Part 4

Wherefore record the travail of the soul Through darkness to grey light, the cloudy war, The austere calm, the bitter victory? It seemed that I had mastered fate, and held, Still with shut eyes, the passion of my heart Compressed, and cast the election of my will Into that scale made heavy with the woe Of all the world, and fair relinquished lives. Suddenly the broad sea was vibrated, And the air shaken with confused noise Not like the steadfast plash and creak of oars, And higher on my foot the ripple slid. The monster was abroad beneath the sun. This therefore was the moment--could my soul Sustain her trial? And the soul replied A swift, sure ‘Yes’: yet must I look forth once, Confront my anguish, nor drop blindly down From horror into horror: and I looked-- O thou deliverance, thou bright victory I saw thee, and was saved! The middle air Was cleft by thy impatience of revenge, Thy zeal to render freedom to things bound: The conquest sitting on thy brow, the joy Of thy unerring flight became to me Nowise mere hope, but full enfranchisement. A sculptor of the isles has carved the deed Upon a temple’s frieze; the maiden chained Lifts one free arm across her eyes to hide The terror of the moment, and her head Sideways averted writhes the slender neck: While with a careless grace in flying curve, And glad like Hermes in his aery poise, Toward the gaping throat a youth extends The sword held lightly. When to sacrifice I pass at morn with my tall Sthenelos, I smile, but do not speak. No! when my gaze First met him I was saved; because the world Could hold so brave a creature I was free: Here one had come with not my father’s eyes Which darkened to the clamour of the crowd, And gave a grieved assent; not with the eyes Of anguish-stricken Cassiopeia, dry And staring as I passed her to the boat. Was not the beauty of his strength and youth Warrant for many good things in the world Which could not be so poor while nourishing him? What faithlessness of heart could countervail The witness of that brow? What dastard chains? Did he not testify of sovereign powers O’ermatching evil, awful charities Which save and slay, the terror of clear joy, Unquenchable intolerance of ill, Order subduing chaos, beauty pledged To conquest of all foul deformities? And was there need to turn my head aside, I, who had one sole thing to do, no more, To watch the deed? I know the careless grace My Perseus wears in manage of the steed, Or shooting the swift disc: not such the mode Of that victorious moment of descent When the large tranquil might his soul contains Was gathered for a swift abolishment Of proud brute-tyranny. He seemed in air A shining spear which hisses in its speed And smites through boss and breastplate. Did he see Andromeda, who never glanced at her But set his face against the evil thing? I know not; yet one truth I may not doubt How ere the wallowing monster blind and vast Turned a white belly to the sun, he stood Beside me with some word of comfort strong Nourishing the heart like choral harmonies. O this was then my joy, that I could give A soul not saved from wretched female fright, Or anarchy of self-abandoned will, But one which had achieved deliverance, And wrought with shaping hands among the stuff Which fate presented. Had I shrunk from Death? Might I not therefore unashamed accept-- In a calm wonder of unfaltering joy-- Life, the fair gift he laid before my feet? Somewhat a partner of his deed I seemed; His equal? Nay, yet upright at his side Scarce lower by a head and helmet’s height Touching my Perseus’ shoulder.

He has wrought Great deeds. Athena loves to honour him; And I have borne him sons. Look, yonder goes Lifting the bow, Eleios, the last-born.”

EURYDICE

“Now must this waste of vain desire have end: Fetter these thoughts which traverse to and fro The road which has no issue! We are judged. O wherefore could I not uphold his heart? Why claimed I not some partnership with him In the strict test, urging my right of wife? How have I let him fall? I, knowing thee My Orpheus, bounteous giver of rich gifts, Not all inured in practice of the will, Worthier than I, yet weaker to sustain An inner certitude against the blank And silence of the senses; so no more My heart helps thine, and henceforth there remains No gift to thee from me, who would give all, Only the memory of me growing faint Until I seem a thing incredible, Some high, sweet dream, which was not, nor could be. Ay, and in idle fields of asphodel Must it not be that I shall fade indeed, No memory of me, but myself; these hands Ceasing from mastery and use, my thoughts Losing distinction in the vague, sweet air, The heart’s swift pulses slackening to the sob Of the forgetful river, with no deed Pre-eminent to dare and to achieve, No joy for climbing to, no clear resolve From which the soul swerves never, no ill thing To rid the world of, till I am no more Eurydice, and shouldst thou at thy time Descend, and hope to find a helpmate here, I were grown slavish, like the girls men buy Soft-bodied, foolish-faced, luxurious-eyed, And meet to be another thing than wife.

