The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere :: :: University of Virginia Library

I. THE TOMB OF AGAMEMNON.—1.

Two peaks I saw: one eminent in light;
The other shrouded by the shadow thrown
From his great brother's bosom on his own:
They stood, as Life to Death or Day to Night
Opposed. Descending from their common height
The mountain rivulet clasped with gentle moan
A funeral vault in vernal bravery dight—
Through the dim arch a low faint breeze was blown:
Not fainter through his murderer's hair unshaken
Breathed once the sleeping King! Sad odours blended
With that faint breeze: poppies on high suspended
Their dark lamps fed as with Elysian oil:
While bees low murmured, like the whispering coil
Round the sick bed of one men fear to waken!

II. THE TOMB OF AGAMEMNON.—2.

‘Ah, fair Briseis! that long, backward gaze
On thy Love thrown so silently, was vain:
Ah, sad Cassandra! little didst thou gain,
Spelling the terror of the future days:
Foresight is woe foretasted: Sight betrays:
That which we touch is ours: and to retain
That little (so man's life Disaster sways)
Were hard as water in the palm to strain.
The Fates do mock us.’—

King of Men! thine ear
From Troy's death-cry stern wisdom gathered hath:
Look up! a Form bends dreadful o'er thy bath!
An axe she bears, and death is in her eyes.
The Fates demand thee! they whom the Gods fear—
Thee the great Gods give up—their Sacrifice!

III. A STATUE OF JUNO.

That breadth and amplitude of brow uncrowned;
Those awful lids, lifted, nor e'er to close:
Those orbs that on their own calm gaze repose;
Those lips sedate though wreathed with smiles around:
That grand expanse of breast, wherein, enthroned,
Majesty dwells, and peaceful pleasure grows
And spreads, unheaving its Olympian snows
Against that marble zone, their sacred bound;
These, and the tall spear like a sceptre grasped,
Making a firm foot firmer; and the mien
Divine, and sphere in one large hand enclasped,
Fitly announce and without words rehearse
The Matron Ruler of the World, the Queen
Of Gods, and Mistress of the Universe!

IV. THE THEATRE AT ARGOS.

This rock-hewn theatre, yon stage-like plain,
Are not unpeopled: onward in my trance
From those blue mountains to the glimmering main
A mightier theatre, bright hosts advance;
The old Homeric hosts, with spear and lance:
The brother monarchs lead the glorious train
Car-borne—a herald leans on either rein:
Clear rings the trump: bright crests in myriads dance.
O'er Juno's Argolis the Sun is set:
Her car is here; her tempest-footed steeds:
Still on that poppied stone her victim bleeds:
Shoreward her Argive ranks are rushing yet;
Down the grey sands the last black ship has grated—
And now, woe, woe to Troy—her fall is fated!

V. THE TOMB OF THEMISTOCLES AT THE PIRÆUS.

The Sun is slowly sinking—it is set—
Yet still yon mountain range of Megara
(Like one that on his palate strives to stay
A taste forgone) retains, purpureal yet,
The sweet remembrance: crimsoned, the waves fret
Against those far-famed Walls that gird the bay,
Marmoreal record of a mightier day
When, pushed above that rocky parapet
In one elliptic wave of blood-stained brine,
This gulf, beneath the unwonted weight accurst
Of Persia's myriad ships, bounded and burst,
And, sinking, left more high its sanguine line
Than yonder margin where the Athenian's grave
Still in its secret joy engulfs the applauding wave!

VI. SOPHOCLES.

Alone I wandered through a city lone,
(The tomb august, and monumental state
Of Empire passed away and desolate)
To where, 'mid crumbling frieze, and columns prone.
Down a great Temple-court the shades were thrown
Of seven majestic Statues calm as Fate:
The mouldering altar, like a snowy zone
They girt: I midmost in that circle sate.
One was a King; and regal though uncrowned,
Low-bent he stood, standing as if he slept,
With blinded eyes, and chains his feet around:
Another was a royal Maid, who kept
Her eyes upon an urn funereal pressed
By both her marble hands deep deep into her breast.

VII. ÆSCHYLUS.

A sea-cliff carved into a bas-relief!
Dark thoughts and sad, conceived by brooding Nature;
Brought forth in storm:—dread shapes of Titan stature,
Emblems of Fate, and Change, Revenge, and Grief,
And Death, and Life:—a caverned Hieroglyph
Confronting still with thunder-blasted frieze
All stress of years, and winds, and wasting seas:—
The stranger nears it in his fragile skiff
And hides his eyes. Few, few shall pass, great Bard,
Thy dim sea-portals! Entering, fewer yet
Shall pierce thy mystic meanings, deep and hard:
But these shall owe to thee an endless debt:
The Eleusinian caverns they shall tread
That wind beneath man's heart; and wisdom learn with dread.

