 | A Sculptor and Other Poems |  |
153
TRANSLATIONS
THE CENTAUR.
Within these mountain-caverns I was born,
And, like this valley's river, whose first drops
Fall from some rock that weeps within deep grot
Fell the first moment of my new-made life
Into the dark of a remote abode,
Leaving its silentness untroubled still.
And, like this valley's river, whose first drops
Fall from some rock that weeps within deep grot
Fell the first moment of my new-made life
Into the dark of a remote abode,
Leaving its silentness untroubled still.
When comes our mother's hour of travailing,
Towards the far caverns they retreat, and there,
In wildest depths, where shadows thickest be,
Bring forth, without a cry or murmuring,
Fruit, silent as themselves. Their milk of might
Doth feed us so that, with no languishing,
Nor wrestling in a doubtful fight, we pass
Life's first hard struggles; yet, less soon we go
Forth from our caves than from your cradles ye
Because we hold that it behoveth best
To keep intact and folden close and calm
The earliest seasons of existence,—days
Fill'd by the gods.
Towards the far caverns they retreat, and there,
In wildest depths, where shadows thickest be,
Bring forth, without a cry or murmuring,
Fruit, silent as themselves. Their milk of might
Doth feed us so that, with no languishing,
Nor wrestling in a doubtful fight, we pass
Life's first hard struggles; yet, less soon we go
Forth from our caves than from your cradles ye
Because we hold that it behoveth best
To keep intact and folden close and calm
154
Fill'd by the gods.
My growth had almost all
Its course within these shades where I was born.
The depth of my abode was sunk so far
Within the mountain's breast, that I had been
In ignorance of its outlet, but that winds,
Which swerv'd against the opening, flung therein
Their sudden troubles and their freshnesses.
And sometimes would my mother enter, wrapt
In valley-smells, or dripping from the waves;
And those returns of hers, albeit she taught
Me not of stream or vale, but only was
Close-follow'd of their emanations, brought
Disquiet to my life, and, passionate,
I rov'd among the shadows. ‘What is it,
This outside, where my mother is self-borne
Away? What reigneth there of mystic might,
That calleth her so often to itself?
And what strange opposites that make her come
Thence every day emotion'd diversely?’
For she would come to me, now quick with joy,
Now sad and trailing like a wounded life.
I knew far-off that keen delight she brought
Its course within these shades where I was born.
The depth of my abode was sunk so far
Within the mountain's breast, that I had been
In ignorance of its outlet, but that winds,
Which swerv'd against the opening, flung therein
Their sudden troubles and their freshnesses.
And sometimes would my mother enter, wrapt
In valley-smells, or dripping from the waves;
And those returns of hers, albeit she taught
Me not of stream or vale, but only was
Close-follow'd of their emanations, brought
Disquiet to my life, and, passionate,
I rov'd among the shadows. ‘What is it,
This outside, where my mother is self-borne
Away? What reigneth there of mystic might,
That calleth her so often to itself?
And what strange opposites that make her come
Thence every day emotion'd diversely?’
For she would come to me, now quick with joy,
Now sad and trailing like a wounded life.
I knew far-off that keen delight she brought
155
By certain tokens in her step; 'twas shed
From every look: I felt therefrom great thrills
Of sympathy in all my breast. But most
Her deep depressions mov'd me, leading me
On, on, to guess towards what my spirit yearn'd.
From every look: I felt therefrom great thrills
Of sympathy in all my breast. But most
Her deep depressions mov'd me, leading me
On, on, to guess towards what my spirit yearn'd.
There wrought a great disquietude in me;
I felt indeed and knew a force that might
Not lonely dwell: and me betaking, now
To shake mine arms, and now to gallop wild
In the cave's spacious shadows, I essay'd
To find, in the blows I struck on emptiness,
Towards what my arms should stretch, towards what my feet
Should bear me. . . .
I felt indeed and knew a force that might
Not lonely dwell: and me betaking, now
To shake mine arms, and now to gallop wild
In the cave's spacious shadows, I essay'd
To find, in the blows I struck on emptiness,
Towards what my arms should stretch, towards what my feet
Should bear me. . . .
I have coil'd mine arms since then
Around the centaur's bust, the hero's frame,
The oak-tree's trunk:—My hands have tried the rocks,
The waters, and the innumerable plants,
And the most subtle impressions of the air:—
Oft in the blind, calm night I lift mine arms
To augur of my way—
Around the centaur's bust, the hero's frame,
The oak-tree's trunk:—My hands have tried the rocks,
The waters, and the innumerable plants,
And the most subtle impressions of the air:—
Oft in the blind, calm night I lift mine arms
To augur of my way—
Melampus, see,
How worn my feet! and, nathless, though I am
Frore in the great extremity of age,
Come days when, in full light, upon the heights
I feel the self-same agitations come
That came in youth, and with the same impulse,
I toss mine arms, and use all left to me
Of that youth's swiftness.
