Part 6
“What tho’ in worlds which sightless cycles run, Linked to a little system, and one sun— Where all my love is folly, and the crowd Still think my terrors but the thunder cloud, The storm, the earthquake, and the ocean-wrath— (Ah! will they cross me in my angrier path?) What tho’ in worlds which own a single sun The sands of Time grow dimmer as they run, Yet thine is my resplendency, so given To bear my secrets thro’ the upper Heaven. Leave tenantless thy crystal home, and fly, With all thy train, athwart the moony sky— Apart—like fire-flies in Sicilian night, And wing to other worlds another light! Divulge the secrets of thy embassy To the proud orbs that twinkle—and so be To every heart a barrier and a ban Lest the stars totter in the guilt of man!”
Up rose the maiden in the yellow night, The single-moonèd eve!—on Earth we plight Our faith to one love, and one moon adore: The birth-place of young Beauty had no more. As sprang that yellow star from downy hours, Up rose the maiden from her shrine of flowers, And bent o’er sheeny mountain and dim plain Her way—but left not yet her Therasæan reign.
PART II.
High on a mountain of enamelled head— Such as the drowsy shepherd on his bed Of giant pasturage lying at his ease, Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees With many a muttered “hope to be forgiven” What time the moon is quadrated in Heaven— Of rosy head that, towering far away Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray Of sunken suns at eve—at noon of night, While the moon danced with the fair stranger light— Upreared upon such height arose a pile Of gorgeous columns on th’ unburthened air, Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile Far down upon the wave that sparkled there, And nursled the young mountain in its lair. Of molten stars their pavement, such as fall Thro’ the ebon air, besilvering the pall Of their own dissolution, while they die— Adorning then the dwellings of the sky. A dome, by linkèd light from Heaven let down, Sat gently on these columns as a crown— A window of one circular diamond, there, Looked out above into the purple air, And rays from God shot down that meteor chain And hallowed all the beauty twice again, Save when, between th’ Empyrean and that ring, Some eager spirit flapped his dusky wing. But on the pillars Seraph eyes have seen The dimness of this world: that greyish green That Nature loves the best for Beauty’s grave Lurked in each cornice, round each architrave— And every sculptured cherub thereabout That from his marble dwelling peerèd out, Seemed earthly in the shadow of his niche— Achaian statues in a world so rich? Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis— From Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss Of beautiful Gomorrah! Oh, the wave Is now upon thee—but too late to save!
Sound loves to revel in a summer night: Witness the murmur of the grey twilight That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco, Of many a wild star-gazer long ago— That stealeth ever on the ear of him Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim, And sees the darkness coming as a cloud— Is not its form—its voice—most palpable and loud?
But what is this?—it cometh—and it brings A music with it—’tis the rush of wings— A pause—and then a sweeping, falling strain, And Nesace is in her halls again. From the wild energy of wanton haste Her cheeks were flushing, and her lips apart; The zone that clung around her gentle waist Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart. Within the centre of that hall to breathe She paused and panted, Zanthe! all beneath, The fairy light that kissed her golden hair And longed to rest, yet could but sparkle there!
Young flowers were whispering in melody To happy flowers that night—and tree to tree; Fountains were gushing music as they fell In many a star-lit grove, or moon-light dell; Yet silence came upon material things— Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings— And sound alone, that from the spirit sprang, Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang:
“Neath blue-bell or streamer— Or tufted wild spray That keeps, from the dreamer, The moonbeam away— Bright beings! that ponder, With half-closing eyes, On the stars which your wonder Hath drawn from the skies, Till they glance thro’ the shade, and Come down to your brow Like—eyes of the maiden Who calls on you now— Arise! from your dreaming In violet bowers, To duty beseeming These star-litten hours— And shake from your tresses Encumbered with dew The breath of those kisses That cumber them too— (O! how, without you, Love! Could angels be blest?) Those kisses of true love That lulled ye to rest! Up! shake from your wing Each hindering thing: The dew of the night— It would weigh down your flight; And true love caresses— O! leave them apart! They are light on the tresses, But lead on the heart.
“Ligeia! Ligeia! My beautiful one! Whose harshest idea Will to melody run, O! is it thy will On the breezes to toss? Or, capriciously still, Like the lone Albatross, Incumbent on night (As she on the air) To keep watch with delight On the harmony there?
