A year had flown, and o'er the sea away,
In Cornwall, Tristram and Queen Iseult lay;
In King Marc's chapel, in Tyntagel old—
There in a ship they bore those lovers cold.
5The young surviving Iseult, one bright day,
Had wander'd forth. Her children were at play
In a green circular hollow in the heath
Which borders the sea-shore—a country path
Creeps over it from the till'd fields behind.
10The hollow's grassy banks are soft-inclined,
And to one standing on them, far and near
The lone unbroken view spreads bright and clear
°13Over the waste. This cirque° of open ground
Is light and green; the heather, which all round
15Creeps thickly, grows not here; but the pale grass
Is strewn with rocks, and many a shiver'd mass
Of vein'd white-gleaming quartz, and here and there
°18Dotted with holly-trees and juniper.°
In the smooth centre of the opening stood
20Three hollies side by side, and made a screen,
Warm with the winter-sun, of burnish'd green
°22With scarlet berries gemm'd, the fell-fare's° food.
Under the glittering hollies Iseult stands,
Watching her children play; their little hands
25Are busy gathering spars of quartz, and streams
°26Of stagshorn° for their hats; anon, with screams
[p.56]
Of mad delight they drop their spoils, and bound
Among the holly-clumps and broken ground,
Racing full speed, and startling in their rush
30The fell-fares and the speckled missel-thrush
Out of their glossy coverts;—but when now
Their cheeks were flush'd, and over each hot brow,
Under the feather'd hats of the sweet pair,
In blinding masses shower'd the golden hair—
35Then Iseult call'd them to her, and the three
Cluster'd under the holly-screen, and she
°37Told them an old-world Breton history.°
Warm in their mantles wrapt the three stood there,
Under the hollies, in the clear still air—
40Mantles with those rich furs deep glistering
Which Venice ships do from swart Egypt bring.
Long they stay'd still—then, pacing at their ease,
Moved up and down under the glossy trees.
But still, as they pursued their warm dry road,
45From Iseult's lips the unbroken story flow'd,
And still the children listen'd, their blue eyes
Fix'd on their mother's face in wide surprise;
Nor did their looks stray once to the sea-side,
Nor to the brown heaths round them, bright and wide,
50Nor to the snow, which, though 'twas all away
From the open heath, still by the hedgerows lay,
Nor to the shining sea-fowl, that with screams
Bore up from where the bright Atlantic gleams,
Swooping to landward; nor to where, quite clear,
55The fell-fares settled on the thickets near.
And they would still have listen'd, till dark night
Came keen and chill down on the heather bright;
But, when the red glow on the sea grew cold,
[p.57]
And the grey turrets of the castle old
60Look'd sternly through the frosty evening-air,
Then Iseult took by the hand those children fair,
And brought her tale to an end, and found the path,
And led them home over the darkening heath.
And is she happy? Does she see unmoved
65The days in which she might have lived and loved
Slip without bringing bliss slowly away,
One after one, to-morrow like to-day?
Joy has not found her yet, nor ever will—
Is it this thought which, makes her mien so still,
70Her features so fatigued, her eyes, though sweet,
So sunk, so rarely lifted save to meet
Her children's? She moves slow; her voice alone
Hath yet an infantine and silver tone,
But even that comes languidly; in truth,
75She seems one dying in a mask of youth.
And now she will go home, and softly lay
Her laughing children in their beds, and play
Awhile with them before they sleep; and then
She'll light her silver lamp, which fishermen
80Dragging their nets through the rough waves, afar,
°81Along this iron coast,° know like a star,°
And take her broidery-frame, and there she'll sit
Hour after hour, her gold curls sweeping it;
Lifting her soft-bent head only to mind
85Her children, or to listen to the wind.
And when the clock peals midnight, she will move
Her work away, and let her fingers rove
Across the shaggy brows of Tristram's hound
Who lies, guarding her feet, along the ground;
90Or else she will fall musing, her blue eyes
[p.58]
Fixt, her slight hands clasp'd on her lap; then rise,
°92And at her prie-dieu° kneel, until she have told
Her rosary-beads of ebony tipp'd with gold,
Then to her soft sleep—and to-morrow'll be
95To-day's exact repeated effigy.
