The Flood of Thessaly The Girl of Provence, and Other Poems. By Barry Cornwall [i.e. Bryan Waller Procter] |
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 | The Flood of Thessaly |  |
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.’
A veiled figure sate, sybil or sage,
60
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.
61
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,
62
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.
63
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.’
| The Flood of Thessaly | |