The poetical works of Leigh Hunt Now finally collected, revised by himself, and edited by his son, Thornton Hunt. With illustrations by Corbould |
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| HERO AND LEANDER. |
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 | The poetical works of Leigh Hunt |  |
44
HERO AND LEANDER.
1818.
CANTO I.
Old is the tale I tell, and yet as young
And warm with life as ever minstrel sung:
Two lovers fill it,—two fair shapes—two souls.
Sweet as the last for whom the death-bell tolls:
What matters it how long ago, or where
They liv'd, or whether their young locks of hair,
Like English hyacinths, or Greek, were curl'd?
We hurt the stories of the antique world
By thinking of our school-books, and the wrongs
Done them by pedants and fantastic songs,
Or sculptures, which from Roman “studios” thrown,
Turn back Deucalion's flesh and blood to stone.
Truth is forever truth, and love is love;
The bird of Venus is the living dove.
Sweet Hero's eyes, three thousand years ago,
Were made precisely like the best we know,
Look'd the same looks, and spoke no other Greek
Than eyes of honey-moons begun last week.
Alas! and the dread shock that stunn'd her brow
Strain'd them as wide as any wretch's now.
I never think of poor Leander's fate,
And how he swam, and how his bride sat late,
And watch'd the dreadful dawning of the light,
But as I would of two that died last night.
So might they now have liv'd, and so have died;
The story's heart, to me, still beats against its side.
And warm with life as ever minstrel sung:
Two lovers fill it,—two fair shapes—two souls.
Sweet as the last for whom the death-bell tolls:
What matters it how long ago, or where
They liv'd, or whether their young locks of hair,
Like English hyacinths, or Greek, were curl'd?
We hurt the stories of the antique world
By thinking of our school-books, and the wrongs
Done them by pedants and fantastic songs,
Or sculptures, which from Roman “studios” thrown,
Turn back Deucalion's flesh and blood to stone.
Truth is forever truth, and love is love;
The bird of Venus is the living dove.
Sweet Hero's eyes, three thousand years ago,
Were made precisely like the best we know,
Look'd the same looks, and spoke no other Greek
Than eyes of honey-moons begun last week.
Alas! and the dread shock that stunn'd her brow
Strain'd them as wide as any wretch's now.
I never think of poor Leander's fate,
And how he swam, and how his bride sat late,
And watch'd the dreadful dawning of the light,
But as I would of two that died last night.
So might they now have liv'd, and so have died;
The story's heart, to me, still beats against its side.
Beneath the sun which shines this very hour,
There stood of yore—behold it now—a tow'r,
Half set in trees and leafy luxury,
And through them look'd a window on the sea.
The tow'r is old, but guards a beauteous scene
Of bow'rs, 'twixt purple hills, a gulf of green,
Whose farthest side, from out a lifted grove,
Shows a white temple to the Queen of Love.
Fair is the morn, the soft trees kiss and breathe;
Calm, blue, and glittering is the sea beneath;
And by the window a sweet maiden sits,
Grave with glad thoughts, and watching it by fits,
For o'er that sea, drawn to her with delight,
Her love Leander is to come at night;
To come, not sailing, or with help of oar,
But with his own warm heart and arms—no more—
A naked bridegroom, bound from shore to shore.
There stood of yore—behold it now—a tow'r,
Half set in trees and leafy luxury,
And through them look'd a window on the sea.
The tow'r is old, but guards a beauteous scene
Of bow'rs, 'twixt purple hills, a gulf of green,
Whose farthest side, from out a lifted grove,
Shows a white temple to the Queen of Love.
45
Calm, blue, and glittering is the sea beneath;
And by the window a sweet maiden sits,
Grave with glad thoughts, and watching it by fits,
For o'er that sea, drawn to her with delight,
Her love Leander is to come at night;
To come, not sailing, or with help of oar,
But with his own warm heart and arms—no more—
A naked bridegroom, bound from shore to shore.