VIII. THE SUN GOD.

I saw the Master of the Sun. He stood
High in his luminous car, himself more bright;
An Archer of immeasurable might:
On his left shoulder hung his quivered load;
Spurned by his Steeds the eastern mountain glowed;
Forward his eager eye, and brow of light
He bent; and, while both hands that arch embowed,
Shaft after shaft pursued the flying Night.
No wings profaned that godlike form: around
His neck high held an ever-moving crowd
Of locks hung glistening: while such perfect sound
Fell from his bowstring, that th' ethereal dome
Thrilled as a dewdrop; and each passing cloud
Expanded, whitening like the ocean foam.

IX. URANIA.

Urania! Voice of Heaven, sidereal Muse!—
Lo, through the dark vault issuing from afar,
She comes, reclining on a lucid star:
Her dark eyes, trembling through celestial dews,
The glory of high thoughts far off diffuse:
While the bright surges of her refluent hair
Stream back, upraised upon sustaining air
Which lifts that scarf deep-dyed in midnight hues
To a wide arch above her hung like heaven.
I closed my eyes. Athwart me, like a blast,
Music as though of jubilant gods was driven.
Once more I gazed. That form divine had passed
Earth's dark confine. The ocean's utmost rim
Burned yet a moment: then the world grew dim.

X. THE ACROPOLIS OF ATHENS.—1.

All ye who seek the famed Acropolis,
First bathe in old Ilyssus, Muse-loved stream,
Whilst yet it laughs in Citherea's beam,
Lifting its cheek to catch her fugitive kiss:
There drown all thoughts save thoughts of mirth and bliss!
Fanciful sighs for rites of old supreme—
Now past—blow from you like an idle dream:
That which yon Summit ever was it is.
Entwine your heads with myrtle: with light heart
(A joyful band and deeming joy a duty)
Ascend that fairest hill which Earth sustains.
A giant Altar vowed to sovran Art
It stands; its sacred Offerings sun-clad Fanes,
To Beauty raised—owning no God but Beauty!

XI. THE ACROPOLIS OF ATHENS.—2.

Pallas Athena! deep of soul and wise!
Mighty in thought and act; severe of breast;
To this high fane, thine ancient region's crest,
Descend, and roll once more thine azure eyes
O'er th' Olive land, remembering well those ties
Which lured thee hither from the World's wide quest,
And reared thy seat of venerable rest
Under the equal arch of those broad skies!
Leave it not ever—round thee stand the mountains;
Bright as thy shield when it becomes thy mirror,
For victory arming, gleams yon purple Sea:
Nor silent yet the old poetic fountains—
Make thou thy Sons, redeemed from ancient Error
And recent bonds, more vile—strong, pure, and free!

XII. THE PRISON OF SOCRATES.

(A CAVE OPPOSITE TO THE ACROPOLIS.)

Pious the memory, or, if fabulous,
The Mythos reverent which such spot assigned
Prison of him the wisest of his kind,
Self-dedicated to the grave: for thus,
By setting suns touched with light dolorous
Thy countenance, Pallas, as the day declined
Was turned, dread image of a sorrowing mind,
On him—as Fancy turns it now on us.
But Wisdom's self in all its might and glory
On him for ever without shadow shone,
In Life as Death. No need of song or story—
Authentic or imagined needeth none!
Truth bent from Heaven, and fixed on him for aye
That gaze whose light is everlasting Day.

XIII. WRITTEN WHILE SAILING ON THE GULF OF LEPANTO.

All around they lie, deep breath to breath replying,
Those outworn seamen in their well-earned sleep:
From the blue concave to the dim blue deep
No sound beside. Fluttering all night, or sighing,
Since morn the breeze delicious hath been dying,
And now is dead. On yonder snowy steep
The majesty of Day diffused is lying;
While Evening's Powers in silence seaward creep
From glens that violet-shade the lilac vest
Of Delphi's hills. Ye mariners, sleep well!
Run slowly, golden sands, and noiselessly!
There stands the great Corinthian citadel:
Parnassus there: Rest, wearied pinnace, rest!
Sleep, sacred air! sleep on, marmoreal sea!

XIV. THE SETTING OF THE MOON NEAR CORINTH.

From that dejected brow in silence beaming
A light it seems too feeble to retain,
A sad, calm, tearful light through vapours gleaming,
Slowly thou sinkest on the Ægean main;
To me an image, in thy placid seeming
Of some fair mourner who will not complain;
Of one whose cheek is pale, whose eyes are streaming,
Whose sighs are heaved unheard,—not heaved in vain.
And yet what power is thine? as thou dost sink,
Down sliding slow along that azure hollow,
The great collected Deep thy course doth follow,
Amorous the last of those faint smiles to drink;
And all his lifted fleets in thee obey
The symbol of an unpresuming sway!

