University of Virginia Library

APOLLO

I said unto myself—“If I could see
The heroes of the earth pass by in arms,
And with the dust of victory on their helms;
The Kings of Egypt and of Babylon,
The chiefs I have not seen, and shall not see,
The great in stature and renown—the strong
In counsel, and the foremost in command:
Would it not be a sight, more full of wonder
Than any pageant, pomp, or festival
Held to the Gods themselves? But if Achilles
Should stand before me in the strength of youth;
With that blue eye, that lighten'd on the foe,
Or as he leant over the drifting manes
And glittering hoofs, spurr'd onward with the weight
Of Hector slain; should I not turn away
From all things real to the glorious sight
Of such a phantom? But if one should come
In sober stole, a master of those thoughts
That carry on the world, and shake us still
With echoes only; one whose lonely heart
In ages gone was stirr'd with such a pulse,
That all the Present trembles to it still:
Should I not rise from any banquet table,
Nuptials, or triumphs, ev'n my own death-bed;
If I could see him walking down the street,
Or catch the distant fluttering of his robe
As he pass'd off for ever? Would not they,—
Who fill the seats at amphitheatres,
To see the lordliest of living men
Throned, and in scarlet clad, and crown'd with gold,
And hear him utter solemn words might change
The fate of nations—from the living turn
To look upon the dead, though he should come
In simplest fashion, did they only know
'Twas He who rules their spirits by his own?
I heard an old man to my mother say—
Once on a Summer's eve, when roundabout
The air was dim, and overhead the sky
All flush'd with twilight clouds like holy isles,
Wherefrom enraptured Memories turn'd their eyes
Back on the dying Day—‘I well remember,
Once when I was a very little child,
Less than thy dark-eyed maiden, I stood near,
And for a full hour look'd upon the face
Of blest Terpander’; and I looked on his,
And in the twilight, and the mystic hour,
My fancy changed it to similitude
Of Him, the patriarch of our Song, the Bard
Holy and wise; for sure it seem'd to me
That one, whose fortune it had been to see
The Man, who in the temple of our souls
Throned his great shadow like reality,
Himself upon his forehead must have caught
Illumination, Immortality;
And by his looks, his gestures, and his speech
Could bring him back to life; his living soul
Itself must needs be dower'd with half the might
Of what it had beheld; I look'd, and look'd,
And as the dusky hues of eve grew darker,
The more the fading outline of his face
Was fashion'd by my phantasy; his limbs
Dilated in the gloominess, and grew
As 'twere a God's, who came to visit us
In lowly weeds, but by and by would rise
And part with thunder and the rush of wings!
‘Tell me what were his words,’ my mother said:
And thus the old man of the elder spake;
“Know there were others by, who bore in mind
All that he said, and they were his last words,
Else should I strive in vain to answer thee;
But, ofttimes echoed by their reverent lips,
They grew familiar to my growing years;
And what was first the music of a song,
And nothing more, wax'd vital; his dark speech
The voice of an immortal in mine ears:”
‘Oh! as I thought of those’ Terpander said,
Himself the Giant of our Isle; ‘of those
Giants of Morn, primeval Sons of Time,
Great Vanquishers of Worlds, who for awhile
Held on with me, when I began to fly
With pure white wings unstain'd of earthly dust,
And the first strength of youth untried of ill;
Ah me! I cried, shall any voice again
Utter forth sounds, like those which charm'd the ears
Of Gods to listen; who shall speak again
Like Orpheus, or divine Mæonides?
And, as I look'd toward the shores afar
Dark in the glooming east, my fancy fill'd
The mountain woods with light; I thought of him,
Who in the silent dawn of ages drew
A solitary glory, like the peaks
Of those same hills at morn, and in him felt
The voices of Apollo, as the leaves
And wakening blossoms tremble to his beams.
And then I thought, alas! for mortal man.
For if the torrent of calamity,
Whate'er it be, roll over him, and drown
The Poet's voice, like thine, which evermore
Widow'd Futurity shall mourn in vain;
Better to be a nightingale, and die
In the deep woods unheard; for his sweet notes,
The selfsame as at first, shall still be heard,
When I am dust, until the death of Time.
But what shall pay the heart that yearns for wings
To flee away beyond the shade of Death,
And panteth, in affliction and in pain,
For something after, if its raptures cease,
Like aimless lightnings shot from cloud to cloud?
