 | The Isles of Greece |  |
1
SAPPHO
LESBOS LEUKADIA ANDROS
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SAPPHO
1
The Solemn Dawn.
2
After my mother I flew like a bird.
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In the home of the Muses 'tis bootless to mourn.
4
I loved thee, Atthis, long ago.
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Come hither, fair-hair'd Muses, tender Graces,
Come hither to our home.
Sappho.
I
I see a face, such as a poet lovesTo muse on, for its changeful spirit casts
Sweet lights and shadows o'er it, as the sun
Of April, and its showery vapours breathe
On stainless waters, whereof painters seek
To snatch the fairest moments for their own,—
Tho' vulgar eyes might look on it in vain,
And in some rude winedresser's sunburnt child
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Not tall, nor short, but with a matchless grace,
Such as the marble art would strive to fix
For ever, and the deep dark starlit eyes
Seem searching back into the mortal past
With such an eager vision, as of old
They would have gazed thro' time into the deeps
Of the eternal; hark! she bids me speak
That which she utters to me; I obey.
“I come to ye, though an immortal now,
As mortal unto mortals; for at times
It is permitted us to look again
Into our natural life, and lift the veil
That overhangs the past; and for the while,
Forgetful of our higher state, we seem
To live anew departed hours: oh! then
We feel as when hope sprang within us first,
And we can revel once again in dreams
Of simple childhood, and behold the days
Of innocence, ere wisdom was—as one
Within a theatre may laugh and weep
At homely things—thought worthy to be seen
When shown to us apart from our own life
Of godlike use, and high activity;
Or as familiar plain realities
Seem lovely in a picture: else 'twere vain
To match the noblest memories of earthlife
With the least moments of this better world.
So I can clothe myself in infancy
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For a brief interval; far other work
Belongs to spirits than to kindle sparks
Of the waste embers into flame again,
Save in so far as this may serve to mould
The natural heart for higher life, and wing
The mortal man for immortality.
II
Upon a breezy slope toward the sea,An half hour's stroll beyond the city gates,
Dwelt peaceful Simon, father of our house;
And, from the pillars of his portico,
Through a long walk of vines, that led beneath
A broad roof of the same, he look'd and saw
The purple strait dimpling with the light airs,
And cloven with smooth paths of silvery calm;
Or, in the latter Autumn, when the leaves
Fled up the turfwalks from the rising wind,
And raced beneath the quiet peristyle,
All but a remnant, that in dying changed
To gold and Tyrian purple. He could hear
The gathering surges soar upon the wind,
And mark them frown back darklier the dark cloud,
Fleckt here and there with angry spume, that took
Glances of mirthful mockery from the sun,
Not yet subdued, but to return again
In many parting triumphs ere farewell:
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In mists of silver, that met farther off
The fair coast of Ionia, with its hills,
And sunny towns, and temple-crested capes;
And every gliding sail, and soundless oar
From fishing hamlet, every argosy
From proud Miletus, or from Samos, he
Might see at will, and hear the mariners' cry,
And the keel gride the sheeny grit below,
And songs as they ascended, watch the smoke
Curl from the altar-fires upon the strand
After a shipwreck, and their hands join round
In solemn dance. I see a little child
With just six summers in her eyes; those eyes,
As radiant nights of summer, ere the mists
Of the tempestuous season veil the stars,
No dews of mortal sorrow yet have dimm'd,
And on their clear dark depths the joyous sparks
Dance like the morning light upon the sea,
That she is gazing on; a wild-eyed child,
Strong-hearted; and she sings unto herself,
Pausing at times, to listen to the lark
Right overhead, breasting the silver streams
Of morn, half in the April splendours drown'd:
And she, half hidden in tall grass and flowers,
Plucks them in glee, and piles them on her head;
And plays at hide and seek with the peeping sun,
Returning laugh for laugh as he looks thro'
Her odorous bower. O happy, happy child,
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Who would not love to see thee ever thus;
And that some laughing Eros might come down,
That swims the blue air, that thou might'st with him,
Down matin rills of sunshine, sail away
For ever; and, untouch'd of mortal care,
With mirth, and endless music charm the Fates
To unwind their sombre shuttles, and take out
All threads of Ill? Oh! 'tis myself I see;
Not in pale memories, such as to old age
On earth bring back stray shadows of its prime;
As in the starless dark the lightnings show
Far summits for a moment, and no more;
But in clear vision, potent to upraise
The very past itself; for in the soul
Are pictures of all passions, thoughts, and acts;
And every winged moment lives for ever!
But saddest sorrows follow gladdest hours,
As brightest bright the darkest shadow streams.
Whose step is that beneath the palegreen vines?
'Tis armed Death, avenger of the Gods!
Thou may'st not see him—tho' thine eye can seek
The lark amid the sunshine—stir not thou.
The little circle kindled by thy joy,
Thine innocence and hope, shuts out that sight;
O stir not thou, sweet child; let him go by!
Too soon the azure-tinted hills of hope,
Muffled in mists, will turn to shapeless, grim
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Too soon thou wilt behold the two great gates
Of Life and Death—one like a morning vale
Flooded by sunrise; the other as a cave,
Wherein a river, rich with many hues,
Is lost in darkness—ah! thou still must see
Thy three young brothers, older each a year
Than each, and three fair summers than thyself,
With tear-bedabbled cheeks, and downward brows,
Pass on, and hear that ancient voice first heard
By thee—the voice of weeping—and behold
Thou weepest, and, O child, thou know'st not why.
With them thou laughest, and with them must weep;
For gentle Simon, father of our house
Is borne to silence; and thy yearning eyes
Will seek in vain for that familiar form,
Fond voice, and sunny smile, and tender hand,
At morn and even; but thy mother's tears
Then first beheld are stranger to thee still.
III
Ah me! I see again my little friends,As first I saw them, ere discordant hopes,
Or jealous loves had sunder'd their pure souls;
Or hot ambition had dried up their tears;
Or frosts of pride had turn'd soft hearts to stone.
Ere merry Cydno grew a scornful thing;
And unrequited passion—as a rose,
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Shows only thorns—left mockery on her lips,
Scorn in her eyes, and made her laugh to hear
Of sorrows like her own, which heretofore
Had drawn her pity: ere Euphranta, skill'd
To win boy's praises, moulding her red lips,
And melting her large eyes to softer fire,
By natural instinct simple-sweet, became
The beautiful tormentor of men's lives;
And joy to see delight in others' eyes
Changed to selflove, and such delight, as feeds
On broken hearts, akin to that which tastes
A fearful exultation at the sight
Of warm blood shed: ere Anaktoria nursed
Her pride on gentle deeds and lavish boons,
And drew our hearts with unresisted cords:
Ere Atthis, soft-eyed Atthis had begun
To worship her own beauty, and to prize
No other music than the voice of praise,
Utter'd in tongues of flattery, or of song,
Or painter's art, or marble. O dear friend,
Thou wert not thus at first—like as the flower
Of richest breath may hold within its cup
The poison'd honey—Atthis, Atthis dear,
My first and chosen friend, ere thy frail heart
Heard welcome echoes in the silver tones
Of simulation, held the gilded gauds
Of falsehood truer than true love of mine,
That show'd thee to thyself, and hid no flaw
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Breathed from my lips was golden truth itself
Without alloy: I see thee once again,
As in those days when we were babes together.
IV
When she was two years old, and I was four,With lifted finger and with warning lip,
I stood beside her cradle, and cried ‘Hush!
The little one will wake;’ whereat they laugh'd:
And at that sound she woke; I wept; her mother
With sudden transport caught me to her heart,
And 'mid her kisses cried: ‘I would, dear child,
That little one hereafter may be thus
Faithful and true:’ when I grew a tall girl
My mother told me this; and Atthis learnt
How early I had loved her. So we grew
Together; and our virgin voices mix'd
Beside my mother's harp. 'Twas rare, they said,
To one advancing 'twixt the laurel boughs,
To hear us in the golden sleep of noon
Thus witch the hour with notes that ran together
Like drops of dew that touch and knit in one;
And in short nights of summer, as we lay
Together in one bed, we sang and gazed
Up to the stars that seem'd to tremble to us,
Thrilling back the keen pulses of our song
With gushes of sweet light, and throbs of fire;
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And turning our last looks upon each other,
We fell asleep; and sometimes started from
The selfsame dream, or murmur'd the same words.
And oft, how oft, the deathlike interval
'Twixt night and morn seem'd but a moment; such
Was our deep rest after our holiday,
Mirth like a storm, and wearisome as pain.
That seeming moment, like enchantment, changed
The moon into the sun; but when we saw
'Twas morning, we ran down unto the sands,
Just as we rose from sleep, with dizzy eyes,
And loose hair, and the silver ripplets kiss'd
Our naked feet, ere well we were awake.
What cities built we on the sheeny shore;
What fenced gates, and citadels, and towers,
Calling them by the great heroic names!
What rivers led we roundabout the walls
Sluiced from the sea, that to our fancies seem'd
An idle thing, for that we had not made!
Here was a Sigeium, here Scamander; here
The crested height of windy Pergamos.
And if light airs whirl'd up the glittering sand,
And drove the shells along the shore, and made
A little tempest of fantastic shapes,
We saw helm'd cohorts, flying thro' the dust
Shot thro' with lightnings from the sunlike orbs
Of brazen shields; or flashing of the spears
Of the relentless, swift, pursuing foe.
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Clang'd as 'twere beaten arms and crazing wheels,
And shouts of victory! oh! how many hours
Fled with the dews in the oblivious warmth
Of pure Imagination; till the voice
Of our dear mothers from the slope above
Came chiding fondly; or a sudden wave
Cast down our little Ilions to the ground.
Sometimes we fled the sounding strand; and hid
In silent nooks, screen'd by some shadowing rocks
From torturing wind and wave; rocks that inwall'd
Smooth level floors between of finest grain.
Things lay about of marvellous device,
Crystals and corals, stones inlaid with drops
Of scarlet, and all colours fair and strange;
Shells tinctured with the morning; spires and cones
Of pearl, bedight all gloriously within,
As they had just been fashion'd from the scales
Of gaudy serpents, when they cast their old,
And gird them on new armour in the spring.
Sometimes we thought we look'd on pyramids
Belted with rainbows; or we builded up
Rare pleasure-houses, all of verd and gold,
Faery domes and galleries, that might seem
Prisons for fallen stars when they come down
From heaven like outcast Gods; or tiny dwellings
Of beings, by the delicatest spells
Of whose ethereal touches might be raised
A sparkling city on a foot of earth
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On each new day, the sun of our glad souls
Dawn'd on some wondrous world undreamt before.
How, thro' the long long Summer afternoons,
When tasks were o'er, and we were free, we shook
The sounding portico, and inner hall
With endless laughters, as we ran along
Thro' the green light of the embowered walks
Of the hush'd gardens, dashing on each other
The fount that from a marble Sea-nymph sprang;
Or stealing forth, the while my mother slept,
Among the myrtle vales, till set of sun,
We ran back in the twilight; half in fear
To go astray, and half that we had stray'd.
Or Larichus came in, and with his voice,
And rougher play, storm'd us to calm; or held us
With wonderment at his forlorn mishaps,
Wild hopes, and giddy ventures; until eve
'Twixt peak and peak lay like a dying fire.
V
O happy days, when the delighted heart,Like a wing'd bird, flies on from bough to bough,
From sun to shade, and finds in simple change
Unforeseen, infinite variety!
And kindles at a momentary mood—
As the eye lighting on a sunlit flint
May take it for a diamond—and so makes
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And waking clothes forlorn reality
With roselights of a dream; and, when 'tis past,
Forgets it in a moment; for behold
Another vision takes its place, and so
A day of very nothings is as fair
As a midsummer night with all its stars.
O hours of infancy, that seem so long
To eager hearts in solitude. To mine
For ever changing 'twixt the busy town
And breezy shores, betwixt the happy sound
Of many voices, and the flowers and birds
Of our home garden, ever were ye fill'd
With pleasures to the brim, and fled as fast
As the swift song of the free lark; that seems
To careless ears so simple, yet is full
Of manifold sweet utterings of delight,
As the pearl'd ripples of the mountain brook,
That runs beneath it down into the sea,
With a low monotone to careless ears,
Yet with unnumber'd faery notes to them
Who hearken! When youth came, and womanhood,
And I turn'd back to look on ye, ye seem'd
As the clear arched iris, never seen
But by the eyes far from it: but I found
My heart was not a vessel, like the rest,
No sooner fill'd than drain'd; and only drank
From nature and companionship the drops
That were not tasteless, but as precious wine.
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And when the othehrs were as empty urns,
From mine their vacant vessels could be fill'd;
And they came to me; so by slow degrees
I grew a queen to them; and they would lend
A willing ear to one who breathed to them
Thoughts, sometimes new and rare, but chiefly drawn
Out of the treasure-house of memories dear;
All that they might have known, but flung away
With thriftless haste, and wonder'd when they found
Much they had pluck'd and scatter'd long ago.
So, when I saw that my old friends, the young,
Became my followers, I apportion'd each
Her proper function, leading Nature on
To feats of Art; and timely counsel served
To mould their shiftless instincts into shape;
Till growing skill begat a fervent love
For that which I had foster'd; and a strong
Ambition to be known for something rare
And beautiful; and their own beauty ceased
To be the idol of their thoughts; and grace,
And comeliness of costume rather sought,
Than costliness of tissue, and the gleam
Of gold and gems. So by and by we wrought
A rustic temple to the Muses all,
Not of wrought marbles, but of summer boughs
O'erarching; from beneath whose fragrant gloom
We pass'd into an inner space, with roof
Of pleached vines broad-leaved; and woven so thick
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Scarce could leap down thro' the green pampinus,
To drink at the cool fountain underneath,
That, when our converse lull'd awhile, was heard
To bubble silverly; whose chequer'd floor
Was the cool herb, bedizen'd with its wealth
Of young anemones, and dabbled o'er
With splashes of the sunlight—when it pour'd
Thro' the rent leafage of the giant vines,
Stablish'd on aged stems, the hoary growth
Of many generations—following swift
After the sudden torrents of seawind
That freshen'd the midnoon. O happy days!
That seem'd a resurrection of that life
The dawn of all, when the free heart, unchain'd
By care, and custom, and the fear of tongues,
Gather'd the springflowers, and the buds of Time;
And wreathed fresh garlands of them, and beheld
Their own work with glad wonder; happy days
To look back to from the dim vale of age;
Ev'n tho' the best may seem as vanity;
Fair colours of the morning, for ye leave
Deep in the heart, that hath outlived all hope,
An inner vision, that looks on afar
Into another being, that shall crown
With immortality the mortal past;
A life that, jewell'd with all joys that were,
Shall radiate its own bliss more blessed still!
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VI
So, in my garden, with the birds and bees,Thro' Spring, thro' Summer, and thro' Autumn days
Of sunshine, sat we at our pleasant tasks.
That temple of the Muses, lit by Love
Alone, could boast no marble peristyle,
No galleries, no vaulted halls, their roofs
Alive with pictured marvels, and delights.
Its stateliest aisle was but the central walk,
With the first violet and blue hyacinth
Strown by the Nymphs of Spring, as swiftly, softly,
As tho' they came to peep at us, and, fearing
To trouble our young dreams, crept stealthily
Away, and only stay'd a twinkling there,
To empty out the full horns on their heads.
Its rustic columns were the writhen stems
Of the old vines, round which young roses twined;
Ev'n as our fond frail girlhood round the necks
Of loving elders; and they led away
The eye far down unto the simple porch,
Half hid with jasmin curtains, and the cool
And silent entrance hall deserted then.
Only the busy maid stirr'd to and fro
To set the tables for the morning meal;
A bunch or two from those near vines, when they
Were bearing, by whose dark and amber globes
The green fig like a jar of sweets o'erturn'd
Leant lazily; sharp apples with red cheeks
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Which we dragg'd up from slumbering in its sweetness,
Under the rich, flame-colour'd apricot,
And peaches that had suck'd the luscious gold
Of breathless sunsets: one light cup of wine,
Which flash'd like molten topaz from the lips
Of the graved silver crock, Alcæus gave me;
And then to work again; and down the walks,
Arm link'd in arm, or hidden half beneath
The dark locks floating the white neck they twined,
Young girls—their voices making pleasant din
Like jingled bells of silver—ran along
To their cool seats, under the roof of leaves,
That ruffled in the seabreeze, as it oft
Gush'd up with gusty violence, brushing down
The white rose from the tall stem, that upbore
The trellis'd roof of leaves, and whirling off
The pencils, and the tablets, and the scrolls;
And ravelling the long hair of the girls
With their own harpstrings—'twas a merry moment
To see them scuffle, and to hear them laugh,
As each one rush'd to save her morning treasure.
VII
Ofttimes the blissful Anaktoria came,From fair Ionia where she was born,
Across the seas, attended by her sire,
To taste the Autumn in their island home,
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Between the loftier mountains and the town
Princely it stood, upon a seaward slope
Of terraces, and spacious lawns, between
Emboss'd with bowers, sustaining from their arms
The linked vines, downdrooping to the sward
Their gold and purple clusters; and at noon
Made emerald twilights, while the breeze upbore
The city murmurs, and the silver sighs
Of the smooth waters dozing in the sun.
Ofttimes we trod together the turfwalks,
While the swart countryfolk, with naked feet
And sunbrown arms, were kindling the hillside
With shout and song, and spoiling the fair land,
And swinging the piled panniers to each other,
Bleeding the red wine thro' their amber ribs.
And sire, and son, and dark-eyed daughters ran
Along the smooth green, up and down; and stain'd
The naked feet with blood of Evan slain;
And sang together, shaking the still air
With jubilee, and mocked at one another.
With blessing they received her, old and young,
A Goddess stepping from a winged car.
And blest was she with beauty, power, and gold.
And o'er the curl'd heads of their little ones
She bended; and stretcht out her boonful hand.
The aged poor pray'd for her as she pass'd;
And hoary grandsires bow'd upon their staves.
Oh! blest was she! as her delighted eyes,
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Follow'd their nimble motions; as the sun,
Slanting atween the broad leaves blown apart,
Lit up some merry girl's upturned face;
Or gilded, as she fled, her flowing skirts,
And long dark hair: and, ‘O my friend,’ she said,
‘Methinks I'd liefer be a village maid,
Free to unbind my tresses to the wind,
Sing as the lark, and like the rivulet dance,
Mine ever busy, yet delightful day
Rolling on swiftest wheels; my sleep at night
One dark unconscious moment; than be Queen
Of all this world; oh! I am sick of pomp,
And gilded lamps, and swelling songs, and breath
Of praise, like sickly odours, flattery
The incense that doth veil the world from us,
And from the glass of conscience hides ourselves;
Leaving their spirits unapproachable,
Making their faces indistinguishable.
For Good and Ill lurk underneath the masks
Of Beauty and of Terror; thou wilt find
Their opposites; and manners might change places.
From Alciphron, who meets you at his gate,
Strip off that golden smile, the serpent's scale,
And hush that silver tongue; and in its stead
Give him the woodman's reedy voice and frown.
For Alciphron's ‘God bless ye’ means ‘I hate ye;’
And would not of free will that ye should gather
The crumbs beneath his table, oh! not he.
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That cares have frozen to a constant frown,
May run the warm blood from a loving heart.
And if he hands unto a poorer brother
A cup of water only, his sad looks
And plaining voice mean ‘Oh! that this were wine.’
Behold Abrocomes—for he hath wealth
And lordly station—therefore in him meet
Folly and Pride—he smiles upon poor Wit
Caseharden'd to his stings; and for revenge
He folds his robe about him, like none other;
And tells all men he is unmatchable;
And slavish echoes make him think it true.
And in his generation he is wise;
For he hath lesser fools to follow him;
Or greater, if you will. Such are the men
Who deem they sway the world, and look on us
Slight creatures as their playthings; and their scorn
Is as a brandish'd sword, that falls at once
In cruel blows, or as a razor's edge
Of subtlest glozing, and thrice-whetted words,
That strike—because unfelt—a sharper wrong.
But I have patience rather with the knave
I can unriddle and despise, than her,
The everlasting fool that is to-day,
The fool that was of old, and is to come,
Who shuts her ears, and eyes, and heart, and will,
To all the past and present: and I weep,
Ev'n while I glory I am not as they
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VIII
Even Anaktoria, that majestic maid,Whose swanlike neck above her jewell'd robe
Arose, as she her queenlike motions timed
Unto some inward melody, sometimes came
To greet me, as I sat at morn, a queen
Among the damsels, working each her task
Of love, beneath the wings of her own Muse.
Whether it was, into a costly woof
Of finest grain, to sew, with delicate hand
And ivory points, iridian hues, or forms
Of vernal leaves, or of our island flowers,
Their glory sheening thro' the dew like gems;
Or make the creamy marble, that drinks in
The golden light, reflect the invisible
Of her own spirit, till at last there dawn'd—
Like the harmonious beauty of divine
Nature from darkness breaking—some sweet shape,
Like a young God descended to the earth;
Delight of eyes, insuperably fair;
Or on the burnish'd tablet to impress
Rare interchange of artful light and shade,
And trace with choicest colours the true forms
Of living fortunes, glad or terrible;
And fix a momentary pulse of Time,
As though it were the finger of a Fate,
That froze it in its terror or its joy
In love with her own work, and throned it there
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Bridals, and pomps with pæans, tumults, triumphs.