XV. CONSTANTINOPLE.

Is this the sovereign seat of Constantine?
Is that indeed Sophia's far-famed Dome,
Where first the Faith was led in triumph home
Like some high bride, with banner and bright sign,
And melody and flowers? Round yonder shrine
The sons, the rivals, yea the lords of Rome,
Bowed they in reverence, awed by truths divine
Breathed through the golden lips of Chrysostom?
But where that conquering Cross, which, high in heaven,
That Dome of old surmounted? Angels sweeping
The aërial coasts hand now no more suspended—
With the wild sea-dirge their chaunts are no more blended—
Onward they speed, onward by anguish driven;
And the winds waft alone their heavenly weeping.

XVI. ISLAM.

That Asian ardour, deep, and wide, and still,
Which once, like Heaven o'er glowing sands, did brood
Over this People's heart, stubborn and rude,
Hath left them. Did it yet their pulses fill,
They had not lost that fateful might of Will
Which from Imaus on to Atlas hewed
A way before them—in its terrible mood
‘Making ridiculous’ the boasted skill
Of Western Art alike and Arms. Of old
This People's spirit was an arch of fire,

Like a ‘clear heat at harvest.’ Now remains
Nought but the hoary herb and branded plains,
Which beasts shall trample, issuing in their ire
Forth from the depth of their morasses cold!

EUROPA.

1

When from his white chest first he pushed the shining deep that stayed him,
Fair-tressed Europa thought the Bull too gentle to upbraid him;
Her laughing face thrown back to those who spread their hands to chide him,
She sang—‘We all his trappings wrought; yet I alone dared ride him!’

2

But when her father's towers went down beneath successive surges,
And the sweet clamour of her mates grew hoarse amid sea dirges,
The simple child her dark eye raised and awe-struck hand to Heaven,
And prayed of all the Gods (but most of Jove) to be forgiven!

3

Her small foot first the billow brushed—at last her knee it bedded:
Warm felt the waves as lovers' sighs, long-parted or late-wedded:

But she her dark eye dim with tears kept fixed, and strove to smother
That cry—‘My father and my mates! help Cadmus, help, my brother!’

4

Behind, the Sea-gods linked their pomp, showing to Jove devotion,
And smiles went o'er the purple breadth of loud resounding ocean:
O'erawed though knowing not the God, she strove that cry to smother—
‘Alas! my father and my mates! help, Cadmus, help, my brother!’

5

Hard by old Triton cheered with song the deep sea wildernesses;
Far off the Nymphs in myriads rose and mixed their whispering tresses;
But Asia's lonely daughter still looked up and strove to smother
That cry—‘My father and my mates! help, Cadmus, help, my brother!’

6

A Pirate's bark to Chios steered:—that pomp they marked with terror,
And spectres of forgotten sins rose dark o'er memory's mirror;
Their eyes the sailors hid, the Priest made haste a kid to slaughter,
And, red as Jove's imperial heart, its life-blood tinged the water.

7

Men say that Venus winked on high, a deeper nectar quaffing—
That Phœbus, westward driving, sang, prophetic sang though laughing;
‘Fair maid! more numerous than the tears adown that pale face flowing
One day shall gleam the crowns of Kings to thee their sceptres owing!’

8

Weep, weep no more! yon Cretan shore at last o'er ocean peereth,
And every little Love that round, by thee unmarked, careereth
In triumph swooping snaps his bow, and claps his hands loud singing,
‘Our precious spoils receive, O Isle, like Delos upward springing!’

STANZAS.

1

All things wax old. What voice shall chase that gloom
Which hangs o'er Adam's tomb?
Over the patriarchal palm and tent
The ocean's vault is bent:
Past is the Persian chivalry; and past
Old Egypt's lore at last:

Where Priam reigned of old, where Homer sang,
Barbaric javelins clang:
Along the wealthy Carthaginian shores
Again the lion roars;
And Rome at last her ancient foe deplores.

2

Dead is our Arthur; dead the Cid of Spain;
Alfred and Charlemagne.
Where now are Europe's wise and holy kings
‘With whom old story rings’?
Where now the mitred martyrs of the Faith,
Martyrs in life and death?
Meek sages, courteous lovers, bards devout,
Scorning the world's vain shout?
Where now that early Church whose anthemed rites
Made Earth like Heaven—her nights
Glorious and blest as day with votive lights?

3

Lay down, vain-glorious King, for shame lay down
Thy sceptre, globe, and crown!
Draw near, my dark-eyed Delphic boy; fill up
With Naxian wine my cup.
Young Spring hath dropped the rosebud from her breast—
Summer her sun-clad crest
And Autumn's gorgeous fruits, in vain increased,
But spread her funeral feast.
Dark Winter, mailed with ice, and stern and hoar,
I praise much more—
To him this last libation I will pour.

