Volume Ii Part 8 (1/2)

Now the meadows with crocus besprent, And the asphodel woodsides she left, And the lake-slopes, the ravis.h.i.+ng scent Of narcissus, dark-sweet, for the cleft That tutors the torrent-brook, Delaying its forceful spleen With many a wind and crook Through rock to the broad ravine.

By the hyacinth-bells in the brakes, And the shade-loved white windflower, half hid, And the sun-loving lizards and snakes On the cleft's barren ledges, that slid Out of sight, smooth as waterdrops, all, At a snap of twig or bark In the track of the foreign foot-fall, She climbed to the pineforest dark, Overbrowing an emerald chine Of the gra.s.s-billows. Thence, as a wreath, Running poplar and cypress to pine, The lake-banks are seen, and beneath, Vineyard, village, groves, rivers, towers, farms, The citadel watching the bay, The bay with the town in its arms, The town s.h.i.+ning white as the spray Of the sapphire sea-wave on the rock, Where the rock stars the girdle of sea, White-ringed, as the midday flock, Clipped by heat, rings the round of the tree.

That hour of the piercing shaft Transfixes bough-shadows, confused In veins of fire, and she laughed, With her quiet mouth amused To see the whole flock, adroop, Asleep, hug the tree-stem as one, Imperceptibly filling the loop Of its shade at a slant of sun.

The pipes under pent of the crag, Where the goatherds in piping recline, Have whimsical stops, burst and flag Uncorrected as outstretched swine: For the fingers are slack and unsure, And the wind issues querulous:- thorns And snakes!--but she listened demure, Comparing day's music with morn's.

Of the gentle spirit that slips From the bark of the tree she discoursed, And of her of the wells, whose lips Are coolness enchanting, rock-sourced.

And much of the sacred loon, The frolic, the Goatfoot G.o.d, For stories of indolent noon In the pineforest's odorous nod, She questioned, not knowing: he can Be waspish, irascible, rude, He is oftener friendly to man, And ever to beasts and their brood.

For the which did she love him well, She said, and his pipes of the reed, His twitched lips puffing to tell In music his tears and his need, Against the sharp catch of his hurt.

Not as shepherds of Pan did she speak, Nor spake as the schools, to divert, But fondly, perceiving him weak Before G.o.ds, and to shepherds a fear, A holiness, horn and heel.

All this she had learnt in her ear From Callistes, and taught him to feel.

Yea, the solemn divinity flushed Through the s.h.a.ggy brown skin of the beast, And the steeps where the cataract rushed, And the wilds where the forest is priest, Were his temple to clothe him in awe, While she spake: 'twas a wonder: she read The haunts of the beak and the claw As plain as the land of bread, But Cities and martial States, Whither soon the youth veered his theme, Were impervious barrier-gates To her: and that s.h.i.+p, a trireme, Nearing harbour, scarce wakened her glance, Though he dwelt on the message it bore Of sceptre and sword and lance To the bee-swarms black on the sh.o.r.e, Which were audible almost, So black they were. It befel That he called up the warrior host Of the Song pouring hydromel In thunder, the wide-winged Song.

And he named with his boyish pride The heroes, the n.o.ble throng Past Acheron now, foul tide!

With his joy of the G.o.dlike band And the verse divine, he named The chiefs pressing hot on the strand, Seen of G.o.ds, of G.o.ds aided, and maimed.

The fleetfoot and ireful; the King; Him, the prompter in stratagem, Many-s.h.i.+fted and masterful: Sing, O Muse! But she cried: Not of them She breathed as if breath had failed, And her eyes, while she bade him desist, Held the lost-to-light ghosts grey-mailed, As you see the grey river-mist Hold shapes on the yonder bank.

A moment her body waned, The light of her sprang and sank: Then she looked at the sun, she regained Clear feature, and she breathed deep.

She wore the wan smile he had seen, As the flow of the river of Sleep, On the mouth of the Shadow-Queen.

In sunlight she craved to bask, Saying: Life! And who was she? who?

Of what issue? He dared not ask, For that partly he knew.