“Ligeia! wherever Thy image may be, No magic shall sever Thy music from thee. Thou hast bound many eyes In a dreamy sleep— But the strains still arise Which thy vigilance keep— The sound of the rain Which leaps down to the flower, And dances again In the rhythm of the shower— The murmur that springs From the growing of grass Are the music of things— But are modelled, alas!— Away, then, my dearest, O! hie thee away To springs that lie clearest Beneath the moon-ray— To lone lake that smiles, In its dream of deep rest, At the many star-isles That enjewel its breast— Where wild flowers, creeping, Have mingled their shade, On its margin is sleeping Full many a maid— Some have left the cool glade, and Have slept with the bee— Arouse them, my maiden, On moorland and lea— Go! breathe on their slumber, All softly in ear, The musical number They slumbered to hear— For what can awaken An angel so soon Whose sleep hath been taken Beneath the cold moon, As the spell which no slumber Of witchery may test, The rhythmical number Which lulled him to rest?”
Spirits in wing, and angels to the view, A thousand seraphs burst th’ Empyrean thro’, Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flight— Seraphs in all but “Knowledge,” the keen light That fell, refracted, thro’ thy bounds afar, O Death! from eye of God upon that star: Sweet was that error—sweeter still that death— Sweet was that error—ev’n with _us_ the breath Of Science dims the mirror of our joy— To them ’twere the Simoom, and would destroy. For what (to them) availeth it to know That Truth is Falsehood—or that Bliss is Woe? Sweet was their death—with them to die was rife With the last ecstasy of satiate life— Beyond that death no immortality— But sleep that pondereth and is not “to be”— And there—oh! may my weary spirit dwell— Apart from Heaven’s Eternity—and yet how far from Hell!
What guilty spirit, in what shrubbery dim, Heard not the stirring summons of that hymn? But two: they fell: for Heaven no grace imparts To those who hear not for their beating hearts. A maiden-angel and her seraph-lover— O! where (and ye may seek the wide skies over) Was Love, the blind, near sober Duty known? Unguided Love hath fallen—’mid “tears of perfect moan.”
He was a goodly spirit—he who fell: A wanderer by moss-y-mantled well— A gazer on the lights that shine above— A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love: What wonder? for each star is eye-like there, And looks so sweetly down on Beauty’s hair— And they, and every mossy spring were holy To his love-haunted heart and melancholy. The night had found (to him a night of woe) Upon a mountain crag, young Angelo— Beetling it bends athwart the solemn sky, And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie. Here sate he with his love—his dark eye bent With eagle gaze along the firmament: Now turned it upon her—but ever then It trembled to the orb of EARTH again.
“Ianthe, dearest, see! how dim that ray! How lovely ’tis to look so far away! She seemed not thus upon that autumn eve I left her gorgeous halls—nor mourned to leave. That eve—that eve—I should remember well— The sun-ray dropped, in Lemnos with a spell On th’ Arabesque carving of a gilded hall Wherein I sate, and on the draperied wall— And on my eye-lids—O, the heavy light! How drowsily it weighed them into night! On flowers, before, and mist, and love they ran With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan: But O, that light!—I slumbered—Death, the while, Stole o’er my senses in that lovely isle So softly that no single silken hair Awoke that slept—or knew that he was there.
“The last spot of Earth’s orb I trod upon Was a proud temple called the Parthenon; More beauty clung around her columned wall Than even thy glowing bosom beats withal, And when old Time my wing did disenthral Thence sprang I—as the eagle from his tower, And years I left behind me in an hour. What time upon her airy bounds I hung, One half the garden of her globe was flung Unrolling as a chart unto my view— Tenantless cities of the desert too! Ianthe, beauty crowded on me then, And half I wished to be again of men.”
“My Angelo! and why of them to be? A brighter dwelling-place is here for thee— And greener fields than in yon world above, And woman’s loveliness—and passionate love.”