A priestess Hero is, an orphan dove,
Lodg'd in that turret of the Queen of Love;
A youth Leander, borne across the strait,
Whose wealthy kin deny him his sweet mate,
Beset with spies, and dogg'd with daily spite;
But he has made high compact with delight,
And found a wondrous passage through the weltering night.
Lodg'd in that turret of the Queen of Love;
A youth Leander, borne across the strait,
Whose wealthy kin deny him his sweet mate,
Beset with spies, and dogg'd with daily spite;
But he has made high compact with delight,
And found a wondrous passage through the weltering night.
So sat she fix'd all day, or now was fain
To rise and move, then sighs, then sits again;
Then tries some work, forgets it, and thinks on,
Wishing with perfect love the time were gone,
And lost to the green trees with their sweet singers,
Taps on the casement's ledge with idle fingers.
To rise and move, then sighs, then sits again;
Then tries some work, forgets it, and thinks on,
Wishing with perfect love the time were gone,
And lost to the green trees with their sweet singers,
Taps on the casement's ledge with idle fingers.
An aged nurse had Hero in the place,
An under priestess of an humbler race,
Who partly serv'd, partly kept watch and ward
Over the rest, but no good love debarr'd.
The temple's faith though serious, never cross'd
Engagements, miss'd to their exchequer's cost;
And though this present knot was to remain
Unknown awhile, 'twas bless'd within the fane,
And much good thanks expected in the end
From the dear married daughter, and the wealthy friend.
Poor Hero look'd for no such thanks. Her hand,
But to be held in his, would have giv'n sea and land.
An under priestess of an humbler race,
Who partly serv'd, partly kept watch and ward
Over the rest, but no good love debarr'd.
The temple's faith though serious, never cross'd
Engagements, miss'd to their exchequer's cost;
And though this present knot was to remain
Unknown awhile, 'twas bless'd within the fane,
And much good thanks expected in the end
From the dear married daughter, and the wealthy friend.
Poor Hero look'd for no such thanks. Her hand,
But to be held in his, would have giv'n sea and land.
The reverend crone accordingly took care
To do her duty to a time so fair,
Saw all things right, secur'd her own small pay,
(Which brought her luxuries to her dying day,)
And finishing a talk, which with surprise
She saw made grave e'en those good-humour'd eyes,
Laid up, tow'rds night, her service on the shelf,
And left her nicer mistress to herself.
To do her duty to a time so fair,
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(Which brought her luxuries to her dying day,)
And finishing a talk, which with surprise
She saw made grave e'en those good-humour'd eyes,
Laid up, tow'rds night, her service on the shelf,
And left her nicer mistress to herself.
Hesper meanwhile, the star with amorous eye,
Shot his fine sparkle from the deep blue sky.
A depth of night succeeded, dark, but clear,
Such as presents the hollow starry sphere,
Like a high gulf to heaven; and all above
Seems waking to a fervid work of love.
A nightingale, in transport, seem'd to fling
His warble out, and then sit listening:
And ever and anon, amidst the flush
Of the thick leaves, there ran a breezy gush;
And then, from dewy myrtles lately bloom'd,
An odour small, in at the window fumed.
Shot his fine sparkle from the deep blue sky.
A depth of night succeeded, dark, but clear,
Such as presents the hollow starry sphere,
Like a high gulf to heaven; and all above
Seems waking to a fervid work of love.
A nightingale, in transport, seem'd to fling
His warble out, and then sit listening:
And ever and anon, amidst the flush
Of the thick leaves, there ran a breezy gush;
And then, from dewy myrtles lately bloom'd,
An odour small, in at the window fumed.
At last, with twinkle o'er a distant tower,
A star appear'd that was to show the hour.
The virgin saw; and going to a room
Which held an altar burning with perfume,
Cut off a lock of her dark solid hair,
And laid it, with a little whisper'd prayer,
Before a statue, that of marble bright
Sat smiling downwards o'er the rosy light.