Yes, it is lonely for her in her hall.
°97The children, and the grey-hair'd seneschal,°
Her women, and Sir Tristram's aged hound,
Are there the sole companions to be found.
100But these she loves; and noiser life than this
She would find ill to bear, weak as she is.
She has her children, too, and night and day
Is with them; and the wide heaths where they play,
The hollies, and the cliff, and the sea-shore,
105The sand, the sea-birds, and the distant sails,
These are to her dear as to them; the tales
With which this day the children she beguiled
She gleaned from Breton grandames, when a child,
In every hut along this sea-coast wild.
110She herself loves them still, and, when they are told,
Can forget all to hear them, as of old.
Dear saints, it is not sorrow, as I hear,
Not suffering, which shuts up eye and ear
To all that has delighted them before,
115And lets us be what we were once no more.
No, we may suffer deeply, yet retain
Power to be moved and soothed, for all our pain,
By what of old pleased us, and will again.
No, 'tis the gradual furnace of the world,
120In whose hot air our spirits are upcurl'd
Until they crumble, or else grow like steel—
[p.59]
Which kills in us the bloom, the youth, the spring—
Which leaves the fierce necessity to feel,
But takes away the power—this can avail,
125By drying up our joy in everything,
To make our former pleasures all seem stale.
This, or some tyrannous single thought, some fit
Of passion, which subdues our souls to it,
Till for its sake alone we live and move—
130Call it ambition, or remorse, or love—
This too can change us wholly, and make seem
All which we did before, shadow and dream.
And yet, I swear, it angers me to see
°134How this fool passion gulls° men potently;
135Being, in truth, but a diseased unrest,
And an unnatural overheat at best.
How they are full of languor and distress
Not having it; which when they do possess,
They straightway are burnt up with fume and care,
°140And spend their lives in posting here and there°
Where this plague drives them; and have little ease,
Are furious with themselves, and hard to please.
°143Like that bold Cæsar,° the famed Roman wight,
Who wept at reading of a Grecian knight
145Who made a name at younger years than he;
Or that renown'd mirror of chivalry,
°147Prince Alexander,° Philip's peerless son,
Who carried the great war from Macedon
°149Into the Soudan's° realm, and thundered on
150To die at thirty-five in Babylon.
What tale did Iseult to the children say,
Under the hollies, that bright-winter's day?
[p.60]
She told them of the fairy-haunted land
Away the other side of Brittany,
155Beyond the heaths, edged by the lonely sea;
°156Of the deep forest-glades of Broce-liande,°
Through whose green boughs the golden sunshine creeps
Where Merlin by the enchanted thorn-tree sleeps.
°159For here he came with the fay° Vivian,
160One April, when the warm days first began.
He was on foot, and that false fay, his friend,
On her white palfrey; here he met his end,
In these lone sylvan glades, that April-day.
°164This tale of Merlin and the lovely fay°
165Was the one Iseult chose, and she brought clear
Before the children's fancy him and her.
Blowing between the stems, the forest-air
Had loosen'd the brown locks of Vivian's hair,
Which play'd on her flush'd cheek, and her blue eyes
170Sparkled with mocking glee and exercise.
Her palfrey's flanks were mired and bathed in sweat,
For they had travell'd far and not stopp'd yet.
A brier in that tangled wilderness
Had scored her white right hand, which she allows
175To rest ungloved on her green riding-dress;
The other warded off the drooping boughs.
But still she chatted on, with her blue eyes
Fix'd full on Merlin's face, her stately prize.
Her 'haviour had the morning's fresh clear grace,
180The spirit of the woods was in her face.
She look'd so witching fair, that learned wight
Forgot his craft, and his best wits took flight;
And he grew fond, and eager to obey
°184His mistress, use her empire° as she may.
[p.61]
185They came to where the brushwood ceased, and day
Peer'd 'twixt the stems; and the ground broke away,
In a sloped sward down to a brawling brook;
And up as high as where they stood to look
On the brook's farther side was clear, but then
190The underwood and trees began again.
