 | A Lost Epic and Other Poems |  |
115
KARMA.
In the heart of the white summer mist lay a green little piece of the world;
And the tops of the beeches were lost in the mist, and the mist ringed us round;
All the low leaves were silvered with dew, and the herbage with dew was impearled;
And the turmoil of life was but vaguely divined through the mist as a sound.
And the tops of the beeches were lost in the mist, and the mist ringed us round;
All the low leaves were silvered with dew, and the herbage with dew was impearled;
And the turmoil of life was but vaguely divined through the mist as a sound.
In the heart of the mist there was warmth—for the soil full of sun was aglow
Like a fruit when it colours—and fragrance from flowers and a scent from the soil;
And a lamb in the grass, in the flowers, in the dew, nibbled—whiter than snow;
And the white summer mist was a fold for us both against sorrow and toil.
Like a fruit when it colours—and fragrance from flowers and a scent from the soil;
And a lamb in the grass, in the flowers, in the dew, nibbled—whiter than snow;
And the white summer mist was a fold for us both against sorrow and toil.
116
From the fields in the mist came a bleating, a sound as of longing and need;
But the lamb from the grass in its little green heaven never lifted its head;
It was innocent, whiter than snow; it was glad in the flowers, took no heed;
But the sound from the fields in the mist made me grieve as for one that is dead.
But the lamb from the grass in its little green heaven never lifted its head;
It was innocent, whiter than snow; it was glad in the flowers, took no heed;
But the sound from the fields in the mist made me grieve as for one that is dead.
And behold! 'twas a dream I had dreamed, and a voice made me wake with a start;
Saying: “Hark! once again in the flesh shall ye twain live your life for a span,
But since whiteness of snow is as nought in mine eyes without pity of heart,
Lo! the lamb shall be born as a wolf, with a wolf's heart, but thou as a man!”
Saying: “Hark! once again in the flesh shall ye twain live your life for a span,
But since whiteness of snow is as nought in mine eyes without pity of heart,
Lo! the lamb shall be born as a wolf, with a wolf's heart, but thou as a man!”
117
COMFORT ON PELION.
From white Iolcos by the sunny sea
The Thrall went forth at noon—an aged man,
Unkempt and wretched, clad in tattered skins,
With clouted leggings bound about his knees,
And in his palsied hand an oaken staff.
The Thrall went forth at noon—an aged man,
Unkempt and wretched, clad in tattered skins,
With clouted leggings bound about his knees,
And in his palsied hand an oaken staff.
Beyond the vineyards and the olive-groves,
The flowery slopes and fruitful grassy lawns;
Above the shadowy planes, where bright of leaf
And red of fruit the ripe pomegranate bursts;
Above the chestnuts of the lower glens,—
Yea, high above the oaks and windy pines,
The snowy top of Pelion in the sun
Glittered; but there was ever genial shade
Within the hollow ivy-fringèd rock
Where dwelt the strong, glad-hearted friend of men,
The Centaur.
The flowery slopes and fruitful grassy lawns;
Above the shadowy planes, where bright of leaf
And red of fruit the ripe pomegranate bursts;
Above the chestnuts of the lower glens,—
Yea, high above the oaks and windy pines,
The snowy top of Pelion in the sun
Glittered; but there was ever genial shade
Within the hollow ivy-fringèd rock
Where dwelt the strong, glad-hearted friend of men,
The Centaur.
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Leaning on his staff,
The aged Thrall, pricked on by feverish haste,
Climbed upward from the valley; paused to rest,
Despite his haste—for haste is scant of breath—
On many a root embowered in bosky bloom,
On many an ancient boulder; paused to drink
By many a brook deep-edged with coloured moss,
And fringed with stout green rushes; but in rest
Or motion, still he kept his eager eyes
Fixed on the glittering peak, and still one thought
Shook all his toil-worn limbs with hope and fear—
The thought of what immense and awful shape
Ruled and had ruled through storied centuries
These many-fountained glens and forest-slopes.
The aged Thrall, pricked on by feverish haste,
Climbed upward from the valley; paused to rest,
Despite his haste—for haste is scant of breath—
On many a root embowered in bosky bloom,
On many an ancient boulder; paused to drink
By many a brook deep-edged with coloured moss,
And fringed with stout green rushes; but in rest
Or motion, still he kept his eager eyes
Fixed on the glittering peak, and still one thought
Shook all his toil-worn limbs with hope and fear—
The thought of what immense and awful shape
Ruled and had ruled through storied centuries
These many-fountained glens and forest-slopes.
And as the Thrall fared on, from rock and tree
The little birds sang sweetly. On the tree
The burnt cicalas chattered; on the rock
The lizard basked; and everywhere the soil
Laughed out in dimpling depths of grass and flowers
Of red, blue, gold; and all the mountain droned
With falling waters and with pebbly streams.
And now, among the huge red-shafted pines,
The last green wall of Chiron's realm, the Thrall
Heard suddenly a strain of mighty song,
The resonant vibrations of a lyre
Divine, colossal—heard an awful voice
Which swayed the pine-wood like an April wind,
An infinite tender gale of joyous power;
And all the pine-wood sang; and all the air
Was filled with piny fragrance; and there came
A muffled sound of sighing and of song
Ascending, as the slopes and leafy glens
One after other felt their sleepy boughs
Swung in the ever-widening rings of sound.
The little birds sang sweetly. On the tree
The burnt cicalas chattered; on the rock
The lizard basked; and everywhere the soil
Laughed out in dimpling depths of grass and flowers
Of red, blue, gold; and all the mountain droned
With falling waters and with pebbly streams.
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The last green wall of Chiron's realm, the Thrall
Heard suddenly a strain of mighty song,
The resonant vibrations of a lyre
Divine, colossal—heard an awful voice
Which swayed the pine-wood like an April wind,
An infinite tender gale of joyous power;
And all the pine-wood sang; and all the air
Was filled with piny fragrance; and there came
A muffled sound of sighing and of song
Ascending, as the slopes and leafy glens
One after other felt their sleepy boughs
Swung in the ever-widening rings of sound.
The aged Thrall felt all the aches of toil,
Rain, frost—the feebleness and cramps of age—
Beguilèd from his limbs. A fiery blood,
The primrose sap of youth, through all his veins
Ran tingling to the nails, the grizzled scalp;
Kindled wild light within the blearèd eyes;
Burst into flower—the primrose sap of youth!—
Burst into merry blossom in his brain.
He stood erect; he flung away his staff,
Clapped horny hands, and, dancing to the song,
Leaped from concealment of the swaying pines!
Magnificent in his immortal age,
Th' enormous might of Chiron sang i' the sun.
The frost of centuries had blanched his head
And hair, which hung in hoary foliage
Below his shoulder-blades. A shaggy growth,
A frosty herbage, covered back and flank,
Each huge and strenuously corded arm,
The massy shelving muscles of the chest;
While thickly grown on lip and cheek and chin,
His beard seemed pendulous mosses white with rime.
