The Poetry of Real Life :: :: University of Virginia Library

What reek is yon, upcurling to the skies?
What victims, all with garlands newly bound?
What songs are these that from the shores arise,
Wherefore those augurs, duly robed and crowned?
What solemn rite have they met to perform,
For venture safe-returned from war or storm?

Lo! 'tis the bark of Jason, like a steed
That knows his pasture, bounding to the shore,
While rumours of the far-famed fleece precede
His coming, sending golden gleams before!
And hark! that shout hath welcomed him again,
To the remembered strand, not left in vain!

272

And there was feasting through th' Æmonian land,
And oft the goblet, flower-wreathed, was drained
To Bacchus, and Joy came not to a stand,
Till Pleasure's o'er-brimmed cup no more contained—
But Jason grieved, for Æson was not there,
In all this triumph and this joy to share.

Already Death and he had shaken hands:
He leaned on Time, as 't were upon a crutch,
That answered less as grew more his demands;
Aye, Death's cold hand already his did touch,
And shook Joy's cup from it—life had become
A twice-told tale, its music was nigh dumb!

The moon is up in heaven, at the full,
And maketh noon, in faint similitude
Of day, more shadowy, yet as beautiful.
With golden increase to that plenitude
Of light she's grown: that, like herself, the spell,
Now to be wrought, may work, and fully tell.

Lo! like a spectre in the wan moonshine,
Dim as some figure on old tapestry,
Yet lovely still, though now but an outline,
Like that of some old marble 'gainst the sky,
Medea flits, with hair that scattered flows,
And changeful shadows o'er her beauty throws!

She seems just like the moon, that at each cloud
Grows dim, yet in its shadow lovelier
Than when in all her light arrayed so proud,
Clothed in the beauty of the stars around her!
Her golden hair doth on the darkness break
In flashes, like a falling star's bright wake!

273

Lo! with mysterious right she doth constrain
The king of ghosts to listen to her prayer,
That Æson, whom the laws of fate enchain,
May cheat the grave, and still breathe upper air.
And, that the approaching charm may with it bring
A full accomplishment, thus doth she sing.

Thou Night, that, with thy thousand blinking eyes,
Seëst, yet seemest not to see, unlike
The staring sun, that into secrets pries,
And through dark corners doth his bold beams strike:
Bend down thine ear, propitious to the spell,
Thou that mak'st secrets, and canst keep as well!

Thou Earth, that into plant and herb dost send
Strange influence from thy mysterious core,
Whither all powers at thy surface tend,
And themselves so renew for evermore:
Auspicious be, and give to every plant
Each mystic property the charm may want!

And ye, whose operations shun the light,
Mysterious powers of darkness, who instil
Into the herb that creeps or climbs, in spite
Or love, the juices that preserve or kill,
And those which death, and death's own image, sleep,
Cause, and their opposites in Nature keep.

Ye, I adjure—and ye, assist me now,
Thou elemental fire, and thou air,
That warm the root, and work in bud and bough,
Join all your vital strengths, in union rare:
That like the springtide sap may be my spell,
And work like that, life's powers to compel.

274

And, lo! a tremulous light runs through the stars,
Presaging thus a favourable end,
As if of those eterne abodes the Lars
Mysterious recognition so would send:
And through the earth a shudder runs, as it
Trembled those magic powers to transmit!

And upward, from the realms below, there came
A hollow murmur, and then died away,
In the deep forest, through its leafy frame
Making each tree to shiver, leaf and spray:
As if the muttering wind strange things had said,
Causing each living thing an unknown dread!

Lo! like a corpse, lies Æson on the ground—
With drug Lethean hath Medea layed
His sense asleep, as Death at last had found,
Disguised as Sleep, his prey, in ambuscade.
The muttered spells work on his sense meanwhile,
And to the change his nature reconcile!

And, by yon rising star, she casts anew
His horoscope, that he with it may run
Another race, and feel its influence through
That life renewed, and with that star begun.
Pow'rs mysterious, yet out of Nature's course,
Assist, but thus lose all their better force!

Now seeths the cauldron, full of magic broth:
With wondrous juice and charms potential,
It works amain—for where the slabby froth
Boils over, of its use prophetical,
It clothes the withered herbage in fresh green,
And calls forth flow'rs, as there May's foot had been!

275

So, round it, in the grass it forms a ring
Of magic verdure, such as those we see:
And still, where-e'er its drops renewing cling,
They change that which they touch, whate'er it be:
Making the very stick that stirs it flower,
As though Spring's hand had touched it in its power!

But now on Æson must its force be tried,
His veins replenished with the juice she fills:
And first his heart 'gan beat within his side,
And through his bosom a strange feeling thrills;
And youth renewed, yet hovering on the extreme
Of consciousness, hangs round him like a dream!

He feels like one who dreams that he is young
Again, yet knows not whether it be true:
Like one who, when his funeral bell hath rung,
Is on a sudden snatched from the grave's view.
At length he opens up his eyes, and thinks,
And from his altered self, half-frightened, shrinks!

And consciousness comes slowly back again,
Filling the empty channels of his thought
With fancies strange, half wonder and half pain,
Floating the weeds and settlings thither brought
Through many a stagnant year, with currents strange,
From Life's great sea, whose tide doth turn and change!

