Orion/Book II/Canto II
ORION.
Canto the Second.
The Sun-god's tresses o'er the whirling reinsThat scarcely ruled the swift-ascending steeds,Fell, like a golden, torrent, while his head, Answering his goddess sister's brief request,Smiling he bowed,—and the clouds closed behind His blazing wheels. Four of those giant's sires Were gods, who with their earth-born sons might hold Communion; wherefore Artemis, alone,Deemed not her power sufficed for safe revenge; Of which now sure, her course to earth she bent.
The night-work done, his friends Orion left Their further preparations to complete, And to the caves returned, hopeful that nowThe others would assist. There sat the three,Listening the slow speech of Encolyon,Who with change-hating eyes, fixed on the earth,Discoursed, and to Orion's anxious looksThus made reply. "We have resolved to giveOur utmost aid—or aid that may suffice,—In furtherance of thy task, which many daysRightly requires." "Six days," Orion said,And turned to go; when Harpax interposed:"Be it then six, but our conditions hear.Take Merope, thy prize; the rest be ours.Œnopion's kingdom we shall duly share,And make Encolyon king, as fitted bestFor cares of state and governance of men.""Not altogether King," Encolyon saidWith meekness—"but, in sooth, I would returnAmong mankind, and dictate to small towns."
Orion answered, "This were breach of faithIn me; the King and all his subjects, stillMust as I found them rest, until he die;Then, as ye will, among ye take the crown,Which, having Merope, I ne'er shall claim. Away now to our work." Autarces rose."This we accept," he said, "for brief is lifeOf man—and insecure. But further thoughtShould prompt us rather choose EncolyonAs guiding minister and staid high priest,While Akinetos rule as Chios' king."
At mention of the name so reverenced,Silently all assented. "See, the lightOf day spreads warmly down the valley slopes!"Orion cried. Now Phoibos through the caveSent a broad ray! Harpax arose, and then,—Pondering on rules for safest monarchy,—Encolyon heavily. The solar beamFilled the great cave with radiance equable,And not a cranny held one speck of shade.A moony halo round Orion came,As of some pure protecting influence,While with intense light glared the walls and roof,The heat increasing. The three giants stoodWith glazing eyes, fixed. Terribly the lightBeat on the dazzled stone, and the cave hummedWith reddening heat, till the red hair and beardOf Harpax shewed no difference from the rest, Which once were iron-black. The sullen wallsThen smouldered down to steady oven-heat,Like that with care attained when bread has ceasedIts steaming, and displays an angry tan.The appalled faces of the giants shewedFull consciousness of their immediate doom.And soon the cave a potter's furnace glowed,Or kiln for largest bricks, and thus remainedThe while Orion, in his halo claspedBy some invisible power, beheld the clay,Of these his early friends, change. Life was gone!
Now sank the heat—the cave-walls lost their glare—The red lights faded, and the halo paleAround him, into chilly air expanded.There stood the three great images, in hueOf chalky white and red, like those strange shapesIn Egypt's ancient tombs; but presentlyEach visage and each form with cracks and flawsWas seamed, and the lost countenance brake up,As, with brief toppling, forward prone they fell,—And in dismay uttering a sudden cry,Orion headlong from the cavern fled.
Fierce Harpax, and wind-steered Autarces, smittenFrom life thus early, may by few be wept;But long laments by the chief rulers made,Of Chios, for the sage Encolyon,Far echoed, and still echo, through the world—Which feels, e'en now, for his great principleA secret reverence. "Chainer of the wheel!Hater of all new things!—to whom the actsOf men seemed erring ever in each hopeAnd effort to advance, save in a round,Taught by the high example of the spheres!—Oh champion grave, who with a boundary stoneStood'st in improvement's door-way like a god,Ready by wholesome chastisement to grantCrushing protection; regulator oldOf science, scorning genius and its dreams,And all the first ideas and germs of things,Time and his broods of children shall prolongThy fame, thy maxims, and thy practise staid,Fraught with experience turning on itself."
O'er the far rocks, midst gorge and glen profound;Now from close thickets, now from grassy plains;The sounds of raging contest, flight and death, Told where Rhexergon and Biastor wroughtTheir well-directed work. Them, quickly joinedTheir head in this destruction, and ere night,Huge forms, ferocious, mighty in the dawn,When hoar rime glistened on each hairy shape,Nought fearing, swift, brimfull of raging life,Lay stiffening in black pools of jellied gore.Nor with the day ceased their tremendous task,But all night long Orion led the wayThrough moonless passes to most secret lairs,Where in their deep abodes fierce monsters crouched,—Dragons, and sea-beasts, and compounded forms,—And in the pitchy blackness madly huddling,Midst deafening yells and hisses they were slain.