Or follow Phantasy herself as she,
With winged feet, stept on o'er slope, and arch
Of rosy cloud, up to the gate of Heaven;
And, bursting open the empyreal doors,
Show'd us the crowned Gods that know not pain.
And others in the light of their own souls
Piled up of linked utterances rare
Moulded to fullest measures, dwelling-places
For Gods and Men; as in the sunlight rises
Out of pure ethers crested architecture,
Radiant with diamond triglyph, and with gold,
And ruby plinth, and set with gates of pearl.
Others, like spirits snatcht up from the earth,
Heard Music flow around them—as the winds,
And light of Morn, that sweep the forest floors,
Making the flowers translucent, and the stems
Dark—like a tremulous, all-sustaining sea,
That round the high capes, and the purple isles
Sends up a long, sweet, universal voice,
Heard from the mountaintops—sweet Music flow;
Infinite voice of hope, and love, and awe;
Uttering, with inarticulate instincts, all
The heights and depths that have no other tongue;
And soaring Heavenward when all vision fails.
Ofttimes my brothers linger'd near, spellbound
By some young face first seen, but not forgot
More than sweet melodies heard carelessly,
22
Sometimes Alcæus with his brothers came;
And, peeping thro' the leaves, beheld us hush'd
And stooping o'er our pleasure tasks; and spoil'd
Half-hours of industry; and challenged us
To all our prowess in a war of mirth,
And passages of arms, which only were
Words wing'd, and fleet as arrows from the string;
Wit striking wit, like diamond diamond,
With edge unbruised; laughters on either hand,
Trumpets of triumph, when each side had won
Without a wound. We mark'd, the rest away,
How Antimenidas, we wonder'd why,
Follow'd them not, till Anaktoria solved
The riddle by her parting; but disdain'd
To note it, and made light of us. We saw
That while she was he was, when she was not
He was not: but that heart, so strong and free,
At length was taken captive by the boy
She slighted; when he came, a valiant man,
Worthy to rule a spirit such as hers.
But her disdain first wellnigh broke his heart;
Then spurr'd him to ambition; and his name
Rose first among the foremost of the isle
For skill and valour. So, in years to come,
When she heard of his ventures in far lands;
The perils he affronted and o'ercame;
The great who honour'd him, the fame he won;
Her heart relented, and she thought again
23
Must well have frozen all his love for her.
So, when once more she met him suddenly—
'Twas at the feast when Myrsilus was slain—
She blush'd, but not with pride as heretofore;
And he wax'd bold, as she grew gentle; till
The love of rule, that made her sometimes say
In thought, or in her chamber to herself—
For this confession came from her own lips
One morning as I stood beside her chair—
‘Why was I born not to be king of men,
But only a weak woman?’ show'd her him,
One who had shaped in act the life she dreamt;
And she was fain to yield herself to him,
As 'twere a captive to her better self.”
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APOLLO
1
From the sound of cool waters heard thro' the green boughsOf the fruit-bearing trees,
And the rustling breeze,
Deep sleep, as a trance, down over me flows.
2
He came from heaven in purple mantle clad.
Sappho.
I said unto myself—“If I could see
The heroes of the earth pass by in arms,
And with the dust of victory on their helms;
The Kings of Egypt and of Babylon,
The chiefs I have not seen, and shall not see,
The great in stature and renown—the strong
In counsel, and the foremost in command:
Would it not be a sight, more full of wonder
Than any pageant, pomp, or festival
Held to the Gods themselves? But if Achilles
Should stand before me in the strength of youth;
With that blue eye, that lighten'd on the foe,
Or as he leant over the drifting manes
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Of Hector slain; should I not turn away
From all things real to the glorious sight
Of such a phantom? But if one should come
In sober stole, a master of those thoughts
That carry on the world, and shake us still
With echoes only; one whose lonely heart
In ages gone was stirr'd with such a pulse,
That all the Present trembles to it still:
Should I not rise from any banquet table,
Nuptials, or triumphs, ev'n my own death-bed;
If I could see him walking down the street,
Or catch the distant fluttering of his robe
As he pass'd off for ever? Would not they,—
Who fill the seats at amphitheatres,
To see the lordliest of living men
Throned, and in scarlet clad, and crown'd with gold,
And hear him utter solemn words might change
The fate of nations—from the living turn
To look upon the dead, though he should come
In simplest fashion, did they only know
'Twas He who rules their spirits by his own?
I heard an old man to my mother say—
Once on a Summer's eve, when roundabout
The air was dim, and overhead the sky
All flush'd with twilight clouds like holy isles,
Wherefrom enraptured Memories turn'd their eyes
Back on the dying Day—‘I well remember,
Once when I was a very little child,
26
And for a full hour look'd upon the face
Of blest Terpander’; and I looked on his,
And in the twilight, and the mystic hour,
My fancy changed it to similitude
Of Him, the patriarch of our Song, the Bard
Holy and wise; for sure it seem'd to me
That one, whose fortune it had been to see
The Man, who in the temple of our souls
Throned his great shadow like reality,
Himself upon his forehead must have caught
Illumination, Immortality;
And by his looks, his gestures, and his speech
Could bring him back to life; his living soul
Itself must needs be dower'd with half the might
Of what it had beheld; I look'd, and look'd,
And as the dusky hues of eve grew darker,
The more the fading outline of his face
Was fashion'd by my phantasy; his limbs
Dilated in the gloominess, and grew
As 'twere a God's, who came to visit us
In lowly weeds, but by and by would rise
And part with thunder and the rush of wings!
‘Tell me what were his words,’ my mother said:
And thus the old man of the elder spake;
“Know there were others by, who bore in mind
All that he said, and they were his last words,
Else should I strive in vain to answer thee;
But, ofttimes echoed by their reverent lips,
27
And what was first the music of a song,
And nothing more, wax'd vital; his dark speech
The voice of an immortal in mine ears:”
‘Oh! as I thought of those’ Terpander said,
Himself the Giant of our Isle; ‘of those
Giants of Morn, primeval Sons of Time,
Great Vanquishers of Worlds, who for awhile
Held on with me, when I began to fly
With pure white wings unstain'd of earthly dust,
And the first strength of youth untried of ill;
Ah me! I cried, shall any voice again
Utter forth sounds, like those which charm'd the ears
Of Gods to listen; who shall speak again
Like Orpheus, or divine Mæonides?
And, as I look'd toward the shores afar
Dark in the glooming east, my fancy fill'd
The mountain woods with light; I thought of him,
Who in the silent dawn of ages drew
A solitary glory, like the peaks
Of those same hills at morn, and in him felt
The voices of Apollo, as the leaves
And wakening blossoms tremble to his beams.
And then I thought, alas! for mortal man.
For if the torrent of calamity,
Whate'er it be, roll over him, and drown
The Poet's voice, like thine, which evermore
Widow'd Futurity shall mourn in vain;
Better to be a nightingale, and die
28
The selfsame as at first, shall still be heard,
When I am dust, until the death of Time.
But what shall pay the heart that yearns for wings
To flee away beyond the shade of Death,
And panteth, in affliction and in pain,
For something after, if its raptures cease,
Like aimless lightnings shot from cloud to cloud?
Rather than this, 'twere better quench in toil
The thoughts that cast such shadows of despair;
To sleep the sleep of toil that hath no dreams;
To sit at Youth's wild revel, crown'd with flowers,
And drain the cup of Joy; to sing for mirth,
A grasshopper at noon; to thank the hour
For what it gives; than pile up sweets in vain,
Our toil more thriftless than the silly bee's,
Or atom-heaving emmet's; and when Eve
Begins to throw long shadows toward the past,
Out of the twilight of oblivious years
Faintly to sing “we have rejoiced and lived!”’
He rose—I mark'd him as he issued forth,
A goodly man and tall; and as he gave
Farewell, his sweet and melancholy smile
Seem'd full of meaning to me; and I stood
Eager, and watch'd him, till his outline, drown'd
In soft gray shadows of some ancient trees,
Look'd like the mystic parting of a God,
Or one a gracious messenger from them.
But on these eyes he never rose again.
29
His solemn brows, his deep and earnest voice,
His motions and his revelations seem'd
Like memory of a dream, that cheats the eyes
Half waking to the dawn, as tho' 'twere true.
So might the grave Philemon and his spouse,
Standing beneath the viny porch, have seen
With mingled awe and wonder the grand shape
Of the Olympian, as he gather'd up
His crimson robe, and strode toward the sun
In dying light of even. I would have call'd
Unto him, and have follow'd on his steps,
Till I had seen him change his human limbs
For their divine imperishable bloom,
Who drink the cup of Hebe. The next day,
It was at sunny noontide, and I pass'd
With meditative step, and downward brow
Into the valley, and along the stream,
Mine own familiar solitude; and now
My heart was full, and scarce the accustom'd path
Of Nature, or the throstle-haunted way,
The green banks, and the rustling poplars tuned
My soul to harmony. I thought of Him
Who, ere mine eyes had open'd to the Earth,
Was wandering there, breathing the selfsame flowers,
Listening the selfsame waters, and perchance
Moved with the selfsame phantasies and joys,
Memories, hopes, fears, and ecstasies as I.
I said ‘Great Ancestor of all our thoughts,
30
And swathes me as the air; if sometimes thou
Rememberest what thou lovedst in thy life,
This cradle of an everlasting Spring,
This pleasant isle; hear thou, and be thy thoughts,
Thy tender hymns, and waved harmonies,
The silver voices of thy seven-string'd lyre,
Phantoms to haunt my spirit night and day;
Like these melodious waters fringed with bowers.
May they be streams of freshness to my tongue,
Evergreen shade unto my soul, and springs
Of fancy, by whose ripplings I may lie,
And slumber to their murmur, till I dream
Of beauty, and wake up at morn to sing;
Till Poesy and Music, wed together,
Shall take the tops of Lesbos for their throne.
Their breath shall fly from off the viny hills,
Like April winds, that breathe the early rose,
And kiss the capes afar: lead thou my steps
Into the ways that thou delightedst in;
Oh! could I tread the turf that once hath felt
Thy footprints; climb the mountainpeaks, and sit
In the same shadows at the selfsame hour.
Oh! I will utter thy sweet words, until
The answering Echoes seem to me thy voice
Approving; let my spirit be the child
Of thine, until it get her strength, and do
Feats worthy of thy honour. I could dream
Those azure peaks, that o'er the orchard tops
31
Have mingled fear and beauty as to mine;
Thy soul hath slumber'd on the soft deep folds
Of yon tall cloud; and walk'd upon the winds
That rush down the high valleys, and o'erthrow,
Far out at sea, the surges in their pride.’
My soul was stirr'd; I shed some childish tears,
Pure drops of dawn first scatter'd by the winds
That run before the day; I sat me down,
And, weary with imagination, leant
My beating heart against the dewy green,
Pied with young lilybells, and golden disks,
And hyacinths blue; and dappled with the lights,
That cross'd the restless shadows of the leaves
With golden stars and arrows; while o'er head
The rustling of the arched umbrage made
A murmur in mine ears. And so the breath
Of the hot noontide press'd mine eyelids down,
Softly as low-sung melody; and I heard
Some finches of the thicket shoot forth notes
Of glee, like sparks; and then they went to war;
And their thin trebles dash'd together raised
A dust of sound; and in the glooms above
A turtle plain'd; and evermore the stream
Ran swiftly washing o'er the pebbly grit
That gleam'd like gems, and gurgled 'neath the banks,
And gush'd and tinkled, wooing the sweet herb;
And with its bubbles hanging the pale necks
Of the young lilies like a chain of pearls.
32
As not to crush my Summer-linked thoughts.
For still before my dreaming eyes I saw
The green leaves tremble, and the sunlights glance
Their peremptory lightnings, and the turf
Mottled with shadows; and I heard the birds
Singing upon the breeze; and the clear stream,
With sound like silver harpstrings bubbling on.
And by my side that lovely antique lyre
Lay on the green herb; and methought my hands
Had twined its carvedwork and trembling chords
With flowers that I had gather'd; and I laugh'd
To hear its sound when I had muffled it
With waterlilies. Then I raised my eyes;
But as I gaze what wonder do I see?
The dome of leaves and branches seem to cleave
Above my head, and show the purple sky;
And sounds, that hush'd the winds and waters, breathed
Down from an isle of winged cloud, that soar'd
Across the Sun, whose thwarted splendours dash'd
Their waves against its battlements and towers,
And, like a sea against a mountain, flung
Fell down in golden cataracts to the earth,
And struck unto the zenith; on either hand
They drifted off in fiery tides, and onward
They floated it upon a flood of fire.
And, on the topmost peak of that bright isle,
One stood, in act to plunge into the deep
Ethereal blue; as from a marble crag
33
His face was downward, and his ruffled hair
Lifted a little from his brows, and blown
Apart; and, as he forward leant, he claspt
His hands o'er his right knee, while the other limb
Tiptoe behind him hung—and soon I heard
A hidden music, tender first, and sweet,
As choral voices issuing from behind
A mountain promontory; and the streams
Of sunlight pouring thro' the enchanted vales
Seem'd each instinct with a particular tongue
Of music, and made harmony together;
Whereof the highest tone was as the lark
In heaven, and piercing-sweet unto the ear;
The lowest shook the centre of the isle
And thunder'd as it roll'd. And, as the bow
Hung out from heaven to earth and sevenfold bright,
Fills the enraptured eyes with wonderment,
That harmony sank down into my sense,
And satisfied my soul. And now floodtide
The music rose, and drown'd the firmament
With stormy joy; and with the highest wave
Forth on the air he leapt; the glorious sun
Burst out, and shatter'd into atoms all
That winged isle of cloud; and, flaming thro'
His crimson mantle streaming on the sky,
Dazzled the sight, as when it burns the leaf
Of a translucent flower. I turn'd away,
Half blinded by the vision; and when I raised
34
His arm beneath his mantle toward my brow.
He touch'd it; and, it seem'd, a lightning spark
Ran thro' me, kindling every sense with life
Unknown till then; till they became all ear
Unto his whisper, as he said—“The light
Which I have shed into thy heart, young child,
Is that which melts the mountain snows; and pours them
In torrents and in rivers to the sea:
Which from the wither'd heart of Winter woos
The April bud, and in the crocus flames;
Which, when the lark goes up to meet the day,
Burns in him, and sends forth swift messengers
In notes that thrill forever, like the beams
Of Morn they welcome; which the nightingale
Repeats unto the moon with her swift songs,
That throb and burn like the remember'd Sun,
Which fires the forest dew and prison'd gem;
Which, piercing the still shadows, rouses forth
The Winds, and sends them dancing o'er the earth;
Which, in the East and West, at morn and even,
Lays flaming oceans 'twixt the earth and sky,
And sets on fire the thunderous walls of storm,
Changing them first to cities of delight,
With gates and walls and capitols of gold,
Then shattering them to blazing dust, and rolling
Their mighty ruins under floods of flame.
But in thy heart, O eager-hearted Child,
It shall draw forth another birth, and mix
35
Shall make thee glad as birds, and swift as streams,
Blissful as odours, rare as rainbows, strong
As lightning, gay as morning, soft as eve;
Wing'd as the winds that flee from isle to isle;
And give thee, when thou wilt, the power to build
Of magic breath illumined temples, rich
As morning-colour'd mists, yet strong as Time.”
Thereat he took the seven-strig'd lyre, my joy,
My passion; not with tender loving hands,
But snatch'd it rudely; and clashing all the chords,
And rending them asunder, he flung down
Its delicate frame unto the earth, and set
His proud foot on it—had he struck the life
Out of my heart in anger I had borne
That evil better than so sad a sight.
My tears burst forth like fountains, and I crept
Humbly up to him that had wrong'd me so.
And, in my dream, methought I strove thro' sighs,
And sobs, and passionate words, to gather up
The shatter'd framework; and with desperate hand
Fragment to fragment joining, like a child,
Still weeping weeping ever—when I heard
A musical sweet laugh; and there he stood
His fingers flattering the willing strings
Of a great harp, of such a glorious shape,
That, in the shock of mere astonishment,
My grief was stay'd. But when he touch'd the chords
Ascending and descending; made them mix
36
Their tongues in one, give answers to each other;
And rise, and dive, and flash o'er seas of sound,
And dance in wildest measure, whirling swiftly,
Or moving softly; oh! methought I saw
The airy ladder laid with suncolours
For steps; and up and down the loveliest shapes
Of Muse, or Faun, or Oread glide thereon;
Spirals, or even bands, or pyramids
Of young Immortals, Hebe's self atop,
Or glittering chains of spirits, hand in hand,
Up to the Sun's own doors! “Lament no more”
He said—“I give it thee; learn thou its uses;
And fashion it according to the mould
Of thine own heart. No other hand save mine
Hath known its cunning; let it answer thee;
And from it draw sweet utterance ever new.
The simple tones of that primeval shell
Which I have shatter'd, and which thou dost mourn,
Time hath well heard, and would not hear again.
For he is hungry after new delights,
And thirsty for the scent of vernal flowers.
He toils along through endless Autumn leaves,
And spurns from under him the dust of Death,
And holds his head thro' clouds unto the East.
Youth loves to mock the fashions of the old;
And love is prone to serve the thing it loves.
And thou, O child, so loving and so young,
Wouldst look upon a World that is no more;
37
And breathe the desert air which they have breathed;
And sing old notes too careless of thyself.
The mockbird hath all voices but his own;
And thou wouldst lisp quaint ditties o'er again.
What would it profit thee to be the first
Of Echoes, tho' thy tongue should live for ever;
A thing that answers, but hath not a thought,
As lasting but as senseless as a stone?
Look, as the Sun which rose this very morn,
Hath changed his place in heaven since yesterday;
And ere to-morrow morn shall change again;
And, as each month, succeeding to the last,
Gives to the year a fresh and differing flower;
As shadows shift by day and stars by night;
And every hour hath aspects of its own;
The last-born life is other than the rest,
And owes its Mother Earth and Father Time
A spirit, like no other spirit known.
Awake! forget not! thou wilt not forget
The songs which thou hast heard; but, until death,
Shalt utter the new music thou hast heard
This summermorn.” He ceased; and was caught up
Swiftly. Again uprose that winged Isle
Against the sun; but now its upward flight
Was from the earth; slowly it sail'd away.
Once more He of the crimson mantle stood
Upon its snowy height; but now one arm
Lean'd on a wondrous harp with many strings;
38
And roundabout him I beheld a host,
With upward-gazing eyes; upon their brows
Circlets of fadeless leaves; and on their breasts
Written in golden letters, like to fire,
Ancestral names of holy men. I gazed
On these illumined aspects; first with fear,
Then with an adoration mix'd with love.
For I beheld such pity in their looks,
As on the lips of aged sires, that bend
Over a helpless newborn babe; and faith
Moved in me; and I yearn'd to speak to them,
And hear them speak. Rank over rank they rose;
Until the hindmost paled unto my sight,
Like phantoms wrought of the pale cloud itself;
And their own names upon their bosoms sign'd
Were drown'd in vapours dim. But two I saw;
Great Homer sitting on the God's right hand;
And underneath him at his feet was laid
He whom my soul had loved. Oh! when I saw
That face, my fancy's idol, first, methought,
Imagination, like an oracle,
Had spoken in me; working wondrously,
To shape a phantom out of lonely musing,
As like in my mind's eye as shadows seen
In water seem unto the face above;
For there he was as I had painted him.
The drapery of my immaterial thought
Had fashion'd forth his raiment; and his hair,
39
And such a pious meaning on his lips
Varied with such a smile! I clasp'd my hands,
Unto him crying;—“Father, countryman;
“Terpander, oh! Terpander; hear'st thou not
Thy Lesbian tongue?” Again the music swell'd,
Like gusts of summer tempest; and my voice
Was slain; but sweeter aye and sweeter grew
The parting sound; till once again the sun
Flooded the pale isle with its oceanlight,
And swallow'd up the vision: the last tones
Of that divine ascending harmony
Were faint as echoes rapt along the wind;
And left dim memories, like a sweet-shaped dream
We cannot seize again, however fair,
Trod underfoot of the great tumult, roll'd
Through opening gates of day. I cried, “Terpander,
Terpander,” and the sound of my own cry
Woke me: and lo! the sun was in the west;
The grove was glooming, and the evening beams,
Like golden columns fallen to the earth,
Slanted thro' tall stems of the wood behind.
I rose—and homeward turn'd 'twixt grief and joy.
40
PHAON
1
Like to the Gods appears that man to me.
2
Love shook me like the mountain breeze
Rushing down on the forest trees.
3
Sweet mother, I can spin no more,
Nor ply the loom as heretofore,
For love of him.
Sappho.
I
Can I forget the happy happy mornWhen first these eyes were blest with thee? I cried,
When age shall make my pulses slow, when Death
Shuts up my sense, and turns my heart to dust,
Its memory shall be graven on my soul
In living fire and light. O happy Morn!
O glorious memory of a matchless time!
Memory of Joy, and unexhausted Hope;
When Fancy, fresh from the Immortal Gods,
With endless rainbows hung this stormy World;
41
Was echoed by the living heart within
Full of delight! No other day shall dawn
Like that; its pure and perfect harmony—
Tho' the great Master of all Song should lift
His voice upon Olympus; and the tongues
Of the Pierian Sisters quire accord—
Would seem as mockery to thy faithful dream,
My heart, if told in any tongue but thine;
And faint as alalagmas of a host
Dying among the hills! Glad was that Morn,
That Maymorn; and the vital breezes shook,
From holts in flower and wildbrier wildernesses,
The sweet drops of an early rain, and bore them
Bickering across mine eyes; the parting clouds
Glanced forth enamour'd lights, that momently
Dappled the mountainsides and airy peaks;
And kiss'd the tender green of upland trees,
That sway'd before the warm breath of the Spring,
Seen soft yet clear in all their matin hues,
Clear to the eye, tho' soundless and afar.