VIII

A noise of the hollow ground Turned the eye to the ear in debate: Not the soft overflowing of sound Of the pines, ranked, lofty, straight, Barely swayed to some whispers remote, Some swarming whispers above: Not the pines with the faint airs afloat, Hush-hus.h.i.+ng the nested dove: It was not the pines, or the rout Oft heard from mid-forest in chase, But the long m.u.f.fled roar of a shout Subterranean. Sharp grew her face.

She rose, yet not moved by affright; 'Twas rather good haste to use Her holiday of delight In the beams of the G.o.d of the Muse.

And the steeps of the forest she crossed, On its dry red sheddings and cones Up the paths by roots green-mossed, Spotted amber, and old mossed stones.

Then out where the brook-torrent starts To her leap, and from bend to curve A hurrying elbow darts For the instant-glancing swerve, Decisive, with violent will In the action formed, like hers, The maiden's, ascending; and still Ascending, the bud of the furze, The broom, and all blue-berried shoots Of stubborn and p.r.i.c.kly kind, The juniper flat on its roots, The dwarf rhododaphne, behind She left, and the mountain sheep Far behind, goat, herbage and flower.

The island was hers, and the deep, All heaven, a golden hour.

Then with wonderful voice, that rang Through air as the swan's nigh death, Of the glory of Light she sang, She sang of the rapture of Breath.

Nor ever, says he who heard, Heard Earth in her boundaries broad, From bosom of singer or bird A sweetness thus rich of the G.o.d Whose harmonies always are sane.

She sang of furrow and seed, The burial, birth of the grain, The growth, and the showers that feed, And the green blades waxing mature For the husbandman's armful brown.

O, the song in its burden ran pure, And burden to song was a crown.

Callistes, a singer, skilled In the gift he could measure and praise, By a rival's art was thrilled, Though she sang but a Song of Days, Where the husbandman's toil and strife Little varies to strife and toil: But the milky kernel of life, With her numbered: corn, wine, fruit, oil The song did give him to eat: Gave the first rapt vision of Good, And the fresh young sense of Sweet The grace of the battle for food, With the issue Earth cannot refuse When men to their labour are sworn.

'Twas a song of the G.o.d of the Muse To the forehead of Morn.

IX

Him loved she. Lo, now was he veiled: Over sea stood a swelled cloud-rack: The fis.h.i.+ng-boat heavenward sailed, Bent abeam, with a whitened track, Surprised, fast hauling the net, As it flew: sea dashed, earth shook.

She said: Is it night? O not yet!

With a travail of thoughts in her look.

The mountain heaved up to its peak: Sea darkened: earth gathered her fowl; Of bird or of branch rose the shriek.

Night? but never so fell a scowl Wore night, nor the sky since then When ocean ran swallowing sh.o.r.e, And the G.o.ds looked down for men.

Broke tempest with that stern roar Never yet, save when black on the whirl Rode wrath of a sovereign Power.

Then the youth and the shuddering girl, Dim as shades in the angry shower, Joined hands and descended a maze Of the paths that were racing alive Round boulder and bush, cleaving ways, Incessant, with sound of a hive.

The height was a fountain-urn Pouring streams, and the whole solid height Leaped, chasing at every turn The pair in one spirit of flight To the folding pineforest. Yet here, Like the pause to things hunted, in doubt, The stillness bred spectral fear Of the awfulness ranging without, And imminent. Downward they fled, From under the haunted roof, To the valley aquake with the tread Of an iron-resounding hoof, As of legions of thunderful horse Broken loose and in line tramping hard.

For the rage of a hungry force Roamed blind of its mark over sward: They saw it rush dense in the cloak Of its travelling swathe of steam; All the vale through a thin thread-smoke Was thrown back to distance extreme: And dull the full breast of it blinked, Like a buckler of steel breathed o'er, Diminished, in strangeness distinct, Glowing cold, unearthly, h.o.a.r: An Enna of fields beyond sun, Out of light, in a lurid web; And the traversing fury spun Up and down with a wave's flow and ebb; As the wave breaks to grasp and to spurn, Retire, and in ravenous greed, Inveterate, swell its return.

Up and down, as if wringing from speed Sights that made the unsighted appear, Delude and dissolve, on it scoured.

Lo, a sea upon land held career Through the plain of the vale half-devoured.