The Flood of Thessaly The Girl of Provence, and Other Poems. By Barry Cornwall [i.e. Bryan Waller Procter] |
 |
 | The Flood of Thessaly |  |
I dream—I dream—I dream:—
A waking fancy now becomes my theme.
I dream of pleasures old,
And of the age of gold,
When every river ran a happy stream;
A waking fancy now becomes my theme.
I dream of pleasures old,
And of the age of gold,
When every river ran a happy stream;
Before “The Syrian” raged:
Before red wars were waged;
Before a hero fought or Fame was born;
Before the stars were shamed,
Or men each other blamed
For deeds the frowning night beheld in scorn.
Before red wars were waged;
167
Before the stars were shamed,
Or men each other blamed
For deeds the frowning night beheld in scorn.
And now—I see as in some magic glass
Radiant enchantments:—First, far streaming bright,
Dazzling the shining earth with looks of light,
A figure like a God: He seems to pass
From Heaven to Heaven, and from star to star,
Till all the depths and darkened worlds afar
Rise up apparell'd in his joyful ray;
And wheresoe'er he treads
Pale planets rear their heads,
And wheresoe'er he smileth—lo! 'tis day.
Radiant enchantments:—First, far streaming bright,
Dazzling the shining earth with looks of light,
A figure like a God: He seems to pass
From Heaven to Heaven, and from star to star,
Till all the depths and darkened worlds afar
Rise up apparell'd in his joyful ray;
And wheresoe'er he treads
Pale planets rear their heads,
And wheresoe'er he smileth—lo! 'tis day.
But on what lonely mountain bare and old
Sitt'st thou beyond the sun,—paternal king?
Why look'st thou, with large eyes so blank and cold,
As though the eternal year were on the wing?
Why at thy feet are they, the Titan brood,
Like brown leaves of the autumn strewed?
In mute enormous anguish lo! they lie:—
No wind nor sullen sound
That shakes the barren ground
Can stir them from their trance. A wake, or die!
Sitt'st thou beyond the sun,—paternal king?
Why look'st thou, with large eyes so blank and cold,
As though the eternal year were on the wing?
Why at thy feet are they, the Titan brood,
Like brown leaves of the autumn strewed?
168
No wind nor sullen sound
That shakes the barren ground
Can stir them from their trance. A wake, or die!
The Sun now blazes overhead: Below,
A river filled with ruin and half hid,
But terrible as Ocean at his flow,
Rushes along:—Palace and pyramid
Gray with the spoils of years, and mighty towers
That cost the Titans (all) a thousand hours
Of toil to build them to the cloudy Heaven,
Are rent, and tumble in the stream,
With their dark masters, while a scream
Runs thro' the earth, as tho' its inmost heart was riven.
A river filled with ruin and half hid,
But terrible as Ocean at his flow,
Rushes along:—Palace and pyramid
Gray with the spoils of years, and mighty towers
That cost the Titans (all) a thousand hours
Of toil to build them to the cloudy Heaven,
Are rent, and tumble in the stream,
With their dark masters, while a scream
Runs thro' the earth, as tho' its inmost heart was riven.
And thou—Imperial terror!—Eldest-born!
Hoary Saturnus!—thou whom Heaven and Earth
Flung from their rich embrace, as the dim morn
Sprang from the grave of night, a mingled birth,
Half light, half darkness, yet like both sublime,—
Awake! Arise! Else shall thou, ancient Time,
Father of many years, be swept away,
And no bright record left
That the young world wept
When thou the Patriarch sank before usurping day!
Hoary Saturnus!—thou whom Heaven and Earth
Flung from their rich embrace, as the dim morn
Sprang from the grave of night, a mingled birth,
Half light, half darkness, yet like both sublime,—
Awake! Arise! Else shall thou, ancient Time,
169
And no bright record left
That the young world wept
When thou the Patriarch sank before usurping day!
| The Flood of Thessaly | |