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 |  |
Thus, to her child restored, the mother spoke;
Thus for awhile, yet not her toil forsook:
But still, obeying their great oracle,
Those early parents cast on high the stones,
And ever where they cast the fragments rose
Men, strong and young, or women beautiful,—
Born by some great enchantment, such as lifts
The earth from darkness or dissolves the moon,
Or clothes the proud sun in eclipse.
Thus for awhile, yet not her toil forsook:
But still, obeying their great oracle,
Those early parents cast on high the stones,
And ever where they cast the fragments rose
Men, strong and young, or women beautiful,—
Born by some great enchantment, such as lifts
The earth from darkness or dissolves the moon,
Or clothes the proud sun in eclipse.
—At last,
Wearied with toil and new emotion, both
Retired, and in a cave o'er which the rose
Shook his immortal blooms, and lilies near,
Jasmine and musk, daisies and hyacinth,
And violets, a blue profusion, sprang
Haunting the air, they lay them down and slept.
And with soft sleep came dreams, a glittering brood,
Its progeny, like stars from darkness bred:
And Themis, so it seemed, before them stood,
A tow'r-crowned goddess,—a Saturnian shape,
Whose forehead mocked the clouds, which round about
In throngs came fawning, like aërial slaves;
While she, outstretching her right hand, and pale
With power call'd upwards from prophetic depths,
(Which like a passion shakes immortal frames)
Spoke to the Future,—a strange language, born
Of Time and Nature, then not understood.
And then she touched Deucalion's brow; unsealing
With her cold finger, cold as winter ice,
The Promethean's sight,—while still he slept.
Wearied with toil and new emotion, both
Retired, and in a cave o'er which the rose
64
Jasmine and musk, daisies and hyacinth,
And violets, a blue profusion, sprang
Haunting the air, they lay them down and slept.
And with soft sleep came dreams, a glittering brood,
Its progeny, like stars from darkness bred:
And Themis, so it seemed, before them stood,
A tow'r-crowned goddess,—a Saturnian shape,
Whose forehead mocked the clouds, which round about
In throngs came fawning, like aërial slaves;
While she, outstretching her right hand, and pale
With power call'd upwards from prophetic depths,
(Which like a passion shakes immortal frames)
Spoke to the Future,—a strange language, born
Of Time and Nature, then not understood.
And then she touched Deucalion's brow; unsealing
With her cold finger, cold as winter ice,
The Promethean's sight,—while still he slept.
| The Flood of Thessaly | |