123922Orion — Book III, Canto IIIRichard Henry Horne
ORION.
Canto the Third.
Strong Spirit of Nature! if with pious hand, Of all humanity sensitive, and true To the first heart of childhood, thou hast striven Good to effect, and seemingly hast failed, Lament it not; that impulse on the frame Of the dense earth, which no result displays, Effect or consciousness, not utterly Shall turn aside, and glancing into space Be lost and cast away. As with a thought That, dormant in the brain well nigh a score Of years, will suddenly, we know not how, Rise bright before the mind, thus recognized As that so long forgotten,—while two brains Entire, have their material parts used up, Given off, and changed for new;—so shall the deeds Of virtuous power, in their appointed day, Rise with due strength above the buried hand That called them first to light. Know this, and hope: The earth has hard rind, but a subtle heart. Therefore amidst those shadows, by no form Projected; which in secret regions flit, Of future being, through unnumbered states, Which are most truly the substantial dreams, Nor less the aspirations most unearthly, Of man; shadows oft hunted, never caught, Yet traced beyond the grave; to thought well known; Amidst these shadows stride not thou forlorn, O Giant sublime, whom death shall not destroy.
'T was eve, and Time his vigorous course pursuing, Met Akinetos walking by the sea. At sight of him the Father of the Hours Paused on the sand,—which shrank, grew moist, and trembled At that unwonted pressure of the God. And thus with look and accent stern, he spake.
"Thou art the mortal who, with hand unmoved, Eatest the fruit of others' toil; whose heart Is but a vital engine that conveys Blood, to no purpose, up and down thy frame; Whose forehead is a large stone sepulchre Of knowledge; and whose life but turns to waste My measured hours, and earth's material!"
Whereto the Great Unmoved no answer made, And Time continued, sterner than before. "Thy sire, Tithonos, living nine score years, Knew many things; but when thou wert begot, Olympos chimed with crystal laughter bright, Since, for thy mother, his dim vision chose A fallen statue which he deemed a nymph, White as a flint amid a field of corn. I warn thee by that memory!—thou mistakest A prostrate stone for the fair truth of life."
Whereto the Great Unmoved no answer made, And Time continued, sterner than before. "O, not-to-be-approved! thou Apathy, Who gazest downward on that empty shell,— Is it for thee who bear'st the common lot Of man, and art his brother in the fields, From birth to funeral pyre; is it for thee, Who didst derive from thy long-living sire More knowledge than endows far better sons,— Thy lamp to burn within, and turn aside Thy face from all humanity, or behold it Without emotion, like some sea-shelled thing Staring around from a green hollowed rock, Not aiding, loving, caring—hoping aught— Forgetting nature, and by her forgot."
Whereto, with mildness, Akinetos said, "Hast thou considered of Eternity?" "Profoundly have I done so, in my youth;" Chronos replied, and bowed his furrowed head; "Most, when my tender feet from Chaos trod Stumbling, and doubtful of mine eyes, my hands The dazzling air explored. But, since that date, So many ages have I told; so many, Fleet after fleet on newly opening seas, Descry before me, that of late my thoughts Have rather dwelt on all around my path, With anxious care. Well were it thus with thee."
Then Akinetos calmly spake once more, With eyes still bent upon the tide-ribbed sands. "And dost thou of Tomorrow also think?" Whereat—as one dismayed by sudden thought Of many crowding things that call him thence,— Time, with bent brows, went hurrying on his way.
Slow towards his cave the Great Unmoved repaired, And, with his back against the rock, sat down Outside, half smiling in the pleasant air; And in the lonely silence of the place, He thus, at length, discoursed unto himself.
"Orion, ever active and at work, Honest and skilful, not to be surpassed, Brought misery on himself and those he loved; Caused his companions' death,—and now hath found At Artemis' hand, his own. So fares it ever With the world's builder. He, from wall to beam, From pillar to roof, from shade to corporal form; From the first vague Thought to the Temple vast, A ceaseless contest with the crowd endures, For whom he labours. Why then should we move? Our wisdom cannot change whate'er's decreed, Nor e'en the acts or thoughts of brainless men. Why then be moved? Best reason is most vain. He who will do and suffer, must—and end. Hence, death is not an evil, since it leads To somewhat permanent, beyond the noise Man maketh on the tabor of his will, Until the small round burst, and pale he falls. His ear is stuffed with the grave's earth, yet feels The inaudible whispers of Eternity, While Time runs shouting to Oblivion In the upper fields. I would not swell that cry."
