and yet were baffled.' I recall The sense of what he said, although I mar The force of his expressions. The broad star Of day meanwhile had sunk behind the hill, And the black bell became invisible, And the red tower looked gray, and all between The churches, ships and palaces were seen Huddled in gloom;into the purple sea The orange hues of heaven sunk silently. We hardly spoke, and soon the gondola Conveyed me to my lodging by the way. The following morn was rainy, cold and dim: Ere Maddalo arose, I called on him, And whilst I waited with his child I played; A lovelier toy sweet Nature never made, A serious, subtle, wild, yet gentle being, Graceful without design and unforeseeing, With eyesOh speak not of her eyes!which seem Twin mirrors of Italian Heaven, yet gleam With such deep meaning, as we never see But in the human countenance: with me She was a special favourite: I had nursed Her fine and feeble limbs when she came first To this bleak world; and she yet seemed to know On second sight her ancient playfellow, Less changed than she was by six months or so; For after her first shyness was worn out We sate there, rolling billiard balls about, When the Count entered. Salutations past 'The word you spoke last night might well have cast A darkness on my spiritif man be The passive thing you say, I should not see Much harm in the religions and old saws (Tho' I may never own such leaden laws) Which break a teachless nature to the yoke: Mine is another faith'thus much I spoke And noting he replied not, added: 'See This lovely child, blithe, innocent and free; She spends a happy time with little care, While we to such sick thoughts subjected are As came on you last nightit is our will That thus enchains us to permitted ill We might be otherwisewe might be all We dream of happy, high, majestical. Where is the love, beauty, and truth we seek But in our mind? and if we were not weak Should we be less in deed than in desire?' 'Ay, if we were not weakand we aspire How vainly to be strong!' said Maddalo: 'You talk Utopia.' 'It remains to know,' I then rejoined, 'and those who try may find How strong the chains are which our spirit bind; Brittle perchance as straw . . . We are assured Much may be conquered, much may be endured, Of what degrades and crushes us. We know That we have power over ourselves to do And sufferwhat, we know not till we try; But something nobler than to live and die So taught those kings of old philosophy Who reigned, before Religion made men blind; And those who suffer with their suffering kind Yet feel their faith, religion.' 'My dear friend,' Said Maddalo, 'my judgement will not bend To your opinion, though I think you might Make such a system refutation-tight As far as words go. I knew one like you Who to this city came some months ago, With whom I argued in this sort, and he Is now gone mad,and so he answered me, Poor fellow! but if you would like to go We'll visit him, and his wild talk will show How vain are such aspiring theories.' 'I hope to prove the induction otherwise, And that a want of that true theory, still, Which seeks a "soul of goodness" in things ill Or in himself or others, has thus bowed His beingthere are some by nature proud, Who patient in all else demand but this To love and be beloved with gentleness; And being scorned, what wonder if they die Some living death? this is not destiny But man's own wilful ill.'               As thus I spoke Servants announced the gondola, and we Through the fast-falling rain and high-wrought sea Sailed to the island where the madhouse stands. We disembarked. The clap of tortured hands, Fierce yells and howlings and lamentings keen, And laughter where complaint had merrier been, Moans, shrieks, and curses, and blaspheming prayers Accosted us. We climbed the oozy stairs Into an old courtyard. I heard on high, Then, fragments of most touching melody, But looking up saw not the singer there Through the black bars in the tempestuous air I saw, like weeds on a wrecked palace growing, Long tangled locks flung wildly forth, and flowing, Of those who on a sudden were beguiled Into strange silence, and looked forth and smiled Hearing sweet sounds.Then I: 'Methinks there were A cure of these with patience and kind care, If music can thus move . . . but what is he Whom we seek here?' 'Of his sad history I know but this,' said Maddalo: 'he came To Venice a dejected man, and fame Said he was wealthy, or he had been so; Some thought the loss of fortune wrought him woe; But he was ever talking in such sort As you dofar more sadlyhe seemed hurt, Even as a man with his peculiar wrong, To hear but of the oppression of the strong, Or those absurd deceits (I think with you In some respects, you know) which carry through The excellent impostors of this earth When they outface detectionhe had worth, Poor fellow! but a humourist in his way' 'Alas, what drove him mad?' 'I cannot say: A lady came with him from France, and when She left him and returned, he wandered then About yon lonely isles of desert sand Till he grew wildhe had no cash or land Remaining,the police had brought him here Some fancy took him and he would not bear Removal; so I fitted up for him Those rooms beside the sea, to please his whim, And sent him busts and books and urns for flowers, Which had adorned his life in happier hours, And instruments of musicyou may guess A stranger could do little more or less For one so gentle and unfortunate: And those are his sweet strains which charm the weight From madmen's chains, and make this Hell appear A heaven of sacred silence, hushed to hear.' 'Nay, this was kind of youhe had no claim, As the world says''Nonebut the very same Which I on all mankind were I as he Fallen to such deep reverse;his melody Is interruptednow we hear the din Of madmen, shriek on shriek, again begin; Let us now visit him; after this strain He ever communes with himself again, And sees nor hears not any.' Having said These words we called the keeper, and he led To an apartment opening on the sea There the poor wretch was sitting mournfully Near a piano, his pale fingers twined One with the other, and the ooze and wind Rushed through an open casement, and did sway His hair, and starred it with the brackish spray; His head was leaning on a music book, And he was muttering, and his lean limbs shook; His lips were pressed against a folded leaf In hue too beautiful for health, and grief Smiled in their motions as they lay apart As one who wrought from his own fervid heart The eloquence of passion, soon he raised His sad meek face and eyes lustrous and glazed And spokesometimes as one who wrote, and thought His words might move some heart that heeded not, If sent to distant lands: and then as one Reproaching deeds never to be undone With wondering self-compassion; then his speech Was lost in grief, and then his words came each Unmodulated, cold, expressionless, But that from one jarred accent you might guess It was despair made them so uniform: And all the while the loud and gusty storm Hissed through the window, and we stood behind Stealing his accents from the envious wind Unseen. I yet remember what he said Distinctly: such impression his words made. 'Month after month,' he cried, 'to bear this load And as a jade urged by the whip and goad To drag life on, which like a heavy chain Lengthens behind with many a link of pain! And not to speak my griefO, not to dare To give a human voice to my despair, But live and move, and, wretched thing! smile on As if I never went aside to groan, And wear this mask of falsehood even to those Who are most dearnot for my own repose Alas! no scorn or pain or hate could be So heavy as that falsehood is to me But that I cannot bear more altered faces Than needs must be, more changed and cold embraces, More misery, disappointment, and mistrust To own me for their father . . . Would the dust Were covered in upon my body now! That the life ceased to toil within my brow! And then these thoughts would at the least be fled; Let us not fear such pain can vex the dead. 'What Power delights to torture us? I know That to myself I do not wholly owe What now I suffer, though in part I may. Alas! none strewed sweet flowers upon the way Where wandering heedlessly, I met pale Pain My shadow, which will leave me not again If I have erred, there was no joy in error, But pain and insult and unrest and terror; I have not as some do, bought penitence With pleasure, and a dark yet sweet offence, For then,if love and tenderness and truth Had overlived hope's momentary youth, My creed should have redeemed me from repenting; But loathd scorn and outrage unrelenting Met love excited by far other seeming Until the end was gained . . . as one from dreaming Of sweetest peace, I woke, and found my state Such as it is.          'O Thou, my spirit's mate Who, for thou art compassionate and wise, Wouldst pity me from thy most gentle eyes If this sad writing thou shouldst ever see My secret groans must be unheard by thee, Thou wouldst weep tears bitter as blood to know Thy lost friend's incommunicable woe. 'Ye few by whom my nature has been weighed In friendship, let me not that name degrade By placing on your hearts the secret load Which crushes mine to dust. There is one road To peace and that is truth, which follow ye! Love sometimes leads astray to misery. Yet think not though subduedand I may well Say that I am subduedthat the full Hell Within me would infect the untainted breast Of sacred nature with its own unrest; As some perverted beings think to find In scorn or hate a medicine for the mind Which scorn or hate have woundedO how vain! The dagger heals not but may rend again . . . Believe that I am ever still the same In creed as in resolve, and what may tame My heart, must leave the understanding free, Or all would sink in this keen agony Nor dream that I will join the vulgar cry; Or with my silence sanction tyranny; Or seek a moment's shelter from my pain In any madness which the world calls gain, Ambition or revenge or thoughts as stern As those which make me what I am; or turn To avarice or misanthropy or lust . . . Heap on me soon, O grave, thy welcome dust! Till then the dungeon may demand its prey, And Poverty and Shame may meet and say Halting beside me on the public way "That love-devoted youth is ourslet's sit Beside himhe may live some six months yet." Or the red scaffold, as our country bends, May ask some willing victim, or ye friends May fall under some sorrow which this heart Or hand may share or vanquish or avert; I am preparedin truth with no proud joy To do or suffer aught, as when a boy I did devote to justice and to love My nature, worthless now! . . .                  'I must remove A veil from my pent mind. 'Tis torn aside! O, pallid as Death's dedicated bride, Thou mockery which art sitting by my side, Am I not wan like thee? at the grave's call I haste, invited to thy wedding-ball To greet the ghastly paramour, for whom Thou hast deserted me . . . and made the tomb Thy bridal bed . . . But I beside your feet Will lie and watch ye from my winding sheet Thus . . . wide awake tho' dead . . . yet stay, O stay! Go not so soonI know not what I say Hear but my reasons . . I am mad, I fear, My fancy is o'erwrought . . thou art not here. . . Pale art thou, 'tis most true . . but thou art gone, Thy work is finished . . . I am left alone! 'Nay, was it I who wooed thee to this breast Which, like a serpent, thou envenomest As in repayment of the warmth it lent? Didst thou not seek me for thine own content? Did not thy love awaken mine? I thought That thou wert she who said, "You kiss me not Ever, I fear you do not love me now" In truth I loved even to my overthrow Her, who would fain forget these words: but they Cling to her mind, and cannot pass away. 'You say that I am proudthat when I speak My lip is tortured with the wrongs which break The spirit it expresses . . . Never one Humbled himself before, as I have done! Even the instinctive worm on which we tread Turns, though it wound notthen with prostrate head Sinks in the dusk and writhes like meand dies? No: wears a living death of agonies! As the slow shadows of the pointed grass Mark the eternal periods, his pangs pass Slow, ever-moving,making moments be As mine seemeach an immortality! 'That you had never seen menever heard My voice, and more than all had ne'er endured The deep pollution of my loathed embrace That your eyes ne'er had lied love in my face That, like some maniac monk, I had torn out The nerves of manhood by their bleeding root With mine own quivering fingers, so that ne'er Our hearts had for a moment mingled there To disunite in horrorthese were not With thee, like some suppressed and hideous thought Which flits athwart our musings, but can find No rest within a pure and gentle mind . . . Thou sealedst them with many a bare broad word, And searedst my memory o'er them,for I heard And can forget not . . . they were ministered One after one, those curses. Mix them up Like self-destroying poisons in one cup, And they will make one blessing which thou ne'er Didst imprecate for, on me,death.                    'It were A cruel punishment for one most cruel, If such can love, to make that love the fuel Of the mind's hell; hate, scorn, remorse, despair: But mewhose heart a stranger's tear might wear As water-drops the sandy fountain-stone, Who loved and pitied all things, and could moan For woes which others hear not, and could see The absent with the glance of phantasy, And with the poor and trampled sit and weep, Following the captive to his dungeon deep; Mewho am as a nerve o'er which do creep The else unfelt oppressions of this earth, And was to thee the flame upon thy hearth, When all beside was coldthat thou on me Shouldst rain these plagues of blistering agony Such curses are from lips once eloquent With love's too partial praiselet none relent Who intend deeds too dreadful for a name Henceforth, if an example for the same They seek . . . for thou on me lookedst so, and so And didst speak thus . . and thus . . . I live to show How much men bear and die not!                 'Thou wilt tell, With the grimace of hate, how horrible It was to meet my love when thine grew less; Thou wilt admire how I could e'er address Such features to love's work . . . this taunt, though true, (For indeed Nature nor in form nor hue Bestowed on me her choicest workmanship) Shall not be thy defence . . . for since thy lip Met mine first, years long past, since thine eye kindled With soft fire under mine, I have not dwindled Nor changed in mind or body, or in aught But as love changes what it loveth not After long years and many trials.                   'How vain Are words! I thought never to speak again, Not even in secret,not to my own heart But from my lips the unwilling accents start, And from my pen the words flow as I write, Dazzling my eyes with scalding tears . . . my sight Is dim to see that charactered in vain On this unfeeling leaf which burns the brain And eats into it . . . blotting all things fair And wise and good which time had written there. 'Those who inflict must suffer, for they see The work of their own hearts, and this must be Our chastisement or recompenseO child! I would that thine were like to be more mild For both our wretched sakes . . . for thine the most Who feelest already all that thou hast lost Without the power to wish it thine again; And as slow years pass, a funereal train Each with the ghost of some lost hope or friend Following it like its shadow, wilt thou bend No thought on my dead memory?                 'Alas, love! Fear me not . . . against thee I would not move A finger in despite. Do I not live That thou mayst have less bitter cause to grieve? I give thee tears for scorn and love for hate; And that thy lot may be less desolate Than his on whom thou tramplest, I refrain From that sweet sleep which medicines all pain. Then, when thou speakest of me, never say "He could forgive not." Here I cast away All human passions, all revenge, all pride; I think, speak, act no ill; I do but hide Under these words, like embers, every spark Of that which has consumed mequick and dark The grave is yawning . . . as its roof shall cover My limbs with dust and worms under and over So let Oblivion hide this grief . . . the air Closes upon my accents, as despair Upon my heartlet death upon despair!' He ceased, and overcome leant back awhile, Then rising, with a melancholy smile Went to a sofa, and lay down, and slept A heavy sleep, and in his dreams he wept And muttered some familiar name, and we Wept without shame in his society. I think I never was impressed so much; The man who were not, must have lacked a touch Of human nature . . . then we lingered not, Although our argument was quite forgot, But calling the attendants, went to dine At Maddalo's; yet neither cheer nor wine Could give us spirits, for we talked of him And nothing else, till daylight made stars dim; And we agreed his was some dreadful ill Wrought on him boldly, yet unspeakable, By a dear friend; some deadly change in love Of one vowed deeply which he dreamed not of; For whose sake he, it seemed, had fixed a blot Of falsehood on his mind which flourished not But in the light of all-beholding truth; And having stamped this canker on his youth She had abandoned himand how much more Might be his woe, we guessed nothe had store Of friends and fortune once, as we could guess From his nice habits and his gentleness; These were now lost . . . it were a grief indeed If he had changed one unsustaining reed For all that such a man might else adorn. The colours of his mind seemed yet unworn; For the wild language of his grief was high, Such as in measure were called poetry; And I remember one remark which then Maddalo made. He said: 'Most wretched men Are cradled into poetry by wrong, They learn in suffering what they teach in song.' If I had been an unconnected man I, from this moment, should have formed some plan Never to leave sweet Venice,for to me It was delight to ride by the lone sea; And then, the town is silentone may write Or read in gondolas by day or night, Having the little brazen lamp alight, Unseen, uninterrupted; books are there, Pictures, and casts from all those statues fair Which were twin-born with poetry, and all We seek in towns, with little to recall Regrets for the green country. I might sit In Maddalo's great palace, and his wit And subtle talk would cheer the winter night And make me know myself, and the firelight Would flash upon our faces, till the day Might dawn and make me wonder at my stay: But I had friends in London too: the chief Attraction here, was that I sought relief From the deep tenderness that maniac wrought Within me'twas perhaps an idle thought But I imagined that if day by day I watched him, and but seldom went away, And studied all the beatings of his heart With zeal, as men study some stubborn art For their own good, and could by patience find An entrance to the caverns of his mind, I might reclaim him from his dark estate: In friendships I had been most fortunate Yet never saw I one whom I would call More willingly my friend; and this was all Accomplished not; such dreams of baseless good Oft come and go in crowds or solitude And leave no tracebut what I now designed Made for long years impression on my mind. The following morning, urged by my affairs, I left bright Venice.            After many years And many changes I returned; the name Of Venice, and its aspect, was the same; But Maddalo was travelling far away Among the mountains of Armenia. His dog was dead. His child had now become A woman; such as it has been my doom To meet with few,a wonder of this earth, Where there is little of transcendent worth, Like one of Shakespeare's women: kindly she, And, with a manner beyond courtesy, Received her father's friend; and when I asked Of the lorn maniac, she her memory tasked, And told as she had heard the mournful tale: 'That the poor sufferer's health began to fail Two years from my departure, but that then The lady who had left him, came again. Her mien had been imperious, but she now Looked meekperhaps remorse had brought her low. Her coming made him better, and they stayed Together at my father'sfor I played, As I remember, with the lady's shawl I might be six years oldbut after all She left him' . . . 'Why, her heart must have been tough: How did it end?' 'And was not this enough? They metthey parted''Child, is there no more?' 'Something within that interval which bore The stamp of why they parted, how they met: Yet if thine agd eyes disdain to wet Those wrinkled cheeks with youth's remembered tears, Ask me no more, but let the silent years Be closed and cered over their memory As yon mute marble where their corpses lie.' I urged and questioned still, she told me how All happenedbut the cold world shall not know. Composed at Este after Shelley's first visit to Venice, 1818 (Autumn); first published in the Posthumous Poems, London, 1824 (ed. Mrs. Shelley). Shelley's original intention had been to print the poem in Leigh Hunt's Examiner; but he changed his mind and, on August 15, 1819, sent the MS. to Hunt to be published anonymously by Ollier. This MS., found by Mr. Townshend Mayer, and by him placed in the hands of Mr. H. Buxton Forman, C.B., is described by him at length in Mr. Forman's Library Edition of the poems (vol. iii., p. 107). The date, 'May, 1819,' affixed to Julian and Maddalo in the P.P., 1824, indicates the time when the text was finally revised by Shelley. Note by Mrs. Shelley: 'From the Baths of Lucca, in 1818, Shelley visited Venice; and, circumstances rendering it eligible that we should remain a few weeks in the neighbourhood of that city, he accepted the offer of Lord Byron, who lent him the use of a villa he rented near Este; and he sent for his family from Lucca to join him. I Capuccini was a villa built on the site of a Capuchin convent, demolished when the French suppressed religious houses; it was situated on the very overhanging brow of a low hill at the foot of a range of higher ones. The house was cheerful and pleasant; a vine-trellised walk, a pergola, as it is called in Italian, led from the hall-door to a summer-house at the end of the garden, which Shelley made his study, and in which he began the Prometheus; and here also, as he mentions in a letter, he wrote Julian and Maddalo. A slight ravine, with a road in its depth, divided the garden from the hill, on which stood the ruins of the ancient castle of Este, whose dark massive wall gave forth an echo, and from whose ruined crevices owls and bats flitted forth at night, as the crescent moon sunk behind the black and heavy battlements. We looked from the garden over the wide plain of Lombardy, bounded to the west by the far Apennines, while to the east the horizon was lost in misty distance. After the picturesque but limited view of mountain, ravine, and chestnutwood, at the Baths of Lucca, there was something infinitely gratifying to the eye in the wide range of prospect commanded by our new abode. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Julian and Maddalo - A Conversation

315:The Bush I wonder if the spell, the mystery, That like a haze about your silence clings, Moulding your void until we seem to see Tangible Presences of Deathless Things, Patterned but little to our spirits' woof, Yet from our love or hate not all aloof, Can. be the matrix where are forming slowly Troy tales of Old Australia, to refine Eras to come of ordered melancholy 'Neath lily-pale Perfection's anodyne. For Troy hath ever been, and Homer sang Its younger story for a lodging's fee, While o'er Scamander settlers' axes rang Amid the Bush where Ilium was to be. For Cretan Art, dim centuries before, Minoan Dream-times some Briseis bore. Sumerian Phoebus by a willowed water Song-built a Troy for far Chaldea, where The sons of God, beholding Leda's daughter, Bartered eternal thrones for love of her. Across each terraced aeon Time hath sowed With green tautology of vanished years, Gaping aghast or webbed with shining lode, Achilles' anger's earthquake-rift appears. The towers that Phoebus builds can never fall: Desire that Helen lights can never pall: Yea, wounded Love hath still but gods to fly to, When lust of war inflames Diomedes: Must some Australian Hector vainly die, too? Captives in ships? (0 change that omen, Trees!) Yea, Mother Bush, in your deep dreams abide Cupids alert for man and maid unborn, Apprentice Pucks amid your saplings hide, And wistful gorges wait a Roland horn: Wallet of Sigurd shall this swag replace, And centaurs curvet where those brumbies race. 39 That drover's tale of love shall greaten duly Through magic prisms of a myriad years, Till bums Isolde to Tristram's fervour newly, Or Launcelot to golden Guinevere's. The miner cradling washdirt by the creek, Or pulled through darkness dripping to the plat: The navvy boring tunnels through the peak: The farmer grubbing box-trees on the flat: The hawker camping by the roadside spring: The hodman on the giddy scaffolding: Moths that around the fashion windows flutter: The racecourse spider and the betting fly: The children romping by the city gutter, While baby crows to every passer-byFrom these rough blocks strewn o'er our ancient stream Sculptors shall chisel brownie, fairy, faun, Any myrmidons of some Homeric dream From Melbourne mob and Sydney push be drawn. The humdrum lives that now we tire of, then Romance shall be, and 'we heroic men Treading the vestibule of Golden Ages, The Isthmus of the Land of Heart's Desire: For lo! the Sybil's final volume's pages Ope with our Advent, close when we expire. Forgetful Change in one 'antiquity' Boreal gleams shall drown, and southern glows; Out of some singing woman's heart-break plea Australia's dawn shall flush with Sappho's rose: Strong Shirlow's hand shall trace Mantegna's line, And Soma foam from Victor Daley's wine: Scholars to be our prehistoric drama From Esson's 'Woman Tamer' shall restore, Or find in Gilbert's 'Lotus Stream and Lama' An Austral Nile and Buddhas we adore. The sunlit Satyrs follow Hugh McCrae, Quinn spans the ocean with a Celtic ford, And Williamson the Pan-pipe learns to play From magpie-songs our schoolboy ears ignored: 40 A sweeter woe no keen of Erin gave Than Kendall sings o'er Araluen's grave: Tasmanian Wordsworth to his chapel riding The Burning Bush and Ardath mead shall pass, Or, from the sea-coast of Bohemia gliding On craft of dream, behold a shepherd lass. Jessie Mackay on Southern Highlands sees The elves deploy in kem and gallowglass: Our Gilbert Murray writes 'Euripides': Pirani merges in Pythagoras: Marsyas plunges into Lethe, flayed, From Rhadamanthine Stephens' steady blade: While Benvenuto Morton, drunk with singing, Sees salamanders in a bush-fire's bed, And Spencer sails from Alcheringa bringing Intaglios, totems and Books of the Dead. On Southern fiords shall Brady's Long Snakes hiss, Heavy with brides he wins to Viking troth: O'Reilly's Sydney shall be Sybaris, While Melbourne's Muses sup their Spartan broth: Murdoch, Zenobia's counsellor, in time, Redacts from Burke his book on The Sublime: By Way was Homer into Greek translated: And Shakespeare's self is Sophocles so plain They know the kerb whereon the Furies waited Outside the Mermaid Inn in Brogan's Lane. Vane shall divide with Vern Eureka's fame; Tillett and Mann are Tyler then and Cade: Dowie's entwines with Cagliostro's name, And in Tarpeia's, lo, those fair forms fade Who drug the poor, for social bread and wine, And lift the furtive latch to Catiline: There, where the Longmore-featured Gracchi hurry, And Greek-browed Higinbotham walks, anon, The 'wealthy lower orders' leap the Murray Before the stockwhip cracks of Jardine Don. Cleons in 'Windsor dress at Syracuse Their thin plebeians' promised meal delay; 41 And Archibald begets Australia's Muse Upon an undine red of Chowder Bay: Paterson's swan draws Amphitrite's car, And Sidon learns from Young what purples are: Rose Scott refutes dogmatic Cyril gaily, Hypatia turns the anti-suffrage flank, And Herod's daughter sools her 'morning daily' On John the Baptist by the Yarra Bank. Yon regal bustard, fading hence ere long, Shall seem the guide we followed to the Grail; This lyre-bird on his dancing-mound of song Our mystagogue of some Bacchantic vale, Where feathered Pan guffaws 'Evoe!' above, And Maenad curlews shriek their midnight love: That trailing flight of distant swans is bearing Sarpedon's soul to its eternal joy: This ibis, from the very Nile, despairing, Memnon our own would warn from fatal Troy. Primeval gnomes distilled the golden bribes That have impregnated your musing waste with men; But shall the spell of your pathetic tribes Curl round, in time, our fairer limbs again? Through that long tunnel of your gloom, I see Gardens of a metropolis to be! Out of the depths the mountain ash is soaring To embryon gods of what unsounded space? Out of the heights what influence is pouring Thin desolation on your haunted face? Many there are who see no higher lot For all your writhing centuries of toil Than that the avaricious plough should blot Their wilding burgeon, and the red brand spoil Your cyclopean garniture, to sow The cheap parterres of Europe on your woe. They weave all sorceries but yours, and borrow The tinkling spells of alien winds and seas To drown the chord of purifying sorrow, Bom ere the world, that pulses through your trees. 42 For, save when we, in not o'er-subtle mood, Hear magpies warbling soft November in, Or, hand in hand with Love, a dreaming wood Or bouldered crest of crisper April win, Your harps, unblurred by glozing strings, intone The dirges that behind Creation moan'Where, riding reinless billows, new lives dash on The souring beach of yesterday's decay, Where Love's chord leaps from mandrake shrieks of passion, And groping gods mould man from quivering clay. (Is Nature deaf and blind and dumb? A cruse Unfilled of wine? Clay for an unbreathed soul? Alien to man, till his desires transfuse Their flames through wind and water, leaf and bole, And each crude fane elaborately fit With oracles that echo all his wit? The living wilds of Greece saw death returning When Pan that men had made fell from his throne: Till through her sap our very blood is churning The Bush her lonely alien woe shall moan! Or is she reticent but to be kind? Whispers she not beneath her mask of clods'Who asks he shall receive, who seeks shall find, Who knocks shall open every door of God's?' Dumb Faith's, blind Hope's eternal consort she, Gravid with all that is on earth to be; Corn, wine and oil in hungry granite hiding, All Beauty under sober wings of clay, All life beneath her dead heart long abiding, Yea, all the gods her sons and she obey!) What sin's wan expiation strewed your Vast With mounded pillage of what conquering fire? Slumbering throes of what prodigious Past Exhale these lingering ghosts of its desire? Sunshine that bleached corruption out, that glare? Desolate blue of Purgatory, there? Flagellant winds through guilty Eden scouring? Sahara drowning Prester John's domain? Satumian dam her progeny devouring? Hath dawn-time Hun these footprints left? Hath Cain? 43 Even the human wave, that shall at length To man's endurance key your strident surge, Sings in your poignant tones and sombre strength, And makes, as yet, its own your primal dirge: A gun-shot startles dawn back from the sky, And mourning tea-trees echo Gordon's sigh: Nardoo with Burke's faint sweat is dank for ever: Spectral a tribe round poisoned rations shrieks: Till doomday Leichhardt walks die Never Never: Pensive, of Boake, the circling stock-whip speaks. The wraiths unseen of roadside crimes unnamed About that old-time shanty's ruins roam: This squatter's fenceless acres hide ashamed The hearth and battered zinc of Naboth's home: Deserted 'yam-holes' pit your harmonies With sloughing pock-marks of the gold-disease: The sludgy creek 'mid hungry rushes rambles, Where teal once dived and lowan raised her mound: That tree, with crows, o'erlooks the township shambles: These paddocks, ordure-smeared, the city bound. 0 yield not all to factory and farm! For we, who drew a milk no stranger knows From her scant paps, yearn for the acrid charm That gossamers the Bush Where No Tree Grows. And we have ritual moments when we crave For worship in some messmate-pillared nave, Where contrite 'bears' for woodland sins are kneeling, And, 'mid the censers of the mountain musk, Acolyte bell-birds the Angelus are pealing, And boobooks moan lone vespers in the dusk, And you have Children of the Dreaming Star, Who care but little for the crowded ways Where meagre spirits' vapid prizes are, Or for the paddocked ease of dreamless days And hedges clipped of every sunny growth That plights the soul to God in daily troth: Their wayward love prefers your desolation, Or (where the human trail hath seared its charm) 44 The briar-rose on some abandoned 'station', To all the tilled obedience of the farm. Vineyards that purblind thrift shall never glean The weedy waste and thistly gully hold: No mint shall melt to currency unclean Yon river-rounded hillock's Cape-broom gold: The onion-grass upon that dark green slope Returns our gaze from eyes of heliotrope: But more we seek your underflowered expanses Of scrub monotonous, or, where, O Bush, The craters of your fiery noon's romances, Like great firm bosoms, through the bare plains push. As many. Mother, are your moods and forms As all the sons who love you. Here, you mow Careering grounds for every brood of storms The wild sea-mares to desert stallions throw; Anon, up through a sea of sand you glance With green ephemeral exuberance, And then quick seeds dive deep to years of slumber From hot-hoofed drought's precipitate return: There, league on league, the snow's cold fingers number The shrinking nerves of supple-jack and fern. To other eyes and ears you are a great Pillared cathedral tremulously green, An odorous and hospitable gate To genial mystery, the happy screen Of truants or of lovers rambling there 'Neath sun-shot boughs o'er miles of maidenhair. Wee rubies dot the leaflets of the cherries, The wooing wagtails hop from log to bough, The bronzewing comes from Queensland for the berries, The bell-bird by the creek is calling now. And you can ride, an Eastern queen, they say, By living creatures sumptuously borne, With all barbaric equipages gay, Beneath the torrid blue of Capricorn. That native lotus is the very womb That was the Hindoo goddess' earthly tomb. 45 The gang-gang screams o'er cactus wildernesses, Palm trees are there, and swampy widths of rice, Unguents and odours ooze from green recesses, The jungles blaze with birds of Paradise. But I, in city exile, hear you sing Of saplinged hill and box-tree dotted plain, Or silver-grass that prays the North Wind's wing Convey its sigh to the loitering rain: And Spring is half distraught with wintry gusts, Summer the daily spoil of tropic lusts The sun and she too fiercely shared together Lingering thro' voluptuous Hindoo woods, But o'er my windless, soft autumnal weather The peace that passes understanding broods. When, now, they say 'The Bush!', I see the top Delicate amber leanings of the gum Flutter, or flocks of screaming green leeks drop Silent, where in the shining morning hum The gleaning bees for honey-scented hours 'Mid labyrinthine leaves and white gum flowers. Cantering midnight hoofs are nearing, nearing, The straining bullocks flick the harpy flies, The 'hatter' weeds his melancholy clearing, The distant cow-bell tinkles o'er the rise. You are the brooding comrade of our way, Whispering rumour of a new Unknown, Moulding us white ideals to obey, Steeping whate'er we learn in lore your own, And freshening with unpolluted light The squalid city's day and pallid night, Till we become ourselves distinct, Australian, (Your native lightning charging blood and nerve), Stripped to the soul of borrowed garments, alien To that approaching Shape of God you serve. Brooding, brooding, your whispers murmur plain That searching for the clue to mystery In grottos of decrepitude is vain, That never shall the eye of prophet see 46 In crooked Trade's tumultuous streets the plan Of templed cities adequate to man. Brooding, brooding, you make us Brahmins waiting (While uninspired pass on the hurtling years), Faithful to dreams your spirit is creating, Till Great Australia, born of you, appears. For Great Australia is not yet: She waits (Where o'er the Bush prophetic auras play) The passing of these temporary States, Flaunting their tawdry flags of far decay. Her aureole above the alien mists Beacons our filial eyes to mountain trysts: 'Mid homely trees with all ideals fruited, She shelters us till Trade's Simoom goes by, And slakes our thirst from cisterns unpolluted . For ages cold in brooding deeps of sky. We love our brothers, and to heal their woe Pluck simples from the known old gardens still: We love our kindred over seas, and grow Their symbols tenderly o'er plain and hill; We feel their blood rebounding in our hearts, And speak as they would speak our daily parts: But under all we know, we know that only A virgin womb unsoiled by ancient fear Can Saviours bear. So, we, your Brahmins, lonely, Deaf to the barren tumult, wait your Year. The Great Year's quivering dawn pencils the Night To be the morning of our children's prime, And weave from rays of yet ungathered Light A richer noon than e'er apparelled Time. If it must be, as Tuscan wisdom knew, Babylon's seer, and wistful Egypt too, That mellow afternoon shall pensive guide us Down somnolent Decay's ravine to rest, Then you, reborn, 0 Mother Bush, shall hide us All the long night at your dream-laden breast. Australian eyes that heed your lessons know Another world than older pilgrims may: 47 Prometheus chained in Kosciusko's snow Sees later gods than Zeus in turn decay: Boundless plateaux expand the spirit's sight, Resilient gales uphold her steeper flight: And your close beating heart, 0 savage Mother, Throbs secret words of joy and starker pain Than reach the ears all old deceptions smother In Lebanon, or e'en in Westermain. We marvel not, who hear your undersong, And catch a glimpse in rare exalted hours Of something like a Being gleam along Festooned arcades of flossie creeper flowers, Or, toward the mirk, seem privileged to share The silent rapture of the trees at prayerWe marvel not that seers in other ages, With eyes unstrained by peering logic, saw The desolation glow with Koran pages, Or Sinai stones with Tables of the Law. Homers are waiting in the gum trees now, Far driven from the tarnished Cyclades: More Druids to your green enchantment bow Than 'neath unfaithful Mona's vanished trees: A wind hath spirited from ageing France To our fresh hills the carpet of Romance: Heroes and maids of old with young blood tingling In ampler gardens grow their roses new: And races long apart their manas mingling Prepare the cradle of an Advent due. And those who dig the mounded eld for runes To read Religion's tangled cipher, here, Where all Illusion haunts the fainting noons Of days hysteric with the tireless leer Of ravenous enamoured suns, shall find How May a flings her mantle o'er the mind, Till sober sand to shining water changes, Dodona whispers from the she-oak groves, Afreets upon the tempest cross the ranges, And Fafnir through the bunyip marshes roves. 48 Once, when Uranian Love appeared to glow Through that abysmal Night that bounds our reignLove that a man may scarcely feel and know i Quite the same world as other men againWith earthward-streaming frontier wraiths distraught, Your oracles, 0 Mother Bush, I sought: But found, dismayed, that eerie light revealing Those wraiths already in your depths on sleuth, Termagant Scorns along your hillsides stealing, Remorse unbaring slow her barbed tooth. My own thoughts first from far dispersion flew Back to their sad creator, with the crops Of woes in flower and all the harvests due Till tiring Time the fearful seeding stops: In pigmy forms of friends and foes, anon In my own image, they came, stung, were gone: And then I heard the voice of Him Who Questions, Knowing the faltered answer ere it came, Chilling the soul by hovering suggestions Of wan damnation at a wince of blame. And all your leaves in symbols were arranged, Despairs long dead would leap from bough to bough, A gum-tree buttress to a goblin changed Grinning the warmth of some old broken vow: Furtive desires for scarce-remembered maids Glanced in a fearful bo-peep from your shades: Till you became a purgatory cleansing With rosy flakes in form of manikins, To fiercer shame within my soul condensing, The dim pollution of forgotten sins. And She, the human symbol of that Love, Would, as my cleansed eyes forgot their fear, Comrade beside me. Comforter above, With sunny smile ubiquitous appear: Run on before me to the nooks we knew, Walk hand in hand as glad young lovers do, Gravely reprove me toying with temptation, Show me the eyes and ears in roots and clods, Bend with me o'er some blossom's revelation, 49 Or read from clouds the judgments of the gods. My old ideals She would tune until The grating note of self no longer rang: She drove the birds of gloom and evil will Out of the cote wherein my poems sang. Time at Her wand annulled his calendar, And Space his fallacy of Near and Far, For through my Bush along with me She glided, And crowded days of Beauty made more fair, Though lagging weeks and ocean widths divided Her mortal casing from Her Presence there. Her wetted finger oped my shuttered eyes To boyhood's scership of the Real again: Upon the Bush descended from the skies The rapt-up Eden of primordial men: August Dominions through the vistas strode: On white-maned clouds the smiling cherubs rode: Maltreated Faith restored my jangled hearing Till little seraphs sang from chip and clod: And prayers were radiant children that, unfearing, Floated as kisses to the lips of God. It matters not that for some purpose wise Myopic Reason censored long ago The revelations of that Paradise, When, back of all I feel or will or know, Its silent angels beacon through the Dark And point to harbours new my drifted ark. Nor need we dread the fogs that round us thicken Questing the Bush for Grails decreed for man, When Powers our fathers saw unseen still quicken Eyes that were ours before the world began. 'Twas then I saw the Vision of the Ways, And 'mid their gloom and glory seemed to live, Threaded the coverts of the Dark Road's maze, Toiled up, with tears, the Track Retributive, And, on the Path of Grace, beheld aglow The love-lit Nave of all that wheeled below. And She who flowered, my Mystic Rose, in Heaven, 50 And lit the Purging Mount, my Guiding Star, Trudged o'er the marl, my mate, through Hell's wan levin, Nor shrank, like lonely Dante's love, afar. High towered a cloud over one leafy wild, And to a bridged volcano grew. Above, A great Greek group of father, mother, child, Illumed a narrow round with radiant love. Below, a smoke-pool thick with faces swirled, The mutinous omen. of an Under-world, Defeated, plundered, blackened, but preparing, E'en though that calm, white dominance fell down, To overflow the rim, and, sunward faring, Shape myriad perfect groups from slave and clown. Or thus I read the symbol, though 'twas sent To hound compunction on my wincing pride, That dreamed of raceless brotherhood, content Though all old Charm dissolved and Glory died. For often signs will yield their deeper signs, Virginal Bush, in your untrodden shrines, Than where the craven ages' human clamour Distorts the boldest oracle with fear, Or where dissolving wizards dew with glamour Arden, Broceliande, or Windermere. Once while my mother by a spreading tree Our church's sober rubric bade me con, My vagrant eyes among the boughs would see Forbidden wings and •wizard aprons on Father's 'wee people' from their Irish glades Brighten and darken with your lights and shades. And I would only read again those stern leaves For whispered bribe that, when their tale I told, We would go and look for fairies in the fern-leaves And red-capped leprechauns with crocks of gold. Anon, my boyhood saw how Sunbursts flamed Or filmy hinds lured on a pale Oisin, Where lithe indignant saplings crowding claimed The digger's ravage for their plundered queen: And heard within yon lichened 'mullock-heap' 51 Lord Edward's waiting horsemen moan in sleep: Or flew the fragrant path of swans consoling Lir's exiled daughter wandering with me, And traced below the Wattle River rolling Exuberant and golden toward the sea. Here, would the •wavering wings of heat uplift Some promontory till the tree-crowned pile Above a phantom sea would swooning drift, St. Brendan's vision of the Winged Isle: Anon, the isle divides again, again, Till archipelagos poise o'er the main. There, lazy fingers of a breeze have scattered The distant blur of factory chimney smoke hi poignant groups of all the young lives shattered To feed the ravin of a piston-stroke! Or when I read the tale of what you were Beyond these hungry eyes' home-keeping view, I peopled petrel rocks with Sirens fair, In Maid Mirage the Fairy Morgan knew, Steered Quetzalcoatl's skiff to coral coasts, On Chambers' Pillar throned the Olympian hosts, Heard in white sulphur-crested parrots' screeches Remorseful Peris vent their hopeless rage, Atlantis' borders traced on sunken beaches, m Alcheringa found the Golden Age. Sibyl and Siren, with alternate breaths You read our foetal nation's boon and bane, And lure to trysts of orgiastic Deaths Adventurous love that listens to your strain: Pelsarts and Vanderdeckens of the world Circle your charms or at your feet are hurled: And, Southern witch, whose glamour drew De Quiros O'er half the earth for one unyielded kiss, Were yours the arms that healed the scalded Eros When Psyche's curious lamp darkened their bliss? Ye, who would challenge when we claim to see The bush alive with Northern wealth of wings, Forget that at a common mother's knee 52 We learned, with you, the lore of Silent Things. There is no New that is not older far Than swirling cradle of the first-born star: Our youngest hearts prolong the far pulsation And churn the brine of the primordial sea: The foetus writes the précis of Creation: Australia is the whole world's legatee. Imagination built her throne in us Before your present bodies saw the sky: Your myths were counters of our abacus, And in your brain developed long our eye: We from the misty folk have also sprung Who saw the gnomes and heard the Ever Young: Do Southern skies the fancy disinherit Of moly flower and Deva-laden breeze? Do nerves attuned by old defect and merit Their timbre lose by crossing tropic seas? All mysteries ye claim as yours alone Have wafted secrets over oceans here: Our living soil Antiquity hath sown With just the corn and tares ye love and fear: Romance and song enthral us just as you, Nor change of zenith changes spirit too: Our necks as yours are sore with feudal halters: To the Pole ye know our compasses are set; And shivering years that huddled round your altars Beneath our stars auspicious tremble yet. Who fenced the nymphs in European vales? Or Pan tabooed from all but Oxford dreams? Warned Shakespeare off from foreign Plutarch's tales? Or tethered Virgil to Italian themes? And when the body sailed from your control Think ye we left behind in bond the soul? Whate'er was yours is ours in equal measure, The Temple was not built for you alone, Altho' 'tis ours to grace the common treasure With Lares and Penates of our own! Ye stole yourselves from gardens fragrant long 53 The sprouting seed-pods of your choicest blooms, And wove the splendid garments of your song From Viking foam on grave Hebraic looms: 'Twas Roman nerve and rich Hellenic lymph Changed your pale pixie to a nubile nymph: Yea, breathed at dawn around Atlantis' islands, Wind-home o'er some Hesperidean road, The morning clouds on dim Accadian highlands Spring-fed the Nile that over Hellas flowed! As large-eyed Greek amid Sicilian dews Saw Dis, as ne'er before, pursue the Maid, Or, safe 'neath screening billows, Arethuse Alpheus' rugged sleuth unsoiled evade: We shall complete the tale ye left half-told, Under the ocean lead your fountains old, To slake our sceptic thirst with haunted water, And tame our torrents with a wedding kiss, Shall loose, mayhap, the spell on Ceres' daughter, And show, unclouded, God in very Dis. (Yet, there are moods and mornings when I hear, Above the music of the Bush's breath, The rush of alien breezes far and near Drowning her oracles to very death: Exotic battle-cries the silence mar, Seductive perfumes drive the gum-scent far; And organ-tones august a moment show me Miltonic billows and Homeric gales Until I feel the older worlds below me, And all her wonder trembles, thins and fails.) Yea, you are all that we may be, and yet In us is all you are to be for aye! The Giver of the gifts that we shall get? An empty womb that waits the wedding day? Thus drifting sense by age-long habit buoyed Plays round the thought that knows all nature void! And so, my song alternate would believe her Idiot Bush and Daughter of the Sun, A worthless gift apart from the receiver, An empty womb, but in a Deathless One. 54 To shapes we would of Freedom, Truth and Joy Shall we your willing plasm mould for man: Afresh rebuild the world, and thus destroy What only Ragnarok in Europe can: There is no Light but in your dark blendes sleeps, Drops from your stars or through your ether leaps: Yea, you are Nature, Chaos since Creation, Waiting what human Word to chord in song? Matrix inert of what auspicious nation? For what far bees your nectar hiving long? Exhausted manas of the conquering North Shall rise refreshed to vivid life again At your approach, and in your lap pour forth Grateful the gleanings of his mighty reign: As, when a tropic heat-king southward crawls, Blistering the ranges, till he hears the calls Of some cold high-browed bride, her streaming tresses, Sprinkled with rose-buds, make his wild eyes thrill To such desire for her superb caresses He yields his fiery treasures to her will. 'Where is Australia, singer, do you know? These sordid farms and joyless factories, Mephitic mines and lanes of pallid woe? Those ugly towns and cities such as these With incense sick to all unworthy power, And all old sin in full malignant flower? No! to her bourn her children still are faring: She is a Temple that we are to build: For her the ages have been long preparing: She is a prophecy to be fulfilled! All that we love in olden lands and lore Was signal of her coming long ago! Bacon foresaw her, Campanella, More And Plato's eyes were with her star aglow! Who toiled for Truth, whate'er their countries were, Who fought for Liberty, they yearned for her! No corsair's gathering ground, or tryst for schemers, 55 No chapman Carthage to a huckster Tyre, She is the Eldorado of old dreamers, The Sleeping Beauty of the world's desire! She is the scroll on which we are to write Mythologies our own and epics new: She is the port of our propitious flight From Ur idolatrous and Pharaoh's crew. She is our own, unstained, if worthy we, By dream, or god, or star we would not see: Her crystal beams all but the eagle dazzle; Her wind-wide ways none but the strong-winged sail: She is Eutopia, she is Hy-Brasil, The watchers on the tower of morning hail I Yet she shall be as we, the Potter, mould: Altar or tomb, as we aspire, despair: What wine we bring shall she, the chalice, hold: What word we write shall she, the script, declare: Bandage our eyes, she shall be Memphis, Spain: Barter our souls, she shall be Tyre again: And if we pour on her the red oblation All o'er the world shall Asshur's buzzards throng: Love-lit, her Chaos shall become Creation: And dewed with dream, her silence flower in song. ~ Bernard O'Dowd

316:The Botanic Garden (Part Iv) The Economy Of Vegetation Canto IV As when at noon in Hybla's fragrant bowers CACALIA opens all her honey'd flowers; Contending swarms on bending branches cling, And nations hover on aurelian wing; So round the GODDESS, ere she speaks, on high Impatient SYLPHS in gawdy circlets fly; Quivering in air their painted plumes expand, And coloured shadows dance upon the land. I. 'SYLPHS! YOUR light troops the tropic Winds confine, And guide their streaming arrows to the Line; While in warm floods ecliptic breezes rise, And sink with wings benumb'd in colder skies. You bid Monsoons on Indian seas reside, And veer, as moves the sun, their airy tide; While southern gales o'er western oceans roll, And Eurus steals his ice-winds from the Pole. Your playful trains, on sultry islands born, Turn on fantastic toe at eve and morn; With soft susurrant voice alternate sweep Earth's green pavilions and encircling deep. OR in itinerant cohorts, borne sublime On tides of ether, float from clime to clime; O'er waving Autumn bend your airy ring, Or waft the fragrant bosom of the Spring. II. 'When Morn, escorted by the dancing Hours, O'er the bright plains her dewy lustre showers; Till from her sable chariot Eve serene Drops the dark curtain o'er the brilliant scene; You form with chemic hands the airy surge, Mix with broad vans, with shadowy tridents urge. SYLPHS! from each sun-bright leaf, that twinkling shakes O'er Earth's green lap, or shoots amid her lakes, Your playful bands with simpering lips invite, 10 And wed the enamour'd OXYGENE to LIGHT.Round their white necks with fingers interwove, Cling the fond Pair with unabating love; Hand link'd in hand on buoyant step they rise, And soar and glisten in unclouded skies. Whence in bright floods the VITAL AIR expands, And with concentric spheres involves the lands; Pervades the swarming seas, and heaving earths, Where teeming Nature broods her myriad births; Fills the fine lungs of all that breathe or bud Warms the new heart, and dyes the gushing blood; With Life's first spark inspires the organic frame, And, as it wastes, renews the subtile flame. 'So pure, so soft, with sweet attraction shone Fair PSYCHE, kneeling at the ethereal throne; Won with coy smiles the admiring court of Jove, And warm'd the bosom of unconquer'd LOVE.Beneath a moving shade of fruits and flowers Onward they march to HYMEN'S sacred bowers; With lifted torch he lights the festive train, Sublime, and leads them in his golden chain; Joins the fond pair, indulgent to their vows, And hides with mystic veil their blushing brows. Round their fair forms their mingling arms they fling, Meet with warm lip, and clasp with rustling wing.-Hence plastic Nature, as Oblivion whelms Her fading forms, repeoples all her realms; Soft Joys disport on purple plumes unfurl'd, And Love and Beauty rule the willing world. III. 1. 'SYLPHS! Your bold myriads on the withering heath Stay the fell SYROC'S suffocative breath; Arrest SIMOOM in his realms of sand, The poisoned javelin balanced in his hand;Fierce on blue streams he rides the tainted air, Points his keen eye, and waves his whistling hair; While, as he turns, the undulating soil Rolls in red waves, and billowy deserts boil. 11 You seize TORNADO by his locks of mist, Burst his dense clouds, his wheeling spires untwist; Wide o'er the West when borne on headlong gales, Dark as meridian night, the Monster sails, Howls high in air, and shakes his curled brow, Lashing with serpent-train the waves below, Whirls his black arm, the forked lightning flings, And showers a deluge from his demon-wings. 2. 'SYLPHS! with light shafts YOU pierce the drowsy FOG, That lingering slumbers on the sedge-wove bog, With webbed feet o'er midnight meadows creeps, Or flings his hairy limbs on stagnant deeps. YOU meet CONTAGION issuing from afar, And dash the baleful conqueror from his car; When, Guest of DEATH! from charnel vaults he steals, And bathes in human gore his armed wheels. 'Thus when the PLAGUE, upborne on Belgian air, Look'd through the mist and shook his clotted hair, O'er shrinking nations steer'd malignant clouds, And rain'd destruction on the gasping crouds. The beauteous AEGLE felt the venom'd dart, Slow roll'd her eye, and feebly throbb'd her heart; Each fervid sigh seem'd shorter than the last, And starting Friendship shunn'd her, as she pass'd. -With weak unsteady step the fainting Maid Seeks the cold garden's solitary shade, Sinks on the pillowy moss her drooping head, And prints with lifeless limbs her leafy bed. -On wings of Love her plighted Swain pursues, Shades her from winds, and shelters her from dews, Extends on tapering poles the canvas roof, Spreads o'er the straw-wove matt the flaxen woof, Sweet buds and blossoms on her bolster strows, And binds his kerchief round her aching brows; Sooths with soft kiss, with tender accents charms, And clasps the bright Infection in his arms.With pale and languid smiles the grateful Fair Applauds his virtues, and rewards his care; Mourns with wet cheek her fair companions fled On timorous step, or number'd with the dead; Calls to its bosom all its scatter'd rays, And pours on THYRSIS the collected blaze; 12 Braves the chill night, caressing and caress'd, And folds her Hero-lover to her breast.Less bold, LEANDER at the dusky hour Eyed, as he swam, the far love-lighted tower; Breasted with struggling arms the tossing wave, And sunk benighted in the watery grave. Less bold, TOBIAS claim'd the nuptial bed, Where seven fond Lovers by a Fiend had bled; And drove, instructed by his Angel-Guide, The enamour'd Demon from the fatal bride.-SYLPHS! while your winnowing pinions fan'd the air, And shed gay visions o'er the sleeping pair; LOVE round their couch effused his rosy breath, And with his keener arrows conquer'd DEATH. IV. 1. 'You charm'd, indulgent SYLPHS! their learned toil, And crown'd with fame your TORRICELL, and BOYLE; Taught with sweet smiles, responsive to their prayer, The spring and pressure of the viewless air. -How up exhausted tubes bright currents flow Of liquid silver from the lake below, Weigh the long column of the incumbent skies, And with the changeful moment fall and rise. -How, as in brazen pumps the pistons move, The membrane-valve sustains the weight above; Stroke follows stroke, the gelid vapour falls, And misty dew-drops dim the crystal walls; Rare and more rare expands the fluid thin, And Silence dwells with Vacancy within.So in the mighty Void with grim delight Primeval Silence reign'd with ancient Night. 2. 'SYLPHS! your soft voices, whispering from the skies, Bade from low earth the bold MONGULFIER rise; Outstretch'd his buoyant ball with airy spring, And bore the Sage on levity of wing;Where were ye, SYLPHS! when on the ethereal main Young ROSIERE launch'd, and call'd your aid in vain? Fair mounts the light balloon, by Zephyr driven, Parts the thin clouds, and sails along the heaven; Higher and yet higher the expanding bubble flies, Lights with quick flash, and bursts amid the skies.Headlong He rushes through the affrighted air 13 With limbs distorted, and dishevel'd hair, Whirls round and round, the flying croud alarms, And DEATH receives him in his sable arms!So erst with melting wax and loosen'd strings Sunk hapless ICARUS on unfaithful wings; His scatter'd plumage danced upon the wave, And sorrowing Mermaids deck'd his watery grave; O'er his pale corse their pearly sea-flowers shed, And strew'd with crimson moss his marble bed; Struck in their coral towers the pausing bell, And wide in ocean toll'd his echoing knell. V. 'SYLPHS! YOU, retiring to sequester'd bowers, Where oft your PRIESTLEY woos your airy powers, On noiseless step or quivering pinion glide, As sits the Sage with Science by his side; To his charm'd eye in gay undress appear, Or pour your secrets on his raptured ear. How nitrous Gas from iron ingots driven Drinks with red lips the purest breath of heaven; How, while Conferva from its tender hair Gives in bright bubbles empyrean air; The crystal floods phlogistic ores calcine, And the pure ETHER marries with the MINE. 'So in Sicilia's ever-blooming shade When playful PROSERPINE from CERES stray'd, Led with unwary step her virgin trains O'er Etna's steeps, and Enna's golden plains; Pluck'd with fair hand the silver-blossom'd bower, And purpled mead,-herself a fairer flower; Sudden, unseen amid the twilight glade, Rush'd gloomy DIS, and seized the trembling maid.Her starting damsels sprung from mossy seats, Dropp'd from their gauzy laps the gather'd sweets, Clung round the struggling Nymph, with piercing cries, Pursued the chariot, and invoked the skies;Pleased as he grasps her in his iron arms, Frights with soft sighs, with tender words alarms, The wheels descending roll'd in smoky rings, Infernal Cupids flapp'd their demon wings; Earth with deep yawn received the Fair, amaz'd, And far in Night celestial Beauty blaz'd. 14 VI. 'Led by the Sage, Lo! Britain's sons shall guide Huge SEA-BALLOONS beneath the tossing tide; The diving castles, roof'd with spheric glass, Ribb'd with strong oak, and barr'd with bolts of brass, Buoy'd with pure air shall endless tracks pursue, And PRIESTLEY'S hand the vital flood renew.Then shall BRITANNIA rule the wealthy realms, Which Ocean's wide insatiate wave o'erwhelms; Confine in netted bowers his scaly flocks, Part his blue plains, and people all his rocks. Deep, in warm waves beneath the Line that roll, Beneath the shadowy ice-isles of the Pole, Onward, through bright meandering vales, afar, Obedient Sharks shall trail her sceptred car, With harness'd necks the pearly flood disturb, Stretch the silk rein, and champ the silver curb; Pleased round her triumph wondering Tritons play, And Seamaids hail her on the watery way. -Oft shall she weep beneath the crystal waves O'er shipwreck'd lovers weltering in their graves; Mingling in death the Brave and Good behold With slaves to glory, and with slaves to gold; Shrin'd in the deep shall DAY and SPALDING mourn, Each in his treacherous bell, sepulchral urn!Oft o'er thy lovely daughters, hapless PIERCE! Her sighs shall breathe, her sorrows dew their hearse.With brow upturn'd to Heaven, 'WE WILL NOT PART!' He cried, and clasp'd them to his aching heart,-Dash'd in dread conflict on the rocky grounds, Crash the mock'd masts, the staggering wreck rebounds; Through gaping seams the rushing deluge swims, Chills their pale bosoms, bathes their shuddering limbs, Climbs their white shoulders, buoys their streaming hair, And the last sea-shriek bellows in the air.Each with loud sobs her tender sire caress'd, And gasping strain'd him closer to her breast!-Stretch'd on one bier they sleep beneath the brine, And their white bones with ivory arms intwine! 'VII. SYLPHS OF NICE EAR! with beating wings you guide The fine vibrations of the aerial tide; 15 Join in sweet cadences the measured words, Or stretch and modulate the trembling cords. You strung to melody the Grecian lyre, Breathed the rapt song, and fan'd the thought of fire, Or brought in combinations, deep and clear, Immortal harmony to HANDEL'S ear.YOU with soft breath attune the vernal gale, When breezy evening broods the listening vale; Or wake the loud tumultuous sounds, that dwell In Echo's many-toned diurnal shell. YOU melt in dulcet chords, when Zephyr rings The Eolian Harp, and mingle all its strings; Or trill in air the soft symphonious chime, When rapt CECILIA lifts her eye sublime, Swell, as she breathes, her bosoms rising snow, O'er her white teeth in tuneful accents slow, Through her fair lips on whispering pinions move, And form the tender sighs, that kindle love! 'So playful LOVE on Ida's flowery sides With ribbon-rein the indignant Lion guides; Pleased on his brinded back the lyre he rings, And shakes delirious rapture from the strings; Slow as the pausing Monarch stalks along, Sheaths his retractile claws, and drinks the song; Soft Nymphs on timid step the triumph view, And listening Fawns with beating hoofs pursue; With pointed ears the alarmed forest starts, And Love and Music soften savage hearts. VIII. 'SYLPHS! YOUR bold hosts, when Heaven with justice dread Calls the red tempest round the guilty head, Fierce at his nod assume vindictive forms, And launch from airy cars the vollied storms.From Ashur's vales when proud SENACHERIB trod, Pour'd his swoln heart, defied the living GOD, Urged with incessant shouts his glittering powers; And JUDAH shook through all her massy towers; Round her sad altars press'd the prostrate crowd, Hosts beat their breasts, and suppliant chieftains bow'd; Loud shrieks of matrons thrill'd the troubled air, And trembling virgins rent their scatter'd hair; High in the midst the kneeling King adored, 16 Spread the blaspheming scroll before the Lord, Raised his pale hands, and breathed his pausing sighs, And fixed on Heaven his dim imploring eyes,'Oh! MIGHTY GOD! amidst thy Seraph-throng 'Who sit'st sublime, the Judge of Right and Wrong; 'Thine the wide earth, bright sun, and starry zone, 'That twinkling journey round thy golden throne; 'Thine is the crystal source of life and light, 'And thine the realms of Death's eternal night. 'Oh, bend thine ear, thy gracious eye incline, 'Lo! Ashur's King blasphemes thy holy shrine, 'Insults our offerings, and derides our vows,-'Oh! strike the diadem from his impious brows, 'Tear from his murderous hand the bloody rod, 'And teach the trembling nations, 'THOU ART GOD!'-SYLPHS! in what dread array with pennons broad Onward ye floated o'er the ethereal road, Call'd each dank steam the reeking marsh exhales, Contagious vapours, and volcanic gales, Gave the soft South with poisonous breath to blow, And rolled the dreadful whirlwind on the foe!Hark! o'er the camp the venom'd tempest sings, Man falls on Man, on buckler buckler rings; Groan answers groan, to anguish anguish yields, And DEATH'S loud accents shake the tented fields! -High rears the Fiend his grinning jaws, and wide Spans the pale nations with colossal stride, Waves his broad falchion with uplifted hand, And his vast shadow darkens all the land. IX. 1. 'Ethereal cohorts! Essences of Air! Make the green children of the Spring your care! Oh, SYLPHS! disclose in this inquiring age One GOLDEN SECRET to some favour'd sage; Grant the charm'd talisman, the chain, that binds, Or guides the changeful pinions of the winds! -No more shall hoary Boreas, issuing forth With Eurus, lead the tempests of the North; Rime the pale Dawn, or veil'd in flaky showers Chill the sweet bosoms of the smiling Hours. By whispering Auster waked shall Zephyr rise, Meet with soft kiss, and mingle in the skies, 17 Fan the gay floret, bend the yellow ear, And rock the uncurtain'd cradle of the year; Autumn and Spring in lively union blend, And from the skies the Golden Age descend. 2. 'Castled on ice, beneath the circling Bear, A vast CAMELION spits and swallows air; O'er twelve degrees his ribs gigantic bend, And many a league his leathern jaws extend; Half-fish, beneath, his scaly volutes spread, And vegetable plumage crests his head; Huge fields of air his wrinkled skin receives, From panting gills, wide lungs, and waving leaves; Then with dread throes subsides his bloated form, His shriek the thunder, and his sigh the storm. Oft high in heaven the hissing Demon wins His towering course, upborne on winnowing fins; Steers with expanded eye and gaping mouth, His mass enormous to the affrighted South; Spreads o'er the shuddering Line his shadowy limbs, And Frost and Famine follow as he swims.SYLPHS! round his cloud-built couch your bands array, And mould the Monster to your gentle sway; Charm with soft tones, with tender touches check, Bend to your golden yoke his willing neck, With silver curb his yielding teeth restrain, And give to KIRWAN'S hand the silken rein. -Pleased shall the Sage, the dragon-wings between, Bend o'er discordant climes his eye serene, With Lapland breezes cool Arabian vales, And call to Hindostan antarctic gales, Adorn with wreathed ears Kampschatca's brows, And scatter roses on Zealandic snows, Earth's wondering Zones the genial seasons share, And nations hail him 'MONARCH OF THE AIR.' X. 1. 'SYLPHS! as you hover on ethereal wing, Brood the green children of parturient Spring!Where in their bursting cells my Embryons rest, I charge you guard the vegetable nest; Count with nice eye the myriad SEEDS, that swell Each vaulted womb of husk, or pod, or shell; Feed with sweet juices, clothe with downy hair, 18 Or hang, inshrined, their little orbs in air. 'So, late descry'd by HERSCHEL'S piercing sight, Hang the bright squadrons of the twinkling Night; Ten thousand marshall'd stars, a silver zone, Effuse their blended lustres round her throne; Suns call to suns, in lucid clouds conspire, And light exterior skies with golden fire; Resistless rolls the illimitable sphere, And one great circle forms the unmeasured year. -Roll on, YE STARS! exult in youthful prime, Mark with bright curves the printless steps of Time; Near and more near your beamy cars approach, And lessening orbs on lessening orbs encroach;Flowers of the sky! ye too to age must yield, Frail as your silken sisters of the field! Star after star from Heaven's high arch shall rush, Suns sink on suns, and systems systems crush, Headlong, extinct, to one dark centre fall, And Death and Night and Chaos mingle all! -Till o'er the wreck, emerging from the storm, Immortal NATURE lifts her changeful form, Mounts from her funeral pyre on wings of flame, And soars and shines, another and the same. 2. 'Lo! on each SEED within its slender rind Life's golden threads in endless circles wind; Maze within maze the lucid webs are roll'd, And, as they burst, the living flame unfold. The pulpy acorn, ere it swells, contains The Oak's vast branches in its milky veins; Each ravel'd bud, fine film, and fibre-line Traced with nice pencil on the small design. The young Narcissus, in it's bulb compress'd, Cradles a second nestling on its breast; In whose fine arms a younger embryon lies, Folds its thin leaves, and shuts its floret-eyes; Grain within grain successive harvests dwell, And boundless forests slumber in a shell. -So yon grey precipice, and ivy'd towers, Long winding meads, and intermingled bowers, Green files of poplars, o'er the lake that bow, And glimmering wheel, which rolls and foams below, In one bright point with nice distinction lie 19 Plan'd on the moving tablet of the eye. -So, fold on fold, Earth's wavy plains extend, And, sphere in sphere, its hidden strata bend;Incumbent Spring her beamy plumes expands O'er restless oceans, and impatient lands, With genial lustres warms the mighty ball, And the GREAT SEED evolves, disclosing ALL; LIFE buds or breathes from Indus to the Poles, And the vast surface kindles, as it rolls! 3. 'Come, YE SOFT SYLPHS! who sport on Latian land, Come, sweet-lip'd Zephyr, and Favonius bland! Teach the fine SEED, instinct with life, to shoot On Earth's cold bosom its descending root; With Pith elastic stretch its rising stem, Part the twin Lobes, expand the throbbing Gem; Clasp in your airy arms the aspiring Plume, Fan with your balmy breath its kindling bloom, Each widening scale and bursting film unfold, Swell the green cup, and tint the flower with gold; While in bright veins the silvery Sap ascends, And refluent blood in milky eddies bends; While, spread in air, the leaves respiring play, Or drink the golden quintessence of day. -So from his shell on Delta's shower-less isle Bursts into life the Monster of the Nile; First in translucent lymph with cobweb-threads The Brain's fine floating tissue swells, and spreads; Nerve after nerve the glistening spine descends, The red Heart dances, the Aorta bends; Through each new gland the purple current glides, New veins meandering drink the refluent tides; Edge over edge expands the hardening scale, And sheaths his slimy skin in silver mail. -Erewhile, emerging from the brooding sand, With Tyger-paw He prints the brineless strand, High on the flood with speckled bosom swims, Helm'd with broad tail, and oar'd with giant limbs; Rolls his fierce eye-balls, clasps his iron claws, 20 And champs with gnashing teeth his massy jaws; Old Nilus sighs along his cane-crown'd shores, And swarthy Memphis trembles and adores. XI. 'Come, YE SOFT SYLPHS! who fan the Paphian groves, And bear on sportive wings the callow Loves; Call with sweet whisper, in each gale that blows, The slumbering Snow-drop from her long repose; Charm the pale Primrose from her clay-cold bed, Unveil the bashful Violet's tremulous head; While from her bud the playful Tulip breaks, And young Carnations peep with blushing cheeks; Bid the closed Petals from nocturnal cold The virgin Style in silken curtains fold, Shake into viewless air the morning dews, And wave in light their iridescent hues; While from on high the bursting Anthers trust To the mild breezes their prolific dust; Or bend in rapture o'er the central Fair, Love out their hour, and leave their lives in air. So in his silken sepulchre the Worm, Warm'd with new life, unfolds his larva-form; Erewhile aloft in wanton circles moves, And woos on Hymen-wings his velvet loves. XII. 1. 'If prouder branches with exuberance rude Point their green gems, their barren shoots protrude; Wound them, ye SYLPHS! with little knives, or bind A wiry ringlet round the swelling rind; Bisect with chissel fine the root below, Or bend to earth the inhospitable bough. So shall each germ with new prolific power Delay the leaf-bud, and expand the flower; Closed in the Style the tender pith shall end, 21 The lengthening Wood in circling Stamens bend; The smoother Rind its soft embroidery spread In vaulted Petals o'er their fertile bed; While the rough Bark, in circling mazes roll'd, Forms the green Cup with many a wrinkled fold; And each small bud-scale spreads its foliage hard, Firm round the callow germ, a Floral Guard 2. 'Where cruder juices swell the leafy vein, Stint the young germ, the tender blossom stain; On each lop'd shoot a softer scion bind, Pith press'd to pith, and rind applied to rind, So shall the trunk with loftier crest ascend, And wide in air its happier arms extend; Nurse the new buds, admire the leaves unknown, And blushing bend with fruitage not its own. 'Thus when in holy triumph Aaron trod, And offer'd on the shrine his mystic rod; First a new bark its silken tissue weaves, New buds emerging widen into leaves; Fair fruits protrude, enascent flowers expand, And blush and tremble round the living wand. XIII. 1. 'SYLPHS! on each Oak-bud wound the wormy galls, With pigmy spears, or crush the venom'd balls; Fright the green Locust from his foamy bed, Unweave the Caterpillar's gluey thread; Chase the fierce Earwig, scare the bloated Toad, Arrest the snail upon his slimy road; Arm with sharp thorns the Sweet-brier's tender wood, And dash the Cynips from her damask bud; Steep in ambrosial dews the Woodbine's bells, And drive the Night-moth from her honey'd cells. So where the Humming-bird in Chili's bowers On murmuring pinions robs the pendent flowers; 22 Seeks, where fine pores their dulcet balm distill, And sucks the treasure with proboscis-bill; Fair CYPREPEDIA with successful guile Knits her smooth brow, extinguishes her smile; A Spiders bloated paunch and jointed arms Hide her fine form, and mask her blushing charms; In ambush sly the mimic warrior lies, And on quick wing the panting plunderer flies. 2. 'Shield the young Harvest from devouring blight, The Smut's dark poison, and the Mildew white; Deep-rooted Mould, and Ergot's horn uncouth, And break the Canker's desolating tooth. First in one point the festering wound confin'd Mines unperceived beneath the shrivel'd rin'd; Then climbs the branches with increasing strength, Spreads as they spread, and lengthens with their length; -Thus the slight wound ingraved on glass unneal'd Runs in white lines along the lucid field; Crack follows crack, to laws elastic just, And the frail fabric shivers into dust. XIV. 1. 'SYLPHS! if with morn destructive Eurus springs, O, clasp the Harebel with your velvet wings; Screen with thick leaves the Jasmine as it blows, And shake the white rime from the shuddering Rose; Whilst Amaryllis turns with graceful ease Her blushing beauties, and eludes the breeze.SYLPHS! if at noon the Fritillary droops, With drops nectareous hang her nodding cups; Thin clouds of Gossamer in air display, And hide the vale's chaste Lily from the ray; Whilst Erythrina o'er her tender flower Bends all her leaves, and braves the sultry hour;Shield, when cold Hesper sheds his dewy light, Mimosa's soft sensations from the night; Fold her thin foilage, close her timid flowers, And with ambrosial slumbers guard her bowers; O'er each warm wall while Cerea flings her arms, And wastes on night's dull eye a blaze of charms. 2. Round her tall Elm with dewy fingers twine The gadding tendrils of the adventurous Vine; From arm to arm in gay festoons suspend 23 Her fragrant flowers, her graceful foliage bend; Swell with sweet juice her vermil orbs, and feed Shrined in transparent pulp her pearly seed; Hang round the Orange all her silver bells, And guard her fragrance with Hesperian spells; Bud after bud her polish'd leaves unfold, And load her branches with successive gold. So the learn'd Alchemist exulting sees Rise in his bright matrass DIANA'S trees; Drop after drop, with just delay he pours The red-fumed acid on Potosi's ores; With sudden flash the fierce bullitions rise, And wide in air the gas phlogistic flies; Slow shoot, at length, in many a brilliant mass Metallic roots across the netted glass; Branch after branch extend their silver stems, Bud into gold, and blossoms into gems. So sits enthron'd in vegetable pride Imperial KEW by Thames's glittering side; Obedient sails from realms unfurrow'd bring For her the unnam'd progeny of spring; Attendant Nymphs her dulcet mandates hear, And nurse in fostering arms the tender year, Plant the young bulb, inhume the living seed, Prop the weak stem, the erring tendril lead; Or fan in glass-built fanes the stranger flowers With milder gales, and steep with warmer showers. Delighted Thames through tropic umbrage glides, And flowers antarctic, bending o'er his tides; Drinks the new tints, the sweets unknown inhales, And calls the sons of science to his vales. In one bright point admiring Nature eyes The fruits and foliage of discordant skies, Twines the gay floret with the fragrant bough, And bends the wreath round GEORGE'S royal brow. -Sometimes retiring, from the public weal One tranquil hour the ROYAL PARTNERS steal; Through glades exotic pass with step sublime, Or mark the growths of Britain's happier clime; With beauty blossom'd, and with virtue blaz'd, Mark the fair Scions, that themselves have rais'd; Sweet blooms the Rose, the towering Oak expands, 24 The Grace and Guard of Britain's golden lands. XV. SYLPHS! who, round earth on purple pinions borne, Attend the radiant chariot of the morn; Lead the gay hours along the ethereal hight, And on each dun meridian shower the light; SYLPHS! who from realms of equatorial day To climes, that shudder in the polar ray, From zone to zone pursue on shifting wing, The bright perennial journey of the spring; Bring my rich Balms from Mecca's hallow'd glades, Sweet flowers, that glitter in Arabia's shades; Fruits, whose fair forms in bright succession glow Gilding the Banks of Arno, or of Po; Each leaf, whose fragrant steam with ruby lip Gay China's nymphs from pictur'd vases sip; Each spicy rind, which sultry India boasts, Scenting the night-air round her breezy coasts; Roots whose bold stems in bleak Siberia blow, And gem with many a tint the eternal snow; Barks, whose broad umbrage high in ether waves O'er Ande's steeps, and hides his golden caves; -And, where yon oak extends his dusky shoots Wide o'er the rill, that bubbles from his roots; Beneath whose arms, protected from the storm A turf-built altar rears it's rustic form; SYLPHS! with religious hands fresh garlands twine, And deck with lavish pomp HYGEIA'S shrine. 'Call with loud voice the Sisterhood, that dwell On floating cloud, wide wave, or bubbling well; Stamp with charm'd foot, convoke the alarmed Gnomes From golden beds, and adamantine domes; Each from her sphere with beckoning arm invite, Curl'd with red flame, the Vestal Forms of light. Close all your spotted wings, in lucid ranks Press with your bending knees the crowded banks, Cross your meek arms, incline your wreathed brows, And win the Goddess with unwearied vows. 'Oh, wave, HYGEIA! o'er BRITANNIA'S throne Thy serpent-wand, and mark it for thy own; Lead round her breezy coasts thy guardian trains, Her nodding forests, and her waving plains; 25 Shed o'er her peopled realms thy beamy smile, And with thy airy temple crown her isle!' The GODDESS ceased,-and calling from afar The wandering Zephyrs, joins them to her car; Mounts with light bound, and graceful, as she bends, Whirls the long lash, the flexile rein extends; On whispering wheels the silver axle slides, Climbs into air, and cleaves the crystal tides; Burst from its pearly chains, her amber hair Streams o'er her ivory shoulders, buoy'd in air; Swells her white veil, with ruby clasp confined Round her fair brow, and undulates behind; The lessening coursers rise in spiral rings, Pierce the slow-sailing clouds, and stretch their shadowy wings. ~ Erasmus Darwin

317:The King's Tragedy February 1437 James I. Of Scots.—20th I Catherine am a Douglas born, A name to all Scots dear; And Kate Barlass they've called me now Through many a waning year. This old arm's withered now. 'Twas once Most deft 'mong maidens all To rein the steed, to wing the shaft, To smite the palm-play ball. In hall adown the close-linked dance It has shone most white and fair; It has been the rest for a true lord's head, And many a sweet babe's nursing-bed, And the bar to a King's chambère. Aye, lasses, draw round Kate Barlass, And hark with bated breath How good King James, King Robert's son, Was foully done to death. Through all the days of his gallant youth The princely James was pent, By his friends at first and then by his foes, In long imprisonment. For the elder Prince, the kingdom's heir, By treason's murderous brood Was slain; and the father quaked for the child With the royal mortal blood. I' the Bass Rock fort, by his father's care, Was his childhood's life assured; And Henry the subtle Bolingbroke, Proud England's King, 'neath the southron yoke His youth for long years immured. Yet in all things meet for a kingly man Himself did he approve; And the nightingale through his prison-wall Taught him both lore and love. For once, when the bird's song drew him close To the opened window-pane, In her bower beneath a lady stood, 431 A light of life to his sorrowful mood, Like a lily amid the rain. And for her sake, to the sweet bird's note, He framed a sweeter Song, More sweet than ever a poet's heart Gave yet to the English tongue. She was a lady of royal blood; And when, past sorrow and teen, He stood where still through his crownless years His Scotish realm had been, At Scone were the happy lovers crowned, A heart-wed King and Queen. But the bird may fall from the bough of youth, And song be turned to moan, And Love's storm-cloud be the shadow of Hate, When the tempest-waves of a troubled State Are beating against a throne. Yet well they loved; and the god of Love, Whom well the King had sung, Might find on the earth no truer hearts His lowliest swains among. From the days when first she rode abroad With Scotish maids in her train, I Catherine Douglas won the trust Of my mistress sweet Queen Jane. And oft she sighed, “To be born a King!” And oft along the way When she saw the homely lovers pass She has said, “Alack the day!” Years waned,—the loving and toiling years: Till England's wrong renewed Drove James, by outrage cast on his crown, To the open field of feud. 'Twas when the King and his host were met At the leaguer of Roxbro' hold, The Queen o' the sudden sought his camp With a tale of dread to be told. And she showed him a secret letter writ That spoke of treasonous strife, And how a band of his noblest lords Were sworn to take his life. “And it may be here or it may be there, 432 In the camp or the court,” she said: “But for my sake come to your people's arms And guard your royal head.” Quoth he, “'Tis the fifteenth day of the siege, And the castle's nigh to yield.” “O face your foes on your throne,” she cried, “And show the power you wield; And under your Scotish people's love You shall sit as under your shield.” At the fair Queen's side I stood that day When he bade them raise the siege, And back to his Court he sped to know How the lords would meet their Liege. But when he summoned his Parliament, The louring brows hung round, Like clouds that circle the mountain-head Ere the first low thunders sound. For he had tamed the nobles' lust And curbed their power and pride, And reached out an arm to right the poor Through Scotland far and wide; And many a lordly wrong-doer By the headsman's axe had died. 'Twas then upspoke Sir Robert Græme, The bold o'ermastering man:— “O King, in the name of your Three Estates I set you under their ban! “For, as your lords made oath to you Of service and fealty, Even in like wise you pledged your oath Their faithful sire to be:— “Yet all we here that are nobly sprung Have mourned dear kith and kin Since first for the Scotish Barons' curse Did your bloody rule begin.” With that he laid his hands on his King:— “Is this not so, my lords?” But of all who had sworn to league with him Not one spake back to his words. Quoth the King:—“Thou speak'st but for one Estate, Nor doth it avow thy gage. Let my liege lords hale this traitor hence!” 433 The Græme fired dark with rage:— “Who works for lesser men than himself, He earns but a witless wage!” But soon from the dungeon where he lay He won by privy plots, And forth he fled with a price on his head To the country of the Wild Scots. And word there came from Sir Robert Græme To the King at Edinbro':— “No Liege of mine thou art; but I see From this day forth alone in thee God's creature, my mortal foe. “Through thee are my wife and children lost, My heritage and lands; And when my God shall show me a way, Thyself my mortal foe will I slay With these my proper hands.” Against the coming of Christmastide That year the King bade call I' the Black Friars' Charterhouse of Perth A solemn festival. And we of his household rode with him In a close-ranked company; But not till the sun had sunk from his throne Did we reach the Scotish Sea. That eve was clenched for a boding storm, 'Neath a toilsome moon half seen; The cloud stooped low and the surf rose high; And where there was a line of the sky, Wild wings loomed dark between. And on a rock of the black beach-side, By the veiled moon dimly lit, There was something seemed to heave with life As the King drew nigh to it. And was it only the tossing furze Or brake of the waste sea-wold? Or was it an eagle bent to the blast? When near we came, we knew it at last For a woman tattered and old. But it seemed as though by a fire within Her writhen limbs were wrung; And as soon as the King was close to her, 434 She stood up gaunt and strong. 'Twas then the moon sailed clear of the rack On high in her hollow dome; And still as aloft with hoary crest Each clamorous wave rang home, Like fire in snow the moonlight blazed Amid the champing foam. And the woman held his eyes with her eyes:— “O King, thou art come at last; But thy wraith has haunted the Scotish Sea To my sight for four years past. “Four years it is since first I met, 'Twixt the Duchray and the Dhu, A shape whose feet clung close in a shroud, And that shape for thine I knew. “A year again, and on Inchkeith Isle I saw thee pass in the breeze, With the cerecloth risen above thy feet And wound about thy knees. “And yet a year, in the Links of Forth, As a wanderer without rest, Thou cam'st with both thine arms i' the shroud That clung high up thy breast. “And in this hour I find thee here, And well mine eyes may note That the winding-sheet hath passed thy breast And risen around thy throat. “And when I meet thee again, O King, That of death hast such sore drouth,— Except thou turn again on this shore,— The winding-sheet shall have moved once more And covered thine eyes and mouth. “O King, whom poor men bless for their King, Of thy fate be not so fain; But these my words for God's message take, And turn thy steed, O King, for her sake Who rides beside thy rein!” While the woman spoke, the King's horse reared As if it would breast the sea, And the Queen turned pale as she heard on the gale The voice die dolorously. When the woman ceased, the steed was still, 435 But the King gazed on her yet, And in silence save for the wail of the sea His eyes and her eyes met. At last he said:—“God's ways are His own; Man is but shadow and dust. Last night I prayed by His altar-stone; To-night I wend to the Feast of His Son; And in Him I set my trust. “I have held my people in sacred charge, And have not feared the sting Of proud men's hate,—to His will resign'd Who has but one same death for a hind And one same death for a King. “And if God in His wisdom have brought close The day when I must die, That day by water or fire or air My feet shall fall in the destined snare Wherever my road may lie. “What man can say but the Fiend hath set Thy sorcery on my path, My heart with the fear of death to fill, And turn me against God's very will To sink in His burning wrath?” The woman stood as the train rode past, And moved nor limb nor eye; And when we were shipped, we saw her there Still standing against the sky. As the ship made way, the moon once more Sank slow in her rising pall; And I thought of the shrouded wraith of the King, And I said, “The Heavens know all.” And now, ye lasses, must ye hear How my name is Kate Barlass:— But a little thing, when all the tale Is told of the weary mass Of crime and woe which in Scotland's realm God's will let come to pass. 'Twas in the Charterhouse of Perth That the King and all his Court Were met, the Christmas Feast being done, For solace and disport. 'Twas a wind-wild eve in February, 436 And against the casement-pane The branches smote like summoning hands, And muttered the driving rain. And when the wind swooped over the lift And made the whole heaven frown, It seemed a grip was laid on the walls To tug the housetop down. And the Queen was there, more stately fair Than a lily in garden set; And the King was loth to stir from her side; For as on the day when she was his bride, Even so he loved her yet. And the Earl of Athole, the King's false friend, Sat with him at the board; And Robert Stuart the chamberlain Who had sold his sovereign Lord. Yet the traitor Christopher Chaumber there Would fain have told him all, And vainly four times that night he strove To reach the King through the hall. But the wine is bright at the goblet's brim Though the poison lurk beneath; And the apples still are red on the tree Within whose shade may the adder be That shall turn thy life to death. There was a knight of the King's fast friends Whom he called the King of Love; And to such bright cheer and courtesy That name might best behove. And the King and Queen both loved him well For his gentle knightliness; And with him the King, as that eve wore on, Was playing at the chess. And the King said, (for he thought to jest And soothe the Queen thereby — “In a book 'tis writ that this same year A King shall in Scotland die. “And I have pondered the matter o'er, And this have I found, Sir Hugh,— There are but two Kings on Scotish ground, And those Kings are I and you. “And I have a wife and a newborn heir, 437 And you are yourself alone; So stand you stark at my side with me To guard our double throne. “For here sit I and my wife and child, As well your heart shall approve, In full surrender and soothfastness, Beneath your Kingdom of Love.” And the Knight laughed, and the Queen too smiled; But I knew her heavy thought, And I strove to find in the good King's jest What cheer might thence be wrought. And I said, “My Liege, for the Queen's dear love Now sing the song that of old You made, when a captive Prince you lay, And the nightingale sang sweet on the spray, In Windsor's castle-hold.” Then he smiled the smile I knew so well When he thought to please the Queen; The smile which under all bitter frowns Of fate that rose between For ever dwelt at the poet's heart Like the bird of love unseen. And he kissed her hand and took his harp, And the music sweetly rang; And when the song burst forth, it seemed 'Twas the nightingale that sang. “Worship, ye lovers, on this May: Of bliss your kalends are begun: Sing with us, Away, Winter, away! Come, Summer, the sweet season and sun! Awake for shame,—your heaven is won,— And amorously your heads lift all: Thank Love, that you to his grace doth call!” But when he bent to the Queen, and sang The speech whose praise was hers, It seemed his voice was the voice of the Spring And the voice of the bygone years. “The fairest and the freshest flower That ever I saw before that hour, The which o' the sudden made to start The blood of my body to my heart. Ah sweet, are ye a worldly creature 438 Or heavenly thing in form of nature?” And the song was long, and richly stored With wonder and beauteous things; And the harp was tuned to every change Of minstrel ministerings; But when he spoke of the Queen at the last, Its strings were his own heart-strings. “Unworthy but only of her grace, Upon Love's rock that's easy and sure, In guerdon of all my lovè's space She took me her humble creäture. Thus fell my blissful aventure In youth of love that from day to day Flowereth aye new, and further I say. “To reckon all the circumstance As it happed when lessen gan my sore, Of my rancour and woful chance, It were too long,—I have done therefor. And of this flower I say no more, But unto my help her heart hath tended And even from death her man defended.” “Aye, even from death,” to myself I said; For I thought of the day when she Had borne him the news, at Roxbro' siege, Of the fell confederacy. But Death even then took aim as he sang With an arrow deadly bright; And the grinning skull lurked grimly aloof, And the wings were spread far over the roof More dark than the winter night. Yet truly along the amorous song Of Love's high pomp and state, There were words of Fortune's trackless doom And the dreadful face of Fate. And oft have I heard again in dreams The voice of dire appeal In which the King then sang of the pit That is under Fortune's wheel. And under the wheel beheld I there An ugly Pit as deep as hell, That to behold I quaked for fear: And this I heard, that who therein fell 439 Came no more up, tidings to tell: Whereat, astound of the fearful sight, I wist not what to do for fright.” And oft has my thought called up again These words of the changeful song:— “Wist thou thy pain and thy travàil To come, well might'st thou weep and wail!” And our wail, O God! is long. But the song's end was all of his love; And well his heart was grac'd With her smiling lips and her tear-bright eyes As his arm went round her waist. And on the swell of her long fair throat Close clung the necklet-chain As he bent her pearl-tir'd head aside, And in the warmth of his love and pride He kissed her lips full fain. And her true face was a rosy red, The very red of the rose That, couched on the happy garden-bed, In the summer sunlight glows. And all the wondrous things of love That sang so sweet through the song Were in the look that met in their eyes, And the look was deep and long. 'Twas then a knock came at the outer gate, And the usher sought the King. “The woman you met by the Scotish Sea, My Liege, would tell you a thing; And she says that her present need for speech Will bear no gainsaying.” And the King said: “The hour is late; To-morrow will serve, I ween.” Then he charged the usher strictly, and said: “No word of this to the Queen.” But the usher came again to the King. “Shall I call her back?” quoth he: “For as she went on her way, she cried, ‘Woe! Woe! then the thing must be!’” And the King paused, but he did not speak. Then he called for the Voidee-cup: And as we heard the twelfth hour strike, 440 There by true lips and false lips alike Was the draught of trust drained up. So with reverence meet to King and Queen, To bed went all from the board; And the last to leave of the courtly train Was Robert Stuart the chamberlain Who had sold his sovereign lord. And all the locks of the chamber-door Had the traitor riven and brast; And that Fate might win sure way from afar, He had drawn out every bolt and bar That made the entrance fast. And now at midnight he stole his way To the moat of the outer wall, And laid strong hurdles closely across Where the traitors' tread should fall. But we that were the Queen's bower-maids Alone were left behind; And with heed we drew the curtains close Against the winter wind. And now that all was still through the hall, More clearly we heard the rain That clamoured ever against the glass And the boughs that beat on the pane. But the fire was bright in the ingle-nook, And through empty space around The shadows cast on the arras'd wall 'Mid the pictured kings stood sudden and tall Like spectres sprung from the ground. And the bed was dight in a deep alcove; And as he stood by the fire The King was still in talk with the Queen While he doffed his goodly attire. And the song had brought the image back Of many a bygone year; And many a loving word they said With hand in hand and head laid to head; And none of us went anear. But Love was weeping outside the house, A child in the piteous rain; And as he watched the arrow of Death, He wailed for his own shafts close in the sheath 441 That never should fly again. And now beneath the window arose A wild voice suddenly: And the King reared straight, but the Queen fell back As for bitter dule to dree; And all of us knew the woman's voice Who spoke by the Scotish Sea. “O King,” she cried, “in an evil hour They drove me from thy gate; And yet my voice must rise to thine ears; But alas! it comes too late! “Last night at mid-watch, by Aberdour, When the moon was dead in the skies, O King, in a death-light of thine own I saw thy shape arise. “And in full season, as erst I said, The doom had gained its growth; And the shroud had risen above thy neck And covered thine eyes and mouth. “And no moon woke, but the pale dawn broke, And still thy soul stood there; And I thought its silence cried to my soul As the first rays crowned its hair. “Since then have I journeyed fast and fain In very despite of Fate, Lest Hope might still be found in God's will: But they drove me from thy gate. “For every man on God's ground, O King, His death grows up from his birth In a shadow-plant perpetually; And thine towers high, a black yew-tree, O'er the Charterhouse of Perth!” That room was built far out from the house; And none but we in the room Might hear the voice that rose beneath, Nor the tread of the coming doom. For now there came a torchlight-glare, And a clang of arms there came; And not a soul in that space but thought Of the foe Sir Robert Græme. Yea, from the country of the Wild Scots, O'er mountain, valley, and glen, 442 He had brought with him in murderous league Three hundred armèd men. The King knew all in an instant's flash; And like a King did he stand; But there was no armour in all the room, Nor weapon lay to his hand. And all we women flew to the door And thought to have made it fast; But the bolts were gone and the bars were gone And the locks were riven and brast. And he caught the pale pale Queen in his arms As the iron footsteps fell,— Then loosed her, standing alone, and said, “Our bliss was our farewell!” And 'twixt his lips he murmured a prayer, And he crossed his brow and breast; And proudly in royal hardihood Even so with folded arms he stood,— The prize of the bloody quest. Then on me leaped the Queen like a deer:— “O Catherine, help!” she cried. And low at his feet we clasped his knees Together side by side. “Oh! even a King, for his people's sake, From treasonous death must hide!” “For her sake most!” I cried, and I marked The pang that my words could wring. And the iron tongs from the chimney-nook I snatched and held to the king:— “Wrench up the plank! and the vault beneath Shall yield safe harbouring.” With brows low-bent, from my eager hand The heavy heft did he take; And the plank at his feet he wrenched and tore; And as he frowned through the open floor, Again I said, “For her sake!” Then he cried to the Queen, “God's will be done!” For her hands were clasped in prayer. And down he sprang to the inner crypt; And straight we closed the plank he had ripp'd And toiled to smooth it fair. (Alas! in that vault a gap once was 443 Wherethro' the King might have fled: But three days since close-walled had it been By his will; for the ball would roll therein When without at the palm he play'd.) Then the Queen cried, “Catherine, keep the door, And I to this will suffice!” At her word I rose all dazed to my feet, And my heart was fire and ice. And louder ever the voices grew, And the tramp of men in mail; Until to my brain it seemed to be As though I tossed on a ship at sea In the teeth of a crashing gale. Then back I flew to the rest; and hard We strove with sinews knit To force the table against the door; But we might not compass it. Then my wild gaze sped far down the hall To the place of the hearthstone-sill; And the Queen bent ever above the floor, For the plank was rising still. And now the rush was heard on the stair, And “God, what help?” was our cry. And was I frenzied or was I bold? I looked at each empty stanchion-hold, And no bar but my arm had I! Like iron felt my arm, as through The staple I made it pass:— Alack! it was flesh and bone—no more! 'Twas Catherine Douglas sprang to the door, But I fell back Kate Barlass. With that they all thronged into the hall, Half dim to my failing ken; And the space that was but a void before Was a crowd of wrathful men. Behind the door I had fall'n and lay, Yet my sense was wildly aware, And for all the pain of my shattered arm I never fainted there. Even as I fell, my eyes were cast Where the King leaped down to the pit; And lo! the plank was smooth in its place, 444 And the Queen stood far from it. And under the litters and through the bed And within the presses all The traitors sought for the King, and pierced The arras around the wall. And through the chamber they ramped and stormed Like lions loose in the lair, And scarce could trust to their very eyes,— For behold! no King was there. Then one of them seized the Queen, and cried,— “Now tell us, where is thy lord?” And he held the sharp point over her heart: She drooped not her eyes nor did she start, But she answered never a word. Then the sword half pierced the true true breast: But it was the Græme's own son Cried, “This is a woman,—we seek a man!” And away from her girdle-zone He struck the point of the murderous steel; And that foul deed was not done. And forth flowed all the throng like a sea And 'twas empty space once more; And my eyes sought out the wounded Queen As I lay behind the door. And I said: “Dear Lady, leave me here, For I cannot help you now: But fly while you may, and none shall reck Of my place here lying low.” And she said, “My Catherine, God help thee!” Then she looked to the distant floor, And clasping her hands, “O God help him,” She sobbed, “for we can no more!” But God He knows what help may mean, If it mean to live or to die; And what sore sorrow and mighty moan On earth it may cost ere yet a throne Be filled in His house on high. And now the ladies fled with the Queen; And through the open door The night-wind wailed round the empty room And the rushes shook on the floor. And the bed drooped low in the dark recess 445 Whence the arras was rent away; And the firelight still shone over the space Where our hidden secret lay. And the rain had ceased, and the moonbeams lit The window high in the wall,— Bright beams that on the plank that I knew Through the painted pane did fall, And gleamed with the splendour of Scotland's crown And shield armorial. But then a great wind swept up the skies And the climbing moon fell back; And the royal blazon fled from the floor, And nought remained on its track; And high in the darkened window-pane The shield and the crown were black. And what I say next I partly saw And partly I heard in sooth, And partly since from the murderers' lips The torture wrung the truth. For now again came the armèd tread, And fast through the hall it fell; But the throng was less; and ere I saw, By the voice without I could tell That Robert Stuart had come with them Who knew that chamber well. And over the space the Græme strode dark With his mantle round him flung; And in his eye was a flaming light But not a word on his tongue. And Stuart held a torch to the floor, And he found the thing he sought; And they slashed the plank away with their swords; And O God! I fainted not! And the traitor held his torch in the gap, All smoking and smouldering; And through the vapour and fire, beneath In the dark crypt's narrow ring, With a shout that pealed to the room's high roof They saw their naked King. Half naked he stood, but stood as one Who yet could do and dare: With the crown, the King was stript away,— 446 The Knight was 'reft of his battle-array,— But still the Man was there. From the rout then stepped a villain forth,— Sir John Hall was his name; With a knife unsheathed he leapt to the vault Beneath the torchlight-flame. Of his person and stature was the King A man right manly strong, And mightily by the shoulder-blades His foe to his feet he flung. Then the traitor's brother, Sir Thomas Hall, Sprang down to work his worst; And the King caught the second man by the neck And flung him above the first. And he smote and trampled them under him; And a long month thence they bare All black their throats with the grip of his hands When the hangman's hand came there. And sore he strove to have had their knives, But the sharp blades gashed his hands. Oh James! so armed, thou hadst battled there Till help had come of thy bands; And oh! once more thou hadst held our throne And ruled thy Scotish lands! But while the King o'er his foes still raged With a heart that nought could tame, Another man sprang down to the crypt; And with his sword in his hand hard-gripp'd, There stood Sir Robert Græme. (Now shame on the recreant traitor's heart Who durst not face his King Till the body unarmed was wearied out With two-fold combating! Ah! well might the people sing and say, As oft ye have heard aright:— “O Robert Græme, O Robert Græme, Who slew our King, God give thee shame!” For he slew him not as a knight.) And the naked King turned round at bay, But his strength had passed the goal, And he could but gasp:—“Mine hour is come; But oh! to succour thine own soul's doom, 447 Let a priest now shrive my soul!” And the traitor looked on the King's spent strength, And said:—“Have I kept my word?— Yea, King, the mortal pledge that I gave? No black friar's shrift thy soul shall have, But the shrift of this red sword!” With that he smote his King through the breast; And all they three in that pen Fell on him and stabbed and stabbed him there Like merciless murderous men. Yet seemed it now that Sir Robert Græme, Ere the King's last breath was o'er, Turned sick at heart with the deadly sight And would have done no more. But a cry came from the troop above:— “If him thou do not slay, The price of his life that thou dost spare Thy forfeit life shall pay!” O God! what more did I hear or see, Or how should I tell the rest? But there at length our King lay slain With sixteen wounds in his breast. O God! and now did a bell boom forth, And the murderers turned and fled;— Too late, too late, O God, did it sound!— And I heard the true men mustering round, And the cries and the coming tread. But ere they came, to the black death-gap Somewise did I creep and steal; And lo! or ever I swooned away, Through the dusk I saw where the white face lay In the Pit of Fortune's Wheel. And now, ye Scotish maids who have heard Dread things of the days grown old,— Even at the last, of true Queen Jane May somewhat yet be told, And how she dealt for her dear lord's sake Dire vengeance manifold. 'Twas in the Charterhouse of Perth, In the fair-lit Death-chapelle, That the slain King's corpse on bier was laid With chaunt and requiem-knell. 448 And all with royal wealth of balm Was the body purified; And none could trace on the brow and lips The death that he had died. In his robes of state he lay asleep With orb and sceptre in hand; And by the crown he wore on his throne Was his kingly forehead spann'd. And, girls, 'twas a sweet sad thing to see How the curling golden hair, As in the day of the poet's youth, From the King's crown clustered there. And if all had come to pass in the brain That throbbed beneath those curls, Then Scots had said in the days to come That this their soil was a different home And a different Scotland, girls! And the Queen sat by him night and day, And oft she knelt in prayer, All wan and pale in the widow's veil That shrouded her shining hair. And I had got good help of my hurt: And only to me some sign She made; and save the priests that were there, No face would she see but mine. And the month of March wore on apace; And now fresh couriers fared Still from the country of the Wild Scots With news of the traitors snared. And still as I told her day by day, Her pallor changed to sight, And the frost grew to a furnace-flame That burnt her visage white. And evermore as I brought her word, She bent to her dead King James, And in the cold ear with fire-drawn breath She spoke the traitors' names. But when the name of Sir Robert Græme Was the one she had to give, I ran to hold her up from the floor; For the froth was on her lips, and sore I feared that she could not live. 449 And the month of March wore nigh to its end, And still was the death-pall spread; For she would not bury her slaughtered lord Till his slayers all were dead. And now of their dooms dread tidings came, And of torments fierce and dire; And nought she spake,—she had ceased to speak,— But her eyes were a soul on fire. But when I told her the bitter end Of the stern and just award, She leaned o'er the bier, and thrice three times She kissed the lips of her lord. And then she said,—“My King, they are dead!” And she knelt on the chapel-floor, And whispered low with a strange proud smile,— “James, James, they suffered more!” Last she stood up to her queenly height, But she shook like an autumn leaf, As though the fire wherein she burned Then left her body, and all were turned To winter of life-long grief. And “O James!” she said,—“My James!” she said,— “Alas for the woful thing, That a poet true and a friend of man, In desperate days of bale and ban, Should needs be born a King!” ~ Dante Gabriel Rossetti