From the strong withers and the mighty croup
Down to the bushy fringes of the hoofs,
Age had but dashed with grey the rugged brown—
For on the mountain and the mountaineer
Alike the wintry white begins atop.
Rain, frost—the feebleness and cramps of age—
Beguilèd from his limbs. A fiery blood,
The primrose sap of youth, through all his veins
Ran tingling to the nails, the grizzled scalp;
Kindled wild light within the blearèd eyes;
Burst into flower—the primrose sap of youth!—
Burst into merry blossom in his brain.
He stood erect; he flung away his staff,
Clapped horny hands, and, dancing to the song,
Leaped from concealment of the swaying pines!
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Th' enormous might of Chiron sang i' the sun.
The frost of centuries had blanched his head
And hair, which hung in hoary foliage
Below his shoulder-blades. A shaggy growth,
A frosty herbage, covered back and flank,
Each huge and strenuously corded arm,
The massy shelving muscles of the chest;
While thickly grown on lip and cheek and chin,
His beard seemed pendulous mosses white with rime.
From the strong withers and the mighty croup
Down to the bushy fringes of the hoofs,
Age had but dashed with grey the rugged brown—
For on the mountain and the mountaineer
Alike the wintry white begins atop.
Sovereignty, wisdom, joyousness of life
Shone in the depths of those immortal eyes,
Whose clear blue light, like morning on the hills,
Softened to human kindliness a face
Rocky, and worn with centuries like a rock,
And lit with colour as a rock with flowers,
And fixed as rock to endure unflinchingly
Pain and the stormy buffets of the world.
Abashed at sight of such wild grandeur, dazed,
The Thrall, with loosened knees and suppliant hands,
Drew near the mighty-throated Singer. He
Ceased, and with outspread hand against the strings
Silenced the ringing instrument. The Thrall
Thus spoke with stammering tongue and frightened eyes:
Shone in the depths of those immortal eyes,
Whose clear blue light, like morning on the hills,
Softened to human kindliness a face
Rocky, and worn with centuries like a rock,
And lit with colour as a rock with flowers,
And fixed as rock to endure unflinchingly
Pain and the stormy buffets of the world.
121
The Thrall, with loosened knees and suppliant hands,
Drew near the mighty-throated Singer. He
Ceased, and with outspread hand against the strings
Silenced the ringing instrument. The Thrall
Thus spoke with stammering tongue and frightened eyes:
“O Healer and Helper—Chiron!—if indeed
Some god unknown thou be not, having here
Thine ever-happy seat i' the shining blue
On topmost Pelion.”
Some god unknown thou be not, having here
Thine ever-happy seat i' the shining blue
On topmost Pelion.”
Answering with a laugh,
“Well hast thou named my name,” the Centaur said;
“Even Chiron, and no whit a god am I.
But thou, old father, rise, and tremble not—
Unless, indeed, this high pellucid air
Strike chilly through thy goatskin; so shalt thou
Have pine-knots quickly blazing by the cave
To warm thy wintry years withal. But say—
For thou art weak and old—from what fair thorpe,
In what keen quest, have these thy faltering feet
Borne thee so far afield? The aged man
Loves less this blue roof than his smoke-browned beams,
And mostly haunts the home-fields, whence he hears
The distant kine and far-faint neat-herd's pipe.”
“Well hast thou named my name,” the Centaur said;
“Even Chiron, and no whit a god am I.
But thou, old father, rise, and tremble not—
Unless, indeed, this high pellucid air
Strike chilly through thy goatskin; so shalt thou
Have pine-knots quickly blazing by the cave
To warm thy wintry years withal. But say—
For thou art weak and old—from what fair thorpe,
In what keen quest, have these thy faltering feet
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Loves less this blue roof than his smoke-browned beams,
And mostly haunts the home-fields, whence he hears
The distant kine and far-faint neat-herd's pipe.”
The Thrall replied: “I speak to gracious ears.
A thrall, an aged man and miserable,
I seek thy succour. In the peaceful vale,
My home, by rich Iolcos and the sea,
The common rumour names thee friend of men;
Compassionate reputes thee; wise to heal,
By virtue of herbs and flowers, all human ills—
Wherefore I come to supplicate thine aid.”
A thrall, an aged man and miserable,
I seek thy succour. In the peaceful vale,
My home, by rich Iolcos and the sea,
The common rumour names thee friend of men;
Compassionate reputes thee; wise to heal,
By virtue of herbs and flowers, all human ills—
Wherefore I come to supplicate thine aid.”
“Tell me thine ailment, so perchance my skill
May give relief.”
May give relief.”
“Alas! what can there be
Of ailments worse than these, and these are mine—
Sickness of life with yet desire to live,
Old age with memory of the bloom of youth,
Thraldom with thirst for freedom,—and dreams, dreams, dreams
Of high achievement, dreams no will of mine
Avails, or hath availed, or can avail
To change to action?”
Of ailments worse than these, and these are mine—
Sickness of life with yet desire to live,
Old age with memory of the bloom of youth,
Thraldom with thirst for freedom,—and dreams, dreams, dreams
Of high achievement, dreams no will of mine
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To change to action?”
“Not on Pelion grows
The herb or flower to heal such ills as these.
Life to the oldest is the oldest friend,
The one most hard to part with. Nought can cure
This ancient malady of growing old!
Still age, though evil, is not all unblessed;
And thou, old man, whose life has been so long—”
The herb or flower to heal such ills as these.
Life to the oldest is the oldest friend,
The one most hard to part with. Nought can cure
This ancient malady of growing old!
Still age, though evil, is not all unblessed;
And thou, old man, whose life has been so long—”
“So long!—nay, brief as is the space one takes
To stoop and drink in. Lo! a laughing lad,
I knelt beside a pool, and as my face
Leaned down and touched the image of my face,
My bright hair withering fell, my rosy cheeks
Grew gaunt and haggard; in my sparkling eyes
The light was quenched, and on my palsied limbs
My goatskin rotted into rags. I rose
And wiped my lips, a frail and aged man.
I speak not wildly, for in truth to-day,
When I had crossed Anauros' stream, I reached
A grove of shadowy planes, and in the midst
A solitary rock, and near the rock
Clear water checked by pebbles to a pool—
A fountain sweet to thirst. I knelt to drink,
And as I leaned I knew the shadowy place,
The rock, the water. Sixty years ago,
A lad, I drank there; sixty years had sped
Like lightning, and I knelt there gaunt and old.”
To stoop and drink in. Lo! a laughing lad,
I knelt beside a pool, and as my face
Leaned down and touched the image of my face,
My bright hair withering fell, my rosy cheeks
Grew gaunt and haggard; in my sparkling eyes
The light was quenched, and on my palsied limbs
My goatskin rotted into rags. I rose
And wiped my lips, a frail and aged man.
I speak not wildly, for in truth to-day,
When I had crossed Anauros' stream, I reached
A grove of shadowy planes, and in the midst
A solitary rock, and near the rock
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A fountain sweet to thirst. I knelt to drink,
And as I leaned I knew the shadowy place,
The rock, the water. Sixty years ago,
A lad, I drank there; sixty years had sped
Like lightning, and I knelt there gaunt and old.”