This open glen was studded thick with thorns
Then white with blossom; and you saw the horns,
Through last year's fern, of the shy fallow-deer
Who come at noon down to the water here.
195You saw the bright-eyed squirrels dart along
Under the thorns on the green sward; and strong
The blackbird whistled from the dingles near,
And the weird chipping of the woodpecker
Rang lonelily and sharp; the sky was fair,
200And a fresh breath of spring stirr'd everywhere.
Merlin and Vivian stopp'd on the slope's brow,
To gaze on the light sea of leaf and bough
Which glistering plays all round them, lone and mild.
As if to itself the quiet forest smiled.
205Upon the brow-top grew a thorn, and here
The grass was dry and moss'd, and you saw clear
Across the hollow; white anemones
Starr'd the cool turf, and clumps of primroses
Ran out from the dark underwood behind.
210No fairer resting-place a man could find.
"Here let us halt," said Merlin then; and she
Nodded, and tied her palfrey to a tree.
They sate them down together, and a sleep
Fell upon Merlin, more like death, so deep.
215 Her finger on her lips, then Vivian rose
And from her brown-lock'd head the wimple throws,
[p.62]
And takes it in her hand, and waves it over
The blossom'd thorn-tree and her sleeping lover.
°219Nine times she waved the fluttering wimple° round,
220And made a little plot of magic ground.
And in that daised circle, as men say,
°222Is Merlin prisoner° till the judgment-day;
But she herself whither she will can rove—
°224For she was passing weary of his love.°
°1Down the Savoy° valleys sounding,
Echoing round this castle old,
°3'Mid the distant mountain-chalets°
Hark! what bell for church is toll'd?
5In the bright October morning
Savoy's Duke had left his bride.
From the castle, past the drawbridge,
Flow'd the hunters' merry tide.
Steeds are neighing, gallants glittering;
10 Gay, her smiling lord to greet,
From her mullion'd chamber-casement
Smiles the Duchess Marguerite.
From Vienna, by the Danube,
Here she came, a bride, in spring.
15Now the autumn crisps the forest;
Hunters gather, bugles ring.
[p.64]
°17Hounds are pulling, prickers° swearing,
Horses fret, and boar-spears glance.
Off!—They sweep the marshy forests.
20 Westward, on the side of France.
Hark! the game's on foot; they scatter!—
Down the forest-ridings lone,
Furious, single horsemen gallop——
Hark! a shout—a crash—a groan!
25Pale and breathless, came the hunters;
On the turf dead lies the boar—
God! the Duke lies stretch'd beside him,
Senseless, weltering in his gore.
In the dull October evening,
30 Down the leaf-strewn forest-road,
To the castle, past the drawbridge,
Came the hunters with their load.
In the hall, with sconces blazing,
Ladies waiting round her seat,
°35Clothed in smiles, beneath the dais°
Sate the Duchess Marguerite.
Hark! below the gates unbarring!
Tramp of men and quick commands!
"—'Tis my lord come back from hunting—"
40 And the Duchess claps her hands.
Slow and tired, came the hunters—
Stopp'd in darkness in the court.
"—Ho, this way, ye laggard hunters!
To the hall! What sport? What sport?"—
[p.65]
45Slow they enter'd with their master;
In the hall they laid him down.
On his coat were leaves and blood-stains,
On his brow an angry frown.
Dead her princely youthful husband
50 Lay before his youthful wife,
Bloody, 'neath the flaring sconces—
And the sight froze all her life.
In Vienna, by the Danube,
Kings hold revel, gallants meet.
55Gay of old amid the gayest
Was the Duchess Marguerite.
In Vienna, by the Danube,
Feast and dance her youth beguiled.
Till that hour she never sorrow'd;
60 But from then she never smiled.
'Mid the Savoy mountain valleys
Far from town or haunt of man,
Stands a lonely church, unfinish'd,
Which the Duchess Maud began;
65Old, that Duchess stern began it,
In grey age, with palsied hands;
But she died while it was building,
And the Church unfinish'd stands—
°69Stands as erst° the builders left it,
70 When she sank into her grave;
°71Mountain greensward paves the chancel,°
°72 Harebells flower in the nave.