GREEK IDYLS.

1.—GLAUCÈ.

I love you, pretty maid, for you are young:
I love you, pretty maid, for you are fair:
I love you, pretty maid, for you love me.

They tell me that, a babe, smiling you gazed
Upon the stars, with open, asking eyes,
And tremulous lips apart. Erelong, self-taught,
You found for every star and every flower
Legends and names and fables sweet and new.

Oh that when far away I still might see thee!
How oft, when wearied with the din of life
On thee mine eyes would rest, thy Grecian heavens
Brightening that orbèd brow!—
Hesper should shine upon thee, lamp of Love,
Beneath whose radiance thou wert born. O Hesper!
Thee will I love and reverence evermore!

Bind up that shining hair into a knot
And let me see that polished neck of thine
Uprising from the bed snow-soft, snow-white
In which it rests so gracefully! What God
Hath drawn upon thy forehead's ivory plane
Those two clear streaks of sweet and glistening black
Lifted in earnest mirth or lovely awe?
Open those Pleiad eyes, liquid and tender,
And let me lose myself among their depths!
Caress me with thine infant hands, and tell me
Old tales divine that love makes ever new
Of Gods and men entoiled in flowery nets,
Of heroes sighing all their youth away,
And Troy, death-sentenced by those Argive eyes.

Come forth, dear maid, the day is calm and cool,
And bright though sunless. Like a long green scarf,
The tall Pines crowning yon grey promontory
In distant ether hang, and cut the sea.
But lovers better love the dell, for there
Each is the other's world. How indolently
The tops of those pale poplars bend and sway
Over the violet-braided river-brim!
Whence comes their motion, for no wind is heard,
And the long grasses move not, nor the reeds?
Here we will sit, and watch the rushes lying
Like locks, along the leaden-coloured stream
Far off—and thou, O child, shalt talk to me
Of Naiads and their loves. A blissful life
They lead who live beneath the flowing waters:
They cherish calm, and think the sea-weeds fair:
They love each other's beauty; love to stand
Among the lilies, holding back their tresses
And listening, with their gentle cheek reclined
Upon the flood, to some far melody
Of Pan or shepherd piping in lone woods
Until the unconscious tears run down their face.
Mild are their loves, nor burdensome their thoughts—
And would that such a life were mine and thine!

2.—IONÈ.

Ionè, fifteen years have o'er you passed,
And, taking nothing from you in their flight,
Have given you much. You look like one for whom

The day has morning only, time but Spring.
Your eyes are large and calm, your lips serene,
As if no Winter with your dreams commingled,
You that dream always, or that never dream!

Dear maid, you should have been a shepherdess—
But no: ill-tended then your flocks had strayed!
Young fawns you should have led; such fawns as once
The quivered Queen had spared to startle! Then
Within your hand a willow wand, your brow
Wreathed with red roses dabbled in warm rains,
How sweetly, with half-serious countenance,
Through the green alleys had you ta'en your way!
And they, your spotted train, how happily
Would they have gambolled by you—happiest she
The milk-white creature in the silver chain!

Ionè, lay the tapestry down: come forth:
No golden ringlet shall you add this morn
To bright Apollo: and poor Daphne there!
Without her verdant branches she must rest
Another day—a cruel tale, sweet girl!

You will not! Then farewell our loves for ever!
We are too far unlike; not Cyclops more
Unlike that Galatea whom he wooed.
I love the loud-resounding sea divine;
I love the wintry sunset, and the stress
Inexorable of wide-wasting storms;
I love the waste of foam-washed promontories;
The singing of the topmost mountain pines
In safety heard far down; the ringing sleet,
Thunder, and all portentous change that makes
The mind of mortals like to suns eclipsed

Waning in icy terrors. These to you
Are nothing. On the ivied banks you lie
In deep green valleys grey with noontide dew;
There bathe your feet in bubbling springs, your hands
Playing with the moist pansies near your face.

These bowers are musical with nightingales
Morning and noon and night. Among these rocks
A lovely life is that you lead; but I
Will make it lovelier with some pretty gift
If you are constant to me! Constant never
Was Nymphor Nereid:—like the waves they change—
O Nymph, so change not thou! A boat I'll make
Scooped from a pine: yourself shall learn to row it;
Swifter than winds or sounds can fleet; or else
Your scarf shall be the sail, and you shall glide,
While the stars drop their light upon the bay,
On like a bird between the double heaven!
Are these but trivial joys? Ah me! fresh leaves
Gladden the forests; but no second life
Invests our branches—feathers new make bright
The birds; but when our affluent locks desert us,
No Spring restores them. Dried-up streams once more
The laughing Nymphs replenish; but man's life,
By fate drawn down and smothered in the sands,
Never looks up. Alas! my sweet Ionè,
Alcæus also loved; but in his arms
Finds rest no more the song-full Lesbian maid,
Her breast all shaken by the storm of song,
Or thrills of song unborn!
The indignant hand attesting Gods and men
Achilles lifts no more: to dust is turned
His harp that glittered through the wild sea spray,

Though the black wave falls yet on Ilion's shore.
All things must die—the Songs themselves, except
The devout hymn of grateful love; or hers,
The wild swan's, chaunting her death melody.