And every headland, every promontory,
And towers that frown'd on every steepy isle,
And every hamlet sheening by the sea,
Made gold and azure in the fitful prime.
O happy, happy morn! the purple deeps,
Cloven by blustering winds that blew at dawn,
Were restless still; far off the joyous crests
Of the white surges, lightening in the sun,
42
And flung their spray before them; and the voice
Of the proud waters thunder'd on the sands,
And went resounding o'er the long long shores;
And, echoing from the caves and misty peaks,
Peal'd like an endless Pæan manifold!
And, in the pauses of the great seasong,
I heard the foam—gems seething in clear wine—
Amid the pebbles and the rose-hued shells,
Thrill like a lute with silver strings; and die
Like whispers of the Nereids at my feet.
On such a day was Aphrodite born:
And on the ridges of the playful sea
Rose like a Queen. Her tall immortal limbs
Cast off the gleaming freshness of the deep,
Like scales of silver armour; with one foot
She prest the prow of her enchanted pearl;
One hand thrown back amidst her golden hair,
She dash'd the salt drops from her. And I stood
That morn upon the shore of Mytilene,
About a bowshot from the city gates;
And felt again a little child to see
The white froth leaping o'er the sea-worn stones
Of the old walls; under the shade I stood
Of an acacia, which a taller pine
O'ershadow'd; and its lonely beauty crown'd
A little hill matted with flowers and thyme;
A breezy slope that overlook'd the town,
With its long colonnades and carven founts,
43
Right thro' its clustering gardens, to the foot
Of the throned mountains on the other side.
The thunder and the lightning of the sea
Play'd underneath; and the resounding waves
Roll'd shoreward, leaping in their morning strength,
Like lions at their gambols. As I breathed,
The morning, listening to the harmony
Of winds and waters, mingled with the song
Of that lone tree, whose lovely plumes were caught
By the seawind; and stream'd above my head
Murmuring their fragrant sighs; and scattering off
Their lavish flowers—I heard a shout; and lo!
A motley rout of fishers and of slaves,
Starting from forth the shadows of the rocks
And stranded barks, and hollows of the shore,
And pouring out into the sunshine, drew
A merry swarm of children after them,
With many a wife and daughter; and lit up
The barren coast with living hues; and woke
The echoes of the hills.—A sail! a sail!
And eager arms, stretch'd forth, and straining eyes,
Behind the mist of mingled sea and sky
Saw the white canvas like a little cloud.
“Canst thou see aught, mine Atthis, for thine eyes
Are swift?” I said “I better see, to scan
Alcæus by the midnight lamp, than dive
Into the far horizon's sunny dew.”
No sooner had I said, than from a cloud,
44
That lay upon the waters, paving them
With streets of green, and gold, and amethyst,
And in the middle of the purple gloom
I saw the snowy sail and shining deck
Soar o'er the toppling floods. Ah! woe is me:
Better had sickness stay'd me by the wheel
Of my fond mother; better mighty toil
Had made me blind; ah! better Death had come
That very morn, than I had lived to see
That fatal bark move onward to the shore,
Rigg'd by the Fates, Love sitting at the helm!
II
Above the bare heads of the clustering crowdScarce could I see the hands, that reef'd the sail,
And cast the rope ashore. I heard the keel
Grate on the strand; and then there was a hush,
After the tumult and the stir, might seem
A shadow from a cloud; some marvel seem'd
To hold their breath, as when the temple doors
Roll back on some high festal night, and show
The glorious golden shrine. Then converse grew
Doubtful and strange, and spreading whisperingly;
Then murmurs, waxing strong, as when the sea
Seethes with the coming breeze; and then a cry
“'Tis he, 'tis he! and yet 'tis not; I swear
It cannot be.” So, from beneath the shade
45
And near'd the throng of men; and with me went
Mine Atthis; for these momentary acts,
That from the thoughts of others melt as fast
As the light foam of the backsliding wave
In the hot sun, or shadows from before it,
Were soon illumined by the master-thought
Lit up within me, to their smallest lines;
Like shapes by lightning drawn upon the night.
Nearer we came, and nearer; then I saw
An aged man come slowly up, and pass
Amid the sundering crowd toward the sea.
A thin voice said—“I see him not, albeit
I saw him step aboard; he parted with ye;
Why come ye not with him? Tell me, kind hearts,
Hath aught of evil chanced to him, my boy
My only boy? Tell me, O mariners, where,
Where is my Phaon?” Woeful 'twas to see
That aged man thus pleading, and unheard;
Leaning upon his staff with rueful looks;
And moved me to swift tears. And, when he saw
The pity in mine eyes, he turn'd to me;
And clasp'd me by the hand. “It is his bark:
I knew it by the dolphin on the prow.
Hath any robber slain him suddenly,
Or dragon of the deep? In bays and coves,
And by the sleepy mouths of lazy streams,
Death lurks 'mid evil weeds; and once I knew
A serpent leap into a shepherd's mouth,
46
To sleep for ever. Or haply he hath found
Some love among the isles? For in my day,
Touching at little shady ports, and lying
To water underneath the orange bowers,
We saw lithe damsels, winding to the shore
To bathe in the cool caves; and heard their songs
Make silver echoes, as they swam to meet
The creamy ripplets running in, and sped
Their noonday sport like Nereids; and sometimes
In starlight dances they would cheat the hours
Till midnight, as we lay at anchor, biding
The morrow and the lading; and there came
Some bridal by, or Summer festival,
Ringing its cymbals; and the young girls flung
The roses from their chaplets at our men,
A laughter-hearted band of village maids,
A clustering garland of all flowers, that seem'd
From far off glancing in and out the shadows,
Like Sea-nymphs more than mortal villagers;
And the sweet moonlight, and the shelly sands,
Made a smooth floor unto our twirling feet,
And roof'd us with clear light, that seem'd like noon,
Only more tender. Those were happy days!
But ah! what do I say? Would it were so;
And nought of sorrow; say, oh! say me comfort.
Let it not be that he is gone before;
And I with these grey hairs must stay and weep
On earth, when earth and life without such solace—
47
Oft as I see his mother's face in him;
Her whom I see no more until I die—
Were worse than silence and eternity.
Oh! the grey seas are faithless; and the skies
Are fickle; and the gusty mountainflaws
Lash their blue smiles to anger oversoon;
And twice or thrice, well I remember me,
Perill'd my life when youth was mine; and fill'd
The heart of poor fond Dora, now at rest,
With eager sighs, that kept her eyes awake
All one long winter night of wind and sea;
Until the dawn between the lattice shone,
And show'd me to her, underneath a rock,
Not many paces from the welcome door,
Bloody and cold. Oh! faithless are the seas!
Ah! for these weary bones, if thou art gone,
My boy, whose love was length of days; whose care
My daily bread; who held my limbs and life
From parting. I was swung with the wild surf
Upon the hidden claws of cruel rocks,
Just as my cold limbs faint with lack of sleep
And nightly toil of baling out the flood,
Were helpless as a child's; and, but that Death,
Hungry before me, with uplifted arm,
Nerved mine to one last agonizing throe,
That left me without breath upon the strand—
(Ah Heaven! the very memory of that strife,
After these long long years, is full of pain,)—
48
Perchance it had been best. Oh! tell me not
Of such great sorrow; let me hear, O friends,
If sorrow needs must be, that there is hope.
No paly flower yet blossoms in my heart
But what is rooted in his precious life.
Oh! such a living ill were worse than death,
And to forget and sleep—forget and sleep.”
III
Vain as a sail beat back by baffling winds,Flutter'd the hope within my heart, to still
The gathering tempest in that old man's soul.
Vain were my words of cheer; but louder grew
The clamour, and then hush'd; and a clear voice
Rose, as the crowd gave back on either hand.
“Father”—it said—“my father, where art thou?
Thy voice is faint, thine eyes are weak and old,
But speak, and bear thou witness to thy son.”
And in mine ears those sad and simple words
Still tremble, thro' the night of my despair,
Like notes of music that we hear in sleep,
And straightway lapse into a witching dream;
And evermore that music, heard again,
Brings back the dream; and, if again by night
The dream enchant us, brings the music with it.
And, 'mid the circle of their wondering eyes,
I saw a youth, as 'twere the God of Youth,
49
As with the eager speed of his desire;
The other lagging hindward, as with doubt
Stay'd, and the wildering sense of something strange;
And the free smile upon his lips was chill'd
Half-way with anguish; and his tearful eyes,
Half downcast and half turn'd upon the face
Of the old man, seem'd mutely questioning.
Oh! as he stood there, with his right hand forward,
Back'd by the purple sea and one far cloud,
That either side his shoulders lay like wings,
Methought I look'd on Maia's blessed self,
Flown o'er the seas, and lighted there, to bid
The very seaweeds blossom on the sands!
Thus for a little space he stood, with eyes
That hoped and fear'd: and then that fond old man,
Curving above his staff, made haste, and near'd,
Until his dim gaze, fix'd upon the face
Of him who spake, might witness for the truth
Of that familiar voice. It was his voice,
Familiar to his sense, as was the sound
Of the low waves that woke him up at morn
Lapping the grit and shells; as welcome to him
As the fair wind, unto whose summer kiss
They two so oft had lifted up the sail,
While the high capes and peakéd isles were red
With the unrisen sun, as with the smile
Of one a dreaming; and the shadowy gulphs,
And mountain-shaded coves were purple dark.
50
Should cheat themselves until they cannot see;
Or waste their last light but to see in vain!
Who is it that is standing there before thee?
Not he, thy lost one, with his bronzed arms
Lean with his toil, but knotted with his strength;
Whose eye had drunk the fire of summernoons,
Though his broad breast was dusky with the sun;
With brows, which days, not years, had scored with care
A face tho' seldom sad not ofttimes merry;
As one, who saw amid the summer light
The frowns of other tempests, and could hear
In stillest calm the tongues of mighty winds.
Upon the shoulder of the youth he laid
His wavering hand; and stood a moment, smit
With overwhelming wonder as he gazed:
Then shook his head, and turn'd aside in sorrow.
That sight, like a warm sunflash on the snow,
Drew from him some few tears; and then he spake.
“Alas! it is not he, but something shaped
For men to worship, rather than a man.
Thou canst not charm me with thy golden hair;
Thy blue eye like the heavens; thy tall fair limbs,
Like marble fancies touch'd with life—so charm me,
As that I should forget the love of one,
My flesh and bone—nay not that voice of thine,
Which sounds, as tho' thy hand that shed his blood
Had stolen away his soul—without his form
Shall witch me for a moment to look on thee,
51
That my long memories, like the mountain shadows
That stream from West to East, have turn'd to doting,
And left me so unmindful of myself
As not remember him. His was a front
Not fair to look on; oh! but very kind;
A hand not smooth and fine, but nerved with truth
To roughest grasp; and he had tender tears;
Tho' quickly dash'd away in his disdain,
As salt spray from the rocks. His eyes would fill
To hear of any evil chance befallen
The lives or fortunes of his daily friends.
And graces such as these were fitter far
To sway the hearts of men, than if his form
Were like a Parian Phœbus moved with life.”
He would have parted, and his steps were turn'd
Sadly away; when that deserted boy,
Heedless of all strange eyes, and scornful lips,
Clasping his hands together in wild grief,
First raised his woful looks to Heaven; and then
Flung himself at the feet of that old man,
With a shrill desolate plaint, soon drown'd in tears;
That, like the drops blown off from storm-beat flowers,
Rain'd on the ground. He cried;—“I am not changed,
Father; but angry Furies, 'twixt us two,
And 'twixt the present and the past, have spread
Their wings of darkness; all my heart of old
Answers unto this voice, which still thou hearest;
Still hearest, tho' those loving eyes are blind.”
52
IV
His beauty, in my spirit wrought anewBy wakeful fancies toiling night and day,
Grew hourly on my sense; and all my dreams
Flow'd round his living presence; and great Love
Cast on his face the image in my heart,
And made him doubly fearful. Oh! at morn
I've met him in the walks between the vines;
Or down in dells, where torrent waters whirl'd
Thro' rocks unto the sea, where twisted boughs,
Embracing o'er the river's gulphy bed,
Made secret shade; sudden my throbbing pulse
Wax'd full of trouble as a rising sea;
And drown'd my coming voice, and I stood pale
And trembling, as a guilty thing reveal'd
By its own fears. Oh! then, if but a word
Distill'd more sweetly from his tongue—a welcome
More kindly spoken than his wont—a smile
More tender than the others—I became
Transform'd, transfigured, and with mystic strength
Inform'd; as tho' the Spirit of the Spring,
At work within me, put forth eager wings,
And clothed itself with power anew, and moved
The founts of life within me, and awoke
Pulses of bliss, that thro' my tearful eyes
Flash'd like a cloudy beam, and then were changed
To panic fears, and senseless agonies,
If that dear voice and dearer smile should light
53
Lashing the changeful deeps within; and glooming
With tenfold cloud the sunshine of a moment.
Ah Heaven! what nameless trances of delight,
And anguish, what swift hates, what dread suspicions
Follow'd by adoration and new love,
Fierce as the fire, that from cold drops creates
Fresh ardours, and by ruffling winds is blown
Into resistless might: my breath came quick;
A pleasant murmur wander'd in mine ears;
Mine eyes grew dim with joy; back from my brow
I cast my hair; my step grew light and free,
As tho' gay Love had stolen from his wings,
To plume my feet and lift me from the earth.
Ah! then I was delighted and sublime:
My heart rose to mine eyes; and idle words,
Buoyant with musical emotion, danced
Upon my lips like rapture, and leap'd forth
In melody; plain speech began to sound
Wondrous as inspiration; mine own voice
Seem'd in mine ear, as when the Pythoness
Feels the great Oracle begin to stir
Within her, and her natural utterance change.
Elated by his godlike smile, and fill'd
With supernatural glory, I had dared
Deeds worthy of heroic might; and arm'd
My delicate limbs in brazen plates, and led
A helmed cohort onward, sword in hand,
And foremost scaled embattled walls; and Death
54
But never could have quench'd the exulting smile
That play'd upon my lips. But if he frown'd;
Oh! if but once a momentary scorn
Jarr'd that loved voice, my spirit in me fell.
All my wild laughters and ambitious glee
Died, as a spray of early blossoms pale
Shed by a frosty wind: then, nor the sky,
Nor rivers sounding freshly, nor first flowers,
Nor teeming lawns, nor violet-breathing wind,
Nor gushing song of the new nightingale,
Nor all the pomp of the awakening Spring,
Could fetch back comfort; nought but that same voice
Tuned to the selfsame music, all to me.
V
Oh! wherefore was I made, but to be mock'd;Like some smooth ivory image on a throne,
To whom the vulgar bow the knee, and chant
With adulation; but their noisy hymns
Cannot inform it with one spark of life?
Nor can the glory of a thousand songs,
Echoed from hill to hill, from isle to isle;
Nor all the incense of my worshippers
Change me to that I would desire to be,
The lowliest of the daughters of the isle,
The large-eyed laughing Lesbian girls; that weave
Their golden voices with the lyre; that bind
55
Tufted with paly summerclouds; or beat
The timbrels, foremost in the festal pomps
Of Aphrodite, in beauty scarce below
Divine Thalia, or Euphrosyne,
Or wild Aglaia. Lo! the gusty sweetness,
Like hyacinth odours on a soft springmorn,
Rises and falls along the curving shores,
And mingles with the old song of the seas;
And reaches me far off, under the shade
Of some cool rock o'ermantled with the vine,
Or thymy upland breathing in the waves;
And brims mine eyes with tears, that are no more
Sweet, as of old, when this chain'd heart was free.
Why was I framed to drink into my sense
The essence of things lovely; and to draw
Upon my faithful soul the lineaments
Of all most glorious and most beautiful,
Swiftly as spirits, that tremble o'er the face
Of stilly seas, which unseen influences
Crisp when the winds are low? whose golden floor,
Far down beneath the liquid diamond, takes
The shadows of all things that pass above;
The spacious summercloud, the fisher's bark;
The image of the swimmer's downward face;
The wildbird's plume, the dolphin's pearly scale.
Why was I doom'd to suffer in my heart
The beauty of the Universe, and feel
Powerless to bend the iron strength of Man
56
Why hast thou in this tender body set
This eager soul? and pour'd upon my tongue
The echoes of thine own; if I must sing
Of my discomfiture, of thy defeat;
And how one dart of Eros keener is
Than all thy golden arrows? must complain
Only of Man's proud victories over me;
And how one face can witch me more than all
Thy songs can stir my soul? that I—who oft
Have seen the great Gods with undazzled eyes
In twilight valleys, or on morning slopes
Of sunlit hills, and heard their voices speak
In melody, which, like a harpstring keen
And tender, makes the pulses of the air
To throb and burn; and then, diffused and dying
In solemn echoes, like sweet thunder, shakes
The wavering sky, and makes the air to thrill—
Daily am doom'd to faint beneath the brows
And cold blue eyes of one unhonour'd boy?
Wherefore are mine affections, finely edged
Upon the stony temper of his scorn
Thus to be jagg'd and torn? His heedless eyes,
Upon the lonely altar of my heart,
Light up the accustom'd flame at Morn and Even,
But all the flashes of my hungry thoughts
Are, in that cold oblivious bosom drown'd,
Like sudden stars that run along the sky
Of midnight, and being swallow'd up in gloom
57
Within the dungeon of blind Fortune barr'd,
Fated with inexpressive agonies
To writhe and die unpitied; else this love,
Shining thro' walls of maiden fear and pride,
Had witch'd his nature unto sympathy;
As the hot Sun draws up the waters cold,
And of these twain are built 'twixt Heaven and Earth
Elysiums in the air—soft isles of cloud—
Sweet Fairyland; neither too dark nor bright
Tents, where the blissful Gods may lie and dream.
The sun that trembles on an icicle
Hath power to turn it swiftly into tears.
The wildbird mates with him whose song she hears
Pleading for pity, and recks not of his plumes.
Lightning can thaw the adamant of the World.
But love, more swift than lightning, cannot melt
Hard hearts, unlike each other, though in this
Alas! alike, that each may love in vain.
Man only, Man, King of the World, who tames
Wild creatures, and bends all things to his will
By no wise art or crafty charm, can thread
The crazy windings of Love's labyrinth,
Paven and roof'd with old perplexities,
And cobwebb'd o'er with cross-fatalities,
And darken'd with impossibilities.
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VI
Say not that ye have loved, who have not been,Like me, cast in that frail and perilous mould,
Which is at once the type of Majesty
And Desolation (sublime Phantasy,
Which sets our nature lower than the Gods,
Tho' far above the World) who have not been,
Like me, possess'd with fierier thoughts, than suit
My gentle kind; who have not been ordain'd
To suffer and to know, beyond the heart
Of Woman; yet to feel that all my gifts,
Though excellent, can never pay the loss
Of one that, on the aching heart of Man,
Thirsty for drops of consolation, flows
Like cool rills over desert sands; or dew
Upon the trodden dust of public ways:
Beauty! which won the prize in Heaven and made
The Majesty of Hera mad with envy:
Beauty! which Fate hath stolen from my cheeks
To throne within my heart. Take back your gifts,
Dark Sisters, and restore my wasted years.
Give me great Juno's eyes, or Hebe's cheeks,
Or Venus' ivory lids, and dewy lips;
Give me Youth's freshness, and exulting smile;
And let me sit upon the lowly shore,
And mend a fisher's nets, or help to pile
The vintage baskets with the timely grape;
Or drive a flock of goats into the town;
59
So that that fisher be my love; the hand,
That piles the bunches, sometimes light on mine;
The morning milk I from their udders drew
Be quaff'd by him; or the despised coin
Flung from his hand be glowing with his touch!
Fain would I, all unmindful of renown,
Untwine my distaff, singing to myself,
Like yon poor girl, that sits beneath the porch
Of her own cot, and often smiles; and looks
Toward the waters flush'd with gold of Even;
And hears the seawind gambol in the leaves
Of the old vine that tents her overhead,
Fleckering her red lip and her sunny brow
With shadows cool. She hears the low westwind:
Its rustling murmur mingle with the sound
Of unseen waves, that, fretting on the sands,
And shells, and rocks beneath, make music, meet
To echo her calm thoughts, and humble hopes,
And lowly joy. Ah! happy, happy thou.
Ev'n now thy love, returning from the field,
Will kiss thee on the cheek, and hail thee kindly;
And fold unto his heart the softeyed boy
That at thy footstool lies—why am I thus?
VII
Oh! is not perfume of a wildflower sweeterThan incense in the temples? Are not breathings
60
Of Summer in a garden? Is not Love
Mighty and fervent, though in homely weeds,
Better than aught without it? I have seen
Fortunate Anaktoria; her proud step
And arched brows above Junonian eyes;
Her curved crimson lip, that every day
Bathes in new nectars; her voluptuous bosom,
The sumptuous cradle of Elysian dreams.
Who bends not to her presence? Who is not
Loud in her praise? What lot so great as hers?
