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Orion

An Epic Poem in Three Books: By R. H. Horne: Ninth Edition

Horne, R. H. (1802-1884)

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ORION.

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ORION.

BOOK I.

CANTO THE FIRST.

Ye rocky heights of Chios, where the snow,
Lit by the far-off and receding moon,
Now feels the soft dawn's purpling twilight creep
Over your ridges, while the mystic dews
Swarm down, and wait to be instinct with gold
And solar fire!—ye mountains waving brown
With thick-winged woods, and blotted with deep caves
In secret places; and ye paths that stray
E'en as ye list; what odours and what sighs
Tend your sweet silence through the star-showered night,

Like memories breathing of the Goddess forms
That left your haunts, yet with the day return!

And still more distant through the grey sky floats
The faint blue fragment of the dead moon's shell;
Not dead indeed, but vacant, since 't is now
Left by its bright Divinity. The snows
On steepest heights grave tints of dawn receive,
And mountains from the misty woodland rise
More clear of outline, while thick vapours curl
From off the valley streams, and spread away,
Till one by one the brooks and pools unveil
Their cold blue mirrors. From the great repose
What echoes now float on the listening air—
Now die away—and now again ascend,
Soft ringing from the valleys, caves, and groves,
Beyond the reddening heights? 'Tis Artemis come
With all her buskined Nymphs and sylvan rout,
To scare the silence and the sacred shades,
And with dim music break their rapturous trance!

But soon the music swells, and as the gleam

Of sunrise tips the summits tremblingly,
And the dense forests on their sides exchange
Shadows opaque for warm transparent tones,
Though still of depth and grandeur, nearer grows
The revelry; and echoes multiply
Behind the rocks and uplands, with the din
Of reed-pipe, timbrel, and clear silver horns,
With cry of Wood-nymphs, Fauns, and chasing hounds.

Afar the hunt in vales below has sped,
But now behind the wooded mount ascends,
Threading its upward mazes of rough boughs,
Mossed trunks and thickets, still invisible,
Although its jocund music fills the air
With cries and laughing echoes, mellowed all
By intervening woods and the deep hills.

The scene in front two sloping mountain sides
Displayed; in shadow one, and one in light.
The loftiest on its summit now sustained
The sun-beams, raying like a mighty wheel

Half seen, which left the front-ward surface dark
In its full breadth of shade; the coming sun
Hidden as yet behind: the other mount,
Slanting opposed, swept with an eastward face,
Catching the golden light. Now, while the peal
Of the ascending chase told that the rout
Still midway rent the thickets, suddenly
Along the broad and sunny slope appeared
The shadow of a stag that fled across,
Followed by a Giant's shadow with a spear!

‘Hunter of Shadows, thou thyself a Shade,’
Be comforted in this,—that substance holds
No higher attributes; one sovran law
Alike develops both, and each shall hunt
Its proper object, each in turn commanding
The primal impulse, till gaunt Time become
A Shadow cast on Space—to fluctuate—
Waiting the breath of the Creative Power
To give new types for substance yet unknown:
So from faint nebulæ bright worlds are born;
So worlds return to vapour. Dreams design

Most solid lasting things, and from the eye
That searches life, death evermore retreats.

Substance unseen, pure mythos, or mirage,
The shadowy chase has vanished; round the swell
Of the near mountain sweeps a bounding stag—
Round whirls a god-like Giant close behind—
O'er a fallen trunk the stag with slippery hoofs
Stumbles—his sleek knees lightly touch the grass—
Upwards he springs—but in his forward leap,
The Giant's hand hath caught him fast beneath
One shoulder tuft, and, lifted high in air,
Sustains! Now Phoibos' chariot rising bursts
Over the summits with a circling blaze,
Gilding those frantic antlers, and the head
Of that so glorious Giant in his youth,
Who, as he turns, the form succinct beholds
Of Artemis,—her bow, with points drawn back,
A golden hue on her white rounded breast
Reflecting, while the arrow's ample barb
Gleams o'er her hand, and at his heart is aimed.

The Giant lowered his arm—away the stag
Breast forward plunged into a thicket near;
The Goddess paused, and dropt her arrow's point—
Raised it again—and then again relaxed
Her tension, and while slow the shaft came gliding
Over the centre of the bow, beside
Her hand, and gently drooped, so did the knee
Of that heroic shape do reverence
Before the Goddess. Their clear eyes had ceased
To flash, and gazed with earnest softening light.

His stature, though colossal, scarcely seemed
Beyond the heroic mould, such symmetry
His form displayed; and in his countenance
A noble honesty and ardour beamed,
With child-like faith, unconscious of themselves,
And of the world, its vanities and guile.
Eyes of deep blue, large waves of chestnut locks,
A forehead wide, and every feature strong,
Yet without heaviness or angry line,
Had he; and as he knelt, a trustful smile
That dreads no consequence, and quite forgets

All danger, lightly played around his mouth.
Meanwhile the Nymphs and all the sylvan troop,
Like wave on wave when coloured by the clouds,
Pell-mell come rolling round the mountain side,
And crowd about the Goddess, who commands
The hunt to pause. At once the music stops—
And all the hounds, with wistful looks, crouch down.

‘Young Giant of the woods,’ said Artemis,
‘The bow, that ne'er till now its glittering points
Bent back without recoil and whirring twang—
That sound a shaft's flight, and that flight a death—
For once to its quiescent shape returns
Unsated. Midst these woodland vales and heights
Seldom I rove, but from my train have Nymphs
Permission sought full oft the chase to lead
Among these echoes and these fleeting shades.
Thee have they seen, as now, bounding beyond
Their swiftest hounds to bear the stag away,
As thou once more hadst surely done this morn,
But for my presence. Say, then, whence thou spring'st—

Where dwell'st thou—how art called—and wherefore thus
Dar'st thou the sports of these my Wood-nymphs mar?'

‘Goddess!’ the Giant answered, ‘I am sprung
From the great Trident-bearer, who sustains
And rocks the floating earth, and from the nymph—
A huntress joying in the dreamy woods—
Euryalé. Little am I wont to speak,
Save to my kindred giants, who in caves
Amid yon forest dwell, beyond the rocks,
Or the Cyclopes; neither know what words
Best suit a Goddess' ear. I and the winds
Do better hold our colloquies, when shadows,
After long hunting, vanish from my sight
Into some field of gloom. I am called “Orion,”—
And for the sport I have so often marred,
'T was for my own I did it, but without
A thought of whose the Nymphs, or least design
Of evil. Wherefore, Artemis, pardon me;
Or if again thou 'lt bend thy bow, first let me
To great Poseidon ofer up a prayer,

That his divine waves with absorbing arms
May take my body rather than dull earth.’

With attitude relaxed from queenly pride
To yet more queenly grace, the shaft she placed
Within her burnished quiver, and the bow
A Nymph unstrung, while with averted face—
As gazing down the woodland vista slopes,
Which oft her bright orb silvered through black shades
When midnight throbbed to silence—Artemis asked,
‘And who are those thy brothers of the cave,
And why with the Cyclopes dost consort?’

‘My wood-friends all of ancestry renowned,
Claim for their sires heroes, or kings, or gods;
And two of them have seen the ways of men;’
Orion answered, while with uplifted breast,
Like a smooth wave o'ergilded by the morn,
High heaving ere it cast itself ashore,
Buoyant, elate, and massively erect,
He stood. ‘They are my kindred thus descended,
And, though not brothers, yet we recognise

A sort of brotherhood in this decree
Of fate, or Zeus,—that nature filled our frames
With larger share of bodily elements
Than others mortal born. Seven giants we,
Of different minds, and destinies, and powers,
Yet glorified alike in corporal forms.
Few are my years, O Artemis! few my needs,
Though large my fancied wants, and small my knowledge
Save of one art. Earth's deep metallic veins
Hephaistos taught me to refine and forge
To shapes that in my fancy I devised,
For use or ornament. To the lame God
Grateful I felt, nor knew what thanks to give;
But, ere a shadow-hunter I became—
A dreamer of strange dreams by day and night—
For him I built a palace underground,
Of iron, black and rough as his own hands.
Deep in the groaning disembowelled earth,
The tower-broad pillars and huge stanchions,
And slant supporting wedges I set up,
By the Cyclopes aided—at my voice

Which through the metal fabric rang and pealed
In orders echoing far, like thunder-dreams.
With arches, galleries, and domes all carved—
So that great figures started from the roof
And lofty coignes, or sat and downward gazed
On those who strode below and gazed above—
I filled it; in the centre framed a hall:
Central in that, a throne; and for the light,
Forged mighty hammers that should rise and fall
On slanted rocks of granite and of flint,
Worked by a torrent, for whose passage down
A chasm I hewed. And here the God could take,
Midst showery sparks and swathes of broad gold fire,
His lone repose, lulled by the sounds he loved;
Or, casting back the hammer-heads till they choked
The water's course, enjoy, if so he wished,
Midnight tremendous, silence, and iron sleep.’

Thus in rough phrase, and with no other grace
Than forthright truth, Orion told his tale;
Then smiling looked around upon the Nymphs
Till all their bright eyes glowed and turned aside;

And then he gazed down at the couchant hounds,
Whose eyes and ears grew interrogative,
For well the fleet-heeled robber they all knew.

Now spake an Ocean-nymph with sea-green eyes:
‘Goddess, he hath not told thee all; his skill
And strength, unaided—singing as he wrought—
Scooped out the bay of Zanklé, framed its port;
Banked up the rampire that forbids the surge
To break o'er Sicily; and a temple built
To the sea-deities.’ ‘I had forgot;’
Orion said: ‘These things, long since were done.’

‘Hunter, I pardon thee, and from my Nymphs
All memory of late offence I take,
As though they ne'er had seen thee:’ Artemis said,
With a sweet voice and look. ‘Retire awhile,
Ye sylvan troop, to yonder deep-mossed dell;
And thou, Orion, henceforth in my train
Thy station take.’ More had the Goddess said,
But o'er the whiteness of a neck that ne'er
One tanned kiss from the ardent sun received,

A soft suffusion came; and waiting not
Reply, her silver sandals glanced i' the rays,
As doth a lizard playing on a hill,
And on the spot where she that instant stood,
Nought but the bent and quivering grass was seen.

Above the isle of Chios, night by night,
The clear moon lingered ever on her course,
Covering the forest foliage, where it swept
In its unbroken breadth along the slopes,
With placid silver; edging leaf and trunk
Where gloom clung deep around; but chiefly sought
With melancholy splendour to illume
The dark-mouthed caverns where Orion lay
Dreaming among his kinsmen. Ere the breath
Of Phoibos' steeds rose from the wakening sea,
And long before the immortal wheel-spokes cast
Their hazy apparition up the sky
Behind the mountain peaks, pale Artemis left
Her fainting orb, and touched the loftiest snows
With feet as pure, and white, and crystal-cold,
In the sweet misty woodland to rejoin

Orion with her Nymphs. And he was blest
In her divine smile, and his life began
A new and higher period, nor the haunts
Of those his giant brethren sought he now,
But shunned them and their ways, and slept alone
Upon a verdant rock, while o'er him floated
The clear moon, causing music in his brain
Until the skylark rose. He felt 't was love.

END OF CANTO I.

CANTO THE SECOND.

Midst ponderous substance had Orion's life
Dawned, and his acts were massive as his form.
Those his companions of the forest owned
Like corporal forces, but their several minds
And aims were not as his. The Worker he,
The builder-up of things, and of himself:
His wood-friends were Rhexergon, of descent
Royal, heroic—breaker down of things—
A coaster, skilled in fishing and in ships;—
Hormetes, arch-backed like the forest boar,
Short-haired, harsh-voiced, of fierce and wayward will;—

Harpax, with large loose mouth, and restless hand,
Son of the God of Folly by a maid
Who cursed him—and the child, an idiot else,
Grew keen, in rapine taking huge delight;—
Forceful Biastor;—smooth Encolyon,
The son of Hermes, yet in all things slow,
With sight oblique and forehead slanting high,
The dull retarder, chainer of the wheel;—
And Akinetos—who, since first the dawn
Sat on his marble forehead, ne'er had gazed
Onward with purpose of activity,
Nor felled a tree, nor hollowed out a cave,
Nor built a roof, nor aided any work,
Nor heaved a sigh, nor cared for anything
Save contemplation of the eternal scheme—
The Great Unmoved—a giant much revered.

Forgotten by their sires in other loves,
Here had they chiefly dwelt, and in these caves,
Save two, Encolyon and the Great Unmoved,
Who came from Ithaca. The islanders
Had driven them thence; and this the idle cause.

The barren stony land had ne'er produced
Enough of grain for food; but by the skill
Of their artificers in iron and brass,
And by their herds of goats and cloud-woolled sheep,
With other isles the Ithacans exchanged,
And each was well supplied. Encolyon's brain
Some goddess—and 't was Discord, as results
Made plain—one night inspired with sage alarms,
And straight the King of Ithaca he sought,
Imploring him, ‘if that he duly prized
A heaven-blest crown and subjects all content,
To drive the ships, sent from the neighbouring isles,
Forth from his port, or sink the grain they brought:
Else would his people, over-fed, grow slothful,
Rude, and importunate with new conceits,
And soon degenerating in their race,
Neglect their proper island, and their King.
But, on its own resources nobly forced,
Then would the stony Ithaca become
Great in herself by self-dependent power.’

To this the King gave ear, and on the shore

He, with Encolyon, for an omen prayed;
And soon along the horizontal line
Rising, they saw a threatening rack of clouds,
Black as the fleet from Aulis 'gainst doomed Troy,—
In after-time well known. Encolyon cried,
‘Behold propitious anger on the isle,
For its wrong doings!’ Wherefore all the grain
From friendly islands they, with scorn, sent back.
A famine soon in Ithaca spread wide,
And hungry people prowled about at night,
Then clamoured, and took arms—their war-cry, ‘Bread!’
Thus was the dormant evil of their hearts
Attested, and the King his people knew,
And bitterly their want of reverence felt.

Encolyon, in his stature tall confiding,
Though Akinetos warned him not to move,
Went gravely forth the rebel throngs to meet.
The politic giant's staid demeanour awed
The angry mass at first, and with their eyes
They seemed to listen, doubtful of their ears,

So puzzling was his speech. He to the King
And his chief heroes then discoursed apart,
Convincing them that all the wheels went well.
With head bent sideways from the light, he looked
Like to some statesman of consummate mind
Working an ancient problem; and then spake
In language critical, final, stolid, astute,
Concluding with affectionate appeal
To common sense, and all we hold most dear.
‘Keep down—put back—prevent! O Gods, prevent!’
This was his famous saying. Now the King
Led out his patriot army; but ere long
The army hungered too—the King was slain—
Encolyon fled, and hid within a ship.

Forthwith a crowd to Akinetos thronged,
Crying, ‘What say'st thou, giant, who art wise?
What shall we do?’ And Akinetos said,
‘Great hunger is a single thing—one want:
Satisfy that, and strength will be acquired
To multiply desire—wants without end!
Therefore be patient: leave all else to fate.’

The people, stubborn as their own dry rocks—
Enraged as the wild winds—to reason deaf—
And also wanting food—cursed his calm thought—
Cast stones upon him, and had surely slain
But that without resistance he bore all,
And without word; so they, being tired, relented,
And bore him to the ship, where, in the hold,
Encolyon lay at length with in-drawn breath.
To Chios sailed the ship. The Ithacans
Chose a new king, and traded with the isles.