How worn my feet! and, nathless, though I am
Frore in the great extremity of age,
Come days when, in full light, upon the heights
I feel the self-same agitations come
That came in youth, and with the same impulse,
156
Of that youth's swiftness.
Alternations came
Upon these troublings, of long quietude
From every restless movement. At such times
My being held no other sense than that
Of growth and all the gradual life that rose
Within my bosom; lost were all the beats
Of passion, and, in absolute repose,
Unchanging drank I of the boon the gods
Shed through my being. O'er the secret charm
Of mere life-consciousness reign calms and shades.
O shades that in these mountain caverns dwell,
I owe that teaching to your silent care,
That hidden teaching which sustain'd me well:
And life I drank beneath your guardianship,
Pure from the very bosom of the gods!
And when I left your shelter for the light
Of day, I stagger'd and I hailed it not
Because it seiz'd on me with violence,
Making me ebriate, as some fateful draught
Pour'd suddenly into my breast, had done.
And my whole being, till that moment's birth,
So simple and so calm, was shaken and lost
Much of itself, as scattered in the wind.
Upon these troublings, of long quietude
From every restless movement. At such times
My being held no other sense than that
Of growth and all the gradual life that rose
Within my bosom; lost were all the beats
Of passion, and, in absolute repose,
Unchanging drank I of the boon the gods
Shed through my being. O'er the secret charm
Of mere life-consciousness reign calms and shades.
O shades that in these mountain caverns dwell,
I owe that teaching to your silent care,
That hidden teaching which sustain'd me well:
And life I drank beneath your guardianship,
Pure from the very bosom of the gods!
And when I left your shelter for the light
Of day, I stagger'd and I hailed it not
Because it seiz'd on me with violence,
Making me ebriate, as some fateful draught
Pour'd suddenly into my breast, had done.
And my whole being, till that moment's birth,
So simple and so calm, was shaken and lost
Much of itself, as scattered in the wind.
Melampus, who would'st know of the centaurs' life,
How did the gods' will guide thee unto me,
The oldest and the saddest of them all?
Long time it is since I have liv'd their life;
No more I leave this mountain-top, where age
Keeps me a prisoner; now mine arrow-points
But only serve to loose for me the plants
Of clinging fibre:—now the quiet lakes
Know me—the rivers have forgotten me.
How did the gods' will guide thee unto me,
157
Long time it is since I have liv'd their life;
No more I leave this mountain-top, where age
Keeps me a prisoner; now mine arrow-points
But only serve to loose for me the plants
Of clinging fibre:—now the quiet lakes
Know me—the rivers have forgotten me.
Now will I tell thee something of my youth,—
But woe is me! for such remembrances
From drained memory falling, trickle slow
Like drops of a libation scant that fall
From a poor, broken urn.
But woe is me! for such remembrances
From drained memory falling, trickle slow
Like drops of a libation scant that fall
From a poor, broken urn.
'Twas easy task
To tell of my first years, because they were
Perfect and calm: life only, simply life
It was that fed me; that is well retain'd
And with no trouble told. A god, besought
To tell his life, would tell it in two words.
To tell of my first years, because they were
Perfect and calm: life only, simply life
It was that fed me; that is well retain'd
And with no trouble told. A god, besought
To tell his life, would tell it in two words.
Full of unresting motion was my life;
My footsteps knew no limit: in prideful strength
I wander'd, stretching out in these wild wastes,
On every side. One day, a vale unlov'd
Of centaurs did I follow, and I spied
A man, who walkt along the river's bank
At the off side: the first whom I had seen,
And I despis'd him, “for behold,” I said,
“Half of my being; short of step; of gait
Uneasy, and his eyes measure the space
With sadness: 'tis a centaur overthrown
By the gods' curse, who traileth thus along.”
My footsteps knew no limit: in prideful strength
I wander'd, stretching out in these wild wastes,
On every side. One day, a vale unlov'd
Of centaurs did I follow, and I spied
A man, who walkt along the river's bank
At the off side: the first whom I had seen,
And I despis'd him, “for behold,” I said,
158
Uneasy, and his eyes measure the space
With sadness: 'tis a centaur overthrown
By the gods' curse, who traileth thus along.”
Full often from the river-beds I took
Refreshing after day; half of my frame
Hid in the waters, struggling to uprise
Above them, while the other rose serene,
And indolent arms were stretcht above the waves.
Thus, self-oblivious in the waters' heart,
I to their currents' impulse yielded me,
Which, carrying me afar, brought their wild guest
To all the changeful beauty of their banks.
How often, night-surpris'd, I follow'd them
Under the spreading shadows which bore down
Into the vale night-influence from the gods.
Then was my fierce existence mellow'd down
Till only a little consciousness of life
Was shed through all my being equally,
As, in the waters where I swam, the gleams
Of the great goddess who pervades the nights.
Refreshing after day; half of my frame
Hid in the waters, struggling to uprise
Above them, while the other rose serene,
And indolent arms were stretcht above the waves.
