Orion/Book II/Canto III
ORION.
Canto the Third.
In parching summer, when the mulberry leavesDrooped 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 despondencyFor rain, and the young corn in every field,With dry and rustling murmur as it waved,Glistened impatiently, till autumn's tombReceived the husky voice, and spring's dead hopes.The vine-hills, and wild turpentines that grewAlong the road beneath, all basked content,As did the lentisk-trees; but many a pantAnd 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 breathSolemnly wafted o'er the Ægean sea,Had not resigned a single peak of snowTo melt and flow down for the brooks of spring.
But since the breath of spring had stirred the woods,Through which the joyous tidings busily ran,And oval buds of delicate pink and greenBroke, infant-like, through bark of sapling boughs,—The vapours from the ocean had ascended,Fume after fume, wreath upon wreath, and floorOn floor, till a grey curtain upward spreadFrom sea to sky, and both as one appeared.Now came the snorting and precipitous steedsOf 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 likenessOf monstrous beasts in lands and seas unknown.These gradually dilating, limb from limb,And head from bulk, were drawn apart, and floatedHither 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.
One midnight dark a spirit electric came,And shot an invisible arrow through the sky,Which instantly the wide-spread moisture calledTo congregate in heavy drops, that fellAs suddenly. Like armies, host on host,Pouring upon the mountains, vales, and plains,The showers clashed down. Each runnel and thin streamA branching brook became, or flowing river;Each once small river rolled a goodly floodWith laughing falls, and many a Naiad brightAnd rush-crowned River-god, was newly born,While all the land-veins with fresh spirit ranIn this quick season of Orion's life.
The snows on every height had drank the showers,Till heavy with the moisture, each steep ridgeLost its pure whiteness and transparent frost;Sank down as humbly as a maid once proud,Who droops and kneels and weeps; and from beneathIts stagnant foam melted quick running rillsDown slopes, with sunny music and loud hum,Precipitous, ere through dark craggy riftsSparkling 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 grovesOf citron, were in their abundant fruitsAbundantly increased: all works increased.
Dark 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 skeletonStill 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 revengeThe 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.
Within his cave, in his accustomed place,With passive dignity that ever holdsUnwise activity in check and awe—And active wisdom where the will's not strong—Sat Akinetos, listening to the taleThus by Rhexergon told; Biastor leaningAgainst a rock, with folded arms, the while.
"We from our trance with aching brows awokeStaring, and on our elbows raised, with chinsSet in our hands, collected our mazed minds.We both had dreamed one dream. In Chios' wallsA feast we held in honour of the king,Encolyon, newly chosen—as we thought— By the chief rulers, while Orion stoodChained to the throne. But Merope, "'t was said,Should still be his, if loyal, hand and soul.Yet ere Orion answered, rushing cameA 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 netIt 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 sheepOver a wattle. So, this headlong sprite,Which, in our dream, now multiplied to shoals,And thus confused the feasters. But what 't wasNone saw, nor knew; but all the feast they marred,While, in the place of meats and fruits, we foundDust—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 nextAn iron clang that seemed to break great bondsBeneath the earth, shook us to conscious life.A briny current passing through our heartsStung all our faculties back to former power; And as we rose, across a distant fieldWe saw Orion coming with a sword.Our dream thus ended in realityWithout a boundary line. What followed seemedContinuous, 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 droveBehind this threatening orb, down-trampling allWho 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 courseAt bay, like bulls, within a circle clearBy terror made, we paused. The archers soon,With bow-arm forward thrust, on all sides twanged,Around, below, above. Behind the shieldThat 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 topStood Merope, who cried, 'Orion, see!My prison I have fired, and in my hasteFired first below. I cannot pass the flames!'E'en while she spake a hydra-wreath of smokeRan coiling up the stony stair, and peeredInto 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 strengthWith skill.' I on the groaning gate-posts smote,Until their bolts and nails started like tusksFrom battered jaws, and inward sunk the gates,Crushing armed men behind. O'er all we passed.Orion, now in front, amidst a cloudOf smoke, dust, slaughter and confusing cries,The blackened slabs of winding stair ascended;And in the same fierce uproar and dismayOf 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 routAround us, and great revel held that night."