In this companionship Orion's bent
Of nature had not merged; his working spirit
Sought from the fallen trunks and rocks to frame
Rude image of his fancies, till at length
He won Hephaistos' love, from whom he learnt
The god's own solid art. But this attained,
And proved by mastery, a restless dream
Dawned on his soul which he desired to shape,
Yet knew not how, nor saw its like around,
But vaguely felt at times, and thought he saw
In shadows. Wherefore through the forest depths,

Through vales and over hills, a hunter fleet,
He chased his unknown hopes; and when the stag,
Or goat, or ounce, he overtook and seized,
Ever he set them free, and e'en the bear
And raging boar his spear refrained to strike,
Save by its shadow, as they roaring fled.
The bodily thing became to him as nought
When gained; nor could past efforts satisfy.

Now from a Goddess did he quickly learn
The mystery of his mood, and saw how vain
His early life had been, and felt new roots
Quicken within him, branches new that sprang
Aloft, and with expanding energies
Tingled, and for immortal fruit prepared.

She met him in her beauty. Oft when dawn
With a grave red looked through the ash-pale woods,
And quick dews singing fell, while with a pulse
As quick, Orion stood beneath the trees,
And gazed upon the uncertain scene,—his heart
Forewarned his senses with a rapturous thrill.

He turned, and from the misty green afar,
In silence did the Goddess' train appear
Rounding a thicket. Slow the crowding hounds
Tript circling onward; Nymphs with quivered backs,
And clear elastic limbs of nut-brown hue,
Or like tanned wall-fruit, ripening and compact;
And short-horned Fauns down-gazing on their pipes;
And Oceanides with tresses green
Plaited in order, or by golden nets
In various device confined, each bearing
Shell-lyres and pearl-mouthed trumpets of the sea;
Dryads and Oreads decked with oak-leaf crowns
And heath-bells, dancing in the fragrant air;
And Sylvans, who, half Faun, half shepherd, lead
A grassy life, with cymbals in each hand
Pressed cross-wise on the breast, waiting the sign;—
Attendant round a pale-gold chariot moved:
By two large-antlered milk-white stags 't was drawn,
Their sleek hides 'neath the fine dews quivering,
In delicate delight. Above them rose
The fair-haired Goddess, onward softly gliding,
As though erect she stood on wafted clouds.

She smiled not; but the crescent on her brow
Gleamed with a tender light. He knew 't was love.

Giddy with happiness Orion's spirit
Now danced in air; his heart tumultuous beat,
Too high a measure and too wild to taste
The fulness that he dreamed encompassed him,
But he could not encompass, nor scarce dare
Clearly to recognise. And Artemis smiled
Upon him with a radiance silver sweet,
And o'er his forehead oft her hand she waved,
Till visions of the purity of love
Above him floated, and his being filled.

Language of Gods she taught him; and portrayed,
Far as 't was fitting, and from all gross acts
Refined, their several wondrous histories:
But chief of all, in accents grandly sad,
She told of kindness by Poseidon done,
His ocean sire, when swan-necked Leto bearing
Twins of bright destiny and heirs of heaven—
Herself and Phoibos—cruelly was driven

Through the bleak ways of earth, and found no rest,
Pursued by serpent jealousy, for Zeus
Had loved fair Leto; how Orion's sire
A floating isle that sometimes 'neath the waves
Drifted unseen, sometimes showed watery rocks,
Smote with his trident, and, majestical,
Delos arose—stood fast—and gave a home
To fainting Leto,—and a place of birth
For deities—the Sun, and his loved Orb.
The mysteries, worship, and the sacrifice
Of her Ephesian Temple, she displayed
Before his wondering thought, and oft he knelt
In solitude, when of its hundred columns,
Each reared by kingly hands, wakeful he dreamed,
And felt his Goddess love too high removed.
The ocean realm below, and all its caves
And bristling vegetation, plant and flower,
And forests in their dense petrific shade
Where the tides moan for sleep which never comes;
All this she taught him, and continually
Knowledge of human life made clear to him
Through facts and fables. He the intricate web

Of nature, gradually of himself began
To unwind, and see that gods and men were one—
Born of one element, imperfect both,
Yet aspirant, and with perfection's germ
Somewhere within. He brooded o'er these things.

One day, at noontide, when the chase was done,
Which with unresting speed since dawn had held,
The woods were all with golden fires alive,
And heavy limbs tingled with glowing heat.
Sylvans and Fauns at full length cast them down,
And cooled their flame-red faces in the grass,
Or o'er a streamlet bent, and dipped their heads
Deep as the top hair of their pointed ears;
While Nymphs and Oceanides retired
To grots and sacred groves, with loitering steps,
And bosoms swelled and throbbing, like a bird's
Held between human hands. The hounds with tongues
Crimson, and lolling hot upon the green,
And outstretched noses, flatly crouched; their skins
Clouded or spotted, like the field-bean's flower,
Or tiger-lily, painted the wide lawns.

Orion wandered deep into a vale
Alone; from all the rest his steps he bent,
Thoughtful, yet with no object in his mind;
Languid, yet restless. Near a hazel copse,
Whose ripe nuts hung in clusters twined with grapes,
He paused, down gazing, till upon his sense
A fragrance stole, as of ambrosia wafted
Through the warm shades by some divinity
Amid the woods. With gradual step he moved
Onward, and soon the poppied entrance found
Of a secluded bower. He entered straight,
Unconsciously attracted, and beheld
His Goddess love, who slept—her robe cast off,
Her sandals, bow and quiver, thrown aside,
Yet with her hair still braided, and her brow
Decked with her crescent light. Awed and alarmed
By loving reverence—which dreads offence
E'en though the wrong were never known, and feels
Its heart's religion for religion's self,
Besides its object's claim—swift he retired.

The entrance gain'd, what thoughts, what visions his!

What danger had he 'scaped, what innocent crime,
Which Artemis might yet have felt so deep!
He blest the God of Sleep who thus had held
Her senses! Yet, what loveliness had glanced
Before his mind—scarce seen! Might it not be
Illusion?—some bright shadow of a hope
First dawning? Would not sleep's God still exert
Safe influence, if he once more stole back
And gazed an instant? 'T were not well to do,
And would o'erstain with doubt the accident
Which first had led him there. He dare not risk
The chance 't were not illusion—oh, if true!
While thus he murmured hesitating, slow,
As slow and hesitating he returned
Instinctively, and on the Goddess gazed!

With adoration and delicious fear,
Lingering he stood; then pace by pace retired,
Till in the hazel copse sighing he paused,
And with most earnest face, and vacant eye,
And brow perplexed, stared at a tree. His hands
Were clenched; his burning feet pressed down the soil,

And changed their place. Suddenly he turned round,
And made his way direct into the bower.

There was a slumb'rous silence in the air,
By noon-tide's sultry murmurs from without
Made more oblivious. Not a pipe was heard
From field or wood; but the grave beetle's drone
Passed near the entrance; once the cuckoo called
O'er distant meads, and once a horn began
Melodious plaint, then died away. A sound
Of murmurous music yet was in the breeze,
For silver gnats that harp on glassy strings,
And rise and fall in sparkling clouds, sustained
Their dizzy dances o'er the seething meads.
With brain as dizzy stood Orion now
I' the quivering bower. There rapturous he beheld,
As in a trance, not conscious of himself,
The perfect sculpture of that naked form,
Whose Parian whiteness and clear outline gleamed
In its own hue, nor from the foliage took
One tint, nor from his ample frame one shade.
Her lovely hair hung drooping, half unbound,—

Fair silken braids, fawn-tinted delicately,
That on one shoulder lodged their opening coil.
Her large round arms of dazzling beauty lay
In matchless symmetry and inviolate grace,
Along the mossy floor. At length he dropped
Softly upon his knees, his clasped hands raised
Above his head, till by resistless impulse
His arms descending, were expanded wide—
Swift as a flash, erect the Goddess rose!

Her eyes shot through Orion, and he felt
Within his breast an icy dart. Confronted,
Mutely they stood, but all the bower was filled
With rising mist that chilled him to the bone,
Colder, as more obscure the space became;
And ere the last collected shape he saw
Of Artemis, dispersing fast amid
Dense vapoury clouds, the aching wintriness
Had risen to his teeth, and fixed his eyes,
Like glistening stones in the congealing air.

END OF CANTO II.

CANTO THE THIRD.

O'er plastic nature any change may come,
Save that which seeks to crush the primal germ;
And outward circumstance may breed within,
A second nature which o'ercomes the first,
But ne'er destroys, though dormant or subdued.
More toil for him whose wandering fancies teem
With too much life, and that vitality
Which eats into itself; more toil of brain
And limb, sole panacea for the change
From tyrant senses to pure intellect.
Wherefore, his work redoubled, Artemis
Directs Orion's course; not as before

With grave and all-subduing tenderness,
While with white fingers midst his chestnut locks,
In her speech pausing, gently would she hang
Violets, as white as her own hands, and sprigs
Of Cretan dittany, whose nodding spikes
Flushed deeper pink beneath the sacred touch,—
But with a penetrating influence
And front austere, as suiting best the Queen
Of maiden immortality. His soul
Strove hard to ascend and leave the earth behind;
And by the Goddess' guidance every hour
Had its fixed duties. Husbandry of fields
She taught those giant hands, and how to raise
The sweetest herbs and roots, which now his food
Became; nor taste and culture of the vine
Permitted, nor the flesh of slaughtered kine,
Nor forest boar, nor other thing that owns
An animal life. Lastly, she taught his mind
To reason on itself, far as the bounds
Of sense external furnish images
And types in attestation of each phase
Of man's internal sphere—large orbit space

For varied lights—and also showed the way
Rightly his complex knowledge to employ,
And from their shadows trace substantial things,
Things back again to shadows—thus evolving
The principle of thought, from root to air.

This done, the blossom and the fruit of all
Was her prime truth, into each element
Of his life's feelings and its acts, to instil:
'T was Love's divinest essence. In the soul,
Central its altar's flame for ever burns
Inviolate, and knowing not the change
Which time and fate o'er all else in the world
Bring speedily, or with a creeping film
That hides decay. Ever at peace it dwells
With its secure desires, which are soul-fed,
Nor on idolatrous devotion made
Dependent, nor on will and wayward moods
Of others; 't is self-centred as a star,
And in the music of the conscious nerves,
Finds bliss, which e'en the slightest touch or look
Of this magnetic passion can create,

And render perfect. Nor doth absence break
The links of ecstasy, which from a heart
By a heart are drawn, but midst the glare of day,
The depths of night, alone, or in a crowd,
Imagination of love's balmy breath
Can to the spirit fashion and expand
Love's own pure rapture and delirium.
To this fixed sublimation there belong
No conflicts of pale doubts, anxieties,
Mean jealousies, anguish of heart-crushed slaves,
And forlorn faces looking out on seas
Of coming madness, from the stony gaps
Through which departed truth and bliss have fled;
But high communion, and a rapturous sense
Of passion's element, whereof all life
Is made; and therefore life should ne'er attain
A mastery o'er its pure creative light.

Midst chequered sunbeams through the glancing woods
No more Orion hunted; from the dawn
Till eve, within some lonely grot he sat,

His thoughts reviewing, or beneath a rock
Stood, back reclined, and watching the slow clouds,
As doth a shepherd in a vacant mood.
Oft to some highest peak would he ascend,
And gaze below upon his giant friends,
Who looked like moving spots,—so dark and small;
And oft, upon some green cliff ledge reclined,
Watch with sad eye the jocund chase afar
In the green landscape, where the quivering line
Led by the stag—who drew its rout behind
Of woodland shapes, confused as were their cries,
And sparkling bodies of fleet-chasing hounds,—
Passed like a magic picture, and was gone.
His husbandry soon ceased; he hated toil
Unvaried, ending always in itself,
And to the Goddess pleaded thoughtful hours
For his excuse, and indolent self-disgust.
Small profit found his thought; his sympathies
Were driven inward, and corroded there.

Sometimes he wandered to the lowland fens,
Where the wild mares toss their sharp manes i' the blast,

And scour through washy reeds and hollows damp—
Hardened in after-ages by long droughts—
And midst the elements he sought relief
From inward tempests. Once for many hours,
In silence, only broken from afar
By the deep lowing of some straying herd,
Moveless and without speech he watched a hind
Weeding a marsh; a brutish clod, half built,
Hog-faced and hog-backed with his daily toil,
Mudded and root-stained by the steaming ooze,
As he himself were some unnatural growth;
Who yet, at times, whistled through broken fangs—
‘Happier than I, this hind,’ Orion thought.

Once tow'rds the city outskirts strayed his steps,
With a half purpose some relief to seek
Midst haunts of men, and on the way he met
A mastic-sifter with his fresh-oiled face.
‘O friend,’ Orion said, ‘why dost thou walk
With shining cheek so sadly in the sun?’
Sighing, the melancholy man replied:—

‘The lentisk-trees have ceased to shed their gums;
Their tears are changed for mine, since by that tree
Myself and children live. My toil stands still.
Hard lot for man, who something hath within
More than a tree, and higher than its top,
Or circling clouds, to live by a mere root
And its dark graspings! Clearly I see this,
And know how 't is that toil unequally
Is shared on earth: but knowledge is not power
To a poor man alone 'gainst all the world,
Who, meantime, needs to eat. Like the hot springs
That boil themselves away, and serve for nought,
Which yet must have some office, rightly used,
Man hath a secret source, for some great end,
Which by delay seems wasted. Ignorance
Chokes us, and time outwits us.’—On he passed.
‘That soul hath greater cause for grief than I,’
Orion thought—yet not the less was sad.

Away disconsolate the giant went,
Now clambering forest slopes, now hurrying down
Precipitous brakes, tearing the berried boughs

For food, scarce tasted, and oft gathering husks,
Or wind-eggs of strange birds dropt in the fens,
To toss them in some rapid brook, and watch
Their wavering flight. But now a tingling sound
Wakes his dull ear!—a distant rising drone
Upon the air, as of a wintry wind—
And dry leaves rustle like a coming rain.
The wind is here; and, following soon, descends
A tempest, which relieves its rage in tears.
Kneeling he stooped, and drank the hissing flood,
And wished the Ogygian deluge were returned;
Then sat in very wilfulness beside
The banks while they o'erflowed, till starting up,
Bounding he sought his early giant friends.

Them, in their pastoral yet half-savage haunts
Found, as of yore, he with brief speech addressed,
And bade them to an orgie on the plain,
By rocks and forests amphitheatred.
Such greeting high they with a gleeful roar
Received, and forthwith rose to follow him,
Save Akinetos, who seemed not to hear,

But looked more grave still seated on a stone,
While they betook them to the plains below.