318: Book II: The Book of the Statesman Now from his cycle sleepless and vast round the dance of the earth-globe Gold Hyperion rose in the wake of the dawn like the eyeball Flaming of God revealed by his uplifted luminous eyelid. Troy he beheld and he viewed the transient labour of mortals. All her marble beauty and pomp were laid bare to the heavens. Sunlight streamed into Ilion waking the voice of her gardens, Amorous seized on her ways, lived glad in her plains and her pastures, Kissed her leaves into brightness of green. As a lover the last time Yearns to the beauty desired that again shall not wake to his kisses, So over Ilion doomed leaned the yearning immense of the sunrise. She like a wordless marble memory dreaming for ever Lifted the gaze of her perishable immortality sunwards. All her human past aspired in the clearness eternal, Temples of Phryx and Dardanus touched with the gold of the morning, Columns triumphant of Ilus, domes of their greatness enamoured, Stones that intended to live; and her citadel climbed up to heaven White like the soul of the Titan Laomedon claiming his kingdoms, Watched with alarm by the gods as he came. Her bosom maternal Thrilled to the steps of her sons and a murmur began in her high-roads. Life renewed its ways which death and sleep cannot alter, Life that pursuing her boundless march to a goal which we know not, Ever her own law obeys, not our hopes, who are slaves of her heart-beats. Then as now men walked in the round which the gods have decreed them Eagerly turning their eyes to the lure and the tool and the labour. Chained is their gaze to the span in front, to the gulfs they are blinded Meant for their steps. The seller opened his shop and the craftsman Bent oer his instruments handling the work he never would finish, Busy as if their lives were for ever, today in its evening Sure of tomorrow. The hammers clanged and the voice of the markets Waking desired its daily rumour. Nor only the craftsman, Only the hopes of the earth, but the hearts of her votaries kneeling Came to her marble shrines and upraised to our helpers eternal Missioned the prayer and the hymn or silent, subtly adoring Ventured upwards in incense. Loud too the clash of the cymbals Filled all the temples of Troy with the cry of our souls to the azure. Prayers breathed in vain and a cry that fell back with Fate for its answer! Children laughed in her doorways; joyous they played, by their mothers Smiled on still, but their tender bodies unknowing awaited Grecian spearpoints sharpened by Fate for their unripe bosoms, Tasks of the slave in Greece. Like bees round their honey-filled dwellings Murmuring swarmed to the well-heads the large-eyed daughters of Troya, Deep-bosomed, limbed like the gods,glad faces of old that were sentient Rapturous flowers of the soul, bright bodies that lived under darkness Nobly massed of their locks like day under night made resplendent, Daughters divine of the earth in the ages when heaven was our father. They round Troys well-heads flowerlike satisfied morn with their beauty Or in the river baring their knees to the embrace of the coolness Dipped their white feet in the clutch of his streams, in the haste of Scamander, Lingering this last time with laughter and talk of the day and the morrow Leaned to the hurrying flood. All his swiftnesses raced down to meet them, Crowding his channel with dancing billows and turbulent murmurs. Xanthus primaeval met these waves of our life in its passing Even as of old he had played with Troys ancient fair generations Mingling his deathless voice with the laughter and joy of their ages, Laughter of dawns that are dead and a joy that the earth has rejected. Still his whispering trees remembered their bygone voices. Hast thou forgotten, O river of Troy? Still, still we can hear them Now, if we listen long in our souls, the bygone voices. Earth in her fibres remembers, the breezes are stored with our echoes. Over the stone-hewn steps for their limpid orient waters Joyous they leaned and they knew not yet of the wells of Mycenae, Drew not yet from Eurotas the jar for an alien master, Mixed not Peneus yet with their tears. From the clasp of the current Now in their groups they arose and dispersed through the streets and the byways, Turned from the freedom of earth to the works and the joy of the hearthside, Lightly they rose and returned through the lanes of the wind-haunted city Swaying with rhythmical steps while the anklets jangled and murmured. Silent temples saw them passing; you too, O houses Built with such hopes by mortal man for his transient lodging; Fragrant the gardens strewed on dark tresses their white-smiling jasmines Dropped like a silent boon of purity soft from the branches: Flowers by the wayside were budding, cries flew winged round the tree-tops. Bright was the glory of life in Ilion city of Priam. Thrice to the city the doom-blast published its solemn alarum; Blast of the trumpets that call to assembly clamoured through Troya Thrice and were still. From garden and highway, from palace and temple Turned like a steed to the trumpet, rejoicing in war and ambition, Gathered alert to the call the democracy hated of heaven. First in their ranks upbearing their age as Atlas his heavens, Eagle-crested, with hoary hair like the snow upon Ida, Ilions senators paced, Antenor and wide-browed Anchises, Athamas famous for ships and the war of the waters, Tryas Still whose name was remembered by Oxus the orient river, Astyoches and Ucalegon, dateless Pallachus, Aetor, Aspetus who of the secrets divine knew all and was silent, Ascanus, Iliones, Alcesiphron, Orus, Aretes. Next from the citadel came with the voice of the heralds before him Priam and Priams sons, Aeneas leonine striding, Followed by the heart of a nation adoring her Penthesilea. All that was noble in Troy attended the regal procession Marching in front and behind and the tramp of their feet was a rhythm Tuned to the arrogant fortunes of Ilion ruled by incarnate Demigods, Ilus and Phryx and Dardanus, Tros of the conquests, Tros and far-ruling Laomedon who to his souls strong labour Drew down the sons of the skies and was served by the ageless immortals. Into the agora vast and aspirant besieged by its columns Bathed and anointed they came like gods in their beauty and grandeur. Last like the roar of the winds came trampling the surge of the people. Clamorous led by a force obscure to its ultimate fatal Session of wrath the violent mighty democracy hastened; Thousands of ardent lives with the heart yet unslain in their bosoms Lifted to heaven the voice of man and his far-spreading rumour. Singing the young men with banners marched in their joyous processions, Trod in martial measure or dancing with lyrical paces Chanted the glory of Troy and the wonderful deeds of their fathers. Into the columned assembly where Ilus had gathered his people, Thousands on thousands the tramp and the murmur poured; in their armoured Glittering tribes they were ranked, an untameable high-hearted nation Waiting the voice of its chiefs. Some gazed on the greatness of Priam Ancient, remote from their days, the last of the gods who were passing, Left like a soul uncompanioned in worlds where his strength shall not conquer: Sole like a column gigantic alone on a desolate hill-side Older than mortals he seemed and mightier. Many in anger Aimed their hostile looks where calm though by heaven abandoned, Left to his soul and his lucid mind and its thoughts unavailing, Leading the age-chilled few whom the might of their hearts had not blinded, Famous Antenor was seated, the fallen unpopular statesman, Wisest of speakers in Troy but rejected, stoned and dishonoured. Silent, aloof from the people he sat, a heart full of ruins. Low was the rumour that swelled like the hum of the bees in a meadow When with the thirst of the honey they swarm on the thyme and the linden, Hundreds humming and flitting till all that place is a murmur. Then from his seat like a tower arising Priam the monarch Slowly erect in his vast tranquillity silenced the people: Lonely, august he stood like one whom death has forgotten, Reared like a column of might and of silence over the assembly. So Olympus rises alone with his snows into heaven. Crowned were his heights by the locks that swept like the mass of the snow-swathe Clothing his giant shoulders; his eyes of deep meditation, Eyes that beheld now the end and accepted it like the beginning Gazed on the throng of the people as on a pomp that is painted: Slowly he spoke like one who is far from the scenes where he sojourns. Leader of Ilion, hero Deiphobus, thou who hast summoned Troy in her people, arise; say wherefore thou callest us. Evil Speak thou or good, thou canst speak that only: Necessity fashions All that the unseen eye has beheld. Speak then to the Trojans; Say on this dawn of her making what issue of death or of triumph Fate in her suddenness puts to the unseeing, what summons to perish Send to this nation men who revolt and gods who are hostile. Rising Deiphobus spoke, in stature less than his father, Less in his build, yet the mightiest man and tallest whom coursers Bore or his feet to the fight since Ajax fell by the Xanthus. People of Ilion, long have you fought with the gods and the Argives Slaying and slain, but the years persist and the struggle is endless. Fainting your helpers cease from the battle, the nations forsake you. Asia weary of strenuous greatness, ease-enamoured Suffers the foot of the Greek to tread on the beaches of Troas. Yet have we striven for Troy and for Asia, men who desert us. Not for ourselves alone have we fought, for our life of a moment! Once if the Greeks were triumphant, once if their nations were marshalled Under some far-seeing chief, Odysseus, Peleus, Achilles, Not on the banks of Scamander and skirts of the azure Aegean Fainting would cease the audacious emprise, the Titanic endeavour; Tigris would flee from their tread and Indus be drunk by their coursers. Now in these days when each sun goes marvelling down that Troy stands yet Suffering, smiting, alive, though doomed to all eyes that behold her, Flinging back Death from her walls and bronze to the shock and the clamour, Driven by a thought that has risen in the dawn from the tents on the beaches Grey Talthybius chariot waits in the Ilian portals, Voice of the Hellene demigod challenges timeless Troya. Thus has he said to us: Know you not Doom when she walks in your heavens? Feelst thou not then thy set, O sun who illuminedst Nature? Stripped of helpers you stand alone against Doom and Achilles, Left by the earth that served you, by heaven that helped you rejected: Death insists at your gates and the flame and the sword are impatient. None can escape the wheel of the gods and its vast revolutions! Fate demands the joy and pride of the earth for the Argive, Asias wealth for the lust of the young barbarian nations. City divine, whose fame overroofed like heaven the nations, Sink eclipsed in the circle vast of my radiance; Troya, Joined to my northern realms deliver the East to the Hellene; Ilion, to Hellas be yoked; wide Asia, fringe thou Peneus. Lay down golden Helen, a sacrifice lovely and priceless Cast by your weakness and fall on immense Necessitys altar; Yield to my longing Polyxena, Hecubas deep-bosomed daughter, Her whom my heart desires. She shall leave with you peace and her healing Joy of mornings secure and death repulsed from your hearthsides. Yield these and live, else I leap on you, Fate in front, Hades behind me. Bound to the gods by an oath I return not again from the battle Till from high Ida my shadow extends to the Mede and Euphrates. Let not your victories deceive you, steps that defeat has imagined; Hear not the voice of your heroes; their fame is a trumpet in Hades: Only they conquer while yet my horses champ free in their stables. Earth cannot long resist the man whom Heaven has chosen; Gods with him walk; his chariot is led; his arm is assisted. High rings the Hellene challenge, earth waits for the Ilian answer. Always mans Fate hangs poised on the flitting breath of a moment; Called by some word, by some gesture it leaps, then tis graven, tis granite. Speak! by what gesture high shall the stern gods recognise Troya? Sons of the ancients, race of the gods, inviolate city, Firmer my spear shall I grasp or cast from my hand and for ever? Search in your hearts if your fathers still dwell in them, children of Teucer. So Deiphobus spoke and the nation heard him in silence, Awed by the shadow vast of doom, indignant with Fortune. Calm from his seat Antenor arose as a wrestler arises, Tamer of beasts in the cage of the lions, eyeing the monsters Brilliant, tawny of mane, and he knows if his courage waver, Falter his eye or his nerve be surprised by the gods that are hostile, Death will leap on him there in the crowded helpless arena. Fearless Antenor arose, and a murmur swelled in the meeting Cruel and threatening, hoarse like the voice of the sea upon boulders; Hisses thrilled through the roar and one man cried to another, Lo he will speak of peace who has swallowed the gold of Achaia! Surely the people of Troy are eunuchs who suffer Antenor Rising unharmed in the agora. Are there not stones in the city? Surely the steel grows dear in the land when a traitor can flourish. Calm like a god or a summit Antenor stood in the uproar. But as he gazed on his soul came memory dimming the vision; For he beheld his past and the agora crowded and cheering, Passionate, full of delight while Antenor spoke to the people, Troy that he loved and his fatherl and proud of her eloquent statesman. Tears to his eyes came thick and he gripped at the staff he was holding. Mounting his eyes met fully the tumult, mournful and thrilling, Conquering mens hearts with a note of doom in its sorrowful sweetness. People of Ilion, blood of my blood, O race of Antenor, Once will I speak though you slay me; for who would shrink from destruction Knowing that soon of his city and nation, his house and his dear ones All that remains will be a couch of trampled ashes? Athene, Slain today may I join the victorious souls of our fathers, Not for the anguish be kept and the irremediable weeping. Loud will I speak the word that the gods have breathed in my spirit, Strive this last time to save the death-destined. Who are these clamour Hear him not, gold of the Greeks bought his words and his throat is accursd? Troy whom my counsels made great, hast thou heard this roar of their frenzy Tearing thy ancient bosom? Is it thy voice, heaven-abandoned, my mother? O my country, O my creatress, earth of my longings! Earth where our fathers lie in their sacred ashes undying, Memoried temples shelter the shrines of our gods and the altars Pure where we worshipped, the beautiful children smile on us passing, Women divine and the men of our nation! O land where our childhood Played at a mothers feet mid the trees and the hills of our country, Hoping our manhood toiled and our youth had its seekings for godhead, Thou for our age keepst repose mid the love and the honour of kinsmen, Silent our relics shall lie with the city guarding our ashes! Earth who hast fostered our parents, earth who hast given us our offspring, Soil that created our race where fed from the bosom of Nature Happy our children shall dwell in the storied homes of their fathers, Souls that our souls have stamped, sweet forms of ourselves when we perish! Once even then have they seen thee in their hearts, or dreamed of thee ever Who from thy spirit revolt and only thy name make an idol Hating thy faithful sons and the cult of thy ancient ideal! Wake, O my mother divine, remember thy gods and thy wisdom, Silence the tongues that degrade thee, prophets profane of thy godhead. Madmen, to think that a man who has offered his life for his country, Served her with words and deeds and adored with victories and triumphs Ever could think of enslaving her breast to the heel of a foeman! Surely Antenors halls are empty, he begs from the stranger Leading his sons and his childrens sons by the hand in the market Showing his rags since his need is so bitter of gold from the Argives! You who demand a reply when Laocoon lessens Antenor, Hush then your feeble roar and your ear to the past and the distance Turn. You fields that are famous for ever, reply for me calling, Fields of the mighty mown by my swords edge, Chersonese conquered, Thrace and her snows where we fought on the frozen streams and were victors Then when they were unborn who are now your delight and your leaders. Answer return, you columns of Ilus, here where my counsels Made Troy mightier guiding her safe through the shocks of her foemen. Gold! I have heaped it up high, I am rich with the spoils of your haters. It was your fathers dead who gave me that wealth as my guerdon, Now my reproach, your fathers who saw not the Greeks round their ramparts: They were not cooped by an upstart race in the walls of Apollo, Saw not Hector slain and Troilus dragged by his coursers. Far over wrathful Jaxartes they rode; the shaken Achaian Prostrate adored your strength who now shouts at your portals and conquers Then when Antenor guided Troy, this old man, this traitor, Not Laocoon, nay, not even Paris nor Hector. But I have changed, I have grown a niggard of blood and of treasure, Selfish, chilled as old men seem to the young and the headstrong, Counselling safety and ease, not the ardour of noble decisions. Come to my house and behold, my house that was filled once with voices. Sons whom the high gods envied me crowded the halls that are silent. Where are they now? They are dead, their voices are silent in Hades, Fallen slaying the foe in a war between sin and the Furies. Silent they went to the battle to die unmourned for their country, Die as they knew in vain. Do I keep now the last ones remaining, Sparing their blood that my house may endure? Is there any in Troya Speeds to the front of the mellay outstripping the sons of Antenor? Let him arise and speak and proclaim it and bid me be silent. Heavy is this war that you love on my heart and I hold you as madmen Doomed by the gods, abandoned by Pallas, by Hera afflicted. Who would not hate to behold his work undone by the foolish? Who would not weep if he saw Laocoon ruining Troya, Paris doomed in his beauty, Aeneas slain by his valour? Still you need to be taught that the high gods see and remember, Dream that they care not if justice be done on the earth or oppression! Happy to live, aspire while you violate man and the immortals! Vainly the sands of Time have been strewn with the ruins of empires, Signs that the gods had left, but in vain. For they look for a nation, One that can conquer itself having conquered the world, but they find none. None has been able to hold all the gods in his bosom unstaggered, All have grown drunken with force and have gone down to Hell and to Ate. All have been thrust from their heights, say the fools; we shall live and for ever. We are the people at last, the children, the favourites; all things Only to us are permitted. They too descend to the silence, Death receives their hopes and the void their stirrings of action. Eviller fate there is none than life too long among mortals. I have conversed with the great who have gone, I have fought in their war-cars; Tros I have seen, Laomedons hand has dwelt on my temples. Now I behold Laocoon, now our greatest is Paris. First when Phryx by the Hellespont reared to the cry of the ocean Hewing her stones as vast as his thoughts his high-seated fortress, Planned he a lair for a beast of prey, for a pantheress dire-souled Crouched in the hills for her bound or self-gathered against the avenger? Dardanus shepherded Asias coasts and her sapphire-girt islands. Mild was his rule like the blessing of rain upon fields in the summer. Gladly the harried coasts reposed confessing the Phrygian, Caria, Lycias kings and the Paphlagon, strength of the Mysian; Minos Crete recovered the sceptre of old Rhadamanthus. Ilus and Tros had strength in the fight like a far-striding Titans: Troy triumphant following the urge of their souls to the vastness, Helmeted, crowned like a queen of the gods with the fates for her coursers Rode through the driving sleet of the spears to Indus and Oxus. Then twice over she conquered the vanquished, with peace as in battle; There where discord had clashed, sweet Peace sat girded with plenty, There where tyranny counted her blows, came the hands of a father. Neither had Teucer a soul like your chiefs who refounded this nation. Such was the antique and noble tradition of Troy in her founders, Builders of power that endured; but it perishes lost to their offspring, Trampled, scorned by an arrogant age, by a violent nation. Strong Anchises trod it down trampling victorious onwards Stern as his sword and hard as the silent bronze of his armour. More than another I praise the man who is mighty and steadfast, Even as Ida the mountain I praise, a refuge for lions; But in the council I laud him not, he who a god for his kindred, Lives for the rest without bowels of pity or fellowship, lone-souled, Scorning the world that he rules, who untamed by the weight of an empire Holds allies as subjects, subjects as slaves and drives to the battle Careless more of their wills than the coursers yoked to his war-car. Therefore they fought while they feared, but gladly abandon us falling. Yet had they gathered to Teucer in the evil days of our nation. Where are they now? Do they gather then to the dreaded Anchises? Or has Aeneas helped with his counsels hateful to wisdom? Hateful is this, abhorred of the gods, imagined by Ate When against subjects murmuring discord and faction appointed Scatter unblest gold, the heart of a people is poisoned, Virtue pursued and baseness triumphs tongued like a harlot, Brother against brother arrayed that the rule may endure of a stranger. Yes, but it lasts! For its hour. The high gods watch in their silence, Mute they endure for a while that the doom may be swifter and greater. Hast thou then lasted, O Troy? Lo, the Greeks at thy gates and Achilles. Dream, when Virtue departs, that Wisdom will linger, her sister! Wisdom has turned from your hearts; shall Fortune dwell with the foolish? Fatal oracles came to you great-tongued, vaunting of empires Stretched from the risen sun to his rest in the occident waters, Dreams of a city throned on the hills with her foot on the nations. Meanwhile the sword was prepared for our breasts and the flame for our housetops. Wake, awake, O my people! the fire-brand mounts up your doorsteps; Gods who deceived to slay, press swords on your childrens bosoms. See, O ye blind, ere death in pale countries open your eyelids! Hear, O ye deaf, the sounds in your ears and the voices of evening! Young men who vaunt in your strength! when the voice of this aged Antenor Governed your fathers youth, all the Orient was joined to our banners. Macedon leaned to the East and her princes yearned to the victor, Scythians worshipped in Ilions shrines, the Phoenician trader Bartered her tokens, Babylons wise men paused at our thresholds; Fair-haired sons of the snows came rapt towards golden Troya Drawn by the song and the glory. Strymon sang hymns unto Ida, Hoarse Chalcidice, dim Chersonesus married their waters Under the oerarching yoke of Troy twixt the term-posts of Ocean. Meanwhile far through the world your fortunes led by my counsels Followed their lure like women snared by a magical tempter: High was their chant as they paced and it came from continents distant. Turn now and hear! what voice approaches? what glitter of armies? Loud upon Trojan beaches the tread and the murmur of Hellas! Hark! tis the Achaians paean rings oer the Pergaman waters! So wake the dreams of Aeneas; reaped is Laocoons harvest. Artisans new of your destiny fashioned this far-spreading downfall, Counsellors blind who scattered your strength to the hooves of the Scythian, Barren victories, trophies of skin-clad Illyrian pastors. Who but the fool and improvident, who but the dreamer and madman Leaves for the far and ungrasped earths close and provident labour? Children of earth, our mother gives tokens, she lays down her signposts, Step by step to advance on her bosom, to grow by her seasons, Order our works by her patience and limit our thought by her spaces. But you had chiefs who were demigods, souls of an earth-scorning stature, Minds that saw vaster than life and strengths that Gods hour could not limit! These men seized upon Troy as the tool of their giant visions, Dreaming of Africas suns and bright Hesperian orchards, Carthage our mart and our feet on the sunset hills of the Latins. Ilions hinds in the dream ploughed Libya, sowed Italys cornfields, Troy stretched to Gades; even the gods and the Fates had grown Trojan. So are the natures of men uplifted by Heaven in its satire. Scorning the bit of the gods, despisers of justice and measure, Zeus is denied and adored some shadow huge of their natures Losing the shape of man in a dream that is splendid and monstrous. Titans, vaunting they stride and the world resounds with their footsteps; Titans, clanging they fall and the world is full of their ruin. Children, you dreamed with them, heard the roar of the Atlantic breakers Welcome your keels and the Isles of the Blest grew your wonderful gardens. Lulled in the dream, you saw not the black-drifting march of the storm-rack, Heard not the galloping wolves of the doom and the howl of their hunger. Greece in her peril united her jarring clans; you suffered Patient, preparing the north, the wisdom and silence of Peleus, Atreus craft and the Argives gathered to King Agamemnon. But there were prophecies, Pythian oracles, mutterings from Delphi. How shall they prosper who haste after auguries, oracles, whispers, Dreams that walk in the night and voices obscure of the silence? Touches are these from the gods that bewilder the brain to its ruin. One sole oracle helps, still armoured in courage and prudence Patient and heedful to toil at the work that is near in the daylight. Leave to the night its phantoms, leave to the future its curtain! Only today Heaven gave to mortal man for his labour. If thou hadst bowed not thy mane, O Troy, to the child and the dreamer, Hadst thou been faithful to Wisdom the counsellor seated and ancient, Then would the hour not have dawned when Paris lingered in Sparta Led by the goddess fatal and beautiful, white Aphrodite. Man, shun the impulses dire that spring armed from thy natures abysms! Dread the dusk rose of the gods, flee the honey that tempts from its petals! Therefore the black deed was done and the hearth that welcomed was sullied. Sin-called the Fury uplifted her tresses of gloom oer the nations Maddening the earth with the scream of her blood-thirst, bowelless, stone-eyed, Claiming her victims from God and bestriding the hate and the clamour. Yet midst the stroke and the wail when mens eyes were blind with the blood-mist, Still had the high gods mercy recalling Teucer and Ilus. Just was the heart of their anger. Discord flaming from Ida, Hundred-voiced glared from the ships through the camp of the victor Achaians, Love to that discord added her flowerlike lips of Briseis; Faltering lids of Polyxena conquered the strength of Pelides. Vainly the gods who pity open the gates of salvation! Vainly the winds of their mercy brea the on our fevered existence! Man his passions prefers to the voice that guides from the heavens. These too were here whom Hera had chosen to ruin this nation: Charioteers cracking the whips of their speed on the paths of destruction, Demigods they! they have come down from Heaven glad to that labour, Deaf is the world with the fame of their wheels as they race down to Hades. O that alone they could reach it! O that pity could soften Harsh Necessitys dealings, sparing our innocent children, Saving the Trojan women and aged from bonds and the sword-edge! These had not sinned whom you slay in your madness! Ruthless, O mortals, Must you be then to yourselves when the gods even faltering with pity Turn from the grief that must come and the agony vast and the weeping? Say not the road of escape sinks too low for your arrogant treading. Pride is not for our clay; the earth, not heaven was our mother And we are even as the ant in our toil and the beast in our dying; Only who cling to the hands of the gods can rise up from the earth-mire. Children, lie prone to their scourge, that your hearts may revive in their sunshine. This is our lot! when the anger of heaven has passed then the mortal Raises his head; soon he heals his heart and forgets he has suffered. Yet if resurgence from weakness and shame were withheld from the creature, Every fall without morrow, who then would counsel submission? But since the height of mortal fortune ascending must stumble, Fallen, again ascend, since death like birth is our portion, Ripening, mowed, to be sown again like corn by the farmer, Let us be patient still with the gods accepting their purpose. Deem not defeat I welcome. Think not to Hellas submitting Death of proud hope I would seal. Not this have I counselled, O nation, But to be even as your high-crested forefa thers, greatest of mortals. Troya of old enringed by the hooves of Cimmerian armies Flamed to the heavens from her plains and her smoke-blackened citadel sheltered Mutely the joyless rest of her sons and the wreck of her greatness. Courage and wisdom survived in that fall and a stern-eyed prudence Helped her to live; disguised from her mightiness Troy crouched waiting. Teucer descended whose genius worked at this kingdom and nation, Patient, scrupulous, wise, like a craftsman carefully toiling Over a helmet or over a breastplate, testing it always, Toiled in the eye of the Masters of all and had heed of its labour. So in the end they would not release him like souls that are common; They out of Ida sent into Ilion Pallas Athene; Secret she came and he went with her into the luminous silence. Teucers children after their sire completed his labour. Now too, O people, front adversity self-gathered, silent. Veil thyself, leonine mighty Ilion, hiding thy greatness! Be as thy father Teucer; be as a cavern for lions; Be as a Fate that crouches! Wordless and stern for your vengeance Self-gathered work in the night and secrecy shrouding your bosoms. Let not the dire heavens know of it; let not the foe seize a whisper! Ripen the hour of your stroke, while your words drip sweeter than honey. Sure am I, friends, you will turn from death at my voice, you will hear me! Some day yet I shall gaze on the ruins of haughty Mycenae. Is this not better than Ilion cast to the sword of her haters, Is this not happier than Troya captured and wretchedly burning, Time to await in his stride when the southern and northern Achaians Gazing with dull distaste now over their severing isthmus Hate-filled shall move to the shock by the spur of the gods in them driven, Pelops march upon Attica, Thebes descend on the Spartan? Then shall the hour now kept in heaven for us ripen to dawning, Then shall Victory cry to our banners over the Ocean Calling our sons with her voice immortal. Children of Ilus, Then shall Troy rise in her strength and stride over Greece up to Gades. So Antenor spoke and the mind of the hostile assembly Moved and swayed with his words like the waters ruled by Poseidon. Even as the billows rebellious lashed by the whips of the tempest Curvet and rear their crests like the hooded wrath of a serpent, Green-eyed under their cowls sublime,unwilling they journey, Foam-bannered, hoarse-voiced, shepherded, forced by the wind to the margin Meant for their rest and can turn not at all, though they rage, on their driver, Last with a sullen applause and consenting lapse into thunder, Where they were led all the while they sink down huge and astonished, So in their souls that withstood and obeyed and hated the yielding, Lashed by his censure, indignant, the Trojans moved towards his purpose: Sometimes a roar arose, then only, weakened, rarer, Angry murmurs swelled between sullen stretches of silence; Last, a reluctant applause broke dull from the throats of the commons. Silent raged in their hearts Laocoons following daunted; Troubled the faction of Paris turned to the face of their leader. He as yet rose not; careless he sat in his beauty and smiling, Gazing with brilliant eyes at the sculptured pillars of Ilus. Doubtful, swayed by Antenor, waited in silence the nation. *** ~ Sri Aurobindo, 2 - The Book of the Statesman

319:TO MARY (ON HER OBJECTING TO THE FOLLOWING POEM, UPON THE SCORE OF ITS CONTAINING NO HUMAN INTEREST) I. How, my dear Mary, -- are you critic-bitten (For vipers kill, though dead) by some review, That you condemn these verses I have written, Because they tell no story, false or true? What, though no mice are caught by a young kitten, May it not leap and play as grown cats do, Till its claws come? Prithee, for this one time, Content thee with a visionary rhyme. II. What hand would crush the silken-wingd fly, The youngest of inconstant April's minions, Because it cannot climb the purest sky, Where the swan sings, amid the sun's dominions? Not thine. Thou knowest 'tis its doom to die, When Day shall hide within her twilight pinions The lucent eyes, and the eternal smile, Serene as thine, which lent it life awhile. III. To thy fair feet a wingd Vision came, Whose date should have been longer than a day, And o'er thy head did beat its wings for fame, And in thy sight its fading plumes display; The watery bow burned in the evening flame, But the shower fell, the swift Sun went his way And that is dead.O, let me not believe That anything of mine is fit to live! IV. Wordsworth informs us he was nineteen years Considering and retouching Peter Bell; Watering his laurels with the killing tears Of slow, dull care, so that their roots to Hell Might pierce, and their wide branches blot the spheres Of Heaven, with dewy leaves and flowers; this well May be, for Heaven and Earth conspire to foil The over-busy gardener's blundering toil. V. My Witch indeed is not so sweet a creature As Ruth or Lucy, whom his graceful praise Clothes for our grandsonsbut she matches Peter, Though he took nineteen years, and she three days In dressing. Light the vest of flowing metre She wears; he, proud as dandy with his stays, Has hung upon his wiry limbs a dress Like King Lear's 'looped and windowed raggedness.' VI. If you strip Peter, you will see a fellow Scorched by Hell's hyperequatorial climate Into a kind of a sulphureous yellow: A lean mark, hardly fit to fling a rhyme at; In shape a Scaramouch, in hue Othello. If you unveil my Witch, no priest nor primate Can shrive you of that sin, -- if sin there be In love, when it becomes idolatry. THE WITCH OF ATLAS. I. Before those cruel Twins, whom at one birth Incestuous Change bore to her father Time, Error and Truth, had hunted from the Earth All those bright natures which adorned its prime, And left us nothing to believe in, worth The pains of putting into learnd rhyme, A lady-witch there lived on Atlas' mountain Within a cavern, by a secret fountain. II. Her mother was one of the Atlantides: The all-beholding Sun had ne'er beholden In his wide voyage o'er continents and seas So fair a creature, as she lay enfolden In the warm shadow of her loveliness;-- He kissed her with his beams, and made all golden The chamber of gray rock in which she lay-- She, in that dream of joy, dissolved away. III. 'Tis said, she first was changed into a vapour, And then into a cloud, such clouds as flit, Like splendour-wingd moths about a taper, Round the red west when the sun dies in it: And then into a meteor, such as caper On hill-tops when the moon is in a fit: Then, into one of those mysterious stars Which hide themselves between the Earth and Mars. IV. Ten times the Mother of the Months had bent Her bow beside the folding-star, and bidden With that bright sign the billows to indent The sea-deserted sand -- like children chidden, At her command they ever came and went-- Since in that cave a dewy splendour hidden Took shape and motion: with the living form Of this embodied Power, the cave grew warm. V. A lovely lady garmented in light From her own beauty -- deep her eyes, as are Two openings of unfathomable night Seen through a Temple's cloven roof -- her hair Darkthe dim brain whirls dizzy with delight, Picturing her form; her soft smiles shone afar, And her low voice was heard like love, and drew All living things towards this wonder new. VI. And first the spotted cameleopard came, And then the wise and fearless elephant; Then the sly serpent, in the golden flame Of his own volumes intervolved -- all gaunt And sanguine beasts her gentle looks made tame. They drank before her at her sacred fount; And every beast of beating heart grew bold, Such gentleness and power even to behold. VII. The brinded lioness led forth her young, That she might teach them how they should forego Their inborn thirst of death; the pard unstrung His sinews at her feet, and sought to know With looks whose motions spoke without a tongue How he might be as gentle as the doe. The magic circle of her voice and eyes All savage natures did imparadise. VIII. And old Silenus, shaking a green stick Of lilies, and the wood-gods in a crew Came, blithe, as in the olive copses thick Cicadae are, drunk with the noonday dew: And Dryope and Faunus followed quick, Teasing the God to sing them something new; Till in this cave they found the lady lone, Sitting upon a seat of emerald stone. IX. And universal Pan, 'tis said, was there, And though none saw him,through the adamant Of the deep mountains, through the trackless air, And through those living spirits, like a want, He passed out of his everlasting lair Where the quick heart of the great world doth pant, And felt that wondrous lady all alone, And she felt him, upon her emerald throne. X. And every nymph of stream and spreading tree, And every shepherdess of Ocean's flocks, Who drives her white waves over the green sea, And Ocean with the brine on his gray locks, And quaint Priapus with his company, All came, much wondering how the enwombd rocks Could have brought forth so beautiful a birth; Her love subdued their wonder and their mirth. XI. The herdsmen and the mountain maidens came, And the rude kings of pastoral Garamant Their spirits shook within them, as a flame Stirred by the air under a cavern gaunt: Pigmies, and Polyphemes, by many a name, Centaurs, and Satyrs, and such shapes as haunt Wet clefts,and lumps neither alive nor dead, Dog-headed, bosom-eyed, and bird-footed. XII. For she was beautifulher beauty made The bright world dim, and everything beside Seemed like the fleeting image of a shade: No thought of living spirit could abide, Which to her looks had ever been betrayed, On any object in the world so wide, On any hope within the circling skies, But on her form, and in her inmost eyes. XIII. Which when the lady knew, she took her spindle And twined three threads of fleecy mist, and three Long lines of light, such as the dawn may kindle The clouds and waves and mountains with; and she As many star-beams, ere their lamps could dwindle In the belated moon, wound skilfully; And with these threads a subtle veil she wove A shadow for the splendour of her love. XIV. The deep recesses of her odorous dwelling Were stored with magic treasuressounds of air, Which had the power all spirits of compelling, Folded in cells of crystal silence there; Such as we hear in youth, and think the feeling Will never dieyet ere we are aware, The feeling and the sound are fled and gone, And the regret they leave remains alone. XV. And there lay Visions swift, and sweet, and quaint, Each in its thin sheath, like a chrysalis, Some eager to burst forth, some weak and faint With the soft burthen of intensest bliss It was its work to bear to many a saint Whose heart adores the shrine which holiest is, Even Love's -- and others white, green, gray, and black, And of all shapesand each was at her beck. XVI. And odours in a kind of aviary Of ever-blooming Eden-trees she kept, Clipped in a floating net, a love-sick Fairy Had woven from dew-beams while the moon yet slept; As bats at the wired window of a dairy. They beat their vans; and each was an adept, When loosed and missioned, making wings of winds, To stir sweet thoughts or sad, in destined minds. XVII. And liquors clear and sweet, whose healthful might Could medicine the sick soul to happy sleep, And change eternal death into a night Of glorious dreamsor if eyes needs must weep, Could make their tears all wonder and delight, She in her crystal vials did closely keep: If men could drink of those clear vials, 'tis said The living were not envied of the dead. XVIII. Her cave was stored with scrolls of strange device, The works of some Saturnian Archimage, Which taught the expiations at whose price Men from the Gods might win that happy age Too lightly lost, redeeming native vice; And which might quench the Earth-consuming rage Of gold and bloodtill men should live and move Harmonious as the sacred stars above; XIX. And how all things that seem untameable, Not to be checked and not to be confined, Obey the spells of Wisdom's wizard skill; Time, earth, and firethe ocean and the wind, And all their shapes -- and man's imperial will; And other scrolls whose writings did unbind The inmost lore of Lovelet the profane Tremble to ask what secrets they contain. XX. And wondrous works of substances unknown, To which the enchantment of her father's power Had changed those ragged blocks of savage stone, Were heaped in the recesses of her bower; Carved lamps and chalices, and vials which shone In their own golden beams -- each like a flower, Out of whose depth a fire-fly shakes his light Under a cypress in a starless night. XXI. At first she lived alone in this wild home, And her own thoughts were each a minister, Clothing themselves, or with the ocean foam, Or with the wind, or with the speed of fire, To work whatever purposes might come Into her mind; such power her mighty Sire Had girt them with, whether to fly or run, Through all the regions which he shines upon. XXII. The Ocean-nymphs and Hamadryades, Oreads and Naiads, with long weedy locks, Offered to do her bidding through the seas, Under the earth, and in the hollow rocks, And far beneath the matted roots of trees, And in the gnarld heart of stubborn oaks, So they might live for ever in the light Of her sweet presence -- each a satellite. XXIII. 'This may not be,' the wizard maid replied; 'The fountains where the Naiades bedew Their shining hair, at length are drained and dried; The solid oaks forget their strength, and strew Their latest leaf upon the mountains wide; The boundless ocean like a drop of dew Will be consumedthe stubborn centre must Be scattered, like a cloud of summer dust. XXIV. 'And ye with them will perish, one by one; If I must sigh to think that this shall be, If I must weep when the surviving Sun Shall smile on your decay -- oh, ask not me To love you till your little race is run; I cannot die as ye must -- over me Your leaves shall glance -- the streams in which ye dwell Shall be my paths henceforth, and so -- farewell!'-- XXV. She spoke and wept:the dark and azure well Sparkled beneath the shower of her bright tears, And every little circlet where they fell Flung to the cavern-roof inconstant spheres And intertangled lines of light:a knell Of sobbing voices came upon her ears From those departing Forms, o'er the serene Of the white streams and of the forest green. XXVI. All day the wizard lady sate aloof, Spelling out scrolls of dread antiquity, Under the cavern's fountain-lighted roof; Or broidering the pictured poesy Of some high tale upon her growing woof, Which the sweet splendour of her smiles could dye In hues outshining heavenand ever she Added some grace to the wrought poesy. XXVII. While on her hearth lay blazing many a piece Of sandal wood, rare gums, and cinnamon; Men scarcely know how beautiful fire is Each flame of it is as a precious stone Dissolved in ever-moving light, and this Belongs to each and all who gaze upon. The Witch beheld it not, for in her hand She held a woof that dimmed the burning brand. XXVIII. This lady never slept, but lay in trance All night within the fountain -- as in sleep. Its emerald crags glowed in her beauty's glance; Through the green splendour of the water deep She saw the constellations reel and dance Like fire-flies -- and withal did ever keep The tenour of her contemplations calm, With open eyes, closed feet, and folded palm. XXIX. And when the whirlwinds and the clouds descended From the white pinnacles of that cold hill, She passed at dewfall to a space extended, Where in a lawn of flowering asphodel Amid a wood of pines and cedars blended, There yawned an inextinguishable well Of crimson firefull even to the brim, And overflowing all the margin trim. XXX. Within the which she lay when the fierce war Of wintry winds shook that innocuous liquor In many a mimic moon and bearded star O'er woods and lawns -- the serpent heard it flicker In sleep, and dreaming still, he crept afar-- And when the windless snow descended thicker Than autumn leaves, she watched it as it came Melt on the surface of the level flame. XXXI. She had a boat, which some say Vulcan wrought For Venus, as the chariot of her star; But it was found too feeble to be fraught With all the ardours in that sphere which are, And so she sold it, and Apollo bought And gave it to this daughter: from a car Changed to the fairest and the lightest boat Which ever upon mortal stream did float. XXXII. And others say, that, when but three hours old, The first-born Love out of his cradle lept, And clove dun Chaos with his wings of gold, And like an horticultural adept, Stole a strange seed, and wrapped it up in mould, And sowed it in his mother's star, and kept Watering it all the summer with sweet dew, And with his wings fanning it as it grew. XXXIII. The plant grew strong and green, the snowy flower Fell, and the long and gourd-like fruit began To turn the light and dew by inward power To its own substance; woven tracery ran Of light firm texture, ribbed and branching, o'er The solid rind, like a leaf's veind fan-- Of which Love scooped this boat -- and with soft motion Piloted it round the circumfluous ocean. XXXIV. This boat she moored upon her fount, and lit A living spirit within all its frame, Breathing the soul of swiftness into it. Couched on the fountain like a panther tame, One of the twain at Evan's feet that sit-- Or as on Vesta's sceptre a swift flame-- Or on blind Homer's heart a wingd thought,-- In joyous expectation lay the boat. XXXV. Then by strange art she kneaded fire and snow Together, tempering the repugnant mass With liquid love -- all things together grow Through which the harmony of love can pass; And a fair Shape out of her hands did flow-- A living Image, which did far surpass In beauty that bright shape of vital stone Which drew the heart out of Pygmalion. XXXVI. A sexless thing it was, and in its growth It seemed to have developed no defect Of either sex, yet all the grace of both,-- In gentleness and strength its limbs were decked; The bosom swelled lightly with its full youth, The countenance was such as might select Some artist that his skill should never die, Imaging forth such perfect purity. XXXVII. From its smooth shoulders hung two rapid wings, Fit to have borne it to the seventh sphere, Tipped with the speed of liquid lightenings, Dyed in the ardours of the atmosphere: She led her creature to the boiling springs Where the light boat was moored, and said: 'Sit here!' And pointed to the prow, and took her seat Beside the rudder, with opposing feet. XXXVIII. And down the streams which clove those mountains vast, Around their inland islets, and amid The panther-peopled forests, whose shade cast Darkness and odours, and a pleasure hid In melancholy gloom, the pinnace passed; By many a star-surrounded pyramid Of icy crag cleaving the purple sky, And caverns yawning round unfathomably. XXXIX. The silver noon into that winding dell, With slanted gleam athwart the forest tops, Tempered like golden evening, feebly fell; A green and glowing light, like that which drops From folded lilies in which glow-worms dwell, When Earth over her face Night's mantle wraps; Between the severed mountains lay on high, Over the stream, a narrow rift of sky. XL. And ever as she went, the Image lay With folded wings and unawakened eyes; And o'er its gentle countenance did play The busy dreams, as thick as summer flies, Chasing the rapid smiles that would not stay, And drinking the warm tears, and the sweet sighs Inhaling, which, with busy murmur vain, They had aroused from that full heart and brain. XLI. And ever down the prone vale, like a cloud Upon a stream of wind, the pinnace went: Now lingering on the pools, in which abode The calm and darkness of the deep content In which they paused; now o'er the shallow road Of white and dancing waters, all besprent With sand and polished pebbles:mortal boat In such a shallow rapid could not float. XLII. And down the earthquaking cataracts which shiver Their snow-like waters into golden air, Or under chasms unfathomable ever Sepulchre them, till in their rage they tear A subterranean portal for the river, It fledthe circling sunbows did upbear Its fall down the hoar precipice of spray, Lighting it far upon its lampless way. XLIII. And when the wizard lady would ascend The labyrinths of some many-winding vale, Which to the inmost mountain upward tend She called 'Hermaphroditus!'and the pale And heavy hue which slumber could extend Over its lips and eyes, as on the gale A rapid shadow from a slope of grass, Into the darkness of the stream did pass. XLIV. And it unfurled its heaven-coloured pinions, With stars of fire spotting the stream below; And from above into the Sun's dominions Flinging a glory, like the golden glow In which Spring clothes her emerald-wingd minions, All interwoven with fine feathery snow And moonlight splendour of intensest rime, With which frost paints the pines in winter time. XLV. And then it winnowed the Elysian air Which ever hung about that lady bright, With its aethereal vansand speeding there, Like a star up the torrent of the night, Or a swift eagle in the morning glare Breasting the whirlwind with impetuous flight, The pinnace, oared by those enchanted wings, Clove the fierce streams towards their upper springs. XLVI. The water flashed, like sunlight by the prow Of a noon-wandering meteor flung to Heaven; The still air seemed as if its waves did flow In tempest down the mountains; loosely driven The lady's radiant hair streamed to and fro: Beneath, the billows having vainly striven Indignant and impetuous, roared to feel The swift and steady motion of the keel. XLVII. Or, when the weary moon was in the wane, Or in the noon of interlunar night, The lady-witch in visions could not chain Her spirit; but sailed forth under the light Of shooting stars, and bade extend amain Its storm-outspeeding wings, the Hermaphrodite; She to the Austral waters took her way, Beyond the fabulous Thamondocana, XLVIII. Where, like a meadow which no scythe has shaven, Which rain could never bend, or whirl-blast shake, With the Antarctic constellations paven, Canopus and his crew, lay the Austral lake There she would build herself a windless haven Out of the clouds whose moving turrets make The bastions of the storm, when through the sky The spirits of the tempest thundered by: XLIX. A haven beneath whose translucent floor The tremulous stars sparkled unfathomably, And around which the solid vapours hoar, Based on the level waters, to the sky Lifted their dreadful crags, and like a shore Of wintry mountains, inaccessibly Hemmed in with rifts and precipices gray, And hanging crags, many a cove and bay. L. And whilst the outer lake beneath the lash Of the wind's scourge, foamed like a wounded thing, And the incessant hail with stony clash Ploughed up the waters, and the flagging wing Of the roused cormorant in the lightning flash Looked like the wreck of some wind-wandering Fragment of inky thunder-smoke -- this haven Was as a gem to copy Heaven engraven,-- LI. On which that lady played her many pranks, Circling the image of a shooting star, Even as a tiger on Hydaspes' banks Outspeeds the antelopes which speediest are, In her light boat; and many quips and cranks She played upon the water, till the car Of the late moon, like a sick matron wan, To journey from the misty east began. LII. And then she called out of the hollow turrets Of those high clouds, white, golden and vermilion, The armies of her ministering spirits In mighty legions, million after million, They came, each troop emblazoning its merits On meteor flags; and many a proud pavilion Of the intertexture of the atmosphere They pitched upon the plain of the calm mere. LIII. They framed the imperial tent of their great Queen Of woven exhalations, underlaid With lambent lightning-fire, as may be seen A dome of thin and open ivory inlaid With crimson silk -- cressets from the serene Hung there, and on the water for her tread A tapestry of fleece-like mist was strewn, Dyed in the beams of the ascending moon. LIV. And on a throne o'erlaid with starlight, caught Upon those wandering isles of ary dew, Which highest shoals of mountain shipwreck not, She sate, and heard all that had happened new Between the earth and moon, since they had brought The last intelligence -- and now she grew Pale as that moon, lost in the watery night-- And now she wept, and now she laughed outright. LV. These were tame pleasures; she would often climb The steepest ladder of the crudded rack Up to some beakd cape of cloud sublime, And like Arion on the dolphin's back Ride singing through the shoreless air; -- oft-time Following the serpent lightning's winding track, She ran upon the platforms of the wind, And laughed to hear the fire-balls roar behind. LVI. And sometimes to those streams of upper air Which whirl the earth in its diurnal round, She would ascend, and win the spirits there To let her join their chorus. Mortals found That on those days the sky was calm and fair, And mystic snatches of harmonious sound Wandered upon the earth where'er she passed, And happy thoughts of hope, too sweet to last. LVII. But her choice sport was, in the hours of sleep, To glide adown old Nilus, where he threads Egypt and Aethiopia, from the steep Of utmost Axum, until he spreads, Like a calm flock of silver-fleecd sheep, His waters on the plain: and crested heads Of cities and proud temples gleam amid, And many a vapour-belted pyramid. LVIII. By Moeris and the Mareotid lakes, Strewn with faint blooms like bridal chamber floors, Where naked boys bridling tame water-snakes, Or charioteering ghastly alligators, Had left on the sweet waters mighty wakes Of those huge forms -- within the brazen doors Of the great Labyrinth slept both boy and beast, Tired with the pomp of their Osirian feast. LIX. And where within the surface of the river The shadows of the massy temples lie, And never are erased -- but tremble ever Like things which every cloud can doom to die, Through lotus-paven canals, and wheresoever The works of man pierced that serenest sky With tombs, and towers, and fanes, 'twas her delight To wander in the shadow of the night. LX. With motion like the spirit of that wind Whose soft step deepens slumber, her light feet Passed through the peopled haunts of humankind, Scattering sweet visions from her presence sweet, Through fane, and palace-court, and labyrinth mined With many a dark and subterranean street Under the Nile, through chambers high and deep She passed, observing mortals in their sleep. LXI. A pleasure sweet doubtless it was to see Mortals subdued in all the shapes of sleep. Here lay two sister twins in infancy; There, a lone youth who in his dreams did weep; Within, two lovers linkd innocently In their loose locks which over both did creep Like ivy from one stem;and there lay calm Old age with snow-bright hair and folded palm. LXII. But other troubled forms of sleep she saw, Not to be mirrored in a holy song-- Distortions foul of supernatural awe, And pale imaginings of visioned wrong; And all the code of Custom's lawless law Written upon the brows of old and young: 'This,' said the wizard maiden, 'is the strife Which stirs the liquid surface of man's life.' LXIII. And little did the sight disturb her soul.-- We, the weak mariners of that wide lake Where'er its shores extend or billows roll, Our course unpiloted and starless make O'er its wild surface to an unknown goal:-- But she in the calm depths her way could take, Where in bright bowers immortal forms abide Beneath the weltering of the restless tide. LXIV. And she saw princes couched under the glow Of sunlike gems; and round each temple-court In dormitories ranged, row after row, She saw the priests asleepall of one sort-- For all were educated to be so. The peasants in their huts, and in the port The sailors she saw cradled on the waves, And the dead lulled within their dreamless graves. LXV. And all the forms in which those spirits lay Were to her sight like the diaphanous Veils, in which those sweet ladies oft array Their delicate limbs, who would conceal from us Only their scorn of all concealment: they Move in the light of their own beauty thus. But these and all now lay with sleep upon them, And little thought a Witch was looking on them. LXVI. She, all those human figures breathing there, Beheld as living spirits -- to her eyes The naked beauty of the soul lay bare, And often through a rude and worn disguise She saw the inner form most bright and fair-- And then she had a charm of strange device, Which, murmured on mute lips with tender tone, Could make that spirit mingle with her own. LXVII. Alas! Aurora, what wouldst thou have given For such a charm when Tithon became gray? Or how much, Venus, of thy silver heaven Wouldst thou have yielded, ere Proserpina Had half (oh! why not all?) the debt forgiven Which dear Adonis had been doomed to pay, To any witch who would have taught you it? The Heliad doth not know its value yet. LXVIII. 'Tis said in after times her spirit free Knew what love was, and felt itself alone-- But holy Dian could not chaster be Before she stooped to kiss Endymion, Than now this lady -- like a sexless bee Tasting all blossoms, and confined to none, Among those mortal forms, the wizard-maiden Passed with an eye serene and heart unladen. LXIX. To those she saw most beautiful, she gave Strange panacea in a crystal bowl:-- They drank in their deep sleep of that sweet wave, And lived thenceforward as if some control, Mightier than life, were in them; and the grave Of such, when death oppressed the weary soul, Was as a green and overarching bower Lit by the gems of many a starry flower. LXX. For on the night when they were buried, she Restored the embalmers' ruining, and shook The light out of the funeral lamps, to be A mimic day within that deathy nook; And she unwound the woven imagery Of second childhood's swaddling bands, and took The coffin, its last cradle, from its niche, And threw it with contempt into a ditch. LXXI. And there the body lay, age after age, Mute, breathing, beating, warm, and undecaying, Like one asleep in a green hermitage, With gentle smiles about its eyelids playing, And living in its dreams beyond the rage Of death or life; while they were still arraying In liveries ever new, the rapid, blind And fleeting generations of mankind. LXXII. And she would write strange dreams upon the brain Of those who were less beautiful, and make All harsh and crooked purposes more vain Than in the desert is the serpent's wake Which the sand coversall his evil gain The miser in such dreams would rise and shake Into a beggar's lap;the lying scribe Would his own lies betray without a bribe. LXXIII. The priests would write an explanation full, Translating hieroglyphics into Greek, How the God Apis really was a bull, And nothing more; and bid the herald stick The same against the temple doors, and pull The old cant down; they licensed all to speak What'er they thought of hawks, and cats, and geese, By pastoral letters to each diocese. LXXIV. The king would dress an ape up in his crown And robes, and seat him on his glorious seat, And on the right hand of the sunlike throne Would place a gaudy mock-bird to repeat The chatterings of the monkey.Every one Of the prone courtiers crawled to kiss the feet Of their great Emperor, when the morning came, And kissed -- alas, how many kiss the same! LXXV. The soldiers dreamed that they were blacksmiths, and Walked out of quarters in somnambulism; Round the red anvils you might see them stand Like Cyclopses in Vulcan's sooty abysm, Beating their swords to ploughshares; -- in a band The gaolers sent those of the liberal schism Free through the streets of Memphis, much, I wis, To the annoyance of king Amasis. LXXVI. And timid lovers who had been so coy, They hardly knew whether they loved or not, Would rise out of their rest, and take sweet joy, To the fulfilment of their inmost thought; And when next day the maiden and the boy Met one another, both, like sinners caught, Blushed at the thing which each believed was done Only in fancy -- till the tenth moon shone; LXXVII. And then the Witch would let them take no ill: Of many thousand schemes which lovers find, The Witch found one,and so they took their fill Of happiness in marriage warm and kind. Friends who, by practice of some envious skill, Were torn apart -- a wide wound, mind from mind!-- She did unite again with visions clear Of deep affection and of truth sincere. LXXVIII. These were the pranks she played among the cities Of mortal men, and what she did to Sprites And Gods, entangling them in her sweet ditties To do her will, and show their subtle sleights, I will declare another time; for it is A tale more fit for the weird winter nights Than for these garish summer days, when we Scarcely believe much more than we can see. Composed at the Baths of San Giuliano, near Pisa, August 14-16, 1820; published in Posthumous Poems, ed. Mrs. Shelley, 1824. The dedication To Mary first appeared in the Poetical Works, 1839, 1st ed. Note by Mrs. Shelley: 'We spent the summer of 1820 at the Baths of San Giuliano, four miles from Pisa. These baths were of great use to Shelley in soothing his nervous irritability. We made several excursions in the neighbourhood. The country around is fertile, and diversified and rendered picturesque by ranges of near hills and more distant mountains. The peasantry are a handsome intelligent race; and there was a gladsome sunny heaven spread over us, that rendered home and every scene we visited cheerful and bright. During some of the hottest days of August, Shelley made a solitary journey on foot to the summit of Monte San Pellegrino -- a mountain of some height, on the top of which there is a chapel, the object, during certain days of the year, of many pilgrimages. The excursion delighted him while it lasted; though he exerted himself too much, and the effect was considerable lsasitude and weakness on his return. During the expedition he conceived the idea, and wrote, in the three days immediately succeeding to his return, the Witch of Atlas. This poem is peculiarly characteristic of his tastes -- wildly fanciful, full of brilliant imagery, and discarding human interest and passion, to revel in the fantastic ideas that his imagination suggested.' ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Witch Of Atlas

320:A SATYRIC DRAMA TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK OF EURIPIDES. SILENUS. ULYSSES. CHORUS OF SATYRS. THE CYCLOPS. SILENUS: O Bacchus, what a world of toil, both now And ere these limbs were overworn with age, Have I endured for thee! First, when thou fledst The mountain-nymphs who nursed thee, driven afar By the strange madness Juno sent upon thee; Then in the battle of the Sons of Earth, When I stood foot by foot close to thy side, No unpropitious fellow-combatant, And, driving through his shield my winged spear, Slew vast Enceladus. Consider now, Is it a dream of which I speak to thee? By Jove it is not, for you have the trophies! And now I suffer more than all before. For when I heard that Juno had devised A tedious voyage for you, I put to sea With all my children quaint in search of you, And I myself stood on the beaked prow And fixed the naked mast; and all my boys Leaning upon their oars, with splash and strain Made white with foam the green and purple sea,-- And so we sought you, king. We were sailing Near Malea, when an eastern wind arose, And drove us to this waste Aetnean rock; The one-eyed children of the Ocean God, The man-destroying Cyclopses, inhabit, On this wild shore, their solitary caves, And one of these, named Polypheme. has caught us To be his slaves; and so, for all delight Of Bacchic sports, sweet dance and melody, We keep this lawless giants wandering flocks. My sons indeed on far declivities, Young things themselves, tend on the youngling sheep, But I remain to fill the water-casks, Or sweeping the hard floor, or ministering Some impious and abominable meal To the fell Cyclops. I am wearied of it! And now I must scrape up the littered floor With this great iron rake, so to receive My absent master and his evening sheep In a cave neat and clean. Even now I see My children tending the flocks hitherward. Ha! what is this? are your Sicinnian measures Even now the same, as when with dance and song You brought young Bacchus to Althaeas halls? CHORUS OF SATYRS: STROPHE: Where has he of race divine Wandered in the winding rocks? Here the air is calm and fine For the father of the flocks;-- Here the grass is soft and sweet, And the river-eddies meet In the trough beside the cave, Bright as in their fountain wave.-- Neither here, nor on the dew Of the lawny uplands feeding? Oh, you come!a stone at you Will I throw to mend your breeding;-- Get along, you horned thing, Wild, seditious, rambling! EPODE: An Iacchic melody To the golden Aphrodite Will I lift, as erst did I Seeking her and her delight With the Maenads, whose white feet To the music glance and fleet. Bacchus, O beloved, where, Shaking wide thy yellow hair, Wanderest thou alone, afar? To the one-eyed Cyclops, we, Who by right thy servants are, Minister in misery, In these wretched goat-skins clad, Far from thy delights and thee. SILENUS: Be silent, sons; command the slaves to drive The gathered flocks into the rock-roofed cave. CHORUS: Go! But what needs this serious haste, O father? SILENUS: I see a Grecian vessel on the coast, And thence the rowers with some general Approaching to this cave.About their necks Hang empty vessels, as they wanted food, And water-flasks.Oh, miserable strangers! Whence come they, that they know not what and who My master is, approaching in ill hour The inhospitable roof of Polypheme, And the Cyclopian jaw-bone, man-destroying? Be silent, Satyrs, while I ask and hear 85 Whence coming, they arrive the Aetnean hill. ULYSSES: Friends, can you show me some clear water-spring, The remedy of our thirst? Will any one Furnish with food seamen in want of it? Ha! what is this? We seem to be arrived At the blithe court of Bacchus. I observe This sportive band of Satyrs near the caves. First let me greet the elder.--Hail! SILENUS: Hail thou, O Stranger! tell thy country and thy race. ULYSSES: The Ithacan Ulysses and the king Of Cephalonia. SILENUS: Oh! I know the man, Wordy and shrewd, the son of Sisyphus. ULYSSES: I am the same, but do not rail upon me.-- SILENUS: Whence sailing do you come to Sicily? ULYSSES: From Ilion, and from the Trojan toils. SILENUS: How, touched you not at your paternal shore? ULYSSES: The strength of tempests bore me here by force. SILENUS: The self-same accident occurred to me. ULYSSES: Were you then driven here by stress of weather? SILENUS: Following the Pirates who had kidnapped Bacchus. ULYSSES: What land is this, and who inhabit it?-- SILENUS: Aetna, the loftiest peak in Sicily. ULYSSES: And are there walls, and tower-surrounded towns? SILENUS: There are not.--These lone rocks are bare of men. ULYSSES: And who possess the land? the race of beasts? SILENUS: Cyclops, who live in caverns, not in houses. ULYSSES: Obeying whom? Or is the state popular? SILENUS: Shepherds: no one obeys any in aught. ULYSSES: How live they? do they sow the corn of Ceres? SILENUS: On milk and cheese, and on the flesh of sheep. ULYSSES: Have they the Bromian drink from the vines stream? SILENUS: Ah! no; they live in an ungracious land. ULYSSES: And are they just to strangers?hospitable? SILENUS: They think the sweetest thing a stranger brings Is his own flesh. ULYSSES: What! do they eat mans flesh? SILENUS: No one comes here who is not eaten up. ULYSSES: The Cyclops now--where is he? Not at home? SILENUS: Absent on Aetna, hunting with his dogs. ULYSSES: Knowst thou what thou must do to aid us hence? SILENUS: I know not: we will help you all we can. ULYSSES: Provide us food, of which we are in want. SILENUS: Here is not anything, as I said, but meat. ULYSSES: But meat is a sweet remedy for hunger. SILENUS: Cows milk there is, and store of curdled cheese. ULYSSES: Bring out:--I would see all before I bargain. SILENUS: But how much gold will you engage to give? ULYSSES: I bring no gold, but Bacchic juice. SILENUS: Oh, joy! Tis long since these dry lips were wet with wine. ULYSSES: Maron, the son of the God, gave it me. SILENUS: Whom I have nursed a baby in my arms. ULYSSES: The son of Bacchus, for your clearer knowledge. SILENUS: Have you it now?or is it in the ship? ULYSSES: Old man, this skin contains it, which you see. SILENUS: Why, this would hardly be a mouthful for me. ULYSSES: Nay, twice as much as you can draw from thence. SILENUS: You speak of a fair fountain, sweet to me. ULYSSES: Would you first taste of the unmingled wine? SILENUS: Tis justtasting invites the purchaser. ULYSSES: Here is the cup, together with the skin. SILENUS: Pour: that the draught may fillip my remembrance. ULYSSES: See! SILENUS: Papaiapax! what a sweet smell it has! ULYSSES: You see it then?-- SILENUS: By Jove, no! but I smell it. ULYSSES: Taste, that you may not praise it in words only. SILENUS: Babai! Great Bacchus calls me forth to dance! Joy! joy! ULYSSES: Did it flow sweetly down your throat? SILENUS: So that it tingled to my very nails. ULYSSES: And in addition I will give you gold. SILENUS: Let gold alone! only unlock the cask. ULYSSES: Bring out some cheeses now, or a young goat. SILENUS: That will I do, despising any master. Yes, let me drink one cup, and I will give All that the Cyclops feed upon their mountains. ... CHORUS: Ye have taken Troy and laid your hands on Helen? ULYSSES: And utterly destroyed the race of Priam. ... SILENUS: The wanton wretch! she was bewitched to see The many-coloured anklets and the chain Of woven gold which girt the neck of Paris, And so she left that good man Menelaus. There should be no more women in the world But such as are reserved for me alone.-- See, here are sheep, and here are goats, Ulysses, Here are unsparing cheeses of pressed milk; Take them; depart with what good speed ye may; First leaving my reward, the Bacchic dew Of joy-inspiring grapes. ULYSSES: Ah me! Alas! What shall we do? the Cyclops is at hand! Old man, we perish! whither can we fly? SILENUS: Hide yourselves quick within that hollow rock. ULYSSES: Twere perilous to fly into the net. SILENUS: The cavern has recesses numberless; Hide yourselves quick. ULYSSES: That will I never do! The mighty Troy would be indeed disgraced If I should fly one man. How many times Have I withstood, with shield immovable. Ten thousand Phrygians!if I needs must die, Yet will I die with glory;--if I live, The praise which I have gained will yet remain. SILENUS: What, ho! assistance, comrades, haste, assistance! [THE CYCLOPS, SILENUS, ULYSSES; CHORUS.] CYCLOPS: What is this tumult? Bacchus is not here, Nor tympanies nor brazen castanets. How are my young lambs in the cavern? Milking Their dams or playing by their sides? And is The new cheese pressed into the bulrush baskets? Speak! Ill beat some of you till you rain tears-- Look up, not downwards when I speak to you. SILENUS: See! I now gape at Jupiter himself; I stare upon Orion and the stars. CYCLOPS: Well, is the dinner fitly cooked and laid? SILENUS: All ready, if your throat is ready too. CYCLOPS: Are the bowls full of milk besides? SILENUS: Oer-brimming; So you may drink a tunful if you will. CYCLOPS: Is it ewes milk or cows milk, or both mixed?-- SILENUS: Both, either; only pray dont swallow me. CYCLOPS: By no means.-- ... What is this crowd I see beside the stalls? Outlaws or thieves? for near my cavern-home I see my young lambs coupled two by two With willow bands; mixed with my cheeses lie Their implements; and this old fellow here Has his bald head broken with stripes. SILENUS: Ah me! I have been beaten till I burn with fever. CYCLOPS: By whom? Who laid his fist upon your head? SILENUS: Those men, because I would not suffer them To steal your goods. CYCLOPS: Did not the rascals know I am a God, sprung from the race of Heaven? SILENUS: I told them so, but they bore off your things, And ate the cheese in spite of all I said, And carried out the lambsand said, moreover, Theyd pin you down with a three-cubit collar, And pull your vitals out through your one eye, Furrow your back with stripes, then, binding you, Throw you as ballast into the ships hold, And then deliver you, a slave, to move Enormous rocks, or found a vestibule. CYCLOPS: In truth? Nay, haste, and place in order quickly The cooking-knives, and heap upon the hearth, And kindle it, a great **** of wood.-- As soon as they are slaughtered, they shall fill My belly, broiling warm from the live coals, Or boiled and seethed within the bubbling caldron. I am quite sick of the wild mountain game; Of stags and lions I have gorged enough, And I grow hungry for the flesh of men. SILENUS: Nay, master, something new is very pleasant After one thing forever, and of late Very few strangers have approached our cave. ULYSSES: Hear, Cyclops, a plain tale on the other side. We, wanting to buy food, came from our ship Into the neighbourhood of your cave, and here This old Silenus gave us in exchange These lambs for wine, the which he took and drank, And all by mutual compact, without force. There is no word of truth in what he says, For slyly he was selling all your store. SILENUS: I? May you perish, wretch-- ULYSSES: If I speak false! SILENUS: Cyclops, I swear by Neptune who begot thee, By mighty Triton and by Nereus old, Calypso and the glaucous Ocean Nymphs, The sacred waves and all the race of fishes-- Be these the witnesses, my dear sweet master, My darling little Cyclops, that I never Gave any of your stores to these false strangers;-- If I speak false may those whom most I love, My children, perish wretchedly! CHORUS: There stop! I saw him giving these things to the strangers. If I speak false, then may my father perish, But do not thou wrong hospitality. CYCLOPS: You lie! I swear that he is juster far Than Rhadamanthus--I trust more in him. But let me ask, whence have ye sailed, O strangers? Who are you? And what city nourished ye? ULYSSES: Our race is Ithacan--having destroyed The town of Troy, the tempests of the sea Have driven us on thy land, O Polypheme. CYCLOPS: What, have ye shared in the unenvied spoil Of the false Helen, near Scamanders stream? ULYSSES: The same, having endured a woful toil. CYCLOPS: Oh, basest expedition! sailed ye not From Greece to Phrygia for one womans sake? ULYSSES: Twas the Gods workno mortal was in fault. But, O great Offspring of the Ocean-King, We pray thee and admonish thee with freedom, That thou dost spare thy friends who visit thee, And place no impious food within thy jaws. For in the depths of Greece we have upreared Temples to thy great Father, which are all His homes. The sacred bay of Taenarus Remains inviolate, and each dim recess Scooped high on the Malean promontory, And aery Suniums silver-veined crag, Which divine Pallas keeps unprofaned ever, The Gerastian asylums, and whateer Within wide Greece our enterprise has kept From Phrygian contumely; and in which You have a common care, for you inhabit The skirts of Grecian land, under the roots Of Aetna and its crags, spotted with fire. Turn then to converse under human laws, Receive us shipwrecked suppliants, and provide Food, clothes, and fire, and hospitable gifts; Nor fixing upon oxen-piercing spits Our limbs, so fill your belly and your jaws. Priams wide land has widowed Greece enough; And weapon-winged murder leaped together Enough of dead, and wives are husbandless, And ancient women and gray fathers wail Their childless age;if you should roast the rest-- And tis a bitter feast that you prepare-- Where then would any turn? Yet be persuaded; Forgo the lust of your jaw-bone; prefer Pious humanity to wicked will: Many have bought too dear their evil joys. SILENUS: Let me advise you, do not spare a morsel Of all his flesh. If you should eat his tongue You would become most eloquent, O Cyclops. CYCLOPS: Wealth, my good fellow, is the wise mans God, All other things are a pretence and boast. What are my fathers ocean promontories, The sacred rocks whereon he dwells, to me? Stranger, I laugh to scorn Joves thunderbolt, I know not that his strength is more than mine. As to the rest I care not.When he pours Rain from above, I have a close pavilion Under this rock, in which I lie supine, Feasting on a roast calf or some wild beast, And drinking pans of milk, and gloriously Emulating the thunder of high Heaven. And when the Thracian wind pours down the snow, I wrap my body in the skins of beasts, Kindle a fire, and bid the snow whirl on. The earth, by force, whether it will or no, Bringing forth grass, fattens my flocks and herds, Which, to what other God but to myself And this great belly, first of deities, Should I be bound to sacrifice? I well know The wise mans only Jupiter is this, To eat and drink during his little day, And give himself no care. And as for those Who complicate with laws the life of man, I freely give them tears for their reward. I will not cheat my soul of its delight, Or hesitate in dining upon you:-- And that I may be quit of all demands, These are my hospitable gifts;fierce fire And yon ancestral caldron, which oer-bubbling Shall finely cook your miserable flesh. Creep in!-- ... ULYSSES: Ai! ai! I have escaped the Trojan toils, I have escaped the sea, and now I fall Under the cruel grasp of one impious man. O Pallas, Mistress, Goddess, sprung from Jove, Now, now, assist me! Mightier toils than Troy Are these;I totter on the chasms of peril;-- And thou who inhabitest the thrones Of the bright stars, look, hospitable Jove, Upon this outrage of thy deity, Otherwise be considered as no God! CHORUS (ALONE): For your gaping gulf and your gullet wide, The ravin is ready on every side, The limbs of the strangers are cooked and done; There is boiled meat, and roast meat, and meat from the coal, You may chop it, and tear it, and gnash it for fun, An hairy goats-skin contains the whole. Let me but escape, and ferry me oer The stream of your wrath to a safer shore. The Cyclops Aetnean is cruel and bold, He murders the strangers That sit on his hearth, And dreads no avengers To rise from the earth. He roasts the men before they are cold, He snatches them broiling from the coal, And from the caldron pulls them whole, And minces their flesh and gnaws their bone With his cursed teeth, till all be gone. Farewell, foul pavilion: Farewell, rites of dread! The Cyclops vermilion, With slaughter uncloying, Now feasts on the dead, In the flesh of strangers joying! ULYSSES: O Jupiter! I saw within the cave Horrible things; deeds to be feigned in words, But not to be believed as being done. CHORUS: What! sawest thou the impious Polypheme Feasting upon your loved companions now? ULYSSES: Selecting two, the plumpest of the crowd, He grasped them in his hands.-- CHORUS: Unhappy man! ... ULYSSES: Soon as we came into this craggy place, Kindling a fire, he cast on the broad hearth The knotty limbs of an enormous oak, Three waggon-loads at least, and then he strewed Upon the ground, beside the red firelight, His couch of pine-leaves; and he milked the cows, And pouring forth the white milk, filled a bowl Three cubits wide and four in depth, as much As would contain ten amphorae, and bound it With ivy wreaths; then placed upon the fire A brazen pot to boil, and made red hot The points of spits, not sharpened with the sickle But with a fruit tree bough, and with the jaws Of axes for Aetnean slaughterings. And when this God-abandoned Cook of Hell Had made all ready, he seized two of us And killed them in a kind of measured manner; For he flung one against the brazen rivets Of the huge caldron, and seized the other By the foots tendon, and knocked out his brains Upon the sharp edge of the craggy stone: Then peeled his flesh with a great cooking-knife And put him down to roast. The others limbs He chopped into the caldron to be boiled. And I, with the tears raining from my eyes, Stood near the Cyclops, ministering to him; The rest, in the recesses of the cave, Clung to the rock like bats, bloodless with fear. When he was filled with my companions flesh, He threw himself upon the ground and sent A loathsome exhalation from his maw. Then a divine thought came to me. I filled The cup of Maron, and I offered him To taste, and said:Child of the Ocean God, Behold what drink the vines of Greece produce, The exultation and the joy of Bacchus. He, satiated with his unnatural food, Received it, and at one draught drank it off, And taking my hand, praised me:Thou hast given A sweet draught after a sweet meal, dear guest. And I, perceiving that it pleased him, filled Another cup, well knowing that the wine Would wound him soon and take a sure revenge. And the charm fascinated him, and I Plied him cup after cup, until the drink Had warmed his entrails, and he sang aloud In concert with my wailing fellow-seamen A hideous discordand the cavern rung. I have stolen out, so that if you will You may achieve my safety and your own. But say, do you desire, or not, to fly This uncompanionable man, and dwell As was your wont among the Grecian Nymphs Within the fanes of your beloved God? Your father there within agrees to it, But he is weak and overcome with wine, And caught as if with bird-lime by the cup, He claps his wings and crows in doting joy. You who are young escape with me, and find Bacchus your ancient friend; unsuited he To this rude Cyclops. CHORUS: Oh my dearest friend, That I could see that day, and leave for ever The impious Cyclops. ... ULYSSES: Listen then what a punishment I have For this fell monster, how secure a flight From your hard servitude. CHORUS: O sweeter far Than is the music of an Asian lyre Would be the news of Polypheme destroyed. ULYSSES: Delighted with the Bacchic drink he goes To call his brother Cyclops--who inhabit A village upon Aetna not far off. CHORUS: I understand, catching him when alone You think by some measure to dispatch him, Or thrust him from the precipice. ULYSSES: Oh no; Nothing of that kind; my device is subtle. CHORUS: How then? I heard of old that thou wert wise. ULYSSES: I will dissuade him from this plan, by saying It were unwise to give the Cyclopses This precious drink, which if enjoyed alone Would make life sweeter for a longer time. When, vanquished by the Bacchic power, he sleeps, There is a trunk of olive wood within, Whose point having made sharp with this good sword I will conceal in fire, and when I see It is alight, will fix it, burning yet, Within the socket of the Cyclops eye And melt it out with fireas when a man Turns by its handle a great auger round, Fitting the framework of a ship with beams, So will I, in the Cyclops fiery eye Turn round the brand and dry the pupil up. CHORUS: Joy! I am mad with joy at your device. ULYSSES: And then with you, my friends, and the old man, Well load the hollow depth of our black ship, And row with double strokes from this dread shore. CHORUS: May I, as in libations to a God, Share in the blinding him with the red brand? I would have some communion in his death. ULYSSES: Doubtless: the brand is a great brand to hold. CHORUS: Oh! I would lift an hundred waggon-loads, If like a wasps nest I could scoop the eye out Of the detested Cyclops. ULYSSES: Silence now! Ye know the close deviceand when I call, Look ye obey the masters of the craft. I will not save myself and leave behind My comrades in the cave: I might escape, Having got clear from that obscure recess, But twere unjust to leave in jeopardy The dear companions who sailed here with me. CHORUS: Come! who is first, that with his hand Will urge down the burning brand Through the lids, and quench and pierce The Cyclops eye so fiery fierce? SEMICHORUS 1 [SONG WITHIN]: Listen! listen! he is coming, A most hideous discord humming. Drunken, museless, awkward, yelling, Far along his rocky dwelling; Let us with some comic spell Teach the yet unteachable. By all means he must be blinded, If my counsel be but minded. SEMICHORUS 2: Happy thou made odorous With the dew which sweet grapes weep, To the village hastening thus, Seek the vines that soothe to sleep; Having first embraced thy friend, Thou in luxury without end, With the strings of yellow hair, Of thy voluptuous leman fair, Shalt sit playing on a bed!-- Speak! what door is opened? CYCLOPS: Ha! ha! ha! Im full of wine, Heavy with the joy divine, With the young feast oversated; Like a merchants vessel freighted To the waters edge, my crop Is laden to the gullets top. The fresh meadow grass of spring Tempts me forth thus wandering To my brothers on the mountains, Who shall share the wines sweet fountains. Bring the cask, O stranger, bring! CHORUS: One with eyes the fairest Cometh from his dwelling; Some one loves thee, rarest Bright beyond my telling. In thy grace thou shinest Like some nymph divinest In her caverns dewy:-- All delights pursue thee, Soon pied flowers, sweet-breathing, Shall thy head be wreathing. ULYSSES: Listen, O Cyclops, for I am well skilled In Bacchus, whom I gave thee of to drink. CYCLOPS: What sort of God is Bacchus then accounted? ULYSSES: The greatest among men for joy of life. CYCLOPS: I gulped him down with very great delight. ULYSSES: This is a God who never injures men. CYCLOPS: How does the God like living in a skin? ULYSSES: He is content wherever he is put. CYCLOPS: Gods should not have their body in a skin. ULYSSES: If he gives joy, what is his skin to you? CYCLOPS: I hate the skin, but love the wine within. ULYSSES: Stay here now: drink, and make your spirit glad. CYCLOPS: Should I not share this liquor with my brothers? ULYSSES: Keep it yourself, and be more honoured so. CYCLOPS: I were more useful, giving to my friends. ULYSSES: But village mirth breeds contests, broils, and blows. CYCLOPS: When I am drunk none shall lay hands on me.-- ULYSSES: A drunken man is better within doors. CYCLOPS: He is a fool, who drinking, loves not mirth. ULYSSES: But he is wise, who drunk, remains at home. CYCLOPS: What shall I do, Silenus? Shall I stay? SILENUS: Stayfor what need have you of pot companions? CYCLOPS: Indeed this place is closely carpeted With flowers and grass. SILENUS: And in the sun-warm noon Tis sweet to drink. Lie down beside me now, Placing your mighty sides upon the ground. CYCLOPS: What do you put the cup behind me for? SILENUS: That no one here may touch it. CYCLOPS: Thievish One! You want to drink;--here place it in the midst. And thou, O stranger, tell how art thou called? ULYSSES: My name is Nobody. What favour now Shall I receive to praise you at your hands? CYCLOPS: Ill feast on you the last of your companions. ULYSSES: You grant your guest a fair reward, O Cyclops. CYCLOPS: Ha! what is this? Stealing the wine, you rogue! SILENUS: It was this stranger kissing me because I looked so beautiful. CYCLOPS: You shall repent For kissing the coy wine that loves you not. SILENUS: By Jupiter! you said that I am fair. CYCLOPS: Pour out, and only give me the cup full. SILENUS: How is it mixed? let me observe. CYCLOPS: Curse you! Give it me so. SILENUS: Not till I see you wear That coronal, and taste the cup to you. CYCLOPS: Thou wily traitor! SILENUS: But the wine is sweet. Ay, you will roar if you are caught in drinking. CYCLOPS: See now, my lip is clean and all my beard. SILENUS: Now put your elbow right and drink again. As you see me drink--... CYCLOPS: How now? SILENUS: Ye Gods, what a delicious gulp! CYCLOPS: Guest, take it;--you pour out the wine for me. ULYSSES: The wine is well accustomed to my hand. CYCLOPS: Pour out the wine! ULYSSES: I pour; only be silent. CYCLOPS: Silence is a hard task to him who drinks. ULYSSES: Take it and drink it off; leave not a dreg. Oh that the drinker died with his own draught! CYCLOPS: Papai! the vine must be a sapient plant. ULYSSES: If you drink much after a mighty feast, Moistening your thirsty maw, you will sleep well; If you leave aught, Bacchus will dry you up. CYCLOPS: Ho! ho! I can scarce rise. What pure delight! The heavens and earth appear to whirl about Confusedly. I see the throne of Jove And the clear congregation of the Gods. Now if the Graces tempted me to kiss I would notfor the loveliest of them all I would not leave this Ganymede. SILENUS: Polypheme, I am the Ganymede of Jupiter. CYCLOPS: By Jove, you are; I bore you off from Dardanus. ... [ULYSSES AND THE CHORUS.] ULYSSES: Come, boys of Bacchus, children of high race, This man within is folded up in sleep, And soon will vomit flesh from his fell maw; The brand under the shed thrusts out its smoke, No preparation needs, but to burn out The monsters eye;but bear yourselves like men. CHORUS: We will have courage like the adamant rock, All things are ready for you here; go in, Before our father shall perceive the noise. ULYSSES: Vulcan, Aetnean king! burn out with fire The shining eye of this thy neighbouring monster! And thou, O Sleep, nursling of gloomy Night, Descend unmixed on this God-hated beast, And suffer not Ulysses and his comrades, Returning from their famous Trojan toils, To perish by this man, who cares not either For God or mortal; or I needs must think That Chance is a supreme divinity, And things divine are subject to her power. CHORUS: Soon a crab the throat will seize Of him who feeds upon his guest, Fire will burn his lamp-like eyes In revenge of such a feast! A great oak stump now is lying In the ashes yet undying. Come, Maron, come! Raging let him fix the doom, Let him tear the eyelid up Of the Cyclopsthat his cup May be evil! Oh! I long to dance and revel With sweet Bromian, long desired, In loved ivy wreaths attired; Leaving this abandoned home-- Will the moment ever come? ULYSSES: Be silent, ye wild things! Nay, hold your peace, And keep your lips quite close; dare not to breathe, Or spit, or een wink, lest ye wake the monster, Until his eye be tortured out with fire. CHORUS: Nay, we are silent, and we chaw the air. ULYSSES: Come now, and lend a hand to the great stake Withinit is delightfully red hot. CHORUS: You then command who first should seize the stake To burn the Cyclops eye, that all may share In the great enterprise. SEMICHORUS 1: We are too far; We cannot at this distance from the door Thrust fire into his eye. SEMICHORUS 2: And we just now Have become lame! cannot move hand or foot. CHORUS: The same thing has occurred to us,--our ankles Are sprained with standing here, I know not how. ULYSSES: What, sprained with standing still? CHORUS: And there is dust Or ashes in our eyes, I know not whence. ULYSSES: Cowardly dogs! ye will not aid me then? CHORUS: With pitying my own back and my back-bone, And with not wishing all my teeth knocked out, This cowardice comes of itselfbut stay, I know a famous Orphic incantation To make the brand stick of its own accord Into the skull of this one-eyed son of Earth. ULYSSES: Of old I knew ye thus by nature; now I know ye better.I will use the aid Of my own comrades. Yet though weak of hand Speak cheerfully, that so ye may awaken The courage of my friends with your blithe words. CHORUS: This I will do with peril of my life, And blind you with my exhortations, Cyclops. Hasten and thrust, And parch up to dust, The eye of the beast Who feeds on his guest. Burn and blind The Aetnean hind! Scoop and draw, But beware lest he claw Your limbs near his maw. CYCLOPS: Ah me! my eyesight is parched up to cinders. CHORUS: What a sweet paean! sing me that again! CYCLOPS: Ah me! indeed, what woe has fallen upon me! But, wretched nothings, think ye not to flee Out of this rock; I, standing at the outlet, Will bar the way and catch you as you pass. CHORUS: What are you roaring out, Cyclops? CYCLOPS: I perish! CHORUS: For you are wicked. CYCLOPS: And besides miserable. CHORUS: What, did you fall into the fire when drunk? CYCLOPS: Twas Nobody destroyed me. CHORUS: Why then no one Can be to blame. CYCLOPS: I say twas Nobody Who blinded me. CHORUS: Why then you are not blind. CYCLOPS: I wish you were as blind as I am. CHORUS: Nay, It cannot be that no one made you blind. CYCLOPS: You jeer me; where, I ask, is Nobody? CHORUS: Nowhere, O Cyclops. CYCLOPS: It was that stranger ruined me:--the wretch First gave me wine and then burned out my eye, For wine is strong and hard to struggle with. Have they escaped, or are they yet within? CHORUS: They stand under the darkness of the rock And cling to it. CYCLOPS: At my right hand or left? CHORUS: Close on your right. CYCLOPS: Where? CHORUS: Near the rock itself. You have them. CYCLOPS: Oh, misfortune on misfortune! Ive cracked my skull. CHORUS: Now they escape you--there. CYCLOPS: Not there, although you say so. CHORUS: Not on that side. CYCLOPS: Where then? CHORUS: They creep about you on your left. CYCLOPS: Ah! I am mocked! They jeer me in my ills. CHORUS: Not there! he is a little there beyond you. CYCLOPS: Detested wretch! where are you? ULYSSES: Far from you I keep with care this body of Ulysses. CYCLOPS: What do you say? You proffer a new name. ULYSSES: My father named me so; and I have taken A full revenge for your unnatural feast; I should have done ill to have burned down Troy And not revenged the murder of my comrades. CYCLOPS: Ai! ai! the ancient oracle is accomplished; It said that I should have my eyesight blinded By your coming from Troy, yet it foretold That you should pay the penalty for this By wandering long over the homeless sea. ULYSSES: I bid thee weepconsider what I say; I go towards the shore to drive my ship To mine own land, oer the Sicilian wave. CYCLOPS: Not so, if, whelming you with this huge stone, I can crush you and all your men together; I will descend upon the shore, though blind, Groping my way adown the steep ravine. CHORUS: And we, the shipmates of Ulysses now, Will serve our Bacchus all our happy lives. Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous Poems, 1824; dated 1819. Amongst the Shelley manuscripts at the Bodleian there is a copy, 'practically complete,' which has been collated by Mr. C.D. Locock. See Examination, etc., 1903, pages 64-70. 'Though legible throughout, and comparatively free from corrections, it has the appearance of being a first draft' (Locock). ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Cyclops

321:Earth, Ocean, Air, belovd brotherhood! If our great Mother has imbued my soul With aught of natural piety to feel Your love, and recompense the boon with mine; If dewy morn, and odorous noon, and even, With sunset and its gorgeous ministers, And solemn midnight's tingling silentness; If Autumn's hollow sighs in the sere wood, And Winter robing with pure snow and crowns Of starry ice the gray grass and bare boughs; If Spring's voluptuous pantings when she breathes Her first sweet kisses,have been dear to me; If no bright bird, insect, or gentle beast I consciously have injured, but still loved And cherished these my kindred; then forgive This boast, belovd brethren, and withdraw No portion of your wonted favor now! Mother of this unfathomable world! Favor my solemn song, for I have loved Thee ever, and thee only; I have watched Thy shadow, and the darkness of thy steps, And my heart ever gazes on the depth Of thy deep mysteries. I have made my bed In charnels and on coffins, where black death Keeps record of the trophies won from thee, Hoping to still these obstinate questionings Of thee and thine, by forcing some lone ghost, Thy messenger, to render up the tale Of what we are. In lone and silent hours, When night makes a weird sound of its own stillness, Like an inspired and desperate alchemist Staking his very life on some dark hope, Have I mixed awful talk and asking looks With my most innocent love, until strange tears, Uniting with those breathless kisses, made Such magic as compels the charmd night To render up thy charge; and, though ne'er yet Thou hast unveiled thy inmost sanctuary, Enough from incommunicable dream, And twilight phantasms, and deep noonday thought, Has shone within me, that serenely now And moveless, as a long-forgotten lyre Suspended in the solitary dome Of some mysterious and deserted fane, I wait thy breath, Great Parent, that my strain May modulate with murmurs of the air, And motions of the forests and the sea, And voice of living beings, and woven hymns Of night and day, and the deep heart of man. There was a Poet whose untimely tomb No human hands with pious reverence reared, But the charmed eddies of autumnal winds Built o'er his mouldering bones a pyramid Of mouldering leaves in the waste wilderness: A lovely youth,no mourning maiden decked With weeping flowers, or votive cypress wreath, The lone couch of his everlasting sleep: Gentle, and brave, and generous,no lorn bard Breathed o'er his dark fate one melodious sigh: He lived, he died, he sung in solitude.   Strangers have wept to hear his passionate notes, And virgins, as unknown he passed, have pined And wasted for fond love of his wild eyes. The fire of those soft orbs has ceased to burn, And Silence, too enamoured of that voice, Locks its mute music in her rugged cell. By solemn vision and bright silver dream His infancy was nurtured. Every sight And sound from the vast earth and ambient air Sent to his heart its choicest impulses. The fountains of divine philosophy Fled not his thirsting lips, and all of great, Or good, or lovely, which the sacred past In truth or fable consecrates, he felt And knew. When early youth had passed, he left His cold fireside and alienated home To seek strange truths in undiscovered lands. Many a wide waste and tangled wilderness Has lured his fearless steps; and he has bought With his sweet voice and eyes, from savage men, His rest and food. Nature's most secret steps He like her shadow has pursued, where'er The red volcano overcanopies Its fields of snow and pinnacles of ice With burning smoke, or where bitumen lakes On black bare pointed islets ever beat With sluggish surge, or where the secret caves, Rugged and dark, winding among the springs Of fire and poison, inaccessible To avarice or pride, their starry domes Of diamond and of gold expand above Numberless and immeasurable halls, Frequent with crystal column, and clear shrines Of pearl, and thrones radiant with chrysolite. Nor had that scene of ampler majesty Than gems or gold, the varying roof of heaven And the green earth, lost in his heart its claims To love and wonder; he would linger long In lonesome vales, making the wild his home, Until the doves and squirrels would partake From his innocuous band his bloodless food, Lured by the gentle meaning of his looks, And the wild antelope, that starts whene'er The dry leaf rustles in the brake, suspend Her timid steps, to gaze upon a form More graceful than her own. His wandering step, Obedient to high thoughts, has visited The awful ruins of the days of old: Athens, and Tyre, and Balbec, and the waste Where stood Jerusalem, the fallen towers Of Babylon, the eternal pyramids, Memphis and Thebes, and whatsoe'er of strange, Sculptured on alabaster obelisk Or jasper tomb or mutilated sphinx, Dark thiopia in her desert hills Conceals. Among the ruined temples there, Stupendous columns, and wild images Of more than man, where marble daemons watch The Zodiac's brazen mystery, and dead men Hang their mute thoughts on the mute walls around, He lingered, poring on memorials Of the world's youth: through the long burning day Gazed on those speechless shapes; nor, when the moon Filled the mysterious halls with floating shades Suspended he that task, but ever gazed And gazed, till meaning on his vacant mind Flashed like strong inspiration, and he saw The thrilling secrets of the birth of time. Meanwhile an Arab maiden brought his food, Her daily portion, from her father's tent, And spread her matting for his couch, and stole From duties and repose to tend his steps, Enamoured, yet not daring for deep awe To speak her love, and watched his nightly sleep, Sleepless herself, to gaze upon his lips Parted in slumber, whence the regular breath Of innocent dreams arose; then, when red morn Made paler the pale moon, to her cold home Wildered, and wan, and panting, she returned. The Poet, wandering on, through Arabie, And Persia, and the wild Carmanian waste, And o'er the arial mountains which pour down Indus and Oxus from their icy caves, In joy and exultation held his way; Till in the vale of Cashmire, far within Its loneliest dell, where odorous plants entwine Beneath the hollow rocks a natural bower, Beside a sparkling rivulet he stretched His languid limbs. A vision on his sleep There came, a dream of hopes that never yet Had flushed his cheek. He dreamed a veild maid Sate near him, talking in low solemn tones. Her voice was like the voice of his own soul Heard in the calm of thought; its music long, Like woven sounds of streams and breezes, held His inmost sense suspended in its web Of many-colored woof and shifting hues. Knowledge and truth and virtue were her theme, And lofty hopes of divine liberty, Thoughts the most dear to him, and poesy, Herself a poet. Soon the solemn mood Of her pure mind kindled through all her frame A permeating fire; wild numbers then She raised, with voice stifled in tremulous sobs Subdued by its own pathos; her fair hands Were bare alone, sweeping from some strange harp Strange symphony, and in their branching veins The eloquent blood told an ineffable tale. The beating of her heart was heard to fill The pauses of her music, and her breath Tumultuously accorded with those fits Of intermitted song. Sudden she rose, As if her heart impatiently endured Its bursting burden; at the sound he turned, And saw by the warm light of their own life Her glowing limbs beneath the sinuous veil Of woven wind, her outspread arms now bare, Her dark locks floating in the breath of night, Her beamy bending eyes, her parted lips Outstretched, and pale, and quivering eagerly. His strong heart sunk and sickened with excess Of love. He reared his shuddering limbs, and quelled His gasping breath, and spread his arms to meet Her panting bosom:she drew back awhile, Then, yielding to the irresistible joy, With frantic gesture and short breathless cry Folded his frame in her dissolving arms. Now blackness veiled his dizzy eyes, and night Involved and swallowed up the vision; sleep, Like a dark flood suspended in its course, Rolled back its impulse on his vacant brain. Roused by the shock, he started from his trance The cold white light of morning, the blue moon Low in the west, the clear and garish hills, The distinct valley and the vacant woods, Spread round him where he stood. Whither have fled The hues of heaven that canopied his bower Of yesternight? The sounds that soothed his sleep, The mystery and the majesty of Earth, The joy, the exultation? His wan eyes Gaze on the empty scene as vacantly As ocean's moon looks on the moon in heaven. The spirit of sweet human love has sent A vision to the sleep of him who spurned Her choicest gifts. He eagerly pursues Beyond the realms of dream that fleeting shade; He overleaps the bounds. Alas! alas! Were limbs and breath and being intertwined Thus treacherously? Lost, lost, forever lost In the wide pathless desert of dim sleep, That beautiful shape! Does the dark gate of death Conduct to thy mysterious paradise, O Sleep? Does the bright arch of rainbow clouds And pendent mountains seen in the calm lake Lead only to a black and watery depth, While death's blue vault with loathliest vapors hung, Where every shade which the foul grave exhales Hides its dead eye from the detested day, Conducts, O Sleep, to thy delightful realms? This doubt with sudden tide flowed on his heart; The insatiate hope which it awakened stung His brain even like despair. While daylight held The sky, the Poet kept mute conference With his still soul. At night the passion came, Like the fierce fiend of a distempered dream, And shook him from his rest, and led him forth Into the darkness. As an eagle, grasped In folds of the green serpent, feels her breast Burn with the poison, and precipitates Through night and day, tempest, and calm, and cloud, Frantic with dizzying anguish, her blind flight O'er the wide ary wilderness: thus driven By the bright shadow of that lovely dream, Beneath the cold glare of the desolate night, Through tangled swamps and deep precipitous dells, Startling with careless step the moon-light snake, He fled. Red morning dawned upon his flight, Shedding the mockery of its vital hues Upon his cheek of death. He wandered on Till vast Aornos seen from Petra's steep Hung o'er the low horizon like a cloud; Through Balk, and where the desolated tombs Of Parthian kings scatter to every wind Their wasting dust, wildly he wandered on, Day after day, a weary waste of hours, Bearing within his life the brooding care That ever fed on its decaying flame. And now his limbs were lean; his scattered hair, Sered by the autumn of strange suffering, Sung dirges in the wind; his listless hand Hung like dead bone within its withered skin; Life, and the lustre that consumed it, shone, As in a furnace burning secretly, From his dark eyes alone. The cottagers, Who ministered with human charity His human wants, beheld with wondering awe Their fleeting visitant. The mountaineer, Encountering on some dizzy precipice That spectral form, deemed that the Spirit of Wind, With lightning eyes, and eager breath, and feet Disturbing not the drifted snow, had paused In its career; the infant would conceal His troubled visage in his mother's robe In terror at the glare of those wild eyes, To remember their strange light in many a dream Of after times; but youthful maidens, taught By nature, would interpret half the woe That wasted him, would call him with false names Brother and friend, would press his pallid hand At parting, and watch, dim through tears, the path Of his departure from their father's door. At length upon the lone Chorasmian shore He paused, a wide and melancholy waste Of putrid marshes. A strong impulse urged His steps to the sea-shore. A swan was there, Beside a sluggish stream among the reeds. It rose as he approached, and, with strong wings Scaling the upward sky, bent its bright course High over the immeasurable main. His eyes pursued its flight:'Thou hast a home, Beautiful bird! thou voyagest to thine home, Where thy sweet mate will twine her downy neck With thine, and welcome thy return with eyes Bright in the lustre of their own fond joy. And what am I that I should linger here, With voice far sweeter than thy dying notes, Spirit more vast than thine, frame more attuned To beauty, wasting these surpassing powers In the deaf air, to the blind earth, and heaven That echoes not my thoughts?' A gloomy smile Of desperate hope wrinkled his quivering lips. For sleep, he knew, kept most relentlessly Its precious charge, and silent death exposed, Faithless perhaps as sleep, a shadowy lure, With doubtful smile mocking its own strange charms. Startled by his own thoughts, he looked around. There was no fair fiend near him, not a sight Or sound of awe but in his own deep mind. A little shallop floating near the shore Caught the impatient wandering of his gaze. It had been long abandoned, for its sides Gaped wide with many a rift, and its frail joints Swayed with the undulations of the tide. A restless impulse urged him to embark And meet lone Death on the drear ocean's waste; For well he knew that mighty Shadow loves The slimy caverns of the populous deep. The day was fair and sunny; sea and sky Drank its inspiring radiance, and the wind Swept strongly from the shore, blackening the waves. Following his eager soul, the wanderer Leaped in the boat; he spread his cloak aloft On the bare mast, and took his lonely seat, And felt the boat speed o'er the tranquil sea Like a torn cloud before the hurricane. As one that in a silver vision floats Obedient to the sweep of odorous winds Upon resplendent clouds, so rapidly Along the dark and ruffled waters fled The straining boat. A whirlwind swept it on, With fierce gusts and precipitating force, Through the white ridges of the chafd sea. The waves arose. Higher and higher still Their fierce necks writhed beneath the tempest's scourge Like serpents struggling in a vulture's grasp. Calm and rejoicing in the fearful war Of wave ruining on wave, and blast on blast Descending, and black flood on whirlpool driven With dark obliterating course, he sate: As if their genii were the ministers Appointed to conduct him to the light Of those belovd eyes, the Poet sate, Holding the steady helm. Evening came on; The beams of sunset hung their rainbow hues High 'mid the shifting domes of sheeted spray That canopied his path o'er the waste deep; Twilight, ascending slowly from the east, Entwined in duskier wreaths her braided locks O'er the fair front and radiant eyes of Day; Night followed, clad with stars. On every side More horribly the multitudinous streams Of ocean's mountainous waste to mutual war Rushed in dark tumult thundering, as to mock The calm and spangled sky. The little boat Still fled before the storm; still fled, like foam Down the steep cataract of a wintry river; Now pausing on the edge of the riven wave; Now leaving far behind the bursting mass That fell, convulsing ocean; safely fled As if that frail and wasted human form Had been an elemental god. At midnight The moon arose; and lo! the ethereal cliffs Of Caucasus, whose icy summits shone Among the stars like sunlight, and around Whose caverned base the whirlpools and the waves Bursting and eddying irresistibly Rage and resound forever.Who shall save? The boat fled on,the boiling torrent drove, The crags closed round with black and jagged arms, The shattered mountain overhung the sea, And faster still, beyond all human speed, Suspended on the sweep of the smooth wave, The little boat was driven. A cavern there Yawned, and amid its slant and winding depths Ingulfed the rushing sea. The boat fled on With unrelaxing speed.'Vision and Love!' The Poet cried aloud, 'I have beheld The path of thy departure. Sleep and death Shall not divide us long.' The boat pursued The windings of the cavern. Daylight shone At length upon that gloomy river's flow; Now, where the fiercest war among the waves Is calm, on the unfathomable stream The boat moved slowly. Where the mountain, riven, Exposed those black depths to the azure sky, Ere yet the flood's enormous volume fell Even to the base of Caucasus, with sound That shook the everlasting rocks, the mass Filled with one whirlpool all that ample chasm; Stair above stair the eddying waters rose, Circling immeasurably fast, and laved With alternating dash the gnarld roots Of mighty trees, that stretched their giant arms In darkness over it. I' the midst was left, Reflecting yet distorting every cloud, A pool of treacherous and tremendous calm. Seized by the sway of the ascending stream, With dizzy swiftness, round and round and round, Ridge after ridge the straining boat arose, Till on the verge of the extremest curve, Where through an opening of the rocky bank The waters overflow, and a smooth spot Of glassy quiet 'mid those battling tides Is left, the boat paused shuddering.Shall it sink Down the abyss? Shall the reverting stress Of that resistless gulf embosom it? Now shall it fall?A wandering stream of wind Breathed from the west, has caught the expanded sail, And, lo! with gentle motion between banks Of mossy slope, and on a placid stream, Beneath a woven grove, it sails, and, hark! The ghastly torrent mingles its far roar With the breeze murmuring in the musical woods. Where the embowering trees recede, and leave A little space of green expanse, the cove Is closed by meeting banks, whose yellow flowers Forever gaze on their own drooping eyes, Reflected in the crystal calm. The wave Of the boat's motion marred their pensive task, Which naught but vagrant bird, or wanton wind, Or falling spear-grass, or their own decay Had e'er disturbed before. The Poet longed To deck with their bright hues his withered hair, But on his heart its solitude returned, And he forbore. Not the strong impulse hid In those flushed cheeks, bent eyes, and shadowy frame, Had yet performed its ministry; it hung Upon his life, as lightning in a cloud Gleams, hovering ere it vanish, ere the floods Of night close over it. The noonday sun   Now shone upon the forest, one vast mass Of mingling shade, whose brown magnificence A narrow vale embosoms. There, huge caves, Scooped in the dark base of their ary rocks, Mocking its moans, respond and roar forever. The meeting boughs and implicated leaves Wove twilight o'er the Poet's path, as, led By love, or dream, or god, or mightier Death, He sought in Nature's dearest haunt some bank, Her cradle and his sepulchre. More dark And dark the shades accumulate. The oak, Expanding its immense and knotty arms, Embraces the light beech. The pyramids Of the tall cedar overarching frame Most solemn domes within, and far below, Like clouds suspended in an emerald sky, The ash and the acacia floating hang Tremulous and pale. Like restless serpents, clothed In rainbow and in fire, the parasites, Starred with ten thousand blossoms, flow around The gray trunks, and, as gamesome infants' eyes, With gentle meanings, and most innocent wiles, Fold their beams round the hearts of those that love, These twine their tendrils with the wedded boughs, Uniting their close union; the woven leaves Make network of the dark blue light of day And the night's noontide clearness, mutable As shapes in the weird clouds. Soft mossy lawns Beneath these canopies extend their swells, Fragrant with perfumed herbs, and eyed with blooms Minute yet beautiful. One darkest glen Sends from its woods of musk-rose twined with jasmine A soul-dissolving odor to invite To some more lovely mystery. Through the dell Silence and Twilight here, twin-sisters, keep Their noonday watch, and sail among the shades, Like vaporous shapes half-seen; beyond, a well, Dark, gleaming, and of most translucent wave, Images all the woven boughs above, And each depending leaf, and every speck Of azure sky darting between their chasms; Nor aught else in the liquid mirror laves Its portraiture, but some inconstant star, Between one foliaged lattice twinkling fair, Or painted bird, sleeping beneath the moon, Or gorgeous insect floating motionless, Unconscious of the day, ere yet his wings Have spread their glories to the gaze of noon. Hither the Poet came. His eyes beheld Their own wan light through the reflected lines Of his thin hair, distinct in the dark depth Of that still fountain; as the human heart, Gazing in dreams over the gloomy grave, Sees its own treacherous likeness there. He heard The motion of the leavesthe grass that sprung Startled and glanced and trembled even to feel An unaccustomed presenceand the sound Of the sweet brook that from the secret springs Of that dark fountain rose. A Spirit seemed To stand beside himclothed in no bright robes Of shadowy silver or enshrining light, Borrowed from aught the visible world affords Of grace, or majesty, or mystery; But undulating woods, and silent well, And leaping rivulet, and evening gloom Now deepening the dark shades, for speech assuming, Held commune with him, as if he and it Were all that was; onlywhen his regard Was raised by intense pensivenesstwo eyes, Two starry eyes, hung in the gloom of thought, And seemed with their serene and azure smiles To beckon him. Obedient to the light That shone within his soul, he went, pursuing The windings of the dell. The rivulet, Wanton and wild, through many a green ravine Beneath the forest flowed. Sometimes it fell Among the moss with hollow harmony Dark and profound. Now on the polished stones It danced, like childhood laughing as it went; Then, through the plain in tranquil wanderings crept, Reflecting every herb and drooping bud That overhung its quietness.'O stream! Whose source is inaccessibly profound, Whither do thy mysterious waters tend? Thou imagest my life. Thy darksome stillness, Thy dazzling waves, thy loud and hollow gulfs, Thy searchless fountain and invisible course, Have each their type in me; and the wide sky And measureless ocean may declare as soon What oozy cavern or what wandering cloud Contains thy waters, as the universe Tell where these living thoughts reside, when stretched Upon thy flowers my bloodless limbs shall waste I' the passing wind!' Beside the grassy shore Of the small stream he went; he did impress On the green moss his tremulous step, that caught Strong shuddering from his burning limbs. As one Roused by some joyous madness from the couch Of fever, he did move; yet not like him Forgetful of the grave, where, when the flame Of his frail exultation shall be spent, He must descend. With rapid steps he went Beneath the shade of trees, beside the flow Of the wild babbling rivulet; and now The forest's solemn canopies were changed For the uniform and lightsome evening sky. Gray rocks did peep from the spare moss, and stemmed The struggling brook; tall spires of windlestrae Threw their thin shadows down the rugged slope, And nought but gnarld roots of ancient pines Branchless and blasted, clenched with grasping roots The unwilling soil. A gradual change was here Yet ghastly. For, as fast years flow away, The smooth brow gathers, and the hair grows thin And white, and where irradiate dewy eyes Had shone, gleam stony orbs:so from his steps Bright flowers departed, and the beautiful shade Of the green groves, with all their odorous winds And musical motions. Calm he still pursued The stream, that with a larger volume now Rolled through the labyrinthine dell; and there Fretted a path through its descending curves With its wintry speed. On every side now rose Rocks, which, in unimaginable forms, Lifted their black and barren pinnacles In the light of evening, and its precipice Obscuring the ravine, disclosed above, 'Mid toppling stones, black gulfs and yawning caves, Whose windings gave ten thousand various tongues To the loud stream. Lo! where the pass expands Its stony jaws, the abrupt mountain breaks, And seems with its accumulated crags To overhang the world; for wide expand Beneath the wan stars and descending moon Islanded seas, blue mountains, mighty streams, Dim tracts and vast, robed in the lustrous gloom Of leaden-colored even, and fiery hills Mingling their flames with twilight, on the verge Of the remote horizon. The near scene, In naked and severe simplicity,   Made contrast with the universe. A pine, Rock-rooted, stretched athwart the vacancy Its swinging boughs, to each inconstant blast Yielding one only response at each pause In most familiar cadence, with the howl, The thunder and the hiss of homeless streams Mingling its solemn song, whilst the broad river Foaming and hurrying o'er its rugged path, Fell into that immeasurable void, Scattering its waters to the passing winds. Yet the gray precipice and solemn pine And torrent were not all;one silent nook Was there. Even on the edge of that vast mountain, Upheld by knotty roots and fallen rocks, It overlooked in its serenity The dark earth and the bending vault of stars. It was a tranquil spot that seemed to smile Even in the lap of horror. Ivy clasped The fissured stones with its entwining arms, And did embower with leaves forever green   And berries dark the smooth and even space Of its inviolated floor; and here The children of the autumnal whirlwind bore In wanton sport those bright leaves whose decay, Red, yellow, or ethereally pale, Rivals the pride of summer. 'T is the haunt Of every gentle wind whose breath can teach The wilds to love tranquillity. One step, One human step alone, has ever broken The stillness of its solitude; one voice   Alone inspired its echoes;even that voice Which hither came, floating among the winds, And led the loveliest among human forms To make their wild haunts the depository Of all the grace and beauty that endued Its motions, render up its majesty, Scatter its music on the unfeeling storm, And to the damp leaves and blue cavern mould, Nurses of rainbow flowers and branching moss, Commit the colors of that varying cheek, That snowy breast, those dark and drooping eyes. The dim and hornd moon hung low, and poured A sea of lustre on the horizon's verge That overflowed its mountains. Yellow mist Filled the unbounded atmosphere, and drank Wan moonlight even to fulness; not a star Shone, not a sound was heard; the very winds, Danger's grim playmates, on that precipice Slept, clasped in his embrace.O storm of death, Whose sightless speed divides this sullen night!   And thou, colossal Skeleton, that, still Guiding its irresistible career In thy devastating omnipotence, Art king of this frail world! from the red field Of slaughter, from the reeking hospital, The patriot's sacred couch, the snowy bed Of innocence, the scaffold and the throne, A mighty voice invokes thee! Ruin calls His brother Death! A rare and regal prey He hath prepared, prowling around the world;   Glutted with which thou mayst repose, and men Go to their graves like flowers or creeping worms, Nor ever more offer at thy dark shrine The unheeded tribute of a broken heart. When on the threshold of the green recess The wanderer's footsteps fell, he knew that death Was on him. Yet a little, ere it fled, Did he resign his high and holy soul To images of the majestic past, That paused within his passive being now,         Like winds that bear sweet music, when they breathe Through some dim latticed chamber. He did place His pale lean hand upon the rugged trunk Of the old pine; upon an ivied stone Reclined his languid head; his limbs did rest, Diffused and motionless, on the smooth brink Of that obscurest chasm;and thus he lay, Surrendering to their final impulses The hovering powers of life. Hope and Despair, The torturers, slept; no mortal pain or fear     Marred his repose; the influxes of sense And his own being, unalloyed by pain, Yet feebler and more feeble, calmly fed The stream of thought, till he lay breathing there At peace, and faintly smiling. His last sight Was the great moon, which o'er the western line Of the wide world her mighty horn suspended, With whose dun beams inwoven darkness seemed To mingle. Now upon the jagged hills It rests; and still as the divided frame     Of the vast meteor sunk, the Poet's blood, That ever beat in mystic sympathy With Nature's ebb and flow, grew feebler still; And when two lessening points of light alone Gleamed through the darkness, the alternate gasp Of his faint respiration scarce did stir The stagnate night:till the minutest ray Was quenched, the pulse yet lingered in his heart. It pausedit fluttered. But when heaven remained Utterly black, the murky shades involved   An image silent, cold, and motionless, As their own voiceless earth and vacant air. Even as a vapor fed with golden beams That ministered on sunlight, ere the west Eclipses it, was now that wondrous frame No sense, no motion, no divinity A fragile lute, on whose harmonious strings The breath of heaven did wandera bright stream Once fed with many-voicd wavesa dream Of youth, which night and time have quenched forever   Still, dark, and dry, and unremembered now. Oh, for Medea's wondrous alchemy, Which wheresoe'er it fell made the earth gleam With bright flowers, and the wintry boughs exhale From vernal blooms fresh fragrance! Oh, that God, Profuse of poisons, would concede the chalice Which but one living man has drained, who now, Vessel of deathless wrath, a slave that feels No proud exemption in the blighting curse He bears, over the world wanders forever,   Lone as incarnate death! Oh, that the dream Of dark magician in his visioned cave, Raking the cinders of a crucible For life and power, even when his feeble hand Shakes in its last decay, were the true law Of this so lovely world! But thou art fled, Like some frail exhalation, which the dawn Robes in its golden beams,ah! thou hast fled! The brave, the gentle and the beautiful, The child of grace and genius. Heartless things     Are done and said i' the world, and many worms And beasts and men live on, and mighty Earth From sea and mountain, city and wilderness, In vesper low or joyous orison, Lifts still its solemn voice:but thou art fled Thou canst no longer know or love the shapes Of this phantasmal scene, who have to thee Been purest ministers, who are, alas! Now thou art not! Upon those pallid lips So sweet even in their silence, on those eyes That image sleep in death, upon that form Yet safe from the worm's outrage, let no tear Be shednot even in thought. Nor, when those hues Are gone, and those divinest lineaments, Worn by the senseless wind, shall live alone In the frail pauses of this simple strain, Let not high verse, mourning the memory Of that which is no more, or painting's woe Or sculpture, speak in feeble imagery Their own cold powers. Art and eloquence, And all the shows o' the world, are frail and vain To weep a loss that turns their lights to shade. It is a woe "too deep for tears," when all Is reft at once, when some surpassing Spirit, Whose light adorned the world around it, leaves Those who remain behind, not sobs or groans, The passionate tumult of a clinging hope; But pale despair and cold tranquillity, Nature's vast frame, the web of human things, Birth and the grave, that are not as they were. Composed at Bishopsgate Heath, near Windsor Park, 1815 (autumn). Note by Mrs. Shelley: 'Alastor is written in a very different tone from Queen Mab. In the latter, Shelley poured out all the cherished speculations of his youth -- all the irrepressible emotions of sympathy, censure, and hope, to which the present suffering, and what he considers the proper destiny, of his fellow-creatures, gave birth. Alastor, on the contrary, contains an individual interest only. A very few years, with their attendant events, had checked the ardour of Shelley's hopes, though he still thought them well grounded, and that to advance their fulfilment was the noblest task man could achieve. This is neither the time nor the place to speak of the misfortunes that chequered his life. It will be sufficient to say that, in all he did, he at the time of doing it believed himself justified to his own conscience; while the various ills of poverty and loss of friends brought home to him the sad realities of life. Physical suffering had also considerable influence in causing him to turn his eyes inward; inclining him rather to brood over the thoughts and emotions of his own soul than to glance abroad, and to make, as in Queen Mab, the whole universe the object and subject of his song. In the Spring of 1815 an eminent physician pronounced that he was dying rapidly of a consumption; abscesses were formed on his lungs, and he suffered acute spasms. suddenly a complete change took place; and, though through life he was a martyr to pain and debility, every symptom of pulmonary disease vanished. His nerves, which nature had formed sensitive to an unexampled degree, were rendered still more susceptible by the state of his health. As soon as the peace of 1814 had opened the Continent, he went abroad. He visited some of the more magnificent scenes of Switzerland, and returned to England from Lucerne, by the Reuss and the Rhine. The river-navigation enchanted him. In his favourite poem of Thalaba, his imagination had been excited by a description of such a voyage. In the summer of 1815, after a tour along the southern coast of Devonshire and a visit to Clifton, he rented a house on Bishopgate Heath, on the borders of Windsor Forest, where he enjoyed several months of comparative health and tranquil happiness. The later summer months were warm and dry. Accompanied by a few friends, he visited the source of the Thames, making a voyage in a wherry from Winsdor to Crickdale. His beautiful stanzas in the churchyard of Lechlade were written on that occasion. Alastor was composed on his return. He spent his days under the oak-shades of Windsor Great Park; and the magnificent woodland was a fitting study to inspire the various descriptions of forest-scenery we find in the poem. None of Shelley's poems is more characteristic than this. The solemn spirit that reigns throughout, the worship of the majesty of nature, the broodings of a poet's heart in solitude -- the mingling of the exulting joy which the various aspects of the visible universe inspires with the sad and struggling pangs which human passion imparts -- give a touching interest to the whole. The death which he had often contemplated during the last months as certain and near he here represented in such colours as had, in his lonely musings, soothed his soul to peace. The versification sustains the solemn spirit which breathes throughout: it is peculiarly melodious. The poem ought rather to be considered didactic than narrative: it was the outpouring of his own emotions, embodied in the purest form he could conceive, painted in the ideal hues which his brilliant imagination inspired, and softened by the recent anticipation of death.' ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Alastor - or, the Spirit of Solitude

