Gods, Saints & Men By Eugene Lee-Hamilton ... With Ten Full-Page Illustartions Designed by Enrico Mazzanti |
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The chorus ceased, and for a space
Deep silence reigned throughout the place;
But hark: a strange and distant strain
Falls on his ear—and now again.
Is't joyous music from afar
Coming in gusts which fitful are?
Is it a sound of hurrying feet
Which many echoes now repeat?
See, see, amid the ruins, out there,
That bright and ever-growing glare
As of a hundred torches' flare!
Deep silence reigned throughout the place;
But hark: a strange and distant strain
Falls on his ear—and now again.
Is't joyous music from afar
Coming in gusts which fitful are?
Is it a sound of hurrying feet
Which many echoes now repeat?
See, see, amid the ruins, out there,
That bright and ever-growing glare
As of a hundred torches' flare!
He started up, while ever nearer
The sounds approached, and ever clearer
A sound of cymbals, pipes and drums
Mixed with the shout “She comes! She comes!”
Then, past a wild procession swept
Of forms that bounded, danced and leapt,
Divine and beauteous and fantastic,
With gestures strange and orgiastic;
Who ever fair and ever young
Innumerable flowers flung
Upon the path of one by far
More fair than earthly beauties are,
And whom a strange tumultuous throng
Of frenzied votaries bore along
Enthroned upon a golden car.
And as the apparition fast
Before the dazzled Wolfram passed,
He saw, he felt—that she was one
With her whom he had loved in stone.
No time he had to pause or think,
No time to tremble or to shrink
Upon the Pagan revel's brink;
For he was whirled and swept away
By all those beings wild and gay;
Whither he knew not. When, at last
His wondering eyes around he cast
He stood in halls antique and vast.
The sounds approached, and ever clearer
A sound of cymbals, pipes and drums
Mixed with the shout “She comes! She comes!”
Then, past a wild procession swept
Of forms that bounded, danced and leapt,
Divine and beauteous and fantastic,
With gestures strange and orgiastic;
15
Innumerable flowers flung
Upon the path of one by far
More fair than earthly beauties are,
And whom a strange tumultuous throng
Of frenzied votaries bore along
Enthroned upon a golden car.
And as the apparition fast
Before the dazzled Wolfram passed,
He saw, he felt—that she was one
With her whom he had loved in stone.
No time he had to pause or think,
No time to tremble or to shrink
Upon the Pagan revel's brink;
For he was whirled and swept away
By all those beings wild and gay;
Whither he knew not. When, at last
His wondering eyes around he cast
He stood in halls antique and vast.
Antique indeed, but cold no longer:
A rosy radiance filled them stronger
Than mortal eyes at first could bear,
While wondrous scents o'ercharged the air.
What unknown hands had unknown flowers
In garlands round each column bound?
What hands had stripped celestial bowers
To wreathe with buds the walls around?
What magic wand had summoned up
The bubbling waters, which again
Made music in each marble cup
Which had for ages thirsty lain?
What was this palace of delight,
Created in a single night?
And lo, like some bright ebbing flood,
The motley crowd, he knew not how,
Had ebbed and in a circle stood
Of which the centre he was now—
What could it mean? Was he a God
That all seemed waiting for his nod;
That faery forms thus gathered round him,
And with verbena garlands crowned him;
That on his path they flowers flung,
All trembling as he was and pale;
That in his praises hymns were sung
Which bade a new Adonis hail?
A rosy radiance filled them stronger
Than mortal eyes at first could bear,
While wondrous scents o'ercharged the air.
What unknown hands had unknown flowers
In garlands round each column bound?
What hands had stripped celestial bowers
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What magic wand had summoned up
The bubbling waters, which again
Made music in each marble cup
Which had for ages thirsty lain?
What was this palace of delight,
Created in a single night?
And lo, like some bright ebbing flood,
The motley crowd, he knew not how,
Had ebbed and in a circle stood
Of which the centre he was now—
What could it mean? Was he a God
That all seemed waiting for his nod;
That faery forms thus gathered round him,
And with verbena garlands crowned him;
That on his path they flowers flung,
All trembling as he was and pale;
That in his praises hymns were sung
Which bade a new Adonis hail?
Through each bright hall, as Wolfram passed
Hailed like a God, and neared the last,
The one in which the Statue stood,
Why in his veins rushed fierce the blood,
Why thumped his heart and then stood still?
Why through his frame ran chill on chill?
One thought possessed him, one alone—
Would she be there, no more of stone?
Would she be there and breathe and move
With tongue to speak and heart to love?
Ah, well might Wolfram pause ere seeing
The worshipped, loved, and dreaded being,
For when she burst upon his sight
She seemed the focus of all light.
She stood upon the self-same spot:
Was she the Statue's self, or not?
Her glorious form was nude no more,
Strange iridescent robes she wore
By which she was completely draped,
Save where one rounded limb escaped,
Which in its rosiness might be
Of flame-illumined ivory.
