Orion/Book II/Canto I
BOOK II.
Canto the First.
Beneath a tree, whose heaped-up burthen swayedIn the high wind, and made a hustling sound,As of a distant host that scale a hill,Autarces and Encolyon gravely sat.Sometimes they spake aloud, then murmured low,Then paused as if perplexed,—looked round and snuffedThe odour of wood-fires in the fresh forest air,—And then again addressed them to their theme.Of cloudy-brained Orion they discoursed,Lost to companionship, and led by dreams.
"Once," said Autarces, "he was great on earth;A worker in iron, and a hunter fleet Who oft ran down the stag; when, by some chance,He pleaseth Artemis, and in her train,All his high worth resigning, and his friends,Dwindles to suit her fancy, and becomesA giant of lost mind." Encolyon thrustHis heavy heel into the soil, and spakeWith serious gesture. "Ever Orion soughtSome new device, some hateful onward deedThrough strange ways hurrying, scorning wise delay.A victim fell he soon to ArtemisAnd her cold spells, for of his Ocean-sireOrion's soul hath many a headlong tide.But most of all her gleamy illusions fellUpon his mind, which soon became a mazeFor ghostly wanderings, and wild echoes heardThrough mists; and none could comprehend his speech."
"Methought the orgie had recalled his sense,So fairly he bespake us to the mirth;So full and giant-like was his disportThroughout the night," Autarces now rejoined.Encolyon raised one hand:—"That orgie's wasteOf energies," he murmured, "and the hoursFar better given to rest, I much deplore. Why joined I in the mirth?—how was I lost!But when a regulated mind sedate,Its perfect poise permits to waver asideOne tittle, certainly the man must fallSomewhat in dignity, howe'er retrieved.Hence, when a regulated"—Here his speechAutarces interrupted hastily,Since, for his share, no self-reproach felt he."I say the orgie, and his high disport,Shewed in Orion some return to sense:And when next morn I saw him near a brook,Where I had stooped to drink—by him unseen—Down ran he like a panther close pursued,Then stopped and listened—now looked up on high—Now stared into the brook as he would drink,And drain its ripplings to the last white stone—Then went away forgetful. This methought,E'en by its wildness and its strenuous throes,Savoured of hope, and of his safe returnTo corporal sense, by shaking off these netsOf moon-beams from his soul; but when I roseAnd crossed his path, and bade him speak to me,Again 'twas all of vapour and dark thoughts,Unlike the natural thoughts of bone and thews, As we of yore were taught, and found enoughFor all our needs, and for our songs and prayers.Yet had he, as it seemed, some plan within,And ever tended to some central pointIn some place—nought more could I understand:Wherefore I deem that he is surely mad.""And so deem I,"—rejoined Encolyon:"Ever advancing—working a new way—Tasking his heart, forgetful of his lifeAnd present good—of madness the sure sign."
While thus they talked, Harpax with speed approached,Shouting his tidings—"Merope loves Orion—Orion hath gone mad for Merope!"The twain who had erewhile the cause discerned,And signs of reason's loss, at this fresh news,So little dreamed-of from his recent mood,A minute looked each other in the faceWith sheep-like gravity, then backward sankAgainst the tree, loud laughing. "This were good,"Checking his laughter with a straight-lined face,Encolyon said, "if not too deeply burning,And that a power within himself he holdTo pause at will." But Harpax quick rejoined, "I, for myself, would have this Merope,And force Œnopion render up his crown,If ye will aid me." "We will give our aid,"Autarces cried—"and yet methinks this loveAffecting doubly, as by the self-same blow,Might from some spells in the orgie-fumes arise?Ye marked, wise Akinetos would not move.""Doubtless 't was wise," Encolyon said, "More careBefits our steps." They rose and strode away.
There is a voice that floats upon the breezeFrom a heathed mountain; voice of sad lamentFor love left desolate ere its fruits were known,Yet by the memory of its own truth sweetened,If not consoled. To this Orion listensNow, while he stands within the mountain's shade.
"The scarf of gold you sent to me, was brightAs any streak on cloud or sea, when mornOr sun-set light most lovely strives to be.But that delicious hour can come no more,When, on the wave-lulled shore, mutely we sat,And felt love's power, which melted in fast dewsOur being and our fate, as doth a shower Deep foot-marks left upon a sandy moor.We thought not of our mountains and our streams,Our birth-place, and the home of our life's date,But only of our dreams—and heaven's blest face.Never renew thy vision, passionate lover—Heart-rifled maiden—nor the hope pursue,If once it vanish from thee; but believe'T is better thou shouldst rue this sweet loss everThan newly grieve, or risk another chillOn false love's icy river, which betrayingWith mirrors bright to see, and voids beneath,Its broken spell should find no faith in thee."
Thus sang a gentle Oread who had lovedA River-god with gold-reflecting streams,But found him all too cold—while yet she stoodScarce ankle-deep—and droopingly retiredTo sing of fond hopes past. Orion's handA jewelled armlet held, whereon his eyesEarnestly rested. By a lovely boy,To him 't was smiling brought while he reclinedDesponding, o'er a rock. "This gift, still warm,My mistress sends thee, giant son of Ocean,Once having seen thee in the hunting train Of Artemis. Her name, if thou wouldst know,'T is Merope, daughter of Chios' king,The proud Œnopion, lord of an hundred ships."
Orion to the palace of the kingForthwith departed. Merope once seen,His eyes resign their clear external power,And see through feeling, utterly possessedWith her rare image; and his deep desire,Deeper by energies so long confused,When half his earth-born nature was subdued,Struggled, and bounded onward to the goal.
