 | Studies from the Antique and Sketches from Nature |  |
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DYNAMENE.
Sitting alone and sad beside the Sea,
I had a vision of Dynamene:
Dynamene and all her sisters fair
Grouped on the rocks and sand and sea-beach bare,
The fifty daughters of the Foam
Upfloating, on calm billows borne
To the warm fringes of their Ocean home;
More beautiful than burst of ruddy morn,
More tender than the flush of Summer eves,
Defter and nimbler than the light that weaves
Its fairy net-work on the wave,
When Phoebus from his cold nocturnal cave
Starts on the grateful world, until it leap
Jocund and rubicund from sleep.
Careless and happy were they each and all
Save one, dark-eyed, who held my heart in thrall,
And sat apart, self-banished from the rest—
Dynamene, as lonely and as bright
As Hesper glowing in the empurpled West,
Absorbing all the splendours of the Night.
I had a vision of Dynamene:
Dynamene and all her sisters fair
Grouped on the rocks and sand and sea-beach bare,
The fifty daughters of the Foam
Upfloating, on calm billows borne
To the warm fringes of their Ocean home;
More beautiful than burst of ruddy morn,
More tender than the flush of Summer eves,
Defter and nimbler than the light that weaves
Its fairy net-work on the wave,
When Phoebus from his cold nocturnal cave
Starts on the grateful world, until it leap
Jocund and rubicund from sleep.
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Save one, dark-eyed, who held my heart in thrall,
And sat apart, self-banished from the rest—
Dynamene, as lonely and as bright
As Hesper glowing in the empurpled West,
Absorbing all the splendours of the Night.
“Tell me,”;I said, “what is it that they do,
These fair ones seven times seven,
Here in the light of Heaven,
Betwixt the upper and the nether blue?”
Softly she answered: “On the stormy gale
They poise or float, and track the distant sail;
Or dive, or swim, or gather gems and pearls
To deck their blue-veined arms and flaxen curls.
And when the sailor, far adrift,
Remorseful wanderer, looks forth in vain
Over the pathless sea and starless lift,
And prays to Heaven to waft him o'er the main
To his expectant loved ones back again,
They draw aside the curtain of the clouds,
Till, peeping wistfully athwart the shrouds,
He sees in Heaven's blue deep the Polar Star,
And hails the guiding light so fair and far,
And steers his certain bark toward the shore,
And vows, unwitting perjuror! to sail the seas no more.
These fair ones seven times seven,
Here in the light of Heaven,
Betwixt the upper and the nether blue?”
Softly she answered: “On the stormy gale
They poise or float, and track the distant sail;
Or dive, or swim, or gather gems and pearls
To deck their blue-veined arms and flaxen curls.
And when the sailor, far adrift,
Remorseful wanderer, looks forth in vain
Over the pathless sea and starless lift,
And prays to Heaven to waft him o'er the main
To his expectant loved ones back again,
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Till, peeping wistfully athwart the shrouds,
He sees in Heaven's blue deep the Polar Star,
And hails the guiding light so fair and far,
And steers his certain bark toward the shore,
And vows, unwitting perjuror! to sail the seas no more.
“They tend beneath the rocking, rolling waves,
The white bare bones that Earth refuses graves;
And strew the barren ribs with pearls and gems,
Or crown the dead skulls with such diadems
As amorous monarchs, kneeling to their brides,
Would fail to purchase with a nation's gold.
And far beneath the cradle of the tides,
Where rot and fall away since days of old
The argosies of great forgotten kings,
They meditate on Chance and Time and Change,
Till, weary of the Past—rings linked in rings,
In one eternal sameness—they would range
To newer life, and then they come as now
To take such pleasure as the hours allow
Upon the melancholy beach,
And foot it merrily, each with each,
To the Sea Music men have never heard,
And never may; but sounding loud and clear
To spiritual sense, that knows nor eye, nor ear—
Lighter than song of morn or evening bird—
Deeper than organ peal, pervading Heaven
When thunder-volleys clash, and lightning-clouds are riven.”
The white bare bones that Earth refuses graves;
And strew the barren ribs with pearls and gems,
Or crown the dead skulls with such diadems
As amorous monarchs, kneeling to their brides,
Would fail to purchase with a nation's gold.
And far beneath the cradle of the tides,
Where rot and fall away since days of old
The argosies of great forgotten kings,
They meditate on Chance and Time and Change,
Till, weary of the Past—rings linked in rings,
In one eternal sameness—they would range
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To take such pleasure as the hours allow
Upon the melancholy beach,
And foot it merrily, each with each,
To the Sea Music men have never heard,
And never may; but sounding loud and clear
To spiritual sense, that knows nor eye, nor ear—
Lighter than song of morn or evening bird—
Deeper than organ peal, pervading Heaven
When thunder-volleys clash, and lightning-clouds are riven.”
“And thou,”;I said, “who sharest not their mirth,
Fairer than restless Sea or steadfast Earth,
Why art thou sad, while they rejoice and sing,
And have no sorrow?”;“Weary task is mine,”
Replied the immortal: “Summer follows Spring,
Day Night, Night Day, in changeless round benign,
Great to the sons of men, but small and short
To us who see beyond it, through far years
Ere man was born, and History's poor report
Died on the idle interlunar spheres,
For want of tongues to tell. 'Tis mine to range
O'er mightier cycles; mine to interchange
Earth with the Ocean, Ocean with the Land,
In channels scooped by an Almighty Hand;
Mine from th' incumbent Deeps to disentomb
The torpid Continents and Isles,
Once more to bask them in the Summer's smiles,
And start to teeming life and beauty's bloom.