322:The Candidate This poem was written in , on occasion of the contest between the Earls of Hardwicke and Sandwich for the High-stewardship of the University of Cambridge, vacant by the death of the Lord Chancellor Hardwicke. The spirit of party ran high in the University, and no means were left untried by either candidate to obtain a majority. The election was fixed for the th of March, when, after much altercation, the votes appearing equal, a scrutiny was demanded; whereupon the Vice-Chancellor adjourned the senate _sine die_. On appeal to the Lord High-Chancellor, he determined in favour of the Earl of Hardwicke, and a mandamus issued accordingly. Enough of Actors--let them play the player, And, free from censure, fret, sweat, strut, and stare; Garrick abroad, what motives can engage To waste one couplet on a barren stage? Ungrateful Garrick! when these tasty days, In justice to themselves, allow'd thee praise; When, at thy bidding, Sense, for twenty years, Indulged in laughter, or dissolved in tears; When in return for labour, time, and health, The town had given some little share of wealth, Couldst thou repine at being still a slave? Darest thou presume to enjoy that wealth she gave? Couldst thou repine at laws ordain'd by those Whom nothing but thy merit made thy foes? Whom, too refined for honesty and trade, By need made tradesmen, Pride had bankrupts made; Whom Fear made drunkards, and, by modern rules, Whom Drink made wits, though Nature made them fools; With such, beyond all pardon is thy crime, In such a manner, and at such a time, To quit the stage; but men of real sense, Who neither lightly give, nor take offence, Shall own thee clear, or pass an act of grace, Since thou hast left a Powell in thy place. Enough of Authors--why, when scribblers fail, Must other scribblers spread the hateful tale? Why must they pity, why contempt express, And why insult a brother in distress? 108 Let those, who boast the uncommon gift of brains The laurel pluck, and wear it for their pains; Fresh on their brows for ages let it bloom, And, ages past, still flourish round their tomb. Let those who without genius write, and write, Versemen or prosemen, all in Nature's spite, The pen laid down, their course of folly run In peace, unread, unmention'd, be undone. Why should I tell, to cross the will of Fate, That Francis once endeavour'd to translate? Why, sweet oblivion winding round his head, Should I recall poor Murphy from the dead? Why may not Langhorne, simple in his lay, Effusion on effusion pour away; With friendship and with fancy trifle here, Or sleep in pastoral at Belvidere? Sleep let them all, with Dulness on her throne, Secure from any malice but their own. Enough of Critics--let them, if they please, Fond of new pomp, each month pass new decrees; Wide and extensive be their infant state, Their subjects many, and those subjects great, Whilst all their mandates as sound law succeed, With fools who write, and greater fools who read. What though they lay the realms of Genius waste, Fetter the fancy and debauch the taste; Though they, like doctors, to approve their skill, Consult not how to cure, but how to kill; Though by whim, envy, or resentment led, They damn those authors whom they never read; Though, other rules unknown, one rule they hold, To deal out so much praise for so much gold: Though Scot with Scot, in damned close intrigues, Against the commonwealth of letters leagues; Uncensured let them pilot at the helm, And rule in letters, as they ruled the realm: Ours be the curse, the mean tame coward's curse, (Nor could ingenious Malice make a worse, To do our sense and honour deep despite) To credit what they say, read what they write. Enough of Scotland--let her rest in peace; The cause removed, effects of course should cease; 109 Why should I tell, how Tweed, too mighty grown, And proudly swell'd with waters not his own, Burst o'er his banks, and, by Destruction led, O'er our fair England desolation spread, Whilst, riding on his waves, Ambition, plumed In tenfold pride, the port of Bute assumed, Now that the river god, convinced, though late, And yielding, though reluctantly, to Fate, Holds his fair course, and with more humble tides, In tribute to the sea, as usual, glides? Enough of States, and such like trifling things; Enough of kinglings, and enough of kings; Henceforth, secure, let ambush'd statesmen lie, Spread the court web, and catch the patriot fly; Henceforth, unwhipt of Justice, uncontroll'd By fear or shame, let Vice, secure and bold, Lord it with all her sons, whilst Virtue's groan Meets with compassion only from the throne. Enough of Patriots--all I ask of man Is only to be honest as he can: Some have deceived, and some may still deceive; 'Tis the fool's curse at random to believe. Would those, who, by opinion placed on high, Stand fair and perfect in their country's eye, Maintain that honour, let me in their ear Hint this essential doctrine--Persevere. Should they (which Heaven forbid) to win the grace Of some proud courtier, or to gain a place, Their king and country sell, with endless shame The avenging Muse shall mark each traitorous name; But if, to Honour true, they scorn to bend, And, proudly honest, hold out to the end, Their grateful country shall their fame record, And I myself descend to praise a lord. Enough of Wilkes--with good and honest men His actions speak much stronger than my pen, And future ages shall his name adore, When he can act and I can write no more. England may prove ungrateful and unjust, But fostering France shall ne'er betray her trust: 'Tis a brave debt which gods on men impose, To pay with praise the merit e'en of foes. 110 When the great warrior of Amilcar's race Made Rome's wide empire tremble to her base, To prove her virtue, though it gall'd her pride, Rome gave that fame which Carthage had denied. Enough of Self--that darling luscious theme, O'er which philosophers in raptures dream; Of which with seeming disregard they write, Then prizing most, when most they seem to slight; Vain proof of folly tinctured strong with pride! What man can from himself, himself divide? For me,(nor dare I lie) my leading aim (Conscience first satisfied) is love of fame; Some little fame derived from some brave few, Who, prizing Honour, prize her votaries too. Let all (nor shall resentment flush my cheek) Who know me well, what they know, freely speak, So those (the greatest curse I meet below) Who know me not, may not pretend to know. Let none of those whom, bless'd with parts above My feeble genius, still I dare to love, Doing more mischief than a thousand foes, Posthumous nonsense to the world expose, And call it mine; for mine though never known, Or which, if mine, I living blush'd to own. Know all the world, no greedy heir shall find, Die when I will, one couplet left behind. Let none of those, whom I despise, though great, Pretending friendship to give malice weight, Publish my life; let no false sneaking peer, (Some such there are) to win the public ear, Hand me to shame with some vile anecdote. Nor soul-gall'd bishop damn me with a note. Let one poor sprig of bay around my head Bloom whilst I live, and point me out when dead; Let it (may Heaven, indulgent, grant that prayer!) Be planted on my grave, nor wither there; And when, on travel bound, some rhyming guest Roams through the churchyard, whilst his dinner's dress'd, Let it hold up this comment to his eyes-'Life to the last enjoy'd, here Churchill lies;' Whilst (oh, what joy that pleasing flattery gives!) Reading my works, he cries--'Here Churchill lives.' 111 Enough of Satire--in less harden'd times Great was her force, and mighty were her rhymes. I've read of men, beyond man's daring brave, Who yet have trembled at the strokes she gave; Whose souls have felt more terrible alarms From her one line, than from a world in arms. When in her faithful and immortal page They saw transmitted down from age to age Recorded villains, and each spotted name Branded with marks of everlasting shame, Succeeding villains sought her as a friend, And, if not really mended, feign'd to mend; But in an age, when actions are allow'd Which strike all honour dead, and crimes avow'd Too terrible to suffer the report, Avow'd and praised by men who stain a court, Propp'd by the arm of Power; when Vice, high born, High-bred, high-station'd, holds rebuke in scorn; When she is lost to every thought of fame, And, to all virtue dead, is dead to shame; When Prudence a much easier task must hold To make a new world, than reform the old, Satire throws by her arrows on the ground, And if she cannot cure, she will not wound. Come, Panegyric--though the Muse disdains, Founded on truth, to prostitute her strains At the base instance of those men, who hold No argument but power, no god but gold, Yet, mindful that from Heaven she drew her birth, She scorns the narrow maxims of this earth; Virtuous herself, brings Virtue forth to view, And loves to praise, where praise is justly due. Come, Panegyric--in a former hour, My soul with pleasure yielding to thy power, Thy shrine I sought, I pray'd--but wanton air, Before it reach'd thy ears, dispersed my prayer; E'en at thy altars whilst I took my stand, The pen of Truth and Honour in my hand, Fate, meditating wrath 'gainst me and mine, Chid my fond zeal, and thwarted my design, Whilst, Hayter brought too quickly to his end, I lost a subject and mankind a friend. 112 Come, Panegyric--bending at thy throne, Thee and thy power my soul is proud to own Be thou my kind protector, thou my guide, And lead me safe through passes yet untried. Broad is the road, nor difficult to find, Which to the house of Satire leads mankind; Narrow and unfrequented are the ways, Scarce found out in an age, which lead to praise. What though no theme I choose of vulgar note, Nor wish to write as brother bards have wrote, So mild, so meek in praising, that they seem Afraid to wake their patrons from a dream; What though a theme I choose, which might demand The nicest touches of a master's hand; Yet, if the inward workings of my soul Deceive me not, I shall attain the goal, And Envy shall behold, in triumph raised, The poet praising, and the patron praised. What patron shall I choose? Shall public voice, Or private knowledge, influence my choice? Shall I prefer the grand retreat of Stowe, Or, seeking patriots, to friend Wildman's go? 'To Wildman's!' cried Discretion, (who had heard, Close standing at my elbow, every word) 'To Wildman's! Art thou mad? Canst thou be sure One moment there to have thy head secure? Are they not all, (let observation tell) All mark'd in characters as black as Hell, In Doomsday book, by ministers set down, Who style their pride the honour of the crown? Make no reply--let Reason stand aloof-Presumptions here must pass as solemn proof. That settled faith, that love which ever springs In the best subjects, for the best of kings, Must not be measured now by what men think, Or say, or do;--by what they eat and drink, Where, and with whom, that question's to be tried, And statesmen are the judges to decide; No juries call'd, or, if call'd, kept in awe; They, facts confess'd, in themselves vest the law. Each dish at Wildman's of sedition smacks; Blasphemy may be gospel at Almacks.' 113 Peace, good Discretion! peace--thy fears are vain; Ne'er will I herd with Wildman's factious train; Never the vengeance of the great incur, Nor, without might, against the mighty stir. If, from long proof, my temper you distrust, Weigh my profession, to my gown be just; Dost thou one parson know so void of grace To pay his court to patrons out of place? If still you doubt (though scarce a doubt remains) Search through my alter'd heart, and try my reins; There, searching, find, nor deem me now in sport, A convert made by Sandwich to the court. Let madmen follow error to the end, I, of mistakes convinced, and proud to mend, Strive to act better, being better taught, Nor blush to own that change which Reason wrought: For such a change as this, must Justice speak; My heart was honest, but my head was weak. Bigot to no one man, or set of men, Without one selfish view, I drew my pen; My country ask'd, or seem'd to ask, my aid, Obedient to that call, I left off trade; A side I chose, and on that side was strong, Till time hath fairly proved me in the wrong: Convinced, I change, (can any man do more?) And have not greater patriots changed before? Changed, I at once, (can any man do less?) Without a single blush, that change confess; Confess it with a manly kind of pride, And quit the losing for the winning side, Granting, whilst virtuous Sandwich holds the rein, What Bute for ages might have sought in vain. Hail, Sandwich!--nor shall Wilkes resentment show, Hearing the praises of so brave a foe-Hail, Sandwich!--nor, through pride, shalt thou refuse The grateful tribute of so mean a Muse-Sandwich, all hail!--when Bute with foreign hand, Grown wanton with ambition, scourged the land; When Scots, or slaves to Scotsmen, steer'd the helm; When peace, inglorious peace, disgraced the realm, Distrust, and general discontent prevail'd; But when, (he best knows why) his spirits fail'd; 114 When, with a sudden panic struck, he fled, Sneak'd out of power, and hid his recreant head; When, like a Mars, (Fear order'd to retreat) We saw thee nimbly vault into his seat, Into the seat of power, at one bold leap, A perfect connoisseur in statesmanship; When, like another Machiavel, we saw Thy fingers twisting, and untwisting law, Straining, where godlike Reason bade, and where She warranted thy mercy, pleased to spare; Saw thee resolved, and fix'd (come what, come might) To do thy God, thy king, thy country right; All things were changed, suspense remain'd no more, Certainty reign'd where Doubt had reign'd before: All felt thy virtues, and all knew their use, What virtues such as thine must needs produce. Thy foes (for Honour ever meets with foes) Too mean to praise, too fearful to oppose, In sullen silence sit; thy friends (some few, Who, friends to thee, are friends to Honour too) Plaud thy brave bearing, and the Commonweal Expects her safety from thy stubborn zeal. A place amongst the rest the Muses claim, And bring this freewill-offering to thy fame; To prove their virtue, make thy virtues known, And, holding up thy fame, secure their own. From his youth upwards to the present day, When vices, more than years, have mark'd him gray; When riotous Excess, with wasteful hand, Shakes life's frail glass, and hastes each ebbing sand, Unmindful from what stock he drew his birth, Untainted with one deed of real worth, Lothario, holding honour at no price, Folly to folly added, vice to vice, Wrought sin with greediness, and sought for shame With greater zeal than good men seek for fame. Where (Reason left without the least defence) Laughter was mirth, obscenity was sense: Where Impudence made Decency submit; Where noise was humour, and where whim was wit; Where rude, untemper'd license had the merit Of liberty, and lunacy was spirit; 115 Where the best things were ever held the worst, Lothario was, with justice, always first. To whip a top, to knuckle down at taw, To swing upon a gate, to ride a straw, To play at push-pin with dull brother peers, To belch out catches in a porter's ears, To reign the monarch of a midnight cell, To be the gaping chairman's oracle; Whilst, in most blessed union, rogue and whore Clap hands, huzza, and hiccup out, 'Encore;' Whilst gray Authority, who slumbers there In robes of watchman's fur, gives up his chair; With midnight howl to bay the affrighted moon, To walk with torches through the streets at noon; To force plain Nature from her usual way, Each night a vigil, and a blank each day; To match for speed one feather 'gainst another, To make one leg run races with his brother; 'Gainst all the rest to take the northern wind, Bute to ride first, and he to ride behind; To coin newfangled wagers, and to lay 'em, Laying to lose, and losing not to pay 'em; Lothario, on that stock which Nature gives, Without a rival stands, though March yet lives. When Folly, (at that name, in duty bound, Let subject myriads kneel, and kiss the ground, Whilst they who, in the presence, upright stand, Are held as rebels through the loyal land) Queen every where, but most a queen in courts, Sent forth her heralds, and proclaim'd her sports; Bade fool with fool on her behalf engage, And prove her right to reign from age to age, Lothario, great above the common size, With all engaged, and won from all the prize; Her cap he wears, which from his youth he wore, And every day deserves it more and more. Nor in such limits rests his soul confined; Folly may share but can't engross his mind; Vice, bold substantial Vice, puts in her claim, And stamps him perfect in the books of Shame. Observe his follies well, and you would swear Folly had been his first, his only care; 116 Observe his vices, you'll that oath disown, And swear that he was born for vice alone. Is the soft nature of some hapless maid, Fond, easy, full of faith, to be betray'd? Must she, to virtue lost, be lost to fame, And he who wrought her guilt declare her shame? Is some brave friend, who, men but little known, Deems every heart as honest as his own, And, free himself, in others fears no guile, To be ensnared, and ruin'd with a smile? Is Law to be perverted from her course? Is abject fraud to league with brutal force? Is Freedom to be crush'd, and every son Who dares maintain her cause, to be undone? Is base Corruption, creeping through the land, To plan, and work her ruin, underhand, With regular approaches, sure, though slow? Or must she perish by a single blow? Are kings, who trust to servants, and depend In servants (fond, vain thought!) to find a friend, To be abused, and made to draw their breath In darkness thicker than the shades of death? Is God's most holy name to be profaned, His word rejected, and his laws arraign'd, His servants scorn'd, as men who idly dream'd, His service laugh'd at, and his Son blasphemed? Are debauchees in morals to preside? Is Faith to take an Atheist for her guide? Is Science by a blockhead to be led? Are States to totter on a drunkard's head? To answer all these purposes, and more, More black than ever villain plann'd before, Search earth, search hell, the Devil cannot find An agent like Lothario to his mind. Is this nobility, which, sprung from kings, Was meant to swell the power from whence it springs; Is this the glorious produce, this the fruit, Which Nature hoped for from so rich a root? Were there but two, (search all the world around) Were there but two such nobles to be found, The very name would sink into a term Of scorn, and man would rather be a worm 117 Than be a lord: but Nature, full of grace, Nor meaning birth and titles to be base, Made only one, and having made him, swore, In mercy to mankind, to make no more: Nor stopp'd she there, but, like a generous friend, The ills which Error caused, she strove to mend, And having brought Lothario forth to view, To save her credit, brought forth Sandwich too. Gods! with what joy, what honest joy of heart, Blunt as I am, and void of every art, Of every art which great ones in the state Practise on knaves they fear, and fools they hate, To titles with reluctance taught to bend, Nor prone to think that virtues can descend, Do I behold (a sight, alas! more rare Than Honesty could wish) the noble wear His father's honours, when his life makes known They're his by virtue, not by birth alone; When he recalls his father from the grave, And pays with interest back that fame he gave: Cured of her splenetic and sullen fits, To such a peer my willing soul submits, And to such virtue is more proud to yield Than 'gainst ten titled rogues to keep the field. Such, (for that truth e'en Envy shall allow) Such Wyndham was, and such is Sandwich now. O gentle Montague! in blessed hour Didst thou start up, and climb the stairs of power; England of all her fears at once was eased, Nor, 'mongst her many foes, was one displeased: France heard the news, and told it cousin Spain; Spain heard, and told it cousin France again; The Hollander relinquished his design Of adding spice to spice, and mine to mine; Of Indian villanies he thought no more, Content to rob us on our native shore: Awed by thy fame, (which winds with open mouth Shall blow from east to west, from north to south) The western world shall yield us her increase, And her wild sons be soften'd into peace; Rich eastern monarchs shall exhaust their stores, And pour unbounded wealth on Albion's shores; 118 Unbounded wealth, which from those golden scenes, And all acquired by honourable means, Some honourable chief shall hither steer, To pay our debts, and set the nation clear. Nabobs themselves, allured by thy renown, Shall pay due homage to the English crown; Shall freely as their king our king receive-Provided the Directors give them leave. Union at home shall mark each rising year, Nor taxes be complain'd of, though severe; Envy her own destroyer shall become, And Faction with her thousand mouths be dumb: With the meek man thy meekness shall prevail, Nor with the spirited thy spirit fail: Some to thy force of reason shall submit, And some be converts to thy princely wit: Reverence for thee shall still a nation's cries, A grand concurrence crown a grand excise; And unbelievers of the first degree, Who have no faith in God, have faith in thee. When a strange jumble, whimsical and vain, Possess'd the region of each heated brain; When some were fools to censure, some to praise, And all were mad, but mad in different ways; When commonwealthsmen, starting at the shade Which in their own wild fancy had been made, Of tyrants dream'd, who wore a thorny crown, And with state bloodhounds hunted Freedom down; When others, struck with fancies not less vain, Saw mighty kings by their own subjects slain, And, in each friend of Liberty and Law, With horror big, a future Cromwell saw, Thy manly zeal stept forth, bade discord cease, And sung each jarring atom into peace; Liberty, cheer'd by thy all-cheering eye, Shall, waking from her trance, live and not die; And, patronised by thee, Prerogative Shall, striding forth at large, not die, but live; Whilst Privilege, hung betwixt earth and sky, Shall not well know whether to live or die. When on a rock which overhung the flood, And seem'd to totter, Commerce shivering stood; 119 When Credit, building on a sandy shore, Saw the sea swell, and heard the tempest roar, Heard death in every blast, and in each wave Or saw, or fancied that she saw her grave; When Property, transferr'd from hand to band, Weaken'd by change, crawl'd sickly through the land; When mutual confidence was at an end, And man no longer could on man depend; Oppress'd with debts of more than common weight, When all men fear'd a bankruptcy of state; When, certain death to honour, and to trade, A sponge was talk'd of as our only aid; That to be saved we must be more undone, And pay off all our debts, by paying none; Like England's better genius, born to bless, And snatch his sinking country from distress, Didst thou step forth, and, without sail or oar, Pilot the shatter'd vessel safe to shore: Nor shalt thou quit, till, anchor'd firm and fast, She rides secure, and mocks the threatening blast! Born in thy house, and in thy service bred, Nursed in thy arms, and at thy table fed, By thy sage counsels to reflection brought, Yet more by pattern than by precept taught, Economy her needful aid shall join To forward and complete thy grand design, And, warm to save, but yet with spirit warm, Shall her own conduct from thy conduct form. Let friends of prodigals say what they will, Spendthrifts at home, abroad are spendthrifts still. In vain have sly and subtle sophists tried Private from public justice to divide; For credit on each other they rely, They live together, and together die, 'Gainst all experience 'tis a rank offence, High treason in the eye of Common-sense, To think a statesman ever can be known To pay our debts, who will not pay his own: But now, though late, now may we hope to see Our debts discharged, our credit fair and free, Since rigid Honesty (fair fall that hour!) Sits at the helm, and Sandwich is in power. 120 With what delight I view thee, wondrous man, With what delight survey thy sterling plan, That plan which all with wonder must behold, And stamp thy age the only age of Gold. Nor rest thy triumphs here--that Discord fled, And sought with grief the hell where she was bred; That Faction, 'gainst her nature forced to yield, Saw her rude rabble scatter'd o'er the field, Saw her best friends a standing jest become, Her fools turn'd speakers, and her wits struck dumb; That our most bitter foes (so much depends On men of name) are turn'd to cordial friends; That our offended friends (such terror flows From men of name) dare not appear our foes; That Credit, gasping in the jaws of Death, And ready to expire with every breath, Grows stronger from disease; that thou hast saved Thy drooping country; that thy name, engraved On plates of brass, defies the rage of Time; Than plates of brass more firm, that sacred rhyme Embalms thy memory, bids thy glories live, And gives thee what the Muse alone can give:-These heights of Virtue, these rewards of Fame, With thee in common other patriots claim. But, that poor sickly Science, who had laid And droop'd for years beneath Neglect's cold shade, By those who knew her purposely forgot, And made the jest of those who knew her not: Whilst Ignorance in power, and pamper'd pride, 'Clad like a priest, pass'd by on t'other side,' Recover'd from her wretched state, at length Puts on new health, and clothes herself with strength, To thee we owe, and to thy friendly hand Which raised, and gave her to possess the land: This praise, though in a court, and near a throne, This praise is thine, and thine, alas! alone. With what fond rapture did the goddess smile, What blessings did she promise to this isle, What honour to herself, and length of reign, Soon as she heard that thou didst not disdain To be her steward; but what grief, what shame, What rage, what disappointment, shook her frame, 121 When her proud children dared her will dispute, When Youth was insolent, and Age was mute! That young men should be fools, and some wild few, To Wisdom deaf, be deaf to Interest too, Moved not her wonder; but that men, grown gray In search of wisdom; men who own'd the sway Of Reason; men who stubbornly kept down Each rising passion; men who wore the gown; That they should cross her will, that they should dare Against the cause of Interest to declare; That they should be so abject and unwise, Having no fear of loss before their eyes, Nor hopes of gain; scorning the ready means Of being vicars, rectors, canons, deans, With all those honours which on mitres wait, And mark the virtuous favourites of state; That they should dare a Hardwicke to support, And talk, within the hearing of a court, Of that vile beggar, Conscience, who, undone, And starved herself, starves every wretched son; This turn'd her blood to gall, this made her swear No more to throw away her time and care On wayward sons who scorn'd her love, no more To hold her courts on Cam's ungrateful shore. Rather than bear such insults, which disgrace Her royalty of nature, birth, and place, Though Dulness there unrivall'd state doth keep, Would she at Winchester with Burton sleep; Or, to exchange the mortifying scene For something still more dull, and still more mean, Rather than bear such insults, she would fly Far, far beyond the search of English eye, And reign amongst the Scots: to be a queen Is worth ambition, though in Aberdeen. Oh, stay thy flight, fair Science! what though some, Some base-born children, rebels are become? All are not rebels; some are duteous still, Attend thy precepts, and obey thy will; Thy interest is opposed by those alone Who either know not, or oppose their own. Of stubborn virtue, marching to thy aid, Behold in black, the livery of their trade, 122 Marshall'd by Form, and by Discretion led, A grave, grave troop, and Smith is at their head, Black Smith of Trinity; on Christian ground For faith in mysteries none more renown'd. Next, (for the best of causes now and then Must beg assistance from the worst of men) Next (if old story lies not) sprung from Greece, Comes Pandarus, but comes without his niece: Her, wretched maid! committed to his trust, To a rank letcher's coarse and bloated lust The arch, old, hoary hypocrite had sold, And thought himself and her well damn'd for gold. But (to wipe off such traces from the mind, And make us in good humour with mankind) Leading on men, who, in a college bred, No woman knew, but those which made their bed; Who, planted virgins on Cam's virtuous shore, Continued still male virgins at threescore, Comes Sumner, wise, and chaste as chaste can be, With Long, as wise, and not less chaste than he. Are there not friends, too, enter'd in thy cause Who, for thy sake, defying penal laws, Were, to support thy honourable plan, Smuggled from Jersey, and the Isle of Man? Are there not Philomaths of high degree Who, always dumb before, shall speak for thee? Are there not Proctors, faithful to thy will, One of full growth, others in embryo still, Who may, perhaps, in some ten years, or more, Be ascertain'd that two and two make four, Or may a still more happy method find, And, taking one from two, leave none behind? With such a mighty power on foot, to yield Were death to manhood; better in the field To leave our carcases, and die with fame, Than fly, and purchase life on terms of shame. Sackvilles alone anticipate defeat, And ere they dare the battle, sound retreat. But if persuasions ineffectual prove, If arguments are vain, nor prayers can move, Yet in thy bitterness of frantic woe Why talk of Burton? why to Scotland go? 123 Is there not Oxford? she, with open arms, Shall meet thy wish, and yield up all her charms: Shall for thy love her former loves resign, And jilt the banish'd Stuarts to be thine. Bow'd to the yoke, and, soon as she could read, Tutor'd to get by heart the despot's creed, She, of subjection proud, shall knee thy throne, And have no principles but thine alone; She shall thy will implicitly receive, Nor act, nor speak, nor think, without thy leave. Where is the glory of imperial sway If subjects none but just commands obey? Then, and then only, is obedience seen, When by command they dare do all that's mean: Hither, then, wing thy flight, here fix thy stand, Nor fail to bring thy Sandwich in thy hand. Gods! with what joy, (for Fancy now supplies, And lays the future open to my eyes) Gods! with what joy I see the worthies meet, And Brother Litchfield Brother Sandwich greet! Blest be your greetings, blest each dear embrace; Blest to yourselves, and to the human race. Sickening at virtues, which she cannot reach, Which seem her baser nature to impeach, Let Envy, in a whirlwind's bosom hurl'd, Outrageous, search the corners of the world, Ransack the present times, look back to past, Rip up the future, and confess at last, No times, past, present, or to come, could e'er Produce, and bless the world with such a pair. Phillips, the good old Phillips, out of breath, Escaped from Monmouth, and escaped from death, Shall hail his Sandwich with that virtuous zeal, That glorious ardour for the commonweal, Which warm'd his loyal heart and bless'd his tongue, When on his lips the cause of rebels hung; Whilst Womanhood, in habit of a nun, At Medenham lies, by backward monks undone; A nation's reckoning, like an alehouse score, Whilst Paul, the aged, chalks behind a door, Compell'd to hire a foe to cast it up, Dashwood shall pour, from a communion cup, 124 Libations to the goddess without eyes, And hob or nob in cider and excise. From those deep shades, where Vanity, unknown, Doth penance for her pride, and pines alone, Cursed in herself, by her own thoughts undone, Where she sees all, but can be seen by none; Where she, no longer mistress of the schools, Hears praise loud pealing from the mouths of fools, Or hears it at a distance, in despair To join the crowd, and put in for a share, Twisting each thought a thousand different ways, For his new friends new-modelling old praise; Where frugal sense so very fine is spun, It serves twelve hours, though not enough for one, King shall arise, and, bursting from the dead, Shall hurl his piebald Latin at thy head. Burton (whilst awkward affectation hung In quaint and labour'd accents on his tongue, Who 'gainst their will makes junior blockheads speak, Ignorant of both, new Latin and new Greek, Not such as was in Greece and Latium known, But of a modern cut, and all his own; Who threads, like beads, loose thoughts on such a string, They're praise and censure; nothing, every thing; Pantomime thoughts, and style so full of trick, They even make a Merry Andrew sick; Thoughts all so dull, so pliant in their growth, They're verse, they're prose, they're neither, and they're both) Shall (though by nature ever both to praise) Thy curious worth set forth in curious phrase; Obscurely stiff, shall press poor Sense to death, Or in long periods run her out of breath; Shall make a babe, for which, with all his fame, Adam could not have found a proper name, Whilst, beating out his features to a smile, He hugs the bastard brat, and calls it Style. Hush'd be all Nature as the land of Death; Let each stream sleep, and each wind hold his breath; Be the bells muffled, nor one sound of Care, Pressing for audience, wake the slumbering air; Browne comes--behold how cautiously he creeps-How slow he walks, and yet how fast he sleeps-- 125 But to thy praise in sleep he shall agree; He cannot wake, but he shall dream of thee. Physic, her head with opiate poppies crown'd, Her loins by the chaste matron Camphire bound; Physic, obtaining succour from the pen Of her soft son, her gentle Heberden, If there are men who can thy virtue know, Yet spite of virtue treat thee as a foe, Shall, like a scholar, stop their rebel breath, And in each recipe send classic death. So deep in knowledge, that few lines can sound And plumb the bottom of that vast profound, Few grave ones with such gravity can think, Or follow half so fast as he can sink; With nice distinctions glossing o'er the text, Obscure with meaning, and in words perplex'd, With subtleties on subtleties refined, Meant to divide and subdivide the mind, Keeping the forwardness of youth in awe, The scowling Blackstone bears the train of law. Divinity, enrobed in college fur, In her right hand a new Court Calendar, Bound like a book of prayer, thy coming waits With all her pack, to hymn thee in the gates. Loyalty, fix'd on Isis' alter'd shore, A stranger long, but stranger now no more, Shall pitch her tabernacle, and, with eyes Brimful of rapture, view her new allies; Shall, with much pleasure and more wonder, view Men great at court, and great at Oxford too. O sacred Loyalty! accursed be those Who, seeming friends, turn out thy deadliest foes, Who prostitute to kings thy honour'd name, And soothe their passions to betray their fame; Nor praised be those, to whose proud nature clings Contempt of government, and hate of kings, Who, willing to be free, not knowing how, A strange intemperance of zeal avow, And start at Loyalty, as at a word Which without danger Freedom never heard. Vain errors of vain men--wild both extremes, And to the state not wholesome, like the dreams, 126 Children of night, of Indigestion bred, Which, Reason clouded, seize and turn the head; Loyalty without Freedom is a chain Which men of liberal notice can't sustain; And Freedom without Loyalty, a name Which nothing means, or means licentious shame. Thine be the art, my Sandwich, thine the toil, In Oxford's stubborn and untoward soil To rear this plant of union, till at length, Rooted by time, and foster'd into strength, Shooting aloft, all danger it defies, And proudly lifts its branches to the skies; Whilst, Wisdom's happy son but not her slave, Gay with the gay, and with the grave ones grave, Free from the dull impertinence of thought, Beneath that shade, which thy own labours wrought And fashion'd into strength, shalt thou repose, Secure of liberal praise, since Isis flows, True to her Tame, as duty hath decreed, Nor longer, like a harlot, lust for Tweed, And those old wreaths, which Oxford once dared twine To grace a Stuart brow, she plants on thine. ~ Charles Churchill

323:Rose Mary Of her two fights with the Beryl-stone Lost the first, but the second won. PART I “MARY mine that art Mary's Rose Come in to me from the garden-close. The sun sinks fast with the rising dew, And we marked not how the faint moon grew; But the hidden stars are calling you. “Tall Rose Mary, come to my side, And read the stars if you'd be a bride. In hours whose need was not your own, While you were a young maid yet ungrown You've read the stars in the Beryl-stone. “Daughter, once more I bid you read; But now let it be for your own need: Because to-morrow, at break of day, To Holy Cross he rides on his way, Your knight Sir James of Heronhaye. “Ere he wed you, flower of mine, For a heavy shrift he seeks the shrine. Now hark to my words and do not fear; Ill news next I have for your ear; But be you strong, and our help is here. “On his road, as the rumour's rife, An ambush waits to take his life. He needs will go, and will go alone; Where the peril lurks may not be known; But in this glass all things are shown.” Pale Rose Mary sank to the floor:— “The night will come if the day is o'er!” “Nay, heaven takes counsel, star with star, And help shall reach your heart from afar: A bride you'll be, as a maid you are.” The lady unbound her jewelled zone And drew from her robe the Beryl-stone. Shaped it was to a shadowy sphere,— World of our world, the sun's compeer, 219 That bears and buries the toiling year. With shuddering light 'twas stirred and strewn Like the cloud-nest of the wading moon: Freaked it was as the bubble's ball, Rainbow-hued through a misty pall Like the middle light of the waterfall. Shadows dwelt in its teeming girth Of the known and unknown things of earth; The cloud above and the wave around,— The central fire at the sphere's heart bound, Like doomsday prisoned underground. A thousand years it lay in the sea With a treasure wrecked from Thessaly; Deep it lay 'mid the coiled sea-wrack, But the ocean-spirits found the track: A soul was lost to win it back. The lady upheld the wondrous thing:— “Ill fare”(she said) “with a fiend's-faring: But Moslem blood poured forth like wine Can hallow Hell, 'neath the Sacred Sign; And my lord brought this from Palestine. “Spirits who fear the Blessed Rood Drove forth the accursed multitude That heathen worship housed herein,— Never again such home to win, Save only by a Christian's sin. “All last night at an altar fair I burnt strange fires and strove with prayer; Till the flame paled to the red sunrise, All rites I then did solemnize; And the spell lacks nothing but your eyes.” Low spake maiden Rose Mary:— “O mother mine, if I should not see!” “Nay, daughter, cover your face no more, But bend love's heart to the hidden lore, And you shall see now as heretofore.” Paler yet were the pale cheeks grown As the grey eyes sought the Beryl-stone: Then over her mother's lap leaned she, And stretched her thrilled throat passionately, And sighed from her soul, and said, “I see.” Even as she spoke, they two were 'ware 220 Of music-notes that fell through the air; A chiming shower of strange device, Drop echoing drop, once, twice, and thrice, As rain may fall in Paradise. An instant come, in an instant gone, No time there was to think thereon. The mother held the sphere on her knee:— “Lean this way and speak low to me, And take no note but of what you see.” “I see a man with a besom grey That sweeps the flying dust away.” “Ay, that comes first in the mystic sphere; But now that the way is swept and clear, Heed well what next you look on there.” “Stretched aloft and adown I see Two roads that part in waste-country: The glen lies deep and the ridge stands tall; What's great below is above seen small, And the hill-side is the valley-wall.” “Stream-bank, daughter, or moor and moss, Both roads will take to Holy Cross. The hills are a weary waste to wage; But what of the valley-road's presage? That way must tend his pilgrimage.” “As 'twere the turning leaves of a book, The road runs past me as I look; Or it is even as though mine eye Should watch calm waters filled with sky While lights and clouds and wings went by.” “In every covert seek a spear; They'll scarce lie close till he draws near.” “The stream has spread to a river now; The stiff blue sedge is deep in the slough, But the banks are bare of shrub or bough.’ “Is there any roof that near at hand Might shelter yield to a hidden band?” “On the further bank I see but one, And a herdsman now in the sinking sun Unyokes his team at the threshold-stone.” “Keep heedful watch by the water's edge,— Some boat might lurk 'neath the shadowed sedge.” “One slid but now 'twixt the winding shores, 221 But a peasant woman bent to the oars And only a young child steered its course. “Mother, something flashed to my sight!— Nay, it is but the lapwing's flight.— What glints there like a lance that flees?— Nay, the flags are stirred in the breeze, And the water's bright through the dart-rushes. “Ah! vainly I search from side to side:— Woe's me! and where do the foemen hide? Woe's me! and perchance I pass them by, And under the new dawn's blood-red sky Even where I gaze the dead shall lie.” Said the mother: “For dear love's sake, Speak more low, lest the spell should break.” Said the daughter: “By love's control, My eyes, my words, are strained to the goal; But oh! the voice that cries in my soul!” “Hush, sweet, hush! be calm and behold.” “I see two floodgates broken and old: The grasses wave o'er the ruined weir, But the bridge still leads to the breakwater; And—mother, mother, O mother dear!” The damsel clung to her mother's knee, And dared not let the shriek go free; Low she crouched by the lady's chair, And shrank blindfold in her fallen hair, And whispering said, “The spears are there!” The lady stooped aghast from her place, And cleared the locks from her daughter's face. “More's to see, and she swoons, alas! Look, look again, ere the moment pass! One shadow comes but once to the glass. “See you there what you saw but now?” “I see eight men 'neath the willow bough. All over the weir a wild growth's spread: Ah me! it will hide a living head As well as the water hides the dead. “They lie by the broken water-gate As men who have a while to wait. The chief's high lance has a blazoned scroll,— He seems some lord of tithe and toll With seven squires to his bannerole. 222 “The little pennon quakes in the air, I cannot trace the blazon there:— Ah! now I can see the field of blue, The spurs and the merlins two and two;— It is the Warden of Holycleugh!” “God be thanked for the thing we know! You have named your good knight's mortal foe. Last Shrovetide in the tourney-game He sought his life by treasonous shame; And this way now doth he seek the same. “So, fair lord, such a thing you are! But we too watch till the morning star. Well, June is kind and the moon is clear: Saint Judas send you a merry cheer For the night you lie in Warisweir! “Now, sweet daughter, but one more sight, And you may lie soft and sleep to-night. We know in the vale what perils be: Now look once more in the glass, and see If over the hills the road lies free.” Rose Mary pressed to her mother's cheek, And almost smiled but did not speak; Then turned again to the saving spell, With eyes to search and with lips to tell The heart of things invisible. “Again the shape with the besom grey Comes back to sweep the clouds away. Again I stand where the roads divide; But now all's near on the steep hillside, And a thread far down is the rivertide.” “Ay, child, your road is o'er moor and moss, Past Holycleugh to Holy Cross. Our hunters lurk in the valley's wake, As they knew which way the chase would take: Yet search the hills for your true love's sake.” “Swift and swifter the waste runs by, And nought I see but the heath and the sky; No brake is there that could hide a spear, And the gaps to a horseman's sight lie clear; Still past it goes, and there's nought to fear.” “Fear no trap that you cannot see,— They'd not lurk yet too warily. 223 Below by the weir they lie in sight, And take no heed how they pass the night Till close they crouch with the morning light.” “The road shifts ever and brings in view Now first the heights of Holycleugh: Dark they stand o'er the vale below, And hide that heaven which yet shall show The thing their master's heart doth know. “Where the road looks to the castle steep, There are seven hill-clefts wide and deep: Six mine eyes can search as they list, But the seventh hollow is brimmed with mist: If aught were there, it might not be wist.” “Small hope, my girl, for a helm to hide In mists that cling to a wild moorside: Soon they melt with the wind and sun, And scarce would wait such deeds to be done God send their snares be the worst to shun.” “Still the road winds ever anew As it hastens on towards Holycleugh; And ever the great walls loom more near, Till the castle-shadow, steep and sheer, Drifts like a cloud, and the sky is clear.” “Enough, my daughter,” the mother said, And took to her breast the bending head; “Rest, poor head, with my heart below, While love still lulls you as long ago: For all is learnt that we need to know. “Long the miles and many the hours From the castle-height to the abbey-towers; But here the journey has no more dread; Too thick with life is the whole road spread For murder's trembling foot to tread.” She gazed on the Beryl-stone full fain Ere she wrapped it close in her robe again: The flickering shades were dusk and dun And the lights throbbed faint in unison Like a high heart when a race is run. As the globe slid to its silken gloom, Once more a music rained through the room; Low it splashed like a sweet star-spray, And sobbed like tears at the heart of May, 224 And died as laughter dies away. The lady held her breath for a space, And then she looked in her daughter's face: But wan Rose Mary had never heard; Deep asleep like a sheltered bird She lay with the long spell minister'd. “Ah! and yet I must leave you, dear, For what you have seen your knight must hear. Within four days, by the help of God, He comes back safe to his heart's abode: Be sure he shall shun the valley-road.” Rose Mary sank with a broken moan, And lay in the chair and slept alone, Weary, lifeless, heavy as lead: Long it was ere she raised her head And rose up all discomforted. She searched her brain for a vanished thing, And clasped her brows, remembering; Then knelt and lifted her eyes in awe, And sighed with a long sigh sweet to draw:— “Thank God, thank God, thank God I saw!” The lady had left her as she lay, To seek the Knight of Heronhaye. But first she clomb by a secret stair, And knelt at a carven altar fair, And laid the precious Beryl there. Its girth was graved with a mystic rune In a tongue long dead 'neath sun and moon: A priest of the Holy Sepulchre Read that writing and did not err; And her lord had told its sense to her. She breathed the words in an undertone:— “None sees here but the pure alone.” “And oh!” she said, “what rose may be In Mary's bower more pure to see Than my own sweet maiden Rose Mary?” BERYL-SONG We whose home is the Beryl, Fire-spirits of dread desire, 225 Who entered in By a secret sin, 'Gainst whom all powers that strive with ours are sterile,— We cry, Woe to thee, mother! What hast thou taught her, the girl thy daughter, That she and none other Should this dark morrow to her deadly sorrow imperil? What were her eyes But the fiend's own spies, O mother, And shall We not fee her, our proper prophet and seër? Go to her, mother, Even thou, yea thou and none other, Thou, from the Beryl: Her fee must thou take her, Her fee that We send, and make her, Even in this hour, her sin's unsheltered avower. Whose steed did neigh, Riderless, bridleless, At her gate before it was day? Lo! where doth hover The soul of her lover? She sealed his doom, she, she was the sworn approver,— Whose eyes were so wondrous wise, Yet blind, ah! blind to his peril! For stole not We in Through a love-linked sin, 'Gainst whom all powers at war with ours are sterile,— Fire-spirits of dread desire, We whose home is the Beryl? PART II “PALE Rose Mary, what shall be done With a rose that Mary weeps upon?” “Mother, let it fall from the tree, And never walk where the strewn leaves be Till winds have passed and the path is free.” “Sad Rose Mary, what shall be done With a cankered flower beneath the sun?” “Mother, let it wait for the night; 226 Be sure its shame shall be out of sight Ere the moon pale or the east grow light.” “Lost Rose Mary, what shall be done With a heart that is but a broken one?” “Mother, let it lie where it must; The blood was drained with the bitter thrust, And dust is all that sinks in the dust.” “Poor Rose Mary, what shall I do,— I, your mother, that lovèd you?” “O my mother, and is love gone? Then seek you another love anon: Who cares what shame shall lean upon?” Low drooped trembling Rose Mary, Then up as though in a dream stood she. “Come, my heart, it is time to go; This is the hour that has whispered low When thy pulse quailed in the nights we know. “Yet O my heart, thy shame has a mate Who will not leave thee desolate. Shame for shame, yea and sin for sin: Yet peace at length may our poor souls win If love for love be found therein. “O thou who seek'st our shrift to-day,” She cried, “O James of Heronhaye— Thy sin and mine was for love alone; And oh! in the sight of God 'tis known How the heart has since made heavy moan. “Three days yet!” she said to her heart; “But then he comes, and we will not part. God, God be thanked that I still could see! Oh! he shall come back assuredly, But where, alas! must he seek for me? “O my heart, what road shall we roam Till my wedding-music fetch me home? For love's shut from us and bides afar, And scorn leans over the bitter bar And knows us now for the thing we are.” Tall she stood with a cheek flushed high And a gaze to burn the heart-strings by. 'Twas the lightning-flash o'er sky and plain Ere labouring thunders heave the chain From the floodgates of the drowning rain. 227 The mother looked on the daughter still As on a hurt thing that's yet to kill. Then wildly at length the pent tears came; The love swelled high with the swollen shame, And their hearts' tempest burst on them. Closely locked, they clung without speech, And the mirrored souls shook each to each, As the cloud-moon and the water-moon Shake face to face when the dim stars swoon In stormy bowers of the night's mid-noon. They swayed together, shuddering sore, Till the mother's heart could bear no more. 'Twas death to feel her own breast shake Even to the very throb and ache Of the burdened heart she still must break. All her sobs ceased suddenly, And she sat straight up but scarce could see. “O daughter, where should my speech begin? Your heart held fast its secret sin: How think you, child, that I read therein?” “Ah me! but I thought not how it came When your words showed that you knew my shame: And now that you call me still your own, I half forget you have ever known. Did you read my heart in the Beryl-stone?” The lady answered her mournfully:— “The Beryl-stone has no voice for me: But when you charged its power to show The truth which none but the pure may know, Did naught speak once of a coming woe?” Her hand was close to her daughter's heart, And it felt the life-blood's sudden start: A quick deep breath did the damsel draw, Like the struck fawn in the oakenshaw: “O mother,” she cried, “but still I saw!” “O child, my child, why held you apart From my great love your hidden heart? Said I not that all sin must chase From the spell's sphere the spirits of grace, And yield their rule to the evil race? “Ah! would to God I had clearly told How strong those powers, accurst of old: 228 Their heart is the ruined house of lies; O girl, they can seal the sinful eyes, Or show the truth by contraries!” The daughter sat as cold as a stone, And spoke no word but gazed alone, Nor moved, though her mother strove a space To clasp her round in a close embrace, Because she dared not see her face. “Oh!” at last did the mother cry, “Be sure, as he loved you, so will I! Ah! still and dumb is the bride, I trow; But cold and stark as the winter snow Is the bridegroom's heart, laid dead below! “Daughter, daughter, remember you That cloud in the hills by Holycleugh? 'Twas a Hell-screen hiding truth away: There, not i' the vale, the ambush lay, And thence was the dead borne home to-day.” Deep the flood and heavy the shock When sea meets sea in the riven rock: But calm is the pulse that shakes the sea To the prisoned tide of doom set free In the breaking heart of Rose Mary. Once she sprang as the heifer springs With the wolf's teeth at its red heart-strings. First 'twas fire in her breast and brain, And then scarce hers but the whole world's pain, As she gave one shriek and sank again. In the hair dark-waved the face lay white As the moon lies in the lap of night; And as night through which no moon may dart Lies on a pool in the woods apart, So lay the swoon on the weary heart. The lady felt for the bosom's stir, And wildly kissed and called on her; Then turned away with a quick footfall, And slid the secret door in the wall, And clomb the strait stair's interval. There above in the altar-cell A little fountain rose and fell: She set a flask to the water's flow, And, backward hurrying, sprinkled now 229 The still cold breast and the pallid brow. Scarce cheek that warmed or breath on the air, Yet something told that life was there. “Ah! not with the heart the body dies!” The lady moaned in a bitter wise; Then wrung her hands and hid her eyes. “Alas! and how may I meet again In the same poor eyes the selfsame pain? What help can I seek, such grief to guide? Ah! one alone might avail,” she cried— “The priest who prays at the dead man's side.” The lady arose, and sped down all The winding stairs to the castle-hall. Long-known valley and wood and stream, As the loopholes passed, naught else did seem Than the torn threads of a broken dream. The hall was full of the castle-folk; The women wept, but the men scarce spoke. As the lady crossed the rush-strewn floor, The throng fell backward, murmuring sore, And pressed outside round the open door. A stranger shadow hung on the hall Than the dark pomp of a funeral. 'Mid common sights that were there alway, As 'twere a chance of the passing day, On the ingle-bench the dead man lay. A priest who passed by Holycleugh The tidings brought when the day was new. He guided them who had fetched the dead; And since that hour, unwearièd, He knelt in prayer at the low bier's head. Word had gone to his own domain That in evil wise the knight was slain: Soon the spears must gather apace And the hunt be hard on the hunters' trace; But all things yet lay still for a space. As the lady's hurried step drew near, The kneeling priest looked up to her. “Father, death is a grievous thing; But oh! the woe has a sharper sting That craves by me your ministering. “Alas for the child that should have wed 230 This noble knight here lying dead! Dead in hope, with all blessed boon Of love thus rent from her heart ere noon, I left her laid in a heavy swoon. “O haste to the open bower-chamber That's topmost as you mount the stair: Seek her, father, ere yet she wake; Your words, not mine, be the first to slake This poor heart's fire, for Christ's sweet sake! “God speed!” she said as the priest passed through, “And I ere long will be with you.” Then low on the hearth her knees sank prone; She signed all folk from the threshold-stone, And gazed in the dead man's face alone. The fight for life found record yet In the clenched lips and the teeth hard-set; The wrath from the bent brow was not gone, And stark in the eyes the hate still shone Of that they last had looked upon. The blazoned coat was rent on his breast Where the golden field was goodliest; But the shivered sword, close-gripped, could tell That the blood shed round him where he fell Was not all his in the distant dell. The lady recked of the corpse no whit, But saw the soul and spoke to it: A light there was in her steadfast eyes,— The fire of mortal tears and sighs That pity and love immortalize. “By thy death have I learnt to-day Thy deed, O James of Heronhaye! Great wrong thou hast done to me and mine; And haply God hath wrought for a sign By our blind deed this doom of thine. “Thy shrift, alas! thou wast not to win; But may death shrive thy soul herein! Full well do I know thy love should be Even yet—had life but stayed with thee— Our honour's strong security.” She stooped, and said with a sob's low stir,— “Peace be thine,—but what peace for her?” But ere to the brow her lips were press'd, 231 She marked, half-hid in the riven vest, A packet close to the dead man's breast. 'Neath surcoat pierced and broken mail It lay on the blood-stained bosom pale. The clot hung round it, dull and dense, And a faintness seized her mortal sense As she reached her hand and drew it thence. 'Twas steeped in the heart's flood welling high From the heart it there had rested by: 'Twas glued to a broidered fragment gay,— A shred by spear-thrust rent away From the heron-wings of Heronhaye. She gazed on the thing with piteous eyne:— “Alas, poor child, some pledge of thine! Ah me! in this troth the hearts were twain, And one hath ebbed to this crimson stain, And when shall the other throb again?” She opened the packet heedfully; The blood was stiff, and it scarce might be. She found but a folded paper there, And round it, twined with tenderest care, A long bright tress of golden hair. Even as she looked, she saw again That dark-haired face in its swoon of pain: It seemed a snake with a golden sheath Crept near, as a slow flame flickereth, And stung her daughter's heart to death. She loosed the tress, but her hand did shake As though indeed she had touched a snake; And next she undid the paper's fold, But that too trembled in her hold, And the sense scarce grasped the tale it told. “My heart's sweet lord,” ('twas thus she read,) “At length our love is garlanded. At Holy Cross, within eight days' space, I seek my shrift; and the time and place Shall fit thee too for thy soul's good grace. “From Holycleugh on the seventh day My brother rides, and bides away: And long or e'er he is back, mine own, Afar where the face of fear's unknown We shall be safe with our love alone. 232 “Ere yet at the shrine my knees I bow, I shear one tress for our holy vow. As round these words these threads I wind, So, eight days hence, shall our loves be twined, Says my lord's poor lady, JOCELIND.” She read it twice, with a brain in thrall, And then its echo told her all. O'er brows low-fall'n her hands she drew:— “O God!” she said, as her hands fell too,— “The Warden's sister of Holycleugh!” She rose upright with a long low moan, And stared in the dead man's face new-known. Had it lived indeed? She scarce could tell: 'Twas a cloud where fiends had come to dwell,— A mask that hung on the gate of Hell. She lifted the lock of gleaming hair And smote the lips and left it there. “Here's gold that Hell shall take for thy toll! Full well hath thy treason found its goal, O thou dead body and damnèd soul!” She turned, sore dazed, for a voice was near, And she knew that some one called to her. On many a column fair and tall A high court ran round the castle-hall; And thence it was that the priest did call. “I sought your child where you bade me go, And in rooms around and rooms below; But where, alas! may the maiden be? Fear nought,—we shall find her speedily,— But come, come hither, and seek with me.” She reached the stair like a lifelorn thing, But hastened upward murmuring, “Yea, Death's is a face that's fell to see; But bitterer pang Life hoards for thee, Thou broken heart of Rose Mary!” BERYL-SONG We whose throne is the Beryl, Dire-gifted spirits of fire, Who for a twin 233 Leash Sorrow to Sin, Who on no flower refrain to lour with peril,— We cry,—O desolate daughter! Thou and thy mother share newer shame with each other Than last night's slaughter. Awake and tremble, for our curses assemble! What more, that thou know'st not yet,— That life nor death shall forget? No help from Heaven,—thy woes heart-riven are sterile! O once a maiden, With yet worse sorrow can any morrow be laden? It waits for thee, It looms, it must be, O lost among women,— It comes and thou canst not flee. Amen to the omen, Says the voice of the Beryl. Thou sleep'st? Awake,— What dar'st thou yet for his sake, Who each for other did God's own Future imperil? Dost dare to live `Mid the pangs each hour must give? Nay, rather die,— With him thy lover 'neath Hell's cloud-cover to fly,— Hopeless, yet not apart, Cling heart to heart, And beat through the nether storm-eddying winds together? Shall this be so? There thou shalt meet him, but mayst thou greet him? ah no ! He loves, but thee he hoped nevermore to see,— He sighed as he died, But with never a thought for thee. Alone! Alone, for ever alone,— Whose eyes were such wondrous spies for the fate foreshown! Lo! have not We leashed the twin Of endless Sorrow to Sin,— Who on no flower refrain to lour with peril,— Dire-gifted spirits of fire, We whose throne is the Beryl? 234 PART III A SWOON that breaks is the whelming wave When help comes late but still can save. With all blind throes is the instant rife,— Hurtling clangour and clouds at strife,— The breath of death, but the kiss of life. The night lay deep on Rose Mary's heart, For her swoon was death's kind counterpart: The dawn broke dim on Rose Mary's soul,— No hill-crown's heavenly aureole, But a wild gleam on a shaken shoal. Her senses gasped in the sudden air, And she looked around, but none was there. She felt the slackening frost distil Through her blood the last ooze dull and chill: Her lids were dry and her lips were still. Her tears had flooded her heart again; As after a long day's bitter rain, At dusk when the wet flower-cups shrink, The drops run in from the beaded brink, And all the close-shut petals drink. Again her sighs on her heart were rolled; As the wind that long has swept the wold,— Whose moan was made with the moaning sea,— Beats out its breath in the last torn tree, And sinks at length in lethargy. She knew she had waded bosom-deep Along death's bank in the sedge of sleep: All else was lost to her clouded mind; Nor, looking back, could she see defin'd O'er the dim dumb waste what lay behind. Slowly fades the sun from the wall Till day lies dead on the sun-dial: And now in Rose Mary's lifted eye 'Twas shadow alone that made reply To the set face of the soul's dark sky. Yet still through her soul there wandered past Dread phantoms borne on a wailing blast,— Death and sorrow and sin and shame; And, murmured still, to her lips there came Her mother's and her lover's name. 235 How to ask, and what thing to know? She might not stay and she dared not go. From fires unseen these smoke-clouds curled; But where did the hidden curse lie furled? And how to seek through the weary world? With toiling breath she rose from the floor And dragged her steps to an open door: 'Twas the secret panel standing wide, As the lady's hand had let it bide In hastening back to her daughter's side. She passed, but reeled with a dizzy brain And smote the door which closed again. She stood within by the darkling stair, But her feet might mount more freely there,— 'Twas the open light most blinded her. Within her mind no wonder grew At the secret path she never knew: All ways alike were strange to her now,— One field bare-ridged from the spirit's plough, One thicket black with the cypress-bough. Once she thought that she heard her name; And she paused, but knew not whence it came. Down the shadowed stair a faint ray fell That guided the weary footsteps well Till it led her up to the altar-cell. No change there was on Rose Mary's face As she leaned in the portal's narrow space: Still she stood by the pillar's stem, Hand and bosom and garment's hem, As the soul stands by at the requiem. The altar-cell was a dome low-lit, And a veil hung in the midst of it: At the pole-points of its circling girth Four symbols stood of the world's first birth,— Air and water and fire and earth. To the north, a fountain glittered free; To the south, there glowed a red fruit-tree; To the east, a lamp flamed high and fair; To the west, a crystal casket rare Held fast a cloud of the fields of air. The painted walls were a mystic show Of time's ebb-tide and overflow; 236 His hoards long-locked and conquering key, His service-fires that in heaven be, And earth-wheels whirled perpetually. Rose Mary gazed from the open door As on idle things she cared not for,— The fleeting shapes of an empty tale; Then stepped with a heedless visage pale, And lifted aside the altar-veil. The altar stood from its curved recess In a coiling serpent's life-likeness: Even such a serpent evermore Lies deep asleep at the world's dark core Till the last Voice shake the sea and shore. From the altar-cloth a book rose spread And tapers burned at the altar-head; And there in the altar-midst alone, 'Twixt wings of a sculptured beast unknown, Rose Mary saw the Beryl-stone. Firm it sat 'twixt the hollowed wings, As an orb sits in the hand of kings: And lo! for that Foe whose curse far-flown Had bound her life with a burning zone, Rose Mary knew the Beryl-stone. Dread is the meteor's blazing sphere When the poles throb to its blind career; But not with a light more grim and ghast Thereby is the future doom forecast, Than now this sight brought back the past. The hours and minutes seemed to whirr In a clanging swarm that deafened her; They stung her heart to a writhing flame, And marshalled past in its glare they came,— Death and sorrow and sin and shame. Round the Beryl's sphere she saw them pass And mock her eyes from the fated glass: One by one in a fiery train The dead hours seemed to wax and wane, And burned till all was known again. From the drained heart's fount there rose no cry, There sprang no tears, for the source was dry. Held in the hand of some heavy law, Her eyes she might not once withdraw, 237 Nor shrink away from the thing she saw. Even as she gazed, through all her blood The flame was quenched in a coming flood: Out of the depth of the hollow gloom On her soul's bare sands she felt it boom,— The measured tide of a sea of doom. Three steps she took through the altar-gate, And her neck reared and her arms grew straight: The sinews clenched like a serpent's throe, And the face was white in the dark hair's flow, As her hate beheld what lay below. Dumb she stood in her malisons,— A silver statue tressed with bronze: As the fabled head by Perseus mown, It seemed in sooth that her gaze alone Had turned the carven shapes to stone. O'er the altar-sides on either hand There hung a dinted helm and brand: By strength thereof, 'neath the Sacred Sign, That bitter gift o'er the salt sea-brine Her father brought from Palestine. Rose Mary moved with a stern accord And reached her hand to her father's sword; Nor did she stir her gaze one whit From the thing whereon her brows were knit; But gazing still, she spoke to it. “O ye, three times accurst,” she said, “By whom this stone is tenanted! Lo! here ye came by a strong sin's might; Yet a sinner's hand that's weak to smite Shall send you hence ere the day be night. “This hour a clear voice bade me know My hand shall work your overthrow: Another thing in mine ear it spake,— With the broken spell my life shall break. I thank Thee, God, for the dear death's sake! “And he Thy heavenly minister Who swayed erewhile this spell-bound sphere,— My parting soul let him haste to greet, And none but he be guide for my feet To where Thy rest is made complete.” Then deep she breathed, with a tender moan:— 238 “My love, my lord, my only one! Even as I held the cursed clue, When thee, through me, these foul ones slew,— By mine own deed shall they slay me too! “Even while they speed to Hell, my love, Two hearts shall meet in Heaven above. Our shrift thou sought'st, but might'st not bring: And oh! for me 'tis a blessed thing To work hereby our ransoming. “One were our hearts in joy and pain, And our souls e'en now grow one again. And O my love, if our souls are three, O thine and mine shall the third soul be,— One threefold love eternally.” Her eyes were soft as she spoke apart, And the lips smiled to the broken heart: But the glance was dark and the forehead scored With the bitter frown of hate restored, As her two hands swung the heavy sword. Three steps back from her Foe she trod:— “Love, for thy sake! In Thy Name, O God!” In the fair white hands small strength was shown; Yet the blade flashed high and the edge fell prone, And she cleft the heart of the Beryl-stone. What living flesh in the thunder-cloud Hath sat and felt heaven cry aloud? Or known how the levin's pulse may beat? Or wrapped the hour when the whirlwinds meet About its breast for a winding-sheet? Who hath crouched at the world's deep heart While the earthquake rends its loins apart? Or walked far under the seething main While overhead the heavens ordain The tempest-towers of the hurricane? Who hath seen or what ear hath heard The secret things unregister'd Of the place where all is past and done, And tears and laughter sound as one In Hell's unhallowed unison? Nay, is it writ how the fiends despair In earth and water and fire and air? Even so no mortal tongue may tell 239 How to the clang of the sword that fell The echoes shook the altar-cell. When all was still on the air again The Beryl-stone lay cleft in twain; The veil was rent from the riven dome; And every wind that's winged to roam Might have the ruined place for home. The fountain no more glittered free; The fruit hung dead on the leafless tree; The flame of the lamp had ceased to flare; And the crystal casket shattered there Was emptied now of its cloud of air. And lo! on the ground Rose Mary lay, With a cold brow like the snows ere May, With a cold breast like the earth till Spring, With such a smile as the June days bring When the year grows warm with harvesting. The death she had won might leave no trace On the soft sweet form and gentle face: In a gracious sleep she seemed to lie; And over her head her hand on high Held fast the sword she triumphed by. 'Twas then a clear voice said in the room:— “Behold the end of the heavy doom. O come,—for thy bitter love's sake blest; By a sweet path now thou journeyest, And I will lead thee to thy rest. “Me thy sin by Heaven's sore ban Did chase erewhile from the talisman: But to my heart, as a conquered home, In glory of strength thy footsteps come Who hast thus cast forth my foes therefrom. “Already thy heart remembereth No more his name thou sought'st in death: For under all deeps, all heights above,— So wide the gulf in the midst thereof,— Are Hell of Treason and Heaven of Love. “Thee, true soul, shall thy truth prefer To blessed Mary's rose-bower: Warmed and lit is thy place afar With guerdon-fires of the sweet Love-star Where hearts of steadfast lovers are:— 240 “Though naught for the poor corpse lying here Remain to-day but the cold white bier, But burial-chaunt and bended knee, But sighs and tears that heaviest be, But rent rose-flower and rosemary.” BERYL-SONG We, cast forth from the Beryl, Gyre-circling spirits of fire, Whose pangs begin With God's grace to sin, For whose spent powers the immortal hours are sterile,— Woe! must We behold this mother Find grace in her dead child's face, and doubt of none other But that perfect pardon, alas! hath assured her guerdon? Woe! must We behold this daughter, Made clean from the soil of sin wherewith We had fraught her, Shake off a man's blood like water? Write up her story On the Gate of Heaven's glory, Whom there We behold so fair in shining apparel, And beneath her the ruin Of our own undoing! Alas, the Beryl! We had for a foeman But one weak woman; In one day's strife, Her hope fell dead from her life; And yet no iron, Her soul to environ, Could this manslayer, this false soothsayer imperil! Lo, where she bows In the Holy House! Who now shall dissever her soul from its joy for ever While every ditty Of love and plentiful pity Fills the White City, And the floor of Heaven to her feet for ever is given? Hark, a voice cries “Flee!” Woe! woe! what shelter have We, 241 Whose pangs begin With God's grace to sin, For whose spent powers the immortal hours are sterile, Gyre-circling spirits of fire, We, cast forth from the Beryl? ~ Dante Gabriel Rossetti

324:The thought of Eglamor's least like a thought, And yet a false one, was, "Man shrinks to nought "If matched with symbols of immensity; "Must quail, forsooth, before a quiet sky "Or sea, too little for their quietude:" And, truly, somewhat in Sordello's mood Confirmed its speciousness, while eve slow sank Down the near terrace to the farther bank, And only one spot left from out the night Glimmered upon the river opposite A breadth of watery heaven like a bay, A sky-like space of water, ray for ray, And star for star, one richness where they mixed As this and that wing of an angel, fixed, Tumultuary splendours folded in To die. Nor turned he till Ferrara's din (Say, the monotonous speech from a man's lip Who lets some first and eager purpose slip In a new fancy's birththe speech keeps on Though elsewhere its informing soul be gone) Aroused him, surely offered succour. Fate Paused with this eve; ere she precipitate Herself,best put off new strange thoughts awhile, That voice, those large hands, that portentous smile, What help to pierce the future as the past Lay in the plaining city?              And at last The main discovery and prime concern, All that just now imported him to learn, Truth's self, like yonder slow moon to complete Heaven, rose again, and, naked at his feet, Lighted his old life's every shift and change, Effort with counter-effort; nor the range Of each looked wrong except wherein it checked, Some otherwhich of these could he suspect, Prying into them by the sudden blaze? The real way seemed made up of all the ways Mood after mood of the one mind in him; Tokens of the existence, bright or dim, Of a transcendent all-embracing sense Demanding only outward influence, A soul, in Palma's phrase, above his soul, Power to uplift his power,such moon's control Over such sea-depths,and their mass had swept Onward from the beginning and still kept Its course: but years and years the sky above Held none, and so, untasked of any love, His sensitiveness idled, now amort, Alive now, and, to sullenness or sport Given wholly up, disposed itself anew At every passing instigation, grew And dwindled at caprice, in foam-showers spilt, Wedge-like insisting, quivered now a gilt Shield in the sunshine, now a blinding race Of whitest ripples o'er the reeffound place For much display; not gathered up and, hurled Right from its heart, encompassing the world. So had Sordello been, by consequence, Without a function: others made pretence To strength not half his own, yet had some core Within, submitted to some moon, before Them still, superior still whate'er their force, Were able therefore to fulfil a course, Nor missed life's crown, authentic attribute. To each who lives must be a certain fruit Of having lived in his degree,a stage, Earlier or later in men's pilgrimage, To stop at; and to this the spirits tend Who, still discovering beauty without end, Amass the scintillations, make one star Something unlike them, self-sustained, afar, And meanwhile nurse the dream of being blest By winning it to notice and invest Their souls with alien glory, some one day Whene'er the nucleus, gathering shape alway, Round to the perfect circlesoon or late, According as themselves are formed to wait; Whether mere human beauty will suffice The yellow hair and the luxurious eyes, Or human intellect seem best, or each Combine in some ideal form past reach On earth, or else some shade of these, some aim, Some love, hate even, take their place, the same, So to be servedall this they do not lose, Waiting for death to live, nor idly choose What must be Hella progress thus pursued Through all existence, still above the food That 's offered them, still fain to reach beyond The widened range, in virtue of their bond Of sovereignty. Not that a Palma's Love, A Salinguerra's Hate, would equal prove To swaying all Sordello: but why doubt Some love meet for such strength, some moon without Would match his sea?or fear, Good manifest, Only the Best breaks faith?Ah but the Best Somehow eludes us ever, still might be And is not! Crave we gems? No penury Of their material round us! Pliant earth And plastic flamewhat balks the mage his birth Jacinth in balls or lodestone by the block? Flinders enrich the strand, veins swell the rock; Nought more! Seek creatures? Life 's i' the tempest, thought Clothes the keen hill-top, mid-day woods are fraught With fervours: human forms are well enough! But we had hoped, encouraged by the stuff Profuse at nature's pleasure, men beyond These actual men!and thus are over-fond In arguing, from Goodthe Best, from force Dividedforce combined, an ocean's course From this our sea whose mere intestine pants Might seem at times sufficient to our wants. External power! If none be adequate, And he stand forth ordained (a prouder fate) Himself a law to his own sphere? "Remove "All incompleteness!" for that law, that love? Nay, if all other laws be feints,truth veiled Helpfully to weak vision that had failed To grasp aught but its special want,for lure, Embodied? Stronger vision could endure The unbodied want: no partthe whole of truth! The People were himself; nor, by the ruth At their condition, was he less impelled To alter the discrepancy beheld, Than if, from the sound whole, a sickly part Subtracted were transformed, decked out with art, Then palmed on him as alien woethe Guelf To succour, proud that he forsook himself. All is himself; all service, therefore, rates Alike, nor serving one part, immolates The rest: but all in time! "That lance of yours "Makes havoc soon with Malek and his Moors, "That buckler 's lined with many a giant's beard "Ere long, our champion, be the lance upreared, "The buckler wielded handsomely as now! "But view your escort, bear in mind your vow, "Count the pale tracts of sand to pass ere that, "And, if you hope we struggle through the flat, "Put lance and buckler by! Next half-month lacks "Mere sturdy exercise of mace and axe "To cleave this dismal brake of prickly-pear "Which bristling holds Cydippe by the hair, "Lames barefoot Agathon: this felled, we 'll try "The picturesque achievements by and by "Next life!"       Ay, rally, mock, O People, urge Your claims!for thus he ventured, to the verge, Push a vain mummery which perchance distrust Of his fast-slipping resolution thrust Likewise: accordingly the Crowd(as yet He had unconsciously contrived forget I' the whole, to dwell o' the points . . . one might assuage The signal horrors easier than engage With a dim vulgar vast unobvious grief Not to be fancied off, nor gained relief In brilliant fits, cured by a happy quirk, But by dim vulgar vast unobvious work To correspond . . .) this Crowd then, forth they stood. "And now content thy stronger vision, brood "On thy bare want; uncovered, turf by turf, "Study the corpse-face thro' the taint-worms' scurf!" Down sank the People's Then; uprose their Now. These sad ones render service to! And how Piteously little must that service prove Had surely proved in any case! for, move Each other obstacle away, let youth Become aware it had surprised a truth 'T were service to impartcan truth be seized, Settled forthwith, and, of the captive eased, Its captor find fresh prey, since this alit So happily, no gesture luring it, The earnest of a flock to follow? Vain, Most vain! a life to spend ere this he chain To the poor crowd's complacence: ere the crowd Pronounce it captured, he descries a cloud Its kin of twice the plume; which he, in turn, If he shall live as many lives, may learn How to secure: not else. Then Mantua called Back to his mind how certain bards were thralled Buds blasted, but of breath more like perfume Than Naddo's staring nosegay's carrion bloom; Some insane rose that burnt heart out in sweets, A spendthrift in the spring, no summer greets; Some Dularete, drunk with truths and wine, Grown bestial, dreaming how become divine. Yet to surmount this obstacle, commence With the commencement, merits crowning! Hence Must truth be casual truth, elicited In sparks so mean, at intervals dispread So rarely, that 't is like at no one time Of the world's story has not truth, the prime Of truth, the very truth which, loosed, had hurled The world's course right, been really in the world Content the while with some mean spark by dint Of some chance-blow, the solitary hint Of buried fire, which, rip earth's breast, would stream Sky-ward!      Sordello's miserable gleam Was looked for at the moment: he would dash This badge. and all it brought, to earth,abash Taurello thus, perhaps persuade him wrest The Kaiser from his purpose,would attest His own belief, in any case. Before He dashes it however, think once more! For, were that little, truly service? "Ay, "I' the end, no doubt; but meantime? Plain you spy "Its ultimate effect, but many flaws "Of vision blur each intervening cause. "Were the day's fraction clear as the life's sum "Of service, Now as filled as teems To-come "With evidence of goodnor too minute "A share to vie with evil! No dispute, "'T were fitliest maintain the Guelfs in rule: "That makes your life's work: but you have to school "Your day's work on these natures circumstanced "Thus variously, which yet, as each advanced "Or might impede the Guelf rule, must be moved "Now, for the Then's sake,hating what you loved, "Loving old hatreds! Nor if one man bore "Brand upon temples while his fellow wore "The aureole, would it task you to decide: "But, portioned duly out, the future vied "Never with the unparcelled present! Smite "Or spare so much on warrant all so slight? "The present's complete sympathies to break, "Aversions bear with, for a future's sake "So feeble? Tito ruined through one speck, "The Legate saved by his sole lightish fleck? "This were work, true, but work performed at cost "Of other work; aught gained here, elsewhere lost. "For a new segment spoil an orb half-done? "Rise with the People one step, and sinkone? "Were it but one step, less than the whole face "Of things, your novel duty bids erase! "Harms to abolish! What, the prophet saith, "The minstrel singeth vainly then? Old faith, "Old courage, only born because of harms, "Were not, from highest to the lowest, charms? "Flame may persist; but is not glare as staunch? "Where the salt marshes stagnate, crystals branch; "Blood dries to crimson; Evil 's beautified "In every shape. Thrust Beauty then aside "And banish Evil! Wherefore? After all, "Is Evil a result less natural "Than Good? For overlook the seasons' strife "With tree and flower,the hideous animal life, "(Of which who seeks shall find a grinning taunt "For his solution, and endure the vaunt "Of nature's angel, as a child that knows "Himself befooled, unable to propose "Aught better than the fooling)and but care "For men, for the mere People then and there, "In these, could you but see that Good and Ill "Claimed you alike! Whence rose their claim but still "From Ill, as fruit of Ill? What else could knit "You theirs but Sorrow? Any free from it "Were also free from you! Whose happiness "Could be distinguished in this morning's press "Of miseries?the fool's who passed a gibe "'On thee,' jeered he, `so wedded to thy tribe, "`Thou carriest green and yellow tokens in "'Thy very face that thou art Ghibellin!' "Much hold on you that fool obtained! Nay mount "Yet higherand upon men's own account "Must Evil stay: for, what is joy?to heave "Up one obstruction more, and common leave "What was peculiar, by such act destroy "Itself; a partial death is every joy; "The sensible escape, enfranchisement "Of a sphere's essence: once the vexedcontent, "The crampedat large, the growing circleround, "All 's to begin againsome novel bound "To break, some new enlargement to entreat; "The sphere though larger is not more complete. "Now for Mankind's experience: who alone "Might style the unobstructed world his own? "Whom palled Goito with its perfect things? "Sordello's self: whereas for Mankind springs "Salvation by each hindrance interposed. "They climb; life's view is not at once disclosed "To creatures caught up, on the summit left, "Heaven plain above them, yet of wings bereft: "But lower laid, as at the mountain's foot. "So, range on range, the girdling forests shoot "'Twixt your plain prospect and the throngs who scale "Height after height, and pierce mists, veil by veil, "Heartened with each discovery; in their soul, "The Whole they seek by Partsbut, found that Whole, "Could they revert, enjoy past gains? The space "Of time you judge so meagre to embrace "The Parts were more than plenty, once attained "The Whole, to quite exhaust it: nought were gained "But leave to looknot leave to do: Beneath "Soon sates the lookerlook Above, and Death "Tempts ere a tithe of Life be tasted. Live "First, and die soon enough, Sordello! Give "Body and spirit the first right they claim, "And pasture soul on a voluptuous shame "That you, a pageant-city's denizen, "Are neither vilely lodged midst Lombard men "Can force joy out of sorrow, seem to truck "Bright attributes away for sordid muck, "Yet manage from that very muck educe "Gold; then subject nor scruple, to your cruce "The world's discardings! Though real ingots pay "Your pains, the clods that yielded them are clay "To all beside,would clay remain, though quenched "Your purging-fire; who 's robbed then? Had you wrenched "An ampler treasure forth!As 't is, they crave "A share that ruins you and will not save "Them. Why should sympathy command you quit "The course that makes your joy, nor will remit "Their woe? Would all arrive at joy? Reverse "The order (time instructs you) nor coerce "Each unit till, some predetermined mode, "The total be emancipate; men's road "Is one, men's times of travel many; thwart "No enterprising soul's precocious start "Before the general march! If slow or fast "All straggle up to the same point at last, "Why grudge your having gained, a month ago, "The brakes at balm-shed, asphodels in blow, "While they were landlocked? Speed their Then, but how "This badge would suffer you improve your Now!" His time of action for, against, or with Our world (I labour to extract the pith Of this his problem) grew, that even-tide, Gigantic with its power of joy, beside The world's eternity of impotence To profit though at his whole joy's expense. "Make nothing of my day because so brief? "Rather make more: instead of joy, use grief "Before its novelty have time subside! "Wait not for the late savour, leave untried "Virtue, the creaming honey-wine, quick squeeze "Vice like a biting spirit from the lees "Of life! Together let wrath, hatred, lust, "All tyrannies in every shape, be thrust "Upon this Now, which time may reason out "As mischiefs, far from benefits, no doubt; "But long ere then Sordello will have slipt "Away; you teach him at Goito's crypt, "There 's a blank issue to that fiery thrill. "Stirring, the few cope with the many, still: "So much of sand as, quiet, makes a mass "Unable to produce three tufts of grass, "Shall, troubled by the whirlwind, render void "The whole calm glebe's endeavour: be employed! "And e'en though somewhat smart the Crowd for this, "Contribute each his pang to make your bliss, "'T is but one pangone blood-drop to the bowl "Which brimful tempts the sluggish asp uncowl "At last, stains ruddily the dull red cape, "And, kindling orbs grey as the unripe grape "Before, avails forthwith to disentrance "The portent, soon to lead a mystic dance "Among you! For, who sits alone in Rome? "Have those great hands indeed hewn out a home, "And set me there to live? Oh life, life-breath, "Life-blood,ere sleep, come travail, life ere death! "This life stream on my soul, direct, oblique, "But always streaming! Hindrances? They pique: "Helps? such . . . but why repeat, my soul o'ertops "Each height, then every depth profoundlier drops? "Enough that I can live, and would live! Wait "For some transcendent life reserved by Fate "To follow this? Oh, never! Fate, I trust "The same, my soul to; for, as who flings dust, "Perchance (so facile was the deed) she chequed "The void with these materials to affect "My soul diversely: these consigned anew "To nought by death, what marvel if she threw "A second and superber spectacle "Before me? What may serve for sun, what still "Wander a moon above me? What else wind "About me like the pleasures left behind, "And how shall some new flesh that is not flesh "Cling to me? What 's new laughter? Soothes the fresh "Sleep like sleep? Fate 's exhaustless for my sake "In brave resource: but whether bids she slake "My thirst at this first rivulet, or count "No draught worth lip save from some rocky fount "Above i' the clouds, while here she 's provident "Of pure loquacious pearl, the soft tree-tent "Guards, with its face of reate and sedge, nor fail "The silver globules and gold-sparkling grail "At bottom? Oh, 't were too absurd to slight "For the hereafter the to-day's delight! "Quench thirst at this, then seek next well-spring: wear "Home-lilies ere strange lotus in my hair! "Here is the Crowd, whom I with freest heart "Offer to serve, contented for my part "To give life up in service,only grant "That I do serve; if otherwise, why want "Aught further of me? If men cannot choose "But set aside life, why should I refuse "The gift? I take itI, for one, engage "Never to falter through my pilgrimage "Nor end it howling that the stock or stone "Were enviable, truly: I, for one, "Will praise the world, you style mere anteroom "To palacebe it so! shall I assume "My foot the courtly gait, my tongue the trope, "My mouth the smirk, before the doors fly ope "One moment? What? with guarders row on row, "Gay swarms of varletry that come and go, "Pages to dice with, waiting-girls unlace "The plackets of, pert claimants help displace, "Heart-heavy suitors get a rank for,laugh "At yon sleek parasite, break his own staff "'Cross Beetle-brows the Usher's shoulder,why "Admitted to the presence by and by, "Should thought of having lost these make me grieve "Among new joys I reach, for joys I leave? "Cool citrine-crystals, fierce pyropus-stone, "Are floor-work there! But do I let alone "That black-eyed peasant in the vestibule "Once and for ever?Floor-work? No such fool! "Rather, were heaven to forestall earth, I 'd say "I, is it, must be blest? Then, my own way "Bless me! Giver firmer arm and fleeter foot, "I 'll thank you: but to no mad wings transmute "These limbs of mineour greensward was so soft! "Nor camp I on the thunder-cloud aloft: "We feel the bliss distinctlier, having thus "Engines subservient, not mixed up with us. "Better move palpably through heaven: nor, freed "Of flesh, forsooth, from space to space proceed "'Mid flying synods of worlds! No: in heaven's marge "Show Titan still, recumbent o'er his targe "Solid with starsthe Centaur at his game, "Made tremulously out in hoary flame! "Life! Yet the very cup whose extreme dull "Dregs, even, I would quaff, was dashed, at full, "Aside so oft; the death I fly, revealed "So oft a better life this life concealed, "And which sage, champion, martyr, through each path "Have hunted fearlesslythe horrid bath, "The crippling-irons and the fiery chair. "'T was well for them; let me become aware "As they, and I relinquish life, too! Let "What masters life disclose itself! Forget "Vain ordinances, I have one appeal "I feel, am what I feel, know what I feel; "So much is truth to me. What Is, then? Since "One object, viewed diversely, may evince "Beauty and uglinessthis way attract, "That way repel,why gloze upon the fact? "Why must a single of the sides be right? "What bids choose this and leave the opposite? "Where 's abstract Right for me?in youth endued "With Right still present, still to be pursued, "Thro' all the interchange of circles, rife "Each with its proper law and mode of life, "Each to be dwelt at ease in: where, to sway "Absolute with the Kaiser, or obey "Implicit with his serf of fluttering heart, "Or, like a sudden thought of God's, to start "Up, Brutus in the presence, then go shout "That some should pick the unstrung jewels out "Each, well!"        And, as in moments when the past Gave partially enfranchisement, he cast Himself quite through mere secondary states Of his soul's essence, little loves and hates, Into the mid deep yearnings overlaid By these; as who should pierce hill, plain, grove, glade, And on into the very nucleus probe That first determined there exist a globe. As that were easiest, half the globe dissolved, So seemed Sordello's closing-truth evolved By his flesh-half's break-up; the sudden swell Of his expanding soul showed Ill and Well, Sorrow and Joy, Beauty and Ugliness, Virtue and Vice, the Larger and the Less, All qualities, in fine, recorded here, Might be but modes of Time and this one sphere, Urgent on these, but not of force to bind Eternity, as Timeas MatterMind, If Mind, Eternity, should choose assert Their attributes within a Life: thus girt With circumstance, next change beholds them cinct Quite otherwisewith Good and Ill distinct, Joys, sorrows, tending to a like result Contrived to render easy, difficult, This or the other course of . . . what new bond In place of flesh may stop their flight beyond Its new sphere, as that course does harm or good To its arrangements. Once this understood, As suddenly he felt himself alone, Quite out of Time and this world: all was known. What made the secret of his past despair? Most imminent when he seemed most aware Of his own self-sufficiency: made mad By craving to expand the power he had, And not new power to be expanded?just This made it; Soul on Matter being thrust, Joy comes when so much Soul is wreaked in Time On Matter: let the Soul's attempt sublime Matter beyond the scheme and so prevent By more or less that deed's accomplishment, And Sorrow follows: Sorrow how avoid? Let the employer match the thing employed, Fit to the finite his infinity, And thus proceed for ever, in degree Changed but in kind the same, still limited To the appointed circumstance and dead To all beyond. A sphere is but a sphere; Small, Great, are merely terms we bandy here; Since to the spirit's absoluteness all Are like. Now, of the present sphere we call Life, are conditions; take but this among Many; the body was to be so long Youthful, no longer: but, since no control Tied to that body's purposes his soul, She chose to understand the body's trade More than the body's selfhad fain conveyed Her boundless to the body's bounded lot. Hence, the soul permanent, the body not, Scarcely its minute for enjoying here, The soul must needs instruct her weak compeer, Run o'er its capabilities and wring A joy thence, she held worth experiencing: Which, far from half discovered even,lo, The minute gone, the body's power let go Apportioned to that joy's acquirement! Broke Morning o'er earth, he yearned for all it woke From the volcano's vapour-flag, winds hoist Black o'er the spread of sea,down to the moist Dale's silken barley-spikes sullied with rain, Swayed earthwards, heavily to rise again The Small, a sphere as perfect as the Great To the soul's absoluteness. Meditate Too long on such a morning's cluster-chord And the whole music it was framed afford, The chord's might half discovered, what should pluck One string, his finger, was found palsy-struck. And then no marvel if the spirit, shown A saddest sightthe body lost alone Through her officious proffered help, deprived Of this and that enjoyment Fate contrived, Virtue, Good, Beauty, each allowed slip hence, Vain-gloriously were fain, for recompense, To stem the ruin even yet, protract The body's term, supply the power it lacked From her infinity, compel it learn These qualities were only Time's concern, And body may, with spirit helping, barred Advance the same, vanquishedobtain reward, Reap joy where sorrow was intended grow, Of Wrong make Right, and turn Ill Good below. And the result is, the poor body soon Sinks under what was meant a wondrous boon, Leaving its bright accomplice all aghast. So much was plain then, proper in the past; To be complete for, satisfy the whole Series of spheresEternity, his soul Needs must exceed, prove incomplete for, each Single sphereTime. But does our knowledge reach No farther? Is the cloud of hindrance broke But by the failing of the fleshly yoke, Its loves and hates, as now when death lets soar Sordello, self-sufficient as before, Though during the mere space that shall elapse 'Twixt his enthralment in new bonds perhaps? Must life be ever just escaped, which should Have been enjoyed?nay, might have been and would, Each purpose ordered rightthe soul 's no whit Beyond the body's purpose under it. Like yonder breadth of watery heaven, a bay, And that sky-space of water, ray for ray And star for star, one richness where they mixed As this and that wing of an angel, fixed, Tumultuary splendours folded in To diewould soul, proportioned thus, begin Exciting discontent, or surelier quell The body if, aspiring, it rebel? But how so order life? Still brutalize The soul, the sad world's way, with muffled eyes To all that was before, all that shall be After this sphereall and each quality Save some sole and immutable Great, Good And Beauteous whither fate has loosed its hood To follow? Never may some soul see All The Great Before and After, and the Small Now, yet be saved by this the simplest lore, And take the single course prescribed before, As the king-bird with ages on his plumes Travels to die in his ancestral glooms? But where descry the Love that shall select That course? Here is a soul whom, to affect, Nature has plied with all her means, from trees And flowers e'en to the Multitude!and these, Decides he save or no? One word to end! Ah my Sordello, I this once befriend And speak for you. Of a Power above you still Which, utterly incomprehensible, Is out of rivalry, which thus you can Love, tho' unloving all conceived by man What need! And ofnone the minutest duct To that out-nature, nought that would instruct And so let rivalry begin to live But of a Power its representative Who, being for authority the same, Communication different, should claim A course, the first chose but this last revealed This Human clear, as that Divine concealed What utter need!          What has Sordello found? Or can his spirit go the mighty round, End where poor Eglamor begun? So, says Old fable, the two eagles went two ways About the world: where, in the midst, they met, Though on a shifting waste of sand, men set Jove's temple. Quick, what has Sordello found? For they approachapproachthat foot's rebound Palma? No, Salinguerra though in mail; They mount, have reached the threshold, dash the veil Asideand you divine who sat there dead, Under his foot the badge: still, Palma said, A triumph lingering in the wide eyes, Wider than some spent swimmer's if he spies Help from above in his extreme despair, And, head far back on shoulder thrust, turns there With short quick passionate cry: as Palma pressed In one great kiss, her lips upon his breast, It beat.     By this, the hermit-bee has stopped His day's toil at Goito: the new-cropped Dead vine-leaf answers, now 't is eve, he bit, Twirled so, and filed all day: the mansion 's fit, God counselled for. As easy guess the word That passed betwixt them, and become the third To the soft small unfrighted bee, as tax Him with one faultso, no remembrance racks Of the stone maidens and the font of stone He, creeping through the crevice, leaves alone. Alas, my friend, alas Sordello, whom Anon they laid within that old font-tomb, And, yet again, alas!            And now is 't worth Our while bring back to mind, much less set forth How Salinguerra extricates himself Without Sordello? Ghibellin and Guelf May fight their fiercest out? If Richard sulked In durance or the Marquis paid his mulct, Who cares, Sordello gone? The upshot, sure, Was peace; our chief made some frank overture That prospered; compliment fell thick and fast On its disposer, and Taurello passed With foe and friend for an outstripping soul, Nine days at least. Then,fairly reached the goal, He, by one effort, blotted the great hope Out of his mind, nor further tried to cope With Este, that mad evening's style, but sent Away the Legate and the League, content No blame at least the brothers had incurred, Dispatched a message to the Monk, he heard Patiently first to last, scarce shivered at, Then curled his limbs up on his wolfskin mat And ne'er spoke more,informed the Ferrarese He but retained their rule so long as these Lingered in pupilage,and last, no mode Apparent else of keeping safe the road From Germany direct to Lombardy For Friedrich,none, that is, to guarantee The faith and promptitude of who should next Obtain Sofia's dowry,sore perplexed (Sofia being youngest of the tribe Of daughters, Ecelin was wont to bribe The envious magnates withnor, since he sent Henry of Egna this fair child, had Trent Once failed the Kaiser's purposes"we lost "Egna last year, and who takes Egna's post "Opens the Lombard gate if Friedrich knock?") Himself espoused the Lady of the Rock In pure necessity, and, so destroyed His slender last of chances, quite made void Old prophecy, and spite of all the schemes Overt and covert, youth's deeds, age's dreams, Was sucked into Romano. And so hushed He up this evening's work that, when 't was brushed Somehow against by a blind chronicle Which, chronicling whatever woe befell Ferrara, noted this the obscure woe Of "Salinguerra's sole son Giacomo "Deceased, fatuous and doting, ere his sire," The townsfolk rubbed their eyes, could but admire Which of Sofia's five was meant.                  The chaps Of earth's dead hope were tardy to collapse, Obliterated not the beautiful Distinctive features at a crash: but dull And duller these, next year, as Guelfs withdrew Each to his stronghold. Then (securely too Ecelin at Campese slept; close by, Who likes may see him in Solagna lie, With cushioned head and gloved hand to denote The cavalier he was)then his heart smote Young Ecelin at last; long since adult. And, save Vicenza's business, what result In blood and blaze? (So hard to intercept Sordello till his plain withdrawal!) Stepped Then its new lord on Lombardy. I' the nick Of time when Ecelin and Alberic Closed with Taurello, come precisely news That in Verona half the souls refuse Allegiance to the Marquis and the Count Have cast them from a throne they bid him mount, Their Podest, thro' his ancestral worth. Ecelin flew there, and the town henceforth Was wholly hisTaurello sinking back From temporary station to a track That suited. News received of this acquist, Friedrich did come to Lombardy: who missed Taurello then? Another year: they took Vicenza, left the Marquis scarce a nook For refuge, and, when hundreds two or three Of Guelfs conspired to call themselves "The Free," Opposing Alberic,vile Bassanese, (Without Sordello!)Ecelin at ease Slaughtered them so observably, that oft A little Salinguerra looked with soft Blue eyes up, asked his sire the proper age To get appointed his proud uncle's page. More years passed, and that sire had dwindled down To a mere showy turbulent soldier, grown Better through age, his parts still in repute, Subtlehow else?but hardly so astute As his contemporaneous friends professed; Undoubtedly a brawler: for the rest, Known by each neighbour, and allowed for, let Keep his incorrigible ways, nor fret Men who would miss their boyhood's bugbear: "trap "The ostrich, suffer our bald osprey flap "A battered pinion!"was the word. In fine, One flap too much and Venice's marine Was meddled with; no overlooking that! She captured him in his Ferrara, fat And florid at a banquet, more by fraud Than force, to speak the truth; there 's slender laud Ascribed you for assisting eighty years To pull his death on such a man; fate shears The life-cord prompt enough whose last fine threads You fritter: so, presiding his board-head, The old smile, your assurance all went well With Friedrich (as if he were like to tell!) In rushed (a plan contrived before) our friends, Made some pretence at fighting, some amends For the shame done his eighty years(apart The principle, none found it in his heart To be much angry with Taurello)gained Their galleys with the prize, and what remained But carry him to Venice for a show? Set him, as 't were, down gentlyfree to go His gait, inspect our square, pretend observe The swallows soaring their eternal curve 'Twixt Theodore and Mark, if citizens Gathered importunately, fives and tens, To point their children the Magnifico, All but a monarch once in firm-land, go His gait among them now"it took, indeed, "Fully this Ecelin to supersede "That man," remarked the seniors. Singular! Sordello's inability to bar Rivals the stage, that evening, mainly brought About by his strange disbelief that aught Was ever to be done,this thrust the Twain Under Taurello's tutelage,whom, brain And heart and hand, he forthwith in one rod Indissolubly bound to baffle God Who loves the worldand thus allowed the thin Grey wizened dwarfish devil Ecelin, And massy-muscled big-boned Alberic (Mere man, alas!) to put his problem quick To demonstrationprove wherever's will To do, there's plenty to be done, or ill Or good. Anointed, then, to rend and rip Kings of the gag and flesh-hook, screw and whip, They plagued the world: a touch of Hildebrand (So far from obsolete!) made Lombards band Together, cross their coats as for Christ's cause, And saving Milan win the world's applause. Ecelin perished: and I think grass grew Never so pleasant as in Valley R By San Zenon where Alberic in turn Saw his exasperated captors burn Seven children and their mother; then, regaled So far, tied on to a wild horse, was trailed To death through raunce and bramble-bush. I take God's part and testify that 'mid the brake Wild o'er his castle on the pleasant knoll, You hear its one tower left, a belfry, toll The earthquake spared it last year, laying flat The modern church beneath,no harm in that! Chirrups the contumacious grasshopper, Rustles the lizard and the cushats chirre Above the ravage: there, at deep of day A week since, heard I the old Canon say He saw with his own eyes a barrow burst And Alberic's huge skeleton unhearsed Only five years ago. He added, "June 's "The month for carding off our first cocoons "The silkworms fabricate"a double news, Nor he nor I could tell the worthier. Choose! And Naddo gone, all's gone; not Eglamor! Believe, I knew the face I waited for, A guest my spirit of the golden courts! Oh strange to see how, despite ill-reports, Disuse, some wear of years, that face retained Its joyous look of love! Suns waxed and waned, And still my spirit held an upward flight, Spiral on spiral, gyres of life and light More and more gorgeousever that face there The last admitted! crossed, too, with some care As perfect triumph were not sure for all, But, on a few, enduring damp must fall, A transient struggle, haply a painful sense Of the inferior nature's clingingwhence Slight starting tears easily wiped away, Fine jealousies soon stifled in the play Of irrepressible admirationnot Aspiring, all considered, to their lot Who ever, just as they prepare ascend Spiral on spiral, wish thee well, impend Thy frank delight at their exclusive track, That upturned fervid face and hair put back! Is there no more to say? He of the rhymes Many a tale, of this retreat betimes, Was born: Sordello die at once for men? The Chroniclers of Mantua tired their pen Telling how Sordello Prince Visconti saved Mantua, and elsewhere notably behaved Who thus, by fortune ordering events, Passed with posterity, to all intents, For just the god he never could become. As Knight, Bard, Gallant, men were never dumb In praise of him: while what he should have been, Could be, and was notthe one step too mean For him to take,we suffer at this day Because of: Ecelin had pushed away Its chance ere Dante could arrive and take That step Sordello spurned, for the world's sake: He did muchbut Sordello's chance was gone. Thus, had Sordello dared that step alone, Apollo had been compassed: 't was a fit He wished should go to him, not he to it As one content to merely be supposed Singing or fighting elsewhere, while he dozed Really at homeone who was chiefly glad To have achieved the few real deeds he had, Because that way assured they were not worth Doing, so spared from doing them henceforth A tree that covets fruitage and yet tastes Never itself, itself. Had he embraced Their cause then, men had plucked Hesperian fruit And, praising that, just thrown him in to boot All he was anxious to appear, but scarce Solicitous to be. A sorry farce Such life is, after all! Cannot I say He lived for some one better thing? this way. Lo, on a heathy brown and nameless hill By sparkling Asolo, in mist and chill, Morning just up, higher and higher runs A child barefoot and rosy. See! the sun's On the square castle's inner-court's low wall Like the chine of some extinct animal Half turned to earth and flowers; and through the haze (Save where some slender patches of grey maize Are to be overleaped) that boy has crossed The whole hill-side of dew and powder-frost Matting the balm and mountain camomile. Up and up goes he, singing all the while Some unintelligible words to beat The lark, God's poet, swooning at his feet, So worsted is he at "the few fine locks "Stained like pale honey oozed from topmost rocks "Sun-blanched the livelong summer,"all that's left Of the Goito lay! And thus bereft, Sleep and forget, Sordello! In effect He sleeps, the feverish poetI suspect Not utterly companionless; but, friends, Wake up! The ghost's gone, and the story ends I'd fain hope, sweetly; seeing, peri or ghoul, That spirits are conjectured fair or foul, Evil or good, judicious authors think, According as they vanish in a stink Or in a perfume. Friends, be frank! ye snuff Civet, I warrant. Really? Like enough! Merely the savour's rareness; any nose May ravage with impunity a rose: Rifle a musk-pod and 't will ache like yours! I'd tell you that same pungency ensures An after-gust, but that were overbold. Who would has heard Sordello's story told. ~ Robert Browning, Sordello - Book the Sixth

325:I. In midmost Ind, beside Hydaspes cool, There stood, or hover'd, tremulous in the air, A faery city 'neath the potent rule Of Emperor Elfinan; fam'd ev'rywhere For love of mortal women, maidens fair, Whose lips were solid, whose soft hands were made Of a fit mould and beauty, ripe and rare, To tamper his slight wooing, warm yet staid: He lov'd girls smooth as shades, but hated a mere shade. II. This was a crime forbidden by the law; And all the priesthood of his city wept, For ruin and dismay they well foresaw, If impious prince no bound or limit kept, And faery Zendervester overstept; They wept, he sin'd, and still he would sin on, They dreamt of sin, and he sin'd while they slept; In vain the pulpit thunder'd at the throne, Caricature was vain, and vain the tart lampoon. III. Which seeing, his high court of parliament Laid a remonstrance at his Highness' feet, Praying his royal senses to content Themselves with what in faery land was sweet, Befitting best that shade with shade should meet: Whereat, to calm their fears, he promis'd soon From mortal tempters all to make retreat,-- Aye, even on the first of the new moon, An immaterial wife to espouse as heaven's boon. IV. Meantime he sent a fluttering embassy To Pigmio, of Imaus sovereign, To half beg, and half demand, respectfully, The hand of his fair daughter Bellanaine; An audience had, and speeching done, they gain Their point, and bring the weeping bride away; Whom, with but one attendant, safely lain Upon their wings, they bore in bright array, While little harps were touch'd by many a lyric fay. V. As in old pictures tender cherubim A child's soul thro' the sapphir'd canvas bear, So, thro' a real heaven, on they swim With the sweet princess on her plumag'd lair, Speed giving to the winds her lustrous hair; And so she journey'd, sleeping or awake, Save when, for healthful exercise and air, She chose to "promener l'aile," or take A pigeon's somerset, for sport or change's sake. VI. "Dear Princess, do not whisper me so loud," Quoth Corallina, nurse and confidant, "Do not you see there, lurking in a cloud, Close at your back, that sly old Crafticant? He hears a whisper plainer than a rant: Dry up your tears, and do not look so blue; He's Elfinan's great state-spy militant, His running, lying, flying foot-man too,-- Dear mistress, let him have no handle against you! VII. "Show him a mouse's tail, and he will guess, With metaphysic swiftness, at the mouse; Show him a garden, and with speed no less, He'll surmise sagely of a dwelling house, And plot, in the same minute, how to chouse The owner out of it; show him a" --- "Peace! Peace! nor contrive thy mistress' ire to rouse!" Return'd the Princess, "my tongue shall not cease Till from this hated match I get a free release. VIII. "Ah, beauteous mortal!" "Hush!" quoth Coralline, "Really you must not talk of him, indeed." "You hush!" reply'd the mistress, with a shinee Of anger in her eyes, enough to breed In stouter hearts than nurse's fear and dread: 'Twas not the glance itself made nursey flinch, But of its threat she took the utmost heed; Not liking in her heart an hour-long pinch, Or a sharp needle run into her back an inch. IX. So she was silenc'd, and fair Bellanaine, Writhing her little body with ennui, Continued to lament and to complain, That Fate, cross-purposing, should let her be Ravish'd away far from her dear countree; That all her feelings should be set at nought, In trumping up this match so hastily, With lowland blood; and lowland blood she thought Poison, as every staunch true-born Imaian ought. X. Sorely she griev'd, and wetted three or four White Provence rose-leaves with her faery tears, But not for this cause; -- alas! she had more Bad reasons for her sorrow, as appears In the fam'd memoirs of a thousand years, Written by Crafticant, and published By Parpaglion and Co., (those sly compeers Who rak'd up ev'ry fact against the dead,) In Scarab Street, Panthea, at the Jubal's Head. XI. Where, after a long hypercritic howl Against the vicious manners of the age, He goes on to expose, with heart and soul, What vice in this or that year was the rage, Backbiting all the world in every page; With special strictures on the horrid crime, (Section'd and subsection'd with learning sage,) Of faeries stooping on their wings sublime To kiss a mortal's lips, when such were in their prime. XII. Turn to the copious index, you will find Somewhere in the column, headed letter B, The name of Bellanaine, if you're not blind; Then pray refer to the text, and you will see An article made up of calumny Against this highland princess, rating her For giving way, so over fashionably, To this new-fangled vice, which seems a burr Stuck in his moral throat, no coughing e'er could stir. XIII. There he says plainly that she lov'd a man! That she around him flutter'd, flirted, toy'd, Before her marriage with great Elfinan; That after marriage too, she never joy'd In husband's company, but still employ'd Her wits to 'scape away to Angle-land; Where liv'd the youth, who worried and annoy'd Her tender heart, and its warm ardours fann'd To such a dreadful blaze, her side would scorch her hand. XIV. But let us leave this idle tittle-tattle To waiting-maids, and bed-room coteries, Nor till fit time against her fame wage battle. Poor Elfinan is very ill at ease, Let us resume his subject if you please: For it may comfort and console him much, To rhyme and syllable his miseries; Poor Elfinan! whose cruel fate was such, He sat and curs'd a bride he knew he could not touch. XV. Soon as (according to his promises) The bridal embassy had taken wing, And vanish'd, bird-like, o'er the suburb trees, The Emperor, empierc'd with the sharp sting Of love, retired, vex'd and murmuring Like any drone shut from the fair bee-queen, Into his cabinet, and there did fling His limbs upon a sofa, full of spleen, And damn'd his House of Commons, in complete chagrin. XVI. "I'll trounce some of the members," cry'd the Prince, "I'll put a mark against some rebel names, I'll make the Opposition-benches wince, I'll show them very soon, to all their shames, What 'tis to smother up a Prince's flames; That ministers should join in it, I own, Surprises me! -- they too at these high games! Am I an Emperor? Do I wear a crown? Imperial Elfinan, go hang thyself or drown! XVII. "I'll trounce 'em! -- there's the square-cut chancellor, His son shall never touch that bishopric; And for the nephew of old Palfior, I'll show him that his speeches made me sick, And give the colonelcy to Phalaric; The tiptoe marquis, mortal and gallant, Shall lodge in shabby taverns upon tick; And for the Speaker's second cousin's aunt, She sha'n't be maid of honour,-- by heaven that she sha'n't! XVIII. "I'll shirk the Duke of A.; I'll cut his brother; I'll give no garter to his eldest son; I won't speak to his sister or his mother! The Viscount B. shall live at cut-and-run; But how in the world can I contrive to stun That fellow's voice, which plagues me worse than any, That stubborn fool, that impudent state-dun, Who sets down ev'ry sovereign as a zany,-- That vulgar commoner, Esquire Biancopany? XIX. "Monstrous affair! Pshaw! pah! what ugly minx Will they fetch from Imaus for my bride? Alas! my wearied heart within me sinks, To think that I must be so near ally'd To a cold dullard fay,--ah, woe betide! Ah, fairest of all human loveliness! Sweet Bertha! what crime can it be to glide About the fragrant plaintings of thy dress, Or kiss thine eyes, or count thy locks, tress after tress?" XX. So said, one minute's while his eyes remaind' Half lidded, piteous, languid, innocent; But, in a wink, their splendour they regain'd, Sparkling revenge with amorous fury blent. Love thwarted in bad temper oft has vent: He rose, he stampt his foot, he rang the bell, And order'd some death-warrants to be sent For signature: -- somewhere the tempest fell, As many a poor fellow does not live to tell. XXI. "At the same time, Eban," -- (this was his page, A fay of colour, slave from top to toe, Sent as a present, while yet under age, From the Viceroy of Zanguebar, -- wise, slow, His speech, his only words were "yes" and "no," But swift of look, and foot, and wing was he,--) "At the same time, Eban, this instant go To Hum the soothsayer, whose name I see Among the fresh arrivals in our empery. XXII. "Bring Hum to me! But stay -- here, take my ring, The pledge of favour, that he not suspect Any foul play, or awkward murdering, Tho' I have bowstrung many of his sect; Throw in a hint, that if he should neglect One hour, the next shall see him in my grasp, And the next after that shall see him neck'd, Or swallow'd by my hunger-starved asp,-- And mention ('tis as well) the torture of the wasp." XXIII. These orders given, the Prince, in half a pet, Let o'er the silk his propping elbow slide, Caught up his little legs, and, in a fret, Fell on the sofa on his royal side. The slave retreated backwards, humble-ey'd, And with a slave-like silence clos'd the door, And to old Hun thro' street and alley hied; He "knew the city," as we say, of yore, And for short cuts and turns, was nobody knew more. XXIV. It was the time when wholesale dealers close Their shutters with a moody sense of wealth, But retail dealers, diligent, let loose The gas (objected to on score of health), Convey'd in little solder'd pipes by stealth, And make it flare in many a brilliant form, That all the powers of darkness it repell'th, Which to the oil-trade doth great scaith and harm, And superseded quite the use of the glow-worm. XXV. Eban, untempted by the pastry-cooks, (Of pastry he got store within the palace,) With hasty steps, wrapp'd cloak, and solemn looks, Incognito upon his errand sallies, His smelling-bottle ready for the allies; He pass'd the Hurdy-gurdies with disdain, Vowing he'd have them sent on board the gallies; Just as he made his vow; it 'gan to rain, Therefore he call'd a coach, and bade it drive amain. XXVI. "I'll pull the string," said he, and further said, "Polluted Jarvey! Ah, thou filthy hack! Whose springs of life are all dry'd up and dead, Whose linsey-woolsey lining hangs all slack, Whose rug is straw, whose wholeness is a crack; And evermore thy steps go clatter-clitter; Whose glass once up can never be got back, Who prov'st, with jolting arguments and bitter, That 'tis of modern use to travel in a litter. XXVII. "Thou inconvenience! thou hungry crop For all corn! thou snail-creeper to and fro, Who while thou goest ever seem'st to stop, And fiddle-faddle standest while you go; I' the morning, freighted with a weight of woe, Unto some lazar-house thou journeyest, And in the evening tak'st a double row Of dowdies, for some dance or party drest, Besides the goods meanwhile thou movest east and west. XXVIII. "By thy ungallant bearing and sad mien, An inch appears the utmost thou couldst budge; Yet at the slightest nod, or hint, or sign, Round to the curb-stone patient dost thou trudge, School'd in a beckon, learned in a nudge, A dull-ey'd Argus watching for a fare; Quiet and plodding, thou dost bear no grudge To whisking Tilburies, or Phaetons rare, Curricles, or Mail-coaches, swift beyond compare." XXIX. Philosophizing thus, he pull'd the check, And bade the Coachman wheel to such a street, Who, turning much his body, more his neck, Louted full low, and hoarsely did him greet: "Certes, Monsieur were best take to his feet, Seeing his servant can no further drive For press of coaches, that to-night here meet, Many as bees about a straw-capp'd hive, When first for April honey into faint flowers they dive." XXX. Eban then paid his fare, and tiptoe went To Hum's hotel; and, as he on did pass With head inclin'd, each dusky lineament Show'd in the pearl-pav'd street, as in a glass; His purple vest, that ever peeping was Rich from the fluttering crimson of his cloak, His silvery trowsers, and his silken sash Tied in a burnish'd knot, their semblance took Upon the mirror'd walls, wherever he might look. XXXI. He smil'd at self, and, smiling, show'd his teeth, And seeing his white teeth, he smil'd the more; Lifted his eye-brows, spurn'd the path beneath, Show'd teeth again, and smil'd as heretofore, Until he knock'd at the magician's door; Where, till the porter answer'd, might be seen, In the clear panel more he could adore,-- His turban wreath'd of gold, and white, and green, Mustachios, ear-ring, nose-ring, and his sabre keen. XXXII. "Does not your master give a rout to-night?" Quoth the dark page. "Oh, no!" return'd the Swiss, "Next door but one to us, upon the right, The Magazin des Modes now open is Against the Emperor's wedding;--and, sir, this My master finds a monstrous horrid bore; As he retir'd, an hour ago I wis, With his best beard and brimstone, to explore And cast a quiet figure in his second floor. XXXIII. "Gad! he's oblig'd to stick to business! For chalk, I hear, stands at a pretty price; And as for aqua vitae -- there's a mess! The dentes sapientiae of mice, Our barber tells me too, are on the rise,-- Tinder's a lighter article, -- nitre pure Goes off like lightning, -- grains of Paradise At an enormous figure! -- stars not sure! -- Zodiac will not move without a slight douceur! XXXIV. "Venus won't stir a peg without a fee, And master is too partial, entre nous, To" -- "Hush -- hush!" cried Eban, "sure that is he Coming down stairs, -- by St. Bartholomew! As backwards as he can, -- is't something new? Or is't his custom, in the name of fun?" "He always comes down backward, with one shoe"-- Return'd the porter -- "off, and one shoe on, Like, saving shoe for sock or stocking, my man John!" XXXV. It was indeed the great Magician, Feeling, with careful toe, for every stair, And retrograding careful as he can, Backwards and downwards from his own two pair: "Salpietro!" exclaim'd Hum, "is the dog there? He's always in my way upon the mat!" "He's in the kitchen, or the Lord knows where,"-- Reply'd the Swiss, -- "the nasty, yelping brat!" "Don't beat him!" return'd Hum, and on the floor came pat. XXXVI. Then facing right about, he saw the Page, And said: "Don't tell me what you want, Eban; The Emperor is now in a huge rage,-- 'Tis nine to one he'll give you the rattan! Let us away!" Away together ran The plain-dress'd sage and spangled blackamoor, Nor rested till they stood to cool, and fan, And breathe themselves at th' Emperor's chamber door, When Eban thought he heard a soft imperial snore. XXXVII. "I thought you guess'd, foretold, or prophesy'd, That's Majesty was in a raving fit?" "He dreams," said Hum, "or I have ever lied, That he is tearing you, sir, bit by bit." "He's not asleep, and you have little wit," Reply'd the page; "that little buzzing noise, Whate'er your palmistry may make of it, Comes from a play-thing of the Emperor's choice, From a Man-Tiger-Organ, prettiest of his toys." XXXVIII. Eban then usher'd in the learned Seer: Elfinan's back was turn'd, but, ne'ertheless, Both, prostrate on the carpet, ear by ear, Crept silently, and waited in distress, Knowing the Emperor's moody bitterness; Eban especially, who on the floor 'gan Tremble and quake to death,-- he feared less A dose of senna-tea or nightmare Gorgon Than the Emperor when he play'd on his Man-Tiger-Organ. XXXIX. They kiss'd nine times the carpet's velvet face Of glossy silk, soft, smooth, and meadow-green, Where the close eye in deep rich fur might trace A silver tissue, scantly to be seen, As daisies lurk'd in June-grass, buds in green; Sudden the music ceased, sudden the hand Of majesty, by dint of passion keen, Doubled into a common fist, went grand, And knock'd down three cut glasses, and his best ink-stand. XL. Then turning round, he saw those trembling two: "Eban," said he, "as slaves should taste the fruits Of diligence, I shall remember you To-morrow, or next day, as time suits, In a finger conversation with my mutes,-- Begone! -- for you, Chaldean! here remain! Fear not, quake not, and as good wine recruits A conjurer's spirits, what cup will you drain? Sherry in silver, hock in gold, or glass'd champagne?" XLI. "Commander of the faithful!" answer'd Hum, "In preference to these, I'll merely taste A thimble-full of old Jamaica rum." "A simple boon!" said Elfinan; "thou may'st Have Nantz, with which my morning-coffee's lac'd." "I'll have a glass of Nantz, then," -- said the Seer,-- "Made racy -- (sure my boldness is misplac'd!)-- With the third part -- (yet that is drinking dear!)-- Of the least drop of crme de citron, crystal clear." XLII. "I pledge you, Hum! and pledge my dearest love, My Bertha!" "Bertha! Bertha!" cry'd the sage, "I know a many Berthas!" "Mine's above All Berthas!" sighed the Emperor. "I engage," Said Hum, "in duty, and in vassalage, To mention all the Berthas in the earth;-- There's Bertha Watson, -- and Miss Bertha Page,-- This fam'd for languid eyes, and that for mirth,-- There's Bertha Blount of York, -- and Bertha Knox of Perth." XLIII. "You seem to know" -- "I do know," answer'd Hum, "Your Majesty's in love with some fine girl Named Bertha; but her surname will not come, Without a little conjuring." "'Tis Pearl, 'Tis Bertha Pearl! What makes my brain so whirl? And she is softer, fairer than her name!" "Where does she live?" ask'd Hum. "Her fair locks curl So brightly, they put all our fays to shame!-- Live? -- O! at Canterbury, with her old grand-dame." XLIV. "Good! good!" cried Hum, "I've known her from a child! She is a changeling of my management; She was born at midnight in an Indian wild; Her mother's screams with the striped tiger's blent, While the torch-bearing slaves a halloo sent Into the jungles; and her palanquin, Rested amid the desert's dreariment, Shook with her agony, till fair were seen The little Bertha's eyes ope on the stars serene." XLV. "I can't say," said the monarch; "that may be Just as it happen'd, true or else a bam! Drink up your brandy, and sit down by me, Feel, feel my pulse, how much in love I am; And if your science is not all a sham. Tell me some means to get the lady here." "Upon my honour!" said the son of Cham, "She is my dainty changeling, near and dear, Although her story sounds at first a little queer." XLVI. "Convey her to me, Hum, or by my crown, My sceptre, and my cross-surmounted globe, I'll knock you" -- "Does your majesty mean -- down? No, no, you never could my feelings probe To such a depth!" The Emperor took his robe, And wept upon its purple palatine, While Hum continued, shamming half a sob,-- "In Canterbury doth your lady shine? But let me cool your brandy with a little wine." XLVII. Whereat a narrow Flemish glass he took, That since belong'd to Admiral De Witt, Admir'd it with a connoisseuring look, And with the ripest claret crowned it, And, ere the lively bead could burst and flit, He turn'd it quickly, nimbly upside down, His mouth being held conveniently fit To catch the treasure: "Best in all the town!" He said, smack'd his moist lips, and gave a pleasant frown. XLVIII. "Ah! good my Prince, weep not!" And then again He filled a bumper. "Great Sire, do not weep! Your pulse is shocking, but I'll ease your pain." "Fetch me that Ottoman, and prithee keep Your voice low," said the Emperor; "and steep Some lady's-fingers nice in Candy wine; And prithee, Hum, behind the screen do peep For the rose-water vase, magician mine! And sponge my forehead, -- so my love doth make me pine. XLIX. "Ah, cursed Bellanaine!" "Don't think of her," Rejoin'd the Mago, "but on Bertha muse; For, by my choicest best barometer, You shall not throttled be in marriage noose; I've said it, Sire; you only have to choose Bertha or Bellanaine." So saying, he drew From the left pocket of his threadbare hose, A sampler hoarded slyly, good as new, Holding it by his thumb and finger full in view. L. "Sire, this is Bertha Pearl's neat handy-work, Her name, see here, Midsummer, ninety-one." Elfinan snatch'd it with a sudden jerk, And wept as if he never would have done, Honouring with royal tears the poor homespun; Whereon were broider'd tigers with black eyes, And long-tail'd pheasants, and a rising sun, Plenty of posies, great stags, butterflies Bigger than stags,-- a moon,-- with other mysteries. LI. The monarch handled o'er and o'er again Those day-school hieroglyphics with a sigh; Somewhat in sadness, but pleas'd in the main, Till this oracular couplet met his eye Astounded -- Cupid, I do thee defy! It was too much. He shrunk back in his chair, Grew pale as death, and fainted -- very nigh! "Pho! nonsense!" exclaim'd Hum, "now don't despair; She does not mean it really. Cheer up, hearty -- there! LII. "And listen to my words. You say you won't, On any terms, marry Miss Bellanaine; It goes against your conscience -- good! Well, don't. You say you love a mortal. I would fain Persuade your honour's highness to refrain From peccadilloes. But, Sire, as I say, What good would that do? And, to be more plain, You would do me a mischief some odd day, Cut off my ears and limbs, or head too, by my fay! LIII. "Besides, manners forbid that I should pass any Vile strictures on the conduct of a prince Who should indulge his genius, if he has any, Not, like a subject, foolish matters mince. Now I think on't, perhaps I could convince Your Majesty there is no crime at all In loving pretty little Bertha, since She's very delicate,-- not over tall, -- A fairy's hand, and in the waist why -- very small." LIV. "Ring the repeater, gentle Hum!" "'Tis five," Said the gentle Hum; "the nights draw in apace; The little birds I hear are all alive; I see the dawning touch'd upon your face; Shall I put out the candles, please your Grace?" "Do put them out, and, without more ado, Tell me how I may that sweet girl embrace,-- How you can bring her to me." "That's for you, Great Emperor! to adventure, like a lover true." LV. "I fetch her!" -- "Yes, an't like your Majesty; And as she would be frighten'd wide awake To travel such a distance through the sky, Use of some soft manoeuvre you must make, For your convenience, and her dear nerves' sake; Nice way would be to bring her in a swoon, Anon, I'll tell what course were best to take; You must away this morning." "Hum! so soon?" "Sire, you must be in Kent by twelve o'clock at noon." LVI. At this great Caesar started on his feet, Lifted his wings, and stood attentive-wise. "Those wings to Canterbury you must beat, If you hold Bertha as a worthy prize. Look in the Almanack -- Moore never lies -- April the twenty- fourth, -- this coming day, Now breathing its new bloom upon the skies, Will end in St. Mark's Eve; -- you must away, For on that eve alone can you the maid convey." LVII. Then the magician solemnly 'gan to frown, So that his frost-white eyebrows, beetling low, Shaded his deep green eyes, and wrinkles brown Plaited upon his furnace-scorched brow: Forth from his hood that hung his neck below, He lifted a bright casket of pure gold, Touch'd a spring-lock, and there in wool or snow, Charm'd into ever freezing, lay an old And legend-leaved book, mysterious to behold. LVIII. "Take this same book,-- it will not bite you, Sire; There, put it underneath your royal arm; Though it's a pretty weight it will not tire, But rather on your journey keep you warm: This is the magic, this the potent charm, That shall drive Bertha to a fainting fit! When the time comes, don't feel the least alarm, But lift her from the ground, and swiftly flit Back to your palace. * * * * * * * * * * LIX. "What shall I do with that same book?" "Why merely Lay it on Bertha's table, close beside Her work-box, and 'twill help your purpose dearly; I say no more." "Or good or ill betide, Through the wide air to Kent this morn I glide!" Exclaim'd the Emperor. "When I return, Ask what you will, -- I'll give you my new bride! And take some more wine, Hum; -- O Heavens! I burn To be upon the wing! Now, now, that minx I spurn!" LX. "Leave her to me," rejoin'd the magian: "But how shall I account, illustrious fay! For thine imperial absence? Pho! I can Say you are very sick, and bar the way To your so loving courtiers for one day; If either of their two archbishops' graces Should talk of extreme unction, I shall say You do not like cold pig with Latin phrases, Which never should be used but in alarming cases." LXI. "Open the window, Hum; I'm ready now!" Zooks!" exclaim'd Hum, as up the sash he drew. "Behold, your Majesty, upon the brow Of yonder hill, what crowds of people!" "Whew! The monster's always after something new," Return'd his Highness, "they are piping hot To see my pigsney Bellanaine. Hum! do Tighten my belt a little, -- so, so, -- not Too tight, -- the book! -- my wand! -- so, nothing is forgot." LXII. "Wounds! how they shout!" said Hum, "and there, -- see, see! Th' ambassador's return'd from Pigmio! The morning's very fine, -- uncommonly! See, past the skirts of yon white cloud they go, Tinging it with soft crimsons! Now below The sable-pointed heads of firs and pines They dip, move on, and with them moves a glow Along the forest side! Now amber lines Reach the hill top, and now throughout the valley shines." LXIII. "Why, Hum, you're getting quite poetical! Those 'nows' you managed in a special style." "If ever you have leisure, Sire, you shall See scraps of mine will make it worth your while, Tid-bits for Phoebus! -- yes, you well may smile. Hark! hark! the bells!" "A little further yet, Good Hum, and let me view this mighty coil." Then the great Emperor full graceful set His elbow for a prop, and snuff'd his mignonnette. LXIV. The morn is full of holiday; loud bells With rival clamours ring from every spire; Cunningly-station'd music dies and swells In echoing places; when the winds respire, Light flags stream out like gauzy tongues of fire; A metropolitan murmur, lifeful, warm, Comes from the northern suburbs; rich attire Freckles with red and gold the moving swarm; While here and there clear trumpets blow a keen alarm. LXV. And now the fairy escort was seen clear, Like the old pageant of Aurora's train, Above a pearl-built minister, hovering near; First wily Crafticant, the chamberlain, Balanc'd upon his grey-grown pinions twain, His slender wand officially reveal'd; Then black gnomes scattering sixpences like rain; Then pages three and three; and next, slave-held, The Imaian 'scutcheon bright, -- one mouse in argent field. LXVI. Gentlemen pensioners next; and after them, A troop of winged Janizaries flew; Then slaves, as presents bearing many a gem; Then twelve physicians fluttering two and two; And next a chaplain in a cassock new; Then Lords in waiting; then (what head not reels For pleasure?) -- the fair Princess in full view, Borne upon wings, -- and very pleas'd she feels To have such splendour dance attendance at her heels. LXVII. For there was more magnificence behind: She wav'd her handkerchief. "Ah, very grand!" Cry'd Elfinan, and clos'd the window-blind; "And, Hum, we must not shilly-shally stand,-- Adieu! adieu! I'm off for Angle-land! I say, old Hocus, have you such a thing About you, -- feel your pockets, I command,-- I want, this instant, an invisible ring,-- Thank you, old mummy! -- now securely I take wing." LXVIII. Then Elfinan swift vaulted from the floor, And lighted graceful on the window-sill; Under one arm the magic book he bore, The other he could wave about at will; Pale was his face, he still look'd very ill; He bow'd at Bellanaine, and said -- "Poor Bell! Farewell! farewell! and if for ever! still For ever fare thee well!" -- and then he fell A laughing! -- snapp'd his fingers! -- shame it is to tell! LXIX. "By'r Lady! he is gone!" cries Hum, "and I -- (I own it) -- have made too free with his wine; Old Crafticant will smoke me. By-the-bye! This room is full of jewels as a mine,-- Dear valuable creatures, how ye shine! Sometime to-day I must contrive a minute, If Mercury propitiously incline, To examine his scutoire, and see what's in i, For of superfluous diamonds I as well may thin it. LXX. "The Emperor's horrid bad; yes, that's my cue!" Some histories say that this was Hum's last speech; That, being fuddled, he went reeling through The corridor, and scarce upright could reach The stair-head; that being glutted as a leech, And us'd, as we ourselves have just now said, To manage stairs reversely, like a peach Too ripe, he fell, being puzzled in his head With liquor and the staircase: verdict -- found stone dead. LXXI. This as a falsehood Crafticanto treats; And as his style is of strange elegance, Gentle and tender, full of soft conceits, (Much like our Boswell's,) we will take a glance At his sweet prose, and, if we can, make dance His woven periods into careless rhyme; O, little faery Pegasus! rear -- prance -- Trot round the quarto -- ordinary time! March, little Pegasus, with pawing hoof sublime! LXXII. Well, let us see, -- tenth book and chapter nine,-- Thus Crafticant pursues his diary:-- "'Twas twelve o'clock at night, the weather fine, Latitude thirty-six; our scouts descry A flight of starlings making rapidly Towards Thibet. Mem.: -- birds fly in the night; From twelve to half-past -- wings not fit to fly For a thick fog -- the Princess sulky quite; Call'd for an extra shawl, and gave her nurse a bite. LXXIII. "Five minutes before one -- brought down a moth With my new double-barrel -- stew'd the thighs And made a very tolerable broth -- Princess turn'd dainty, to our great surprise, Alter'd her mind, and thought it very nice; Seeing her pleasant, try'd her with a pun, She frown'd; a monstrous owl across us flies About this time, -- a sad old figure of fun; Bad omen -- this new match can't be a happy one. LXXIV. "From two to half-past, dusky way we made, Above the plains of Gobi, -- desert, bleak; Beheld afar off, in the hooded shade Of darkness, a great mountain (strange to speak), Spitting, from forth its sulphur-baken peak, A fan-shap'd burst of blood-red, arrowy fire, Turban'd with smoke, which still away did reek, Solid and black from that eternal pyre, Upon the laden winds that scantly could respire. LXXV. "Just upon three o'clock a falling star Created an alarm among our troop, Kill'd a man-cook, a page, and broke a jar, A tureen, and three dishes, at one swoop, Then passing by the princess, singed her hoop: Could not conceive what Coralline was at, She clapp'd her hands three times and cry'd out 'Whoop!' Some strange Imaian custom. A large bat Came sudden 'fore my face, and brush'd against my hat. LXXVI. "Five minutes thirteen seconds after three, Far in the west a mighty fire broke out, Conjectur'd, on the instant, it might be, The city of Balk -- 'twas Balk beyond all doubt: A griffin, wheeling here and there about, Kept reconnoitring us -- doubled our guard -- Lighted our torches, and kept up a shout, Till he sheer'd off -- the Princess very scar'd -- And many on their marrow-bones for death prepar'd. LXXVII. "At half-past three arose the cheerful moon-- Bivouack'd for four minutes on a cloud -- Where from the earth we heard a lively tune Of tambourines and pipes, serene and loud, While on a flowery lawn a brilliant crowd Cinque-parted danc'd, some half asleep reposed Beneath the green-fan'd cedars, some did shroud In silken tents, and 'mid light fragrance dozed, Or on the opera turf their soothed eyelids closed. LXXVIII. "Dropp'd my gold watch, and kill'd a kettledrum-- It went for apoplexy -- foolish folks! -- Left it to pay the piper -- a good sum -- (I've got a conscience, maugre people's jokes,) To scrape a little favour; 'gan to coax Her Highness' pug-dog -- got a sharp rebuff -- She wish'd a game at whist -- made three revokes -- Turn'd from myself, her partner, in a huff; His majesty will know her temper time enough. LXXIX. "She cry'd for chess -- I play'd a game with her -- Castled her king with such a vixen look, It bodes ill to his Majesty -- (refer To the second chapter of my fortieth book, And see what hoity-toity airs she took). At half-past four the morn essay'd to beam -- Saluted, as we pass'd, an early rook -- The Princess fell asleep, and, in her dream, Talk'd of one Master Hubert, deep in her esteem. LXXX. "About this time, -- making delightful way,-- Shed a quill-feather from my larboard wing -- Wish'd, trusted, hop'd 'twas no sign of decay -- Thank heaven, I'm hearty yet! -- 'twas no such thing:-- At five the golden light began to spring, With fiery shudder through the bloomed east; At six we heard Panthea's churches ring -- The city wall his unhiv'd swarms had cast, To watch our grand approach, and hail us as we pass'd. LXXXI. "As flowers turn their faces to the sun, So on our flight with hungry eyes they gaze, And, as we shap'd our course, this, that way run, With mad-cap pleasure, or hand-clasp'd amaze; Sweet in the air a mild-ton'd music plays, And progresses through its own labyrinth; Buds gather'd from the green spring's middle-days, They scatter'd, -- daisy, primrose, hyacinth,-- Or round white columns wreath'd from capital to plinth. LXXXII. "Onward we floated o'er the panting streets, That seem'd throughout with upheld faces paved; Look where we will, our bird's-eye vision meets Legions of holiday; bright standards waved, And fluttering ensigns emulously craved Our minute's glance; a busy thunderous roar, From square to square, among the buildings raved, As when the sea, at flow, gluts up once more The craggy hollowness of a wild reefed shore. LXXXIII. "And 'Bellanaine for ever!' shouted they, While that fair Princess, from her winged chair, Bow'd low with high demeanour, and, to pay Their new-blown loyalty with guerdon fair, Still emptied at meet distance, here and there, A plenty horn of jewels. And here I (Who wish to give the devil her due) declare Against that ugly piece of calumny, Which calls them Highland pebble-stones not worth a fly. LXXXIV. "Still 'Bellanaine!' they shouted, while we glide 'Slant to a light Ionic portico, The city's delicacy, and the pride Of our Imperial Basilic; a row Of lords and ladies, on each hand, make show Submissive of knee-bent obeisance, All down the steps; and, as we enter'd, lo! The strangest sight -- the most unlook'd for chance -- All things turn'd topsy-turvy in a devil's dance. LXXXV. "'Stead of his anxious Majesty and court At the open doors, with wide saluting eyes, Conges and scrape-graces of every sort, And all the smooth routine of gallantries, Was seen, to our immoderate surprise, A motley crowd thick gather'd in the hall, Lords, scullions, deputy-scullions, with wild cries Stunning the vestibule from wall to wall, Where the Chief Justice on his knees and hands doth crawl. LXXXVI. "Counts of the palace, and the state purveyor Of moth's-down, to make soft the royal beds, The Common Council and my fool Lord Mayor Marching a-row, each other slipshod treads; Powder'd bag-wigs and ruffy-tuffy heads Of cinder wenches meet and soil each other; Toe crush'd with heel ill-natur'd fighting breeds, Frill-rumpling elbows brew up many a bother, And fists in the short ribs keep up the yell and pother. LXXXVII. "A Poet, mounted on the Court-Clown's back, Rode to the Princess swift with spurring heels, And close into her face, with rhyming clack, Began a Prothalamion; -- she reels, She falls, she faints! while laughter peels Over her woman's weakness. 'Where!' cry'd I, 'Where is his Majesty?' No person feels Inclin'd to answer; wherefore instantly I plung'd into the crowd to find him or die. LXXXVIII. "Jostling my way I gain'd the stairs, and ran To the first landing, where, incredible! I met, far gone in liquor, that old man, That vile impostor Hum. ----" So far so well,-- For we have prov'd the Mago never fell Down stairs on Crafticanto's evidence; And therefore duly shall proceed to tell, Plain in our own original mood and tense, The sequel of this day, though labour 'tis immense! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 'Lord Houghton first gave this composition in the Life, Letters &c. (1848), and in Volume II, page 51, refers to it as "the last of Keats's literary labours." The poet says in a letter to Brown, written after the first attack of blood-spitting, "I shall soon begin upon 'Lucy Vaughan Lloyd.' I do not begin composition yet, being willing, in case of a relapse, to have nothing to reproach myself with." I presume, therefore, that the composition may be assigned to the Spring or Summer of 1820. In August of that year, Leigh Hunt seems to have had the manuscript in his hands, for, in the first part of his article on Coaches, which fills The Indicator for the 23rd of August 1820, he quotes four stanzas and four lines from the poem, as by "a very good poetess, of the name of Lucy V---- L----, who has favoured us with a sight of a manuscript poem," &c. The stanzas quoted are XXV to XXIX. Lord Houghton gives, in the Aldine Edition of 1876, the following note by Brown: -- "This Poem was written subject to future amendments and omissions: it was begun without a plan, and without any prescribed laws for the supernatural machinery." His Lordship adds an interesting passage from a letter written to him by Lord Jeffrey: -- "There are beautiful passages and lines of ineffable sweetness in these minor pieces, and strange outbursts of individual fancy and felicitous expressions in the 'Cap and Bells,' though the general extravagance of the poetry is more suited to an Italian than to an English taste." The late Dante Gabriel Rossetti wrote to me of this poem as "the only unworthy stuff Keats ever wrote except an early trifle or two," and again as "the to me hateful Cap and Bells." I confess that it seems to me entirely unworthy of Keats, though certainly a proof, if proof were needed, of his versatility. It has the character of a mere intellectual and mechanical exercise, performed at a time when those higher forces constituting the mainspring of poetry were exhausted; but even so I find it difficult to figure Keats as doing anything so aimless as this appears when regarded solely as an effort of the fancy. He probably had a satirical under-current of meaning; and it needs no great stretch of the imagination to see the illicit passion of Emperor Elfinan, and his detestation for his authorized bride-elect, an oblique glance at the martial relations of George IV. It is not difficult to suggest prototypes for many of the faery-land statesmen against whom Elfinan vows vengeance; and there are many particulars in which earthly incidents are too thickly strewn to leave one in the settled belief that the poet's programme was wholly unearthly.--- H. B. F.' ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed. H. Buxton Forman, Crowell publ. 1895. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ John Keats, The Cap And Bells; Or, The Jealousies - A Faery Tale .. Unfinished