Her beauty awed the common race of men.Hers was a shape made for a serpent dance,Which charmed to stillness and to burning dreams,But she herself the illusive charm o'er-ruledAs doth an element, merging for a time,Ne'er lost; and none could steadily confrontHer sphynx-like bosom, and high watchful head.Dark were her eyes, and beautiful as Death's,With a mysterious meaning, such as lurksIn that pale Ecstasy, the Queen of Shades.All deemed her passion was a mortal flame, Volcanic, corporal, ending with its hourOf sacrifice, dissolving in fine air;Save one bald sage, who said that human nerves,And what they wrought, were wondrous as the mind,And in the eye of Zeus none could decideWhich held the higher place. For, to the nervesPerfect abstraction and pure bliss belonged,As parent of all life, and might in deathContinuance through some subtler medium find,—Whence, life renewed, and heaven at length attained.
Nought of this sage's lore recked Merope,And, for Orion, he of thought was sick,Save that which round his present object playedDelicious gambols and high phantasies.Together they, the groves and templed gladesThat, like old Twilight's vague and gleamy abode,Hung vision-like around the palace towers,Roved, mute with passion's inward eloquence.They loitered near the founts that sprang elateInto the dazzled air, or pouring rolledA crystal torrent into oval shapesOf grey-veined marble; and oft gazed withinProfoundly tranquil and secluded pools, Whose lovely depths of mirrored blackness clear—Oblivion's lucid-surfaced mystery—Their earnest faces and enraptured eyesVisibly, and to each burning heart, revealed."And art thou mine to the last gushing dropOf these high throbbing veins?" each visage said.Orion straightway to Œnopion sped,And his life's service to the gloomy kingHe proffered for the hand of Merope.
Œnopion strode about his pillared hall,And the dun chequers of its marble floorCounted perplexed, while pondering his reply.Orion's strength and giant friends he feared;Nor to accept the alliance, nor refuse,Seemed wise. Thereto, Poseidon's empire rolledToo near, and might surround his towers with waves;Wherefore the king a double face assumed."Orion, I consent," mildly he said:"Thy service I accept, and to thee give,When thou shalt have performed it, Merope.Clear me our Chios of its savage beasts,Dragon and hippogrif, wolves, serpents dire,Within six days, and Merope is thine."
Through the high palace gates Orion passed,Speeding to seek strong aid for this hard taskAmong his forest friends. Old memoriesSlumbrously hung above the purple lineOf distance, to the east, while odorouslyGlistened the tear-drops of a new-fallen shower;And sun-set forced its beams through strangling boughs,Gilding green shadows, till it blazed athwartThe giant-caves, and touched with watery firesThe heavy foot-marks which had plashed the swardOn vacant paths, through foliaged vistas steep,Where gloom was mellowing to a grand repose.At intervals, as from beneath the ground,Far in the depth of these primeval cells,Low respirations came. There, in great shade,The giants sleep. Lost sons are they of Time.
There is no hour when rest is sacred heldBy him who works and builds; and eve and night,Alike with day, his toil oftimes will claim."Awake companions! 't is Orion calls!"And straight the giants rose, and came to him,Save Akinetos, into whose low caveThey with a torch now entered, there to hold The conference, for he was very wise,And ne'er proposed, nor did a thing that failed.
Orion's tale is told; Autarces thenFor Merope proposed the lots to draw,Whereat Orion glared,—but speech refrainedWhen Harpax fiercely on Autarces turnedWith loud reproach, since he had sworn to himFar different purpose; so Orion smiled,And of Rhexergon and Biastor soughtAid in his heavy task. They promised this—When each one, by an arm, EncolyonGrasped, and reminded of the darkness. "NightIs the fit time," Orion cried, "to digThe pitfalls, throw up mounds with bristling stakesAt top, as barriers, and the nets and toilsFix and prepare, and choose our clubs and spears."But still Encolyon urged a day's delay,For dignity of movements thus combined,If not for need. To Akinetos nowAll turned with reverence, waiting the resultOf silent wisdom and of calm profound;But from these small things he had long withdrawnHis godlike mind, and was again abstract.
Orion took the torch, and led the wayInto the dark damp air. Each to his postAssigning; one, for the chief mountain pass,Soon as the grey dawn touched the highest peaks;One, in the plains below; two, for the woods;The while Biastor and himself would rangeThe island, driving to the centre allThat should escape their spears. 'T was thus resolved.Meantime Rhexergon and Biastor joinedOrion, who went forth to dig the pits,Break down high tops of trees, and weave their boughsIn barrier walls, and fix sharp stakes on moundsAnd river banks. When they were gone, a yell,Mocking the wild beasts doomed to be destroyed,Harpax sent forth. "Mine be the task," he said,"To ravage the King's pastures—slay his bulls—And into our own woods and meadows driveHis goats and stags." "Rather collect alive,"Autarces interposed, "with strong-meshed nets,All the mad beasts, and loose them suddenlyWithin Œnopion's palace! That were sportWorthy our toil; small joy for us to aidOrion's freaks for love of Merope,—Whom yet, methinks, he wisely hath preferred To crystal-bosomed, wintry Artemis,—Pale huntress, exiled from our sunny woods,Had my will power—" "But all her nymphs detained,And, like our vines, deep rifled through their leavesOf golden fruit"—Harpax rejoined: "Or placed,"Encolyon slowly muttered to himself,"On pedestals, until they changed to stone,"———"As votive statues to the Goddess famedFor cruel purity and marble heart—"Autarces shouted, looking up on high.
All this heard Artemis, who o'er the cavesRolled her faint orb before the coming dawn,In lonely sadness; and with an inward cryOf jealous anguish and of vengeful ire,Like an electric spark that knows not space,Shot from her throne into the eastern heaven.