Rather than this, 'twere better quench in toil
The thoughts that cast such shadows of despair;
To sleep the sleep of toil that hath no dreams;
To sit at Youth's wild revel, crown'd with flowers,
And drain the cup of Joy; to sing for mirth,
A grasshopper at noon; to thank the hour
For what it gives; than pile up sweets in vain,
Our toil more thriftless than the silly bee's,
Or atom-heaving emmet's; and when Eve
Begins to throw long shadows toward the past,
Out of the twilight of oblivious years
Faintly to sing “we have rejoiced and lived!”’
He rose—I mark'd him as he issued forth,
A goodly man and tall; and as he gave
Farewell, his sweet and melancholy smile
Seem'd full of meaning to me; and I stood
Eager, and watch'd him, till his outline, drown'd
In soft gray shadows of some ancient trees,
Look'd like the mystic parting of a God,
Or one a gracious messenger from them.
But on these eyes he never rose again.
And scarce an hour had lapsed when all he said,
His solemn brows, his deep and earnest voice,
His motions and his revelations seem'd
Like memory of a dream, that cheats the eyes
Half waking to the dawn, as tho' 'twere true.
So might the grave Philemon and his spouse,
Standing beneath the viny porch, have seen
With mingled awe and wonder the grand shape
Of the Olympian, as he gather'd up
His crimson robe, and strode toward the sun
In dying light of even. I would have call'd
Unto him, and have follow'd on his steps,
Till I had seen him change his human limbs
For their divine imperishable bloom,
Who drink the cup of Hebe. The next day,
It was at sunny noontide, and I pass'd
With meditative step, and downward brow
Into the valley, and along the stream,
Mine own familiar solitude; and now
My heart was full, and scarce the accustom'd path
Of Nature, or the throstle-haunted way,
The green banks, and the rustling poplars tuned
My soul to harmony. I thought of Him
Who, ere mine eyes had open'd to the Earth,
Was wandering there, breathing the selfsame flowers,
Listening the selfsame waters, and perchance
Moved with the selfsame phantasies and joys,
Memories, hopes, fears, and ecstasies as I.
I said ‘Great Ancestor of all our thoughts,
Whose Spirit flies upon the passing hour,
And swathes me as the air; if sometimes thou
Rememberest what thou lovedst in thy life,
This cradle of an everlasting Spring,
This pleasant isle; hear thou, and be thy thoughts,
Thy tender hymns, and waved harmonies,
The silver voices of thy seven-string'd lyre,
Phantoms to haunt my spirit night and day;
Like these melodious waters fringed with bowers.
May they be streams of freshness to my tongue,
Evergreen shade unto my soul, and springs
Of fancy, by whose ripplings I may lie,
And slumber to their murmur, till I dream
Of beauty, and wake up at morn to sing;
Till Poesy and Music, wed together,
Shall take the tops of Lesbos for their throne.
Their breath shall fly from off the viny hills,
Like April winds, that breathe the early rose,
And kiss the capes afar: lead thou my steps
Into the ways that thou delightedst in;
Oh! could I tread the turf that once hath felt
Thy footprints; climb the mountainpeaks, and sit
In the same shadows at the selfsame hour.
Oh! I will utter thy sweet words, until
The answering Echoes seem to me thy voice
Approving; let my spirit be the child
Of thine, until it get her strength, and do
Feats worthy of thy honour. I could dream
Those azure peaks, that o'er the orchard tops
Wave like a charmed deluge, to thine eyes
Have mingled fear and beauty as to mine;
Thy soul hath slumber'd on the soft deep folds
Of yon tall cloud; and walk'd upon the winds
That rush down the high valleys, and o'erthrow,
Far out at sea, the surges in their pride.’
My soul was stirr'd; I shed some childish tears,
Pure drops of dawn first scatter'd by the winds
That run before the day; I sat me down,
And, weary with imagination, leant
My beating heart against the dewy green,
Pied with young lilybells, and golden disks,
And hyacinths blue; and dappled with the lights,
That cross'd the restless shadows of the leaves
With golden stars and arrows; while o'er head
The rustling of the arched umbrage made
A murmur in mine ears. And so the breath
Of the hot noontide press'd mine eyelids down,
Softly as low-sung melody; and I heard
Some finches of the thicket shoot forth notes
Of glee, like sparks; and then they went to war;
And their thin trebles dash'd together raised
A dust of sound; and in the glooms above
A turtle plain'd; and evermore the stream
Ran swiftly washing o'er the pebbly grit
That gleam'd like gems, and gurgled 'neath the banks,
And gush'd and tinkled, wooing the sweet herb;
And with its bubbles hanging the pale necks
Of the young lilies like a chain of pearls.
So sleep came on me with so soft a foot,
As not to crush my Summer-linked thoughts.