Thus Akinetos sat from day to day, Absorbed in indolent sublimity, Reviewing thoughts and knowledge o'er and o'er; And now he spake, now sung unto himself, Now sank to brooding silence. From above, While passing, Time the rock touched!—and it oozed Petrific drops—gently at first—and slow. Reclining lonely in his fixt repose, The Great Unmoved unconsciously became Attached to that he pressed; and soon a part Of the rock. There clung the excrescence, till strong hands, Descended from Orion, made large roads, And built steep walls, squaring down rocks for use.
Now had Poseidon with tridental spear Torn up the smitten sea, which raged on high With grief and anger for Orion slain; And black Hephæstos deep beneath the earth A cold thrill felt through his metallic veins, Which soon with sparkling fire began to writhe Like serpents, till from each volcanic peak Burst smoke and threatening flames. Day hid his head, And while the body of Orion sunk, Drawn down into the embraces of the sea, The four Winds with confronting fury arose, And to a common centre drove their blasts, Which, meeting, brake like thunder-stone, or shells Of war, far scattering. Shipwreck fed the deep. No moon had dared the ringing vault to climb; No star, no meteor's steed; and ancient Night Shook the dishevelled lightning from her brows, Then sank in deeper gloom. Ere long the roar Rolled through a distant yawning chasm of flame, Dying away, and in the air obscure, Feverish and trembling,—like the breath of one Recovering from convulsion's throes,—appeared Two wavering misty shapes upon a mount: Whence now a solemn and reproachful voice, With broken pauses spake, and thus lamented.
"Call it not love!—oh never yet for thee Did Love's ambrosial pinions fan the hours, To lose themselves in bliss, which memory Alone can find, so to renew their life. Thou couldst not ever thus enjoy, thus give Thy nature fully up; thine attributes, Whate'er of loveliness or high estate They owned, surrendering all before Love's feet, And in his breath to melt. How shall we name Thy passion,—ice-pure, self-entire, exacting All worship, for a limited return? But how, ah me! shall Time record the hour, When with thy bow—its points curved stiffly back, Like a snake's neck preparing for a spring, Thou stood'st in lurid ire behind a cloud, And loosed the fatal shaft! Where then was Love? O Artemis! O miserable Queen! Call it pride, jealousy, revenge—self-love; No other. Thou repliest not. Wherefore pride? Thou gav'st thyself that wound, rejecting one Who to thee tendered all his nature; noble, Though earth-born, as thou knew'st when first ye met, And thou not Zeus with a creator's power His being to re-make? Thou answerest not. Why jealous, but because thou saw'st him happy Without thee, though cast off by thee. Then wherefore Destroy? Revenge, the champion of self-love, Can make his well-known sign. O, horrible! Despair to all springs up from murdered love, And smites revenge with idiotcy of grief, Seeing itself. But wake, and look upon My loss unutterable. What hast thou gained? Nothing but anguish; and for this accomplished His death, my loss, and the earth's loss beside Of that much needed hand. I curse thee not— Thou hast, indeed, cursed me—thou know'st it well."
With face bowed o'er her bosom, Artemis, As in sad trance, remained. The night was gone; The day had dawned, but she perceived it not; Nor Eos knew that any light had passed From her rent robes. But hope unconsciously Grew up in her, and yet again she spake.
"Ah, me! alas! why came this great affliction, Which, indeed, seems beyond all remedy, Though scalding tears from our immortal eyes' Make constant arcs in heaven. Beauty avails not Where power is needed. Seek we, then, for power, That some reviving or renewing beam May call him back, now pale in the deep sea. Thou answerest not. I think thou hast a heart, Which beats thy reasoning down to silent truth, And therefore deem I thou with me wilt seek The throne of Zeus, who may receive our prayers, Nor from our supplications, utterly Take sorrow's sweetness, which hath secret hope, Like honey drops in some down-fallen flower."
Her lofty pallid visage, Artemis Raised slowly, but with eyes still downward bent Upon the ocean rolling dark below, And answered,—"I will go with thee." The twain Departed heavily on their ascent Through the grey air, and paused not till they reached The region of Olympos, where their course Was barriered by a mass of angry cloud Piled up in surging blackness, with a gleam Of smouldering red seen through at intervals. The sign well understood, both Goddesses Knelt down before the cloud, and Artemis Broke silence first, with firm yet hollow voice.
"Father of Gods, and of the populous earth! Who know'st the thoughts and deeds we most would hide; And also know'st the secret thrill within, Which owns no thought nor action, yet comprises Life's sole excuse for what seems worthiest hate— Extremes and maddened self-opposing springs—- Not always thus excused,—O Zeus! receive Our prayers, and chiefly mine, which pardon sue, Besides the dear request. Grant that the life Of him these hands, once dazzling white, have slain, May be to earth restored." More had she said, But the dark pile of cloud shook with the voice Of Zeus, who answered: "He shall be restored; But not returned to earth. His cycle moves Ascending!" The deep sea the announcement heard; And from beneath its ever-shifting thrones, The murmuring of a solemn joy sent up.