Fairer than restless Sea or steadfast Earth,
Why art thou sad, while they rejoice and sing,
And have no sorrow?”;“Weary task is mine,”
Replied the immortal: “Summer follows Spring,
Day Night, Night Day, in changeless round benign,
Great to the sons of men, but small and short
To us who see beyond it, through far years
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Died on the idle interlunar spheres,
For want of tongues to tell. 'Tis mine to range
O'er mightier cycles; mine to interchange
Earth with the Ocean, Ocean with the Land,
In channels scooped by an Almighty Hand;
Mine from th' incumbent Deeps to disentomb
The torpid Continents and Isles,
Once more to bask them in the Summer's smiles,
And start to teeming life and beauty's bloom.
“Not ever lift the perishable hills
Their cloven summits to the moon;
Not ever run the mountain rills
The selfsame course, or sing the same glad tune;
Not ever sleeps the unprolifie pole
In chains of adamantine ice;
Not ever through their groves of spice
And tangled woods the tropic rivers roll;
For Fate is just, and every rood of Earth,
In all her amplitude of girth,
Hath its appointed time beneath the Sun,
And passes north ward as the Eons run.
Their cloven summits to the moon;
Not ever run the mountain rills
The selfsame course, or sing the same glad tune;
Not ever sleeps the unprolifie pole
In chains of adamantine ice;
Not ever through their groves of spice
And tangled woods the tropic rivers roll;
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In all her amplitude of girth,
Hath its appointed time beneath the Sun,
And passes north ward as the Eons run.
“If thou couldst see a thousand fathoms down
Upon the tideless pillow of the Deep,
As I can see, and know mine ancient lore,
Thou wouldst behold, 'mid rock and shingle brown,
The shapeless wreck of temple, tower, and town;
The dust of palaces and fanes,
Of cities of the hills and plains.
The bones of Empires, sleeping their last sleep,
Their names as dead as if they never bore
Name or dominion:—in whose ruins lie
The lost arcana of humanity,
The perished arts, the sciences forgot,
That flourished in the still-recurring Past
As hopefully as now, and rot, and rot,
And die, and die, until the Future cast
Their ghosts into the dreams of Sages,
Who re-discover them in after ages.
Upon the tideless pillow of the Deep,
As I can see, and know mine ancient lore,
Thou wouldst behold, 'mid rock and shingle brown,
The shapeless wreck of temple, tower, and town;
The dust of palaces and fanes,
Of cities of the hills and plains.
The bones of Empires, sleeping their last sleep,
Their names as dead as if they never bore
Name or dominion:—in whose ruins lie
The lost arcana of humanity,
The perished arts, the sciences forgot,
That flourished in the still-recurring Past
As hopefully as now, and rot, and rot,
And die, and die, until the Future cast
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Who re-discover them in after ages.
“Not ever trod men's feet the soil of Rome—
Long ere its name was breathed of mortal lips,
The sea washed over it in stormy foam;
And where the Atlantic whirls the laden ships
Great rivers ran, and gorgeous cities stood
Upon the margin of the flood,
And men made haste to sin and gather gold
With pains and sorrows manifold,
And pour it at the feet of King and Lord,
That led them captive, and would be adored
With mighty tribute, if adored at all,
And kept their hands at work, their necks in thrall.
And where to-day the fishes spawn,
Ten times ten thousand years ago
Contending hosts for battle drawn
Made crimson with their blood the winter snow,
And were as mad in their appointed hour,
As fools of yesterday that rage and bleed,
And slay their fellow-fools, for greed
Of wicked and insatiable power.
Long ere its name was breathed of mortal lips,
The sea washed over it in stormy foam;
And where the Atlantic whirls the laden ships
Great rivers ran, and gorgeous cities stood
Upon the margin of the flood,
And men made haste to sin and gather gold
With pains and sorrows manifold,
And pour it at the feet of King and Lord,
That led them captive, and would be adored
With mighty tribute, if adored at all,
And kept their hands at work, their necks in thrall.
And where to-day the fishes spawn,
Ten times ten thousand years ago
Contending hosts for battle drawn
Made crimson with their blood the winter snow,
And were as mad in their appointed hour,
As fools of yesterday that rage and bleed,
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Of wicked and insatiable power.
“All changes. Earth and Sea
Permute eternally.
'Tis mine to follow my maternal wave,
Although it lead me o'er an Empire's grave.
And 'tis my privilege to sigh,
As much as thine, O man of thoughtful heart!
Who, when the Winter creeps upon the sky,
Grievest for Summer blossoms that depart!
My flowers are Empires! Lo! they pass away,
And lo! new Empires bloom in God's eternal Day!”
Permute eternally.
'Tis mine to follow my maternal wave,
Although it lead me o'er an Empire's grave.
And 'tis my privilege to sigh,
As much as thine, O man of thoughtful heart!
Who, when the Winter creeps upon the sky,
Grievest for Summer blossoms that depart!
My flowers are Empires! Lo! they pass away,
And lo! new Empires bloom in God's eternal Day!”
| Studies from the Antique and Sketches from Nature | |