Chapter 590

Not unappeased was He who smites the waves, When to his stormy ears the warrior's vow Entered, and from his foamy pinnacle Tumultuous he beheld the prostrate form, And knew the mighty heart. Awhile he gazed, As doubtful of his purpose, and the storm, Conscious of that divine debate, withheld Its fierce emotion, in the luminous gloom Of those so dark irradiating eyes! Beneath whose wavering lustre shone revealed The tumult of the purpling deeps, and all The throbbing of the tempest, as it paused, Slowly subsiding, seeming to await The sudden signal, as a faithful hound Pants with the forepaws stretched before its nose, Athwart the greensward, after an eager chase; Its hot tongue thrust to cool, its foamy jaws Open to let the swift breath come and go, Its quick interrogating eyes fixed keen Upon the huntsman's countenance, and ever Lashing its sharp impatient tail with haste: Prompt at the slightest sign to scour away, And hang itself afresh by the bleeding fangs, Upon the neck of some death-singled stag, Whose royal antlers, eyes, and stumbling knees Will supplicate the Gods in mute despair. This time not mute, nor yet in vain this time! For still the burden of the earnest voice And all the vivid glories it revoked Sank in the God, with that absorbed suspense Felt only by the Olympians, whose minds Unbounded like our mortal brain, perceive All things complete, the end, the aim of all; To whom the crown and consequence of deeds Are ever present with the deed itself.

And now the pouring surges, vast and smooth, Grew weary of restraint, and heaved themselves Headlong beneath him, breaking at his feet With wild importunate cries and angry wail; Like crowds that shout for bread and hunger more. And now the surface of their rolling backs Was ridged with foam-topt furrows, rising high And dashing wildly, like to fiery steeds, Fresh from the Thracian or Thessalian plains, High-blooded mares just tempering to the bit, Whose manes at full-speed stream upon the winds, And in whose delicate nostrils when the gust Breathes of their native plains, they ramp and rear, Frothing the curb, and bounding from the earth, As though the Sun-god's chariot alone Were fit to follow in their flashing track. Anon with gathering stature to the height Of those colossal giants, doomed long since To torturous grief and penance, that assailed The sky-throned courts of Zeus, and climbing, dared For once in a world the Olympic wrath, and braved The electric spirit which from his clenching hand Pierces the dark-veined earth, and with a touch Is death to mortals, fearfully they grew! And with like purpose of audacity Threatened Titanic fury to the God. Such was the agitation of the sea Beneath Poseidon's thought-revolving brows, Storming for signal. But no signal came. And as when men, who congregate to hear Some proclamation from the regal fount, With eager questioning and anxious phrase Betray the expectation of their hearts, Till after many hours of fretful sloth, Weary with much delay, they hold discourse In sullen groups and cloudy masses, stirred With rage irresolute and whispering plot, Known more by indication than by word, And understood alone by those whose minds Participate;--even so the restless waves Began to lose all sense of servitude, And worked with rebel passions, bursting, now To right, and now to left, but evermore Subdued with influence, and controlled with dread Of that inviolate Authority. Then, swiftly as he mused, the impetuous God Seized on the pausing reins, his coursers plunged, His brows resumed the grandeur of their ire; Throughout his vast divinity the deeps Concurrent thrilled with action, and away, As sweeps a thunder-cloud across the sky In harvest-time, preluded by dull blasts; Or some black-visaged whirlwind, whose wide folds Rush, wrestling on with all 'twixt heaven and earth, Darkling he hurried, and his distant voice, Not softened by delay, was heard in tones Distinctly terrible, still following up Its rapid utterance of tremendous wrath With hoarse reverberations; like the roar Of lions when they hunger, and awake The sullen echoes from their forest sleep, To speed the ravenous noise from hill to hill And startle victims; but more awful, He, Scudding across the hills that rise and sink, With foam, and splash, and cataracts of spray, Clothed in majestic splendour; girt about With Sea-gods and swift creatures of the sea; Their briny eyes blind with the showering drops; Their stormy locks, salt tongues, and scaly backs, Quivering in harmony with the tempest, fierce And eager with tempestuous delight; - He like a moving rock above them all Solemnly towering while fitful gleams Brake from his dense black forehead, which display'd The enduring chiefs as their distracted fleets Tossed, toiling with the waters, climbing high, And plunging downward with determined beaks, In lurid anguish; but the Cretan king And all his crew were 'ware of under-tides, That for the groaning vessel made a path, On which the impending and precipitous waves Fell not, nor suck'd to their abysmal gorge.