3.—LYCIUS.

Lycius! the female race is all the same!
All variable, as the Poets tell us;
Mad though caprice—half way 'twixt men and children!

Acasta, mildest late of all our maids,
Colder and calmer than a sacred well,
Is now more changed than Spring has changed these woods;
Hers is the fault, not mine. Yourself shall judge.

From Epidaurus, where for three long days
With Nicias I had stayed, honouring the God,
If strength might thus mine aged Sire renerve,
Last evening we returned. The way was dull
And vexed with mountains: tired ere long was I
From warding off the oleander boughs
Which, as my comrade o'er the stream's dry bed
Pushed on, closed backward on my mule and me.
The flies maintained a melody unblest;
While Nicias, of his wreath Nemean proud,
Sang of the Satyrs and the Nymphs all day
Like one by Esculapius fever-smitten.
Arrived at eve, we bathed; and drank, and ate

Of figs and olives till our souls exulted:
Lastly we slept like Gods. While morning shone,
So filled was I with weariness and sleep
That as a log till noon I lay, then rose,
And in the bath-room sat. While there I languished
Reading that old, divine and holy tale
Of sad Ismenè and Antigonè,
Two warm soft hands around me sudden flung
Closed both my eyes; and a clear, shrill, sweet laughter
Told me that she it was, Acasta's self,
That brake upon my dreams. ‘What would you, child?’
‘Child, child!’ Acasta cried, ‘I am no child—
You do me wrong in calling me a child!
Come with me to the willowy river's brim:
There read, if you must read.’

Her eyes not less
Than hands uplifted me, and forth we strayed.
O'er all the Argolic plain Apollo's shafts
So fiercely fell, methought the least had slain
A second Python. From that theatre
Hewn in the rock the Argive tumult rolled:
Before the fane of Juno seven vast oxen
Lowed loud, denouncing Heaven ere yet they fell:
While from the hill-girt meadows rose a scent
So rich, the salt sea odours vainly strove
To pierce those fumes it curled about my brain,
And sting the nimbler spirits. Nodding I watched
The pale herbs from the parched bank that trailed
Bathing delighted in voluptuous cold,
And scarcely swayed by that slow winding stream:
I heard a sigh—I asked not whence it came.
At last a breeze went by, to glossy waves

Rippling the steely flood: I noted then
The reflex of the poplar stem thereon
Curled into spiral wreaths, and toward me darting
Like a long, shining water-snake: I laughed
To see its restlessness. Acasta cried,
‘Read—if you will not speak—or look at me!’
Unconsciously I glanced upon the page,
Bent o'er it, and began to chaunt that song,
‘Favoured by Love are they that love not deeply,’
When, leaping from my side, she snatched the book,
Into the river dashed it, bounded by,
And, no word spoken, left me there alone.

Lycius! I see you smile; but know you not
Nothing is trifling which the Muse records,
And lovers love to muse on? Let the Gods
Act as to them seems fitting. Hermes loved—
Phœbus loved also—but the hearts of Gods
Are everlasting like the suns and stars,
Their loves as transient as the clouds. For me
A peaceful life is all I seek, and far
Removed from cares and all the female kind!

LINES WRITTEN UNDER DELPHI.

I.

My goal is reached—homeward henceforth my way.
I have beheld Earth's glories. Had the eyes
Of those I love reposed on them with mine,
No future wish to roam beyond the range
Of one green pasture circling one clear lake

Itself by one soft woodland girt around,
Could touch this heart. My pilgrimage is made.

II.

I have seen Delphi: I no more shall see it:
I go contented, having seen it once;
Yet here awhile remain, prisoner well-pleased
Of reboant winds. Within this mountain cove
Their sound alone finds entrance. Lightly the waves,
Rolled from the outer to the inner bay,
Dance in blue silver o'er the silver sands;
While, like a chain-bound antelope by some child
Mocked oft with tempting hand and fruit upheld,
Our quick caique vaults up among the reeds,
The ripples that plunge past it upward sending
O'er the grey margin matted with sea-pink
Ripplings of light. The moon is veiled; a mile
Below the mountain's eastern range it hangs;
Yon gleam is but its reflex, from white clouds
Scattered along Parnassian peaks of snow.

III.