Thus, self-oblivious in the waters' heart,
I to their currents' impulse yielded me,
Which, carrying me afar, brought their wild guest
To all the changeful beauty of their banks.
How often, night-surpris'd, I follow'd them
Under the spreading shadows which bore down
Into the vale night-influence from the gods.
Then was my fierce existence mellow'd down
Till only a little consciousness of life
Was shed through all my being equally,
As, in the waters where I swam, the gleams
Of the great goddess who pervades the nights.
Melampus, mine old age bewaileth sore
The rivers; peaceful and monotonous
For thé most part, they follow their destiny
With calm beyond the centaur's, kindlier
Wisdom than man's: me, issuing from their breast,
Their gifts pursued, and stayed with me whole days,
And, scentlike, in sweet slowness past away.
The rivers; peaceful and monotonous
For thé most part, they follow their destiny
With calm beyond the centaur's, kindlier
Wisdom than man's: me, issuing from their breast,
159
And, scentlike, in sweet slowness past away.
A wild and blind inconstancy bare rule
Over my steps:—in midst of fierce career
My gallop would break to a sudden stay, as though
Close to my feet there shudder'd an abyss,
Or a god straight before me stood upright.
And these strange, sudden immobilities
Left me to realize a life deep-mov'd
By the weird ecstasy that came to me.
Of old have I cut branches in the woods
Which, running, I would lift above my head;
So swift the swiftness of my running, it made
The motion of the leafage but a mere
Light quivering; but, at the slightest pause,
The stir and wind came back upon the branch
Which wail'd again beneath it. Thus my life
In those sharp interruptions of the race
I dasht impetuously along the vales,
Shudder'd strong shuddering all through my breast
I heard it bubbling, rushing, rolling out
The fire caught in the space that I had clear'd,
And my quick sides beat struggling against the waves,
That inward prest them; tasting in such storm
A pleasure which the sea-shores only know,
Of holding in and losing none of a life,
Of a life wrought to its very highest highth.
Nathless, with head bow'd to the wind that brought
The cool to me, I saw the mountain-tops
Made distant in few moments, and the trees
Rootfast to the breast of earth, moving alone
In branches sighing to the wind's light touch.
Over my steps:—in midst of fierce career
My gallop would break to a sudden stay, as though
Close to my feet there shudder'd an abyss,
Or a god straight before me stood upright.
And these strange, sudden immobilities
Left me to realize a life deep-mov'd
By the weird ecstasy that came to me.
Of old have I cut branches in the woods
Which, running, I would lift above my head;
So swift the swiftness of my running, it made
The motion of the leafage but a mere
Light quivering; but, at the slightest pause,
The stir and wind came back upon the branch
Which wail'd again beneath it. Thus my life
In those sharp interruptions of the race
I dasht impetuously along the vales,
Shudder'd strong shuddering all through my breast
I heard it bubbling, rushing, rolling out
The fire caught in the space that I had clear'd,
And my quick sides beat struggling against the waves,
That inward prest them; tasting in such storm
A pleasure which the sea-shores only know,
Of holding in and losing none of a life,
Of a life wrought to its very highest highth.
160
The cool to me, I saw the mountain-tops
Made distant in few moments, and the trees
Rootfast to the breast of earth, moving alone
In branches sighing to the wind's light touch.
“I only,” would I say, “have movement free;
I, at my own will, bear my life along
From valley's end to end: oh, happier I
Than torrents falling down the mountain sides,
To reascend no more: my footsteps' tramp
Is grander than the plaining of the woods,
Or the waves' clash: the centaur's echo 'tis
Who, wandering, is self-guided.”
I, at my own will, bear my life along
From valley's end to end: oh, happier I
Than torrents falling down the mountain sides,
To reascend no more: my footsteps' tramp
Is grander than the plaining of the woods,
Or the waves' clash: the centaur's echo 'tis
Who, wandering, is self-guided.”
Thus, the while
Below I panted for the glorious race,
Above I felt its pride, and turned my head
And paus'd to look upon my smoking flanks.
Below I panted for the glorious race,
Above I felt its pride, and turned my head
And paus'd to look upon my smoking flanks.
Youth, as I think, is like to the green wood
Tormented of the wind: on every side
Passion'd with life's rich gifts, and, evermore
Some murmur deep reigns in her foliage.
Thus, living with the waves' abandonment,
And ceaselessly in-breathing Cybele
In valley-beds or on the mountain-tops,
I bounded forth, like a blind life unchain'd.
But when the night, filled with the gods' deep calm,
Found me upon the hills' acclivities,
She led me to the entrance of the caves,
And lull'd me, as she lulls the waves, to rest;
Leaving in me those undulations light
Which, holding sleep aloof, brake not repose.
Thus, at the entrance coucht of my retreat,
My limbs hidden within the cave, my head
'Neath the bare sky, I watcht the shadows play.
Then the strange life that had bedrenched me
All through the day, fell from me drop by drop,
Back to the restful bosom of Cybele;
As, after storm, the latest drops of rain
That leaves had kept, fall down to join the waters.