“But list, Ianthe! when the air so soft Failed, as my pennoned spirit leapt aloft, Perhaps my brain grew dizzy—but the world I left so late was into chaos hurled, Sprang from her station, on the winds apart, And rolled a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart. Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soar, And fell—not swiftly as I rose before, But with a downward, tremulous motion thro’ Light, brazen rays, this golden star unto! Nor long the measure of my falling hours, For nearest of all stars was thine to ours— Dread star! that came, amid a night of mirth, A red Dædalion on the timid Earth.”
“We came—and to thy Earth—but not to us Be given our lady’s bidding to discuss: We came, my love; around, above, below, Gay fire-fly of the night, we come and go, Nor ask a reason save the angel-nod _She_ grants to us as granted by her God. But, Angelo, than thine grey Time unfurled Never his fairy wing o’er fairer world! Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes Alone could see the phantom in the skies, When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be Headlong thitherward o’er the starry sea— But when its glory swelled upon the sky, As glowing Beauty’s bust beneath man’s eye, We paused before the heritage of men, And thy star trembled—as doth Beauty then!”
Thus in discourse, the lovers whiled away The night that waned and waned and brought no day. They fell: for Heaven to them no hope imparts Who hear not for the beating of their hearts.
NOTES TO AL AARAAF
Page 129. _Al Aaraaf._ A star was discovered by Tycho Brahe which appeared suddenly in the heavens—attained, in a few days, a brilliancy surpassing that of Jupiter—then as suddenly disappeared, and has never been seen since.
Page 130. _Capo Deucato._ On Santa Maura—olim Deucadia.
Page 130. _Her who loved a mortal—and so died._ Sappho.
Page 130. _And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnamed._ This flower is much noticed by Lewenhoeck and Tournefort. The bee, feeding upon its blossom, becomes intoxicated.
Page 131. _Clytia._ Clytia—the Chrysanthemum Peruvianum, or, to employ a better-known term, the turnsol—which turns continually towards the sun, covers itself, like Peru, the country from which it comes, with dewy clouds, which cool and refresh its flowers during the most violent heat of the day.—_B. de St. Pierre._
Page 131. _That aspiring flower that sprang on Earth._ There is cultivated in the king’s garden at Paris, a species of serpentine aloe without prickles, whose large and beautiful flower exhales a strong odour of the vanilla, during the time of its expansion, which is very short. It does not blow till towards the month of July—you then perceive it gradually open its petals—expand them—fade and die.—_St. Pierre._
Page 131. _Valisnerian lotus._ There is found, in the Rhone, a beautiful lily of the Valisnerian kind. Its stem will stretch to the length of three or four feet—thus preserving its head above water in the swellings of the river.
Page 131. _Thy most lovely purple perfume._ The Hyacinth.
Page 131. _The Nelumbo bud._ It is a fiction of the Indians, that Cupid was first seen floating in one of these down the river Ganges, and that he still loves the cradle of his childhood.
Page 131. _To bear the Goddess’ song, etc._ And golden vials full of odours which are the prayers of the saints.—_Rev. St. John._
Page 132. _A model of their own._ The Humanitarians held that God was to be understood as having really a human form.—_Vide Clarke’s Sermons_, vol. i., page 26, fol. edit.
The drift of Milton’s argument leads him to employ language which would appear, at first sight, to verge upon their doctrine; but it will be seen immediately, that he guards himself against the charge of having adopted one of the most ignorant errors of the dark ages of the Church.—_Dr. Sumner’s Notes on Milton’s Christian Doctrine._
This opinion, in spite of many testimonies to the contrary, could never have been very general. Andeus, a Syrian of Mesopotamia, was condemned for the opinion, as heretical. He lived in the beginning of the fourth century. His disciples were called Anthropomorphites.—_Vide du Pin._
Among Milton’s minor poems are these lines:
Dicite sacrorum præsides nemorum Deæ, etc. Quis ille primus cujus ex imagine Natura solers finxit humanum genus? Eternus, incorruptus, æquævus polo, Unusque et universus exemplar Dei.
And afterwards—
Non cui profundum Cæcitas lumen dedit Dircæus augur vidit hunc alto sinu, etc.
Page 132. _Wingèd Fantasy._
Seltsamen Tochter Jovis Seinem Schosskinde Der Phantasie.—_Goethe._
Page 135. _Sightless cycles._ Sightless—too small to be seen.—_Legge._
Page 135. _Fire-flies._ I have often noticed a peculiar movement of the fire-flies;—they will collect in a body and fly off, from a common centre, into innumerable radii.
