University of Virginia Library

—Recovered from their trance, and so refreshed
As the tired spirit is by food and sleep,
The wanderers looked around. On one fair side
Rose hills, and gentle waters murmured near,
And vernal meadows where the wild rose blew
Spread their fresh carpets. In the midst upsprung
A mountain, whose green head some ancient storm
Had struck in twain: rich forests deck'd its heights,
And laurel wildernesses clothed the sides,
And round it flew harmonious winds, whose wings
Bore inspiration and the sound of song.
Lower, and in the shade of that great hill,
A temple lay; untouched by storm or flood
It seemed, and white as when, just hewn, it caught
Ionian beauty from the carver's skill.
Thither they went, perhaps by some strong star
Drawn, or the spirit of the place unseen,
To ask their doom or own the ruling God:—
Thither they went, first parents, whom no child
Solaced, yet with hearts lighter than of yore;
The woman paler than when first she flung
Her curling arms around Deucalion's neck,
And he more gravely beautiful, less young,
But nearer heaven and like a dream of Jove.
They entered.—On a marble pedestal
A veiled figure sate, sybil or sage,
Or breathing oracle, whose inspired words
Were fate—immutable like Death or Love.
And near her, from an altar, whose soft flame
Was cedar-fed, fumed spice and frankincense,
Sandal-wood, aloes, and Arabian gums,
Warm odours yielding like the suns of May
When blooms are starting, and the fresh green grass
Laughs thro' its April tears and hums with life.
They knelt, the rough stones kissing, and with fear
Prayed; and each took bright leaves of the rich bay
There lying, and with low imploring sounds
Cast them upon the flame:—And then uprose
That figure, which was Justice, and the Queen
Of prophecy, and mother of the Hours,
Daughter of Earth and Heaven, and bride of Jove,
Great Themis. She, unveiling her bright eyes
And brow pale as the marble, with a voice
Sounding from awful distance, slowly spoke.
‘Children of Dust!’ she said, ‘Hear and revive:
The wrath of Heaven has passed, and ye are saved.
Go from my temple, and with garments loosed
And faces hidden, your great parent's bones
Gather, and cast them o'er your backs.’—They stood
Mute with amaze: each to the other looked
For help, bewildered; and when sense came back
The altar and the goddess were no more.
‘Themis immortal! O return, return!
Hear us, O vanish'd Themis!’ (so they moaned)
‘Hear us, and shed thy lustre on our minds,
Now dark. We see not, and are very sad.
We have endured much fortune, and, though spared,
We are alone:—no kin, no friends are ours,
None,—no companions save the senseless stones.’
The stones!—'Twas then the riddle of the skies
Dissolved. They left that temple, and obeyed
Its queen and prophetess:—Deucalion first
Plucking from out the earth (which sighed) a stone,
Threw it against the wind: It fell,—and lo!
Slowly as when the moon unclouds her face,
Swelled and grew human; yet not man at once,
But leaving like the worm its outer scale,
And shooting, as the flower puts forth its leaves,
Flexible arms (yet firm,) limbs apt for strength,
Muscles and sinuous shape, and streaming veins,
And last—the crowning head; which (cold at first,
And stiff like some pale mask,) relaxed to life,
Unclosing its bright eyes, and in warm cheeks
Receiving the first blush of living youth.
O wonder! Happiest Pyrrha, with what speed
She cast a stone, which like the first up-grew,
Yet fairer,—female, with such waving form
As Circe or Calypso, free from harm;—
Slowly the change went on, from limb to limb,
From waist to bosom, swelling like a cloud,
White-turning neck, and then the awakening face,
And last the eyes unclosed. ‘Immortal Heaven!’—
The mother spoke, and for a moment stood
Dumb, and with arms outspread then flew along
And clasped the new-born vision in her arms.
There hung she, and so gazed as mothers do
Who clasp pale children gathered from the grave,
And saved when hope had perished. ‘Oh!’ she spoke,
In low and hurrying tones, ‘Oh! leave me not
Again; Ione!—my sole child!—and yet
Art thou indeed, with all this skiey grace,
Mine own, made perfect without aid of time?