O, happy they to feel the mighty God, Without his whelming presence near: to feel Safety and sweet relief from such despair, And gushing of their weary hopes once more Within their fond warm hearts, tired limbs, and eyes Heavy with much fatigue and want of sleep! Prayers did not lack; like mountain springs they came, After the earth has drunk the drenching rains, And throws her fresh-born jets into the sun With joyous sparkles;--for there needed not Evidence more serene of instant grace, Immortal mercy! and the sense which follows Divine interposition, when the shock Of danger hath been thwarted by the Gods, Visibly, and through supplication deep, - Rose in them, chiefly in the royal mind Of him whose interceding vow had saved. Tears from that great heroic soul sprang up; Not painful as in grief, nor smarting keen With shame of weeping; but calm, fresh, and sweet; Such as in lofty spirits rise, and wed The nature of the woman to the man; A sight most lovely to the Gods! They fell Like showers of starlight from his steadfast eyes, As ever towards the prow he gazed, nor moved One muscle, with firm lips and level lids, Motionless; while the winds sang in his ears, And took the length of his brown hair in streams Behind him. Thus the hours passed, and the oars Plied without pause, and nothing but the sound Of the dull rowlocks and still watery sough, Far off, the carnage of the storm, was heard. For nothing spake the mariners in their toil, And all the captains of the war were dumb: Too much oppressed with wonder, too much thrilled By their great chieftain's silence, to disturb Such meditation with poor human speech. Meantime the moon through slips of driving cloud Came forth, and glanced athwart the seas a path Of dusky splendour, like the Hadean brows, When with Elysian passion they behold Persephone's complacent hueless cheeks. Soon gathering strength and lustre, as a ship That swims into some blue and open bay With bright full-bosomed sails, the radiant car Of Artemis advanced, and on the waves Sparkled like arrows from her silver bow The keenness of her pure and tender gaze.

Then, slowly, one by one the chiefs sought rest; The watches being set, and men to relieve The rowers at midseason. Fair it was To see them as they lay! Some up the prow, Some round the helm, in open-handed sleep; With casques unloosed, and bucklers put aside; The ten years' tale of war upon their cheeks, Where clung the salt wet locks, and on their breasts Beards, the thick growth of many a proud campaign; And on their brows the bright invisible crown Victory sheds from her own radiant form, As o'er her favourites' heads she sings and soars. But dreams came not so calmly; as around Turbulent shores wild waves and swamping surf Prevail, while seaward, on the tranquil deeps, Reign placid surfaces and solemn peace, So, from the troubled strands of memory, they Launched and were tossed, long ere they found the tides That lead to the gentle bosoms of pure rest. And like to one who from a ghostly watch In a lone house where murder hath been done, And secret violations, pale with stealth Emerges, staggering on the first chill gust Wherewith the morning greets him, feeling not Its balmy freshness on his bloodless cheek, - But swift to hide his midnight face afar, 'Mongst the old woods and timid-glancing flowers Hastens, till on the fresh reviving breasts Of tender Dryads folded he forgets The pallid witness of those nameless things, In renovated senses lapt, and joins The full, keen joyance of the day, so they From sights and sounds of battle smeared with blood, And shrieking souls on Acheron's bleak tides, And wail of execrating kindred, slid Into oblivious slumber and a sense Of satiate deliciousness complete.

Leave them, O Muse, in that so happy sleep! Leave them to reap the harvest of their toil, While fast in moonlight the glad vessel glides, As if instinctive to its forest home. O Muse, that in all sorrows and all joys, Rapturous bliss and suffering divine, Dwellest with equal fervour, in the calm Of thy serene philosophy, albeit Thy gentle nature is of joy alone, And loves the pipings of the happy fields, Better than all the great parade and pomp Which forms the train of heroes and of kings, And sows, too frequently, the tragic seeds That choke with sobs thy singing,--turn away Thy lustrous eyes back to the oath-bound man! For as a shepherd stands above his flock, The lofty figure of the king is seen, Standing above his warriors as they sleep: And still as from a rock grey waters gush, While still the rock is passionless and dark, Nor moves one feature of its giant face, The tears fall from his eyes, and he stirs not.

And O, bright Muse! forget not thou to fold In thy prophetic sympathy the thought Of him whose destiny has heard its doom: The Sacrifice thro' whom the ship is saved. Haply that Sacrifice is sleeping now, And dreams of glad tomorrows. Haply now, His hopes are keenest, and his fervent blood Richest with youth, and love, and fond regard! Round him the circle of affections blooms, And in some happy nest of home he lives, One name oft uttering in delighted ears, Mother! at which the heart of men are kin With reverence and yearning. Haply, too, That other name, twin holy, twin revered, He whispers often to the passing winds That blow toward the Asiatic coasts; For Crete has sent her bravest to the war, And multitudes pressed forward to that rank, Men with sad weeping wives and little ones. That other name--O Father! who art thou, Thus doomed to lose the star of thy last days? It may be the sole flower of thy life, And that of all who now look up to thee! O Father, Father! unto thee even now Fate cries; the future with imploring voice Cries 'Save me,' 'Save me,' though thou hearest not. And O thou Sacrifice, foredoomed by Zeus; Even now the dark inexorable deed Is dealing its relentless stroke, and vain Are prayers, and tears, and struggles, and despair! The mother's tears, the nation's stormful grief, The people's indignation and revenge! Vain the last childlike pleading voice for life, The quick resolve, the young heroic brow, So like, so like, and vainly beautiful! Oh! whosoe'er ye are the Muse says not, And sees not, but the Gods look down on both.

