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102
THE FALLEN GODDESS
(On a Statue of Venus, found near Anzio (Antium) on the Latin Coast, and now in a Church as the Madonna of the Seven Sorrows).
Not here, O Goddess,
In these chill glooms
With silence about thee—
Save when at matins or dusk o'the evensong
The priests mutter
Or chant the Mass,
And the few tired peasants
Pray with bent heads,
Lost in the stillness,
Lost in the gloom—
Not here, O Goddess,
Thy resting-place,
Who, ages ago,
When the world was young,
Stood where the myrtles and roses were blooming,
Stood where the dayshine was rising and flooding
Up from the purple-blue flower of the ocean,
Flooding and rising till all of the inland
Glowed in the splendour, and valley and mountain
Laughed with the joy of the world's young laughter.
In these chill glooms
With silence about thee—
Save when at matins or dusk o'the evensong
The priests mutter
Or chant the Mass,
And the few tired peasants
Pray with bent heads,
Lost in the stillness,
Lost in the gloom—
Not here, O Goddess,
Thy resting-place,
Who, ages ago,
When the world was young,
Stood where the myrtles and roses were blooming,
Stood where the dayshine was rising and flooding
Up from the purple-blue flower of the ocean,
Flooding and rising till all of the inland
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Laughed with the joy of the world's young laughter.
Ah, when about thee,
The roses were twined,
When thy feet were covered
With roses and lilies,
And when, before thee,
Fresh pluckt by thy fountain,
Lay sweet-smelling violets—
Ah, when beside thee
The lovers prayed,
He wan as ivory
Found where the sources
Of Nilus wander
In swart Ethiopia,
She as the nenuphar
Waked by the moonlight
Flooding the river, as
Duskily moving
In coils gigantic
It flows through the desert,
Where the Sphinx broodeth
And where, at dawn,
The voice of Memnon
Solemnly calls—
Ah, when beside thee,
The lovers prayed,
And thy heart was stirred
With the wind of their love,
With passion and longing
And sweet desire—
Ah, in that moment,
Did some dark shadow
From Time unborn
Dusk thy glad vision?
Didst thou, upon them,
Kneeling before thee,
Frown, and heed not
The prayer they made:
In thy heart the ache
And a deathless sorrow
That made their passion
A bitter folly?
What unto thee, then,
O Venus, Goddess,
The roses and lilies
Entwined about thee,
The fragrant violets
Freshly gathered
With the spray o'thy fountain
Dew-sprent o'er them:
What then to thee
Thy myrtle-grove,
Thy doves and sparrows
Fluttering about thee,
Fluttering, flying
Through the azure air—
What, O Goddess,
Thy worshippers pale,
He with the passion
Aflame in his eyes,
She with the longing
Astir in her bosom,
Whose two white flowers
Are pressed against thee
Where the violets cover
And cloud thy feet?
Foresawest thou ever,
At morn or dusk,
With lovers praying
And garlanding thee
With the flowers thou lovest,
Or when in the silent
Depths o' the night
Thy vigils knew not
A stir, a whisper,
But all was darkness
And brooding peace,
Foresawest thou ever
Thy doom to be?
The veils of darkness
That yet would cover
The earth thou lovest,
The passing of all
The joyous gods,
And slowly, slowly
Across the world
The chilling shadow
Fall of the Cross?
The roses were twined,
When thy feet were covered
With roses and lilies,
And when, before thee,
Fresh pluckt by thy fountain,
Lay sweet-smelling violets—
Ah, when beside thee
The lovers prayed,
He wan as ivory
Found where the sources
Of Nilus wander
In swart Ethiopia,
She as the nenuphar
Waked by the moonlight
Flooding the river, as
Duskily moving
In coils gigantic
It flows through the desert,
Where the Sphinx broodeth
And where, at dawn,
The voice of Memnon
Solemnly calls—
Ah, when beside thee,
The lovers prayed,
And thy heart was stirred
104
With passion and longing
And sweet desire—
Ah, in that moment,
Did some dark shadow
From Time unborn
Dusk thy glad vision?
Didst thou, upon them,
Kneeling before thee,
Frown, and heed not
The prayer they made:
In thy heart the ache
And a deathless sorrow
That made their passion
A bitter folly?
What unto thee, then,
O Venus, Goddess,
The roses and lilies
Entwined about thee,
The fragrant violets
Freshly gathered
With the spray o'thy fountain
Dew-sprent o'er them:
What then to thee
Thy myrtle-grove,
Thy doves and sparrows
Fluttering about thee,
Fluttering, flying
Through the azure air—
105
Thy worshippers pale,
He with the passion
Aflame in his eyes,
She with the longing
Astir in her bosom,
Whose two white flowers
Are pressed against thee
Where the violets cover
And cloud thy feet?