Thou stranger on the earth! Heaven's child (and mine)—
Oh! vision, die not until Pyrrha dies.’
In a moment straight before his eyes there thronged
Visions,—vast moving sights, Ocean and Land,
Palaces, towns, and temples,—sea-girt isles
Floating, and navies of a thousand ships,
Armies of steeled men, and shapes that wore
Their panther spoils, (nought else)—fierce savages,
Rivers and desart wastes, and grassy slopes
Crowned with the branching palm, and cedars such
As stood on Lebanon and kissed the wind
At morning,—and strange scenes and shapes beside.
—For a time he looked bewildered; but at last
His eye accustomed saw each shape distinct.—
First, on rich moving thrones, sceptred and crown'd
With oriental gold, dazzling as day,
And studded o'er with gems, passed slowly along
The kings of Thebes, and ocean-girded Tyre,
And Memphis old, and shrunken Babylon,—
Huge warrior men, upon whose lips, tho' sad,
Hung scorn, and pride in every wrinkled front.
Then came a bearded king more mild than they,
Father of many sons, all fair and brave,
And daughters, one a prophetess: This was
The Trojan Priam, at whose city gates
The Grecians watched for ten long bloody years,
And entered at the last old Ilium.
Near him sate one with laurels crown'd, but blind,
Who, pausing for a time, spoke forth at last
With a voice more solemn than the trumpet's tone
Calling armed men to battle: Terrible strife
In which the Gods once mingled filled his song,
Until descending unto gentler tones,
A gentler chord he pressed, and Love was made
His theme,—how on the Asian sands a dame
Loitered with him she loved and left her lord,
(Lacedemonian Helen)—how she stole
From Sparta then the sightless poet sung,
With the boy Paris, Priam's shepherd son,
And how Achilles angered, and the prince
Of barren Ithaca was led astray,
For ten long wretched years o'er land and wave
Wandering in grief and could not reach his home.
Following, and as the Magi walk, came two,
Hermes and Zoroaster, deemed sun-born,
Wise as the ever-watching stars, grave, pale,
And shrouded round by superstitious breath,
Which bade believe that each one was a God,
No less, and could dispense empire and death,
Riches, large joy, and charms from every ill.
These passed; when, like some picture where each shape
Looks so o'er-mastered that life stirs in all,
Athens from out a circular cloud up-sprang
Bravely, and shewed her temples all and streets,
Thro' which proud glorious men walked—one by one,
Else in bright throngs, as ages brought them forth
With exultation and no painful throes:
Kings, princes, and the soldiers of all states
(Not Athens alone, but Thebes and Macedon,
Corinth and Sparta and the rest) were seen
Conspicuous in their shining steel, but most
Great poets and grave-eyed philosophers
Shone thro' the dream like stars, and lit the land
With beauty and truth; for well sage Themis knew
Virtue is first and knowledge before arms,
Or power, or wealth, or strength in battle shewn.
—Cadmus, of that immortal throng the head
And leader, (for we pass all meaner tribes)
Stood with those wondrous letters in his hand
By which bright thought was in its quick flight stopped,
And saved from perishing. Amphion next
Came with his lute, and Linus fiercely slain,
And Orpheus, Thracian shepherd, who made stay
Swift rivers in their flow, until too cold
The lewd Bacchantes down the Hebrus' stream
Rolled his dissevered head, which uttered still
‘Eurydice!’—and then Alcæus passed,
Thales, and Sappho, whose so passionate song
Failed, tho' all fire, to stir the senseless boy
Phaon, and so the amorous Lesbian died.