[p.66]
"—In my castle all is sorrow,"
Said the Duchess Marguerite then;
75"Guide me, some one, to the mountain!
We will build the Church again."—
°77Sandall'd palmers,° faring homeward,
Austrian knights from Syria came.
"—Austrian wanderers bring, O warders!
80 Homage to your Austrian dame."—
From the gate the warders answer'd:
"—Gone, O knights, is she you knew!
Dead our Duke, and gone his Duchess;
Seek her at the Church of Brou!"—
85Austrian knights and march-worn palmers
Climb the winding mountain-way.—
Reach the valley, where the Fabric
Rises higher day by day.
Stones are sawing, hammers ringing;
90 On the work the bright sun shines,
In the Savoy mountain-meadows,
By the stream, below the pines.
On her palfry white the Duchess
Sate and watch'd her working train—
95Flemish carvers, Lombard gilders,
German masons, smiths from Spain.
Clad in black, on her white palfrey,
Her old architect beside—
[p.67]
There they found her in the mountains,
100 Morn and noon and eventide.
There she sate, and watch'd the builders,
Till the Church was roof'd and done.
Last of all, the builders rear'd her
In the nave a tomb of stone.
105On the tomb two forms they sculptured,
Lifelike in the marble pale—
One, the Duke in helm and armour;
One, the Duchess in her veil.
°109Round the tomb the carved stone fretwork°
110 Was at Easter-tide put on.
Then the Duchess closed her labours;
And she died at the St. John.
Upon the glistening leaden roof
Of the new Pile, the sunlight shines;
The stream goes leaping by.
The hills are clothed with pines sun-proof;
5'Mid bright green fields, below the pines,
Stands the Church on high.
What Church is this, from men aloof?—
'Tis the Church of Brou.
At sunrise, from their dewy lair
10Crossing the stream, the kine are seen
Round the wall to stray—
[p.68]
The churchyard wall that clips the square
Of open hill-sward fresh and green
Where last year they lay.
15But all things now are order'd fair
Round the Church of Brou.
°17On Sundays, at the matin-chime,°
The Alpine peasants, two and three,
Climb up here to pray;
20Burghers and dames, at summer's prime,
°21Ride out to church from Chambery,°
°22 Dight° with mantles gay.
But else it is a lonely time
Round the Church of Brou.
25On Sundays, too, a priest doth come
From the wall'd town beyond the pass,
Down the mountain-way;
And then you hear the organ's hum,
You hear the white-robed priest say mass,
30 And the people pray.
But else the woods and fields are dumb
Round the Church of Brou.
And after church, when mass is done,
The people to the nave repair
35 Round the tomb to stray;
And marvel at the Forms of stone,
°37And praise the chisell'd broideries° rare—
Then they drop away.
The princely Pair are left alone
40In the Church of Brou.
So rest, for ever rest, O princely Pair!
In your high church, 'mid the still mountain-air,
Where horn, and hound, and vassals never come.
Only the blessed Saints are smiling dumb,
5From the rich painted windows of the nave,
°6On aisle, and transept,° and your marble grave;
Where thou, young Prince! shalt never more arise
From the fringed mattress where thy Duchess lies,
On autumn-mornings, when the bugle sounds,
10And ride across the drawbridge with thy hounds
To hunt the boar in the crisp woods till eve;
And thou, O Princess! shalt no more receive,
Thou and thy ladies, in the hall of state,
The jaded hunters with their bloody freight,
15Coming benighted to the castle-gate.
So sleep, for ever sleep, O marble Pair!
Or, if ye wake, let it be then, when fair
On the carved western front a flood of light
Streams from the setting sun, and colours bright
20Prophets, transfigured Saints, and Martyrs brave,
In the vast western window of the nave,
And on the pavement round the Tomb there glints
A chequer-work of glowing sapphire-tints,
And amethyst, and ruby—then unclose
25Your eyelids on the stone where ye repose,
And from your broider'd pillows lift your heads,
And rise upon your cold white marble beds;
[p.70]
And, looking down on the warm rosy tints,
Which chequer, at your feet, the illumined flints,
30Say: What is this? we are in bliss—forgiven—
Behold the pavement of the courts of Heaven!