Tormented of the wind: on every side
Passion'd with life's rich gifts, and, evermore
Some murmur deep reigns in her foliage.
Thus, living with the waves' abandonment,
And ceaselessly in-breathing Cybele
In valley-beds or on the mountain-tops,
I bounded forth, like a blind life unchain'd.
But when the night, filled with the gods' deep calm,
Found me upon the hills' acclivities,
161
And lull'd me, as she lulls the waves, to rest;
Leaving in me those undulations light
Which, holding sleep aloof, brake not repose.
Thus, at the entrance coucht of my retreat,
My limbs hidden within the cave, my head
'Neath the bare sky, I watcht the shadows play.
Then the strange life that had bedrenched me
All through the day, fell from me drop by drop,
Back to the restful bosom of Cybele;
As, after storm, the latest drops of rain
That leaves had kept, fall down to join the waters.
Melampus, it is said the sea-gods leave
In shadow-time their deep-laid palaces,
And, seated on the headlands, watch the waves.
Thus watcht I, having at my feet a stretch
Of life, most like unto a drowsy sea;
And, to existence clear and full brought back,
It seem'd to me the moment after birth,
And that the waters, in whose womb I was
Conceiv'd, had left me on the mountain-top,
As some live dolphin left on shifting sands,
Forgotten there by Amphitrite's waves.
In shadow-time their deep-laid palaces,
And, seated on the headlands, watch the waves.
Thus watcht I, having at my feet a stretch
Of life, most like unto a drowsy sea;
And, to existence clear and full brought back,
It seem'd to me the moment after birth,
And that the waters, in whose womb I was
Conceiv'd, had left me on the mountain-top,
As some live dolphin left on shifting sands,
Forgotten there by Amphitrite's waves.
Mine eyes ran freely o'er all distances,
Gaining, unstrain'd, the very farthest bounds.
Like shores for ever moist the western hills
Were quick with gleams the shadows might not blot
Away, in whose pale clearness there uprose
The pure and naked summits: there I saw
Descend at times the all-solitary Pan,
At times the choir of hid divinities;
Or else some mountain nymph would pass, whose soul
Was spell-bound by the night: the eagles too
Of Mount Olympus soar'd across the highth
Of the great sky, and vanished in those
Far constellations; or, 'neath the sacred woods,
The spirit of the gods, disquieted,
Would trouble suddenly the old oak's calm.
Gaining, unstrain'd, the very farthest bounds.
Like shores for ever moist the western hills
Were quick with gleams the shadows might not blot
162
The pure and naked summits: there I saw
Descend at times the all-solitary Pan,
At times the choir of hid divinities;
Or else some mountain nymph would pass, whose soul
Was spell-bound by the night: the eagles too
Of Mount Olympus soar'd across the highth
Of the great sky, and vanished in those
Far constellations; or, 'neath the sacred woods,
The spirit of the gods, disquieted,
Would trouble suddenly the old oak's calm.
Melampus, who wouldst follow Wisdom, That
Which is the Science of the Will Divine,
And wand'rest 'mid the peoples, like to one
The Fates mislead—in these abodes there is
A stone which, at the lightest touch, gives out
A sound like some sweet instrument's strings that break;
And men relate that, when Apollo drave
His flock into these deserts, he laid down
His lyre upon the stone, and left thereon
This melody: thus, O Melampus, thus,
The gods, in wandering, have laid their lyres
Upon these stones—none hath forgot it there!
Which is the Science of the Will Divine,
And wand'rest 'mid the peoples, like to one
The Fates mislead—in these abodes there is
A stone which, at the lightest touch, gives out
A sound like some sweet instrument's strings that break;
And men relate that, when Apollo drave
His flock into these deserts, he laid down
His lyre upon the stone, and left thereon
This melody: thus, O Melampus, thus,
The gods, in wandering, have laid their lyres
Upon these stones—none hath forgot it there!
In those my times of watching in the caves,
I sometimes made myself believe I might
Surprise the dreams of sleeping Cybele;
And that the mother of the gods, betray'd
By those her dreams, might let some secrets fall.
But nothing did I ever hear save sounds
That melted in the breath of night; or words
As the stream's babbling inarticulate.
I sometimes made myself believe I might
Surprise the dreams of sleeping Cybele;
And that the mother of the gods, betray'd
163
But nothing did I ever hear save sounds
That melted in the breath of night; or words
As the stream's babbling inarticulate.
“Macareus,” said great Cheiron once to me,
Our ancient, whom I followed, “how diverse
Are our pursuits; my daily care to find
The secrets of the plant, and thou—thou art
Like those poor mortals, who have haply found
Within the woods or on the waves, and borne
Unto their lips some fragments of the reed
Which Pan had broken, and, inhaling thence
A wild, fierce spirit, or by frenzy seiz'd,
Cross waters, lose themselves in mountain life,
Restless and borne by a purpose all unknown.