Next day the unabated toil displayedLike prowess and result; but with the eveFatigue o'ercame the giants, and they slept.Dense were the rolling clouds, starless the glooms,But o'er a narrow rift, once drawn apart,Shewing a field remote of violet hue,The high Moon floated, and her downward gleamShone on the upturned giant faces. RigidEach upper feature, loose the nether jaw; Their arms cast wide with open palms; their chestsHeaving like some large engine. Near them layTheir bloody clubs with dust and hair begrimed,Their spears and girdles, and the long-noosed thongs.Artemis vanished; all again was dark.
With day's first streak Orion rose, and loudlyTo his companions called. But still they slept.Again he shouted; yet no limb they stirred,Though scarcely seven strides distant. He approached,And found the spot, so sweet with clover flowerWhen they had cast them down, was now arrayedWith many-headed poppies, like a crowdOf dusky Ethiops in a magic cirque,Which had sprung up beneath them in the night,And all entranced the air. Orion pacedAround their listless bodies thoughtfully."Three giants slain outright by Phoibos' beams,—Now hath a dead sleep fallen on my friends.'T was wise in Akinetos not to move."An earthquake would not wake them. ArtemisRejoices, and the hopes of Merope,To whom the news a breathless shepherd bore,Throbbed fearfully suspended o'er the brink Of this event. Not long Orion paused:"Though all may fail, the utmost shall be tried:Secure is he who on himself relies."This, hastening to his work, was all he said.
Four days remain. Fresh trees he felled, and woveMore barriers and fences; inaccessibleTo fiercest charge of droves, and to o'erleapImpossible. These walls he so arranged,That to a common centre each should forceThe flight of those pursued; and from that centreDiverged three outlets. One, the wide expanse,Which from the rocks and inland forests led;One, was the clear-skied windy gap aboveA precipice; the third, a long ravineWhich, through steep slopes, down to the sea shore ranWinding, and then direct into the sea.
Two days remain. Orion, in each handWaving a torch, his course at night began,Through wildest haunts and lairs of savage beasts.With long-drawn howl, before him trooped the wolves,— The panthers, terror-stricken,—and the bearsWith wonder and gruff rage; from desolate crags,Leering hyænas, griffin, hippogrif,Skulked, or sprang madly, as the tossing brandsFlashed through the midnight nooks and hollows cold,Sudden as fire from flint; o'er crashing thickets,With crouched head and curled fangs, dashed the wild boar,Gnashing forth on with reckless impulses,While the clear-purposed fox crept closely downInto the underwood, to let the storm,Whate'er its cause, pass over. Through dark fens,Marshes, green rushy swamps, and margins reedy,Orion held his way,—and rolling shapesOf serpent and of dragon moved before himWith high-reared crests, swan-like yet terrible,And often looking back with gem-like eyes.All night Orion urged his rapid courseIn the vexed rear of the swift-droving din,And when the dawn had peered, the monsters allWere hemmed in barriers. These he now o'erheapedWith fuel through the day, and when againNight darkened, and the sea a gulf-like voiceSent forth, the barriers at all points he fired,Midst prayers to Hephæstos and his Ocean-sire.
Soon as the flames had eaten out a gapIn the great barrier fronting the ravineThat ran down to the sea, Orion graspedTwo blazing boughs; one high in air he raised,The other with its roaring foliage trailedBehind him as he sped. Onward the drovesOf frantic creatures with one impulse rolledBefore this night-devouring thing of flames,With multitudinous voice and downward sweepInto the sea, which now first knew a tide,And, ere they made one effort to regainThe shore, had caught them in its flowing arms,And bore them past all hope. The living mass,Dark heaving o'er the waves resistlessly,At length, in distance, seemed a circle small,Midst which, one creature in the centre rose,Conspicuous in the long red quivering gleamsThat from the dying brands streamed o'er the waves.It was the oldest dragon of the fens,Whose forky flag-wings and horn-crested headO'er crags and marshes regal sway had held;And now he rose up, like an embodied curseFrom all the doomed, fast sinking—some just sunk— Looked land-ward o'er the sea, and flapped his vans,Until Poseidon drew them swirling down.
