Canto III (In parching summer, when the mulberry…)

In parching summer, when the mulberry leaves Drooped broad and gleaming, and the myrtles curled, While the pomegranate's rind grew thin and hard; The vegetation of the isle looked pale, Flaccid, and fading in despondency For rain, and the young corn in every field, With dry and rustling murmur as it waved, Glistened impatiently, till autumn's tomb Received the husky voice, and spring's dead hopes. The vine-hills, and wild turpentines that grew Along the road beneath, all basked content, As did the lentisk-trees; but many a pant And sultry sigh came from the fields and meads, The city's gardens, where no fountains played, And hot stone temples in the sacred groves. Such lack of moisture oft had been endured, And e'en the latest winter, whose thick breath Solemnly wafted o'er the Ægean sea, Had not resigned a single peak of snow To melt and flow down for the brooks of spring.

2But since the breath of spring had stirred the woods, Through which the joyous tidings busily ran, And oval buds of delicate pink and green Broke, infant-like, through bark of sapling boughs,— The vapours from the ocean had ascended, Fume after fume, wreath upon wreath, and floor On floor, till a grey curtain upward spread From sea to sky, and both as one appeared. Now came the snorting and precipitous steeds Of the Sun's chariot tow'rds the summer signs; At first obscurely, then with dazzling beams; And cleared the heavens, but held the vapours there, In cloudy architecture of all hues. The stately fabrics and the eastern pomps, Tents, tombs, processions veiled, and temples vast, Remained not long in their august repose, But sank to ruins, and re-formed in likeness Of monstrous beasts in lands and seas unknown. These gradually dilating, limb from limb, And head from bulk, were drawn apart, and floated Hither and thither, till in ridges strewn, Like to a rich and newly-furrowed field, Then breaking into purple isles and spots, Faded to faintness, and dissolved in air.

2One midnight dark a spirit electric came, And shot an invisible arrow through the sky, Which instantly the wide-spread moisture called To congregate in heavy drops, that fell As suddenly. Like armies, host on host, Pouring upon the mountains, vales, and plains, The showers clashed down. Each runnel and thin stream A branching brook became, or flowing river; Each once small river rolled a goodly flood With laughing falls, and many a Naiad bright And rush-crowned River-god, was newly born, While all the land-veins with fresh spirit ran In this quick season of Orion's life.

2The snows on every height had drank the showers, Till heavy with the moisture, each steep ridge Lost its pure whiteness and transparent frost; Sank down as humbly as a maid once proud, Who droops and kneels and weeps; and from beneath Its stagnant foam melted quick running rills Down slopes, with sunny music and loud hum, Precipitous, ere through dark craggy rifts Sparkling it dashed, and poured towards the plain. Unusual growth of corn was in the land, Whose fields with tender-flowing greenness smiled, As winds with shades ran dances over them; And e'en the vineyards, oliveyards, and groves Of citron, were in their abundant fruits Abundantly increased: all works increased.

2Dark as an eagle on a cloudy rock, Œnopion sat upon his ancient throne. Fixed was his face, while, through a distant gate, Upon the ruins of a tower he gazed, That like a Titan's shattered skeleton Still in its place stuck fast. But she was gone; His daughter Merope was borne away; And willingly he knew; and whither fled, He knew. But how recover, or revenge The loss?—new dangers, outrage, how avert? Infuriate were his people at the deed, For by the giants many had been slain, Ere they had won their prize. 'Gainst Merope, Some spake aloud; against Orion, all,— Save the bald sage, who said T was natural." "Natural!" they cried, "O wretch!" The sage was stoned.

2Within his cave, in his accustomed place, With passive dignity that ever holds Unwise activity in check and awe— And active wisdom where the will's not strong— Sat Akinetos, listening to the tale Thus by Rhexergon told; Biastor leaning Against a rock, with folded arms, the while.