I see but waves and snows. Memory alone
Fruition hath of what this morn was mine:
O'er many a beauteous scene at once she broods,
And feeds on joys without confusion blent
Like mingling sounds or odours. Now she rests
On that serene expanse, the confluence
Of three long vales, in sweetness upward heaved,
Ample and rich as Juno's breast what time
The Thunderer's breath in sleep moves over it:
Bathes in those runnels now, that raced in light
This morn as at some festival of streams,

Through arbutus and ilex, wafting each
Upon its glassy track a several breeze,
Each with its tale of joy or playful sadness.
Fair nymphs, by great Apollo's fall untouched!
Sing, sing, for ever! When did golden Phœbus
Look sad one moment for a fair nymph's fall?

IV.

A still, black glen—below, a stream-like copse
Of hoary olives; rocks like walls beside,
Never by Centaur trod, though these fresh gales
Give man the Centaur's strength. Again I mount,
From cliff to cliff, from height to height ascend;
Glitters Castalia's Fount; I see, I touch it!
That Rift once more I reach, the Oracular seat,
Whose arching rocks half meet in air suspense;—
'Twixt them is one blue streak of heaven; hard by
Dim Temples hollowed in the stone, for rites
Mysterious shaped, or mansions of the dead:
Released, I turn, and see, far, far below,
A vale so rich in floral garniture,
And perfume from the orange and the sea,
So girt with white peaks flashing from sky chasms,
So lighted with the vast blue dome of Heaven,
So lulled with music from the winds and waves,
The guest of Phœbus claps his hand and shouts,
‘There is but one such spot; from Heaven Apollo
Beheld;—and chose it for his earthly shrine!’

V.

Phœbus Apollo! loftiest shape of all
That glorified the range of Grecian song,
By Poet hymned or Shepherd when the rocks

Confessed the first bright impress of thy feet;
By many an old man praised when Thracian blasts
Sang loud, and pine-wood stores began to fail;
Served by the sick man searching hill and plain
For herb assuasive; courted by sad maids
On whose pure lips thy fancied kiss descended
Softly as vernal beam on primrose cold:
By Fortune's troubled favourites ofttime sued
For dubious answer, then when Fate malign,
Ascending o'er the horizon of high Hopes,
Her long fell glance had cast on them—Apollo,
Who, what wert thou? Let those that read thy tale
In clouded chambers of the North, reply,
‘An empty dream!’—bid them fling far the scroll,
The dusty parchment cast aside for ever,
Or scan with light from thy Parnassian skies!
For Commentator's lamp give them thine orb
Flaming on high, transfixing cloud and wave
Or noon-tide laurel—(as the Zephyr strikes it
Daphnè once more shrinks trembling from thy beams)—
Were these but fancies? O'er the world they reared
The only empire verily universal
Founded by man—for Fancy heralds Thought;
Thought Act; and nations Are as they Believe.
Strong were such fancies; strong not less than fair!
The plant spontaneous of Society
In Greece, by them with stellar power was dewed,
And, nursed by their far influence, grew and flowered:
A state of order and fair fellowship,
Man with man walking, not in barbarous sort
His own prey finding, each, and his own God;
A state of freedom, not by outward force

Compressed, or ice-like knit by negatives;
A frank communion of deep thoughts with glad,
Light cares with grave; a changeful melody
Varying each moment, yet in soul the same;
A temple raised for beauty and defence;
An armed dance held for a festival;
A balanced scheme that gave each power a limit,
Each toil a crown, and every art her Muse!
Oh frank and graceful life of Grecian years!
Whence came thy model? From the Grecian heaven
The loves and wars of Gods, their works and ways,
Their several spheres distinct yet interwreathed,
By Greece were copied on a lesser stage.
Our thoughts soar high to light our paths on earth:
Terrestrial circles from celestial take
Their impress in man's science: Stars unreached
Our course o'er ocean guide: Orphean sounds
The walls of cities raised:—thus mythic bards
For all the legislators legislated!

VI.

Yet these were idols: such as worshipped these
Were worshippers of idols. Holy and True!
How many are there not idolaters?
Traditions, Systems, Passion, Interest, Power—
Are these not idols? Ay, of idols worst!
Not that men worship these; but that before them
Down-bent, the faculty that worship pays
Shrivels and dies. Man's spirit alone adores,
And can adore but Spirit. What is not God,
Howe'er our fears may crouch, or habit grovel,
Or sensuous fancy dote, we worship not:
Unless God looks on man, he cannot pray;