326:Custer BOOK FIRST. I. ALL valor died not on the plains of Troy. Awake, my Muse, awake! be thine the joy To sing of deeds as dauntless and as brave As e'er lent luster to a warrior's grave. Sing of that noble soldier, nobler man, Dear to the heart of each American. Sound forth his praise from sea to listening seaGreece her Achilles claimed, immortal Custer, we. II. Intrepid are earth's heroes now as when The gods came down to measure strength with men. Let danger threaten or let duty call, And self surrenders to the needs of all; Incurs vast perils, or, to save those dear, Embraces death without one sigh or tear. Life's martyrs still the endless drama play Though no great Homer lives to chant their worth to-day. III. And if he chanted, who would list his songs, So hurried now the world's gold-seeking throngs? And yet shall silence mantle mighty deeds? Awake, dear Muse, and sing though no ear heeds! Extol the triumphs, and bemoan the end Of that true hero, lover, son and friend Whose faithful heart in his last choice was shownDeath with the comrades dear, refusing flight alone. IV. He who was born for battle and for strife Like some caged eagle frets in peaceful life; 152 So Custer fretted when detained afar From scenes of stirring action and of war. And as the captive eagle in delight, When freedom offers, plumes himself for flight And soars away to thunder clouds on high, With palpitating wings and wild exultant cry, V. So lion-hearted Custer sprang to arms, And gloried in the conflict's loud alarms. But one dark shadow marred his bounding joy; And then the soldier vanished, and the boy, The tender son, clung close, with sobbing breath, To her from whom each parting was new death; That mother who like goddesses of old, Gave to the mighty Mars, three warriors brave and bold, VI. Yet who, unlike those martial dames of yore, Grew pale and shuddered at the sight of gore. A fragile being, born to grace the hearth, Untroubled by the conflicts of the earth. Some gentle dove who reared young eaglets, might, In watching those bold birdlings take their flight, Feel what that mother felt who saw her sons Rush from her loving arms, to face death-dealing guns. VII. But ere thy lyre is strung to martial strains Of wars which sent our hero o'er the plains, To add the cypress to his laureled brow, Be brave, my Muse, and darker truths avow. Let Justice ask a preface to thy songs, Before the Indian's crimes declare his wrongs; Before effects, wherein all horrors blend, Declare the shameful cause, precursor of the end. VIII. 153 When first this soil the great Columbus trod, He was less like the image of his God Than those ingenuous souls, unspoiled by art, Who lived so near to Mother Nature's heart; Those simple children of the wood and wave, As frank as trusting, and as true as brave; Savage they were, when on some hostile raid (For where is he so high, whom war does not degrade?) . IX. But dark deceit and falsehood's shameless shame They had not learned, until the white man came. He taught them, too, the lurking devil's joy In liquid lies, that lure but to destroy. With wily words, as false as they were sweet, He spread his snares for unsuspecting feet; Paid truth with guile, and trampled in the dust Their gentle childlike faith and unaffected trust. X. And for the sport of idle kings and knaves Of Nature's greater noblemen, made slaves. Alas, the hour, when the wronged Indian knows His seeming benefactors are but foes. His kinsmen kidnapped and his lands possessed, The demon woke in that untutored breast. Four hundred years have rolled upon their wayThe ruthless demon rules the red man to this day. XI. If, in the morning of success, that grand Invincible discoverer of our land Had made no lodge or wigwam desolate To carry trophies to the proud and great; If on our history's page there were no blot Left by the cruel rapine of Cabot, Of Verrazin, and Hudson, dare we claim The Indian of the plains, to-day had been same? 154 XII. For in this brief existence, not alone Do our lives gather what our hands have sown, But we reap, too, what others long ago Sowed, careless of the harvests that might grow. Thus hour by hour the humblest human souls Inscribe in cipher on unending scrolls, The history of nations yet to be; Incite fierce bloody wars, to rage from sea to sea, XIII. Or pave the way to peace. There is no past, So deathless are events-results so vast. And he who strives to make one act or hour Stand separate and alone, needs first the power To look upon the breaking wave and say, 'These drops were bosomed by a cloud to-day, And those from far mid-ocean's crest were sent.' So future, present, past, in one wide sea are blent. BOOK SECOND. I. Oh, for the power to call to aid, of mine Own humble Muse, the famed and sacred nine. Then might she fitly sing, and only then, Of those intrepid and unflinching men Who knew no homes save ever moving tents, And who 'twixt fierce unfriendly elements And wild barbarians warred. Yet unfraid, Since love impels thy strains, sing, sing, my modest maid. II. Relate how Custer in midwinter sought Far Washita's cold shores; tell why he fought With savage nomads fortressed in deep snows. Woman, thou source of half the sad world's woes 155 And all its joys, what sanguinary strife Has vexed the earth and made contention rife Because of thee! For, hidden in man's heart, Ay, in his very soul, of his true self a part, III. The natural impulse and the wish belongs To win thy favor and redress thy wrongs. Alas! for woman, and for man, alas! If that dread hour should ever come to pass, When, through her new-born passion for control, She drives that beauteous impulse from his soul. What were her vaunted independence worth If to obtain she sells her sweetest rights of birth? IV. God formed fair woman for her true estateMan's tender comrade, and his equal mate, Not his competitor in toil and trade. While coarser man, with greater strength was made To fight her battles and her rights protect. Ay! to protect the rights of earth's elect (The virgin maiden and the spotless wife) From immemorial time has man laid down his life. V. And now brave Custer's valiant army pressed Across the dangerous desert of the West, To rescue fair white captives from the hands Of brutal Cheyenne and Comanche bands, On Washita's bleak banks. Nine hundred strong It moved its slow determined way along, Past frontier homes left dark and desolate By the wild Indians' fierce and unrelenting hate; VI. Past forts where ranchmen, strong of heart and bold, Wept now like orphaned children as they told, 156 With quivering muscles and with anguished breath, Of captured wives, whose fate was worse than death; Past naked bodies whose disfiguring wounds Spoke of the hellish hate of human hounds; Past bleaching skeleton and rifled grave, On pressed th' avenging host, to rescue and to save. VII. Uncertain Nature, like a fickle friend, (Worse than the foe on whom we may depend) Turned on these dauntless souls a brow of wrath And hurled her icy jav'lins in their path. With treacherous quicksands, and with storms that blight, Entrapped their footsteps and confused their sight. 'Yet on, ' urged Custer, 'on at any cost, No hour is there to waste, no moment to be lost.' VIII. Determined, silent, on they rode, and on, Like fabled Centaurs, men and steeds seemed one. No bugle echoed and no voice spoke near, Lest on some lurking Indian's list'ning ear The sound might fall. Through swift descending snow The stealthy guides crept, tracing out the foe; No fire was lighted, and no halt was made From haggard gray-lipped dawn till night lent friendly shade. IX. Then, by the shelt'ring river's bank at last, The weary warriors paused for their repast. A couch of ice and falling shows for spread Made many a suffering soldier's chilling bed. They slept to dream of glory and delight, While the pale fingers of the pitying night Wove ghostly winding sheets for that doomed score Who, ere another eve, should sleep to wake no more. X. 157 But those who slept not, saw with startled eyes Far off, athwart dim unprotecting skies, Ascending slowly with majestic grace, A lustrous rocket, rising out of space. 'Behold the signal of the foe, ' cried one, The field is lost before the strife's begun. Yet no! for see! yon rays spread near and far; It is the day's first smile, the radiant morning star. XI. The long hours counting till the daylight broke, In whispered words the restless warriors spoke. They talked of battles, but they thought of home (For hearts are faithful though the feet may roam) . Brave Hamilton, all eager for the strife, Mused o'er that two-fold mystery-death and life; 'And when I die, ' quoth he, ' mine be the part To fall upon the field, a bullet in my heart.' XII. At break of dawn the scouts crept in to say The foe was camped a rifle shot away. The baying of a dog, an infant's cry Pierced through the air; sleep fled from every eye. To horse! to arms! the dead demand the dead! Let the grand charge upon the lodge be led! Let the Mosaic law, life for a life Pay the long standing debt of blood. War to the knife! XIII. So spake each heart in that unholy rage Which fires the brain, when war the thoughts engage. War, hideous war, appealing to the worst In complex man, and waking that wild thirst For human blood which blood alone can slake. Yet for their country's safety, and the sake Of tortured captives moaning in alarm The Indian must be made to fear the law's strong arm. 158 XIV. A noble vengeance burned in Custer's breast, But, as he led his army to the crest, Above the wigwams, ready for the charge He felt the heart within him, swelling large With human pity, as an infant's wail Shrilled once again above the wintry gale. Then hosts of murdered children seemed to rise; And shame his halting thought with sad accusing eyes, XV. And urge him on to action. Stern of brow The just avenger, and the General now, He gives the silent signal to the band Which, all impatient, waits for his command. Cold lips to colder metal press; the air Echoes those merry strains which mean despair For sleeping chieftain and for toiling squaw, But joy to those stern hearts which glory in the law XVI. Of murder paying murder's awful debt. And now four squadrons in one charge are met. From east and west, from north and south they come, At call of bugle and at roll of drum. Their rifles rain hot hail upon the foe, Who flee from danger in death's jaws to go. The Indians fight like maddened bulls at bay, And dying shriek and groan, wound the young ear of day. XVII. A pallid captive and a white-browed boy Add to the tumult piercing cries of joy, As forth they fly, with high hope animate. 159 A hideous squaw pursues them with her hate; Her knife descends with sickening force and sound; Their bloody entrails stain the snow-clad ground. She shouts with glee, then yells with rage and falls Dead by her victims' side, pierced by avenging balls. XVIII. Now war runs riot, carnage reigns supreme. All thoughts of mercy fade from Custer's scheme. Inhuman methods for inhuman foes, Who feed on horrors and exult in woes. To conquer and subdue alone remains In dealing with the red man on the plains. The breast that knows no conscience yields to fear, Strike! let the Indian meet his master now and here, XIX. With thoughts like these was Custer's mind engaged. The gentlest are the sternest when enraged. All felt the swift contagion of his ire, For he was one who could arouse and fire The coldest heart, so ardent was his own. His fearless eye, his calm intrepid tone, Bespoke the leader, strong with conscious power, Whom following friends will bless, while foes will curse and cower. XX. Again they charge! and now among the killed Lies Hamilton, his wish so soon fulfilled, Brave Elliott pursues across the field The flying foe, his own young life to yield. But like the leaves in some autumnal gale The red men fall in Washita's wild vale. Each painted face and black befeathered head Still more repulsive seems with death's grim pallor wed. 160 XXI. New forces gather on surrounding knolls, And fierce and fiercer war's red river rolls. With bright-hued pennants flying from each lance The gayly costumed Kiowas advance. And bold Comanches (Bedouins of the land) Infuse fresh spirit in the Cheyenne band. While from the ambush of some dark ravine Flash arrows aimed by hands, unerring and unseen. XXIII. The hours advance; the storm clouds roll away; Still furious and more furious grows the fray. The yellow sun makes ghastlier still the sight Of painted corpses, staring in its light. No longer slaves, but comrades of their griefs, The squaws augment the forces of their chiefs. They chant weird dirges in a minor key, While from the narrow door of wigwam and tepee XXIII. Cold glittering eyes above cold glittering steel Their deadly purpose and their hate reveal. The click of pistols and the crack of guns Proclaim war's daughters dangerous as her sons. She who would wield the soldier's sword and lance Must be prepared to take the soldier's chance. She who would shoot must serve as target, too; The battle-frenzied men, infuriate now pursue. XXIV. And blood of warrior, woman and papoose, Flow free as waters when some dam breaks loose; Consuming fire, the wanton friend of war (Whom allies worship and whom foes abhor) 161 Now trails her crimson garments through the street, And ruin marks the passing of her feet. Full three-score lodges smoke upon the plain, And all the vale is strewn with bodies of the slain. XXV. And those who are not numbered with the dead Before all-conquering Custer now are led. To soothe their woes, and calm their fears he seeks; An Osage guide interprets while he speaks. The vanquished captives, humbled, cowed and spent Read in the victor's eye his kind intent. The modern victor is as kind as brave; His captive is his guest, not his insulted slave. XXVI. Mahwissa, sister of the slaughtered chief Of all the Cheyennes, listens; and her grief Yields now to hope; and o'er her withered face There flits the stealthy cunning of her race. Then forth she steps, and thus begins to speak: 'To aid the fallen and support the weak Is man's true province; and to ease the pain Of those o'er whom it is his purpose now to reign. XXVII. 'Let the strong chief unite with theirs his life, And take this black-eyed maiden for a wife.' Then, moving with an air of proud command, She leads a dusky damsel by the hand, And places her at wondering Custer's side, Invoking choicest blessings on the bride And all unwilling groom, who thus replies. 'Fair is the Indian maid, with bright bewildering eyes, 162 XXVIII. 'But fairer still is one who, year on year, Has borne man's burdens, conquered woman's fear; And at my side rode mile on weary mile, And faced all deaths, all dangers, with a smile, Wise as Minerva, as Diana brave, Is she whom generous gods in kindness gave To share the hardships of my wandering life, Companion, comrade, friend, my loved and loyal wife. XXIX. 'The white chief weds but one. Take back thy maid.' He ceased, and o'er Mahwissa's face a shade Of mingled scorn and pity and surprise Sweeps as she slow retreats, and thus replies: 'Rich is the pale-faced chief in battle fame, But poor is he who but one wife may claim. Wives are the red-skinned heroes' rightful spoil; In war they prove his strength, in times of peace they toil.' XXX. But hark! The bugle echoes o'er the plains And sounds again those merry Celtic strains Which oft have called light feet to lilting dance, But now they mean the order to advance. Along the river's bank, beyond the hill Two thousand foemen lodge, unconquered still. Ere falls night's curtain on this bloody play, The army must proceed, with feint of further fray. XXXI. The weary warriors mount their foam-flecked steeds, With flags unfurled the dauntless host proceeds. What though the foe outnumbers two to one? Boldness achieves what strength oft leaves undone; A daring mein will cause brute force to cower, 163 And courage is the secret source of power. As Custer's column wheels upon their sight The frightened red men yield the untried field by flight. XXXII. Yet when these conquering heroes sink to rest, Dissatisfaction gnaws the leader's breast, For far away across vast seas of snows Held prisoners still by hostile Arapahoes And Cheyennes unsubdued, two captives wait. On God and Custer hangs their future fate. May the Great Spirit nerve the mortal's arm To rescue suffering souls from worse than death's alarm. XXXIII. But ere they seek to rescue the oppressed, The valiant dead, in state, are laid to rest. Mourned Hamilton, the faithful and the brave, Nine hundred comrades follow to the grave; And close behind the banner-hidden corse All draped in black, walks mournfully his horse; While tears of sound drip through the sunlit day. A soldier may not weep, but drums and bugles may. XXXIV. Now, Muse, recount, how after long delays And dangerous marches through untrodden ways, Where cold and hunger on each hour attend, At last the army gains the journey's end. An Indian village bursts upon the eye; Two hundred lodges, sleep-encompassed lie, There captives moan their anguished prayers through tears, While in the silent dawn the armied answer nears. XXXV. 164 To snatch two fragile victims from the foe Nine hundred men have traversed leagues of snow. Each woe they suffered in a hostile land The flame of vengeance in their bosoms fanned. They thirst for slaughter, and the signal wait To wrest the captives from their horrid fate. Each warrior's hand upon his rifle falls, Each savage soldier's heart for awful bloodshed calls. XXXVI. And one, in years a youth, in woe a man, Sad Brewster, scarred by sorrow's blighting ban, Looks, panting, where his captive sister sleeps, And o'er his face the shade of murder creeps. His nostrils quiver like a hungry beast Who scents anear the bloody carnal feast. He longs to leap down in that slumbering vale And leave no foe alive to tell the awful tale. XXXVII. Not so, calm Custer. Sick of gory strife, He hopes for rescue with no loss of life; And plans that bloodless battle of the plains Where reasoning mind outwits mere savage brains. The sullen soldiers follow where he leads; No gun is emptied, and no foeman bleeds. Fierce for the fight and eager for the fray They look upon their Chief in undisguised dismay. XXXVIII. He hears the murmur of their discontent, But sneers can never change a strong mind's bent. He knows his purpose and he does not swerve, And with a quiet mien and steady nerve He meets dark looks where'er his steps may go, And silence that is bruising as a blow, 165 Where late were smiles and words of ardent praise. So pass the lagging weeks of wearying delays. XXXIX. Inaction is not always what it seems, And Custer's mind with plan and project teems. Fixed in his peaceful purpose he abides With none takes counsel and in none confides; But slowly weaves about the foe a net Which leaves them wholly at his mercy, yet He strikes no fateful blow; he takes no life, And holds in check his men, who pant for bloody strife. XL. Intrepid warrior and skilled diplomate, In his strong hands he holds the red man's fate. The craftiest plot he checks with counterplot, Till tribe by tribe the tricky foe is brought To fear his vengeance and to know his power. As man's fixed gaze will make a wild beast cower, So these crude souls feel that unflinching will Which draws them by its force, yet does not deign to kill. XLI. And one by one the hostile Indians send Their chiefs to seek a peaceful treaty's end. Great councils follow; skill with cunning copes And conquers it; and Custer sees his hopes So long delayed, like stars storm hidden, rise To radiate with splendor all his skies. The stubborn Cheyennes, cowed at last by fear, Leading the captive pair, o'er spring-touched hills appear. XLII. 166 With breath suspended, now the whole command Waits the approach of that equestrian band. Nearer it comes, still nearer, then a cry, Half sob, half shriek, goes piercing God's blue sky, And Brewster, like a nimble-footed doe, Or like an arrow hurrying from a bow, Shoots swiftly through the intervening space And that lost sister clasps, in sorrowing love's embrace. XLIII. And men who leaned o'er Hamilton's rude bier And saw his dead dear face without a tear, Strong souls who early learned the manly art Of keeping from the eye what's in the heart, Soldiers who look unmoved on death's pale brow, Avert their eyes, to hide their moisture now. The briny flood forced back from shores of woe, Needs but to touch the strands of joy to overflow. XLIV. About the captives welcoming warriors crowd, All eyes are wet, and Brewster sobs aloud. Alas, the ravage wrought by toil and woe On faces that were fair twelve moons ago. Bronzed by exposure to the heat and cold, Still young in years, yet prematurely old, By insults humbled and by labor worn, They stand in youth's bright hour, of all youth's graces shorn. XLV. A scanty garment rudely made of sacks Hangs from their loins; bright blankets drape their backs; About their necks are twisted tangled strings Of gaudy beads, while tinkling wire and rings Of yellow brass on wrists and fingers glow. Thus, to assuage the anger of the foe The cunning Indians decked the captive pair 167 Who in one year have known a lifetime of despair. XLVI. But love can resurrect from sorrow's tomb The vanished beauty and the faded bloom, As sunlight lifts the bruised flower from the sod, Can lift crushed hearts to hope, for love is God. Already now in freedom's glad release The hunted look of fear gives place to peace, And in their eyes at thought of home appears That rainbow light of joy which brightest shines through tears. XLVII. About the leader thick the warriors crowd; Late loud in censure, now in praises loud, They laud the tactics, and the skill extol Which gained a bloodless yet a glorious goal. Alone and lonely in the path of right Full many a brave soul walks. When gods requite And crown his actions as their worth demands, Among admiring throngs the hero always stands. A row of six asterisks is on the page at this point XLVIII. Back to the East the valorous squadrons sweep; The earth, arousing from her long, cold sleep, Throws from her breast the coverlet of snow, Revealing Spring's soft charms which lie below. Suppressed emotions in each heart arise, The wooer wakens and the warrior dies. The bird of prey is vanquished by the dove, And thoughts of bloody strife give place to thoughts of love. XLIX. 168 The mighty plains, devoid of whispering trees, Guard well the secrets of departed seas. Where once great tides swept by with ebb and flow The scorching sun looks down in tearless woe. And fierce tornadoes in ungoverned pain Mourn still the loss of that mysterious main. Across this ocean bed the soldiers flyHome is the gleaming goal that lures each eager eye. L. Like some elixir which the gods prepare, They drink the viewless tonic of the air, Sweet with the breath of startled antelopes Which speed before them over swelling slopes. Now like a serpent writhing o'er the moor, The column curves and makes a slight detour, As Custer leads a thousand men away To save a ground bird's nest which in the footpath lay. LI. Mile following mile, against the leaning skies Far off they see a dull dark cloud arise. The hunter's instinct in each heart is stirred, Beholding there in one stupendous herd A hundred thousand buffaloes. Oh great Unwieldy proof of Nature's cruder state, Rough remnant of a prehistoric day, Thou, with the red man, too, must shortly pass away. LII. Upon those spreading plains is there not room For man and bison, that he seals its doom? What pleasure lies and what seductive charm In slaying with no purpose but to harm? Alas, that man, unable to create, Should thirst forever to exterminate, And in destruction find his fiercest joy. 169 The gods alone create, gods only should destroy. LIII. The flying hosts a straggling bull pursue; Unerring aim, the skillful Custer drew. The wounded beast turns madly in despair And man and horse are lifted high in air. The conscious steed needs not the guiding rein; Back with a bound and one quick cry of pain He springs, and halts, well knowing where must fall In that protected frame, the sure death dealing ball. LIV. With minds intent upon the morrow's feast, The men surround the carcass of the beast. Rolled on his back, he lies with lolling tongue, Soon to the saddle savory steaks are hung. And from his mighty head, great tufts of hair Are cut as trophies for some lady fair. To vultures then they leave the torn remains Of what an hour ago was monarch of the plains. LV. Far off, two bulls in jealous war engage, Their blood-shot eye balls roll in furious rage; With maddened hoofs they mutilate the ground And loud their angry bellowings resound; With shaggy heads bent low they plunge and roar, Till both broad bellies drip with purple gore. Meanwhile, the heifer, whom the twain desire, Stands browsing near the pair, indifferent to their ire. LVI. At last she lifts her lazy head and heeds 170 The clattering hoofs of swift advancing steeds. Off to the herd with cumb'rous gait she runs And leaves the bulls to face the threatening guns. No more for them the free life of the plains, Its mating pleasures and its warring pains. Their quivering flesh shall feed unnumbered foes, Their tufted tails adorn the soldiers' saddle bows. LVII. Now into camp the conquering hosts advance; On burnished arms the brilliant sunbeams glance. Brave Custer leads, blonde as the gods of old; Back from his brow blow clustering locks of gold, And, like a jewel in a brook, there lies, Far in the depths of his blue guarded eyes, The thought of one whose smiling lips upcurled, Mean more of joy to him than plaudits of the world. LVIII. The troops in columns of platoons appear Close to the leader following. Ah, here The poetry of war is fully seen, Its prose forgotten; as against the green Of Mother Nature, uniformed in blue, The soldiers pass for Sheridan's review. The motion-music of the moving throng, Is like a silent tune, set to a wordless song. LIX. The guides and trailers, weird in war's array, Precede the troops along the grassy way. They chant wild songs, and, with loud noise and stress, In savage manner savage joy express. The Indian captives, blanketed in red, On ponies mounted, by the scouts are led. Like sumach bushes, etched on evening skies, 171 Against the blue-clad troops, this patch of color lies. LX. High o'er the scene vast music billows bound, And all the air is liquid with the sound Of those invisible compelling waves. Perchance they reach the low and lonely graves Where sleep brave Elliott and Hamilton, And whisper there the tale of victory won; Or do the souls of soldiers tried and true Come at the bugle call, and march in grand review? LXI. The pleased Commander watches in surprise This splendid pageant surge before his eyes. Not in those mighty battle days of old Did scenes like this upon his sight unfold. But now it passes. Drums and bugles cease To dash war billows on the shores of Peace. The victors smile on fair broad bosomed Sleep While in her soothing arms, the vanquished cease to weep. BOOK THIRD. There is an interval of eight years between Books Second and Third. I. As in the long dead days marauding hosts Of Indians came from far Siberian coasts, And drove the peaceful Aztecs from their grounds, Despoiled their homes (but left their tell-tale mounds) , So has the white man with the Indians done. Now with their backs against the setting sun The remnants of a dying nation stand And view the lost domain, once their beloved land. 172 II. Upon the vast Atlantic's leagues of shore The happy red man's tent is seen no more; And from the deep blue lakes which mirror heaven His bounding bark canoe was long since driven. The mighty woods, those temples where his God Spoke to his soul, are leveled to the sod; And in their place tall church spires point above, While priests proclaim the law of Christ, the King of Love. III. The avaricious and encroaching rail Seized the wide fields which knew the Indians' trail. Back to the reservations in the West The native owners of the land were pressed, And selfish cities, harbingers of want, Shut from their vision each accustomed haunt. Yet hungry Progress, never satisfied, Gazed on the western plains, and gazing, longed and sighed. IV. As some strange bullock in a pasture field Compels the herds to fear him, and to yield The juicy grass plots and the cooling shade Until, despite their greater strength, afraid, They huddle in some corner spot and cower Before the monarch's all controlling power, So has the white man driven from its place By his aggressive greed, Columbia's native race. V. Yet when the bull pursues the herds at bay, Incensed they turn, and dare dispute his sway. And so the Indians turned, when men forgot Their sacred word, and trespassed on the spot. 173 The lonely little spot of all their lands, The reservation of the peaceful bands. But lust for gold all conscience kills in man, 'Gold in the Black Hills, gold! ' the cry arose and ran VI. From lip to lip, as flames from tree to tree Leap till the forest is one fiery sea, And through the country surged that hot unrest Which thirst for riches wakens in the breast. In mighty throngs the fortune hunters came, Despoiled the red man's lands and slew his game, Broke solemn treaties and defied the law. And all these ruthless acts the Nation knew and saw. VII. Man is the only animal that kills Just for the wanton love of slaughter; spills The blood of lesser things to see it flow; Lures like a friend, to murder like a foe The trusting bird and beast; and, coward like, Deals covert blows he dare not boldly strike. The brutes have finer souls, and only slay When torn by hunger's pangs, or when to fear a prey. VIII. The pale-faced hunter, insolent and bold, Pursued the bison while he sought for gold. And on the hungry red man's own domains He left the rotting and unused remains To foul with sickening stench each passing wind And rouse the demon in the savage mind, Save in the heart where virtues dominate Injustice always breeds its natural offspring- hate. 174 IX. The chieftain of the Sioux, great Sitting Bull, Mused o'er their wrongs, and felt his heart swell full Of bitter vengeance. Torn with hate's unrest He called a council and his braves addressed. 'From fair Wisconsin's shimmering lakes of blue Long years ago the white man drove the Sioux. Made bold by conquest, and inflamed by greed, He still pursues our tribes, and still our ranks recede. X. 'Fair are the White Chief's promises and words, But dark his deeds who robs us of our herds. He talks of treaties, asks the right to buy, Then takes by force, not waiting our reply. He grants us lands for pastures and abodes To devastate them by his iron roads. But now from happy Spirit Lands, a friend Draws near the hunted Sioux, to strengthen and defend. XI. 'While walking in the fields I saw a star; Unconsciously I followed it afarIt led me on to valleys filled with light, Where danced our noble chieftains slain in fight. Black Kettle, first of all that host I knew, He whom the strong armed Custer foully slew. And then a spirit took me by the hand, The Great Messiah King who comes to free the land. XII. 'Suns were his eyes, a speaking tear his voice, .Whose rainbow sounds made listening hearts rejoice And thus he spake: 'The red man's hour draws near When all his lost domains shall reappear. The elk, the deer, the bounding antelope, 175 Shall here return to grace each grassy slope.' He waved his hand above the fields, and lo! Down through the valleys came a herd of buffalo. XIII. 'The wondrous vision vanished, but I knew That Sitting Bull must make the promise true. Great Spirits plan what mortal man achieves, The hand works magic when the heart believes. Arouse, ye braves! let not the foe advance. Arm for the battle and begin the danceThe sacred dance in honor of our slain, Who will return to earth, ere many moons shall wane.' XIV. Thus Sitting Bull, the chief of wily knaves, Worked on the superstitions of his braves. Mixed truth with lies; and stirred to mad unrest The warlike instinct in each savage breast. A curious product of unhappy times, The natural offspring of unnumbered crimes, He used low cunning and dramatic arts To startle and surprise those crude untutored hearts. XV. Out from the lodges pour a motley throng, Slow measures chanting of a dirge-like song. In one great circle dizzily they swing, A squaw and chief alternate in the ring. Coarse raven locks stream over robes of white, Their deep set orbs emit a lurid light, And as through pine trees moan the winds refrains, So swells and dies away, the ghostly graveyard strains. 176 XVI. Like worded wine is music to the ear, And long indulged makes mad the hearts that hear. The dancers, drunken with the monotone Of oft repeated notes, now shriek and groan And pierce their ruddy flesh with sharpened spears; Still more excited when the blood appears, With warlike yells, high in the air they bound, Then in a deathlike trance fall prostrate on the ground. XVII. They wake to tell weird stories of the dead, While fresh performers to the ring are led. The sacred nature of the dance is lost, War is their cry, red war, at any cost. Insane for blood they wait for no command, But plunge marauding through the frightened land. Their demon hearts on devils' pleasures bent, For each new foe surprised, new torturing deaths invent. XVIII. Staked to the earth one helpless creature lies, Flames at his feet and splinters in his eyes. Another groans with coals upon his breast, While 'round the pyre the Indians dance and jest. A crying child is brained upon a tree, The swooning mother saved from death, to be The slave and plaything of a filthy knave, Whose sins would startle hell, whose clay defile a grave. XIX. Their cause was right, their methods all were wrong. Pity and censure both to them belong. Their woes were many, but their crimes were more. The soulless Satan holds not in his store Such awful tortures as the Indians' wrath 177 Keeps for the hapless victim in his path. And if the last lone remnants of that race Were by the white man swept from off the earth's fair face, XX. Were every red man slaughtered in a day, Still would that sacrifice but poorly pay For one insulted woman captive's woes. Again great Custer in his strength arose, More daring, more intrepid than of old. The passing years had touched and turned to gold The ever widening aureole of fame That shone upon his brow, and glorified his name. XXI. Wise men make laws, then turn their eyes away, While fools and knaves ignore them day by day; And unmolested, fools and knaves at length Induce long wars which sap a country's strength. The sloth of leaders, ruling but in name, Has dragged full many a nation down to shame. A word unspoken by the rightful lips Has dyed the land with blood, and blocked the sea with ships. XXII. The word withheld, when Indians asked for aid, Came when the red man started on his raid. What Justice with a gesture might have done Was left for noisy war with bellowing gun. And who save Custer and his gallant men Could calm the tempest into peace again? What other hero in the land could hope With Sitting Bull, the fierce and lawless one to cope? 178 XXIII. What other warrior skilled enough to dare Surprise that human tiger in his lair? Sure of his strength, unconscious of his fame Out from the quiet of the camp he came; And stately as Diana at his side Elizabeth, his wife and alway bride, And Margaret, his sister, rode apace; Love's clinging arms he left to meet death's cold embrace. XXIV. As the bright column wound along its course, The smiling leader turned upon his horse To gaze with pride on that superb command. Twelve hundred men, the picked of all the land, Innured to hardship and made strong by strife Their lithe limbed bodies breathed of out-door life; While on their faces, resolute and brave, Hope stamped its shining seal, although their thoughts were grave. XXV. The sad eyed women halted in the dawn, And waved farewell to dear ones riding on. The modest mist picked up her robes and ran Before the Sun god's swift pursuing van. And suddenly there burst on startled eyes, The sight of soldiers, marching in the skies; That phantom host, a phantom Custer led; Mirage of dire portent, forecasting days ahead. XXVI. The soldiers' children, flaunting mimic flags, Played by the roadside, striding sticks for nags. Their mothers wept, indifferent to the crowd Who saw their tears and heard them sob aloud. Old Indian men and squaws crooned forth a rhyme 179 Sung by their tribes from immemorial time; And over all the drums' incessant beat Mixed with the scout's weird rune, and tramp of myriad feet. XXVII. So flawless was the union of each part The mighty column (moved as by one heart) Pulsed through the air, like some sad song well sung, Which gives delight, although the soul is wrung. Farther and fainter to the sight and sound The beautiful embodied poem wound; Till like a ribbon, stretched across the land Seemed the long narrow line of that receding band. XXVIII. The lot of those who in the silence wait Is harder than the fighting soldiers' fate. Back to the lonely post two women passed, With unaccustomed sorrow overcast. Two sad for sighs, too desolate for tears, The dark forebodings of long widowed years In preparation for the awful blow Hung on the door of hope the sable badge of woe. XXIX. Unhappy Muse! for thee no song remains, Save the sad miséréré of the plains. Yet though defeat, not triumph, ends the tale, Great victors sometimes are the souls that fail. All glory lies not in the goals we reach, But in the lessons which our actions teach. And he who, conquered, to the end believes In God and in himself, though vanquished, still achieves. 180 XXX. Ah, grand as rash was that last fatal raid The little group of daring heroes made. Two hundred and two score intrepid men Rode out to war; not one came back again. Like fiends incarnate from the depths of hell Five thousand foemen rose with deafening yell, And swept that vale as with a simoon's breath, But like the gods of old, each martyr met his death. XXXI. Like gods they battled and like gods they died. Hour following hour that little band defied The hordes of red men swarming o'er the plain, Till scarce a score stood upright 'mid the slain. Then in the lull of battle, creeping near, A scout breathed low in Custer's listening ear: 'Death lies before, dear life remains behind Mount thy sure-footed steed, and hasten with the wind.' XXXII. A second's silence. Custer dropped his head, His lips slow moving as when prayers are saidTwo words he breathed-'God and Elizabeth, ' Then shook his long locks in the face of death And with a final gesture turned away To join that fated few who stood at bay. Ah! deeds like that the Christ in man reveal Let Fame descend her throne at Custer's shrine to kneel. XXXIII. Too late to rescue, but in time to weep, His tardy comrades came. As if asleep He lay, so fair, that even hellish hate Withheld its hand and dared not mutilate. By fiends who knew not honor, honored still, 181 He smiled and slept on that far western hill. Cast down thy lyre, oh Muse! thy song is done! Let tears complete the tale of him who failed, yet won. ~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox

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

329:TO J. MILSAND, OF DIJON. 1840. BOOK THE FIRST. Who will, may hear Sordello's story told: His story? Who believes me shall behold The man, pursue his fortunes to the end, Like me: for as the friendless-people's friend Spied from his hill-top once, despite the din And dust of multitudes, Pentapolin Named o' the Naked Arm, I single out Sordello, compassed murkily about With ravage of six long sad hundred years. Only believe me. Ye believe?                Appears Verona . . . Never,I should warn you first, Of my own choice had this, if not the worst Yet not the best expedient, served to tell A story I could body forth so well By making speak, myself kept out of view, The very man as he was wont to do, And leaving you to say the rest for him. Since, though I might be proud to see the dim Abysmal past divide its hateful surge, Letting of all men this one man emerge Because it pleased me, yet, that moment past, I should delight in watching first to last His progress as you watch it, not a whit More in the secret than yourselves who sit Fresh-chapleted to listen. But it seems Your setters-forth of unexampled themes, Makers of quite new men, producing them, Would best chalk broadly on each vesture's hem The wearer's quality; or take their stand, Motley on back and pointing-pole in hand, Beside him. So, for once I face ye, friends, Summoned together from the world's four ends, Dropped down from heaven or cast up from hell, To hear the story I propose to tell. Confess now, poets know the dragnet's trick, Catching the dead, if fate denies the quick, And shaming her; 't is not for fate to choose Silence or song because she can refuse Real eyes to glisten more, real hearts to ache Less oft, real brows turn smoother for our sake: I have experienced something of her spite; But there 's a realm wherein she has no right And I have many lovers. Say; but few Friends fate accords me? Here they are: now view The host I muster! Many a lighted face Foul with no vestige of the grave's disgrace; What else should tempt them back to taste our air Except to see how their successors fare? My audience! and they sit, each ghostly man Striving to look as living as he can, Brother by breathing brother; thou art set, Clear-witted critic, by . . . but I 'll not fret A wondrous soul of them, nor move death's spleen Who loves not to unlock them. Friends! I mean The living in good earnestye elect Chiefly for lovesuppose not I reject Judicious praise, who contrary shall peep, Some fit occasion, forth, for fear ye sleep, To glean your bland approvals. Then, appear, Verona! staythou, spirit, come not near Nownot this time desert thy cloudy place To scare me, thus employed, with that pure face! I need not fear this audience, I make free With them, but then this is no place for thee! The thunder-phrase of the Athenian, grown Up out of memories of Marathon, Would echo like his own sword's griding screech Braying a Persian shield,the silver speech Of Sidney's self, the starry paladin, Turn intense as a trumpet sounding in The knights to tilt,wert thou to hear! What heart Have I to play my puppets, bear my part Before these worthies?            Lo, the past is hurled In twain: up-thrust, out-staggering on the world, Subsiding into shape, a darkness rears Its outline, kindles at the core, appears Verona. 'T is six hundred years and more Since an event. The Second Friedrich wore The purple, and the Third Honorius filled The holy chair. That autumn eve was stilled: A last remains of sunset dimly burned O'er the far forests, like a torch-flame turned By the wind back upon its bearer's hand In one long flare of crimson; as a brand, The woods beneath lay black. A single eye From all Verona cared for the soft sky. But, gathering in its ancient market-place, Talked group with restless group; and not a face But wrath made livid, for among them were Death's staunch purveyors, such as have in care To feast him. Fear had long since taken root In every breast, and now these crushed its fruit, The ripe hate, like a wine: to note the way It worked while each grew drunk! Men grave and grey Stood, with shut eyelids, rocking to and fro, Letting the silent luxury trickle slow About the hollows where a heart should be; But the young gulped with a delirious glee Some foretaste of their first debauch in blood At the fierce news: for, be it understood, Envoys apprised Verona that her prince Count Richard of Saint Boniface, joined since A year with Azzo, Este's Lord, to thrust Taurello Salinguerra, prime in trust With Ecelin Romano, from his seat Ferrara,over zealous in the feat And stumbling on a peril unaware, Was captive, trammelled in his proper snare, They phrase it, taken by his own intrigue. Immediate succour from the Lombard League Of fifteen cities that affect the Pope, For Azzo, therefore, and his fellow-hope Of the Guelf cause, a glory overcast! Men's faces, late agape, are now aghast. "Prone is the purple pavis; Este makes "Mirth for the devil when he undertakes "To play the Ecelin; as if it cost "Merely your pushing-by to gain a post "Like his! The patron tells ye, once for all, "There be sound reasons that preferment fall "On our beloved" . . .            "Duke o' the Rood, why not?" Shouted an Estian, "grudge ye such a lot? "The hill-cat boasts some cunning of her own, "Some stealthy trick to better beasts unknown, "That quick with prey enough her hunger blunts, "And feeds her fat while gaunt the lion hunts." "Taurello," quoth an envoy, "as in wane "Dwelt at Ferrara. Like an osprey fain "To fly but forced the earth his couch to make "Far inland, till his friend the tempest wake, "Waits he the Kaiser's coming; and as yet "That fast friend sleeps, and he too sleeps: but let "Only the billow freshen, and he snuffs "The aroused hurricane ere it enroughs "The sea it means to cross because of him. "Sinketh the breeze? His hope-sick eye grows dim; "Creep closer on the creature! Every day "Strengthens the Pontiff; Ecelin, they say, "Dozes now at Oliero, with dry lips "Telling upon his perished finger-tips "How many ancestors are to depose "Ere he be Satan's Viceroy when the doze "Deposits him in hell. So, Guelfs rebuilt "Their houses; not a drop of blood was spilt "When Cino Bocchimpane chanced to meet "Buccio VirtGod's wafer, and the street "Is narrow! Tutti Santi, think, a-swarm "With Ghibellins, and yet he took no harm! "This could not last. Off Salinguerra went "To Padua, Podest, 'with pure intent,' "Said he, 'my presence, judged the single bar "'To permanent tranquillity, may jar "'No longer'so! his back is fairly turned? "The pair of goodly palaces are burned, "The gardens ravaged, and our Guelfs laugh, drunk "A week with joy. The next, their laughter sunk "In sobs of blood, for they found, some strange way, "Old Salinguerra back againI say, "Old Salinguerra in the town once more "Uprooting, overturning, flame before, "Blood fetlock-high beneath him. Azzo fled; "Who 'scaped the carnage followed; then the dead "Were pushed aside from Salinguerra's throne, "He ruled once more Ferrara, all alone, "Till Azzo, stunned awhile, revived, would pounce "Coupled with Boniface, like lynx and ounce, "On the gorged bird. The burghers ground their teeth "To see troop after troop encamp beneath "I' the standing corn thick o'er the scanty patch "It took so many patient months to snatch "Out of the marsh; while just within their walls "Men fed on men. At length Taurello calls "A parley: 'let the Count wind up the war!' "Richard, light-hearted as a plunging star, "Agrees to enter for the kindest ends "Ferrara, flanked with fifty chosen friends, "No horse-boy more, for fear your timid sort "Should fly Ferrara at the bare report. "Quietly through the town they rode, jog-jog; "'Ten, twenty, thirty,curse the catalogue "'Of burnt Guelf houses! Strange, Taurello shows "'Not the least sign of life'whereat arose "A general growl: 'How? With his victors by? "'I and my Veronese? My troops and I? "'Receive us, was your word?' So jogged they on, "Nor laughed their host too openly: once gone "Into the trap!"          Six hundred years ago! Such the time's aspect and peculiar woe (Yourselves may spell it yet in chronicles, Albeit the worm, our busy brother, drills His sprawling path through letters anciently Made fine and large to suit some abbot's eye) When the new Hohenstauffen dropped the mask, Flung John of Brienne's favour from his casque, Forswore crusading, had no mind to leave Saint Peter's proxy leisure to retrieve Losses to Otho and to Barbaross, Or make the Alps less easy to recross; And, thus confirming Pope Honorius' fear, Was excommunicate that very year. "The triple-bearded Teuton come to life!" Groaned the Great League; and, arming for the strife, Wide Lombardy, on tiptoe to begin, Took up, as it was Guelf or Ghibellin, Its cry: what cry?          "The Emperor to come!" His crowd of feudatories, all and some, That leapt down with a crash of swords, spears, shields, One fighter on his fellow, to our fields, Scattered anon, took station here and there, And carried it, till now, with little care Cannot but cry for him; how else rebut Us longer?cliffs, an earthquake suffered jut In the mid-sea, each domineering crest Which nought save such another throe can wrest From out (conceive) a certain chokeweed grown Since o'er the waters, twine and tangle thrown Too thick, too fast accumulating round, Too sure to over-riot and confound Ere long each brilliant islet with itself, Unless a second shock save shoal and shelf, Whirling the sea-drift wide: alas, the bruised And sullen wreck! Sunlight to be diffused For that!sunlight, 'neath which, a scum at first, The million fibres of our chokeweed nurst Dispread themselves, mantling the troubled main, And, shattered by those rocks, took hold again, So kindly blazed itthat same blaze to brood O'er every cluster of the multitude Still hazarding new clasps, ties, filaments, An emulous exchange of pulses, vents Of nature into nature; till some growth Unfancied yet, exuberantly clothe A surface solid now, continuous, one: "The Pope, for us the People, who begun "The People, carries on the People thus, "To keep that Kaiser off and dwell with us!" See you?     Or say, Two Principles that live Each fitly by its Representative. "Hill-cat"who called him so?the gracefullest Adventurer, the ambiguous stranger-guest Of Lombardy (sleek but that ruffling fur, Those talons to their sheath!) whose velvet purr Soothes jealous neighbours when a Saxon scout Arpo or Yoland, is it?one without A country or a name, presumes to couch Beside their noblest; until men avouch That, of all Houses in the Trevisan, Conrad descries no fitter, rear or van, Than Ecelo! They laughed as they enrolled That name at Milan on the page of gold, Godego's lord,Ramon, Marostica, Cartiglion, Bassano, Loria, And every sheep cote on the Suabian's fief! No laughter when his son, "the Lombard Chief" Forsooth, as Barbarossa's path was bent To Italy along the Vale of Trent, Welcomed him at Roncaglia! Sadness now The hamlets nested on the Tyrol's brow, The Asolan and Euganean hills, The Rhetian and the Julian, sadness fills Them all, for Ecelin vouchsafes to stay Among and care about them; day by day Choosing this pinnacle, the other spot, A castle building to defend a cot, A cot built for a castle to defend, Nothing but castles, castles, nor an end To boasts how mountain ridge may join with ridge By sunken gallery and soaring bridge. He takes, in brief, a figure that beseems The griesliest nightmare of the Church's dreams, A Signory firm-rooted, unestranged From its old interests, and nowise changed By its new neighbourhood: perchance the vaunt Of Otho, "my own Este shall supplant "Your Este," come to pass. The sire led in A son as cruel; and this Ecelin Had sons, in turn, and daughters sly and tall And curling and compliant; but for all Romano (so they styled him) throve, that neck Of his so pinched and white, that hungry cheek Proved 't was some fiend, not him, the man's-flesh went To feed: whereas Romano's instrument, Famous Taurello Salinguerra, sole I' the world, a tree whose boughs were slipt the bole Successively, why should not he shed blood To further a design? Men understood Living was pleasant to him as he wore His careless surcoat, glanced some missive o'er, Propped on his truncheon in the public way, While his lord lifted writhen hands to pray, Lost at Oliero's convent.              Hill-cats, face Our Azzo, our Guelf Lion! Why disgrace A worthiness conspicuous near and far (Atii at Rome while free and consular, Este at Padua who repulsed the Hun) By trumpeting the Church's princely son? Styled Patron of Rovigo's Polesine, Ancona's march, Ferrara's . . . ask, in fine, Our chronicles, commenced when some old monk Found it intolerable to be sunk (Vexed to the quick by his revolting cell) Quite out of summer while alive and well: Ended when by his mat the Prior stood, 'Mid busy promptings of the brotherhood, Striving to coax from his decrepit brains The reason Father Porphyry took pains To blot those ten lines out which used to stand First on their charter drawn by Hildebrand. The same night wears. Verona's rule of yore Was vested in a certain Twenty-four; And while within his palace these debate Concerning Richard and Ferrara's fate, Glide we by clapping doors, with sudden glare Of cressets vented on the dark, nor care For aught that 's seen or heard until we shut The smother in, the lights, all noises but The carroch's booming: safe at last! Why strange Such a recess should lurk behind a range Of banquet-rooms? Your fingerthusyou push A spring, and the wall opens, would you rush Upon the banqueters, select your prey, Waiting (the slaughter-weapons in the way Strewing this very bench) with sharpened ear A preconcerted signal to appear; Or if you simply crouch with beating heart, Bearing in some voluptuous pageant part To startle them. Nor mutes nor masquers now; Nor any . . . does that one man sleep whose brow The dying lamp-flame sinks and rises o'er? What woman stood beside him? not the more Is he unfastened from the earnest eyes Because that arras fell between! Her wise And lulling words are yet about the room, Her presence wholly poured upon the gloom Down even to her vesture's creeping stir. And so reclines he, saturate with her, Until an outcry from the square beneath Pierces the charm: he springs up, glad to breathe, Above the cunning element, and shakes The stupor off as (look you) morning breaks On the gay dress, and, near concealed by it, The lean frame like a half-burnt taper, lit Erst at some marriage-feast, then laid away Till the Armenian bridegroom's dying day, In his wool wedding-robe.              For hefor he, Gate-vein of this hearts' blood of Lombardy, (If I should falter now)for he is thine! Sordello, thy forerunner, Florentine! A herald-star I know thou didst absorb Relentless into the consummate orb That scared it from its right to roll along A sempiternal path with dance and song Fulfilling its allotted period, Serenest of the progeny of God Who yet resigns it not! His darling stoops With no quenched lights, desponds with no blank troops Of disenfranchised brilliances, for, blent Utterly with thee, its shy element Like thine upburneth prosperous and clear. Still, what if I approach the august sphere Named now with only one name, disentwine That under-current soft and argentine From its fierce mate in the majestic mass Leavened as the sea whose fire was mixt with glass In John's transcendent vision,launch once more That lustre? Dante, pacer of the shore Where glutted hell disgorgeth filthiest gloom, Unbitten by its whirring sulphur-spume Or whence the grieved and obscure waters slope Into a darkness quieted by hope; Plucker of amaranths grown beneath God's eye In gracious twilights where his chosen lie, I would do this! If I should falter now! In Mantua territory half is slough, Half pine-tree forest; maples, scarlet oaks Breed o'er the river-beds; even Mincio chokes With sand the summer through: but 't is morass In winter up to Mantua walls. There was, Some thirty years before this evening's coil, One spot reclaimed from the surrounding spoil, Goito; just a castle built amid A few low mountains; firs and larches hid Their main defiles, and rings of vineyard bound The rest. Some captured creature in a pound, Whose artless wonder quite precludes distress, Secure beside in its own loveliness, So peered with airy head, below, above, The castle at its toils, the lapwings love To glean among at grape-time. Pass within. A maze of corridors contrived for sin, Dusk winding-stairs, dim galleries got past, You gain the inmost chambers, gain at last A maple-panelled room: that haze which seems Floating about the panel, if there gleams A sunbeam over it, will turn to gold And in light-graven characters unfold The Arab's wisdom everywhere; what shade Marred them a moment, those slim pillars made, Cut like a company of palms to prop The roof, each kissing top entwined with top, Leaning together; in the carver's mind Some knot of bacchanals, flushed cheek combined With straining forehead, shoulders purpled, hair Diffused between, who in a goat-skin bear A vintage; graceful sister-palms! But quick To the main wonder, now. A vault, see; thick Black shade about the ceiling, though fine slits Across the buttress suffer light by fits Upon a marvel in the midst. Nay, stoop A dullish grey-streaked cumbrous font, a group Round it,each side of it, where'er one sees, Upholds it; shrinking Caryatides Of just-tinged marble like Eve's lilied flesh Beneath her maker's finger when the fresh First pulse of life shot brightening the snow. The font's edge burthens every shoulder, so They muse upon the ground, eyelids half closed; Some, with meek arms behind their backs disposed, Some, crossed above their bosoms, some, to veil Their eyes, some, propping chin and cheek so pale, Some, hanging slack an utter helpless length Dead as a buried vestal whose whole strength Goes when the grate above shuts heavily. So dwell these noiseless girls, patient to see, Like priestesses because of sin impure Penanced for ever, who resigned endure, Having that once drunk sweetness to the dregs. And every eve, Sordello's visit begs Pardon for them: constant as eve he came To sit beside each in her turn, the same As one of them, a certain space: and awe Made a great indistinctness till he saw Sunset slant cheerful through the buttress-chinks, Gold seven times globed; surely our maiden shrinks And a smile stirs her as if one faint grain Her load were lightened, one shade less the stain Obscured her forehead, yet one more bead slipt From off the rosary whereby the crypt Keeps count of the contritions of its charge? Then with a step more light, a heart more large, He may depart, leave her and every one To linger out the penance in mute stone. Ah, but Sordello? 'T is the tale I mean To tell you.       In this castle may be seen, On the hill tops, or underneath the vines, Or eastward by the mound of firs and pines That shuts out Mantua, still in loneliness, A slender boy in a loose page's dress, Sordello: do but look on him awhile Watching ('t is autumn) with an earnest smile The noisy flock of thievish birds at work Among the yellowing vineyards; see him lurk ('T is winter with its sullenest of storms) Beside that arras-length of broidered forms, On tiptoe, lifting in both hands a light Which makes yon warrior's visage flutter bright Ecelo, dismal father of the brood, And Ecelin, close to the girl he wooed, Auria, and their Child, with all his wives From Agnes to the Tuscan that survives, Lady of the castle, Adelaide. His face Look, now he turns away! Yourselves shall trace (The delicate nostril swerving wide and fine, A sharp and restless lip, so well combine With that calm brow) a soul fit to receive Delight at every sense; you can believe Sordello foremost in the regal class Nature has broadly severed from her mass Of men, and framed for pleasure, as she frames Some happy lands, that have luxurious names, For loose fertility; a footfall there Suffices to upturn to the warm air Half-germinating spices; mere decay Produces richer life; and day by day New pollen on the lily-petal grows, And still more labyrinthine buds the rose. You recognise at once the finer dress Of flesh that amply lets in loveliness At eye and ear, while round the rest is furled (As though she would not trust them with her world) A veil that shows a sky not near so blue, And lets but half the sun look fervid through. How can such love?like souls on each full-fraught Discovery brooding, blind at first to aught Beyond its beauty, till exceeding love Becomes an aching weight; and, to remove A curse that haunts such naturesto preclude Their finding out themselves can work no good To what they love nor make it very blest By their endeavour,they are fain invest The lifeless thing with life from their own soul, Availing it to purpose, to control, To dwell distinct and have peculiar joy And separate interests that may employ That beauty fitly, for its proper sake. Nor rest they here; fresh births of beauty wake Fresh homage, every grade of love is past, With every mode of loveliness: then cast Inferior idols off their borrowed crown Before a coming glory. Up and down Runs arrowy fire, while earthly forms combine To throb the secret forth; a touch divine And the scaled eyeball owns the mystic rod; Visibly through his garden walketh God. So fare they. Now revert. One character Denotes them through the progress and the stir, A need to blend with each external charm, Bury themselves, the whole heart wide and warm, In something not themselves; they would belong To what they worshipstronger and more strong Thus prodigally fedwhich gathers shape And feature, soon imprisons past escape The votary framed to love and to submit Nor ask, as passionate he kneels to it, Whence grew the idol's empery. So runs A legend; light had birth ere moons and suns, Flowing through space a river and alone, Till chaos burst and blank the spheres were strown Hither and thither, foundering and blind: When into each of them rushed lightto find Itself no place, foiled of its radiant chance. Let such forego their just inheritance! For there 's a class that eagerly looks, too, On beauty, but, unlike the gentler crew, Proclaims each new revealment born a twin With a distinctest consciousness within, Referring still the quality, now first Revealed, to their own soulits instinct nursed In silence, now remembered better, shown More thoroughly, but not the less their own; A dream come true; the special exercise Of any special function that implies The being fair, or good, or wise, or strong, Dormant within their nature all along Whose fault? So, homage, other souls direct Without, turns inward. "How should this deject "Thee, soul?" they murmur; "wherefore strength be quelled "Because, its trivial accidents withheld, "Organs are missed that clog the world, inert, "Wanting a will, to quicken and exert, "Like thineexistence cannot satiate, "Cannot surprise? Laugh thou at envious fate, "Who, from earth's simplest combination stampt "With individualityuncrampt "By living its faint elemental life, "Dost soar to heaven's complexest essence, rife "With grandeurs, unaffronted to the last, "Equal to being all!"            In truth? Thou hast Life, thenwilt challenge life for us: our race Is vindicated so, obtains its place In thy ascent, the first of us; whom we May follow, to the meanest, finally, With our more bounded wills?                Ah, but to find A certain mood enervate such a mind, Counsel it slumber in the solitude Thus reached nor, stooping, task for mankind's good Its nature just as life and time accord "Too narrow an arena to reward "Emprizethe world's occasion worthless since "Not absolutely fitted to evince "Its mastery!" Or if yet worse befall, And a desire possess it to put all That nature forth, forcing our straitened sphere Contain it,to display completely here The mastery another life should learn, Thrusting in time eternity's concern, So that Sordello. . . .             Fool, who spied the mark Of leprosy upon him, violet-dark Already as he loiters? Born just now, With the new century, beside the glow And efflorescence out of barbarism; Witness a Greek or two from the abysm That stray through Florence-town with studious air, Calming the chisel of that Pisan pair: If Nicolo should carve a Christus yet! While at Siena is Guidone set, Forehead on hand; a painful birth must be Matured ere Saint Eufemia's sacristy Or transept gather fruits of one great gaze At the moon: look you! The same orange haze, The same blue stripe round thatand, in the midst, Thy spectral whiteness, Mother-maid, who didst Pursue the dizzy painter!              Woe, then, worth Any officious babble letting forth The leprosy confirmed and ruinous To spirit lodged in a contracted house! Go back to the beginning, rather; blend It gently with Sordello's life; the end Is piteous, you may see, but much between Pleasant enough. Meantime, some pyx to screen The full-grown pest, some lid to shut upon The goblin! So they found at Babylon, (Colleagues, mad Lucius and sage Antonine) Sacking the city, by Apollo's shrine, In rummaging among the rarities, A certain coffer; he who made the prize Opened it greedily; and out there curled Just such another plague, for half the world Was stung. Crawl in then, hag, and couch asquat, Keeping that blotchy bosom thick in spot Until your time is ripe! The coffer-lid Is fastened, and the coffer safely hid Under the Loxian's choicest gifts of gold. Who will may hear Sordello's story told, And how he never could remember when He dwelt not at Goito. Calmly, then, About this secret lodge of Adelaide's Glided his youth away; beyond the glades On the fir-forest border, and the rim Of the low range of mountain, was for him No other world: but this appeared his own To wander through at pleasure and alone. The castle too seemed empty; far and wide Might he disport; only the northern side Lay under a mysterious interdict Slight, just enough remembered to restrict His roaming to the corridors, the vault Where those font-bearers expiate their fault, The maple-chamber, and the little nooks And nests, and breezy parapet that looks Over the woods to Mantua: there he strolled. Some foreign women-servants, very old, Tended and crept about himall his clue To the world's business and embroiled ado Distant a dozen hill-tops at the most. And first a simple sense of life engrossed Sordello in his drowsy Paradise; The day's adventures for the day suffice Its constant tribute of perceptions strange, With sleep and stir in healthy interchange, Suffice, and leave him for the next at ease Like the great palmer-worm that strips the trees, Eats the life out of every luscious plant, And, when September finds them sere or scant, Puts forth two wondrous winglets, alters quite, And hies him after unforeseen delight. So fed Sordello, not a shard dissheathed; As ever, round each new discovery, wreathed Luxuriantly the fancies infantine His admiration, bent on making fine Its novel friend at any risk, would fling In gay profusion forth: a ficklest king, Confessed those minions!eager to dispense So much from his own stock of thought and sense As might enable each to stand alone And serve him for a fellow; with his own, Joining the qualities that just before Had graced some older favourite. Thus they wore A fluctuating halo, yesterday Set flicker and to-morrow filched away, Those upland objects each of separate name, Each with an aspect never twice the same, Waxing and waning as the new-born host Of fancies, like a single night's hoar-frost, Gave to familiar things a face grotesque; Only, preserving through the mad burlesque A grave regard. Conceive! the orpine patch Blossoming earliest on the log-house thatch The day those archers wound along the vines Related to the Chief that left their lines To climb with clinking step the northern stair Up to the solitary chambers where Sordello never came. Thus thrall reached thrall; He o'er-festooning every interval, As the adventurous spider, making light Of distance, shoots her threads from depth to height, From barbican to battlement: so flung Fantasies forth and in their centre swung Our architect,the breezy morning fresh Above, and merry,all his waving mesh Laughing with lucid dew-drops rainbow-edged. This world of ours by tacit pact is pledged To laying such a spangled fabric low Whether by gradual brush or gallant blow. But its abundant will was baulked here: doubt Rose tardily in one so fenced about From most that nurtures judgment,care and pain: Judgment, that dull expedient we are fain, Less favoured, to adopt betimes and force Stead us, diverted from our natural course Of joyscontrive some yet amid the dearth, Vary and render them, it may be, worth Most we forego. Suppose Sordello hence Selfish enough, without a moral sense However feeble; what informed the boy Others desired a portion in his joy? Or say a ruthful chance broke woof and warp A heron's nest beat down by March winds sharp, A fawn breathless beneath the precipice, A bird with unsoiled breast and unfilmed eyes Warm in the brakecould these undo the trance Lapping Sordello? Not a circumstance That makes for you, friend Naddo! Eat fern-seed And peer beside us and report indeed If (your word) "genius" dawned with throes and stings And the whole fiery catalogue, while springs, Summers, and winters quietly came and went. Time put at length that period to content, By right the world should have imposed: bereft Of its good offices, Sordello, left To study his companions, managed rip Their fringe off, learn the true relationship, Core with its crust, their nature with his own: Amid his wild-wood sights he lived alone. As if the poppy felt with him! Though he Partook the poppy's red effrontery Till Autumn spoiled their fleering quite with rain, And, turbanless, a coarse brown rattling crane Lay bare. That 's gone: yet why renounce, for that, His disenchanted tributariesflat Perhaps, but scarce so utterly forlorn, Their simple presence might not well be borne Whose parley was a transport once: recall The poppy's gifts, it flaunts you, after all, A poppy:why distrust the evidence Of each soon satisfied and healthy sense? The new-born judgment answered, "little boots "Beholding other creatures' attributes "And having none!" or, say that it sufficed, "Yet, could one but possess, oneself," (enticed Judgment) "some special office!" Nought beside Serves you? "Well then, be somehow justified "For this ignoble wish to circumscribe "And concentrate, rather than swell, the tribe "Of actual pleasures: what, now, from without "Effects it?proves, despite a lurking doubt, "Mere sympathy sufficient, trouble spared? "That, tasting joys by proxy thus, you fared "The better for them?" Thus much craved his soul, Alas, from the beginning love is whole And true; if sure of nought beside, most sure Of its own truth at least; nor may endure A crowd to see its face, that cannot know How hot the pulses throb its heart below. While its own helplessness and utter want Of means to worthily be ministrant To what it worships, do but fan the more Its flame, exalt the idol far before Itself as it would have it ever be. Souls like Sordello, on the contrary, Coerced and put to shame, retaining will, Care little, take mysterious comfort still, But look forth tremblingly to ascertain If others judge their claims not urged in vain, And say for them their stifled thoughts aloud. So, they must ever live before a crowd: "Vanity," Naddo tells you.                Whence contrive A crowd, now? From these women just alive, That archer-troop? Forth glidednot alone Each painted warrior, every girl of stone, Nor Adelaide (bent double o'er a scroll, One maiden at her knees, that eve, his soul Shook as he stumbled through the arras'd glooms On them, for, 'mid quaint robes and weird perfumes, Started the meagre Tuscan up,her eyes, The maiden's, also, bluer with surprise) But the entire out-world: whatever, scraps And snatches, song and story, dreams perhaps, Conceited the world's offices, and he Had hitherto transferred to flower or tree, Not counted a befitting heritage Each, of its own right, singly to engage Some man, no other,such now dared to stand Alone. Strength, wisdom, grace on every hand Soon disengaged themselves, and he discerned A sort of human life: at least, was turned A stream of lifelike figures through his brain. Lord, liegeman, valvassor and suzerain, Ere he could choose, surrounded him; a stuff To work his pleasure on; there, sure enough: But as for gazing, what shall fix that gaze? Are they to simply testify the ways He who convoked them sends his soul along With the cloud's thunder or a dove's brood-song? While they live each his life, boast each his own Peculiar dower of bliss, stand each alone In some one point where something dearest loved Is easiest gainedfar worthier to be proved Than aught he envies in the forest-wights! No simple and self-evident delights, But mixed desires of unimagined range, Contrasts or combinations, new and strange, Irksome perhaps, yet plainly recognized By this, the sudden companyloves prized By those who are to prize his own amount Of loves. Once care because such make account, Allow that foreign recognitions stamp The current value, and his crowd shall vamp Him counterfeits enough; and so their print Be on the piece, 't is gold, attests the mint, And "good," pronounce they whom his new appeal Is made to: if their casual print conceal This arbitrary good of theirs o'ergloss What he has lived without, nor felt the loss Qualities strange, ungainly, wearisome, What matter? So must speech expand the dumb Part-sigh, part-smile with which Sordello, late Whom no poor woodland-sights could satiate, Betakes himself to study hungrily Just what the puppets his crude phantasy Supposes notablest,popes, kings, priests, knights, May please to promulgate for appetites; Accepting all their artificial joys Not as he views them, but as he employs Each shape to estimate the other's stock Of attributes, whereona marshalled flock Of authorized enjoymentshe may spend Himself, be men, now, as he used to blend With tree and flowernay more entirely, else 'T were mockery: for instance, "How excels "My life that chieftain's?" (who apprised the youth Ecelin, here, becomes this month, in truth, Imperial Vicar?) "Turns he in his tent "Remissly? Be it somy head is bent "Deliciously amid my girls to sleep. "What if he stalks the Trentine-pass? Yon steep "I climbed an hour ago with little toil: "We are alike there. But can I, too, foil "The Guelf's paid stabber, carelessly afford "Saint Mark's a spectacle, the sleight o' the sword "Baffling the treason in a moment?" Here No rescue! Poppy he is none, but peer To Ecelin, assuredly: his hand, Fashioned no otherwise, should wield a brand With Ecelin's successtry, now! He soon Was satisfied, returned as to the moon From earth; left each abortive boy's-attempt For feats, from failure happily exempt, In fancy at his beck. "One day I will "Accomplish it! Are they not older still "Not grown-up men and women? 'T is beside "Only a dream; and though I must abide "With dreams now, I may find a thorough vent "For all myself, acquire an instrument "For acting what these people act; my soul "Hunting a body out may gain its whole "Desire some day!" How else express chagrin And resignation, show the hope steal in With which he let sink from an aching wrist The rough-hewn ash-bow? Straight, a gold shaft hissed Into the Syrian air, struck Malek down Superbly! "Crosses to the breach! God's Town "Is gained him back!" Why bend rough ash-bows more? Thus lives he: if not careless as before, Comforted: for one may anticipate, Rehearse the future, be prepared when fate Shall have prepared in turn real men whose names Startle, real places of enormous fames, Este abroad and Ecelin at home To worship him,Mantua, Verona, Rome To witness it. Who grudges time so spent? Rather test qualities to heart's content Summon them, thrice selected, near and far Compress the starriest into one star, And grasp the whole at once!                The pageant thinned Accordingly; from rank to rank, like wind His spirit passed to winnow and divide; Back fell the simpler phantasms; every side The strong clave to the wise; with either classed The beauteous; so, till two or three amassed Mankind's beseemingnesses, and reduced Themselves eventually,graces loosed, Strengths lavished,all to heighten up One Shape Whose potency no creature should escape. Can it be Friedrich of the bowmen's talk? Surely that grape-juice, bubbling at the stalk, Is some grey scorching Saracenic wine The Kaiser quaffs with the Miramoline Those swarthy hazel-clusters, seamed and chapped, Or filberts russet-sheathed and velvet-capped, Are dates plucked from the bough John Brienne sent To keep in mind his sluggish armament Of Canaan:Friedrich's, all the pomp and fierce Demeanour! But harsh sounds and sights transpierce So rarely the serene cloud where he dwells Whose looks enjoin, whose lightest words are spells On the obdurate! That right arm indeed Has thunder for its slave; but where 's the need Of thunder if the stricken multitude Hearkens, arrested in its angriest mood, While songs go up exulting, then dispread, Dispart, disperse, lingering overhead Like an escape of angels? 'T is the tune, Nor much unlike the words his women croon Smilingly, colourless and faint-designed Each, as a worn-out queen's face some remind Of her extreme youth's love-tales. "Eglamor "Made that!" Half minstrel and half emperor, What but ill objects vexed him? Such he slew. The kinder sort were easy to subdue By those ambrosial glances, dulcet tones; And these a gracious hand advanced to thrones Beneath him. Wherefore twist and torture this, Striving to name afresh the antique bliss, Instead of saying, neither less nor more, He had discovered, as our world before, Apollo? That shall be the name; nor bid Me rag by rag expose how patchwork hid The youthwhat thefts of every clime and day Contributed to purfle the array He climbed with (June at deep) some close ravine Mid clatter of its million pebbles sheen, Over which, singing soft, the runnel slipped Elate with rains: into whose streamlet dipped He foot, yet trod, you thought, with unwet sock Though really on the stubs of living rock Ages ago it crenelled; vines for roof, Lindens for wall; before him, aye aloof, Flittered in the cool some azure damsel-fly, Born of the simmering quiet, there to die. Emerging whence, Apollo still, he spied Mighty descents of forest; multiplied Tuft on tuft, here, the frolic myrtle-trees, There gendered the grave maple stocks at ease. And, proud of its observer, straight the wood Tried old surprises on him; black it stood A sudden barrier ('twas a cloud passed o'er) So dead and dense, the tiniest brute no more Must pass; yet presently (the cloud dispatched) Each clump, behold, was glistering detached A shrub, oak-boles shrunk into ilex-stems! Yet could not he denounce the stratagems He saw thro', till, hours thence, aloft would hang White summer-lightnings; as it sank and sprang To measure, that whole palpitating breast Of heaven, 't was Apollo, nature prest At eve to worship.          Time stole: by degrees The Pythons perish off; his votaries Sink to respectful distance; songs redeem Their pains, but briefer; their dismissals seem Emphatic; only girls are very slow To disappearhis Delians! Some that glow O' the instant, more with earlier loves to wrench Away, reserves to quell, disdains to quench; Alike in one material circumstance All soon or late adore Apollo! Glance The bevy through, divine Apollo's choice, His Daphne! "We secure Count Richard's voice "In Este's counsels, good for Este's ends "As our Taurello," say his faded friends, "By granting him our Palma!"the sole child, They mean, of Agnes Este who beguiled Ecelin, years before this Adelaide Wedded and turned him wicked: "but the maid "Rejects his suit," those sleepy women boast. She, scorning all beside, deserves the most Sordello: so, conspicuous in his world Of dreams sat Palma. How the tresses curled Into a sumptuous swell of gold and wound About her like a glory! even the ground Was bright as with spilt sunbeams; breathe not, breathe Not!poised, see, one leg doubled underneath, Its small foot buried in the dimpling snow, Rests, but the other, listlessly below, O'er the couch-side swings feeling for cool air, The vein-streaks swollen a richer violet where The languid blood lies heavily; yet calm On her slight prop, each flat and outspread palm, As but suspended in the act to rise By consciousness of beauty, whence her eyes Turn with so frank a triumph, for she meets Apollo's gaze in the pine glooms.                  Time fleets: That 's worst! Because the pre-appointed age Approaches. Fate is tardy with the stage And crowd she promised. Lean he grows and pale, Though restlessly at rest. Hardly avail Fancies to soothe him. Time steals, yet alone He tarries here! The earnest smile is gone. How long this might continue matters not; For ever, possibly; since to the spot None come: our lingering Taurello quits Mantua at last, and light our lady flits Back to her place disburthened of a care. Strangeto be constant here if he is there! Is it distrust? Oh, never! for they both Goad Ecelin alike, Romano's growth Is daily manifest, with Azzo dumb And Richard wavering: let but Friedrich come, Find matter for the minstrelsy's report Lured from the Isle and its young Kaiser's court To sing us a Messina morning up, And, double rillet of a drinking cup, Sparkle along to ease the land of drouth, Northward to Provence that, and thus far south The other! What a method to apprise Neighbours of births, espousals, obsequies, Which in their very tongue the Troubadour Records! and his performance makes a tour, For Trouveres bear the miracle about, Explain its cunning to the vulgar rout, Until the Formidable House is famed Over the countryas Taurello aimed, Who introduced, although the rest adopt, The novelty. Such games, her absence stopped, Begin afresh now Adelaide, recluse No longer, in the light of day pursues Her plans at Mantua: whence an accident Which, breaking on Sordello's mixed content Opened, like any flash that cures the blind, The veritable business of mankind. ~ Robert Browning, Sordello - Book the First

330:Merlin And Vivien A storm was coming, but the winds were still, And in the wild woods of Broceliande, Before an oak, so hollow, huge and old It looked a tower of ivied masonwork, At Merlin's feet the wily Vivien lay. For he that always bare in bitter grudge The slights of Arthur and his Table, Mark The Cornish King, had heard a wandering voice, A minstrel of Caerlon by strong storm Blown into shelter at Tintagil, say That out of naked knightlike purity Sir Lancelot worshipt no unmarried girl But the great Queen herself, fought in her name, Sware by her--vows like theirs, that high in heaven Love most, but neither marry, nor are given In marriage, angels of our Lord's report. He ceased, and then--for Vivien sweetly said (She sat beside the banquet nearest Mark), 'And is the fair example followed, Sir, In Arthur's household?'--answered innocently: 'Ay, by some few--ay, truly--youths that hold It more beseems the perfect virgin knight To worship woman as true wife beyond All hopes of gaining, than as maiden girl. They place their pride in Lancelot and the Queen. So passionate for an utter purity Beyond the limit of their bond, are these, For Arthur bound them not to singleness. Brave hearts and clean! and yet--God guide them--young.' Then Mark was half in heart to hurl his cup Straight at the speaker, but forbore: he rose To leave the hall, and, Vivien following him, Turned to her: 'Here are snakes within the grass; And you methinks, O Vivien, save ye fear The monkish manhood, and the mask of pure 365 Worn by this court, can stir them till they sting.' And Vivien answered, smiling scornfully, 'Why fear? because that fostered at THY court I savour of thy--virtues? fear them? no. As Love, if Love is perfect, casts out fear, So Hate, if Hate is perfect, casts out fear. My father died in battle against the King, My mother on his corpse in open field; She bore me there, for born from death was I Among the dead and sown upon the wind-And then on thee! and shown the truth betimes, That old true filth, and bottom of the well Where Truth is hidden. Gracious lessons thine And maxims of the mud! "This Arthur pure! Great Nature through the flesh herself hath made Gives him the lie! There is no being pure, My cherub; saith not Holy Writ the same?"-If I were Arthur, I would have thy blood. Thy blessing, stainless King! I bring thee back, When I have ferreted out their burrowings, The hearts of all this Order in mine hand-Ay--so that fate and craft and folly close, Perchance, one curl of Arthur's golden beard. To me this narrow grizzled fork of thine Is cleaner-fashioned--Well, I loved thee first, That warps the wit.' Loud laughed the graceless Mark, But Vivien, into Camelot stealing, lodged Low in the city, and on a festal day When Guinevere was crossing the great hall Cast herself down, knelt to the Queen, and wailed. 'Why kneel ye there? What evil hath ye wrought? Rise!' and the damsel bidden rise arose And stood with folded hands and downward eyes Of glancing corner, and all meekly said, 'None wrought, but suffered much, an orphan maid! My father died in battle for thy King, My mother on his corpse--in open field, The sad sea-sounding wastes of Lyonnesse-- 366 Poor wretch--no friend!--and now by Mark the King For that small charm of feature mine, pursued-If any such be mine--I fly to thee. Save, save me thou--Woman of women--thine The wreath of beauty, thine the crown of power, Be thine the balm of pity, O Heaven's own white Earth-angel, stainless bride of stainless King-Help, for he follows! take me to thyself! O yield me shelter for mine innocency Among thy maidens! Here her slow sweet eyes Fear-tremulous, but humbly hopeful, rose Fixt on her hearer's, while the Queen who stood All glittering like May sunshine on May leaves In green and gold, and plumed with green replied, 'Peace, child! of overpraise and overblame We choose the last. Our noble Arthur, him Ye scarce can overpraise, will hear and know. Nay--we believe all evil of thy Mark-Well, we shall test thee farther; but this hour We ride a-hawking with Sir Lancelot. He hath given us a fair falcon which he trained; We go to prove it. Bide ye here the while.' She past; and Vivien murmured after 'Go! I bide the while.' Then through the portal-arch Peering askance, and muttering broken-wise, As one that labours with an evil dream, Beheld the Queen and Lancelot get to horse. 'Is that the Lancelot? goodly--ay, but gaunt: Courteous--amends for gauntness--takes her hand-That glance of theirs, but for the street, had been A clinging kiss--how hand lingers in hand! Let go at last!--they ride away--to hawk For waterfowl. Royaller game is mine. For such a supersensual sensual bond As that gray cricket chirpt of at our hearth-Touch flax with flame--a glance will serve--the liars! Ah little rat that borest in the dyke Thy hole by night to let the boundless deep 367 Down upon far-off cities while they dance-Or dream--of thee they dreamed not--nor of me These--ay, but each of either: ride, and dream The mortal dream that never yet was mine-Ride, ride and dream until ye wake--to me! Then, narrow court and lubber King, farewell! For Lancelot will be gracious to the rat, And our wise Queen, if knowing that I know, Will hate, loathe, fear--but honour me the more.' Yet while they rode together down the plain, Their talk was all of training, terms of art, Diet and seeling, jesses, leash and lure. 'She is too noble' he said 'to check at pies, Nor will she rake: there is no baseness in her.' Here when the Queen demanded as by chance 'Know ye the stranger woman?' 'Let her be,' Said Lancelot and unhooded casting off The goodly falcon free; she towered; her bells, Tone under tone, shrilled; and they lifted up Their eager faces, wondering at the strength, Boldness and royal knighthood of the bird Who pounced her quarry and slew it. Many a time As once--of old--among the flowers--they rode. But Vivien half-forgotten of the Queen Among her damsels broidering sat, heard, watched And whispered: through the peaceful court she crept And whispered: then as Arthur in the highest Leavened the world, so Vivien in the lowest, Arriving at a time of golden rest, And sowing one ill hint from ear to ear, While all the heathen lay at Arthur's feet, And no quest came, but all was joust and play, Leavened his hall. They heard and let her be. Thereafter as an enemy that has left Death in the living waters, and withdrawn, The wily Vivien stole from Arthur's court. She hated all the knights, and heard in thought Their lavish comment when her name was named. 368 For once, when Arthur walking all alone, Vext at a rumour issued from herself Of some corruption crept among his knights, Had met her, Vivien, being greeted fair, Would fain have wrought upon his cloudy mood With reverent eyes mock-loyal, shaken voice, And fluttered adoration, and at last With dark sweet hints of some who prized him more Than who should prize him most; at which the King Had gazed upon her blankly and gone by: But one had watched, and had not held his peace: It made the laughter of an afternoon That Vivien should attempt the blameless King. And after that, she set herself to gain Him, the most famous man of all those times, Merlin, who knew the range of all their arts, Had built the King his havens, ships, and halls, Was also Bard, and knew the starry heavens; The people called him Wizard; whom at first She played about with slight and sprightly talk, And vivid smiles, and faintly-venomed points Of slander, glancing here and grazing there; And yielding to his kindlier moods, the Seer Would watch her at her petulance, and play, Even when they seemed unloveable, and laugh As those that watch a kitten; thus he grew Tolerant of what he half disdained, and she, Perceiving that she was but half disdained, Began to break her sports with graver fits, Turn red or pale, would often when they met Sigh fully, or all-silent gaze upon him With such a fixt devotion, that the old man, Though doubtful, felt the flattery, and at times Would flatter his own wish in age for love, And half believe her true: for thus at times He wavered; but that other clung to him, Fixt in her will, and so the seasons went. Then fell on Merlin a great melancholy; He walked with dreams and darkness, and he found A doom that ever poised itself to fall, An ever-moaning battle in the mist, 369 World-war of dying flesh against the life, Death in all life and lying in all love, The meanest having power upon the highest, And the high purpose broken by the worm. So leaving Arthur's court he gained the beach; There found a little boat, and stept into it; And Vivien followed, but he marked her not. She took the helm and he the sail; the boat Drave with a sudden wind across the deeps, And touching Breton sands, they disembarked. And then she followed Merlin all the way, Even to the wild woods of Broceliande. For Merlin once had told her of a charm, The which if any wrought on anyone With woven paces and with waving arms, The man so wrought on ever seemed to lie Closed in the four walls of a hollow tower, From which was no escape for evermore; And none could find that man for evermore, Nor could he see but him who wrought the charm Coming and going, and he lay as dead And lost to life and use and name and fame. And Vivien ever sought to work the charm Upon the great Enchanter of the Time, As fancying that her glory would be great According to his greatness whom she quenched. There lay she all her length and kissed his feet, As if in deepest reverence and in love. A twist of gold was round her hair; a robe Of samite without price, that more exprest Than hid her, clung about her lissome limbs, In colour like the satin-shining palm On sallows in the windy gleams of March: And while she kissed them, crying, 'Trample me, Dear feet, that I have followed through the world, And I will pay you worship; tread me down And I will kiss you for it;' he was mute: So dark a forethought rolled about his brain, As on a dull day in an Ocean cave The blind wave feeling round his long sea-hall 370 In silence: wherefore, when she lifted up A face of sad appeal, and spake and said, 'O Merlin, do ye love me?' and again, 'O Merlin, do ye love me?' and once more, 'Great Master, do ye love me?' he was mute. And lissome Vivien, holding by his heel, Writhed toward him, slided up his knee and sat, Behind his ankle twined her hollow feet Together, curved an arm about his neck, Clung like a snake; and letting her left hand Droop from his mighty shoulder, as a leaf, Made with her right a comb of pearl to part The lists of such a board as youth gone out Had left in ashes: then he spoke and said, Not looking at her, 'Who are wise in love Love most, say least,' and Vivien answered quick, 'I saw the little elf-god eyeless once In Arthur's arras hall at Camelot: But neither eyes nor tongue--O stupid child! Yet you are wise who say it; let me think Silence is wisdom: I am silent then, And ask no kiss;' then adding all at once, 'And lo, I clothe myself with wisdom,' drew The vast and shaggy mantle of his beard Across her neck and bosom to her knee, And called herself a gilded summer fly Caught in a great old tyrant spider's web, Who meant to eat her up in that wild wood Without one word. So Vivien called herself, But rather seemed a lovely baleful star Veiled in gray vapour; till he sadly smiled: 'To what request for what strange boon,' he said, 'Are these your pretty tricks and fooleries, O Vivien, the preamble? yet my thanks, For these have broken up my melancholy.' And Vivien answered smiling saucily, 'What, O my Master, have ye found your voice? I bid the stranger welcome. Thanks at last! But yesterday you never opened lip, Except indeed to drink: no cup had we: In mine own lady palms I culled the spring 371 That gathered trickling dropwise from the cleft, And made a pretty cup of both my hands And offered you it kneeling: then you drank And knew no more, nor gave me one poor word; O no more thanks than might a goat have given With no more sign of reverence than a beard. And when we halted at that other well, And I was faint to swooning, and you lay Foot-gilt with all the blossom-dust of those Deep meadows we had traversed, did you know That Vivien bathed your feet before her own? And yet no thanks: and all through this wild wood And all this morning when I fondled you: Boon, ay, there was a boon, one not so strange-How had I wronged you? surely ye are wise, But such a silence is more wise than kind.' And Merlin locked his hand in hers and said: 'O did ye never lie upon the shore, And watch the curled white of the coming wave Glassed in the slippery sand before it breaks? Even such a wave, but not so pleasurable, Dark in the glass of some presageful mood, Had I for three days seen, ready to fall. And then I rose and fled from Arthur's court To break the mood. You followed me unasked; And when I looked, and saw you following me still, My mind involved yourself the nearest thing In that mind-mist: for shall I tell you truth? You seemed that wave about to break upon me And sweep me from my hold upon the world, My use and name and fame. Your pardon, child. Your pretty sports have brightened all again. And ask your boon, for boon I owe you thrice, Once for wrong done you by confusion, next For thanks it seems till now neglected, last For these your dainty gambols: wherefore ask; And take this boon so strange and not so strange.' And Vivien answered smiling mournfully: 'O not so strange as my long asking it, Not yet so strange as you yourself are strange, 372 Nor half so strange as that dark mood of yours. I ever feared ye were not wholly mine; And see, yourself have owned ye did me wrong. The people call you prophet: let it be: But not of those that can expound themselves. Take Vivien for expounder; she will call That three-days-long presageful gloom of yours No presage, but the same mistrustful mood That makes you seem less noble than yourself, Whenever I have asked this very boon, Now asked again: for see you not, dear love, That such a mood as that, which lately gloomed Your fancy when ye saw me following you, Must make me fear still more you are not mine, Must make me yearn still more to prove you mine, And make me wish still more to learn this charm Of woven paces and of waving hands, As proof of trust. O Merlin, teach it me. The charm so taught will charm us both to rest. For, grant me some slight power upon your fate, I, feeling that you felt me worthy trust, Should rest and let you rest, knowing you mine. And therefore be as great as ye are named, Not muffled round with selfish reticence. How hard you look and how denyingly! O, if you think this wickedness in me, That I should prove it on you unawares, That makes me passing wrathful; then our bond Had best be loosed for ever: but think or not, By Heaven that hears I tell you the clean truth, As clean as blood of babes, as white as milk: O Merlin, may this earth, if ever I, If these unwitty wandering wits of mine, Even in the jumbled rubbish of a dream, Have tript on such conjectural treachery-May this hard earth cleave to the Nadir hell Down, down, and close again, and nip me flat, If I be such a traitress. Yield my boon, Till which I scarce can yield you all I am; And grant my re-reiterated wish, The great proof of your love: because I think, However wise, ye hardly know me yet.' 373 And Merlin loosed his hand from hers and said, 'I never was less wise, however wise, Too curious Vivien, though you talk of trust, Than when I told you first of such a charm. Yea, if ye talk of trust I tell you this, Too much I trusted when I told you that, And stirred this vice in you which ruined man Through woman the first hour; for howsoe'er In children a great curiousness be well, Who have to learn themselves and all the world, In you, that are no child, for still I find Your face is practised when I spell the lines, I call it,--well, I will not call it vice: But since you name yourself the summer fly, I well could wish a cobweb for the gnat, That settles, beaten back, and beaten back Settles, till one could yield for weariness: But since I will not yield to give you power Upon my life and use and name and fame, Why will ye never ask some other boon? Yea, by God's rood, I trusted you too much.' And Vivien, like the tenderest-hearted maid That ever bided tryst at village stile, Made answer, either eyelid wet with tears: 'Nay, Master, be not wrathful with your maid; Caress her: let her feel herself forgiven Who feels no heart to ask another boon. I think ye hardly know the tender rhyme Of "trust me not at all or all in all." I heard the great Sir Lancelot sing it once, And it shall answer for me. Listen to it. "In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours, Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers: Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all. "It is the little rift within the lute, That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all. 374 "The little rift within the lover's lute Or little pitted speck in garnered fruit, That rotting inward slowly moulders all. "It is not worth the keeping: let it go: But shall it? answer, darling, answer, no. And trust me not at all or all in all." O Master, do ye love my tender rhyme?' And Merlin looked and half believed her true, So tender was her voice, so fair her face, So sweetly gleamed her eyes behind her tears Like sunlight on the plain behind a shower: And yet he answered half indignantly: 'Far other was the song that once I heard By this huge oak, sung nearly where we sit: For here we met, some ten or twelve of us, To chase a creature that was current then In these wild woods, the hart with golden horns. It was the time when first the question rose About the founding of a Table Round, That was to be, for love of God and men And noble deeds, the flower of all the world. And each incited each to noble deeds. And while we waited, one, the youngest of us, We could not keep him silent, out he flashed, And into such a song, such fire for fame, Such trumpet-glowings in it, coming down To such a stern and iron-clashing close, That when he stopt we longed to hurl together, And should have done it; but the beauteous beast Scared by the noise upstarted at our feet, And like a silver shadow slipt away Through the dim land; and all day long we rode Through the dim land against a rushing wind, That glorious roundel echoing in our ears, And chased the flashes of his golden horns Till they vanished by the fairy well That laughs at iron--as our warriors did-Where children cast their pins and nails, and cry, 375 "Laugh, little well!" but touch it with a sword, It buzzes fiercely round the point; and there We lost him: such a noble song was that. But, Vivien, when you sang me that sweet rhyme, I felt as though you knew this cursd charm, Were proving it on me, and that I lay And felt them slowly ebbing, name and fame.' And Vivien answered smiling mournfully: 'O mine have ebbed away for evermore, And all through following you to this wild wood, Because I saw you sad, to comfort you. Lo now, what hearts have men! they never mount As high as woman in her selfless mood. And touching fame, howe'er ye scorn my song, Take one verse more--the lady speaks it--this: '"My name, once mine, now thine, is closelier mine, For fame, could fame be mine, that fame were thine, And shame, could shame be thine, that shame were mine. So trust me not at all or all in all." 'Says she not well? and there is more--this rhyme Is like the fair pearl-necklace of the Queen, That burst in dancing, and the pearls were spilt; Some lost, some stolen, some as relics kept. But nevermore the same two sister pearls Ran down the silken thread to kiss each other On her white neck--so is it with this rhyme: It lives dispersedly in many hands, And every minstrel sings it differently; Yet is there one true line, the pearl of pearls: "Man dreams of Fame while woman wakes to love." Yea! Love, though Love were of the grossest, carves A portion from the solid present, eats And uses, careless of the rest; but Fame, The Fame that follows death is nothing to us; And what is Fame in life but half-disfame, And counterchanged with darkness? ye yourself Know well that Envy calls you Devil's son, And since ye seem the Master of all Art, They fain would make you Master of all vice.' 376 And Merlin locked his hand in hers and said, 'I once was looking for a magic weed, And found a fair young squire who sat alone, Had carved himself a knightly shield of wood, And then was painting on it fancied arms, Azure, an Eagle rising or, the Sun In dexter chief; the scroll "I follow fame." And speaking not, but leaning over him I took his brush and blotted out the bird, And made a Gardener putting in a graff, With this for motto, "Rather use than fame." You should have seen him blush; but afterwards He made a stalwart knight. O Vivien, For you, methinks you think you love me well; For me, I love you somewhat; rest: and Love Should have some rest and pleasure in himself, Not ever be too curious for a boon, Too prurient for a proof against the grain Of him ye say ye love: but Fame with men, Being but ampler means to serve mankind, Should have small rest or pleasure in herself, But work as vassal to the larger love, That dwarfs the petty love of one to one. Use gave me Fame at first, and Fame again Increasing gave me use. Lo, there my boon! What other? for men sought to prove me vile, Because I fain had given them greater wits: And then did Envy call me Devil's son: The sick weak beast seeking to help herself By striking at her better, missed, and brought Her own claw back, and wounded her own heart. Sweet were the days when I was all unknown, But when my name was lifted up, the storm Brake on the mountain and I cared not for it. Right well know I that Fame is half-disfame, Yet needs must work my work. That other fame, To one at least, who hath not children, vague, The cackle of the unborn about the grave, I cared not for it: a single misty star, Which is the second in a line of stars That seem a sword beneath a belt of three, 377 I never gazed upon it but I dreamt Of some vast charm concluded in that star To make fame nothing. Wherefore, if I fear, Giving you power upon me through this charm, That you might play me falsely, having power, However well ye think ye love me now (As sons of kings loving in pupilage Have turned to tyrants when they came to power) I rather dread the loss of use than fame; If you--and not so much from wickedness, As some wild turn of anger, or a mood Of overstrained affection, it may be, To keep me all to your own self,--or else A sudden spurt of woman's jealousy,-Should try this charm on whom ye say ye love.' And Vivien answered smiling as in wrath: 'Have I not sworn? I am not trusted. Good! Well, hide it, hide it; I shall find it out; And being found take heed of Vivien. A woman and not trusted, doubtless I Might feel some sudden turn of anger born Of your misfaith; and your fine epithet Is accurate too, for this full love of mine Without the full heart back may merit well Your term of overstrained. So used as I, My daily wonder is, I love at all. And as to woman's jealousy, O why not? O to what end, except a jealous one, And one to make me jealous if I love, Was this fair charm invented by yourself? I well believe that all about this world Ye cage a buxom captive here and there, Closed in the four walls of a hollow tower From which is no escape for evermore.' Then the great Master merrily answered her: 'Full many a love in loving youth was mine; I needed then no charm to keep them mine But youth and love; and that full heart of yours Whereof ye prattle, may now assure you mine; So live uncharmed. For those who wrought it first, 378 The wrist is parted from the hand that waved, The feet unmortised from their ankle-bones Who paced it, ages back: but will ye hear The legend as in guerdon for your rhyme? 'There lived a king in the most Eastern East, Less old than I, yet older, for my blood Hath earnest in it of far springs to be. A tawny pirate anchored in his port, Whose bark had plundered twenty nameless isles; And passing one, at the high peep of dawn, He saw two cities in a thousand boats All fighting for a woman on the sea. And pushing his black craft among them all, He lightly scattered theirs and brought her off, With loss of half his people arrow-slain; A maid so smooth, so white, so wonderful, They said a light came from her when she moved: And since the pirate would not yield her up, The King impaled him for his piracy; Then made her Queen: but those isle-nurtured eyes Waged such unwilling though successful war On all the youth, they sickened; councils thinned, And armies waned, for magnet-like she drew The rustiest iron of old fighters' hearts; And beasts themselves would worship; camels knelt Unbidden, and the brutes of mountain back That carry kings in castles, bowed black knees Of homage, ringing with their serpent hands, To make her smile, her golden ankle-bells. What wonder, being jealous, that he sent His horns of proclamation out through all The hundred under-kingdoms that he swayed To find a wizard who might teach the King Some charm, which being wrought upon the Queen Might keep her all his own: to such a one He promised more than ever king has given, A league of mountain full of golden mines, A province with a hundred miles of coast, A palace and a princess, all for him: But on all those who tried and failed, the King Pronounced a dismal sentence, meaning by it 379 To keep the list low and pretenders back, Or like a king, not to be trifled with-Their heads should moulder on the city gates. And many tried and failed, because the charm Of nature in her overbore their own: And many a wizard brow bleached on the walls: And many weeks a troop of carrion crows Hung like a cloud above the gateway towers.' And Vivien breaking in upon him, said: 'I sit and gather honey; yet, methinks, Thy tongue has tript a little: ask thyself. The lady never made UNWILLING war With those fine eyes: she had her pleasure in it, And made her good man jealous with good cause. And lived there neither dame nor damsel then Wroth at a lover's loss? were all as tame, I mean, as noble, as the Queen was fair? Not one to flirt a venom at her eyes, Or pinch a murderous dust into her drink, Or make her paler with a poisoned rose? Well, those were not our days: but did they find A wizard? Tell me, was he like to thee? She ceased, and made her lithe arm round his neck Tighten, and then drew back, and let her eyes Speak for her, glowing on him, like a bride's On her new lord, her own, the first of men. He answered laughing, 'Nay, not like to me. At last they found--his foragers for charms-A little glassy-headed hairless man, Who lived alone in a great wild on grass; Read but one book, and ever reading grew So grated down and filed away with thought, So lean his eyes were monstrous; while the skin Clung but to crate and basket, ribs and spine. And since he kept his mind on one sole aim, Nor ever touched fierce wine, nor tasted flesh, Nor owned a sensual wish, to him the wall That sunders ghosts and shadow-casting men Became a crystal, and he saw them through it, 380 And heard their voices talk behind the wall, And learnt their elemental secrets, powers And forces; often o'er the sun's bright eye Drew the vast eyelid of an inky cloud, And lashed it at the base with slanting storm; Or in the noon of mist and driving rain, When the lake whitened and the pinewood roared, And the cairned mountain was a shadow, sunned The world to peace again: here was the man. And so by force they dragged him to the King. And then he taught the King to charm the Queen In such-wise, that no man could see her more, Nor saw she save the King, who wrought the charm, Coming and going, and she lay as dead, And lost all use of life: but when the King Made proffer of the league of golden mines, The province with a hundred miles of coast, The palace and the princess, that old man Went back to his old wild, and lived on grass, And vanished, and his book came down to me.' And Vivien answered smiling saucily: 'Ye have the book: the charm is written in it: Good: take my counsel: let me know it at once: For keep it like a puzzle chest in chest, With each chest locked and padlocked thirty-fold, And whelm all this beneath as vast a mound As after furious battle turfs the slain On some wild down above the windy deep, I yet should strike upon a sudden means To dig, pick, open, find and read the charm: Then, if I tried it, who should blame me then?' And smiling as a master smiles at one That is not of his school, nor any school But that where blind and naked Ignorance Delivers brawling judgments, unashamed, On all things all day long, he answered her: 'Thou read the book, my pretty Vivien! O ay, it is but twenty pages long, But every page having an ample marge, 381 And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot, The text no larger than the limbs of fleas; And every square of text an awful charm, Writ in a language that has long gone by. So long, that mountains have arisen since With cities on their flanks--thou read the book! And ever margin scribbled, crost, and crammed With comment, densest condensation, hard To mind and eye; but the long sleepless nights Of my long life have made it easy to me. And none can read the text, not even I; And none can read the comment but myself; And in the comment did I find the charm. O, the results are simple; a mere child Might use it to the harm of anyone, And never could undo it: ask no more: For though you should not prove it upon me, But keep that oath ye sware, ye might, perchance, Assay it on some one of the Table Round, And all because ye dream they babble of you.' And Vivien, frowning in true anger, said: 'What dare the full-fed liars say of me? THEY ride abroad redressing human wrongs! They sit with knife in meat and wine in horn! THEY bound to holy vows of chastity! Were I not woman, I could tell a tale. But you are man, you well can understand The shame that cannot be explained for shame. Not one of all the drove should touch me: swine!' Then answered Merlin careless of her words: 'You breathe but accusation vast and vague, Spleen-born, I think, and proofless. If ye know, Set up the charge ye know, to stand or fall!' And Vivien answered frowning wrathfully: 'O ay, what say ye to Sir Valence, him Whose kinsman left him watcher o'er his wife And two fair babes, and went to distant lands; Was one year gone, and on returning found 382 Not two but three? there lay the reckling, one But one hour old! What said the happy sire?' A seven-months' babe had been a truer gift. Those twelve sweet moons confused his fatherhood.' Then answered Merlin, 'Nay, I know the tale. Sir Valence wedded with an outland dame: Some cause had kept him sundered from his wife: One child they had: it lived with her: she died: His kinsman travelling on his own affair Was charged by Valence to bring home the child. He brought, not found it therefore: take the truth.' 'O ay,' said Vivien, 'overtrue a tale. What say ye then to sweet Sir Sagramore, That ardent man? "to pluck the flower in season," So says the song, "I trow it is no treason." O Master, shall we call him overquick To crop his own sweet rose before the hour?' And Merlin answered, 'Overquick art thou To catch a loathly plume fallen from the wing Of that foul bird of rapine whose whole prey Is man's good name: he never wronged his bride. I know the tale. An angry gust of wind Puffed out his torch among the myriad-roomed And many-corridored complexities Of Arthur's palace: then he found a door, And darkling felt the sculptured ornament That wreathen round it made it seem his own; And wearied out made for the couch and slept, A stainless man beside a stainless maid; And either slept, nor knew of other there; Till the high dawn piercing the royal rose In Arthur's casement glimmered chastely down, Blushing upon them blushing, and at once He rose without a word and parted from her: But when the thing was blazed about the court, The brute world howling forced them into bonds, And as it chanced they are happy, being pure.' 'O ay,' said Vivien, 'that were likely too. 383 What say ye then to fair Sir Percivale And of the horrid foulness that he wrought, The saintly youth, the spotless lamb of Christ, Or some black wether of St Satan's fold. What, in the precincts of the chapel-yard, Among the knightly brasses of the graves, And by the cold Hic Jacets of the dead!' And Merlin answered careless of her charge, 'A sober man is Percivale and pure; But once in life was flustered with new wine, Then paced for coolness in the chapel-yard; Where one of Satan's shepherdesses caught And meant to stamp him with her master's mark; And that he sinned is not believable; For, look upon his face!--but if he sinned, The sin that practice burns into the blood, And not the one dark hour which brings remorse, Will brand us, after, of whose fold we be: Or else were he, the holy king, whose hymns Are chanted in the minster, worse than all. But is your spleen frothed out, or have ye more?' And Vivien answered frowning yet in wrath: 'O ay; what say ye to Sir Lancelot, friend Traitor or true? that commerce with the Queen, I ask you, is it clamoured by the child, Or whispered in the corner? do ye know it?' To which he answered sadly, 'Yea, I know it. Sir Lancelot went ambassador, at first, To fetch her, and she watched him from her walls. A rumour runs, she took him for the King, So fixt her fancy on him: let them be. But have ye no one word of loyal praise For Arthur, blameless King and stainless man?' She answered with a low and chuckling laugh: 'Man! is he man at all, who knows and winks? Sees what his fair bride is and does, and winks? By which the good King means to blind himself, And blinds himself and all the Table Round 384 To all the foulness that they work. Myself Could call him (were it not for womanhood) The pretty, popular cause such manhood earns, Could call him the main cause of all their crime; Yea, were he not crowned King, coward, and fool.' Then Merlin to his own heart, loathing, said: 'O true and tender! O my liege and King! O selfless man and stainless gentleman, Who wouldst against thine own eye-witness fain Have all men true and leal, all women pure; How, in the mouths of base interpreters, From over-fineness not intelligible To things with every sense as false and foul As the poached filth that floods the middle street, Is thy white blamelessness accounted blame!' But Vivien, deeming Merlin overborne By instance, recommenced, and let her tongue Rage like a fire among the noblest names, Polluting, and imputing her whole self, Defaming and defacing, till she left Not even Lancelot brave, nor Galahad clean. Her words had issue other than she willed. He dragged his eyebrow bushes down, and made A snowy penthouse for his hollow eyes, And muttered in himself, 'Tell HER the charm! So, if she had it, would she rail on me To snare the next, and if she have it not So will she rail. What did the wanton say? "Not mount as high;" we scarce can sink as low: For men at most differ as Heaven and earth, But women, worst and best, as Heaven and Hell. I know the Table Round, my friends of old; All brave, and many generous, and some chaste. She cloaks the scar of some repulse with lies; I well believe she tempted them and failed, Being so bitter: for fine plots may fail, Though harlots paint their talk as well as face With colours of the heart that are not theirs. I will not let her know: nine tithes of times 385 Face-flatterer and backbiter are the same. And they, sweet soul, that most impute a crime Are pronest to it, and impute themselves, Wanting the mental range; or low desire Not to feel lowest makes them level all; Yea, they would pare the mountain to the plain, To leave an equal baseness; and in this Are harlots like the crowd, that if they find Some stain or blemish in a name of note, Not grieving that their greatest are so small, Inflate themselves with some insane delight, And judge all nature from her feet of clay, Without the will to lift their eyes, and see Her godlike head crowned with spiritual fire, And touching other worlds. I am weary of her.' He spoke in words part heard, in whispers part, Half-suffocated in the hoary fell And many-wintered fleece of throat and chin. But Vivien, gathering somewhat of his mood, And hearing 'harlot' muttered twice or thrice, Leapt from her session on his lap, and stood Stiff as a viper frozen; loathsome sight, How from the rosy lips of life and love, Flashed the bare-grinning skeleton of death! White was her cheek; sharp breaths of anger puffed Her fairy nostril out; her hand half-clenched Went faltering sideways downward to her belt, And feeling; had she found a dagger there (For in a wink the false love turns to hate) She would have stabbed him; but she found it not: His eye was calm, and suddenly she took To bitter weeping like a beaten child, A long, long weeping, not consolable. Then her false voice made way, broken with sobs: 'O crueller than was ever told in tale, Or sung in song! O vainly lavished love! O cruel, there was nothing wild or strange, Or seeming shameful--for what shame in love, So love be true, and not as yours is--nothing Poor Vivien had not done to win his trust 386 Who called her what he called her--all her crime, All--all--the wish to prove him wholly hers.' She mused a little, and then clapt her hands Together with a wailing shriek, and said: 'Stabbed through the heart's affections to the heart! Seethed like the kid in its own mother's milk! Killed with a word worse than a life of blows! I thought that he was gentle, being great: O God, that I had loved a smaller man! I should have found in him a greater heart. O, I, that flattering my true passion, saw The knights, the court, the King, dark in your light, Who loved to make men darker than they are, Because of that high pleasure which I had To seat you sole upon my pedestal Of worship--I am answered, and henceforth The course of life that seemed so flowery to me With you for guide and master, only you, Becomes the sea-cliff pathway broken short, And ending in a ruin--nothing left, But into some low cave to crawl, and there, If the wolf spare me, weep my life away, Killed with inutterable unkindliness.' She paused, she turned away, she hung her head, The snake of gold slid from her hair, the braid Slipt and uncoiled itself, she wept afresh, And the dark wood grew darker toward the storm In silence, while his anger slowly died Within him, till he let his wisdom go For ease of heart, and half believed her true: Called her to shelter in the hollow oak, 'Come from the storm,' and having no reply, Gazed at the heaving shoulder, and the face Hand-hidden, as for utmost grief or shame; Then thrice essayed, by tenderest-touching terms, To sleek her ruffled peace of mind, in vain. At last she let herself be conquered by him, And as the cageling newly flown returns, The seeming-injured simple-hearted thing Came to her old perch back, and settled there. 387 There while she sat, half-falling from his knees, Half-nestled at his heart, and since he saw The slow tear creep from her closed eyelid yet, About her, more in kindness than in love, The gentle wizard cast a shielding arm. But she dislinked herself at once and rose, Her arms upon her breast across, and stood, A virtuous gentlewoman deeply wronged, Upright and flushed before him: then she said: 'There must now be no passages of love Betwixt us twain henceforward evermore; Since, if I be what I am grossly called, What should be granted which your own gross heart Would reckon worth the taking? I will go. In truth, but one thing now--better have died Thrice than have asked it once--could make me stay-That proof of trust--so often asked in vain! How justly, after that vile term of yours, I find with grief! I might believe you then, Who knows? once more. Lo! what was once to me Mere matter of the fancy, now hath grown The vast necessity of heart and life. Farewell; think gently of me, for I fear My fate or folly, passing gayer youth For one so old, must be to love thee still. But ere I leave thee let me swear once more That if I schemed against thy peace in this, May yon just heaven, that darkens o'er me, send One flash, that, missing all things else, may make My scheming brain a cinder, if I lie.' Scarce had she ceased, when out of heaven a bolt (For now the storm was close above them) struck, Furrowing a giant oak, and javelining With darted spikes and splinters of the wood The dark earth round. He raised his eyes and saw The tree that shone white-listed through the gloom. But Vivien, fearing heaven had heard her oath, And dazzled by the livid-flickering fork, And deafened with the stammering cracks and claps That followed, flying back and crying out, 388 'O Merlin, though you do not love me, save, Yet save me!' clung to him and hugged him close; And called him dear protector in her fright, Nor yet forgot her practice in her fright, But wrought upon his mood and hugged him close. The pale blood of the wizard at her touch Took gayer colours, like an opal warmed. She blamed herself for telling hearsay tales: She shook from fear, and for her fault she wept Of petulancy; she called him lord and liege, Her seer, her bard, her silver star of eve, Her God, her Merlin, the one passionate love Of her whole life; and ever overhead Bellowed the tempest, and the rotten branch Snapt in the rushing of the river-rain Above them; and in change of glare and gloom Her eyes and neck glittering went and came; Till now the storm, its burst of passion spent, Moaning and calling out of other lands, Had left the ravaged woodland yet once more To peace; and what should not have been had been, For Merlin, overtalked and overworn, Had yielded, told her all the charm, and slept. Then, in one moment, she put forth the charm Of woven paces and of waving hands, And in the hollow oak he lay as dead, And lost to life and use and name and fame. Then crying 'I have made his glory mine,' And shrieking out 'O fool!' the harlot leapt Adown the forest, and the thicket closed Behind her, and the forest echoed 'fool.' ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson

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

332:There are who lord it o'er their fellow-men With most prevailing tinsel: who unpen Their baaing vanities, to browse away The comfortable green and juicy hay From human pastures; or, O torturing fact! Who, through an idiot blink, will see unpack'd Fire-branded foxes to sear up and singe Our gold and ripe-ear'd hopes. With not one tinge Of sanctuary splendour, not a sight Able to face an owl's, they still are dight By the blear-eyed nations in empurpled vests, And crowns, and turbans. With unladen breasts, Save of blown self-applause, they proudly mount To their spirit's perch, their being's high account, Their tiptop nothings, their dull skies, their thrones Amid the fierce intoxicating tones Of trumpets, shoutings, and belabour'd drums, And sudden cannon. Ah! how all this hums, In wakeful ears, like uproar past and gone Like thunder clouds that spake to Babylon, And set those old Chaldeans to their tasks. Are then regalities all gilded masks? No, there are throned seats unscalable But by a patient wing, a constant spell, Or by ethereal things that, unconfin'd, Can make a ladder of the eternal wind, And poise about in cloudy thunder-tents To watch the abysm-birth of elements. Aye, 'bove the withering of old-lipp'd Fate A thousand Powers keep religious state, In water, fiery realm, and airy bourne; And, silent as a consecrated urn, Hold sphery sessions for a season due. Yet few of these far majesties, ah, few! Have bared their operations to this globe Few, who with gorgeous pageantry enrobe Our piece of heavenwhose benevolence Shakes hand with our own Ceres; every sense Filling with spiritual sweets to plenitude, As bees gorge full their cells. And, by the feud 'Twixt Nothing and Creation, I here swear, Eterne Apollo! that thy Sister fair Is of all these the gentlier-mightiest. When thy gold breath is misting in the west, She unobserved steals unto her throne, And there she sits most meek and most alone; As if she had not pomp subservient; As if thine eye, high Poet! was not bent Towards her with the Muses in thine heart; As if the ministring stars kept not apart, Waiting for silver-footed messages. O Moon! the oldest shades 'mong oldest trees Feel palpitations when thou lookest in: O Moon! old boughs lisp forth a holier din The while they feel thine airy fellowship. Thou dost bless every where, with silver lip Kissing dead things to life. The sleeping kine, Couched in thy brightness, dream of fields divine: Innumerable mountains rise, and rise, Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes; And yet thy benediction passeth not One obscure hiding-place, one little spot Where pleasure may be sent: the nested wren Has thy fair face within its tranquil ken, And from beneath a sheltering ivy leaf Takes glimpses of thee; thou art a relief To the poor patient oyster, where it sleeps Within its pearly house.The mighty deeps, The monstrous sea is thinethe myriad sea! O Moon! far-spooming Ocean bows to thee, And Tellus feels his forehead's cumbrous load. Cynthia! where art thou now? What far abode Of green or silvery bower doth enshrine Such utmost beauty? Alas, thou dost pine For one as sorrowful: thy cheek is pale For one whose cheek is pale: thou dost bewail His tears, who weeps for thee. Where dost thou sigh? Ah! surely that light peeps from Vesper's eye, Or what a thing is love! 'Tis She, but lo! How chang'd, how full of ache, how gone in woe! She dies at the thinnest cloud; her loveliness Is wan on Neptune's blue: yet there's a stress Of love-spangles, just off yon cape of trees, Dancing upon the waves, as if to please The curly foam with amorous influence. O, not so idle: for down-glancing thence She fathoms eddies, and runs wild about O'erwhelming water-courses; scaring out The thorny sharks from hiding-holes, and fright'ning Their savage eyes with unaccustomed lightning. Where will the splendor be content to reach? O love! how potent hast thou been to teach Strange journeyings! Wherever beauty dwells, In gulf or aerie, mountains or deep dells, In light, in gloom, in star or blazing sun, Thou pointest out the way, and straight 'tis won. Amid his toil thou gav'st Leander breath; Thou leddest Orpheus through the gleams of death; Thou madest Pluto bear thin element; And now, O winged Chieftain! thou hast sent A moon-beam to the deep, deep water-world, To find Endymion.          On gold sand impearl'd With lily shells, and pebbles milky white, Poor Cynthia greeted him, and sooth'd her light Against his pallid face: he felt the charm To breathlessness, and suddenly a warm Of his heart's blood: 'twas very sweet; he stay'd His wandering steps, and half-entranced laid His head upon a tuft of straggling weeds, To taste the gentle moon, and freshening beads, Lashed from the crystal roof by fishes' tails. And so he kept, until the rosy veils Mantling the east, by Aurora's peering hand Were lifted from the water's breast, and fann'd Into sweet air; and sober'd morning came Meekly through billows:when like taper-flame Left sudden by a dallying breath of air, He rose in silence, and once more 'gan fare Along his fated way.            Far had he roam'd, With nothing save the hollow vast, that foam'd Above, around, and at his feet; save things More dead than Morpheus' imaginings: Old rusted anchors, helmets, breast-plates large Of gone sea-warriors; brazen beaks and targe; Rudders that for a hundred years had lost The sway of human hand; gold vase emboss'd With long-forgotten story, and wherein No reveller had ever dipp'd a chin But those of Saturn's vintage; mouldering scrolls, Writ in the tongue of heaven, by those souls Who first were on the earth; and sculptures rude In ponderous stone, developing the mood Of ancient Nox;then skeletons of man, Of beast, behemoth, and leviathan, And elephant, and eagle, and huge jaw Of nameless monster. A cold leaden awe These secrets struck into him; and unless Dian had chaced away that heaviness, He might have died: but now, with cheered feel, He onward kept; wooing these thoughts to steal About the labyrinth in his soul of love. "What is there in thee, Moon! that thou shouldst move My heart so potently? When yet a child I oft have dried my tears when thou hast smil'd. Thou seem'dst my sister: hand in hand we went From eve to morn across the firmament. No apples would I gather from the tree, Till thou hadst cool'd their cheeks deliciously: No tumbling water ever spake romance, But when my eyes with thine thereon could dance: No woods were green enough, no bower divine, Until thou liftedst up thine eyelids fine: In sowing time ne'er would I dibble take, Or drop a seed, till thou wast wide awake; And, in the summer tide of blossoming, No one but thee hath heard me blithly sing And mesh my dewy flowers all the night. No melody was like a passing spright If it went not to solemnize thy reign. Yes, in my boyhood, every joy and pain By thee were fashion'd to the self-same end; And as I grew in years, still didst thou blend With all my ardours: thou wast the deep glen; Thou wast the mountain-topthe sage's pen The poet's harpthe voice of friendsthe sun; Thou wast the riverthou wast glory won; Thou wast my clarion's blastthou wast my steed My goblet full of winemy topmost deed: Thou wast the charm of women, lovely Moon! O what a wild and harmonized tune My spirit struck from all the beautiful! On some bright essence could I lean, and lull Myself to immortality: I prest Nature's soft pillow in a wakeful rest. But, gentle Orb! there came a nearer bliss My strange love cameFelicity's abyss! She came, and thou didst fade, and fade away Yet not entirely; no, thy starry sway Has been an under-passion to this hour. Now I begin to feel thine orby power Is coming fresh upon me: O be kind, Keep back thine influence, and do not blind My sovereign vision.Dearest love, forgive That I can think away from thee and live! Pardon me, airy planet, that I prize One thought beyond thine argent luxuries! How far beyond!" At this a surpris'd start Frosted the springing verdure of his heart; For as he lifted up his eyes to swear How his own goddess was past all things fair, He saw far in the concave green of the sea An old man sitting calm and peacefully. Upon a weeded rock this old man sat, And his white hair was awful, and a mat Of weeds were cold beneath his cold thin feet; And, ample as the largest winding-sheet, A cloak of blue wrapp'd up his aged bones, O'erwrought with symbols by the deepest groans Of ambitious magic: every ocean-form Was woven in with black distinctness; storm, And calm, and whispering, and hideous roar Were emblem'd in the woof; with every shape That skims, or dives, or sleeps, 'twixt cape and cape. The gulphing whale was like a dot in the spell, Yet look upon it, and 'twould size and swell To its huge self; and the minutest fish Would pass the very hardest gazer's wish, And show his little eye's anatomy. Then there was pictur'd the regality Of Neptune; and the sea nymphs round his state, In beauteous vassalage, look up and wait. Beside this old man lay a pearly wand, And in his lap a book, the which he conn'd So stedfastly, that the new denizen Had time to keep him in amazed ken, To mark these shadowings, and stand in awe. The old man rais'd his hoary head and saw The wilder'd strangerseeming not to see, His features were so lifeless. Suddenly He woke as from a trance; his snow-white brows Went arching up, and like two magic ploughs Furrow'd deep wrinkles in his forehead large, Which kept as fixedly as rocky marge, Till round his wither'd lips had gone a smile. Then up he rose, like one whose tedious toil Had watch'd for years in forlorn hermitage, Who had not from mid-life to utmost age Eas'd in one accent his o'er-burden'd soul, Even to the trees. He rose: he grasp'd his stole, With convuls'd clenches waving it abroad, And in a voice of solemn joy, that aw'd Echo into oblivion, he said: "Thou art the man! Now shall I lay my head In peace upon my watery pillow: now Sleep will come smoothly to my weary brow. O Jove! I shall be young again, be young! O shell-borne Neptune, I am pierc'd and stung With new-born life! What shall I do? Where go, When I have cast this serpent-skin of woe? I'll swim to the syrens, and one moment listen Their melodies, and see their long hair glisten; Anon upon that giant's arm I'll be, That writhes about the roots of Sicily: To northern seas I'll in a twinkling sail, And mount upon the snortings of a whale To some black cloud; thence down I'll madly sweep On forked lightning, to the deepest deep, Where through some sucking pool I will be hurl'd With rapture to the other side of the world! O, I am full of gladness! Sisters three, I bow full hearted to your old decree! Yes, every god be thank'd, and power benign, For I no more shall wither, droop, and pine. Thou art the man!" Endymion started back Dismay'd; and, like a wretch from whom the rack Tortures hot breath, and speech of agony, Mutter'd: "What lonely death am I to die In this cold region? Will he let me freeze, And float my brittle limbs o'er polar seas? Or will he touch me with his searing hand, And leave a black memorial on the sand? Or tear me piece-meal with a bony saw, And keep me as a chosen food to draw His magian fish through hated fire and flame? O misery of hell! resistless, tame, Am I to be burnt up? No, I will shout, Until the gods through heaven's blue look out! O Tartarus! but some few days agone Her soft arms were entwining me, and on Her voice I hung like fruit among green leaves: Her lips were all my own, andah, ripe sheaves Of happiness! ye on the stubble droop, But never may be garner'd. I must stoop My head, and kiss death's foot. Love! love, farewel! Is there no hope from thee? This horrid spell Would melt at thy sweet breath.By Dian's hind Feeding from her white fingers, on the wind I see thy streaming hair! and now, by Pan, I care not for this old mysterious man!" He spake, and walking to that aged form, Look'd high defiance. Lo! his heart 'gan warm With pity, for the grey-hair'd creature wept. Had he then wrong'd a heart where sorrow kept? Had he, though blindly contumelious, brought Rheum to kind eyes, a sting to human thought, Convulsion to a mouth of many years? He had in truth; and he was ripe for tears. The penitent shower fell, as down he knelt Before that care-worn sage, who trembling felt About his large dark locks, and faultering spake: "Arise, good youth, for sacred Phoebus' sake! I know thine inmost bosom, and I feel A very brother's yearning for thee steal Into mine own: for why? thou openest The prison gates that have so long opprest My weary watching. Though thou know'st it not, Thou art commission'd to this fated spot For great enfranchisement. O weep no more; I am a friend to love, to loves of yore: Aye, hadst thou never lov'd an unknown power I had been grieving at this joyous hour But even now most miserable old, I saw thee, and my blood no longer cold Gave mighty pulses: in this tottering case Grew a new heart, which at this moment plays As dancingly as thine. Be not afraid, For thou shalt hear this secret all display'd, Now as we speed towards our joyous task." So saying, this young soul in age's mask Went forward with the Carian side by side: Resuming quickly thus; while ocean's tide Hung swollen at their backs, and jewel'd sands Took silently their foot-prints. "My soul stands Now past the midway from mortality, And so I can prepare without a sigh To tell thee briefly all my joy and pain. I was a fisher once, upon this main, And my boat danc'd in every creek and bay; Rough billows were my home by night and day, The sea-gulls not more constant; for I had No housing from the storm and tempests mad, But hollow rocks,and they were palaces Of silent happiness, of slumberous ease: Long years of misery have told me so. Aye, thus it was one thousand years ago. One thousand years!Is it then possible To look so plainly through them? to dispel A thousand years with backward glance sublime? To breathe away as 'twere all scummy slime From off a crystal pool, to see its deep, And one's own image from the bottom peep? Yes: now I am no longer wretched thrall, My long captivity and moanings all Are but a slime, a thin-pervading scum, The which I breathe away, and thronging come Like things of yesterday my youthful pleasures. "I touch'd no lute, I sang not, trod no measures: I was a lonely youth on desert shores. My sports were lonely, 'mid continuous roars, And craggy isles, and sea-mew's plaintive cry Plaining discrepant between sea and sky. Dolphins were still my playmates; shapes unseen Would let me feel their scales of gold and green, Nor be my desolation; and, full oft, When a dread waterspout had rear'd aloft Its hungry hugeness, seeming ready ripe To burst with hoarsest thunderings, and wipe My life away like a vast sponge of fate, Some friendly monster, pitying my sad state, Has dived to its foundations, gulph'd it down, And left me tossing safely. But the crown Of all my life was utmost quietude: More did I love to lie in cavern rude, Keeping in wait whole days for Neptune's voice, And if it came at last, hark, and rejoice! There blush'd no summer eve but I would steer My skiff along green shelving coasts, to hear The shepherd's pipe come clear from aery steep, Mingled with ceaseless bleatings of his sheep: And never was a day of summer shine, But I beheld its birth upon the brine: For I would watch all night to see unfold Heaven's gates, and Aethon snort his morning gold Wide o'er the swelling streams: and constantly At brim of day-tide, on some grassy lea, My nets would be spread out, and I at rest. The poor folk of the sea-country I blest With daily boon of fish most delicate: They knew not whence this bounty, and elate Would strew sweet flowers on a sterile beach. "Why was I not contented? Wherefore reach At things which, but for thee, O Latmian! Had been my dreary death? Fool! I began To feel distemper'd longings: to desire The utmost privilege that ocean's sire Could grant in benediction: to be free Of all his kingdom. Long in misery I wasted, ere in one extremest fit I plung'd for life or death. To interknit One's senses with so dense a breathing stuff Might seem a work of pain; so not enough Can I admire how crystal-smooth it felt, And buoyant round my limbs. At first I dwelt Whole days and days in sheer astonishment; Forgetful utterly of self-intent; Moving but with the mighty ebb and flow. Then, like a new fledg'd bird that first doth shew His spreaded feathers to the morrow chill, I tried in fear the pinions of my will. 'Twas freedom! and at once I visited The ceaseless wonders of this ocean-bed. No need to tell thee of them, for I see That thou hast been a witnessit must be For these I know thou canst not feel a drouth, By the melancholy corners of that mouth. So I will in my story straightway pass To more immediate matter. Woe, alas! That love should be my bane! Ah, Scylla fair! Why did poor Glaucus everever dare To sue thee to his heart? Kind stranger-youth! I lov'd her to the very white of truth, And she would not conceive it. Timid thing! She fled me swift as sea-bird on the wing, Round every isle, and point, and promontory, From where large Hercules wound up his story Far as Egyptian Nile. My passion grew The more, the more I saw her dainty hue Gleam delicately through the azure clear: Until 'twas too fierce agony to bear; And in that agony, across my grief It flash'd, that Circe might find some relief Cruel enchantress! So above the water I rear'd my head, and look'd for Phoebus' daughter. Aeaea's isle was wondering at the moon: It seem'd to whirl around me, and a swoon Left me dead-drifting to that fatal power. "When I awoke, 'twas in a twilight bower; Just when the light of morn, with hum of bees, Stole through its verdurous matting of fresh trees. How sweet, and sweeter! for I heard a lyre, And over it a sighing voice expire. It ceasedI caught light footsteps; and anon The fairest face that morn e'er look'd upon Push'd through a screen of roses. Starry Jove! With tears, and smiles, and honey-words she wove A net whose thraldom was more bliss than all The range of flower'd Elysium. Thus did fall The dew of her rich speech: "Ah! Art awake? O let me hear thee speak, for Cupid's sake! I am so oppress'd with joy! Why, I have shed An urn of tears, as though thou wert cold dead; And now I find thee living, I will pour From these devoted eyes their silver store, Until exhausted of the latest drop, So it will pleasure thee, and force thee stop Here, that I too may live: but if beyond Such cool and sorrowful offerings, thou art fond Of soothing warmth, of dalliance supreme; If thou art ripe to taste a long love dream; If smiles, if dimples, tongues for ardour mute, Hang in thy vision like a tempting fruit, O let me pluck it for thee." Thus she link'd Her charming syllables, till indistinct Their music came to my o'er-sweeten'd soul; And then she hover'd over me, and stole So near, that if no nearer it had been This furrow'd visage thou hadst never seen. "Young man of Latmos! thus particular Am I, that thou may'st plainly see how far This fierce temptation went: and thou may'st not Exclaim, How then, was Scylla quite forgot? "Who could resist? Who in this universe? She did so breathe ambrosia; so immerse My fine existence in a golden clime. She took me like a child of suckling time, And cradled me in roses. Thus condemn'd, The current of my former life was stemm'd, And to this arbitrary queen of sense I bow'd a tranced vassal: nor would thence Have mov'd, even though Amphion's harp had woo'd Me back to Scylla o'er the billows rude. For as Apollo each eve doth devise A new appareling for western skies; So every eve, nay every spendthrift hour Shed balmy consciousness within that bower. And I was free of haunts umbrageous; Could wander in the mazy forest-house Of squirrels, foxes shy, and antler'd deer, And birds from coverts innermost and drear Warbling for very joy mellifluous sorrow To me new born delights!              "Now let me borrow, For moments few, a temperament as stern As Pluto's sceptre, that my words not burn These uttering lips, while I in calm speech tell How specious heaven was changed to real hell. "One morn she left me sleeping: half awake I sought for her smooth arms and lips, to slake My greedy thirst with nectarous camel-draughts; But she was gone. Whereat the barbed shafts Of disappointment stuck in me so sore, That out I ran and search'd the forest o'er. Wandering about in pine and cedar gloom Damp awe assail'd me; for there 'gan to boom A sound of moan, an agony of sound, Sepulchral from the distance all around. Then came a conquering earth-thunder, and rumbled That fierce complain to silence: while I stumbled Down a precipitous path, as if impell'd. I came to a dark valley.Groanings swell'd Poisonous about my ears, and louder grew, The nearer I approach'd a flame's gaunt blue, That glar'd before me through a thorny brake. This fire, like the eye of gordian snake, Bewitch'd me towards; and I soon was near A sight too fearful for the feel of fear: In thicket hid I curs'd the haggard scene The banquet of my arms, my arbour queen, Seated upon an uptorn forest root; And all around her shapes, wizard and brute, Laughing, and wailing, groveling, serpenting, Shewing tooth, tusk, and venom-bag, and sting! O such deformities! Old Charon's self, Should he give up awhile his penny pelf, And take a dream 'mong rushes Stygian, It could not be so phantasied. Fierce, wan, And tyrannizing was the lady's look, As over them a gnarled staff she shook. Oft-times upon the sudden she laugh'd out, And from a basket emptied to the rout Clusters of grapes, the which they raven'd quick And roar'd for more; with many a hungry lick About their shaggy jaws. Avenging, slow, Anon she took a branch of mistletoe, And emptied on't a black dull-gurgling phial: Groan'd one and all, as if some piercing trial Was sharpening for their pitiable bones. She lifted up the charm: appealing groans From their poor breasts went sueing to her ear In vain; remorseless as an infant's bier She whisk'd against their eyes the sooty oil. Whereat was heard a noise of painful toil, Increasing gradual to a tempest rage, Shrieks, yells, and groans of torture-pilgrimage; Until their grieved bodies 'gan to bloat And puff from the tail's end to stifled throat: Then was appalling silence: then a sight More wildering than all that hoarse affright; For the whole herd, as by a whirlwind writhen, Went through the dismal air like one huge Python Antagonizing Boreas,and so vanish'd. Yet there was not a breath of wind: she banish'd These phantoms with a nod. Lo! from the dark Came waggish fauns, and nymphs, and satyrs stark, With dancing and loud revelry,and went Swifter than centaurs after rapine bent. Sighing an elephant appear'd and bow'd Before the fierce witch, speaking thus aloud In human accent: "Potent goddess! chief Of pains resistless! make my being brief, Or let me from this heavy prison fly: Or give me to the air, or let me die! I sue not for my happy crown again; I sue not for my phalanx on the plain; I sue not for my lone, my widow'd wife; I sue not for my ruddy drops of life, My children fair, my lovely girls and boys! I will forget them; I will pass these joys; Ask nought so heavenward, so tootoo high: Only I pray, as fairest boon, to die, Or be deliver'd from this cumbrous flesh, From this gross, detestable, filthy mesh, And merely given to the cold bleak air. Have mercy, Goddess! Circe, feel my prayer!" That curst magician's name fell icy numb Upon my wild conjecturing: truth had come Naked and sabre-like against my heart. I saw a fury whetting a death-dart; And my slain spirit, overwrought with fright, Fainted away in that dark lair of night. Think, my deliverer, how desolate My waking must have been! disgust, and hate, And terrors manifold divided me A spoil amongst them. I prepar'd to flee Into the dungeon core of that wild wood: I fled three dayswhen lo! before me stood Glaring the angry witch. O Dis, even now, A clammy dew is beading on my brow, At mere remembering her pale laugh, and curse. "Ha! ha! Sir Dainty! there must be a nurse Made of rose leaves and thistledown, express, To cradle thee my sweet, and lull thee: yes, I am too flinty-hard for thy nice touch: My tenderest squeeze is but a giant's clutch. So, fairy-thing, it shall have lullabies Unheard of yet; and it shall still its cries Upon some breast more lily-feminine. Oh, noit shall not pine, and pine, and pine More than one pretty, trifling thousand years; And then 'twere pity, but fate's gentle shears Cut short its immortality. Sea-flirt! Young dove of the waters! truly I'll not hurt One hair of thine: see how I weep and sigh, That our heart-broken parting is so nigh. And must we part? Ah, yes, it must be so. Yet ere thou leavest me in utter woe, Let me sob over thee my last adieus, And speak a blessing: Mark me! thou hast thews Immortal, for thou art of heavenly race: But such a love is mine, that here I chase Eternally away from thee all bloom Of youth, and destine thee towards a tomb. Hence shalt thou quickly to the watery vast; And there, ere many days be overpast, Disabled age shall seize thee; and even then Thou shalt not go the way of aged men; But live and wither, cripple and still breathe Ten hundred years: which gone, I then bequeath Thy fragile bones to unknown burial. Adieu, sweet love, adieu!"As shot stars fall, She fled ere I could groan for mercy. Stung And poisoned was my spirit: despair sung A war-song of defiance 'gainst all hell. A hand was at my shoulder to compel My sullen steps; another 'fore my eyes Moved on with pointed finger. In this guise Enforced, at the last by ocean's foam I found me; by my fresh, my native home. Its tempering coolness, to my life akin, Came salutary as I waded in; And, with a blind voluptuous rage, I gave Battle to the swollen billow-ridge, and drave Large froth before me, while there yet remain'd Hale strength, nor from my bones all marrow drain'd. "Young lover, I must weepsuch hellish spite With dry cheek who can tell? While thus my might Proving upon this element, dismay'd, Upon a dead thing's face my hand I laid; I look'd'twas Scylla! Cursed, cursed Circe! O vulture-witch, hast never heard of mercy? Could not thy harshest vengeance be content, But thou must nip this tender innocent Because I lov'd her?Cold, O cold indeed Were her fair limbs, and like a common weed The sea-swell took her hair. Dead as she was I clung about her waist, nor ceas'd to pass Fleet as an arrow through unfathom'd brine, Until there shone a fabric crystalline, Ribb'd and inlaid with coral, pebble, and pearl. Headlong I darted; at one eager swirl Gain'd its bright portal, enter'd, and behold! 'Twas vast, and desolate, and icy-cold; And all aroundBut wherefore this to thee Who in few minutes more thyself shalt see? I left poor Scylla in a niche and fled. My fever'd parchings up, my scathing dread Met palsy half way: soon these limbs became Gaunt, wither'd, sapless, feeble, cramp'd, and lame. "Now let me pass a cruel, cruel space, Without one hope, without one faintest trace Of mitigation, or redeeming bubble Of colour'd phantasy; for I fear 'twould trouble Thy brain to loss of reason: and next tell How a restoring chance came down to quell One half of the witch in me.        On a day, Sitting upon a rock above the spray, I saw grow up from the horizon's brink A gallant vessel: soon she seem'd to sink Away from me again, as though her course Had been resum'd in spite of hindering force So vanish'd: and not long, before arose Dark clouds, and muttering of winds morose. Old Eolus would stifle his mad spleen, But could not: therefore all the billows green Toss'd up the silver spume against the clouds. The tempest came: I saw that vessel's shrouds In perilous bustle; while upon the deck Stood trembling creatures. I beheld the wreck; The final gulphing; the poor struggling souls: I heard their cries amid loud thunder-rolls. O they had all been sav'd but crazed eld Annull'd my vigorous cravings: and thus quell'd And curb'd, think on't, O Latmian! did I sit Writhing with pity, and a cursing fit Against that hell-born Circe. The crew had gone, By one and one, to pale oblivion; And I was gazing on the surges prone, With many a scalding tear and many a groan, When at my feet emerg'd an old man's hand, Grasping this scroll, and this same slender wand. I knelt with painreached out my handhad grasp'd These treasurestouch'd the knucklesthey unclasp'd I caught a finger: but the downward weight O'erpowered meit sank. Then 'gan abate The storm, and through chill aguish gloom outburst The comfortable sun. I was athirst To search the book, and in the warming air Parted its dripping leaves with eager care. Strange matters did it treat of, and drew on My soul page after page, till well-nigh won Into forgetfulness; when, stupefied, I read these words, and read again, and tried My eyes against the heavens, and read again. O what a load of misery and pain Each Atlas-line bore off!a shine of hope Came gold around me, cheering me to cope Strenuous with hellish tyranny. Attend! For thou hast brought their promise to an end. "In the wide sea there lives a forlorn wretch, Doom'd with enfeebled carcase to outstretch His loath'd existence through ten centuries, And then to die alone. Who can devise A total opposition? No one. So One million times ocean must ebb and flow, And he oppressed. Yet he shall not die, These things accomplish'd:If he utterly Scans all the depths of magic, and expounds The meanings of all motions, shapes, and sounds; If he explores all forms and substances Straight homeward to their symbol-essences; He shall not die. Moreover, and in chief, He must pursue this task of joy and grief Most piously;all lovers tempest-tost, And in the savage overwhelming lost, He shall deposit side by side, until Time's creeping shall the dreary space fulfil: Which done, and all these labours ripened, A youth, by heavenly power lov'd and led, Shall stand before him; whom he shall direct How to consummate all. The youth elect Must do the thing, or both will be destroy'd." "Then," cried the young Endymion, overjoy'd, "We are twin brothers in this destiny! Say, I intreat thee, what achievement high Is, in this restless world, for me reserv'd. What! if from thee my wandering feet had swerv'd, Had we both perish'd?""Look!" the sage replied, "Dost thou not mark a gleaming through the tide, Of divers brilliances? 'tis the edifice I told thee of, where lovely Scylla lies; And where I have enshrined piously All lovers, whom fell storms have doom'd to die Throughout my bondage." Thus discoursing, on They went till unobscur'd the porches shone; Which hurryingly they gain'd, and enter'd straight. Sure never since king Neptune held his state Was seen such wonder underneath the stars. Turn to some level plain where haughty Mars Has legion'd all his battle; and behold How every soldier, with firm foot, doth hold His even breast: see, many steeled squares, And rigid ranks of ironwhence who dares One step? Imagine further, line by line, These warrior thousands on the field supine: So in that crystal place, in silent rows, Poor lovers lay at rest from joys and woes. The stranger from the mountains, breathless, trac'd Such thousands of shut eyes in order plac'd; Such ranges of white feet, and patient lips All ruddy,for here death no blossom nips. He mark'd their brows and foreheads; saw their hair Put sleekly on one side with nicest care; And each one's gentle wrists, with reverence, Put cross-wise to its heart.                "Let us commence, Whisper'd the guide, stuttering with joy, even now." He spake, and, trembling like an aspen-bough, Began to tear his scroll in pieces small, Uttering the while some mumblings funeral. He tore it into pieces small as snow That drifts unfeather'd when bleak northerns blow; And having done it, took his dark blue cloak And bound it round Endymion: then struck His wand against the empty air times nine. "What more there is to do, young man, is thine: But first a little patience; first undo This tangled thread, and wind it to a clue. Ah, gentle! 'tis as weak as spider's skein; And shouldst thou break itWhat, is it done so clean? A power overshadows thee! Oh, brave! The spite of hell is tumbling to its grave. Here is a shell; 'tis pearly blank to me, Nor mark'd with any sign or charactery Canst thou read aught? O read for pity's sake! Olympus! we are safe! Now, Carian, break This wand against yon lyre on the pedestal." 'Twas done: and straight with sudden swell and fall Sweet music breath'd her soul away, and sigh'd A lullaby to silence."Youth! now strew These minced leaves on me, and passing through Those files of dead, scatter the same around, And thou wilt see the issue."'Mid the sound Of flutes and viols, ravishing his heart, Endymion from Glaucus stood apart, And scatter'd in his face some fragments light. How lightning-swift the change! a youthful wight Smiling beneath a coral diadem, Out-sparkling sudden like an upturn'd gem, Appear'd, and, stepping to a beauteous corse, Kneel'd down beside it, and with tenderest force Press'd its cold hand, and weptand Scylla sigh'd! Endymion, with quick hand, the charm applied The nymph arose: he left them to their joy, And onward went upon his high employ, Showering those powerful fragments on the dead. And, as he pass'd, each lifted up its head, As doth a flower at Apollo's touch. Death felt it to his inwards; 'twas too much: Death fell a weeping in his charnel-house. The Latmian persever'd along, and thus All were re-animated. There arose A noise of harmony, pulses and throes Of gladness in the airwhile many, who Had died in mutual arms devout and true, Sprang to each other madly; and the rest Felt a high certainty of being blest. They gaz'd upon Endymion. Enchantment Grew drunken, and would have its head and bent. Delicious symphonies, like airy flowers, Budded, and swell'd, and, full-blown, shed full showers Of light, soft, unseen leaves of sounds divine. The two deliverers tasted a pure wine Of happiness, from fairy-press ooz'd out. Speechless they eyed each other, and about The fair assembly wander'd to and fro, Distracted with the richest overflow Of joy that ever pour'd from heaven.                   "Away!" Shouted the new-born god; "Follow, and pay Our piety to Neptunus supreme!" Then Scylla, blushing sweetly from her dream, They led on first, bent to her meek surprise, Through portal columns of a giant size, Into the vaulted, boundless emerald. Joyous all follow'd, as the leader call'd, Down marble steps; pouring as easily As hour-glass sandand fast, as you might see Swallows obeying the south summer's call, Or swans upon a gentle waterfall. Thus went that beautiful multitude, nor far, Ere from among some rocks of glittering spar, Just within ken, they saw descending thick Another multitude. Whereat more quick Moved either host. On a wide sand they met, And of those numbers every eye was wet; For each their old love found. A murmuring rose, Like what was never heard in all the throes Of wind and waters: 'tis past human wit To tell; 'tis dizziness to think of it. This mighty consummation made, the host Mov'd on for many a league; and gain'd, and lost Huge sea-marks; vanward swelling in array, And from the rear diminishing away, Till a faint dawn surpris'd them. Glaucus cried, "Behold! behold, the palace of his pride! God Neptune's palaces!" With noise increas'd, They shoulder'd on towards that brightening east. At every onward step proud domes arose In prospect,diamond gleams, and golden glows Of amber 'gainst their faces levelling. Joyous, and many as the leaves in spring, Still onward; still the splendour gradual swell'd. Rich opal domes were seen, on high upheld By jasper pillars, letting through their shafts A blush of coral. Copious wonder-draughts Each gazer drank; and deeper drank more near: For what poor mortals fragment up, as mere As marble was there lavish, to the vast Of one fair palace, that far far surpass'd, Even for common bulk, those olden three, Memphis, and Babylon, and Nineveh. As large, as bright, as colour'd as the bow Of Iris, when unfading it doth shew Beyond a silvery shower, was the arch Through which this Paphian army took its march, Into the outer courts of Neptune's state: Whence could be seen, direct, a golden gate, To which the leaders sped; but not half raught Ere it burst open swift as fairy thought, And made those dazzled thousands veil their eyes Like callow eagles at the first sunrise. Soon with an eagle nativeness their gaze Ripe from hue-golden swoons took all the blaze, And then, behold! large Neptune on his throne Of emerald deep: yet not exalt alone; At his right hand stood winged Love, and on His left sat smiling Beauty's paragon. Far as the mariner on highest mast Can see all round upon the calmed vast, So wide was Neptune's hall: and as the blue Doth vault the waters, so the waters drew Their doming curtains, high, magnificent, Aw'd from the throne aloof;and when storm-rent Disclos'd the thunder-gloomings in Jove's air; But sooth'd as now, flash'd sudden everywhere, Noiseless, sub-marine cloudlets, glittering Death to a human eye: for there did spring From natural west, and east, and south, and north, A light as of four sunsets, blazing forth A gold-green zenith 'bove the Sea-God's head. Of lucid depth the floor, and far outspread As breezeless lake, on which the slim canoe Of feather'd Indian darts about, as through The delicatest air: air verily, But for the portraiture of clouds and sky: This palace floor breath-air,but for the amaze Of deep-seen wonders motionless,and blaze Of the dome pomp, reflected in extremes, Globing a golden sphere.              They stood in dreams Till Triton blew his horn. The palace rang; The Nereids danc'd; the Syrens faintly sang; And the great Sea-King bow'd his dripping head. Then Love took wing, and from his pinions shed On all the multitude a nectarous dew. The ooze-born Goddess beckoned and drew Fair Scylla and her guides to conference; And when they reach'd the throned eminence She kist the sea-nymph's cheek,who sat her down A toying with the doves. Then,"Mighty crown And sceptre of this kingdom!" Venus said, "Thy vows were on a time to Nais paid: Behold!"Two copious tear-drops instant fell From the God's large eyes; he smil'd delectable, And over Glaucus held his blessing hands. "Endymion! Ah! still wandering in the bands Of love? Now this is cruel. Since the hour I met thee in earth's bosom, all my power Have I put forth to serve thee. What, not yet Escap'd from dull mortality's harsh net? A little patience, youth! 'twill not be long, Or I am skilless quite: an idle tongue, A humid eye, and steps luxurious, Where these are new and strange, are ominous. Aye, I have seen these signs in one of heaven, When others were all blind; and were I given To utter secrets, haply I might say Some pleasant words:but Love will have his day. So wait awhile expectant. Pr'ythee soon, Even in the passing of thine honey-moon, Visit my Cytherea: thou wilt find Cupid well-natured, my Adonis kind; And pray persuade with theeAh, I have done, All blisses be upon thee, my sweet son!" Thus the fair goddess: while Endymion Knelt to receive those accents halcyon. Meantime a glorious revelry began Before the Water-Monarch. Nectar ran In courteous fountains to all cups outreach'd; And plunder'd vines, teeming exhaustless, pleach'd New growth about each shell and pendent lyre; The which, in disentangling for their fire, Pull'd down fresh foliage and coverture For dainty toying. Cupid, empire-sure, Flutter'd and laugh'd, and oft-times through the throng Made a delighted way. Then dance, and song, And garlanding grew wild; and pleasure reign'd. In harmless tendril they each other chain'd, And strove who should be smother'd deepest in Fresh crush of leaves.              O 'tis a very sin For one so weak to venture his poor verse In such a place as this. O do not curse, High Muses! let him hurry to the ending. All suddenly were silent. A soft blending Of dulcet instruments came charmingly; And then a hymn.           "KING of the stormy sea! Brother of Jove, and co-inheritor Of elements! Eternally before Thee the waves awful bow. Fast, stubborn rock, At thy fear'd trident shrinking, doth unlock Its deep foundations, hissing into foam. All mountain-rivers lost, in the wide home Of thy capacious bosom ever flow. Thou frownest, and old Eolus thy foe Skulks to his cavern, 'mid the gruff complaint Of all his rebel tempests. Dark clouds faint When, from thy diadem, a silver gleam Slants over blue dominion. Thy bright team Gulphs in the morning light, and scuds along To bring thee nearer to that golden song Apollo singeth, while his chariot Waits at the doors of heaven. Thou art not For scenes like this: an empire stern hast thou; And it hath furrow'd that large front: yet now, As newly come of heaven, dost thou sit To blend and interknit Subdued majesty with this glad time. O shell-borne King sublime! We lay our hearts before thee evermore We sing, and we adore! "Breathe softly, flutes; Be tender of your strings, ye soothing lutes; Nor be the trumpet heard! O vain, O vain; Not flowers budding in an April rain, Nor breath of sleeping dove, nor river's flow, No, nor the Eolian twang of Love's own bow, Can mingle music fit for the soft ear Of goddess Cytherea! Yet deign, white Queen of Beauty, thy fair eyes On our souls' sacrifice. "Bright-winged Child! Who has another care when thou hast smil'd? Unfortunates on earth, we see at last All death-shadows, and glooms that overcast Our spirits, fann'd away by thy light pinions. O sweetest essence! sweetest of all minions! God of warm pulses, and dishevell'd hair, And panting bosoms bare! Dear unseen light in darkness! eclipser Of light in light! delicious poisoner! Thy venom'd goblet will we quaff until We fillwe fill! And by thy Mother's lips"             Was heard no more For clamour, when the golden palace door Opened again, and from without, in shone A new magnificence. On oozy throne Smooth-moving came Oceanus the old, To take a latest glimpse at his sheep-fold, Before he went into his quiet cave To muse for everThen a lucid wave, Scoop'd from its trembling sisters of mid-sea, Afloat, and pillowing up the majesty Of Doris, and the Egean seer, her spouse Next, on a dolphin, clad in laurel boughs, Theban Amphion leaning on his lute: His fingers went across itAll were mute To gaze on Amphitrite, queen of pearls, And Thetis pearly too.              The palace whirls Around giddy Endymion; seeing he Was there far strayed from mortality. He could not bear itshut his eyes in vain; Imagination gave a dizzier pain. "O I shall die! sweet Venus, be my stay! Where is my lovely mistress? Well-away! I dieI hear her voiceI feel my wing" At Neptune's feet he sank. A sudden ring Of Nereids were about him, in kind strife To usher back his spirit into life: But still he slept. At last they interwove Their cradling arms, and purpos'd to convey Towards a crystal bower far away. Lo! while slow carried through the pitying crowd, To his inward senses these words spake aloud; Written in star-light on the dark above: Dearest Endymion! my entire love! How have I dwelt in fear of fate: 'tis done Immortal bliss for me too hast thou won. Arise then! for the hen-dove shall not hatch Her ready eggs, before I'll kissing snatch Thee into endless heaven. Awake! awake! The youth at once arose: a placid lake Came quiet to his eyes; and forest green, Cooler than all the wonders he had seen, Lull'd with its simple song his fluttering breast. How happy once again in grassy nest! (line 1): Woodhouse notes that "Keats said, with much simplicity, 'It will be easily seen what I think of the present ministers, by the beginning of the third Book.'" (line 407): Whether the reference is to the Pillars of Hercules, the confluence of the Mediterranean and Atlantic, or to the scene of the Death of Hercules, is not very clear; but probably "wound up his story" refers rather to his last labour than to his death on Mount ta. (lines 863-65): This simile must surely be a reminiscence of Perrin's Fables Amusantes or some similar book used in Mr. Clarke's School. I remember the Fable of the old eagle and her young stood first in the book I used at school. The draft gives line 860 thus -- 'But soon like eagles natively their gaze...' At the end of this Book Keats wrote in the draft, "Oxf: Sept. 26." ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed. H. Buxton Forman, Crowell publ. 1895. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ John Keats, Endymion - Book III

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

334:The Rosciad Unknowing and unknown, the hardy Muse Boldly defies all mean and partial views; With honest freedom plays the critic's part, And praises, as she censures, from the heart. Roscius deceased, each high aspiring player Push'd all his interest for the vacant chair. The buskin'd heroes of the mimic stage No longer whine in love, and rant in rage; The monarch quits his throne, and condescends Humbly to court the favour of his friends; For pity's sake tells undeserved mishaps, And, their applause to gain, recounts his claps. Thus the victorious chiefs of ancient Rome, To win the mob, a suppliant's form assume; In pompous strain fight o'er the extinguish'd war, And show where honour bled in every scar. But though bare merit might in Rome appear The strongest plea for favour, 'tis not here; We form our judgment in another way; And they will best succeed, who best can pay: Those who would gain the votes of British tribes, Must add to force of merit, force of bribes. What can an actor give? In every age Cash hath been rudely banish'd from the stage; Monarchs themselves, to grief of every player, Appear as often as their image there: They can't, like candidate for other seat, Pour seas of wine, and mountains raise of meat. Wine! they could bribe you with the world as soon, And of 'Roast Beef,' they only know the tune: But what they have they give; could Clive do more, Though for each million he had brought home four? Shuter keeps open house at Southwark fair, And hopes the friends of humour will be there; In Smithfield, Yates prepares the rival treat For those who laughter love, instead of meat; Foote, at Old House,--for even Foote will be, In self-conceit, an actor,--bribes with tea; 259 Which Wilkinson at second-hand receives, And at the New, pours water on the leaves. The town divided, each runs several ways, As passion, humour, interest, party sways. Things of no moment, colour of the hair, Shape of a leg, complexion brown or fair, A dress well chosen, or a patch misplaced, Conciliate favour, or create distaste. From galleries loud peals of laughter roll, And thunder Shuter's praises; he's so droll. Embox'd, the ladies must have something smart, Palmer! oh! Palmer tops the jaunty part. Seated in pit, the dwarf with aching eyes, Looks up, and vows that Barry's out of size; Whilst to six feet the vigorous stripling grown, Declares that Garrick is another Coan. When place of judgment is by whim supplied, And our opinions have their rise in pride; When, in discoursing on each mimic elf, We praise and censure with an eye to self; All must meet friends, and Ackman bids as fair, In such a court, as Garrick, for the chair. At length agreed, all squabbles to decide, By some one judge the cause was to be tried; But this their squabbles did afresh renew, Who should be judge in such a trial:--who? For Johnson some; but Johnson, it was fear'd, Would be too grave; and Sterne too gay appear'd; Others for Franklin voted; but 'twas known, He sicken'd at all triumphs but his own: For Colman many, but the peevish tongue Of prudent Age found out that he was young: For Murphy some few pilfering wits declared, Whilst Folly clapp'd her hands, and Wisdom stared. To mischief train'd, e'en from his mother's womb, Grown old in fraud, though yet in manhood's bloom, Adopting arts by which gay villains rise, And reach the heights which honest men despise; Mute at the bar, and in the senate loud, Dull 'mongst the dullest, proudest of the proud; A pert, prim, prater of the northern race, Guilt in his heart, and famine in his face, 260 Stood forth,--and thrice he waved his lily hand, And thrice he twirled his tye, thrice stroked his band:-At Friendship's call (thus oft, with traitorous aim, Men void of faith usurp Faith's sacred name) At Friendship's call I come, by Murphy sent, Who thus by me develops his intent: But lest, transfused, the spirit should be lost, That spirit which, in storms of rhetoric toss'd, Bounces about, and flies like bottled beer, In his own words his own intentions hear. Thanks to my friends; but to vile fortunes born, No robes of fur these shoulders must adorn. Vain your applause, no aid from thence I draw; Vain all my wit, for what is wit in law? Twice, (cursed remembrance!) twice I strove to gain Admittance 'mongst the law-instructed train, Who, in the Temple and Gray's Inn, prepare For clients' wretched feet the legal snare; Dead to those arts which polish and refine, Deaf to all worth, because that worth was mine, Twice did those blockheads startle at my name, And foul rejection gave me up to shame. To laws and lawyers then I bade adieu, And plans of far more liberal note pursue. Who will may be a judge--my kindling breast Burns for that chair which Roscius once possess'd. Here give your votes, your interest here exert, And let success for once attend desert. With sleek appearance, and with ambling pace, And, type of vacant head, with vacant face, The Proteus Hill put in his modest plea,-Let Favour speak for others, Worth for me.-For who, like him, his various powers could call Into so many shapes, and shine in all? Who could so nobly grace the motley list, Actor, Inspector, Doctor, Botanist? Knows any one so well--sure no one knows-At once to play, prescribe, compound, compose? Who can--but Woodward came,--Hill slipp'd away, Melting, like ghosts, before the rising day. With that low cunning, which in fools supplies, And amply too, the place of being wise, 261 Which Nature, kind, indulgent parent, gave To qualify the blockhead for a knave; With that smooth falsehood, whose appearance charms, And Reason of each wholesome doubt disarms, Which to the lowest depths of guile descends, By vilest means pursues the vilest ends; Wears Friendship's mask for purposes of spite, Pawns in the day, and butchers in the night; With that malignant envy which turns pale, And sickens, even if a friend prevail, Which merit and success pursues with hate, And damns the worth it cannot imitate; With the cold caution of a coward's spleen, Which fears not guilt, but always seeks a screen, Which keeps this maxim ever in her view-What's basely done, should be done safely too; With that dull, rooted, callous impudence, Which, dead to shame and every nicer sense, Ne'er blush'd, unless, in spreading Vice's snares, She blunder'd on some virtue unawares; With all these blessings, which we seldom find Lavish'd by Nature on one happy mind, A motley figure, of the Fribble tribe, Which heart can scarce conceive, or pen describe, Came simpering on--to ascertain whose sex Twelve sage impannell'd matrons would perplex. Nor male, nor female; neither, and yet both; Of neuter gender, though of Irish growth; A six-foot suckling, mincing in Its gait; Affected, peevish, prim, and delicate; Fearful It seem'd, though of athletic make, Lest brutal breezes should too roughly shake Its tender form, and savage motion spread, O'er Its pale cheeks, the horrid manly red. Much did It talk, in Its own pretty phrase, Of genius and of taste, of players and of plays; Much too of writings, which Itself had wrote, Of special merit, though of little note; For Fate, in a strange humour, had decreed That what It wrote, none but Itself should read; Much, too, It chatter'd of dramatic laws, Misjudging critics, and misplaced applause; 262 Then, with a self-complacent, jutting air, It smiled, It smirk'd, It wriggled to the chair; And, with an awkward briskness not Its own, Looking around, and perking on the throne, Triumphant seem'd; when that strange savage dame, Known but to few, or only known by name, Plain Common-Sense appear'd, by Nature there Appointed, with plain Truth, to guard the chair, The pageant saw, and, blasted with her frown, To Its first state of nothing melted down. Nor shall the Muse, (for even there the pride Of this vain nothing shall be mortified) Nor shall the Muse (should Fate ordain her rhymes, Fond, pleasing thought! to live in after-times) With such a trifler's name her pages blot; Known be the character, the thing forgot: Let It, to disappoint each future aim, Live without sex, and die without a name! Cold-blooded critics, by enervate sires Scarce hammer'd out, when Nature's feeble fires Glimmer'd their last; whose sluggish blood, half froze, Creeps labouring through the veins; whose heart ne'er glows With fancy-kindled heat;--a servile race, Who, in mere want of fault, all merit place; Who blind obedience pay to ancient schools, Bigots to Greece, and slaves to musty rules; With solemn consequence declared that none Could judge that cause but Sophocles alone. Dupes to their fancied excellence, the crowd, Obsequious to the sacred dictate, bow'd. When, from amidst the throng, a youth stood forth, Unknown his person, not unknown his worth; His look bespoke applause; alone he stood, Alone he stemm'd the mighty critic flood. He talk'd of ancients, as the man became Who prized our own, but envied not their fame; With noble reverence spoke of Greece and Rome, And scorn'd to tear the laurel from the tomb. But, more than just to other countries grown, Must we turn base apostates to our own? Where do these words of Greece and Rome excel, That England may not please the ear as well? 263 What mighty magic's in the place or air, That all perfection needs must centre there? In states, let strangers blindly be preferr'd; In state of letters, merit should be heard. Genius is of no country; her pure ray Spreads all abroad, as general as the day; Foe to restraint, from place to place she flies, And may hereafter e'en in Holland rise. May not, (to give a pleasing fancy scope, And cheer a patriot heart with patriot hope) May not some great extensive genius raise The name of Britain 'bove Athenian praise; And, whilst brave thirst of fame his bosom warms, Make England great in letters as in arms? There may--there hath,--and Shakspeare's Muse aspires Beyond the reach of Greece; with native fires Mounting aloft, he wings his daring flight, Whilst Sophocles below stands trembling at his height. Why should we then abroad for judges roam, When abler judges we may find at home? Happy in tragic and in comic powers, Have we not Shakspeare?--Is not Jonson ours? For them, your natural judges, Britons, vote; They'll judge like Britons, who like Britons wrote. He said, and conquer'd--Sense resumed her sway, And disappointed pedants stalk'd away. Shakspeare and Jonson, with deserved applause, Joint-judges were ordain'd to try the cause. Meantime the stranger every voice employ'd, To ask or tell his name. Who is it? Lloyd. Thus, when the aged friends of Job stood mute, And, tamely prudent, gave up the dispute, Elihu, with the decent warmth of youth, Boldly stood forth the advocate of Truth; Confuted Falsehood, and disabled Pride, Whilst baffled Age stood snarling at his side. The day of trial's fix'd, nor any fear Lest day of trial should be put off here. Causes but seldom for delay can call In courts where forms are few, fees none at all. The morning came, nor find I that the Sun, As he on other great events hath done, 264 Put on a brighter robe than what he wore To go his journey in, the day before. Full in the centre of a spacious plain, On plan entirely new, where nothing vain, Nothing magnificent appear'd, but Art With decent modesty perform'd her part, Rose a tribunal: from no other court It borrow'd ornament, or sought support: No juries here were pack'd to kill or clear, No bribes were taken, nor oaths broken here; No gownsmen, partial to a client's cause, To their own purpose turn'd the pliant laws; Each judge was true and steady to his trust, As Mansfield wise, and as old Foster just. In the first seat, in robe of various dyes, A noble wildness flashing from his eyes, Sat Shakspeare: in one hand a wand he bore, For mighty wonders famed in days of yore; The other held a globe, which to his will Obedient turn'd, and own'd the master's skill: Things of the noblest kind his genius drew, And look'd through Nature at a single view: A loose he gave to his unbounded soul, And taught new lands to rise, new seas to roll; Call'd into being scenes unknown before, And passing Nature's bounds, was something more. Next Jonson sat, in ancient learning train'd, His rigid judgment Fancy's flights restrain'd; Correctly pruned each wild luxuriant thought, Mark'd out her course, nor spared a glorious fault. The book of man he read with nicest art, And ransack'd all the secrets of the heart; Exerted penetration's utmost force, And traced each passion to its proper source; Then, strongly mark'd, in liveliest colours drew, And brought each foible forth to public view: The coxcomb felt a lash in every word, And fools, hung out, their brother fools deterr'd. His comic humour kept the world in awe, And Laughter frighten'd Folly more than Law. But, hark! the trumpet sounds, the crowd gives way, And the procession comes in just array. 265 Now should I, in some sweet poetic line, Offer up incense at Apollo's shrine, Invoke the Muse to quit her calm abode, And waken Memory with a sleeping Ode. For how shall mortal man, in mortal verse, Their titles, merits, or their names rehearse? But give, kind Dulness! memory and rhyme, We 'll put off Genius till another time. First, Order came,--with solemn step, and slow, In measured time his feet were taught to go. Behind, from time to time, he cast his eye, Lest this should quit his place, that step awry. Appearances to save his only care; So things seem right, no matter what they are. In him his parents saw themselves renew'd, Begotten by Sir Critic on Saint Prude. Then came drum, trumpet, hautboy, fiddle, flute; Next snuffer, sweeper, shifter, soldier, mute: Legions of angels all in white advance; Furies, all fire, come forward in a dance; Pantomime figures then are brought to view, Fools, hand in hand with fools, go two by two. Next came the treasurer of either house; One with full purse, t'other with not a sous. Behind, a group of figures awe create, Set off with all the impertinence of state; By lace and feather consecrate to fame, Expletive kings, and queens without a name. Here Havard, all serene, in the same strains, Loves, hates, and rages, triumphs and complains; His easy vacant face proclaim'd a heart Which could not feel emotions, nor impart. With him came mighty Davies: on my life, That Davies hath a very pretty wife! Statesman all over, in plots famous grown, He mouths a sentence, as curs mouth a bone. Next Holland came: with truly tragic stalk, He creeps, he flies,--a hero should not walk. As if with Heaven he warr'd, his eager eyes Planted their batteries against the skies; Attitude, action, air, pause, start, sigh, groan, He borrow'd, and made use of as his own. 266 By fortune thrown on any other stage, He might, perhaps, have pleased an easy age; But now appears a copy, and no more, Of something better we have seen before. The actor who would build a solid fame, Must Imitation's servile arts disclaim; Act from himself, on his own bottom stand; I hate e'en Garrick thus at second-hand. Behind came King.--Bred up in modest lore, Bashful and young, he sought Hibernia's shore; Hibernia, famed, 'bove every other grace, For matchless intrepidity of face. From her his features caught the generous flame, And bid defiance to all sense of shame. Tutor'd by her all rivals to surpass, 'Mongst Drury's sons he comes, and shines in Brass. Lo, Yates! Without the least finesse of art He gets applause--I wish he'd get his part. When hot Impatience is in full career, How vilely 'Hark ye! hark ye!' grates the ear; When active fancy from the brain is sent, And stands on tip-toe for some wish'd event, I hate those careless blunders, which recall Suspended sense, and prove it fiction all. In characters of low and vulgar mould, Where Nature's coarsest features we behold; Where, destitute of every decent grace, Unmanner'd jests are blurted in your face, There Yates with justice strict attention draws, Acts truly from himself, and gains applause. But when, to please himself or charm his wife, He aims at something in politer life, When, blindly thwarting Nature's stubborn plan, He treads the stage by way of gentleman, The clown, who no one touch of breeding knows, Looks like Tom Errand dress'd in Clincher's clothes. Fond of his dress, fond of his person grown, Laugh'd at by all, and to himself unknown, Prom side to side he struts, he smiles, he prates, And seems to wonder what's become of Yates. Woodward, endow'd with various tricks of face, Great master in the science of grimace, 267 From Ireland ventures, favourite of the town, Lured by the pleasing prospect of renown; A speaking harlequin, made up of whim, He twists, he twines, he tortures every limb; Plays to the eye with a mere monkey's art, And leaves to sense the conquest of the heart. We laugh indeed, but, on reflection's birth, We wonder at ourselves, and curse our mirth. His walk of parts he fatally misplaced, And inclination fondly took for taste; Hence hath the town so often seen display'd Beau in burlesque, high life in masquerade. But when bold wits,--not such as patch up plays, Cold and correct, in these insipid days,-Some comic character, strong featured, urge To probability's extremest verge; Where modest Judgment her decree suspends, And, for a time, nor censures, nor commends; Where critics can't determine on the spot Whether it is in nature found or not, There Woodward safely shall his powers exert, Nor fail of favour where he shows desert; Hence he in Bobadil such praises bore, Such worthy praises, Kitely scarce had more. By turns transform'd into all kind of shapes, Constant to none, Foote laughs, cries, struts, and scrapes: Now in the centre, now in van or rear, The Proteus shifts, bawd, parson, auctioneer. His strokes of humour, and his bursts of sport, Are all contain'd in this one word--distort. Doth a man stutter, look a-squint, or halt? Mimics draw humour out of Nature's fault, With personal defects their mirth adorn, And bang misfortunes out to public scorn. E'en I, whom Nature cast in hideous mould, Whom, having made, she trembled to behold, Beneath the load of mimicry may groan, And find that Nature's errors are my own. Shadows behind of Foote and Woodward came; Wilkinson this, Obrien was that name. Strange to relate, but wonderfully true, That even shadows have their shadows too! 268 With not a single comic power endued, The first a mere, mere mimic's mimic stood; The last, by Nature form'd to please, who shows, In Johnson's Stephen, which way genius grows, Self quite put off, affects with too much art To put on Woodward in each mangled part; Adopts his shrug, his wink, his stare; nay, more, His voice, and croaks; for Woodward croak'd before. When a dull copier simple grace neglects, And rests his imitation in defects, We readily forgive; but such vile arts Are double guilt in men of real parts. By Nature form'd in her perversest mood, With no one requisite of art endued, Next Jackson came--Observe that settled glare, Which better speaks a puppet than a player; List to that voice--did ever Discord hear Sounds so well fitted to her untuned ear? When to enforce some very tender part, The right hand slips by instinct on the heart, His soul, of every other thought bereft, Is anxious only where to place the left; He sobs and pants to soothe his weeping spouse; To soothe his weeping mother, turns and bows: Awkward, embarrass'd, stiff, without the skill Of moving gracefully, or standing still, One leg, as if suspicious of his brother, Desirous seems to run away from t'other. Some errors, handed down from age to age, Plead custom's force, and still possess the stage. That's vile: should we a parent's faults adore, And err, because our fathers err'd before? If, inattentive to the author's mind, Some actors made the jest they could not find; If by low tricks they marr'd fair Nature's mien, And blurr'd the graces of the simple scene, Shall we, if reason rightly is employ'd, Not see their faults, or seeing, not avoid? When Falstaff stands detected in a lie, Why, without meaning, rolls Love's glassy eye? Why? There's no cause--at least no cause we know-It was the fashion twenty years ago. 269 Fashion!--a word which knaves and fools may use, Their knavery and folly to excuse. To copy beauties, forfeits all pretence To fame--to copy faults, is want of sense. Yet (though in some particulars he fails, Some few particulars, where mode prevails) If in these hallow'd times, when, sober, sad, All gentlemen are melancholy mad; When 'tis not deem'd so great a crime by half To violate a vestal as to laugh, Rude mirth may hope, presumptuous, to engage An act of toleration for the stage; And courtiers will, like reasonable creatures, Suspend vain fashion, and unscrew their features; Old Falstaff, play'd by Love, shall please once more, And humour set the audience in a roar. Actors I've seen, and of no vulgar name, Who, being from one part possess'd of fame, Whether they are to laugh, cry, whine, or bawl, Still introduce that favourite part in all. Here, Love, be cautious--ne'er be thou betray'd To call in that wag Falstaff's dangerous aid; Like Goths of old, howe'er he seems a friend, He'll seize that throne you wish him to defend. In a peculiar mould by Humour cast, For Falstaff framed--himself the first and last-He stands aloof from all--maintains his state, And scorns, like Scotsmen, to assimilate. Vain all disguise--too plain we see the trick, Though the knight wears the weeds of Dominic; And Boniface disgraced, betrays the smack, In _anno Domini_, of Falstaff sack. Arms cross'd, brows bent, eyes fix'd, feet marching slow, A band of malcontents with spleen o'erflow; Wrapt in Conceit's impenetrable fog, Which Pride, like Phoebus, draws from every bog, They curse the managers, and curse the town Whose partial favour keeps such merit down. But if some man, more hardy than the rest, Should dare attack these gnatlings in their nest, At once they rise with impotence of rage, Whet their small stings, and buzz about the stage: 270 'Tis breach of privilege! Shall any dare To arm satiric truth against a player? Prescriptive rights we plead, time out of mind; Actors, unlash'd themselves, may lash mankind. What! shall Opinion then, of nature free, And liberal as the vagrant air, agree To rust in chains like these, imposed by things, Which, less than nothing, ape the pride of kings? No--though half-poets with half-players join To curse the freedom of each honest line; Though rage and malice dim their faded cheek, What the Muse freely thinks, she'll freely speak; With just disdain of every paltry sneer, Stranger alike to flattery and fear, In purpose fix'd, and to herself a rule, Public contempt shall wait the public fool. Austin would always glisten in French silks; Ackman would Norris be, and Packer, Wilkes: For who, like Ackman, can with humour please; Who can, like Packer, charm with sprightly ease? Higher than all the rest, see Bransby strut: A mighty Gulliver in Lilliput! Ludicrous Nature! which at once could show A man so very high, so very low! If I forget thee, Blakes, or if I say Aught hurtful, may I never see thee play. Let critics, with a supercilious air, Decry thy various merit, and declare Frenchman is still at top; but scorn that rage Which, in attacking thee, attacks the age. French follies, universally embraced, At once provoke our mirth, and form our taste. Long, from a nation ever hardly used, At random censured, wantonly abused, Have Britons drawn their sport; with partial view Form'd general notions from the rascal few; Condemn'd a people, as for vices known, Which from their country banish'd, seek our own. At length, howe'er, the slavish chain is broke, And Sense, awaken'd, scorns her ancient yoke: Taught by thee, Moody, we now learn to raise Mirth from their foibles; from their virtues, praise. 271 Next came the legion which our summer Bayes, From alleys, here and there, contrived to raise, Flush'd with vast hopes, and certain to succeed, With wits who cannot write, and scarce can read. Veterans no more support the rotten cause, No more from Elliot's worth they reap applause; Each on himself determines to rely; Be Yates disbanded, and let Elliot fly. Never did players so well an author fit, To Nature dead, and foes declared to wit. So loud each tongue, so empty was each head, So much they talk'd, so very little said, So wondrous dull, and yet so wondrous vain, At once so willing, and unfit to reign, That Reason swore, nor would the oath recall, Their mighty master's soul inform'd them all. As one with various disappointments sad, Whom dulness only kept from being mad, Apart from all the rest great Murphy came-Common to fools and wits, the rage of fame. What though the sons of Nonsense hail him Sire, Auditor, Author, Manager, and Squire, His restless soul's ambition stops not there; To make his triumphs perfect, dub him Player. In person tall, a figure form'd to please, If symmetry could charm deprived of ease; When motionless he stands, we all approve; What pity 'tis the thing was made to move. His voice, in one dull, deep, unvaried sound, Seems to break forth from caverns under ground; From hollow chest the low sepulchral note Unwilling heaves, and struggles in his throat. Could authors butcher'd give an actor grace, All must to him resign the foremost place. When he attempts, in some one favourite part, To ape the feelings of a manly heart, His honest features the disguise defy, And his face loudly gives his tongue the lie. Still in extremes, he knows no happy mean, Or raving mad, or stupidly serene. In cold-wrought scenes, the lifeless actor flags; In passion, tears the passion into rags. 272 Can none remember? Yes--I know all must-When in the Moor he ground his teeth to dust, When o'er the stage he Folly's standard bore, Whilst Common-Sense stood trembling at the door. How few are found with real talents blest! Fewer with Nature's gifts contented rest. Man from his sphere eccentric starts astray: All hunt for fame, but most mistake the way. Bred at St Omer's to the shuffling trade, The hopeful youth a Jesuit might have made; With various readings stored his empty skull, Learn'd without sense, and venerably dull; Or, at some banker's desk, like many more, Content to tell that two and two make four; His name had stood in City annals fair, And prudent Dulness mark'd him for a mayor. What, then, could tempt thee, in a critic age, Such blooming hopes to forfeit on a stage? Could it be worth thy wondrous waste of pains To publish to the world thy lack of brains? Or might not Reason e'en to thee have shown, Thy greatest praise had been to live unknown? Yet let not vanity like thine despair: Fortune makes Folly her peculiar care. A vacant throne, high-placed in Smithfield, view. To sacred Dulness and her first-born due, Thither with haste in happy hour repair, Thy birthright claim, nor fear a rival there. Shuter himself shall own thy juster claim, And venal Ledgers puff their Murphy's name; Whilst Vaughan, or Dapper, call him which you will, Shall blow the trumpet, and give out the bill. There rule, secure from critics and from sense, Nor once shall Genius rise to give offence; Eternal peace shall bless the happy shore, And little factions break thy rest no more. From Covent Garden crowds promiscuous go, Whom the Muse knows not, nor desires to know; Veterans they seem'd, but knew of arms no more Than if, till that time, arms they never bore: Like Westminster militia train'd to fight, They scarcely knew the left hand from the right. 273 Ashamed among such troops to show the head, Their chiefs were scatter'd, and their heroes fled. Sparks at his glass sat comfortably down To separate frown from smile, and smile from frown. Smith, the genteel, the airy, and the smart, Smith was just gone to school to say his part. Ross (a misfortune which we often meet) Was fast asleep at dear Statira's feet; Statira, with her hero to agree, Stood on her feet as fast asleep as he. Macklin, who largely deals in half-form'd sounds, Who wantonly transgresses Nature's bounds, Whose acting's hard, affected, and constrain'd, Whose features, as each other they disdain'd, At variance set, inflexible and coarse, Ne'er know the workings of united force, Ne'er kindly soften to each other's aid, Nor show the mingled powers of light and shade; No longer for a thankless stage concern'd, To worthier thoughts his mighty genius turn'd, Harangued, gave lectures, made each simple elf Almost as good a speaker as himself; Whilst the whole town, mad with mistaken zeal, An awkward rage for elocution feel; Dull cits and grave divines his praise proclaim, And join with Sheridan's their Macklin's name. Shuter, who never cared a single pin Whether he left out nonsense, or put in, Who aim'd at wit, though, levell'd in the dark, The random arrow seldom hit the mark, At Islington, all by the placid stream Where city swains in lap of Dulness dream, Where quiet as her strains their strains do flow, That all the patron by the bards may know, Secret as night, with Rolt's experienced aid, The plan of future operations laid, Projected schemes the summer months to cheer, And spin out happy folly through the year. But think not, though these dastard chiefs are fled, That Covent Garden troops shall want a head: Harlequin comes their chief! See from afar The hero seated in fantastic car! 274 Wedded to Novelty, his only arms Are wooden swords, wands, talismans, and charms; On one side Folly sits, by some call'd Fun, And on the other his arch-patron, Lun; Behind, for liberty athirst in vain, Sense, helpless captive, drags the galling chain: Six rude misshapen beasts the chariot draw, Whom Reason loathes, and Nature never saw, Monsters with tails of ice, and heads of fire; 'Gorgons, and Hydras, and Chimeras dire.' Each was bestrode by full as monstrous wight, Giant, dwarf, genius, elf, hermaphrodite. The Town, as usual, met him in full cry; The Town, as usual, knew no reason why: But Fashion so directs, and Moderns raise On Fashion's mouldering base their transient praise. Next, to the field a band of females draw Their force, for Britain owns no Salique law: Just to their worth, we female rights admit, Nor bar their claim to empire or to wit. First giggling, plotting chambermaids arrive, Hoydens and romps, led on by General Clive. In spite of outward blemishes, she shone, For humour famed, and humour all her own: Easy, as if at home, the stage she trod, Nor sought the critic's praise, nor fear'd his rod: Original in spirit and in ease, She pleased by hiding all attempts to please: No comic actress ever yet could raise, On Humour's base, more merit or more praise. With all the native vigour of sixteen, Among the merry troop conspicuous seen, See lively Pope advance, in jig, and trip Corinna, Cherry, Honeycomb, and Snip: Not without art, but yet to nature true, She charms the town with humour just, yet new: Cheer'd by her promise, we the less deplore The fatal time when Olive shall be no more. Lo! Vincent comes! With simple grace array'd, She laughs at paltry arts, and scorns parade: Nature through her is by reflection shown, Whilst Gay once more knows Polly for his own. 275 Talk not to me of diffidence and fear-I see it all, but must forgive it here; Defects like these, which modest terrors cause, From Impudence itself extort applause. Candour and Reason still take Virtue's part; We love e'en foibles in so good a heart. Let Tommy Arne,--with usual pomp of style, Whose chief, whose only merit's to compile; Who, meanly pilfering here and there a bit, Deals music out as Murphy deals out wit,-Publish proposals, laws for taste prescribe, And chaunt the praise of an Italian tribe; Let him reverse kind Nature's first decrees, And teach e'en Brent a method not to please; But never shall a truly British age Bear a vile race of eunuchs on the stage; The boasted work's call'd national in vain, If one Italian voice pollutes the strain. Where tyrants rule, and slaves with joy obey, Let slavish minstrels pour the enervate lay; To Britons far more noble pleasures spring, In native notes whilst Beard and Vincent sing. Might figure give a title unto fame, What rival should with Yates dispute her claim? But justice may not partial trophies raise, Nor sink the actress' in the woman's praise. Still hand in hand her words and actions go, And the heart feels more than the features show; For, through the regions of that beauteous face We no variety of passions trace; Dead to the soft emotions of the heart, No kindred softness can those eyes impart: The brow, still fix'd in sorrow's sullen frame, Void of distinction, marks all parts the same. What's a fine person, or a beauteous face, Unless deportment gives them decent grace? Bless'd with all other requisites to please, Some want the striking elegance of ease; The curious eye their awkward movement tires; They seem like puppets led about by wires. Others, like statues, in one posture still, Give great ideas of the workman's skill; 276 Wond'ring, his art we praise the more we view, And only grieve he gave not motion too. Weak of themselves are what we beauties call, It is the manner which gives strength to all; This teaches every beauty to unite, And brings them forward in the noblest light; Happy in this, behold, amidst the throng, With transient gleam of grace, Hart sweeps along. If all the wonders of external grace, A person finely turn'd, a mould of face, Where--union rare--expression's lively force With beauty's softest magic holds discourse, Attract the eye; if feelings, void of art, Rouse the quick passions, and inflame the heart; If music, sweetly breathing from the tongue, Captives the ear, Bride must not pass unsung. When fear, which rank ill-nature terms conceit, By time and custom conquer'd, shall retreat; When judgment, tutor'd by experience sage, Shall shoot abroad, and gather strength from age; When Heaven, in mercy, shall the stage release From the dull slumbers of a still-life piece; When some stale flower, disgraceful to the walk, Which long hath hung, though wither'd, on the stalk, Shall kindly drop, then Bride shall make her way, And merit find a passage to the day; Brought into action, she at once shall raise Her own renown, and justify our praise. Form'd for the tragic scene, to grace the stage With rival excellence of love and rage; Mistress of each soft art, with matchless skill To turn and wind the passions as she will; To melt the heart with sympathetic woe, Awake the sigh, and teach the tear to flow; To put on frenzy's wild, distracted glare, And freeze the soul with horror and despair; With just desert enroll'd in endless fame, Conscious of worth superior, Cibber came. When poor Alicia's madd'ning brains are rack'd, And strongly imaged griefs her mind distract, Struck with her grief, I catch the madness too, My brain turns round, the headless trunk I view! 277 The roof cracks, shakes, and falls--new horrors rise, And Reason buried in the ruin lies! Nobly disdainful of each slavish art, She makes her first attack upon the heart; Pleased with the summons, it receives her laws, And all is silence, sympathy, applause. But when, by fond ambition drawn aside, Giddy with praise, and puff'd with female pride, She quits the tragic scene, and, in pretence To comic merit, breaks down nature's fence, I scarcely can believe my ears or eyes, Or find out Cibber through the dark disguise. Pritchard, by Nature for the stage design'd, In person graceful, and in sense refined; Her art as much as Nature's friend became, Her voice as free from blemish as her fame, Who knows so well in majesty to please, Attemper'd with the graceful charms of ease? When, Congreve's favoured pantomime to grace, She comes a captive queen, of Moorish race; When love, hate, jealousy, despair, and rage With wildest tumults in her breast engage, Still equal to herself is Zara seen; Her passions are the passions of a queen. When she to murder whets the timorous Thane, I feel ambition rush through every vein; Persuasion hangs upon her daring tongue, My heart grows flint, and every nerve's new strung. In comedy--Nay, there, cries Critic, hold; Pritchard's for comedy too fat and old: Who can, with patience, bear the gray coquette, Or force a laugh with over-grown Julett? Her speech, look, action, humour, all are just, But then, her age and figure give disgust. Are foibles, then, and graces of the mind, In real life, to size or age confined? Do spirits flow, and is good-breeding placed In any set circumference of waist? As we grow old, doth affectation cease, Or gives not age new vigour to caprice? If in originals these things appear, Why should we bar them in the copy here? 278 The nice punctilio-mongers of this age, The grand minute reformers of the stage, Slaves to propriety of every kind, Some standard measure for each part should find, Which, when the best of actors shall exceed, Let it devolve to one of smaller breed. All actors, too, upon the back should bear Certificate of birth; time, when; place, where; For how can critics rightly fix their worth, Unless they know the minute of their birth? An audience, too, deceived, may find, too late, That they have clapp'd an actor out of date. Figure, I own, at first may give offence, And harshly strike the eye's too curious sense; But when perfections of the mind break forth, Humour's chaste sallies, judgment's solid worth; When the pure genuine flame by Nature taught, Springs into sense and every action's thought; Before such merit all objections fly-Pritchard's genteel, and Garrick's six feet high. Oft have I, Pritchard, seen thy wondrous skill, Confess'd thee great, but find thee greater still; That worth, which shone in scatter'd rays before, Collected now, breaks forth with double power. The 'Jealous Wife!' on that thy trophies raise, Inferior only to the author's praise. From Dublin, famed in legends of romance For mighty magic of enchanted lance, With which her heroes arm'd, victorious prove, And, like a flood, rush o'er the land of Love, Mossop and Barry came--names ne'er design'd By Fate in the same sentence to be join'd. Raised by the breath of popular acclaim, They mounted to the pinnacle of fame; There the weak brain, made giddy with the height, Spurr'd on the rival chiefs to mortal fight. Thus sportive boys, around some basin's brim, Behold the pipe-drawn bladders circling swim; But if, from lungs more potent, there arise Two bubbles of a more than common size, Eager for honour, they for fight prepare, Bubble meets bubble, and both sink to air. 279 Mossop attach'd to military plan, Still kept his eye fix'd on his right-hand man; Whilst the mouth measures words with seeming skill, The right hand labours, and the left lies still; For he, resolved on Scripture grounds to go, What the right doth, the left-hand shall not know, With studied impropriety of speech, He soars beyond the hackney critic's reach; To epithets allots emphatic state, Whilst principals, ungraced, like lackeys wait; In ways first trodden by himself excels, And stands alone in indeclinables; Conjunction, preposition, adverb join To stamp new vigour on the nervous line; In monosyllables his thunders roll, He, she, it, and we, ye, they, fright the soul. In person taller than the common size, Behold where Barry draws admiring eyes! When labouring passions, in his bosom pent, Convulsive rage, and struggling heave for vent; Spectators, with imagined terrors warm, Anxious expect the bursting of the storm: But, all unfit in such a pile to dwell, His voice comes forth, like Echo from her cell, To swell the tempest needful aid denies, And all adown the stage in feeble murmurs dies. What man, like Barry, with such pains, can err In elocution, action, character? What man could give, if Barry was not here, Such well applauded tenderness to Lear? Who else can speak so very, very fine, That sense may kindly end with every line? Some dozen lines before the ghost is there, Behold him for the solemn scene prepare: See how he frames his eyes, poises each limb, Puts the whole body into proper trim:-From whence we learn, with no great stretch of art, Five lines hence comes a ghost, and, ha! a start. When he appears most perfect, still we find Something which jars upon and hurts the mind: Whatever lights upon a part are thrown, We see too plainly they are not his own: 280 No flame from Nature ever yet he caught, Nor knew a feeling which he was not taught: He raised his trophies on the base of art, And conn'd his passions, as he conn'd his part. Quin, from afar, lured by the scent of fame, A stage leviathan, put in his claim, Pupil of Betterton and Booth. Alone, Sullen he walk'd, and deem'd the chair his own: For how should moderns, mushrooms of the day, Who ne'er those masters knew, know how to play? Gray-bearded veterans, who, with partial tongue, Extol the times when they themselves were young, Who, having lost all relish for the stage, See not their own defects, but lash the age, Received, with joyful murmurs of applause, Their darling chief, and lined his favourite cause. Far be it from the candid Muse to tread Insulting o'er the ashes of the dead: But, just to living merit, she maintains, And dares the test, whilst Garrick's genius reigns, Ancients in vain endeavour to excel, Happily praised, if they could act as well. But, though prescription's force we disallow, Nor to antiquity submissive bow; Though we deny imaginary grace, Founded on accidents of time and place, Yet real worth of every growth shall bear Due praise; nor must we, Quin, forget thee there. His words bore sterling weight; nervous and strong, In manly tides of sense they roll'd along: Happy in art, he chiefly had pretence To keep up numbers, yet not forfeit sense; No actor ever greater heights could reach In all the labour'd artifice of speech. Speech! is that all? And shall an actor found An universal fame on partial ground? Parrots themselves speak properly by rote, And, in six months, my dog shall howl by note. I laugh at those who, when the stage they tread, Neglect the heart, to compliment the head; With strict propriety their cares confined To weigh out words, while passion halts behind: 281 To syllable-dissectors they appeal, Allow them accent, cadence,--fools may feel; But, spite of all the criticising elves, Those who would make us feel, must feel themselves. His eyes, in gloomy socket taught to roll, Proclaim'd the sullen 'habit of his soul:' Heavy and phlegmatic he trod the stage, Too proud for tenderness, too dull for rage. When Hector's lovely widow shines in tears, Or Rowe's gay rake dependent virtue jeers, With the same cast of features he is seen To chide the libertine, and court the queen. From the tame scene, which without passion flows, With just desert his reputation rose; Nor less he pleased, when, on some surly plan, He was, at once, the actor and the man. In Brute he shone unequall'd: all agree Garrick's not half so great a Brute as he. When Cato's labour'd scenes are brought to view, With equal praise the actor labour'd too; For still you'll find, trace passions to their root, Small difference 'twixt the Stoic and the Brute. In fancied scenes, as in life's real plan, He could not, for a moment, sink the man. In whate'er cast his character was laid, Self still, like oil, upon the surface play'd. Nature, in spite of all his skill, crept in: Horatio, Dorax, Falstaff,--still 'twas Quin. Next follows Sheridan. A doubtful name, As yet unsettled in the rank of fame: This, fondly lavish in his praises grown, Gives him all merit; that allows him none; Between them both, we'll steer the middle course, Nor, loving praise, rob Judgment of her force. Just his conceptions, natural and great, His feelings strong, his words enforced with weight. Was speech-famed Quin himself to hear him speak, Envy would drive the colour from his cheek; But step-dame Nature, niggard of her grace, Denied the social powers of voice and face. Fix'd in one frame of features, glare of eye, Passions, like chaos, in confusion lie; 282 In vain the wonders of his skill are tried To form distinctions Nature hath denied. His voice no touch of harmony admits, Irregularly deep, and shrill by fits. The two extremes appear like man and wife, Coupled together for the sake of strife. His action's always strong, but sometimes such, That candour must declare he acts too much. Why must impatience fall three paces back? Why paces three return to the attack? Why is the right leg, too, forbid to stir, Unless in motion semicircular? Why must the hero with the Nailor vie, And hurl the close-clench'd fist at nose or eye? In Royal John, with Philip angry grown, I thought he would have knock'd poor Davies down. Inhuman tyrant! was it not a shame To fright a king so harmless and so tame? But, spite of all defects, his glories rise, And art, by judgment form'd, with nature vies. Behold him sound the depth of Hubert's soul, Whilst in his own contending passions roll; View the whole scene, with critic judgment scan, And then deny him merit, if you can. Where he falls short, 'tis Nature's fault alone; Where he succeeds, the merit's all his own. Last Garrick came. Behind him throng a train Of snarling critics, ignorant as vain. One finds out--He's of stature somewhat low-Your hero always should be tall, you know; True natural greatness all consists in height. Produce your voucher, Critic.--Serjeant Kite. Another can't forgive the paltry arts By which he makes his way to shallow hearts; Mere pieces of finesse, traps for applause-'Avaunt! unnatural start, affected pause!' For me, by Nature form'd to judge with phlegm, I can't acquit by wholesale, nor condemn. The best things carried to excess are wrong; The start may be too frequent, pause too long: But, only used in proper time and place, Severest judgment must allow them grace. 283 If bunglers, form'd on Imitation's plan, Just in the way that monkeys mimic man, Their copied scene with mangled arts disgrace, And pause and start with the same vacant face, We join the critic laugh; those tricks we scorn Which spoil the scenes they mean them to adorn. But when, from Nature's pure and genuine source, These strokes of acting flow with generous force, When in the features all the soul's portray'd, And passions, such as Garrick's, are display'd, To me they seem from quickest feelings caught-Each start is nature, and each pause is thought. When reason yields to passion's wild alarms, And the whole state of man is up in arms, What but a critic could condemn the player For pausing here, when cool sense pauses there? Whilst, working from the heart, the fire I trace, And mark it strongly flaming to the face; Whilst in each sound I hear the very man, I can't catch words, and pity those who can. Let wits, like spiders, from the tortured brain Fine-draw the critic-web with curious pain; The gods,--a kindness I with thanks must pay,-Have form'd me of a coarser kind of clay; Not stung with envy, nor with spleen diseased, A poor dull creature, still with Nature pleased: Hence to thy praises, Garrick, I agree, And, pleased with Nature, must be pleased with thee. Now might I tell how silence reign'd throughout, And deep attention hush'd the rabble rout; How every claimant, tortured with desire, Was pale as ashes, or as red as fire; But loose to fame, the Muse more simply acts, Rejects all flourish, and relates mere facts. The judges, as the several parties came, With temper heard, with judgment weigh'd each claim; And, in their sentence happily agreed, In name of both, great Shakspeare thus decreed:-If manly sense, if Nature link'd with Art; If thorough knowledge of the human heart; If powers of acting vast and unconfined; If fewest faults with greatest beauties join'd; 284 If strong expression, and strange powers which lie Within the magic circle of the eye; If feelings which few hearts like his can know, And which no face so well as his can show, Deserve the preference--Garrick! take the chair; Nor quit it--till thou place an equal there. ~ Charles Churchill

