'Neath saffron stars and satin skies, dark-blue,Between dim sylvan isles, a happy two.We sailed, and from the siren-haunted shore,All mystic in its mist, the soft gale boreThe Siren's song, while on the ghostly steepsStrange foliage grew, deeps folding upon deeps,That hung and beamed with blossom and with bud,Thick-powdered, pallid, or like urns of bloodDripping, and blowing from wide mouths of bloomsOn our bare brows cool gales of sweet perfumes.While from the yellow stars that splashed the skiesO'er our light shallop dropped soft mysteriesOf calm and sleep, until the yellower moonRose full of fire above a dark lagoon;And as she rose the nightingales on spraysOf heavy, shadowy roses burst in praiseOf her wild loveliness, with boisterous painWailing far off around a ruined fane.And 'round our lazy keel that dipped to swingThe spirits of the foam came whispering;And from dank Neptune's coral-columned cavesHeard the Oceanids rise thro' the waves;Saw their smooth limbs cold-glimmering in the spray,Tumultuous bosoms panting with their play;Their oozy tresses, tossed unto the breeze,Flash sea-green brightness o'er the tumbled seas.'Mid columned isles, glance vaguely thro' the trees,We watched the Satyrs chase the Dryades;Heard Pan's fierce trebles and the Triton's hornSound from the rock-lashed foam when rose the MornWith chilly fingers dewing all the skies,That blushed for love and closed their starry eyes.The Naiad saw sweet smiling, in white mist,Half hidden in a bay of amethystHer polished limbs, and at her hollow earA shell's pink labyrinth held up to hearDim echoes of the Siren's haunting strainsEmprisoned in its chords of crimson veins.And stealing wily from a grove of pinesThe Oread in cincture of green vines,One twinkling foot half buried in the redOf a deep dimpled, crumpled poppy bed—Like to the star of eve, when, lapsing low,Faint clouds that with the sunset colors glowSlip down in scarlet o'er its crystal white,It shining, tear-like, partly veils its light.Her wine-red lips half-parted in surprise,And expectation in her bright blue eyes,While slyly from a young oak coppice peersThe wanton Faun with furry, pointed ears.He leaps, she flies as flies the startled nymphWhen Pan pursues her from her wonted lymph,Diana sees, and on her wooded hillsStays her fair band, the stag hounds' clamor stills.Already nearer glow the Oread's charms;To seize them Faunus strains his hairy arms—A senseless statue of white, weeping stoneFills his embrace; the Oread is gone.The stag-hounds bay, Dian resumes the chase,While the astonished Faun's bewildered facePaints all his wonderment, and, wondering,He bends above the sculpture of the spring.We sailed; and many a morn of breathing balm,Purpureal, graced us in that season calm;And it was life to thee and me and loveWith the fair myths below, our God above,To sail in golden sunsets and emergeIn golden morns upon a fretless surge.But ah, alas! the stars that dot the blueShine not alway; the clouds must gather too.I knew not how it came, but in a whileMyself I found cast on an arid isleAlone and barkless, soaked and wan with dread,The seas in wrath and thunder overhead,Deep down in coral caverns my pale love,No myths below, no God, it seemed, above.