Such is Idolatry's masked Atheism!
—Yes, these were idols, for man made them such!
By a corrupt heart all things are corrupted,
God's works alike or products of the mind.
The Soul, insurgent 'gainst its Maker, lacks
The strength its vassal powers to rule. The Will
To blind Caprice grows subject: Reason, torn
From Faith, becomes the Understanding's slave;
And Passion's self in Appetite is lost.
Then Idols dominate—Despots by Self-Will
Set up, where Law and Faith alike are dead,
To awe the anarchy of godless souls.
Nought but a Worship, spiritual and pure,
Profound, habitual, strong through loving awe,
A true heart's tribute to the God of Truth,
From selfishness redeemed, and so from sense
Secured, though conversant with shapes of sense,
Nought but such Worship, with spontaneous force
From our whole Being equably ascending
As odour from a flower or fount's clear breath,
Redeems us from Idolatry. In vain
Are proudly wise appeals that deprecate
Rites superstitious; vain are words though shrill
With scorn—stark, pointed finger—forehead ridged
With blear-eyed Scepticism's myriad wrinkles:
Saintly we must be, or Idolatrous.
After his image Man creates him Gods,
Kneading the symbol (as a symbol, pure
And salutary) to a form compact
With servile soul and mean mechanic hand:
Thus to their native dust his Thoughts return,
Abashed, and of mortality convinced.

VII.

At Salem was the Law. The Holy Land
Its orient terrace by the ocean reared,
And thereon walked the Holy One, at cool
Of the world's morn: there visible state He kept.
At Salem was the Law on stone inscribed;
But over all the world, within man's heart
The unwritten Law abode, from earliest time
Upon our nature stampt, nor wholly lost.
Men saw it, loved it, praised—and disobeyed.
Therefore the Conscience, whose applausive voice
Their march triumphant should have led with joy
To all perfection, from a desert pealed
The Baptist's note alone; ‘Repent, repent;’
And men with song more flattering filled their ears.
Yet still the undersong was holy! long
(Though cast on days unblest, though sin-defiled)
The mind accepted, yea, the heart revered,
That which the Will lacked strength to follow. Conscience,
Her crown monarchal first, her fillet next
Snatched from her sacred brows, a minstrel's wreath
Assumed, and breathed in song her soul abroad:
On outcast Duty's grave she, with her tears,
Dropt flowers funereal of surpassing beauty;
With Reason walked; the right path indicated,
Though her imperative voice was heard no more.
Nor spake in vain. Man, fallen man, was great,
Remembering ancient greatness: Hymn and tale
Held, each, some portion of dismembered Truth,
Severely sung by Poets wise and brave.
They sang of Justice, God's great Attribute,
With tragic buskin, and a larger stride

Following the fated victim step by step:
They sang of Love crowning the toils of life:
Of Joy they sang; for Joy, that gift divine,
Primal and wingèd creature, with full breath
Through all the elastic limbs of Grecian fable
Poured her redundant life, the noble tongue
Strong as the brazen clang of ringing arms,
With resonance of liquid sounds enriching
Sweet as the music-laughter of the Gods:
Of heavenly Pity, Prophet-like they sang;
And, feeling after good though finding not,
Of Him, that Good not yet in Flesh revealed,
By ceaseless vigils, tears, and lifted palms,
And yearnings infinite and unrepressed,
A separate and authentic witness bore.
Thus was the end foreshown. Thus Error's ‘cloud
Turned forth its silver lining on the night.’
Thus too—for us at least a precious gift,
Dear for the lore it grasped, by all it lacked
Sternly made bold vain-glorious thoughts to chide,
Wisdom shone forth—but not for men unwise:
Her beams but taint the dead. Man's Guilt and Woe
She proved; and her own Helplessness confessed.
Such were her two great functions. Woe to those
Who live with Art for Faith, and Bards for Priests!
These are supplanted: Sense their loftiest hopes
Will sap; and Fiends usurp their oracles!

VIII.

Olympian dreams, farewell! your spell is past:
I turn from you away! From Eros' self,
From heavenly Beauty on thy crystal brow
Uranian Venus, starred in gentlest light,

From thee, Prometheus, chained on Caucasus,
Io, from thee, sad wanderer o'er the earth,
From thee, great Hercules, the son of Heaven
And of Humanity held long in pain;
Heroic among men; by labours tried;
Descending to the Shades, and leading thence
The Lost; while infant still, a Serpent-slayer;
In death a dread and mystic Sacrifice:
From thee, more high than all, from thee, Apollo!
Light of the world whose sacred beam, like words,
Illustrated the forehead of the earth;
Supreme of Harmonists, whose song flowed forth
Pure from that light; great slayer of the Serpent
That mocked thy Mother; master of that art
Helpful to anguished flesh; Oracular:
Secretly speaking wisdom to the just;
Openly to the lost from lips despised
Like thy Cassandra's flinging it to waste;
Phœbus Apollo! here at thy chief shrine
From thee I turn, and stern confession make
That not the vilest weed yon ripple casts
Here at my feet, but holds a loftier gift
Than all the Grecian Legends! Let them go—
Because the mind of man they lifted up.
But corruptible instincts grovelling left
On Nature's common plane—yea, and below it;
Because they slightly healed the People's wound,
And sought in genial fancy, finite hopes,
Proportioned life, and dialectic Art,
A substitute for Virtue; and because
They gave for nothing that which Faith should earn
Casting the pearls of Truth 'neath bestial feet:
Because they washed the outside of the cup,
And dropped a thin veil o'er the face of Death;

Because they neither brought man to his God,
Nor let him feel his weakness—let them go!
Wisdom that raises not her sons is Folly:
Truth in its unity alone is Truth.

