Orion/Book III/Canto I

by Richard Henry Horne

ORION.

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Canto the First.

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There is an age of action in the world;
An age of thought; lastly, an age of both,
When thought guides action and men know themselves,
What they would have, and how to compass it.
Yet are not these great periods so distinct
Each from the other,—or from all the rest
Of intermediate degrees and powers,
Cut off,—but that strong links of nature run
Throughout, and prove one central heart, wherein
Time beats twin-pulses with Humanity.
In every age an emblem and a type,
Premature, single, ending with itself,
Of future greatness in an after-time,
May germinate, develope, radiate,
And like a star go out and leave no mark
Save a high memory. One such is our theme.

The wisdom of mankind creeps slowly on,
Subject to every doubt that can retard,
Or fling it back upon an earlier time;
So timid are man's footsteps in the dark,
But blindest those who have no inward light.
One mind, perchance, in every age contains
The sum of all before, and much to come;
Much that's far distant still; but that full mind,
Companioned oft by others of like scope,
Belief, and tendency, and anxious will,
A circle small transpierces and illumes:
Expanding, soon its subtle radiance
Falls blunted from the mass of flesh and bone.
The man who for his race might supersede
The work of ages, dies worn out—not used,
And in his track disciples onward strive,
Some hairs'-breadths only from his starting point:
Yet lives he not in vain; for if his soul
Hath entered others, though imperfectly,
The circle widens as the world spins round,—
His soul works on while he sleeps 'neath the grass.
So, let the firm Philosopher renew
His wasted lamp—the lamp wastes not in vain,
Though he no mirrors for its rays may see,
Nor trace them through the darkness;—let the Hand
Which feels primeval impulses, direct
A forthright plough, and make his furrow broad,
With heart untiring while one field remains;
So, let the herald Poet shed his thoughts,
Like seeds that seem but lost upon the wind.
Work in the night, thou sage, while Mammon's brain
Teems with low visions on his couch of down;—
Break, thou, the clods while high-throned Vanity,
Midst glaring lights and trumpets, holds its court;—
Sing, thou, thy song amidst the stoning crowd,
Then stand apart, obscure to man, with God.
The poet of the future knows his place,
Though in the present shady be his seat,
And all his laurels deepening but the shade.

But what is yonder vague colossal shape,
That like a burdened giant bending moves,
With outspread arms groping its upward way
Along a misty hill? In the blear shades,
Sad twilight, and thick dews darkening the paths
Whereon the slow dawn hath not yet advanced
A chilly foot, nor tinged the colourless air—
The labouring figure fades as it ascends.

'T was he, the giant builder-up of things,
And of himself, now blind; the worker great,
Who sees no more the substance near his hands,
Nor in them, nor the objects that his mind
Desires and would embody. All is dark.
It is Orion now bereft of sight,
Whose eyes aspired to luminous designs.
The sun and moon and stars are blotted out,
With their familiar glories, which become
Henceforth like chronicles remote. The earth
Forbids him to cleave deep and trace her roots,
And veins, and quarries: Whose wide purposes
Are narrowed now into the safest path:
Whose lofty visions are all packed in his brain,
As though the heavens no further could unfold
Their wonders, but turned inward on themselves;
Like a bright flower that closes in the night
For the last time, and dreams of by-gone suns
Ne'er to be clasped again: Thou art reduced
To ask for sympathy and to need help;
Stooping to pluck up pity from all soils—
Bitterest of roots that round pride's temple grow—
Losing self-centred power, and in its place
Pressed with humiliation almost down:
Whose soul had in one passion been absorbed,
Which, though illimitable in itself,
Profound and primal, yet had wrapped him round
Beyond advance, or further use of hand,
Purpose and service to the needy earth:
Whose passion, being less than his true scope,
Had lowered his life and quelled aspiring dreams,
But that it led to blindness and distress,
Self-pride's abasement, more extensive truth,
A higher consciousness and efforts new.

In that dark hour when anguished he awoke,
Orion from the sea-shore made his way,
Feeling from cliff to cliff, from tree to tree,
Guided by knowledge of the varied tracks
Of land,—the rocks, the mounds of fern, the grass,
That 'neath his feet made known each spot he passed,—
Hill, vale and woodland; till he reached the caves,
Once his rude happy dwelling. All was silent.
Rhexergon and Biastor were abroad,
Searching the jasper quarries for a lynx
That had escaped the wreck. Deeply he sighed.
The quiet freshness came upon his heart,
Not sweetly, but with aching sense of loss.
He felt his way, and listened at the cave
Of Akinetos, whom he heard within
Sing to himself. And Akinetos rose,
Perceiving he was blind, and with slow care
Rolled forth a stone, and placed him by his side.