Or let it be on autumn nights, when rain
Doth rustlingly above your heads complain
On the smooth leaden roof, and on the walls
35Shedding her pensive light at intervals
The moon through the clere-story windows shines,
And the wind washes through the mountain-pines.
Then, gazing up 'mid the dim pillars high,
°39The foliaged marble forest° where ye lie,
40Hush, ye will say, it is eternity!
This is the glimmering verge of Heaven, and these
The columns of the heavenly palaces!
And, in the sweeping of the wind, your ear
The passage of the Angels' wings will hear,
°45And on the lichen-crusted leads° above
The rustle of the eternal rain of love.
Strew on her roses, roses,
And never a spray of yew!
In quiet she reposes;
Ah, would that I did too!
5Her mirth the world required;
She bathed it in smiles of glee.
But her heart was tired, tired,
And now they let her be.
[p.71]
Her life was turning, turning,
10 In mazes of heat and sound.
But for peace her soul was yearning,
And now peace laps her round.
°13Her cabin'd,° ample spirit,
It flutter'd and fail'd for breath
15To-night it doth inherit
°16 The vasty° hall of death.
Mist clogs the sunshine.
Smoky dwarf houses
Hem me round everywhere;
A vague dejection
5Weighs down my soul.
Yet, while I languish,
Everywhere countless
Prospects unroll themselves,
And countless beings
10Pass countless moods.
Far hence, in Asia,
On the smooth convent-roofs,
On the gilt terraces,
°14Of holy Lassa,°
15Bright shines the sun.
[p.72]
Grey time-worn marbles
°17Hold the pure Muses°;
°18In their cool gallery,°
°19By yellow Tiber,°
20They still look fair.
°21Strange unloved uproar°
Shrills round their portal;
°23Yet not on Helicon°
Kept they more cloudless
25Their noble calm.
Through sun-proof alleys
In a lone, sand-hemm'd
City of Africa,
A blind, led beggar,
30Age-bow'd, asks alms.
No bolder robber
°32Erst° abode ambush'd
Deep in the sandy waste;
No clearer eyesight
35Spied prey afar.
Saharan sand-winds
Sear'd his keen eyeballs;
Spent is the spoil he won.
For him the present
40Holds only pain.
Two young, fair lovers,
Where the warm June-wind,
[p.73]
Fresh from the summer fields
Plays fondly round them,
45Stand, tranced in joy.
With sweet, join'd voices,
And with eyes brimming:
°48"Ah," they cry, "Destiny,°
Prolong the present!
50Time, stand still here!"
The prompt stern Goddess
Shakes her head, frowning;
Time gives his hour-glass
Its due reversal;
55Their hour is gone.
With weak indulgence
Did the just Goddess
Lengthen their happiness,
She lengthen'd also
60Distress elsewhere.
The hour, whose happy
Unalloy'd moments
I would eternalise,
Ten thousand mourners
65 Well pleased see end.
The bleak, stern hour,
Whose severe moments
I would annihilate,
Is pass'd by others
70In warmth, light, joy.
[p.74]
Time, so complain'd of,
Who to no one man
Shows partiality,
Brings round to all men
75Some undimm'd hours.
Was it a dream? We sail'd, I thought we sail'd,
Martin and I, down the green Alpine stream,
Border'd, each bank, with pines; the morning sun,
On the wet umbrage of their glossy tops,
5On the red pinings of their forest-floor,
Drew a warm scent abroad; behind the pines
The mountain-skirts, with all their sylvan change
Of bright-leaf'd chestnuts and moss'd walnut-trees
And the frail scarlet-berried ash, began.
10Swiss chalets glitter'd on the dewy slopes,
And from some swarded shelf, high up, there came
Notes of wild pastoral music—over all
Ranged, diamond-bright, the eternal wall of snow.