Thither at once they sped, and on the way
Rhexergon tore down boughs, while Harpax slew
Oxen and deer, more than was need; and soon
On the green space Orion built the pile
With cross logs, underwood, dry turf and ferns,
And cast upon it fat of kine, and heaps
Of crisp dry leaves; and fired the pile, and beat
A hollow shield, and called the Bacchic train,
Who brought their skins of wine, and loaded poles
That bent with mighty clusters of black grapes
Slung midway. In the blaze Orion threw
Choice gums and oils, that with explosion bright
Of broad and lucid flame alarmed the sky,
And fragrant spice, then set the Fauns to dance,
While whirled the timbrels, and the reed-pipes blew
A full-toned melody of mad delight.
Down came the Mænads from the sun-browned hills,
Down flocked the laughing Nymphs of groves and brooks;

With whom came Opis, singing to a lyre,
And Sida, ivory-limbed and crowned with flowers.
High swelled the orgie; and the roasting bulk
Of bull and deer was scarce distinguishable
'Mid the loud-crackling boughs that sprawled in flame.
Now richest odours rose, and filled the air—
Made glittering with the cymbals spun on high
Through jets of nectar upward cast in sport,
And raging with songs and laughter and wild cries!

In the first pause for breath and deeper draughts,
A Faun who on a quiet green knoll sat—
Somewhat apart—sang a melodious ode,
Made rich by harmonies of hidden strings,
Unto bright Meropé the island's pride,
And daughter of the king; whereto a quire
Gave chorus, and her loveliness rehearsing,
Wished that Orion shared with her the throne.

The wine ran wastefully, and o'er the ears
Of the tall jars that stood too near the fire,
Bubbled and leapt, and streamed in crimsoning foam,

Hot as the hissing sap of the green logs.
But none took heed of that, nor anything.
Thus song and feast, dance, and wild revelry,
Succeeded; now in turn, now all at once
Mingling tempestuously. In a blind whirl
Around the fire Biastor dragged a rout
In osier bands and garlands; Harpax fiercely
The violet scarfs and autumn-tinted robes
From Nymph and Mænad tore; and by the hoofs
Hormetes seized a Satyr, with intent,
Despite his writhing freaks and furious face,
To dash him on a gong, but that amidst
The struggling mass Encolyon thrust a pine,
Heavy and black as Charon's ferrying pole,
O'er which they, like a bursting billow, fell.

At length, when night came folding round the scene,
And golden lights grew red and terrible,
Flashed torch and spear, while reed-pipes deeper blew
Sonorous dirgings and melodious storm,
And timbrels groaned and jangled to the tones

Of high-sustaining horns,—then round the blaze,
Their shadows brandishing afar and athwart
Over the level space and up the hills,
Six Giants held portentous dance, nor ceased
Till one by one in bare Bacchante arms,
Brim-full of nectar, helplessly they rolled
Deep down oblivion. Sleep absorbed their souls.

Region of Dreams! ye seething procreant beds
For germs of life's solidities and power;
Whether ye render up from other spheres
Our past or future beings to the ken
Of this brief state; or, wiser, are designed,
With all your fleeting images confused,
To scatter, during half our mortal hours,
The concentrating passions and the thoughts
Which else were madness; O maternal realm,
Console each troubled heart!—with opiate hand
Gently the senses charm, and lead astray
The vulture thoughts by thy blest phantasies,
Beckoning with vague yet irresistible smile!

Sleep's God the prayer well pleased received, but said,
‘Not such the meed of those who seek my courts
Through Bacchanalian orgies.’ O'er the brain
Of fallen Orion visions suitable
Came with voluptuous gorgeousness, preceded
By a dim ode; and as it nearer swelled,
In rapturous beauty Meropé swept by,
Who on him gazed in ecstasy! He strove
To rise—to speak—in vain. Yet still she gazed,
And still he strove; till a voice cried in his ear,
‘Depart from Artemis!—she loves thee not—
Thou art too full of earth!’ He started awake!
The piercing voice that cast him forth, still rang
Within his soul; the vision of delight
Still ached along each nerve; and slowly turning
A look perplexed around the spectral air,
Himself he found alone 'neath the cold sky
Of day-break—midst black ashes and ruins drear.

END OF CANTO III.

BOOK II.

CANTO THE FIRST.

Beneath a tree, whose heaped-up burthen swayed
In the high wind, and made a hustling sound,
As of a distant host that scale a hill,
Hormetes and Encolyon gravely sat,
Sometimes they spake aloud, then murmured low,
Then paused as if perplexed,—looked round and snuffed
The odour of wood-fires in the fresh forest air,—
And then again addressed them to their theme.
Of cloudy-brained Orion they discoursed,
Lost to companionship, and led by dreams.

‘Once,’ said Hormetes, ‘he was great on earth;
A worker in iron, and a hunter fleet
Who oft ran down the stag; when, by some chance,
He pleaseth Artemis, and in her train,
All his high worth resigning, and his friends,
Dwindles to suit her fancy, and becomes
A giant of lost mind.’ Encolyon thrust
His heavy heel into the soil, and spake
With serious gesture. ‘Ever Orion sought
Some new device, some hateful onward deed
Through strange ways hurrying, scorning wise delay.
A victim fell he soon to Artemis
And her cold spells, for of his Ocean-sire
Orion's soul hath many a headlong tide.
But most of all her gleamy illusions fell
Upon his mind, which soon became a maze
For ghostly wanderings, and wild echoes heard
Through mists; and none could comprehend his speech.’

‘Methought the orgie had recalled his sense,
So fairly he bespake us to the mirth;

So full and giant-like was his disport
Throughout the night,’ Hormetes now rejoined.
Encolyon raised one hand:—‘That orgie's waste
Of energies,’ he murmured, ‘and the hours
Far better given to rest, I much deplore.
Why joined I in the mirth?—how was I lost!
But when a regulated mind sedate,
Its perfect poise permits to waver aside
One tittle, certainly the man must fall
Somewhat in dignity, howe'er retrieved.
Hence, when a regulated’—Here his speech
Hormetes interrupted hastily,
Since, for his share, no self-reproach felt he.
‘I say the orgie, and his high disport,
Showed in Orion some return to sense:
And when next morn I saw him near a brook,
Where I had stooped to drink—by him unseen—
Down ran he like a panther close pursued,
Then stopped and listened—now looked up on high—
Now stared into the brook as he would drink,
And drain its ripplings to the last white stone—
Then went away forgetful. This methought,

E'en by its wildness and its strenuous throes,
Savoured of hope, and of his safe return
To corporal sense, by shaking off these nets
Of moonbeams from his soul; but when I rose
And crossed his path, and bade him speak to me,
Again 't was all of vapour and dark thoughts,
Unlike the natural thoughts of bone and thews,
As we of yore were taught, and found enough
For all our needs, and for our songs and prayers.
Yet had he, as it seemed, some plan within,
And ever tended to some central point
In some place—nought more could I understand:
Wherefore I deem that he is surely mad.’
‘And so deem I,’ rejoined Encolyon:
‘Ever advancing—working a new way—
Tasking his heart, forgetful of his life
And present good—of madness the sure sign.’

While thus they talked, Harpax with speed approached,
Shouting his tidings—‘Meropé loves Orion—
Orion hath gone mad for Meropé!’

The twain who had erewhile the cause discerned,
And signs of reason's loss, at this fresh news,
So little dreamed of from his recent mood,
A minute looked each other in the face
With sheep-like gravity, then backward sank
Against the tree, loud laughing. ‘This were good,’
Checking his laughter with a straight-lined face,
Encolyon said, ‘if not too deeply burning,
And that a power he hold within himself
To pause at will.’ But Harpax quick rejoined,
‘I, for myself, would have this Meropé,
And force Oinopion render up his crown,
If ye will aid me.’ ‘We will give our aid,’
Hormetes cried—‘and yet methinks this love
Affecting doubly, as by the self-same blow,
Might from some spells in the orgie-fumes arise?
Ye marked, wise Akinetos would not move.’
‘Doubtless 't was wise,’ Encolyon said. ‘More care
Befits our steps.’ They rose and strode away.

There is a voice that floats upon the breeze
From a heathed mountain; voice of sad lament

For love left desolate ere its fruits were known,
Yet by the memory of its own truth sweetened,
If not consoled. To this Orion listens
Now, while he stands within the mountain's shade.

‘The scarf of gold you sent to me, was bright
As any streak on cloud or sea, when morn
Or sunset light most lovely strives to be.
But that delicious hour can come no more,
When, on the wave-lulled shore, mutely we sat,
And felt love's power, which melted in fast dews
Our being and our fate, as doth a shower
Deep foot-marks left upon a sandy moor.
We thought not of our mountains and our streams,
Our birth-place, and the home of our life's date,
But only of our dreams—and heaven's blest face.
Never renew thy vision, passionate lover—
Heart-rifled maiden—nor the hope pursue,
If once it vanish from thee; but believe
'T is better thou shouldst rue this sweet loss ever
Than newly grieve, or risk another chill
On false love's icy river, which betraying

With mirrors bright to see, and voids beneath,
Its broken spell should find no faith in thee.’

Thus sang a gentle Oread, who had loved
A River-god with gold-reflecting streams,
But found him all too cold—while yet she stood
Scarce ankle-deep—and droopingly retired
To sing of fond hopes past. Orion's hand
A jewelled armlet held, whereon his eyes
Earnestly rested. By a lovely boy,
Smiling, 't was brought to him while he reclined
Desponding, o'er a rock. ‘This gift, still warm,
My mistress sends thee, giant son of Ocean,
Once having seen thee in the hunting train
Of Artemis. Her name, if thou wouldst know,
Is Meropé, daughter of Chios' king,
The proud Oinopion, lord of a hundred ships.’

Orion to the palace of the king
Forthwith departed. Meropé once seen,
His eyes resign their clear external power.
And see through feeling, utterly possessed

With her rare image; and his deep desire,
Deeper by energies so long confused,
When half his earth-born nature was subdued,
Struggled and bounded onward to the goal.

Her beauty awed the common race of men.
Her's was a shape made for a serpent dance,
Which charmed to stillness and to burning dreams,
But she herself the illusive charm o'erruled
As doth an element, merging for a time,
Ne'er lost; and none could steadily confront
Her sphynx-like bosom, and high watchful head.
Dark were her eyes, and beautiful as Death's,
With a mysterious meaning, such as lurks
In that pale Ecstasy, the Queen of Shades.
All deemed her passion was a mortal flame,
Volcanic, corporal, ending with its hour
Of sacrifice, dissolving in fine air;
Save one bald sage, who said that human nerves,
And what they wrought, were wondrous as the mind,
And in the eye of Zeus none could decide
Which held the higher place. For, to the nerves

Perfect abstraction and pure bliss belonged,
As parent of all life, and might in death
Continuance through some subtler medium find,—
Whence, life renewed, and heaven at length attained.

Nought of this sage's lore recked Meropé,
And, for Orion, he was sick of thought,
Save that which round his present object played
Delicious gambols and high phantasies.
Together they, the groves and templed glades
That, like old Twilight's vague and gleamy abode,
In mist and maze clung round the palace towers,
Roved, mute with passion's inward eloquence.
They loitered near the founts that sprang elate
Into the dazzled air, or pouring rolled
A crystal torrent into oval shapes
Of blood-veined marble; and oft gazed within
Profoundly tranquil and secluded pools,
Whose lovely depths of mirrored blackness clear—
Oblivion's lucid-surfaced mystery—
Their earnest faces and enraptured eyes
Visibly, and to each burning heart, revealed.

‘And art thou mine to the last gushing drop
Of these high throbbing veins?’ each visage said.
Orion straightway sought Oinopion's court,
And his life's service to the gloomy king
He proffered for the hand of Meropé.

Oinopion strode about his pillared hall,
And the dun chequers of its marble floor
Counted perplexed, while pondering his reply.
Orion's strength and giant friends he feared;
Nor to accept the alliance, nor refuse,
Seemed wise. Thereto, Poseidon's empire rolled
Too near, and might surround his towers with waves;
Wherefore the king a double face assumed.
‘Orion, I consent,’ mildly he said:
‘Thy service I accept, and to thee give,
When thou shalt have performed it, Meropé.
Clear me our Chios of its savage beasts,
Dragon and hippogrif, wolves, serpents dire,
Within six days, and Meropé is thine.’

Through the high palace-gates Orion passed,

Speeding to seek strong aid for this hard task
Among his forest friends. Old memories
Slumbrously hung above the purple line
Of distance, to the east, while odorously
Glistened the tear-drops of a new-fallen shower;
And sunset forced its beams through strangling boughs,
Gilding green shadows, till it blazed athwart
The giant-caves, and touched with watery fires
The heavy foot-marks which had plashed the sward
On vacant paths, through foliaged vistas steep,
Where gloom was mellowing to a grand repose.
At intervals, as from beneath the ground,
Far in the depth of these primeval cells,
Low respirations came. There, in great shade,
The Giants sleep. Lost sons are they of Time.

There is no hour when rest is sacred held
By him who works and builds; and eve and night,
Alike with day, his toil oft-times will claim.
‘Awake, companions! 'tis Orion calls!’
And straight the giants rose, and came to him,

Save Akinetos, into whose low cave
They with a torch now entered, there to hold
The conference, for he was very wise,
And ne'er proposed, nor did a thing that failed.

Orion's tale is told; Hormetes then
For Meropé proposed fair lots to draw,
Whereat Orion glared,—but speech refrained
When Harpax fiercely on Hormetes turned
With loud reproach, since he had sworn to him
Far different purpose; so Orion smiled,
And of Rhexergon and Biastor sought
Aid in his heavy task. They promised this—
When each one, by an arm, Encolyon
Grasped, and reminded of the darkness. ‘Night
Is the fit time,’ Orion cried, ‘to dig
The pitfalls, throw up mounds with bristling stakes
At top, as barriers, and the nets and toils
Fix and prepare, and choose our clubs and spears.’
But still Encolyon urged a day's delay,
For dignity of movements thus combined,

If not for need. To Akinetos now
All turned with reverence, waiting the result
Of silent wisdom and of calm profound;
But from these small things he had long withdrawn
His godlike mind, and was again abstract.

Orion took the torch, and led the way
Into the dark damp air. Each to his post
Assigning; one, for the chief mountain pass,
Soon as the grey dawn touched the highest peaks;
One, in the plains below; two, for the woods;
The while Biastor and himself would range
The island, driving to the centre all
That should escape their spears. 'T was thus resolved.
Meantime, Rhexergon and Biastor joined
Orion, who went forth to dig the pits,
Break down high tops of trees, and weave their boughs
In barrier walls, and fix sharp stakes on mounds
And river banks. When they were gone, a yell,

Mocking the wild beasts doomed to be destroyed,
Harpax sent forth. ‘Mine be the task,’ he said,
‘To ravage the King's pastures—slay his bulls—
And into our own woods and meadows drive
His goats and stags.’ ‘Rather collect alive,’
Hormetes interposed, ‘with strong-meshed nets,
All the mad beasts, and loose them suddenly
Within Oinopion's palace! That were sport
Worthy our toil; small joy for us to aid
Orion's freaks for love of Meropé,—
Whom yet, methinks, he wisely hath preferred
To crystal-bosomed, wintry Artemis,—
Pale huntress, exiled from our sunny woods,
With crescent trembling bloody in eclipse,
Had my will power—’ ‘But all her nymphs detained,
And, like our vines, of the ripe golden fruit
Deep rifled through their leaves,’ Harpax rejoined:
‘Or placed,’ Encolyon muttered to himself,
‘On pedestals, until they changed to stone,’—
And something worse he said, not safe to tell;—
‘All votive statues to the Goddess famed

For cruel purity and marble heart!—’
Hormetes shouted, staring up on high.

All this heard Artemis, who o'er the caves
Rolled her faint orb before the coming dawn,
In lonely sadness; and with an inward cry
Of jealous anguish and of vengeful ire,
Like an electric spark that knows not space,
Shot from her throne into the eastern heaven.