Would that it had been thus: when the song ceased And laughterless Aidoneus lifted up The face, and turned his grave persistent eyes Upon the singer, I had forward stepped And spoken--‘King! he has wrought well, nor failed, Who ever heard divine large song like this, Keener than sunbeam, wider than the air, And shapely as the mould of faultless fruit? And now his heart upon the gale of song Soars with wide wing, and he is strong for flight, Not strong for treading with the careful foot: Grant me the naked trial of the will Divested of all colour, scents and song: The deed concerns the wife; I claim my share.’ O then because Persephone was by With shadowed eyes when Orpheus sang of flowers, He would have yielded. And I stepping forth From the clear radiance of the singer’s heights, Made calm through vision of his wider truth, And strengthened by deep beauty to hold fast The presences of the invisible things, Had led the way. I know how in that mood He leans on me as babe on mother’s breast, Nor could he choose but let his foot descend Where mine left lightest pressure; so are passed The brute three-visaged, and the flowerless ways, Nor have I turned my head; and now behold The greyness of remote terrestrial light, And I step swifter. Does he follow still? O surely since his will embraces mine Closer than clinging hand can clasp a hand: No need to turn and dull with visible proof The certitude that soul relies on soul! So speed we to the day; and now we touch Warm grass, and drink the Sun. O Earth, O Sun, Not you I need, but Orpheus’ breast, and weep The gladdest tears that ever woman shed, And may be weak awhile, and need to know The sustenance and comfort of his arms.

Self-foolery of dreams; come bitter truth. Yet he has sung at least a perfect song While the Gods heard him, and I stood beside O not applauding, but at last content, Fearless for him, and calm through perfect joy, Seeing at length his foot upon the heights Of highest song, by me discerned from far, Now suddenly attained in confident And errorless ascension. Did I ask The lesser joy, lips’ touch and clasping arms, Or was not this salvation? For I urged Always, in jealous service to his art, ‘Now thou hast told their secrets to the trees Of which they muse through lullèd summer nights; Thou hast gazed downwards in the formless gulf Of the brute-mind, and canst control the will Of snake, and brooding panther fiery-eyed, And lark in middle heaven: leave these behind! And let some careless singer of the fields Set to the shallow sound of cymbal-stroke The Faun a-dance; some less true-tempered soul, Which cannot shape to harmony august The splendour and the tumult of the world, Inflame to frenzy of delirious rage The Mœnad’s breast; yea, and the hearts of men, Smoke of whose fire upcurls from little roofs, Let singers of the wine-cup and the roast, The whirling spear, the toy-like chariot-race, And bickering counsel of contending kings Delight them: leave thou these; sing thou for Gods.’ And thou hast sung for Gods; and I have heard.

I shall not fade beneath this sunless sky, Mixed in the wandering, ineffectual tribe; For these have known no moment when the soul Stood vindicated, laying sudden hands On immortality of joy, and love Which sought not, saw not, knew not, could not know The instruments of sense; I shall not fade. Yea, and thy face detains me evermore Within the realm of light. Love, wherefore blame Thy heart because it sought me? Could the years’ Whole sum of various fashioned happiness Exceed the measure of that eager face Importunate and pure, still lit with song, Turning from song to comfort of my love, And thirsty for my presence? We are saved! Yield Heracles, thou brawn and thews of Zeus, Yield up thy glory on Thessalian ground, Competitor of Death in single strife! The lyre methinks outdoes the club and fist, And beauty’s ingress the outrageous force Of tyrant though beneficent; supreme This feat remains, a memory shaped for Gods.