“Age, and the disillusionment of age,
Are ills past cure or comfort. What remains?
A thrall, thou wouldst be free. Why, here is gold
Shall buy thee freedom from the frost, the heat,
The daily travail. Thou mayst lie i' the sun,
And chide the power that hath mismade the world;
Or drowse beside the fagots when the wind,
An icy mouth, fills all the ways with snow;
Nay, mayst thyself have service at thy beck—
Brown, blithe-eyed dimpled girls to lay thy board
With meat and wine, and spread thy pleasant couch.”
Are ills past cure or comfort. What remains?
A thrall, thou wouldst be free. Why, here is gold
Shall buy thee freedom from the frost, the heat,
The daily travail. Thou mayst lie i' the sun,
And chide the power that hath mismade the world;
Or drowse beside the fagots when the wind,
An icy mouth, fills all the ways with snow;
Nay, mayst thyself have service at thy beck—
Brown, blithe-eyed dimpled girls to lay thy board
With meat and wine, and spread thy pleasant couch.”
The Centaur laughed; but answering with a sigh,
The Thrall; “O god-like Chiron, keep thy gold;
I seek nor brimming trough nor slothful stall.
Freedom were valueless without the boons
Of youthful vigour, joy of being, power
To act the dreams have made my life a dream—
From which I wake with empty palsied hands.
Oh, wherefore was I born a rustic child,
Mere clod o' the common furrow? O ye paths
And emerald shadows of the summer woods,
Was there no dryad with a maiden's heart
To love my father? Wherefore, O ye streams,
That steal through tall green reeds and lonely fields,
Did no bright river-god in ambush lie
What time my mother, singing as she went,
Tripped to you with her pitcher? All unsunned
The leprous lichen quickens in the cave;
Between the brown earth and the shining blue
The golden flower is fondled into life.
Even so the embrace of mortal and divine
Begets the flower of Heroes. Common men,
A squalid growth i' the sunless caves of life,
The high gods love not. And of these, indeed,
No god hath ever need; but oftentimes
The Heroes are th' outstretchèd hands o' the gods
When, leaning forth of heaven, they set their strength
Towards some great purpose.
The Thrall; “O god-like Chiron, keep thy gold;
I seek nor brimming trough nor slothful stall.
Freedom were valueless without the boons
Of youthful vigour, joy of being, power
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From which I wake with empty palsied hands.
Oh, wherefore was I born a rustic child,
Mere clod o' the common furrow? O ye paths
And emerald shadows of the summer woods,
Was there no dryad with a maiden's heart
To love my father? Wherefore, O ye streams,
That steal through tall green reeds and lonely fields,
Did no bright river-god in ambush lie
What time my mother, singing as she went,
Tripped to you with her pitcher? All unsunned
The leprous lichen quickens in the cave;
Between the brown earth and the shining blue
The golden flower is fondled into life.
Even so the embrace of mortal and divine
Begets the flower of Heroes. Common men,
A squalid growth i' the sunless caves of life,
The high gods love not. And of these, indeed,
No god hath ever need; but oftentimes
The Heroes are th' outstretchèd hands o' the gods
When, leaning forth of heaven, they set their strength
Towards some great purpose.
All my boyish heart
Burned for heroic quest, heroic strife,
The gladness and the bloody sweat, the death
And deathless name of Heroes. In the grass
I lay with upward gaze, and pained my heart
With vague desire. Th' inexorable heaven
Turned over like a monstrous azure wheel,
And crushed the worm who dared to vex the gods.
I haunted dewy copse and vine-wreathed cave,
Lay hid by glassy fountain, watched the creeks
Where the blue ocean, changed to emerald sea,
Arrives with rippling laugh—arrives—arrives—
But never lands, and tires the hope it raised
Of some one coming who will never come.
And no one came. I heard no satyr laugh;
Pan never slept within my vine-wreathed cave;
No wood-nymphs, bathing in the slumbrous noon,
Pelted and played with silvery flowers of spray!
But thirst and hunger, ache of weary limbs,
Ague and fever, winter's icy tooth,
The dog-star's rage—these came without a prayer!
A common clod, with less of joy in life
Than any grasshopper upon the clod,
I have piped with querulous cries my summer through,
Till, shrivelled to a grasshopper with age,
I feel the first hoar-frosts of wintry death.
I thought of thee abiding on the heights,
Immortal through the azure centuries;
I knew thee wise, compassionate to men;
I said—perchance the Cloud-born, who can clasp
A man's hand with a hand the like of man's,
May own a heart akin to human hearts,
And share my sorrows if he cannot heal.”
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The gladness and the bloody sweat, the death
And deathless name of Heroes. In the grass
I lay with upward gaze, and pained my heart
With vague desire. Th' inexorable heaven
Turned over like a monstrous azure wheel,
And crushed the worm who dared to vex the gods.
I haunted dewy copse and vine-wreathed cave,
Lay hid by glassy fountain, watched the creeks
Where the blue ocean, changed to emerald sea,
Arrives with rippling laugh—arrives—arrives—
But never lands, and tires the hope it raised
Of some one coming who will never come.
And no one came. I heard no satyr laugh;
Pan never slept within my vine-wreathed cave;
No wood-nymphs, bathing in the slumbrous noon,
Pelted and played with silvery flowers of spray!
But thirst and hunger, ache of weary limbs,
Ague and fever, winter's icy tooth,
The dog-star's rage—these came without a prayer!
A common clod, with less of joy in life
Than any grasshopper upon the clod,
I have piped with querulous cries my summer through,
Till, shrivelled to a grasshopper with age,
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I thought of thee abiding on the heights,
Immortal through the azure centuries;
I knew thee wise, compassionate to men;
I said—perchance the Cloud-born, who can clasp
A man's hand with a hand the like of man's,
May own a heart akin to human hearts,
And share my sorrows if he cannot heal.”
Immersed in thought the Centaur stood, and smoothed
The cloudy tangles of his beard with slow
Unconscious stroke. Then turning to the Thrall,
“Old father, sit,” he said, “and rest thine age;”
Next, bearing from the spar-lit cavern old
A platter and a massive golden horn
Carved round with golden ivy and ivy-flower,
He bade him eat and drink—“And while I speak,
Cheer thou thy troubles with the kindly wine,
Hearing of Heroes and of common men—
For many a Hero as a little child
Hath braced his tender sinews in the hug
Of these grim arms; and many a silent night,
When all the woods were black, and black the plain
With sleep, and light gleamed forth from fold nor farm,
Alone beneath this snowy peak I've lain,
Ringed with the starry hollow of the night,
And thought abysmal thoughts of life and time,
Of sleeping little men and thronèd gods;
And not alone of these, though most of these,
But of the many-visaged conscious life
In fur and feather, jelly, horn, and stone;
And yet of that ubiquitous dumb strain
In lichen, tree, and flower towards consciousness;
And yet again of that which hath no life—
The golden light, the beautiful clear air,
The rocky ribs and soft brown flesh o' the earth,
The four great winds and laughing babes of breeze;
The ice, the frost, and silvery flowers of frost,
The rain-drop, feather of snow, and rosy cloud—
And one with these, yet so unlike to these,
The thunderstorm, the wintry wastes and peaks,
Th' innumerable waters of the world;
And even yet again—till brain grew faint—
Of that mysterious lapse of all that is
To that which is not—called of mortals Death.