The Scythian mares, beloved of the winds,
Are not more fierce than these, and not more sad
At eventide when the North Wind has fail'd.
Macareus, seek'st to know the gods and whence
Have issued men and lower animals
And principles of universal fire?
Alas! old Ocean, father of all things,
Fast holdeth all these secrets in his breast;
And, singing, his surrounding nymphs describe
Eternal choir before to him to conceal
That which might chance escape from out his lips
By chance half-open—Mortals that have mov'd
The gods by their virtue have receiv'd of them
Lyres that should ravish all the people's hearts,
Or new seeds to enrich them; but alas,
Nothing from their inexorable lips!
Our ancient, whom I followed, “how diverse
Are our pursuits; my daily care to find
The secrets of the plant, and thou—thou art
Like those poor mortals, who have haply found
Within the woods or on the waves, and borne
Unto their lips some fragments of the reed
Which Pan had broken, and, inhaling thence
A wild, fierce spirit, or by frenzy seiz'd,
Cross waters, lose themselves in mountain life,
Restless and borne by a purpose all unknown.
The Scythian mares, beloved of the winds,
Are not more fierce than these, and not more sad
At eventide when the North Wind has fail'd.
Macareus, seek'st to know the gods and whence
Have issued men and lower animals
And principles of universal fire?
Alas! old Ocean, father of all things,
Fast holdeth all these secrets in his breast;
And, singing, his surrounding nymphs describe
Eternal choir before to him to conceal
That which might chance escape from out his lips
By chance half-open—Mortals that have mov'd
164
Lyres that should ravish all the people's hearts,
Or new seeds to enrich them; but alas,
Nothing from their inexorable lips!
Apollo taught me in my youth to seek
The lore of plants; to spoil their veins of saps
Beneficent: since then, I ever keep
Me faithful to this mountainous abode,
Restless, and yet, without surcease employ'd
In quest of simples, and in making known
The virtues I discover. Dost thou see
From this the summit bald of (CE)ta? Look,
Alcides 'spoiled it for his funeral pyre.
The demi-gods, the children of the gods,
Macareus, spread the lions' spoil upon
Their pyres and burn them on the mountain-tops:—
Earth's poisonous essences infect the blood
Receiv'd from the immortal gods; and we,
Centaurs, begotten of a mortal rash,
Within the womb of a mist shapen like
A goddess, what, alas! of help should we
Expect from Jove who, with his thunder-bolt
Did unto nought the father of our race?
The vulture of the gods eternally
Teareth the entrails of the artisan
Who made the first man; O Macareus, men
And centaurs know for authors of their blood
The pilferers of the immortals' right:
And, may be, all that stirs beyond themselves
Is but a something stolen from them; a trace
Of their own nature, borne like flying seed
On the all-powerful breath of destiny.
The lore of plants; to spoil their veins of saps
Beneficent: since then, I ever keep
Me faithful to this mountainous abode,
Restless, and yet, without surcease employ'd
In quest of simples, and in making known
The virtues I discover. Dost thou see
From this the summit bald of (CE)ta? Look,
Alcides 'spoiled it for his funeral pyre.
The demi-gods, the children of the gods,
Macareus, spread the lions' spoil upon
Their pyres and burn them on the mountain-tops:—
Earth's poisonous essences infect the blood
Receiv'd from the immortal gods; and we,
Centaurs, begotten of a mortal rash,
Within the womb of a mist shapen like
A goddess, what, alas! of help should we
Expect from Jove who, with his thunder-bolt
Did unto nought the father of our race?
The vulture of the gods eternally
Teareth the entrails of the artisan
Who made the first man; O Macareus, men
And centaurs know for authors of their blood
165
And, may be, all that stirs beyond themselves
Is but a something stolen from them; a trace
Of their own nature, borne like flying seed
On the all-powerful breath of destiny.
They say that AEgeus, Theseus' father, hid
Chosen memorials whereby his son
Might one day know his birth.—The jealous gods
Have buried somewhere all the witnesses
Of all things' source; but to what ocean's shore,
Tell me, Macareus, have they roll'd the stone
That keeps them cover'd?”
Chosen memorials whereby his son
Might one day know his birth.—The jealous gods
Have buried somewhere all the witnesses
Of all things' source; but to what ocean's shore,
Tell me, Macareus, have they roll'd the stone
That keeps them cover'd?”
This the wisdom was
Whither great Cheiron led me: all reduc'd
To age the most extreme, he nourish'd yet
The loftiest thoughts: his breast, yet bold, scarce droopt
Upon the flanks he rose serene above
Slight-bending like the tempest-sadden'd oak!
His going scarcely toucht by stress of years.
One had suppos'd he kept the relics still
Of immortality, the gift receiv'd
From great Apollo, and giv'n him back again.
For me, Melampus, into old age I sink,
Calm as the constellations sink to rest.