END OF CANTO I.

CANTO THE SECOND.

The Sun-god's tresses o'er the whirling reins
That scarcely ruled the swift-ascending steeds,
Fell, like a golden torrent, while his head,
Answering his goddess sister's brief request,
Smiling, he bowed,—and the clouds closed behind
His blazing wheels. Four of those giants' sires
Were gods, who with their earth-born sons might hold
Communion; wherefore Artemis, alone,
Deemed not her power sufficed for safe revenge;
Of which now sure, her course to earth she bent.

The night-work done, his friends Orion left

Their further preparations to complete,
And to the caves returned, hopeful that now
The others would assist. There sat the three,
Listening the slow speech of Encolyon,
Who with change-hating eyes, fixed on the earth,
Discoursed, and to Orion's anxious looks
Thus made reply:—‘We have resolved to give
Our utmost aid—or aid that may suffice,—
In furtherance of thy task, which many days
Rightly requires.’ ‘Six days,’ Orion said,—
And turned to go; when Harpax interposed:
‘Be it then six, but our conditions hear.
Take Meropé, thy prize; the rest be ours.
Oinopion's kingdom we shall duly share,
And make Encolyon king, as fitted best
For cares of state and governance of men.’
‘Not altogether King,’ Encolyon said
With meekness—‘but, in sooth, I would return
Among mankind, and dictate to small towns.’

Orion answered, ‘This were breach of faith
In me; the King and all his subjects, still

Must as I found them rest, until he die;
Then, as ye will, among ye take the crown,
Which, having Meropé, I ne'er shall claim.
Away now to our work!’ Hormetes rose.
‘This we accept,’ he said, ‘for brief is life
Of man—and insecure. But further thought
Should prompt us rather choose Encolyon
As guiding minister and staid high priest,
While Akinetos rule as Chios' king.’

At mention of the name so reverenced,
Silently all assented. ‘See, the light
Of day spreads warmly down the valley slopes!’
Orion cried. Now Phoibos through the cave
Sent a broad ray! Harpax arose, and then,—
Pondering on rules for safest monarchy,—
Encolyon heavily. The solar beam
Filled the great cave with radiance equable,
And not a cranny held one speck of shade.
A moony halo round Orion came,
As of some pure protecting influence,
While with intense light glared the walls and roof,

The heat increasing. The three giants stood
With glazing eyes, fixed. Terribly the light
Beat on the dazzled stone, and the cave hummed
With reddening heat, till the red hair and beard
Of Harpax showed no difference from the rest,
Which once were iron-black. The sullen walls
Then smouldered down to steady oven-heat,
Like that with care attained when bread has ceased
Its steaming, and displays an angry tan.
The appalled faces of the giants showed
Full consciousness of their immediate doom!
And soon the cave a potter's furnace glowed,
Or kiln for largest bricks, and thus remained
The while Orion, in his halo clasped
By some invisible power, beheld the clay,
Of these his early friends, change. Life was gone!

Now sank the heat—the cave-walls lost their glare—
The red lights faded, and the halo pale
Around him, into chilly air expanded.
There stood the three great images, in hue

Of chalky white and red, like those strange shapes
In Egypt's regal tombs;—but presently
Each visage and each form with cracks and flaws
Was seamed, and the lost countenance brake up,
As, with brief toppling, forward prone they fell,—
And, in dismay, uttering a sudden cry,
Orion headlong from the cavern fled!

Fierce Harpax, and wind-steered Hormetes, reft
Of life thus early, may by few be wept;
But long laments by the chief rulers made,
Of Chios, for the sage Encolyon,
Far echoed, and still echo through the world—
Which feels, e'en now, for his great principle
A secret reverence. ‘Chainer of the wheel!
Hater of all new things!—to whom the acts
Of men seemed erring ever in each hope
And effort to advance, save in a round,
Taught by the high example of the spheres!—
Oh champion grave, who with a boundary stone
Stood'st in improvement's door-way like a god,
Ready by wholesome chastisement to grant

Crushing protection; regulator old
Of science, scorning genius and its dreams,
And all the first ideas and germs of things,—
Time and his broods of children shall prolong
Thy fame, thy maxims, and thy practice staid,
Fraught with experience turning on itself.’

O'er the far rocks, midst gorge and glen profound;
Now from close thickets, now from grassy plains;
The sounds of raging contest, flight and death,
Told where Rhexergon and Biastor wrought
Their well-directed work. Them, quickly joined
Their head in this destruction, and ere night,
Huge forms, ferocious, mighty in the dawn,
When hoar rime glistened on each hairy shape,
Nought fearing, swift, brimfull of raging life,
Lay stiffening in black pools of jellied gore.
Nor with the day ceased their tremendous task,
But all night long Orion led the way
Through moonless passes to most secret lairs,
Where in their deep abodes fierce monsters crouched—
Dragons, and sea-beasts, and compounded forms,—

And in the pitchy blackness madly huddling,
Midst deafening yells and hisses they were slain.

Next day the unabated toil displayed
Like prowess and result; but with the eve
Fatigue o'ercame the giants, and they slept.
Dense were the rolling clouds, starless the glooms,
But o'er a narrow rift, once drawn apart,
Showing a field remote of violet hue,
The high Moon floated, and her downward gleam
Shone on the upturned giant faces. Rigid
Each upper feature, loose the nether jaw;
Their arms cast wide with open palms; their chests
Heaving like some large engine. Near them lay
Their bloody clubs with dust and hair begrimed,
Their spears and girdles, and the long-noosed thongs.
Artemis vanished; all again was dark.

With day's first streak Orion rose, and loudly
His prone companions called. But still they slept.
Again he shouted; yet no limb they stirred,
Though scarcely seven strides distant. He approached,

And found the spot, so sweet with clover-flower
When they had cast them down, was now arrayed
With many-headed poppies, like a crowd
Of dusky Ethiops in a magic cirque,
Which had sprung up beneath them in the night,
And all entranced the air. Orion paced
Around their listless bodies thoughtfully.
‘Three giants slain outright by Phoibos' beams,—
Now hath a dead sleep fallen on my friends.
'T was wise in Akinetos not to move.’
An earthquake would not wake them. Artemis
Rejoices, and the hopes of Meropé,
To whom the news a breathless shepherd bore,
Throbbed fearfully suspended o'er the brink
Of this event. Not long Orion paused:
‘Though all may fail, the utmost shall be tried:
Secure is he who on himself relies.’
This, hastening to his work, was all he said.

Four days remain. Fresh trees he felled, and wove
More barriers and fences; inaccessible

To fiercest charge of droves, and to o'erleap
Impossible. These walls he so arranged,
That to a common centre each should force
The flight of those pursued; and from that centre
Diverged three outlets. One, the wide expanse,
Which from the rocks and inland forests led;
One, was the clear-skied windy gap above
A precipice; the third, a long ravine,
Which, through steep slopes, down to the sea-shore ran
Winding, and then direct into the sea.

Two days remain. Orion, in each hand
Waving a torch, his course at night began,
Through wildest haunts and lairs of savage beasts.
With long-drawn howl before him trooped the wolves—
The panthers, terror-stricken—and the bears,
With wonder and gruff rage; from desolate crags,
Leering hyænas, griffin, hippogrif,
Skulked, or sprang madly, as the tossing brands
Flashed through the midnight hollows and cold nooks,
Sudden as fire from flint; o'er crashing thickets,

With crouched head and curled fangs, dashed the wild boar,
Gnashing forth on with reckless impulses,
While the clear-purposed fox crept closely down
Into the underwood, to let the storm,
Whate'er its cause, pass over. Through dark fens,
Marshes, green rushy swamps, and margins reedy,
Orion held his way,—and rolling shapes
Of serpent and of dragon moved before him
With high-reared crests, swan-like yet terrible,
And often looking back with gem-like eyes.
All night Orion urged his rapid course
In the vexed rear of the swift-droving din,
And when the dawn had peered, the monsters all
Were hemmed in barriers. These he now o'erheaped
With fuel through the day, and when again
Night darkened, and the sea a gulf-like voice
Sent forth, the barriers at all points he fired,
Midst prayers to Hephaistos and his Ocean-sire.

Soon as the flames had eaten out a gap
In the great barrier fronting the ravine

That ran down to the sea, Orion grasped
Two blazing boughs; one high in air he raised,
The other with its roaring foliage trailed
Behind him as he sped. Onward the droves
Of frantic creatures with one impulse rolled
Before this night-devouring thing of flames,
With multitudinous voice and downward sweep
Into the sea, which now first knew a tide,
And, ere they made one effort to regain
The shore, had caught them in its flowing arms,
And bore them past all hope. The living mass,
Dark heaving o'er the waves resistlessly,
At length, in distance, seemed a circle small,
Midst which, one creature in the centre rose,
Conspicuous in the long red quivering gleams
That from the dying brands streamed o'er the waves.
It was the oldest dragon of the fens,
Whose forky flag-wings and horn-crested head
O'er crags and marshes regal sway had held;
And now he rose up, like an embodied curse
From all the doomed, fast sinking—some just sunk—

Looked land-ward o'er the sea, and flapped his vans,
Until Poseidon drew them swirling down.

Along the courts and lofty terraces,
Within Oinopion's palace echoing,
The choral voices and triumphal clang
Of music, ordered by the royal maid,
Advanced to greet Orion. She with flushed neck
And arms; large eyes of flashing jet and fire,
And raven tresses fallen from their bands,
The loud procession led. But soon they met
A phalanx armed with mandate from the king,
And all the triumph ceased. Oinopion then
Gnawed on his lip, and gathered up his robe
In one large knot. Forthwith the whispering guards
His daughter to the strongest tower convey;
Then silently return. Orion comes:
‘The work is done, O King! and Meropé,
My bride, I claim—my second father thou!’
This said, he bent his knee. With wandering eye,—
Like one who seems to seek within the air
An object, while his thoughts would gather tiem.

For guile—and with averted face, the king
Answered, ‘Thou claim'st too soon!’ and inwardly
Oinopion said, ‘Three of his giant friends
Are dead; the others spell-bound sleep.’ The voice
Of wronged Orion rose within the hall,
Demanding Meropé; but image-like,
Hard as if hewn out from a flinty cliff,
And stately, stood the king, as he replied,
‘She waits the voice of our mute oracles.’

In a deep forest, where the night-black spires
Of pines begin to swing, and breathe a dirge
Whose pauses are filled up with yearning tones
Of oaks, that few external throes display
Midst their robust unyielding boughs—the winds
Are flying now in gusts, and soon a storm
Bursts howling through them, like a Fury sent
In quest of one who hath outstripped his fate,
And been caught up to heaven. But no escape
Or premature release his course attends
Whose passions boil above mortality;
Nor till those mortal struggles have transpired

Can satisfaction or repose be found.
Vainly shall he, with self-deluding pride
Of weakness, masked with power, seek solitude
And high remoteness from his fellow-men,
In all their bitter littleness and strife;
Their noble efforts, suffering, martyrdom.
He conquers not who flies, except he bear
Conquest within; nor flies he who believes
The object of his passion he can grasp,
Save for design to consummate the end.

‘O raging forest, do I seek once more
Your solitude for my secure abode.?’
Orion cried, with wild arms cast abroad,
Fronting a tree whose branches lashed the air,
While its leaves showered around;—‘And shall I not
In your direct communion with the earth
And heavens, find sympathy with this branched frame
I bear, thus shaken; yet unlike your storm,
Which may be wholesome, coming from without,
And from the operative round of things,
While mine is centred in myself, and rends

But does not remedy. Let me then shun
The baleful haunts of men—worse than the beasts
Whom I have exiled, and to shadows changed—
Savage as beasts, with less of open force;
As wily, with less skill and promptitude;
As little reasoning, save for selfish ends;
Less faithful, true, and honest, than the dog;
But hypocritical, which beasts are not,
Save in the fables which men make for them!
Into myself will I henceforth retire,
And find the world I dreamed of when a child.
Nor this alone; but worlds of higher mould
And loftier attributes shall roll before
My constant contemplation, in the cave
Of Akinetos, whom at times I'll seek,
And emulate his wisdom; ever right
In never moving, more than absolute need.
Thus shall I find my solace in disdain
Of earth's inhabitants, whom through city and field
I've found sheer clay, save in the visions bright
Of Goddess, and of Nymph,—O Meropé!
And where art thou, while idly thus I rave?

Runs there no hope—no fever through thy veins,
Like that which leaps and courses round my heart?
Shall I resign thee, passion-perfect maid,
Who in mortality's most finished work
Rank'st highest—and lov'st me, even as I love?
Rather possess thee with a tenfold stress
Of love ungovernable, being denied!
'Gainst fraud what should I cast down in reply?—
What but a sword, since force must do me right,
And strength was given unto me with my birth,
In mine own hand, and by ascendancy
Over my giant brethren. Two remain,
Whom prayers to dark Hephaistos and my sire
Poseidon, shall awaken into life;
And we will tear up gates, and scatter towers,
Until I bear off Meropé. Sing on!
Sing on, great tempest! in the darkness sing!
Thy madness is a music that brings calm
Into my central soul; and from its waves
That now with joy begin to heave and gush,
The burning Image of all life's desire,
Like an absorbing fire-breath'd phantom-god,

Rises and floats!—here touching on the foam,
There hovering over it; ascending swift
Starward, then swooping down the hemisphere
Upon the lengthening javelins of the blast!
Why paused I in the palace-groves to dream
Of bliss, with all its substance in my reach?
Why not at once, with thee enfolded, whirl
Deep down the abyss of ecstasy, to melt
All brain and being where no reason is,
Or else the source of reason? But the roar
Of Time's great wings, which ne'er had driven me
By dread events, nor broken-down old age,
Back on myself, the close experience
Of false mankind, with whispers cold and dry
As snake-songs midst stone hollows, thus has taught me,—
The giant hunter, laughed at by the world,
Not to forget the substance in the dream
Which breeds it. Both must melt and merge in one.
Now shall I overcome thee, body and soul,
And like a new-made element brood o'er thee
With all devouring murmurs! Come, my love!

Come, life's blood-tempest!—come, thou blinding storm,
And clasp the rigid pine—this mortal frame
Wrap with thy whirlwinds, rend and wrestle down,
And let my being solve its destiny,
Defying, seeking, thine extremest power,—
Famished and thirsty for the absorbing doom
Of that immortal death which leads to life,
And gives a glimpse of Heaven's parental scheme.’

END OF CANTO II.

CANTO THE THIRD.

In parching summer, when the mulberry-leaves
Drooped broad and gleaming, and the myrtles curled,
While the pomegranate's rind grew thin and hard,
The vegetation of the isle looked pale,
Flaccid, and fading in despondency
For rain, and the young corn in every field,
With dry and rustling murmur as it waved,
Glistened impatiently, till autumn's tomb
Received the husky voice, and spring's dead hopes.
The vine-hills, and wild turpentines that grew
Along the road beneath, all basked content,
As did the lentisk-trees; but many a pant

And sultry sigh came from the fields and meads,
The city's gardens, where no fountains played,
And hot stone temples in the sacred groves.
Such lack of moisture oft had been endured,
And even the latest winter, whose thick breath
Solemnly wafted o'er the Ægean sea,
Had not resigned a single peak of snow
To melt and flow down for the brooks of spring.

