 | Laurella and other poems |  |
IV.
Suddenly I am rapt from out the real,
To the crystal sphere of the ideal!
Hark! 'tis the golden lyre of young Apollo,
Whom in a mystic dance the Muses follow;
Or Artemis, her huntress Oreads
Rousing the echoes of the still wood-glades,
Under a crescent moon; or wine-flushed Bacchus,
Drawn royally by his leopards—conquering Bacchus,
With all his rout of followers, ivy-crowned,
And wild Bacchantes—leaping to the sound
Of clashing cymbals, tossing cups of gold
And waving thyrses. Then, deep in some old
And sacred forest, wakes a silver din
Of shalms and shrill sweet pipes, and out and in
Among the tree-boles dart a merry clan—
The train of Pan!
And white-limbed wood-nymphs shriek among the boughs,
Pursued by lusty satyrs, till the brows,
The rugged brows, of Pan himself appear;
And forth the pageant issues, and such a clear
And jubilant shout goes up of ‘Pan! Pan! Pan!’
As was ne'er heard by man.
Anon the car of foam-born Aphrodeite
Comes surging through the spume, urged by the mighty
Arms of a triton throng—a pearly car
Of opal hues, wherein glows like a star
The goddess in her new-born nakedness
Of rose-flushed beauty—to the silver stress
Of Nereid harps, and deep sea-sounding horns
By sea-gods blown—such as on summer morns
Boom landward with the tide. And round her throng,
Sporting amid the spray, and oared along
By their white-ankled feet with gleeful ease,
The Oceanides:
The snowy tossing of their gleaming arms,
And multitudinous, billowy bosoms, charms
The ruffled waves to rest. Green-eyed sea-snakes,
With diamond coils that leave far-flashing wakes,
Follow behind.
To the crystal sphere of the ideal!
Hark! 'tis the golden lyre of young Apollo,
Whom in a mystic dance the Muses follow;
Or Artemis, her huntress Oreads
Rousing the echoes of the still wood-glades,
Under a crescent moon; or wine-flushed Bacchus,
Drawn royally by his leopards—conquering Bacchus,
271
And wild Bacchantes—leaping to the sound
Of clashing cymbals, tossing cups of gold
And waving thyrses. Then, deep in some old
And sacred forest, wakes a silver din
Of shalms and shrill sweet pipes, and out and in
Among the tree-boles dart a merry clan—
The train of Pan!
And white-limbed wood-nymphs shriek among the boughs,
Pursued by lusty satyrs, till the brows,
The rugged brows, of Pan himself appear;
And forth the pageant issues, and such a clear
And jubilant shout goes up of ‘Pan! Pan! Pan!’
As was ne'er heard by man.
Anon the car of foam-born Aphrodeite
Comes surging through the spume, urged by the mighty
Arms of a triton throng—a pearly car
Of opal hues, wherein glows like a star
The goddess in her new-born nakedness
Of rose-flushed beauty—to the silver stress
Of Nereid harps, and deep sea-sounding horns
By sea-gods blown—such as on summer morns
Boom landward with the tide. And round her throng,
Sporting amid the spray, and oared along
By their white-ankled feet with gleeful ease,
The Oceanides:
272
And multitudinous, billowy bosoms, charms
The ruffled waves to rest. Green-eyed sea-snakes,
With diamond coils that leave far-flashing wakes,
Follow behind.
But hark! the whelming thunder
Crashes above. Black storm-clouds, rent asunder
By angry lightnings, swallow up the scene.
The deep moans to the tempest. Icy keen
Fierce north-winds rushing down with frost and snow
Rave through the shrieking forest. In their woe
The gentle spirits of the earth cry out;
Aloft upon the blast a demon rout
Ruffians it through the spaces of the sky,
And from the deep shudders an awful cry:
‘The throne of Zeus is fallen!’
Crashes above. Black storm-clouds, rent asunder
By angry lightnings, swallow up the scene.
The deep moans to the tempest. Icy keen
Fierce north-winds rushing down with frost and snow
Rave through the shrieking forest. In their woe
The gentle spirits of the earth cry out;
Aloft upon the blast a demon rout
Ruffians it through the spaces of the sky,
And from the deep shudders an awful cry:
‘The throne of Zeus is fallen!’
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