Upon the mossy rocks at the stream's edge,
15Back'd by the pines, a plank-built cottage stood,
Bright in the sun; the climbing gourd-plant's leaves
Muffled its walls, and on the stone-strewn roof
Lay the warm golden gourds; golden, within,
Under the eaves, peer'd rows of Indian corn.
20We shot beneath the cottage with the stream.
On the brown, rude-carved balcony, two forms
Came forth—Olivia's, Marguerite! and thine.
[p.75]
Clad were they both in white, flowers in their breast;
Straw hats bedeck'd their heads, with ribbons blue,
25Which danced, and on their shoulders, fluttering, play'd.
They saw us, they conferred; their bosoms heaved,
And more than mortal impulse fill'd their eyes.
Their lips moved; their white arms, waved eagerly,
Flash'd once, like falling streams; we rose, we gazed.
30One moment, on the rapid's top, our boat
Hung poised—and then the darting river of Life
(Such now, methought, it was), the river of Life,
Loud thundering, bore us by; swift, swift it foam'd,
Black under cliffs it raced, round headlands shone.
35Soon the plank'd cottage by the sun-warm'd pines
Faded—the moss—the rocks; us burning plains,
Bristled with cities, us the sea received.
In this lone, open glade I lie,
Screen'd by deep boughs on either hand;
And at its end, to stay the eye,
°4Those black-crown'd, red-boled pine-trees° stand!
5Birds here make song, each bird has his,
Across the girdling city's hum.
How green under the boughs it is!
How thick the tremulous sheep-cries come!
[p.76]
Sometimes a child will cross the glade
10To take his nurse his broken toy;
Sometimes a thrush flit overhead
Deep in her unknown day's employ.
Here at my feet what wonders pass,
°14What endless, active life is here°!
15What blowing daisies, fragrant grass!
An air-stirr'd forest, fresh and clear.
Scarce fresher is the mountain-sod
Where the tired angler lies, stretch'd out,
And, eased of basket and of rod,
20Counts his day's spoil, the spotted trout.
°21In the huge world,° which roars hard by,
Be others happy if they can!
But in my helpless cradle I
°24Was breathed on by the rural Pan.°
25I, on men's impious uproar hurl'd,
Think often, as I hear them rave,
That peace has left the upper world
And now keeps only in the grave.
Yet here is peace for ever new!
30When I who watch them am away,
Still all things in this glade go through
The changes of their quiet day.
Then to their happy rest they pass!
The flowers upclose, the birds are fed,
35The night comes down upon the grass,
The child sleeps warmly in his bed.
[p.77]
Calm soul of all things! make it mine
To feel, amid the city's jar,
That there abides a peace of thine,
40Man did not make, and cannot mar.
The will to neither strive nor cry,
°42The power to feel with others give°!
Calm, calm me more! nor let me die
Before I have begun to live.
The Portico of Circe's Palace. Evening.
A YOUTH. CIRCE.°
The Youth. Faster, faster,
O Circe, Goddess,
Let the wild, thronging train,
The bright procession
5Of eddying forms,
Sweep through my soul!
Thou standest, smiling
Down on me! thy right arm,
Lean'd up against the column there,
10Props thy soft cheek;
Thy left holds, hanging loosely,
°12The deep cup, ivy-cinctured,°
I held but now.
[p.78]
Is it, then, evening
15So soon? I see, the night-dews,
Cluster'd in thick beads, dim
The agate brooch-stones
On thy white shoulder;
The cool night-wind, too,
20Blows through the portico,
Stirs thy hair, Goddess,
Waves thy white robe!
Circe. Whence art thou, sleeper?
The Youth. When the white dawn first
25Through the rough fir-planks
Of my hut, by the chestnuts,
Up at the valley-head,
Came breaking, Goddess!
I sprang up, I threw round me
30My dappled fawn-skin;
Passing out, from the wet turf,
Where they lay, by the hut door,
I snatch'd up my vine-crown, my fir-staff,
All drench'd in dew—
35Came swift down to join
°36The rout° early gather'd
In the town, round the temple,
°38Iacchus'° white fane°
On yonder hill.