Foresawest thou ever,
At morn or dusk,
With lovers praying
And garlanding thee
With the flowers thou lovest,
Or when in the silent
Depths o' the night
Thy vigils knew not
A stir, a whisper,
But all was darkness
And brooding peace,
Foresawest thou ever
Thy doom to be?
The veils of darkness
That yet would cover
The earth thou lovest,
The passing of all
The joyous gods,
And slowly, slowly
106
The chilling shadow
Fall of the Cross?
Ah, better that after
Thy doom had fallen
And thenceforth lovers
Sought thee no more,
And only the wild doves
Hovered about thee,
Only the sparrows
Out of the wildwood
Fluttered about thine uncrown'd forehead,
Only the wild-rose clambered around thee,
Only the hyacinths out of the woodland
Stole through the grasses
And decked thee and girt thee—
Better that after
The fierce barbarians
Thrust thee prostrate
With laughter and mocking,
And left thee, there,
In the Groves of Venus,
A thing dishonoured,
A Fallen Goddess,—
Better that then
The weeds had gathered
And swift o'ergrown thee,
And leaves of autumn,
And dust o' the wind,
And earth and mosses,
Had swallowed thee up,
Had hidden thee ever,
There in thy sorrow,
There in thy dream,
With none to know of thee,
None to mourn,
Save only the wild-dove brooding alone,
Only the song-birds lost in the thicket,
Only the hyacinths, lilies, and roses,
Only the grasses that wave round thy fountain,
Only the violets, purple, sweet-smelling,
Deep in the heart of them, lost in their twilight.
Thy doom had fallen
And thenceforth lovers
Sought thee no more,
And only the wild doves
Hovered about thee,
Only the sparrows
Out of the wildwood
Fluttered about thine uncrown'd forehead,
Only the wild-rose clambered around thee,
Only the hyacinths out of the woodland
Stole through the grasses
And decked thee and girt thee—
Better that after
The fierce barbarians
Thrust thee prostrate
With laughter and mocking,
And left thee, there,
In the Groves of Venus,
A thing dishonoured,
A Fallen Goddess,—
Better that then
The weeds had gathered
And swift o'ergrown thee,
And leaves of autumn,
107
And earth and mosses,
Had swallowed thee up,
Had hidden thee ever,
There in thy sorrow,
There in thy dream,
With none to know of thee,
None to mourn,
Save only the wild-dove brooding alone,
Only the song-birds lost in the thicket,
Only the hyacinths, lilies, and roses,
Only the grasses that wave round thy fountain,
Only the violets, purple, sweet-smelling,
Deep in the heart of them, lost in their twilight.
Harsh fate for thee,
Goddess, not thus to have lain
In the mould and the darkness
Till at last, in the far-off,
The slow revolution
Of ages or aeons
Should bring thee, awaking,
The sound of rejoicing,
And all thy white kindred
Should gather about thee,
With songs and laughter,
And greet thee, and bless thee,
And woo thee with longing and rapture and kisses,
While joyous behind them,
From mountain and valley
And up from the shores of
The vast flower of Ocean,
White-robed lovers should hasten and follow,
Hands claspt in hands,
With baskets of roses
And lilies for thee,
And doves soft and snowwhite
As these, thy white breasts,
And prayers, and incense
Of violets fragrant,
Fresh-gathered violets smelling of thee:
Then, then, would'st thou stir
In the dark mould about thee,
And sweet in the woodland
The wild-doves would murmur,
And swift in the thicket the song-birds would gather,
And all from about thee the darkness would lessen.
Up through the grasses, and where the wild hyacinths
Cluster enmassed in a hollow of blueness,
And where the wild-roses are raining their petals
Down through the fragrant green boughs of their tangle,
Up through the midst of them, white as a seabird
Rising from out of the joy of the billows,
Swift would arise, like a flower too, thine arm:
Then from the tangle of roses and grasses—
O but the joy of it! white gleaming shoulders,
Head with the halo of empire about it,
Eyes deep with the dream of the secrets of life,
And breasts soft and white as the milk held within them—
O body of beauty, O Venus, O Goddess
Thus, thus would thy birth be, thy glad resurrection!