Two and inscrutable, throughout all time,
Have been and are Time's riddles—Life and Death.
Nothing more strange than Life—but Death; than Death—but Life.”
With dreamy eyes the Centaur, as he spoke,
Laid hand upon his mighty lyre,—then sang:
The cloudy tangles of his beard with slow
Unconscious stroke. Then turning to the Thrall,
“Old father, sit,” he said, “and rest thine age;”
Next, bearing from the spar-lit cavern old
A platter and a massive golden horn
Carved round with golden ivy and ivy-flower,
He bade him eat and drink—“And while I speak,
Cheer thou thy troubles with the kindly wine,
Hearing of Heroes and of common men—
For many a Hero as a little child
Hath braced his tender sinews in the hug
Of these grim arms; and many a silent night,
When all the woods were black, and black the plain
With sleep, and light gleamed forth from fold nor farm,
128
Ringed with the starry hollow of the night,
And thought abysmal thoughts of life and time,
Of sleeping little men and thronèd gods;
And not alone of these, though most of these,
But of the many-visaged conscious life
In fur and feather, jelly, horn, and stone;
And yet of that ubiquitous dumb strain
In lichen, tree, and flower towards consciousness;
And yet again of that which hath no life—
The golden light, the beautiful clear air,
The rocky ribs and soft brown flesh o' the earth,
The four great winds and laughing babes of breeze;
The ice, the frost, and silvery flowers of frost,
The rain-drop, feather of snow, and rosy cloud—
And one with these, yet so unlike to these,
The thunderstorm, the wintry wastes and peaks,
Th' innumerable waters of the world;
And even yet again—till brain grew faint—
Of that mysterious lapse of all that is
To that which is not—called of mortals Death.
Two and inscrutable, throughout all time,
Have been and are Time's riddles—Life and Death.
Nothing more strange than Life—but Death; than Death—but Life.”
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Laid hand upon his mighty lyre,—then sang:
Grasp my hand!
Hold me fast!
For I stagger and reel
At the tumult and splendour of life rushing past
In a whirlwind of fire, dust, vapour, and thunder;
For above me and under,
Upon this side and that, all the sea and the land,
All the skies, and the gods' starry seats in the skies,
Spin and spin on the axle of time like a wheel!
Hold me fast!
For I stagger and reel
At the tumult and splendour of life rushing past
In a whirlwind of fire, dust, vapour, and thunder;
For above me and under,
Upon this side and that, all the sea and the land,
All the skies, and the gods' starry seats in the skies,
Spin and spin on the axle of time like a wheel!
Through the years, through the æons,
With laughter and cries,
With clangour of conflict and singing of pæans,
The great wheel goes spinning.
With laughter and cries,
With clangour of conflict and singing of pæans,
The great wheel goes spinning.
I see half the round, and I search the dim distance
To find the beginning—
The point where the vague subtle thought, nonexistence,
Is changed to the forms and the colours of being.
The great wheel goes spinning,
To find the beginning—
The point where the vague subtle thought, nonexistence,
Is changed to the forms and the colours of being.
The great wheel goes spinning,
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And baffles the brain
As it sweeps without pause through the awful, inane,
Inscrutable tracts of the vast uncreated,
Then bursts into sight
Inconceivably freighted
With pageants of substance, and colour, and motion.
As it sweeps without pause through the awful, inane,
Inscrutable tracts of the vast uncreated,
Then bursts into sight
Inconceivably freighted
With pageants of substance, and colour, and motion.
Oh, the wonders of sight and of sound
As the great wheel spins dizzily round!
Oh, the terror, amazement, delight!
Oh, the music and wailing, the laughter and cries!
Oh, the numberless faces and eyes
Full of beauty or dread! Oh, the shapes that arise
And abide but a moment, then vanish and change
Into features and forms more unspeakably strange!
For, behold! as I gaze, all the substance of life
With itself is at strife,
And for ever is fleeing,
And for ever pursued from disguise to disguise,
Still eludes and recoils, still survives and escapes
In the masks of divine, inexhaustible shapes—
Now a goddess's tear, now a pearl in the ocean,
Now a bird, now a worm, now a flower, now a flame—
An unknowable essence, incessantly ranging
Through dædal surprises, unchangeably changing
Yet single and permanent, effluent,
Refluent,
Ever and never the same!
As the great wheel spins dizzily round!
Oh, the terror, amazement, delight!
Oh, the music and wailing, the laughter and cries!
Oh, the numberless faces and eyes
Full of beauty or dread! Oh, the shapes that arise
And abide but a moment, then vanish and change
Into features and forms more unspeakably strange!
For, behold! as I gaze, all the substance of life
With itself is at strife,
And for ever is fleeing,
And for ever pursued from disguise to disguise,
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In the masks of divine, inexhaustible shapes—
Now a goddess's tear, now a pearl in the ocean,
Now a bird, now a worm, now a flower, now a flame—
An unknowable essence, incessantly ranging
Through dædal surprises, unchangeably changing
Yet single and permanent, effluent,
Refluent,
Ever and never the same!
Grasp my hand; hold me fast!
For the wheel takes my breath
As it whirls its ineffable pageantry past;
And I strain in fierce gaze into distance to see
The dark goal where existence begins not to be—
Where life lapses to death.
But the great wheel goes spinning
To an end as unknown as the mystic beginning—
Goes dizzily spinning, alive and full-freighted
To the void
Of the cancelled, abolished, destroyed,
From the void of the vast uncreated!
For the wheel takes my breath
As it whirls its ineffable pageantry past;
And I strain in fierce gaze into distance to see
The dark goal where existence begins not to be—
Where life lapses to death.
But the great wheel goes spinning
To an end as unknown as the mystic beginning—
Goes dizzily spinning, alive and full-freighted
To the void
Of the cancelled, abolished, destroyed,
From the void of the vast uncreated!
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O my soul, in what region unknown,
Far removed beyond thought, did I see
The vast shape of a beautiful Woman, who sat all alone
With the wheel at her knee!
And I saw that the wheel was rotation of time,
And the wool of her spinning
Was life—but the fleece
Was a secret withdrawn beyond winning.
Far removed beyond thought, did I see
The vast shape of a beautiful Woman, who sat all alone
With the wheel at her knee!
And I saw that the wheel was rotation of time,
And the wool of her spinning
Was life—but the fleece
Was a secret withdrawn beyond winning.
