Orion/Book I/Canto III
ORION.
Canto the Third.
O'er plastic nature any change may come,Save that which seeks to crush the primal germ;And outward circumstance may breed within,A second nature which o'ercomes the first,But ne'er destroys, though dormant or subdued.More toil for him whose wandering fancies teemWith too much life, and that vitalityWhich eats into itself; more toil of brainAnd limb, sole panacea for the changeFrom tyrant senses to pure intellect.Wherefore, his work redoubled, ArtemisDirects Orion's course; not as beforeWith grave and all-subduing tenderness, While with white fingers midst his chestnut locks,In her speech pausing, gently would she hangViolets, as white as her own hands, and sprigsOf Cretan dittany, whose nodding spikesFlushed deeper pink beneath the sacred touch,—But with a penetrating influenceAnd front austere, as suiting best the QueenOf maiden immortality. His soulStrove hard to ascend and leave the earth behind;And by the Goddess' guidance every hourHad its fixed duties. Husbandry of fieldsShe taught those giant hands, and how to raiseThe sweetest herbs and roots, which now his foodBecame; nor taste and culture of the vinePermitted, nor of slaughtered kine the flesh,Nor forest boar, nor other thing that ownsAn animal life. Lastly, she taught his mindTo reason on itself, far as the boundsOf sense external furnish imagesAnd types in attestation of each phaseOf man's internal sphere—large orbit spaceFor varied lights—and also shewed the wayRightly his complex knowledge to employ,And from their shadows trace substantial things, Things back again to shadows—thus evolvingThe principle of thought, from root to air.
This done, the blossom and the fruit of allWas her prime truth, into each elementOf his life's feelings and its acts, to instil:'T was Love's divinest essence. In the soul,Central its altar's flame for ever burnsInviolate, and knowing not the changeWhich time and fate o'er all else in the worldBring speedily, or with a creeping filmThat hides decay. Ever at peace it dwellsWith its secure desires, which are soul-fed,Nor on idolatrous devotion madeDependent, nor on will and wayward moodsOf others; 't is self-centred as a star,And in the music of the conscious nerves,Finds bliss, which e'en the slightest touch or lookOf this magnetic passion can create,And render perfect. Nor doth absence breakThe links of ecstasy, which from a heartBy heart are drawn, but 'midst the glare of day,The depths of night, alone or in a crowd,Imagination of love's balmy breath Can to the spirit fashion and expandLove's own pure rapture and delirium.To this fixed sublimation there belongNo conflicts of pale doubts, anxieties,Mean jealousies, anguish of heart-crushed slaves,And forlorn faces looking out on seasOf coming madness, from the stony gapsThrough which departed truth and bliss have fled;But high communion, and a rapturous senseOf passion's element, whereof all lifeIs made ; and therefore life should ne'er attainA mastery o'er its pure creative light.
Midst chequered sunbeams through the glancing woodsNo more Orion hunted; from the dawnTill eve, within some lonely grot he sat,His thoughts reviewing, or beneath a rockStood, back reclined, and watching the slow clouds,As doth a shepherd in a vacant mood.Oft to some highest peak would he ascend,And gaze below upon his giant friends,Who looked like moving spots, so dark and small;And oft, upon some green cliff ledge reclined, Watch with sad eye the jocund chase afarIn the green landscape, where the quivering lineLed by the stag—who drew its rout behindOf woodland shapes, confused as were their cries,And sparkling bodies of fleet-chasing hounds,—Passed like a magic picture, and was gone.His husbandry soon ceased; he hated toilUnvaried, ending always in itself,And to the Goddess pleaded thoughtful hoursFor his excuse, and indolent self-disgust.Small profit found his thought; his sympathiesWere driven inward, and corroded there.
Sometimes he wandered to the lowland fens,Where the wild mares toss their sharp manes in the blast,And scour through washy reeds and hollows damp—Hardened in after ages by long droughts;Arid and stony in the present time—And midst the elements he sought reliefFrom inward tempests. Once for many hours,In silence, only broken from afarBy the deep lowing of some straying herd,Moveless and without speech he watched a hind Weeding a marsh; a brutish clod, half built,Hog-faced and hog-backed with his daily toil,Mudded and root-stained by the steaming ooze,As he himself were some unnatural growth;Who yet, at times, whistled through broken fangs—"Happier than I, this hind," Orion thought.
Once tow'rds the city outskirts strayed his steps,With a half purpose some relief to seekMidst haunts of men, and on the way he metA mastic-sifter with his fresh-oiled face."O friend!" Orion said, "why dost thou walkWith shining cheek so sadly in the sun?"Sighing, the melancholy man replied:—"The lentisk-trees have ceased to shed their gums;Their tears are changed for mine, since by that treeMyself and children live. My toil stands still.Hard lot for man, who something hath withinMore than a tree, and higher than its top,Or circling clouds, to live by a mere rootAnd its dark graspings! Clearly I see this,And know how 't is that toil unequallyIs shared on earth: but knowledge is not powerTo a poor man alone 'gainst all the world, Who, meantime, needs to eat. Like the hot springsThat boil themselves away, and serve for nought,Which yet must have some office, rightly used,Man hath a secret source, for some great end,Which by delay seems wasted. IgnoranceChokes us, and time outwits us."—On he passed."That soul hath greater cause for grief than I,"Orion thought—yet not the less was sad.