Still have I strength enough to gain the highth
Of rocks, where oft I linger: there, maybe,
To look upon the wild, unquiet clouds,
Or watch the rainy Hyades uprise
Above the horizon, or the Pleiades,
Or great Orion: yet I know full well
That I am minishing and losing me
Like a snow-heap floating on the waters' breast;
And soon I go to mingle with the streams
Which flow to the great bosom of the earth.
Whither great Cheiron led me: all reduc'd
To age the most extreme, he nourish'd yet
The loftiest thoughts: his breast, yet bold, scarce droopt
Upon the flanks he rose serene above
Slight-bending like the tempest-sadden'd oak!
His going scarcely toucht by stress of years.
One had suppos'd he kept the relics still
Of immortality, the gift receiv'd
From great Apollo, and giv'n him back again.
For me, Melampus, into old age I sink,
Calm as the constellations sink to rest.
Still have I strength enough to gain the highth
Of rocks, where oft I linger: there, maybe,
166
Or watch the rainy Hyades uprise
Above the horizon, or the Pleiades,
Or great Orion: yet I know full well
That I am minishing and losing me
Like a snow-heap floating on the waters' breast;
And soon I go to mingle with the streams
Which flow to the great bosom of the earth.
By ‘outside’ I have translated de Guérin's ‘ces dehors,’ of which Georges Sand says:
‘Cette expression est étrange, peu grammaticale, peut-étre; mais je n'en vois pas de plus belle, et de plus saisissante pour rendre le sentiment mystérieux d'un monde inconnu.’
167
TO JENNY.
Yesterday, darling of mine, a twelvemonth old!Happy you babble as, under the manifold
Delicate leafage that lies on the dear Spring's breast,
The year's new birdlets, opening their strange, wide eyes,
Cheep and twitter from out the warmth of the nest,
For the joy of the young plumes' growth and of life's surprise.
O rose-lipt Jenny of mine, in those big books
Whose pictures are worth your crowings and happy looks,
The books I must suffer your fingers to crumple or tear;
There is many a beautiful poem, but none so rare
As you, my poem, when, catching sight of me,
Your whole little body thrills and leaps with glee.
The greatest men for writing have written ne'er
A better thing than the thought a-dawn in your eye,
And the musing strange and vague of one who scans
The earth and man with an angel's ignorance.
Ay, Jenny, God's not far off when you are nigh.
168
FROM VICTOR HUGO'S “MAZEPPA.”
Part II.
Thus, when a mortal on whom his God is outpour'd indeed,
Is bound on thy fateful croupe, O genius, fiery steed,
He struggles in vain; with a bound, untoucht of his hand or heel,
From the real thou bearest him forth, whose gates burst and break as they feel
Thy feet, feet of steel.
Is bound on thy fateful croupe, O genius, fiery steed,
He struggles in vain; with a bound, untoucht of his hand or heel,
From the real thou bearest him forth, whose gates burst and break as they feel
Thy feet, feet of steel.
Thou clearest the deserts with him, and the hoary tops of the proud
Old hills of strength, crossest seas, and beyond the depths of cloud
Where darkness heavily lies; and, awak'd by thy footsteps' sound,
A thousand spirits impure in their legion close press round
Thy traveller bound.
Old hills of strength, crossest seas, and beyond the depths of cloud
Where darkness heavily lies; and, awak'd by thy footsteps' sound,
A thousand spirits impure in their legion close press round
Thy traveller bound.
169
In one flight on thy wings of flame he reaches and sees the whole
Wide fields of the possible there stretcht out, and all realms of the soul;
He drinks from the river eternal: in storm-night or starnight now
His locks with the locks of comets commingled, all flaming glow
On the firmament's brow.
Wide fields of the possible there stretcht out, and all realms of the soul;
He drinks from the river eternal: in storm-night or starnight now
His locks with the locks of comets commingled, all flaming glow
On the firmament's brow.
The six moons of Herschel he sees; the ring of old Saturn there;
And the pole that bends round her brow the nightly Aurora fair;
All he sees; the ideal horizon, the limitless world's, in his sight
Moveth on till it knoweth no limit, displac'd through the darkness and light
By thy untir'd flight.
And the pole that bends round her brow the nightly Aurora fair;
All he sees; the ideal horizon, the limitless world's, in his sight
Moveth on till it knoweth no limit, displac'd through the darkness and light
By thy untir'd flight.
And who, saving only the demons and angels, may know or may dream
What he suffers in following thee, or guess the strange lightnings that gleam
On his eyes, and the scorching and burning of many a fiery spark,
And how, in the night, those cold wings shall strike at his brow in the dark,
And no one shall mark.
What he suffers in following thee, or guess the strange lightnings that gleam
On his eyes, and the scorching and burning of many a fiery spark,
And how, in the night, those cold wings shall strike at his brow in the dark,
And no one shall mark.
170
Affrighted he cries, but in vain: relentless, thy flight will not fail,
The flight that o'erwhelms him and crushes; exhausted, and gasping, and pale,
Each step thou dost take seems to hollow his tomb and he sinks in affright;
Till the end comes—he runs, and he flies, and he falls—and he rises upright,
A king in his might.