Alone in her beauty, she sat there and spun;
And she sang a sweet rhyme
Out of pleasure—or solace, perchance—for a task never done;
But the sound of the wheel in her ears was a low woolly drone
That disturbed not her peace;
And I cried, but she laboured unconscious, serene;
For desire nor appeal can attain to her there,
And I never shall know
If the task of her wheel be a joy or a woe,
And whether she sits as a slave or a queen,
In a region that lies beyond worship and prayer!
And she sang a sweet rhyme
Out of pleasure—or solace, perchance—for a task never done;
But the sound of the wheel in her ears was a low woolly drone
That disturbed not her peace;
And I cried, but she laboured unconscious, serene;
For desire nor appeal can attain to her there,
And I never shall know
If the task of her wheel be a joy or a woe,
And whether she sits as a slave or a queen,
In a region that lies beyond worship and prayer!
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“O life, O death! O mysteries of Fate
Which stun the brain and palsy action!
Eat,
Old father, cheerfully, and thank the gods
That hunger saves us from the vast inane!”
Which stun the brain and palsy action!
Eat,
Old father, cheerfully, and thank the gods
That hunger saves us from the vast inane!”
The Centaur smiled and laid aside his lyre.
A little while he stood with dreamy eyes
And folded arms; then tossed his cloudy hair
Backward and faced the heavens with tranquil front:—
A little while he stood with dreamy eyes
And folded arms; then tossed his cloudy hair
Backward and faced the heavens with tranquil front:—
“Insatiable, we know not what we would,
We would not what we know! The best of life
Is action—not the dream of action, thought.
Old father, thou art right. A golden time
Was that blithe morning of a merry world,
When newly felled the pines of Pelion swam
Into the radiant East; and glad in strength
The flower of Minyan Heroes swept the blue
With those stout firs I sent them from the heights.
For rowing joyously with laugh and song
By flowery isles and green-embowered shores,
They saw the eternal snows of Caucasus
Flushed with the rose of morning—saw the blue
Clear beauty of the glacier ice, the pines
Shining with tinted snow; and lo! the while
An eagle, black against the glow of dawn
Sailed in great circles round the glittering peak,
They heard Prometheus groan. But Herakles
Smote off those cankering bonds of bronze and ice,
And loosed the patient human-hearted god.
And when the Heroes landed in the East
And won the Fleece, my Jason brought aboard
The beautiful dark woman of his love,
His bane and after-sorrow. All the sea
Danced, garlanded with white and azure flowers,
For pleasure of their coming, as they swept,
With great oars flashing, homeward; all the sea
Lightened and laughed around my swimming trees,
And floating upward through the blossomy foam,
Smiled sweet wild faces; and the rovers saw
On that, but never any other day,
The strange white beauty of the ocean-girls
Caverned in glassy hollows of the waves.
We would not what we know! The best of life
Is action—not the dream of action, thought.
Old father, thou art right. A golden time
Was that blithe morning of a merry world,
When newly felled the pines of Pelion swam
Into the radiant East; and glad in strength
The flower of Minyan Heroes swept the blue
With those stout firs I sent them from the heights.
For rowing joyously with laugh and song
By flowery isles and green-embowered shores,
They saw the eternal snows of Caucasus
Flushed with the rose of morning—saw the blue
134
Shining with tinted snow; and lo! the while
An eagle, black against the glow of dawn
Sailed in great circles round the glittering peak,
They heard Prometheus groan. But Herakles
Smote off those cankering bonds of bronze and ice,
And loosed the patient human-hearted god.
And when the Heroes landed in the East
And won the Fleece, my Jason brought aboard
The beautiful dark woman of his love,
His bane and after-sorrow. All the sea
Danced, garlanded with white and azure flowers,
For pleasure of their coming, as they swept,
With great oars flashing, homeward; all the sea
Lightened and laughed around my swimming trees,
And floating upward through the blossomy foam,
Smiled sweet wild faces; and the rovers saw
On that, but never any other day,
The strange white beauty of the ocean-girls
Caverned in glassy hollows of the waves.
But leaning over Argo's gladdened pines,
Peleus, my daughter's child, with throbbing brows
Watched the bright girls whose wheels in spinning make
The everlasting murmur of the sea;
And as he watched, beheld one sweetest face
Set in bright hair and crowned with ocean flowers—
One sweetest face with dewy lustrous eyes
And features rosy with desire of love;
And as the clear wave shoaled above her, saw
Bosom and limbs more fair than mortal maid's
But shaped and coloured like a mortal maid's,
And more than any maid's desirable.
Peleus, my daughter's child, with throbbing brows
Watched the bright girls whose wheels in spinning make
135
And as he watched, beheld one sweetest face
Set in bright hair and crowned with ocean flowers—
One sweetest face with dewy lustrous eyes
And features rosy with desire of love;
And as the clear wave shoaled above her, saw
Bosom and limbs more fair than mortal maid's
But shaped and coloured like a mortal maid's,
And more than any maid's desirable.
In after-time when all that golden quest
Was ended, and the pines of Argo bleached
On Corinth strand, that loveliest of the sea,
Grown weary of the unweariable deep,
Lay curled in slumber in the Sepian cave.
Athwart the violet twilight Hesperus
Shone large and golden; full and golden rose
The moon above the fleecy folds of sleep;
But Peleus, stealing through the myrtle grove,
A goddess won that night to be his bride.
Was ended, and the pines of Argo bleached
On Corinth strand, that loveliest of the sea,
Grown weary of the unweariable deep,
Lay curled in slumber in the Sepian cave.
Athwart the violet twilight Hesperus
Shone large and golden; full and golden rose
The moon above the fleecy folds of sleep;
But Peleus, stealing through the myrtle grove,
A goddess won that night to be his bride.
All Thessaly was one flowered holiday
When they were wedded. Toil flung cap in air,
Set idle hands akimbo, and moved his feet
To sprightly measures of the bridal pipes.
Thy glittering house, Pharsalus, was rejoiced
To hold so many cities for thy guests,—
For Phthia trooped from Tempe to thy feast,
Larissa left her far-off shining walls,
Rich presents Cranon brought thee in her lap,
Yea, Scyros, leaping from her bowery rocks,
Came to thee rowing gladly from the sea.
When they were wedded. Toil flung cap in air,
Set idle hands akimbo, and moved his feet
To sprightly measures of the bridal pipes.
136
To hold so many cities for thy guests,—
For Phthia trooped from Tempe to thy feast,
Larissa left her far-off shining walls,
Rich presents Cranon brought thee in her lap,
Yea, Scyros, leaping from her bowery rocks,
Came to thee rowing gladly from the sea.
I, too, descending from mine ancient cave,
Bore sylvan gifts—great garlands full of scent
And gracious colour, wrought of all the flowers
That grow in warm low fields or make a fire
In rocky nooks, or haunting murmurous streams
Draw honey from the waters. These I bore,
And pleasant boughs from many a goodly tree;
And all the palace laughed when they were hung.