Away disconsolate the giant went,Now clambering forest slopes, now hurrying downPrecipitous brakes, tearing the berried boughsFor food, scarce tasted, and oft gathering husks,Or wind-eggs of strange birds dropt in the fens,To toss them in some rapid brook, and watchTheir wavering flight. But now a tingling soundWakes his dull ear!—a distant rising droneUpon the air, as of a wintry wind—And dry leaves rustle like a coming rain.The wind is here; and, following soon, descendsA tempest, which relieves its rage in tears.Kneeling he stooped, and drank the hissing flood,And wished the Ogygian deluge were returned;Then sat in very wilfulness beside The banks while they o'erflowed, till starting up,Bounding he sought his early giant friends.
Them, in their pastoral yet half savage hauntsFound, as of yore, he with brief speech addressed,And bade them to an orgie on the plain,By rocks and forests amphitheatred.Such greeting high they with a gleeful roarReceived, and forthwith rose to follow him,Save Akinetos, who seemed not to hear,But looked more grave still seated on a stone,While they betook them to the plains below.
Thither at once they sped, and on the wayRhexergon tore down boughs, while Harpax slewOxen and deer, more than was need; and soonOn the green space Orion built the pileWith cross logs, underwood, dry turf and ferns,And cast upon it fat of kine, and heapsOf crisp dry leaves; and fired the pile, and beatA hollow shield, and called the Bacchic train,Who brought their skins of wine, and loaded polesThat bent with mighty clusters of black grapesSlung midway. In the blaze Orion threw Choice gums, and oil, that with explosion brightOf broad and lucid flame alarmed the sky,And fragrant spice, then set the Fauns to dance,While whirled the timbrels, and the reed-pipes blewA full-toned melody of mad delight.Down came the Mænads from the sun-brown hills,And flocked the laughing Nymphs of groves and brooks;With whom came Opis, singing to a lyre,And Sida, ivory-limbed and crowned with flowers.High swelled the orgie; and the roasting bulkOf bull and deer was scarce distinguishable'Mid the loud-crackling boughs that sprawled in flame.Now richest odours rose, and filled the air—Made glittering with the cymbals spun on highThrough jets of nectar upward cast in sport,And raging with songs and laughter and wild cries.
In the first pause for breath and deeper draughts,A Faun who on a quiet green knoll satSomewhat apart, sang a melodious ode,Made rich by harmonies of hidden strings,Unto bright Merope the island's pride,And daughter of the king; whereto a quire Gave chorus, and her beauties rare rehearsing,Wished that Orion shared with her the throne.
The wine ran wastefully, and o'er the earsOf the tall jars that stood too near the fire,Bubbled and leapt, and streamed in crimsoning foam,Hot as the hissing sap of the green logs.But none took heed of that, nor anything.Thus song and feast, dance, and wild revelry,Succeeded; now in turn, now all at onceMingling tempestuously. In a blind whirlAround the fire Biastor dragged a routIn osier bands and garlands; Harpax fiercelyThe violet scarfs and autumn-tinted robesFrom Nymph and Mænad tore; and by the hoofsAutarces seized a Satyr, with intent,Despite his writhing freaks and furious face,To dash him on a gong, but that amidstThe struggling mass Encolyon thrust a pine,Heavy and black as Charon's ferrying pole,O'er which they, like a bursting billow, fell.
At length when night came folding round the scene,And golden lights grew red and terrible, Flashed torch and spear, while reed-pipes deeper blewSonorous dirgings and melodious storm,And timbrels groaned and jangled to the tonesOf high-sustaining horns,—then round the blaze,Their shadows brandishing afar and athwartOver the level space and up the hills,Six giants held portentous dance, nor ceasedTill one by one in bare Bacchante arms,Brim-full of nectar, helplessly they rolledDeep down oblivion. Sleep absorbed their souls.
Region of Dreams! ye seething procreant bedsFor germs of life's solidities and power;Whether ye render up from other spheresOur past or future beings to the kenOf this brief state; or, wiser, art designed,With all thy fleeting images confused,To scatter, during half our mortal hours,The concentrating passions and the thoughtsWhich else were madness; Oh maternal realm,Console each troubled heart!—with opiate handGently the senses charm, and lead astrayThe vulture thoughts by thy blest phantasies,Beckoning with vague yet irresistible smile!
Sleep's God the prayer well pleased received, but said"Not such the meed of those who seek my courtsThrough Bacchanalian orgies." O'er the brainOf fallen Orion visions suitableCame with voluptuous gorgeousness, precededBy a dim ode; and as it nearer swelled,In rapturous beauty Merope swept by,Who on him gazed in ecstasy! He stroveTo rise—to speak—in vain. Yet still she gazed,And still he strove; till a voice cried in his ear,"Depart from Artemis!—she loves thee not—Thou art too full of earth! " He started awake!The piercing voice that cast him forth, still rangWithin his soul; the vision of delightStill ached along each nerve; and slowly turningA look perplexed around the spectral air,Himself he found alone 'neath the cold skyOf day-break, midst black ashes and ruins drear.