Low, on the vital shore, that mental tide
Had ebbed—its voice, once mighty, scarcely made,
At distance, sound enough to it to guide!
And now, o'er wrecks of time, it seems to invade
The long-deserted strand—so, long he tries
To touch the bottom of these mysteries!

276

He feels the wrinkles from his brow depart,
His limbs plumped out to youthful gracefulness,
Fresh vigor breathed into each mortal part,
His feet, with airy tread, Mercurial press
The ground, and down his shoulders flow his locks,
Yet something still, within, the wonder mocks!

Yes, Disappointment, like a grinning ape,
Sits there, concealed, and mocks the outward change,
The feeling, from which he cannot escape,
That what he sees is not so true, as strange—
No throb runs through his heart, no pulse of bliss,
His body's changed, his heart unaltered is!

He stands as one who sees a wonder wrought
Upon another, in astonishment,
As if he had no share in it, nor thought
The wonder for himself could e'er be meant!
His heart within hath given him the lie,
The spell hath over it no mastery!

For magic, where Truth is, falls powerless—
Her divine image, like an amulet,
Within his heart, the magic doth suppress,
And by a counter-charm the charm is met!
A greater charm, charm made in heaven above,
To keep things in their places, by great Jove!

And if, to erring mortals, he permit
At times a wider latitude in things
Indifferent, 'tis for their benefit,
To make them wiser by their wanderings—
And, if o'er flesh and nerve he grants brief sway,
'Tis but to teach man not to disobey!

277

'Tis but to show how little can be wrought
By these things, e'en when placed at his command,
That Man's true magic lies but in the Thought
Which changes Spirit, not in spell or wand!
That there is fitness in all He hath made,
By these vain interruptions more displayed.

Man, yearning towards th' invisible world, hath long
Perplexed his brain its powers to compel,
And, groping towards the light, took still a wrong
Direction, and still missed the one, true spell!
He sought, without him, its pow'rs to controul,
While the invisible World was in his soul!

And, feeling vaguely this great truth, yet not
Enough enlightened to perceive it all,
As one who treasure knows, yet not the spot,
He spirits thought by force of spells to call—
While, from the depths of his own soul, he might
Have called forth shapes of beauty and of light!

Thus Æson stood, as one just from a dream
Aroused, not yet awake, nor yet asleep,
He seemed as changed, and yet did only seem,
'Twas on the surface, but not in the deep;
Like a reflection on still water, which,
If moved, is gone—made only to bewitch!

He shakes him, as to shake off some strange thought,
Ha, ha! he shouted, forcing show of joy,
But the vain effort no glad laughter brought,
With the new roses of his cheek to toy!
He raises up his arm, youth's strength is there,
He drops it at his side, with listless air!

278

In form a young man, but in heart an old,
He has the worst of both, without the good
Of either, and an evil manifold,
Which neither of their separate lists include—
He wants the calm of age, the bliss of youth,
And both he seems, yet neither is in truth!

Amongst the young he is not young, nor old
Amongst the old: he cannot love again:
Venus will not resume a heart grown cold,
And Bacchus those false lips no more will stain,
Except in mockery—the worser part
Has Youth, Old Age the larger still, the heart!

Amongst the young he finds not sympathy,
Nor feels—an interloper's name he bears—
Amongst the old he has not dignity
Nor reverence, the glory of gray hairs!
Mournful, he views the sports age cannot share,
Sadder the honors which that age should wear!

A living contradiction thus he goes,
A Man who dreams a life, and lives a dream,
Which others know not, and himself scarce knows,
Yet would know less, oh misery supreme!
So nothing to him is but what is not,
And what he was he is, yet has not got!

And Death, defeated of his prey awhile,
Hath ta'en in fee his heart within instead,
And even Hope hath nought to reconcile
This union of the living and the dead!
He has outlived the joys he should have had,
And, for more sorrow, seems, yet is not, glad!

279

So learn, vain mortals, to obey high Jove,
And deal not ever in forbidden things,
What he ordains, he has ordained in love,
Unlawful pleasures always leave their stings:
And he who would youth's race run o'er again,
Thus shows that he has run that race in vain—

More than content not magic can make Man—
This is the end of all his spells, and he
Might reach this ere with magic he began!
Or with a magic to which all are free:
The spells of his own thoughts, which supersede
All others, and are better far indeed!

These he is authorized to use, for these
God himself gave, and blessed them to his use;
A “natural magic,” which doth never cease
To operate: whose spirits ne'er refuse,
When called for, to appear—and it is his
Own fault if they appear in forms amiss!

The world is full of magic, full of charms,
Would Man but use them as they were designed,
To work him bliss, and shield him from all harms!
Yea! in the simplest things he spells may find—
And, in the true magician's hand, a flower
Can call up Beauty, like a wand of power!

Then work these wonders all of ye—yea! all—
For e'en the little child hath at command
Spirits of Love, whom e'en a word can call,
A look, and lo! before him they all stand!
God works his wonders thus, and would'st thou then,
Could'st thou, find higher charms, thou, Earth's poor denizen!