Sole daughter of a sire, the foremost man
Of thousands; first in riches, first in honour.
A hundred vineyards pour into his vats
Their precious blood; he sails on every sea.
He piles his pleasure-houses of strange marbles;
His walls with carved-work; his pictured roofs
Show us the Gods in Heaven! Oh! she is fair.
Yet can this proud one love? She is a bride
For Kings; the heavens have measured her perfections
By his abundance; and the happy lord
Of her delights will take the Queen o' the Isles,
Dower'd with the treasures of the land and sea.
Oh! she is fair; but can the proud one love?
Sooner a vision, spun of golden clouds,
And floating in the sky, would bow to us;
Than one, who, at the top of all this world,
And swathed in folds of services and pomp,
Moves in a mist of praise! So let her pass.
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The laughing, scornful Cydno? She who turns
From hearts, that she hath poison'd with her smiles,
With looks of wonderment and innocence,
And simple tears, which make her starry eyes
Like veiled sunbeams softer than themselves;
And make sweet Nature sweeter, saving her
For other victories and triumphant wrongs?
Think ye that she can love? Sooner a flower
That wags i' the wind, or busy, painted fly.
Know ye not her who saith, “I love my lover;”
And yet, to pamper her remorseless pride,
Would peril in fierce feats and bloody strife
The constant honour of the man she loves?
And, if she saw his blood upon her hand,
Some drops she sure would shed, that she had lost
One who had served her majesty so well;
Cruel Euphranta? Oh! know ye Atthis,
With the sweet voice and golden hair, who loves
Her little self beyond all things but praise;
Whom vanity unsexes? she would frown,
If Mars should show his plume among her guests,
Dusty with battle; or Apollo light
Among her lovers, and enchant their eyes,
Whose heart, unquiet as a racketball,
Is tost between her honour and vainglory.
And can she love? Oh! no—I know ye all—
Your beauty like the strutting peacock's plumes
Is borne disdainfully; your idle natures
62
Are harsh and boastful as the peacock's cry.
VIII
Oft have I said;—“He knows not of my pain.”Needs must I suffer patiently, and die
In silence, steadfast martyr of great Love.
The Gods will listen to a poor man's prayer;
And dower his poverty with urns of gold,
And unremember'd gems: but yesterday,
(So runs the tale along the shore) a fisher
Whose nets and boat—his very life—ay more,
The lives of his poor children—the wild sea
Had torn and swept away one howling night—
Drew up, in borrow'd nets, (when he had pray'd
Kneeling upon the beach to Jove, his heart
Oppress'd with great despair) a carven vessel,
Fill'd to the ears with golden coins, and, under
The gold, a chain, whose links were boss'd with gems;
And rings of pearl and twisted carkanets,
Flushing with stones, that inly seem'd to boil
With blood of Gods or drops of nectarous wine;
Or all afire with amber flames: alas!
Why hears he not my prayer, who pray for life?
For unrequited love is Death! Maybe
The Gods are jealous; for I fear that Phaon
Is shrined in a loftier place than Jove.
Therefore it is to Phaon that I pray.
63
Ah! sooner will a carven statue bend
Its marble ears, and open stony lips
To the pale glare of superstitious awe,
Or to the grinning of hypocrisy,
Than woman, in the silent sanctuary
Of her own heart, in deep religion bow'd
Before the King of her idolatry,
Can hope to make the cruel Idol see.
But if I die, so shall my doom be sweet.
To die in blisses at the feet of him,
For him who will not be my life; and when
This vexed heart, compact of burning flame,
Is set among the stars, as it shall be,
Its mystic influence, shed upon the earth,
Shall cross with power the fatal beams that deal
Mischance to lovers; and perchance shall shield
His happy Youth from pangs he dooms to me!
IX
But, in those days which dawn'd with hope and joy,And set in darkness, where wert thou the while,
O Phantasis, O faithful friend of old?
My harp was broken, and my voice was mute,
My soul a garden stricken in its spring
With barrenness; my heart a stormy clime,
Thro' which the tongues of old affections seem'd
Faint and afar; kind loves of kindred cold.
64
Were coming on the earth; but well I knew
I could not dream, as I was wont erewhile,
In the drear hours of Winter by the side
Of my own hearth, and make its warmth and light
Image to me the blissful sunny shine.
There was a time—Oh! then I was a child—
(And sure whole ages roll'd 'twixt now and then,)
And like an innocent child, who all the day
Will wander idly, and forget his task,
To look out for the advent of some friend
Beloved dearly, whose bright face, and voice
Of merriment, will send into his heart
Oblivion of all bondage, fear, and care—
There was a time when, in the cloudy months,
And when the world might seem to suffer anguish,
I counted those dull hours of every day,
Wherein no outward beauty cheer'd my sense.
Oh! then, what joy to shape the virgin Spring,
With living touches, more than painter's art,
In some lone sanctuary atween the hills,
Stormproof, and steep'd in odours, brimm'd with light—
Like Aphrodite dropping from her brows
The pearly waters—stepping forth at morn
From forth a sea of sunshine, lily-crown'd,
And scattering round her the half-open blooms.
What joy to mark, in visionary mood,
The black-eyed Summer, panting at all pores,
Back from his forehead cast his glittering locks,
65
At noontide, or along the champaign smooth,
To drink the tempest from the icy peaks,
And wrestle with the thunders of the hills.
What tender moments when my fancy seem'd
To look back to the parted year, and see
Slow-footed Autumn, with his teeming horn
Slung from his shoulder, ere he bade farewell,
Beam sweetly on me a last tearful smile;
And flinging down his clusters on the ground
Dower me with all his wealth; then flee away
Thro' the warm gold of the last sunny even.
I was not gladden'd by the nightingale's
Sweet madness; by the rushing of the winds
Over the fresh green of the mountain oaks,
Whose freshness once seem'd breath of a new earth
And heaven; I could not look, while Spring was new,
With eager eyes upon the pearly sheen
Of blossoms, or the first-born crimson rose,
That laugheth out King Summer's messenger.
And now the year was dying, and the last
Was shedding on the turf its breathless leaves.
Its solitary beauty—like the vain,
And melancholy smile of one, who stays
Beside the sickbed of her best beloved,
And tortures her lorn soul and aching eyes,
To image consolation, and call up
Hope in that heart that hath no hope at all,
Save death alone, herself about to die—
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In very pity for the mournful figures
Of my own brain. I pluck'd with sudden hand
That trustful flower, the last of all the year;
And cared not if I shed its leaves away,
And lingering life it bore; for, if it died
Within my bosom's warmth, where hope was none,
While interchanging our sad sympathies,
Methought it did not die unsatisfied.
Sudden the mist of wandering phantasies
Was rent asunder by the tyrant thought
That brook'd no neighbour; and I fled within,
And cast me down at my dear mother's knee.
“O mother, mother, what is come to me?”
I cried, “hast thou no balm, no spell, to heal
A stricken heart, ev'n as cool mallowflowers
Once charm'd the pain out of my wounded hand?
I cannot share thy joys, or halve thy cares;
Or sing, or speed the loom, or turn the wheel;
Or will, or think, or do, but only feel.
Mother, sweet mother, stay me, or I die!”
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EUMENIDES
Ah! me forlorn! ah! doom'd to share
Every sorrow, pain, and care.
Alcæus.
Every sorrow, pain, and care.
Alcæus.
I
One morning, wandering under winding rocks,That screen'd the sun, and shadow'd the calm sea,
And feeding my fond thoughts with phantasies,
Till the unreal seem'd a treasurehouse,
Wherein to dwell apart from all this world
Was more than all the world; a sudden turn
Brought me in sight of him, whom to behold
Was to cast out all pictures, multiplied
By manifold imaginings, and see
The very life varied by life itself.
Then once again the trouble, as at first,
Seized me like fear. I would have turn'd, and fled.
But many stood around him; and just then
The sunshine flooded through a cleft of rock,
And lighting up a multitude of men,
Women, and children, made their raiment burn
With many colours suddenly, as though
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And he sat with the glory on his face.
So I drew back in shadow; and not one
Gave heed to me; and I sat by, and mark'd,
Thro' loopholes of a drooping jessamine,
Their motions, and his countenance. One said
Unto another;—“Was there ever aught
Like this thro' generations of the past?
That one, of form and aspect like to him,
Should deem himself another, and that other
The son of an old fisher?” “Hold thy peace:”
Spoke up a crutched widow; “know ye not
The very gods sometime have left their seats,
To dwell among us for a punishment?
The sorrows of the blest perchance may be
A blessing to the sorrowful; I charge ye,
Mock not, lest ye should rue it:” “If he be,”
Whisper'd another—with a laugh he hid
Under his hand—“more than a mortal man,
I know not; but the selfsame wits, I ween,
That made him perilous to his peers above,
Have so forsook him since he came below,
As to make this part of his punishment:”
“Shame on ye,” said another; “is it strange
That one, perchance a noble youth, a son
Of some king of the isles, who seeks him now
In vain, and weeps because he cannot find,
In form, and feature, of a better race,
Should have been smit with madness, and have fled
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Ofttimes are stricken with calamity,
As the high hills with lightning; for the Gods
Brook not the pride of mortals. Think ye not
That they will search for him, and find him here,
And bind him; see ye not that he is mad?
Meanwhile, if ye have gentle hearts, be kind
To one, who, if not wise, hath done no ill.
I will take counsel with our rulers here,
That they may shield him lest he come to harm.”
But when they heard these words some fled away
Swiftly, but they were children; mothers press'd
Their babes more fondly, and went softly; some,
Whom fear made cruel, would have wreak'd themselves
In scorn or wrong; but others drew them back.
But most were they who, without love or fear,
Had gaped their full, and now went by together;
Lest by some chance, they knew not what, their hands,
Too listless to be lifted up for ill,
Might yet be wearied with some work of good.
II
When all were parted I came near to him:And question'd him with such a feigned voice,
As might an actress, mocking airs of pride,
Although her heart was all humility.
I thought so; haply I deceived myself.
But, if he loved me not, his mood might seem
70
Than mine; and for the time our parts were changed.
For with a quick and eager gratitude
He seized my hand, and prest it to his lips,
“Lady, I thank thee from my heart,” he cried,
“For the first words that tell me there is one
Of my own land, who will not deem my truth
A lie, my poverty a cause for crime;
My sorrow causeless, even tho' my own
Beloved father—oh! I know not why—
Disowns me, clothed as heretofore, and raves,
And curses me for my own murderer:
So that I think that all I meet are mad.
For well I know I am not mad myself;
Nor any prince fled from afar, but he,
Who, but a few days since, was known to all,
And loved by all; and yet I am not changed,
Except some spell have wrought a change in me,
Or in the eyes of others who look on me.
Alas! was ever lot so strange as mine,
Was ever fate so cruel?” When he ceased,
I could not answer him; for had I seen
This man before, or mark'd if I had seen?
So if he were not mad, as they had said,
And seeming reason but a madman's wile,
Then was I mad for loving a king's son,
So far above me, or one so far below
As him, whose hands but now were red with blood!
“Tell me,” I said, “how fared it with thee, friend,
71
Things stranger than the strangest we have heard
Befell the interval 'twixt now and then,
To make a stranger of thee.” Then he said;—
“Lady, it was the morning of that day
They slew Melanchrus; in the bays and coves
The barks lay without hands; the unpeopled shores
Were silent, but the streets were thronging fast;
And from the centre of the citadel
The wind brought down the tumult, and I thought
To leap ashore, and lend my arm to theirs,
Who shouted for the people; but the wind
Was favourable, and my father's voice
Still sounding in my ears; for he was chafed
That baffling airs had held me here so long.
And then I thought a needy mariner,
Striving amid the busy citizens,
Is but a foolish fish that gasps in air,
And cannot help himself; why should he tempt
The earthquake, who is only weatherwise;
As though his skill upon the tossing sea
Would bear him safely thro' the tumbling towers?
So that I put vain thoughts away, and turn'd
To hoist sail and unmoor. Just then I heard
A faint voice, and an aged form and veil'd
Stood, beckoning like a spectre, on the strand.
She had been tall in youth; but now she seem'd
To lean the sorrows of an hundred years
Upon her staff; she shook with her great age.
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‘The routed mob,’—she shriek'd,—‘half blind with fear
Are flying from the wrath of the chief men.
A moment more, and they had trod me down.
Save me, my son; there is no help on shore;
And I shall bless thee; I am of the Isles;
Bear me along with thee, and set me down.’
‘Mother, I am for Imbros; step aboard,’
I cried—and raised her in my arms for speed
Lest she should trip and fall; but in my hands
Light as a little dust was that grey form;
And all those mortal sorrows as thin air;
So that I marvell'd. But no sooner she
Had set her foot upon the deck, than all
The rabble rout with clamours, and with dust,
Pour'd down upon the shores; and from the fort
We heard the trumpets blowing; and I saw
Aghast new banners flying; and I knew
That I most wisely had forgone the fray;
For the great lords had won: but now I breathed
Freely the fresh seas, and the winged air.
O Heaven! how blessed was that thought; how sweet;
While many, for the deeds they did that day,
Lay in a breathless dungeon dark and cold.
No sooner was the canvas spread, than all
The winds, that had forgotten us so long,
Came down at once; off in midsea the crests
Of the tall surges lighten'd; and the showers
Dash'd from the deep made rainbows. On we flow'd,
73
Out for the main, as tho' blind Fortune sat
In that weird shape before me; and I sang
In very glee, to witness how we sail'd.
The yellow shores, the temples on the steeps,
Sunk as in some swift dream; and all the hills
Of Lesbos vanish'd as a morning cloud.
And still I sang, and still we sail'd away
From morn to noon, from afternoon to even;
And halcyons came and warbled on the mast;
And wondrous fishes glanced from out the blue,
Dizen'd with pearl and gold; and gracious shapes
Seem'd leaning o'er us from the summer clouds.
Oh! we sail'd rarely! but that hooded form
Sat cowering by the mast, and spake no more;
Till I grew half afraid; and, when the moon
Rose o'er the waters, I grew silent too,
Thinking 'twas Death that I had brought aboard.
At last, betwixt the midnight and the morn,
Lying becalm'd under the dusky lee
Of a forsaken islet steep with rocks,
And weary with my toil, I lay and slept.
And in my dreams we still were sailing on,
Thro' waters, purple with the setting sun,
'Twixt rosy isles that waved above the deep
Deep summer woods tassel'd with flowers, that made
The quiet bays beneath them rich as floors
Paven with gems; and, in the lawny shade
Of gardenslopes, I heard sweet citherns smit;
74
Then, as I slept, methought I look'd upon
The rocky islet; but its aspect changed;
As tho' midwinter in a moment sprang
Into the youth of summer; and I saw
Many a green way, that wander'd into deeps
Of emerald twilight; and I lighted down,
And follow'd the first alley that I found.
And, as I went, it widen'd into lawns,
And gardens, cluster'd with such balmy trees,
As fill'd the air with odours; but no sense
Of mortal man drew in such happy breath
As flow'd around me, filling me with bliss
Sweeter than any drawn from golden drops
Of sweetest vineyards: and about me rang
The mingled notes of songbirds, to the ear
Wafting delights, that seem'd to breathe in sound
The spirits of the flowers. I drank in life;
My heart was jocund and my step was light.
When, in a moment, from beneath a shade
Of arching myrtles came forth one, who seem'd
The queen of all that pleasaunce; for the light
Of her great beauty glorified the place.
And yet, methought, as I look'd on her face,
I still beheld the aged woman there,
Though every form and feature had put on
Divinest youth; and then I heard her voice.
‘The Immortals have no need of mortal aid;’
She said; ‘and if this morn I seem'd to fly
75
Thy hand hath saved one whom no hand could harm.
But not the less the Gods are bountiful;
And bless the giver though his gift be nought.
Love is the best gift that thy world can yield.
Beauty should be its garment; and when Time
Hath reap'd the harvest of the evil earth,
The thoughts of men shall mould their outward form;
And, love being in the heart as in the eye,
And interchanged by twain who love each other,
Not given in vain to unrequiting souls,
All loves shall be concordant, as the sweet
Concert of bass and treble instruments.
And infants shall inherit in their souls
Ancestral harmonies; and the pure thought,
And the kind heart be pictured in the face,
Material symbol of the soul itself;
Like and unlike, yet answering to each other,
As Nature to the Supernatural,
O mortal, but the days are not yet come
For such a change; but I can make thee such.
Be thou, as thou wouldst be, if that great day
Had dawn'd upon the world; be thou, O boy,
The visible semblance of thine inmost soul.’
Lady, I know not if I seem to thee
To utter speech of reason; but I know
These are the words she spoke, the very same.
For, by recalling them continually,
Sometimes in silent thought, sometimes in whispers,
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In memory, thro' my vain desire to spell
The riddle of them, that I can no more
Forget them, than the sound of my own tongue.”
He ceased, and grief, and wonder, mix'd with fear,
Gat hold of me; I could not answer him.
For had I ever seen this man, before
He sail'd away, or mark'd if I had seen?
Alas! he must be mad as they had said,
Then was I madder still for loving him
Who loved not me: but could I fight with doom,
More than a withered leaf with mountain winds,
More than a dewdrop with the cataract?
III
One morn there was a cry along the shore.A shatter'd bark had drifted on a rock
With shiver'd mast and rudderless; and one
Said 'twas a fisher's caught by a northwind,
And emptied of its crew; another knew
It was a Samian bark, and brought us wares,
And wines in change for ours; a broken jar
Lay on the deck; hard by a fisher's cap,
Discolour'd by the salt seas; but a third
Cried: “Mark ye not the dolphin on the prow?
Ah! now I know, 'tis his; the youth who sail'd
A few months past, and vanish'd; but instead
One brought it back who bore the selfsame name,
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As Hermes to a helot,—for his face
And form seem'd more than mortal; yet he wept
Thus to be held a stranger; for the old man,
The sire of him ye wot of, cast him off,
And charged him with the murder of his son,
And died a few days after. And this youth
Wander'd in solitary walks, and show'd
A woeful aspect for a week or two.
Then on a certain morning he came down,
And stood among us—'twas a stormy time—
And thus he spoke, ‘O friends, I have lost all
'Tis best to love; the love of them I loved,
Who tell me, though I know myself the same
In heart and mind, that I am strange to them.
If it be so, I know not by what arts
I have been charm'd; but I remember me
The last sad voyage was not made alone.
But one went with me, who had fled that morn
From the oncoming crowd of evil men,
And waving swords, and dust, and trampling steeds.
For on that very day the city rose
In arms, and slew Melanchrus—and she seem'd
An aged woman of an hundred years;
Doubtless a sorceress, and I knew it not;
And crying, ‘save me,’ as she stepped aboard.
My boat sped like an arrow from a bow,
Tho' the light winds were scarce enough that morn
To bend the sail, or yet to curl the sea.
78
Its woods, and hills, and hamlets, shrank away,
Tho' she seem'd in a slumber: but time fails
To tell ye of the rest. Still this I know,
That sleep came o'er me; and when I awoke,
I was alone: and now I part again.
If not for ever, I shall bring him back;
Tell the old man, the son that he hath lost.
For I shall sail, and seek, until I find
The holiest shrine amid the many isles.
And if there be an eye to see, an ear
To hearken to the guiltless, I shall be
Uncharm'd of evil magic, or shall die!’”
Then spake a fourth man, who had join'd the rest:—
“And now 'tis certain that he is no more.
For last night's gathering tempest into port
Brought many barks, scudding before the wind.
The captain of the last beheld this boat
Far in midsea; against the dying light
One stood upon the deck with streaming hair,
And outstretch'd arms; and the last sunflash fired
A mountain wave that curl'd o'er it, and seem'd
A purple dragon with a golden crest.
I heard a shriek; and, when the sea recoil'd,
He was not; but the vessel drifted on,
And here behold it stranded on the rocks.”
I heard the tale, as one upon a rock
Sunder'd from friends, and kin, alone, by night,
Hears the hoarse voices of the threatful waves
79
And knows that they will kill him; and I said;—
“My life is dead, for he, my love, is lost;
Love better than the life where it is not.
Drown'd, drown'd; the brightest star cast down, and quench'd
In the cold seas for ever, and for ever!
We two shall never meet again: he lies
Where I may never follow him alive.
What matter? Better be with him below,
In the still deeps, than be as I am now,
A surge upon the surface, lash'd and torn
By one unceasing torment.” And I fled,
I cared not whither; but for a brief space,
So bright was his blest image in my heart,
I could not deem it bloodless; and I laugh'd
At the impossible. There came a change,
When that throned thought, that bliss, my daily sun,
Was taken from my life; great darkness fell
One day upon me as I sat alone.
The finches, singing in the garden boughs,
Began to shrill, as tho' their little pipes
Were changed to brass, and let the northwind through.
The wind, that just before was flowing soft
Over the whispering myrtles, seem'd to howl,
And scream, as tho' it rush'd down all at once,
Thro' rifts and crannies of old battle towers,
Splinter'd with lightnings for a thousand years.
The flowers, that waved their crimson and their gold
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Like subtle fires ascending from the earth.