But since the breath of spring had stirred the woods,
Through which the joyous tidings busily ran,
And oval buds of delicate pink and green
Broke, infant-like, through bark of sapling boughs,—
The vapours from the ocean had ascended,
Fume after fume, wreath upon wreath, and floor
On floor, till a grey curtain upward spread
From sea to sky, and both as one appeared.
Now came the snorting and intolerant steeds
Of the Sun's chariot tow'rds the summer signs;
At first obscurely, then with dazzling beams;
And cleared the heavens, but held the vapours there,

In cloudy architecture of all hues.
The stately fabrics and the Eastern pomps,
Tents, tombs, processions veiled, and temples vast,
Remained not long in their august repose,
But sank to ruins, and re-formed in likeness
Of monstrous beasts in lands and seas unknown.
These gradually dilating, limb from limb,
And head from bulk, were drawn apart, and floated
Hither and thither, till in ridges strewn,
Like to a rich and newly-furrowed field—
Then breaking into purple isles and spots,
Faded to faintness, and dissolved in air.

One midnight dark a spirit electric came,
And shot an invisible arrow through the sky,
Which instantly the wide-spread moisture called
To congregate in heavy drops, that fell
As suddenly. Like armies, host on host,
Pouring upon the mountains, vales, and plains,
The showers clashed down. Each runnel and thin stream
A branching brook became, or flowing river;

Each once small river rolled a goodly flood
With laughing falls; and many a Naiad bright,
And rush-crowned River-god, was newly born,
While all the land-veins with fresh spirit ran
In this quick season of Orion's life.

The snows on every height had drunk the showers,
Till, heavy with the moisture, each steep ridge
Lost its pure whiteness and transparent frost;
Sank down as humbly as a maid once proud,
Who droops, and kneels, and weeps; and from beneath
Its stagnant foam melted quick-running rills,
Down slopes, with sunny music and loud hum,
Precipitous, ere through dark craggy rifts
Sparkling it dashed, and poured towards the plain.
Unusual growth of corn was in the land,
Whose fields with tender-flowing greenness smiled,
As winds with shades ran dances over them;
And even the vineyards, oliveyards, and groves
Of citron, were in their abundant fruits
Abundantly increased: all works increased.

Dark as an eagle on a cloudy rock,
Oinopion sat upon his ancient throne.
Fixed was his face, while, through a distant gate,
Upon the ruins of a tower he gazed,
That like a Titan's shattered skeleton
Still in its place stuck fast. But she was gone.
His daughter Meropé was borne away;
And willingly he knew; and whither fled,
He knew. But how recover, or revenge
The loss?—new dangers, outrage, how avert?
Infuriate were his people at the deed,
For by the giants many had been slain,
Ere they had won their prize. 'Gainst Meropé,
Some spake aloud; against Orion, all,—
Save the bald sage, who said ‘'T was natural.’
‘Natural!’ they cried: ‘O wretch!’ The sage was stoned.

Within his cave, in his accustomed place,
With passive dignity that ever holds
Unwise activity in check and awe—
And active wisdom where the will's not strong—

Sat Akinetos, listening to the tale
Thus by Rhexergon told; Biastor leaning
Against a rock, with folded arms, the while.

‘We from our trance with aching brows awoke
Starting, and on our elbows raised, with chins
Set in our hands, collected our mazed minds.
We both had dreamed one dream. In Chios' walls
A feast we held in honour of the king,
Encolyon, newly chosen—as we thought—
By the chief rulers, while Orion stood
Chained to the throne. But Meropé, 't was said,
Should still be his, if loyal, hand and soul.
Yet ere Orion answered, rushing came
A small dark shape—some airy messenger—
Darting on all sides, diving, nestling, leaping,
Swift as a mullet coursing the sea-hare,
And strong, as when within the shore-hauled net
It searches, like a keen hound, to and fro,
And no gap finding, bounds o'er the high-drawn line:
One leaps—all follow like a flock of sheep
Over a wattle. So, this headlong shape,

Which, in our dream, now multiplied to shoals,
And thus confused the feasters. But what 't was
None saw, nor knew; but all the feast they marred,
While, in the place of meats and fruits, we found
Dust—dry-baked dust; the dust of the gone king,
Encolyon—as a bird in the air screamed forth—
By Phoibos smitten. Now a sound we heard,
Like to some well-known voice in prayer; and next
An iron clang that seemed to break great bonds
Beneath the earth, shook us to conscious life.
A briny current passing through our hearts
Stung all our faculties back to former power;
And as we rose, across a distant field
We saw Orion coming with a sword.
Our dream thus ended in reality,
Without a boundary line. What followed seemed
Continuous, for Orion urged us on.
Fresh work had he in hand; few words explained;
And to Oinopion's city we repaired,
Entering at eve of a great festival,
I with a club, iron bound, of ponderous weight;
Biastor with a shield, forged by Orion,

Whose disk enormous would protect all three,
And, set with ray-like spikes around the rim,
Looked like a fallen star. Onward we drove
Behind this threatening orb, down-trampling all
Who fled not, or our impulse strove to oppose;
Feasters and dancers, chieftains, priests, and guards;
I tell it as it happened—blow by blow—
Till near a high tower, doubtful of our course,
At bay, like bulls, within a circle clear
By terror made, we paused. The archers soon,
With bow-arm forward thrust, on all sides twanged,
Around, below, above. Behind the shield,
That on its spikes stood grimly, we retired,
And heard the rattling storm; when from the tower
A light flashed down one side, and at the top
Stood Meropé, who cried, “Orion, see!
My prison I have fired, and in my haste
Fired first below. I cannot pass the flames!”
E'en while she spake a hydra-wreath of smoke
Ran coiling up the stony stair, and peered
Into each chamber with its widening head,
As if to seek its prey. Again she cried,—

“I will leap down into thine arms!” “Forbear!”
Shouted Orion. “First let us try our strength
With skill.” I on the groaning gate-posts smote,
Until their bolts and nails started like tusks
From battered jaws, and inward sank the gates,
Crushing armed men behind. O'er all we passed.
Orion, now in front, amidst a cloud
Of smoke, dust, slaughter, and confusing cries,
The blackened slabs of winding stair ascended;
And, in the same fierce uproar and dismay
Of men, not fit to cope with sons of Gods,
Unscathed came down with Meropé. 'T was good.
He bore her to the cedar-grove afar,
Where in brief space a palace he had built,
While we, remaining midway, called a rout
Around us, and great revel held that night.’

Rhexergon ceased, while in the sunny air
His large eyes shone, and, pleased with what he told—
For well he spake with deep-voiced cadences—
Looked like a monarch who hath made a verse.
Now Akinetos spake. ‘Your efforts done,

What good to ye is wrought? To him, what good?
Not long will Meropé be his: if long,
What good, since both must tire? Oinopion soon,
The king of ships and armies, may reclaim
This Meropé by force: perchance her own
Inconstant will may save these ships and men.’
‘If we defend the prize,’ Biastor said,
‘Substantial good unto ourselves were due;
Wise are thy words; wherefore large terms of spoil
We with Orion will in future make,
That shall secure our constant revelry,
As in Dodona, once, ere driven thence
By Zeus, for that Rhexergon burnt some oaks.
Thrust we the king from off his throne, or thrust
His throne from under him to some fresh place,
And with our daily fancies we'll sit crowned,
And feast, and order armies to march forth,
And ships to sail, and music, and more feast.’

‘Better pull down the city, and destroy
The fleet,’ Rhexergon said. ‘Then, all despoiled,
And made as slaves, leave we our woodland homes:

There live, with Akinetos for our king!
Aught we destroy Orion can rebuild,
If we should need; or frame aught else we need:
Rise, therefore, Akinetos; thou art king!’
So saying, in his hand he placed a spear.

As though against a wall 't were set aslant,
Flatly the long spear fell upon the ground.
‘He will not be a king; nor will he aid
Your purposes,’ murmured the Great Unmoved.
‘Hormetes, Harpax, aided, and both died;
Orion's work will shortly work his end;
Encolyon, ever meddling to prevent,
Wasted his mind and care, and found his death.
Those who have wisdom aid not, nor prevent.
Nought good has followed aught that ye have done,
Nor will good follow aught that ye can do,
Or I can do,—or any one can do,—
Except such good as of itself will come,
If so 't was ordered. Leave Zeus to his work,
The Supreme Mover of all things, and best,
Who, if we move not, must Himself sustain

His scheme: hence, never moved by hands unskilled,
But moved as best may be. Be warned; sit still.’

Within the isle, far from the walks of men,
Where jocund chase was never heard, nor hoof
Of Satyr broke the moss, nor any bird
Sang, save at times the nightingale—but only
In his prolonged and swelling tones, nor e'er
With wild joy and hoarse laughing melody,
Closing the ecstasy, as is his wont,—
A forest, separate and far withdrawn
From all the rest, there grew. Old as the earth,
Of cedar was it, lofty in its glooms
When the sun hung o'erhead, and, in its darkness,
Like Night when giving birth to Time's first pulse.
Silence had ever dwelt there; but of late
Came faint sounds, with a cadence droning low,
From the far depths, as of a cataract
Whose echoes midst incumbent foliage died.
From one high mountain gushed a flowing stream,
Which through the forest passed, and found a fall
Within, none knew where, then rolled tow'rds the sea.

There, underneath the boughs, mark where the gleam
Of sunrise through the roofing's chasm is thrown
Upon a grassy plot below, whereon
The shadow of a stag stoops to the stream
Swift rolling tow'rds the cataract, and drinks deeply.
Throughout the day unceasingly it drinks,
While ever and anon the nightingale,
Not waiting for the evening, swells his hymn—
His one sustained and heaven-aspiring tone—
And when the sun hath vanished utterly,
Arm over arm the cedars spread their shade,
With arching wrist and long extended hands,
And graveward fingers lengthening in the moon,
Above that shadowy stag whose antlers still
Hang o'er the stream. Now came a rich-toned voice
Out of the forest depths, and sang this lay,
With deep speech intervalled and tender pause.

‘If we have lost the world what gain is ours!
Hast thou not built a palace of more grace
Than marble towers? These trunks are pillars rare,

Whose roof embowers with far more grandeur. Say;
Hast thou not found a bliss with Meropé,
As full of rapture as existence new?
'Tis thus with me. I know that thou art blest.
Our inmost powers, fresh winged, shall soar and dream
In realms of Elysian gleam, whose air—light—flowers,
Will ever be, though vague, most fair—most sweet—
Better than memory.—Look yonder, love!
What solemn image through the trunks is straying?
And now he doth not move, yet never turns
On us his visage of rapt vacancy!
It is Oblivion. In his hand—though nought
Knows he of this—a dusky purple flower
Droops over its tall stem. Again, ah see!
He wanders into mist, and now is lost.—
Within his brain what lovely realms of death
Are pictured, and what knowledge through the doors
Of his forgetfulness of all the earth
A path may gain? Then turn thee, love, to me:
Was I not worth thy winning, and thy toil,
O earth-born son of Ocean? Melt to rain.’

No foot may enter midst these cedar glooms:
Passion is there—a spell is on the place—
It hath its own protecting atmosphere,
Needing no walls nor bars. But Chios' king
Hath framed his purpose; the sworn instruments
Chosen; and from the palace now depart
In brazen chariots, richly armed, ten chiefs.
‘Watch well your moment!’—lastly spake the King;
‘Slay not outright—but make his future life
A blot—a blank!’ They bent their plumed helms,
And through the gates in thunder whirled away.

Beyond the cedar forest lay the cliffs
That overhung the beach, but midway swept
Fair swelling lands, some green with brightest grass,
Some golden in the sun. Mute was the scene,
And moveless. Not a breeze came o'er the edge
Of the high-heaving fields and fallow lands;
Only the zephyrs at long intervals
Drew a deep sigh, as of some blissful thought,
Then swooned to silence. Not a bird was seen
Nor heard: all marble gleamed the steadfast sky.

Hither Orion slowly walked alone,
And passing round between two swelling slopes
Of green and golden light, beheld afar
The broad grey horizontal wall o' the dead-calm sea.

O'ersteeped in bliss; prone on its ebbing tide;
With hope's completeness vaguely sorrowful,
And sense of life-bounds too enlarged; his thoughts
Sank faintly through each other, fused and lost,
Till his o'ersatisfied existence drooped;
Like fruit-boughs heavily laden above a stream,
In which they gaze so closely on themselves,
That, touching, they grow drowsy, and submerge,
Losing all vision. Sense of thankful prayers
Came over him, while downward to the shore
Slowly his steps he bent, seeking to hold
Communion with his sire. The eternal Sea
Before him passively at full length lay,
As in a dream of the uranian Heavens.
With hands stretched forward he began his prayer;
‘Receive, Poseidon!’—but no further words
Found utterance. And again he prayed, and said,

‘Receive, O Sire!’—yet still the emotion rose
Too full for words, and with no meaning clear.
He turned, and sinking on a sandy mound,
With dim look o'er the sea, deeply he slept.

What altars burn afar—what smoke arises
Beyond the swelling lands above the cliffs
Or is it but a rolling cloud of dust
That onward moves, driven by the wind? And now
A rumbling sound is gathering in the breeze,
And nearer swells—now dies away—like wheels
That pass from stony ground to grassy plains.
Again!—it rings and jars—and passing swift
Along the cliffs, till lost in a ravine,
Five brazen chariots fling the sunset rays
Angrily back upon the startled air!
In one, the last, struggles a lovely form,
Half pinioned by a chieftain's broidered scarf,
Her wild black tresses coiling round an arm
Which still she raises, striving to make a sign.
All disappeared. No voice, no sound, was heard.
The moon arose, and still Orion slept,—

The profound sleep of life's satiety,
In him whose senses else had quick regained
The sure protection of his healthy powers.

Forth from a dark chasm issue figures armed.
Close conference they hold, like ravens met
For ominous talk of death. No more: their shields,
Plumed helms, and swords, two chieftains lay aside,
Then stoop, and softly creep tow'rds him who sleeps;
While o'er their heads the long protecting spears
Are held by seven, who noiselessly and slow
Follow their stealthy progress. Step by step
The deadly crescent moves behind the twain,
Who, flat as reptiles, and with face thrust out,
Breathless, all senses sharpen. Now!—'t is done!
The poison falls upon the dreamer's lids.

Away, aghast at their own evil deed,
As though some dark curse on themselves had fallen,
Flashed the mailed moon-lit miscreants into shade,
Like fish at sudden dropping of a stone!

The Moon now hid her face. The sea-shore lay
In hollowness beneath the rising stars,
And blind Orion, starting at once erect
Amid his darkness, with extended arms,
And open mouth that uttered not a word,
Stood statue-like, and heard the Ocean moan.

END OF BOOK II.

BOOK III.

101

CANTO THE FIRST.

There is an age of action in the world;
An age of thought; lastly, an age of both,
When thought guides action and men know themselves,
What they would have, and how to compass it.
Yet are not these great periods so distinct
Each from the other,—or from all the rest
Of intermediate degrees and powers,
Cut off,—but that strong links of nature run
Throughout, and prove one central heart, wherein
Time beats twin-pulses with Humanity.
In every age an emblem and a type,

102

Premature, single, ending with itself,
Of loftier being in an after-time,
May germinate, develope, radiate,
And, like a star go out, and leave no mark
Save a high memory. One such is our theme.

