Volume I Part 32 (1/2)
Lulled by the wash of the feathery gra.s.ses, a sea with many a sun-swept billow, Heart to heart in the heart of the summer, lover by lover asleep they lay, Hearing only the whirring cicala that chirruped awhile at their poppied pillow Faint and sweet as the murmur of men that laboured in villages far away.
Was not the menace indeed more silent? Ah, what care for labour and sorrow?
G.o.ds in the meadows of moly and amaranth surely might envy their deep sweet bed Here where the b.u.t.terflies troubled the lilies of peace, and took no thought for the morrow, And golden-girdled bees made feast as over the lotus the soft sun spread.
Nearer, nearer the menace glided, out of the gorgeous gloom around them, Out of the poppy-haunted shadows deep in the heart of the purple brake; Till through the hush and the heat as they lay, and their own sweet listless dreams enwound them,-- Mailed and mottled with hues of the grape-bloom suddenly, quietly, glided the snake.
Subtle as jealousy, supple as falsehood, diamond-headed and cruel as pleasure, Coil by coil he lengthened and glided, straight to the fragrant curve of her throat: There in the print of the last of the kisses that still glowed red from the sweet long pressure, Fierce as famine and swift as lightning over the glittering lyre he smote.
IV
And over the cold white body of love and delight Orpheus arose in the terrible storm of his grief, With quivering up-clutched hands, deadly and white, And his whole soul wavered and shook like a wind-swept leaf:
As a leaf that beats on a mountain, his spirit in vain a.s.saulted his doom and beat on the Gates of Death: Then p.r.o.ne with his arms o'er the lyre he sobbed out his pain, And the tense chords faintly gave voice to the pulse of his breath.
And he heard it and rose, once again, with the lyre in his hand, And smote out the cry that his white-lipped sorrow denied: And the grief's mad ecstasy swept o'er the summer-sweet land, And gathered the tears of all Time in the rush of its tide.
There was never a love forsaken or faith forsworn, There was never a cry for the living or moan for the slain, But was voiced in that great consummation of song; ay, and borne To storm on the Gates of the land whence none cometh again.
Transcending the barriers of earth, comprehending them all He followed the soul of his loss with the night in his eyes; And the portals lay bare to him there; and he heard the faint call Of his love o'er the rabble that wails by the river of sighs.
Yea, there in the mountains before him, he knew it of old, That portal enormous of gloom, he had seen it in dreams, When the secrets of Time and of Fate through his harmonies rolled; And behind it he heard the dead moan by their desolate streams.
And he pa.s.sed through the Gates with the light and the cloud of his song, Dry-shod over Lethe he pa.s.sed to the chasms of h.e.l.l; And the hosts of the dead made mock at him, crying, _How long Have we dwelt in the darkness, oh fool, and shall evermore dwell?_
_Did our lovers not love us?_ the grey skulls hissed in his face; _Were our lips not red? Were these cavernous eyes not bright?
Yet us, whom the soft flesh clothed with such roseate grace, Our lovers would loathe if we ever returned to their sight!_
Oh then, through the soul of the Singer, a pity so vast Mixed with his anguish that, smiting anew on his lyre, He caught up the sorrows of h.e.l.l in his utterance at last, Comprehending the need of them all in his own great desire.
V
And they that were dead, in his radiant music, remembered the dawn with its low deep crimson, Heard the murmur of doves in the pine-wood, heard the moan of the roaming sea, Heard and remembered the little kisses, in woods where the last of the moon yet swims on Fragrant, flower-strewn April nights of young-eyed lovers in Arcady;
Saw the soft blue veils of shadow floating over the billowy gra.s.ses Under the crisp white curling clouds that sailed and trailed through the melting blue; Heard once more the quarrel of lovers above them pa.s.s, as a lark-song pa.s.ses, Light and bright, till it vanished away in an eye-bright heaven of silvery dew.
Out of the dark, ah, white as the Huntress, cold and sweet as the petals that crowned her, Fair and fleet as a fawn that shakes the dew from the fern at break of day; Wreathed with the clouds of her dusky hair that swept in a sun-bright glory around her, On through the deserts of h.e.l.l she came, and the brown air bloomed with the light of May.
On through the deserts of h.e.l.l she came; for over the fierce and frozen meadows Pleaded ever the Voice of voices, calling his love by her golden name; So she arose from her grave in the darkness, and up through the wailing fires and shadows, On by chasm and cliff and cavern, out of the horrors of death she came.
Then had she followed him, then had he won her, striking a chord that should echo for ever, Had he been steadfast only a little, nor paused in the great transcendent song; But ere they had won to the glory of day, he came to the brink of the flaming river And ceased, to look on his love a moment, a little moment, and overlong.
VI
O'er Phlegethon he stood: Below him roared and flamed The flood For utmost anguish named.
And lo, across the night, The s.h.i.+ning form he knew With light Swift footsteps upward drew.