The sunlit fountain in the centre rose
As one vast roaring flame; the summerclouds
Drifted like smokewreaths from a world on fire,
About to infold me; then I rose, and cried
To the Gods to snatch me from it; and I heard
Laughter, like an infernal triumph, burst
From underneath the earth. And then a voice
Shouted in mine ear;—“What! wouldst thou stay
Till all the earth is, as thy scorched heart,
A dwelling for the Furies? Up! and fly,
While there is time.” And then the rampant flame
Seem'd to divide before me; and I flew,
Swift as a wither'd leaf, or bird caught off
Along a stream of wind; again the fire
Closed up behind, and follow'd after me
Like rolling thunder. Once again I heard
That voice, “the sea! the sea!” and, swift as thought,
I stood upon a high, grey, desert plain,
Scatter'd with rocks, and blown upon by winds
Out of the purple deeps, that lay hard by,
Rolling in monstrous surges far below,
So far, no sound came up; till wind and flame
Lull'd for a moment whispering eagerly.
There was no time for thought: the flooding fire
Tower'd o'er the steep edge of the wilderness;
And cast a bloodred on the quaking seas.
Then, with a mighty voice, that peal'd above
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And in a moment seem'd to strike the stars,
So that they shudder'd: “I have made my choice,”
I cried, “lost love, to sleep with thee, with thee;
Down in the still abyss, and not to burn.”
The wind and fire were hush'd, and nothing heard
But hungry waters. “Welcome, doom,” I cried,
And on a lightning-flash, that show'd me all
The dreadful ocean under, I leapt down!
Sudden around me there was a great peace.
And, thro' the azure waters, I could see
Arches of pearl and coral flourish'd o'er
By large seaflowers, that droop'd, and intertwined
Their clusters. Far within them I beheld
Walls of a city sheening with the hues
Of rainbow-tinted shells; and thro' great gates,
Pillar'd on either hand with lustrous shafts
Of opal, and of agate, flow'd a band
Of fair seadaughters; and a low, sweet coil
Came faintly thro' the waters, like the sound
Of a clear bell, whose undulations drown
In baffling winds, then rise again; and pulsed
The seagreen element, that seem'd as dim
As vernal dales by moonlight. As I lay
Entranced, and moveless, they came near to me,
And look'd upon me; and I heard one say;—
“It is a daughter of the upper world;
Whose sorrow is such as we never know.
For love there is but sorrow; since the time
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And took away the earth's primeval peace;
Peace only perfect here: and I have heard
Her hapless tale from many a landnymph's tongue,
Whisper'd to cavern'd echoes, listening,
Between the low sounds of the rippling wave,
To voices of that world, what time I lay
On golden sands, basking in the slant beams
Of sinking suns, just as they touch the edge
Of our blue sea: her lover is with us;
She thought him dead, but she shall meet him here.”
IV
Then in a moment living motion ceased;And mere oblivion swallow'd up my soul.
For countless ages, as it seem'd, I lay
In outer darkness; ever in mine ears
The murmur of the waters. A dim light
Dawn'd on me first; and then a low sweet voice.
It was the sunset hour when I awoke.
Was I drawn up from the great deep again?
Was I awaken'd to another world?
Or born again to the old waste of woe?
Was that my mother, bending o'er my face,
With pale lips and with earnest eyes? I sigh'd
A sigh, made up of many mingled moods,
Half hopeless memory, half infantine hope
After sad resignation, of sweet peace,
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And as I lay, through all those silent days,
'Twixt life and death, the past came back to me,
As a faint twilight when the sun is set,
By little and by little; but all moods
Were vanquish'd by mere wonder that I lived.
Had I not rush'd upon the fatal steep,
Pursued by fire, and down into the sea,
And certain death? Had I not lain in death
And the abyss for æons? Could the dead
Live other lives? Could I be born again?
But she was there, my mother; then 'twas I,
The same, and not another. Then, methought
I heard the voice of Pallas in mine ear,
Earnest and clear, “Be of good cheer, my child.
Thy deeds were phantoms of a fever'd heart
And brain; the natural pains, that shook thy frame,
Nature herself hath heal'd; the fatal thoughts,
When the dread sisters seem'd to fire thy soul,
My spirit hath tamed: know this, the Will of Man
Almighty is for evil or for good;
Or a proud Titan, fighting against Heaven,
Or a wise king, that rules him like a God.
Thine for a while rebell'd, and rose against me,
And all my counsels; but that interval,
Between the downward lapsing of thy soul
Toward self-annihilation in despair,
And its completion in the act itself,
I filled with darkness; and I drew thereon
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Sweet passages, and peaceful afterthoughts;
Lest the mere shock of dread imaginings
Should prove too strong for thee. Forget not, child,
Forget not ever all that might have been,
Had I not snatch'd thy body from thy soul,
Chain'd the poor slave, and baffled the proud king.
Blind madness glories in an evil deed;
But waken'd conscience that it was not done.”
V
I thought the hot breath of that fiery timeHad wither'd up all promise of my youth;
And that my heart would never more put forth
Or leaf or flower. I said;—“What other love
Can take the place of this uprooted palm,
That was so plumy? oh! what other dream
Can throne itself, where Love hath been a king,
And ruled without a peer?” But moments run
Like strengthless waters, that wear down the hills;
And, when the watercourse is turn'd aside,
The hollows fill with flowers; and daily tears
Will shed humility—perennial herb,
Whereon the affections, that we scorn'd before,
Live and breathe fresher than the summer sweets
Of passion—so I went forth from my home
Of mourning, as the sower, when the rains
Have ceased; the thunders pass'd from off the hills;
85
The farthest isles. All that to me remain'd
Of pleasant memories, with the thrifty eye
Of one who sees the coming winterdays,
I gather'd; and a little garland wove,
And o'er the torn vines, and the shaken woods,
Gazed with a love I never felt till then.
It was the time of autumn; and perchance
Sweet fancies born of autumn tuned my soul
To softer harmonies; and cooler air
Sent thro' my trembling pulse a better life;
And wing'd new hopes, as 'twere from happy isles,
If hopes they might be called that rather were
The dying of despair. I heard the birds
At noonday, autumn noon, that look'd like even,
Chant clearly in the silence longdrawn notes,
That seem'd to say, peace, peace; oh! blessed peace,
Peace to the Earth, peace to the heart of man,
Like slumber after toil. The embowered glens
Rang to the mountain waters; and blue eyes
Of latter flowers, along the orchard paths,
Lay like forgotten footmarks of the spring;
And peep'd thro' fall'n leaves like first youth again.
I walk'd into those bowers, where I had been
A happy minister, delighted once
And kindler of delight; the bowers where spake
The Muses' oracles, and Fancy sat,
And suffer'd not the fragrant flame to die
On Beauty's altars; where our Lesbian songs
86
And, from the sunny life that round us stirr'd,
Whatever seem'd or sweet, or sad, or strange,
We gather'd; like the favour'd few that pass
Into the vineyard, and the rarest grapes
Pluck for the Master; and, when vintage days
Are past and gone, in moonlight tread again
The mossy walks, and wander in the glooms;
And in the silence seem to hear once more
The songs they sung at morn. Long days had pass'd,
Void hours of grief, the winter of the heart,
Since last I hung on those familiar boughs
The harp I struck so well. My heart untuned
At first made jarring utterance; like those strings
So long forsaken; but at last I sang
Something about a wounded nightingale,
That mourns, and cannot rest beneath the stars,
And with a voice so moving, that I saw
Gay eyes in tears: and then I paused, and said:—
“Why weep ye?” then I knew that I had told
Unwitting my own sorrows; and my lot
Seem'd at that moment more forlorn than all
The days before; my tears burst forth again,
Like the last drops of tempest; but those tears
Brought consolation; for their loving arms
Were twined about my neck; and then I felt
That tender Nature, who transforms the dust
Of Death to living flowers, had wrought for me,
Out of my darkest hour, a dawn of Joy.
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VI
Then, in the wondrous stillness of my soulAwaken'd to new thoughts, and other life,
Reborn unto the world, and risen again
Like an autumnal sun with purer light,
And windless calm, I look'd back on myself,
As once I was: Oh! what a wondrous change!
Sure I had walk'd the earth, as though it were
The Gods' own pleasaunce; plague that struck me down,
And pour'd through all the winding ways of life
Wildfire for blood, had borne away with it,
Not life, but all those thoughts, on which I fed
Of old,—methought, a thousand years ago—
In a far world, wherein I had essay'd,
With pride and impious vanity, to walk;
Tho' none but Gods could have their dwelling there
In my new place I wonder'd at myself.
How had I dared to wander in that world,
Poor mortal, 'mid the blessed? and to breathe,
Thro' this vile dust, the auras of their bliss?
Were they not just? Well had they done by me,
To send me the fire-eyed Eumenides,
To lash me back into the shades of Time
With stings of flame; else had I died in life
Emptied of human purpose, hope itself;
Like some sweet blossom in a garden ground,
Smit by the sun, which is the daily joy
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Showers fall by day, and nightly dews in vain;
For the life-drops within it spring no more.
And then I bow'd before the mournful thought,
Sadder and wiser: love, like that I felt,
And now remember'd only, like a dream,
We strive in vain to follow, as it flies—
Like the last glory of the setting sun
To one who strays at even—thro' the gates
Of Heaven, and leaves us weeping in the dark.
Oh! love like that is not the doom of Man.
For look how frail it is; how like a flower,
Whose odours for a moment fill the air
With an Elysian spirit! handle it;
Smirch it too rudely; breathe on it too much;
And all it is dissolves to worse than nought,
A loveless wreck of a most lovely thing.
For beauty marr'd is ofttimes worse to see
Than a born hideousness, and noblest wine
Corrupted the intensest opposite.
And so that love, which is divine beyond
All human motions, sometimes turns to scorn,
To hatred, or mere recklessness; or leaves
The void cold heart a prey to apathies,
Or kindles it again with fiercer joys;
If haply it may light it up once more
With sudden glare for glory, like the glow
Of midnight burnings after the great sun.
So that men fling away their lives in sport;
89
Within the heart may be forgotten quite
In the brain's whirling uproar; seek far lands;
Consort with wild men in a wilderness;
Mislead the weak in their blind-eyed despair;
Front unimagined perils; cast their youth
And wither'd hopes under the wheels of war;
And wise men marvel at a madman's acts
While yet the eye of reason hath not dimm'd,
Nor the strength fail'd. Such thoughts possess'd me long,
Till day by day the memory of the past,
Grew more and more like phantasy: I said;—
“What if the fever'd blood and frantic brain
Have not begotten 'twixt them something strange
As fabled wonders; was it all a vision?
A rainbow painted on a thundercloud,
That faints away with the ascending sun?
Who was this Phaon with the godlike form,
And loveless eyes, but an unreal thing
Shown to me in my sleep? My spirit's pangs
But the vain offspring of my body's pain?
Lo! the world brightens: hark! how sweet the tongues
Of merry children at their early play;
And the wind weaving melody with the leaves.
How dear the firstborn beam, the first bird's song,
As we lie panting, after sleepless nights,
And peace flies back on the fresh plumes of dawn.”
So, after that great shaking of my life,
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Sprang up like springflowers every moment now;
And once again Nature was unto me,
As to a newborn child.
91
ANAKTORIA
Come to me, what I seek in vain
Bring thou, into my spirit send
Peace after care, balm after pain,
And be my friend.
Sappho.
Bring thou, into my spirit send
Peace after care, balm after pain,
And be my friend.
Sappho.
I
And then it wasI saw once more, of women wisest, best,
The great Erinna; her of whom I dream'd;
The heart I yearn'd to solder unto mine;
Till our twin glories, like two differing notes
That sound like one, each counterpart of each,
Wedded together with pure harmony,
Might stream together to the end of Time.
For was she not the flower, that drank the most
From me the pure dew of poetic thought?
To whom my lightest words were sparks of light,
As the first glance of dawn to songbirds is
That spring to meet it, with such notes as seem
Fire turn'd to sound? Had I not led her on
Through all the summer mazes of sweet song,
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And I strove hard to follow her? But she,
As tho' she were a shadow without self,
Or substance of her own, gave back to me
The wreath my hands had twined her: had she owed
Thoughts half as precious to my voice, as I,
If I had sounded my own soul as she
Might have traced to her silence? Her grey days
Of toil, and care, and penury; her lorn youth
Cheerless, and hopeless; unseen tears, that grew
Patience and fortitude, and made her more
Than mortal in her victories over time;
Her aspect queenlike; and her utterance more
Than music in its majesty? Ah me!
This well I know, that when I read her words,
Or hear her voice, my soul is stay'd on hers;
And this I told her as we met again.
Oh! what a brow, what awful eyes were hers!
'Twas Hera flashing from her midnight orbs
The soul of Pallas, like a star; her steps
Part Nature's own, part moulded by the grace
Of noble thoughts: she was a marble dream
Lightening with life. I look'd on her, and seem'd
To draw in from her presence strength beyond
Mine own more gentle spirit; but I sigh'd
Lest she indeed should look on me and scorn.
Not so; but, as a summer-tree, that sways
Its blossoms to warm winds, and earthward sheds
Its odours, toward me she lean'd her face
93
Seal'd it upon my brow; and then she spake
In tones like the clear waters of a spring,
That fall with tuneful echoes from the rock:—
“Oh! this is the prime hour of all my life,
If I by any means can pay thee back
Some little of the debt for ever due.”
She said no more; but that was all to me.
And all that day her gentle words and pure
Fell on my heart, like drops of dew at even
On the green herb scorch'd by the sun of morn.
II
About the last days of the dying yearIt chanced the noble Anaktoria came.
And when she saw me, with my sunken eyes
And bloomless cheek, and heard the tongue she loved
Untuned, and faint as lispings of a spring
After the burning summer; first she stood
Amazed, as one who sees a spectre pass;
Then snatch'd me to her heart with bursting tears.
Pity, soft pity, folded o'er her pride,
Became her beauty, like a pure white veil
Of simple fashion on that noble bosom:
The haughty glitter of her dark blue eyes
Quench'd in a dewy softness.—“Ah! dear friend,
How long,” she said, “how long shall that sweet voice,
Clear spring of inexhaustible delight,
94
Those happy songs, that I have made my own,
By oft repeating them among my friends?
And if true sympathy be more than praise,
Satisfying both my heart and thine,
Methinks, it doth reward both me and thee:
Me more than flattering tongues, assuring me
These lips were shaped to give them utterance
Most musical, because I feel them most;
And thee more truly than a thousand tongues,
That echo them unconscious of their charm.
Awake! and be thy self, with the new year.
The spring's warm bud will thrust off the sere leaf,
And Love with beamy brows and living voice,
For ever following where swift Death hath pass'd,
Kindle the shadows, and awake the silence,
And fill his footmarks with fresh flowers and green.
Past time is but the sepulchre of hope;
And what is laid therein can live no more.
A thousand voices and perennial tears
Move not nor melt the marble of the tomb;
But thy one voice can move a thousand hearts,
Sun thy forlorn regrets, and dry thy tears.
Grief is not kind to the kind Nature here,
If it strike down so deep into the heart
As to lock up the promise of the Spring:
Listen, for I bring comfort for thine heart.
Thy mournful passion shall exhale in fires
Of glory, and thy name be as a Queen's,
95
Henceforward I will set thee up on high;
And all the virgins of the isles shall see thee
The Muses' crowned minister. And now
Lift up thine eyes, ev'n from these quiet seats:
Thou may'st behold amid the embowering green
The sunlit porticos, and spacious front
Of a fair palace, rivalling the proudest
Own'd by your island nobles; this my sire
With his great wealth hath raised; and hath inwrought
With many colour'd marbles, that uphold
Roofs that are wreathed with delicate traceries,
Thick as a plot of flowers; and here and there
Inlaid with gorgeous golden star, and disk
Of vermeil, and of sapphire, that breathed down
Soft shadows on the silent company
Of snowwhite sculptures of heroic men,
Hard by the grander figures of the Gods.
What, if I throne thee there, the queen of all?
To rule when I am not; and when I am,
To rule me most, and with thy voice alone;
And such a living throng around thee there,
As, while they hear thee in the present time,
Shall see thee in the future foremost too,
If not the first, among the immortal dead!”
She ended; but the joy within her eyes,
More eloquent than utterance, glorified
Their depths, and made them lovely as the sunstar,
Lifted upon blue waters, as she stood,
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Stretcht forth, as tho' to gather up the world
Under her domination: and I cried;—
“Be ever thus, dear friend; be ever thus.
Would that thy perfect image in mine eyes
When thou art parted, might be throned here,
In milkwhite marble, on this green hillside;
As now I see thee; but I dream, perchance.
For Dian, or Demeter would look down
With angry eyes, and make of thee, I fear,
A virgin Niobe.” She laugh'd, and said;—
“Forgive these dreams of sunshine born, and youth,
And country air”: “Thy dreams, more happy girl,”
I cried, “may yet in essence, and in part
Fulfil themselves; for unto thee alone
The happy horns of plenty on thy spring
Pour showers, all golden drops; and what thy heart
Conceives, thy hand may fashion, if it will.
I have my dreams too; and an hundred kings
Might sit together over golden cups,
Contriving royal palaces; and fail
To reach the height of my fantastic art.
I too have dreams of wondrous architecture;
Princedom, and vast emprise, and victory;
But I will leave the land for Fauns to till.
The Nymphs themselves shall sow and reap for me.
For me the Oreads shall prepare a space
Of smoothest green upon a mountaintop;
The Hamadryads throw the forest back
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And murmur, when the clear Etesian blows;
And I shall see it sweep into the plains,
And shake its stormy shadows on the floors;
As 'twere a thousand isles, that lose themselves
Far off in purple levels, and seamists
Of tender gold, and azure, paved throughout
With slabs of summer light, and gems of flowers.
And for a long, long Summer day—no more—
For swiftly shall arise my mountain throne—
Love shall unchain the Titans for my sake.
Up on a cloud of thunder they shall sail,
Gigantic masons, brandishing on high
Tools, made to work their will with lightning speed!
So let me rather rule in that high realm,
Than in thine earthly kingdom, O dear friend.”
“O Sappho, rich in treasures of the soul
And raptures of the heart;” the maiden said:
“Thou nam'st me happy, for that I have wealth,
That makes idolaters of them, who see
Nothing beneath the outward; and commands
The poor man's handiwork; and by its spells
Can kindle thoughts in noble souls; and mould
The sculptor's marble, and the minstrel's song—
But, were I shut up by the prison bars
Of penury, or sickness, or such cares
As haunt thee now—(dear girl, I know thy heart,
And sue thee not to tell me the old tale.
The first spring blossom hath been wither'd up,
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Shall be a nobler blossom than the first,
And bear sweet fruitage in the aftertime).—
Know'st thou if I should find within me that,
Which might beguile sad memories; lull my pain;
And by enchanted touches, like thine art,
Turn sorrow into music, fit to melt
A thousand hearts to sweetness, that might be
Cruel without it; and bring recompense
Ev'n to thine own? I tell thee no: such bliss,
As falls to me, is born of constant change
Rather than constancy; variety
Rather than fixed purpose. Had I not
The power to wander with the winds; to turn
Winter to summer; with my clime to change
Old friends for new, and then come back again
To find the old, the newer; and to run
To and fro like a restless babe; perchance
The lack of fancied good might bow me down
Lower than many evils. Come with me,
Dear Sappho, come with me; and we will fly,
Where nothing but sweet memories shall pursue,
Sweet hopes go on before us, with the sun.
Say me not nay; for thou wilt find my charm
Potent to heal, and bring thee back thy peace;
And more delights than ever comes to me,
Familiar with them, and without thy heart,
That trembling harp that sighs to every wind:
Come with me, O my Sappho, come with me.”
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Of morning scatters all the clouds of night;
The spring wind musical with songs of birds
Bears off the lifeless leaves; her voice awoke
A chord within, responsive to her own;
And wing'd me, like a lark that drowns in light,
Up through a flood of radiant phantasies,
Visions of happy lands, of golden isles
Where sorrows are forgotten, and all tears
Are wiped away; fair cities, flowery dales;
Blue rivers, folding in their soft embrace
A thousand rushing rillets, and mingling all
Their thousand happy voices into one
Deep choral harmony; that seems to blend
All blisses of fair climes where they were born;
Green mountain solitudes, whence there are breathed
The dewy spirits of inviolate flowers;
And the glad eye looks down on half a world.
Across the mirror of my soul there pass'd
Enchanted pictures, as when we behold
The swift-blown clouds transfigured in the light;
And suddenly I clasp'd my hands, and cried;—
“I will, I will; my Lethe shall not be
Oblivion, the cold shadow of dead hope;
But memory, slain by fairer memories still,
Like summer flowers that wreathe a funeral urn.”
Three morns thereafter we stepp'd down into
Her gilded galley, where the regal wealth
Of the great merchant prince, her sire, shone forth
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Of cedar, ring'd with ivory bands, upbore
A sail, that caught the breath of April flowers,
Fresh from the budding hills, in its pink folds,
That changed the yellow sunbeam into rose.
And from the prow—a long-hair'd Naiad prone
To dive into the azure whence she rose—
Young roses hung, and painted the smooth sea
With their own beauty; and soft couches, strow'd
With purple, curtain'd from the eager light
By laurel sprays, and myrtle intertwined,
Woo'd to low converse or to waking dreams.
A lusty band of rowers rose at once
As we approach'd, and hail'd us with a song.
And there was one, who seem'd to rule the rest
By hand, and eye, more than outspoken words.