Along the courts and lofty terraces,Within Œnopion's palace echoing,The choral voices and triumphal clangOf music, ordered by the royal maid,Advanced to greet Orion. She with flushed neckAnd arms; large eyes of flashing jet and fire,And raven tresses fallen from their bands,The loud procession led. But soon they metA phalanx armed with mandate from the king,And all the triumph ceased. ŒnopionGnawed on his lip, and gathered up his robeIn one large knot. Forthwith the whispering guardsHis daughter to the strongest tower convey;Then silently return. Orion comes:"The work is done, O king! and MeropeMy bride, I claim—my second father thou!"This said, he bent his knee. With wandering eye,—Like one who seems to seek within the airAn object, while his thoughts would gather timeFor guile—and with averted face, the kingAnswered "Thou claim'st too soon!"—and inwardly Œnopion said—"Three of his giant bandAre dead; the others spell-bound sleep." The voiceOf wronged Orion rose within the hall,Demanding Merope; but image-like,Hard as if hewn out from a flinty cliff,And stately stood the king, as he replied,"She waits the voice of our mute oracles."
In a deep forest where the night-black spiresOf pines begin to swing, and breathe a dirgeWhose pauses are filled up with yearning tonesOf oaks that few external throes displayMidst their robust unyielding boughs—the windsAre flying now in gusts, and soon a stormBursts howling through them, like a Fury sentIn quest of one who hath outstripped his fateAnd been caught up to heaven. But no escapeOr premature release his course attendsWhose passions boil above mortality;Nor till those mortal struggles have transpiredCan satisfaction or repose be found.Vainly shall he with self-deluding prideOf weakness, masked with power, seek solitudeAnd high remoteness from his fellow men, In all their bitter littleness and strife;Their noble efforts, suffering, martyrdom.He conquers not who flies, except he bearConquest within; nor flies he who believesThe object of his passion he can grasp,Save for design to consummate the end.
"Oh, raging forest, do I seek once moreYour solitude for my secure abode?"Orion cried, with wild arms cast abroad,Fronting a tree whose branches lashed the air,While its leaves showered around;—"And shall I notIn your direct communion with the earthAnd heavens, find sympathy with this branched frameI bear, thus shaken; yet unlike your stormWhich may be wholesome, coming from without,And from the operative round of things,While mine is centred in myself, and rendsBut does not remedy. Let me then shunThe baleful haunts of men—worse than the beastsWhom I have exiled, and to shadows changed—Savage as beasts with less of open force;As wily, with less skill and promptitude;As little reasoning, save for selfish ends; Less faithful, true, and honest, than the dog;But hypocritical, which beasts are not,Save in the fables which men make for them!Into myself will I henceforth retire,And find the world I dreamed of when a child.Nor this alone; but worlds of higher mouldAnd loftier attributes shall roll beforeMy constant contemplation, in the caveOf Akinetos, whom at times I'll seek,And emulate his wisdom; ever rightIn never moving, more than absolute need.Thus shall I find my solace in disdainOf earth's inhabitants, whom through city and fieldI've found sheer clay, save in the visions bright,Of Goddess, and of Nymph,———O Merope!And where art thou, while idly thus I rave?Runs there no hope—no fever through thy veins,Like that which leaps and courses round my heart?Shall I resign thee, passion-perfect maid,Who in mortality's most finished workRank'st highest—and lov'st me, even as I love?Rather possess thee with a ten-fold stressOf love ungovernable, being denied?'Gainst fraud what should I cast down in reply?— What but a sword, since force must do me right,And strength was given unto me with my birth,In mine own hand, and by ascendancyOver my giant brethren. Two remain,Whom prayers to dark Hephæstos and my sireOf ocean, shall awaken into life;And we will tear up gates, and scatter towers,Until I bear off Merope. Sing on!Sing on, great tempest! in the darkness sing!Thy madness is a music that brings calmInto my central soul; and from its wavesThat now with joy begin to heave and gush,The burning image of all life's desire,Like an absorbing fire-breathed phantom-god,Rises and floats!—here touching on the foam,There hovering over it; ascending swiftStar-ward, then swooping down the hemisphereUpon the lengthening javelins of the blast!Why paused I in the palace groves to dreamOf bliss, with all its substance in my reach?Why not at once, with thee enfolded, whirlDeep down the abyss of ecstasy, to meltAll brain and being where no reason is,Or else the source of reason? But the roaring Of Time's great wings which ne'er had driven me,By dread events nor broken-down old age,Back on myself, the close experienceOf false mankind, with whispers cold and dryAs snake-songs midst stone hollows, thus has taught me—The giant hunter, laughed at by the world,—Not to forget the substance in the dreamWhich breeds it. Both must merge in one.Now shall I overcome thee, body and soul,And like a new-made element brood o'er theeWith all-devouring murmurs! Come, thou storm,And clasp the rigid pine—this mortal frameWrap with thy whirlwinds, rend and wrestle down,And let my being solve its destiny,Defying, seeking, thine extremest power,Famished and thirsty for the absorbing doomOf that immortal death which leads to life,And gives a glimpse of heaven's parental scheme."