 | Poems with Fables in Prose |  |
157
MILO
LINES TO A CERTAIN NATION, WRITTEN DURING THE BATTLE OF VERDUN
159
I
Milo, the wrestler oiled, whom victories—
Six times the Pythian, six the Olympian—crowned,
Could shoulder a bullock, run the stadium round,
And in a day devour the beast with ease.
Thrice-happy too, in philosophic strength,
Showed sumptuous ladies paths to Hera's shrine
And crushed his fellow-Greeks of Sybaris,
Haling their treasure to Crotona. In fine
This subtlest of protagonists at length
Taught his folk, force was all, and all force his.
Six times the Pythian, six the Olympian—crowned,
Could shoulder a bullock, run the stadium round,
And in a day devour the beast with ease.
Thrice-happy too, in philosophic strength,
Showed sumptuous ladies paths to Hera's shrine
And crushed his fellow-Greeks of Sybaris,
Haling their treasure to Crotona. In fine
This subtlest of protagonists at length
Taught his folk, force was all, and all force his.
Sybaris was thy kin. Why then, Crotona,
Did Milo lead thee to crush Sybaris?
Why tortured he the men of Sybaris?
He coveted their golden port, Crotona!
Did Milo lead thee to crush Sybaris?
Why tortured he the men of Sybaris?
He coveted their golden port, Crotona!
At sunfall as the titan athlete went,
His mighty self-love nursing discontent,
By a forest path, some Dionysian storm
Of impulse spurred him to a feat enorm.
Cresting the Sila's granites, a strange tree—
A boulder wedged its cloven trunk—to sea
Spread limbs of shade forth, westward, north, south, east.
Its high fantastic-rooted talons capt
The granite. It stood desolation-wrapt.
Mysterious, wounded, long, long had it stood
Deep-rifted, but a kindly fortitude. . . .
And Milo's pride of thew, restless, on edge,
Heaved out the boulder, made himself the wedge,
Thrust the gap wider—that old wound increased—
(Faint shivers running through the foliage)
Until the great bole writhed, sprang, caught him fast,
One arm locked in the yawning of the wood,
No more out of its shade to be released;—
Unless he transmigrate into this tree
His body turns to a fetter, a prison, a grave!
His mighty self-love nursing discontent,
By a forest path, some Dionysian storm
Of impulse spurred him to a feat enorm.
Cresting the Sila's granites, a strange tree—
A boulder wedged its cloven trunk—to sea
160
Its high fantastic-rooted talons capt
The granite. It stood desolation-wrapt.
Mysterious, wounded, long, long had it stood
Deep-rifted, but a kindly fortitude. . . .
And Milo's pride of thew, restless, on edge,
Heaved out the boulder, made himself the wedge,
Thrust the gap wider—that old wound increased—
(Faint shivers running through the foliage)
Until the great bole writhed, sprang, caught him fast,
One arm locked in the yawning of the wood,
No more out of its shade to be released;—
Unless he transmigrate into this tree
His body turns to a fetter, a prison, a grave!
Could such dumb wills, outside his will-to-be,
Have their own wounded being? Or did he rave?
That grip was real. Skywards without end
Its branch'd nerves did most curiously extend,
As they might be the fibrils of a brain—
Stood he within the ganglions of some brain?
Have their own wounded being? Or did he rave?
That grip was real. Skywards without end
Its branch'd nerves did most curiously extend,
As they might be the fibrils of a brain—
Stood he within the ganglions of some brain?
With what a movement strange the whole tree moves,
In thick-running waves of umbratility!
The heavy-fronded murmurer of the groves
Is dash'd by sudden inward beams—it moves,
And lo! a pattern in its vapoury
Spirals unwreathing, spirals without end
Shaped into glimmering lights, a scatter'd train,
Corollas luminous, green nebulæ. . . .
In thick-running waves of umbratility!
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Is dash'd by sudden inward beams—it moves,
And lo! a pattern in its vapoury
Spirals unwreathing, spirals without end
Shaped into glimmering lights, a scatter'd train,
Corollas luminous, green nebulæ. . . .