40Quick I pass'd, following
The wood-cutters' cart-track
Down the dark valley;—I saw
On my left, through, the beeches,
[p.79]
Thy palace, Goddess,
45Smokeless, empty!
Trembling, I enter'd; beheld
The court all silent,
°48The lions sleeping,°
On the altar this bowl.
50I drank, Goddess!
And sank down here, sleeping,
On the steps of thy portico.
Circe. Foolish boy! Why tremblest thou?
Thou lovest it, then, my wine?
55Wouldst more of it? See, how glows,
Through the delicate, flush'd marble,
The red, creaming liquor,
Strown with dark seeds!
Drink, then! I chide thee not,
60Deny thee not my bowl.
Come, stretch forth thy hand, then—so!
Drink—drink again!
The Youth. Thanks, gracious one!
Ah, the sweet fumes again!
65More soft, ah me,
More subtle-winding
°67Than Pan's flute-music!°
Faint—faint! Ah me,
Again the sweet sleep!
70 Circe. Hist! Thou—within there!
°71Come forth, Ulysses°!
°72Art° tired with hunting?
°73While we range° the woodland,
°74See what the day brings.°
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75 Ulysses. Ever new magic!
Hast thou then lured hither,
Wonderful Goddess, by thy art,
The young, languid-eyed Ampelus,
Iacchus' darling—
80Or some youth beloved of Pan,
°81Of Pan and the Nymphs°?
That he sits, bending downward
His white, delicate neck
To the ivy-wreathed marge
85Of thy cup; the bright, glancing vine-leaves
That crown his hair,
Falling forward, mingling
With the dark ivy-plants—
His fawn-skin, half untied,
90Smear'd with red wine-stains? Who is he,
That he sits, overweigh'd
By fumes of wine and sleep,
So late, in thy portico?
What youth, Goddess,—what guest
95Of Gods or mortals?
Circe. Hist! he wakes!
I lured him not hither, Ulysses.
Nay, ask him!
The Youth. Who speaks? Ah, who comes forth
100To thy side, Goddess, from within?
How shall I name him?
This spare, dark-featured,
Quick-eyed stranger?
Ah, and I see too
105His sailor's bonnet,
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His short coat, travel-tarnish'd,
°107With one arm bare°!—
Art thou not he, whom fame
This long time rumours
°110The favour'd guest of Circe,° brought by the waves?
Art thou he, stranger?
The wise Ulysses,
Laertes' son?
Ulysses. I am Ulysses.
115And thou, too, sleeper?
Thy voice is sweet.
It may be thou hast follow'd
Through the islands some divine bard,
By age taught many things,
°120Age and the Muses°;
And heard him delighting
The chiefs and people
In the banquet, and learn'd his songs,
Of Gods and Heroes,
125Of war and arts,
And peopled cities,
Inland, or built
By the grey sea.—If so, then hail!
I honour and welcome thee.
130The Youth. The Gods are happy.
They turn on all sides
Their shining eyes,
And see below them
°134The earth and men.°
°135They see Tiresias°
Sitting, staff in hand,
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On the warm, grassy
°138Asopus° bank,
His robe drawn over
140His old, sightless head,
Revolving inly
°142The doom of Thebes.°
°143They see the Centaurs°
In the upper glens
°145Of Pelion,° in the streams,
Where red-berried ashes fringe
The clear-brown shallow pools,
With streaming flanks, and heads
Rear'd proudly, snuffing
150The mountain wind.
They see the Indian
Drifting, knife in hand,
His frail boat moor'd to
A floating isle thick-matted
155With large-leaved, low-creeping melon-plants,
And the dark cucumber.
He reaps, and stows them,
Drifting—drifting;—round him,
Round his green harvest-plot,
160Flow the cool lake-waves,
°161The mountains ring them.°
They see the Scythian
On the wide stepp, unharnessing
His wheel'd house at noon.
165He tethers his beast down, and makes his meal—
Mares' milk, and bread
[p.83]
°167Baked on the embers°;—all around
The boundless, waving grass-plains stretch, thick-starr'd
With saffron and the yellow hollyhock
170And flag-leaved iris-flowers.