Bore sylvan gifts—great garlands full of scent
And gracious colour, wrought of all the flowers
That grow in warm low fields or make a fire
In rocky nooks, or haunting murmurous streams
Draw honey from the waters. These I bore,
And pleasant boughs from many a goodly tree;
And all the palace laughed when they were hung.
But one there came to that far-rumoured feast,
Unasked, a wrathful guest, and marred the feast;
For casting on the board a golden fruit
To who was fairest, with a bitter laugh
She stalked away: but, flushed with jealous strife,
The heavenly queens who graced my grandson's board
Contended for the golden husk in vain,
And so departed with resentful brows
And sullen eyes, and left an empty house,
And all that gorgeous bridal closed in gloom!”
Unasked, a wrathful guest, and marred the feast;
For casting on the board a golden fruit
To who was fairest, with a bitter laugh
She stalked away: but, flushed with jealous strife,
The heavenly queens who graced my grandson's board
Contended for the golden husk in vain,
137
And sullen eyes, and left an empty house,
And all that gorgeous bridal closed in gloom!”
A sound of voices as the Centaur spoke—
Clear youthful voices singing all together—
Came floating upward to the snowy peak;
And ever as the voices paused, the rocks
Sent back the closing cadence of the song.
Clear youthful voices singing all together—
Came floating upward to the snowy peak;
And ever as the voices paused, the rocks
Sent back the closing cadence of the song.
“These by my lads!” said Chiron with a smile,
“The beautiful children trusted to my love
By kings of many cities. Home they come
With quarry from the chase. My merry boys!
The mountain loves to hear them!”
“The beautiful children trusted to my love
By kings of many cities. Home they come
With quarry from the chase. My merry boys!
The mountain loves to hear them!”
And the song
Came floating through the pinewood to the peak:—
Came floating through the pinewood to the peak:—
“Along the mountain as we go—
Halloo—halloo!
Our voices echo to and fro—
Halloo—halloo!
Around us tracts of heather glow
And blue lakes slumber far below;
Halloo—halloo!
Gaily the mountain mocks us so—
Halloo, halloo—halloo, halloo!
Halloo—halloo!
Our voices echo to and fro—
Halloo—halloo!
Around us tracts of heather glow
And blue lakes slumber far below;
Halloo—halloo!
138
Halloo, halloo—halloo, halloo!
Voices a hundred years ago—
Halloo—halloo!
Awoke perchance these echoes so;
Halloo—halloo!
Hearts gladdened at the heather's glow,
And bright eyes scanned the lakes below,
Halloo—halloo!
Gaily they went!—And we shall go.
Halloo, halloo—halloo, halloo!
Halloo—halloo!
Awoke perchance these echoes so;
Halloo—halloo!
Hearts gladdened at the heather's glow,
And bright eyes scanned the lakes below,
Halloo—halloo!
Gaily they went!—And we shall go.
Halloo, halloo—halloo, halloo!
Gaily they went: and men will go—
Halloo—halloo!
A hundred years hence even so—
Halloo—halloo!
When we are dust, and none can know
How glad we were long, long ago!
Halloo—halloo!
Men are as mist the strong winds blow!
Halloo, halloo—halloo, halloo!
Halloo—halloo!
A hundred years hence even so—
Halloo—halloo!
When we are dust, and none can know
How glad we were long, long ago!
Halloo—halloo!
Men are as mist the strong winds blow!
Halloo, halloo—halloo, halloo!
Men are as mist—they rise and go—
Halloo—halloo!
The mountain stays for evermoe!
Halloo—halloo!
They drift where heather and bracken grow—
Their voices echo to and fro—
Halloo—halloo!
Grimly the mountain mocks them so!
Halloo, halloo—halloo, halloo!”
Halloo—halloo!
139
Halloo—halloo!
They drift where heather and bracken grow—
Their voices echo to and fro—
Halloo—halloo!
Grimly the mountain mocks them so!
Halloo, halloo—halloo, halloo!”
“Ay, even so, boys! mortals are as mist—
They fleet and vanish, but the mountain stays.
The mountain does not miss them—has not missed
Those fair bright lads who loved his heights so well
A hundred years ago. On Corinth strand
Was Jason slain in slumber, while he lay
In Argo's shadow. From her sides a pine—
A cankered pine of Pelion—broke and fell
And slew the prince, but Pelion made no moan.
And Peleus sits unsceptred on the shore,
An ancient body, frail and white with age.
Patient he sits beside the Sepian cave,
Where in that violet twilight of old time,
He won that deathless bride, and first received
Her beauteous body with his hands. He waits
Her coming from the sea—for she will come
With sweet wild faces smiling through the foam,
And bright heads crowned with white and azure flowers,
To take him to her own immortal home.
Patient he sits and childless in his age,
For this wild gathering of the ships for Troy
Hath plucked the filial staves from old men's hands,—
Achilles with the rest. Such bitter fruit
Hath been that golden curse the Accursèd cast
Upon the marriage table!”
They fleet and vanish, but the mountain stays.
The mountain does not miss them—has not missed
Those fair bright lads who loved his heights so well
A hundred years ago. On Corinth strand
Was Jason slain in slumber, while he lay
In Argo's shadow. From her sides a pine—
A cankered pine of Pelion—broke and fell
And slew the prince, but Pelion made no moan.
And Peleus sits unsceptred on the shore,
An ancient body, frail and white with age.
Patient he sits beside the Sepian cave,
Where in that violet twilight of old time,
He won that deathless bride, and first received
Her beauteous body with his hands. He waits
Her coming from the sea—for she will come
140
And bright heads crowned with white and azure flowers,
To take him to her own immortal home.
Patient he sits and childless in his age,
For this wild gathering of the ships for Troy
Hath plucked the filial staves from old men's hands,—
Achilles with the rest. Such bitter fruit
Hath been that golden curse the Accursèd cast
Upon the marriage table!”
Chiron paused;
And gazing far beyond the clustered Isles
Towards Ida and the fateful Asian plains,
He murmured: “It may be some seed of good
Shall sprout and blossom from that golden ill—
Some germ of concord, amity and peace
Spring from that core of discord.
And gazing far beyond the clustered Isles
Towards Ida and the fateful Asian plains,
He murmured: “It may be some seed of good
Shall sprout and blossom from that golden ill—
Some germ of concord, amity and peace
Spring from that core of discord.
From the first
One equal blue hath covered all men's heads,
But underfoot the restless sons of men,
Through ages when no single will was law,
Have parcelled out the earth with envious greed,
Till now a brook that needs no stepping-stone,
A mountain-track, puts men from men apart
In tribal isolation. Now at last
This grievous Dardan wrong, this common shame,
Hath prompted a confederate revenge,
And taught the wisdom of united spears.
This common shame foreshadows common weal,
And time will come when, schooled by violence,
Mycenæ, Athens, Phthia, looking up,
Shall see o'erhead no little local heaven,
But gladly share beneath a wider blue
The roof-tree of one nation—one in blood,
In language one, and one in deathless fame.