Beneath stood Milo, prisoned. To the last,
Madness and ghostly wolves approaching fast,
Still in delirium, still defiantly,
Milo bragged on, shouting up boughs divine,
“Who, then, art Thou, whose hold outwrestles mine?”
Silence fell round him, that for him was worse
Than mortal.
Madness and ghostly wolves approaching fast,
Still in delirium, still defiantly,
Milo bragged on, shouting up boughs divine,
“Who, then, art Thou, whose hold outwrestles mine?”
Silence fell round him, that for him was worse
Than mortal.
But to You (whose name
Verse will not utter, lest it darken verse),
Who were a greater Milo by your fame,
But a Nation, that, before the Multiverse
Fountain of souls, seems one whom nothing awes,—
To You, light-headed with your own applause,
Taunting the world whose agony You cause—
Crying with the lips of Milo still the same
Insult—“Who art thou, to imprison me?”
Immense boughs whisper back, “Humanity!”
Innumerable leaves, “Humanity!”
Verse will not utter, lest it darken verse),
Who were a greater Milo by your fame,
But a Nation, that, before the Multiverse
Fountain of souls, seems one whom nothing awes,—
To You, light-headed with your own applause,
Taunting the world whose agony You cause—
Crying with the lips of Milo still the same
Insult—“Who art thou, to imprison me?”
Immense boughs whisper back, “Humanity!”
Innumerable leaves, “Humanity!”
162
II
For with a movement strange the whole tree moves,
That hath its roots down in the kingdoms pale
Of Hela, and whose boughs do overspread
The highest heaven. We ripen, we are shed—
But lo! a pattern in its vapoury
Spirals unwreathing, spirals without end
Shaped into glimmering lights, a scatter'd veil,
Corollas luminous, green nebulæ
Whirled up in figured dance, each soul in station
(This fan-like rise of petals seems of souls)
Ascending, throbbing—systoles—diastoles—
By generations! Old Pythagoras
These may have numbered in his secret glass—
These, carrying up the spirals of creation;
These, that alone change forces into loves!
That hath its roots down in the kingdoms pale
Of Hela, and whose boughs do overspread
The highest heaven. We ripen, we are shed—
But lo! a pattern in its vapoury
Spirals unwreathing, spirals without end
Shaped into glimmering lights, a scatter'd veil,
Corollas luminous, green nebulæ
Whirled up in figured dance, each soul in station
(This fan-like rise of petals seems of souls)
Ascending, throbbing—systoles—diastoles—
By generations! Old Pythagoras
These may have numbered in his secret glass—
These, carrying up the spirals of creation;
These, that alone change forces into loves!
These glowing cores, the chaliced families,
What suns draw from a source deeper than these—
Nebulæ, wreathing upwards from their fount,
Majestic in their dreams and in their traces?
They throw off paler confraternities,
The temple-guilds, religions of the races,
Formed but to echo their august vibration—
Image forth perpetually their solemn rise!
Floating up warm from narrow native ground
Even in the very need of each man's toil
And the very pang that bids defend his soil,
They become aware of other chalices,
Until with sense of all the rest inwound
They break, towards one will, within their bound,
And feel themselves as one, nation by nation,
Enlarging so the spirals of creation:—
What suns draw from a source deeper than these—
Nebulæ, wreathing upwards from their fount,
Majestic in their dreams and in their traces?
They throw off paler confraternities,
The temple-guilds, religions of the races,
Formed but to echo their august vibration—
Image forth perpetually their solemn rise!
Floating up warm from narrow native ground
Even in the very need of each man's toil
163
They become aware of other chalices,
Until with sense of all the rest inwound
They break, towards one will, within their bound,
And feel themselves as one, nation by nation,
Enlarging so the spirals of creation:—
But neither in men themselves, nor what they change
Or make, do lie the centres of the strange
Movement, wherewith the whole tree moves
Spacing men's mind to measured harmony.
Its centres lie in little glowing cores,
Them that alone change forces into loves.
Or make, do lie the centres of the strange
Movement, wherewith the whole tree moves
Spacing men's mind to measured harmony.
Its centres lie in little glowing cores,
Them that alone change forces into loves.
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