335:BOOK THE ELEVENTH The Death of Orpheus Here, while the Thracian bard's enchanting strain Sooths beasts, and woods, and all the listn'ing plain, The female Bacchanals, devoutly mad, In shaggy skins, like savage creatures, clad, Warbling in air perceiv'd his lovely lay, And from a rising ground beheld him play. When one, the wildest, with dishevel'd hair, That loosely stream'd, and ruffled in the air; Soon as her frantick eye the lyrist spy'd, See, see! the hater of our sex, she cry'd. Then at his face her missive javelin sent, Which whiz'd along, and brusht him as it went; But the soft wreathes of ivy twisted round, Prevent a deep impression of the wound. Another, for a weapon, hurls a stone, Which, by the sound subdu'd as soon as thrown, Falls at his feet, and with a seeming sense Implores his pardon for its late offence. But now their frantick rage unbounded grows, Turns all to madness, and no measure knows: Yet this the charms of musick might subdue, But that, with all its charms, is conquer'd too; In louder strains their hideous yellings rise, And squeaking horn-pipes eccho thro' the skies, Which, in hoarse consort with the drum, confound The moving lyre, and ev'ry gentle sound: Then 'twas the deafen'd stones flew on with speed, And saw, unsooth'd, their tuneful poet bleed. The birds, the beasts, and all the savage crew Which the sweet lyrist to attention drew, Now, by the female mob's more furious rage, Are driv'n, and forc'd to quit the shady stage. Next their fierce hands the bard himself assail, Nor can his song against their wrath prevail: They flock, like birds, when in a clustring flight, By day they chase the boding fowl of night. So crowded amphitheatres survey The stag, to greedy dogs a future prey. Their steely javelins, which soft curls entwine Of budding tendrils from the leafy vine, For sacred rites of mild religion made, Are flung promiscuous at the poet's head. Those clods of earth or flints discharge, and these Hurl prickly branches sliver'd from the trees. And, lest their passion shou'd be unsupply'd, The rabble crew, by chance, at distance spy'd Where oxen, straining at the heavy yoke, The fallow'd field with slow advances broke; Nigh which the brawny peasants dug the soil, Procuring food with long laborious toil. These, when they saw the ranting throng draw near, Quitted their tools, and fled, possest with fear. Long spades, and rakes of mighty size were found, Carelesly left upon the broken ground. With these the furious lunaticks engage, And first the lab'ring oxen feel their rage; Then to the poet they return with speed, Whose fate was, past prevention, now decreed: In vain he lifts his suppliant hands, in vain He tries, before, his never-failing strain. And, from those sacred lips, whose thrilling sound Fierce tygers, and insensate rocks cou'd wound, Ah Gods! how moving was the mournful sight! To see the fleeting soul now take its flight. Thee the soft warblers of the feather'd kind Bewail'd; for thee thy savage audience pin'd; Those rocks and woods that oft thy strain had led, Mourn for their charmer, and lament him dead; And drooping trees their leafy glories shed. Naids and Dryads with dishevel'd hair Promiscuous weep, and scarfs of sable wear; Nor cou'd the river-Gods conceal their moan, But with new floods of tears augment their own. His mangled limbs lay scatter'd all around, His head, and harp a better fortune found; In Hebrus' streams they gently roul'd along, And sooth'd the waters with a mournful song. Soft deadly notes the lifeless tongue inspire, A doleful tune sounds from the floating lyre; The hollows banks in solemn consort mourn, And the sad strain in ecchoing groans return. Now with the current to the sea they glide, Born by the billows of the briny tide; And driv'n where waves round rocky Lesbos roar, They strand, and lodge upon Methymna's shore. But here, when landed on the foreign soil, A venom'd snake, the product of the isle Attempts the head, and sacred locks embru'd With clotted gore, and still fresh-dropping blood. Phoebus, at last, his kind protection gives, And from the fact the greedy monster drives: Whose marbled jaws his impious crime atone, Still grinning ghastly, tho' transform'd to stone. His ghost flies downward to the Stygian shore, And knows the places it had seen before: Among the shadows of the pious train He finds Eurydice, and loves again; With pleasure views the beauteous phantom's charms, And clasps her in his unsubstantial arms. There side by side they unmolested walk, Or pass their blissful hours in pleasing talk; Aft or before the bard securely goes, And, without danger, can review his spouse. The Thracian Women transform'd to Trees Bacchus, resolving to revenge the wrong, Of Orpheus murder'd, on the madding throng, Decreed that each accomplice dame should stand Fix'd by the roots along the conscious land. Their wicked feet, that late so nimbly ran To wreak their malice on the guiltless man, Sudden with twisted ligatures were bound, Like trees, deep planted in the turfy ground. And, as the fowler with his subtle gins, His feather'd captives by the feet entwines, That flutt'ring pant, and struggle to get loose, Yet only closer draw the fatal noose; So these were caught; and, as they strove in vain To quit the place, they but encreas'd their pain. They flounce and toil, yet find themselves controul'd; The root, tho' pliant, toughly keeps its hold. In vain their toes and feet they look to find, For ev'n their shapely legs are cloath'd with rind. One smites her thighs with a lamenting stroke, And finds the flesh transform'd to solid oak; Another, with surprize, and grief distrest, Lays on above, but beats a wooden breast. A rugged bark their softer neck invades, Their branching arms shoot up delightful shades; At once they seem, and are, a real grove, With mossy trunks below, and verdant leaves above. The Fable of Midas Nor this suffic'd; the God's disgust remains, And he resolves to quit their hated plains; The vineyards of Tymole ingross his care, And, with a better choir, he fixes there; Where the smooth streams of clear Pactolus roll'd, Then undistinguish'd for its sands of gold. The satyrs with the nymphs, his usual throng, Come to salute their God, and jovial danc'd along. Silenus only miss'd; for while he reel'd, Feeble with age, and wine, about the field, The hoary drunkard had forgot his way, And to the Phrygian clowns became a prey; Who to king Midas drag the captive God, While on his totty pate the wreaths of ivy nod. Midas from Orpheus had been taught his lore, And knew the rites of Bacchus long before. He, when he saw his venerable guest, In honour of the God ordain'd a feast. Ten days in course, with each continu'd night, Were spent in genial mirth, and brisk delight: Then on th' eleventh, when with brighter ray Phosphor had chac'd the fading stars away, The king thro' Lydia's fields young Bacchus sought, And to the God his foster-father brought. Pleas'd with the welcome sight, he bids him soon But name his wish, and swears to grant the boon. A glorious offer! yet but ill bestow'd On him whose choice so little judgment show'd. Give me, says he (nor thought he ask'd too much), That with my body whatsoe'er I touch, Chang'd from the nature which it held of old, May be converted into yellow gold. He had his wish; but yet the God repin'd, To think the fool no better wish could find. But the brave king departed from the place, With smiles of gladness sparkling in his face: Nor could contain, but, as he took his way, Impatient longs to make the first essay. Down from a lowly branch a twig he drew, The twig strait glitter'd with a golden hue: He takes a stone, the stone was turn'd to gold; A clod he touches, and the crumbling mold Acknowledg'd soon the great transforming pow'r, In weight and substance like a mass of ore. He pluck'd the corn, and strait his grasp appears Fill'd with a bending tuft of golden ears. An apple next he takes, and seems to hold The bright Hesperian vegetable gold. His hand he careless on a pillar lays. With shining gold the fluted pillars blaze: And while he washes, as the servants pour, His touch converts the stream to Danae's show'r. To see these miracles so finely wrought, Fires with transporting joy his giddy thought. The ready slaves prepare a sumptuous board, Spread with rich dainties for their happy lord; Whose pow'rful hands the bread no sooner hold, But its whole substance is transform'd to gold: Up to his mouth he lifts the sav'ry meat, Which turns to gold as he attempts to eat: His patron's noble juice of purple hue, Touch'd by his lips, a gilded cordial grew; Unfit for drink, and wondrous to behold, It trickles from his jaws a fluid gold. The rich poor fool, confounded with surprize, Starving in all his various plenty lies: Sick of his wish, he now detests the pow'r, For which he ask'd so earnestly before; Amidst his gold with pinching famine curst; And justly tortur'd with an equal thirst. At last his shining arms to Heav'n he rears, And in distress, for refuge, flies to pray'rs. O father Bacchus, I have sinn'd, he cry'd, And foolishly thy gracious gift apply'd; Thy pity now, repenting, I implore; Oh! may I feel the golden plague no more. The hungry wretch, his folly thus confest, Touch'd the kind deity's good-natur'd breast; The gentle God annull'd his first decree, And from the cruel compact set him free. But then, to cleanse him quite from further harm, And to dilute the relicks of the charm, He bids him seek the stream that cuts the land Nigh where the tow'rs of Lydian Sardis stand; Then trace the river to the fountain head, And meet it rising from its rocky bed; There, as the bubling tide pours forth amain, To plunge his body in, and wash away the stain. The king instructed to the fount retires, But with the golden charm the stream inspires: For while this quality the man forsakes, An equal pow'r the limpid water takes; Informs with veins of gold the neighb'ring land, And glides along a bed of golden sand. Now loathing wealth, th' occasion of his woes, Far in the woods he sought a calm repose; In caves and grottos, where the nymphs resort, And keep with mountain Pan their sylvan court. Ah! had he left his stupid soul behind! But his condition alter'd not his mind. For where high Tmolus rears his shady brow, And from his cliffs surveys the seas below, In his descent, by Sardis bounded here, By the small confines of Hypaepa there, Pan to the nymphs his frolick ditties play'd, Tuning his reeds beneath the chequer'd shade. The nymphs are pleas'd, the boasting sylvan plays, And speaks with slight of great Apollo's lays. Tmolus was arbiter; the boaster still Accepts the tryal with unequal skill. The venerable judge was seated high On his own hill, that seem'd to touch the sky. Above the whisp'ring trees his head he rears, From their encumbring boughs to free his ears; A wreath of oak alone his temples bound, The pendant acorns loosely dangled round. In me your judge, says he, there's no delay: Then bids the goatherd God begin, and play. Pan tun'd the pipe, and with his rural song Pleas'd the low taste of all the vulgar throng; Such songs a vulgar judgment mostly please, Midas was there, and Midas judg'd with these. The mountain sire with grave deportment now To Phoebus turns his venerable brow: And, as he turns, with him the listning wood In the same posture of attention stood. The God his own Parnassian laurel crown'd, And in a wreath his golden tresses bound, Graceful his purple mantle swept the ground. High on the left his iv'ry lute he rais'd, The lute, emboss'd with glitt'ring jewels, blaz'd In his right hand he nicely held the quill, His easy posture spoke a master's skill. The strings he touch'd with more than human art, Which pleas'd the judge's ear, and sooth'd his heart; Who soon judiciously the palm decreed, And to the lute postpon'd the squeaking reed. All, with applause, the rightful sentence heard, Midas alone dissatisfy'd appear'd; To him unjustly giv'n the judgment seems, For Pan's barbarick notes he most esteems. The lyrick God, who thought his untun'd ear Deserv'd but ill a human form to wear, Of that deprives him, and supplies the place With some more fit, and of an ampler space: Fix'd on his noddle an unseemly pair, Flagging, and large, and full of whitish hair; Without a total change from what he was, Still in the man preserves the simple ass. He, to conceal the scandal of the deed, A purple turbant folds about his head; Veils the reproach from publick view, and fears The laughing world would spy his monstrous ears. One trusty barber-slave, that us'd to dress His master's hair, when leng then'd to excess, The mighty secret knew, but knew alone, And, tho' impatient, durst not make it known. Restless, at last, a private place he found, Then dug a hole, and told it to the ground; In a low whisper he reveal'd the case, And cover'd in the earth, and silent left the place. In time, of trembling reeds a plenteous crop From the confided furrow sprouted up; Which, high advancing with the ripening year, Made known the tiller, and his fruitless care: For then the rustling blades, and whisp'ring wind, To tell th' important secret, both combin'd. The Building of Troy Phoebus, with full revenge, from Tmolus flies, Darts thro' the air, and cleaves the liquid skies; Near Hellespont he lights, and treads the plains Where great Laomedon sole monarch reigns; Where, built between the two projecting strands, To Panomphaean Jove an altar stands. Here first aspiring thoughts the king employ, To found the lofty tow'rs of future Troy. The work, from schemes magnificent begun, At vast expence was slowly carry'd on: Which Phoebus seeing, with the trident God Who rules the swelling surges with his nod, Assuming each a mortal shape, combine At a set price to finish his design. The work was built; the king their price denies, And his injustice backs with perjuries. This Neptune cou'd not brook, but drove the main, A mighty deluge, o'er the Phrygian plain: 'Twas all a sea; the waters of the deep From ev'ry vale the copious harvest sweep; The briny billows overflow the soil, Ravage the fields, and mock the plowman's toil. Nor this appeas'd the God's revengeful mind, For still a greater plague remains behind; A huge sea-monster lodges on the sands, And the king's daughter for his prey demands. To him that sav'd the damsel, was decreed A set of horses of the Sun's fine breed: But when Alcides from the rock unty'd The trembling fair, the ransom was deny'd. He, in revenge, the new-built walls attack'd, And the twice-perjur'd city bravely sack'd. Telamon aided, and in justice shar'd Part of the plunder as his due reward: The princess, rescu'd late, with all her charms, Hesione, was yielded to his arms; For Peleus, with a Goddess-bride, was more Proud of his spouse, than of his birth before: Grandsons to Jove there might be more than one, But he the Goddess had enjoy'd alone. The Story of Thetis and Peleus For Proteus thus to virgin Thetis said, Fair Goddess of the waves, consent to wed, And take some spritely lover to your bed. A son you'll have, the terror of the field, To whom in fame, and pow'r his sire shall yield. Jove, who ador'd the nymph with boundless love, Did from his breast the dangerous flame remove. He knew the Fates, nor car'd to raise up one, Whose fame and greatness should eclipse his own, On happy Peleus he bestow'd her charms, And bless'd his grandson in the Goddess' arms: A silent creek Thessalia's coast can show; Two arms project, and shape it like a bow; 'Twould make a bay, but the transparent tide Does scarce the yellow-gravell'd bottom hide; For the quick eye may thro' the liquid wave A firm unweedy level beach perceive. A grove of fragrant myrtle near it grows, Whose boughs, tho' thick, a beauteous grot disclose; The well-wrought fabrick, to discerning eyes, Rather by art than Nature seems to rise. A bridled dolphin oft fair Thetis bore To this her lov'd retreat, her fav'rite shore. Here Peleus seiz'd her, slumbring while she lay, And urg'd his suit with all that love could say: But when he found her obstinately coy, Resolv'd to force her, and comm and the joy; The nymph, o'erpowr'd, to art for succour flies And various shapes the eager youth surprize: A bird she seems, but plies her wings in vain, His hands the fleeting substance still detain: A branchy tree high in the air she grew; About its bark his nimble arms he threw: A tyger next she glares with flaming eyes; The frighten'd lover quits his hold, and flies: The sea-Gods he with sacred rites adores, Then a libation on the ocean pours; While the fat entrails crackle in the fire, And sheets of smoak in sweet perfume aspire; 'Till Proteus rising from his oozy bed, Thus to the poor desponding lover said: No more in anxious thoughts your mind employ, For yet you shall possess the dear expected joy. You must once more th' unwary nymph surprize, As in her cooly grot she slumbring lies; Then bind her fast with unrelenting hands, And strain her tender limbs with knotted bands. Still hold her under ev'ry different shape, 'Till tir'd she tries no longer to escape. Thus he: then sunk beneath the glassy flood, And broken accents flutter'd, where he stood. Bright Sol had almost now his journey done, And down the steepy western convex run; When the fair Nereid left the briny wave, And, as she us'd, retreated to her cave. He scarce had bound her fast, when she arose, And into various shapes her body throws: She went to move her arms, and found 'em ty'd; Then with a sigh, Some God assists ye, cry'd, And in her proper shape stood blushing by his side. About her waiste his longing arms he flung, From which embrace the great Achilles sprung. The Transformation of Daedalion Peleus unmix'd felicity enjoy'd (Blest in a valiant son, and virtuous bride), 'Till Fortune did in blood his hands imbrue, And his own brother by curst chance he slew: Then driv'n from Thessaly, his native clime, Trachinia first gave shelter to his crime; Where peaceful Ceyx mildly fill'd the throne, And like his sire, the morning planet, shone; But now, unlike himself, bedew'd with tears, Mourning a brother lost, his brow appears. First to the town with travel spent, and care, Peleus, and his small company repair: His herds, and flocks the while at leisure feed, On the rich pasture of a neighb'ring mead. The prince before the royal presence brought, Shew'd by the suppliant olive what he sought; Then tells his name, and race, and country right, But hides th' unhappy reason of his flight. He begs the king some little town to give, Where they may safe his faithful vassals live. Ceyx reply'd: To all my bounty flows, A hospitable realm your suit has chose. Your glorious race, and far-resounding fame, And grandsire Jove, peculiar favours claim. All you can wish, I grant; entreaties spare; My kingdom (would 'twere worth the sharing) share. Tears stop'd his speech: astonish'd Peleus pleads To know the cause from whence his grief proceeds. The prince reply'd: There's none of ye but deems This hawk was ever such as now it seems; Know 'twas a heroe once, Daedalion nam'd, For warlike deeds, and haughty valour fam'd; Like me to that bright luminary born, Who wakes Aurora, and brings on the morn. His fierceness still remains, and love of blood, Now dread of birds, and tyrant of the wood. My make was softer, peace my greatest care; But this my brother wholly bent on war; Late nations fear'd, and routed armies fled That force, which now the tim'rous pigeons dread. A daughter he possess'd, divinely fair, And scarcely yet had seen her fifteenth year; Young Chione: a thousand rivals strove To win the maid, and teach her how to love. Phoebus, and Mercury by chance one day From Delphi, and Cyllene past this way; Together they the virgin saw: desire At once warm'd both their breasts with am'rous fire. Phoebus resolv'd to wait 'till close of day; But Mercury's hot love brook'd no delay; With his entrancing rod the maid he charms, And unresisted revels in her arms. 'Twas night, and Phoebus in a beldam's dress, To the late rifled beauty got access. Her time compleat nine circling moons had run; To either God she bore a lovely son: To Mercury Autolycus she brought, Who turn'd to thefts and tricks his subtle thought; Possess'd he was of all his father's slight, At will made white look black, and black look white. Philammon born to Phoebus, like his sire, The Muses lov'd, and finely struck the lyre, And made his voice, and touch in harmony conspire. In vain, fond maid, you boast this double birth, The love of Gods, and royal father's worth, And Jove among your ancestors rehearse! Could blessings such as these e'er prove a curse? To her they did, who with audacious pride, Vain of her own, Diana's charms decry'd. Her taunts the Goddess with resentment fill; My face you like not, you shall try my skill. She said; and strait her vengeful bow she strung, And sent a shaft that pierc'd her guilty tongue: The bleeding tongue in vain its accents tries; In the red stream her soul reluctant flies. With sorrow wild I ran to her relief, And try'd to moderate my brother's grief. He, deaf as rocks by stormy surges beat, Loudly laments, and hears me not intreat. When on the fun'ral pile he saw her laid, Thrice he to rush into the flames assay'd, Thrice with officious care by us was stay'd. Now, mad with grief, away he fled amain, Like a stung heifer that resents the pain, And bellowing wildly bounds along the plain. O'er the most rugged ways so fast he ran, He seem'd a bird already, not a man: He left us breathless all behind; and now In quest of death had gain'd Parnassus' brow: But when from thence headlong himself he threw, He fell not, but with airy pinions flew. Phoebus in pity chang'd him to a fowl, Whose crooked beak and claws the birds controul, Little of bulk, but of a warlike soul. A hawk become, the feather'd race's foe, He tries to case his own by other's woe. A Wolf turn'd into Marble While they astonish'd heard the king relate These wonders of his hapless brother's fate; The prince's herdsman at the court arrives, And fresh surprize to all the audience gives. O Peleus, Peleus! dreadful news I bear, He said; and trembled as he spoke for fear. The worst, affrighted Peleus bid him tell, Whilst Ceyx too grew pale with friendly zeal. Thus he began: When Sol mid-heav'n had gain'd, And half his way was past, and half remain'd, I to the level shore my cattle drove, And let them freely in the meadows rove. Some stretch'd at length admire the watry plain, Some crop'd the herb, some wanton swam the main. A temple stands of antique make hard by, Where no gilt domes, nor marble lure the eye; Unpolish'd rafters bear its lowly height, Hid by a grove, as ancient, from the sight. Here Nereus, and the Nereids they adore; I learnt it from the man who thither bore His net, to dry it on the sunny shore. Adjoyns a lake, inclos'd with willows round, Where swelling waves have overflow'd the mound, And, muddy, stagnate on the lower ground. From thence a russling noise increasing flies, Strikes the still shore; and frights us with surprize, Strait a huge wolf rush'd from the marshy wood, His jaws besmear'd with mingled foam, and blood, Tho' equally by hunger urg'd, and rage, His appetite he minds not to asswage; Nought that he meets, his rabid fury spares, But the whole herd with mad disorder tears. Some of our men who strove to drive him thence, Torn by his teeth, have dy'd in their defence. The echoing lakes, the sea, and fields, and shore, Impurpled blush with streams of reeking gore. Delay is loss, nor have we time for thought; While yet some few remain alive, we ought To seize our arms, and with confederate force Try if we so can stop his bloody course. But Peleus car'd not for his ruin'd herd; His crime he call'd to mind, and thence inferr'd, That Psamathe's revenge this havock made, In sacrifice to murder'd Phocus' shade. The king commands his servants to their arms; Resolv'd to go; but the loud noise alarms His lovely queen, who from her chamber flew, And her half-plaited hair behind her threw: About his neck she hung with loving fears, And now with words, and now with pleading tears, Intreated that he'd send his men alone, And stay himself, to save two lives in one. Then Peleus: Your just fears, o queen, forget; Too much the offer leaves me in your debt. No arms against the monster I shall bear, But the sea nymphs appease with humble pray'r. The citadel's high turrets pierce the sky, Which home-bound vessels, glad, from far descry; This they ascend, and thence with sorrow ken The mangled heifers lye, and bleeding men; Th' inexorable ravager they view, With blood discolour'd, still the rest pursue: There Peleus pray'd submissive tow'rds the sea, And deprecates the ire of injur'd Psamathe. But deaf to all his pray'rs the nymph remain'd, 'Till Thetis for her spouse the boon obtain'd. Pleas'd with the luxury, the furious beast, Unstop'd, continues still his bloody feast: While yet upon a sturdy bull he flew, Chang'd by the nymph, a marble block he grew. No longer dreadful now the wolf appears, Bury'd in stone, and vanish'd like their fears. Yet still the Fates unhappy Peleus vex'd; To the Magnesian shore he wanders next. Acastus there, who rul'd the peaceful clime, Grants his request, and expiates his crime. The Story of Ceyx and Alcyone These prodigies affect the pious prince, But more perplex'd with those that happen'd since, He purposes to seek the Clarian God, Avoiding Delphi, his more fam'd abode, Since Phlegyan robbers made unsafe the road. Yet could he not from her he lov'd so well, The fatal voyage, he resolv'd, conceal; But when she saw her lord prepar'd to part, A deadly cold ran shiv'ring to her heart; Her faded cheeks are chang'd to boxen hue, And in her eyes the tears are ever new. She thrice essay'd to speak; her accents hung, And falt'ring dy'd unfinish'd on her tongue, And vanish'd into sighs: with long delay Her voice return'd, and found the wonted way. Tell me, my lord, she said, what fault unknown Thy once belov'd Alcyone has done? Whither, ah, whither, is thy kindness gone! Can Ceyx then sustain to leave his wife, And unconcern'd forsake the sweets of life? What can thy mind to this long journey move? Or need'st thou absence to renew thy love? Yet, if thou go'st by land, tho' grief possess My soul ev'n then, my fears will be the less. But ah! be warn'd to shun the watry way, The face is frightful of the stormy sea: For late I saw a-drift disjointed planks, And empty tombs erected on the banks. Nor let false hopes to trust betray thy mind, Because my sire in caves constrains the wind, Can with a breath their clam'rous rage appease, They fear his whistle, and forsake the seas: Not so; for once indulg'd, they sweep the main; Deaf to the call, or hearing, hear in vain; But bent on mischief bear the waves before, And not content with seas, insult the shore, When ocean, air, and Earth, at once ingage, And rooted forests fly before their rage: At once the clashing clouds to battel move, And lightnings run across the fields above: I know them well, and mark'd their rude comport, While yet a child within my father's court: In times of tempest they comm and alone, And he but sits precarious on the throne: The more I know, the more my fears augment; And fears are oft prophetick of th' event. But if not fears, or reasons will prevail, If Fate has fix'd thee obstinate to sail, Go not without thy wife, but let me bear My part of danger with an equal share, And present, what I suffer only fear: Then o'er the bounding billows shall we fly, Secure to live together, or to die. These reasons mov'd her warlike husband's heart, But still he held his purpose to depart: For as he lov'd her equal to his life, He would not to the seas expose his wife; Nor could be wrought his voyage to refrain, But sought by arguments to sooth her pain: Nor these avail'd; at length he lights on one, With which so difficult a cause he won: My love, so short an absence cease to fear, For by my father's holy flame I swear, Before two moons their orb with light adorn, If Heav'n allow me life, I will return. This promise of so short a stay prevails; He soon equips the ship, supplies the sails, And gives the word to launch; she trembling views This pomp of death, and parting tears renews: Last with a kiss, she took a long farewel, Sigh'd with a sad presage, and swooning fell: While Ceyx seeks delays, the lusty crew, Rais'd on their banks, their oars in order drew To their broad breasts, the ship with fury flew. The queen recover'd, rears her humid eyes, And first her husb and on the poop espies, Shaking his hand at distance on the main; She took the sign, and shook her hand again. Still as the ground recedes, contracts her view With sharpen'd sight, 'till she no longer knew The much-lov'd face; that comfort lost supplies With less, and with the galley feeds her eyes; The galley born from view by rising gales, She follow'd with her sight the flying sails: When ev'n the flying sails were seen no more, Forsaken of all sight she left the shore. Then on her bridal bed her body throws, And sought in sleep her wearied eyes to close: Her husband's pillow, and the widow'd part Which once he press'd, renew'd the former smart. And now a breeze from shoar began to blow, The sailors ship their oars, and cease to row; Then hoist their yards a-trip, and all their sails Let fall, to court the wind, and catch the gales: By this the vessel half her course had run, Both shoars were lost to sight, when at the close Of day a stiffer gale at east arose: The sea grew white, the rouling waves from far, Like heralds, first denounce the watry war. This seen, the master soon began to cry, Strike, strike the top-sail; let the main-sheet fly, And furl your sails: the winds repel the sound, And in the speaker's mouth the speech is drown'd. Yet of their own accord, as danger taught Each in his way, officiously they wrought; Some stow their oars, or stop the leaky sides, Another bolder, yet the yard bestrides, And folds the sails; a fourth with labour laves Th' intruding seas, and waves ejects on waves. In this confusion while their work they ply, The winds augment the winter of the sky, And wage intestine wars; the suff'ring seas Are toss'd, and mingled, as their tyrants please. The master would command, but in despair Of safety, stands amaz'd with stupid care, Nor what to bid, or what forbid he knows, Th' ungovern'd tempest to such fury grows: Vain is his force, and vainer is his skill; With such a concourse comes the flood of ill; The cries of men are mix'd with rattling shrowds; Seas dash on seas, and clouds encounter clouds: At once from east to west, from pole to pole, The forky lightnings flash, the roaring thunders roul. Now waves on waves ascending scale the skies, And in the fires above the water fries: When yellow sands are sifted from below, The glittering billows give a golden show: And when the fouler bottom spews the black The Stygian dye the tainted waters take: Then frothy white appear the flatted seas, And change their colour, changing their disease, Like various fits the Trachin vessel finds, And now sublime, she rides upon the winds; As from a lofty summit looks from high, And from the clouds beholds the nether sky; Now from the depth of Hell they lift their sight, And at a distance see superior light; The lashing billows make a loud report, And beat her sides, as batt'ring rams a fort: Or as a lion bounding in his way, With force augmented, bears against his prey, Sidelong to seize; or unapal'd with fear, Springs on the toils, and rushes on the spear: So seas impell'd by winds, with added pow'r Assault the sides, and o'er the hatches tow'r. The planks (their pitchy cov'ring wash'd away) Now yield; and now a yawning breach display: The roaring waters with a hostile tide Rush through the ruins of her gaping side. Mean-time in sheets of rain the sky descends, And ocean swell'd with waters upwards tends; One rising, falling one, the Heav'ns and sea Meet at their confines, in the middle way: The sails are drunk with show'rs, and drop with rain, Sweet waters mingle with the briny main. No star appears to lend his friendly light; Darkness, and tempest make a double night; But flashing fires disclose the deep by turns, And while the lightnings blaze, the water burns. Now all the waves their scatter'd force unite, And as a soldier foremost in the fight, Makes way for others, and an host alone Still presses on, and urging gains the town; So while th' invading billows come a-breast, The hero tenth advanc'd before the rest, Sweeps all before him with impetuous sway, And from the walls descends upon the prey; Part following enter, part remain without, With envy hear their fellows' conqu'ring shout, And mount on others' backs, in hopes to share The city, thus become the seat of war. An universal cry resounds aloud, The sailors run in heaps, a helpless crowd; Art fails, and courage falls, no succour near; As many waves, as many deaths appear. One weeps, and yet despairs of late relief; One cannot weep, his fears congeal his grief, But stupid, with dry eyes expects his fate: One with loud shrieks laments his lost estate, And calls those happy whom their fun'rals wait. This wretch with pray'rs and vows the Gods implores, And ev'n the skies he cannot see, adores. That other on his friends his thoughts bestows, His careful father, and his faithful spouse. The covetous worldling in his anxious mind, Thinks only on the wealth he left behind. All Ceyx his Alcyone employs, For her he grieves, yet in her absence joys: His wife he wishes, and would still be near, Not her with him, but wishes him with her: Now with last looks he seeks his native shoar, Which Fate has destin'd him to see no more; He sought, but in the dark tempestuous night He knew not whither to direct his sight. So whirl the seas, such darkness blinds the sky, That the black night receives a deeper dye. The giddy ship ran round; the tempest tore Her mast, and over-board the rudder bore. One billow mounts, and with a scornful brow, Proud of her conquest gain'd, insults the waves below; Nor lighter falls, than if some giant tore Pindus and Athos with the freight they bore, And toss'd on seas; press'd with the pond'rous blow, Down sinks the ship within th' abyss below: Down with the vessel sink into the main The many, never more to rise again. Some few on scatter'd planks, with fruitless care, Lay hold, and swim; but while they swim, despair. Ev'n he who late a scepter did command, Now grasps a floating fragment in his hand; And while he struggles on the stormy main, Invokes his father, and his wife's, in vain. But yet his consort is his greatest care, Alcyone he names amidst his pray'r; Names as a charm against the waves and wind; Most in his mouth, and ever in his mind. Tir'd with his toil, all hopes of safety past, From pray'rs to wishes he descends at last; That his dead body, wafted to the sands, Might have its burial from her friendly hands, As oft as he can catch a gulp of air, And peep above the seas, he names the fair; And ev'n when plung'd beneath, on her he raves, Murm'ring Alcyone below the waves: At last a falling billow stops his breath, Breaks o'er his head, and whelms him underneath. That night, his heav'nly form obscur'd with tears, And since he was forbid to leave the skies, He muffled with a cloud his mournful eyes. Mean-time Alcyone (his fate unknown) Computes how many nights he had been gone. Observes the waining moon with hourly view, Numbers her age, and wishes for a new; Against the promis'd time provides with care, And hastens in the woof the robes he was to wear: And for her self employs another loom, New-dress'd to meet her lord returning home, Flatt'ring her heart with joys, that never were to come: She fum'd the temples with an od'rous flame, And oft before the sacred altars came, To pray for him, who was an empty name. All Pow'rs implor'd, but far above the rest To Juno she her pious vows address'd, Her much-lov'd lord from perils to protect, And safe o'er seas his voyage to direct: Then pray'd, that she might still possess his heart, And no pretending rival share a part; This last petition heard of all her pray'r, The rest, dispers'd by winds, were lost in air. But she, the Goddess of the nuptial bed, Tir'd with her vain devotions for the dead, Resolv'd the tainted hand should be repell'd, Which incense offer'd, and her altar held: Then Iris thus bespoke: Thou faithful maid, By whom thy queen's commands are well convey'd, Haste to the house of sleep, and bid the God Who rules the night by visions with a nod, Prepare a dream, in figure, and in form Resembling him, who perish'd in the storm; This form before Alcyone present, To make her certain of the sad event. Indu'd with robes of various hue she flies, And flying draws an arch (a segment of the skies): Then leaves her bending bow, and from the steep Descends, to search the silent house of sleep. The House of Sleep Near the Cymmerians, in his dark abode, Deep in a cavern, dwells the drowzy God; Whose gloomy mansion nor the rising sun, Nor setting, visits, nor the lightsome noon; But lazy vapours round the region fly, Perpetual twilight, and a doubtful sky: No crowing cock does there his wings display, Nor with his horny bill provoke the day; Nor watchful dogs, nor the more wakeful geese, Disturb with nightly noise the sacred peace; Nor beast of Nature, nor the tame are nigh, Nor trees with tempests rock'd, nor human cry; But safe repose without an air of breath Dwells here, and a dumb quiet next to death. An arm of Lethe, with a gentle flow Arising upwards from the rock below, The palace moats, and o'er the pebbles creeps, And with soft murmurs calls the coming sleeps. Around its entry nodding poppies grow, And all cool simples that sweet rest bestow; Night from the plants their sleepy virtue drains, And passing, sheds it on the silent plains: No door there was th' unguarded house to keep, On creaking hinges turn'd, to break his sleep. But in the gloomy court was rais'd a bed, Stuff'd with black plumes, and on an ebon-sted: Black was the cov'ring too, where lay the God, And slept supine, his limbs display'd abroad: About his head fantastick visions fly, Which various images of things supply, And mock their forms; the leaves on trees not more, Nor bearded ears in fields, nor sands upon the shore. The virgin ent'ring bright, indulg'd the day To the brown cave, and brush'd the dreams away: The God disturb'd with this new glare of light, Cast sudden on his face, unseal'd his sight, And rais'd his tardy head, which sunk again, And sinking, on his bosom knock'd his chin; At length shook off himself, and ask'd the dame, (And asking yawn'd) for what intent she came. To whom the Goddess thus: O sacred rest, Sweet pleasing sleep, of all the Pow'rs the best! O peace of mind, repairer of decay, Whose balms renew the limbs to labours of the day, Care shuns thy soft approach, and sullen flies away! Adorn a dream, expressing human form, The shape of him who suffer'd in the storm, And send it flitting to the Trachin court, The wreck of wretched Ceyx to report: Before his queen bid the pale spectre stand, Who begs a vain relief at Juno's hand. She said, and scarce awake her eyes could keep, Unable to support the fumes of sleep; But fled, returning by the way she went, And swerv'd along her bow with swift ascent. The God, uneasy 'till he slept again, Resolv'd at once to rid himself of pain; And, tho' against his custom, call'd aloud, Exciting Morpheus from the sleepy crowd: Morpheus, of all his numerous train, express'd The shape of man, and imitated best; The walk, the words, the gesture could supply, The habit mimick, and the mein bely; Plays well, but all his action is confin'd, Extending not beyond our human kind. Another, birds, and beasts, and dragons apes, And dreadful images, and monster shapes: This demon, Icelos, in Heav'n's high hall The Gods have nam'd; but men Phobetor call. A third is Phantasus, whose actions roul On meaner thoughts, and things devoid of soul; Earth, fruits, and flow'rs he represents in dreams, And solid rocks unmov'd, and running streams. These three to kings, and chiefs their scenes display, The rest before th' ignoble commons play. Of these the chosen Morpheus is dispatch'd; Which done, the lazy monarch, over-watch'd, Down from his propping elbow drops his head, Dissolv'd in sleep, and shrinks within his bed. Darkling the demon glides, for flight prepar'd, So soft, that scarce his fanning wings are heard. To Trachin, swift as thought, the flitting shade, Thro' air his momentary journey made: Then lays aside the steerage of his wings, Forsakes his proper form, assumes the king's; And pale, as death, despoil'd of his array, Into the queen's apartment takes his way, And stands before the bed at dawn of day: Unmov'd his eyes, and wet his beard appears; And shedding vain, but seeming real tears; The briny waters dropping from his hairs. Then staring on her with a ghastly look, And hollow voice, he thus the queen bespoke. Know'st thou not me? Not yet, unhappy wife? Or are my features perish'd with my life? Look once again, and for thy husb and lost, Lo all that's left of him, thy husband's ghost! Thy vows for my return were all in vain, The stormy south o'ertook us in the main, And never shalt thou see thy living lord again. Bear witness, Heav'n, I call'd on thee in death, And while I call'd, a billow stop'd my breath. Think not, that flying fame reports my fate; I present, I appear, and my own wreck relate. Rise, wretched widow, rise; nor undeplor'd Permit my soul to pass the Stygian ford; But rise, prepar'd in black, to mourn thy perish'd lord. Thus said the player-God; and adding art Of voice and gesture, so perform'd his part, She thought (so like her love the shade appears) That Ceyx spake the words, and Ceyx shed the tears; She groan'd, her inward soul with grief opprest, She sigh'd, she wept, and sleeping beat her breast; Then stretch'd her arms t' embrace his body bare; Her clasping arms inclose but empty air: At this, not yet awake, she cry'd, O stay; One is our fate, and common is our way! So dreadful was the dream, so loud she spoke, That starting sudden up, the slumber broke: Then cast her eyes around, in hope to view Her vanish'd lord, and find the vision true: For now the maids, who waited her commands, Ran in with lighted tapers in their hands. Tir'd with the search, not finding what she seeks, With cruel blows she pounds her blubber'd cheeks; Then from her beaten breast the linnen tare, And cut the golden caul that bound her hair. Her nurse demands the cause; with louder cries She prosecutes her griefs, and thus replies. No more Alcyone; she suffer'd death With her lov'd lord, when Ceyx lost his breath: No flatt'ry, no false comfort, give me none, My shipwreck'd Ceyx is for ever gone: I saw, I saw him manifest in view, His voice, his figure, and his gestures knew: His lustre lost, and ev'ry living grace, Yet I retain'd the features of his face; Tho' with pale cheeks, wet beard, and dropping hair, None but my Ceyx could appear so fair: I would have strain'd him with a strict embrace, But thro' my arms he slipt, and vanish'd from the place: There, ev'n just there he stood; and as she spoke, Where last the spectre was she cast her look: Fain would she hope, and gaz'd upon the ground, If any printed footsteps might be found. Then sigh'd, and said: This I too well foreknew, And my prophetick fears presag'd too true: 'Twas what I begg'd, when with a bleeding heart I took my leave, and suffer'd thee to part; Or I to go along, or thou to stay, Never, ah never to divide our way! Happier for me, that all our hours assign'd Together we had liv'd; ev'n not in death disjoin'd! So had my Ceyx still been living here, Or with my Ceyx I had perish'd there: Now I die absent, in the vast profound; And me, without my self, the seas have drown'd. The storms were not so cruel: should I strive To leng then life, and such a grief survive; But neither will I strive, nor wretched thee In death forsake, but keep thee company. If not one common sepulchre contains Our bodies, or one urn our last remains, Yet Ceyx and Alcyone shall join, Their names remember'd in one common line. No farther voice her mighty grief affords, For sighs come rushing in betwixt her words, And stop'd her tongue; but what her tongue deny'd, Soft tears, and groans, and dumb complaints supply'd. 'Twas morning; to the port she takes her way, And stands upon the margin of the sea: That place, that very spot of ground she sought, Or thither by her destiny was brought, Where last he stood: and while she sadly said, 'Twas here he left me, lingring here delay'd His parting kiss, and there his anchors weigh'd. Thus speaking, while her thoughts past actions trace, And call to mind, admonish'd by the place, Sharp at her utmost ken she cast her eyes, And somewhat floating from afar descries: It seems a corps a-drift to distant sight, But at a distance who could judge aright? It wafted nearer yet, and then she knew, That what before she but surmis'd, was true: A corps it was, but whose it was, unknown, Yet mov'd, howe'er, she made the cause her own. Took the bad omen of a shipwreck'd man, As for a stranger wept, and thus began. Poor wretch, on stormy seas to lose thy life, Unhappy thou, but more thy widow'd wife; At this she paus'd: for now the flowing tide Had brought the body nearer to the side: The more she looks, the more her fears increase, At nearer sight; and she's her self the less: Now driv'n ashore, and at her feet it lies, She knows too much in knowing whom she sees: Her husband's corps; at this she loudly shrieks, 'Tis he, 'tis he, she cries, and tears her cheeks, Her hair, and vest; and stooping to the sands, About his neck she cast her trembling hands. And is it thus, o dearer than my life, Thus, thus return'st thou to thy longing wife! She said, and to the neighbouring mole she strode, (Rais'd there to break th' incursions of the flood). Headlong from hence to plunge her self she springs, But shoots along, supported on her wings; A bird new-made, about the banks she plies, Not far from shore, and short excursions tries; Nor seeks in air her humble flight to raise, Content to skim the surface of the seas: Her bill tho' slender, sends a creaking noise, And imitates a lamentable voice. Now lighting where the bloodless body lies, She with a fun'ral note renews her cries: At all her stretch, her little wings she spread, And with her feather'd arms embrac'd the dead: Then flick'ring to his palid lips, she strove To print a kiss, the last essay of love. Whether the vital touch reviv'd the dead, Or that the moving waters rais'd his head To meet the kiss, the vulgar doubt alone; For sure a present miracle was shown. The Gods their shapes to winter-birds translate, But both obnoxious to their former fate. Their conjugal affection still is ty'd, And still the mournful race is multiply'd: They bill, they tread; Alcyone compress'd, Sev'n days sits brooding on her floating nest: A wintry queen: her sire at length is kind, Calms ev'ry storm, and hushes ev'ry wind; Prepares his empire for his daughter's ease, And for his hatching nephews smooths the seas. Aesacus transform'd into a Cormorant These some old man sees wanton in the air, And praises the unhappy constant pair. Then to his friend the long-neck'd corm'rant shows, The former tale reviving others' woes: That sable bird, he cries, which cuts the flood With slender legs, was once of royal blood; His ancestors from mighty Tros proceed, The brave Laomedon, and Ganymede (Whose beauty tempted Jove to steal the boy), And Priam, hapless prince! who fell with Troy: Himself was Hector's brother, and (had Fate But giv'n this hopeful youth a longer date) Perhaps had rival'd warlike Hector's worth, Tho' on the mother's side of meaner birth; Fair Alyxothoe, a country maid, Bare Aesacus by stealth in Ida's shade. He fled the noisy town, and pompous court, Lov'd the lone hills, and simple rural sport. And seldom to the city would resort. Yet he no rustick clownishness profest, Nor was soft love a stranger to his breast: The youth had long the nymph Hesperie woo'd, Oft thro' the thicket, or the mead pursu'd: Her haply on her father's bank he spy'd, While fearless she her silver tresses dry'd; Away she fled: not stags with half such speed, Before the prowling wolf, scud o'er the mead; Not ducks, when they the safer flood forsake, Pursu'd by hawks, so swift regain the lake. As fast he follow'd in the hot career; Desire the lover wing'd, the virgin fear. A snake unseen now pierc'd her heedless foot; Quick thro' the veins the venom'd juices shoot: She fell, and 'scap'd by death his fierce pursuit; Her lifeless body, frighted, he embrac'd, And cry'd, Not this I dreaded, but thy haste: O had my love been less, or less thy fear! The victory, thus bought, is far too dear. Accursed snake! yet I more curs'd than he! He gave the wound; the cause was given by me. Yet none shall say, that unreveng'd you dy'd. He spoke; then climb'd a cliff's o'er-hanging side, And, resolute, leap'd on the foaming tide. Tethys receiv'd him gently on the wave; The death he sought deny'd, and feathers gave. Debarr'd the surest remedy of grief, And forc'd to live, he curst th' unask'd relief. Then on his airy pinions upward flies, And at a second fall successless tries; The downy plume a quick descent denies. Enrag'd, he often dives beneath the wave, And there in vain expects to find a grave. His ceaseless sorrow for th' unhappy maid, Meager'd his look, and on his spirits prey'd. Still near the sounding deep he lives; his name From frequent diving and emerging came. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- ~ Ovid, BOOK THE ELEVENTH

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

337:MANTIS EIM ESQLWN AGWNWN --Oedip. Colon. TO HIS EXCELLENCY PRINCE ALEXANDER MAVROCORDATO LATE SECRETARY FOR FOREIGN AFFAIRS TO THE HOSPODAR OF WALLACHIA THE DRAMA OF HELLAS IS INSCRIBED AS AN IMPERFECT TOKEN OF THE ADMIRATION, SYMPATHY, AND FRIENDSHIP OF THE AUTHOR. PROLOGUE TO HELLAS Herald of Eternity. It is the day when all the sons of God Wait in the roofless senate-house, whose floor Is Chaos, and the immovable abyss Frozen by His steadfast word to hyaline... The shadow of God, and delegate Of that before whose breath the universe Is as a print of dew.            Hierarchs and kings Who from your thrones pinnacled on the past Sway the reluctant present, ye who sit Pavilioned on the radiance or the gloom Of mortal thought, which like an exhalation Steaming from earth, conceals the...of heaven Which gave it birth,...assemble here Before your Father's throne; the swift decree Yet hovers, and the fiery incarnation Is yet withheld, clothd in which it shall ...annul The fairest of those wandering isles that gem The sapphire space of interstellar air, That green and azure sphere, that earth enwrapped Less in the beauty of its tender light Than in an atmosphere of living spirit Which interpenetrating all the... ...it rolls from realm to realm And age to age, and in its ebb and flow Impels the generations To their appointed place, Whilst the high Arbiter Beholds the strife, and at the appointed time Sends His decrees veiled in eternal... Within the circuit of this pendent orb There lies an antique region, on which fell The dews of thought in the world's golden dawn Earliest and most benign, and from it sprung Temples and cities and immortal forms And harmonies of wisdom and of song, And thoughts, and deeds worthy of thoughts so fair. And when the sun of its dominion failed, And when the winter of its glory came, The winds that stripped it bare blew on and swept That dew into the utmost wildernesses In wandering clouds of sunny rain that thawed The unmaternal bosom of the North. Haste, sons of God,...for ye beheld, Reluctant, or consenting, or astonished, The stern decrees go forth, which heaped on Greece Ruin and degradation and despair. A fourth now waits: assemble, sons of God, To speed or to prevent or to suspend, If, as ye dream, such power be not withheld, The unaccomplished destiny... Chorus. The curtain of the Universe Is rent and shattered, The splendour-wingd worlds disperse Like wild doves scattered.   Space is roofless and bare, And in the midst a cloudy shrine, Dark amid thrones of light. In the blue glow of hyaline Golden worlds revolve and shine. In...flight From every point of the Infinite, Like a thousand dawns on a single night The splendours rise and spread; And through thunder and darkness dread Light and music are radiated, And in their pavilioned chariots led By living wings high overhead The giant Powers move, Gloomy or bright as the thrones they fill... A chaos of light and motion Upon that glassy ocean... The senate of the Gods is met, Each in his rank and station set;   There is silence in the spaces Lo! Satan, Christ, and Mahomet Start from their places! Christ.              Almighty Father! Low-kneeling at the feet of Destiny. . . There are two fountains in which spirits weep When mortals err, Discord and Slavery named, And with their bitter dew two Destinies Filled each their irrevocable urns; the third, Fiercest and mightiest, mingled both, and added Chaos and Death, and slow Oblivion's lymph, And hate and terror, and the poisoned rain. . . The Aurora of the nations. By this brow Whose pores wept tears of blood, by these wide wounds, By this imperial crown of agony, By infamy and solitude and death, For this I underwent, and by the pain Of pity for those who would...for me The unremembered joy of a revenge, For this I feltby Plato's sacred light, Of which my spirit was a burning morrow By Greece and all she cannot cease to be, Her quenchless words, sparks of immortal truth, Stars of all nighther harmonies and forms, Echoes and shadows of what Love adores In thee, I do compel thee, send forth Fate, Thy irrevocable child: let her descend, A seraph-wingd Victory [arrayed] In tempest of the omnipotence of God Which sweeps through all things. From hollow leagues, from Tyranny which arms Adverse miscreeds and emulous anarchies To stamp, as on a wingd serpent's seed, Upon the name of Freedom; from the storm Of faction, which like earthquake shakes and sickens The solid heart of enterprise; from all By which the holiest dreams of highest spirits Are stars beneath the dawn...                  She shall arise Victorious as the world arose from Chaos! And as the Heavens and the Earth arrayed Their presence in the beauty and the light Of Thy first smile, O Father,as they gather The spirit of Thy love which paves for them Their path o'er the abyss, till every sphere Shall be one living Spirit,-- so shall Greece-- Satan. Be as all things beneath the empyrean, Mine! Art thou eyeless like old Destiny, Thou mockery-king, crowned with a wreath of thorns? Whose sceptre is a reed, the broken reed Which pierces thee! whose throne a chair of scorn; For seest thou not beneath this crystal floor The innumerable worlds of golden light Which are my empire, and the least of them ...which thou wouldst redeem from me? Know'st thou not them my portion? Or wouldst rekindle the...strife Which our great Father then did arbitrate Which he assigned to his competing sons Each his apportioned realm?                Thou Destiny, Thou who art mailed in the omnipotence Of Him who sends thee forth, whate'er thy task, Speed, spare not to accomplish, and be mine Thy trophies, whether Greece again become The fountain in the desert whence the earth Shall drink of freedom, which shall give it strength To suffer, or a gulf of hollow death To swallow all delight, all life, all hope. Go, thou Vicegerent of my will, no less Than of the Father's; but lest thou shouldst faint, The wingd hounds, Famine and Pestilence, Shall wait on thee, the hundred-forkd snake Insatiate Superstition still shall... The earth behind thy steps, and War shall hover Above, and Fraud shall gape below, and Change Shall flit before thee on her dragon wings, Convulsing and consuming, and I add Three vials of the tears which daemons weep When virtuous spirits through the gate of Death Pass triumphing over the thorns of life, Sceptres and crowns, mitres and swords and snares, Trampling in scorn, like Him and Socrates. The first is Anarchy; when Power and Pleasure, Glory and science and security, On Freedom hang like fruit on the green tree, Then pour it forth, and men shall gather ashes. The second Tyranny-- Christ.            Obdurate spirit! Thou seest but the Past in the To-come. Pride is thy error and thy punishment. Boast not thine empire, dream not that thy worlds Are more than furnace-sparks or rainbow-drops Before the Power that wields and kindles them. True greatness asks not space, true excellence Lives in the Spirit of all things that live, Which lends it to the worlds thou callest thine... Mahomet. Haste thou and fill the waning crescent With beams as keen as those which pierced the shadow Of Christian night rolled back upon the West, When the orient moon of Islam rode in triumph From Tmolus to the Acroceraunian snow...                        Wake, thou Word Of God, and from the throne of Destiny Even to the utmost limit of thy way May Triumph........... Be thou a curse on them whose creed Divides and multiplies the most high God. HELLAS DRAMATIS PERSONAE Mahmud. Hassan. Daood. Ahasuerus, a Jew. Chorus of Greek Captive Women. The Phantom of Mahomet II. Messengers, Slaves, and Attendants. Scene, Constantinople. Time, Sunset. Scene--A Terrace on the Seraglio. Mahmud sleeping, an Indian Slave sitting beside his Couch. Chorus of Greek Captive Women. We strew these opiate flowers   On thy restless pillow, They were stripped from Orient bowers,   By the Indian billow.    Be thy sleep    Calm and deep, Like theirs who fellnot ours who weep! Indian. Away, unlovely dreams!   Away, false shapes of sleep! Be his, as Heaven seems,   Clear, and bright, and deep! Soft as love, and calm as death, Sweet as a summer night without a breath. Chorus. Sleep, sleep! our song is laden   With the soul of slumber; It was sung by a Samian maiden,   Whose lover was of the number    Who now keep    That calm sleep Whence none may wake, where none shall weep. Indian. I touch thy temples pale!   I breathe my soul on thee! And could my prayers avail,   All my joy should be Dead, and I would live to weep, So thou mightst win one hour of quiet sleep. Chorus.   Breathe low, low The spell of the mighty mistress now! When Conscience lulls her sated snake, And Tyrants sleep, let Freedom wake.   Breathe lowlow The words which, like secret fire, shall flow Through the veins of the frozen earthlow, low! Semichorus I. Life may change, but it may fly not; Hope may vanish, but can die not; Truth be veiled, but still it burneth; Love repulsed,but it returneth! Semichorus II. Yet were life a charnel where Hope lay coffined with Despair; Yet were truth a sacred lie, Love were lust Semichorus I.          If Liberty Lent not life its soul of light, Hope its iris of delight, Truth its prophet's robe to wear, Love its power to give and bear. Chorus. In the great morning of the world, The Spirit of God with might unfurled The flag of Freedom over Chaos, And all its banded anarchs fled, Like vultures frighted from Imaus, Before an earthquake's tread. So from Time's tempestuous dawn Freedom's splendour burst and shone: Thermopylae and Marathon Caught, like mountains beacon-lighted, The springing Fire.The wingd glory On Philippi half-alighted, Like an eagle on a promontory. Its unwearied wings could fan The quenchless ashes of Milan.[1] From age to age, from man to man, It lived; and lit from land to land Florence, Albion, Switzerland. Then night fell; and, as from night, Reassuming fiery flight, From the West swift Freedom came, Against the course of Heaven and doom, A second sun arrayed in flame, To burn, to kindle, to illume. From far Atlantis its young beams Chased the shadows and the dreams. France, with all her sanguine steams, Hid, but quenched it not; again Through clouds its shafts of glory rain From utmost Germany to Spain. As an eagle fed with morning Scorns the embattled tempest's warning, When she seeks her aerie hanging In the mountain-cedar's hair, And her brood expect the clanging Of her wings through the wild air, Sick with famine:Freedom, so To what of Greece remaineth now Returns; her hoary ruins glow Like Orient mountains lost in day; Beneath the safety of her wings Her renovated nurslings prey, And in the naked lightenings Of truth they purge their dazzled eyes. Let Freedom leavewhere'er she flies, A Desert, or a Paradise: Let the beautiful and the brave Share her glory, or a grave. Semichorus I. With the gifts of gladness Greece did thy cradle strew; Semichorus II. With the tears of sadness Greece did thy shroud bedew! Semichorus I. With an orphan's affection She followed thy bier through Time; Semichorus II. And at thy resurrection Reappeareth, like thou, sublime! Semichorus I. If Heaven should resume thee, To Heaven shall her spirit ascend; Semichorus II. If Hell should entomb thee, To Hell shall her high hearts bend. Semichorus I. If Annihilation Semichorus II. Dust let her glories be! And a name and a nation Be forgotten, Freedom, with thee! Indian. His brow grows darkerbreathe notmove not! He startshe shuddersye that love not, With your panting loud and fast, Have awakened him at last. Mahmud (starting from his sleep). Man the Seraglio-guard! make fast the gate! What! from a cannonade of three short hours? 'Tis false! that breach towards the Bosphorus Cannot be practicable yetwho stirs? Stand to the match; that when the foe prevails One spark may mix in reconciling ruin The conqueror and the conquered! Heave the tower Into the gapwrench off the roof! (Enter Hassan.)                   Ha! what! The truth of day lightens upon my dream And I am Mahmud still. Hassan.             Your Sublime Highness Is strangely moved. Mahmud.           The times do cast strange shadows On those who watch and who must rule their course, Lest they, being first in peril as in glory, Be whelmed in the fierce ebb:and these are of them. Thrice has a gloomy vision hunted me As thus from sleep into the troubled day; It shakes me as the tempest shakes the sea, Leaving no figure upon memory's glass. Would thatno matter. Thou didst say thou knewest A Jew, whose spirit is a chronicle Of strange and secret and forgotten things. I bade thee summon him:'tis said his tribe Dream, and are wise interpreters of dreams. Hassan. The Jew of whom I spake is old,so old He seems to have outlived a world's decay; The hoary mountains and the wrinkled ocean Seem younger still than he;his hair and beard Are whiter than the tempest-sifted snow; His cold pale limbs and pulseless arteries Are like the fibres of a cloud instinct With light, and to the soul that quickens them Are as the atoms of the mountain-drift To the winter wind:but from his eye looks forth A life of unconsumd thought which pierces The Present, and the Past, and the To-come. Some say that this is he whom the great prophet Jesus, the son of Joseph, for his mockery, Mocked with the curse of immortality. Some feign that he is Enoch: others dream He was pre-adamite and has survived Cycles of generation and of ruin. The sage, in truth, by dreadful abstinence And conquering penance of the mutinous flesh, Deep contemplation, and unwearied study, In years outstretched beyond the date of man, May have attained to sovereignty and science Over those strong and secret things and thoughts Which others fear and know not. Mahmud.                  I would talk With this old Jew. Hassan.           Thy will is even now Made known to him, where he dwells in a sea-cavern 'Mid the Demonesi, less accessible Than thou or God! He who would question him Must sail alone at sunset, where the stream Of Ocean sleeps around those foamless isles, When the young moon is westering as now, And evening airs wander upon the wave; And when the pines of that bee-pasturing isle, Green Erebinthus, quench the fiery shadow Of his gilt prow within the sapphire water, Then must the lonely helmsman cry aloud 'Ahasuerus!' and the caverns round Will answer 'Ahasuerus!' If his prayer Be granted, a faint meteor will arise Lighting him over Marmora, and a wind Will rush out of the sighing pine-forest, And with the wind a storm of harmony Unutterably sweet, and pilot him Through the soft twilight to the Bosphorus: Thence at the hour and place and circumstance Fit for the matter of their conference The Jew appears. Few dare, and few who dare Win the desired communionbut that shout Bodes [A shout within. Mahmud.     Evil, doubtless; like all human sounds. Let me converse with spirits. Hassan.                 That shout again.                 Mahmud. This Jew whom thou hast summoned Hassan.                   Will be here                   Mahmud. When the omnipotent hour to which are yoked He, I, and all things shall compelenough! Silence those mutineersthat drunken crew, That crowd about the pilot in the storm. Ay! strike the foremost shorter by a head! They weary me, and I have need of rest. Kings are like starsthey rise and set, they have The worship of the world, but no repose. [Exeunt severally. Chorus[2]. Worlds on worlds are rolling ever From creation to decay, Like the bubbles on a river Sparkling, bursting, borne away.   But they are still immortal   Who, through birth's orient portal And death's dark chasm hurrying to and fro,   Clothe their unceasing flight   In the brief dust and light Gathered around their chariots as they go;   New shapes they still may weave,   New gods, new laws receive, Bright or dim are they as the robes they last   On Death's bare ribs had cast.    A power from the unknown God,   A Promethean conqueror, came; Like a triumphal path he trod   The thorns of death and shame.   A mortal shape to him   Was like the vapour dim Which the orient planet animates with light;   Hell, Sin, and Slavery came,   Like bloodhounds mild and tame, Nor preyed, until their Lord had taken flight;   The moon of Mahomet   Arose, and it shall set: While blazoned as on Heaven's immortal noon The cross leads generations on.   Swift as the radiant shapes of sleep   From one whose dreams are Paradise Fly, when the fond wretch wakes to weep,   And Day peers forth with her blank eyes;   So fleet, so faint, so fair,   The Powers of earth and air Fled from the folding-star of Bethlehem:   Apollo, Pan, and Love,   And even Olympian Jove Grew weak, for killing Truth had glared on them;   Our hills and seas and streams,   Dispeopled of their dreams, Their watrs turned to blood, their dew to tears,   Wailed for the golden years.   Enter Mahmud, Hassan, Daood, and others. Mahmud. More gold? our ancestors bought gold with victory, And shall I sell it for defeat? Daood.                  The Janizars Clamour for pay. Mahmud.          Go! bid them pay themselves With Christian blood! Are there no Grecian virgins Whose shrieks and spasms and tears they may enjoy? No infidel children to impale on spears? No hoary priests after that Patriarch[3] Who bent the curse against his country's heart, Which clove his own at last? Go! bid them kill, Blood is the seed of gold. Daood.               It has been sown, And yet the harvest to the sicklemen Is as a grain to each. Mahmud.             Then, take this signet, Unlock the seventh chamber in which lie The treasures of victorious Solyman, An empire's spoil stored for a day of ruin. O spirit of my sires! is it not come? The prey-birds and the wolves are gorged and sleep; But these, who spread their feast on the red earth, Hunger for gold, which fills not.See them fed; Then, lead them to the rivers of fresh death. [Exit Daood. O miserable dawn, after a night More glorious than the day which it usurped! O faith in God! O power on earth! O word Of the great prophet, whose o'ershadowing wings Darkened the thrones and idols of the West, Now bright!For thy sake cursd be the hour, Even as a father by an evil child, When the orient moon of Islam rolled in triumph From Caucasus to White Ceraunia! Ruin above, and anarchy below; Terror without, and treachery within; The Chalice of destruction full, and all Thirsting to drink; and who among us dares To dash it from his lips? and where is Hope? Hassan. The lamp of our dominion still rides high; One God is GodMahomet is His prophet. Four hundred thousand Moslems, from the limits Of utmost Asia, irresistibly Throng, like full clouds at the Sirocco's cry; But not like them to weep their strength in tears: They bear destroying lightning, and their step Wakes earthquake to consume and overwhelm, And reign in ruin. Phrygian Olympus, Tmolus, and Latmos, and Mycale, roughen With horrent arms; and lofty ships even now, Like vapours anchored to a mountain's edge, Freighted with fire and whirlwind, wait at Scala The convoy of the ever-veering wind. Samos is drunk with blood;the Greek has paid Brief victory with swift loss and long despair. The false Moldavian serfs fled fast and far, When the fierce shout of 'Allah-illa-Allah!' Rose like the war-cry of the northern wind Which kills the sluggish clouds, and leaves a flock Of wild swans struggling with the naked storm. So were the lost Greeks on the Danube's day! If night is mute, yet the returning sun Kindles the voices of the morning birds; Nor at thy bidding less exultingly Than birds rejoicing in the golden day, The Anarchies of Africa unleash Their tempest-wingd cities of the sea, To speak in thunder to the rebel world. Like sulphurous clouds, half-shattered by the storm, They sweep the pale Aegean, while the Queen Of Ocean, bound upon her island-throne, Far in the West, sits mourning that her sons Who frown on Freedom spare a smile for thee: Russia still hovers, as an eagle might Within a cloud, near which a kite and crane Hang tangled in inextricable fight, To stoop upon the victor;for she fears The name of Freedom, even as she hates thine. But recreant Austria loves thee as the Grave Loves Pestilence, and her slow dogs of war Fleshed with the chase, come up from Italy, And howl upon their limits; for they see The panther, Freedom, fled to her old cover, Amid seas and mountains, and a mightier brood Crouch round. What Anarch wears a crown or mitre, Or bears the sword, or grasps the key of gold, Whose friends are not thy friends, whose foes thy foes? Our arsenals and our armouries are full; Our forts defy assault; ten thousand cannon Lie ranged upon the beach, and hour by hour Their earth-convulsing wheels affright the city; The galloping of fiery steeds makes pale The Christian merchant; and the yellow Jew Hides his hoard deeper in the faithless earth. Like clouds, and like the shadows of the clouds, Over the hills of Anatolia, Swift in wide troops the Tartar chivalry Sweep;the far flashing of their starry lances Reverberates the dying light of day. We have one God, one King, one Hope, one Law; But many-headed Insurrection stands Divided in itself, and soon must fall. Mahmud. Proud words, when deeds come short, are seasonable: Look, Hassan, on yon crescent moon, emblazoned Upon that shattered flag of fiery cloud Which leads the rear of the departing day; Wan emblem of an empire fading now! See how it trembles in the blood-red air, And like a mighty lamp whose oil is spent Shrinks on the horizon's edge, while, from above, One star with insolent and victorious light Hovers above its fall, and with keen beams, Like arrows through a fainting antelope, Strikes its weak from to death. Hassan.                  Even as that moon Renews itself Mahmud.         Shall we be not renewed! Far other bark than ours were needed now To stem the torrent of descending time: The Spirit that lifts the slave before his lord Stalks through the capitals of armd kings, And spreads his ensign in the wilderness: Exults in chains; and, when the rebel falls, Cries like the blood of Abel from the dust; And the inheritors of the earth, like beasts When earthquake is unleashed, with idiot fear Cower in their kingly densas I do now. What were Defeat when Victory must appal? Or Danger, when Security looks pale? How said the messengerwho, from the fort Islanded in the Danube, saw the battle Of Bucharest?that Hassan.            Ibrahim's scimitar Drew with its gleam swift victory from Heaven, To burn before him in the night of battle A light and a destruction. Mahmud.               Ay! the day Was ours: but how? Hassan.            The light Wallachians, The Arnaut, Servian, and Albanian allies Fled from the glance of our artillery Almost before the thunderstone alit. One half the Grecian army made a bridge Of safe and slow retreat, with Moslem dead; The other Mahmud.       Speaktremble not.       Hassan.                  Islanded By victor myriads, formed in hollow square With rough and steadfast front, and thrice flung back The deluge of our foaming cavalry; Thrice their keen wedge of battle pierced our lines. Our baffled army trembled like one man Before a host, and gave them space; but soon, From the surrounding hills, the batteries blazed, Kneading them down with fire and iron rain: Yet none approached; till, like a field of corn Under the hook of the swart sickleman, The band, intrenched in mounds of Turkish dead, Grew weak and few.Then said the Pacha, 'Slaves, Render yourselvesthey have abandoned you What hope of refuge, or retreat, or aid? We grant your lives.' 'Grant that which is thine own!' Cried one, and fell upon his sword and died! Another'God, and man, and hope abandon me; But I to them, and to myself, remain Constant:'he bowed his head, and his heart burst. A third exclaimed, 'There is a refuge, tyrant, Where thou darest not pursue, and canst not harm Shouldst thou pursue; there we shall meet again.' Then held his breath, and, after a brief spasm, The indignant spirit cast its mortal garment Among the slaindead earth upon the earth! So these survivors, each by different ways, Some strange, all sudden, none dishonourable, Met in triumphant death; and when our army Closed in, while yet wonder, and awe, and shame Held back the base hyaenas of the battle That feed upon the dead and fly the living, One rose out of the chaos of the slain: And if it were a corpse which some dread spirit Of the old saviours of the land we rule Had lifted in its anger, wandering by; Or if there burned within the dying man Unquenchable disdain of death, and faith Creating what it feigned;I cannot tell But he cried, 'Phantoms of the free, we come! Armies of the Eternal, ye who strike To dust the citadels of sanguine kings, And shake the souls throned on their stony hearts, And thaw their frostwork diadems like dew; O ye who float around this clime, and weave The garment of the glory which it wears, Whose fame, though earth betray the dust it clasped, Lies sepulchred in monumental thought; Progenitors of all that yet is great, Ascribe to your bright senate, O accept In your high ministrations, us, your sons Us first, and the more glorious yet to come! And ye, weak conquerors! giants who look pale When the crushed worm rebels beneath your tread, The vultures and the dogs, your pensioners tame, Are overgorged; but, like oppressors, still They crave the relic of Destruction's feast. The exhalations and the thirsty winds Are sick with blood; the dew is foul with death; Heaven's light is quenched in slaughter: thus, where'er Upon your camps, cities, or towers, or fleets, The obscene birds the reeking remnants cast Of these dead limbs,upon your streams and mountains, Upon your fields, your gardens, and your housetops, Where'er the winds shall creep, or the clouds fly, Or the dews fall, or the angry sun look down With poisoned lightFamine, and Pestilence, And Panic, shall wage war upon our side! Nature from all her boundaries is moved Against ye: Time has found ye light as foam. The Earth rebels; and Good and Evil stake Their empire o'er the unborn world of men On this one cast;but ere the die be thrown, The renovated genius of our race, Proud umpire of the impious game, descends, A seraph-wingd Victory, bestriding The tempest of the Omnipotence of God, Which sweeps all things to their appointed doom, And you to oblivion!'More he would have said, But Mahmud.    Diedas thou shouldst ere thy lips had painted Their ruin in the hues of our success. A rebel's crime, gilt with a rebel's tongue! Your heart is Greek, Hassan. Hassan.                It may be so: A spirit not my own wrenched me within, And I have spoken words I fear and hate; Yet would I die for Mahmud.            Live! oh live! outlive Me and this sinking empire. But the fleet Hassan. Alas! Mahmud.     The fleet which, like a flock of clouds Chased by the wind, flies the insurgent banner! Our wingd castles from their merchant ships! Our myriads before their weak pirate bands! Our arms before their chains! our years of empire Before their centuries of servile fear! Death is awake! Repulse is on the waters! They own no more the thunder-bearing banner Of Mahmud; but, like hounds of a base breed, Gorge from a stranger's hand, and rend their master. Hassan. Latmos, and Ampelos, and Phanae saw The wreck Mahmud.       The caves of the Icarian isles Told each to the other in loud mockery, And with the tongue as of a thousand echoes, First of the sea-convulsing fightand, then, Thou darest to speaksenseless are the mountains: Interpret thou their voice! Hassan.                My presence bore A part in that day's shame. The Grecian fleet Bore down at daybreak from the North, and hung As multitudinous on the ocean line, As cranes upon the cloudless Thracian wind. Our squadron, convoying ten thousand men, Was stretching towards Nauplia when the battle Was kindled. First through the hail of our artillery The agile Hydriote barks with press of sail Dashed:ship to ship, cannon to cannon, man To man were grappled in the embrace of war, Inextricable but by death or victory. The tempest of the raging fight convulsed To its crystlline depths that stainless sea, And shook Heaven's roof of golden morning clouds, Poised on an hundred azure mountain-isles. In the brief trances of the artillery One cry from the destroyed and the destroyer Rose, and a cloud of desolation wrapped The unforeseen event, till the north wind Sprung from the sea, lifting the heavy veil Of battle-smokethen victoryvictory! For, as we thought, three frigates from Algiers Bore down from Naxos to our aid, but soon The abhorrd cross glimmered behind, before, Among, around us; and that fatal sign Dried with its beams the strength in Moslem hearts, As the sun drinks the dew.What more? We fled! Our noonday path over the sanguine foam Was beaconed,and the glare struck the sun pale, By our consuming transports: the fierce light Made all the shadows of our sails blood-red, And every countenance blank. Some ships lay feeding The ravening fire, even to the water's level; Some were blown up; some, settling heavily, Sunk; and the shrieks of our companions died Upon the wind, that bore us fast and far, Even after they were dead. Nine thousand perished! We met the vultures legioned in the air Stemming the torrent of the tainted wind; They, screaming from their cloudy mountain-peaks, Stooped through the sulphurous battle-smoke and perched Each on the weltering carcase that we loved, Like its ill angel or its damnd soul, Riding upon the bosom of the sea. We saw the dog-fish hastening to their feast. Joy waked the voiceless people of the sea, And ravening Famine left his ocean cave To dwell with War, with us, and with Despair. We met night three hours to the west of Patmos, And with night, tempest Mahmud.               Cease!               Enter a Messenger. Messenger.                  Your Sublime Highness, That Christian hound, the Muscovite Ambassador, Has left the city.If the rebel fleet Had anchored in the port, had victory Crowned the Greek legions in the Hippodrome, Panic were tamer.Obedience and Mutiny, Like giants in contention planet-struck, Stand gazing on each other.There is peace In Stamboul. Mahmud.        Is the grave not calmer still? Its ruins shall be mine. Hassan.              Fear not the Russian: The tiger leagues not with the stag at bay Against the hunter.Cunning, base, and cruel, He crouches, watching till the spoil be won, And must be paid for his reserve in blood. After the war is fought, yield the sleek Russian That which thou canst not keep, his deserved portion Of blood, which shall not flow through streets and fields, Rivers and seas, like that which we may win, But stagnate in the veins of Christian slaves! Enter second Messenger. Second Messenger. Nauplia, Tripolizza, Mothon, Athens, Navarin, Artas, Monembasia, Corinth, and Thebes are carried by assault, And every Islamite who made his dogs Fat with the flesh of Galilean slaves Passed at the edge of the sword: the lust of blood, Which made our warriors drunk, is quenched in death; But like a fiery plague breaks out anew In deeds which make the Christian cause look pale In its own light. The garrison of Patras Has store but for ten days, nor is there hope But from the Briton: at once slave and tyrant, His wishes still are weaker than his fears, Or he would sell what faith may yet remain From the oaths broke in Genoa and in Norway; And if you buy him not, your treasury Is empty even of promiseshis own coin. The freedman of a western poet-chief[4] Holds Attica with seven thousand rebels, And has beat back the Pacha of Negropont: The agd Ali sits in Yanina A crownless metaphor of empire: His name, that shadow of his withered might, Holds our besieging army like a spell In prey to famine, pest, and mutiny; He, bastioned in his citadel, looks forth Joyless upon the sapphire lake that mirrors The ruins of the city where he reigned Childless and sceptreless. The Greek has reaped The costly harvest his own blood matured, Not the sower, Aliwho has bought a truce From Ypsilanti with ten camel-loads Of Indian gold. Enter a third Messenger. Mahmud.         What more?         Third Messenger.               The Christian tribes Of Lebanon and the Syrian wilderness Are in revolt;Damascus, Hems, Aleppo Tremble;the Arab menaces Medina, The Aethiop has intrenched himself in Sennaar, And keeps the Egyptian rebel well employed, Who denies homage, claims investiture As price of tardy aid. Persia demands The cities on the Tigris, and the Georgians Refuse their living tribute. Crete and Cyprus, Like mountain-twins that from each other's veins Catch the volcano-fire and earthquake-spasm, Shake in the general fever. Through the city, Like birds before a storm, the Santons shriek, And prophesyings horrible and new Are heard among the crowd: that sea of men Sleeps on the wrecks it made, breathless and still. A Dervise, learnd in the Koran, preaches That it is written how the sins of Islam Must raise up a destroyer even now. The Greeks expect a Saviour from the West[5], Who shall not come, men say, in clouds and glory, But in the omnipresence of that Spirit In which all live and are. Ominous signs Are blazoned broadly on the noonday sky: One saw a red cross stamped upon the sun; It has rained blood; and monstrous births declare The secret wrath of Nature and her Lord. The army encamped upon the Cydaris Was roused last night by the alarm of battle, And saw two hosts conflicting in the air, The shadows doubtless of the unborn time Cast on the mirror of the night. While yet The fight hung balanced, there arose a storm Which swept the phantoms from among the stars. At the third watch the Spirit of the Plague Was heard abroad flapping among the tents; Those who relieved watch found the sentinels dead. The last news from the camp is, that a thousand Have sickened, and Enter a fourth Messenger. Mahmud.            And thou, pale ghost, dim shadow Of some untimely rumour, speak! Fourth Messenger.                  One comes Fainting with toil, covered with foam and blood: He stood, he says, on Chelonites' Promontory, which o'erlooks the isles that groan Under the Briton's frown, and all their waters Then trembling in the splendour of the moon, When as the wandering clouds unveiled or hid Her boundless light, he saw two adverse fleets Stalk through the night in the horizon's glimmer, Mingling fierce thunders and sulphureous gleams, And smoke which strangled every infant wind That soothed the silver clouds through the deep air. At length the battle slept, but the Sirocco Awoke, and drove his flock of thunder-clouds Over the sea-horizon, blotting out All objectssave that in the faint moon-glimpse He saw, or dreamed he saw, the Turkish admiral And two the loftiest of our ships of war, With the bright image of that Queen of Heaven, Who hid, perhaps, her face for grief, reversed; And the abhorrd cross Enter an Attendant. Attendant.              Your Sublime Highness, The Jew, who Mahmud.        Could not come more seasonably: Bid him attend. I'll hear no more! too long We gaze on danger through the mist of fear, And multiply upon our shattered hopes The images of ruin. Come what will! To-morrow and to-morrow are as lamps Set in our path to light us to the edge Through rough and smooth, nor can we suffer aught Which He inflicts not in whose hand we are. [Exeunt. Semichorus I. Would I were the wingd cloud Of a tempest swift and loud!   I would scorn   The smile of morn And the wave where the moonrise is born!   I would leave   The spirits of eve A shroud for the corpse of the day to weave From other threads than mine! Bask in the deep blue noon divine.    Who would? Not I.    Semichorus II. Whither to fly? Semichorus I. Where the rocks that gird th'Aegean Echo to the battle paean   Of the free   I would flee A tempestuous herald of victory!   My golden rain   For the Grecian slain Should mingle in tears with the bloody main, And my solemn thunder-knell Should ring to the world the passing-bell   Of Tyranny!   Semichorus II. Ah king! wilt thou chain The rack and the rain? Wilt thou fetter the lightning and hurricane? The storms are free,   But we   Chorus. O Slavery! thou frost of the world's prime, Killing its flowers and leaving its thorns bare! Thy touch has stamped these limbs with crime, These brows thy branding garland bear,   But the free heart, the impassive soul    Scorn thy control!    Semichorus I. Let there be light! said Liberty, And like sunrise from the sea, Athens arose!Around her born, Shone like mountains in the morn Glorious states;and are they now Ashes, wrecks, oblivion? Semichorus II.              Go, Where Thermae and Asopus swallowed Persia, as the sand does foam; Deluge upon deluge followed, Discord, Macedon, and Rome: And lastly thou! Semichorus I.          Temples and towers, Citadels and marts, and they Who live and die there, have been ours, And may be thine, and must decay; But Greece and her foundations are Built below the tide of war, Based on the crystlline sea Of thought and its eternity; Her citizens, imperial spirits, Rule the present from the past, On all this world of men inherits Their seal is set. Semichorus II.            Hear ye the blast, Whose Orphic thunder thrilling calls From ruin her Titanian walls? Whose spirit shakes the sapless bones Of Slavery? Argos, Corinth, Crete Hear, and from their mountain thrones The daemons and the nymphs repeat The harmony. Semichorus I.       I hear! I hear!       Semichorus II. The world's eyeless charioteer,   Destiny, is hurrying by! What faith is crushed, what empire bleeds Beneath her earthquake-footed steeds? What eagle-wingd victory sits At her right hand? what shadow flits Before? what splendour rolls behind?   Ruin and renovation cry 'Who but We?' Semichorus I.        I hear! I hear! The hiss as of a rushing wind, The roar as of an ocean foaming, The thunder as of earthquake coming.   I hear! I hear! The crash as of an empire falling, The shrieks as of a people calling 'Mercy! mercy!'How they thrill! Then a shout of 'kill! kill! kill!' And then a small still voice, thus Semichorus II.                     For Revenge and Wrong bring forth their kind, The foul cubs like their parents are, Their den is in the guilty mind, And Conscience feeds them with despair. Semichorus I. In sacred Athens, near the fane Of Wisdom, Pity's altar stood: Serve not the unknown God in vain, But pay that broken shrine again, Love for hate and tears for blood. Enter Mahmud and Ahasuerus. Mahmud. Thou art a man, thou sayest, even as we. Ahasuerus. No more! Mahmud.     But raised above thy fellow-men By thought, as I by power. Ahasuerus.               Thou sayest so.               Mahmud. Thou art an adept in the difficult lore Of Greek and Frank philosophy; thou numberest The flowers, and thou measurest the stars; Thou severest element from element; Thy spirit is present in the Past, and sees The birth of this old world through all its cycles Of desolation and of loveliness, And when man was not, and how man became The monarch and the slave of this low sphere, And all its narrow circlesit is much I honour thee, and would be what thou art Were I not what I am; but the unborn hour, Cradled in fear and hope, conflicting storms, Who shall unveil? Nor thou, nor I, nor any Mighty or wise. I apprehended not What thou hast taught me, but I now perceive That thou art no interpreter of dreams; Thou dost not own that art, device, or God, Can make the Future presentlet it come! Moreover thou disdainest us and ours; Thou art as God, whom thou contemplatest. Ahasuerus. Disdain thee?not the worm beneath thy feet! The Fathomless has care for meaner things Than thou canst dream, and has made pride for those Who would be what they may not, or would seem That which they are not. Sultan! talk no more Of thee and me, the Future and the Past; But look on that which cannot changethe One, The unborn and the undying. Earth and ocean, Space, and the isles of life or light that gem The sapphire floods of interstellar air, This firmament pavilioned upon chaos, With all its cressets of immortal fire, Whose outwall, bastioned impregnably Against the escape of boldest thoughts, repels them As Calpe the Atlantic cloudsthis Whole Of suns, and worlds, and men, and beasts, and flowers, With all the silent or tempestuous workings By which they have been, are, or cease to be, Is but a vision;all that it inherits Are motes of a sick eye, bubbles and dreams; Thought is its cradle and its grave, nor less The Future and the Past are idle shadows Of thought's eternal flightthey have no being: Nought is but that which feels itself to be. Mahmud. What meanest thou? Thy words stream like a tempest Of dazzling mist within my brainthey shake The earth on which I stand, and hang like night On Heaven above me. What can they avail? They cast on all things surest, brightest, best, Doubt, insecurity, astonishment. Ahasuerus. Mistake me not! All is contained in each. Dodona's forest to an acorn's cup Is that which has been, or will be, to that Which isthe absent to the present. Thought Alone, and its quick elements, Will, Passion, Reason, Imagination, cannot die; They are, what that which they regard appears, The stuff whence mutability can weave All that it hath dominion o'er, worlds, worms, Empires, and superstitions. What has thought To do with time, or place, or circumstance? Wouldst thou behold the Future?ask and have! Knock and it shall be openedlook, and lo! The coming age is shadowed on the Past As on a glass. Mahmud.        Wild, wilder thoughts convulse My spiritDid not Mahomet the Second Win Stamboul? Ahasuerus.        Thou wouldst ask that giant spirit The written fortunes of thy house and faith. Thou wouldst cite one out of the grave to tell How what was born in blood must die. Mahmud.                     Thy words Have power on me! I see Ahasuerus.               What hearest thou?               Mahmud. A far whisper Terrible silence. Ahasuerus.          What succeeds?          Mahmud.                  The sound As of the assault of an imperial city[6], The hiss of inextinguishable fire, The roar of giant cannon; the earthquaking Fall of vast bastions and precipitous towers, The shock of crags shot from strange enginery, The clash of wheels, and clang of armd hoofs, And crash of brazen mail as of the wreck Of adamantine mountainsthe mad blast Of trumpets, and the neigh of raging steeds, The shrieks of women whose thrill jars the blood, And one sweet laugh, most horrible to hear, As of a joyous infant waked and playing With its dead mother's breast, and now more loud The mingled battle-cry,ha! hear I not 'En toutwi nikh!' 'Allah-illa-Allah!'? Ahasuerus. The sulphurous mist is raisedthou seest Mahmud.                        A chasm, As of two mountains, in the wall of Stamboul; And in that ghastly breach the Islamites, Like giants on the ruins of a world, Stand in the light of sunrise. In the dust Glimmers a kingless diadem, and one Of regal port has cast himself beneath The stream of war. Another proudly clad In golden arms spurs a Tartarian barb Into the gap, and with his iron mace Directs the torrent of that tide of men, And seemshe isMahomet! Ahasuerus.               What thou seest Is but the ghost of thy forgotten dream. A dream itself, yet less, perhaps, than that Thou call'st reality. Thou mayst behold How cities, on which Empire sleeps enthroned, Bow their towered crests to mutability. Poised by the flood, e'en on the height thou holdest, Thou mayst now learn how the full tide of power Ebbs to its depths.Inheritor of glory, Conceived in darkness, born in blood, and nourished With tears and toil, thou seest the mortal throes Of that whose birth was but the same. The Past Now stands before thee like an Incarnation Of the To-come; yet wouldst thou commune with That portion of thyself which was ere thou Didst start for this brief race whose crown is death, Dissolve with that strong faith and fervent passion Which called it from the uncreated deep, Yon cloud of war, with its tempestuous phantoms Of raging death; and draw with mighty will The imperial shade hither. [Exit Ahasuerus. The Phantom of Mahomet the Second appears. Mahmud.               Approach!               Phantom.                    I come Thence whither thou must go! The grave is fitter To take the living than give up the dead; Yet has thy faith prevailed, and I am here. The heavy fragments of the power which fell When I arose, like shapeless crags and clouds, Hang round my throne on the abyss, and voices Of strange lament soothe my supreme repose, Wailing for glory never to return. A later Empire nods in its decay: The autumn of a greener faith is come, And wolfish change, like winter, howls to strip The foliage in which Fame, the eagle, built Her aerie, while Dominion whelped below. The storm is in its branches, and the frost Is on its leaves, and the blank deep expects Oblivion on oblivion, spoil on spoil, Ruin on ruin:Thou art slow, my son; The Anarchs of the world of darkness keep A throne for thee, round which thine empire lies Boundless and mute; and for thy subjects thou, Like us, shalt rule the ghosts of murdered life, The phantoms of the powers who rule thee now Mutinous passions, and conflicting fears, And hopes that sate themselves on dust, and die! Stripped of their mortal strength, as thou of thine. Islam must fall, but we will reign together Over its ruins in the world of death: And if the trunk be dry, yet shall the seed Unfold itself even in the shape of that Which gathers birth in its decay. Woe! woe! To the weak people tangled in the grasp Of its last spasms. Mahmud.           Spirit, woe to all! Woe to the wronged and the avenger! Woe To the destroyer, woe to the destroyed! Woe to the dupe, and woe to the deceiver! Woe to the oppressed, and woe to the oppressor! Woe both to those that suffer and inflict; Those who are born and those who die! but say, Imperial shadow of the thing I am, When, how, by whom, Destruction must accomplish Her consummation! Phantom.          Ask the cold pale Hour, Rich in reversion of impending death, When he shall fall upon whose ripe gray hairs Sit Care, and Sorrow, and Infirmity The weight which Crime, whose wings are plumed with years, Leaves in his flight from ravaged heart to heart Over the heads of men, under which burthen They bow themselves unto the grave: fond wretch! He leans upon his crutch, and talks of years To come, and how in hours of youth renewed He will renew lost joys, and Voice without.                 Victory! Victory!                 [The Phantom vanishes. Mahmud. What sound of the importunate earth has broken My mighty trance? Voice without.          Victory! Victory!          Mahmud. Weak lightning before darkness! poor faint smile Of dying Islam! Voice which art the response Of hollow weakness! Do I wake and live? Were there such things, or may the unquiet brain, Vexed by the wise mad talk of the old Jew, Have shaped itself these shadows of its fear? It matters not!for nought we see or dream, Possess, or lose, or grasp at, can be worth More than it gives or teaches: Come what may, The Future must become the Past, and I As they were to whom once this present hour, This gloomy crag of time to which I cling, Seemed an Elysian isle of peace and joy Never to be attained.I must rebuke This drunkenness of triumph ere it die, And dying, bring despair. Victory! poor slaves! Exit Mahmud. Voice without. Shout in the jubilee of death! The Greeks Are as a brood of lions in the net Round which the kingly hunters of the earth Stand smiling. Anarchs, ye whose daily food Are curses, groans, and gold, the fruit of death, From Thule to the girdle of the world, Come, feast! the board groans with the flesh of men; The cup is foaming with a nation's blood, Famine and Thirst await! eat, drink, and die! Semichorus I. Victorious Wrong, with vulture scream, Salutes the rising sun, pursues the flying day! I saw her, ghastly as a tyrant's dream, Perch on the trembling pyramid of night, Beneath which earth and all her realms pavilioned lay In visions of the dawning undelight.   Who shall impede her flight?   Who rob her of her prey?   Voice without. Victory! Victory! Russia's famished eagles Dare not to prey beneath the crescent's light. Impale the remnant of the Greeks! despoil! Violate! make their flesh cheaper than dust! Semichorus II. Thou voice which art The herald of the ill in splendour hid! Thou echo of the hollow heart Of monarchy, bear me to thine abode When desolation flashes o'er a world destroyed: Oh, bear me to those isles of jaggd cloud Which float like mountains on the earthquake, mid The momentary oceans of the lightning, Or to some toppling promontory proud Of solid tempest whose black pyramid, Riven, overhangs the founts intensely bright'ning Of those dawn-tinted deluges of fire Before their waves expire, When heaven and earth are light, and only light   In the thunder-night!   Voice without. Victory! Victory! Austria, Russia, England, And that tame serpent, that poor shadow, France, Cry peace, and that means death when monarchs speak. Ho, there! bring torches, sharpen those red stakes, These chains are light, fitter for slaves and poisoners Than Greeks. Kill! plunder! burn! let none remain. Semichorus I.    Alas! for Liberty! If numbers, wealth, or unfulfilling years, Or fate, can quell the free!    Alas! for Virtue, when Torments, or contumely, or the sneers    Of erring judging men   Can break the heart where it abides. Alas! if Love, whose smile makes this obscure world splendid,   Can change with its false times and tides,    Like hope and terror,     Alas for Love! And Truth, who wanderest lone and unbefriended, If thou canst veil thy lie-consuming mirror Before the dazzled eyes of Error, Alas for thee! Image of the Above. Semichorus II.   Repulse, with plumes from conquest torn, Led the ten thousand from the limits of the morn   Through many an hostile Anarchy! At length they wept aloud, and cried, 'The Sea! the Sea!'   Through exile, persecution, and despair,    Rome was, and young Atlantis shall become    The wonder, or the terror, or the tomb Of all whose step wakes Power lulled in her savage lair: But Greece was as a hermit-child,   Whose fairest thoughts and limbs were built To woman's growth, by dreams so mild,   She knew not pain or guilt; And now, O Victory, blush! and Empire, tremble    When ye desert the free    If Greece must be A wreck, yet shall its fragments reassemble, And build themselves again impregnably    In a diviner clime, To Amphionic music on some Cape sublime, Which frowns above the idle foam of Time. Semichorus I. Let the tyrants rule the desert they have made; Let the free possess the Paradise they claim; Be the fortune of our fierce oppressors weighed With our ruin, our resistance, and our name! Semichorus II. Our dead shall be the seed of their decay, Our survivors be the shadow of their pride, Our adversity a dream to pass away Their dishonour a remembrance to abide! Voice without. Victory! Victory! The bought Briton sends The keys of ocean to the Islamite. Now shall the blazon of the cross be veiled, And British skill directing Othman might, Thunder-strike rebel victory. Oh, keep holy This jubilee of unrevengd blood! Kill! crush! despoil! Let not a Greek escape! Semichorus I. Darkness has dawned in the East On the noon of time: The death-birds descend to their feast From the hungry clime. Let Freedom and Peace flee far To a sunnier strand, And follow Love's folding-star To the Evening land! Semichorus II.     The young moon has fed      Her exhausted horn       With the sunset's fire:     The weak day is dead,      But the night is not born; And, like loveliness panting with wild desire While it trembles with fear and delight, Hesperus flies from awakening night, And pants in its beauty and speed with light Fast-flashing, soft, and bright. Thou beacon of love! thou lamp of the free!    Guide us far, far away, To climes where now veiled by the ardour of day     Thou art hidden   From waves on which weary Noon   Faints in her summer swoon,   Between kingless continents sinless as Eden,   Around mountains and islands inviolably     Pranked on the sapphire sea.     Semichorus I. Through the sunset of hope, Like the shapes of a dream, What Paradise islands of glory gleam!   Beneath Heaven's cope, Their shadows more clear float by The sound of their oceans, the light of their sky, The music and fragrance their solitudes breathe Burst, like morning on dream, or like Heaven on death,   Through the walls of our prison; And Greece, which was dead, is arisen! Chorus[7]. The world's great age begins anew, The golden years return, The earth doth like a snake renew Her winter weeds outworn: Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires gleam, Like wrecks of a dissolving dream. A brighter Hellas rears its mountains From waves serener far; A new Peneus rolls his fountains Against the morning star. Where fairer Tempes bloom, there sleep Young Cyclads on a sunnier deep. A loftier Argo cleaves the main, Fraught with a later prize; Another Orpheus sings again, And loves, and weeps, and dies. A new Ulysses leaves once more Calypso for his native shore. Oh, write no more the tale of Troy, If earth Death's scroll must be! Nor mix with Laian rage the joy Which dawns upon the free: Although a subtler Sphinx renew Riddles of death Thebes never knew. Another Athens shall arise, And to remoter time Bequeath, like sunset to the skies, The splendour of its prime; And leave, if nought so bright may live, All earth can take or Heaven can give. Saturn and Love their long repose Shall burst[8], more bright and good Than all who fell, than One who rose, Than many unsubdued: Not gold, not blood, their altar dowers, But votive tears and symbol flowers. Oh, cease! must hate and death return? Cease! must men kill and die? Cease! drain not to its dregs the urn Of bitter prophecy. The world is weary of the past, Oh, might it die or rest at last! Hellas was composed at Pisa in the autumn of 1821, and dispatched to London, November 11. It was published, with the author's name, by C. & J. Ollier in the spring of 1822. A transcript of the poem by Edward Williams is in the Rowfant Library. Note by Mrs. Shelley: 'Hellas was among the last of his compositions, and is among the most beautiful. The choruses are singularly imaginative, and melodious in their versification. There are some stanzas that beautifully exemplify Shelley's peculiar style; as, for instance, the assertion of the intellectual empire which must be for ever the inheritance of the country of Homer, Sophocles, and Plato:-- ''But Greece and her foundations are Built below the tide of war, Based on the crystalline sea Of thought and its eternity.''' ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Hellas - A Lyrical Drama

338:1. Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail vessel thou emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life. This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales, and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new. At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable. Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine. Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill. 2. When thou commandest me to sing it seems that my heart would break with pride; and I look to thy face, and tears come to my eyes. All that is harsh and dissonant in my life melts into one sweet harmony - and my adoration spreads wings like a glad bird on its flight across the sea. I know thou takest pleasure in my singing. I know that only as a singer I come before thy presence. I touch by the edge of the far-spreading wing of my song thy feet which I could never aspire to reach. Drunk with the joy of singing I forget myself and call thee friend who art my lord. 3. I know not how thou singest, my master! I ever listen in silent amazement. The light of thy music illumines the world. The life breath of thy music runs from sky to sky. The holy stream of thy music breaks through all stony obstacles and rushes on. My heart longs to join in thy song, but vainly struggles for a voice. I would speak, but speech breaks not into song, and I cry out baffled. Ah, thou hast made my heart captive in the endless meshes of thy music, my master! 4. Life of my life, I shall ever try to keep my body pure, knowing that thy living touch is upon all my limbs. I shall ever try to keep all untruths out from my thoughts, knowing that thou art that truth which has kindled the light of reason in my mind. I shall ever try to drive all evils away from my heart and keep my love in flower, knowing that thou hast thy seat in the inmost shrine of my heart. And it shall be my endeavour to reveal thee in my actions, knowing it is thy power gives me strength to act. 5. I ask for a moment's indulgence to sit by thy side. The works that I have in hand I will finish afterwards. Away from the sight of thy face my heart knows no rest nor respite, and my work becomes an endless toil in a shoreless sea of toil. Today the summer has come at my window with its sighs and murmurs; and the bees are plying their minstrelsy at the court of the flowering grove. Now it is time to sit quite, face to face with thee, and to sing dedication of life in this silent and overflowing leisure. 6. Pluck this little flower and take it, delay not! I fear lest it droop and drop into the dust. I may not find a place in thy garland, but honour it with a touch of pain from thy hand and pluck it. I fear lest the day end before I am aware, and the time of offering go by. Though its colour be not deep and its smell be faint, use this flower in thy service and pluck it while there is time. 7. My song has put off her adornments. She has no pride of dress and decoration. Ornaments would mar our union; they would come between thee and me; their jingling would drown thy whispers. My poet's vanity dies in shame before thy sight. O master poet, I have sat down at thy feet. Only let me make my life simple and straight, like a flute of reed for thee to fill with music. 8. The child who is decked with prince's robes and who has jewelled chains round his neck loses all pleasure in his play; his dress hampers him at every step. In fear that it may be frayed, or stained with dust he keeps himself from the world, and is afraid even to move. Mother, it is no gain, thy bondage of finery, if it keeps one shut off from the healthful dust of the earth, if it rob one of the right of entrance to the great fair of common human life. 9. O Fool, try to carry thyself upon thy own shoulders! O beggar, to come beg at thy own door! Leave all thy burdens on his hands who can bear all, and never look behind in regret. Thy desire at once puts out the light from the lamp it touches with its breath. It is unholy - take not thy gifts through its unclean hands. Accept only what is offered by sacred love. 10. Here is thy footstool and there rest thy feet where live the poorest, and lowliest, and lost. When I try to bow to thee, my obeisance cannot reach down to the depth where thy feet rest among the poorest, and lowliest, and lost. Pride can never approach to where thou walkest in the clothes of the humble among the poorest, and lowliest, and lost. My heart can never find its way to where thou keepest company with the companionless among the poorest, the lowliest, and the lost. 11. Leave this chanting and singing and telling of beads! Whom dost thou worship in this lonely dark corner of a temple with doors all shut? Open thine eyes and see thy God is not before thee! He is there where the tiller is tilling the hard ground and where the pathmaker is breaking stones. He is with them in sun and in shower, and his garment is covered with dust. Put of thy holy mantle and even like him come down on the dusty soil! Deliverance? Where is this deliverance to be found? Our master himself has joyfully taken upon him the bonds of creation; he is bound with us all for ever. Come out of thy meditations and leave aside thy flowers and incense! What harm is there if thy clothes become tattered and stained? Meet him and stand by him in toil and in sweat of thy brow. 12. The time that my journey takes is long and the way of it long. I came out on the chariot of the first gleam of light, and pursued my voyage through the wildernesses of worlds leaving my track on many a star and planet. It is the most distant course that comes nearest to thyself, and that training is the most intricate which leads to the utter simplicity of a tune. The traveller has to knock at every alien door to come to his own, and one has to wander through all the outer worlds to reach the innermost shrine at the end. My eyes strayed far and wide before I shut them and said 'Here art thou!' The question and the cry 'Oh, where?' melt into tears of a thousand streams and deluge the world with the flood of the assurance 'I am!' 13. The song that I came to sing remains unsung to this day. I have spent my days in stringing and in unstringing my instrument. The time has not come true, the words have not been rightly set; only there is the agony of wishing in my heart. The blossom has not opened; only the wind is sighing by. I have not seen his face, nor have I listened to his voice; only I have heard his gentle footsteps from the road before my house. The livelong day has passed in spreading his seat on the floor; but the lamp has not been lit and I cannot ask him into my house. I live in the hope of meeting with him; but this meeting is not yet. 14. My desires are many and my cry is pitiful, but ever didst thou save me by hard refusals; and this strong mercy has been wrought into my life through and through. Day by day thou art making me worthy of the simple, great gifts that thou gavest to me unasked - this sky and the light, this body and the life and the mind - saving me from perils of overmuch desire. There are times when I languidly linger and times when I awaken and hurry in search of my goal; but cruelly thou hidest thyself from before me. Day by day thou art making me worthy of thy full acceptance by refusing me ever and anon, saving me from perils of weak, uncertain desire. 15. I am here to sing thee songs. In this hall of thine I have a corner seat. In thy world I have no work to do; my useless life can only break out in tunes without a purpose. When the hour strikes for thy silent worship at the dark temple of midnight, command me, my master, to stand before thee to sing. When in the morning air the golden harp is tuned, honour me, commanding my presence. 16. I have had my invitation to this world's festival, and thus my life has been blessed. My eyes have seen and my ears have heard. It was my part at this feast to play upon my instrument, and I have done all I could. Now, I ask, has the time come at last when I may go in and see thy face and offer thee my silent salutation? 17. I am only waiting for love to give myself up at last into his hands. That is why it is so late and why I have been guilty of such omissions. They come with their laws and their codes to bind me fast; but I evade them ever, for I am only waiting for love to give myself up at last into his hands. People blame me and call me heedless; I doubt not they are right in their blame. The market day is over and work is all done for the busy. Those who came to call me in vain have gone back in anger. I am only waiting for love to give myself up at last into his hands. 18. Clouds heap upon clouds and it darkens. Ah, love, why dost thou let me wait outside at the door all alone? In the busy moments of the noontide work I am with the crowd, but on this dark lonely day it is only for thee that I hope. If thou showest me not thy face, if thou leavest me wholly aside, I know not how I am to pass these long, rainy hours. I keep gazing on the far-away gloom of the sky, and my heart wanders wailing with the restless wind. 19. If thou speakest not I will fill my heart with thy silence and endure it. I will keep still and wait like the night with starry vigil and its head bent low with patience. The morning will surely come, the darkness will vanish, and thy voice pour down in golden streams breaking through the sky. Then thy words will take wing in songs from every one of my birds' nests, and thy melodies will break forth in flowers in all my forest groves. 20. On the day when the lotus bloomed, alas, my mind was straying, and I knew it not. My basket was empty and the flower remained unheeded. Only now and again a sadness fell upon me, and I started up from my dream and felt a sweet trace of a strange fragrance in the south wind. That vague sweetness made my heart ache with longing and it seemed to me that is was the eager breath of the summer seeking for its completion. I knew not then that it was so near, that it was mine, and that this perfect sweetness had blossomed in the depth of my own heart. 21. I must launch out my boat. The languid hours pass by on the shore - Alas for me! The spring has done its flowering and taken leave. And now with the burden of faded futile flowers I wait and linger. The waves have become clamorous, and upon the bank in the shady lane the yellow leaves flutter and fall. What emptiness do you gaze upon! Do you not feel a thrill passing through the air with the notes of the far-away song floating from the other shore? 22. In the deep shadows of the rainy July, with secret steps, thou walkest, silent as night, eluding all watchers. Today the morning has closed its eyes, heedless of the insistent calls of the loud east wind, and a thick veil has been drawn over the ever-wakeful blue sky. The woodlands have hushed their songs, and doors are all shut at every house. Thou art the solitary wayfarer in this deserted street. Oh my only friend, my best beloved, the gates are open in my house - do not pass by like a dream. 23. Art thou abroad on this stormy night on thy journey of love, my friend? The sky groans like one in despair. I have no sleep tonight. Ever and again I open my door and look out on the darkness, my friend! I can see nothing before me. I wonder where lies thy path! By what dim shore of the ink-black river, by what far edge of the frowning forest, through what mazy depth of gloom art thou threading thy course to come to me, my friend? 24. If the day is done, if birds sing no more, if the wind has flagged tired, then draw the veil of darkness thick upon me, even as thou hast wrapt the earth with the coverlet of sleep and tenderly closed the petals of the drooping lotus at dusk. From the traveller, whose sack of provisions is empty before the voyage is ended, whose garment is torn and dustladen, whose strength is exhausted, remove shame and poverty, and renew his life like a flower under the cover of thy kindly night. 25. In the night of weariness let me give myself up to sleep without struggle, resting my trust upon thee. Let me not force my flagging spirit into a poor preparation for thy worship. It is thou who drawest the veil of night upon the tired eyes of the day to renew its sight in a fresher gladness of awakening. 26. He came and sat by my side but I woke not. What a cursed sleep it was, O miserable me! He came when the night was still; he had his harp in his hands, and my dreams became resonant with its melodies. Alas, why are my nights all thus lost? Ah, why do I ever miss his sight whose breath touches my sleep? 27. Light, oh where is the light? Kindle it with the burning fire of desire! There is the lamp but never a flicker of a flame - is such thy fate, my heart? Ah, death were better by far for thee! Misery knocks at thy door, and her message is that thy lord is wakeful, and he calls thee to the love-tryst through the darkness of night. The sky is overcast with clouds and the rain is ceaseless. I know not what this is that stirs in me - I know not its meaning. A moment's flash of lightning drags down a deeper gloom on my sight, and my heart gropes for the path to where the music of the night calls me. Light, oh where is the light! Kindle it with the burning fire of desire! It thunders and the wind rushes screaming through the void. The night is black as a black stone. Let not the hours pass by in the dark. Kindle the lamp of love with thy life. 28. Obstinate are the trammels, but my heart aches when I try to break them. Freedom is all I want, but to hope for it I feel ashamed. I am certain that priceless wealth is in thee, and that thou art my best friend, but I have not the heart to sweep away the tinsel that fills my room. The shroud that covers me is a shroud of dust and death; I hate it, yet hug it in love. My debts are large, my failures great, my shame secret and heavy; yet when I come to ask for my good, I quake in fear lest my prayer be granted. 29. He whom I enclose with my name is weeping in this dungeon. I am ever busy building this wall all around; and as this wall goes up into the sky day by day I lose sight of my true being in its dark shadow. I take pride in this great wall, and I plaster it with dust and sand lest a least hole should be left in this name; and for all the care I take I lose sight of my true being. 30. I came out alone on my way to my tryst. But who is this that follows me in the silent dark? I move aside to avoid his presence but I escape him not. He makes the dust rise from the earth with his swagger; he adds his loud voice to every word that I utter. He is my own little self, my lord, he knows no shame; but I am ashamed to come to thy door in his company. 31. 'Prisoner, tell me, who was it that bound you?' 'It was my master,' said the prisoner. 'I thought I could outdo everybody in the world in wealth and power, and I amassed in my own treasure-house the money due to my king. When sleep overcame me I lay upon the bad that was for my lord, and on waking up I found I was a prisoner in my own treasure-house.' 'Prisoner, tell me, who was it that wrought this unbreakable chain?' 'It was I,' said the prisoner, 'who forged this chain very carefully. I thought my invincible power would hold the world captive leaving me in a freedom undisturbed. Thus night and day I worked at the chain with huge fires and cruel hard strokes. When at last the work was done and the links were complete and unbreakable, I found that it held me in its grip.' 32. By all means they try to hold me secure who love me in this world. But it is otherwise with thy love which is greater than theirs, and thou keepest me free. Lest I forget them they never venture to leave me alone. But day passes by after day and thou art not seen. If I call not thee in my prayers, if I keep not thee in my heart, thy love for me still waits for my love. 33. When it was day they came into my house and said, 'We shall only take the smallest room here.' They said, 'We shall help you in the worship of your God and humbly accept only our own share in his grace'; and then they took their seat in a corner and they sat quiet and meek. But in the darkness of night I find they break into my sacred shrine, strong and turbulent, and snatch with unholy greed the offerings from God's altar. 34. Let only that little be left of me whereby I may name thee my all. Let only that little be left of my will whereby I may feel thee on every side, and come to thee in everything, and offer to thee my love every moment. Let only that little be left of me whereby I may never hide thee. Let only that little of my fetters be left whereby I am bound with thy will, and thy purpose is carried out in my life - and that is the fetter of thy love. 35. Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high; Where knowledge is free; Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls; Where words come out from the depth of truth; Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection; Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit; Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action- Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake. 36. This is my prayer to thee, my lord - strike, strike at the root of penury in my heart. Give me the strength lightly to bear my joys and sorrows. Give me the strength to make my love fruitful in service. Give me the strength never to disown the poor or bend my knees before insolent might. Give me the strength to raise my mind high above daily trifles. And give me the strength to surrender my strength to thy will with love. 37. I thought that my voyage had come to its end at the last limit of my power, - that the path before me was closed, that provisions were exhausted and the time come to take shelter in a silent obscurity. But I find that thy will knows no end in me. And when old words die out on the tongue, new melodies break forth from the heart; and where the old tracks are lost, new country is revealed with its wonders. 38. That I want thee, only thee - let my heart repeat without end. All desires that distract me, day and night, are false and empty to the core. As the night keeps hidden in its gloom the petition for light, even thus in the depth of my unconsciousness rings the cry - 'I want thee, only thee'. As the storm still seeks its end in peace when it strikes against peace with all its might, even thus my rebellion strikes against thy love and still its cry is - 'I want thee, only thee'. 39. When the heart is hard and parched up, come upon me with a shower of mercy. When grace is lost from life, come with a burst of song. When tumultuous work raises its din on all sides shutting me out from beyond, come to me, my lord of silence, with thy peace and rest. When my beggarly heart sits crouched, shut up in a corner, break open the door, my king, and come with the ceremony of a king. When desire blinds the mind with delusion and dust, O thou holy one, thou wakeful, come with thy light and thy thunder. 40. The rain has held back for days and days, my God, in my arid heart. The horizon is fiercely naked - not the thinnest cover of a soft cloud, not the vaguest hint of a distant cool shower. Send thy angry storm, dark with death, if it is thy wish, and with lashes of lightning startle the sky from end to end. But call back, my lord, call back this pervading silent heat, still and keen and cruel, burning the heart with dire despair. Let the cloud of grace bend low from above like the tearful look of the mother on the day of the father's wrath. 41. Where dost thou stand behind them all, my lover, hiding thyself in the shadows? They push thee and pass thee by on the dusty road, taking thee for naught. I wait here weary hours spreading my offerings for thee, while passers-by come and take my flowers, one by one, and my basket is nearly empty. The morning time is past, and the noon. In the shade of evening my eyes are drowsy with sleep. Men going home glance at me and smile and fill me with shame. I sit like a beggar maid, drawing my skirt over my face, and when they ask me, what it is I want, I drop my eyes and answer them not. Oh, how, indeed, could I tell them that for thee I wait, and that thou hast promised to come. How could I utter for shame that I keep for my dowry this poverty. Ah, I hug this pride in the secret of my heart. I sit on the grass and gaze upon the sky and dream of the sudden splendour of thy coming - all the lights ablaze, golden pennons flying over thy car, and they at the roadside standing agape, when they see thee come down from thy seat to raise me from the dust, and set at thy side this ragged beggar girl a-tremble with shame and pride, like a creeper in a summer breeze. But time glides on and still no sound of the wheels of thy chariot. Many a procession passes by with noise and shouts and glamour of glory. Is it only thou who wouldst stand in the shadow silent and behind them all? And only I who would wait and weep and wear out my heart in vain longing? 42. Early in the day it was whispered that we should sail in a boat, only thou and I, and never a soul in the world would know of this our pilgrimage to no country and to no end. In that shoreless ocean, at thy silently listening smile my songs would swell in melodies, free as waves, free from all bondage of words. Is the time not come yet? Are there works still to do? Lo, the evening has come down upon the shore and in the fading light the seabirds come flying to their nests. Who knows when the chains will be off, and the boat, like the last glimmer of sunset, vanish into the night? 43. The day was when I did not keep myself in readiness for thee; and entering my heart unbidden even as one of the common crowd, unknown to me, my king, thou didst press the signet of eternity upon many a fleeting moment of my life. And today when by chance I light upon them and see thy signature, I find they have lain scattered in the dust mixed with the memory of joys and sorrows of my trivial days forgotten. Thou didst not turn in contempt from my childish play among dust, and the steps that I heard in my playroom are the same that are echoing from star to star. 44. This is my delight, thus to wait and watch at the wayside where shadow chases light and the rain comes in the wake of the summer. Messengers, with tidings from unknown skies, greet me and speed along the road. My heart is glad within, and the breath of the passing breeze is sweet. From dawn till dusk I sit here before my door, and I know that of a sudden the happy moment will arrive when I shall see. In the meanwhile I smile and I sing all alone. In the meanwhile the air is filling with the perfume of promise. 45. Have you not heard his silent steps? He comes, comes, ever comes. Every moment and every age, every day and every night he comes, comes, ever comes. Many a song have I sung in many a mood of mind, but all their notes have always proclaimed, 'He comes, comes, ever comes.' In the fragrant days of sunny April through the forest path he comes, comes, ever comes. In the rainy gloom of July nights on the thundering chariot of clouds he comes, comes, ever comes. In sorrow after sorrow it is his steps that press upon my heart, and it is the golden touch of his feet that makes my joy to shine. - 46. I know not from what distant time thou art ever coming nearer to meet me. Thy sun and stars can never keep thee hidden from me for aye. In many a morning and eve thy footsteps have been heard and thy messenger has come within my heart and called me in secret. I know not only why today my life is all astir, and a feeling of tremulous joy is passing through my heart. It is as if the time were come to wind up my work, and I feel in the air a faint smell of thy sweet presence. 47. The night is nearly spent waiting for him in vain. I fear lest in the morning he suddenly come to my door when I have fallen asleep wearied out. Oh friends, leave the way open to him - forbid him not. If the sounds of his steps does not wake me, do not try to rouse me, I pray. I wish not to be called from my sleep by the clamorous choir of birds, by the riot of wind at the festival of morning light. Let me sleep undisturbed even if my lord comes of a sudden to my door. Ah, my sleep, precious sleep, which only waits for his touch to vanish. Ah, my closed eyes that would open their lids only to the light of his smile when he stands before me like a dream emerging from darkness of sleep. Let him appear before my sight as the first of all lights and all forms. The first thrill of joy to my awakened soul let it come from his glance. And let my return to myself be immediate return to him. 48. The morning sea of silence broke into ripples of bird songs; and the flowers were all merry by the roadside; and the wealth of gold was scattered through the rift of the clouds while we busily went on our way and paid no heed. We sang no glad songs nor played; we went not to the village for barter; we spoke not a word nor smiled; we lingered not on the way. We quickened our pave more and more as the time sped by. The sun rose to the mid sky and doves cooed in the shade. Withered leaves danced and whirled in the hot air of noon. The shepherd boy drowsed and dreamed in the shadow of the banyan tree, and I laid myself down by the water and stretched my tired limbs on the grass. My companions laughed at me in scorn; they held their heads high and hurried on; they never looked back nor rested; they vanished in the distant blue haze. They crossed many meadows and hills, and passed through strange, far-away countries. All honour to you, heroic host of the interminable path! Mockery and reproach pricked me to rise, but found no response in me. I gave myself up for lost in the depth of a glad humiliation - in the shadow of a dim delight. The repose of the sun-embroidered green gloom slowly spread over my heart. I forgot for what I had travelled, and I surrendered my mind without struggle to the maze of shadows and songs. At last, when I woke from my slumber and opened my eyes, I saw thee standing by me, flooding my sleep with thy smile. How I had feared that the path was long and wearisome, and the struggle to reach thee was hard! 49. You came down from your throne and stood at my cottage door. I was singing all alone in a corner, and the melody caught your ear. You came down and stood at my cottage door. Masters are many in your hall, and songs are sung there at all hours. But the simple carol of this novice struck at your love. One plaintive little strain mingled with the great music of the world, and with a flower for a prize you came down and stopped at my cottage door. 50. I had gone a-begging from door to door in the village path, when thy golden chariot appeared in the distance like a gorgeous dream and I wondered who was this King of all kings! My hopes rose high and methought my evil days were at an end, and I stood waiting for alms to be given unasked and for wealth scattered on all sides in the dust. The chariot stopped where I stood. Thy glance fell on me and thou camest down with a smile. I felt that the luck of my life had come at last. Then of a sudden thou didst hold out thy right hand and say 'What hast thou to give to me?' Ah, what a kingly jest was it to open thy palm to a beggar to beg! I was confused and stood undecided, and then from my wallet I slowly took out the least little grain of corn and gave it to thee. But how great my surprise when at the day's end I emptied my bag on the floor to find a least little gram of gold among the poor heap. I bitterly wept and wished that I had had the heart to give thee my all. 51. The night darkened. Our day's works had been done. We thought that the last guest had arrived for the night and the doors in the village were all shut. Only some said the king was to come. We laughed and said 'No, it cannot be!' It seemed there were knocks at the door and we said it was nothing but the wind. We put out the lamps and lay down to sleep. Only some said, 'It is the messenger!' We laughed and said 'No, it must be the wind!' There came a sound in the dead of the night. We sleepily thought it was the distant thunder. The earth shook, the walls rocked, and it troubled us in our sleep. Only some said it was the sound of wheels. We said in a drowsy murmur, 'No, it must be the rumbling of clouds!' The night was still dark when the drum sounded. The voice came 'Wake up! delay not!' We pressed our hands on our hearts and shuddered with fear. Some said, 'Lo, there is the king's flag!' We stood up on our feet and cried 'There is no time for delay!' The king has come - but where are lights, where are wreaths? Where is the throne to seat him? Oh, shame! Oh utter shame! Where is the hall, the decorations? Someone has said, 'Vain is this cry! Greet him with empty hands, lead him into thy rooms all bare!' Open the doors, let the conch-shells be sounded! in the depth of the night has come the king of our dark, dreary house. The thunder roars in the sky. The darkness shudders with lightning. Bring out thy tattered piece of mat and spread it in the courtyard. With the storm has come of a sudden our king of the fearful night. 52. I thought I should ask of thee - but I dared not - the rose wreath thou hadst on thy neck. Thus I waited for the morning, when thou didst depart, to find a few fragments on the bed. And like a beggar I searched in the dawn only for a stray petal or two. Ah me, what is it I find? What token left of thy love? It is no flower, no spices, no vase of perfumed water. It is thy mighty sword, flashing as a flame, heavy as a bolt of thunder. The young light of morning comes through the window and spread itself upon thy bed. The morning bird twitters and asks, 'Woman, what hast thou got?' No, it is no flower, nor spices, nor vase of perfumed water - it is thy dreadful sword. I sit and muse in wonder, what gift is this of thine. I can find no place to hide it. I am ashamed to wear it, frail as I am, and it hurts me when press it to my bosom. Yet shall I bear in my heart this honour of the burden of pain, this gift of thine. From now there shall be no fear left for me in this world, and thou shalt be victorious in all my strife. Thou hast left death for my companion and I shall crown him with my life. Thy sword is with me to cut asunder my bonds, and there shall be no fear left for me in the world. From now I leave off all petty decorations. Lord of my heart, no more shall there be for me waiting and weeping in corners, no more coyness and sweetness of demeanour. Thou hast given me thy sword for adornment. No more doll's decorations for me! 53. Beautiful is thy wristlet, decked with stars and cunningly wrought in myriad-coloured jewels. But more beautiful to me thy sword with its curve of lightning like the outspread wings of the divine bird of Vishnu, perfectly poised in the angry red light of the sunset. It quivers like the one last response of life in ecstasy of pain at the final stroke of death; it shines like the pure flame of being burning up earty sense with one fierce flash. Beautiful is thy wristlet, decked with starry gems; but thy sword, O lord of thunder, is wrought with uttermost beauty, terrible to behold or think of. 54. I asked nothing from thee; I uttered not my name to thine ear. When thou took'st thy leave I stood silent. I was alone by the well where the shadow of the tree fell aslant, and the women had gone home with their brown earthen pitchers full to the brim. They called me and shouted, 'Come with us, the morning is wearing on to noon.' But I languidly lingered awhile lost in the midst of vague musings. I heard not thy steps as thou camest. Thine eyes were sad when they fell on me; thy voice was tired as thou spokest low - 'Ah, I am a thirsty traveller.' I started up from my day-dreams and poured water from my jar on thy joined palms. The leaves rustled overhead; the cuckoo sang from the unseen dark, and perfume of babla flowers came from the bend of the road. I stood speecess with shame when my name thou didst ask. Indeed, what had I done for thee to keep me in remembrance? But the memory that I could give water to thee to allay thy thirst will cling to my heart and enfold it in sweetness. The morning hour is late, the bird sings in weary notes, neem leaves rustle overhead and I sit and think and think. 55. Languor is upon your heart and the slumber is still on your eyes. Has not the word come to you that the flower is reigning in splendour among thorns? Wake, oh awaken! let not the time pass in vain! At the end of the stony path, in the country of virgin solitude, my friend is sitting all alone. Deceive him not. Wake, oh awaken! What if the sky pants and trembles with the heat of the midday sun - what if the burning sand spreads its mantle of thirst - Is there no joy in the deep of your heart? At every footfall of yours, will not the harp of the road break out in sweet music of pain? 56. Thus it is that thy joy in me is so full. Thus it is that thou hast come down to me. O thou lord of all heavens, where would be thy love if I were not? Thou hast taken me as thy partner of all this wealth. In my heart is the endless play of thy delight. In my life thy will is ever taking shape. And for this, thou who art the King of kings hast decked thyself in beauty to captivate my heart. And for this thy love loses itself in the love of thy lover, and there art thou seen in the perfect union of two. 57. Light, my light, the world-filling light, the eye-kissing light, heart-sweetening light! Ah, the light dances, my darling, at the centre of my life; the light strikes, my darling, the chords of my love; the sky opens, the wind runs wild, laughter passes over the earth. The butterflies spread their sails on the sea of light. Lilies and jasmines surge up on the crest of the waves of light. The light is shattered into gold on every cloud, my darling, and it scatters gems in profusion. Mirth spreads from leaf to leaf, my darling, and gladness without measure. The heaven's river has drowned its banks and the flood of joy is abroad. 58. Let all the strains of joy mingle in my last song - the joy that makes the earth flow over in the riotous excess of the grass, the joy that sets the twin brothers, life and death, dancing over the wide world, the joy that sweeps in with the tempest, shaking and waking all life with laughter, the joy that sits still with its tears on the open red lotus of pain, and the joy that throws everything it has upon the dust, and knows not a word. 59. Yes, I know, this is nothing but thy love, O beloved of my heart - this golden light that dances upon the leaves, these idle clouds sailing across the sky, this passing breeze leaving its coolness upon my forehead. The morning light has flooded my eyes - this is thy message to my heart. Thy face is bent from above, thy eyes look down on my eyes, and my heart has touched thy feet. 60. On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. The infinite sky is motionless overhead and the restless water is boisterous. On the seashore of endless worlds the children meet with shouts and dances. They build their houses with sand and they play with empty shells. With withered leaves they weave their boats and smilingly float them on the vast deep. Children have their play on the seashore of worlds. They know not how to swim, they know not how to cast nets. Pearl fishers dive for pearls, merchants sail in their ships, while children gather pebbles and scatter them again. they seek not for hidden treasures, they know not how to cast nets. The sea surges up with laughter and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach. Death-dealing waves sing meaningless ballads to the children, even like a mother while rocking her baby's cradle. The sea plays with children, and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach. On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. Tempest roams in the patess sky, ships get wrecked in the trackless water, death is abroad and children play. On the seashore of endless worlds is the great meeting of children. 61. The sleep that flits on baby's eyes - does anybody know from where it comes? Yes, there is a rumour that it has its dwelling where, in the fairy village among shadows of the forest dimly lit with glow-worms, there hang two timid buds of enchantment. From there it comes to kiss baby's eyes. The smile that flickers on baby's lips when he sleeps - does anybody know where it was born? Yes, there is a rumour that a young pale beam of a crescent moon touched the edge of a vanishing autumn cloud, and there the smile was first born in the dream of a dew-washed morning - the smile that flickers on baby's lips when he sleeps. The sweet, soft freshness that blooms on baby's limbs - does anybody know where it was hidden so long? Yes, when the mother was a young girl it lay pervading her heart in tender and silent mystery of love - the sweet, soft freshness that has bloomed on baby's limbs. 62. When I bring to you coloured toys, my child, I understand why there is such a play of colours on clouds, on water, and why flowers are painted in tints - when I give coloured toys to you, my child. When I sing to make you dance I truly now why there is music in leaves, and why waves send their chorus of voices to the heart of the listening earth - when I sing to make you dance. When I bring sweet things to your greedy hands I know why there is honey in the cup of the flowers and why fruits are secretly filled with sweet juice - when I bring sweet things to your greedy hands. When I kiss your face to make you smile, my darling, I surely understand what pleasure streams from the sky in morning light, and what delight that is that is which the summer breeze brings to my body - when I kiss you to make you smile. 63. Thou hast made me known to friends whom I knew not. Thou hast given me seats in homes not my own. Thou hast brought the distant near and made a brother of the stranger. I am uneasy at heart when I have to leave my accustomed shelter; I forget that there abides the old in the new, and that there also thou abidest. Through birth and death, in this world or in others, wherever thou leadest me it is thou, the same, the one companion of my endless life who ever linkest my heart with bonds of joy to the unfamiliar. When one knows thee, then alien there is none, then no door is shut. Oh, grant me my prayer that I may never lose the bliss of the touch of the one in the play of many. 64. On the slope of the desolate river among tall grasses I asked her, 'Maiden, where do you go shading your lamp with your mantle? My house is all dark and lonesome - lend me your light!' she raised her dark eyes for a moment and looked at my face through the dusk. 'I have come to the river,' she said, 'to float my lamp on the stream when the daylight wanes in the west.' I stood alone among tall grasses and watched the timid flame of her lamp uselessly drifting in the tide. In the silence of gathering night I asked her, 'Maiden, your lights are all lit - then where do you go with your lamp? My house is all dark and lonesome - lend me your light.' She raised her dark eyes on my face and stood for a moment doubtful. 'I have come,' she said at last, 'to dedicate my lamp to the sky.' I stood and watched her light uselessly burning in the void. In the moonless gloom of midnight I ask her, 'Maiden, what is your quest, holding the lamp near your heart? My house is all dark and lonesome- - lend me your light.' She stopped for a minute and thought and gazed at my face in the dark. 'I have brought my light,' she said, 'to join the carnival of lamps.' I stood and watched her little lamp uselessly lost among lights. 65. What divine drink wouldst thou have, my God, from this overflowing cup of my life? My poet, is it thy delight to see thy creation through my eyes and to stand at the portals of my ears silently to listen to thine own eternal harmony? Thy world is weaving words in my mind and thy joy is adding music to them. Thou givest thyself to me in love and then feelest thine own entire sweetness in me. 66. She who ever had remained in the depth of my being, in the twilight of gleams and of glimpses; she who never opened her veils in the morning light, will be my last gift to thee, my God, folded in my final song. Words have wooed yet failed to win her; persuasion has stretched to her its eager arms in vain. I have roamed from country to country keeping her in the core of my heart, and around her have risen and fallen the growth and decay of my life. Over my thoughts and actions, my slumbers and dreams, she reigned yet dwelled alone and apart. many a man knocked at my door and asked for her and turned away in despair. There was none in the world who ever saw her face to face, and she remained in her loneliness waiting for thy recognition. 67. Thou art the sky and thou art the nest as well. O thou beautiful, there in the nest is thy love that encloses the soul with colours and sounds and odours. There comes the morning with the golden basket in her right hand bearing the wreath of beauty, silently to crown the earth. And there comes the evening over the lonely meadows deserted by herds, through trackless paths, carrying cool draughts of peace in her golden pitcher from the western ocean of rest. But there, where spreads the infinite sky for the soul to take her flight in, reigns the stainless white radiance. There is no day nor night, nor form nor colour, and never, never a word. 68. Thy sunbeam comes upon this earth of mine with arms outstretched and stands at my door the livelong day to carry back to thy feet clouds made of my tears and sighs and songs. With fond delight thou wrappest about thy starry breast that mantle of misty cloud, turning it into numberless shapes and folds and colouring it with hues everchanging. It is so light and so fleeting, tender and tearful and dark, that is why thou lovest it, O thou spotless and serene. And that is why it may cover thy awful white light with its pathetic shadows. 69. The same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day runs through the world and dances in rhythmic measures. It is the same life that shoots in joy through the dust of the earth in numberless blades of grass and breaks into tumultuous waves of leaves and flowers. It is the same life that is rocked in the ocean-cradle of birth and of death, in ebb and in flow. I feel my limbs are made glorious by the touch of this world of life. And my pride is from the life-throb of ages dancing in my blood this moment. 70. Is it beyond thee to be glad with the gladness of this rhythm? to be tossed and lost and broken in the whirl of this fearful joy? All things rush on, they stop not, they look not behind, no power can hold them back, they rush on. Keeping steps with that restless, rapid music, seasons come dancing and pass away - colours, tunes, and perfumes pour in endless cascades in the abounding joy that scatters and gives up and dies every moment. 71. That I should make much of myself and turn it on all sides, thus casting coloured shadows on thy radiance - such is thy maya. Thou settest a barrier in thine own being and then callest thy severed self in myriad notes. This thy self-separation has taken body in me. The poignant song is echoed through all the sky in many-coloured tears and smiles, alarms and hopes; waves rise up and sink again, dreams break and form. In me is thy own defeat of self. This screen that thou hast raised is painted with innumerable figures with the brush of the night and the day. Behind it thy seat is woven in wondrous mysteries of curves, casting away all barren lines of straightness. The great pageant of thee and me has overspread the sky. With the tune of thee and me all the air is vibrant, and all ages pass with the hiding and seeking of thee and me. 72. He it is, the innermost one, who awakens my being with his deep hidden touches. He it is who puts his enchantment upon these eyes and joyfully plays on the chords of my heart in varied cadence of pleasure and pain. He it is who weaves the web of this maya in evanescent hues of gold and silver, blue and green, and lets peep out through the folds his feet, at whose touch I forget myself. Days come and ages pass, and it is ever he who moves my heart in many a name, in many a guise, in many a rapture of joy and of sorrow. 73. Deliverance is not for me in renunciation. I feel the embrace of freedom in a thousand bonds of delight. Thou ever pourest for me the fresh draught of thy wine of various colours and fragrance, filling this earthen vessel to the brim. My world will light its hundred different lamps with thy flame and place them before the altar of thy temple. No, I will never shut the doors of my senses. The delights of sight and hearing and touch will bear thy delight. Yes, all my illusions will burn into illumination of joy, and all my desires ripen into fruits of love. 74. The day is no more, the shadow is upon the earth. It is time that I go to the stream to fill my pitcher. The evening air is eager with the sad music of the water. Ah, it calls me out into the dusk. In the lonely lane there is no passer-by, the wind is up, the ripples are rampant in the river. I know not if I shall come back home. I know not whom I shall chance to meet. There at the fording in the little boat the unknown man plays upon his lute. 75. Thy gifts to us mortals fulfil all our needs and yet run back to thee undiminished. The river has its everyday work to do and hastens through fields and hamlets; yet its incessant stream winds towards the washing of thy feet. The flower sweetens the air with its perfume; yet its last service is to offer itself to thee. Thy worship does not impoverish the world. From the words of the poet men take what meanings please them; yet their last meaning points to thee. 76. Day after day, O lord of my life, shall I stand before thee face to face. With folded hands, O lord of all worlds, shall I stand before thee face to face. Under thy great sky in solitude and silence, with humble heart shall I stand before thee face to face. In this laborious world of thine, tumultuous with toil and with struggle, among hurrying crowds shall I stand before thee face to face. And when my work shall be done in this world, O King of kings, alone and speecess shall I stand before thee face to face. 77. I know thee as my God and stand apart - I do not know thee as my own and come closer. I know thee as my father and bow before thy feet- I do not grasp thy hand as my friend's. I stand not where thou comest down and ownest thyself as mine, there to clasp thee to my heart and take thee as my comrade. Thou art the Brother amongst my brothers, but I heed them not, I divide not my earnings with them, thus sharing my all with thee. In pleasure and in pain I stand not by the side of men, and thus stand by thee. I shrink to give up my life, and thus do not plunge into the great waters of life. 78. When the creation was new and all the stars shone in their first splendour, the gods held their assembly in the sky and sang 'Oh, the picture of perfection! the joy unalloyed!' But one cried of a sudden - 'It seems that somewhere there is a break in the chain of light and one of the stars has been lost.' The golden string of their harp snapped, their song stopped, and they cried in dismay - 'Yes, that lost star was the best, she was the glory of all heavens!' From that day the search is unceasing for her, and the cry goes on from one to the other that in her the world has lost its one joy! Only in the deepest silence of night the stars smile and whisper among themselves - 'Vain is this seeking! unbroken perfection is over all!' 79. If it is not my portion to meet thee in this life then let me ever feel that I have missed thy sight - let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours. As my days pass in the crowded market of this world and my hands grow full with the daily profits, let me ever feel that I have gained nothing - let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours. When I sit by the roadside, tired and panting, when I spread my bed low in the dust, let me ever feel that the long journey is still before me - let me not forget a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours. When my rooms have been decked out and the flutes sound and the laughter there is loud, let me ever feel that I have not invited thee to my house - let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours. 80. I am like a remnant of a cloud of autumn uselessly roaming in the sky, O my sun ever-glorious! Thy touch has not yet melted my vapour, making me one with thy light, and thus I count months and years separated from thee. If this be thy wish and if this be thy play, then take this fleeting emptiness of mine, paint it with colours, gild it with gold, float it on the wanton wind and spread it in varied wonders. And again when it shall be thy wish to end this play at night, I shall melt and vanish away in the dark, or it may be in a smile of the white morning, in a coolness of purity transparent. 81. On many an idle day have I grieved over lost time. But it is never lost, my lord. Thou hast taken every moment of my life in thine own hands. Hidden in the heart of things thou art nourishing seeds into sprouts, buds into blossoms, and ripening flowers into fruitfulness. I was tired and sleeping on my idle bed and imagined all work had ceased. In the morning I woke up and found my garden full with wonders of flowers. 82. Time is endless in thy hands, my lord. There is none to count thy minutes. Days and nights pass and ages bloom and fade like flowers. Thou knowest how to wait. Thy centuries follow each other perfecting a small wild flower. We have no time to lose, and having no time we must scramble for a chances. We are too poor to be late. And thus it is that time goes by while I give it to every querulous man who claims it, and thine altar is empty of all offerings to the last. At the end of the day I hasten in fear lest thy gate to be shut; but I find that yet there is time. 83. Mother, I shall weave a chain of pearls for thy neck with my tears of sorrow. The stars have wrought their anklets of light to deck thy feet, but mine will hang upon thy breast. Wealth and fame come from thee and it is for thee to give or to withhold them. But this my sorrow is absolutely mine own, and when I bring it to thee as my offering thou rewardest me with thy grace. 84. It is the pang of separation that spreads throughout the world and gives birth to shapes innumerable in the infinite sky. It is this sorrow of separation that gazes in silence all nights from star to star and becomes lyric among rustling leaves in rainy darkness of July. It is this overspreading pain that deepens into loves and desires, into sufferings and joy in human homes; and this it is that ever melts and flows in songs through my poet's heart. 85. When the warriors came out first from their master's hall, where had they hid their power? Where were their armour and their arms? They looked poor and helpless, and the arrows were showered upon them on the day they came out from their master's hall. When the warriors marched back again to their master's hall where did they hide their power? They had dropped the sword and dropped the bow and the arrow; peace was on their foreheads, and they had left the fruits of their life behind them on the day they marched back again to their master's hall. 86. Death, thy servant, is at my door. He has crossed the unknown sea and brought thy call to my home. The night is dark and my heart is fearful - yet I will take up the lamp, open my gates and bow to him my welcome. It is thy messenger who stands at my door. I will worship him placing at his feet the treasure of my heart. He will go back with his errand done, leaving a dark shadow on my morning; and in my desolate home only my forlorn self will remain as my last offering to thee. 87. In desperate hope I go and search for her in all the corners of my room; I find her not. My house is small and what once has gone from it can never be regained. But infinite is thy mansion, my lord, and seeking her I have to come to thy door. I stand under the golden canopy of thine evening sky and I lift my eager eyes to thy face. I have come to the brink of eternity from which nothing can vanish - no hope, no happiness, no vision of a face seen through tears. Oh, dip my emptied life into that ocean, plunge it into the deepest fullness. Let me for once feel that lost sweet touch in the allness of the universe. 88. Deity of the ruined temple! The broken strings of Vina sing no more your praise. The bells in the evening proclaim not your time of worship. The air is still and silent about you. In your desolate dwelling comes the vagrant spring breeze. It brings the tidings of flowers - the flowers that for your worship are offered no more. Your worshipper of old wanders ever longing for favour still refused. In the eventide, when fires and shadows mingle with the gloom of dust, he wearily comes back to the ruined temple with hunger in his heart. Many a festival day comes to you in silence, deity of the ruined temple. Many a night of worship goes away with lamp unlit. Many new images are built by masters of cunning art and carried to the holy stream of oblivion when their time is come. Only the deity of the ruined temple remains unworshipped in deatess neglect. 89. No more noisy, loud words from me - such is my master's will. Henceforth I deal in whispers. The speech of my heart will be carried on in murmurings of a song. Men hasten to the King's market. All the buyers and sellers are there. But I have my untimely leave in the middle of the day, in the thick of work. Let then the flowers come out in my garden, though it is not their time; and let the midday bees strike up their lazy hum. Full many an hour have I spent in the strife of the good and the evil, but now it is the pleasure of my playmate of the empty days to draw my heart on to him; and I know not why is this sudden call to what useless inconsequence! 90. On the day when death will knock at thy door what wilt thou offer to him? Oh, I will set before my guest the full vessel of my life - I will never let him go with empty hands. All the sweet vintage of all my autumn days and summer nights, all the earnings and gleanings of my busy life will I place before him at the close of my days when death will knock at my door. 91. O thou the last fulfilment of life, Death, my death, come and whisper to me! Day after day I have kept watch for thee; for thee have I borne the joys and pangs of life. All that I am, that I have, that I hope and all my love have ever flowed towards thee in depth of secrecy. One final glance from thine eyes and my life will be ever thine own. The flowers have been woven and the garland is ready for the bridegroom. After the wedding the bride shall leave her home and meet her lord alone in the solitude of night. 92. I know that the day will come when my sight of this earth shall be lost, and life will take its leave in silence, drawing the last curtain over my eyes. Yet stars will watch at night, and morning rise as before, and hours heave like sea waves casting up pleasures and pains. When I think of this end of my moments, the barrier of the moments breaks and I see by the light of death thy world with its careless treasures. Rare is its lowliest seat, rare is its meanest of lives. Things that I longed for in vain and things that I got - let them pass. Let me but truly possess the things that I ever spurned and overlooked. 93. I have got my leave. Bid me farewell, my brothers! I bow to you all and take my departure. Here I give back the keys of my door - and I give up all claims to my house. I only ask for last kind words from you. We were neighbours for long, but I received more than I could give. Now the day has dawned and the lamp that lit my dark corner is out. A summons has come and I am ready for my journey. 94. At this time of my parting, wish me good luck, my friends! The sky is flushed with the dawn and my path lies beautiful. Ask not what I have with me to take there. I start on my journey with empty hands and expectant heart. I shall put on my wedding garland. Mine is not the red-brown dress of the traveller, and though there are dangers on the way I have no fear in mind. The evening star will come out when my voyage is done and the plaintive notes of the twilight melodies be struck up from the King's gateway. 95. I was not aware of the moment when I first crossed the threshold of this life. What was the power that made me open out into this vast mystery like a bud in the forest at midnight! When in the morning I looked upon the light I felt in a moment that I was no stranger in this world, that the inscrutable without name and form had taken me in its arms in the form of my own mother. Even so, in death the same unknown will appear as ever known to me. And because I love this life, I know I shall love death as well. The child cries out when from the right breast the mother takes it away, in the very next moment to find in the left one its consolation. 96. When I go from hence let this be my parting word, that what I have seen is unsurpassable. I have tasted of the hidden honey of this lotus that expands on the ocean of light, and thus am I blessed - let this be my parting word. In this playhouse of infinite forms I have had my play and here have I caught sight of him that is formless. My whole body and my limbs have thrilled with his touch who is beyond touch; and if the end comes here, let it come - let this be my parting word. 97. When my play was with thee I never questioned who thou wert. I knew nor shyness nor fear, my life was boisterous. In the early morning thou wouldst call me from my sleep like my own comrade and lead me running from glade to glade. On those days I never cared to know the meaning of songs thou sangest to me. Only my voice took up the tunes, and my heart danced in their cadence. Now, when the playtime is over, what is this sudden sight that is come upon me? The world with eyes bent upon thy feet stands in awe with all its silent stars. 98. I will deck thee with trophies, garlands of my defeat. It is never in my power to escape unconquered. I surely know my pride will go to the wall, my life will burst its bonds in exceeding pain, and my empty heart will sob out in music like a hollow reed, and the stone will melt in tears. I surely know the hundred petals of a lotus will not remain closed for ever and the secret recess of its honey will be bared. From the blue sky an eye shall gaze upon me and summon me in silence. Nothing will be left for me, nothing whatever, and utter death shall I receive at thy feet. 99. When I give up the helm I know that the time has come for thee to take it. What there is to do will be instantly done. Vain is this struggle. Then take away your hands and silently put up with your defeat, my heart, and think it your good fortune to sit perfectly still where you are placed. These my lamps are blown out at every little puff of wind, and trying to light them I forget all else again and again. But I shall be wise this time and wait in the dark, spreading my mat on the floor; and whenever it is thy pleasure, my lord, come silently and take thy seat here. 100. I dive down into the depth of the ocean of forms, hoping to gain the perfect pearl of the formless. No more sailing from harbour to harbour with this my weather-beaten boat. The days are long passed when my sport was to be tossed on waves. And now I am eager to die into the deatess. Into the audience hall by the fathomless abyss where swells up the music of toneless strings I shall take this harp of my life. I shall tune it to the notes of forever, and when it has sobbed out its last utterance, lay down my silent harp at the feet of the silent. 101. Ever in my life have I sought thee with my songs. It was they who led me from door to door, and with them have I felt about me, searching and touching my world. It was my songs that taught me all the lessons I ever learnt; they showed me secret paths, they brought before my sight many a star on the horizon of my heart. They guided me all the day long to the mysteries of the country of pleasure and pain, and, at last, to what palace gate have the brought me in the evening at the end of my journey? 102. I boasted among men that I had known you. They see your pictures in all works of mine. They come and ask me, 'Who is he?' I know not how to answer them. I say, 'Indeed, I cannot tell.' They blame me and they go away in scorn. And you sit there smiling. I put my tales of you into lasting songs. The secret gushes out from my heart. They come and ask me, 'Tell me all your meanings.' I know not how to answer them. I say, 'Ah, who knows what they mean!' They smile and go away in utter scorn. And you sit there smiling. 103. In one salutation to thee, my God, let all my senses spread out and touch this world at thy feet. Like a rain-cloud of July hung low with its burden of unshed showers let all my mind bend down at thy door in one salutation to thee. Let all my songs gather together their diverse strains into a single current and flow to a sea of silence in one salutation to thee. Like a flock of homesick cranes flying night and day back to their mountain nests let all my life take its voyage to its eternal home in one salutation to thee. In the introduction to Gitanjali, W.B Yeats says of Tagores poetry. At every moment the heart of this poet flows outward to these without derogation or condescension, for it has known that they will understand; and it has filled itself with the circumstance of their lives. An innocence, a simplicity that one does not find elsewhere in literature makes the birds and the leaves seem as near to him as they are near to children, and the changes of the seasons great events as before our thoughts had arisen between them and us. ~ Rabindranath Tagore, Gitanjali