For still before my dreaming eyes I saw
The green leaves tremble, and the sunlights glance
Their peremptory lightnings, and the turf
Mottled with shadows; and I heard the birds
Singing upon the breeze; and the clear stream,
With sound like silver harpstrings bubbling on.
And by my side that lovely antique lyre
Lay on the green herb; and methought my hands
Had twined its carvedwork and trembling chords
With flowers that I had gather'd; and I laugh'd
To hear its sound when I had muffled it
With waterlilies. Then I raised my eyes;
But as I gaze what wonder do I see?
The dome of leaves and branches seem to cleave
Above my head, and show the purple sky;
And sounds, that hush'd the winds and waters, breathed
Down from an isle of winged cloud, that soar'd
Across the Sun, whose thwarted splendours dash'd
Their waves against its battlements and towers,
And, like a sea against a mountain, flung
Fell down in golden cataracts to the earth,
And struck unto the zenith; on either hand
They drifted off in fiery tides, and onward
They floated it upon a flood of fire.
And, on the topmost peak of that bright isle,
One stood, in act to plunge into the deep
Ethereal blue; as from a marble crag
A dizzy diver down into the sea.
His face was downward, and his ruffled hair
Lifted a little from his brows, and blown
Apart; and, as he forward leant, he claspt
His hands o'er his right knee, while the other limb
Tiptoe behind him hung—and soon I heard
A hidden music, tender first, and sweet,
As choral voices issuing from behind
A mountain promontory; and the streams
Of sunlight pouring thro' the enchanted vales
Seem'd each instinct with a particular tongue
Of music, and made harmony together;
Whereof the highest tone was as the lark
In heaven, and piercing-sweet unto the ear;
The lowest shook the centre of the isle
And thunder'd as it roll'd. And, as the bow
Hung out from heaven to earth and sevenfold bright,
Fills the enraptured eyes with wonderment,
That harmony sank down into my sense,
And satisfied my soul. And now floodtide
The music rose, and drown'd the firmament
With stormy joy; and with the highest wave
Forth on the air he leapt; the glorious sun
Burst out, and shatter'd into atoms all
That winged isle of cloud; and, flaming thro'
His crimson mantle streaming on the sky,
Dazzled the sight, as when it burns the leaf
Of a translucent flower. I turn'd away,
Half blinded by the vision; and when I raised
My eyes again he stood beside me, drooping
His arm beneath his mantle toward my brow.
He touch'd it; and, it seem'd, a lightning spark
Ran thro' me, kindling every sense with life
Unknown till then; till they became all ear
Unto his whisper, as he said—“The light
Which I have shed into thy heart, young child,
Is that which melts the mountain snows; and pours them
In torrents and in rivers to the sea:
Which from the wither'd heart of Winter woos
The April bud, and in the crocus flames;
Which, when the lark goes up to meet the day,
Burns in him, and sends forth swift messengers
In notes that thrill forever, like the beams
Of Morn they welcome; which the nightingale
Repeats unto the moon with her swift songs,
That throb and burn like the remember'd Sun,
Which fires the forest dew and prison'd gem;
Which, piercing the still shadows, rouses forth
The Winds, and sends them dancing o'er the earth;
Which, in the East and West, at morn and even,
Lays flaming oceans 'twixt the earth and sky,
And sets on fire the thunderous walls of storm,
Changing them first to cities of delight,
With gates and walls and capitols of gold,
Then shattering them to blazing dust, and rolling
Their mighty ruins under floods of flame.
But in thy heart, O eager-hearted Child,
It shall draw forth another birth, and mix
Autumn and Spring and Summer into one;
Shall make thee glad as birds, and swift as streams,
Blissful as odours, rare as rainbows, strong
As lightning, gay as morning, soft as eve;
Wing'd as the winds that flee from isle to isle;
And give thee, when thou wilt, the power to build
Of magic breath illumined temples, rich
As morning-colour'd mists, yet strong as Time.”
Thereat he took the seven-strig'd lyre, my joy,
My passion; not with tender loving hands,
But snatch'd it rudely; and clashing all the chords,
And rending them asunder, he flung down
Its delicate frame unto the earth, and set
His proud foot on it—had he struck the life
Out of my heart in anger I had borne
That evil better than so sad a sight.
My tears burst forth like fountains, and I crept
Humbly up to him that had wrong'd me so.