That time shall come, though haply long delayed
By public folly, private interest,
And ere its advent many woes and wars
Shall make the life of men a bitter thing,
And wheresoever corn in all the land
Is sown, women shall mourn the strong men slain—
The husbands and the young men beautiful—
And blinding tears shall spoil the sickle-strokes
Of maidens reaping in the harvest-fields.
Such years of trouble will it take to school
Cities and kings to wisdom.
One equal blue hath covered all men's heads,
But underfoot the restless sons of men,
Through ages when no single will was law,
Have parcelled out the earth with envious greed,
141
A mountain-track, puts men from men apart
In tribal isolation. Now at last
This grievous Dardan wrong, this common shame,
Hath prompted a confederate revenge,
And taught the wisdom of united spears.
This common shame foreshadows common weal,
And time will come when, schooled by violence,
Mycenæ, Athens, Phthia, looking up,
Shall see o'erhead no little local heaven,
But gladly share beneath a wider blue
The roof-tree of one nation—one in blood,
In language one, and one in deathless fame.
That time shall come, though haply long delayed
By public folly, private interest,
And ere its advent many woes and wars
Shall make the life of men a bitter thing,
And wheresoever corn in all the land
Is sown, women shall mourn the strong men slain—
The husbands and the young men beautiful—
And blinding tears shall spoil the sickle-strokes
Of maidens reaping in the harvest-fields.
Such years of trouble will it take to school
Cities and kings to wisdom.
142
What complaint
Was that of thine, old man—the sad estate
Of common men whom no god ever needs?
But now I tell thee and do thou give heed,
If not the gods, why man needs men's best service.
For truly, as I deem, gods, heroes, men
Are all one wool upon the flying wheel.
Kings are but men and gods but greater kings,
In birth unequal, of unequal lot,
But all of one same primal seed divine,—
For still between the highest and the least
The bridal fruits attest the kindred strain.
Immortal none, I take it, though their bloom
Outlasts man's hoariest longevity;
For many a lineage of those deathless gods
Hath vanished like a sunset from the heavens,
And those now throned above the summer clouds
In turn shall pass away. Or if indeed
They be undying in some subtle sense
The mind conceives of but by glimpse and hint,
Their masked divinity shall walk the earth
In human flesh and blood. In banished fields
Still shall Apollo drive his plough—a slave;
And Zeus still chain Prometheus to the peak;
And Aphrodite, holding in her hand
The golden apple of Eris, shall embroil
Predestined cities till the world shall end.
But Zeus and all the regnant gods shall pass,
And other gods shall thunder from their seats
And follow them to darkness, till at last
An age will come—oh, there will come an age
When perfect manhood shall be man's sole god—
A god indeed immortal, joyous, strong,—
A god most beautiful and most benign.
But man hath utter need of common men
To speed the coming of that better time,
To speed the building of that godlike state
Of world-wide brotherhood, abundant cheer,
Peace amaranthine, freedom unrestrained
Save by the checks of chastened temperament.
That future is far away. These petty states
Have hardly yet awakened to the dawn
Of nationality. What gleam, one asks,
What hope is there of that more radiant dawn
When nations, housed beneath a common roof,
Shall form one family of equal men?
And yet, unless my dreams of man and time
Be mere marsh-glimmerings of a muddy brain,
That time must come. And all may speed the time—
Not Heroes only, but all living flesh,
And thou, old father, mayst achieve thy share.”
Was that of thine, old man—the sad estate
Of common men whom no god ever needs?
But now I tell thee and do thou give heed,
If not the gods, why man needs men's best service.
For truly, as I deem, gods, heroes, men
Are all one wool upon the flying wheel.
Kings are but men and gods but greater kings,
In birth unequal, of unequal lot,
But all of one same primal seed divine,—
For still between the highest and the least
The bridal fruits attest the kindred strain.
Immortal none, I take it, though their bloom
Outlasts man's hoariest longevity;
For many a lineage of those deathless gods
Hath vanished like a sunset from the heavens,
And those now throned above the summer clouds
In turn shall pass away. Or if indeed
They be undying in some subtle sense
The mind conceives of but by glimpse and hint,
Their masked divinity shall walk the earth
In human flesh and blood. In banished fields
Still shall Apollo drive his plough—a slave;
And Zeus still chain Prometheus to the peak;
And Aphrodite, holding in her hand
143
Predestined cities till the world shall end.
But Zeus and all the regnant gods shall pass,
And other gods shall thunder from their seats
And follow them to darkness, till at last
An age will come—oh, there will come an age
When perfect manhood shall be man's sole god—
A god indeed immortal, joyous, strong,—
A god most beautiful and most benign.
But man hath utter need of common men
To speed the coming of that better time,
To speed the building of that godlike state
Of world-wide brotherhood, abundant cheer,
Peace amaranthine, freedom unrestrained
Save by the checks of chastened temperament.
That future is far away. These petty states
Have hardly yet awakened to the dawn
Of nationality. What gleam, one asks,
What hope is there of that more radiant dawn
When nations, housed beneath a common roof,
Shall form one family of equal men?
And yet, unless my dreams of man and time
Be mere marsh-glimmerings of a muddy brain,
That time must come. And all may speed the time—
144
And thou, old father, mayst achieve thy share.”
As Chiron spoke, from Æta's distant height
Rose smoke, gleamed fire; and, wreathed above the fire
Which waxed and brightened momently, the smoke
Caught splendour as of gold and blood, and thronged
The western heavens with drifts of glowing light.
The Centaur watched the blaze with curious eyes,
And thought, the witless churl hath fired the woods;
But with a bitter laugh the Thrall replied:
“That distant time may come; but while the grass
Is growing?”
Chiron answered with a frown:
“Be glad to starve, then! Come what time there may,
Thou still must die; and is it no relief
To die with such a future in thy gaze
And know the children of thy children's children—
Some filial echo of thee in some far age—
Shall through thy being pluck the perfect flower
Of that blest state for which thou couldst but strive?”
“I have no children,” said the aged Thrall.
Rose smoke, gleamed fire; and, wreathed above the fire
Which waxed and brightened momently, the smoke
Caught splendour as of gold and blood, and thronged
The western heavens with drifts of glowing light.
The Centaur watched the blaze with curious eyes,
And thought, the witless churl hath fired the woods;
But with a bitter laugh the Thrall replied:
“That distant time may come; but while the grass
Is growing?”
Chiron answered with a frown:
“Be glad to starve, then! Come what time there may,
Thou still must die; and is it no relief
To die with such a future in thy gaze
And know the children of thy children's children—
Some filial echo of thee in some far age—
Shall through thy being pluck the perfect flower
Of that blest state for which thou couldst but strive?”
145
“Therein, indeed, old man, I pity thee.
The excellence of men is perfected
In children better than themselves.”
The excellence of men is perfected
In children better than themselves.”