Orion's tale soon closed; its outward acts
And sad results, were all that he could speak:
The rest writhed inwardly, and,—like the leads
That sink the nets and all the struggles hide,
Till a strong hand drags forth the prize,—his words
Kept down the torment, uttered all within
In hurrying anguish. Yet the clear, cold eye,
Grey, quiet, steady, of the Great Unmoved,
Saw much of this beneath, and thus he spake.

"My son, why wouldst thou ever work and build,
And so bestir thyself, when certain grief,
Mischief, or error, and not seldom death,
Follows on all that individual will
Can of itself attain. I told thee this;
Nor for reproach repeat it, but to soothe
Thy mind with consciousness that not in thee
Was failure horn. Its law preceded thine:
It governs every act, which needs must fail—
I mean, give place—to make room for the next.
Each thinks he fails, because he thinks himself
A chain and centre, not a link that runs
In large and complex circles, all unknown.
Sit still. Remain with me. No difference
Will in the world be found: 'twill know no change,
Be sure. Say that an act hath been ordained?
Some hand must do it: therefore do not move:
An instrument of action must be found,
And you escape both toil and consequence,
Which run their rounds with restless fools; for ever
One act leads to another, and disturbs
Man's rest, and Reason—which foresees no end."

"I feel that thou art wise" Orion said;
"The worker ever comes to thee cast down!
Who with alacrity would frame, toil, build,
If he had wisdom in results, like thee?
Would Strength life's soil upheave, though close it clung,
And heavy, like a spade that digs in clay,
Therein to plant roots certain not to grow?
Oh miserable man! Oh fool of hope!
All I have done has wrought me no fixt good,
But grief more bitter as the bliss was sweet,
Because so fleeting. Why did Artemis
Me from my rough and useful life withdraw?
O'er wood and iron I had mastery,
And hunted shadows knowing they were shades.
Since then, my intellect she filled, and taught me
To hunt for lasting truth in the pale moon.
Such proved my love for her; and such hath proved
My love for Merope, to me now lost.
I will remain here: I will build no more."

He paused; but Akinetos was asleep.
Wherefore Orion at his feet sank down,
Tired of himself, of grief, and all the world,
And also slept. Ere dawn he had a dream:
'T was hopeful, lovely, though of no clear sense.
He said "Methinks it must betoken good;
Some help from Artemis, who may relent,
And think of me as one she sought to lift
To her own sphere of purity; or, indeed,
Some God may deem me worthy of a fate
Better than that which locks up all design
In pausing night. Perchance, the dream may bode
That Merope shall be to me restored,
And I see nature through her death-deep eyes,
And know the glorious mysteries of the grave,
Which through extremes of blissful passion's life
Methought I saw. Oh wherefore am I blind?"
"Abandon all such hopes of Merope"
Murmured the Great Unmoved: "her truth was strong,
First to herself, and through herself to thee,
While that it lasted; but that's done and gone.
How should she love a giant who is blind,
And sees no beauty but the secret heart
Panting in darkness? That is not her world."
Orion rose erect. "I will go forth:
I may find aid, or cause some help to come
That shall restore my sight." The sage replied,
"Thou'st seen enough already, and too much
For happiness." "I know," Orion sighed,
That what thou say'st is wise—" and went his way.

Now was each step a new experiment;
Within him all was care; without, all chance;
Dark doubts sat in his brain; danger prowled round.
He wandered lost and lone, and often prayed,
Standing beside the tree 'neath which he slept,
And would have offered pious sacrifice,
But that himself a victim blindly strayed.
His forehead's dark with wrinkles premature
Of vexing action; his cheek scored all down
With debts of will that never can be paid;
Chagrin, pain, disappointment, and wronged heart.
At length, one day, some shepherd as he passed,
With voice that mingled with the bleat of lambs,
Cried "Seek the source of light!—begin anew!"

On went he thinking, pausing, listening,
Till sounds smote on his ear, whereby he knew
That near the subterranean palace gates
Which for Hephæstos he of iron had framed,
His feet approached. He entered there, and found
Brontes, the cyclops, whom he straight besought
His shoulders to ascend, and guide his course
Eastward, to meet the Morning as she rose.
'T was done. Their hazy forms erewhile we saw.