Next came the Macedonian who bestrode
Bucephalus (whose spirit, till then untamed,
He broke by turning to the blinding sun)—
Yet not alone in steeds or in fierce arms
Delighted he, but much he loved rich song,
And fed his mind upon the tales of Troy:—
Then Plato, musing, whose most great delight
Was wisdom, which he taught by streams and groves,
Making Ilissus and its banks renowned;
And Socrates, whose earnest aim was truth,
And the star-blinded sage Pythagoras;
Praxiteles, and Phidias, and the rest
Whose Promethean touch awaken'd life
In the cold marble; and that king who died
Self-martyr'd in thy strait Thermopylæ!
And he who taught retreat o'er woods and plains
So well, and desarts strange, and hostile shores;
And Archimedes whose fierce art brought down
Ruin on cities; and that tragic Three,
Athenians, who the dream of life unveiled,
Winning men's wondering hearts by speech and verse,
And gave this world its best philosophy:—
Then passed Demosthenes; and he whom Fame
Slanders, sage Epicurus, on whom leaned
A youth well fitted for aught wise or good,—
Valiant, but wanton Lais bound him down
By amorous magic and enchanted toils;
And Pericles then, and then Aspasia came,
Whose midnight study by some eastern lamp
Had paled her cheek, but filled her eyes with thought.
Then followed countless endless throngs, like leaves
Crowning a woody wilderness,—unnamed,
Unknown, save some, on whom chance or the time
Fell with redoubled light and made distinct;—
Crowd after crowd,—enormous living trains,
Men, women, of every shape, and age, and mind
(Bright generations) passed along, some robed
Like seers, but most with spear or helmet armed,
Or in equestrian state, as still we see
Graven on gems or marble, and some wreathed
With Delphian laurel like Diana's maids,
Or roses Cytherean; some with bays
Apollo's gift and some the gift of Mars.—
Beyond all piercing of the sight they reached
Into the future, like a prophet's thought;
And still they passed, and still no end was seen,—
Heroes, and sages, and fair shapes unborn,
Vast towns and towers, temples and aqueducts,
Pillar and arch and trophy, all were seen;
And Bacchanalian mirth like that which stunned
Persepolis, when Philip's son, grown mad,
Fired the great city,—around which came sounding
Battles and triumphs, and the rage of war,
The rout, the riot, and the cloud of arms,
The conquest, and captivity,—and death.
Such throngs of old were never known to stream
From Babylon or Susa, nor when last
The Assyrian met the Mede, and marked the bounds
Of empire by the gates of Nineveh;
Nor when old Rome was highest; nor when more late
The Scythian through the Indian valleys broad
Swept like a storm.—
All that has been, and is, and is to come
Was there, made plain,—writ down clear as the stars;
A grand Array, beyond all which the grave
Could shew, though from its populous arms it threw
The treasures of past time, great, wise, and good,—
Beyond all thought, all guess or large belief,—
Beyond Imagination's widest dreams.—
—These things, so Themis bade, assumed brief life:—
But whither they fled, or when the Titan shook
That rich sleep off, and in the awakening light
Bathed his flushed forehead, still remains unsung
In story;—yet, before his sight, 'tis told,
Stood Pyrrha, fairest of earth's visions still,
Who on his tranced slumber long had looked,
Whispering the Gods for comfort. He awoke:—
And o'er him, gently bending, children hung,
(He their creator) and a new-born world
Opened upon his sense,—a Paradise
Of flowers and fruits, sweet winds and cloudless skies,
And azure waters winding to the main,
And forest walks, and (far off) sounds which break
The sun-set silence, and the songs of birds
Chanting melodious mirth:—Vernal delights
Haunted the air, and youth which knew no pang
Ran through all living veins, and touched all eyes
With beauty:—the tall branches waved their plumes;
The water trembled; and the amorous sun
Came darting from his orb: Eagles and doves,
Paired in the ether, and the branching stag
Fled from his shadow on the grass-green plain.—
O golden hours! O world! now stained with crime,
Immaculate then, methinks thy perfect fame
Should live in song! Methinks some bard, whose heart
Traces its courage to Promethean veins,
Should build in lasting verse, firmer than mine,
Deucalion's story,—(upon Delphi's steep
Saved from the watery waste,) and Pyrrha's woe.