Then at the flame a torch of pine she lit,
And o'er her head anxiously holding it,
Ascended to the roof; and leaning there,
Lifted its light into the darksome air.
A star appear'd that was to show the hour.
The virgin saw; and going to a room
Which held an altar burning with perfume,
Cut off a lock of her dark solid hair,
And laid it, with a little whisper'd prayer,
Before a statue, that of marble bright
Sat smiling downwards o'er the rosy light.
Then at the flame a torch of pine she lit,
And o'er her head anxiously holding it,
Ascended to the roof; and leaning there,
Lifted its light into the darksome air.
The boy beheld,—beheld it from the sea,
And parted his wet locks, and breath'd with glee,
And rose, in swimming, more triumphantly.
And parted his wet locks, and breath'd with glee,
And rose, in swimming, more triumphantly.
Smooth was the sea that night, the lover strong,
And in the springy waves he danc'd along.
He rose, he dipp'd his breast, he aim'd, he cut
With his clear arms, and from before him put
The parting waves, and in and out the air
His shoulders felt, and trail'd his washing hair;
But when he saw the torch, oh, how he sprung,
And thrust his feet against the waves, and flung
The foam behind, as though he scorn'd the sea,
And parted his wet locks, and breath'd with glee,
And rose, and panted, most triumphantly!
And in the springy waves he danc'd along.
He rose, he dipp'd his breast, he aim'd, he cut
With his clear arms, and from before him put
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His shoulders felt, and trail'd his washing hair;
But when he saw the torch, oh, how he sprung,
And thrust his feet against the waves, and flung
The foam behind, as though he scorn'd the sea,
And parted his wet locks, and breath'd with glee,
And rose, and panted, most triumphantly!
Arriv'd at last on shallow ground, he saw
The stooping light, as if in haste, withdraw:
Again it issued just above the door,
With a white hand, and vanish'd as before.
Then rising, with a sudden-ceasing sound
Of wateriness, he stood on the firm ground,
And treading up a little slippery bank,
With jutting myrtles mix'd, and verdure dank,
Came to a door ajar,—all hush'd, all blind
With darkness; yet he guess'd who stood behind;
And entering with a turn, the breathless boy
A breathless welcome finds, and words that die for joy.
The stooping light, as if in haste, withdraw:
Again it issued just above the door,
With a white hand, and vanish'd as before.
Then rising, with a sudden-ceasing sound
Of wateriness, he stood on the firm ground,
And treading up a little slippery bank,
With jutting myrtles mix'd, and verdure dank,
Came to a door ajar,—all hush'd, all blind
With darkness; yet he guess'd who stood behind;
And entering with a turn, the breathless boy
A breathless welcome finds, and words that die for joy.
CANTO II.
Thus pass'd the summer shadows in delight:
Leander came as surely as the night,
And when the morning woke upon the sea,
It saw him not, for back at home was he.
Sometimes, when it blew fresh, the struggling flare
Seem'd out; but then he knew his Hero's care,
And that she only wall'd it with her cloak;
Brighter again from out the dark it broke.
Sometimes the night was almost clear as day,
Wanting no torch; and then, with easy play,
He dipp'd along beneath the silver moon,
Placidly heark'ning to the water's tune.
The people round the country, who from far
Used to behold the light, thought it a star,
Set there perhaps by Venus as a wonder,
To mark the favourite maiden who slept under.
Therefore they trod about the grounds by day
Gently; and fishermen at night, they say,
With reverence kept aloof, cutting their silent way.
Leander came as surely as the night,
And when the morning woke upon the sea,
It saw him not, for back at home was he.
Sometimes, when it blew fresh, the struggling flare
Seem'd out; but then he knew his Hero's care,
And that she only wall'd it with her cloak;
Brighter again from out the dark it broke.
Sometimes the night was almost clear as day,
Wanting no torch; and then, with easy play,
He dipp'd along beneath the silver moon,
Placidly heark'ning to the water's tune.