The wisdom of mankind creeps slowly on,
Subject to every doubt than can retard,
Or fling it back upon an earlier time;
So timid are man's footsteps in the dark,
But blindest those who have no inward light.
One mind, perchance, in every age contains
The sum of all before, and much to come;
Much that's far distant still; but that full mind,
Companioned oft by others of like scope,
Belief, and tendency, and anxious will,
A circle small transpierces and illumes:
Expanding, soon its subtle radiance
Falls blunted from the mass of flesh and bone.
The man who for his race might supersede
The work of ages, dies worn out—not used,
And in his track disciples onward strive,

103

Some hairs'-breadths only from his starting-point:
Yet lives he not in vain; for if his soul
Hath entered others, though imperfectly,
The circle widens as the world spins round,—
His soul works on while he sleeps 'neath the grass.
So, let the firm Philosopher renew
His wasted lamp—the lamp wastes not in vain,
Though he no mirrors for its rays may see,
Nor trace them through the darkness;—let the Hand
Which feels primeval impulses, direct
A forthright plough, and make his furrow broad,
With heart untiring while one field remains;
So, let the herald Poet shed his thoughts,
Like seeds that seem but lost upon the wind.
Work in the night, thou sage, while Mammon's brain
Teems with low visions on his couch of down;—
Break, thou, the clods while high-throned Vanity,
Midst glaring lights and trumpets, holds its court;—
Sing, thou, thy song amidst the stoning crowd,
Then stand apart, obscure to man, with God.
The poet of the future knows his place,

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Though in the present shady be his seat,
And all his laurels deepening but the shade.

But what is yonder vague and uncouth shape,
That like a burthened giant bending moves,
With outspread arms groping its upward way
Along a misty hill? In the blear shades,
Sad twilight, and thick dews darkening the paths
Whereon the slow dawn hath not yet advanced
A chilly foot, nor tinged the colourless air—
The labouring figure fades as it ascends.

'T was he, the giant builder-up of things,
And of himself, now blind; the worker great,
Who sees no more the substance near his hands,
Nor in them, nor the objects that his mind
Desires and would embody. All is dark.
It is Orion now bereft of sight,
Whose eyes aspired to luminous designs.
The sun and moon and stars are blotted out,
With their familiar glories, which become
Henceforth like chronicles remote. The earth

105

Forbids him to cleave deep and trace her roots,
And veins, and quarries: Whose wide purposes
Are narrowed now into the safest path:
Whose lofty visions are all packed in his brain,
As though the heavens no further could unfold
Their wonders, but turned inward on themselves;
Like a bright flower that closes in the night
For the last time, and dreams of by-gone suns
Ne'er to be clasped again: Thou art reduced
To ask for sympathy and to need help;
Stooping to pluck up pity from all soils—
Bitterest of roots that round Pride's temple grow—
Losing self-centred power, and in its place
Pressed with humiliation almost down:
Whose soul had in one passion been absorbed,
Which, though illimitable in itself,
Profound and primal, yet had wrapped him round
Beyond advance, or further use of hand,
Purpose and service to the needy earth:
Whose passion, being less than his true scope,
Had lowered his life and quelled aspiring dreams,
But that it led to blindness and distress,

106

Self-pride's abasement, more extensive truth,
A higher consciousness and efforts new.

In that dark hour when anguished he awoke,
Orion from the sea-shore made his way,
Feeling from cliff to cliff, from tree to tree,
Guided by knowledge of the varied tracks
Of land,—the rocks, the mounds of fern, the grass,
That 'neath his feet made known each spot he passed—
Hill, vale, and woodland; till he reached the caves,
Once his rude happy dwelling. All was silent.
Rhexergon and Biastor were abroad,
Searching the jasper quarries for a lynx
That had escaped the wreck. Deeply he sighed.
The quiet freshness came upon his heart,
Not sweetly, but with aching sense of loss.
He felt his way, and listened at the cave
Of Akinetos, whom he heard within
Sing to himself. And Akinetos rose,—
Perceiving he was blind—and with slow care
Rolled forth a stone, and placed him by his side.

107

Orion's tale soon closed; its outward acts
And sad results were all that he could speak:
The rest writhed inwardly, and—like the leads
That sink the nets and all the struggles hide,
Till a strong hand drags forth the prize—his words
Kept down the torment, uttered all within
In hurrying anguish. Yet the clear, cold eye,
Grey, deep-set, steady, of the Great Unmoved,
Saw much of this beneath, and thus he spake.

‘My son, why wouldst thou ever work and build,
And so bestir thyself, when certain grief,
Mischief, or error, and not seldom death,
Follows on all that individual will
Can of itself attain? I told thee this:
Nor for reproach repeat it, but to soothe
Thy mind with consciousness that not in thee
Was failure born. Its law preceded thine:
It governs every act, which needs must fail—
I mean, give place—to make room for the next.
Each thinks he fails, because he thinks himself
A chain and centre, not a link that runs

108

In large and complex circles, all unknown.
Sit still. Remain with me. No difference
Will in the world be found: 't will know no change,
Be sure. Say that an act hath been ordained?
Some hand must do it: therefore do not move:
An instrument of action must be found,
And you escape both toil and consequence,
Which run their rounds with restless fools; for ever
One act leads to another, and disturbs
Man's rest, and Reason—which foresees no end.’

‘I feel that thou art wise,’ Orion said;
‘The worker ever comes to thee cast down!
Who with alacrity would frame, toil, build,
If he had wisdom in results, like thee?
Would Strength life's soil upheave, though close it clung,
And heavy, like a spade that digs in clay,
Therein to plant roots certain not to grow?
O miserable man! O fool of hope!
All I have done has wrought me no fixt good,
But grief more bitter as the bliss was sweet,

109

Because so fleeting. Why did Artemis
Me from my rough and useful life withdraw?
O'er wood and iron I had mastery,
And hunted shadows knowing they were shades.
Since then, my intellect she filled, and taught me
To hunt for lasting truth in the pale moon.
Such proved my love for her; and such hath proved
My love for Meropé, to me now lost.
I will remain here: I will build no more.’

He paused: but Akinetos was asleep.
Wherefore Orion at his feet sank down,
Tired of himself, of grief, and all the world,
And also slept. Ere dawn he had a dream:
'T was hopeful, lovely, though of no clear sense.
He said, ‘Methinks it must betoken good;
Some help from Artemis, who may relent,
And think of me as one she sought to lift
To her own sphere of purity; or, indeed,
Some God may deem me worthy of a fate
Better than that which locks up all design
In pausing night. Perchance the dream may bode

110

That Meropé shall be to me restored,
And I see nature through her death-deep eyes,
And know the glorious mysteries of the grave,
Which, through extremes of blissful passion's life,
Methought I saw. Oh, wherefore am I blind?’

‘Abandon all such hopes of Meropé,’
Murmur'd the Great Unmoved: ‘her truth was strong,
First to herself, and through herself to thee,
While that it lasted; but that's done and gone.
How should she love a giant who is blind,
And sees no beauty but the secret heart
Panting in darkness? That is not her world.’
Orion rose erect. ‘She is not false—
Although she may forget. I will go forth:
I may find aid, or cause some help to come
That shall restore my sight.’ The sage replied,
‘Thou'st seen enough already, and too much
For happiness. This passion prematurely
Endeth; and therefore endeth as seems best,
Ere it wear out itself with languor and pain,
Or prostrate all thy mind to its small use—

111

Far worse, methinks.’ ‘Hast thou,’ Orion cried,
‘No impulses—desires—no promptings kind?’
The sage his memory tasked; then slow replied:
‘Once I gave water to a thirsty plant:
'T was a weak moment with us both. Next morn
It craved the like—but I, for “Nature” calling,
Passed on. It drooped—then died, and rotted soon,
And living things, more highly organized,
With quick eyes and fine horns, reproached my hand
Which had delayed their birth. What wrong we do
By interfering with life's balanced plan!
Do nothing—wait—and all that must come, comes!’
Silent awhile they stood. Orion sighed,
‘I know thy words are wise—’ and went his way.

The blindness of their leader, and his woe,
Now had Rhexergon and Biastor learnt,
And thoughts of plunder cried out for revenge,
Which on Oinopion they proposed to wreak,
And make good pastime round his ruined throne.
‘Revenge is useless,’ Akinetos said:
‘It undoes nothing, and prevents repentance

112

Which might advantage others.’ Both replied,
‘Thou speakest truth and wisdom;’ and at eve
Departed for the city, bent to choose
Some rebel chieftains for their aid, or slaves,
Or robbers who inhabited the rocks
North of the isle. A great revenge they vowed.

And where was Meropé? The cruel deed
Her sire had compassed for Orion's fall,
Smote through her full breast, and at every beat
Entered her heart; nor settled there, but coursed
Through all her veins in anguish. Her despair
Was boundless, many days, until her strength,
Worn with much misery and the need of sleep,
Gave way, and slumber opened 'neath her soul
Like an abyss. The deed, beyond recall,
Was done. She woke, and thought on this with grief.
The cruel separation, and the loss
Of sight, had been completed. Nothing now
Of passion past remained but memory,
Which soon grew painful; and her thoughts oft turned
For some relief, to listen to the songs

113

That minstrels sang, sent by the youthful King
Of Syros, rich in pastures and in corn.
Beardless he was, dwarf-shaped, and delicate,
Freckled and moled, with saffron tresses fair;
Yet were his minstrels touched with secret fires,
And beauty was the theme of all their lays.
Of her they sang—sole object of desire—
And with rare presents the pale king preferred
His suit for Meropé. Her sire approved;—
Invited him;—he came;—and Meropé
With him departed in a high-beaked ship;
And as it sped along, she closely pressed
The rich globes of her bosom on the side,
O'er which she bent with those black eyes, and gazed
Into the sea that fled beneath her face.

All this Orion heard: his blind eyes wept.
Now was each step a new experiment;
Within him all was care; without, all chance;
Dark doubts sat in his brain; danger prowled round.
He wandered lost and lone, and often prayed,
Standing beside the tree 'neath which he slept,

114

And would have offered pious sacrifice,
But that himself a victim blindly strayed.
His forehead's dark with wrinkles premature
Of vexing action; his cheek scored all down
With debts of will that never can be paid;
Chagrin, pain, disappointment, and wronged heart.
At length, one day, some shepherd as he passed,
With voice that mingled with the bleat of lambs,
Cried, ‘Seek the source of light!—begin anew!’

On went he thinking, pausing, listening,
Till sounds smote on his ear, whereby he knew
That near the subterranean palace-gates
Which for Hephaistos he of iron had framed,
His feet approached. He entered there, and found
Brontes, the cyclops, whom he straight besought
His shoulders to ascend, and guide his course
Eastward, to meet the Morning as she rose.
'T was done. Their hazy forms erewhile we saw.

Swift down the misty eastern hill, whose top
Through broken vapours, swooning as they creep

115

Along the edges into the wide heavens,
Shows Morn's first ruddy gleam, a shape uncouth,
And lumbering forward in half-falls and bounds,
Comes with tossed arms! The Cyclops hoar with rime,
His coarse hair flying, through the wet woods ran,
And in the front of Akinetos' cave,
Shouting the jovial thunder of his life,
Performed a hideous but full-hearted dance.
‘Dance, rocks and forests! Akinetos, dance!
The Worker and the Builder hath his sight!
Ho! ho! come forth—with either eye he sees!
Come forth, O Akinetos! laugh, ye rocks!’

A shadow o'er the face of him who sat
Within that cave, passed,—wrinkling with slight grains
The ledge-like brow, which, though of granite, smoothed,
Not vexed, by ocean's tempests, now relaxed,
As it would say, ‘I pity this return
Of means for seeking fresh distress;’—and then
The broad great features their fixed calm resumed.

116

'T was thus Orion fared; and this the scene.
Fast through the clouds retiring, the pale orb
Of Artemis a moment seemed to hang
Suspended in a halo, phantom-like,
Over a restless sea of jasper fire,
While bending forward tow'rds the eastern mount,
She gazed and hearkened. Soon the fervent voice
Of one who prayed beneath amid the mist,
Rose thrilling on the air; and onward slow
Her car its voyage held, and waned more pale
And distant, as the prayer ascended heaven.

‘Eos! blest Goddess of the Morning, hear
The blind Orion praying on thy hill,
And in thine odorous breath his spirit steep,
That he, the soft gold of thy gleaming hand
Passing across his heavy lids, sealed down
With weight of many nights, and night-like days,
May feel as keenly as a new-born child,
And, through it, learn as purely to behold
The face of nature. Oh, restore my sight!’

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His prayer paused tremulous. O'er his brow he felt
A balmy beam, that with its warmth conveyed
Divine suffusion and deep sense of peace
Throughout his being; and amidst a pile,
Far in the distance, gleaming like the bloom
Of almond-trees seen through long floating halls
Of pale ethereal blue and virgin gold,
A Goddess, smiling like a new-blown flower,
Orion saw! And as he gazed he wept.
The tears ran mingling with the morning dews
Down his thick locks. At length once more he spoke.

‘Blest Eos! mother of the hopeful star,
Which I, with sweet joy, take into my soul;
Star-rays that first played o'er my blinded orbs,
Even as they glance above the lids of Sleep,
Who else had never known surprise, nor hope,
Nor useful action; Golden Visitant,
So lovely and benign, whose eyes drive home
Night's foulest ghosts, and men as foul; who bring'st
Not only my redemption, but who art

118

The intermediate beauty that unites
The fierce Sun with the Earth, and moderates
His beams with dews and tenderness and smiles;
O bird-awakener! giver of fresh life,
New hopes, or to old hopes new wings,—receive
Within thy care, one who with many things
Is weary, and though nought in energy
Abated for good work, would seek thine aid
To some fresh course and service for his hand;
Of peace, meantime, and steadfast truth, secure!’

END OF CANTO I.

119

CANTO THE SECOND.

Level with the summit of that eastern mount,
By slow approach, and like a promontory
Which seems to glide and meet a coming ship,
The pale-gold platform of the morning came
Towards the gliding mount. Against a sky
Of delicate purple, snow-bright courts and halls,
Touched with light silvery green, gleaming across,
Fronted by pillars vast, cloud-capitalled.
With shafts of changeful pearl, all reared upon
An isle of clear aerial gold, came floating;
And in the centre, clad in fleecy white,
With lucid lilies in her golden hair,
Eos, sweet Goddess of the Morning, stood.

120

From the bright peak of that surrounded mount,
One step sufficed to gain the tremulous floor
Whereon the Palace of the Morning shone,
Scarcely a bow-shot distant; but that step,
Orion's humbled and still mortal feet
Dared not adventure. In the Goddess' face
Imploringly he gazed. ‘Advance!’ she said,
In tones more sweet than when some heavenly bird,
Hid in a rosy cloud, its morning hymn
Warbles unseen, wet with delicious dews,
And to earth's flowers, all looking up in prayer,
Tells of the coming bliss. ‘Believe—advance!—
Or, as the spheres move onward with their song
That calls me to awaken other lands,
That moment will escape which ne'er returns.’
Forward Orion stepped: the platform bright
Shook like the reflex of a star in water
Moved by the breeze, throughout its whole expanse;
And even the palace glistened fitfully,
As with electric shiver it sent forth
Odours of flowers divine and all fresh life.
Still stood he where he stepped, nor to return

121

Attempted. To essay one pace beyond
He felt no power—yet onward he advanced
Safe to the Goddess, who, with hand outstretched,
Into the palace led him. Grace and strength,
With sense of happy change to finer earth,
Freshness of nature, and belief in good,
Came flowing o'er his soul, and he was blest.