2"We from our trance with aching brows awoke Staring, and on our elbows raised, with chins Set in our hands, collected our mazed minds. We both had dreamed one dream. In Chios' walls A feast we held in honour of the king, Encolyon, newly chosen—as we thought— By the chief rulers, while Orion stood Chained to the throne. But Merope, t was said, Should still be his, if loyal, hand and soul. Yet ere Orion answered, rushing came A small dark shape-—some airy messenger— Darting on all sides, diving, nestling, leaping, Swift as a mullet coursing the sea hare, And strong, as when within the shore-hauled net It searches, like a keen hound, to and fro, And no gap finding, bounds o'er the high-drawn line: One leaps—all follow, like a flock of sheep Over a wattle. So, this headlong sprite, Which, in our dream, now multiplied to shoals, And thus confused the feasters. But what 't was None saw, nor knew; but all the feast they marred, While, in the place of meats and fruits, we found Dust—dry-baked dust; the dust of the gone king, Encolyon—as a bird in the air screamed forth— By Phoibos smitten. Now a sound we heard, Like to some well-known voice in prayer; and next An iron clang that seemed to break great bonds Beneath the earth, shook us to conscious life. A briny current passing through our hearts Stung all our faculties back to former power; And as we rose, across a distant field We saw Orion coming with a sword. Our dream thus ended in reality Without a boundary line. What followed seemed Continuous, for Orion urged us on. Fresh work had he in hand; few words explained; And to Œnopion's city we repaired, Entering at eve of a great festival, I with a club, iron bound, of ponderous weight; Biastor with a shield, forged by Orion, Whose disk enormous would protect all three, And, set with ray-like spikes around the rim, Looked like a fallen star. Onward we drove Behind this threatening orb, down-trampling all Who fled not, or our impulse strove to oppose; Feasters and dancers, chieftains, priests, and guards; I tell it as it happened—blow by blow— Till near a high tower, doubtful of our course At bay, like bulls, within a circle clear By terror made, we paused. The archers soon, With bow-arm forward thrust, on all sides twanged, Around, below, above. Behind the shield That on its spikes stood grimly, we retired, And heard the rattling storm; when from the tower A light flashed down one side, and at the top Stood Merope, who cried, 'Orion, see! My prison I have fired, and in my haste Fired first below. I cannot pass the flames!' E'en while she spake a hydra-wreath of smoke Ran coiling up the stony stair, and peered Into each chamber with its widening head, As if to seek its prey. Again she cried— 'I will leap down into thine arms!' 'Forbear!' Shouted Orion, 'First let us try our strength With skill.' I on the groaning gate-posts smote, Until their bolts and nails started like tusks From battered jaws, and inward sunk the gates, Crushing armed men behind. O'er all we passed. Orion, now in front, amidst a cloud Of smoke, dust, slaughter and confusing cries, The blackened slabs of winding stair ascended; And in the same fierce uproar and dismay Of men, not fit to cope with sons of Gods, Unscathed came down with Merope. 'T was good. He bore her to the cedar grove afar, Where in brief space a palace he had built, While we, remaining midway, called a rout Around us, and great revel held that night."

2Rhexergon ceased, while in the sunny air His large eyes shone, and pleased with what he told— For well he spake with deep-voiced cadences— Looked like a monarch who hath made a verse. Now Akinetos spake. "Your efforts done, What good to ye is wrought? To him, what good? Not long will Merope be his: if long, What good, since both must tire. Œnopion, The king of ships and armies, may reclaim This Merope by force: perchance her own Inconstant will may save these ships and men." "If we defend the prize," Biastor said, "Substantial good unto ourselves were due; Wise are thy words; wherefore large terms of spoil We with Orion will in future make, That shall secure our constant revelry, As in Dodona, once, ere driven thence, By Zeus, for that Rhexergon burnt some oaks. Thrust we the king from off his throne, or thrust His throne from under him to some fresh place Suiting our fancies, whereon we'll sleep crowned, And feast, and order armies to march forth, And ships to sail, and music, and more feast."

2"Better pull down the city, and destroy The fleet"—Rhexergon said—"Then, all despoiled— And made as slaves,—leave we our woodland homes: There live, with Akinetos for our king? Aught we destroy Orion can rebuild, If we should need; or frame aught else we need; Rise, therefore, Akinetos, thou art king!" So saying in his hand he placed a spear.

2As though against a wall 't were set aslant, Flatly the long spear fell upon the ground. "He will not be a king; nor will he aid Your purposes," murmured the Great Unmoved. "Autarces, Harpax, aided, and both died; Orion's work will shortly work his end; Encolyon, ever meddling to prevent, Wasted his mind and care, and found his death. Those who have wisdom aid not, nor prevent. Nought good has followed aught that ye have done, Nor will good follow aught that ye can do, Or I can do, or any one can do, Except such good as of itself had come, If so 't was ordered. Leave God to his work, The Supreme Mover of all things, and best, Who, if we move not, must himself sustain His scheme: hence, never moved by hands unskilled, But moved as best may be. Be warned; sit still."

2Within the isle, far from the walks of men, Where jocund chase was never heard, nor hoof Of Satyr broke the moss, nor any bird Sang, save at times the nightingale—but only In his prolonged and swelling tones, nor e'er With wild joy and hoarse laughing melody, Closing the ecstasy, as is his wont,— A forest separate and far withdrawn From all the rest, there grew. Old as the earth, Of cedar was it, lofty in its glooms When the sun hung o'er head, and in its darkness Like Night when giving birth to time's first pulse. Silence had ever dwelt there; but of late, Came faint sounds with a cadence regular From the far depths, as of a cataract Whose echoes midst incumbent foliage died. From one high mountain gushed a flowing stream, Which through the forest passed, and found a fall Within—none knew where—then rolled tow'rds the sea.