'Neath saffron stars and satin skies, dark-blue,Between dim sylvan isles, a happy two.We sailed, and from the siren-haunted shore,All mystic in its mist, the soft gale boreThe Siren's song, while on the ghostly steepsStrange foliage grew, deeps folding upon deeps,That hung and beamed with blossom and with bud,Thick-powdered, pallid, or like urns of bloodDripping, and blowing from wide mouths of bloomsOn our bare brows cool gales of sweet perfumes.While from the yellow stars that splashed the skiesO'er our light shallop dropped soft mysteriesOf calm and sleep, until the yellower moonRose full of fire above a dark lagoon;And as she rose the nightingales on spraysOf heavy, shadowy roses burst in praiseOf her wild loveliness, with boisterous painWailing far off around a ruined fane.And 'round our lazy keel that dipped to swingThe spirits of the foam came whispering;And from dank Neptune's coral-columned cavesHeard the Oceanids rise thro' the waves;Saw their smooth limbs cold-glimmering in the spray,Tumultuous bosoms panting with their play;Their oozy tresses, tossed unto the breeze,Flash sea-green brightness o'er the tumbled seas.'Mid columned isles, glance vaguely thro' the trees,We watched the Satyrs chase the Dryades;Heard Pan's fierce trebles and the Triton's hornSound from the rock-lashed foam when rose the MornWith chilly fingers dewing all the skies,That blushed for love and closed their starry eyes.The Naiad saw sweet smiling, in white mist,Half hidden in a bay of amethystHer polished limbs, and at her hollow earA shell's pink labyrinth held up to hearDim echoes of the Siren's haunting strainsEmprisoned in its chords of crimson veins.And stealing wily from a grove of pinesThe Oread in cincture of green vines,One twinkling foot half buried in the redOf a deep dimpled, crumpled poppy bed—Like to the star of eve, when, lapsing low,Faint clouds that with the sunset colors glowSlip down in scarlet o'er its crystal white,It shining, tear-like, partly veils its light.Her wine-red lips half-parted in surprise,And expectation in her bright blue eyes,While slyly from a young oak coppice peersThe wanton Faun with furry, pointed ears.He leaps, she flies as flies the startled nymphWhen Pan pursues her from her wonted lymph,Diana sees, and on her wooded hillsStays her fair band, the stag hounds' clamor stills.Already nearer glow the Oread's charms;To seize them Faunus strains his hairy arms—A senseless statue of white, weeping stoneFills his embrace; the Oread is gone.The stag-hounds bay, Dian resumes the chase,While the astonished Faun's bewildered facePaints all his wonderment, and, wondering,He bends above the sculpture of the spring.
We sailed; and many a morn of breathing balm,Purpureal, graced us in that season calm;And it was life to thee and me and loveWith the fair myths below, our God above,To sail in golden sunsets and emergeIn golden morns upon a fretless surge.But ah, alas! the stars that dot the blueShine not alway; the clouds must gather too.I knew not how it came, but in a whileMyself I found cast on an arid isleAlone and barkless, soaked and wan with dread,The seas in wrath and thunder overhead,Deep down in coral caverns my pale love,No myths below, no God, it seemed, above.
Her heart is still and leaps no moreWith holy passion when the breeze,Her whilom playmate, as before,Comes with the language of the bees,Sad songs her mountain ashes singAnd hidden fountains' whispering.Her calm, white feet, erst fleet and fastAs Daphne's when a Faun pursued,No more will dance like sunlight pastThe dim-green vistas of the wood,Where ev'ry quailing floweretSmiled into life where they were set.Hers were the limbs of living lightMost beautiful and virginal,God-graceful and as godly white,And wild as beautiful withal,And hyacinthine curls that brokeIn color when a wind awoke.The wild aromas weird that hauntMoist bloomy dells and solitudesAbout her presence seemed to pant,The happy life of all her moods;Ambrosial smiles and amorous eyesWhose luster would a god surprise.Her grave be by a dripping rock,A mossy dingle of the hill,Remote from Bacchanals that mock,Wine-wild, the long, mad nights and still,Where no unhallowed Pan with lustMay mar her melancholy dust.
Her heart is still and leaps no moreWith holy passion when the breeze,Her whilom playmate, as before,Comes with the language of the bees,Sad songs her mountain ashes singAnd hidden fountains' whispering.
Her calm, white feet, erst fleet and fastAs Daphne's when a Faun pursued,No more will dance like sunlight pastThe dim-green vistas of the wood,Where ev'ry quailing floweretSmiled into life where they were set.
Hers were the limbs of living lightMost beautiful and virginal,God-graceful and as godly white,And wild as beautiful withal,And hyacinthine curls that brokeIn color when a wind awoke.