'T is always morning somewhere in the world,
And Eos rises, circling constantly
The varied regions of mankind. No pause
Of renovation and of freshening rays
She knows, but evermore her love breathes forth
On field and forest, as on human hope,
Health, beauty, power, thought, action, and advance.
All this Orion witnessed, and rejoiced.
The turmoil he had known, the late distress
By loss of passion's object, and of sight,
Were now exchanged for these serene delights
Of contemplation, as the influence
That Eos wrought around for ever, dawned
Upon his vision and his inmost heart,

122

In sweetness and success. All sympathy
With all fair things that in her circle lay,
She gave, and all received; nor knew of strife;
For from the Sun her cheek its bloom withdrew,
And, ere intolerant noon, the floating realm
Of Eos—queen of the awakening earth—
Was brightening other lands, wherefrom black Night
Her faded chariot down the sky had driven
Behind the sea. Thus from the earth upraised,
And over its tumultuous breast sustained
In peace and tranquil glory—oh blest state!—
Clear-browed Orion, full of thankfulness,
And pure devotion to the Goddess, dwelt
Within the glowing Palace of the Morn.

But these serene airs did not therefore bring
A death-sleep o'er the waves of memory,
Where all its clouds and colours, specks of sails,
Its car-borne Gods, shipwrecks and drowning men,
Passed full in view; yet with a mellowing sense
Ideal, and from pain sublimed. Thus came
Mirrors of nature to him, and full oft

123

Downward on Chios turned his happy eyes,
With grateful thoughts that o'er life's sorrows wove
The present texture of a sweet content,
Passing all wisdom, or its rarest flower.
He saw the woods, and blessed them for the sake
Of Artemis; the city, and rich gloom
That o'er the cedar forest ever hung,
He also blessed for Meropé; the isle,
And all that dwelt there, he with smiles beheld,—
Nor, it may be, without prophetic thrill
When on Mount Epos turned his parting glance.
There, in an after age, close at its foot,
In the stone level was a basin broad
Scooped out, and central on a low shaft sat
A sage with silver hair, and taught his school,
Where the boy Homer on the stony rim
Sat with the rest around. Bright were his eyes.

With re-awakened love, and sight enlarged
For all things beautiful, and nobly true
To the great elements that rule the world,
Orion's mind, left to itself, reviewed

124

Past knowledge, and of wisdom saw the fruit
Far nearer than before, the path less rough,
The true possession not austere and cold,
But natural in its strength and balance just
Of body and of soul; each to respect,
And to the other minister, and both
Their one harmonious being to employ
For general happiness, and for their own.
Such was the lore which now his thoughts attained,
And he to Eos humbly would display,
Beseeching her response! She only gazed
With a benignant smile upon the earth
That rolled beneath, and rendered back the gleam
With tender radiance over many a field.

The story of his life Orion told—
His youth—his labours—lastly of his loves;
Nor what for Artemis his opening soul
Had felt—what deep desire for Meropé—
Sought to conceal. How much his intellect,
And entire nature, owed to the pale Queen
Of night's illumined vault, with grateful sighs

125

Of reverential memory he declared;
To Eos turning with a pleading look,
Lest she might not approve. She took his hand,
And placed it on her side beneath her heart,
Which beat a sphery music audibly.
He, listening, still enraptured, countless echoes
Rang sweetly faint from distant groves beneath
Upon the earth. Within his hurrying heart
The trembling echoes now Orion felt,
And silent stood, as one who apprehends
Some new and blissful hope that round him soars,
Which still eludes his vision and his mind.

Not in like doubt was Artemis, whose car—
Blank as it passed away before the morn,
Herself invisible—collapsed and yearned
Beneath the Goddess' spurning foot. At once
The lasting love of Eos she foresaw,
When at the tale of other loves he told
Sincerely, fully, with kind memories rife,
Orion's hand she pressed. His earnest eyes
All filled with new-born light, she also read,

126

As in a mirror where the future's writ—
And, reading, closed her own as she retired.

Meantime Rhexergon through the Chian streets
Triumphant, with Biastor and a host
Of rebel chieftains and their armed bands,
And drunken slaves and robbers, drove the King
From his lost throne. Beyond the suburb fields
Oinopion fled, and secret refuge found
Among the tombs, beneath a chain of hills,
Where dense cold gloom his robe and crown became,
While over head along the hill-sides ran
The sunny vines. Tumult now choaked the city
With adverse crowds, and deafened it with cries
Of slayers, and of those who fled or fell.
The giants led the slaughter, oft commencing
Pillage, then turning yet again to slay,
Having no plan. They paused but to blaspheme
The Gods, like giants doomed to die. Rich spoil
Was found, seized, left—and trampled into mire
By feet that onward sprang for other spoil,

127

Or to tear down, wrench, overthrow, destroy;
Till thus Rhexergon rendered up his life:—

All the chief rulers, priests, and sages old,
And heroes most renowned, Rhexergon vowed
Within the temple of Zeus to congregate;
Wall up each means of egress, and from gaps
Made in the roof, pour down a rocky hail
From broken fanes, cliff, quarry and sea beach,
Upon their heads; nor cease the crashing shower
Until the temple was filled up with stones.
To make the gaps, he with his club advanced,
Where central, 'neath the roof, a pillar rose,
Which was its main support. Blow upon blow
He smote; the base gave way; the pillar fell;
And with it fell the roof, and buried him.

With equal skill Biastor wrought his fate.
On a long terrace, which precipitously
Looked down on suburb gardens deep below,
Near to the edge upon a pediment stood
A great gilt statue to Encolyon,

128

By the high rulers reverently set up;
And this inscription bearing on its base;—
‘To the wheel-chainer! Reiner-in of steeds!
August preserver of revered decay;
Votive—erected by a people's love.’

Biastor, covered with a brazen shield,
Whirling his sword, and seeing not his way,
A panic-stricken crowd before him drove
On tow'rds the parapet. Thence to escape,
Some desperately rush back—are cloven down—
The rest throng round the statue. It was carved
Of wood, and at its flat square base the sun
Had often turned a scornful glance, and made
Dry flaws, wherein had crept and nestled, rot.
They cling around its knees!—the giant Force
Comes like a mighty wind;—and, as a mast
In shipwreck, black with rigging flanking loose,
And black with wild-haired creatures clinging round,
With crash and horried slant its blasted tree
Surrenders sidelong,—so the statue fell.
With it the crowd were carried; after it

129

Biastor, knowing not the depths beyond,
Or his strong impulse having no power to check,
Followed head foremost. Down the hollow banks
He, floundering o'er the statue's tangled coil,
Into an orchard midst the vale below,
Deep in the mould lay prone; and over him
The fallen statue lay athwart. 'T was thus,
The Builder absent, and at that time blind,
Force, and the Breaker-down their course fulfilled.

‘What have I done on earth?’ Orion said,
While pensive on the platform of the morn
He stood. ‘My youth's companions are destroyed,
And Akinetos evermore seems right,
Predicting failure to our human acts:
Or good, or ill, alike untoward prove.
I have not well directed mine own strength,
Nor theirs.’ As thus he mused, a skylark sang
Within the gleaming Palace, and a voice
Followed melodious as it spake these words.

‘Well hast thou striven, and due reward shalt find;

130

For though reward held dalliance with thy hopes
Of former days, and for thyself thou wrought'st,
The suffering and the lesson have sufficed
To fit thee for more noble aims. Sigh not
That those companions of thine unformed youth
Their rude career have closed: evil was all
They could have done without thee. Thou hast won
The love of Eos: doubt not of her truth,
And to thyself be constant, as to her.’

He turned, and at his side the Goddess smiled,
With tenderness of grace, such as the soul
Can through the heart convey, where both accord
One object to exalt. Orion knelt,
And looked up in her face, then rose and clasped
Her yielding loveliness. As they retired,
An eye glanced fire-like through the clear blue air,
And saw the embrace!—and marked the glowing beams
On Eos' bosom, rosy yet all gold,
Like ripened peaches in the morning light.
That eye grew deadly—flashed—and it was gone,

131

As onward in its course the Palace moved.
'T was Artemis!—beware her fatal dart.

O'er meadows green or solitary lawn,
When birds appear earth's sole inhabitants,
The long clear shadows of the morning differ
From those of eve, which are more soft and vague,
Touched with old day-dreams and a mellowed grief.
The lights of morning, even as her shades,
Are architectural, and pre-eminent
In quiet freshness, midst the pause that holds
Prelusive energies. All life awakes.
Morn comes at first with white uncertain light;
Then takes a faint red, like an opening bud
Seen through grey mist: the mist clears off; the sky
Unfolds; grows ruddy; takes a crimson flush;
Puts forth bright sprigs of gold, which soon expanding
In saffron, thence pure golden shines the morn;
Uplifts its clear bright fabric of white clouds,
All tinted, like a shell of polished pearl,
With varied glancings, violet gleam and blush;

132

Embraces Nature; and then passes on,
Leaving the Sun to perfect his great work.

So came thy love upon Orion's heart,
O life-awakening Queen of early light,
And the devotion he, at first, had deemed
All spiritual, now quickened, glowed, attained
Entire vitality, and that highest state
Which every noblest faculty employs
With self-enjoyment and beneficence.

True happiness no idle course endures,
But by activity renews its strength,
Which else would fail, and happiness revolve
Within itself, still dwindling to the point
Where pain first stings. Far otherwise it fared
With thee, Orion. Watchful tow'rds the world
His eye oft turned. The pure realm where he dwelt
Absorbed not all his sympathies in itself,
Which yet sprang forth, and sighed o'er ills below;
Like one uplifted in abstraction's mood,
Who sits alone, and gazes in the fire,

133

Watching red ruins as they fall and change
To glorious fabrics,—which forthwith dissolve,
Or by some hideous conflict sink to nought,
While from a black mass issues tawny smoke,
Followed by a trumpet flame. War, and the waste—
So far as man's one life and purpose feel—
Of human labour—both its hand and heart—
Came crowding on his mind. Nor less his eye
Earth's loveliness perceived; nor less his thoughts
Of Eos, who in all his fresh designs,
Feelings, and wishes, shared, and urged him on
With constant impulse, hidden in sweet smiles,
And perfect love that thinks not of itself;—
Conscious, contented, sphered beyond fresh hopes.
Earth was their child; and constant morn their home.

Three things Orion contemplated oft:
The first, his gratitude to Artemis
Inspired; its general service and import
To human happiness, a duty made.
Her temple in Delos darkened to the east
With towering trees, amidst whose hollowed roots

134

Dwelt poisonous Harpies. These to dislodge, destroy;
And hew the trees down, that the morning light,
Followed by radiant warmth, might penetrate
Its depths, even to the temple's central shine,
He purposed. Thus would Eos give her love
To Artemis, and all be reconciled.

His second purpose this: beneath the earth,
So might the Father of the Gods give aid,
To build a dungeon for the God of War,
Wherein, confined in a tumultuous sleep,
The visions of his madness should present
The roar of battles and its sanguine joys,
Its devastations, glories, and vain graves.
Here might he gloat on death, while o'er his head
The sea-wide corn-fields smiled in golden waves.

The last would need Poseidon's trident hand,
Which, fervent prayers and filial offerings
Would fail not to obtain; whereby a blow,—
Such as had lifted out of the frothed sea
Delos,—Kalliste, with its fathomless bay,—

135

Mountains and coral rocks,—repeated oft,
Might many mountains cause at once to rise,
Higher and higher, till their summits kissed
The clouds. Then Eos, casting forth her robe
From peak to peak, and her immortal breath
Combining and sustaining that bright floor,—
A web of perfect skill, and guileless art,
Unlike the dark artificers below,—
Large space for mortals of the earth would thus
Be lifted to the platform of the morn.
There, by the Goddess beckoned, and beholding
Her face, divine in youth, the lengthened toil
Of the ascent were but a test of worth,
And hollow sounds of roaring from the sea
Beneath, cause none, who should ascend, to fall.

To Delos now Orion made descent
With Eos, hand in hand, when lofty Night
Advanced her shadowy shoulder on the sky.
Good speed made he with his well-practised hand;
The Harpies slew; the eastward trees hewed down;
And laid the temple open to the morn,

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With all her genial beams. Then Eos first
Felt doubt; and trembled as she saw the fane
Gleam with her presence, glancing like the light
Within an angry eye-ball. A keen breeze
Now whistled all around, and as it rose
The high green corn, like rapids tow'rds a fall,
Flowed, wave on wave, before the strenuous wind.
She gazed with a cold cheek, till underneath
The sea she heard the coming Sun rejoice;
And felt the isle for blest events prepare.
Yet was she silent. The untended Sun,
While Eos lingered midst the southern groves,
Made Delos vocal to its lowest roots.
Yet stood she with Orion in the shade,
Who noting not her tender, anxious face,
In generous feelings happy, took his rest.

Midst songs and garlands and uplifted joy,
Day's bright beam sped. Night came; but not the Moon.
Night passed. Two spectral armies in the air
Appeared, and with mute fury fought; then died

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In mist. A cloud of pale and livid blue,
Lit from behind, hangs low amid the west!

What scarce-apparent ray! what wavering light
Down glances, arching through the silent vault!
Again it flies!—and yet again the ray!
The omen and the deed unite—in death!
Slain is Orion! slain is the Friend of Man!
Into the grove, and to the self-same spot
The darts flew! They thy naked breast have reached,
O Giant! child-like in thy truthfulness,
Yet full of noblest gifts, and hard-earned skill:
Cut off when love was perfect, and in the midst
Of all thy fresh designs for human weal,
To make the morning feel itself in vain,
And men turn pale who never shed a tear!
Thy task is finished—thou canst work no more—
Thy Maker takes thee, for He loved thee well.

Haggard and chill as a lost ghost, the Morn,
With hair unbraided and unsandalled feet,—

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Her colourless robe like a poor wandering smoke,—
Moved feebly up the heavens, and in her arms
A shadowy burden heavily bore; soon fading
In a dark rain, through which the sun arose
Scarce visible, and in his orb confused.

END OF CANTO II.

139

CANTO THE THIRD.

Strong Spirit of Nature! if with pious hand,
Of all humanity sensitive, and true
To the first heart of childhood, thou hast striven
Good to effect, and seemingly hast failed,
Lament it not; that impulse on the frame
Of the dense earth, which no result displays,
Effect or consciousness, not utterly
Shall turn aside, and glancing into space
Be lost and cast away. As with a thought
That, dormant in the brain well nigh a score
Of years, will suddenly, we know not how,
Rise bright before the mind, thus recognised

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As that so long forgotten,—while two brains
Entire, have their material parts used up,
Given off, and changed for new;—so shall the deeds
Of virtuous power, in their appointed day,
Rise with due strength above the buried hand
That called them first to light. Know this, and hope:
The earth has hard rind, but a subtle heart.
Therefore amidst those shadows, by no form
Projected; which in secret regions flit,
Of future being, through unnumbered states,
Which are most truly the substantial dreams,
Nor less the aspirations most unearthly,
Of man; shadows oft hunted, never caught,
Yet traced beyond the grave; to thought well known;
Amidst these shadows stride not thou forlorn,
O Giant sublime, whom death shall not destroy.