THE LONGEST DAY

On yonder hills soft twilight dwells And Hesper burns where sunset dies, Moist and chill the woodland smells From the fern-covered hollows uprise; Darkness drops not from the skies, But shadows of darkness are flung o'er the vale From the boughs of the chestnut, the oak, and the elm, While night in yon lines of eastern pines Preserves alone her inviolate realm Against the twilight pale.

Say, then say, what is this day, That it lingers thus with half-closed eyes, When the sunset is quenched and the orient ray Of the roseate moon doth rise, Like a midnight sun o'er the skies! 'Tis the longest, the longest of all the glad year, The longest in life and the fairest in hue, When day and night, in bridal light, Mingle their beings beneath the sweet blue, And bless the balmy air!

Upward to this starry height The culminating seasons rolled; On one slope green with spring delight, The other with harvest gold, And treasures of Autumn untold: And on this highest throne of the midsummer now The waning but deathless day doth dream, With a rapturous grace, as tho' from the face Of the unveiled infinity, lo, a far beam Had fall'n on her dim-flushed brow!

Prolong, prolong that tide of song, O leafy nightingale and thrush! Still, earnest-throated blackcap, throng The woods with that emulous gush Of notes in tumultuous rush. Ye summer souls, raise up one voice! A charm is afloat all over the land; The ripe year doth fall to the Spirit of all, Who blesses it with outstretched hand; Ye summer souls, rejoice!

TO ROBIN REDBREAST

Merrily 'mid the faded leaves, O Robin of the bright red breast! Cheerily over the Autumn eaves, Thy note is heard, bonny bird; Sent to cheer us, and kindly endear us To what would be a sorrowful time Without thee in the weltering clime: Merry art thou in the boughs of the lime, While thy fadeless waistcoat glows on thy breast, In Autumn's reddest livery drest.

A merry song, a cheery song! In the boughs above, on the sward below, Chirping and singing the live day long, While the maple in grief sheds its fiery leaf, And all the trees waning, with bitter complaining, Chestnut, and elm, and sycamore, Catch the wild gust in their arms, and roar Like the sea on a stormy shore, Till wailfully they let it go, And weep themselves naked and weary with woe.

Merrily, cheerily, joyously still Pours out the crimson-crested tide. The set of the season burns bright on the hill, Where the foliage dead falls yellow and red, Picturing vainly, but foretelling plainly The wealth of cottage warmth that comes When the frost gleams and the blood numbs, And then, bonny Robin, I'll spread thee out crumbs In my garden porch for thy redbreast pride, The song and the ensign of dear fireside.

SONG

The daisy now is out upon the green; And in the grassy lanes The child of April rains, The sweet fresh-hearted violet, is smelt and loved unseen.

Along the brooks and meads, the daffodil Its yellow richness spreads, And by the fountain-heads Of rivers, cowslips cluster round, and over every hill.

The crocus and the primrose may have gone, The snowdrop may be low, But soon the purple glow Of hyacinths will fill the copse, and lilies watch the dawn.

And in the sweetness of the budding year, The cuckoo's woodland call, The skylark over all, And then at eve, the nightingale, is doubly sweet and dear.

My soul is singing with the happy birds, And all my human powers Are blooming with the flowers, My foot is on the fields and downs, among the flocks and herds.

Deep in the forest where the foliage droops, I wander, fill'd with joy. Again as when a boy, The sunny vistas tempt me on with dim delicious hopes.

The sunny vistas, dim with hurrying shade, And old romantic haze:- Again as in past days, The spirit of immortal Spring doth every sense pervade.

Oh! do not say that this will ever cease; - This joy of woods and fields, This youth that nature yields, Will never speak to me in vain, tho' soundly rapt in peace.

