Orion/Book II/Canto III

by Richard Henry Horne

ORION.

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Canto the Third.

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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.

But 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.

One 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.

The 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.

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 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.

Within 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.

"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."

Rhexergon 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."

"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.

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 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."

Within 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.

There 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.

"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."

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' 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.

Beyond 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.

O'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.

What 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.

Forth 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.

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 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.

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