'T was eve, and Time his vigorous course pursuing,
Met Akinetos walking by the sea.
At sight of him the Father of the Hours
Paused on the sand,—which shrank, grew moist, and trembled

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At that unwonted pressure of the God.
And thus with look and accent stern, he spake:

‘Thou art the mortal who, with hand unmoved,
Eatest the fruit of others' toil; whose heart
Is but a vital engine that conveys
Blood, to no purpose, up and down thy frame;
Whose forehead is a large stone sepulchre
Of knowledge! and whose life but turns to waste
My measured hours, and earth's material mass!’

Whereto the Great Unmoved no answer made,—
And Time continued, sterner than before:
‘Thy sire, Tithonos, living nine score years,
Knew many things; but when thou wert begot,
Olympos chimed with crystal laughter bright,
Since, for thy mother, his dim vision chose
A fallen statue which he deemed a nymph,
White as a flint amid a field of corn.
I warn thee by that memory!—thou mistakest
A prostrate stone for the fair truth of life.’

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Whereto the Great Unmoved no answer made,—
And Time continued, sterner than before:
‘O not-to-be-approved! thou Apathy,
Who gazest downward on that empty shell,—
Is it for thee, who bear'st the common lot
Of man, and art his brother in the fields,
From birth to funeral pyre; is it for thee,
Who didst derive from thy long-living sire
More knowledge than endows far better sons,—
Thy lamp to burn within, and turn aside
Thy face from all humanity, or behold it
Without emotion, like some sea-shelled thing
Staring around from a green hollowed rock,
Not aiding, loving, caring—hoping aught—
Forgetting Nature, and by her forgot?’

Whereto, with mildness, Akinetos said,
‘Hast thou considered of Eternity?’
‘Profoundly have I done so, in my youth,’
Chronos replied, and bowed his furrowed head;
‘Most, when my tender feet from Chaos trod
Stumbling,—and, doubtful of my eyes, my hands

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The dazzling air explored. But, since that date,
So many ages have I told; so many,
Fleet after fleet on newly opening seas,
Descry before me, that of late my thoughts
Have rather dwelt on all around my path,
With anxious care. Well were it thus with thee.’

Then Akinetos calmly spake once more,
With eyes still bent upon the tide-ribbed sands:
‘And dost thou of To-morrow also think?’
Whereat—as one dismayed by sudden thought
Of many crowding things that call him thence,—
Time, with bent brows, went hurrying on his way.

Slow tow'rds his cave the Great Unmoved repaired,
And, with his back against the rock, sat down
Outside, half smiling in the pleasant air;
And in the lonely silence of the place
He thus, at length, discoursed unto himself:

‘Orion, ever active and at work,

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Honest and skilful, not to be surpassed,
Drew misery on himself and those he loved;
Wrought his companions' death,—and now hath found,
At Artemis' hand, his own. So fares it ever
With the world's builder. He, from wall to beam,
From pillar to roof, from shade to corporal form,
From the first vague Thought to the Temple vast,
A ceaseless contest with the crowd endures,
For whom he labours. Why then should we move?
Our wisdom cannot change whate'er's decreed,
Nor e'en the acts or thoughts of brainless men:
Why then be moved? Best reason is most vain.
He who will do and suffer, must—and end.
Hence, death is not an evil, since it leads
To somewhat permanent, beyond the noise
Man maketh on the tabor of his will,
Until the small round burst, and pale he falls.
His ear is stuffed with the grave's earth, yet feels
The inaudible whispers of Eternity,
While Time runs shouting to Oblivion
In the upper fields! I would not swell that cry.’

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Thus Akinetos sat from day to day,
Absorbed in indolent sublimity,
Reviewing thoughts and knowledge o'er and o'er;
And now he spake, now sang unto himself,
Now sank to brooding silence. From above,
While passing, Time the rock touched!—and it oozed
Petrific drops—gently at first—and slow.
Reclining lonely in his fixt repose,
The Great Unmoved unconsciously became
Attached to that he pressed,—and gradually—
While his thoughts drifted to no shore—a part
O' the rock. There clung the dead excrescence, till
Strong hands, descended from Orion, made
Large roads, built markets, granaries, and steep walls,—
Squaring down rocks for use, and common good.

When Death with moth-like wing and in-drawn breath
Hovers above a dying brain of power,
And the soul knows the moment of its flight
Is surely near, there floats a crowding train

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Of passions, thoughts, actions, events, and hopes—
Tenderest affections, and those storms and calms
Wherein the man each complex scene reviews,
And in swift visions lives his course again.
Then sigh the vain regrets o'er wasted days,
And wasted efforts, bred of ignorance,
Pride, folly, vanity—or the world's gross wrongs,
Exasperating once—now pitied. Then—
No casuist baseness making ill acts good—
Hurried self-questionings dart to and fro,
If this or that were right, or wrong—or kind,
Mean, or magnanimous—forgiving—hard—
Generous, or selfish;—if the sum of all,
Balanced in fairness, were the heart's best aim?
Nor less the painful sense of means yet strong—
The consciousness of so much power to do,
And no more time for doing. How they float
Away in mist, all those rare plans, designs—
Clear-outlined fabrics reared on solid truths,
Doomed to resolve themselves into the brain
That bred them, and be lost for evermore!
This, and a reverent hopeful resignation,

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For many might suffice, without the fears
Of crippled souls, that crawl to fancied hells,
Who are mere grave-worms in reality.
But of his stern philosophy what thoughts
Were last in Akinetos' mind? Said he,
‘Annihilation means but perfect change—
All are annihilated in the end;
Or if there be no end, why that's the same,
If the dead know not their connecting past,
Nor present being.’ Held he thus to the last?
There might have been misgivings—not unwise—
That wisdom should be put to use? But he
Knew better, as he thought—and there were none.

Now had Poseidon with tridental spear
Torn up the smitten sea, which raged on high
With grief and anger for Orion slain;
And black Hephaistos deep beneath the earth
A cold thrill felt through his metallic veins,
Which soon with sparkling fire began to writhe
Like serpents, till from each volcanic peak
Burst smoke and threatening flames. Day hid his head,

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And while the body of Orion sank,
Drawn down into the embraces of the Sea,
The four winds with confronting fury arose,
And to a common centre drove their blasts,
Which, meeting, brake like thunder-stone, or shells
Of war, far scattering. Shipwreck fed the deep.
No Moon had dared the ringing vault to climb;
No star, no meteor's steed; and ancient Night
Shook the dishevelled lightening from her brows,
Then sank in deeper gloom. Ere long the roar
Rolled through a distant yawning chasm of flame,
Dying away, and in the air obscure,
Feverish and trembling,—like the breath of one
Recovering from convulsion's throes,—appeared
Two wavering misty shapes upon a mount:
Whence now a solemn and reproachful voice,
With broken pauses spake, and thus lamented:—

‘Call it not love!—oh never yet for thee
Did Love's ambrosial pinions fan the hours,
To lose themselves in bliss, which memory
Alone can find, so to renew their life.

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Thou couldst not ever thus enjoy, thus give
Thy nature fully up,—thine attributes,
Whate'er of beauty and supreme estate
They owned,—surrendering all before Love's feet,
And in his breath to melt. How shall we name
Thy passion,—ice-pure, self-entire, exacting
All worship, for a limited return?
But how, ah me! shall time record the hour,
When with thy bow—its points curved stiffly back,
Like a snake's neck preparing for a spring,
Thou stood'st in lurid ire behind a cloud,
And loosed the fatal shaft! Where then was love?
O Artemis! O miserable Queen!
Call it pride, jealousy, revenge—self-love;
No other. Thou repliest not. Wherefore pride?
Thou gav'st thyself that wound, rejecting one
Who to thee tendered all his nature; noble,
Though earth-born, as thou knew'st when first ye met,
And thou not Zeus with a creator's power
His being to re-make? Thou answerest not.
Why jealous, but because thou saw'st him happy
Without thee, though cast off by thee? Then why

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Destroy? Revenge, the champion of self-love,
Can make his well-known sign. O horrible!
Despair to all springs up from murdered love,
And smites revenge with idiocy of grief,
Seeing itself. But wake, and look upon
My loss unutterable. What hast thou gained?
Nothing but anguish; and for this accomplished
His death, my loss, and the earth's loss beside,
Of that much-needed hand. I curse thee not—
Thou hast, indeed, cursed me—thou know'st it well.

With face bowed o'er her bosom, Artemis,
As in sad trance, remained. The night was gone;
The day had dawned, but she perceived it not;
Nor Eos knew that any light had passed
From her rent robes. But hope unconsciously
Grew up in her, and yet again she spake:

‘Ah, me! alas! why came this great affliction,
Which seems, indeed, beyond all remedy,
Though scalding tears from our immortal eyes
Make constant arcs in heaven. Beauty avails not

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Where power is needed. Seek we, then, for power,
That some reviving or renewing beam
May call him back, now pale in the deep sea!
Thou answerest not. I think thou hast a heart,
Which beats thy reasoning down to silent truth,
And therefore deem I thou with me wilt seek
The throne of Zeus, who may receive our prayers,
Nor from our supplications utterly
Take sorrow's sweetness, which hath secret hope,
Like honey drops in some down-fallen flower.’

Her lofty, pallid visage, Artemis
Raised slowly, but with eyes still downward bent
Upon the Ocean rolling dark below,
And answered,—‘I will go with thee.’ The twain
Departed heavily on their ascent
Through the grey air, and paused not till they reached
The region of Olympos, where their course
Was barriered by a mass of angry cloud
Piled up in surging blackness, with a gleam
Of smouldering red seen through at intervals.

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The sign well understood, both Goddesses
Knelt down before the cloud, and Artemis
Brake silence first, with firm yet hollow voice:

‘Father of Gods, and of the populous earth!
Who know'st the thoughts and deeds we most would hide;
And also know'st the secret thrill within,
Which owns no thought nor action, yet comprises
Life's sole excuse for what seems worthiest hate—
Extremes and maddened self-opposing springs—
Not always thus excused,—O Zeus! receive
Our prayers, and chiefly mine, which pardon sue,
Besides the dear request. Grant that the life
Of him these hands, once dazzling white, have slain,
May be to earth restored.’ More had she said,
But the dark pile of cloud shook with the voice
Of Zeus, who answered: ‘He shall be restored;
But not returned to earth. His cycle moves
Ascending!’ The deep Sea the announcement heard;
And from beneath its ever-shifting thrones
The murmuring of a solemn joy sent up.

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The cloud expanded darkly o'er the heavens,
Which, like a vault preparing to give back
The heroic dead, yawned with its sacred gloom,
And iron-crowned Night her black breath poured around,
To meet the clouds that from Olympos rolled
Billows of darkness with a dirging roar,
Which by gradations of high harmony
Merged in triumphal strains. Their earnest eyes,
Filled with the darkness, and their hands still clasped,
Kneeling the Goddesses' bright rays perceived,
Reflected, glance before them. Mute they rose
With tender consciousness; and, hand in hand,
Turning, they saw slow rising from the sea
The luminous Giant clad in blazing stars,
New-born and trembling from their Maker's breath,—
Divine, refulgent effluence of Love.
Though to his insubstantial form no gleam
Of mortal life's rich colours now gave warmth,
Yet was the image he had worn on earth,
With all its memories of the old dim woods—

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The caves—his toils, joys, griefs—the fond old ways—
The same—his heart the same, e'en as of yore.
With pale gold shield, like a translucent Moon
Through which the Morning with ascending cheek
Sheds a soft blush, warming cerulean veins;—
With radiant belt of glory, typical
Of happy change that o'er the zodiac round
Of the world's monstrous phantasies shall come;
And in his hand a sword of peaceful power,
Streaming like a meteor to direct the earth
To victory over life's distress, and show
The future path whose light runs through death's glooms;—
In grandeur, like the birth of Motion, rose
The glorious Giant, tow'rds his place in heaven;
And, while ascending, thus his Spirit sang:

‘I came into the world a mortal creature,
Lights flitting upwards through my unwrought clay,
Not knowing what they were, nor whither tending,
But of some goodness conscious in my soul.

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With earth's rude elements my first endeavour
I made; attained rare mastery, and was proud
Then felt strange longings in the grassy woodlands,
And hunted shadows under the slant sun.

‘O Artemis! bright queen! high benefactress!
My love forgive, that with its human feet
Could not to thy pure altitude ascend,—
Nor couldst thou stoop to me. A fiery passion,
Deep as mortality, possessed my life;
Nor shall I from my destiny, star-bright
Henceforth, and from transforming change exempt,
Banish the grateful thoughts of Meropé,
Though blindness followed that ecstatic dream.

‘On thee I gaze, blest Goddess of the Morning!
In whose sweet smile these stars shall ever melt,
All human beauty perfected in thee,
Divine with human blending. In my heart
Bared full before thee, to the essence fine
Wherewith, by whisperings of my Maker's breath,
These stars of my new life are now inspired—

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In this pure essence shall thy treasured love
Receive my adoration; and the thoughts
Of thee shall open ever in my mind
Like the bland meads in flower when thou appear'st.

‘Thou Earth, whom I have left, and all my brothers!
Followers of Time through steep and thorny ways;
Wrestlers with strong Calamity, and falling
For ever, as with generations new
Ye carry on the strife,—deem it no loss
That in full vigour of his fresh designs,
Your Worker and your Builder hath been called
To rest thus undesired. Though for himself
Too soon, and not enough of labour done
For high desires; sufficient yet to give
The impulse ye are fitted to receive:
More, were a vain ambition. Therefore strive,
My course, without its blindness, to pursue,
So that ye may through night, as ye behold me,
And also through the day by faithful hope,
Ascend to me; and he who faints half way,

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Gains yet a noble eminence o'er those
Whose feet still plod the earth with hearts o'erdusted.

‘Then with aspiring love behold Orion!
Not for his need, but for thine own behoof:
He loved thy race, and calls thee to his side.
The human spirit is a mountain thing,
But ere it reach the constellated thrones,
It may attain, and on mankind bestow,
Substance, precision, mastery of hand,
Beauty intense, and power that shapes new life.
So shall each honest heart become a champion,
Each high-wrought soul a builder beyond Time—
The ever-hunted, ne'er-o'ertaken Time,
For whom so many youthful hours are slain
Vainly: the grave's brink shows we have been deceived,
And still the aged God his flight maintains!
But not in vain the earth-born shall pursue,
E'en though with wayward, often stumbling feet,
That substance-bearing Shadow, if with a soul
That to an absolute unadulterate truth
Aspires, and would make active through the world,

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He hath resolved to plant for future years.
And thus, in the end, each soul may to itself,
With truth before it as its polar guide,
Become both Time and Nature, whose fixt paths
Are spiral, and when lost will find new stars,
Beyond man's unconceived infinities,
And in the Universal Movement join.’

The song ceased; and at once a chorus burst
From all the stars in heaven, which now shone forth!
The Moon ascends in her rapt loveliness;
The Ocean swells to her forgivingly;
Bright comes the dawn, and Eos hides her face,
Glowing with tears divine, within the bosom
Of great Poseidon, in his rocking car
Standing erect to gaze upon his son,
Installed midst golden fires, which ever melt
In Eos' breath and beauty; rising still
With nightly brilliance, merging in the dawn,—
And circling onward in eternal youth.

THE END.