His words
Were broken short, for, panting from the woods,
Came one with clenchèd hands and dripping chin,
A runner spent, who fell at Chiron's feet
And gasped:—“He writhes in mortal agonies;
The fiery poison chars him to the bone;”—
And told in voluble bewildered spech
How Dejanira, sick at heart with doubt
And vexed with thought of Iole's girlish face,
Had sent to Herakles—oh fatal gift!—
A wondrous tunic charmed to win his love
And woo him homeward to her widowed arms;
But steeped in mortal venom fierce as flame,
The accursèd vesture charred him to the bone,
And searched his blackened flesh with fiery pangs
Intolerable. Without or tear or groan
Did Herakles endure that deadly love
Of Dejanira; but as anguish grew
He bade his people bear him in their hands
To Zeus his father's ancient mountain-peak,
And build on Æta's top a funeral pile
Of pines and oaks and lentisks—trees and shrubs
Grown on those hallowed heights from age to age—
And lay him on the pile and place his club
Beneath his head and quickly fire the pile.
Were broken short, for, panting from the woods,
Came one with clenchèd hands and dripping chin,
A runner spent, who fell at Chiron's feet
And gasped:—“He writhes in mortal agonies;
The fiery poison chars him to the bone;”—
And told in voluble bewildered spech
How Dejanira, sick at heart with doubt
And vexed with thought of Iole's girlish face,
Had sent to Herakles—oh fatal gift!—
A wondrous tunic charmed to win his love
And woo him homeward to her widowed arms;
But steeped in mortal venom fierce as flame,
The accursèd vesture charred him to the bone,
And searched his blackened flesh with fiery pangs
Intolerable. Without or tear or groan
Did Herakles endure that deadly love
Of Dejanira; but as anguish grew
He bade his people bear him in their hands
146
And build on Æta's top a funeral pile
Of pines and oaks and lentisks—trees and shrubs
Grown on those hallowed heights from age to age—
And lay him on the pile and place his club
Beneath his head and quickly fire the pile.
“But I bethought me, Chiron, of thy skill
And fled with frantic feet!”
And fled with frantic feet!”
A mighty hand
The Centaur stretched towards Æta in reply:
“That flame already hath loosened from all pain
All that could yield to pain in Herakles.”
The Centaur stretched towards Æta in reply:
“That flame already hath loosened from all pain
All that could yield to pain in Herakles.”
Even as the sunset heaps the west with fire,
But all the east is cold and naked blue
Save for a solitary silver cloud,
And that lone cloud reflects the gleam and glow—
So blazed the pyre on Æta, so the flush
Of those heroic brands incarnadined
The sorrowing Chiron's silvery head and beard.
But all the east is cold and naked blue
Save for a solitary silver cloud,
And that lone cloud reflects the gleam and glow—
So blazed the pyre on Æta, so the flush
Of those heroic brands incarnadined
The sorrowing Chiron's silvery head and beard.
“Farewell, a long farewell,” the Centaur sighed,
“To thee, great-hearted toiler of the world!
Farewell, thou strongest, who hast taught mankind
That cheerful courage in its resolute hug
May crack the ribs of very death. Farewell!
It was thy lot—thy mighty heart forbade
That it should be thy doom—to labour still
For others, and with blithe goodwill obey
The bidding of the cowardly and base!
“To thee, great-hearted toiler of the world!
Farewell, thou strongest, who hast taught mankind
147
May crack the ribs of very death. Farewell!
It was thy lot—thy mighty heart forbade
That it should be thy doom—to labour still
For others, and with blithe goodwill obey
The bidding of the cowardly and base!
And I could weep that never any more
Shall these sad eyes behold thy godlike form,
These hands in welcome clasp thy conquering hands—
Save that my tears would shame a joyous life
Of splendid strife and superhuman toil.
Shall these sad eyes behold thy godlike form,
These hands in welcome clasp thy conquering hands—
Save that my tears would shame a joyous life
Of splendid strife and superhuman toil.
Farewell, if vanished men may yet fare well—
If that prevision of the Happy Isles
Be no mere hollow image of desire;
If still the good enjoy the blessed sun
Through one long summer day, and never more
Vex there their lives with strivings of their hands,
But ocean breezes blow about the Isles,
And flowers of gold blaze, some along the ground,
By running water some, and some on trees,
And these the happy garland for their heads
And fill their hands withal!
If that prevision of the Happy Isles
Be no mere hollow image of desire;
If still the good enjoy the blessed sun
Through one long summer day, and never more
Vex there their lives with strivings of their hands,
But ocean breezes blow about the Isles,
And flowers of gold blaze, some along the ground,
By running water some, and some on trees,
And these the happy garland for their heads
And fill their hands withal!
148
Thou, too, old man,
Fare wisely and well. My kindly lads will lead
Thine aged footsteps homeward, lest the beast
Which prowls the forest take thee for a prey.
Farewell; and when the frail repining years
Distress thy painful body, take a thought
How mere an atom, insignificant,
In all the world art thou; how better men
Have found life still more hard; and when thy mind
Is querulous with peevish impotence,
Take courage somewhat in the thought that thou
Hast, like the limpet on the rock, thy use.
Fare wisely and well. My kindly lads will lead
Thine aged footsteps homeward, lest the beast
Which prowls the forest take thee for a prey.
Farewell; and when the frail repining years
Distress thy painful body, take a thought
How mere an atom, insignificant,
In all the world art thou; how better men
Have found life still more hard; and when thy mind
Is querulous with peevish impotence,
Take courage somewhat in the thought that thou
Hast, like the limpet on the rock, thy use.
Lads, guide him down; and, father, bear with thee
The cup thou'st drunk from. It may be the gold
Will save thee from a master's angry strokes,
And change to smiles his dame's resentful frown!”
The cup thou'st drunk from. It may be the gold
Will save thee from a master's angry strokes,
And change to smiles his dame's resentful frown!”
Down through the pine-wood to the fruitful lawns
The princes led the Thrall; and as he went
The aged man, with brain bewildered, watched
The smouldering brands of Herakles, and thought
Of Peleus sitting on the lonely shore.
The princes led the Thrall; and as he went
The aged man, with brain bewildered, watched
The smouldering brands of Herakles, and thought
Of Peleus sitting on the lonely shore.
149
Descended from the mountain; but the might
Of Pelion still abides; his snow-cap gleams
High up against the sun; his shelving sides
Are hung with four-and-twenty villages
Whose white walls glimmer through the terraced bowers;
His vines, his bees, his waters still remain.
The brooks of Pelion through the houses laugh
In marble channels, and the turbaned Turk,
Soothed by the waters in the summer heats,
Smokes in grave luxury. Full of pleasant shade
And pleasant babblement chestnuts and planes
Stand green i' the ancient sun, but woe the while,
The forest and the foresters are gone—
Save one; for lo! on yon the topmost peak
Stands Chiron dreaming still, for wise men say
The Centaur was nought other than a cloud,
And Herakles in every sunset dies;
So, that famed school of Chiron was perchance
A splendid image—how in intercourse
With cloud and sun and wood and mountain, men
Grew virile to enjoy and to endure
With temperance and cheerful fortitude.
| A Lost Epic and Other Poems | |