Nor canst thou wholly lose me from thy life; Still I am with thee; still my hand keeps thine; Now I restrain from too intemperate grief Being a portion of the thoughts that claim Thy service; now I urge with that good pain Which wastes and feeds the spirit, a desire Unending; now I lurk within thy will As vigour; now am gleaming through the world As beauty; and if greater thoughts must lay Their solemn light on thee, outshining mine, And in some far faint-gleaming hour of Hell I stand unknown and muffled by the boat Leaning an eager ear to catch some speech Of thee, and if some comer tell aloud How Orpheus who had loved Eurydice Was summoned by the Gods to fill with joy And clamour of celestial song the courts Of bright Olympus,--I, with pang of pride And pain dissolved in rapture, will return Appeased, with sense of conquest stern and high.”

But while she spoke, upon a chestnut trunk Fallen from cliffs of Thracian Rhodope Sat Orpheus, for he deemed himself alone, And sang. But bands of wild-eyed women roamed The hills, whom he had passed with calm disdain. And now the shrilling Berecynthian pipe Sounded, blown horn, and frantic female cries: He ceased from song and looked for the event.

BY THE SEA

I. THE ASSUMPTION

Why would the open sky not be denied Possession of me, when I sat to-day Rock-couched, and round my feet the soft slave lay, My singing Sea, dark-bosom’d, dusky-eyed? She breathed low mystery of song, she sighed, And stirred herself, and set lithe limbs to play In blandishing serpent-wreaths, and would betray An anklet gleaming, or a swaying side. Why could she not detain me? Why must I Devote myself to the dread Heaven, adore The spacious pureness, the large ardour? why Sprang forth my heart as though all wanderings Had end? To what last bliss did I upsoar Beating on indefatigable wings?

II. THE ARTIST’S WAITING

Tender impatience quickening, quickening; O heart within me that art grown a sea, How vexed with longing all thy live waves be, How broken with desire! A ceaseless wing O’er every green sea-ridge goes fluttering, And there are cries and long reluctancy, Swift ardours, and the clash of waters free, Fain for the coming of some perfect Thing. Emerge white Wonder, be thou born a Queen! Let shine the splendours of thy loveliness From the brow’s radiance to the equal poise Of calm, victorious feet; let thy serene Command go forth; replenish with strong joys The spaces and the sea-deeps measureless.

III. COUNSELLORS

Who are chief counsellors of me? Who know My heart’s desire and every secret thing? Three of one fellowship: the encompassing Strong Sea, who mindful of Earth’s ancient woe Still surges on with swift, undaunted flow That no sad shore should lack his comforting; And next the serene Sky, whether he ring With flawless blue a wilderness, or show Tranced in the Twilight’s arms his fair child-star; Third of the three, eldest and lordliest, Love, all whose wings are wide above my head, Whose eyes are clearer heavens, whose lips have said Low words more rare than the quired sea-songs are,-- O Love, high things and stern thou counsellest.

IV. EVENING

Light ebbs from off the Earth; the fields are strange, Dusk, trackless, tenantless; now the mute sky Resigns itself to Night and Memory, And no wind will yon sunken clouds derange, No glory enrapture them; from cot or grange The rare voice ceases; one long-breathèd sigh, And steeped in summer sleep the world must lie; All things are acquiescing in the change. Hush! while the vaulted hollow of the night Deepens, what voice is this the sea sends forth, Disconsolate iterance, a passionless moan? Ah! now the Day is gone, and tyrannous Light, And the calm presence of fruit-bearing Earth: Cry, Sea! it is thy hour; thou art alone.

V. JOY

Spring-tides of Pleasure in the blood, keen thrill Of eager nerves,--but ended as a dream; Look! the wind quickens, and the long waves gleam Shoreward, and all this deep noon hour will fill Each lone sea-cave with mirth immeasurable, Huge sport of Ocean’s brood; yet eve’s red sky Fades o’er spent waters, weltering sullenly, The dank piled weed, the sand-waste grey and still. Sad Pleasure in the moon’s control! But Joy Is stable; is discovered law; the birth Of dreadful light; life’s one imperative way; The rigour hid in song; flowers’ strict employ Which turn to meet their sun; the roll of Earth Swift and perpetual through the night and day.