Sitting in his cart,
He makes his meal; before him, for long miles,
Alive with bright green lizards,
And the springing bustard-fowl,
175The track, a straight black line,
Furrows the rich soil; here and there
Clusters of lonely mounds
Topp'd with rough-hewn,
Grey, rain-blear'd statues, overpeer
°180The sunny waste.°
They see the ferry
On the broad, clay-laden.
°183Lone Chorasmian stream°;—thereon
With snort and strain,
185Two horses, strongly swimming, tow
The ferry-boat, with woven ropes
To either bow
Firm harness'd by the mane; a chief,
With shout and shaken spear,
190Stands at the prow, and guides them; but astern
The cowering merchants, in long robes,
Sit pale beside their wealth
Of silk-bales and of balsam-drops,
Of gold and ivory,
195Of turquoise-earth and amethyst,
Jasper and chalcedony,
°197And milk-barr'd onyx-stones.°
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The loaded boat swings groaning
In the yellow eddies;
200The Gods behold them.
They see the Heroes
Sitting in the dark ship
On the foamless, long-heaving
Violet sea,
205At sunset nearing
°206The Happy Islands.°
These things, Ulysses,
The wise bards also
Behold and sing.
210But oh, what labour!
O prince, what pain!
They too can see
Tiresias;—but the Gods,
Who give them vision,
215Added this law:
That they should bear too
His groping blindness,
His dark foreboding,
His scorn'd white hairs;
°220Bear Hera's anger°
Through a life lengthen'd
To seven ages.
They see the Centaurs
On Pelion;—then they feel,
225They too, the maddening wine
Swell their large veins to bursting; in wild pain
They feel the biting spears
[p.85]
°228Of the grim Lapithæ,° and Theseus,° drive,
°229Drive crashing through their bones°; they feel
230High on a jutting rock in the red stream
°231Alcmena's dreadful son°
Ply his bow;—such a price
The Gods exact for song:
To become what we sing.
235They see the Indian
On his mountain lake; but squalls
Make their skiff reel, and worms
In the unkind spring have gnawn
Their melon-harvest to the heart.—They see
240The Scythian; but long frosts
Parch them in winter-time on the bare stepp,
Till they too fade like grass; they crawl
Like shadows forth in spring.
They see the merchants
°245On the Oxus stream°;—but care
Must visit first them too, and make them pale.
Whether, through whirling sand,
A cloud of desert robber-horse have burst
Upon their caravan; or greedy kings,
250In the wall'd cities the way passes through,
Crush'd them with tolls; or fever-airs,
On some great river's marge,
Mown them down, far from home.
°254They see the Heroes°
255Near harbour;—but they share
Their lives, and former violent toil in Thebes,
°257Seven-gated Thebes, or Troy°;
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Or where the echoing oars
Of Argo first
°260Startled the unknown sea.°
°261The old Silenus°
Came, lolling in the sunshine,
From the dewy forest-coverts,
This way, at noon.
265Sitting by me, while his Fauns
Down at the water-side
Sprinkled and smoothed
His drooping garland,
He told me these things.
270But I, Ulysses,
Sitting on the warm steps,
Looking over the valley,
All day long, have seen,
Without pain, without labour,
°275Sometimes a wild-hair'd Mænad°—
°276Sometimes a Faun with torches°—
And sometimes, for a moment,
Passing through the dark stems
Flowing-robed, the beloved,
280The desired, the divine,
Beloved Iacchus.
Ah, cool night-wind, tremulous stars!
Ah, glimmering water,
Fitful earth-murmur,
285Dreaming woods!
Ah, golden-hair'd, strangely smiling Goddess,
And thou, proved, much enduring,
[p.87]
Wave-toss'd Wanderer!
Who can stand still?
290Ye fade, ye swim, ye waver before me—
The cup again!
Faster, faster,
O Circe, Goddess,
Let the wild, thronging train,
295The bright procession
Of eddying forms,
Sweep through my soul!