IX.

What now is Delphi? Where that temple now
Dreadful to kings; with votive offerings stored,
Tripod, or golden throne from furthest lands,
Or ingot huge? Where now that tremulous stone,
Centre of all things deemed—Earth's beating heart?
What now is Delphi? yea, or Hellas' self,
With all her various States; epitome
Of Nations; stage whereon in little space
Forecasting Time rehearsed his thousand parts?
Sparta's one camp; the sacred plain of Thebes;
That plain, pious as rich, whence grateful Ceres
The band that blesses Earth upraised to Heaven;
The unboastful freedom of Arcadian vales;
Athens with Academic Arts, and ships
Far-seen from pillared headlands? Where, O where
Olympia's chariot-course that bent the eyes
Of Greece on one small ring shining like fire;
Or they, that sacred Council, at whose nod
King and Republic trembled? Gone for ever!
Vine on the wave diffused, budding with Isles;
Bower of young Earth, wherein the East and West,
Wedded, their beauteous progeny upreared;
Hellas, by Nature blest, by Freedom nursed,
By Providence led on through discipline
Of change, till that Philosophy was formed
Which made one City man's perpetual Teacher—
Hellas is past! A lamentable voice

Forth from the caverns of Antiquity
Issuing in mystery, answers, Where is Egypt?
Egypt of magic craft and starry lore,
Eternal brooder on the unknown Past
Through the long vista of her Kings and Priests
Descried, as setting Moon beyond the length
Of forest aisle, or desert colonnade;
Eldest of nations, and apart, like Night
Dark-veiled amid the synod of the Gods?
The sun and stars, above her circling, stare
At pyramids sand-drowned and long processions
Now petrified to lines of marble shapes
That lead to Sphinx-girt Cities of the Dead.
Where now is Babylon, mighty by peace
And gold, and men countless as forest leaves?
Persia, the Macedonian, Carthage, Tyre?
All gone—restored to earth! Great Rome herself.
Haughty with arcs of triumph, theatres
Sphered to embrace all Nations and their Gods;
Roads from one centre piercing lands remote;
Bridges, fit type of conquest's giant stride;
Great Rome herself, empire of War and Law,
Yoking far regions, harrowing those fields
Reserved for Christian seed—Great Rome herself
Was, and is not! The eternal edict stands:
The power from God which comes not, drops and dies.

X.

Hark, to that sound! yon ocean Eagle drives
The mist of morn before her, seaward launched
From her loved nest on Delphi. She though stern,
Can love—a divine instinct, that outlasts

Phœbus, thy fabulous honours! Far away
The storms are dying, and the night-bird pours,
Encouraged thus, her swift and rapturous song.
Ah! when that song is over, I depart!
Return, my wandering thoughts! the ascending Moon
Smiles on her Brother's peaks, and many a ridge
Her glance solicits; many a stirring wood
Exults in her strong radiance as she glides
On from the pine gulf to the gulf of clouds.
Return, my thoughts! the innumerous cedar cones
Of Lebanon must lull you now no more,
Nor fall of Empires with as soft a sound.
O'er famed Colonos stoop no more in trance,
Eyeing the city towers. No longer muse,
With mind divided, though a single heart,
On legend—true or erring! Earth can yield
No scene more fair than this—and Nature's beauty
Is ever irreproachable. Return!
A long breath take of this ambrosial clime
Ere lost the sweetness: sigh, yet be content:
Fill here your golden urns; be fresh for ever!

XI.

I have beheld Mont Blanc, in eminence,
Though seated, over all his standing sons,
Unearthly Ermite whose cell is Heaven;
His glacier beard forth-streaming to his feet
Beyond his cloudy raiment. I have gazed
On Rome; have watched it from the Alban hill;
Have marked that Dome supreme, its mitred crown,
Dilate at sunset o'er the Latian bounds.
Byzantium I have seen: first capital
That owned the Faith; whose rising up once more

Shall be as mighty gates their ‘heads uplifting’
O'er all the earth, for God to enter in.
These three have I beheld: to these henceforth
I add a fourth to stand with these for ever.
On rock or tree my name I dare not trace—
Delphi! stamp thou thine image on my heart.