VI. OCEAN

More than bare mountains ’neath a naked sky, Or star-enchanted hollows of the night When clouds are riven, or the most sacred light Of summer dawns, art thou a mystery And awe and terror and delight, O sea! Our Earth is simple-hearted, sad to-day Beneath the hush of snow, next morning gay Because west-winds have promised to the lea Violets and cuckoo-buds; and sweetly these Live innocent lives, each flower in its green field, Joying as children in sun, air, and sleep. But thou art terrible, with the unrevealed Burden of dim lamentful prophecies, And thy lone life is passionate and deep.

VII. NEWS FOR LONDON

Whence may I glean a just return, my friend, For tidings of your great world hither borne? What garbs of new opinion men have worn I wot not, nor what fame world-without-end Sprouted last night, nor know I to contend For Irving or the Italian; but forlorn In this odd angle of the isle from morn Till eve, nor sow, nor reap, nor get, nor spend. Yet have I heard the sea-gulls scream for glee Treading the drenched rock-ridges, and the gale Hiss over tremulous heath-bells, while the bee Driven sidelong quested low; and I have seen The live sea-hollows, and moving mounds grey-green, And watched the flying foam-bow flush and fail.

AMONG THE ROCKS

Never can we be strangers, you and I, Nor quite disown our mysteries of kin, Grey Sea-rocks, since I sat an hour to-day Companion of the Ocean and of you. I, sensitive soft flesh a thorn invades, The light breath of a rose can win aside, Flesh fashioned to be hourly tried and thrill’d, Delighted, tortured, to betray whose ward The unready heart is ruler, still surprised, With emissary flushes swift and false, And tremulous to touches of the stars. You, spiny ridges of the land, rude backs, Clawless and wingless, half-created things, Monsters at ease before the sun and sea, Untamed, unshrinking, unpersuadable, My kindred.

For the wide-delivering womb Which casts abroad a mammoth as a man, And still conceals the new and better birth, Bore me and you. Old parents of the Sphinx What words primeval murmured in my ears To-day between the lapping of the waves? What recognitions flashed and disappeared? What rare faint touches passed of sympathy From you to me, from me to you? What sense Of the ancestral things shadowed the heart, Cloud-like, and with the pleasure of a cloud. Therefore I know from henceforth that the shrill Short crying of the sea-lark when his feet Touch where the wave slips off the shining sand Pierces you; and the wide and luminous air Impregnate with sharp sea smells is to you A passion and allurement; and the sun At mid-day loads your sense with drowsy warmth, And in the waver and echo of your caves, You cherish memories of the billowy chaunt, And ponder its dim prophecy.

And I,-- Lo here I strike upon the granite too, Something is here austere and obdurate As you are, something rugged and untamed. A strength behind the will. I am not all The shapely, agile creature named a man, So artful, with the quick-conceiving brain, Nerve-network, and the hand to grasp and hold, Most dexterous of kinds that wage the strife Of being through the years. I am not all This creature with the various heart, alive To curious joys, rare anguish, skilled in shames, Prides, hatreds, loves, fears, frauds, the heart which turns A sudden venomous asp, the heart which bleeds The red, great drops of glad self-sacrifice. Pierce below these and seek the primal layer! Behind Apollo loom the Earth-born Ones, Half-god, half-brute; behind this symmetry, This versatility of heart and brain A strength abides, sustaining thought and love, Untamed, unshrinking, unpersuadable, At ease before the powers of Earth and Heaven, Equal to any, of no younger years, Calm as the greatest, haughty as the best, Of imprescriptible authority.

Down upon you I sink, and leave myself, My vain, frail self, and find repose on you, Prime Force, whether amassed through myriad years From dear accretions of dead ancestry, Or ever welling from the source of things In undulation vast and unperceived, Down upon you I sink and lose myself!

My child that shouts and races on the sand Your cry restores me. Have I been with Pan, Kissing the hoofs of his goat-majesty? You come, no granite of the nether earth, Bright sea-flower rather, shining foam that flies, Yet sweet as blossom of our inland fields.