Page 135. _Therasæan reign._ Therasæa, or Therasea, the island mentioned by Seneca, which, in a moment, arose from the sea to the eyes of astonished mariners.
Page 136. _Molten stars, etc._
Some star which, from the ruined roof Of shaked Olympus, by mischance did fall.—_Milton._
Page 137. _Persepolis._ Voltaire, in speaking of Persepolis, says, “Je connois bien l’admiration qu’inspirent ces ruines—mais un palais érigé au pied d’une chaîne des rochers sterils—peut il être un chef d’œuvre des arts?”
Page 137. _Gomorrah._ Ula Deguisi is the Turkish appellation; but, on its own shores, it is called Bahar Loth, or Almotanah. There were undoubtedly more than two cities engulphed in the “dead sea.” In the valley of Siddim were five—Adrah, Zeboin, Zoar, Sodom and Gomorrah. Stephen of Byzantium mentions eight, and Strabo thirteen (engulfed)—but the last is out of all reason.
It is said [Tacitus, Strabo, Josephus, Daniel of St. Saba, Nau, Maundrell, Troilo, D’Arvieux], that after an excessive drought, the vestiges of columns, walls, etc., are seen above the surface. At _any_ season, such remains may be discovered by looking down into the transparent lake, and at such distances as would argue the existence of many settlements in the space now usurped by the “Asphaltites.”
Page 137. _Eyraco._ Chaldea.
Page 137. _Palpable and loud._ I have often thought I could distinctly hear the sound of the darkness as it stole over the horizon.
Page 137. _Young flowers were whispering, etc._ Fairies use flowers for their charactery.—_Merry Wives of Windsor._
Page 138. _The moonbeam._ In Scripture is this passage—“The sun shall not harm thee by day, nor the moon by night.” It is, perhaps, not generally known that the moon, in Egypt, has the effect of producing blindness to those who sleep with the face exposed to its rays, to which circumstance the passage evidently alludes.
Page 139. _The lone Albatross._ The Albatross is said to sleep on the wing.
Page 139. _The murmur that springs, etc._ I met with this idea in an old English tale, which I am now unable to obtain and quote from memory:—“The verie essence and, as it were, springe-heade and origine of all musiche is the verie pleasaunte sounde which the trees of the forest do make when they growe.”
Page 140. _Have slept with the bee._ The wild bee will not sleep in the shade if there be moonlight.
The rhyme in this verse, as in one about sixty lines before, has an appearance of affectation. It is, however, imitated from Sir W. Scott, or rather from Claud Halcro—in whose mouth I admired its effect:
O! were there an island, Tho’ ever so wild, Where woman might smile, and No man be beguiled, etc.
Page 141. _Apart from Heaven’s Eternity—and yet how far from Hell._ With the Arabians there is a medium between Heaven and Hell, where men suffer no punishment, but yet do not attain that tranquil and even happiness which they suppose to be characteristic of heavenly enjoyment.
Un no rompido sueno— Un dia puro—allegre—libre Quiera— Libre de amor—de zelo— De odio—de esperanza—de rezelo. _Luis Ponce de Leon._
Sorrow is not excluded from “Al Aaraaf,” but it is that sorrow which the living love to cherish for the dead, and which, in some minds, resembles the delirium of opium. The passionate excitement of Love and the buoyancy of spirit attendant upon intoxication are its less holy pleasures—the price of which, to those souls who make choice of “Al Aaraaf” as their residence after life, is final death and annihilation.
Page 141. _Tears of perfect moan._
There be tears of perfect moan Wept for thee in Helicon.—_Milton._
Page 142. _The Parthenon._ It was entire in 1687—the most elevated spot in Athens.
Page 142. _More beauty clung, etc._
Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows Than have the white breasts of the Queen of Love. _Marlowe._
Page 142. _My pennoned spirit._ Pennon, for pinion.—_Milton._
SCENES FROM POLITIAN
SCENES FROM “POLITIAN”
I
ROME.—A Hall in a Palace. ALESSANDRA and CASTIGLIONE.
_Alessandra._ Thou art sad, Castiglione.