And, in my dream, methought I strove thro' sighs,
And sobs, and passionate words, to gather up
The shatter'd framework; and with desperate hand
Fragment to fragment joining, like a child,
Still weeping weeping ever—when I heard
A musical sweet laugh; and there he stood
His fingers flattering the willing strings
Of a great harp, of such a glorious shape,
That, in the shock of mere astonishment,
My grief was stay'd. But when he touch'd the chords
Ascending and descending; made them mix
Their golden undulations; link together
Their tongues in one, give answers to each other;
And rise, and dive, and flash o'er seas of sound,
And dance in wildest measure, whirling swiftly,
Or moving softly; oh! methought I saw
The airy ladder laid with suncolours
For steps; and up and down the loveliest shapes
Of Muse, or Faun, or Oread glide thereon;
Spirals, or even bands, or pyramids
Of young Immortals, Hebe's self atop,
Or glittering chains of spirits, hand in hand,
Up to the Sun's own doors! “Lament no more”
He said—“I give it thee; learn thou its uses;
And fashion it according to the mould
Of thine own heart. No other hand save mine
Hath known its cunning; let it answer thee;
And from it draw sweet utterance ever new.
The simple tones of that primeval shell
Which I have shatter'd, and which thou dost mourn,
Time hath well heard, and would not hear again.
For he is hungry after new delights,
And thirsty for the scent of vernal flowers.
He toils along through endless Autumn leaves,
And spurns from under him the dust of Death,
And holds his head thro' clouds unto the East.
Youth loves to mock the fashions of the old;
And love is prone to serve the thing it loves.
And thou, O child, so loving and so young,
Wouldst look upon a World that is no more;
Wouldst climb the barren peaks that others clomb;
And breathe the desert air which they have breathed;
And sing old notes too careless of thyself.
The mockbird hath all voices but his own;
And thou wouldst lisp quaint ditties o'er again.
What would it profit thee to be the first
Of Echoes, tho' thy tongue should live for ever;
A thing that answers, but hath not a thought,
As lasting but as senseless as a stone?
Look, as the Sun which rose this very morn,
Hath changed his place in heaven since yesterday;
And ere to-morrow morn shall change again;
And, as each month, succeeding to the last,
Gives to the year a fresh and differing flower;
As shadows shift by day and stars by night;
And every hour hath aspects of its own;
The last-born life is other than the rest,
And owes its Mother Earth and Father Time
A spirit, like no other spirit known.
Awake! forget not! thou wilt not forget
The songs which thou hast heard; but, until death,
Shalt utter the new music thou hast heard
This summermorn.” He ceased; and was caught up
Swiftly. Again uprose that winged Isle
Against the sun; but now its upward flight
Was from the earth; slowly it sail'd away.
Once more He of the crimson mantle stood
Upon its snowy height; but now one arm
Lean'd on a wondrous harp with many strings;
The other lay upon a fold of cloud.
And roundabout him I beheld a host,
With upward-gazing eyes; upon their brows
Circlets of fadeless leaves; and on their breasts
Written in golden letters, like to fire,
Ancestral names of holy men. I gazed
On these illumined aspects; first with fear,
Then with an adoration mix'd with love.
For I beheld such pity in their looks,
As on the lips of aged sires, that bend
Over a helpless newborn babe; and faith
Moved in me; and I yearn'd to speak to them,
And hear them speak. Rank over rank they rose;
Until the hindmost paled unto my sight,
Like phantoms wrought of the pale cloud itself;
And their own names upon their bosoms sign'd
Were drown'd in vapours dim. But two I saw;
Great Homer sitting on the God's right hand;
And underneath him at his feet was laid
He whom my soul had loved. Oh! when I saw
That face, my fancy's idol, first, methought,
Imagination, like an oracle,
Had spoken in me; working wondrously,
To shape a phantom out of lonely musing,
As like in my mind's eye as shadows seen
In water seem unto the face above;
For there he was as I had painted him.
The drapery of my immaterial thought
Had fashion'd forth his raiment; and his hair,
And reverend beard, were white as in my mind;
And such a pious meaning on his lips
Varied with such a smile! I clasp'd my hands,
Unto him crying;—“Father, countryman;
“Terpander, oh! Terpander; hear'st thou not
Thy Lesbian tongue?” Again the music swell'd,
Like gusts of summer tempest; and my voice
Was slain; but sweeter aye and sweeter grew
The parting sound; till once again the sun
Flooded the pale isle with its oceanlight,
And swallow'd up the vision: the last tones
Of that divine ascending harmony
Were faint as echoes rapt along the wind;
And left dim memories, like a sweet-shaped dream
We cannot seize again, however fair,
Trod underfoot of the great tumult, roll'd
Through opening gates of day. I cried, “Terpander,
Terpander,” and the sound of my own cry
Woke me: and lo! the sun was in the west;
The grove was glooming, and the evening beams,
Like golden columns fallen to the earth,
Slanted thro' tall stems of the wood behind.
I rose—and homeward turn'd 'twixt grief and joy.