339:class:Classics BOOK THE THIRTEENTH The Speeches of Ajax and Ulysses The chiefs were set; the soldiers crown'd the field: To these the master of the seven-fold shield Upstarted fierce: and kindled with disdain. Eager to speak, unable to contain His boiling rage, he rowl'd his eyes around The shore, and Graecian gallies hall'd a-ground. Then stretching out his hands, O Jove, he cry'd, Must then our cause before the fleet be try'd? And dares Ulysses for the prize contend, In sight of what he durst not once defend? But basely fled that memorable day, When I from Hector's hands redeem'd the flaming prey. So much 'tis safer at the noisie bar With words to flourish, than ingage in war. By diff'rent methods we maintain our right, Nor am I made to talk, nor he to fight. In bloody fields I labour to be great; His arms are a smooth tongue, and soft deceit: Nor need I speak my deeds, for those you see, The sun, and day are witnesses for me. Let him who fights unseen, relate his own, And vouch the silent stars, and conscious moon. Great is the prize demanded, I confess, But such an abject rival makes it less; That gift, those honours, he but hop'd to gain, Can leave no room for Ajax to be vain: Losing he wins, because his name will be Ennobled by defeat, who durst contend with me. Were my known valour question'd, yet my blood Without that plea wou'd make my title good: My sire was Telamon, whose arms, employ'd With Hercules, these Trojan walls destroy'd; And who before with Jason sent from Greece, In the first ship brought home the golden fleece. Great Telamon from Aeacus derives His birth (th' inquisitor of guilty lives In shades below; where Sisyphus, whose son This thief is thought, rouls up the restless heavy stone), Just Aeacus, the king of Gods above Begot: thus Ajax is the third from Jove. Nor shou'd I seek advantage from my line, Unless (Achilles) it was mix'd with thine: As next of kin, Achilles' arms I claim; This fellow wou'd ingraft a foreign name Upon our stock, and the Sisyphian seed By fraud, and theft asserts his father's breed: Then must I lose these arms, because I came To fight uncall'd, a voluntary name, Nor shunn'd the cause, but offer'd you my aid? While he long lurking was to war betray'd: Forc'd to the field he came, but in the reer; And feign'd distraction to conceal his fear: 'Till one more cunning caught him in the snare (Ill for himself); and dragg'd him into war. Now let a hero's arms a coward vest, And he who shunn'd all honours, gain the best: And let me stand excluded from my right, Robb'd of my kinsman's arms, who first appear'd in fight, Better for us, at home had he remain'd, Had it been true the madness which he feign'd, Or so believ'd; the less had been our shame, The less his counsell'd crime, which brands the Grecian name; Nor Philoctetes had been left inclos'd In a bare isle, to wants and pains expos'd, Where to the rocks, with solitary groans, His suff'rings, and our baseness he bemoans: And wishes (so may Heav'n his wish fulfill) The due reward to him, who caus'd his ill. Now he, with us to Troy's destruction sworn, Our brother of the war, by whom are born Alcides' arrows, pent in narrow bounds, With cold and hunger pinch'd, and pain'd with wounds, To find him food and cloathing, must employ Against the birds the shafts due to the fate of Troy. Yet still he lives, and lives from treason free, Because he left Ulysses' company; Poor Palamede might wish, so void of aid, Rather to have been left, than so to death betray'd. The coward bore the man immortal spight, Who sham'd him out of madness into fight: Nor daring otherwise to vent his hate, Accus'd him first of treason to the state; And then for proof produc'd the golden store, Himself had hidden in his tent before: Thus of two champions he depriv'd our host, By exile one, and one by treason lost. Thus fights Ulysses, thus his fame extends, A formidable man, but to his friends: Great, for what greatness is in words, and sound, Ev'n faithful Nestor less in both is found: But that he might without a rival reign, He left this faithful Nestor on the plain; Forsook his friend ev'n at his utmost need, Who tir'd, and tardy with his wounded steed, Cry'd out for aid, and call'd him by his name; But cowardice has neither ears nor shame; Thus fled the good old man, bereft of aid, And, for as much as lay in him, betray'd: That this is not a fable forg'd by me, Like one of his, an Ulyssean lie, I vouch ev'n Diomede, who tho' his friend, Cannot that act excuse, much less defend: He call'd him back aloud, and tax'd his fear; And sure enough he heard, but durst not hear. The Gods with equal eyes on mortal look, He justly was forsaken, who forsook: Wanted that succour, he refus'd to lend, Found ev'ry fellow such another friend: No wonder, if he roar'd that all might hear; His elocution was increas'd by fear: I heard, I ran, I found him out of breath, Pale, trembling, and half dead with fear of death. Though he had judg'd himself by his own laws, And stood condemn'd, I help'd the common cause: With my broad buckler hid him from the foe (Ev'n the shield trembled as he lay below); And from impending Fate the coward freed: Good Heav'n forgive me for so bad a deed! If still he will persist, and urge the strife, First let him give me back his forfeit life: Let him return to that opprobrious field; Again creep under my protecting shield: Let him lie wounded, let the foe be near, And let his quiv'ring heart confess his fear; There put him in the very jaws of Fate; And let him plead his cause in that estate: And yet when snatch'd from death, when from below My lifted shield I loos'd, and let him go; Good Heav'ns, how light he rose, with what a bound He sprung from earth, forgetful of his wound; How fresh, how eager then his feet to ply; Who had not strength to stand, had speed to fly! Hector came on, and brought the Gods along; Fear seiz'd alike the feeble, and the strong: Each Greek was an Ulysses; such a dread Th' approach, and ev'n the sound of Hector bred: Him, flesh'd with slaughter, and with conquest crown'd, I met, and over-turn'd him to the ground; When after, matchless as he deem'd in might, He challeng'd all our host to single fight; All eyes were fix'd on me: the lots were thrown; But for your champion I was wish'd alone: Your vows were heard; we fought, and neither yield; Yet I return'd unvanquish'd from the field. With Jove to friend, th' insulting Trojan came, And menac'd us with force, our fleet with flame. Was it the strength of this tongue-valiant lord, In that black hour, that sav'd you from the sword? Or was my breast expos'd alone, to brave A thousand swords, a thousand ships to save? The hopes of your return! And can you yield, For a sav'd fleet, less than a single shield? Think it no boast, o Grecians, if I deem These arms want Ajax, more than Ajax them: Or, I with them an equal honour share; They honour'd to be worn, and I to wear. Will he compare my courage with his sleight? As well he may compare the day with night. Night is indeed the province of his reign: Yet all his dark exploits no more contain Than a spy taken, and a sleeper slain; A priest made pris'ner, Pallas made a prey: But none of all these actions done by day: Nor ought of these was done, and Diomede away. If on such petty merits you confer So vast a prize, let each his portion share; Make a just dividend; and if not all, The greater part to Diomede will fall. But why for Ithacus such arms as those, Who naked, and by night invades his foes? The glitt'ring helm by moonlight will proclaim The latent robber, and prevent his game: Nor cou'd he hold his tott'ring head upright Beneath that morion, or sustain the weight; Nor that right arm cou'd toss the beamy lance; Much less the left that ampler shield advance; Pond'rous with precious weight, and rough with cost Of the round world in rising gold emboss'd. That orb would ill become his hand to wield, And look as for the gold he stole the shield; Which, shou'd your error on the wretch bestow, It would not frighten, but allure the foe: Why asks he, what avails him not in fight, And wou'd but cumber, and retard his flight, In which his only excellence is plac'd? You give him death, that intercept his haste. Add, that his own is yet a maiden-shield, Nor the least dint has suffer'd in the field, Guiltless of fight: mine batter'd, hew'd, and bor'd, Worn out of service, must forsake his lord, What farther need of words our right to scan? My arguments are deeds, let action speak the man. Since from a champion's arms the strife arose, Go cast the glorious prize amid the foes; Then send us to redeem both arms, and shield, And let him wear, who wins 'em in the field. He said: a murmur from a multitude, Or somewhat like a stifled shout, ensu'd: 'Till from his seat arose Laertes' son, Look'd down a while, and paus'd, e'er he begun; Then, to th' expecting audience, rais'd his look, And not without prepar'd attention spoke: Soft was his tone, and sober was his face; Action his words, and words his action grace. If Heav'n, my lords, had heard our common pray'r, These arms had caus'd no quarrel for an heir; Still great Achilles had his own possess'd, And we with great Achilles had been bless'd; But since hard Fate, and Heav'n's severe decree, Have ravish'd him away from you, and me (At this he sigh'd, and wip'd his eyes, and drew, Or seem'd to draw, some drops of kindly dew), Who better can succeed Achilles lost, Than he, who gave Achilles to your hoast? This only I request, that neither he May gain, by being what he seems to be, A stupid thing; nor I may lose the prize, By having sense, which Heav'n to him denies: Since great or small, the talent I enjoy'd Was ever in the common cause employ'd; Nor let my wit, and wonted eloquence, Which often has been us'd in your defense, And in my own, this only time be brought To bear against my self, and deem'd a fault. Make not a crime, where Nature made it none; For ev'ry man may freely use his own. The deeds of long-descended ancestors Are but by grace of imputation ours, Theirs in effect; but since he draws his line From Jove, and seems to plead a right divine; From Jove, like him, I claim my pedigree, And am descended in the same degree: My sire Laertes was Arcesius' heir, Arcesius was the son of Jupiter: No parricide, no banish'd man, is known In all my line: let him excuse his own. Hermes ennobles too my mother's side, By both my parents to the Gods ally'd. But not because that on the female part My blood is better, dare I claim desert, Or that my sire from parricide is free; But judge by merit betwixt him, and me: The prize be to the best; provided yet That Ajax for a while his kin forget, And his great sire, and greater uncle's name, To fortifie by them his feeble claim: Be kindred and relation laid aside, And honour's cause by laws of honour try'd: For if he plead proximity of blood; That empty title is with ease withstood. Peleus, the hero's sire, more nigh than he, And Pyrrhus, his undoubted progeny, Inherit first these trophies of the field; To Scyros, or to Pthia, send the shield: And Teucer has an uncle's right; yet he Waves his pretensions, nor contends with me. Then since the cause on pure desert is plac'd, Whence shall I take my rise, what reckon last? I not presume on ev'ry act to dwell, But take these few, in order as they fell. Thetis, who knew the Fates, apply'd her care To keep Achilles in disguise from war; And 'till the threatning influence was past, A woman's habit on the hero cast: All eyes were cozen'd by the borrow'd vest, And Ajax (never wiser than the rest) Found no Pelides there: at length I came With proffer'd wares to this pretended dame; She, not discover'd by her mien, or voice, Betray'd her manhood by her manly choice; And while on female toys her fellows look, Grasp'd in her warlike hand, a javelin shook; Whom, by this act reveal'd, I thus bespoke: O Goddess-born! resist not Heav'n's decree, The fall of Ilium is reserv'd for thee; Then seiz'd him, and produc'd in open light, Sent blushing to the field the fatal knight. Mine then are all his actions of the war; Great Telephus was conquer'd by my spear, And after cur'd: to me the Thebans owe, Lesbos, and Tenedos, their overthrow; Syros and Cylla: not on all to dwell, By me Lyrnesus, and strong Chrysa fell: And since I sent the man who Hector slew, To me the noble Hector's death is due: Those arms I put into his living hand, Those arms, Pelides dead, I now demand. When Greece was injur'd in the Spartan prince, And met at Aulis to avenge th' offence, 'Twas a dead calm, or adverse blasts, that reign'd, And in the port the wind-bound fleet detain'd: Bad signs were seen, and oracles severe Were daily thunder'd in our gen'ral's ear; That by his daughter's blood we must appease Diana's kindled wrath, and free the seas. Affection, int'rest, fame, his heart assail'd: But soon the father o'er the king prevail'd: Bold, on himself he took the pious crime, As angry with the Gods, as they with him. No subject cou'd sustain their sov'reign's look, 'Till this hard enterprize I undertook: I only durst th' imperial pow'r controul, And undermin'd the parent in his soul; Forc'd him t' exert the king for common good, And pay our ransom with his daughter's blood. Never was cause more difficult to plead, Than where the judge against himself decreed: Yet this I won by dint of argument; The wrongs his injur'd brother underwent, And his own office, sham'd him to consent. 'Tis harder yet to move the mother's mind, And to this heavy task was I design'd: Reasons against her love I knew were vain; I circumvented whom I could not gain: Had Ajax been employ'd, our slacken'd sails Had still at Aulis waited happy gales. Arriv'd at Troy, your choice was fix'd on me, A fearless envoy, fit for a bold embassy: Secure, I enter'd through the hostile court, Glitt'ring with steel, and crowded with resort: There, in the midst of arms, I plead our cause, Urge the foul rape, and violated laws; Accuse the foes, as authors of the strife, Reproach the ravisher, demand the wife. Priam, Antenor, and the wiser few, I mov'd; but Paris, and his lawless crew Scarce held their hands, and lifted swords; but stood In act to quench their impious thirst of blood: This Menelaus knows; expos'd to share With me the rough preludium of the war. Endless it were to tell, what I have done, In arms, or council, since the siege begun: The first encounter's past, the foe repell'd, They skulk'd within the town, we kept the field. War seem'd asleep for nine long years; at length Both sides resolv'd to push, we try'd our strength Now what did Ajax, while our arms took breath, Vers'd only in the gross mechanick trade of death? If you require my deeds, with ambush'd arms I trapp'd the foe, or tir'd with false alarms; Secur'd the ships, drew lines along the plain, The fainting chear'd, chastis'd the rebel-train, Provided forage, our spent arms renew'd; Employ'd at home, or sent abroad, the common cause pursu'd. The king, deluded in a dream by Jove, Despair'd to take the town, and order'd to remove. What subject durst arraign the Pow'r supream, Producing Jove to justifie his dream? Ajax might wish the soldiers to retain From shameful flight, but wishes were in vain: As wanting of effect had been his words, Such as of course his thundring tongue affords. But did this boaster threaten, did he pray, Or by his own example urge their stay? None, none of these: but ran himself away. I saw him run, and was asham'd to see; Who ply'd his feet so fast to get aboard, as he? Then speeding through the place, I made a stand, And loudly cry'd, O base degenerate band, To leave a town already in your hand! After so long expence of blood, for fame, To bring home nothing, but perpetual shame! These words, or what I have forgotten since (For grief inspir'd me then with eloquence), Reduc'd their minds; they leave the crowded port, And to their late forsaken camp resort: Dismay'd the council met: this man was there, But mute, and not recover'd of his fear: Thersites tax'd the king, and loudly rail'd, But his wide opening mouth with blows I seal'd. Then, rising, I excite their souls to fame, And kindle sleeping virtue into flame. From thence, whatever he perform'd in fight Is justly mine, who drew him back from flight. Which of the Grecian chiefs consorts with thee? But Diomede desires my company, And still communicates his praise with me. As guided by a God, secure he goes, Arm'd with my fellowship, amid the foes: And sure no little merit I may boast, Whom such a man selects from such an hoast; Unforc'd by lots I went without affright, To dare with him the dangers of the night: On the same errand sent, we met the spy Of Hector, double-tongu'd, and us'd to lie; Him I dispatch'd, but not 'till undermin'd, I drew him first to tell, what treach'rous Troy design'd: My task perform'd, with praise I had retir'd, But not content with this, to greater praise aspir'd: Invaded Rhesus, and his Thracian crew, And him, and his, in their own strength I slew; Return'd a victor, all my vows compleat, With the king's chariot, in his royal seat: Refuse me now his arms, whose fiery steeds Were promis'd to the spy for his nocturnal deeds: Yet let dull Ajax bear away my right, When all his days out-balance this one night. Nor fought I darkling still: the sun beheld With slaughter'd Lycians when I strew'd the field: You saw, and counted as I pass'd along, Alastor, Chromius, Ceranos the strong, Alcander, Prytanis, and Halius, Noemon, Charopes, and Ennomus; Coon, Chersidamas; and five beside, Men of obscure descent, but courage try'd: All these this hand laid breathless on the ground; Nor want I proofs of many a manly wound: All honest, all before: believe not me; Words may deceive, but credit what you see. At this he bar'd his breast, and show'd his scars, As of a furrow'd field, well plow'd with wars; Nor is this part unexercis'd, said he; That gyant-bulk of his from wounds is free: Safe in his shield he fears no foe to try, And better manages his blood, than I: But this avails me not; our boaster strove Not with our foes alone, but partial Jove, To save the fleet: this I confess is true (Nor will I take from any man his due): But thus assuming all, he robs from you. Some part of honour to your share will fall, He did the best indeed, but did not all. Patroclus in Achilles' arms, and thought The chief he seem'd, with equal ardour fought; Preserv'd the fleet, repell'd the raging fire, And forc'd the fearful Trojans to retire. But Ajax boasts, that he was only thought A match for Hector, who the combat sought: Sure he forgets the king, the chiefs, and me: All were as eager for the fight, as he: He but the ninth, and not by publick voice, Or ours preferr'd, was only Fortune's choice: They fought; nor can our hero boast th' event, For Hector from the field unwounded went. Why am I forc'd to name that fatal day, That snatch'd the prop and pride of Greece away? I saw Pelides sink, with pious grief, And ran in vain, alas! to his relief; For the brave soul was fled: full of my friend I rush'd amid the war, his relicks to defend: Nor ceas'd my toil, 'till I redeem'd the prey, And, loaded with Achilles, march'd away: Those arms, which on these shoulders then I bore, 'Tis just you to these shoulders should restore. You see I want not nerves, who cou'd sustain The pond'rous ruins of so great a man: Or if in others equal force you find, None is endu'd with a more grateful mind. Did Thetis then, ambitious in her care, These arms thus labour'd for her son prepare; That Ajax after him the heav'nly gift shou'd wear! For that dull soul to stare with stupid eyes, On the learn'd unintelligible prize! What are to him the sculptures of the shield, Heav'n's planets, Earth, and Ocean's watry field? The Pleiads, Hyads; less, and greater Bear, Undipp'd in seas; Orion's angry star; Two diff'ring cities, grav'd on either hand; Would he wear arms he cannot understand? Beside, what wise objections he prepares Against my late accession to the wars? Does not the fool perceive his argument Is with more force against Achilles bent? For if dissembling be so great a crime, The fault is common, and the same in him: And if he taxes both of long delay, My guilt is less, who sooner came away. His pious mother, anxious for his life, Detain'd her son; and me, my pious wife. To them the blossoms of our youth were due, Our riper manhood we reserv'd for you. But grant me guilty, 'tis not much my care, When with so great a man my guilt I share: My wit to war the matchless hero brought, But by this fool I never had been caught. Nor need I wonder, that on me he threw Such foul aspersions, when he spares not you: If Palamede unjustly fell by me, Your honour suffer'd in th' unjust decree: I but accus'd, you doom'd: and yet he dy'd, Convinc'd of treason, and was fairly try'd: You heard not he was false; your eyes beheld The traytor manifest; the bribe reveal'd. That Philoctetes is on Lemnos left, Wounded, forlorn, of human aid bereft, Is not my crime, or not my crime alone; Defend your justice, for the fact's your own: 'Tis true, th' advice was mine; that staying there He might his weary limbs with rest repair, From a long voyage free, and from a longer war. He took the counsl, and he lives at least; Th' event declares I counsell'd for the best: Though faith is all in ministers of state; For who can promise to be fortunate? Now since his arrows are the Fate of Troy, Do not my wit, or weak address, employ; Send Ajax there, with his persuasive sense, To mollifie the man, and draw him thence: But Xanthus shall run backward; Ida stand A leafless mountain; and the Grecian band Shall fight for Troy; if, when my councils fail, The wit of heavy Ajax can prevail. Hard Philoctetes, exercise thy spleen Against thy fellows, and the king of men; Curse my devoted head, above the rest, And wish in arms to meet me breast to breast: Yet I the dang'rous task will undertake, And either die my self, or bring thee back. Nor doubt the same success, as when before The Phrygian prophet to these tents I bore, Surpriz'd by night, and forc'd him to declare In what was plac'd the fortune of the war, Heav'n's dark decrees, and answers to display, And how to take the town, and where the secret lay: Yet this I compass'd, and from Troy convey'd The fatal image of their guardian-maid; That work was mine; for Pallas, though our friend, Yet while she was in Troy, did Troy defend. Now what has Ajax done, or what design'd? A noisie nothing, and an empty wind. If he be what he promises in show, Why was I sent, and why fear'd he to go? Our boasting champion thought the task not light To pass the guards, commit himself to night; Not only through a hostile town to pass, But scale, with steep ascent, the sacred place; With wand'ring steps to search the cittadel, And from the priests their patroness to steal: Then through surrounding foes to force my way, And bear in triumph home the heavn'ly prey; Which had I not, Ajax in vain had held, Before that monst'rous bulk, his sev'nfold shield. That night to conquer Troy I might be said, When Troy was liable to conquest made. Why point'st thou to my partner of the war? Tydides had indeed a worthy share In all my toil, and praise; but when thy might Our ships protected, did'st thou singly fight? All join'd, and thou of many wert but one; I ask'd no friend, nor had, but him alone: Who, had he not been well assur'd, that art, And conduct were of war the better part, And more avail'd than strength, my valiant friend Had urg'd a better right, than Ajax can pretend: As good at least Eurypilus may claim, And the more mod'rate Ajax of the name: The Cretan king, and his brave charioteer, And Menelaus bold with sword, and spear: All these had been my rivals in the shield, And yet all these to my pretensions yield. Thy boist'rous hands are then of use, when I With this directing head those hands apply. Brawn without brain is thine: my prudent care Foresees, provides, administers the war: Thy province is to fight; but when shall be The time to fight, the king consults with me: No dram of judgment with thy force is join'd: Thy body is of profit, and my mind. By how much more the ship her safety owes To him who steers, than him that only rows; By how much more the captain merits praise, Than he who fights, and fighting but obeys; By so much greater is my worth than thine, Who canst but execute, what I design. What gain'st thou, brutal man, if I confess Thy strength superior, when thy wit is less? Mind is the man: I claim my whole desert, From the mind's vigour, and th' immortal part. But you, o Grecian chiefs, reward my care, Be grateful to your watchman of the war: For all my labours in so long a space, Sure I may plead a title to your grace: Enter the town, I then unbarr'd the gates, When I remov'd their tutelary Fates. By all our common hopes, if hopes they be Which I have now reduc'd to certainty; By falling Troy, by yonder tott'ring tow'rs, And by their taken Gods, which now are ours; Or if there yet a farther task remains, To be perform'd by prudence, or by pains; If yet some desp'rate action rests behind, That asks high conduct, and a dauntless mind; If ought be wanting to the Trojan doom, Which none but I can manage, and o'ercome, Award, those arms I ask, by your decree: Or give to this, what you refuse to me. He ceas'd: and ceasing with respect he bow'd, And with his hand at once the fatal statue show'd. Heav'n, air and ocean rung, with loud applause, And by the gen'ral vote he gain'd his cause. Thus conduct won the prize, when courage fail'd, And eloquence o'er brutal force prevail'd. The Death of Ajax He who cou'd often, and alone, withstand The foe, the fire, and Jove's own partial hand, Now cannot his unmaster'd grief sustain, But yields to rage, to madness, and disdain; Then snatching out his fauchion, Thou, said he, Art mine; Ulysses lays no claim to thee. O often try'd, and ever-trusty sword, Now do thy last kind office to thy lord: 'Tis Ajax who requests thy aid, to show None but himself, himself cou'd overthrow: He said, and with so good a will to die, Did to his breast the fatal point apply, It found his heart, a way 'till then unknown, Where never weapon enter'd, but his own. No hands cou'd force it thence, so fix'd it stood, 'Till out it rush'd, expell'd by streams of spouting blood. The fruitful blood produc'd a flow'r, which grew On a green stem; and of a purple hue: Like his, whom unaware Apollo slew: Inscrib'd in both, the letters are the same, But those express the grief, and these the name. The Story of Polyxena and Hecuba The victor with full sails for Lemnos stood (Once stain'd by matrons with their husbands' blood), Thence great Alcides' fatal shafts to bear, Assign'd to Philoctetes' secret care. These with their guardian to the Greeks convey'd, Their ten years' toil with wish'd success repaid. With Troy old Priam falls: his queen survives; 'Till all her woes compleat, transform'd she grieves In borrow'd sounds, nor with an human face, Barking tremendous o'er the plains of Thrace. Still Ilium's flames their pointed columns raise, And the red Hellespont reflects the blaze. Shed on Jove's altar are the poor remains Of blood, which trickl'd from old Priam's veins. Cassandra lifts her hands to Heav'n in vain, Drag'd by her sacred hair; the trembling train Of matrons to their burning temples fly: There to their Gods for kind protection cry; And to their statues cling 'till forc'd away, The victor Greeks bear off th' invidious prey. From those high tow'rs Astyanax is thrown, Whence he was wont with pleasure to look down. When oft his mother with a fond delight Pointed to view his father's rage in fight, To win renown, and guard his country's right. The winds now call to sea; brisk northern gales Sing in the shrowds, and court the spreading sails. Farewel, dear Troy, the captive matrons cry; Yes, we must leave our long-lov'd native sky. Then prostrate on the shore they kiss the sand, And quit the smoking ruines of the land. Last Hecuba on board, sad sight! appears; Found weeping o'er her children's sepulchres: Drag'd by Ulysses from her slaughter'd sons, Whilst yet she graspt their tombs, and kist their mouldring bones. Yet Hector's ashes from his urn she bore, And in her bosom the sad relique wore: Then scatter'd on his tomb her hoary hairs, A poor oblation mingled with her tears. Oppos'd to Ilium lye the Thracian plains, Where Polymestor safe in plenty reigns. King Priam to his care commits his son, Young Polydore, the chance of war to shun. A wise precaution! had not gold, consign'd For the child's use, debauch'd the tyrant's mind. When sinking Troy to its last period drew, With impious hands his royal charge he slew; Then in the sea the lifeless coarse is thrown; As with the body he the guilt could drown. The Greeks now riding on the Thracian shore, 'Till kinder gales invite, their vessels moor. Here the wide-op'ning Earth to sudden view Disclos'd Achilles, great as when he drew The vital air, but fierce with proud disdain, As when he sought Briseis to regain; When stern debate, and rash injurious strife Unsheath'd his sword, to reach Atrides' life. And will ye go? he said. Is then the name Of the once great Achilles lost to fame? Yet stay, ungrateful Greeks; nor let me sue In vain for honours to my Manes due. For this just end, Polyxena I doom With victim-rites to grace my slighted tomb. The phantom spoke; the ready Greeks obey'd, And to the tomb led the devoted maid Snatch'd from her mother, who with pious care Cherish'd this last relief of her despair. Superior to her sex, the fearless maid, Approach'd the altar, and around survey'd The cruel rites, and consecrated knife, Which Pyrrhus pointed at her guiltless life, Then as with stern amaze intent he stood, "Now strike," she said; "now spill my genr'ous blood; Deep in my breast, or throat, your dagger sheath, Whilst thus I stand prepar'd to meet my death. For life on terms of slav'ry I despise: Yet sure no God approves this sacrifice. O cou'd I but conceal this dire event From my sad mother, I should dye content. Yet should she not with tears my death deplore, Since her own wretched life demands them more. But let not the rude touch of man pollute A virgin-victim; 'tis a modest suit. It best will please, whoe'er demands my blood, That I untainted reach the Stygian flood. Yet let one short, last, dying prayer be heard; To Priam's daughter pay this last regard; 'Tis Priam's daughter, not a captive, sues; Do not the rites of sepulture refuse. To my afflicted mother, I implore, Free without ransom my dead corpse restore: Nor barter me for gain, when I am cold; But be her tears the price, if I am sold: Time was she could have ransom'd me with gold". Thus as she pray'd, one common shower of tears Burst forth, and stream'd from ev'ry eye but hers. Ev'n the priest wept, and with a rude remorse Plung'd in her heart the steel's resistless force. Her slacken'd limbs sunk gently to the ground, Dauntless her looks, unalter'd by the wound. And as she fell, she strove with decent pride To hide, what suits a virgin's care to hide. The Trojan matrons the pale corpse receive, And the whole slaughter'd race of Priam grieve, Sad they recount the long disastrous tale; Then with fresh tears, thee, royal maid, bewail; Thy widow'd mother too, who flourish'd late The royal pride of Asia's happier state: A captive lot now to Ulysses born; Whom yet the victor would reject with scorn, Were she not Hector's mother: Hector's fame Scarce can a master for his mother claim! With strict embrace the lifeless coarse she view'd; And her fresh grief that flood of tears renew'd, With which she lately mourn'd so many dead; Tears for her country, sons, and husb and shed. With the thick gushing stream she bath'd the wound; Kiss'd her pale lips; then weltring on the ground, With wonted rage her frantick bosom tore; Sweeping her hair amidst the clotted gore; Whilst her sad accents thus her loss deplore. "Behold a mother's last dear pledge of woe! Yes, 'tis the last I have to suffer now. Thou, my Polyxena, my ills must crown: Already in thy Fate, I feel my own. 'Tis thus, lest haply of my numerous seed One should unslaughter'd fall, even thou must bleed: And yet I hop'd thy sex had been thy guard; But neither has thy tender sex been spar'd. The same Achilles, by whose deadly hate Thy brothers fell, urg'd thy untimely fate! The same Achilles, whose destructive rage Laid waste my realms, has robb'd my childless age. When Paris' shafts with Phoebus' certain aid At length had pierc'd this dreaded chief, I said, Secure of future ills, he can no more: But see, he still pursues me as before. With rage rekindled his dead ashes burn; And his yet murd'ring ghost my wretched house must mourn. This tyrant's lust of slaughter I have fed With large supplies from my too-fruitful bed. Troy's tow'rs lye waste; and the wide ruin ends The publick woe; but me fresh woe attends. Troy still survives to me; to none but me; And from its ills I never must be free. I, who so late had power, and wealth, and ease, Bless'd with my husband, and a large encrease, Must now in poverty an exile mourn; Ev'n from the tombs of my dead offspring torn: Giv'n to Penelope, who proud of spoil, Allots me to the loom's ungrateful toil; Points to her dames, and crys with scorning mien: See Hector's mother, and great Priam's queen! And thou, my child, sole hope of all that's lost, Thou now art slain, to sooth this hostile ghost. Yes, my child falls an offering to my foe! Then what am I, who still survive this woe? Say, cruel Gods! for what new scenes of death Must a poor aged wretch prolong this hated breath? Troy fal'n, to whom could Priam happy seem? Yet was he so; and happy must I deem His death; for O! my child, he saw not thine, When he his life did with his Troy resign. Yet sure due obsequies thy tomb might grace; And thou shalt sleep amidst thy kingly race. Alas! my child, such fortune does not wait Our suffering house in this abandon'd state. A foreign grave, and thy poor mother's tears Are all the honours that attend thy herse. All now is lost!- Yet no; one comfort more Of life remains, my much-lov'd Polydore. My youngest hope: here on this coast he lives, Nurs'd by the guardian-king, he still survives. Then let me hasten to the cleansing flood, And wash away these stains of guiltless blood." Streit to the shore her feeble steps repair With limping pace, and torn dishevell'd hair Silver'd with age. "Give me an urn," she cry'd, "To bear back water from this swelling tide": When on the banks her son in ghastly hue Transfix'd with Thracian arrows strikes her view. The matrons shriek'd; her big-swoln grief surpast The pow'r of utterance; she stood aghast; She had nor speech, nor tears to give relief; Excess of woe suppress'd the rising grief. Lifeless as stone, on Earth she fix'd her eyes; And then look'd up to Heav'n with wild surprise. Now she contemplates o'er with sad delight Her son's pale visage; then her aking sight Dwells on his wounds: she varys thus by turns, Wild as the mother-lion, when among The haunts of prey she seeks her ravish'd young: Swift flies the ravisher; she marks his trace, And by the print directs her anxious chase. So Hecuba with mingled grief, and rage Pursues the king, regardless of her age. She greets the murd'rer with dissembled joy Of secret treasure hoarded for her boy. The specious tale th' unwary king betray'd. Fir'd with the hopes of prey: "Give quick," he said With soft enticing speech, "the promis'd store: Whate'er you give, you give to Polydore. Your son, by the immortal Gods I swear, Shall this with all your former bounty share." She stands attentive to his soothing lyes, And darts avenging horrour from her eyes. Then full resentment fires her boyling blood: She springs upon him, 'midst the captive crowd (Her thirst of vengeance want of strength supplies): Fastens her forky fingers in his eyes: Tears out the rooted balls; her rage pursues, And in the hollow orbs her hand imbrews. The Thracians, fir'd, at this inhuman scene, With darts, and stones assail the frantick queen. She snarls, and growls, nor in an human tone; Then bites impatient at the bounding stone; Extends her jaws, as she her voice would raise To keen invectives in her wonted phrase; But barks, and thence the yelping brute betrays. Still a sad monument the place remains, And from this monstrous change its name obtains: Where she, in long remembrance of her ills, With plaintive howlings the wide desart fills. Greeks, Trojans, friends, and foes, and Gods above Her num'rous wrongs to just compassion move. Ev'n Juno's self forgets her ancient hate, And owns, she had deserv'd a milder fate. The Funeral of Memnon Yet bright Aurora, partial as she was To Troy, and those that lov'd the Trojan cause, Nor Troy, nor Hecuba can now bemoan, But weeps a sad misfortune, more her own. Her offspring Memnon, by Achilles slain, She saw extended on the Phrygian plain: She saw, and strait the purple beams, that grace The rosie morning, vanish'd from her face; A deadly pale her wonted bloom invades, And veils the lowring skies with mournful shades. But when his limbs upon the pile were laid, The last kind duty that by friends is paid, His mother to the skies directs her flight, Nor cou'd sustain to view the doleful sight: But frantick, with her loose neglected hair, Hastens to Jove, and falls a suppliant there. O king of Heav'n, o father of the skies, The weeping Goddess passionately cries, Tho' I the meanest of immortals am, And fewest temples celebrate my fame, Yet still a Goddess, I presume to come Within the verge of your etherial dome: Yet still may plead some merit, if my light With purple dawn controuls the Pow'rs of night; If from a female hand that virtue springs, Which to the Gods, and men such pleasure brings. Yet I nor honours seek, nor rites divine, Nor for more altars, or more fanes repine; Oh! that such trifles were the only cause, From whence Aurora's mind its anguish draws! For Memnon lost, my dearest only child, With weightier grief my heavy heart is fill'd; My warrior son! that liv'd but half his time, Nipt in the bud, and blasted in his prime; Who for his uncle early took the field, And by Achilles' fatal spear was kill'd. To whom but Jove shou'd I for succour come? For Jove alone cou'd fix his cruel doom. O sov'reign of the Gods accept my pray'r, Grant my request, and sooth a mother's care; On the deceas'd some solemn boon bestow, To expiate the loss, and ease my woe. Jove, with a nod, comply'd with her desire; Around the body flam'd the fun'ral fire; The pile decreas'd, that lately seem'd so high, And sheets of smoak roll'd upward to the sky: As humid vapours from a marshy bog, Rise by degrees, condensing into fog, That intercept the sun's enliv'ning ray, And with a cloud infect the chearful day. The sooty ashes wafted by the air, Whirl round, and thicken in a body there; Then take a form, which their own heat, and fire With active life, and energy inspire. Its lightness makes it seem to fly, and soon It skims on real wings, that are its own; A real bird, it beats the breezy wind, Mix'd with a thousand sisters of the kind, That, from the same formation newly sprung, Up-born aloft on plumy pinions hung. Thrice round the pile advanc'd the circling throng. Thrice, with their wings, a whizzing consort rung. In the fourth flight their squadron they divide, Rank'd in two diff'rent troops, on either side: Then two, and two, inspir'd with martial rage, From either troop in equal pairs engage. Each combatant with beak, and pounces press'd, In wrathful ire, his adversary's breast; Each falls a victim, to preserve the fame Of that great hero, whence their being came. From him their courage, and their name they take, And, as they liv'd, they dye for Memnon's sake. Punctual to time, with each revolving year, In fresh array the champion birds appear; Again, prepar'd with vengeful minds, they come To bleed, in honour of the souldier's tomb. Therefore in others it appear'd not strange, To grieve for Hecuba's unhappy change: But poor Aurora had enough to do With her own loss, to mind another's woe; Who still in tears, her tender nature shews, Besprinkling all the world with pearly dews. The Voyage of Aeneas Troy thus destroy'd, 'twas still deny'd by Fate, The hopes of Troy should perish with the state. His sire, the son of Cytherea bore, And household-Gods from burning Ilium's shore, The pious prince (a double duty paid) Each sacred bur then thro' the flames convey'd. With young Ascanius, and this only prize, Of heaps of wealth, he from Antandros flies; But struck with horror, left the Thracian shore, Stain'd with the blood of murder'd Polydore. The Delian isle receives the banish'd train, Driv'n by kind gales, and favour'd by the main. Here pious Anius, priest, and monarch reign'd, And either charge, with equal care sustain'd, His subjects rul'd, to Phoebus homage pay'd, His God obeying, and by those obey'd. The priest displays his hospitable gate, And shows the riches of his church, and state The sacred shrubs, which eas'd Latona's pain, The palm, and olive, and the votive fane. Here grateful flames with fuming incense fed, And mingled wine, ambrosial odours shed; Of slaughter'd steers the crackling entrails burn'd: And then the strangers to the court return'd. On beds of tap'stry plac'd aloft, they dine With Ceres' gift, and flowing bowls of wine; When thus Anchises spoke, amidst the feast: Say, mitred monarch, Phoebus' chosen priest, Or (e'er from Troy by cruel Fate expell'd) When first mine eyes these sacred walls beheld, A son, and twice two daughters crown'd thy bliss? Or errs my mem'ry, and I judge amiss? The royal prophet shook his hoary head, With snowy fillets bound, and sighing, said: Thy mem'ry errs not, prince; thou saw'st me then, The happy father of so large a train; Behold me now (such turns of chance befall The race of man!), almost bereft of all. For (ah!) what comfort can my son bestow, What help afford, to mitigate my woe! While far from hence, in Andros' isle he reigns, (From him so nam'd) and there my place sustains. Him Delius praescience gave; the twice-born God A boon more wond'rous on the maids bestow'd. Whate'er they touch'd, he gave them to transmute (A gift past credit, and above their suit) To Ceres, Bacchus, and Minerva's fruit. How great their value, and how rich their use, Whose only touch such treasures could produce! The dire destroyer of the Trojan reign, Fierce Agamemnon, such a prize to gain (A proof we also were design'd by Fate To feel the tempest, that o'erturn'd your state), With force superior, and a ruffian crew, From these weak arms, the helpless virgins drew: And sternly bad them use the grant divine, To keep the fleet in corn, and oil, and wine. Each, as they could, escap'd: two strove to gain Euboea's isle, and two their brother's reign. The soldier follows, and demands the dames; If held by force, immediate war proclaims. Fear conquer'd Nature in their brother's mind, And gave them up to punishment assign'd. Forgive the deed; nor Hector's arm was there, Nor thine, Aeneas, to maintain the war; Whose only force upheld your Ilium's tow'rs, For ten long years, against the Grecian pow'rs. Prepar'd to bind their captive arms in bands, To Heav'n they rear'd their yet unfetter'd hands, Help, Bacchus, author of the gift, they pray'd; The gift's great author gave immediate aid; If such destruction of their human frame By ways so wond'rous, may deserve the name; Nor could I hear, nor can I now relate Exact, the manner of their alter'd state; But this in gen'ral of my loss I knew, Transform'd to doves, on milky plumes they flew, Such as on Ida's mount thy consort's chariot drew. With such discourse, they entertain'd the feast; Then rose from table, and withdrew to rest. The following morn, ere Sol was seen to shine, Th' inquiring Trojans sought the sacred shrine; The mystick Pow'r commands them to explore Their ancient mother, and a kindred shore. Attending to the sea, the gen'rous prince Dismiss'd his guests with rich munificence, In old Anchises' hand a sceptre plac'd, A vest, and quiver young Ascanius grac'd, His sire, a cup; which from th' Aonian coast, Ismenian Therses sent his royal host. Alcon of Myle made what Therses sent, And carv'd thereon this ample argument. A town with sev'n distinguish'd gates was shown, Which spoke its name, and made the city known; Before it, piles, and tombs, and rising flames, The rites of death, and quires of mourning dames, Who bar'd their breasts, and gave their hair to flow, The signs of grief, and marks of publick woe. Their fountains dry'd, the weeping Naiads mourn'd, The trees stood bare, with searing cankers burn'd, No herbage cloath'd the ground, a ragged flock Of goats half-famish'd, lick'd the naked rock, Of manly courage, and with mind serene, Orion's daughters in the town were seen; One heav'd her chest to meet the lifted knife, One plung'd the poyniard thro' the seat of life, Their country's victims; mourns the rescu'd state, The bodies burns, and celebrates their Fate. To save the failure of th' illustrious line, From the pale ashes rose, of form divine, Two gen'rous youths; these, fame Coronae calls, Who join the pomp, and mourn their mother's falls. These burnish'd figures form'd of antique mold, Shone on the brass, with rising sculpture bold; A wreath of gilt Acanthus round the brim was roll'd. Nor less expence the Trojan gifts express'd; A fuming censer for the royal priest, A chalice, and a crown of princely cost, With ruddy gold, and sparkling gems emboss'd. Now hoisting sail, to Crete the Trojans stood, Themselves remembring sprung from Teucer's blood; But Heav'n forbids, and pestilential Jove From noxious skies, the wand'ring navy drove. Her hundred cities left, from Crete they bore, And sought the destin'd land, Ausonia's shore; But toss'd by storms at either Strophas lay, 'Till scar'd by Harpies from the faithless bay. Then passing onward with a prosp'rous wind, Left sly Ulysses' spacious realms behind; Ambracia's state, in former ages known. The strife of Gods, the judge transform'd to stone They saw; for Actian Phoebus since renown'd, Who Caesar's arms with naval conquest crown'd; Next pass'd Dodona, wont of old to boast Her vocal forest; and Chaonia's coast, Where king Molossus' sons on wings aspir'd, And saw secure the harmless fewel fir'd. Now to Phaeacia's happy isle they came, For fertile orchards known to early fame; Epirus past, they next beheld with joy A second Ilium, and fictitious Troy; Here Trojan Helenus the sceptre sway'd, Who show'd their fate and mystick truths display'd. By him confirm'd Sicilia's isle they reach'd, Whose sides to sea three promontories stretch'd, Pachynos to the stormy south is plac'd, On Lilybaeum blows the gentle west, Peloro's cliffs the northern bear survey, Who rolls above, and dreads to touch the sea. By this they steer, and favour'd by the tide, Secure by night in Zancle's harbour ride. Here cruel Scylla guards the rocky shore, And there the waves of loud Charybdis roar: This sucks, and vomits ships, and bodies drown'd; And rav'nous dogs the womb of that surround, In face a virgin; and (if ought be true By bards recorded) once a virgin too. A train of youths in vain desir'd her bed; By sea-nymphs lov'd, to nymphs of seas she fled; The maid to these, with female pride, display'd Their baffled courtship, and their love betray'd. When Galatea thus bespoke the fair (But first she sigh'd), while Scylla comb'd her hair: You, lovely maid, a gen'rous race pursues, Whom safe you may (as now you do) refuse; To me, tho' pow'rful in a num'rous train Of sisters, sprung from Gods, who rule the main, My native seas could scarce a refuge prove, To shun the fury of the Cyclops' love, Tears choak'd her utt'rance here; the pity'ng maid With marble fingers wip'd them off, and said: My dearest Goddess, let thy Scylla know, (For I am faithful) whence these sorrows flow. The maid's intreaties o'er the nymph prevail, Who thus to Scylla tells the mournful tale. The Story of Acis, Polyphemus and Galatea Acis, the lovely youth, whose loss I mourn, From Faunus, and the nymph Symethis born, Was both his parents' pleasure; but, to me Was all that love could make a lover be. The Gods our minds in mutual bands did join: I was his only joy, and he was mine. Now sixteen summers the sweet youth had seen; And doubtful down began to shade his chin: When Polyphemus first disturb'd our joy; And lov'd me fiercely, as I lov'd the boy. Ask not which passion in my soul was high'r, My last aversion, or my first desire: Nor this the greater was, nor that the less; Both were alike, for both were in excess. Thee, Venus, thee both Heav'n, and Earth obey; Immense thy pow'r, and boundless is thy sway. The Cyclops, who defy'd th' aetherial throne, And thought no thunder louder than his own, The terror of the woods, and wilder far Than wolves in plains, or bears in forests are, Th' inhuman host, who made his bloody feasts On mangl'd members of his butcher'd guests, Yet felt the force of love, and fierce desire, And burnt for me, with unrelenting fire. Forgot his caverns, and his woolly care, Assum'd the softness of a lover's air; And comb'd, with teeth of rakes, his rugged hair. Now with a crooked scy the his beard he sleeks; And mows the stubborn stubble of his cheeks: Now in the crystal stream he looks, to try His simagres, and rowls his glaring eye. His cruelty, and thirst of blood are lost; And ships securely sail along the coast. The prophet Telemus (arriv'd by chance Where Aetna's summets to the seas advance, Who mark'd the tracts of every bird that flew, And sure presages from their flying drew) Foretold the Cyclops, that Ulysses' hand In his broad eye shou'd thrust a flaming brand. The giant, with a scornful grin, reply'd, Vain augur, thou hast falsely prophesy'd; Already love his flaming brand has tost; Looking on two fair eyes, my sight I lost, Thus, warn'd in vain, with stalking pace he strode, And stamp'd the margin of the briny flood With heavy steps; and weary, sought agen The cool retirement of his gloomy den. A promontory, sharp'ning by degrees, Ends in a wedge, and overlooks the seas: On either side, below, the water flows; This airy walk the giant lover chose. Here on the midst he sate; his flocks, unled, Their shepherd follow'd, and securely fed. A pine so burly, and of length so vast, That sailing ships requir'd it for a mast, He wielded for a staff, his steps to guide: But laid it by, his whistle while he try'd. A hundred reeds of a prodigious growth, Scarce made a pipe, proportion'd to his mouth: Which when he gave it wind, the rocks around, And watry plains, the dreadful hiss resound. I heard the ruffian-shepherd rudely blow, Where, in a hollow cave, I sat below; On Acis' bosom I my head reclin'd: And still preserve the poem in my mind. Oh lovely Galatea, whiter far Than falling snows, and rising lillies are; More flowry than the meads, as chrystal bright: Erect as alders, and of equal height: More wanton than a kid, more sleek thy skin, Than orient shells, that on the shores are seen, Than apples fairer, when the boughs they lade; Pleasing, as winter suns, or summer shade: More grateful to the sight, than goodly plains; And softer to the touch, than down of swans; Or curds new turn'd; and sweeter to the taste Than swelling grapes, that to the vintage haste: More clear than ice, or running streams, that stray Through garden plots, but ah! more swift than they. Yet, Galatea, harder to be broke Than bullocks, unreclaim'd, to bear the yoke, And far more stubborn, than the knotted oak: Like sliding streams, impossible to hold; Like them, fallacious, like their fountains, cold. More warping, than the willow, to decline My warm embrace, more brittle, than the vine; Immovable, and fixt in thy disdain: Tough, as these rocks, and of a harder grain. More violent, than is the rising flood; And the prais'd peacock is not half so proud. Fierce, as the fire, and sharp, as thistles are, And more outragious, than a mother-bear: Deaf, as the billows to the vows I make; And more revengeful, than a trodden snake. In swiftness fleeter, than the flying hind, Or driven tempests, or the driving wind. All other faults, with patience I can bear; But swiftness is the vice I only fear. Yet if you knew me well, you wou'd not shun My love, but to my wish'd embraces run: Wou'd languish in your turn, and court my stay; And much repent of your unwise delay. My palace, in the living rock, is made By Nature's hand; a spacious pleasing shade: Which neither heat can pierce, nor cold invade. My garden fill'd with fruits you may behold, And grapes in clusters, imitating gold; Some blushing bunches of a purple hue: And these, and those, are all reserv'd for you. Red strawberries, in shades, expecting stand, Proud to be gather'd by so white a hand. Autumnal cornels latter fruit provide; And plumbs, to tempt you, turn their glossy side: Not those of common kinds; but such alone, As in Phaeacian orchards might have grown: Nor chestnuts shall be wanting to your food, Nor garden-fruits, nor wildings of the wood; The laden boughs for you alone shall bear; And yours shall be the product of the year. The flocks you see, are all my own; beside The rest that woods, and winding vallies hide; And those that folded in the caves abide. Ask not the numbers of my growing store; Who knows how many, knows he has no more. Nor will I praise my cattle; trust not me, But judge your self, and pass your own decree: Behold their swelling dugs; the sweepy weight Of ewes, that sink beneath the milky freight; In the warm folds their tender lambkins lye; Apart from kids, that call with human cry. New milk in nut-brown bowls is duely serv'd For daily drink; the rest for cheese reserv'd. Nor are these household dainties all my store: The fields, and forests will afford us more; The deer, the hare, the goat, the savage boar. All sorts of ven'son; and of birds the best; A pair of turtles taken from the nest. I walk'd the mountains, and two cubs I found (Whose dam had left 'em on the naked ground), So like, that no distinction could be seen: So pretty, they were presents for a queen; And so they shall; I took them both away; And keep, to be companions of your play. Oh raise, fair nymph, your beauteous face above The waves; nor scorn my presents, and my love. Come, Galatea, come, and view my face; I late beheld it, in the watry glass; And found it lovelier, than I fear'd it was. Survey my towring stature, and my size: Not Jove, the Jove you dream, that rules the skies, Bears such a bulk, or is so largely spread: My locks (the plenteous harvest of my head) Hang o'er my manly face; and dangling down, As with a shady grove, my shoulders crown. Nor think, because my limbs and body bear A thick-set underwood of bristling hair, My shape deform'd; what fouler sight can be, Than the bald branches of a leafless tree? Foul is the steed without a flowing mane: And birds, without their feathers, and their train. Wool decks the sheep; and Man receives a grace From bushy limbs, and from a bearded face. My forehead with a single eye is fill'd, Round, as a ball, and ample, as a shield. The glorious lamp of Heav'n, the radiant sun, Is Nature's eye; and she's content with one. Add, that my father sways your seas, and I, Like you, am of the watry family. I make you his, in making you my own; You I adore; and kneel to you alone: Jove, with his fabled thunder, I despise, And only fear the lightning of your eyes. Frown not, fair nymph; yet I cou'd bear to be Disdain'd, if others were disdain'd with me. But to repulse the Cyclops, and prefer The love of Acis (Heav'ns!) I cannot bear. But let the stripling please himself; nay more, Please you, tho' that's the thing I most abhor; The boy shall find, if e'er we cope in fight, These giant limbs, endu'd with giant might. His living bowels from his belly torn, And scatter'd limbs shall on the flood be born: Thy flood, ungrateful nymph; and fate shall find, That way for thee, and Acis to be join'd. For oh! I burn with love, and thy disdain Augments at once my passion, and my pain. Translated Aetna flames within my heart, And thou, inhuman, wilt not ease my smart. Lamenting thus in vain, he rose, and strode With furious paces to the neighb'ring wood: Restless his feet, distracted was his walk; Mad were his motions, and confus'd his talk. Mad, as the vanquish'd bull, when forc'd to yield His lovely mistress, and forsake the field. Thus far unseen I saw: when fatal chance, His looks directing, with a sudden glance, Acis and I were to his sight betray'd; Where, nought suspecting, we securely play'd. From his wide mouth a bellowing cry he cast, I see, I see; but this shall be your last: A roar so loud made Aetna to rebound: And all the Cyclops labour'd in the sound. Affrighted with his monstrous voice, I fled, And in the neighbouring ocean plung'd my head. Poor Acis turn'd his back, and Help, he cry'd, Help, Galatea, help, my parent Gods, And take me dying to your deep abodes. The Cyclops follow'd; but he sent before A rib, which from the living rock he tore: Though but an angle reach'd him of the stone, The mighty fragment was enough alone, To crush all Acis; 'twas too late to save, But what the Fates allow'd to give, I gave: That Acis to his lineage should return; And rowl, among the river Gods, his urn. Straight issu'd from the stone a stream of blood; Which lost the purple, mingling with the flood, Then, like a troubled torrent, it appear'd: The torrent too, in little space, was clear'd. The stone was cleft, and through the yawning chink New reeds arose, on the new river's brink. The rock, from out its hollow womb, disclos'd A sound like water in its course oppos'd, When (wond'rous to behold), full in the flood, Up starts a youth, and navel high he stood. Horns from his temples rise; and either horn Thick wreaths of reeds (his native growth) adorn. Were not his stature taller than before, His bulk augmented, and his beauty more, His colour blue; for Acis he might pass: And Acis chang'd into a stream he was, But mine no more; he rowls along the plains With rapid motion, and his name retains. The Story of Glaucus and Scylla Here ceas'd the nymph; the fair assembly broke, The sea-green Nereids to the waves betook: While Scylla, fearful of the wide-spread main, Swift to the safer shore returns again. There o'er the sandy margin, unarray'd, With printless footsteps flies the bounding maid; Or in some winding creek's secure retreat She baths her weary limbs, and shuns the noonday's heat. Her Glaucus saw, as o'er the deep he rode, New to the seas, and late receiv'd a God. He saw, and languish'd for the virgin's love; With many an artful blandishment he strove Her flight to hinder, and her fears remove. The more he sues, the more she wings her flight, And nimbly gains a neighb'ring mountain's height. Steep shelving to the margin of the flood, A neighb'ring mountain bare, and woodless stood; Here, by the place secur'd, her steps she stay'd, And, trembling still, her lover's form survey'd. His shape, his hue, her troubled sense appall, And dropping locks that o'er his shoulders fall; She sees his face divine, and manly brow, End in a fish's wreathy tail below: She sees, and doubts within her anxious mind, Whether he comes of God, or monster kind. This Glaucus soon perceiv'd; and, Oh! forbear (His hand supporting on a rock lay near), Forbear, he cry'd, fond maid, this needless fear. Nor fish am I, nor monster of the main, But equal with the watry Gods I reign; Nor Proteus, nor Palaemon me excell, Nor he whose breath inspires the sounding shell. My birth, 'tis true, I owe to mortal race, And I my self but late a mortal was: Ev'n then in seas, and seas alone, I joy'd; The seas my hours, and all my cares employ'd, In meshes now the twinkling prey I drew; Now skilfully the slender line I threw, And silent sat the moving float to view. Not far from shore, there lies a verdant mead, With herbage half, and half with water spread: There, nor the horned heifers browsing stray, Nor shaggy kids, nor wanton lambkins play; There, nor the sounding bees their nectar cull, Nor rural swains their genial chaplets pull, Nor flocks, nor herds, nor mowers haunt the place, To crop the flow'rs, or cut the bushy grass: Thither, sure first of living race came I, And sat by chance, my dropping nets to dry. My scaly prize, in order all display'd, By number on the greensward there I lay'd, My captives, whom or in my nets I took, Or hung unwary on my wily hook. Strange to behold! yet what avails a lye? I saw 'em bite the grass, as I sate by; Then sudden darting o'er the verdant plain, They spread their finns, as in their native main: I paus'd, with wonder struck, while all my prey Left their new master, and regain'd the sea. Amaz'd, within my secret self I sought, What God, what herb the miracle had wrought: But sure no herbs have pow'r like this, I cry'd; And strait I pluck'd some neighb'ring herbs, and try'd. Scarce had I bit, and prov'd the wond'rous taste, When strong convulsions shook my troubled breast; I felt my heart grow fond of something strange, And my whole Nature lab'ring with a change. Restless I grew, and ev'ry place forsook, And still upon the seas I bent my look. Farewel for ever! farewel, land! I said; And plung'd amidst the waves my sinking head. The gentle Pow'rs, who that low empire keep, Receiv'd me as a brother of the deep; To Tethys, and to Ocean old, they pray To purge my mortal earthy parts away. The watry parents to their suit agreed, And thrice nine times a secret charm they read, Then with lustrations purify my limbs, And bid me ba the beneath a hundred streams: A hundred streams from various fountains run, And on my head at once come rushing down. Thus far each passage I remember well, And faithfully thus far the tale I tell; But then oblivion dark, on all my senses fell. Again at length my thought reviving came, When I no longer found my self the same; Then first this sea-green beard I felt to grow, And these large honours on my spreading brow; My long-descending locks the billows sweep, And my broad shoulders cleave the yielding deep; My fishy tail, my arms of azure hue, And ev'ry part divinely chang'd, I view. But what avail these useless honours now? What joys can immortality bestow? What, tho' our Nereids all my form approve? What boots it, while fair Scylla scorns my love? Thus far the God; and more he wou'd have said; When from his presence flew the ruthless maid. Stung with repulse, in such disdainful sort, He seeks Titanian Circe's horrid court. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- ~ Ovid, BOOK THE THIRTEENTH

340:The Victories Of Love. Book I From Frederick Graham Mother, I smile at your alarms! I own, indeed, my Cousin's charms, But, like all nursery maladies, Love is not badly taken twice. Have you forgotten Charlotte Hayes, My playmate in the pleasant days At Knatchley, and her sister, Anne, The twins, so made on the same plan, That one wore blue, the other white, To mark them to their father's sight; And how, at Knatchley harvesting, You bade me kiss her in the ring, Like Anne and all the others? You, That never of my sickness knew, Will laugh, yet had I the disease, And gravely, if the signs are these: As, ere the Spring has any power, The almond branch all turns to flower, Though not a leaf is out, so she The bloom of life provoked in me; And, hard till then and selfish, I Was thenceforth nought but sanctity And service: life was mere delight In being wholly good and right, As she was; just, without a slur; Honouring myself no less than her; Obeying, in the loneliest place, Ev'n to the slightest gesture, grace Assured that one so fair, so true, He only served that was so too. For me, hence weak towards the weak, No more the unnested blackbird's shriek Startled the light-leaved wood; on high Wander'd the gadding butterfly, Unscared by my flung cap; the bee, 242 Rifling the hollyhock in glee, Was no more trapp'd with his own flower, And for his honey slain. Her power, From great things even to the grass Through which the unfenced footways pass, Was law, and that which keeps the law, Cherubic gaiety and awe; Day was her doing, and the lark Had reason for his song; the dark In anagram innumerous spelt Her name with stars that throbb'd and felt; 'Twas the sad summit of delight To wake and weep for her at night; She turn'd to triumph or to shame The strife of every childish game; The heart would come into my throat At rosebuds; howsoe'er remote, In opposition or consent, Each thing, or person, or event, Or seeming neutral howsoe'er, All, in the live, electric air, Awoke, took aspect, and confess'd In her a centre of unrest, Yea, stocks and stones within me bred Anxieties of joy and dread. O, bright apocalyptic sky O'erarching childhood! Far and nigh Mystery and obscuration none, Yet nowhere any moon or sun! What reason for these sighs? What hope, Daunting with its audacious scope The disconcerted heart, affects These ceremonies and respects? Why stratagems in everything? Why, why not kiss her in the ring? 'Tis nothing strange that warriors bold, Whose fierce, forecasting eyes behold The city they desire to sack, Humbly begin their proud attack By delving ditches two miles off, Aware how the fair place would scoff 243 At hasty wooing; but, O child, Why thus approach thy playmate mild? One morning, when it flush'd my thought That, what in me such wonder wrought Was call'd, in men and women, love, And, sick with vanity thereof, I, saying loud, ‘I love her,’ told My secret to myself, behold A crisis in my mystery! For, suddenly, I seem'd to be Whirl'd round, and bound with showers of threads As when the furious spider sheds Captivity upon the fly To still his buzzing till he die; Only, with me, the bonds that flew, Enfolding, thrill'd me through and through With bliss beyond aught heaven can have And pride to dream myself her slave. A long, green slip of wilder'd land, With Knatchley Wood on either hand, Sunder'd our home from hers. This day Glad was I as I went her way. I stretch'd my arms to the sky, and sprang O'er the elastic sod, and sang ‘I love her, love her!’ to an air Which with the words came then and there; And even now, when I would know All was not always dull and low, I mind me awhile of the sweet strain Love taught me in that lonely lane. Such glories fade, with no more mark Than when the sunset dies to dark. They pass, the rapture and the grace Ineffable, their only trace A heart which, having felt no less Than pure and perfect happiness, Is duly dainty of delight; A patient, poignant appetite For pleasures that exceed so much 244 The poor things which the world calls such, That, when these lure it, then you may The lion with a wisp of hay. That Charlotte, whom we scarcely knew From Anne but by her ribbons blue, Was loved, Anne less than look'd at, shows That liking still by favour goes! This Love is a Divinity, And holds his high election free Of human merit; or let's say, A child by ladies call'd to play, But careless of their becks and wiles, Till, seeing one who sits and smiles Like any else, yet only charms, He cries to come into her arms. Then, for my Cousins, fear me not! None ever loved because he ought. Fatal were else this graceful house, So full of light from ladies' brows. There's Mary; Heaven in her appears Like sunshine through the shower's bright tears; Mildred's of Earth, yet happier far Than most men's thoughts of Heaven are; But, for Honoria, Heaven and Earth Seal'd amity in her sweet birth. The noble Girl! With whom she talks She knights first with her smile; she walks, Stands, dances, to such sweet effect, Alone she seems to move erect. The brightest and the chastest brow Rules o'er a cheek which seems to show That love, as a mere vague suspense Of apprehensive innocence, Perturbs her heart; love without aim Or object, like the sunlit flame That in the Vestals' Temple glow'd, Without the image of a god. And this simplicity most pure She sets off with no less allure Of culture, subtly skill'd to raise The power, the pride, and mutual praise 245 Of human personality Above the common sort so high, It makes such homely souls as mine Marvel how brightly life may shine. How you would love her! Even in dress She makes the common mode express New knowledge of what's fit so well 'Tis virtue gaily visible! Nay, but her silken sash to me Were more than all morality, Had not the old, sweet, feverous ill Left me the master of my will! So, Mother, feel at rest, and please To send my books on board. With these, When I go hence, all idle hours Shall help my pleasures and my powers. I've time, you know, to fill my post, And yet make up for schooling lost Through young sea-service. They all speak German with ease; and this, with Greek, (Which Dr. Churchill thought I knew,) And history, which I fail'd in too, Will stop a gap I somewhat dread, After the happy life I've led With these my friends; and sweet 'twill be To abridge the space from them to me. II From Mrs. Graham My Child, Honoria Churchill sways A double power through Charlotte Hayes. In minds to first-love's memory pledged The second Cupid's born full-fledged. I saw, and trembled for the day When you should see her beauty, gay And pure as apple-blooms, that show Outside a blush and inside snow, Her high and touching elegance Of order'd life as free as chance. 246 Ah, haste from her bewitching side, No friend for you, far less a bride! But, warning from a hope so wild, I wrong you. Yet this know, my Child: He that but once too nearly hears The music of forefended spheres, Is thenceforth lonely, and for all His days like one who treads the Wall Of China, and, on this hand, sees Cities and their civilities, And, on the other, lions. Well, (Your rash reply I thus foretell,) Good is the knowledge of what's fair, Though bought with temporal despair! Yes, good for one, but not for two. Will it content a wife that you Should pine for love, in love's embrace, Through having known a happier grace; And break with inward sighs your rest, Because, though good, she's not the best? You would, you think, be just and kind, And keep your counsel! You will find You cannot such a secret keep; 'Twill out, like murder, in your sleep; A touch will tell it, though, for pride, She may her bitter knowledge hide; And, while she accepts love's make-believe, You'll twice despise what you'd deceive. I send the books. Dear Child, adieu! Tell me of all you are and do. I know, thank God, whate'er it be, 'Twill need no veil 'twixt you and me. III From Frederick The multitude of voices blythe Of early day, the hissing scythe Across the dew drawn and withdrawn, The noisy peacock on the lawn, 247 These, and the sun's eye-gladding gleam, This morning, chased the sweetest dream That e'er shed penitential grace On life's forgetful commonplace; Yet 'twas no sweeter than the spell To which I woke to say farewell. Noon finds me many a mile removed From her who must not be beloved; And us the waste sea soon shall part, Heaving for aye, without a heart! Mother, what need to warn me so? I love Miss Churchill? Ah, no, no. I view, enchanted, from afar, And love her as I love a star, For, not to speak of colder fear, Which keeps my fancy calm, I hear, Under her life's gay progress hurl'd, The wheels of the preponderant world, Set sharp with swords that fool to slay Who blunders from a poor byway, To covet beauty with a crown Of earthly blessing added on; And she's so much, it seems to me, Beyond all women womanly, I dread to think how he should fare Who came so near as to despair. IV From Frederick Yonder the sombre vessel rides Where my obscure condition hides. Waves scud to shore against the wind That flings the sprinkling surf behind; In port the bickering pennons show Which way the ships would gladly go; Through Edgecumb Park the rooted trees Are tossing, reckless, in the breeze; On top of Edgecumb's firm-set tower, As foils, not foibles, of its power, 248 The light vanes do themselves adjust To every veering of the gust: By me alone may nought be given To guidance of the airs of heaven? In battle or peace, in calm or storm, Should I my daily task perform, Better a thousand times for love, Who should my secret soul reprove? Beholding one like her, a man Longs to lay down his life! How can Aught to itself seem thus enough, When I have so much need thereof? Blest in her place, blissful is she; And I, departing, seem to be Like the strange waif that comes to run A few days flaming near the sun, And carries back, through boundless night, Its lessening memory of light. Oh, my dear Mother, I confess To a deep grief of homelessness, Unfelt, save once, before. 'Tis years Since such a shower of girlish tears Disgraced me? But this wretched Inn, At Plymouth, is so full of din, Talkings and trampings to and fro. And then my ship, to which I go To-night, is no more home. I dread, As strange, the life I long have led; And as, when first I went to school, And found the horror of a rule Which only ask'd to be obey'd, I lay and wept, of dawn afraid, And thought, with bursting heart, of one Who, from her little, wayward son, Required obedience, but above Obedience still regarded love, So change I that enchanting place, The abode of innocence and grace And gaiety without reproof, For the black gun-deck's louring roof, 249 Blind and inevitable law Which makes light duties burdens, awe Which is not reverence, laughters gain'd At cost of purities profaned, And whatsoever most may stir Remorseful passion towards her, Whom to behold is to depart From all defect of life and heart. But, Mother, I shall go on shore, And see my Cousin yet once more! 'Twere wild to hope for her, you say. l've torn and cast those words away. Surely there's hope! For life 'tis well Love without hope's impossible; So, if I love, it is that hope Is not outside the outer scope Of fancy. You speak truth: this hour I must resist, or lose the power. What! and, when some short months are o'er, Be not much other than before? Drop from the bright and virtuous sphere In which I'm held but while she's dear? For daily life's dull, senseless mood, Slay the fine nerves of gratitude And sweet allegiance, which I owe Whether the debt be weal or woe? Nay, Mother, I, forewarn'd, prefer To want for all in wanting her. For all? Love's best is not bereft Ever from him to whom is left The trust that God will not deceive His creature, fashion'd to believe The prophecies of pure desire. Not loss, not death, my love shall tire. A mystery does my heart foretell; Nor do I press the oracle For explanations. Leave me alone, And let in me love's will be done. 250 V From Frederick Fashion'd by Heaven and by art So is she, that she makes the heart Ache and o'erflow with tears, that grace So lovely fair should have for place, (Deeming itself at home the while,) The unworthy earth! To see her smile Amid this waste of pain and sin, As only knowing the heaven within, Is sweet, and does for pity stir Passion to be her minister: Wherefore last night I lay awake, And said, ‘Ah, Lord, for Thy love's sake, Give not this darling child of Thine To care less reverent than mine!’ And, as true faith was in my word, I trust, I trust that I was heard. The waves, this morning, sped to land, And shouted hoarse to touch the strand, Where Spring, that goes not out to sea, Lay laughing in her lovely glee; And, so, my life was sunlit spray And tumult, as, once more to-day, For long farewell did I draw near My Cousin, desperately dear. Faint, fierce, the truth that hope was none Gleam'd like the lightning in the sun; Yet hope I had, and joy thereof. The father of love is hope, (though love Lives orphan'd on, when hope is dead,) And, out of my immediate dread And crisis of the coming hour, Did hope itself draw sudden power. So the still brooding storm, in Spring, Makes all the birds begin to sing. Mother, your foresight did not err: I've lost the world, and not won her. And yet, ah, laugh not, when you think 251 What cup of life I sought to drink! The bold, said I, have climb'd to bliss Absurd, impossible, as this, With nought to help them but so great A heart it fascinates their fate. If ever Heaven heard man's desire, Mine, being made of altar-fire, Must come to pass, and it will be That she will wait, when she shall see, This evening, how I go to get, By means unknown, I know not yet Quite what, but ground whereon to stand, And plead more plainly for her hand! And so I raved, and cast in hope A superstitious horoscope! And still, though something in her face Portended ‘No!’ with such a grace It burthen'd me with thankfulness, Nothing was credible but ‘Yes.’ Therefore, through time's close pressure bold, I praised myself, and boastful told My deeds at Acre; strain'd the chance I had of honour and advance In war to come; and would not see Sad silence meant, ‘What's this to me.’ When half my precious hour was gone, She rose to greet a Mr. Vaughan; And, as the image of the moon Breaks up, within some still lagoon That feels the soft wind suddenly, Or tide fresh flowing from the sea, And turns to giddy flames that go Over the water to and fro, Thus, when he took her hand to-night, Her lovely gravity of light Was scatter'd into many smiles And flattering weakness. Hope beguiles No more my heart, dear Mother. He, By jealous looks, o'erhonour'd me. 252 With nought to do, and fondly fain To hear her singing once again, I stay'd, and turn'd her music o'er; Then came she with me to the door. ‘Dearest Honoria,’ I said, (By my despair familiar made,) ‘Heaven bless you!’ Oh, to have back then stepp'd And fallen upon her neck, and wept, And said, ‘My friend, I owe you all ‘I am, and have, and hope for. Call ‘For some poor service; let me prove ‘To you, or him here whom you love, ‘My duty. Any solemn task, ‘For life's whole course, is all I ask!’ Then she must surely have wept too, And said, ‘My friend, what can you do!’ And I should have replied, ‘I'll pray ‘For you and him three times a-day, ‘And, all day, morning, noon, and night, ‘My life shall be so high and right ‘That never Saint yet scaled the stairs ‘Of heaven with more availing prayers!’ But this (and, as good God shall bless Somehow my end, I'll do no less,) I had no right to speak. Oh, shame, So rich a love, so poor a claim! My Mother, now my only friend, Farewell. The school-books which you send I shall not want, and so return. Give them away, or sell, or burn. I'll write from Malta. Would I might But be your little Child to-night, And feel your arms about me fold, Against this loneliness and cold! VI From Mrs. Graham The folly of young girls! They doff Their pride to smooth success, and scoff 253 At far more noble fire and might That woo them from the dust of fight! But, Frederick, now the storm is past, Your sky should not remain o'ercast. A sea-life's dull, and, oh, beware Of nourishing, for zest, despair. My Child, remember, you have twice Heartily loved; then why not thrice, Or ten times? But a wise man shuns To cry ‘All's over,’ more than once. I'll not say that a young man's soul Is scarcely measure of the whole Earthly and heavenly universe, To which he inveterately prefers The one beloved woman. Best Speak to the senses' interest, Which brooks no mystery nor delay: Frankly reflect, my Son, and say, Was there no secret hour, of those Pass'd at her side in Sarum Close, When, to your spirit's sick alarm, It seem'd that all her marvellous charm Was marvellously fled? Her grace Of voice, adornment, movement, face Was what already heart and eye Had ponder'd to satiety; And so the good of life was o'er, Until some laugh not heard before, Some novel fashion in her hair, Or style of putting back her chair, Restored the heavens. Gather thence The loss-consoling inference. Yet blame not beauty, which beguiles, With lovely motions and sweet smiles, Which while they please us pass away, The spirit to lofty thoughts that stay And lift the whole of after-life, Unless you take the vision to wife, Which then seems lost, or serves to slake Desire, as when a lovely lake 254 Far off scarce fills the exulting eye Of one athirst, who comes thereby, And inappreciably sips The deep, with disappointed lips. To fail is sorrow, yet confess That love pays dearly for success! No blame to beauty! Let's complain Of the heart, which can so ill sustain Delight. Our griefs declare our fall, But how much more our joys! They pall With plucking, and celestial mirth Can find no footing on the earth, More than the bird of paradise, Which only lives the while it flies. Think, also, how 'twould suit your pride To have this woman for a bride. Whate'er her faults, she's one of those To whom the world's last polish owes A novel grace, which all who aspire To courtliest custom must acquire. The world's the sphere she's made to charm, Which you have shunn'd as if 'twere harm. Oh, law perverse, that loneliness Breeds love, society success! Though young, 'twere now o'er late in life To train yourself for such a wife; So she would suit herself to you, As women, when they marry, do. For, since 'tis for our dignity Our lords should sit like lords on high, We willingly deteriorate To a step below our rulers' state; And 'tis the commonest of things To see an angel, gay with wings, Lean weakly on a mortal's arm! Honoria would put off the charm Of lofty grace that caught your love, For fear you should not seem above Herself in fashion and degree, As in true merit. Thus, you see, 'Twere little kindness, wisdom none, 255 To light your cot with such a sun. VII From Frederick Write not, my Mother, her dear name With the least word or hint of blame. Who else shall discommend her choice, I giving it my hearty voice? Wed me? Ah, never near her come The knowledge of the narrow home! Far fly from her dear face, that shows The sunshine lovelier than the rose, The sordid gravity they wear Who poverty's base burthen bear! (And all are poor who come to miss Their custom, though a crown be this.) My hope was, that the wheels of fate, For my exceeding need, might wait, And she, unseen amidst all eyes, Move sightless, till I sought the prize, With honour, in an equal field. But then came Vaughan, to whom I yield With grace as much as any man, In such cause, to another can. Had she been mine, it seems to me That I had that integrity And only joy in her delight— But each is his own favourite In love! The thought to bring me rest Is that of us she takes the best. 'Twas but to see him to be sure That choice for her remain'd no more! His brow, so gaily clear of craft; His wit, the timely truth that laugh'd To find itself so well express'd; His words, abundant yet the best; His spirit, of such handsome show You mark'd not that his looks were so; His bearing, prospects, birth, all these 256 Might well, with small suit, greatly please; How greatly, when she saw arise The reflex sweetness of her eyes In his, and every breath defer Humbly its bated life to her; Whilst power and kindness of command, Which women can no more withstand Than we their grace, were still unquell'd, And force and flattery both compell'd Her softness! Say I'm worthy. I Grew, in her presence, cold and shy. It awed me, as an angel's might In raiment of reproachful light. Her gay looks told my sombre mood That what's not happy is not good; And, just because 'twas life to please, Death to repel her, truth and ease Deserted me; I strove to talk, And stammer'd foolishness; my walk Was like a drunkard's; if she took My arm, it stiffen'd, ached, and shook: A likely wooer! Blame her not; Nor ever say, dear Mother, aught Against that perfectness which is My strength, as once it was my bliss. And do not chafe at social rules. Leave that to charlatans and fools. Clay graffs and clods conceive the rose, So base still fathers best. Life owes Itself to bread; enough thereof And easy days condition love; And, kindly train'd, love's roses thrive, No more pale, scentless petals five, Which moisten the considerate eye To see what haste they make to die, But heavens of colour and perfume, Which, month by month, renew the bloom Of art-born graces, when the year In all the natural grove is sere. Blame nought then! Bright let be the air 257 About my lonely cloud of care. VIII From Frederick Religion, duty, books, work, friends,— 'Tis good advice, but there it ends. I'm sick for what these have not got. Send no more books: they help me not; I do my work: the void's there still Which carefullest duty cannot fill. What though the inaugural hour of right Comes ever with a keen delight? Little relieves the labour's heat; Disgust oft crowns it when complete; And life, in fact, is not less dull For being very dutiful. ‘The stately homes of England,’ lo, ‘How beautiful they stand!’ They owe How much to nameless things like me Their beauty of security! But who can long a low toil mend By looking to a lofty end? And let me, since 'tis truth, confess The void's not fill'd by godliness. God is a tower without a stair, And His perfection, love's despair. 'Tis He shall judge me when I die; He suckles with the hissing fly The spider; gazes calmly down, Whilst rapine grips the helpless town. His vast love holds all this and more. In consternation I adore. Nor can I ease this aching gulf With friends, the pictures of myself. Then marvel not that I recur From each and all of these to her. For more of heaven than her have I No sensitive capacity. Had I but her, ah, what the gain 258 Of owning aught but that domain! Nay, heaven's extent, however much, Cannot be more than many such; And, she being mine, should God to me Say ‘Lo! my Child, I give to thee All heaven besides,’ what could I then, But, as a child, to Him complain That whereas my dear Father gave A little space for me to have In His great garden, now, o'erblest, I've that, indeed, but all the rest, Which, somehow, makes it seem I've got All but my only cared-for plot. Enough was that for my weak hand To tend, my heart to understand. Oh, the sick fact, 'twixt her and me There's naught, and half a world of sea. IX From Frederick In two, in less than two hours more I set my foot on English shore, Two years untrod, and, strange to tell, Nigh miss'd through last night's storm! There fell A man from the shrouds, that roar'd to quench Even the billows' blast and drench. Besides me none was near to mark His loud cry in the louder dark, Dark, save when lightning show'd the deeps Standing about in stony heaps. No time for choice! A rope; a flash That flamed as he rose; a dizzy splash; A strange, inopportune delight Of mounting with the billowy might, And falling, with a thrill again Of pleasure shot from feet to brain; And both paced deck, ere any knew Our peril. Round us press'd the crew, With wonder in the eyes of most. 259 As if the man who had loved and lost Honoria dared no more than that! My days have else been stale and flat. This life's at best, if justly scann'd, A tedious walk by the other's strand, With, here and there cast up, a piece Of coral or of ambergris, Which, boasted of abroad, we ignore The burden of the barren shore. I seldom write, for 'twould be still Of how the nerves refuse to thrill; How, throughout doubly-darken'd days, I cannot recollect her face; How to my heart her name to tell Is beating on a broken bell; And, to fill up the abhorrent gulf, Scarce loving her, I hate myself. Yet, latterly, with strange delight, Rich tides have risen in the night, And sweet dreams chased the fancies dense Of waking life's dull somnolence. I see her as I knew her, grace Already glory in her face; I move about, I cannot rest, For the proud brain and joyful breast I have of her. Or else I float, The pilot of an idle boat, Alone, alone with sky and sea, And her, the third simplicity. Or Mildred, to some question, cries, (Her merry meaning in her eyes,) ‘The Ball, oh, Frederick will go; ‘Honoria will be there!’ and, lo, As moisture sweet my seeing blurs To hear my name so link'd with hers, A mirror joins, by guilty chance, Either's averted, watchful glance! Or with me, in the Ball-Room's blaze, Her brilliant mildness thrids the maze; Our thoughts are lovely, and each word 260 Is music in the music heard, And all things seem but parts to be Of one persistent harmony. By which I'm made divinely bold; The secret, which she knows, is told; And, laughing with a lofty bliss Of innocent accord, we kiss; About her neck my pleasure weeps; Against my lip the silk vein leaps; Then says an Angel, ‘Day or night, ‘If yours you seek, not her delight, ‘Although by some strange witchery ‘It seems you kiss her, 'tis not she; ‘But, whilst you languish at the side ‘Of a fair-foul phantasmal bride, ‘Surely a dragon and strong tower ‘Guard the true lady in her bower.’ And I say, ‘Dear my Lord, Amen!’ And the true lady kiss again. Or else some wasteful malady Devours her shape and dims her eye; No charms are left, where all were rife, Except her voice, which is her life, Wherewith she, for her foolish fear, Says trembling, ‘Do you love me, Dear?’ And I reply, ‘Sweetest, I vow ‘I never loved but half till now.’ She turns her face to the wall at this, And says, ‘Go, Love, 'tis too much bliss.’ And then a sudden pulse is sent About the sounding firmament In smitings as of silver bars; The bright disorder of the stars Is solved by music; far and near, Through infinite distinctions clear, Their twofold voices' deeper tone Utters the Name which all things own, And each ecstatic treble dwells On one whereof none other tells; And we, sublimed to song and fire, Take order in the wheeling quire, Till from the throbbing sphere I start, 261 Waked by the heaving of my heart. Such dreams as these come night by night, Disturbing day with their delight. Portend they nothing? Who can tell! God yet may do some miracle. 'Tis nigh two years, and she's not wed, Or you would know! He may be dead, Or mad, and loving some one else, And she, much moved that nothing quells My constancy, or, simply wroth With such a wretch, accept my troth To spite him; or her beauty's gone, (And that's my dream!) and this man Vaughan Takes her release: or tongues malign, Confusing every ear but mine, Have smirch'd her: ah, 'twould move her, sure, To find I loved her all the more! Nay, now I think, haply amiss I read her words and looks, and his, That night! Did not his jealousy Show—Good my God, and can it be That I, a modest fool, all blest, Nothing of such a heaven guess'd? Oh, chance too frail, yet frantic sweet, To-morrow sees me at her feet! Yonder, at last, the glad sea roars Along the sacred English shores! There lies the lovely land I know, Where men and women lordliest grow; There peep the roofs where more than kings Postpone state cares to country things, And many a gay queen simply tends The babes on whom the world depends; There curls the wanton cottage smoke Of him that drives but bears no yoke; There laughs the realm where low and high Are lieges to society. And life has all too wide a scope, Too free a prospect for its hope, For any private good or ill, 262 Except dishonour, quite to fill! —Mother, since this was penn'd, I've read That ‘Mr. Vaughan, on Tuesday, wed ‘The beautiful Miss Churchill.’ So That's over; and to-morrow I go To take up my new post on board The ‘Wolf,’ my peace at last restored; My lonely faith, like heart-of-oak, Shock-season'd. Grief is now the cloak I clasp about me to prevent The deadly chill of a content With any near or distant good, Except the exact beatitude Which love has shown to my desire. Talk not of ‘other joys and higher,’ I hate and disavow all bliss As none for me which is not this. Think not I blasphemously cope With God's decrees, and cast off hope. How, when, and where can mine succeed? I'll trust He knows who made my need. Baseness of men! Pursuit being o'er, Doubtless her Husband feels no more The heaven of heavens of such a Bride, But, lounging, lets her please his pride With fondness, guerdons her caress With little names, and turns a tress Round idle fingers. If 'tis so, Why then I'm happier of the two! Better, for lofty loss, high pain, Than low content with lofty gain. Poor, foolish Dove, to trust from me Her happiness and dignity! From Frederick I thought the worst had brought me balm: 'Twas but the tempest's central calm. Vague sinkings of the heart aver 263 That dreadful wrong is come to her, And o'er this dream I brood and dote, And learn its agonies by rote. As if I loved it, early and late I make familiar with my fate, And feed, with fascinated will, On very dregs of finish'd ill. I think, she's near him now, alone, With wardship and protection none; Alone, perhaps, in the hindering stress Of airs that clasp him with her dress, They wander whispering by the wave; And haply now, in some sea-cave, Where the ribb'd sand is rarely trod, They laugh, they kiss. Oh, God! oh, God! There comes a smile acutely sweet Out of the picturing dark; I meet The ancient frankness of her gaze, That soft and heart-surprising blaze Of great goodwill and innocence, And perfect joy proceeding thence! Ah! made for earth's delight, yet such The mid-sea air's too gross to touch. At thought of which, the soul in me Is as the bird that bites a bee, And darts abroad on frantic wing, Tasting the honey and the sting; And, moaning where all round me sleep Amidst the moaning of the deep, I start at midnight from my bed— And have no right to strike him dead. What world is this that I am in, Where chance turns sanctity to sin! 'Tis crime henceforward to desire The only good; the sacred fire That sunn'd the universe is hell! I hear a Voice which argues well: ‘The Heaven hard has scorn'd your cry; ‘Fall down and worship me, and I ‘Will give you peace; go and profane ‘This pangful love, so pure, so vain, 264 ‘And thereby win forgetfulness ‘And pardon of the spirit's excess, ‘Which soar'd too nigh that jealous Heaven ‘Ever, save thus, to be forgiven. ‘No Gospel has come down that cures ‘With better gain a loss like yours. ‘Be pious! Give the beggar pelf, ‘And love your neighbour as yourself! ‘You, who yet love, though all is o'er, ‘And she'll ne'er be your neighbour more, ‘With soul which can in pity smile ‘That aught with such a measure vile ‘As self should be at all named 'love!' ‘Your sanctity the priests reprove; ‘Your case of grief they wholly miss; ‘The Man of Sorrows names not this. ‘The years, they say, graff love divine ‘On the lopp'd stock of love like thine; ‘The wild tree dies not, but converts. ‘So be it; but the lopping hurts, ‘The graff takes tardily! Men stanch ‘Meantime with earth the bleeding branch, ‘There's nothing heals one woman's loss, ‘And lighten's life's eternal cross ‘With intermission of sound rest, ‘Like lying in another's breast. ‘The cure is, to your thinking, low! ‘Is not life all, henceforward, so?’ Ill Voice, at least thou calm'st my mood. I'll sleep! But, as I thus conclude, The intrusions of her grace dispel The comfortable glooms of hell. A wonder! Ere these lines were dried, Vaughan and my Love, his three-days' Bride, Became my guests. I look'd, and, lo, In beauty soft as is the snow And powerful as the avalanche, She lit the deck. The Heav'n-sent chance! She smiled, surprised. They came to see The ship, not thinking to meet me. 265 At infinite distance she's my day: What then to him? Howbeit they say 'Tis not so sunny in the sun But men might live cool lives thereon! All's well; for I have seen arise That reflex sweetness of her eyes In his, and watch'd his breath defer Humbly its bated life to her, His wife. My Love, she's safe in his Devotion! What ask'd I but this? They bade adieu; I saw them go Across the sea; and now I know The ultimate hope I rested on, The hope beyond the grave, is gone, The hope that, in the heavens high, At last it should appear that I Loved most, and so, by claim divine, Should have her, in the heavens, for mine, According to such nuptial sort As may subsist in the holy court, Where, if there are all kinds of joys To exhaust the multitude of choice In many mansions, then there are Loves personal and particular, Conspicuous in the glorious sky Of universal charity, As Phosphor in the sunrise. Now I've seen them, I believe their vow Immortal; and the dreadful thought, That he less honour'd than he ought Her sanctity, is laid to rest, And, blessing them, I too am blest. My goodwill, as a springing air, Unclouds a beauty in despair; I stand beneath the sky's pure cope Unburthen'd even by a hope; And peace unspeakable, a joy Which hope would deaden and destroy, Like sunshine fills the airy gulf 266 Left by the vanishing of self. That I have known her; that she moves Somewhere all-graceful; that she loves, And is belov'd, and that she's so Most happy, and to heaven will go, Where I may meet with her, (yet this I count but accidental bliss,) And that the full, celestial weal Of all shall sensitively feel The partnership and work of each, And thus my love and labour reach Her region, there the more to bless Her last, consummate happiness, Is guerdon up to the degree Of that alone true loyalty Which, sacrificing, is not nice About the terms of sacrifice, But offers all, with smiles that say, 'Tis little, but it is for aye! XI From Mrs. Graham You wanted her, my Son, for wife, With the fierce need of life in life. That nobler passion of an hour Was rather prophecy than power; And nature, from such stress unbent, Recurs to deep discouragement. Trust not such peace yet; easy breath, In hot diseases, argues death; And tastelessness within the mouth Worse fever shows than heat or drouth. Wherefore take, Frederick, timely fear Against a different danger near: Wed not one woman, oh, my Child, Because another has not smiled! Oft, with a disappointed man, The first who cares to win him can; For, after love's heroic strain, Which tired the heart and brought no gain, 267 He feels consoled, relieved, and eased To meet with her who can be pleased To proffer kindness, and compute His acquiescence for pursuit; Who troubles not his lonely mood; And asks for love mere gratitude. Ah, desperate folly! Yet, we know, Who wed through love wed mostly so. At least, my Son, when wed you do, See that the woman equals you, Nor rush, from having loved too high, Into a worse humility. A poor estate's a foolish plea For marrying to a base degree. A woman grown cannot be train'd, Or, if she could, no love were gain'd; For, never was a man's heart caught By graces he himself had taught. And fancy not 'tis in the might Of man to do without delight; For, should you in her nothing find To exhilarate the higher mind, Your soul would deaden useless wings With wickedness of lawful things, And vampire pleasure swift destroy Even the memory of joy. So let no man, in desperate mood, Wed a dull girl because she's good. All virtues in his wife soon dim, Except the power of pleasing him, Which may small virtue be, or none! I know my just and tender Son, To whom the dangerous grace is given That scorns a good which is not heaven; My Child, who used to sit and sigh Under the bright, ideal sky, And pass, to spare the farmer's wheat, The poppy and the meadow-sweet! He would not let his wife's heart ache For what was mainly his mistake; 268 But, having err'd so, all his force Would fix upon the hard, right course. She's graceless, say, yet good and true, And therefore inly fair, and, through The veils which inward beauty fold, Faith can her loveliness behold. Ah, that's soon tired; faith falls away Without the ceremonial stay Of outward loveliness and awe. The weightier matters of the law She pays: mere mint and cumin not; And, in the road that she was taught, She treads, and takes for granted still Nature's immedicable ill; So never wears within her eyes A false report of paradise, Nor ever modulates her mirth With vain compassion of the earth, Which made a certain happier face Affecting, and a gayer grace With pathos delicately edged! Yet, though she be not privileged To unlock for you your heart's delight, (Her keys being gold, but not the right,) On lower levels she may do! Her joy is more in loving you Than being loved, and she commands All tenderness she understands. It is but when you proffer more The yoke weighs heavy and chafes sore. It's weary work enforcing love On one who has enough thereof, And honour on the lowlihead Of ignorance! Besides, you dread, In Leah's arms, to meet the eyes Of Rachel, somewhere in the skies, And both return, alike relieved, To life less loftily conceived. Alas, alas! Then wait the mood 269 In which a woman may be woo'd Whose thoughts and habits are too high For honour to be flattery, And who would surely not allow The suit that you could proffer now. Her equal yoke would sit with ease; It might, with wearing, even please, (Not with a better word to move The loyal wrath of present love); She would not mope when you were gay, For want of knowing aught to say; Nor vex you with unhandsome waste Of thoughts ill-timed and words ill-placed; Nor reckon small things duties small, And your fine sense fantastical; Nor would she bring you up a brood Of strangers bound to you by blood, Boys of a meaner moral race, Girls with their mother's evil grace, But not her chance to sometimes find Her critic past his judgment kind; Nor, unaccustom'd to respect, Which men, where 'tis not claim'd, neglect, Confirm you selfish and morose, And slowly, by contagion, gross; But, glad and able to receive The honour you would long to give, Would hasten on to justify Expectancy, however high, Whilst you would happily incur Compulsion to keep up with her. XII From Frederick Your letter, Mother, bears the date Of six months back, and comes too late. My Love, past all conceiving lost, A change seem'd good, at any cost, From lonely, stupid, silent grief, Vain, objectless, beyond relief, 270 And, like a sea-fog, settled dense On fancy, feeling, thought, and sense. I grew so idle, so despised Myself, my powers, by Her unprized, Honouring my post, but nothing more, And lying, when I lived on shore, So late of mornings: weak tears stream'd For such slight cause,—if only gleam'd, Remotely, beautifully bright, On clouded eves at sea, the light Of English headlands in the sun,— That soon I deem'd 'twere better done To lay this poor, complaining wraith Of unreciprocated faith: And so, with heart still bleeding quick, But strengthen'd by the comfort sick Of knowing that She could not care, I turn'd away from my despair, And told our chaplain's daughter, Jane,— A dear, good girl, who saw my pain, And look'd as if she pitied me,— How glad and thankful I should be If some kind woman, not above Myself in rank, would give her love To one that knew not how to woo. Whereat she, without more ado, Blush'd, spoke of love return'd, and closed With what she thought I had proposed. And, trust me, Mother, I and Jane, We suit each other well. My gain Is very great in this good Wife, To whom I'm bound, for natural life, By hearty faith, yet crossing not My faith towards—I know not what! As to the ether is the air, Is her good to Honoria's fair; One place is full of both, yet each Lies quite beyond the other's reach And recognition. If you say, 271 Am I contented? Yea and nay! For what's base but content to grow With less good than the best we know? But think me not from life withdrawn, By passion for a hope that's gone, So far as to forget how much A woman is, as merely such, To man's affection. What is best, In each, belongs to all the rest; And though, in marriage, quite to kiss And half to love the custom is, 'Tis such dishonour, ruin bare, The soul's interior despair, And life between two troubles toss'd, To me, who think not with the most; Whatever 'twould have been, before My Cousin's time, 'tis now so sore A treason to the abiding throne Of that sweet love which I have known, I cannot live so, and I bend My mind perforce to comprehend That He who gives command to love Does not require a thing above The strength He gives. The highest degree Of the hardest grace, humility; The step t'ward heaven the latest trod, And that which makes us most like God, And us much more than God behoves, Is, to be humble in our loves. Henceforth for ever therefore I Renounce all partiality Of passion. Subject to control Of that perspective of the soul Which God Himself pronounces good, Confirming claims of neighbourhood, And giving man, for earthly life, The closest neighbour in a wife, I'll serve all. Jane be much more dear Than all as she is much more near! I'll love her! Yea, and love's joy comes Ever from self-love's martyrdoms! 272 Yet, not to lie for God, 'tis true That 'twas another joy I knew When freighted was my heart with fire Of fond, irrational desire For fascinating, female charms, And hopeless heaven in Her mild arms. Nor wrong I any, if I profess That care for heaven with me were less But that I'm utterly imbued With faith of all Earth's hope renew'd In realms where no short-coming pains Expectance, and dear love disdains Time's treason, and the gathering dross, And lasts for ever in the gloss Of newness. All the bright past seems, Now, but a splendour in my dreams, Which shows, albeit the dreamer wakes, The standard of right life. Life aches To be therewith conform'd; but, oh, The world's so stolid, dark, and low! That and the mortal element Forbid the beautiful intent, And, like the unborn butterfly, It feels the wings, and wants the sky. But perilous is the lofty mood Which cannot yoke with lowly good. Right life, for me, is life that wends By lowly ways to lofty ends. I well perceive, at length, that haste T'ward heaven itself is only waste; And thus I dread the impatient spur Of aught that speaks too plain of Her. There's little here that story tells; But music talks of nothing else. Therefore, when music breathes, I say, (And urge my task,) Away, away! Thou art the voice of one I knew, But what thou say'st is not yet true; Thou art the voice of her I loved, 273 And I would not be vainly moved. So that which did from death set free All things, now dons death's mockery, And takes its place with things that are But little noted. Do not mar For me your peace! My health is high. The proud possession of mine eye Departed, I am much like one Who had by haughty custom grown To think gilt rooms, and spacious grounds, Horses, and carriages, and hounds, Fine linen, and an eider bed As much his need as daily bread, And honour of men as much or more. Till, strange misfortune smiting sore, His pride all goes to pay his debts, A lodging anywhere he gets, And takes his family thereto Weeping, and other relics few, Allow'd, by them that seize his pelf, As precious only to himself. Yet the sun shines; the country green Has many riches, poorly seen From blazon'd coaches; grace at meat Goes well with thrift in what they eat; And there's amends for much bereft In better thanks for much that's left! Jane is not fair, yet pleases well The eye in which no others dwell; And features somewhat plainly set, And homely manners leave her yet The crowning boon and most express Of Heaven's inventive tenderness, A woman. But I do her wrong, Letting the world's eyes guide my tongue! She has a handsomeness that pays No homage to the hourly gaze, And dwells not on the arch'd brow's height And lids which softly lodge the light, Nor in the pure field of the cheek 274 Flow'rs, though the soul be still to seek; But shows as fits that solemn place Whereof the window is the face: Blankness and leaden outlines mark What time the Church within is dark; Yet view it on a Festal night, Or some occasion else for light, And each ungainly line is seen A special character to mean Of Saint or Prophet, and the whole Blank window is a living scroll. For hours, the clock upon the shelf, Has all the talking to itself; But to and fro her needle runs Twice, while the clock is ticking once; And, when a wife is well in reach, Not silence separates, but speech; And I, contented, read, or smoke, And idly think, or idly stroke The winking cat, or watch the fire, In social peace that does not tire; Until, at easeful end of day, She moves, and puts her work away, And, saying ‘How cold 'tis,’ or ‘How warm,’ Or something else as little harm, Comes, used to finding, kindly press'd, A woman's welcome to my breast, With all the great advantage clear Of none else having been so near. But sometimes, (how shall I deny!) There falls, with her thus fondly by, Dejection, and a chilling shade. Remember'd pleasures, as they fade, Salute me, and colossal grow, Like foot-prints in the thawing snow. I feel oppress'd beyond my force With foolish envy and remorse. I love this woman, but I might Have loved some else with more delight; And strange it seems of God that He 275 Should make a vain capacity. Such times of ignorant relapse, 'Tis well she does not talk, perhaps. The dream, the discontent, the doubt, To some injustice flaming out, Were't else, might leave us both to moan A kind tradition overthrown, And dawning promise once more dead In the pernicious lowlihead Of not aspiring to be fair. And what am I, that I should dare Dispute with God, who moulds one clay To honour and shame, and wills to pay With equal wages them that delve About His vines one hour or twelve! XIII From Lady Clitheroe To Mary Churchill I've dreadful news, my Sister dear! Frederick has married, as we hear, Oh, such a girl! This fact we get From Mr. Barton, whom we met At Abury once. He used to know, At Race and Hunt, Lord Clitheroe, And writes that he ‘has seen Fred Graham, ‘Commander of the 'Wolf,'—the same ‘The Mess call'd Joseph,—with his Wife ‘Under his arm.’ He ‘lays his life, ‘The fellow married her for love, ‘For there was nothing else to move. ‘H. is her Shibboleth. 'Tis said ‘Her Mother was a Kitchen-Maid.’ Poor Fred! What will Honoria say? She thought so highly of him. Pray Tell it her gently. I've no right, I know you hold, to trust my sight; But Frederick's state could not be hid! And Felix, coming when he did, 276 Was lucky; for Honoria, too, Was half in love. How warm she grew On ‘worldliness,’ when once I said I fancied that, in ladies, Fred Had tastes much better than his means! His hand was worthy of a Queen's, Said she, and actually shed tears The night he left us for two years, And sobb'd, when ask'd the cause to tell, That ‘Frederick look'd so miserable.’ He did look very dull, no doubt, But such things girls don't cry about. What weathercocks men always prove! You're quite right not to fall in love. I never did, and, truth to tell, I don't think it respectable. The man can't understand it, too. He likes to be in love with you, But scarce knows how, if you love him, Poor fellow. When 'tis woman's whim To serve her husband night and day, The kind soul lets her have her way! So, if you wed, as soon you should, Be selfish for your husband's good. Happy the men who relegate Their pleasures, vanities, and state To us. Their nature seems to be To enjoy themselves by deputy, For, seeking their own benefit, Dear, what a mess they make of it! A man will work his bones away, If but his wife will only play; He does not mind how much he's teased, So that his plague looks always pleased; And never thanks her, while he lives, For anything, but what he gives! 'Tis hard to manage men, we hear! Believe me, nothing's easier, Dear. The most important step by far Is finding what their colours are. The next is, not to let them know 277 The reason why they love us so. The indolent droop of a blue shawl, Or gray silk's fluctuating fall, Covers the multitude of sins In me. Your husband, Love, might wince At azure, and be wild at slate, And yet do well with chocolate. Of course you'd let him fancy he Adored you for your piety. XIV From Jane To Her Mother Dear Mother, as you write, I see How glad and thankful I should be For such a husband. Yet to tell The truth, I am so miserable! How could he—I remember, though, He never said he loved me! No, He is so right that all seems wrong I've done and thought my whole life long! I'm grown so dull and dead with fear That Yes and No, when he is near, Is all I have to say. He's quite Unlike what most would call polite, And yet, when first I saw him come To tea in Aunt's fine drawing-room, He made me feel so common! Oh, How dreadful if he thinks me so! It's no use trying to behave To him. His eye, so kind and grave, Sees through and through me! Could not you, Without his knowing that I knew, Ask him to scold me now and then? Mother, it's such a weary strain The way he has of treating me As if 'twas something fine to be A woman; and appearing not To notice any faults I've got! I know he knows I'm plain, and small, Stupid, and ignorant, and all 278 Awkward and mean; and, by degrees, I see a beauty which he sees, When often he looks strange awhile, Then recollects me with a smile. I wish he had that fancied Wife, With me for Maid, now! all my life To dress her out for him, and make Her looks the lovelier for his sake; To have her rate me till I cried; Then see her seated by his side, And driven off proudly to the Ball; Then to stay up for her, whilst all The servants were asleep; and hear At dawn the carriage rolling near, And let them in; and hear her laugh, And boast, he said that none was half So beautiful, and that the Queen, Who danced with him the first, had seen And noticed her, and ask'd who was That lady in the golden gauze? And then to go to bed, and lie In a sort of heavenly jealousy, Until 'twas broad day, and I guess'd She slept, nor knew how she was bless'd. Pray burn this letter. I would not Complain, but for the fear I've got Of going wild, as we hear tell Of people shut up in a cell, With no one there to talk to. He Must never know he is loved by me The most; he'd think himself to blame; And I should almost die for shame. If being good would serve instead Of being graceful, ah, then, Fred— But I, myself, I never could See what's in women's being good; For all their goodness is to do Just what their nature tells them to. Now, when a man would do what's right, 279 He has to try with all his might. Though true and kind in deed and word, Fred's not a vessel of the Lord. But I have hopes of him; for, oh, How can we ever surely know But that the very darkest place May be the scene of saving grace! XV From Frederick ‘How did I feel?’ The little wight Fill'd me, unfatherly, with fright! So grim it gazed, and, out of the sky, There came, minute, remote, the cry, Piercing, of original pain. I put the wonder back to Jane, And her delight seem'd dash'd, that I, Of strangers still by nature shy, Was not familiar quite so soon With her small friend of many a moon. But, when the new-made Mother smiled, She seem'd herself a little child, Dwelling at large beyond the law By which, till then, I judged and saw; And that fond glow which she felt stir For it, suffused my heart for her; To whom, from the weak babe, and thence To me, an influent innocence, Happy, reparative of life, Came, and she was indeed my wife, As there, lovely with love she lay, Brightly contented all the day To hug her sleepy little boy, In the reciprocated joy Of touch, the childish sense of love, Ever inquisitive to prove Its strange possession, and to know If the eye's report be really so. 280 XVI From Jane To Mrs. Graham Dear Mother,—such if you'll allow, In love, not law, I'll call you now,— I hope you're well. I write to say Frederick has got, besides his pay, A good appointment in the Docks; Also to thank you for the frocks And shoes for Baby. I, (D.V.,) Shall soon be strong. Fred goes to sea No more. I am so glad; because, Though kinder husband never was, He seems still kinder to become The more he stays with me at home. When we are parted, I see plain He's dull till he gets used again To marriage. Do not tell him, though; I would not have him know I know, For all the world. I try to mind All your advice; but sometimes find I do not well see how. I thought To take it about dress; so bought A gay new bonnet, gown, and shawl; But Frederick was not pleased at all; For, though he smiled, and said, ‘How smart!’ I feel, you know, what's in his heart. But I shall learn! I fancied long That care in dress was very wrong, Till Frederick, in his startling way, When I began to blame, one day, The Admiral's Wife, because we hear She spends two hours, or something near, In dressing, took her part, and said How all things deck themselves that wed; How birds and plants grow fine to please Each other in their marriages; And how (which certainly is true— It never struck me—did it you?) 281 Dress was, at first, Heaven's ordinance, And has much Scripture countenance. For Eliezer, we are told, Adorn'd with jewels and with gold Rebecca. In the Psalms, again, How the King's Daughter dress'd! And, then, The Good Wife in the Proverbs, she Made herself clothes of tapestry, Purple and silk: and there's much more I had not thought about before! But Fred's so clever! Do you know, Since Baby came, he loves me so! I'm really useful, now, to Fred; And none could do so well instead. It's nice to fancy, if I died, He'd miss me from the Darling's side! Also, there's something now, you see, On which we talk, and quite agree; On which, without pride too, I can Hope I'm as wise as any man. I should be happy now, if quite Sure that in one thing Fred was right. But, though I trust his prayers are said, Because he goes so late to bed, I doubt his Calling. Glad to find A text adapted to his mind,— That where St. Paul, in Man and Wife, Allows a little worldly life,— He smiled, and said that he knew all Such things as that without St. Paul! And once he said, when I with pain Had got him just to read Romaine, ‘Men's creeds should not their hopes condemn. ‘Who wait for heaven to come to them ‘Are little like to go to heaven, ‘If logic's not the devil's leaven!’ I cried at such a wicked joke, And he, surprised, went out to smoke. But to judge him is not for me, Who myself sin so dreadfully As half to doubt if I should care 282 To go to heaven, and he not there. He must be right; and I dare say I shall soon understand his way. To other things, once strange, I've grown Accustom'd, nay, to like. I own 'Twas long before I got well used To sit, while Frederick read or mused For hours, and scarcely spoke. When he For all that, held the door to me, Pick'd up my handkerchief, and rose To set my chair, with other shows Of honour, such as men, 'tis true, To sweethearts and fine ladies do, It almost seem'd an unkind jest; But now I like these ways the best. They somehow make me gentle and good; And I don't mind his quiet mood. If Frederick does seem dull awhile, There's Baby. You should see him smile! I'm pretty and nice to him, sweet Pet, And he will learn no better yet: Indeed, now little Johnny makes A busier time of it, and takes Our thoughts off one another more, I'm happy as need be, I'm sure! XVII From Felix To Honoria Let me, Beloved, while gratitude Is garrulous with coming good, Or ere the tongue of happiness Be silenced by your soft caress, Relate how, musing here of you, The clouds, the intermediate blue, The air that rings with larks, the grave And distant rumour of the wave, The solitary sailing skiff, The gusty corn-field on the cliff, The corn-flower by the crumbling ledge, Or, far-down at the shingle's edge, 283 The sighing sea's recurrent crest Breaking, resign'd to its unrest, All whisper, to my home-sick thought, Of charms in you till now uncaught, Or only caught as dreams, to die Ere they were own'd by memory. High and ingenious Decree Of joy-devising Deity! You whose ambition only is The assurance that you make my bliss, (Hence my first debt of love to show, That you, past showing, indeed do so!) Trust me, the world, the firmament, With diverse-natured worlds besprent, Were rear'd in no mere undivine Boast of omnipotent design, The lion differing from the snake But for the trick of difference sake, And comets darting to and fro Because in circles planets go; But rather that sole love might be Refresh'd throughout eternity In one sweet faith, for ever strange, Mirror'd by circumstantial change. For, more and more, do I perceive That everything is relative To you, and that there's not a star, Nor nothing in't, so strange or far, But, if 'twere scanned, 'twould chiefly mean Somewhat, till then, in you unseen, Something to make the bondage strait Of you and me more intimate, Some unguess'd opportunity Of nuptials in a new degree. But, oh, with what a novel force Your best-conn'd beauties, by remorse Of absence, touch; and, in my heart, How bleeds afresh the youthful smart Of passion fond, despairing still To utter infinite good-will 284 By worthy service! Yet I know That love is all that love can owe, And this to offer is no less Of worth, in kind speech or caress, Than if my life-blood I should give. For good is God's prerogative, And Love's deed is but to prepare The flatter'd, dear Belov'd to dare Acceptance of His gifts. When first On me your happy beauty burst, Honoria, verily it seem'd That naught beyond you could be dream'd Of beauty and of heaven's delight. Zeal of an unknown infinite Yet bade me ever wish you more Beatified than e'er before. Angelical were your replies To my prophetic flatteries; And sweet was the compulsion strong That drew me in the course along Of heaven's increasing bright allure, With provocations fresh of your Victorious capacity. Whither may love, so fledged, not fly? Did not mere Earth hold fast the string Of this celestial soaring thing, So measure and make sensitive, And still, to the nerves, nice notice give Of each minutest increment Of such interminable ascent, The heart would lose all count, and beat Unconscious of a height so sweet, And the spirit-pursuing senses strain Their steps on the starry track in vain! But, reading now the note just come, With news of you, the babes, and home, I think, and say, ‘To-morrow eve ‘With kisses me will she receive;’ And, thinking, for extreme delight Of love's extremes, I laugh outright. 285 XVIII From Frederick Eight wedding-days gone by, and none Yet kept, to keep them all in one, Jane and myself, with John and Grace On donkeys, visited the place I first drew breath in, Knatchley Wood. Bearing the basket, stuff'd with food, Milk, loaves, hard eggs, and marmalade, I halted where the wandering glade Divides the thicket. There I knew, It seem'd, the very drops of dew Below the unalter'd eglantine. Nothing had changed since I was nine! In the green desert, down to eat We sat, our rustic grace at meat Good appetite, through that long climb Hungry two hours before the time. And there Jane took her stitching out, And John for birds'-nests pry'd about, And Grace and Baby, in between The warm blades of the breathing green, Dodged grasshoppers; and I no less, In conscientious idleness, Enjoy'd myself, under the noon Stretch'd, and the sounds and sights of June Receiving, with a drowsy charm, Through muffled ear and folded arm. And then, as if I sweetly dream'd, I half-remember'd how it seem'd When I, too, was a little child About the wild wood roving wild. Pure breezes from the far-off height Melted the blindness from my sight, Until, with rapture, grief, and awe, I saw again as then I saw. As then I saw, I saw again The harvest-waggon in the lane, 286 With high-hung tokens of its pride Left in the elms on either side; The daisies coming out at dawn In constellations on the lawn; The glory of the daffodil; The three black windmills on the hill, Whose magic arms, flung wildly by, Sent magic shadows o'er the rye. Within the leafy coppice, lo, More wealth than miser's dreams could show, The blackbird's warm and woolly brood, Five golden beaks agape for food; The Gipsies, all the summer seen Native as poppies to the Green; The winter, with its frosts and thaws And opulence of hips and haws; The lovely marvel of the snow; The Tamar, with its altering show Of gay ships sailing up and down, Among the fields and by the Town; And, dearer far than anything, Came back the songs you used to sing. (Ah, might you sing such songs again, And I, your Child, but hear as then, With conscious profit of the gulf Flown over from my present self!) And, as to men's retreating eyes, Beyond high mountains higher rise, Still farther back there shone to me The dazzling dusk of infancy. Thither I look'd, as, sick of night, The Alpine shepherd looks to the height, And does not see the day, 'tis true, But sees the rosy tops that do. Meantime Jane stitch'd, and fann'd the flies From my repose, with hush'd replies To Grace, and smiles when Baby fell. Her countenance love visible Appear'd, love audible her voice. Why in the past alone rejoice, Whilst here was wealth before me cast 287 Which, I could feel, if 'twere but past Were then most precious? Question vain, When ask'd again and yet again, Year after year; yet now, for no Cause, but that heaven's bright winds will blow Not at our pray'r but as they list, It brought that distant, golden mist To grace the hour, firing the deep Of spirit and the drowsy keep Of joy, till, spreading uncontain'd, The holy power of seeing gain'd The outward eye, this owning even That where there's love and truth there's heaven. Debtor to few, forgotten hours Am I, that truths for me are powers. Ah, happy hours, 'tis something yet Not to forget that I forget! And now a cloud, bright, huge and calm, Rose, doubtful if for bale or balm; O'ertoppling towers and bulwarks bright Appear'd, at beck of viewless might, Along a rifted mountain range. Untraceable and swift in change, Those glittering peaks, disrupted, spread To solemn bulks, seen overhead; The sunshine quench'd, from one dark form Fumed the appalling light of storm. Straight to the zenith, black with bale, The Gipsies' smoke rose deadly pale; And one wide night of hopeless hue Hid from the heart the recent blue. And soon, with thunder crackling loud, A flash reveal'd the formless cloud: Lone sailing rack, far wavering rim, And billowy tracks of stormland dim. We stood, safe group'd beneath a shed. Grace hid behind Jane's gown for dread, Who told her, fondling with her hair, ‘The naughty noise! but God took care 288 ‘Of all good girls.’ John seem'd to me Too much for Jane's theology, Who bade him watch the tempest. Now A blast made all the woodland bow; Against the whirl of leaves and dust Kine dropp'd their heads; the tortured gust Jagg'd and convuls'd the ascending smoke To mockery of the lightning's stroke. The blood prick'd, and a blinding flash And close coinstantaneous crash Humbled the soul, and the rain all round Resilient dimm'd the whistling ground, Nor flagg'd in force from first to last, Till, sudden as it came, 'twas past, Leaving a trouble in the copse Of brawling birds and tinkling drops. Change beyond hope! Far thunder faint Mutter'd its vast and vain complaint, And gaps and fractures, fringed with light, Show'd the sweet skies, with squadrons bright Of cloudlets, glittering calm and fair Through gulfs of calm and glittering air. With this adventure, we return'd. The roads the feet no longer burn'd. A wholesome smell of rainy earth Refresh'd our spirits, tired of mirth. The donkey-boy drew friendly near My Wife, and, touch'd by the kind cheer Her countenance show'd, or sooth'd perchance By the soft evening's sad advance, As we were, stroked the flanks and head Of the ass, and, somewhat thick-voiced, said, ‘To 'ave to wop the donkeys so ‘'Ardens the 'art, but they won't go ‘Without!’ My Wife, by this impress'd, As men judge poets by their best, When now we reach'd the welcome door, Gave him his hire, and sixpence more. 289 XIX From Jane Dear Mrs. Graham, the fever's past, And Fred is well. I, in my last, Forgot to say that, while 'twas on, A lady, call'd Honoria Vaughan, One of his Salisbury Cousins, came. Had I, she ask'd me, heard her name? 'Twas that Honoria, no doubt, Whom he would sometimes talk about And speak to, when his nights were bad, And so I told her that I had. She look'd so beautiful and kind! And just the sort of wife my mind Pictured for Fred, with many tears, In those sad early married years. Visiting, yesterday, she said, The Admiral's Wife, she learn'd that Fred Was very ill; she begg'd to be, If possible, of use to me. What could she do? Last year, his Aunt Died, leaving her, who had no want, Her fortune. Half was his, she thought; But he, she knew, would not be brought To take his rights at second hand. Yet something might, she hoped, be plann'd. What did I think of putting John To school and college? Mr. Vaughan, When John was old enough, could give Preferment to her relative; And she should be so pleased.—I said I felt quite sure that dearest Fred Would be most thankful. Would we come, And make ourselves, she ask'd, at home, Next month, at High-Hurst? Change of air Both he and I should need, and there At leisure we could talk, and then Fix plans, as John was nearly ten. 290 It seemed so rude to think and doubt, So I said, Yes. In going out, She said, ‘How strange of Frederick, Dear,’ (I wish he had been there to hear,) ‘To send no cards, or tell me what ‘A nice new Cousin I had got!’ Was not that kind? When Fred grew strong, I had, I found, done very wrong. Anger was in his voice and eye. With people born and bred so high As Fred and Mrs. Vaughan and you, It's hard to guess what's right to do; And he won't teach me! Dear Fred wrote, Directly, such a lovely note, Which, though it undid all I had done, Was, both to me and Mrs. Vaughan, So kind! His words, I can't say why, Like soldiers' music, made me cry. ~ Coventry Patmore