A kingly shape was he, and might have been
The great Ulysses, had he lived before,
The strong and wise: his years were manhood's prime:
His sunny aspect, and his fearless eye,
Spoke of all climes, and many trials met
And overcome; and Anaktoria said;—
“Sappho, look on the mainstay of our house;
Who by his care, and craft, and valiant heart
Hath gather'd half our riches; him we trust
To steer the vessel of our fortunes here
And there, by sea or land, and shape our aims
To prosperous ends—and ofttimes he hath wrought
Our vague hopes into such realities
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Through adverse ventures and rough hates, and guile,
As thro' wild winds and sunken rocks the bark
He holds in his command: a noble man!”
III
Like Summer birds that fly from bough to bough,And bathe their songs in light, and the rich breath
Of fullblown flowers, we sped from shore to shore,
Fed with the charm of change; till real life
Show'd as unreal, like a spectacle
Seen at a theatre, or dreams that lapse
Into fresh dreams, or glancing of a stream
Through evergreens, and ever-varying blooms.
And when we anchor'd in the pleasant port
Of Himera, among the first we met
Was Tisias, whom men style Stesichorus;
For that he crown'd plain song with harmonies,
And led the choral march its step sublime.
For many days we wander'd forth with him,
A courteous host, and gentle; and he said:—
“I am a self-made exile in this land:
Far from my native hills, where dwelt my sires
In days before; the ancient cities there,
With their grey walls that seem by giants wrought,
Know me no more; and here all things are new.”
And then he show'd us sunny Himera;
Its stainless marbles mirror'd in the calm
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And yet defenceless gates; great theatres
But halfway from the ground; uncolumn'd fanes
With still unsculptured pediments, to be
Henceforth the thrones of godlike forms, portray'd
By mortal hands that wield immortal art;
To live ev'n when the very names are dead
Of them who shaped them: “Strange it is,” he said,
“To see the solitude swept by the winds,
That heard for ages but the seabird's cry,
Or fisher's low sad song, transform'd, as 'twere,
By magic art, into a world of life;
Henceforth to make this little plot of earth—
Where spring and autumn, day and night, and waves,
And winds, were monarchs only, leaving nought
To mark their empire of a thousand years—
Gather within itself in one brief day
Swifter and vaster change: where man is king,
The mind of man is as a mighty wind;
The thousand years of time as the great sea
Blown on perpetually, that strows the shore
With countless wrecks, but piles the space between
With gold, and pearl, and every precious gem,
That rise and shine for ever.” As he spake,
We heard from far and near the mingled sounds
Of masons, shouting from the scaffolds tall;
Hammer, and saw, and anvil, and the gride
Of carven stone; and still from far and near
The tumult soften'd with the sound of songs.
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Of tuneful melancholy: oft he sued
In vain to hear a song of mine; ah me!
Not yet the fancies lock'd within my soul
Had sprung to life again, the frozen rills
Of melody to freedom; but I seized
A lyre, and wrung from it, I knew not how,
So wild and sweet a carol; as when a gust
Of summer rain wrings from a ruffled rose
Its rarest breath, and mingles it with tears.
He look'd on me in wonder; and he said:—
“As is the spirit to a lovely form;
As is the perfume to a purple flower;
As is the music to that song of thine,
Making it utter something more than words;
So are the words themselves, though all too few,
Speaking of maiden love unrecompensed;
As 'twere a better soul which thou hast given
To an old tale of mine which thou shalt hear.”
LEUCADIA IV
CALYCE
“In fair Leucadia, youngest of the isles,Dwelt Calyce, a maid of modest eyes,
And simple speech; she was not one of those
Whom all eyes in a multitude might mark
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As some Olympian, for a while on earth.
But those, who watch'd, with wiser insight saw
A veiled softness in her sometime smile;
Like midnight moonlight, when no leaf is blown,
And scarce a sound is heard, and common things,
That garish day would burn up into nought,
Are mellow'd into sweetness. Oh! she was
No darkbrow'd, darkorb'd empress of such hearts;
Too swiftly slain by an imperial eye,
As by a flash of sunlight strongest men
Are stricken down. But those who heard her speak
Of her delights—which were not as the joys
Of city maidens, striving to o'ermatch
Each other by an artful grace, a robe
Folded more winningly, by flowing locks
Sprinkled with gold, or that sweet silver laugh
Like harped trebles running up and down,
That lyre attuned to their self-love so well—
Ah! those who heard her to a songbird sing,
And wait sweet answers, and then sing again;
Or leading on some fond child's lisping tongue
To perfect speech, or uttering to herself
Her love and awe; heard the melodious voice
Of a rare soul. She, like a woodnymph pure,
Loved the green gloom of sylvan arches, cool
And still, save when great winds, or thunders lone
Roll'd o'er them their deep music, or sweet breath
Of summer, in the moonlight or at dawn,
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Look'd on her from the woodwalks; the first note
Of lark at morn, or starry nightingale
Witch'd her quick ear; or, after many days
Of stormy wind and cloud, the faithful sun
Hail'd her at early morn; and, as she stept
To meet him thro' the dews, she veil'd her eyes
With one small hand, the other fill'd with spring.
Ah! those who mark'd her then might well believe
That eyes, whose light is sometimes veil'd in tears,
Win more than those that dazzle in their joy:
That low-voiced love is more than gaudy pride;
As evergreens outlive the crimson flower.
V
There is a forest, on the mountain sideAbove the city, whence, across the strait,
Is seen the land of Hellas, the blue heights,
That paint themselves in the Ambracian gulph;
And on the other hand in the clear light
The far Corinthian waters. Here she dwelt;
And with her widow'd mother found her life
Amid her fruittrees and well-water'd flowers,
And her rare-breathing plots; and orchard shades
Shelter'd the loving songbirds well as if
The whole lay underneath a barred cage:
For she was known to them, as they to her;
And at the welcome of her tuneful voice
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Her winged children, and no winter cold
Or summer heat, while she was nigh at hand,
Prevail'd against them. When she struck her lyre
To some old ditty, her clear voice went out
Into the oakwalks like a sunbeam; when
She ceased to sing, and suddenly, there rose
A tide of all sweet sounds, from far and near,
Around her, and made answer to her own.
And then she laugh'd, and joy'd at touch of joy,
Like breezy waters dimpling in the sun.
Sometimes, when she had gone to early rest
At set of sun, a flood of moonlight soft,
Falling upon her dreaming eyes, awoke her
Suddenly to the actual world again.
And when she saw 'twas midnight, with the moon
And silence; all but whispers of the leaves,
When the seawind, yet warm with summer, flew
Down the long woodwalks, and o'er-arched aisles
Fragrant and dark, thro' which a golden star
Peep'd here and there; then she would rise, with foot
Scarce heard in the deep hush, and make her way,
With awe that was not fear, until she came,
Where the tall forest sloped into the plain,
And left an opening, like a portal huge;
Thro' which her vision wander'd in the deep
Clear heaven above; and down along the waves
Of the oaktrees, that murmur'd till they met
The murmuring sea, and outspread city fair,
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And, if it was a festival, she heard
Faint sound of songs; if in the day had been
A tumult of the people, she could mark
The uproar growing less and less; if doom
Of fire had fallen on some homestead there,
She saw, and shudder'd, the uprolling flame
Scatter the sea and the white walls with blood;
And caught the sound of lamentable cries,
And rushing wheels, till she too fled away,
And sought again the couch that she had left;
Till sunny day came up and drown'd all fears.
But most at morn she loved to tread those paths
Of balmy shade; and when she stood at length
Beneath the great gate opening on the sky,
And the far lands, their azure bays, and isles,
And mountain snows, that snatch'd the crimson dawn;
While yet the vales, the rivers, and the seas
Lay darkling, in the solitude divine
She drank a peerless joy; she bade the woods
Answer her joy, and wake up all their songs.
She bade the winds unroll their banners broad,
And roll their harmonies; she bade the seas
Send up from far below their choral bass,
In honour of that moment, when the sun
Crown'd the great world, and set on fire the steeps
And promontories, and made every tower
A blazing lamp, and every sandy beach
A golden floor. And then the city woke
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And barks shot forth as seabirds; here and there
The fishers hurl'd their big nets from the prow;
And armed hosts went out with trumpet-sound,
And clash of arms; and their long line of spears
Moved like a silent river in the sun;
Then drown'd in sudden shadow; soon the clouds
Of dawn evanish'd in the gulf of day.
VI
One day in early autumn she was there.The drains had fallen, and the winds had cloud.
Tempests had swept the air of mist and cloud;
And left a deeper purple in the air;
The stirless woods, tinted with gold and rose,
Breathed up a dewy sweetness, like a prayer
Of mute thanksgiving for the latter days
Of blissful calm and sunshine; and the voice
Of the far seas seem'd nearer; and far peaks,
Sprinkled with the first snows, seem'd now as though
A hand might touch them; and far cities shone
As built of gems: and suddenly there rose
From underneath the oaken glooms a sound
Of merry tumult, mix'd with echoing horn
And crying hound; still nearer and more near
The jovial hunt came up; she would have fled.
Too late was her resolve; for, ere she turn'd,
To seek the shadows of the upland trees,
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Fill'd all the space beneath her, and the plot
Of green which was her watch-tower night or day.
But, in the simple gaze of her surprise,
Less awe there was than wonder, as she stood,
Like Artemis in sight of mortal eyes.
But she was circled by her maids, when he
Too daring huntsman leapt the screen of leaves;
While Calyce, sweet hermit of the woods,
Was all alone when that bright host came on,
Radiant with rich apparel, plume, and casque,
And sheenign spears; she knew not if she look'd
On mortal men, as they came swiftly by,
Their horses snuffing up the mountain air
With shrill delight, and tossing up their manes;
Or whether 'twas a vision of such shapes,
As mingle with the earthborn for a day
And pass and come no more. For there was one,
The foremost of them all, who seem'd a king
Above the rest, more lordly clad than they;
Nobler in form and stature, as he stay'd
His course a little while the others pass'd.
And, leaning gently from his saddle-bow,
He look'd upon her, and she look'd on him.
And in that moment each beheld in each
A beauty they had never seen before.
He look'd upon her, as her eyes might look
On a wild bird, or windflower; and her eyes
Drank in his aspect, as tho' she had seen
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With a light laugh he laid it on his heart;
And from his bosom pluck'd a jewel of gold,
And cast it on her neck; she bent her head
To eye the glittering wonder; and then raised
To look upon the giver; he was not.
For in that moment he had fled away,
Turning into a bypath, thus to join
The sooner his companions; yet her ear
Had caught some low-toned accents, ere he went,
Whisper'd unto himself, that seem'd to her
More precious than all gifts; for he had said;—
‘Oh! could a sweeter handmaid be than this?’
Words sweeter than a song; but when she saw
Nought but the earth, and sky, and autumn woods,
She could have wept; she thought she was a seer
Of ghostly things; but there was the bright gold;
And still she heard the belling hounds afar,
And neighing steeds, and cries of merry men;
Till the sounds follow'd the fair sight away,
And only left the sighing of the leaves,
And from below the sobbing of the sea.
All day she wander'd, and she reck'd not where;
And knew not why; her heart was sweetly stirr'd.
She thought not what had fill'd it with the joy;
Given her a lighter step, a clearer voice;
And made her see strange pictures, as she pass'd
Under the whispering boughs, and thrust aside
The tangled sprays, and caught a glimpse far off
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From light to shadow; green embowered nooks
Floor'd with soft moss, and twinkling flowers, that laugh'd
A moment in the sunny light and air;
Then gloom'd again as suddenly; bright birds,
That glanced into the light and out again
As lightning; or some hidden waterfall
That rose and fell with the low wind; or herd
Of frighted deer, that started at the sound
Of foes she could not hear; ev'n her light step,
Or glimmer of her garments as she came,
Ere yet they cast a shadow on the ground.
So it was sunset ere she reach'd her home.
But when she raised her eyelids—for she near'd
Her own gate, scarcely heeding how she came,
With her eyes fix'd upon the turfy way
In a day dream—What saw she at the gate?
There were the hunters she had seen at morn,
Where was their chief? Their looks were sombre now,
Their voices sad and low; and when she spoke,
It seem'd they heard not, for they answer'd nought.
So she pass'd in between their careless eyes
As though they saw her not. Just then she mark'd
The tallest tree, that overtopt the rest
Cast down the longest shadow; and she thought,—
‘Ah me! if all the blisses of this day
That have made dim all joy I ever knew,
Should end in deepest sorrow; woe is me!
If proudest life should end in sudden death
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As the great sun sinks down into the sea!’
Her mother met her in the inner house,
And pointed toward her chamber, where he lay
Upon her bed, that mighty man, that lord
Of men, who was her wonder and her joy
At sunny morn, a few brief hours before.
The warm cheek, and the happy eager eye,
The strength that poised the javelin in his hand,
What were they now? There lay he pale, and dumb,
And deaf and blind; the life-blood staunch'd but now,
That purpled his apparel, sure had stream'd
Thro' some great gate of life; some evil beast,
Some lynx, or tusky boar, or hungry wolf,
He thought to slay, had slain him; was there hope
While the heart stirr'd? or were those pulses low,
Like fluttering wings of the fall'n bird, or like
The quivering of the fawn he struck that day?
She knew not; but her hope was as the star
That rises after sunset; or that moon,
All golden, opposite the sinking sun,
For she remember'd the enchanting words,
‘Oh! can a sweeter handmaid be than this?’
The sun is sunken; and the moon is up
Once more; the merry chase with horn and hound
Have taken silently the downward way
Toward the city; many days and nights
The day and night were idle unto him,
Who lay within that forest home; and friends
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The rayless eyes grew bright as throbbing stars;
The deathpale cheek wax'd red as burning flame;
In its own sacred shrine the spirit hid,
While Death and Life made him their battlefield.
It was a woeful thing to hear him speak
Of pleasant pastimes, as tho' they would be,
Because they had been, ready at his word;
Of yesterdays, as tho' they were to-morrows;
To hear blithe laughter change into a shriek
Of torment; and a threatful angry frown,
And lifted hand lapse into moveless calm;
And sudden peace that seem'd the end of all.
But when the cup, that held the anodyne
Mix'd by her careful hand, had brought him rest,
It seem'd the ruler of his waking thoughts
Still sway'd him in his slumber, for his lips
Would whisper, ‘Oh! I love thee, how I love!’
And oft again she heard the loving words,
‘Oh! could a sweeter handmaid be than this?’
And now, when after weary nights he slept,
And gentler pulses, like subsiding streams
After hot thunders, lived along his frame;
Again she went forth with a jocund heart.
And that first love—which scarce had time enough
Out of the cloud of many fears and cares
To look upon itself—now sprang to life,
And was a terror to her; who was she?
What had she done to raise her eyes to one,
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A peasant of the valley? And she blush'd
Ev'n to the dewy leaves and shadows cool.
But then again she thought; ‘He look'd on me:’
But mocking conscience; ‘Sure I look'd on him
Or how could I have seen him?’ ‘But not first.
His eyes outran my own; ah me! ah me!
Or first or last, 'tis certain I was slain.’
But once again she heard the whisper'd words,
‘I love thee, how I love thee’ once again,
‘Oh! could a sweeter handmaid be than this?’
Then she remember'd every lifeful change,
That came across his pale face, as he lay,
Looking with conscious, and more conscious eyes,
Into the golden autumn air, across
The crimson clusters of the viny walk,
That led down the home garden into gloom
Of ancient forest; till with each new day
His dark eyes brighten'd, and his tongue was loosed;
First to low whispers, then to manly words;
And then a smile—no, she was not deceived,
He loved her; and that smile was as the sun
Risen upon the dawn that went before—
And then the outstretch'd hand that clasp'd her own.
No, she was sure; and then the happy words,
‘Oh! could a sweeter handmaid be than this?’
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VII
So on that day, and many a day beside,She wander'd woodward, while her mother served
The sick man in his chamber; brought him fruits,
And cooling syrups, or a bunch of flowers;
The last a wonder, with such speaking art
So fondly, and so curiously wreathed,
That only love itself, through her young hands,
Could have devised it; babbled to him oft
Of the poor folk, the simple foresters,
Their pains and pleasures; bridals in greenwood
Unheard of thro' the city; the light dowers
Of wedded maidens, fair and blithe as nymphs,
And poor as songbirds: and she heard from him
The fell mishap, that dash'd the turf and flowers
With the red blood drawn from him, as he sprang
Down from his horse, and without fear or care
Bending above the wild swine he had spear'd,
Drew forth the knife to slay him, when he rose
With his last strength, and rushing on his foe
Avenged himself, and perish'd in the act.
And well it was his slacken'd sinews wrought
But half the ill his slakeless fury aim'd;
Or death's pale image, which they bore away,
Had never changed except to death itself.
Sweet Calyce, she wander'd far away
To hear the music of her one glad heart
Reverberate from every silver bell
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Of tuneful merle; to see its soaring hope
Look up into her face from every disk,
And golden anther of the lowly flowers
That wagg'd their heads, and laugh'd, as she came on
With jocund step; yet lingering here and there
Beneath some bank, whose wavy curtain screen'd
Both eye and ear from every sight and sound;
All but the lisping of some runnel clear,
That lapsed through clustering cress, and waterflags,
Blue bells, and yellow lilies at her feet;
So fleetly, and so stilly, that it seem'd
A mirror laid for her to look into;
And see the beauty she had never dared
To prize until that moment; yet not seen
More clearly than the other by its side
Pictured upon the glass of phantasy,
As fairly as her own upon the stream!
And tho' she ne'er had breathed them to herself,
She shamed not to remember his sweet words;
‘Oh! could a sweeter handmaid be than this?’
What wonder if she link'd the two together?
And, having warrant of her own fond heart
In favour of him, she was fain to trust
Those simple words as messengers from him?
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VIII
One day, it chanced, she turn'd, ere set of sun.But, as she near'd her home, she heard a voice.
Her heart beat quick; she harken'd; sure 'twas his;
Why did she tremble? Was it not delight
To know that he was strong? That he went forth,
To breathe the westwind, better than old wine
To one return'd from death? To hear him speak
Softly unto himself? Himself? Was that
Himself that answer'd to himself, that tongue
So silvery-clear, so girlish? Listen not,
Sweet Calyce, but rather seal thine ears;
And lay thy head among the drowsy flowers,
That breathe sleep, and forgetfulness; and dream
Thy waking dream in that deep sleep, ev'n though
It never wake again for evermore.
And yet she fled not; but her heart that beat
Wildly, grew still as marble; and her eyes—
Clear as the western sunbeam, thro' the leaves
Quivering, that lighten'd on a little space,
Matted with flowers, a hundred paces off,
While she stood under shade dark as her soul—
Look'd on two lovers; he was bending down:
The damsel looking up into his face
With such a rapturous tenderness, as she
Only believed could breathe up from herself;
And he, altho' with utterance clear and low,
Answer'd her;—‘Oh! I love thee, how I love thee!’
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And she was beautiful; so beautiful,
She seem'd a goddess, in the sunny shine
That flow'd about her. After a brief space,
He pointed to the forest home, where he
Had lain in sickness, and she saw his lips
Murmur to low words that she could not hear.
But when he raised his voice—and, had he not,
The sweet words she had ofttimes heard before,
Now graven on her very heart and ear,
Had echoed to the whisper'd syllables—
She heard not, ‘Oh! I love her, how I love her’
But now, as to the ear a tuneless lyre,
Or to the eye a faded scentless flower,
The words that were her life, but lifeless now,
‘Oh! could a sweeter handmaid be than this?’
Lower and lower, thro' the quivering leaves
The sunlight throbb'd and trembled, as it flow'd
Along the green way, underneath the boughs
That vanish'd cityward; with dreadful eyes
She saw a sight that was the end of all.
Up thro' the stream of dying daylight rose
A brighter vision than the first she saw.
No hunters now, no cries of merry men,
With blown horn, and uplifted lance, and sound
Of trampling hoofs; but orderly array
Of lords and dames, in festal raiment robed;
Crimson, and gold, and purple, with the pomp
Of gilded car, and horses pacing slow,
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The level sun, and mingled sound of flute
And dulcimer. And when the glittering host
Stood still, that mighty man, that king of men,
Who now was lord of that poor virgin heart,
Led forth the queen that was, or was to be:
And to the central car he led her up,
And took his seat beside her; then again
Stream'd the sweet music; and the stately train
Turn'd back the way they came; and by and by
She lost all sight and sound; and they sank down
Into the glooms of even, as the sun
Drew back again the tapestry of gold,
Strown all along the midway of the wood
By which the noble company had pass'd,
With chariots, and with music, and that one
Of women, worthy of the love of him
The one of men she loved, who loved not her.
How long sweet Calyce in silence stood
Under the ancient cypress in the shade,
That hid her from their sight, and heard its moan
That answer'd to her sighing, she knew not;
Leaning her brow against its rugged bark
Till it was fray'd and bleeding. But at last,
When she look'd up, with pale face, and dim eyes,
All, all was shadow round her; the deep gloom
Of forest night, all but the stars; and some
Fell down like burning tears; but oh! her soul
Was starless, and her eyes too hot for tears.
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And rush'd forth, with her hands upon her brows,
Into the broad green way, just as the moon
Rose in the east, and shone upon her face,
And turn'd it into marble, as she flung
Her arms to heaven, and shriek'd that heaven might hear.
IX
‘O Night, why hast thou any moon or star;Not rather darkest dark, that might be felt?