_Castiglione._ Sad!—not I. Oh, I’m the happiest, happiest man in Rome! A few days more, thou knowest, my Alessandra, Will make thee mine. Oh, I am very happy!
_Aless._ Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing Thy happiness—what ails thee, cousin of mine? Why didst thou sigh so deeply?
_Cas._ Did I sigh? I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion, A silly—a most silly fashion I have When I am _very_ happy. Did I sigh? (_sighing._)
_Aless._ Thou didst. Thou art not well. Thou hast indulged Too much of late, and I am vexed to see it. Late hours and wine, Castiglione,—these Will ruin thee! thou art already altered— Thy looks are haggard—nothing so wears away The constitution as late hours and wine.
_Cas._ (_musing_). Nothing, fair cousin, nothing—not even deep sorrow— Wears it away like evil hours and wine. I will amend.
_Aless._ Do it! I would have thee drop Thy riotous company, too—fellows low born; Ill suit the like with old Di Broglio’s heir And Alessandra’s husband.
_Cas._ I will drop them.
_Aless._ Thou wilt—thou must. Attend thou also more To thy dress and equipage—they are over plain For thy lofty rank and fashion—much depends Upon appearances.
_Cas._ I’ll see to it.
_Aless._ Then see to it!—pay more attention, sir, To a becoming carriage—much thou wantest In dignity.
_Cas._ Much, much, oh, much I want In proper dignity.
_Aless._ (_haughtily_). Thou mockest me, sir!
_Cas._ (_abstractedly_). Sweet, gentle Lalage!
_Aless._ Heard I aright? I speak to him—he speaks of Lalage! Sir Count! (_places her hand on his shoulder_) what art thou dreaming? He’s not well! What ails thee, sir?
_Cas._ (_starting_). Cousin! fair cousin!—madam! I crave thy pardon—indeed I am not well— Your hand from off my shoulder, if you please. This air is most oppressive!—Madam—the Duke!
_Enter Di Broglio._
_Di Broglio._ My son, I’ve news for thee!—hey?—what’s the matter? (_observing Alessandra._) I’ the pouts? Kiss her, Castiglione! kiss her, You dog! and make it up, I say, this minute! I’ve news for you both. Politian is expected Hourly in Rome—Politian, Earl of Leicester! We’ll have him at the wedding. ’Tis his first visit To the imperial city.
_Aless._ What! Politian Of Britain, Earl of Leicester?
_Di Brog._ The same, my love. We’ll have him at the wedding. A man quite young In years, but grey in fame. I have not seen him But rumour speaks of him as of a prodigy Pre-eminent in arts, and arms, and wealth, And high descent. We’ll have him at the wedding.
_Aless._ I have heard much of this Politian. Gay, volatile and giddy—is he not, And little given to thinking?
_Di Brog._ Far from it, love. No branch, they say, of all philosophy So deep abstruse he has not mastered it. Learnèd as few are learnèd.
_Aless._ ’Tis very strange! I have known men have seen Politian And sought his company. They speak of him As of one who entered madly into life, Drinking the cup of pleasure to the dregs.
_Cas._ Ridiculous! Now _I_ have seen Politian And know him well—nor learned nor mirthful he. He is a dreamer, and a man shut out From common passions.
_Di Brog._ Children, we disagree. Let us go forth and taste the fragrant air Of the garden. Did I dream, or did I hear Politian was a _melancholy_ man? (_Exeunt._)
II
ROME.—A Lady’s Apartment, with a window open and looking into a garden. LALAGE, in deep mourning, reading at a table on which lie some books and a hand-mirror. In the background JACINTA (a servant maid) leans carelessly upon a chair.
_Lalage._ Jacinta! is it thou?
_Jacinta_ (_pertly_). Yes, ma’am, I’m here.
_Lal._ I did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting. Sit down!—let not my presence trouble you— Sit down!—for I am humble, most humble.
_Jac._ (_aside_). ’Tis time.
(_Jacinta seats herself in a side-long manner upon the chair, resting her elbows upon the back, and regarding her mistress with a contemptuous look. Lalage continues to read._)
_Lal._ “It in another climate, so he said, Bore a bright golden flower, but not i’ this soil!”
(_pauses—turns over some leaves, and resumes._)