The wild aromas weird that hauntMoist bloomy dells and solitudesAbout her presence seemed to pant,The happy life of all her moods;Ambrosial smiles and amorous eyesWhose luster would a god surprise.
Her grave be by a dripping rock,A mossy dingle of the hill,Remote from Bacchanals that mock,Wine-wild, the long, mad nights and still,Where no unhallowed Pan with lustMay mar her melancholy dust.
Apollo never smote a lovelier strain,When swan-necked Hebe paused her thirsty bowlA-sparkle with its wealth of nectar-draughtsTo lend a list'ners ear and smile on him,As that the Tritons blew on wreathed hornsWhen Aphrodite, the cold ocean-foamBursting its bubbles, from the hissing snowWhirled her nude form on Hyperion's gaze,Naked and fresh as Indian Ocean shellDashed landward from its bed of sucking spongeAnd branching corals by the changed monsoon.Wind-rocked she swung her white feet on the sea,And music raved down the slant western winds;With swollen jowls the Tritons puffed the conch,Where, breasting with cold bosoms the green waves,That laughed in ripples at Love's misty feet,Oceanids with dimple-dented palmsSmote sidewise the pale bubbles of the foam,Which wove a silver iris 'round her form.Where dolphins tumbling stained the garish archNerëides sang, braiding their wet locks,Or flung them streaming on the broken foam,Till evetide showed her loveliest of stars—Lost passion-flower of the sinking sun—In the cool sheen of shadowy waters deep,That moaned wild sea-songs at the Sirens' caves;Then in a hollow pearl, o'er moon-white waves,The creatures of the ocean danced their queen,Till Cytherea like a rosy mistBeneath the star rose blushing from the deep.On the pearled sands of a moon-glassing seaBeneath the moon, narcissus-like, they met,She naked as a star and crowned with stars,Child of the airy foam and queen of love.
Apollo never smote a lovelier strain,When swan-necked Hebe paused her thirsty bowlA-sparkle with its wealth of nectar-draughtsTo lend a list'ners ear and smile on him,As that the Tritons blew on wreathed hornsWhen Aphrodite, the cold ocean-foamBursting its bubbles, from the hissing snowWhirled her nude form on Hyperion's gaze,Naked and fresh as Indian Ocean shellDashed landward from its bed of sucking spongeAnd branching corals by the changed monsoon.Wind-rocked she swung her white feet on the sea,And music raved down the slant western winds;With swollen jowls the Tritons puffed the conch,Where, breasting with cold bosoms the green waves,That laughed in ripples at Love's misty feet,Oceanids with dimple-dented palmsSmote sidewise the pale bubbles of the foam,Which wove a silver iris 'round her form.Where dolphins tumbling stained the garish archNerëides sang, braiding their wet locks,Or flung them streaming on the broken foam,Till evetide showed her loveliest of stars—Lost passion-flower of the sinking sun—In the cool sheen of shadowy waters deep,That moaned wild sea-songs at the Sirens' caves;Then in a hollow pearl, o'er moon-white waves,The creatures of the ocean danced their queen,Till Cytherea like a rosy mistBeneath the star rose blushing from the deep.On the pearled sands of a moon-glassing seaBeneath the moon, narcissus-like, they met,She naked as a star and crowned with stars,Child of the airy foam and queen of love.