TO A YEAR

Fly, Year, not backward down blind gulfs of night, Thick with the swarm of miscreated things: Forth, flying year, through calms and broader light, Clear-eyed, strong-bosom’d year, on strenuous wings; Bearing a song more high-intoned, more holy Than the wild Swan’s melodious melancholy, More rapturous than the atom lark outflings.

I follow on slow foot and unsubdued: Have I not heard thy cry across the wind? Not seen thee, Slayer of the serpent brood,-- Error, and doubt, and death, and anguish blind? I follow, I shall know thee by thy plumes Flame-tipped, when on that morn of conquered tombs, I praise amidst my years the doom assigned.

A SONG OF THE NEW DAY

The tender Sorrows of the twilight leave me, And shall I want the fanning of smooth wings? Shall I not miss sweet sorrows? Will it grieve me To hear no cooing from soft dove-like things?

Let Evening hear them! O wide Dawn uprisen, Know me all thine; and ye, whose level flight Has pierced the drear hours and the cloudy prison, Cry for the pathless spaces and the light!

SWALLOWS

Wide fields of air left luminous, Though now the uplands comprehend How the sun’s loss is ultimate: The silence grows; but still to us From yon air-winnowing breasts elate The tiny shrieks of glee descend.

Deft wings, each moment is resigned Some touch of day, some pulse of light, While yet in poised, delicious curve, Ecstatic doublings down the wind, Light dash and dip and sidelong swerve, You try each dainty trick of flight.

Will not your airy glee relent At all? The aimless frolic cease? Know ye no touch of quelling pain, Nor joy’s more strict admonishment, No tender awe at day-light’s wane, Ye slaves of delicate caprice?

Hush, once again that cry intense! High-venturing spirits have your will! Urge the last freak, prolong your glee, Keen voyagers, while still the immense Sea-spaces haunt your memory, With zests and pangs ineffable.

Not in the sunshine of old woods Ye won your warrant to be gay By duteous, sweet observances, Who dared through darkening solitudes, And ’mid the hiss of alien seas, The larger ordinance obey.

MEMORIALS OF TRAVEL

I. COACHING

(_In Scotland_)

Where have I been this perfect summer day, --Or _fortnight_ is it, since I rose from bed, Devour’d that kippered fish, the oatmeal bread, And mounted to this box? O bowl away Swift stagers through the dusk, I will not say “Enough,” nor care where I have been or be, Nor know one name of hill, or lake, or lea, Or moor, or glen! Were not the clouds at play Nameless among the hills, and fair as dreams? On such a day we must love things not words, And memory take or leave them as they are. On such a day! What unimagined streams Are in the world, how many haunts of birds, What fields and flowers,--and what an evening Star!

II. IN A MOUNTAIN PASS

(_In Scotland_)

To what wild blasts of tyrannous harmony Uprose these rocky walls, mass threatening mass, Dusk, shapeless shapes, around a desolate pass? What deep heart of the ancient hills set free The passion, the desire, the destiny Of this lost stream? Yon clouds that break and form, Light vanward squadrons of the joyous storm, They gather hither from what untrack’d sea? Primeval kindred! here the mind regains Its vantage ground against the world; here thought Wings up the silent waste of air on broad Undaunted pinion; man’s imperial pains Are ours, and visiting fears, and joy unsought, Native resolve, and partnership with God.

III. THE CASTLE

(_In Scotland_)

The tenderest ripple touched and touched the shore; The tenderest light was in the western sky;-- Its one soft phrase, closing reluctantly, The sea articulated o’er and o’er To comfort all tired things; and one might pore, Till mere oblivion took the heart and eye, On that slow-fading, amber radiancy Past the long levels of the ocean-floor. A turn,--the castle fronted me, four-square, Holding its seaward crag, abrupt, intense Against the west, an apparition bold Of naked human will; I stood aware, With sea and sky, of powers unowned of sense, Presences awful, vast, and uncontrolled.

IV. Άισθητιχή φαντασία

(_In Ireland_)