After Paradise or Legends of Exile With Other Poems: By Robert, Earl of Lytton (Owen Meredith) |
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 | After Paradise or Legends of Exile |  |
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THE TITLARK'S NEST.
A PARABLE.
“Introite, nam et huic deii sunt.”
Apud Gellium.
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Where o'er his azure birthplace still the smileOf sweet Apollo kindles golden hours,
High on the white peak of a glittering isle
A ruin'd fane within a wild vine's bowers
Muffled its marble-pillar'd peristyle;
As under curls, that clasp in frolic showers
A young queen's brow, her antique diadem's
Stern grandeur hides its immemorial gems.
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The place was solitary, and the faneDeserted save that where, in saucy scorn
Of desolation's impotent disdain,
The revelling leaves and buds and bunches born
From that wild vine along a roofless lane
Of mouldering marble columns roam'd, one morn
A titlark, by past grandeur unopprest,
Had boldly built her inconspicuous nest.
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And there where girt by priests and devoteesA god once gazed upon the suppliant throng,
Wild foliage waved by every wandering breeze
Now shelter'd one small bird; to whose lone song,
Companion'd by no choral minstrelsies,
An agèd shepherd listen'd all day long.
Unlearn'd the listener and untaught the lay,
But blithe were both in their instinctive way.
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Thither once came a traveller who had readMarcus Vitruvius Pollio, and had all
The terms of architecture in his head,
Apophyge, and plinth, and astragal.
He, from below, had in its leafy bed
Spied out the carcass of an antique wall,
Keen as, from heaven, the hovering condor spies
Where, in the pampas hid, a dead horse lies.
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“Pelasgian? Nought doth old Pausanias sayAbout this ruin, and I find no plan
Or note of it in learnèd Caylus; nay,
I doubt not it was miss'd by Winckelmann.
The prize is mine. No joke, this hot noon-day,
To climb yon hill! But Science leads the van
Of Enterprise; and now's the chance to shame
The English Elgin's cheaply-purchased fame.
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“Ho, you there, yonder in the bramble-bush!”The tired explorer to the shepherd cried,
“A drachma for thy guidance, friend!” But “Hush!”
The grey-hair'd herdsman of the hills replied.
Then, pointing upward to the leafage lush
That rippled round the ruin'd fane, with pride
He added “Hark, where yonder leaves are swinging,
The god's voice from his sanctuary singing!”
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The traveller laugh'd. “'Tis a curruca small,The Orphea, I surmise, whose note we hear.
Her nest is haply in yon temple wall.
An earlier songstress she, and sings more clear,
Than her small northern cousin whom we call
Atricapilla Sylvia. But I fear,
My worthy friend, we must not deem divine
Each vagrant voice that issues from a shrine.”
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“Yet,” said the old man, with a pensive smile,“I heard my mother tell when I was young
(And she, Sir, was a daughter of this isle)
How everything that's here had once a tongue,
In the old times. Myself, too, many a while
Have heard the streamlets singing many a song,
And, tho' their language was unknown to me,
The reeds were moved by it, as I could see.
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“Sir, when I was a boy I pastured hereMy father's goats which now, Sir, are mine own.
For he is underground this many a year,
But he had lived his life, and Heaven hath shown
Much goodness to us, and my children dear
Are all grown up; and, musing here alone,
Oft have I wonder'd ‘Could this temple break
Long silence, in what language would it speak?’
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“Full sure was I that if it spoke to me,Whate'er its language, I should understand.
Then, I was young: and now, tho' old I be,
When sweet in heaven above the silent land
That voice I hear, my soul feels glad and free,
And I am fain to bless the god's command,
With welcome prompt responding to the voice
He sends from heaven to bid my heart rejoice.
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“Ah, not in vain its message have I heard!And, Sir, tho' it may be, as you aver,
The voice comes only from a little bird,
Whose name, indeed, I never heard of, Sir,
And tho' I doubt not aught by you averr'd,
For you, Sir, seem a learnèd traveller,
Yet still the temple that contains the song
A temple is, and doth to God belong.
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“And haply to the little bird I hearHe may have said ‘I am myself too high
For this poor man. Speak to him thou, speak clear,
And tell him, little bird, that he may lie
On consecrated ground and have no fear,
But listen to thy messages, and try
To understand.’ And I have understood,
For when I listen, Sir, it does me good.”
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“Humph!” said the traveller, “Worthy friend, live longEre yet thy children lay thee underground!
Pasture thy goats in peace, and may the song
Of many a titlark make thee pleasant sound,
Warbled all day thy cottage eaves among.
Such simple songs where simple hearts abound
Fit place may find, but not in halls where hoar
Poseidon haply held high state of yore.”
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“Ay, Sir, it is but right,” the old shepherd said,“The little bird should to the god give place
Whenever he returns. But where is fled
The sacred Presence that once deign'd to grace
These lonesome haunts so long untenanted?
Roam where you will, the sanctuaried space
Is vacant, voiceless, priestless, unpossest,
Save for the bird that in it builds her nest.
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“Yet into this dead temple's heart hath flownA voice of life, and this else-silent shrine
The bird whose nest is built in it hath known
How to make vocal. Thro' the trembling vine
Hark, the fresh carol! Till to claim his own
The god returns in all his power divine,
Still unforbidden let me hail the strain
That haunts with living song the lifeless fane.”
| After Paradise or Legends of Exile | |