Hailed like a God, and neared the last,
The one in which the Statue stood,
Why in his veins rushed fierce the blood,
Why thumped his heart and then stood still?
Why through his frame ran chill on chill?
One thought possessed him, one alone—
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Would she be there and breathe and move
With tongue to speak and heart to love?
Ah, well might Wolfram pause ere seeing
The worshipped, loved, and dreaded being,
For when she burst upon his sight
She seemed the focus of all light.
She stood upon the self-same spot:
Was she the Statue's self, or not?
Her glorious form was nude no more,
Strange iridescent robes she wore
By which she was completely draped,
Save where one rounded limb escaped,
Which in its rosiness might be
Of flame-illumined ivory.
The Goddess moved to meet the knight,
Who still stood dazzled at the sight
Of one so measurelessly fair,
And laid her hand upon his arm:
“Be welcome, Wolfram—Fear no harm,”
She said, so softly that her words
Like echoes of Æolian chords
Seemed floating through the scented air;
“Be welcome, Wolfram, child of clay,
Thou on whose heart a sunny ray
Has fallen in a gloomy world;
Thou whose fidelity has moved me;
Thou that hast worshipped and hast loved me,
Though long from brighter regions hurled,
Be welcome; lay all fear aside,
And with an exiled goddess bide.”
“O Lady, whosoe'er thou be,”
The simple warrior answer made,
“If e'er young Wolfram's stainless blade
Can serve thee, or in some degree
Perchance contribute to redress
The wrongs of boundless loveliness;
Or if my life can serve thy cause,
Think not that I shall fear or pause,
And though I had to scale high Heaven,
Right gladly would my life be given.”
Who still stood dazzled at the sight
Of one so measurelessly fair,
And laid her hand upon his arm:
“Be welcome, Wolfram—Fear no harm,”
She said, so softly that her words
Like echoes of Æolian chords
Seemed floating through the scented air;
“Be welcome, Wolfram, child of clay,
Thou on whose heart a sunny ray
Has fallen in a gloomy world;
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Thou that hast worshipped and hast loved me,
Though long from brighter regions hurled,
Be welcome; lay all fear aside,
And with an exiled goddess bide.”
“O Lady, whosoe'er thou be,”
The simple warrior answer made,
“If e'er young Wolfram's stainless blade
Can serve thee, or in some degree
Perchance contribute to redress
The wrongs of boundless loveliness;
Or if my life can serve thy cause,
Think not that I shall fear or pause,
And though I had to scale high Heaven,
Right gladly would my life be given.”
The fallen Goddess eyed the youth
In whose blue eyes lay nought but truth,
And with a smile of sadness said,
As by the hand her guest she led:
“Alas, brave child, thy wish is vain,
Thy shining blade were weak indeed,
Where brighter falchions like a reed
Have hope betrayed and snapt in twain.
The friend of exiles, Time, alone
Can my usurping foes dethrone,
But come,” she added, “and partake,
Before the red-winged morning break,
Of what, alas, can only be
An exile's hospitality.”
And with these words she led her guest
Towards a couch-encircled board,
O'er which strange lamps their radiance poured,
And which with fruits and flowers was dressed,
Kissed into ripeness by a sun,
More fiercely amorous than the one
That sun-burnt Latian shepherds shun;
And many a massy golden cup
From mid the fruits and flowers gleamed,
And fare of savour yet undreamed,
Such as alone is heaped up
When mortals with immortals sup.
O happy and bewildered youth,
Is all around thee dream or truth?
Those ministering nymphs that hover
Around thee; o'er ambitious lover,
Those nymphs divine alone less fair,
Than thy immortal hostess there,
That feast, those flowers, and that light
Those couches which thy limbs invite,
That chorus of celestial voices,
Which near at hand thine ear rejoices;
Is't all a dream of false delight?
In whose blue eyes lay nought but truth,
And with a smile of sadness said,
As by the hand her guest she led:
“Alas, brave child, thy wish is vain,
Thy shining blade were weak indeed,
Where brighter falchions like a reed
Have hope betrayed and snapt in twain.
The friend of exiles, Time, alone
Can my usurping foes dethrone,
But come,” she added, “and partake,
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Of what, alas, can only be
An exile's hospitality.”
And with these words she led her guest
Towards a couch-encircled board,
O'er which strange lamps their radiance poured,
And which with fruits and flowers was dressed,
Kissed into ripeness by a sun,
More fiercely amorous than the one
That sun-burnt Latian shepherds shun;
And many a massy golden cup
From mid the fruits and flowers gleamed,
And fare of savour yet undreamed,
Such as alone is heaped up
When mortals with immortals sup.
O happy and bewildered youth,
Is all around thee dream or truth?
Those ministering nymphs that hover
Around thee; o'er ambitious lover,
Those nymphs divine alone less fair,
Than thy immortal hostess there,
That feast, those flowers, and that light
Those couches which thy limbs invite,
That chorus of celestial voices,
Which near at hand thine ear rejoices;
Is't all a dream of false delight?
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