The flight that o'erwhelms him and crushes; exhausted, and gasping, and pale,
Each step thou dost take seems to hollow his tomb and he sinks in affright;
Till the end comes—he runs, and he flies, and he falls—and he rises upright,
A king in his might.
171
THE WANDERER.
Still the lone one and desolate waits for his Maker's ruth—
God's good mercy, albeit so long it tarry, in sooth:
Careworn and sad of heart, on the watery ways must he
Plough with the hand-graspt oar—how long?—the rimecold sea:
Tread thy paths of exile, O Fate, who art cruelty.
God's good mercy, albeit so long it tarry, in sooth:
Careworn and sad of heart, on the watery ways must he
Plough with the hand-graspt oar—how long?—the rimecold sea:
Tread thy paths of exile, O Fate, who art cruelty.
Thus did a wanderer speak, being heart-full of woe, and all
Thoughts of the cruel slayings, and pleasant comrades' fall.
Thoughts of the cruel slayings, and pleasant comrades' fall.
Morn by morn I, alone, am fain to utter my woe;
Now is there none of the living to whom I dare to show
Plainly the thought of my heart: in very sooth I know
Excellent is it in man that his breast he straitly bind,
Shut fast his thinkings in silence, whatever he have in his mind.
The man that is weary in heart, he never can fate withstand;
The man that grieves in his spirit, he finds not the helper's hand.
Therefore the glory-grasper full heavy of soul may be.
So, far from my fatherland, and mine own good kinsmen free.
I must bind my heart in fetters, for long, ah! long ago,
The earth's cold darkness cover'd my giver of gold brought low;
And I, sore stricken and humbled, and winter-sadden'd, went
Away o'er the frost-bound waves to seek for the dear content
Of the hall of the giver of rings; but far nor near could I find
Who felt the love of the mead-hall, or who with comforts kind
Would comfort me, the friendless. 'Tis he alone will know,
Who knows, being desolate too, how evil a fere is woe.
For him the path of the exile, and not the twisted gold;
For him the frost in his bosom, and not earth-riches old.
Oh, well he remembers the hall-men, the treasure bestow'd in the hall;
The feast that his gold-giver made him, the joy at its highth, at its fall:
He knows who must be forlorn for his dear lord's counsels gone
When sleep and sorrow together are binding the lonely one;
When himthinks he clasps and kisses his leader of men, and lays
His hands and head on his knee, as when, in the good yore-days,
He sat on the throne of his might, in the strength that wins and saves—
But the friendless man awakes, and he sees the yellow waves,
And the sea-birds dip to the sea, and broaden their wings to the gale,
And he sees the dreary rime, and the snow commingled with hail.
Oh, then are the wounds of his heart the sorer much for this,
The grief for the lov'd and lost made new by the dream of old bliss.
His kinsmen's memory comes to him as he lies asleep,
And he greets it with joy, with joy, and the heart in his breast doth leap;
But out of his ken the shapes of his warrior-comrades swim
To the land whence seafarers bring no dear old saws for him.
Then fresh grows sorrow and new to him whose bitter part
Is to send o'er the frost-bound waves full often his weary heart.
For this do I look around this world, and cannot see
Wherefore or why my heart should not grow dark in me,
When I think of the lives of the leaders, the clansmen mighty in mood;
When I think how sudden and swift they yielded the place where they stood.
So droops this mid-earth and falls, and never a man is found
Wise ere a many winters have girt his life around.
Full patient the sage must be, and he that would counsel teach
Not over-hot in his heart, nor over-swift in his speech;
Nor faint of soul nor secure, nor fain for the fight nor afraid;
Nor ready to boast before he know himself well array'd.
The proud-soul'd man must bide when he utters his vaunt, until
He know of the thoughts of the heart, and whitherward turn they will.
The prudent must understand how terror and awe shall be,
When the glory and weal of the world lie waste, as now men see
On our mid-earth, many a where, the wind-swept walls arise,
And the ruin'd dwellings and void, and the rime that on them lies.
The wine-halls crumble, bereft of joy the warriors lie,
The flower of the doughty fallen, the proud ones fair to the eye.
War took off some in death, and one did a strong bird bear
Over the deep; and one—his bones did the grey wolf share;
And one was hid in a cave by a comrade sorrowful fac'd.—
Oh, thus the Shaper of men hath laid the earth all waste,
Till the works of the city-dwellers, the works of the giants of earth,
Stood empty and lorn of the burst of the mighty reveller's mirth.
Who wisely hath mus'd on this wallstead, and ponders this dark life well,
In his heart he hath often bethought him of slayings many and fell,
And these be the words he taketh, the thoughts of his heart to tell.
Where is the horse and the rider? Where is the giver of gold?
Where be the seats at the banquet? Where be the halljoys of old?
Alas for the burnisht cup!—for the byrnied chief today!
Alas for the strength of the prince! for the time hath past away—
Is hid 'neath the shadow of night, as it never had been at all.