The cloud expanded darkly o'er the heavens, Which, like a vault preparing to give back The heroic dead, yawned with its sacred gloom, And iron-crowned Night her black breath poured around To meet the clouds that from Olympos rolled Billows of darkness with a dirging roar, Which by gradations of high harmony Merged in triumphal strains. Their earnest eyes Filled with the darkness, and their hands still clasped, Kneeling the Goddesses bright rays perceived, Reflected, glance before them. Mute they rose With tender consciousness; and, hand in hand, Turning, they saw slow rising from the sea The luminous Giant clad in blazing stars, New-born and trembling from their Maker's breath,— Divine, refulgent effluence of Love. With pale gold shield, like a translucent moon Through which the morning with ascending cheek Sheds a soft blush, warming cerulean veins; With radiant belt of glory, typical Of happy change that o'er the zodiac round Of the world's monstrous phantasies shall come; And in his hand a sword of peaceful power, Streaming like a meteor to direct the earth To victory over life's distress, and shew The future path whose light runs through death's glooms; In grandeur, like the birth of Motion, rose The glorious Giant, tow'rds his place in heaven; And, while ascending, thus his Spirit sung.
"I came into the world a mortal creature, Lights flitting upwards through my unwrought clay, Not knowing what they were, nor whither tending, But of some goodness conscious in my soul. With earth's rude elements my first endeavour I made; attained rare mastery, and was proud: Then felt strange longings in the grassy woodlands, And hunted shadows under the slant sun.
"O Artemis! bright queen! high benefactress! My love forgive, that with its human feet Could not to thy pure altitude ascend, Nor couldst thou stoop to me. A fiery passion, Deep as mortality, possessed my life; Nor shall I from my destiny, star bright Henceforth, and from transforming change exempt, Banish the grateful thoughts of Merope, Though blindness followed that ecstatic dream."
"On thee I gaze, blest Goddess of the Morning! In whose sweet smile these stars shall ever melt, All human beauty perfected in thee, Divine with human blending. In my heart Bared full before thee, to the essence fine Wherewith, by whisperings of my Maker's breath, These stars of my new life are now inspired— In this pure essence shall thy treasured love Receive my adoration; and the thoughts Of thee shall open ever in my mind Like the bland meads in flower when thou appear'st."
"Thou Earth, whom I have left, and all my brothers! Followers of Time through steep and thorny ways; Wrestlers with strong Calamity, and falling For ever, as with generations new Ye carry on the strife,—deem it no loss That in full vigour of his fresh designs, Your Worker and your Builder hath been called To rest thus undesired. Though for himself Too soon, and not enough of labour done For high desires; sufficient yet to give The impulse ye are fitted to receive: More, were a vain ambition. Therefore strive My course, without its blindness, to pursue, So that ye may through night, as ye behold me, And also through the day by faithful hope, Ascend to me; and he who faints half-way, Gains yet a noble eminence o'er those Whose feet still plod the earth with hearts o'erdusted."
"Then with aspiring love behold Orion! Not for his need, but for thine own behoof: He loved thy race, and calls thee to his side. The human spirit is a mounting thing, But ere it reach the constellated thrones, It may attain, and on mankind bestow, Substance, precision, mastery of hand, Beauty intense, and power that shapes new life. So shall each honest heart become a champion, Each high-wrought soul a builder beyond Time— The ever-hunted, ne'er o'ertaken Time, For whom so many youthful hours are slain Vainly: (the grave's brink shews we have been deceived, And still the aged God his flight maintains!) But not in vain the earth-born shall pursue, E'en though with wayward, often stumbling feet, That substance-bearing Shadow, if with a soul That to an absolute unadulterate truth Aspires, and would make active through the world, He hath resolved to plant for future years— And thus, in the end, each soul may to itself, With truth before it as its polar guide, Become both Time and Nature, whose fixt paths Are spiral, and when lost will find new stars, And in the Universal Movement join."
The song ceased; and at once a chorus burst From all the stars in heaven, which now shone forth! The Moon ascends in her 'rapt loveliness; The Ocean swells to her forgivingly; Bright conies the dawn, and Eos hides her face, Glowing with tears divine, within the bosom Of great Poseidon, in his rocking car Standing erect to gaze upon his son, Installed 'midst golden fires, which ever melt In Eos' breath and beauty; rising still With nightly brilliance, merging in the dawn, And circling onward in eternal youth.
_-_printer%27s_ornament.png)