Not to look down with pitiless cold eyes
Upon me desolate, but rather shroud
In everlasting gloom, the sunny world,
That morning nevermore should wake again,
Steep'd in all fatal magic, full of shows
That win the heart thro' the enchanted eyes;
But turn to phantoms, like the bow of heaven
I ran to clutch when I was but a babe;
And wept to see it vanish. If I were blind,
I still had heard the linnet and the lark;
The falling spring, and summer breeze, and breathed
The early violet, and the last red rose;
But nothing had made pictures in mine eyes
To grave them on my heart. I had been free,
If all the fair Immortals had come down
To walk the green woods, or to take their rest
Under my roof: if I had only dreamt
All I have heard and seen, and woke by night
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Had made me yearn and weep, and pray to heaven
To make it real; though a voice from heaven
Had cried ‘Beware! 'tis madness!’ But I know,
Ah me! I know my waking eyes have seen,
Mine ears have heard; and now the living truth
Is vanish'd like a vision! lost, oh! lost:
Far more for ever, than if I had fed
Upon the dream for ever; hoping still
That in the mortal future, or in that
That may be endless, when mortality
Is ended, it might meet me some fair day,
Substantial, henceforth never to dissolve;
As ye have faded, O fair days, and false
Into an endless nothing.
Oh! I thought—
What did I think? I knew not what I thought,
Or if I thought at all, for light of joy,
As one who sees not for the dazzling sun,
Oft as he look'd on me with earnest eyes,
And took my strengthless hand in his, and said;—
‘O Calyce, methinks it were a boon
The Gods might play with, to fly far away
From the hot noonday light of daily state;
The pitiless revel when the eyes are blind
With sleepless hours, and heart and head are faint
With public care; fly, and be found no more;
When tongues prove false, that were believed most true;
And warm hearts trusted only burn with hate.
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And war, or treason, as a thundercloud,
O'ershadow some fleet hour of joy unfeign'd,
We steal from vanities in solitude,
Fly far away into a peace like this,
Where worldly hearts, like birds in gilded wires,
Would never will or think to follow us.
To mark, as thou dost, the returning spring,
And the last hues of autumn—oh! how sweet
They seem unto me, now born into life
Once more, to me, but now a falling leaf,
And nevermore to see another May.’
Said he not, ‘us’? Who was the other half
Of that one twofold syllable? Oh! I see;
And better blindness than such sight. O eyes,
That fed me from my childhood with delights!
O heart, that grew in strength from day to day,
With such ambrosial sweets! why have ye thus
Led me, as one who wanders on thro' flowers,
Right to the edge of an abyss? Can faith
Follow the faithless? love be taken captive
By a loveless voice, a smile where love is not,
More than a fire within an icicle,
That glows with hues of flame? Is vanity
The heart of woman? if 'twas mine, 'tis fallen,
As fast and far into the utter dark,
As that fleet star I saw this moment pass,
For now I know who is that other half:
And scorn of all that ever was myself
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The queen of beauty and his queen; I saw
A woman, worthy of the foremost man,
Who loves him as he loves her: and I know
She is in grace and beauty more than I;
As Aphrodite, fresh from the blue sea,
More than a dusky beggar: and I love!
O fool! and yet there is no place for thee
In that one heart, where thou wouldst bask; no place
In all this lovely world where love is not.
For now all other loves that lit my heart
Are quench'd for ever; as all lesser fires
Grow black against the sun. Fool, thou must die.
And yet, methinks, it were a pleasant thing
To live for ever, even without hope;
To love his image pictured on my heart,
If I but thought that loving heart was mine
I saw him give another; howsoe'er
Space, and time, and pride, and fear might hold
Our sympathies apart. It cannot be.
Fool, thou must die; there is no place for thee
In all this world: Oh yes, there is; remember
The sweet words, but as poison'd honey now;—
‘Oh! could a sweeter handmaid be than this?’
My royal lady bids me stand before her.
She looks into my face; she laughs; I read
Her thoughts, as though I were an oracle:
And, if she spoke, it would be words like these;—
124
I fear not, for she is not beautiful;
I doubt not, for she is a simpleton.’
She speaks not; but she turns her eyes on him;
And with their glory he is blind again;
And shows it by the dazzle in his own.
And then she turns to me, as tho' to say,
‘Judge for thyself, there is no peril here.’
And yet she only utters;—‘Pretty maid,
Serve me if thou art willing; for I see
A sweeter handmaid cannot be than thou.’
Serve thee? oh yes! as I have heard a tale.
My Lady calls me from the topmost tower,
Where she is cushion'd upon Tyrian folds,
Or cloth of gold, after the banquet hour,
To slumber to the scent of shaded flowers,
Mix'd with the fragrance from the forest blown,
And murmuring leaves and moaning of the seas.
And when I reach with toil the topmost stair,
And pass the doorway; saith the royal dame,
‘Fetch me my kerchief dropt there at thy feet,’
Three feet from her own chair; or, ‘Hie thee down,
And bring my wimple from the banquet-table,’
Or ‘jewell'd slipper lost upon the stair;
It was too hot to stoop;’ or, ‘Go for him
My lord’—Oh yes! her lord, not mine—that they
May while away soft moments, with the doors
Closed on the worthless one. Was it my heart,
Too faithful heart, that warn'd me, or a voice
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‘To-morrow they are wed’? Ah! then, to-morrow,
To-morrow—yet'—and two large tears, the last
Of mortal sorrows fell among the dews—
‘And yet I would have served him, better far
Than many hirelings, in whose conscience fear
Awakens memory; but who lack the faith
Ev'n of a dog or horse; I should have read
His instincts in his eyes; before he spoke
Have scann'd his thoughts, and syllabled his words.
If he were anger'd, I would judge myself
So cruelly that he would cry out, ‘Hold’!
And, if he slept, I would watch over him:
If he were sleepless, I would never rest:
And if he died—ah! he is dead to me:
To-morrow they are wed; ah, then, to-morrow,
To-morrow’—there was silence in the wood
For many hours; and then the moon went down,
And there was darkness; 'twixt the dark and dawn
Where was she? The forsaken mother watch'd,
And wail'd, and wept; and yet she came not home.
The finches flutter'd, and awoke in fear;
The wild things fled in wonder at the sound
Of swift unwonted steps at dead of night;
And peaceful Dryads raised their oak-crown'd head
Awhile, to listen for some dreadful deed!
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X
The dawn was flushing o'er the eastern hills.The marble temple of the God of light
Began to glimmer on the southern steep,
And cast its shadow on the deep; below
The waters wail'd; and the sweet winds of morn,
With the seawaters, made a dirge of sighs.
For, ere the darkness had given place to day,
A flash of silent lightning from the west
Show'd the torn raiment, and unbraided hair
For one brief moment of the hopeless one
Held like a spirit, in mid-air; but she,
Long ere her warm limbs mingled with the sea,
Spared the reluctant waves the sad delight
Of snatching her young life; and she was borne,
Midway 'twixt sea and sky, into a realm
Where hapless loves, those thunderstricken flowers,
Put forth once more their purple; and her limbs
Stain'd not the sharp rocks with their virgin blood;
For sea-nymphs bore her up in their embrace.
Nothing of her was found upon the shore
But the false jewel of gold; and if some hand
Of fisherman had pluck'd it from the sand,
And borne it to the king, he might have droopt
His head upon his hand in woeful wise;
And low tongues might have whisper'd to his soul
Secrets unknown to all his wisest men,
And sorrows he had never dreamt before.”
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XI
He ended; and methought I heard againMy own tale told; for, through the fiery haze
Of those tormented moments, when the breath
Of the Eumenides had laid me low;
And wither'd up long memories of the past,
All but the one, that I had loved in vain,
I scarce could tell what sunder'd my own lot
From hapless Calyce's; but wonder took
Place of all fitful moods that came and went,
Like shapeless clouds, shame, sorrow, anger, fear,
Or maiden modesty that held them all,
And cross'd my heart, but, thro' hush'd lips and pale,
Gave forth no sign. Had Earth, great Mother, heard
Down to her central soul the cry of one
Afflicted child? and throbb'd from far, within
Her sympathetic pulses, whereunto
All kindred hearts might vibrate? Had the storm,
That shook me, echoed far off, like the sound
Of thunders, like the silent lightning-flash,
Ran round the world? How else had Tisias known
My mystery? For a while I droopt my head
Upon my hand, and dared not meet the gaze
I thought I felt. If this were phantasy,
Then dreams and visions, howsoever strange,
Were match'd by life itself; if sometimes more,
Were often less; or if the poet's song
Were life made music, then some other heart
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Had heard that tale not mine. And so I laugh'd,
And raised my head, and look'd into his face.
His eyes were calm; they look'd not into mine.
There was no question in them, no reserve
More eloquent than words, that seem'd to say;—
“Thy secret is inviolate with me,
Thy precious heart is casketed in mine.”
XII
He ended; and the story he had told,And I have echoed from him, was adorned
With no fair flowers of poesy; but given
In his plain speech. “For if such things be true,”
He said, “they have no need to be o'erlaid
With colours rare, or framed in gold and gems,
Or chanted to the sound of tuneful strings,
That they be heard and seen. And yet such joys
And woe, so far beyond the common heart—
As sunlit peaks, or heights of sunless snow,
Stand forth so wondrously, that awful eyes
Are turn'd upon them—all the more enchant
The poet's inner sense; and draw him on
To look more fixedly on passing shows
Than the world's eye, that for a moment sees,
Marvels, and then forgets; so that past years
Or dark, or bright, like lands they leave behind
Drown'd in grey mist, and then beheld no more,
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So pardon me, my friends, if I have dared
To breathe such life into a mournful tale,
As lyric measures, to sweet music join'd,
Can best impart; and should it be that I
Give to these sorrows of mortality
Immortal being, such as marble yields
To the great Gods and to heroic men;
Haply it may not be in vain, if one
Fond heart of woman blossoms with a leaf
Of wisdom, one man's with a flower of love.”
XIII
I had no time to ponder; for he rose;Drew back a vail, which hung between the hall
And inner chambers; at a signal given
Within, the doors were open'd right and left.
And lo! two bands of youths, eight on each hand,
Ranged themselves; then came harpers with their harps;
And first the right, and then the left hand choir
Took up, in lyric measures interwoven
Harmoniously, the sweetest of the joys,
And saddest of the sorrows he had told;
As when the choicest of a garden's flowers
Are wreathed into a garland; and pale bells,
That droop their heads in piteous wise, are mix'd
With purple roses; and there is no place
For other blooms, or the green leaf itself,
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Charms not the eye. I listen'd; and I heard,
Methought, the inmost disembodied souls
Of anguish, and of ecstasy, upborne
On wings of melody; as when a cloud,
Risen with the sun upon the radiant light,
Soars on, and drowns amid the golden fire.
I listen'd, and I wept; but no one knew
Whether those tears were sweet, or bitter; whether
Shed for myself, or for poor Calyce;
And whether joy, or sorrow drew them forth;
For they may fall for either; lastly whether
Music, the soul of all things beautiful,
Be not itself all-potent to subdue
The heart, and with its voices manifold
Shake it like terror. So I listen'd long
The music, and the voices; and my tears
Fell in the twilight; for the day was done
And when the end had come, and we arose,
And parted from the noble Tisias,
My heart was calmer in my breast; my thoughts
Breathed something of the sweetness of the past,
Without its pain; as the low winds of even
Bore from the champaign dews impregn'd with flowers.
And softer light, less than the noon of joy,
Yet more than midnight gloom, dawn'd in my soul,
Fair as the moon just rising from the sea.
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ANDROS
Wave following wave, each like to each,
Rolls over us, and more and more
To bail out the flood
Will tax us sore.
Alcæus.
Rolls over us, and more and more
To bail out the flood
Will tax us sore.
Alcæus.
I
Once more the shores fly back, the mountains fall,The waters dance around us; and once more
Thro' throbbing starlit night, and sunny day,
Regrets, and mournful memories were undone,
As cloud-mists by the many-colour'd morn,
By manifold swift change. What time for thought,
When vision after vision struck the sense,
And made of memory such a treasure-house,
So rich with gold and gems, that in their light
No shadows lived? And when the eyesight fail'd
To dive into the distance; and the land
Went down beneath the waters, and we saw
Only the purple deep, and the winds hush'd;
And the sail flapp'd, and the strong rowers took
Their order'd seats, Kerkolas came, and sat
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That we had glimpsed in coasting; and his words,
Made vital by his earnest truth alone,
Were living pictures; and if aught could be
Awanting to the faithful story told,
My fancy fired, and lit such colours up
That, could he have beheld them, would have made him
Relive a threefold life. For such is art
Poetic, or our nature, if ye will,
That o'er the many sorrows that we bear
Lifts us up for a moment, as the bow
Over the rainy cloud. Yet in good sooth
Far liefer did I listen to the words
Sober, and simple, than if he had wrought
Gold flowers into the tissue of his tale.
For in his truthful utterance I could trace
Heroic will, that would have made one word
Of his, in peril, or perplexity,
Stronger than clamorous threats, and prayers, and sighs;
Stronger than pity pleading through her tears.
Slowly the land of Egypt from the waves
Rose up before us; 'twas at Naucratis
I met again my brother whom I loved.
For I remember'd all our childish days;
And spake such words in secret to him, as
If he forgave not, he cannot forget;
Although he loved not honour; tho' the hours
Dropt thro' the glass too slowly for his thirst
Of passionate delights; tho' for a while
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Was strong within me that our mother's love
Had sown good seed in a rebellious heart;
My father's voice still echoed in his ears.
And when he wax'd faint with his lawless dance;
And when the flaunting Mænads had gone by,
Miscall'd delights; when he had drunk that cup,
And found the wine had left but bitter lees,
And he was sick and weary, he would hear
The old tongues calling to him, “Turn again,
My son, the mountaintop may still be scaled;
Tho' some are gone before thee, turn again!”
II
But that unconquerable love of home,That burns ev'n in the hearts of evil men,
At last hath stirr'd us like another youth
Out of that calm, as 'twere of Death, that sleeps
Upon this ancient land of Nile—this land
Of mystery, of magic, and of marvels,
Shadow'd by structures, old as time itself;
Temples that hold the secrets of all knowledge.
Once more I long to see the waters dance
Thro' the beloved isles; the blissful shores
Of Hellas, which the olive mountains shade,
Sparkling with crested cities; where the breath
Of man goes up in voluntary song;
Where the heart lightens with eternal youth,
134
Pours forth the golden, and the peerless sounds,
By which all other sounds on earth to me
Seem as barbaric gongs, and beaten brass,
After the sweetness of a seven-strung lyre.
So we sail'd forth from the low palmy shore;
And saw the columns of the temples huge
Fall under the dark silent wastes at even;
Like earth-born giants swallow'd up again.
The westwind blew; and in seven days we saw
The towering heights of Cyprus sheening up;
And skirting by Cythera, and by Naxos,
Touch'd sacred Samos, after thirty days
Of prosperous airs. And oh! it seem'd to me,
After that solemn, hush'd, primeval land,
Its darker shadows, and its fiercer lights,
The life of that fair city, joyous, loud,
The stir of the full mart, the sails that flock'd
Into its harbours laden with the world
Like weary birds, or partings full of life,
The songs that fill'd the air, the mirth that rose
Up from the decks, the many-voiced life,
Seem'd after the weird Nile, and mystic gloom
Of its hoar cities, and their templed wastes,
Like waking from a dream of wanderings
'Mid twilight sepulchres, and scatter'd bones
Of the dead giants, in the sunlit air
And breath of morning. Now with each new day
Yet once again my heart was charm'd, and years
135
From cavernous darkness into light of noon,
Had in such moments unimagined bliss;
I clapp'd my hands, and shouted, Hellas, Hellas!
Beautiful, beautiful!
And it was then,
That Anaktoria yielded to the prayer
Of her Ulysses that she would consent
With me to visit Andros, his own home,
The dwelling of his fathers, dear to him,
As the blue Lesbian bays, and breezy hills,
And viny dales, to me and to my friend.
And so we changed our course; and with it changed
The elements around us; for the winds
Of Autumn were upon us, as we sail'd
Into the narrow pass, of evil fame,
Between Eubœa, and the lesser isle,
Into the strait of Andros; woe betide
Belated fishing boat, or laden bark,
If sudden tempest smite them 'twixt the shores.
And, as we enter'd by the perilous gate;
On the righthand the inhospitable steep
Of gaunt Caphareus, on the left the beach
And fruitful plains of Andros; from the west
Rose up a purple wall of thundercloud
Onward, and upward, and, from dismal peaks
And pinnacles, flung down into the deep
Javelins of fire, that clave the gloomy waste;
And roll'd down in a moment after them
136
As of innumerable hosts; that smote
The crags, and drew such angry answers from them,
That the first echoes met the second peal;
And so for ever flung against each other
The awful voices never ceased. We sat,
Shelter'd from winds and waters for a while;
The hand of Anaktoria clasping mine,
And darkness round about us, only broken
By momentary lightnings, seen athwart
Night and the world of waters, shaping to us
The towering surges into very forms
Of angry Titans, showing us withal
The vessel drifting on the shallows fast,
Its head turn'd to the south and east, before
The gathering tempest; and I whisper'd low;—
“O Anaktoria; once I had a dream
Thou knowest well, of drowning in the deep:
Shall death by waters thus fulfil itself,
As 'twere in sight of home?” But she replied;—
“Alas! not we alone, weak women, pass
Away for ever; but the strong man, he
Who but for us might fight against despair,
Challenge the winds and waves, and free himself,
Must perish with us, if he cannot die
To snatch us from the death; for sure he would
If this were possible; but it is vain
To think of it; and sadder still, methinks,”—
And this we utter'd in one voice together,—
137
Had ransom'd our frail being with his own!
So let us die together: hark! 'tis nigh!
'Tis on us!” And a shock like earthquake smote
The vessel's keel, and flung us from our seats.
And in a moment, with the roar of floods
And hurricane, death seized on us! We knew
No more; for all was dark to sense and soul,
Ev'n as the night without its lightnings; nought
But a low murmur compass'd us; yet fear
And pain had fled away; if such be death
When it o'ertakes us, better die in youth,
And lapse to such oblivion, than await—
Like the long-suffering oak the frost and hail—
Old age that shreds us piecemeal: but we woke.
Was it a dream? Or had there been a storm,
And wreck and doom? Or had the seagods pass'd,
And laid the waters and the winds? the nymphs
Risen from their twilight chambers, where the blasts,
And tumults, that torment the upper seas,
Are only heard like whispers in a shell,
Or sighings from the woody mountaintops;
And laid us in their pearly coracles,
And borne us sleeping to a place of rest?
For all was silent round us; and the moon
Shone through a vine that rustled near the roof;
And chequer'd Anaktoria's deathpale face
With quivering light and shade. But lo! a light
Of a small lamp held in one aged hand,
138
One of tall stature, and boon aspect, leant
Tenderly o'er me, and a sweet voice spake:
“I am the mother of Kerkolas, child.
Drink of this wine; for it hath often staid
The doom of the wreck'd seaman, when a night
Like this had flung his bark upon the shoals,
And angry breakers; drink of it and sleep.
No fiery sparkles mingle with the draught;
But essences of wild-flowers, and such balms
As lay the tumult in the blood, and soothe
Thus heart and mind; drink of it; it shall be
That with to-morrow morn new life is thine:
But he”—she said no more but passed away
With soundless foot; yet had that little word,
The last word that she spoke, made sleep in vain.
Those words “but he” which broke off suddenly—
Like a waste land trodden at dead of night
By wandering feet that start back from the edge
Of an abyss—left me in fear and pain.
And clear, as in a mirror, I beheld
The silent image of a dreadful thing;
One stretch'd, as 'twere, in death upon the shore;
So blench'd his brow, and cheeks, so void of light
His sealed eyes; in shadow of a rock
He lies beyond the highest watermark;
And one hand clasps a carkanet I lost
Amid the stormy night. Nearer I gaze;
Ah yes! 'tis he, the brave and true; the one,
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About the wreck had saved their lesser lives.
He is the last, and now they call to him.
And now he dives into the roaring sea;
And now the storm, that had not done its worst
When the crew 'scaped to land, grows mightiest,
And, buffeting in vain, he is borne off
He knows not whither; sense and thought are lost;
Sure life itself; so deathly-true it seemed,
That with a cry I raised myself; and yearn'd
To follow my own spirit thro' the night,
That with my outer eyes I might belie
Fantastic terrors. Anaktoria woke,
But, ere she spoke, I heard another sound,
A murmur from without, that slowly wax'd
Into clear utterance; “Gently,” said a voice,
“Gently, O friends, if he be yet alive,
So sore bestead, and wounded; for the sea
That hath not swallow'd us, hath wreak'd itself
In vengeance on him, leaving him to die
Beneath the rock that bruised him, then drew back,
And lacking strength to harm him more, at length
Grew peaceable; gently, my fellowmen,
Lest ye arouse him suddenly, and then
That shock may be a peril unto death.”
I look'd forth in the moonlight; and I heard
Fulfill'd what in my vision I had seen.
Slowly they reach'd the shadows of the house,
And shelter of his home; sadly came forth
140
And drying them as quickly—'twas no time
To mourn; she knew not yet if that dread pause
'Twixt life and death would lapse to one or other—
But I could weep for him and her; could weep
For Anaktoria, whose strong spirit bow'd
Before the sorrow of so great a loss;
Yea, weep with them,—or was it for myself?
Myself—I started at the very thought,
And put it by—no more—The morrow morn,
And many morrows after that, the house
Was steep'd in silence, lest a sound, a step
Too rude, a syllable too harshly spoken,
Should be an arrow in the heart we loved.