Behind the dear and doughty there standeth now a wall,
A wall that is wondrous high, and with wondrous snakework wrought.—
The strength of the spears hath fordone the earls and hath made them naught;
The weapons greedy of slaughter, and she, the mighty Weird;
And the tempests beat on the rocks, and the storm-wind that maketh afeard;
The terrible storm that fetters the earth, the winterbale,
When the shadow of night falls wan, and wild is the rush of the hail,
The cruel rush from the north, which maketh men to quail.
Now is there none of the living to whom I dare to show
Plainly the thought of my heart: in very sooth I know
Excellent is it in man that his breast he straitly bind,
Shut fast his thinkings in silence, whatever he have in his mind.
The man that is weary in heart, he never can fate withstand;
172
Therefore the glory-grasper full heavy of soul may be.
So, far from my fatherland, and mine own good kinsmen free.
I must bind my heart in fetters, for long, ah! long ago,
The earth's cold darkness cover'd my giver of gold brought low;
And I, sore stricken and humbled, and winter-sadden'd, went
Away o'er the frost-bound waves to seek for the dear content
Of the hall of the giver of rings; but far nor near could I find
Who felt the love of the mead-hall, or who with comforts kind
Would comfort me, the friendless. 'Tis he alone will know,
Who knows, being desolate too, how evil a fere is woe.
For him the path of the exile, and not the twisted gold;
For him the frost in his bosom, and not earth-riches old.
Oh, well he remembers the hall-men, the treasure bestow'd in the hall;
The feast that his gold-giver made him, the joy at its highth, at its fall:
He knows who must be forlorn for his dear lord's counsels gone
When sleep and sorrow together are binding the lonely one;
173
His hands and head on his knee, as when, in the good yore-days,
He sat on the throne of his might, in the strength that wins and saves—
But the friendless man awakes, and he sees the yellow waves,
And the sea-birds dip to the sea, and broaden their wings to the gale,
And he sees the dreary rime, and the snow commingled with hail.
Oh, then are the wounds of his heart the sorer much for this,
The grief for the lov'd and lost made new by the dream of old bliss.
His kinsmen's memory comes to him as he lies asleep,
And he greets it with joy, with joy, and the heart in his breast doth leap;
But out of his ken the shapes of his warrior-comrades swim
To the land whence seafarers bring no dear old saws for him.
Then fresh grows sorrow and new to him whose bitter part
Is to send o'er the frost-bound waves full often his weary heart.
For this do I look around this world, and cannot see
Wherefore or why my heart should not grow dark in me,
174
When I think how sudden and swift they yielded the place where they stood.
So droops this mid-earth and falls, and never a man is found
Wise ere a many winters have girt his life around.
Full patient the sage must be, and he that would counsel teach
Not over-hot in his heart, nor over-swift in his speech;
Nor faint of soul nor secure, nor fain for the fight nor afraid;
Nor ready to boast before he know himself well array'd.
The proud-soul'd man must bide when he utters his vaunt, until
He know of the thoughts of the heart, and whitherward turn they will.
The prudent must understand how terror and awe shall be,
When the glory and weal of the world lie waste, as now men see
On our mid-earth, many a where, the wind-swept walls arise,
And the ruin'd dwellings and void, and the rime that on them lies.
The wine-halls crumble, bereft of joy the warriors lie,
The flower of the doughty fallen, the proud ones fair to the eye.
175
Over the deep; and one—his bones did the grey wolf share;
And one was hid in a cave by a comrade sorrowful fac'd.—
Oh, thus the Shaper of men hath laid the earth all waste,
Till the works of the city-dwellers, the works of the giants of earth,
Stood empty and lorn of the burst of the mighty reveller's mirth.
Who wisely hath mus'd on this wallstead, and ponders this dark life well,
In his heart he hath often bethought him of slayings many and fell,
And these be the words he taketh, the thoughts of his heart to tell.
Where is the horse and the rider? Where is the giver of gold?
Where be the seats at the banquet? Where be the halljoys of old?
Alas for the burnisht cup!—for the byrnied chief today!
Alas for the strength of the prince! for the time hath past away—
Is hid 'neath the shadow of night, as it never had been at all.
Behind the dear and doughty there standeth now a wall,
176
The strength of the spears hath fordone the earls and hath made them naught;
The weapons greedy of slaughter, and she, the mighty Weird;
And the tempests beat on the rocks, and the storm-wind that maketh afeard;
The terrible storm that fetters the earth, the winterbale,
When the shadow of night falls wan, and wild is the rush of the hail,
The cruel rush from the north, which maketh men to quail.
Hardship-full is the earth, o'erturn'd when the stark Weirds say;
Here is the passing of riches, here friends are passing away;
And men and kinsfolk pass, and nothing and none may stay;
And all this earth-stead here shall be empty and void one day.
Here is the passing of riches, here friends are passing away;
And men and kinsfolk pass, and nothing and none may stay;
And all this earth-stead here shall be empty and void one day.
| A Sculptor and Other Poems | |