The people round the country, who from far
Used to behold the light, thought it a star,
Set there perhaps by Venus as a wonder,
To mark the favourite maiden who slept under.
48
Gently; and fishermen at night, they say,
With reverence kept aloof, cutting their silent way.
But autumn now was over; and the crane
Began to clang against the coming rain,
And peevish winds ran cutting o'er the sea,
Which oft return'd a face of enmity.
The gentle girl, before he went away,
Would look out sadly toward the cold-eyed day
And often beg him not to come that night;
But still he came, and still she bless'd his sight;
And so, from day to day, he came and went,
Till time had almost made her confident.
Began to clang against the coming rain,
And peevish winds ran cutting o'er the sea,
Which oft return'd a face of enmity.
The gentle girl, before he went away,
Would look out sadly toward the cold-eyed day
And often beg him not to come that night;
But still he came, and still she bless'd his sight;
And so, from day to day, he came and went,
Till time had almost made her confident.
One evening, as she sat, twining sweet bay
And myrtle garlands for a holiday,
And watch'd at intervals the dreary sky,
In which the dim sun held a languid eye,
She thought with such a full and quiet sweetness
Of all Leander's love and his completeness,
All that he was, and said, and look'd, and dared,
His form, his step, his noble head full-hair'd,
And how she lov'd him, as a thousand might,
And yet he earn'd her still thus night by night,
That the sharp pleasure mov'd her like a grief,
And tears came dropping with their meek relief.
And myrtle garlands for a holiday,
And watch'd at intervals the dreary sky,
In which the dim sun held a languid eye,
She thought with such a full and quiet sweetness
Of all Leander's love and his completeness,
All that he was, and said, and look'd, and dared,
His form, his step, his noble head full-hair'd,
And how she lov'd him, as a thousand might,
And yet he earn'd her still thus night by night,
That the sharp pleasure mov'd her like a grief,
And tears came dropping with their meek relief.
Meantime the sun had sunk; the hilly mark,
Across the straits, mix'd with the mightier dark,
And night came on. All noises by degrees
Were hush'd,—the fisher's call, the birds, the trees,
All but the washing of the eternal seas.
Across the straits, mix'd with the mightier dark,
And night came on. All noises by degrees
Were hush'd,—the fisher's call, the birds, the trees,
All but the washing of the eternal seas.
Hero look'd out, and trembling augur'd ill,
The darkness held its breath so very still.
But yet she hop'd he might arrive before
The storm began, or not be far from shore;
And crying, as she stretch'd forth in the air,
“Bless him!” she turn'd and said a tearful prayer,
And mounted to the tower, and shook the torch's flare.
The darkness held its breath so very still.
But yet she hop'd he might arrive before
The storm began, or not be far from shore;
And crying, as she stretch'd forth in the air,
“Bless him!” she turn'd and said a tearful prayer,
And mounted to the tower, and shook the torch's flare.
49
But he, Leander, almost half across,
Threw his blithe locks behind him with a toss,
And hail'd the light victoriously, secure
Of clasping his kind love, so sweet and sure;
When suddenly, a blast, as if in wrath,
Sheer from the hills, came headlong on his path,
Then started off; and driving round the sea,
Dashed up the panting waters roaringly.
The youth at once was thrust beneath the main,
With blinded eyes, but quickly rose again,
And with a smile at heart, and stouter pride,
Surmounted like a god, the rearing tide.
But what? The torch gone out! So long too! See,
He thinks it comes! Ah, yes,—'tis she! 'tis she!
Again he springs; and though the winds arise
Fiercer and fiercer, swims with ardent eyes;
And always, though with ruffian waves dash'd hard,
Turns thither with glad groan his stout regard;
And always, though his sense seems wash'd away,
Emerges, fighting tow'rds the cordial ray.