2There underneath the boughs, mark where the gleam Of sun-rise through the roofing's chasm is thrown Upon a grassy plot below, whereon The shadow of a stag stoops to the stream Swift rolling towards the cataract, and drinks deeply. Throughout the day unceasingly it drinks, While ever and anon the nightingale, Not waiting for the evening, swells his hymn— His one sustained and heaven-aspiring tone— And when the sun hath vanished utterly, Arm over arm the cedars spread their shade, With arching wrist and long extended hands, And grave-ward fingers lengthening in the moon, Above that shadowy stag whose antlers still Hung o'er the stream. Then came a rich-toned voice Out of the forest depths, and sang this lay, With deep speech intervalled and tender pause.

2"If we have lost the world what gain is ours! Hast thou not built a palace of more grace Than marble towers? These trunks are pillars rare, Whose roof embowers with far more grandeur. Say, Hast thou not found a bliss with Merope, As full of rapture as existence new? 'T is thus with me. I know that thou art blest. Our inmost powers—fresh winged shall soar and dream In realms of honey-dew, whose air—light—flowers, Will ever be—though vague, most fair—most sweet— Better than memory.——Look yonder, love! What solemn image through the trunks is straying? And now he doth not move, yet never turns On us his visage Of 'rapt vacancy! It is Oblivion. In his hand—though nought Knows he of this—a dusky purple flower Droops over its tall stem. Again, ah see! He wanders into mist, and now is lost.—— Within his brain what lovely realms of death Are pictured, and what knowledge through the doors Of his forgetfulness of all the earth, A path may gain? Then turn thee, love, to me: Was I not worth thy winning and thy toil, O, earth-born son of Ocean! Melt to rain."

2No foot may enter 'midst these cedar glooms: Passion is there—a spell is on the place— It hath its own protecting atmosphere, Needing no walls nor bars. But Chios' king Hath framed his purpose; the sworn instruments Chosen; and from the palace now depart In brazen chariots, richly armed, ten chiefs. "Watch well your moment!"—lastly spake the king; "Slay not outright—but make his future life A blot—a blank!" They bent their high-plumed helms, And through the gates in thunder whirled away.

2Beyond the cedar forest lay the cliffs That overhung the beach, but midway swept Fair swelling lands, some green with brightest grass, Some golden in the sun. Mute was the scene, And moveless. Not a breeze came o'er the edge Of the high-heaving fields and fallow lands; Only the zephyrs at long intervals Drew a deep sigh, as of some blissful thought, Then swooned to silence. Not a bird was seen, Nor heard: all marbly gleamed the steadfast sky. Hither Orion slowly walked alone, And passing round between two swelling slopes Of green and golden light, beheld afar The broad grey horizontal wall o' the dead-calm sea.

2O'ersteeped in bliss; prone on its ebbing tide; With hope's completeness vaguely sorrowful, And sense of life-bounds too enlarged; his thoughts Sank faintly through each other, fused and lost, Till his o'ersatisfied existence drooped; Like fruit-boughs heavily laden above a stream, In which they gaze so closely on themselves, That, touching, they grow drowsy, and submerge, Losing all vision. Sense of thankful prayers Came over him, while downward to the shore Slowly his steps he bent, seeking to hold Communion with his sire. The eternal Sea Before him passively at full length lay, As in a dream of the marmoreal heavens. With hands stretched forward thus his prayer began; "Receive Poseidon!"——but no further words Found utterance. And again he prayed, and said, "Receive, O Sire!"——yet still the emotion rose Too full for words, and with no meaning clear. He turned, and sinking on a sandy mound, With dim look o'er the sea, deeply he slept.

2What altars burn afar—what smoke arises Beyond the swelling lands above the cliffs? Or is it but a rolling cloud of dust That onward moves, driven by the wind? And now A rumbling sound is gathering in the breeze, And nearer swells—now dies away—like wheels That pass from stony ground to grassy plains. Again!—it rings and jars—and passing swift Along the cliffs, till lost in a ravine, Five brazen chariots fling the sunset rays Angrily back upon the startled air! In one, the last, struggles a lovely form, Half pinioned by a chieftain's broidered scarf, Her wild black tresses coiling round one arm Which still she raises, striving to make a sign. All disappeared. No voice, no sound was heard. The moon arose—and still Orion slept.

2Forth from a dark chasm issue figures armed. Close conference they hold, like ravens met For ominous talk of death. No more: their shields, Plumed helms, and swords, two chieftains lay aside, Then stoop, and softly creep tow'rds him who sleeps; While o'er their heads the long protecting spears Are held by seven, who noiselessly and slow Follow their stealthy progress. Step by step The deadly crescent moves behind the twain, Who, flat as reptiles, and with face thrust out, Breathless, all senses sharpen. Now!—'t is done! The poison falls upon the dreamer's lids.

2Away, aghast at their own evil deed, As though some dark curse on themselves had fallen, Flashed the mailed moon-lit miscreants into shade, Like fish at sudden dropping of a stone. The Moon now hid her face. The sea-shore lay In hollowness beneath the rising stars, And blind Orion, starting at once erect Amid his darkness, with extended arms And open mouth that uttered not a word, Stood statue-like, and heard the Ocean moan.