How shall I tell what loving strife arose
Between me and my friend, each to outdo
The other in the work of piety?
The daily services, the nightly watch
Taken alternately, till the dim eyes
Began to shimmer—as the star of dawn
Before returning daybreak whispers, faint
As the first rustle of the breath of morn
Among the myrtles—usher'd welcome words,
And the self-conscious soul. And when he spoke
It was to answer our unutter'd words
And yearning wish: smiling he said, “I know
All that ye long to learn; the wonder writ
Upon your brows, and burning in your eyes,
Is not altogether for my sake,
141
That ye have nursed into a vital flame
By patient lovingkindness; which, full sure,
Except for that, had vanish'd ere its time.
She seeks to know how 'tis that Life and Death
Are reconciled; how 'tis the hungry sea
That snatch'd ye hath repented; how ye drown'd,
And lapsed into oblivion, and the dark,
And yet stand here the light of this old home.
'Twas that the sea that overleapt the bark,
After it grounded, felt not yet the storm
At its full strength, although it swept ye off.
On either hand the shoals were passable
By caution and by struggling; for the space
Of a brief minute ye were overcome.
And while I held thee up, O Sappho, two,
Of all our stalwart oarsmen the two best,
Lifted thee, Lady Anaktoria,
Above the blinding surf.” But here he paused,
And for a while the lifelight in his eyes
Paled as a misty star; no more he seemed
To see or heed our presence; and his voice
Sank to a whisper; but I heard his words
Faint and yet clear; none other heard but me.
“I would not trust thee, O my treasure, O
My Sappho; no, to any hands but mine;
Thou didst not know it, haply wilt not know.
But, whatsoever shall befall us two,
And if this sea shall spare, or spare me not,
142
This know I, dear, that I have saved a life
More precious than all others.” Then again
The lifelight lit his eyes, self-conscious thought
Rang in his voice; “When I had yielded up
My precious burthen into other hands,
Again I made for the dismasted wreck;
For there I knew less precious jewels lay,
Yet of great price: but, while I search'd for them,
The winds and sea rose into tameless might;
And in a moment every plank and spar,
Scatter'd and rent, left me more lost than they
Amid the flood blinded and without hope,
The flood that bore me onward without life,
And left me so; until I heard again
Low voices round me; and knew not if I,
A shadow, heard the whispering of the Shades.”
These last words told us only what we knew
From the brave men who found him nigh the rock,
So that I heard them not; for other thoughts
Took hold of me; quickly I call'd to mind
My vision and my anguish; and I thought
There must bè something betwixt him and me
Stronger than space and time, to show me thus
Truth's self upon the blackness of the night.
Was it the last thought that possess'd his soul
Ere he sank down in death—that he had saved
My life, the all to him—and did my soul
Go forth to meet his, and thus all he did
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I knew not; but the weird experience
Led me to search the inner deeps of Life;
And sound for things till then unseen, unknown,
Or thought of by the wisest of this world.
III
I said the Furies, whose destroying firesHad scorch'd my frame, had wellnigh wither'd up
All memory of the past; and whatsoe'er
Cross'd me at moments, like a stormy gleam
No sooner seen than darken'd, grew at length
More like a mist, that fancy shapes to life
Than aught of actual; memory of a dream,
Or some lost day remember'd in a dream.
But now in lonely moments I began
To wonder at myself, and started back
From my own musings: was it possible
That the old madness stirr'd within me still?
Were the pale embers, that within me lay,
Rekindling into life? I knew not how;
But all of the old sorrow that remain'd,
By little and by little, with each day
Changed into sweetness; voices of despair
To a new song; from dust of hopeless death
Sprang up spontaneous raptures, as first flowers
From wintry snows; my step grew light again,
My utterance musical; was my flown God,
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And led me the wild dance I knew not where,
Breathing upon me now? But, when I strove
To raise the wondrous shape I look'd on then,
My eyes were blind; I could not see it more.
But in its stead there pass'd before my sight
Majestic manhood, wise humanity,
Heroic strength and stature, steadfast will,
Patient endurance; all for ever warm'd
By smiles of lovingkindness from a heart,
That, whether in its grief, or in its joy,
Cast light around it as a central sun.
One, not a cunning actor masking guile,
But robed in light of honour; bold of speech,
To whisper truth into the ear of kings;
As one might feel a slumbering lion's teeth,
Or rush unfearing through a burning fire.
And yet his life is full of gentle acts;
Whose virtue, better than all glory, spreads,
Like odour wandering forth from unseen flowers;
Like silver ripplets in a quiet spring;
Like tuneful circles shed from one sweet sound,
Out of the loving centre of his heart,
And wields magnetic influences, strong
For good on earth within his little sphere;
As the great forces that hold up the world!
Ah! surely in that image I beheld,
The while I saw him not, the king of men;
As though I saw his shadow on the wall.
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For now I knew the radiance from my heart,
That show'd it me, was kindled at his own.
And, though it minded me of my own self
In days before, as lightnings from the east
Shine to the west, I turn'd to whence it sprang,
And saw it was no reflex of the past,
But a new love! Ah me! why was I spared?
Ah! was bright change, and sweet companionship,
That solaced my sad thought, as first spring days
The wintry earth, to end in this again,
Another doom, and hopeless death in life,
Another desolation? Woe is me:
Where shall I fly? I cannot fly from him,
And, if I could, I cannot hide myself.
Methinks, the still cold deeps beneath the sea
Were fitter for this vexed heart of mine;
And to forget for ever, than to live
And look upon the sun through hopeless tears.
Long stood I on the selfsame spot, and clothed
In trouble, as a cloud; as one who, struck
By summer storm, hears not the voice of one
On his righthand, by reason of the wind.
But when the tempest in my heart had lull'd,
Hope spoke again, and in a tongue I knew.
Faint, as a whisper, had I heard it first;
I, and none other; now it came to me,
Clear as a harpstring sounded in the dark.
“I would not trust thee, O my treasure, O
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Thou didst not know it, haply wilt not know.
But, whatsoever shall befall us two,
And if this sea shall spare, or spare me not,
Or other seas shall be my sepulchre,
This know I, dear, that I have saved a life
More precious than all others.” Mighty Gods!
I cried in my great wonder, “am I sure?
Am I but netted into other toils,
Mark for still sharper arrows, or have ye
Quicken'd the wither'd buds of my first joy,
To make them fullblown blossoms, and a crown
Of glory, and of bliss supreme; and weave
Amid the roses laurel, oak, and palm,
And in the stead of widowhood and woe,
Cross passions, and dissever'd purposes,
Of unrealities, and hopeless dreams,
Love, twofold, sure, and strong, twin hearts in one?
Yet was I changed; as one, who once hath launch'd
A helmless bark into the trackless seas,
Charm'd by the sunshine, and the azure calm;
And spread all sail without or skill, or fear;
A foolish child, unmindful of his fate;
And madly flown against the rising waves
That cast him on a rock: but evermore
He shudders at the terror he hath braved,
And fears though all be still. No more I sought
To dare my peril; now it seem'd indeed
A fatal pastime thus to bathe my sense
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Look through the eyes, and heal the wounds they make,
Is but a mighty, and a cruel king,
That takes us captives without hope of change.
How often now, when I had heard him speak
Of far-off lands, bold ventures, noble acts,
I fled away to wander by the shore!
Not, as of old, to picture forth anew
A living form till it grew twice alive:
But, as a harper out of many notes
Of bass and treble, sweet and strong, upbuilds
Melodious symphony, I strove to link
Brave thoughts and tender, bold and gentle deeds,
Into one fair concent, his noble soul:
And then, although I thought not of his face,
It shone unbid, pure symbol of the whole:
And straight all other beauty seem'd a mask
That show'd no good, or hid the false away.
IV
How long my weak heart might have worn its chain;How soon the brave man might have arm'd himself
To cast out fear, I know not; but, meanwhile,
Love bore our embassies to willing ears.
For Anaktoria, whose wakeful eyes
Had laugh'd at my vain secrecy, and his;
Much as the fowler marks the simple bird,
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Then turns unto it by another way,
Heard and gave counsel unto each in turn:
Till doubt, the nightmist, hope, the star of morn,
Both drown'd in cloudless sunrise. For each heart
Wax'd certain of its fellow, as if each
Had been sweet notes that sing in unison;
Albeit not yet the sweet words of the song
Had sounded; and the days were fleeting by.
And, while we dream'd, full many a busy hand
Had stirr'd the echoes with the daily sound
Of clashing anvil, and of driven bolt,
Of plane, and saw, and mallet; and once more
A gallant bark, if not a pleasure-barge,
Rock'd on the waters; and the day was come,
As many a day hath been, and still must be,
Itself a minute picture of all time,
Of sorrow cross'd with joy, of hopes with fears,
Of ever-eager youth, of mournful age,
Of tears, and laughter, welcomes, and farewells.
The breeze was fair; nor loud enough to hush
The tiny wavelets, rippling on the sands,
And tuneful as a song, that seem'd to join
Its music to our voices, as we stood
Under the porch, remurmuring o'er and o'er
The same sweet syllables; and sad, the while
The blithe airs gambol'd with our braidless locks.
And she, the aged mother, stretch'd her arms
Above our heads in silence; and I saw
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That seem'd to reach into eternity.
V
Swiftly the vessel clave the morning sea,The spring winds, breathing from the balmy isles,
Scarce rippled the blue waters; and the birds
Flew round us, in their way from land to land.
The air was thick with odours as with light;
And far-off headlands, steep'd in azure, mock'd
Themselves, as in a mirror; and he came
Laughing to me, and said;—“Come hither quick,
And I will show thee how, this blissful morn,
Things, that dwell under the dark waters, quit
Their homes, to quaff the warm air; and are fain
To take their pastime like the winged birds.
And then he led me to the peaked prow;
And, leaning o'er, he show'd me silently
A dolphin close along the vessel's side,
Nigh where the seafoam, parted by the keel,
Went by in silver eddies. As it surged
Into the sunlight, a bright rain of gems
Fell from its flanks; and in a moment more
It follow'd the fair treasures, and was lost;
Then came and went, and came and went again,
And, nearer and still nearer to the bark,
The dolphin gambol'd; and I joy'd to see;
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I overpoised myself in my desire.
I felt that I was falling: Ah! great heavens!
Once more the dream of waters! Oh! what thoughts
Rush'd thro' that moment! in a moment more—
Had I not fallen into seanymphs' arms—
The swift ship had gone over me at once,
And tomb'd me in dark waters, with no dirge
But the seamurmur, and the low sweet wind.
And yet it needed not the bitter cry
That sprang from my despair to bring him near.
That ever-watchful eye, and guardian arm
Were by me, and around, and when I woke
From a short swoon, 'twas on his breast I lay.
But in that interval each of us knew,
Better than words could paint or music peal,
All that lay hidden in the other's heart,
Ray'd from the eyes, and moving on the lips:
Love signalling its own immortal life!
But Anaktoria, bending o'er us both
Stood like a royal Fate, and thus she spake:—
“Surely the life twice saved is due to him
Who hath twice saved it; surely he, who saved
What else were lost, is lord of it for aye;
Who shall gainsay him? Let me speak for both.
And, if I am not just, avenge yourselves.
Take her, Kerkolas, take him, Sappho dear;
And yet I give what is not mine to give;
For thou art his, O Sappho, he is thine.”
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And on the morrow morning we were wed.
VI
The hours, the days are fled, the years are gone;My parents dead, my brothers far away.
I might have haunted the old house alone.
For, of the many friends that once were mine,
The most were fickle, and the faithful few;
And they were wed: but he was here with me;
And loved to be where I had loved to live
Rather than Andros. Then his mother died
Who was the light of his ancestral hall;
And now beneath an unfamiliar roof
He found more bliss than in the ancient home
Where she was not: another voice is heard;
Between us two another face is seen,
A little sweet face looks up to us both,
And smiles on each in turn; and we look down
Upon it, as a mirror magical,
Wherein each, gazing on it, sees us both.
Kleis is her name, the key that can unlock
The hearts of both, if ever they grow hard;
But that may never be while she is by.
The hours, the days are fled, the years are gone;
He went and came; the springtime saw him part.
Ofttimes our Lesbos saw him not again
Till Summer ended; first I shed some tears
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After farewell so surely, that I came
To think of his return, as of the dawn
After a sunset, and my heart grew strong.
VII
One Autumn night, when we had piled the hearth;And the old rooftree redden'd with the fire,
And Kleis had lean'd her cheek upon my knees,
With wakeful eyes watching her father's lips;
He told us of the sea, its glories, wonders,
And perils, while we heard it roar without
A friendly symphony to that deep voice,
And weather'd frame; and gusty tempests shook
The last leaves from the old vine on the wall.
And shrieks rose in the pauses of the wind,
And were caught off again; whether they were
Of homeless wanderers, or of drowning men;
And I sat pale. Oh! sweet and solemn nights,
Better than songs and purple festivals,
And banquets of the proud. There as he sat
Over against me, like a king of men.
And the quick flashing of the firelight smote
Upon his face, stormbeaten, but serene;—
And show'd those kind deep eyes beneath his brows
Knotly and dark; I said unto myself;—
“Behold, how fair a thing the heart of Man
Temper'd to peace, and even with itself,
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For peaceful sufferance made the latter good.
'Tis as the calm glow of this hearth, that streams
Into the outer dark; an evening beam
Pour'd thro' the loopholes of a warlike tower,
Or down the laden vineyard's turfy way;
And, tho' the frame be wreck'd by time, and care,
Looks through it, as the starlight thro' the storm,
And leafless boughs.” There as he sat, and spake,
Of cities, and of peoples, fortunes, fears,
Shipwrecks, and perils of far voyages,
Or joyous ventures betwixt isle and isle;
Methought I saw Odysseus come to life;
Or the great soul of that primeval king
Set in like limbs; so knit he must have been;
Such his grave aspect, and his kindling eye,
And towering brows; such his unquailing heart,
In patience so long-suffering; but in strength
To lift himself, if need be, over ill
Swift as an eagle; but, within, devout
And tender thoughts, that when the trampling feet
Of daily cares were heard no more, would wake
Clear as the bubbling of a spring by night
Along a dusty way. How sweet his smile!
How rich the treasure of his spirit, stored
With wisdom, and with musings; tissues woven
Thro' many days of iron, and of gold,
Luck and mischance, real woe, and real mirth;
Fortune that pined, and sorrow that rejoiced,
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And memories of his own as fair as song.
His life, as 'twere, a hymn of praise, with acts
For music, dying into cadences
Of self-approval, sweeter than the tongues
Of Corybantes, as they bear along
The Mother of the Earth. And, looking on him,
His spirit seem'd to lay my troubled thoughts;
As a strong wind that, setting from the land,
Beats back the eager flood. Oh! I was proud
Thus to be school'd by one, whose faithful words
Were echoes of his deeds; to hear, and learn
The proper notes of magnanimity.
And when he ceased his changeful histories,
And leant his cheek upon his hand, and fix'd
His dreaming eyes upon the dying fire;
Out of the ruddy embers shaping things
That he had seen in valiant days of youth;
Whether it were wild sunsets barr'd with storm;
Mountain, or angry shore, or ragged steep;
Or burning isle, or desert rough with wrecks;
Or piled merchandise upon the wharves
Of seaward cities basking in the sun;
Or multitudinous capital with towers,
Through whose deep heart the flames of ruin roll'd;
Or crimson rivers out of Etna's heart:
Then I sat silent seeing all he saw.
But chiefly when he said: “How hard is Life!
I sleep with toil, and dream of toil to be.
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Of peace, but find it not; and long long use
Steels me to front the stormy elements
Of chance and change more joyfully than calm.
And yet I seek not riches, nor the springs
Of pleasure, who can sleep beneath a rock,
And drink the rivulet from it, or wildgrape
That overhangs it, as 'twere Samian wine;
And swallow rude bread with the mountaineer.
Enough for me if I shall live to bring,
Upon the day that little Kleis is wed,
What shall suffice to dower the little one
Who slumbers on thy knee; and thee, dear wife,
Something to pillow thine old age upon;
Who from thy birth wert framed too fearfully
For this rough world.” Ah! then my heart was wrung.
Ah! then, methought, I had been deaf, and dumb;
And blind through all those years, while he had fought
With giants for our sakes, and had prevail'd.
But, had he fallen in the next emprise,
Would not those words, like spectres in the night,
Come back to me, and drag my conscious heart
Down to a living death? So I arose;
And, bowing down before him, clasp'd his knees;
And in a voice of anguish, “Part no more;
Or thou wilt leave behind thee tears and sighs,
Able to cloud thy hopes, and dim thy weal;
And make farewell not blessing, but a dirge.
And now, I mind me, while thou wert away,
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A sealed packet in my hand for thee,
Well nigh forgotten; take it, there it is
Hid in the casket by thee;” but my heart
Was prophet to his tongue while he unwrapt
The writing, and then read; “From Anaktoria
Greeting; weep with me; woe is in our house.
For Death hath taken him who gave me life;
And left me heir to all, which were as nought,
Were not my sorrow temper'd with this thought,
That I have power to work my will to thee,
Which first was his; to dower thee with such wealth,
Tho' less than the full measure of thy meed;
Yet all enough to crown thee with the peace
The due of rich deservings; peace at last—
A clear sun setting past a stormy sea—
Peace to the homeless heart that pines for rest;
Peace to the widow'd heart that pines at home;
And peace to him, who from the shades turns back,
To see that better flower of gratitude;
The bliss of loving hearts he left behind.”
Thus Anaktoria wrote. Kerkolas read:
And, bowing down his head in silence, seem'd
As though he listen'd to the roaring sea
Without, that rose on sudden angry gusts,
As if to chide him for ingratitude;
Or snarl him forth to one last deadly strife.
Then whisper'd he, “I know not if this gold;
Or perils of the deep, ev'n if foreknown;
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When winds and waves are loud 'twixt me and thee;
Or little Kleis stretching her arms to me;
Or all at once would stay me from the use
Of long long years, and love of daring deeds.
But now I see the first tears in those eyes,
At thought of that which they could brook before,
Or speed with hopeful smiles, and happy words,
My heart is weaker than a windless sail.
Thou hast prevail'd, 'tis ended; and henceforth
All my seafaring shall be done with thee,
In voyages, where hazard there is none,
In a gay bark which I will build for thee,
Fair as the wreck at Andros. If sometimes
We sail, like butterflies, or fearless birds,
'Twixt isle and isle, thro' summer and light air,
Mostly we'll glide 'twixt Lesbian bay and bay,
In search of pleasant moments; and abide
Till even, tented o'er by flowering boughs,
Wooing the nymphs to listen to thy songs,
Then homeward sail beneath the summer moon.”
Oh! then I rose; oh! then I took my harp.
I took my harp; I sang a wondrous song,
Unprompted rhythms, a pæan of delight,
Welcomes for aye! farewell to all farewells.
And then those eyes, unused to tears, would shed
A few swift drops, like dews that glance by moonlight.
Nearer he came; he took me by the hand;
And then he said in tenderest tones; “Dear heart,
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Such moments do I love; for, on the tide
Of thy sweet melodies, the years of old,
Like stars of sunset scatter'd on the sea,
Flow back; and sorrow's self looks beautiful,
As icy summits drown'd in dews of rose.”
And then my heart was jocund with the thought
That one so lock'd in armour could be stirr'd.
And “Not to us, oh; not to us,” I cried,
“Who live with shadows in this sunny world;
Who sit apart, deaf to the sound of things,
And shun all strife with scorn, front Power with pride,
Dreamers at noon, rebellious sons of Time,
Weavers of wind, frail children of the Muse,
Who drink the hueless spring of Castaly,
And call it nectar. Oh; not ev'n to us;
Who with the curtain of a rainbow screen
The dull grey cloud of Life; and, when that veil
Is lifted up, and shows the crags and mist
Naked and cold, we fly away in fear:
Who coldly turn from forms most beautiful;
Or, seeing, scorn them as familiar things,
Taking the phantoms in our hearts for more:
Who mourn because the harvest of delight,
Reap'd in the spring, leaves summer without fruit,
And autumn bleak, and winter without light:
Who thirst for joy yet cannot taste the fruit.
Not ev'n to us, poor Poets, strange and proud,
Leaves in the whirlwind, flame before the wind,
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Hath Nature, mighty in benevolence,
Kind Nature stinted a few living hours.
We are consoled if we can thus prevail
O'er stalwart strength, and draw heroic tears;
If we can hang the dusty rock with vines;
And set the wilderness with isles of green,
Whence heavy-laden hearts may pluck the grapes;
And drink the spring that bubbles in the waste.
We are not comfortless; if ye, the kings
Of action, can forget your cares, and lull
Your overwakeful sorrows as we sing,
And live again triumphant days of Youth,
Or turn to mercy out of ways of ill.
The giant of the forest bows his head
And thousand years unto the summer wind.
The gnarled strength of man may be subdued;
And yield to simple words, and silver song.
Nor will a strengthless woman live in vain,
If thoughts and passions, working change on earth,
Made musical by one melodious voice,
Are heard in echoes when their days are gone:
Or, like a garland of all-colour'd blooms,
Bound in one loving spirit's golden cord,
Breathe sweetly when the living leaves are sere,
Speak when she is not heard, and vanquish time,
Death and oblivion, and go down the flood
Of ages, wing'd into futurity
By breath of words that have no other soul!”
| The Isles of Greece | |