Rhexergon ceased, while in the sunny airHis 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 reclaimThis Merope by force: perchance her ownInconstant 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 spoilWe 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 thrustHis throne from under him to some fresh placeSuiting our fancies, whereon we'll sleep crowned,And feast, and order armies to march forth,And ships to sail, and music, and more feast."
"Better pull down the city, and destroyThe 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.
As 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 aidYour 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 sustainHis scheme: hence, never moved by hands unskilled,But moved as best may be. Be warned; sit still."
Within the isle, far from the walks of men,Where jocund chase was never heard, nor hoofOf Satyr broke the moss, nor any birdSang, save at times the nightingale—but onlyIn his prolonged and swelling tones, nor e'erWith wild joy and hoarse laughing melody,Closing the ecstasy, as is his wont,—A forest separate and far withdrawnFrom all the rest, there grew. Old as the earth,Of cedar was it, lofty in its gloomsWhen the sun hung o'er head, and in its darknessLike Night when giving birth to time's first pulse.Silence had ever dwelt there; but of late,Came faint sounds with a cadence regularFrom the far depths, as of a cataractWhose echoes midst incumbent foliage died.From one high mountain gushed a flowing stream,Which through the forest passed, and found a fallWithin—none knew where—then rolled tow'rds the sea.
There underneath the boughs, mark where the gleamOf sun-rise through the roofing's chasm is thrownUpon a grassy plot below, whereonThe shadow of a stag stoops to the streamSwift 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 stillHung o'er the stream. Then came a rich-toned voiceOut of the forest depths, and sang this lay,With deep speech intervalled and tender pause.
"If we have lost the world what gain is ours!Hast thou not built a palace of more graceThan 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 dreamIn 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 turnsOn us his visage Of 'rapt vacancy!It is Oblivion. In his hand—though noughtKnows he of this—a dusky purple flowerDroops over its tall stem. Again, ah see!He wanders into mist, and now is lost.———Within his brain what lovely realms of deathAre pictured, and what knowledge through the doorsOf 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."
No 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' kingHath framed his purpose; the sworn instruments Chosen; and from the palace now departIn brazen chariots, richly armed, ten chiefs."Watch well your moment!"—lastly spake the king; "Slay not outright—but make his future lifeA blot—a blank!" They bent their high-plumed helms,And through the gates in thunder whirled away.
Beyond the cedar forest lay the cliffsThat overhung the beach, but midway sweptFair 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 edgeOf the high-heaving fields and fallow lands;Only the zephyrs at long intervalsDrew 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 slopesOf green and golden light, beheld afarThe broad grey horizontal wall o' the dead-calm sea.
O'ersteeped in bliss; prone on its ebbing tide;With hope's completeness vaguely sorrowful, And sense of life-bounds too enlarged; his thoughtsSank 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 prayersCame over him, while downward to the shoreSlowly his steps he bent, seeking to holdCommunion with his sire. The eternal SeaBefore 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 wordsFound utterance. And again he prayed, and said,"Receive, O Sire!"———yet still the emotion roseToo 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.
What altars burn afar—what smoke arisesBeyond the swelling lands above the cliffs?Or is it but a rolling cloud of dustThat onward moves, driven by the wind? And now A rumbling sound is gathering in the breeze,And nearer swells—now dies away—like wheelsThat pass from stony ground to grassy plains.Again!—it rings and jars—and passing swiftAlong the cliffs, till lost in a ravine,Five brazen chariots fling the sunset raysAngrily 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 armWhich still she raises, striving to make a sign.All disappeared. No voice, no sound was heard.The moon arose—and still Orion slept.
Forth from a dark chasm issue figures armed.Close conference they hold, like ravens metFor 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 spearsAre held by seven, who noiselessly and slowFollow their stealthy progress. Step by stepThe 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.
Away, 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 layIn hollowness beneath the rising stars,And blind Orion, starting at once erectAmid his darkness, with extended armsAnd open mouth that uttered not a word,Stood statue-like, and heard the Ocean moan.