Threw his blithe locks behind him with a toss,
And hail'd the light victoriously, secure
Of clasping his kind love, so sweet and sure;
When suddenly, a blast, as if in wrath,
Sheer from the hills, came headlong on his path,
Then started off; and driving round the sea,
Dashed up the panting waters roaringly.
The youth at once was thrust beneath the main,
With blinded eyes, but quickly rose again,
And with a smile at heart, and stouter pride,
Surmounted like a god, the rearing tide.
But what? The torch gone out! So long too! See,
He thinks it comes! Ah, yes,—'tis she! 'tis she!
Again he springs; and though the winds arise
Fiercer and fiercer, swims with ardent eyes;
And always, though with ruffian waves dash'd hard,
Turns thither with glad groan his stout regard;
And always, though his sense seems wash'd away,
Emerges, fighting tow'rds the cordial ray.
But driven about at last, and drench'd the while,
The noble boy loses that inward smile:
For now, from one black atmosphere, the rain
Sweeps into stubborn mixture with the main;
And the brute wind, unmuffling all its roar,
Storms;—and the light, gone out, is seen no more.
The noble boy loses that inward smile:
For now, from one black atmosphere, the rain
Sweeps into stubborn mixture with the main;
And the brute wind, unmuffling all its roar,
Storms;—and the light, gone out, is seen no more.
Then dreadful thoughts of death, of waves heap'd on him,
And friends, and parting daylight, rush upon him.
He thinks of prayers to Neptune and his daughters,
And Venus, Hero's queen, sprung from the waters;
And then of Hero only,—how she fares,
And what she'll feel, when the blank morn appears;
And at that thought he stiffens once again
His limbs, and pants, and strains, and climbs,—in vain.
Fierce draughts he swallows of the wilful wave,
His tossing hands are lax, his blind look grave,
Till the poor youth (and yet no coward he)
Spoke once her name, and yielding wearily,
Wept in the middle of the scornful sea.
And friends, and parting daylight, rush upon him.
He thinks of prayers to Neptune and his daughters,
And Venus, Hero's queen, sprung from the waters;
And then of Hero only,—how she fares,
And what she'll feel, when the blank morn appears;
And at that thought he stiffens once again
His limbs, and pants, and strains, and climbs,—in vain.
Fierce draughts he swallows of the wilful wave,
His tossing hands are lax, his blind look grave,
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Spoke once her name, and yielding wearily,
Wept in the middle of the scornful sea.
I need not tell how Hero, when her light
Would burn no longer, pass'd that dreadful night;
How she exclaim'd, and wept, and could not sit
One instant in one place; nor how she lit
The torch a hundred times, and when she found
'Twas all in vain, her gentle head turn'd round
Almost with rage; and in her fond despair
She tried to call him through the deafening air.
Would burn no longer, pass'd that dreadful night;
How she exclaim'd, and wept, and could not sit
One instant in one place; nor how she lit
The torch a hundred times, and when she found
'Twas all in vain, her gentle head turn'd round
Almost with rage; and in her fond despair
She tried to call him through the deafening air.
But when he came not,—when from hour to hour
He came not,—though the storm had spent its power,
And when the casement, at the dawn of light,
Began to show a square of ghastly white,
She went up to the tower, and straining out
To search the seas, downwards, and round about,
She saw, at last,—she saw her lord indeed
Floating, and wash'd about, like a vile weed;
On which such strength of passion and dismay
Seiz'd her, and such an impotence to stay,
That from the turret, like a stricken dove,
With fluttering arms she leap'd, and join'd her drownèd love.
He came not,—though the storm had spent its power,
And when the casement, at the dawn of light,
Began to show a square of ghastly white,
She went up to the tower, and straining out
To search the seas, downwards, and round about,
She saw, at last,—she saw her lord indeed
Floating, and wash'd about, like a vile weed;
On which such strength of passion and dismay
Seiz'd her, and such an impotence to stay,
That from the turret, like a stricken dove,
With fluttering arms she leap'd, and join'd her drownèd love.
| The poetical works of Leigh Hunt | |