 | Scenes from Scripture with Other Poems |  |
187
THE WANDERINGS OF IO.
189
IO SOLICITS THE GUIDANCE OF PROMETHEUS.
Prometheus
“Go, young beauty, loved of Jove,
Doomed the weary world to rove;
Mother of a race of Kings,
Yet to feel life's sharpest stings.
Go not where the Seythian wain
Toils along the endless plain,
And the clouded morning light
Seems but sister of the night.
Go not where the furnace-gleam,
Shining on the midnight stream,
Down its mountain channels rolled,
Like a cataract of gold,
Shows where in their forests freeze,
Sons of steel, the Chalybes.
Go not where Araxis pours,
Roaring as the lion roars,
Flashing round my mountain-chain,
Like the lion's tossing mane;
Nor with fainting footsteps climb,
Caucasus, thy heights sublime,
Nature's dreariest solitude,
Soil of sorrow, soil of blood,
When the restless thunder fills
All the star-aspiring hills,
Blinding eye, and rending ear,
Man's first birthplace, Man's last bier!
“Io, tempt the storm no more,
But along the gentle shore,
Where Thermodon's waters sleep,
Where the roses ever weep,
Where the golden helm and lance,
In the southern sunbeam glance,
And the Amazonian targe,
Glitters in the sportive charge;
Life one endless, joyous day,
Wanderer, take thy trembling way.
Doomed the weary world to rove;
Mother of a race of Kings,
Yet to feel life's sharpest stings.
190
Toils along the endless plain,
And the clouded morning light
Seems but sister of the night.
Go not where the furnace-gleam,
Shining on the midnight stream,
Down its mountain channels rolled,
Like a cataract of gold,
Shows where in their forests freeze,
Sons of steel, the Chalybes.
Go not where Araxis pours,
Roaring as the lion roars,
Flashing round my mountain-chain,
Like the lion's tossing mane;
Nor with fainting footsteps climb,
Caucasus, thy heights sublime,
Nature's dreariest solitude,
Soil of sorrow, soil of blood,
When the restless thunder fills
All the star-aspiring hills,
Blinding eye, and rending ear,
Man's first birthplace, Man's last bier!
191
But along the gentle shore,
Where Thermodon's waters sleep,
Where the roses ever weep,
Where the golden helm and lance,
In the southern sunbeam glance,
And the Amazonian targe,
Glitters in the sportive charge;
Life one endless, joyous day,
Wanderer, take thy trembling way.
“But, again thy woes must wake!
By the vast Cimmerian Lake,
Where no Zephyrs fan the wave,
Stagnant, silent as the Grave,
Vapour-shrouded, dark, and deep,
Emblem of eternal sleep,
Must thy wayward footsteps glide
Its funereal breast beside,
Till the pale Mæotic shore,
Sees thy day of trial o'er,
Giving to its Strait thy name,
Its title to immortal fame.
By the vast Cimmerian Lake,
Where no Zephyrs fan the wave,
Stagnant, silent as the Grave,
Vapour-shrouded, dark, and deep,
Emblem of eternal sleep,
Must thy wayward footsteps glide
Its funereal breast beside,
Till the pale Mæotic shore,
Sees thy day of trial o'er,
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Its title to immortal fame.
“Yet, thy task must still be done!
Thou must go, and go alone,
To the Caverns, deep and drear,
Where the sister-shapes of fear,
Phorcys' daughters, hoar with age,
In their adamantine cage,
Triple-formed, sit side by side,
By the hand of Nature tied.
With one eye, one mouth, one heart,
Plying still their wondrous art,
All their mystery and might,
Veiled in one eternal night.
Round their shrine no censers gleam,
Sparkles there no starry beam,
Blaze no purple lights of morn,
Shines no evening lunar horn,
Well for mortals, that no eye,
Can their dark dominion spy.
“Who, of mortal born could bear,
All the mystic terrors there!