341:Ashtaroth: A Dramatic Lyric Dramatis Personae HUGO, a Norman Baron and a Scholar. ERIC, a friend of Hugo's. THURSTON, | EUSTACE, | RALPH, | Followers of Hugo. HENRY, a Page. LUKE, | HUBERT, | Monks living in a Norman Chapel. BASIL, Abbot of a Convent on the Rhine. CYRIL, a Monk of the same Convent. OSRIC, a Norwegian Adventurer, and formerly a Corsair. RUDOLPH, an Outlawed Count, and the Captain of a Band of Robbers. DAGOBERT, the Captain of some predatory Soldiers called "Free Lances". HAROLD, a Danish Knight. ORION. THORA, AGATHA, ELSPETH, a Nurse of Thora's, URSULA, Abbess of the Convent on the Rhine, | NUNS, etc. | Women. Men-at-arms, Soldiers, and Robbers; Monks, Friars, and Churchmen, Spirits, etc. SCENE — A Castle in Normandy. A Study in a Tower; HUGO seated at a table covered with maps and charts of the heavens, astronomical instruments, books, manuscripts, Enter HENRY, a Page. Hugo: Well, boy, what is it? 27 Henry: The feast is spread. Hugo: Why tarry the guests for me? Let Eric sit at the table's head; Alone I desire to be. [Henry goes out.] What share have I at their festive board? Their mirth I can only mar; To me no pleasure their cups afford, Their songs on my silence jar. With an aching eye and a throbbing brain, And yet with a hopeful heart, I must toil and strain with the planets again When the rays of the sun depart; He who must needs with the topers tope, And the feasters feast in the hall, How can he hope with a matter to cope That is immaterial? Orion: He who his appetite stints and curbs, Shut up in the northern wing, With his rye-bread flavoured with bitter herbs, And his draught from the tasteless spring, Good sooth, he is but a sorry clown. There are some good things upon earth — Pleasure and power and fair renown, And wisdom of worldly worth! There is wisdom in follies that charm the sense, In follies that light the eyes, But the folly to wisdom that makes pretence Is alone by the fool termed wise. Hugo: Thy speech, Orion, is somewhat rude; Perchance, having jeer'd and scoff'd To thy fill, thou wilt curb thy jeering mood; I wot thou hast served me oft. This plan of the skies seems fairly traced; What errors canst thou detect? 28 Orion: Nay, the constellations are misplaced, And the satellites incorrect; Leave the plan to me; you have time to seek An hour of needful rest, The night is young and the planets are weak; See, the sun still reddens the west. Hugo: I fear I shall sleep too long. Orion: If you do It matters not much; the sky Is cloudy, the stars will be faint and few; Now, list to my lullaby. [Hugo reclines on a couch.] (Sings.) Still the darkling skies are red, Though the day-god's course is run; Heavenly night-lamps overhead Flash and twinkle one by one. Idle dreamer — earth-born elf! Vainly grasping heavenly things, Wherefore weariest thou thyself With thy vain imaginings? From the tree of knowledge first, Since his parents pluck'd the fruit, Man, with partial knowledge curs'd, Of the tree still seeks the root; Musty volumes crowd thy shelf — Which of these true knowledge brings? Wherefore weariest thou thyself With thy vain imaginings? Will the stars from heaven descend? Can the earth-worm soar and rise? Can the mortal comprehend Heaven's own hallow'd mysteries? Greed and glory, power and pelf — These are won by clowns and kings; Wherefore weariest thou thyself 29 With thy vain imaginings? Sow and reap, and toil and spin; Eat and drink, and dream and die; Man may strive, yet never win, And I laugh the while and cry — Idle dreamer, earth-born elf! Vainly grasping heavenly things, Wherefore weariest thou thyself With thy vain imaginings? He sleeps, and his sleep appears serene, Whatever dreams it has brought him — [Looks at the plans.] If he knows what those hieroglyphics mean, He's wiser than one who taught him. Why does he number the Pole-star thus? Or the Pleiades why combine? And what is he doing with Sirius, In the devil's name or in mine? Man thinks, discarding the beaten track, That the sins of his youth are slain, When he seeks fresh sins, but he soon comes back To his old pet sins again. SCENE — The Same. HUGO waking, ORION seated near him. Daybreak. Hugo: Oh, weary spirit! oh, cloudy eyes! Oh, heavy and misty brain! Yon riddle that lies 'twixt earth and skies, Ye seek to explore in vain! See, the east is grey; put those scrolls away, And hide them far from my sight; I will toil and study no more by day, I will watch no longer by night; I have labour'd and long'd, and now I seem No nearer the mystic goal; 30 Orion, I fain would devise some scheme To quiet this restless soul; To distant climes I would fain depart — I would travel by sea or land. Orion: Nay, I warn'd you of this, "Short life, long art", The proverb, though stale, will stand; Full many a sage from youth to age Has toil'd to obtain what you Would master at once. In a pilgrimage, Forsooth, there is nothing new; Though virtue, I ween, in change of scene, And vigour in change of air, Will always be, and has always been, And travel is a tonic rare. Still, the restless, discontented mood For the time alone is eased; It will soon return with hunger renew'd, And appetite unappeased. Nathless I could teach a shorter plan To win that wisdom you crave, That lore that is seldom attain'd by man From the cradle down to the grave. Hugo: Such lore I had rather do without, It hath nothing mystic nor awful In my eye. Nay, I despise and doubt The arts that are term'd unlawful; 'Twixt science and magic the line lies plain, I shall never wittingly pass it; There is now no compact between us twain. Orion: But an understanding tacit. You have prospered much since the day we met; You were then a landless knight; You now have honour and wealth, and yet I never can serve you right. Hugo: Enough; we will start this very day, 31 Thurston, Eric, and I, And the baffled visions will pass away, And the restless fires will die. Orion: Till the fuel expires that feeds those fires They smoulder and live unspent; Give a mortal all that his heart desires, He is less than ever content. SCENE — A Cliff on the Breton Coast, Overhanging the Sea. HUGO. Hugo: Down drops the red sun; through the gloaming They burst — raging waves of the sea, Foaming out their own shame — ever foaming Their leprosy up with fierce glee; Flung back from the stone, snowy fountains Of feathery flakes, scarcely flag Where, shock after shock, the green mountains Explode on the iron-grey crag. The salt spray with ceaseless commotion Leaps round me. I sit on the verge Of the cliff — 'twixt the earth and the ocean — With feet overhanging the surge. In thy grandeur, oh, sea! we acknowledge, In thy fairness, oh, earth! we confess, Hidden truths that are taught in no college, Hidden songs that no parchments express. Were they wise in their own generations, Those sages and sagas of old? They have pass'd; o'er their names and their nations Time's billows have silently roll'd; They have pass'd, leaving little to their children, Save histories of a truth far from strict; Or theories more vague and bewildering, 32 Since three out of four contradict. Lost labour! vain bookworms have sat in The halls of dull pedants who teach Strange tongues, the dead lore of the Latin, The scroll that is god-like and Greek: Have wasted life's springtide in learning Things long ago learnt all in vain; They are slow, very slow, in discerning That book lore and wisdom are twain. Pale shades of a creed that was mythic, By time or by truth overcome, Your Delphian temples and Pythic Are ruins deserted and dumb; Your Muses are hush'd, and your Graces Are bruised and defaced; and your gods, Enshrin'd and enthron'd in high places No longer, are powerless as clods; By forest and streamlet, where glisten'd Fair feet of the Naiads that skimm'd The shallows; where the Oreads listen'd, Rose-lipp'd, amber-hair'd, marble-limb'd, No lithe forms disport in the river, No sweet faces peer through the boughs, Elms and beeches wave silent for ever, Ever silent the bright water flows. (Were they duller or wiser than we are, Those heathens of old? Who shall say? Worse or better? Thy wisdom, O "Thea Glaucopis", was wise in thy day; And the false gods alluring to evil, That sway'd reckless votaries then, Were slain to no purpose; they revel Re-crowned in the hearts of us men.) Dead priests of Osiris and Isis, And Apis! that mystical lore, Like a nightmare, conceived in a crisis Of fever, is studied no more; 33 Dead Magian! yon star-troop that spangles The arch of yon firmament vast Looks calm, like a host of white angels, On dry dust of votaries past. On seas unexplored can the ship shun Sunk rocks? Can man fathom life's links, Past or future, unsolved by Egyptian Or Theban, unspoken by Sphinx? The riddle remains still unravell'd By students consuming night oil. Oh, earth! we have toil'd, we have travail'd, How long shall we travail and toil? How long? The short life that fools reckon So sweet, by how much is it higher Than brute life? — the false gods still beckon, And man, through the dust and the mire, Toils onward, as toils the dull bullock, Unreasoning, brutish, and blind, With Ashtaroth, Mammon, and Moloch In front, and Alecto behind. The wise one of earth, the Chaldean, Serves folly in wisdom's disguise; And the sensual Epicurean, Though grosser, is hardly less wise; 'Twixt the former, half pedant, half pagan, And the latter, half sow and half sloth, We halt, choose Astarte or Dagon, Or sacrifice freely to both. With our reason that seeks to disparage, Brute instinct it fails to subdue; With our false illegitimate courage, Our sophistry, vain and untrue; Our hopes that ascend so and fall so, Our passions, fierce hates and hot loves, We are wise (aye, the snake is wise also) — Wise as serpents, NOT harmless as doves. Some flashes, like faint sparks from heaven, 34 Come rarely with rushing of wings; We are conscious at times we have striven, Though seldom, to grasp better things; These pass, leaving hearts that have falter'd, Good angels with faces estranged, And the skin of the Ethiop unalter'd, And the spots of the leopard unchanged. Oh, earth! pleasant earth! have we hanker'd To gather thy flowers and thy fruits? The roses are wither'd, and canker'd The lilies, and barren the roots Of the fig-tree, the vine, the wild olive, Sharp thorns and sad thistles that yield Fierce harvest — so WE live, and SO live The perishing beasts of the field. And withal we are conscious of evil And good — of the spirit and the clod, Of the power in our hearts of a devil, Of the power in our souls of a God, Whose commandments are graven in no cypher, But clear as His sun — from our youth One at least we have cherished — "An eye for An eye, and a tooth for a tooth." Oh, man! of thy Maker the image; To passion, to pride, or to wealth, Sworn bondsman, from dull youth to dim age, Thy portion the fire or the filth, Dross seeking, dead pleasure's death rattle Thy memories' happiest song, And thy highest hope — scarce a drawn battle With dark desperation. How long? Roar louder! leap higher! ye surf-beds, And sprinkle your foam on the furze; Bring the dreams that brought sleep to our turf-beds, To camps of our long ago years, With the flashing and sparkling of broadswords, 35 With the tossing of banners and spears, With the trampling of hard hoofs on hard swards, With the mingling of trumpets and cheers. The gale has gone down; yet outlasting The gale, raging waves of the sea, Casting up their own foam, ever casting Their leprosy up with wild glee, Still storm; so in rashness and rudeness Man storms through the days of his grace; Yet man cannot fathom God's goodness, Exceeding God's infinite space. And coldly and calmly and purely Grey rock and green hillock lie white In star-shine dream-laden — so surely Night cometh — so cometh the night When we, too, at peace with our neighbour, May sleep where God's hillocks are piled, Thanking HIM for a rest from day's labour, And a sleep like the sleep of a child! SCENE — The Castle in Normandy. THORA working at embroidery, ELSPETH spinning. Thora (sings): We severed in autumn early, Ere the earth was torn by the plough; The wheat and the oats and the barley Are ripe for the harvest now. We sunder'd one misty morning, Ere the hills were dimm'd by the rain, Through the flowers those hills adorning — Thou comest not back again. My heart is heavy and weary With the weight of a weary soul; 36 The mid-day glare grows dreary, And dreary the midnight scroll. The corn-stalks sigh for the sickle, 'Neath the load of the golden grain; I sigh for a mate more fickle — Thou comest not back again. The warm sun riseth and setteth, The night bringeth moistening dew, But the soul that longeth forgetteth The warmth and the moisture too; In the hot sun rising and setting There is naught save feverish pain; There are tears in the night-dews wetting — Thou comest not back again. Thy voice in mine ear still mingles With the voices of whisp'ring trees; Thy kiss on my cheek still tingles At each kiss of the summer breeze; While dreams of the past are thronging For substance of shades in vain, I am waiting, watching, and longing — Thou comest not back again. Waiting and watching ever, Longing and lingering yet, Leaves rustle and corn-stalks quiver, Winds murmur and waters fret; No answer they bring, no greeting, No speech save that sad refrain, Nor voice, save an echo repeating — He cometh not back again. Elspeth: Thine eldest sister is wedded to Max; With Biorn, Hilda hath cast her lot. If the husbands vanish'd, and left no tracks, Would the wives have cause for sorrow, I wot? Thora: How well I remember that dreary ride; 37 How I sigh'd for the lands of ice and snow, In the trackless wastes of the desert wide, With the sun o'erhead and the sand below; 'Neath the scanty shades of the feathery palms, How I sigh'd for the forest of sheltering firs, Whose shadows environ'd the Danish farms, Where I sang and sported in childish years. On the fourteenth day of our pilgrimage We stayed at the foot of a sandhill high; Our fever'd thirst we could scarce assuage At the brackish well that was nearly dry, And the hot sun rose, and the hot sun set, And we rode all the day through a desert land, And we camp'd where the lake and the river met, On sedge and shingle and shining sand: Enfolded in Hugo's cloak I slept, Or watch'd the stars while I lay awake; And close to our feet the staghound crept, And the horses were grazing beside the lake; Now we own castles and serving men, Lands and revenues. What of that? Hugo the Norman was kinder then, And happier was Thora of Armorat. Elspeth: Nay, I warn'd thee, with Norman sails unfurl'd Above our heads, when we wished thee joy, That men are the same all over the world, They will worship only the newest toy; Yet Hugo is kind and constant too, Though somewhat given to studies of late; Biorn is sottish, and Max untrue, And worse than thine is thy sisters' fate. But a shadow darkens the chamber door. Enter THURSTON. Thurston: 'Tis I, Lady Thora; our lord is near. My horse being fresher, I rode before; Both he and Eric will soon be here. 38 Thora: Good Thurston, give me your hand. You are Most welcome. What has delayed you thus? Thurston: Both by sea and land we have travell'd far, Yet little of note has happened to us — We were wreck'd on the shores of Brittany, Near the coast of Morbihan iron-bound; The rocks were steep and the surf ran high, Thy kinsman, Eric, was well-nigh drown'd. By a swarm of knaves we were next beset, Who took us for corsairs; then released By a Breton count, whose name I forget. Now I go, by your leave, to tend my beast. [He goes out.] Elspeth: That man is rude and froward of speech: My ears are good, though my sight grows dim. Thora: Thurston is faithful. Thou canst not teach Courtly nor servile manners to him. SCENE — The Castle Hall. THURSTON, RALPH, EUSTACE, and other followers of HUGO, seated at a long table. HAROLD seated apart. Thurston: Who is that stranger, dark and tall, On the wooden settle next to the wall — Mountebank, pilgrim, or wandering bard? Eustace: To define his calling is somewhat hard; Lady Thora has taken him by the hand Because he has come from the Holy Land. 39 Pilgrims and palmers are all the rage With her, since she shared in that pilgrimage With Hugo. The stranger came yesterday, And would have gone on, but she bade him stay. Besides, he sings in the Danish tongue The songs she has heard in her childhood sung. That's all I know of him, good or bad; In my own opinion he's somewhat mad. You must raise your voice if you speak with him, And he answers as though his senses were dim. Thurston (to Harold): Good-morrow, sir stranger. Harold: Good-morrow, friend. Thurston: Where do you come from? and whither wend? Harold: I have travelled of late with the setting sun At my back; and as soon as my task is done I purpose to turn my face to the north — Yet we know not what a day may bring forth. Thurston: Indeed we don't. (To Eustace, aside): Nay, I know him now By that ugly scar that crosses his brow; And the less we say to him the better. Your judgment is right to the very letter — The man is mad. Eustace: But harmless, I think; He eats but little, eschews strong drink, And only speaks when spoken to first. Thurston: Harmless or not, he was once the worst And bitterest foe Lord Hugo had; And yet his story is somewhat sad. 40 Eustace: May I hear it? Thurston: Nay, I never reveal What concerns me not. Our lord may conceal Or divulge at pleasure his own affairs, — Not even his comrade Eric shares His secrets; though Eric thinks him wise, Which is more than I do, for I despise That foolish science he learnt in Rome. He dreams and mopes when he sits at home, And now he's not much better abroad; 'Tis hard to follow so tame a lord. 'Twixt us two, he won't be worth a rush If he will persist in his studies —— Eustace: Hush! Ralph has persuaded our guest to sing. Thurston: I have known the day when his voice would ring Till the rafters echoed. Eustace: 'Tis pleasant still, Though far too feeble this hall to fill. Harold (sings): On the current, where the wide Windings of the river Eddy to the North Sea tide, Shall I in my shallop glide, As I have done at her side? Never! never! never! In the forest, where the firs, Pines, and larches quiver To the northern breeze that stirs, Shall my lips be press'd to hers, As they were in by-gone years? Never! never! never! 41 In the battle on the plain, Where the lance-shafts shiver, And the sword-strokes fall like rain, Shall I bear her scarf again As I have done — not in vain? Never! never! never! In a fairer, brighter land, Where the saints rest ever, Shall I once more see her stand, White, amidst a white-robed band, Harp and palm-branch in her hand? Never! never! never! SCENE — The Same. EUSTACE, THURSTON, and followers of HUGO. HAROLD. Enter, by the hall door, HUGO, ERIC, and THORA. Eustace (and others standing up): Welcome, Lord Hugo! Hugo: Welcome or not, Thanks for your greeting all. Ha, Eustace! what complaints hast thou got? What grievances to recall? Eustace: Count William came with a numerous band, Ere the snows began to fall, And slew a buck on your lordship's land, Within a league of the wall. Hugo: Count William has done to us no more Than we to him. In his vineyard Last summer, or later, maybe, a boar Was slaughter'd by Thurston's whinyard. 42 Thurston: Aye, Hugo! But William kept the buck, I will wager marks a score, Though the tale is new to me; and, worse luck, You made me give back the boar. Harold (advancing): Lord Hugo! Hugo: What! Art thou living yet? I scarcely knew thee, Sir Dane! And 'tis not so very long since we met. Harold: 'Twill be long ere we meet again. (gives a letter) This letter was traced by one now dead In the Holy Land; and I Must wait till his dying request is read, And in his name ask the reply. Thora (aside): Who is that stranger, Hugo? Hugo: By birth He is a countryman of thine, Thora. What writing is this on earth? I can scarce decipher a line. Harold: The pen in the clutch of death works ill. Hugo: Nay, I read now; the letters run More clearly. Harold: Wilt grant the request? Hugo: I will. Harold: Enough! Then my task is done. (He holds out his hand.) Hugo, I go to a far-off land, 43 Wilt thou say, "God speed thee!" now? Hugo: Sir Harold, I cannot take thy hand, Because of my ancient vow. Harold: Farewell, then. Thora: Friend, till the morning wait. On so wild a night as this Thou shalt not go from my husband's gate; The path thou wilt surely miss. Harold: I go. Kind lady, some future day Thy care will requited be. Thora: Speak, Hugo, speak. Hugo: He may go or stay, It matters little to me. [Harold goes out.] Thora: Husband, that man is ill and weak; On foot he goes and alone Through a barren moor in a night-storm bleak. Eric: Now I wonder where he has gone! Hugo: Indeed, I have not the least idea; The man is certainly mad. He wedded my sister, Dorothea, And used her cruelly bad. He was once my firmest and surest friend, And once my deadliest foe; But hate and friendship both find their end — Now I heed not where he may go. 44 SCENE — A Chamber in the Castle. HUGO, THORA, and ERIC. Hugo: That letter that came from Palestine, By the hands of yon wandering Dane, Will cost me a pilgrimage to the Rhine. Thora: Wilt thou travel so soon again? Hugo: I can scarce refuse the dying request Of my comrade, Baldwin, now; His bones are dust. May his soul find rest He once made a foolish vow, That at Englemehr, 'neath the watchful care Of the Abbess, his child should stay, For a season at least. To escort her there I must start at the break of day. Thora: Is it Agatha that goes, or Clare? Hugo: Nay, Clare is dwelling in Spain With her spouse. Thora: 'Tis Agatha. She is fair, I am told; but giddy and vain. Eric: Some musty tales on my memory grow Concerning Count Baldwin's vow; Thou knew'st his daughter? Hugo: Aye, years ago. I should scarcely know her now. 45 It seems, when her father's vow was made, She was taken sorely ill; Then he travell'd, and on his return was stay'd; He could never his oath fulfil. Eric: If rightly I've heard, 'twas Agatha That fled with some Danish knight — I forget the name. Hugo: Nay, she fled not far; She returned again that night. Thora: For a nun, I fear, she is too self-willed. Hugo: That is no affair of mine. My task is over, my word fulfilled, Should I bring her safe to the Rhine. Come, Thora, sing. Thora: Nay, I cannot sing, Nor would I now if I could. Sing thou. Hugo: I will, though my voice should bring No sound save a discord rude. (Sings.) Where the storm in its wrath hath lighted, The pine lies low in the dust; And the corn is withered and blighted, Where the fields are red with the rust; Falls the black frost, nipping and killing, Where its petals the violet rears, And the wind, though tempered, is chilling To the lamb despoiled by the shears. The strong in their strength are shaken, The wise in their wisdom fall; And the bloom of beauty is taken — Strength, wisdom, beauty, and all, 46 They vanish, their lot fulfilling, Their doom approaches and nears, But the wind, though tempered, is chilling To the lamb despoiled by the shears. 'Tis the will of a Great Creator, He is wise, His will must be done, And it cometh sooner or later; And one shall be taken, and one Shall be left here, toiling and tilling, In this vale of sorrows and tears, Where the wind, though tempered, is chilling To the lamb despoiled by the shears. Tell me, mine own one, tell me, The shadows of life and the fears Shall neither daunt me nor quell me, While I can avert thy tears: Dost thou shrink, as I shrink, unwilling To realise lonely years? Since the wind, though tempered, is chilling To the lamb despoiled by the shears. Enter HENRY. Henry: My lord, Father Luke craves audience straight, He has come on foot from the chapel; Some stranger perished beside his gate When the dawn began to dapple. SCENE — A Chapel Not Very Far from Hugo's Castle. HUGO, ERIC, and two Monks (LUKE and HUBERT). The dead body of HAROLD. Luke: When the dawn was breaking, Came a faint sound, waking Hubert and myself; we hurried to the door, Found the stranger lying 47 At the threshold, dying. Somewhere have I seen a face like his before. Hugo: Harold he is hight. Only yester-night From our gates he wander'd, in the driving hail; Well his face I know, Both as friend and foe; Of my followers only Thurston knows his tale. Luke: Few the words he said, Faint the signs he made, Twice or thrice he groaned; quoth Hubert, "Thou hast sinn'd. This is retribution, Seek for absolution; Answer me — then cast thy sorrows to the wind. Do their voices reach thee, Friends who failed to teach thee, In thine earlier days, to sunder right from wrong? Charges 'gainst thee cited, Cares all unrequited, Counsels spurned and slighted — do they press and throng?" But he shook his head. "'Tis not so," he said; "They will scarce reproach me who reproached of yore. If their counsels good, Rashly I withstood; Having suffered longer, I have suffered more." "Do their curses stun thee? Foes who failed to shun thee, Stricken by rash vengeance, in some wild career, As the barbed arrow Cleaveth bone and marrow, From those chambers narrow — do they pierce thine ear?" And he made reply, Laughing bitterly, "Did I fear them living — shall I fear them dead? Blood that I have spilt Leaveth little guilt; 48 On the hand it resteth, scarcely on the head." "Is there one whom thou May'st have wronged ere now, Since remorse so sorely weigheth down thine heart? By some saint in heaven, Sanctified and shriven, Would'st thou be forgiven ere thy soul depart?" Not a word he said, But he bowed his head Till his temples rested on the chilly sods And we heard him groan — "Ah! mine own, mine own! If I had thy pardon I might ask for God's." Hubert raised him slowly, Sunrise, faint and holy, Lit the dead face, placid as a child's might be. May the troubled spirit, Through Christ's saving merit, Peace and rest inherit. Thus we sent for thee. Hugo: God o'erruleth fate. I had cause for hate; In this very chapel, years back, proud and strong, Joined by priestly vows, He became the spouse Of my youngest sister, to her bitter wrong. And he wrought her woe, Making me his foe; Not alone unfaithful — brutal, too, was he. She had scarce been dead Three months, ere he fled With Count Baldwin's daughter, then betrothed to me. Fortune straight forsook him, Vengeance overtook him; Heavy crimes will bring down heavy punishment. All his strength was shatter'd, Even his wits were scatter'd, Half-deranged, half-crippled, wandering he went. We are unforgiving 49 While our foes are living; Yet his retribution weigh'd so heavily That I feel remorse, Gazing on his corpse, For my rudeness when he left our gates to die. And his grave shall be 'Neath the chestnut tree, Where he met my sister many years ago; Leave that tress of hair On his bosom there — Wrap the cerecloth round him! Eric, let us go. SCENE — A Room in the Castle. HUGO and ERIC. Early morning. Hugo: The morn is fair, the weary miles Will shorten 'neath the summer's wiles; Pomona in the orchard smiles, And in the meadow, Flora! And I have roused a chosen band For escort through the troubled land; And shaken Elspeth by the hand, And said farewell to Thora. Comrade and kinsman — for thou art Comrade and kin to me — we part Ere nightfall, if at once we start, We gain the dead Count's castle. The roads are fair, the days are fine, Ere long I hope to reach the Rhine. Forsooth, no friend to me or mine Is that same Abbot Basil; I thought he wronged us by his greed. My father sign'd a foolish deed For lack of gold in time of need, And thus our lands went by us; Yet wrong on our side may have been: As far as my will goes, I ween, 'Tis past, the grudge that lay between 50 Us twain. Men call him pious — And I have prosper'd much since then, And gain'd for one lost acre ten; And even the ancient house and glen Rebought with purchase-money. He, too, is wealthy; he has got By churchly rights a fertile spot, A land of corn and wine, I wot, A land of milk and honey. Now, Eric, change thy plans and ride With us; thou hast no ties, no bride. Eric: Nay, ties I have, and time and tide, Thou knowest, wait for no man; And I go north; God's blessing shuns The dwellings of forgetful sons, That proverb he may read who runs, In Christian lore or Roman. My good old mother she hath heard, For twelve long months, from me no word; At thought of her my heart is stirr'd, And even mine eyes grow moister. Greet Ursula from me; her fame Is known to all. A nobler dame, Since days of Clovis, ne'er became The inmate of a cloister. Our paths diverge, yet we may go Together for a league or so; I, too, will join thy band below When thou thy bugle windest. [Eric goes out.] Hugo: From weaknesses we stand afar, On us unpleasantly they jar; And yet the stoutest-hearted are The gentlest and the kindest. My mother loved me tenderly; Alas! her only son was I. I shudder'd, but my lids were dry, By death made orphan newly. 51 A braver man than me, I swear, Who never comprehended fear, Scarce names his mother, and the tear, Unbidden, springs unruly. SCENE — A Road on the Norman Frontiers. HUGO, AGATHA, ORION, THURSTON, and armed attendants, riding slowly. Agatha: Sir Knight, what makes you so grave and glum? At times I fear you are deaf or dumb, Or both. Hugo: And yet, should I speak the truth, There is little in common 'twixt us, forsooth; You would think me duller, and still more vain, If I uttered the thoughts that fill my brain; Since the matters with which my mind is laden Would scarcely serve to amuse a maiden. Agatha: I am so foolish and you are so wise, 'Tis the meaning your words so ill disguise. Alas! my prospects are sad enough: I had rather listen to speeches rough Than muse and meditate silently On the coming loss of my liberty. Sad hope to me can my future bring, Yet, while I may, I would prattle and sing, Though it only were to try and assuage The dreariness of my pilgrimage. Hugo: Prattle and sing to your heart's content, And none will offer impediment. Agatha (sings): We were playmates in childhood, my sister and I, Whose playtime with childhood is done; 52 Through thickets where briar and bramble grew high, Barefooted I've oft seen her run. I've known her, when mists on the moorland hung white, Bareheaded past nightfall remain; She has followed a landless and penniless knight Through battles and sieges in Spain. But I pulled the flower, and shrank from the thorn, Sought the sunshine, and fled from the mist; My sister was born to face hardship with scorn — I was born to be fondled and kiss'd. Hugo (aside): She has a sweet voice. Orion: And a sweet face, too — Be candid for once, and give her her due. Agatha: Your face grows longer, and still more long, Sir Scholar! how did you like my song? Hugo: I thought it rather a silly one. Agatha: You are far from a pleasant companion. SCENE — An Apartment in a Wayside Inn. HUGO and AGATHA. Evening. Hugo: I will leave you now — we have talked enough, And for one so tenderly reared and nursed This journey is wearisome, perhaps, and rough. Agatha: Will you not finish your story first? 53 Hugo: I repent me that I began it now, 'Tis a dismal tale for a maiden's ears; Your cheek is pale already, your brow Is sad, and your eyes are moist with tears. Agatha: It may be thus, I am lightly vexed, But the tears will lightly come and go; I can cry one moment and laugh the next, Yet I have seen terrors, as well you know. I remember that flight through moss and fern, The moonlit shadows, the hoofs that rolled In fierce pursuit, and the ending stern, And the hawk that left his prey on the wold. Hugo: I have sorrowed since that I left you there: Your friends were close behind on the heath, Though not so close as I thought they were. (Aside.) Now I will not tell her of Harold's death. Agatha: 'Tis true, I was justly punished, and men, As a rule, of pity have little share; Had I died you had cared but little then. Hugo: But little then, yet now I should care More than you think for. Now, good-night. Tears still? Ere I leave you, child, alone, Must I dry your cheeks? Agatha: Nay, I am not quite Such a child but what I can dry my own. [Hugo goes out. Agatha retires.] Orion (singing outside the window of Agatha's chamber): 'Neath the stems with blossoms laden, 'Neath the tendrils curling, I, thy servant, sing, oh, maiden! I, thy slave, oh, darling! 54 Lo! the shaft that slew the red deer, At the elk may fly too. Spare them not! The dead are dead, dear, Let the living die too. Where the wiles of serpent mingle, And the looks of dove lie, Where small hands in strong hands tingle, Loving eyes meet lovely: Where the harder natures soften, And the softer harden — Certes! such things have been often Since we left Eve's garden. Sweeter follies herald sadder Sins — look not too closely; Tongue of asp and tooth of adder Under leaf of rose lie. Warned, advised in vain, abandon Warning and advice too, Let the child lay wilful hand on Den of cockatrice too. I, thy servant, or thy master, One or both — no matter; If the former — firmer, faster, Surer still the latter — Lull thee, soothe thee with my singing, Bid thee sleep, and ponder On my lullabies still ringing Through thy dreamland yonder. SCENE — A Wooded Rising Ground, Near the Rhine. HUGO and AGATHA resting under the trees. THURSTON, EUSTACE, and followers a little apart. ORION. (Noonday.) The Towers of the Convent in the distance. Agatha: I sit on the greensward, and hear the bird sing, 55 'Mid the thickets where scarlet and white blossoms cling; And beyond the sweet uplands all golden with flower, It looms in the distance, the grey convent tower. And the emerald earth and the sapphire-hued sky Keep telling me ever my spring has gone by; Ah! spring premature, they are tolling thy knell, In the wind's soft adieu, in the bird's sweet farewell. Oh! why is the greensward with garlands so gay, That I quail at the sight of my prison-house grey? Oh! why is the bird's note so joyous and clear? The caged bird must pine in a cage doubly drear. Hugo: May the lances of Dagobert harry their house, If they coax or intimidate thee to take vows; May the freebooters pillage their shrines, should they dare Touch with their scissors thy glittering hair. Our short and sweet journey now draws to an end, And homeward my sorrowful way I must wend; Oh, fair one! oh, loved one! I would I were free, To squander my life in the greenwood with thee. Orion (aside): Ho! seeker of knowledge, so grave and so wise, Touch her soft curl again — look again in her eyes; Forget for the nonce musty parchments, and learn How the slow pulse may quicken — the cold blood may burn. Ho! fair, fickle maiden, so blooming and shy! The old love is dead, let the old promise die! Thou dost well, thou dost wise, take the word of Orion, "A living dog always before a dead lion!" Thurston: Ye varlets, I would I knew which of ye burst Our wine-skin — what, ho! must I perish with thirst! Go, Henry, thou hast a glib tongue, go and ask Thy lord to send Ralph to yon inn for a flask. Henry: Nay, Thurston, not so; I decline to disturb 56 Our lord for the present; go thou, or else curb Thy thirst, or drink water, as I do. Thurston: Thou knave Of a page, dost thou wish me the colic to have? Orion (aside): That clown is a thoroughbred Saxon. He thinks With pleasure on naught save hard blows and strong drinks; In hell he will scarce go athirst if once given An inkling of any good liquors in heaven. Hugo: Our Pontiff to manhood at Englemehr grew, The priests there are many, the nuns are but few. I love not the Abbot — 'tis needless to tell My reason; but all of the Abbess speak well. Agatha: Through vineyards and cornfields beneath us, the Rhine Spreads and winds, silver-white, in the merry sunshine; And the air, overcharged with a subtle perfume, Grows faint from the essence of manifold bloom. Hugo: And the tinkling of bells, and the bleating of sheep, And the chaunt from the fields, where the labourers reap The earlier harvest, comes faint on the breeze, That whispers so faintly in hedgerows and trees. Orion: And a waggon wends slow to those turrets and spires, To feed the fat monks and the corpulent friars; It carries the corn, and the oil, and the wine, The honey and milk from the shores of the Rhine. The oxen are weary and spent with their load, They pause, but the driver doth recklessly goad; Up yon steep, flinty rise they have staggered and reeled, Even devils may pity dumb beasts of the field. 57 Agatha (sings): Oh! days and years departed, Vain hopes, vain fears that smarted, I turn to you sad-hearted — I turn to you in tears! Your daily sun shone brightly, Your happy dreams came nightly, Flowers bloomed and birds sang lightly, Through all your hopes and fears! You halted not, nor tarried, Your hopes have all miscarried, And even your fears are buried, Since fear with hope must die. You halted not, but hasted, And flew past, childhood wasted, And girlhood scarcely tasted, Now womanhood is nigh. Yet I forgive your wronging, Dead seasons round me thronging, With yearning and with longing, I call your bitters sweet. Vain longing, and vain yearning, There now is no returning; Oh! beating heart and burning, Forget to burn and beat! Oh! childish suns and showers, Oh! girlish thorns and flowers, Oh! fruitless days and hours, Oh! groundless hopes and fears: The birds still chirp and twitter, And still the sunbeams glitter: Oh! barren years and bitter, Oh! bitter, barren years! SCENE — The Summit of a Burning Mountain. Night. A terrific storm. ORION (undisguised). 58 Orion (sings): From fathomless depths of abysses, Where fires unquenchable burst, From the blackness of darkness, where hisses The brood of the serpent accurs'd; From shrines where the hymns are the weeping And wailing and gnashing of teeth, Where the palm is the pang never sleeping, Where the worm never dying is the wreath; Where all fruits save wickedness wither, Whence naught save despair can be gleaned — Come hither! come hither! come hither! Fall'n angel, fell sprite, and foul fiend. Come hither! the bands are all broken, And loosed in hell's innermost womb, When the spell unpronounceable spoken Divides the unspeakable gloom. Evil Spirits approach. The storm increases. Evil Spirits (singing): We hear thee, we seek thee, on pinions That darken the shades of the shade; Oh! Prince of the Air, with dominions Encompass'd, with powers array'd, With majesty cloth'd as a garment, Begirt with a shadowy shine, Whose feet scorch the hill-tops that are meant As footstools for thee and for thine. Orion (sings): How it swells through each pause of the thunder, And mounts through each lull of the gust, Through the crashing of crags torn asunder, And the hurtling of trees in the dust; With a chorus of loud lamentations, With its dreary and hopeless refrain! 'Tis the cry of all tongues and all nations, That suffer and shudder in vain. 59 Evil Spirits (singing): 'Tis the cry of all tongues and all nations; Our song shall chime in with their strain; Lost spirits blend their wild exultations With the sighing of mortals in pain. Orion (sings): With just light enough to see sorrows In this world, and terrors beyond, 'Twixt the day's bitter pangs and the morrow's Dread doubts, to despair and despond, Man lingers through toils unavailing For blessings that baffle his grasp; To his cradle he comes with a wailing, He goes to his grave with a gasp. Evil Spirits (singing): His birth is a weeping and wailing, His death is a groan and a gasp; O'er the seed of the woman prevailing, Thus triumphs the seed of the asp. SCENE — Chamber of a Wayside Inn. HUGO sitting alone. Evening. Hugo: And now the parting is over, The parting should end the pain; And the restless heart may recover, And so may the troubled brain. I am sitting within the chamber Whose windows look on the porch, Where the roses cluster and clamber; We halted here on our march With her to the convent going, And now I go back alone: Ye roses, budding and blowing, Ye heed not though she is flown. 60 I remember the girlish gesture, The sportive and childlike grace, With which she crumpled and pressed your Rose leaves to her rose-hued face. Shall I think on her ways hereafter — On those flashes of mirth and grief, On that April of tears and laughter, On our parting, bitterly brief? I remember the bell at sunrise, That sounded so solemnly, Bidding monk, and prelate, and nun rise; I rose ere the sun was high. Down the long, dark, dismal passage, To the door of her resting-place I went, on a farewell message, I trod with a stealthy pace. There was no one there to see us When she opened her chamber door. "Miserere, mei Deus", Rang faint from the convent choir. I remember the dark and narrow And scantily-furnished room; And the gleam, like a golden arrow — The gleam that lighted the gloom. One couch, one seat, and one table, One window, and only one — It stands in the eastern gable, It faces the rising sun; One ray shot through it, and one light On doorway and threshold played. She stood within in the sunlight, I stood without in the shade. I remember that bright form under The sheen of that slanting ray. I spoke — "For life we must sunder, Let us sunder without delay. Let us sever without preamble, As brother and sister part, For the sake of one pleasant ramble, 61 That will live in at least one heart." Still the choir in my ears rang faintly, In the distance dying away, Sweetly and sadly and saintly, Through arch and corridor grey! And thus we parted for ever, Between the shade and the shine; Not as brother and sister sever — I fondled her hands in mine. Still the choir in my ears rang deaden'd And dull'd, though audible yet; And she redden'd, and paled, and redden'd — Her lashes and lids grew wet. Not as brother severs from sister, My lips clung fast to her lips; She shivered and shrank when I kissed her. On the sunbeam drooped the eclipse. I remember little of the parting With the Abbot, down by the gate, My men were eager for starting; I think he pressed me to wait. From the lands where convent and glebe lie, From manors, and Church's right, Where I fought temptation so feebly, I, too, felt eager for flight. Alas! the parting is over — The parting, but not the pain — Oh! sweet was the purple clover, And sweet was the yellow grain; And sweet were the woody hollows On the summery Rhineward track; But a winter untimely swallows All sweets as I travel back. Yet I feel assured, in some fashion, Ere the hedges are crisp with rime, I shall conquer this senseless passion, 'Twill yield to toil and to time. I will fetter these fancies roaming; Already the sun has dipped; 62 I will trim the lamps in the gloaming, I will finish my manuscript. Through the nightwatch unflagging study Shall banish regrets perforce; As soon as the east is ruddy Our bugle shall sound "To Horse!" SCENE — Another Wayside House, Near the Norman Frontier. HUGO and ORION in a chamber. Evening. Orion: Your eyes are hollow, your step is slow, And your cheek is pallid as though from toil, Watching or fasting, by which I know That you have been burning the midnight oil. Hugo: Aye, three nights running. Orion: 'Twill never do To travel all day, and study all night; Will you join in a gallop through mist and dew, In a flight that may vie with the eagle's flight? Hugo: With all my heart. Shall we saddle "Rollo"? Orion: Nay, leave him undisturb'd in his stall; I have steeds he would hardly care to follow. Hugo: Follow, forsooth! he can lead them all. Orion: Touching his merits we will not quarrel; But let me mount you for once; enough Of work may await your favourite sorrel, And the paths we must traverse to-night are rough. 63 But first let me mix you a beverage, To invigorate your enfeebled frame. [He mixes a draught and hands it to Hugo.] All human ills this draught can assuage. Hugo: It hisses and glows like liquid flame; Say, what quack nostrum is this thou'st brewed? Speak out; I am learned in the chemist's lore. Orion: There is nothing but what will do you good; And the drugs are simples; 'tis hellebore, Nepenthe, upas, and dragon's blood, Absinthe, and mandrake, and mandragore. Hugo: I will drink it, although, by mass and rood, I am just as wise as I was before. SCENE — A Rough, Hilly Country. HUGO and ORION riding at speed on black horses. Mountains in the distance. Night. Hugo: See! the sparks that fly from our hoof-strokes make A fiery track that gleams in our wake; Like a dream the dim landscape past us shoots, Our horses fly. Orion: They are useful brutes, Though somewhat skittish; the foam is whit'ning The crest and rein of my courser "Lightning"; He pulls to-night, being short of work, And takes his head with a sudden jerk; Still heel and steady hand on the bit, For that is "Tempest" on which you sit. Hugo: 64 'Tis the bravest steed that ever I back'd; Did'st mark how he crossed yon cataract? From hoof to hoof I should like to measure The space he clear'd. Orion: He can clear at leisure A greater distance. Observe the chasm We are nearing. Ha! did you feel a spasm As we flew over it? Hugo: Not at all. Orion: Nathless 'twas an ugly place for a fall. Hugo: Let us try a race to yon mountain high, That rears its dusky peak 'gainst the sky. Orion: I won't disparage your horsemanship, But your steed will stand neither spur nor whip, And is hasty and hard to steer at times. We must travel far ere the midnight chimes; We must travel back ere the east is grey. Ho! "Lightning"! "Tempest"! Away! Away! [They ride on faster.] SCENE — A Peak in a Mountainous Country Overhanging a Rocky Pass. HUGO and ORION on black horses. Midnight. Hugo: These steeds are sprung from no common race, Their vigour seems to annihilate space; What hast thou brought me here to see? Orion: No boisterous scene of unhallow'd glee, No sabbat of witches coarse and rude, 65 But a mystic and musical interlude; You have long'd to explore the scrolls of Fate, Dismount, as I do, and listen and wait. [They dismount.] Orion (chanting): Spirits of earth, and air, and sea, Spirits unclean, and spirits untrue, By the symbols three that shall nameless be, One of your masters calls on you. Spirits (chanting in the distance): From the bowels of earth, where gleams the gold; From the air where the powers of darkness hold Their court; from the white sea-foam, Whence the white rose-tinted goddess sprung, Whom poets of every age have sung, Ever we come! we come! Hugo: How close to our ears the thunder peals! How the earth beneath us shudders and reels! A Voice (chanting): Woe to the earth! Where men give death! And women give birth! To the sons of Adam, by Cain or Seth! Plenty and dearth! To the daughters of Eve, who toil and spin, Barren of worth! Let them sigh, and sicken, and suffer sin! Woe to the earth! Hugo: What is yon phantom large and dim That over the mountain seems to swim? Orion: 'Tis the scarlet woman of Babylon! Hugo: Whence does she come? Where has she gone? 66 And who is she? Orion: You would know too much; These are subjects on which I dare not touch; And if I were to try and enlighten you, I should probably fail, and possibly frighten you. You had better ask some learned divine, Whose opinion is p'rhaps worth as much as mine, In his own conceit; and who, besides, Could tell you the brand of the beast she rides. What can you see in the valley yonder? Speak out; I can hear you, for all the thunder. Hugo: I see four shadowy altars rise, They seem to swell and dilate in size; Larger and clearer now they loom, Now fires are lighting them through the gloom. A Voice (chanting): The first a golden-hued fire shows, A blood-red flame on the second glows, The blaze on the third is tinged like the rose, From the fourth a column of black smoke goes. Orion: Can you see all this? Hugo: I see and hear; The lights and hues are vivid and clear. Spirits (sing at the first altar): Hail, Mammon! while man buys and barters, Thy kingdom in this world is sure; Thy prophets thou hast and thy martyrs, Great things in thy name they endure; Thy fetters of gold crush the miser, The usurer bends at thy shrine, And the wealthier nations and the wiser Bow with us at this altar of thine. Spirits (sing at the second altar): 67 Hail, Moloch! whose banner floats blood-red, From pole to equator unfurl'd, Whose laws redly written have stood red, And shall stand while standeth this world; Clad in purple, with thy diadem gory, Thy sceptre the blood-dripping steel, Thy subjects with us give thee glory, With us at thine altar they kneel. Spirits (sing at the third altar): Hail, Sovereign! whose fires are kindled By sparks from the bottomless pit, Has thy worship diminish'd or dwindled? Do the yokes of thy slaves lightly sit? Nay, the men of all climes and all races Are stirr'd by the flames that now stir us; Then (as we do) they fall on their faces, Crying, "Hear us! Oh! Ashtaroth, hear us!" Spirits (all in chorus): The vulture her carrion swallows, Returns to his vomit the dog. In the slough of uncleanliness wallows The he-goat, and revels the hog. Men are wise with their schools and their teachers, Men are just with their creeds and their priests; Yet, in spite of their pedants and preachers, They backslide in footprints of beasts! Hugo: From the smoky altar there seems to come A stifled murmur, a droning hum. Orion: With that we have nothing at all to do, Or, at least, not now, neither I nor you; Though some day or other, possibly We may see it closer, both you and I; Let us visit the nearest altar first, Whence the yellow fires flicker and burst, Like the flames from molten ore that spring; We may stand in the pale of the outer ring, 68 But forbear to trespass within the inner, Lest the sins of the past should find out the sinner. [They approach the first altar, and stand within the outer circle which surrounds it, and near the inner.] Spirits (sing): Beneath us it flashes, The glittering gold, Though it turneth to ashes And dross in the hold; Yet man will endeavour, By fraud or by strife, To grasp it and never To yield it with life. Orion: What can you see? Hugo: Some decrepit shapes, That are neither dwarfs, nor demons, nor apes; In the hollow earth they appear to store And rake together great heaps of ore. Orion: These are the gnomes, coarse sprites and rough; Come on, of these we have seen enough. [They approach second altar and stand as before.] Spirits (singing): Above us it flashes, The glittering steel, Though the red blood splashes Where its victims reel; Yet man will endeavour To grapple the hilt, And to wield the blade ever Till his life be spilt. Orion: What see you now? Hugo: A rocky glen, 69 A horrid jumble of fighting men, And a face that somewhere I've seen before. Orion: Come on; there is naught worth seeing more, Except the altar of Ashtaroth. Hugo: To visit that altar I am loth. Orion: Why so? Hugo: Nay, I cannot fathom why, But I feel no curiosity. Orion: Come on. Stand close to the inner ring, And hear how sweetly these spirits sing. [They approach third altar.] Spirits (sing): Around us it flashes, The cestus of one Born of white foam, that dashes Beneath the white sun; Let the mortal take heart, he Has nothing to dare; She is fair, Queen Astarte, Her subjects are fair! Orion: What see you now, friend? Hugo: Wood and wold, And forms that look like the nymphs of old. There is nothing here worth looking at twice. I have seen enough. Orion: You are far too nice; Nevertheless, you must look again. Those forms will fade. 70 Hugo: They are growing less plain. They vanish. I see a door that seems To open; a ray of sunlight gleams From a window behind; a vision as fair As the flush of dawn is standing there. [He gazes earnestly.] Orion (sings): Higher and hotter the white flames glow, And the adamant may be thaw'd like snow, And the life for a single chance may go, And the soul for a certainty. Oh! vain and shallow philosopher, Dost feel them quicken, dost feel them stir, The thoughts that have stray'd again to HER From whom thou hast sought to fly? Lo! the furnace is heated till sevenfold; Is thy brain still calm? Is thy blood still cold To the curls that wander in ripples of gold, On the shoulders of ivory? Do the large, dark eyes, and the small, red mouth, Consume thine heart with a fiery drouth, Like the fierce sirocco that sweeps from the south, When the deserts are parch'd and dry? Aye, start and shiver and catch thy breath, The sting is certain, the venom is death, And the scales are flashing the fruit beneath, And the fang striketh suddenly. At the core the ashes are bitter and dead, But the rind is fair and the rind is red, It has ever been pluck'd since the serpent said, Thou shalt NOT SURELY die. [Hugo tries to enter the inner ring; Orion holds him back; they struggle.] Hugo: Unhand me, slave! or quail to the rod! Agatha! Speak! in the name of God! 71 [The vision disappears; the altars vanish. Hugo falls insensible.] SCENE — The Wayside House. HUGO waking in his chamber. ORION unseen at first. Morning. Hugo: Vanish, fair and fatal vision! Fleeting shade of fever'd sleep, Chiding one whose indecision Waking substance failed to keep; Picture into life half starting, As in life once seen before, Parting somewhat sadly, parting Slowly at the chamber door. Were my waking senses duller? Have I seen with mental eye Light and shade, and warmth and colour, Plainer than reality? Sunlight that on tangled tresses Every ripple gilds and tips; Balm and bloom, and breath of kisses, Warm on dewy, scarlet lips. Dark eyes veiling half their splendour 'Neath their lashes' darker fringe, Dusky, dreamy, deep and tender, Passing smile and passing tinge; Dimpling fast and flushing faster, Ivory chin and coral cheek, Pearly strings, by alabaster Neck and arms made faint and weak; Drooping, downcast lids enduring Gaze of man unwillingly; Sudden, sidelong gleams alluring, Partly arch and partly shy. 72 Do I bless or curse that beauty? Am I longing, am I loth? Is it passion, is it duty That I strive with, one or both? Round about one fiery centre Wayward thoughts like moths revolve. [He sees Orion.] Ha! Orion, thou didst enter Unperceived. I pray thee solve These two questions: Firstly, tell me, Must I strive for wrong or right? Secondly, what things befell me — Facts, or phantasies — last night? Orion: First, your strife is all a sham, you Know as well as I which wins; Second, waking sins will damn you, Never mind your sleeping sins; Both your questions thus I answer; Listen, ere you seek or shun: I at least am no romancer, What you long for may be won. Turn again and travel Rhineward, Tread once more the flowery path. Hugo: Aye, the flowery path that, sinward Pointing, ends in sin and wrath. Orion: Songs by love-birds lightly caroll'd, Even the just man may allure. Hugo: To his shame; in this wise Harold Sinn'd, his punishment was sure. Orion: Nay, the Dane was worse than you are, Base and pitiless to boot; 73 Doubtless all are bad, yet few are Cruel, false, and dissolute. Hugo: Some sins foreign to our nature Seem; we take no credit when We escape them. Orion: Yet the creature, Sin-created, lives to sin. Hugo: Be it so; come good, come evil, Ride we to the Rhine again! Orion (aside): 'Gainst the logic of the devil Human logic strives in vain. SCENE — A Camp Near the Black Forest. RUDOLPH, OSRIC, DAGOBERT, and followers. ORION disguised as one of the Free-lances. Mid-day. Osric: Now, by axe of Odin, and hammer of Thor, And by all the gods of the Viking's war, I swear we have quitted our homes in vain: We have nothing to look to, glory nor gain. Will our galley return to Norway's shore With heavier gold, or with costlier store? Will our exploits furnish the scald with a song? We have travell'd too far, we have tarried too long. Say, captains all, is there ever a village For miles around that is worth the pillage? Will it pay the costs of my men or yours To harry the homesteads of German boors? Have we cause for pride in our feats of arms When we plunder the peasants or sack the farms? I tell thee, Rudolph of Rothenstein, 74 That were thy soldiers willing as mine, And I sole leader of this array, I would give Prince Otto battle this day. Dost thou call thy followers men of war? Oh, Dagobert! thou whose ancestor On the neck of the Caesar's offspring trod, Who was justly surnamed "The Scourge of God". Yet in flight lies safety. Skirmish and run To forest and fastness, Teuton and Hun, From the banks of the Rhine to the Danube's shore, And back to the banks of the Rhine once more; Retreat from the face of an armed foe, Robbing garden and hen-roost where'er you go. Let the short alliance betwixt us cease, I and my Norsemen will go in peace! I wot it never will suit with us, Such existence, tame and inglorious; I could live no worse, living single-handed, And better with half my men disbanded. Rudolph: Jarl Osric, what would'st thou have me do? 'Gainst Otto's army our men count few; With one chance of victory, fight, say I! But not when defeat is a certainty. If Rudiger joins us with his free-lances, Our chance will be equal to many chances; For Rudiger is both prompt and wary; And his men are gallant though mercenary; But the knave refuses to send a lance Till half the money is paid in advance. Dagobert: May his avarice wither him like a curse! I guess he has heard of our late reverse; But, Rudolph, whether he goes or stays, There is reason in what Jarl Osric says; Of provisions we need a fresh supply, And our butts and flasks are shallow or dry; My men are beginning to grumble sadly, 'Tis no wonder, since they must fare so badly. 75 Rudolph: We have plenty of foragers out, and still We have plenty of hungry mouths to fill; And, moreover, by some means, foul or fair, We must raise money; 'tis little I care, So long as we raise it, whence it comes. Osric: Shall we sit till nightfall biting our thumbs? The shortest plan is ever the best; Has anyone here got aught to suggest? Orion: The cornfields are golden that skirt the Rhine, Fat are the oxen, strong is the wine, In those pleasant pastures, those cellars deep, That o'erflow with the tears that those vineyards weep; Is it silver you stand in need of, or gold? Ingot or coin? There is wealth untold In the ancient convent of Englemehr; That is not so very far from here. The Abbot, esteem'd a holy man, Will hold what he has and grasp what he can; The cream of the soil he loves to skim, Why not levy a contribution on him? Dagobert: The stranger speaks well; not far away That convent lies; and one summer's day Will suffice for a horseman to reach the gate; The garrison soon would capitulate, Since the armed retainers are next to none, And the walls, I wot, may be quickly won. Rudolph: I kept those walls for two months or more, When they feared the riders of Melchior! That was little over three years ago. Their Abbot is thrifty, as well I know; He haggled sorely about the price Of our service. 76 Dagobert: Rudolph, he paid thee twice. Rudolph: Well, what of that? Since then I've tried To borrow from him; now I know he lied When he told me he could not spare the sum I asked. If we to his gates should come, He could spare it though it were doubled; and still, This war with the Church I like it ill. Osric: The creed of our fathers is well-nigh dead, And the creed of the Christian reigns in its stead But the creed of the Christian, too, may die, For your creeds or your churches what care I! If there be plunder at Englemehr, Let us strike our tents and thitherward steer. SCENE — A Farm-house on the Rhine (About a mile from the Convent). HUGO in chamber alone. Enter ERIC. Eric: What, Hugo, still at the Rhine! I thought You were home. You have travell'd by stages short. Hugo (with hesitation): Our homeward march was labour in vain, We had to retrace our steps again; It was here or hereabouts that I lost Some papers of value; at any cost I must find them; and which way lies your course? Eric: I go to recruit Prince Otto's force. I cannot study as you do; I Am wearied with inactivity; So I carry a blade engrim'd with rust (That a hand sloth-slacken'd has, I trust, Not quite forgotten the way to wield), 77 To strike once more on the tented field. Hugo: Fighting is all a mistake, friend Eric, And has been so since the age Homeric, When Greece was shaken and Troy undone, Ten thousand lives for a worthless one. Yet I blame you not; you might well do worse; Better fight and perish than live to curse The day you were born; and such has been The lot of many, and shall, I ween, Be the lot of more. If Thurston chooses He may go with you. The blockhead abuses Me and the life I lead. Enter ORION. Orion: Great news! The Englemehr monks will shake in their shoes; In the soles of their callous feet will shake The barefooted friars. The nuns will quake. Hugo: Wherefore? Orion: The outlaw of Rothenstein Has come with his soldiers to the Rhine, Back'd by those hardy adventurers From the northern forests of pines and firs, And Dagobert's horse. They march as straight As the eagle swoops to the convent gate. Hugo: We must do something to save the place. Orion: They are sure to take it in any case, Unless the sum that they ask is paid. Eric: Some effort on our part must be made. Hugo: 78 'Tis not so much for the monks I care. Eric: Nor I; but the Abbess and nuns are there. Orion: 'Tis not our business; what can we do? They are too many, and we are too few; And yet, I suppose, you will save, if you can, That lady, your ward, or your kinswoman. Hugo: She is no kinswoman of mine; How far is Otto's camp from the Rhine? Orion: Too far for help in such time of need To be brought, though you used your utmost speed. Eric: Nay, that I doubt. Hugo: And how many men Have they? Orion: To your one they could muster ten. Eric: I know Count Rudolph, and terms may be made With him, I fancy; for though his trade Is a rough one now, gainsay it who can, He was once a knight and a gentleman. And Dagobert, the chief of the Huns, Bad as he is, will spare the nuns; Though neither he nor the Count could check Those lawless men, should they storm and sack The convent. Jarl Osric, too, I know; He is rather a formidable foe, And will likely enough be troublesome; But the others, I trust, to terms will come. Hugo: 79 Eric, how many men have you? I can count a score. Eric: I have only two. Hugo: At every hazard we must try to save The nuns. Eric: Count Rudolph shall think we have A force that almost equals his own, If I can confer with him alone. Orion: He is close at hand; by this time he waits The Abbot's reply at the convent gates. Hugo: We had better send him a herald. Eric: Nay, I will go myself. [Eric goes out.] Hugo: Orion, stay! So this is the reed on which I've leaned, These are the hopes thou hast fostered, these The flames thou hast fanned. Oh, lying fiend! Is it thus thou dost keep thy promises? Orion: Strong language, Hugo, and most unjust; You will cry out before you are hurt — You will live to recall your words, I trust. Fear nothing from Osric or Dagobert, These are your friends, if you only knew it, And would take the advice of a friend sincere; Neglect his counsels and you must rue it, For I know by a sign the crisis is near. Accept the terms of these outlaws all, And be thankful that things have fallen out Exactly as you would have had them fall — You may save the one that you care about; 80 Otherwise, how did you hope to gain Access to her — on what pretence? What were the schemes that worried your brain To tempt her there or to lure her thence? You must have bungled, and raised a scandal About your ears, that might well have shamed The rudest Hun, the veriest Vandal, Long or ever the bird was tamed. Hugo: The convent is scarce surrounded yet, We might reach and hold it against their force Till another sun has risen and set; And should I despatch my fleetest horse To Otto —— Orion: For Abbot, or Monk, or Friar, Between ourselves, 'tis little you care If their halls are harried by steel and fire: Their avarice left your heritage bare. Forsake them! Mitres, and cowls, and hoods Will cover vices while earth endures; Through the green and gold of the summer woods Ride out with that pretty bird of yours. If again you fail to improve your chance, Why, then, my friend, I can only say You are duller far than the dullest lance That rides in Dagobert's troop this day. "Faemina semper", frown not thus, The girl was always giddy and wild, Vain, and foolish, and frivolous, Since she fled from her father's halls, a child. I sought to initiate you once In the mystic lore of the old Chaldean; But I found you far too stubborn a dunce, And your tastes are coarser and more plebeian. Yet mark my words, for I read the stars, And trace the future in yonder sky; To the right are wars and rumours of wars, To the left are peace and prosperity. Fear naught. The world shall never detect The cloven hoof, so carefully hid 81 By the scholar so staid and circumspect, So wise for once to do as he's bid. Remember what pangs come year by year For opportunity that has fled; And Thora in ignorance. Hugo: Name not her! I am sorely tempted to strike thee dead! Orion: Nay, I hardly think you will take my life, The angel Michael was once my foe; He had a little the best of our strife, Yet he never could deal so stark a blow. SCENE — A Chamber in the Nuns' Apartments of the Convent. AGATHA and URSULA. Agatha: My sire in my childhood pledged my hand To Hugo — I know not why — They were comrades then, 'neath the Duke's command, In the wars of Lombardy. I thought, ere my summers had turned sixteen, That mine was a grievous case; Save once, for an hour, I had never seen My intended bridegroom's face; And maidens vows of their own will plight. Unknown to my kinsfolk all My love was vowed to a Danish knight, A guest in my father's hall. His foot fell lightest in merry dance, His shaft never missed the deer; He could fly a hawk, he could wield a lance, Our wildest colt he could steer. His deep voice ringing through hall or glen Had never its match in song; And little was known of his past life then, Or of Dorothea's wrong. 82 I loved him — Lady Abbess, I know That my love was foolish now; I was but a child five years ago, And thoughtless as bird on bough. One evening Hugo the Norman came, And, to shorten a weary tale, I fled that night (let me bear the blame) With Harold by down and dale. He had mounted me on a dappled steed, And another of coal-black hue He rode himself; and away at speed We fled through mist and dew. Of miles we had ridden some half a score, We had halted beside a spring, When the breeze to our ears through the still night bore A distant trample and ring; We listen'd one breathing space, and caught The clatter of mounted men, With vigour renewed by their respite short Our horses dash'd through the glen. Another league, and we listen'd in vain; The breeze to our ears came mute; But we heard them again on the spacious plain, Faint tidings of hot pursuit. In the misty light of a moon half hid By the dark or fleecy rack, Our shadows over the moorland slid, Still listening and looking back. So we fled (with a cheering word to say At times as we hurried on), From sounds that at intervals died away, And at intervals came anon. Another league, and my lips grew dumb, And I felt my spirit quailing, For closer those sounds began to come, And the speed of my horse was failing. "The grey is weary and lame to boot," Quoth Harold; "the black is strong, And their steeds are blown with their fierce pursuit, What wonder! our start was long. Now, lady, behind me mount the black, 83 The double load he can bear; We are safe when we reach the forest track, Fresh horses and friends wait there." Then I sat behind him and held his waist, And faster we seemed to go By moss and moor; but for all our haste Came the tramp of the nearing foe. A dyke through the mist before us hover'd, And, quicken'd by voice and heel, The black overleap'd it, stagger'd, recover'd; Still nearer that muffled peal. And louder on sward the hoof-strokes grew, And duller, though not less nigh, On deader sand; and a dark speck drew On my vision suddenly, And a single horseman in fleet career, Like a shadow appear'd to glide To within six lances' lengths of our rear, And there for a space to bide. Quoth Harold, "Speak, has the moon reveal'd His face?" I replied, "Not so! Yet 'tis none of my kinsfolk." Then he wheel'd In the saddle and scanned the foe, And mutter'd, still gazing in our wake, "'Tis he; now I will not fight The brother again, for the sister's sake, While I can escape by flight." "Who, Harold?" I asked; but he never spoke. By the cry of the bittern harsh, And the bull-frog's dull, discordant croak, I guess'd that we near'd the marsh; And the moonbeam flash'd on watery sedge As it broke from a strip of cloud, Ragged and jagged about the edge, And shaped like a dead man's shroud. And flagg'd and falter'd our gallant steed, 'Neath the weight of his double burden, As we splash'd through water and crash'd through reed; Then the soil began to harden, And again we gain'd, or we seem'd to gain, With our foe in the deep morass; But those fleet hoofs thunder'd, and gain'd again, 84 When they trampled the firmer grass, And I cried, and Harold again look'd back, And bade me fasten mine eyes on The forest, that loom'd like a patch of black Standing out from the faint horizon. "Courage, sweetheart! we are saved," he said; "With the moorland our danger ends, And close to the borders of yonder glade They tarry, our trusty friends." Where the mossy uplands rise and dip On the edge of the leafy dell, With a lurch, like the lurch of a sinking ship, The black horse toppled and fell. Unharm'd we lit on the velvet sward, And even as I lit I lay, But Harold uprose, unsheath'd his sword, And toss'd the scabbard away. And spake through his teeth, "Good brother-in-law, Forbearance, at last, is spent; The strife that thy soul hath lusted for Thou shalt have to thy soul's content!" While he spoke, our pursuer past us swept, Ere he rein'd his war-horse proud, To his haunches flung, then to the earth he leapt, And my lover's voice rang loud: "Thrice welcome! Hugo of Normandy, Thou hast come at our time of need, This lady will thank thee, and so will I, For the loan of thy sorrel steed!" And never a word Lord Hugo said, They clos'd 'twixt the wood and the wold, And the white steel flickered over my head In the moonlight calm and cold; 'Mid the feathery grasses crouching low, With face bow'd down to the dust, I heard the clash of each warded blow, The click of each parried thrust, And the shuffling feet that bruis'd the lawn, As they traversed here and there, And the breath through the clench'd teeth heavily drawn When breath there was none to spare; 85 Sharp ringing sword play, dull, trampling heel, Short pause, spent force to regain, Quick muffled footfall, harsh grating steel, Sharp ringing rally again; They seem'd long hours, those moments fleet, As I counted them one by one, Till a dead weight toppled across my feet, And I knew that the strife was done. When I looked up, after a little space, As though from a fearful dream, The moon was flinging on Harold's face A white and a weird-like gleam; And I felt mine ankles moist and warm With the blood that trickled slow From a spot on the doublet beneath his arm, From a ghastly gash on his brow; I heard the tread of the sorrel's hoof As he bore his lord away; They passed me slowly, keeping aloof, Like spectres, misty and grey. I thought Lord Hugo had left me there To die, but it was not so; Yet then for death I had little care, My soul seem'd numb'd by the blow; A faintness follow'd, a sickly swoon, A long and a dreamless sleep, And I woke to the light of a sultry noon In my father's castled keep. And thus, Lady Abbess, it came to pass That my father vow'd his vow; Must his daughter espouse the Church? Alas! Is she better or wiser now? For some are feeble and others strong, And feeble am I and frail. Mother! 'tis not that I love the wrong, 'Tis not that I loathe the veil, But with heart still ready to go astray, If assail'd by a fresh temptation, I could sin again as I sinned that day, For a girl's infatuation. 86 See! Harold, the Dane, thou say'st is dead, Yet I weep NOT BITTERLY; As I fled with the Dane, so I might have fled With Hugo of Normandy. Ursula: My child, I advise no hasty vows, Yet I pray that in life's brief span Thou may'st learn that our Church is a fairer spouse Than fickle and erring man; Though fenced for a time by the Church's pale, When that time expires thou'rt free; And we cannot force thee to take the veil, Nay, we scarce can counsel thee. Enter the ABBOT hastily. Basil (the Abbot): I am sorely stricken with shame and grief, It has come by the self-same sign, A summons brief from the outlaw'd chief, Count Rudolph of Rothenstein. Lady Abbess, ere worse things come to pass, I would speak with thee alone; Alack and alas! for by the rood and mass I fear we are all undone. SCENE — A Farm-house Near the Convent. A Chamber furnished with writing materials. HUGO, ERIC, and THURSTON on one side; on the other OSRIC, RUDOLPH, and DAGOBERT. Osric: We have granted too much, ye ask for more; I am not skill'd in your clerkly lore, I scorn your logic; I had rather die Than live like Hugo of Normandy: I am a Norseman, frank and plain; Ye must read the parchment over again. 87 Eric: Jarl Osric, twice we have read this scroll. Osric: Thou hast read a part. Eric: I have read the whole. Osric: Aye, since I attached my signature! Eric: Before and since! Rudolph: Nay, of this be sure, Thou hast signed; in fairness now let it rest. Osric: I had rather have sign'd upon Hugo's crest; He has argued the question mouth to mouth With the wordy lore of the subtle south; Let him or any one of his band Come and argue the question hand to hand. With the aid of my battle-axe I will show That a score of words are not worth one blow. Thurston: To the devil with thee and thy battle-axe; I would send the pair of ye back in your tracks, With an answer that even to thy boorish brain Would scarce need repetition again. Osric: Thou Saxon slave to a milksop knight, I will give thy body to raven and kite. Thurston: Thou liest; I am a freeborn man, And thy huge carcase — in cubit and span Like the giant's of Gath — 'neath Saxon steel, Shall furnish the kites with a fatter meal. 88 Osric: Now, by Odin! Rudolph: Jarl Osric, curb thy wrath; Our names are sign'd, our words have gone forth. Hugo: I blame thee, Thurston. Thurston: And I, too, blame Myself, since I follow a knight so tame! [Thurston goes out.] Osric: The Saxon hound, he said I lied! Rudolph: I pray thee, good Viking, be pacified. Osric: Why do we grant the terms they ask? To crush them all were an easy task. Dagobert: That know'st thou not; if it come to war, They are stronger, perhaps, than we bargain for. Eric: Jarl Osric, thou may'st recall thy words — Should we meet again. Osric: Should we meet with swords, Thou, too, may'st recall them to thy sorrow. Hugo: Eric! we dally. Sir Count, good-morrow. SCENE — The Guest Chamber of the Convent. HUGO, ERIC, and ORION. 89 Eric: Hugo, their siege we might have tried; This place would be easier fortified Than I thought at first; it is now too late, They have cut off our access to the gate. Hugo: I have weigh'd the chances and counted the cost, And I know by the stars that all is lost If we take up this quarrel. Eric: So let it be! I yield to one who is wiser than me. (Aside.) Nevertheless, I have seen the day When the stars would scarcely have bade us stay. Enter the ABBOT, CYRIL, and other Monks. Hugo: Lord Abbot, we greet thee. Good fathers all, We bring you greeting. Orion (aside): And comfort small. Abbot: God's benediction on you, my sons. Hugo: May He save you, too, from Norsemen and Huns! Since the gates are beleaguer'd and walls begirt By the forces of Osric and Dagobert; 'Tis a heavy price that the knaves demand. Abbot: Were we to mortgage the Church's land We never could raise what they would extort. Orion (aside): The price is too long and the notice too short. Eric: 90 And you know the stern alternative. Abbot: If we die we die, if we live we live; God's will be done; and our trust is sure In Him, though His chast'nings we endure. Two messengers rode from here last night, To Otto they carry news of our plight; On my swiftest horses I saw them go. Orion (aside): Then his swiftest horses are wondrous slow. Eric: One of these is captive and badly hurt; By the reckless riders of Dagobert He was overtaken and well-nigh slain, Not a league from here on the open plain. Abbot: But the other escap'd. Eric: It may be so; We had no word of him, but we know That unless you can keep these walls for a day At least, the Prince is too far away To afford relief. Abbot: Then a hopeless case Is ours, and with death we are face to face. Eric: You have arm'd retainers. Cyril (a Monk): Aye, some half score; And some few of the brethren, less or more, Have in youth the brunt of the battle bided, Yet our armoury is but ill provided. Hugo: We have terms of truce from the robbers in chief, Though the terms are partial, the truce but brief; 91 To Abbess, to nuns, and novices all, And to every woman within your wall, We can offer escort, and they shall ride From hence in safety whate'er betide. Abbot: What escort, Hugo, canst thou afford? Hugo: Some score of riders who call me lord Bide at the farm not a mile from here, Till we rejoin them they will not stir; My page and armourer wait below, And all our movements are watch'd by the foe. Strict stipulation was made, of course, That, except ourselves, neither man nor horse Should enter your gates — they were keen to shun The chance of increasing your garrison. Eric: I hold safe conduct here in my hand, Signed by the chiefs of that lawless band; See Rudolph's name, no disgrace to a clerk, And Dagobert's scrawl, and Osric's mark; Jarl signed sorely against his will, With a scratch like the print of a raven's bill; But the foe have muster'd in sight of the gate. For another hour they will scarcely wait; Bid Abbess and dame prepare with haste. Hugo: Lord Abbot, I tell thee candidly There is no great love between thou and I, As well thou know'st; but, nevertheless, I would we were more, or thy foes were less. Abbot: I will summon the Lady Abbess straight. [The Abbot and Monks go out.] Eric: 'Tis hard to leave these men to their fate, 92 Norsemen and Hun will never relent; Their day of grace upon earth is spent. [Hugo goes out, followed by Orion.] SCENE — The Corridor Outside the Guest Chamber. HUGO pacing up and down. ORION leaning against the wall. Hugo: My day of grace with theirs is past. I might have saved them; 'tis too late — Too late for both. The die is cast, And I resign me to my fate. God's vengeance I await. Orion: The boundary 'twixt right and wrong Is not so easy to discern; And man is weak, and fate is strong, And destiny man's hopes will spurn, Man's schemes will overturn. Hugo: Thou liest, thou fiend! Not unawares The sinner swallows Satan's bait, Nor pits conceal'd nor hidden snares Seeks blindly; wherefore dost thou prate Of destiny and fate? Orion: Who first named fate? But never mind, Let that pass by — to Adam's fall And Adam's curse look back, and find Iniquity the lot of all, And sin original. Hugo: But I have sinn'd, repented, sinn'd, Till seven times that sin may be By seventy multiplied; the wind 93 Is constant when compared with me, And stable is the sea! My hopes are sacrificed, for what? For days of folly, less or more, For years to see those dead hopes rot, Like dead weeds scatter'd on the shore, Beyond the surfs that roar! Orion: The wiles of Eve are swift to smite; Aye, swift to smite and not to spare — Red lips and round limbs sweet and white, Dark eyes and sunny, silken hair, Thy betters may ensnare. Hugo: Not so; the strife 'twixt hell and heaven I felt last night, and well I knew The crisis; but my aid was given To hell. Thou'st known the crisis too, For once thou'st spoken true. Having foretold it, there remains For grace no time, for hope no room; Even now I seem to feel the pains Of hell, that wait beyond the gloom Of my dishonour'd tomb. Thou who hast lived and died to save, Us sinners, Christ of Galilee! Thy great love pardon'd and forgave The dying thief upon the tree, Thou canst not pardon me! Dear Lord! hear Thou my latest prayer, For prayer must die since hope is dead; Thy Father's vengeance let me bear, Nor let my guilt be visited Upon a guiltless head! Ah! God is just! Full sure I am 94 He never did predestinate Our souls to hell. Ourselves we damn — [To Orion, with sudden passion] Serpent! I know thee now, too late; Curse thee! Work out thy hate! Orion: I hate thee not; thy grievous plight Would move my pity, but I bear A curse to which thy curse seems light! Thy wrong is better than my right, My day is darker than thy night; Beside the whitest hope I share How white is thy despair! SCENE — The Chapel of the Convent. URSULA, AGATHA, Nuns and Novices. (Hymn of the Nuns): Jehovah! we bless Thee, All works of Thine hand Extol Thee, confess Thee; By sea and by land, By mountain and river, By forest and glen, They praise Thee for ever! And ever! Amen! The heathen are raging Against Thee, O Lord! The ungodly are waging Rash war against God! Arise, and deliver Us, sheep of Thy pen, Who praise Thee for ever! And ever! Amen! Thou Shepherd of Zion! 95 Thy firstlings didst tear From jaws of the lion, From teeth of the bear; Thy strength to deliver Is strong now as then. We praise Thee for ever! And ever! Amen! Thine arm hath delivered Thy servants of old, Hath scatter'd and shiver'd The spears of the bold, Hath emptied the quiver Of bloodthirsty men. We praise Thee for ever! And ever! Amen! Nathless shall Thy right hand Those counsels fulfil Most wise in Thy sight, and We bow to Thy will; Thy children quail never For dungeon or den, They praise Thee for ever! And ever! Amen! Though fierce tribulation Endure for a space, Yet God! our salvation! We gain by Thy grace, At end of life's fever, Bliss passing man's ken; There to praise Thee for ever! And ever! Amen! SCENE — The Guest Room of the Convent. HUGO, ERIC, and ORION. Enter URSULA, AGATHA, and Nuns. Ursula: 96 Hugo, we reject thine offers, Not that we can buy Safety from the Church's coffers, Neither can we fly. Far too great the price they seek is, Let their lawless throng Come, we wait their coming; weak is Man, but God is strong. Eric: Think again on our proposals: It will be too late When the robbers hold carousals On this side the gate. Ursula: For myself I speak and others Weak and frail as I; We will not desert our brothers In adversity. Hugo (to the Nuns): Does the Abbess thus advance her Will before ye all? A Nun: We will stay. Hugo: Is this thine answer, Agatha? The wall Is a poor protection truly, And the gates are weak, And the Norsemen most unruly. Come, then. A Nun (to Agatha): Sister, speak! Orion (aside to Hugo): Press her! She her fears dissembling, Stands irresolute; She will yield — her limbs are trembling, Though her lips are mute. 97 [A trumpet is heard without.] Eric: Hark! their savage war-horn blowing Chafes at our delay. Hugo: Agatha, we must be going. Come, girl! Agatha (clinging to Ursula): Must I stay? Ursula: Nay, my child, thou shalt not make me Judge; I cannot give Orders to a novice. Agatha: Take me, Hugo! Let me live! Eric (to Nuns): Foolish women! will ye tarry, Spite of all we say? Hugo: Must we use our strength and carry You by force away? Ursula: Bad enough thou art, Sir Norman, Yet thou wilt not do This thing. Shame! — on men make war, man, Not on women few. Eric: Heed her not — her life she barters, Of her free accord, For her faith; and, doubtless, martyrs Have their own reward. Ursula: In the Church's cause thy father 98 Never grudged his blade — Hugo, did he rue it? Orion: Rather! He was poorly paid. Hugo: Abbess, this is not my doing; I have said my say; How can I avert the ruin, Even for a day, Since they count two hundred fairly, While we count a score; And thine own retainers barely Count a dozen more? Agatha (kneeling to Ursula): Ah! forgive me, Lady Abbess, Bless me ere I go; She who under sod and slab is Lying, cold and low, Scarce would turn away in anger From a child so frail; Not dear life, but deadly danger, Makes her daughter quail. Hugo: Eric, will those faces tearful To God's judgment seat Haunt us? Eric: Death is not so fearful. Hugo: No, but life is sweet — Sweet for once, to me, though sinful. Orion (to Hugo): Earth is scant of bliss; Wisest he who takes his skinful When the chance is his. (To Ursula): Lady Abbess! stay and welcome 99 Osric's savage crew; Yet when pains of death and hell come, Thou thy choice may'st rue. Ursula (to Orion): What dost thou 'neath roof-trees sacred? Man or fiend, depart! Orion: Dame, thy tongue is sharp and acrid, Yet I bear the smart. Ursula (advancing and raising up a crucifix): I conjure thee by this symbol Leave us! [Orion goes out hastily.] Hugo: Ha! the knave, He has made an exit nimble; Abbess! thou art brave. Yet once gone, we're past recalling, Let no blame be mine. See, thy sisters' tears are falling Fast, and so are thine. Ursula: Fare you well! The teardrop splashes Vainly on the ice. Ye will sorrow o'er our ashes And your cowardice. Eric: Sorry am I, yet my sorrow Cannot alter fate; Should Prince Otto come to-morrow, He will come too late. Hugo: Nay, old comrade, she hath spoken Words we must not hear; Shall we pause for sign or token — Taunted twice with fear? 100 Yonder, hilt to hilt adjusted, Stand the swords in which we trusted Years ago. Their blades have rusted, So, perchance, have we. Ursula! thy words may shame us, Yet we once were counted famous, Morituri, salutamus, Aut victuri, te! [They go out.] SCENE — The Outskirts of Rudolph's Camp. RUDOLPH, OSRIC, and DAGOBERT. HUGO. Rudolph: Lord Hugo! thy speech is madness; Thou hast tax'd our patience too far; We offer'd thee peace — with gladness, We gladly accept thy war. Dagobert: And the clemency we extended To thee and thine we recall; And the treaty 'twixt us is ended — We are ready to storm the wall. Osric: Now tear yon parchment to tatters; Thou shalt make no further use Of our safeguard; the wind that scatters The scroll shall scatter the truce. Hugo: Jarl Osric, to save the spilling Of blood, and the waste of life, I am willing, if thou art willing, With thee to decide this strife; Let thy comrades draw their force back; I defy thee to single fight, I will meet thee on foot or horseback, And God shall defend the right. 101 Rudolph: No single combat shall settle This strife; thou art overbold — Thou hast put us all on our mettle, Now the game in our hands we hold. Dagobert: Our lances round thee have hover'd, Have seen where thy fellows bide; Thy weakness we have discover'd, Thy nakedness we have spied. Osric: And hearken, knight, to my story — When sack'd are the convent shrines, When the convent thresholds are gory, And quaff'd are the convent wines: When our beasts with pillage are laden, And the clouds of our black smoke rise From yon tower, one fair-haired maiden Is singled as Osric's prize. I will fit her with chain and collar Of red gold, studded with pearls; With bracelet of gold, Sir Scholar, The queen of my captive girls. Hugo (savagely): May the Most High God of battles The Lord and Ruler of fights, Who breaketh the shield that rattles, Who snappeth the sword that smites, In whose hands are footmen and horsemen, At whose breath they conquer or flee, Never show me His mercy, Norseman! If I show mercy to thee. Osric: What, ho! art thou drunk, Sir Norman? Has the wine made thy pale cheek red? Now, I swear by Odin and Thor, man, Already I count thee dead. 102 Rudolph: I crave thy pardon for baulking The flood of thine eloquence, But thou canst not scare us with talking, I therefore pray thee go hence. Osric: Though I may not take up thy gauntlet, Should we meet where the steel strikes fire, 'Twixt thy casque and thy charger's frontlet The choice will perplex thy squire. Hugo: When the Norman rowels are goading, When glitters the Norman glaive, Thou shalt call upon Thor and Odin: They shall not hear thee nor save. "Should we meet!" Aye, the chance may fall so, In the furious battle drive, So may God deal with me — more, also! If we separate, both alive! SCENE — The Court-yard of the Old Farm. EUSTACE and other followers of HUGO and ERIC lounging about. Enter THURSTON hastily, with swords under his arm. Thurston: Now saddle your horses and girth them tight, And see that your weapons are sharp and bright. Come, lads, get ready as fast as you can. Eustace: Why, what's this bustle about, old man? Thurston: Well, it seems Lord Hugo has changed his mind, As the weathercock veers with the shifting wind; He has gone in person to Osric's camp, 103 To tell him to pack up his tents and tramp! But I guess he won't. Eustace: Then I hope he will, They are plenty to eat us, as well as to kill. Ralph: And I hope he won't — I begin to feel A longing to moisten my thirsty steel. [They begin to saddle and make preparations for a skirmish.] Thurston: I've a couple of blades to look to here. In their scabbards I scarcely could make them stir At first, but I'll sharpen them both ere long. A Man-at-arms: Hurrah for a skirmish! Who'll give us a song? Thurston (sings, cleaning and sharpening): Hurrah! for the sword! I hold one here, And I scour at the rust and say, 'Tis the umpire this, and the arbiter, That settles in the fairest way; For it stays false tongues and it cools hot blood, And it lowers the proud one's crest; And the law of the land is sometimes good, But the law of the sword is best. In all disputes 'tis the shortest plan, The surest and best appeal; — What else can decide between man and man? (Chorus of all): Hurrah! for the bright blue steel! Thurston (sings): Hurrah! for the sword of Hugo, our lord! 'Tis a trusty friend and a true; It has held its own on a grassy sward, When its blade shone bright and blue, Though it never has stricken in anger hard, 104 And has scarcely been cleansed from rust, Since the day when it broke through Harold's guard With our favourite cut and thrust; Yet Osric's crown will look somewhat red, And his brain will be apt to reel, Should the trenchant blade come down on his head — (Chorus of all): Hurrah! for the bright blue steel! Thurston (sings): Hurrah! for the sword of our ally bold, It has done good service to him; It has held its own on an open wold, When its edge was in keener trim. It may baffle the plots of the wisest skull, It may slacken the strongest limb, Make the brains full of forethought void and null, And the eyes full of far-sight dim; And the hasty hands are content to wait, And the knees are compelled to kneel, Where it falls with the weight of a downstroke straight — (Chorus of all): Hurrah! for the bright blue steel! Thurston (sings): Hurrah! for the sword — I've one of my own; And I think I may safely say, Give my enemy his, let us stand alone, And our quarrel shall end one way; One way or the other — it matters not much, So the question be fairly tried. Oh! peacemaker good, bringing peace with a touch, Thy clients will be satisfied. As a judge, thou dost judge — as a witness, attest, And thou settest thy hand and seal, And the winner is blest, and the loser at rest — (Chorus of all): Hurrah! for the bright blue steel! [Hugo and Eric enter during the last verse 105 of the song.] Hugo: Boot and saddle, old friend, Their defiance they send; Time is short — make an end Of thy song. Let the sword in this fight Strike as hard for the right As it once struck for might Leagued with wrong. Ha! Rollo, thou champest Thy bridle and stampest, For the rush of the tempest Dost long? Ho! the kites will grow fatter On the corpses we scatter, In the paths where we shatter Their throng. Where Osric, the craven, Hath reared the black raven 'Gainst monks that are shaven And cowl'd: Where the Teuton and Hun sit, In the track of our onset, Will the wolves, ere the sunset, Have howl'd. Retribution is good, They have revell'd in blood, Like the wolves of the wood They have prowl'd. Birds of prey they have been, And of carrion unclean, And their own nests (I ween) They have foul'd. Eric: Two messengers since Yestermorn have gone hence, 106 And ere long will the Prince Bring relief. Shall we pause? — they are ten To our one, but their men Are ill-arm'd, and scarce ken Their own chief; And for this we give thanks: Their disorderly ranks, If assail'd in the flanks, Will as lief Run as fight — loons and lords. Hugo: Mount your steeds! draw your swords! Take your places! My words Shall be brief: Ride round by the valley, Through pass and gorge sally — The linden trees rally Beneath. Then, Eric and Thurston, Their ranks while we burst on, Try which will be first on The heath. (Aside) Look again, mother mine, Through the happy starshine, For my sins dost thou pine? With my breath, See! thy pangs are all done, For the life of thy son: Thou shalt never feel one For his death. [They all go out but Hugo, who lingers to tighten his girths. Orion appears suddenly in the gateway.] Orion: Stay, friend! I keep guard on Thy soul's gates; hold hard on Thy horse. Hope of pardon 107 Hath fled! Bethink once, I crave thee, Can recklessness save thee? Hell sooner will have thee Instead. Hugo: Back! My soul, tempest-toss'd, Hath her Rubicon cross'd, She shall fly — saved or lost! Void of dread! Sharper pang than the steel, Thou, oh, serpent! shalt feel, Should I set the bruised heel On thy head. [He rides out.] SCENE — A Room in the Convent Tower Overlooking the Gate. URSULA at the window. AGATHA and Nuns crouching or kneeling in a corner. Ursula: See, Ellinor! Agatha! Anna! While yet for the ladders they wait, Jarl Osric hath rear'd the black banner Within a few yards of the gate; It faces our window, the raven, The badge of the cruel sea-kings, That has carried to harbour and haven Destruction and death on its wings. Beneath us they throng, the fierce Norsemen, The pikemen of Rudolph behind Are mustered, and Dagobert's horsemen With faces to rearward inclined; Come last, on their coursers broad-chested, Rough-coated, short-pastern'd and strong, Their casques with white plumes thickly crested, Their lances barb-headed and long: They come through the shades of the linden, Fleet riders and war-horses hot: 108 The Normans, our friends — we have sinn'd in Our selfishness, sisters, I wot — They come to add slaughter to slaughter, Their handful can ne'er stem the tide Of our foes, and our fate were but shorter Without them. How fiercely they ride! And "Hugo of Normandy!" "Hugo!" "A rescue! a rescue!" rings loud, And right on the many the few go! A sway and a swerve of the crowd! A springing and sparkling of sword-blades! A crashing and 'countering of steeds! And the white feathers fly 'neath their broad blades Like foam-flakes! the spear-shafts like reeds! A Nun (to Agatha): Pray, sister! Agatha: Alas! I have striven To pray, but the lips move in vain When the heart with such terror is riven. Look again, Lady Abbess! Look again! Ursula: As leaves fall by wintry gusts scatter'd, As fall by the sickle ripe ears, As the pines by the whirlwind fall shatter'd, As shatter'd by bolt fall the firs — To the right hand they fall, to the left hand They yield! They go down! they give back! And their ranks are divided and cleft, and Dispers'd and destroy'd in the track! Where, stirrup to stirrup, and bridle To bridle, down-trampling the slain! Our friends, wielding swords never idle, Hew bloody and desperate lane Through pikemen, so crowded together They scarce for their pikes can find room, Led by Hugo's gilt crest, the tall feather Of Thurston, and Eric's black plume! A Nun (to Agatha): 109 Pray, sister! Agatha: First pray thou that heaven Will lift this dull weight from my brain, That crushes like crime unforgiven. Look again, Lady Abbess! Look again! Ursula: Close under the gates men are fighting On foot where the raven is rear'd! 'Neath that sword-stroke, through helm and skull smiting, Jarl Osric falls, cloven to the beard! And Hugo, the hilt firmly grasping, His heel on the throat of his foe, Wrenches back. I can hear the dull rasping, The steel through the bone grating low! And the raven rocks! Thurston has landed Two strokes, well directed and hard, On the standard pole, wielding, two-handed, A blade crimson'd up to the guard. Like the mast cut in two by the lightning, The black banner topples and falls! Bewildering! back-scattering! affright'ning! It clears a wide space next the walls. A Nun (to Agatha): Pray, sister! Agatha: Does the sinner unshriven, With naught beyond this life to gain, Pray for mercy on earth or in heaven? Look again, Lady Abbess! Look again! Ursula: The gates are flung open, and straightway, By Ambrose and Cyril led on, Our own men rush out through the gateway; One charge, and the entrance is won! No! our foes block the gate and endeavour To force their way in! Oath and yell, Shout and war-cry wax wilder than ever! Those children of Odin fight well; 110 And my ears are confused by the crashing, The jarring, the discord, the din; And mine eyes are perplex'd by the flashing Of fierce lights that ceaselessly spin; So when thunder to thunder is calling, Quick flash follows flash in the shade, So leaping and flashing and falling, Blade flashes and follows on blade! While the sward, newly plough'd, freshly painted, Grows purple with blood of the slain, And slippery! Has Agatha fainted? Agatha: Not so, Lady Abbess! Look again! Ursula: No more from the window; in the old years I have look'd upon strife. Now I go To the court-yard to rally our soldiers As I may — face to face with the foe. [She goes out.] SCENE — A Room in the Convent. THURSTON seated near a small fire. Enter EUSTACE. Eustace: We have come through this skirmish with hardly a scratch. Thurston: And without us, I fancy, they have a full batch Of sick men to look to. Those robbers accurs'd Will soon put our soundest on terms with our worst. Nathless I'd have bartered, with never a frown, Ten years for those seconds when Osric went down. Where's Ethelwolf? Eustace: Dying. 111 Thurston: And Reginald? Eustace: Dead. And Ralph is disabled, and Rudolph is sped. He may last till midnight — not longer. Nor Tyrrel, Nor Brian will ever see sunrise. Thurston: That Cyril, The monk, is a very respectable fighter. Eustace: Not bad for a monk. Yet our loss had been lighter Had he and his fellows thrown open the gate A little more quickly. And now, spite of fate, With thirty picked soldiers their siege we might weather, But the Abbess is worth all the rest put together. [Enter Ursula.] Thurston: Here she comes. Ursula: Can I speak with your lord? Eustace: 'Tis too late, He was dead when we carried him in at the gate. Thurston: Nay, he spoke after that, for I heard him myself; But he won't speak again, he must lie on his shelf. Ursula: Alas! is he dead, then? Thurston: As dead as St. Paul. And what then? to-morrow we, too, one and all, Die, to fatten these ravenous carrion birds. I knelt down by Hugo and heard his last words: "How heavy the night hangs — how wild the waves dash; Say a mass for my soul — and give Rollo a mash." Ursula: 112 Nay, Thurston, thou jestest. Thurston: Ask Eric. I swear We listened and caught every syllable clear. Eustace: Why, his horse was slain, too. Thurston: 'Neath the linden trees grey, Ere the onset, young Henry rode Rollo away; He will hasten the Prince, and they may reach your gate To-morrow — though to-morrow for us is too late. Hugo rode the boy's mare, and she's dead — if you like — Disembowel'd by the thrust of a freebooter's pike. Eustace: Neither Henry nor Rollo we ever shall see. Ursula: But we may hold the walls till to-morrow. Thurston: Not we. In an hour or less, having rallied their force, They'll storm your old building — and take it, of course, Since of us, who alone in war's science are skill'd, One-third are disabled, and two-thirds are kill'd. Ursula: Art thou hurt? Thurston: At present I feel well enough, But your water is brackish, unwholesome and rough; Bring a flask of your wine, dame, for Eustace and I, Let us gaily give battle and merrily die. [Enter Eric, with arm in sling.] Eric: Thou art safe, Lady Abbess! The convent is safe! To be robbed of their prey how the ravens will chafe! The vanguard of Otto is looming in sight! At the sheen of their spears, see! thy foemen take flight, Their foremost are scarce half a mile from the wall. 113 Thurston: Bring the wine, lest those Germans should swallow it all. SCENE — The Chapel of the Convent. Dirge of the Monks: Earth to earth, and dust to dust, Ashes unto ashes go. Judge not. He who judgeth just, Judgeth merciful also. Earthly penitence hath fled, Earthly sin hath ceased to be; Pile the sods on heart and head, Miserere Domine! Hominum et angelorum, Domine! precamur te Ut immemor sis malorum — Miserere Domine! (Miserere!) Will the fruits of life brought forth, Pride and greed, and wrath and lust, Profit in the day of wrath, When the dust returns to dust? Evil flower and thorny fruit Load the wild and worthless tree. Lo! the axe is at the root, Miserere Domine! Spes, fidesque, caritasque, Frustra fatigant per se, Frustra virtus, forsque, fasque, Miserere Domine! (Miserere!) Fair without and foul within, When the honey'd husks are reft From the bitter sweets of sin, 114 Bitterness alone is left; Yet the wayward soul hath striven Mostly hell's ally to be, In the strife 'twixt hell and heaven, Miserere Domine! Heu! heu! herba latet anguis — Caro herba — carni vae — Solum purgat, Christi sanguis, Miserere Domine! (Miserere!) Pray that in the doubtful fight Man may win through sore distress, By His goodness infinite, And His mercy fathomless. Pray for one more of the weary, Head bow'd down and bended knee, Swell the requiem, Miserere! Miserere Domine! Bonum, malum, qui fecisti Mali imploramus te, Salve fratrem, causa Christi, Miserere Domine! (Miserere!) [End of Ashtaroth.] ~ Adam Lindsay Gordon

342: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