SUNRISE

The clouds are withdrawn And their thin-rippled mist, That stream'd o'er the lawn To the drowsy-eyed west. Cold and grey They slept in the way, And shrank from the ray Of the chariot East: But now they are gone, And the bounding light Leaps thro' the bars Of doubtful dawn; Blinding the stars, And blessing the sight; Shedding delight On all below; Glimmering fields, And wakening wealds, And rising lark, And meadows dark, And idle rills, And labouring mills, And far-distant hills Of the fawn and the doe. The sun is cheered And his path is cleared, As he steps to the air From his emerald cave, His heel in the wave, Most bright and bare; In the tide of the sky His radiant hair From his temples fair Blown back on high; As forward he bends, And upward ascends, Timely and true, To the breast of the blue; His warm red lips Kissing the dew, Which sweetened drips On his flower cupholders; Every hue From his gleaming shoulders Shining anew With colour sky-born, As it washes and dips In the pride of the morn. Robes of azure, Fringed with amber, Fold upon fold Of purple and gold, Vine-leaf bloom, And the grape's ripe gloom, When season deep In noontide leisure, With clustering heap The tendrils clamber Full in the face Of his hot embrace, Fill'd with the gleams Of his firmest beams. Autumn flushes, Roseate blushes, Vermeil tinges, Violet fringes, Every hue Of his flower cupholders, O'er the clear ether Mingled together, Shining anew From his gleaming shoulders! Circling about In a coronal rout, And floating behind, The way of the wind, As forward he bends, And upward ascends, Timely and true, To the breast of the blue. His bright neck curved, His clear limbs nerved, Diamond keen On his front serene, While each white arm strains To the racing reins, As plunging, eyes flashing, Dripping, and dashing, His steeds triple grown Rear up to his throne, Ruffling the rest Of the sea's blue breast, From his flooding, flaming crimson crest!

PICTURES OF THE RHINE

I

The spirit of Romance dies not to those Who hold a kindred spirit in their souls: Even as the odorous life within the rose Lives in the scattered leaflets and controls Mysterious adoration, so there glows Above dead things a thing that cannot die; Faint as the glimmer of a tearful eye, Ere the orb fills and all the sorrow flows. Beauty renews itself in many ways; The flower is fading while the new bud blows; And this dear land as true a symbol shows, While o'er it like a mellow sunset strays The legendary splendour of old days, In visible, inviolate repose.

II

About a mile behind the viny banks, How sweet it was, upon a sloping green, Sunspread, and shaded with a branching screen, To lie in peace half-murmuring words of thanks! To see the mountains on each other climb, With spaces for rich meadows flowery bright; The winding river freshening the sight At intervals, the trees in leafy prime; The distant village-roofs of blue and white, With intersections of quaint-fashioned beams All slanting crosswise, and the feudal gleams Of ruined turrets, barren in the light; - To watch the changing clouds, like clime in clime; Oh sweet to lie and bless the luxury of time.

III

Fresh blows the early breeze, our sail is full; A merry morning and a mighty tide. Cheerily O! and past St. Goar we glide, Half hid in misty dawn and mountain cool. The river is our own! and now the sun In saffron clothes the warming atmosphere; The sky lifts up her white veil like a nun, And looks upon the landscape blue and clear; - The lark is up; the hills, the vines in sight; The river broadens with his waking bliss And throws up islands to behold the light; Voices begin to rise, all hues to kiss; - Was ever such a happy morn as this! Birds sing, we shout, flowers breathe, trees shine with one delight!

IV

Between the two white breasts of her we love, A dewy blushing rose will sometimes spring; Thus Nonnenwerth like an enchanted thing Rises mid-stream the crystal depths above. On either side the waters heave and swell, But all is calm within the little Isle; Content it is to give its holy smile, And bless with peace the lives that in it dwell. Most dear on the dark grass beneath its bower Of kindred trees embracing branch and bough, To dream of fairy foot and sudden flower; Or haply with a twilight on the brow, To muse upon the legendary hour, And Roland's lonely love and Hildegard's sad vow.

V

Hark! how the bitter winter breezes blow Round the sharp rocks and o'er the half-lifted wave, While all the rocky woodland branches rave Shrill with the piercing cold, and every cave, Along the icy water-margin low, Rings bubbling with the whirling overflow; And sharp the echoes answer distant cries Of dawning daylight and the dim sunrise, And the gloom-coloured clouds that stain the skies With pictures of a warmth, and frozen glow Spread over endless fields of sheeted snow; And white untrodden mountains shining cold, And muffled footpaths winding thro' the wold, O'er which those wintry gusts cease not to howl and blow.

VI

Rare is the loveliness of slow decay! With youth and beauty all must be desired, But 'tis the charm of things long past away, They leave, alone, the light they have inspired: The calmness of a picture; Memory now Is the sole life among the ruins grey, And like a phantom in fantastic play She wanders with rank weeds stuck on her brow, Over grass-hidden caves and turret-tops, Herself almost as tottering as they; While, to the steps of Time, her latest props Fall stone by stone, and in the Sun's hot ray All that remains stands up in rugged pride, And bridal vines drink in his juices on each side.

TO A NIGHTINGALE