Who could see the Gorgons grim,
With the scale-enveloped limb;
With the poison-darting fang,
Yet not feel the dying pang!
Who could see the Gryphon brood,
Reeking from their feast of blood,
Riding on the sulphurous air,
With their living viper-hair;
Or the countless spectral hosts,
Hovering on the dismal coasts
Of the flaming Phlegethon,
With eternal shriek and moan!
But must long to hide the head,
In the darkness of the dead.
Thou must go, and go alone,
To the Caverns, deep and drear,
Where the sister-shapes of fear,
Phorcys' daughters, hoar with age,
In their adamantine cage,
Triple-formed, sit side by side,
By the hand of Nature tied.
With one eye, one mouth, one heart,
Plying still their wondrous art,
All their mystery and might,
Veiled in one eternal night.
Round their shrine no censers gleam,
Sparkles there no starry beam,
Blaze no purple lights of morn,
Shines no evening lunar horn,
Well for mortals, that no eye,
Can their dark dominion spy.
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All the mystic terrors there!
Who could see the Gorgons grim,
With the scale-enveloped limb;
With the poison-darting fang,
Yet not feel the dying pang!
Who could see the Gryphon brood,
Reeking from their feast of blood,
Riding on the sulphurous air,
With their living viper-hair;
Or the countless spectral hosts,
Hovering on the dismal coasts
Of the flaming Phlegethon,
With eternal shriek and moan!
But must long to hide the head,
In the darkness of the dead.
“Go, but dread the Arimasp,
Deadlier than the flying asp,
On their steeds of blasting light,
Flashing through the Lybian night;
With their one, fire-darting eye,
Like a meteor rushing by,
And their tongues of forky fire,
Uttering words of Demon ire.
Things of anguish, things of fear,
Worse than death, to see, or hear!
Deadlier than the flying asp,
On their steeds of blasting light,
Flashing through the Lybian night;
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Like a meteor rushing by,
And their tongues of forky fire,
Uttering words of Demon ire.
Things of anguish, things of fear,
Worse than death, to see, or hear!
“Listen, Princess, on thine eyes,
Wonders shall on wonders rise;
To the Ethiop mountains borne,
Where no mortal sorrows mourn;
Where the living waters run
From the fountains of the Sun;
Where, with flower-enwreathen hands,
Nigris, on thy golden sands,
To the forest's harmony
Dance the Daughters of the Sky;
And the Seasons fold their wing,
Nature, one eternal Spring!
Wonders shall on wonders rise;
To the Ethiop mountains borne,
Where no mortal sorrows mourn;
Where the living waters run
From the fountains of the Sun;
Where, with flower-enwreathen hands,
Nigris, on thy golden sands,
To the forest's harmony
Dance the Daughters of the Sky;
And the Seasons fold their wing,
Nature, one eternal Spring!
“Still, thou weary, woe-worn one,
Fate's high will must all be done;
Next, thy foot must tread the Sand,
Guarding the time-honoured land,
Where the temple-crested Nile
Glows beneath the Morning's smile,
Glows beneath the hues of Even,
Mirror of Man's brightest Heaven.
There, shall Ammon's oracle
All thy wounded spirit heal!
Then the Fates no more shall frown,
Then thy brow shall wear a Crown,
Oe'r thee joy shall wave her wings,
Daughter, Mother, Bride of Kings;
Till the living world shall gaze,
On thy Altar's glorious blaze!”
Fate's high will must all be done;
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Guarding the time-honoured land,
Where the temple-crested Nile
Glows beneath the Morning's smile,
Glows beneath the hues of Even,
Mirror of Man's brightest Heaven.
There, shall Ammon's oracle
All thy wounded spirit heal!
Then the Fates no more shall frown,
Then thy brow shall wear a Crown,
Oe'r thee joy shall wave her wings,
Daughter, Mother, Bride of Kings;
Till the living world shall gaze,
On thy Altar's glorious blaze!”
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