 | Poems |  |
Scene, the same. Time, towards morning. A storm rising.
Mercury meanwhile has been troubling the mind of
Æneas with thoughts of Italy, and his destined work there.
Dido.
Will not you look on me? Ah, what means this—
Your pale, changed face? And why so wistfully
Goes ever to the seaward your wan gaze?
What strange thoughts stir you now?
Æneas.
My memories
Rise like a storm and stir me. In mine ears
Harsh shrieks and hollow rumour of armour and arms
Sound like a dream, and windy manes and plumes
Of horses and of heroes waver and toss
Dreamlike and dim; and all the plains of Troy
Move once again with clouds of battle-dust
That meet like thunder-clouds, and through the dark
I see the javelins lighten, and I hear
The round shields boom like timbrels, mid the shouts
Of fighting men and falling. Hark! the wind
Rises, and wheeling voices of the air
Sing in our ears, and ever sweep to sea—
The sea where no land is, nor any home
But storm, and calm, and freedom. Storm—ay, storm!
I feel it, it will come, it is in my hair—
The sweet, wild, infant storm. Ah me, my love,
Do not you feel the wild wind in your hair?
What! Are my words wild, too? What is it I say?
What have my memories to do with storm?
Ah, I have seen— Have I not made my nest,
As the white, wandering, homeless sea-bird does,
On the storms and wide free places of man's life—
Battle, and wreck, and ruin? Have I not been
Nursling of many storms? Ah, me! that night
Wherein my eyes were opened, and I saw,
Staring aghast, where all the towers of Troy
Loomed high like dreams above the fiery clouds—
Suddenly saw how all the quivering haze
Was full of stalking Presences, that went
Tall as the towers, and breasting drifts of flame—
The cloudy immortal forms of ruining gods!
And there, far off, remote from all the rest,
Prankt on the topmost crag of masonry,
Was one—a lonely terror in the night,
Shining, who held in hand a shield that shone,
And who a burning nimbus round her hair,
Wore like a meteor, and who looked with eyes
That did out-stare the furnace. My blood froze.
'Twas Pallas' self. I knew her. This was she.
I knew the scaly arms of cyanos;
I knew the grey gleam of the owl-like eyes;
I knew the end was come; and down from heaven
I knew the night had fallen, a snare of doom;
And under it our god-built Pergamus—
One darkness ruddy with a thousand fires.
Dido.
Will not you look on me? Ah, what means this—
Your pale, changed face? And why so wistfully
Goes ever to the seaward your wan gaze?
What strange thoughts stir you now?
Æneas.
My memories
Rise like a storm and stir me. In mine ears
Harsh shrieks and hollow rumour of armour and arms
Sound like a dream, and windy manes and plumes
105
Dreamlike and dim; and all the plains of Troy
Move once again with clouds of battle-dust
That meet like thunder-clouds, and through the dark
I see the javelins lighten, and I hear
The round shields boom like timbrels, mid the shouts
Of fighting men and falling. Hark! the wind
Rises, and wheeling voices of the air
Sing in our ears, and ever sweep to sea—
The sea where no land is, nor any home
But storm, and calm, and freedom. Storm—ay, storm!
I feel it, it will come, it is in my hair—
The sweet, wild, infant storm. Ah me, my love,
Do not you feel the wild wind in your hair?
What! Are my words wild, too? What is it I say?
What have my memories to do with storm?
Ah, I have seen— Have I not made my nest,
As the white, wandering, homeless sea-bird does,
On the storms and wide free places of man's life—
Battle, and wreck, and ruin? Have I not been
Nursling of many storms? Ah, me! that night
Wherein my eyes were opened, and I saw,
Staring aghast, where all the towers of Troy
Loomed high like dreams above the fiery clouds—
Suddenly saw how all the quivering haze
106
Tall as the towers, and breasting drifts of flame—
The cloudy immortal forms of ruining gods!
And there, far off, remote from all the rest,
Prankt on the topmost crag of masonry,
Was one—a lonely terror in the night,
Shining, who held in hand a shield that shone,
And who a burning nimbus round her hair,
Wore like a meteor, and who looked with eyes
That did out-stare the furnace. My blood froze.
'Twas Pallas' self. I knew her. This was she.
I knew the scaly arms of cyanos;
I knew the grey gleam of the owl-like eyes;
I knew the end was come; and down from heaven
I knew the night had fallen, a snare of doom;
And under it our god-built Pergamus—
One darkness ruddy with a thousand fires.
| Poems | |