Goddess, not thus to have lain
In the mould and the darkness
Till at last, in the far-off,
The slow revolution
Of ages or aeons
Should bring thee, awaking,
The sound of rejoicing,
And all thy white kindred
Should gather about thee,
With songs and laughter,
And greet thee, and bless thee,
And woo thee with longing and rapture and kisses,
While joyous behind them,
108
And up from the shores of
The vast flower of Ocean,
White-robed lovers should hasten and follow,
Hands claspt in hands,
With baskets of roses
And lilies for thee,
And doves soft and snowwhite
As these, thy white breasts,
And prayers, and incense
Of violets fragrant,
Fresh-gathered violets smelling of thee:
Then, then, would'st thou stir
In the dark mould about thee,
And sweet in the woodland
The wild-doves would murmur,
And swift in the thicket the song-birds would gather,
And all from about thee the darkness would lessen.
Up through the grasses, and where the wild hyacinths
Cluster enmassed in a hollow of blueness,
And where the wild-roses are raining their petals
Down through the fragrant green boughs of their tangle,
Up through the midst of them, white as a seabird
Rising from out of the joy of the billows,
Swift would arise, like a flower too, thine arm:
Then from the tangle of roses and grasses—
O but the joy of it! white gleaming shoulders,
Head with the halo of empire about it,
Eyes deep with the dream of the secrets of life,
109
O body of beauty, O Venus, O Goddess
Thus, thus would thy birth be, thy glad resurrection!
Ah better that after
Thy doom had fallen
Thou had'st not waken'd,
O Goddess, more!
Better that never
The Roman warriors
Staring upon thee
Beheld thy beauty
And laughed to see it,
And took thee and haled thee
Far from thy grove,
And girt thee with rushes and flags from the sea-shore,
And laid thee a captive deep down in a war-boat,
And heedless of wrath or of vengeance from heaven
Carried thee far through the waters Ionian,
Up through the wide lonely waste of the Tyrrhene,
Till dim through the haze, like a cloud at the dawning,
The low shores of Latium
Blue rose before thee.
Thy doom had fallen
Thou had'st not waken'd,
O Goddess, more!
Better that never
The Roman warriors
Staring upon thee
Beheld thy beauty
And laughed to see it,
And took thee and haled thee
Far from thy grove,
And girt thee with rushes and flags from the sea-shore,
And laid thee a captive deep down in a war-boat,
And heedless of wrath or of vengeance from heaven
Carried thee far through the waters Ionian,
Up through the wide lonely waste of the Tyrrhene,
Till dim through the haze, like a cloud at the dawning,
The low shores of Latium
Blue rose before thee.
Was it for this,
O Venus, Goddess,
That thou hast passioned?
O bitter lust
Of a joyless faith,
That mocketh beauty
And laudeth the grave:
What thing is this,
What bitter mocking,
That thou hast taken
The sacred Goddess
And raised her darkling
Here in thy temple,
Midst tawdry idols
And childish things—
Hast placed upon her
Immaculate brows
This tinsel crown;
And hung about her
These pitiful robes
That a slave would have scorned
In the olden days
When men loved beauty
For beauty's sake:
Hast decked her bosom
(O Heart of Love!)
With a thing shaped heart-wise
And seven times pierced
With brazen arrows:
Hast stolen thy name, even, Goddess, Venus,
And called thee Mother
Of a God thou know'st not,
Called thee Madonna, the Mother of Sorrows,
Called thee the Virgin of Sorrows Seven—
Was it for this—
Ah, better a thousand times
They had wrought thy havoc,
There, in the heart of
Thy sacred grove:
Better—O bitterness
Of things that are,
Goddess, and Queen!
O Venus, Goddess,
That thou hast passioned?
O bitter lust
Of a joyless faith,
110
And laudeth the grave:
What thing is this,
What bitter mocking,
That thou hast taken
The sacred Goddess
And raised her darkling
Here in thy temple,
Midst tawdry idols
And childish things—
Hast placed upon her
Immaculate brows
This tinsel crown;
And hung about her
These pitiful robes
That a slave would have scorned
In the olden days
When men loved beauty
For beauty's sake:
Hast decked her bosom
(O Heart of Love!)
With a thing shaped heart-wise
And seven times pierced
With brazen arrows:
Hast stolen thy name, even, Goddess, Venus,
And called thee Mother
Of a God thou know'st not,
Called thee Madonna, the Mother of Sorrows,
Called thee the Virgin of Sorrows Seven—
111
Ah, better a thousand times
They had wrought thy havoc,
There, in the heart of
Thy sacred grove:
Better—O bitterness
Of things that are,
Goddess, and Queen!
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