And where was Merope? The cruel deed
Her sire had compassed for Orion's fall,
Smote through her full breast, and at every beat
Entered her heart; nor settled there, but coursed
Through all her veins in anguish. Her despair
Was boundless, many days, until her strength
Worn with much misery and the need of sleep,
Gave way, and slumber opened 'neath her soul,
Like an abyss. The deed, beyond recall,
Was done. She woke, and thought on this with grief.
The cruel separation, and the loss
Of sight, had been completed. Nothing now
Of passion past remained but memory,
Which soon grew painful; and her thoughts oft turned
For some relief, to listen to the songs
That minstrels sung, sent by the youthful king
Of Syros, rich in pastures and in corn.
Beardless he was, dwarf-shaped, and delicate,
Freckled and moled, with saffron tresses fair;
Yet were his minstrels touched with secret fires,
And beauty was the theme of all their lays.
Of her they sung—sole object of desire—
And with rare presents the pale king preferred
His suit for Merope. Her sire approved;—
Invited him;—he came;—and Merope
With him departed in a high-beaked ship;
And as it sped along, she closely pressed
The rich globes of her bosom on the side
O'er which she bent with those black eyes, and gazed
Into the sea that fled beneath her face.

The blindness of their leader, and his woe,
Now had Rhexergon and Biastor learnt,
And thoughts of plunder cried out for revenge,
Which on Œnopion they proposed to wreak,
And make good pastime round his ruined throne.
"Revenge is useless" Akinetos said:
"It undoes nothing, and prevents repentance
Which might advantage others." Both replied,
"Thou speakest truth and wisdom;" and at eve
Departed for the city, bent to choose
Some rebel chieftains for their aid, or slaves,
Or robbers who inhabited the rocks
North of the isle. A great revenge they vowed.

Swift down the misty eastern hill, whose top
Through broken vapours, swooning as they creep
Along the edges into the wide heavens,
Shews Morn's first ruddy gleam, a shape uncouth,
And lumbering forward in half-falls and bounds,
Comes with tossed arms! The Cyclops hoar with rime,
His coarse hair flying, through the wet woods ran,
And in the front of Akinetos' cave
Shouting with gladness and resounding life,
Performed a hideous but full-hearted dance.
"Dance, rocks and forests! Akinetos dance!
The Worker and the Builder hath his sight!
Ho! ho! come forth—with either eye he sees!
Come forth, O Akinetos—laugh ye rocks!"

A shadow o'er the face of him who sat
Within that cave, passed,—lightly wrinkling
The ledge-like brow, which, though of granite, smoothed
Not vexed, by ocean's tempests, now relaxed,
As it would say "I pity this return
Of means for seeking fresh distress;"—and then,
The broad great features their fixed calm resumed.

'T was thus Orion fared; and this the scene.
Fast through the clouds retiring, the pale orb
Of Artemis a moment seemed to hang
Suspended in a halo, phantom-like,
Over a restless sea of jasper fire,
While bending forward tow'rds the eastern mount,
She gazed and hearkened. Soon the fervent voice
Of one who prayed beneath amid the mist,
Rose thrilling on the air; and onward slow
Her car its voyage held, and waned more pale
And distant, as the prayer ascended heaven.

"Eos! blest Goddess of the Morning, hear
The blind Orion praying on thy hill,
And in thine odorous breath his spirit steep,
That he, the soft gold of thy gleaming hand
Passing across his heavy lids, sealed down
With weight of many nights, and night-like days,
May feel as keenly as a new-horn child,
And, through it, learn as purely to behold
The face of nature. Oh restore my sight!"

His prayer paused tremulous. O'er his brow he felt
A balmy beam, that with its warmth conveyed
Divine suffusion and deep sense of peace
Throughout his being; and amidst a pile,
Far in the distance, gleaming like the bloom
Of almond trees seen through long floating halls
Of pale ethereal blue and virgin gold,
A Goddess, smiling like a new-blown flower,
Orion saw! And as he gazed he wept.
The tears ran mingling with the morning dews
Down his thick locks. At length once more he spake.

"Blest Eos! mother of the hopeful star,
Which I, with sweet joy, take into my soul;
Star-rays that first played o'er my blinded orbs,
E'en as they glance above the lids of Sleep,
Who else had never known surprise, nor hope,
Nor useful action; Golden Visitant,
So lovely and benign, whose eyes drive home
Night's foulest ghosts, and men as foul; who bring'st
Not only my redemption, but who art
The intermediate beauty that unites
The fierce Sun with the Earth, and moderates
His beams with dews and tenderness and smiles;
O bird-awakener! giver of fresh life,
New hopes, or to old hopes new wings,—receive
Within thy care, one who with many things
Is weary, and though nought in energy
Abated for good work, would seek thine aid
To some fresh course and service for his hand;
Of peace meantime, and steadfast truth, secure!"