Orion/Book III/Canto I
ORION.
Canto the First.
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 distinctEach from the other,—or from all the restOf intermediate degrees and powers,Cut off,—but that strong links of nature runThroughout, and prove one central heart, whereinTime 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 markSave 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 containsThe 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 radianceFalls blunted from the mass of flesh and bone.The man who for his race might supersedeThe 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 soulHath 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 renewHis 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 HandWhich feels primeval impulses, directA 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 brainTeems 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 wayAlong a misty hill? In the blear shades, Sad twilight, and thick dews darkening the pathsWhereon the slow dawn hath not yet advancedA 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 mindDesires 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 becomeHenceforth like chronicles remote. The earthForbids him to cleave deep and trace her roots,And veins, and quarries: Whose wide purposesAre narrowed now into the safest path:Whose lofty visions are all packed in his brain,As though the heavens no further could unfoldTheir wonders, but turned inward on themselves;Like a bright flower that closes in the nightFor the last time, and dreams of by-gone sunsNe'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 placePressed with humiliation almost down:Whose soul had in one passion been absorbed,Which, though illimitable in itself,Profound and primal, yet had wrapped him roundBeyond 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 tracksOf 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 lynxThat 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 caveOf Akinetos, whom he heard withinSing to himself. And Akinetos rose,Perceiving he was blind, and with slow careRolled forth a stone, and placed him by his side.
Orion's tale soon closed; its outward actsAnd sad results, were all that he could speak:The rest writhed inwardly, and,—like the leadsThat sink the nets and all the struggles hide,Till a strong hand drags forth the prize,—his wordsKept down the torment, uttered all withinIn 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 willCan of itself attain. I told thee this;Nor for reproach repeat it, but to sootheThy mind with consciousness that not in theeWas 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 himselfA chain and centre, not a link that runsIn large and complex circles, all unknown.Sit still. Remain with me. No differenceWill 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 everOne act leads to another, and disturbsMan'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 ArtemisMe 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 meTo hunt for lasting truth in the pale moon.Such proved my love for her; and such hath provedMy 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 liftTo her own sphere of purity; or, indeed, Some God may deem me worthy of a fateBetter than that which locks up all designIn pausing night. Perchance, the dream may bodeThat 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 lifeMethought 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 heartPanting in darkness? That is not her world."Orion rose erect. "I will go forth:I may find aid, or cause some help to comeThat shall restore my sight." The sage replied,"Thou'st seen enough already, and too muchFor 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 prematureOf vexing action; his cheek scored all downWith 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 knewThat near the subterranean palace gatesWhich for Hephæstos he of iron had framed,His feet approached. He entered there, and foundBrontes, the cyclops, whom he straight besoughtHis shoulders to ascend, and guide his courseEastward, to meet the Morning as she rose.'T was done. Their hazy forms erewhile we saw.
And where was Merope? The cruel deedHer sire had compassed for Orion's fall,Smote through her full breast, and at every beat Entered her heart; nor settled there, but coursedThrough all her veins in anguish. Her despairWas boundless, many days, until her strengthWorn 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 lossOf sight, had been completed. Nothing nowOf passion past remained but memory,Which soon grew painful; and her thoughts oft turnedFor some relief, to listen to the songsThat minstrels sung, sent by the youthful kingOf 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 preferredHis suit for Merope. Her sire approved;—Invited him;—he came;—and MeropeWith him departed in a high-beaked ship;And as it sped along, she closely pressedThe rich globes of her bosom on the side O'er which she bent with those black eyes, and gazedInto 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 repentanceWhich might advantage others." Both replied,"Thou speakest truth and wisdom;" and at eveDeparted for the city, bent to chooseSome rebel chieftains for their aid, or slaves,Or robbers who inhabited the rocksNorth of the isle. A great revenge they vowed.
Swift down the misty eastern hill, whose topThrough broken vapours, swooning as they creepAlong 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' caveShouting 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 satWithin that cave, passed,—lightly wrinklingThe ledge-like brow, which, though of granite, smoothedNot vexed, by ocean's tempests, now relaxed,As it would say "I pity this returnOf 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 orbOf Artemis a moment seemed to hangSuspended 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 voiceOf one who prayed beneath amid the mist, Rose thrilling on the air; and onward slowHer car its voyage held, and waned more paleAnd distant, as the prayer ascended heaven.
"Eos! blest Goddess of the Morning, hearThe blind Orion praying on thy hill,And in thine odorous breath his spirit steep,That he, the soft gold of thy gleaming handPassing across his heavy lids, sealed downWith weight of many nights, and night-like days,May feel as keenly as a new-horn child,And, through it, learn as purely to beholdThe face of nature. Oh restore my sight!"
His prayer paused tremulous. O'er his brow he feltA balmy beam, that with its warmth conveyedDivine suffusion and deep sense of peaceThroughout his being; and amidst a pile,Far in the distance, gleaming like the bloomOf almond trees seen through long floating hallsOf 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 dewsDown 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 homeNight's foulest ghosts, and men as foul; who bring'stNot only my redemption, but who artThe intermediate beauty that unitesThe fierce Sun with the Earth, and moderatesHis beams with dews and tenderness and smiles;O bird-awakener! giver of fresh life,New hopes, or to old hopes new wings,—receiveWithin thy care, one who with many thingsIs weary, and though nought in energyAbated for good work, would seek thine aidTo some fresh course and service for his hand;Of peace meantime, and steadfast truth, secure!"