O Hades! O false gods! false to yourselves!O Hades, 'twas thy brother gave her theeWithout a mother's sanction or her knowledge!He bare her to the horrid gulfs below,And made her queen, a shadowy queen of shades,Queen of the fiery flood and mournful realmsOf grating iron and the clank of chains.On blossomed plains in far TrinacriaA maiden, the dark cascade of whose hairSeemed gleaming rays of midnight 'mid the stars,Rays slowly bright'ning 'neath a mellow moon,She 'mid the flowers with the OceanidsSought Echo's passion, loved Narcissus pale,'Ghast staring in the mirror of a lake,Whose smoothness brake his image, flickering seen,E'en with the fast tears of his dewy eyes.A shape there rose with iron wain and steeds'Mid sallow fume of sulphur and pale fires;Its countenance meager, and its eyes e'en suchAs the wild, ghastly sulphur. In its arms,Its sooty arms, where like to supple steelThe muscles rigid lay, unto its breast,Such as its arms, it rushed her fragile formAs bosomed bulks of tempest in their joyWith arms of winds drag to their black embraceA fairy mist of white that flecks the summerWith shadeless wings of gauze, and 'tis no moreHeaved on the rapture of its thundering heart.The snowy flowers shuddered and grew stillWith withered faces bowed, and on the stream—Where all the day it was their wont to standIn silent sisterhood down-gazing at their charms—Withered and limp and dead laid their fair brows.Flames hissed aloft like fiery whips of snakesBlasting and killing all the fragrant spritesThat make the dewy zephyrs their dim haunts.O foam-fair daughters of Oceanus!In vain you seek your mate and chide the flowersFor hiding her 'neath their broad, snowy palms;Nor is she hidden in that pearly shell,Which, like a pinky babe cast from the sea,Moans at your pallid feet washed with white spray.But, sitting by the tumbling blue of waves,Mourn to your billows on the foamy sandsThe falseness of the god who grasps the storm!
O Hades! O false gods! false to yourselves!O Hades, 'twas thy brother gave her theeWithout a mother's sanction or her knowledge!He bare her to the horrid gulfs below,And made her queen, a shadowy queen of shades,Queen of the fiery flood and mournful realmsOf grating iron and the clank of chains.
On blossomed plains in far TrinacriaA maiden, the dark cascade of whose hairSeemed gleaming rays of midnight 'mid the stars,Rays slowly bright'ning 'neath a mellow moon,She 'mid the flowers with the OceanidsSought Echo's passion, loved Narcissus pale,'Ghast staring in the mirror of a lake,Whose smoothness brake his image, flickering seen,E'en with the fast tears of his dewy eyes.A shape there rose with iron wain and steeds'Mid sallow fume of sulphur and pale fires;Its countenance meager, and its eyes e'en suchAs the wild, ghastly sulphur. In its arms,Its sooty arms, where like to supple steelThe muscles rigid lay, unto its breast,Such as its arms, it rushed her fragile formAs bosomed bulks of tempest in their joyWith arms of winds drag to their black embraceA fairy mist of white that flecks the summerWith shadeless wings of gauze, and 'tis no moreHeaved on the rapture of its thundering heart.
The snowy flowers shuddered and grew stillWith withered faces bowed, and on the stream—Where all the day it was their wont to standIn silent sisterhood down-gazing at their charms—Withered and limp and dead laid their fair brows.Flames hissed aloft like fiery whips of snakesBlasting and killing all the fragrant spritesThat make the dewy zephyrs their dim haunts.
O foam-fair daughters of Oceanus!In vain you seek your mate and chide the flowersFor hiding her 'neath their broad, snowy palms;Nor is she hidden in that pearly shell,Which, like a pinky babe cast from the sea,Moans at your pallid feet washed with white spray.But, sitting by the tumbling blue of waves,Mourn to your billows on the foamy sandsThe falseness of the god who grasps the storm!
Demeter sad! the wells of sorrow layEternal gushing in thy lonely path.Methinks I see her now—an awful shapeTall o'er a dragon team in frenzied searchFrom Argive plains unto the jeweled shoresOf the remotest Ind, where Usha's handTinged her grief-cloven brow with kindly touch,And Savitar wheeled genial thro' the skiesO'er palmy regions of the faneless Brahm.In melancholy search I see her roamO'er the steep peaks of Himalayas keenWith the unmellowed frosts of Boreal storms,Then back again with that wild mother woeWrit in the anguished fire of her eyes,—Back where old Atlas groans 'neath weight of worlds,And the Cimmerian twilight glooms the soul.Deep was her sleep in Persia's haunted vales,Where many a languid Philomela moanedThe bursting sorrow of a bursting soul.I see her nigh Ionia's swelling seasCull from the sands a labyrinthine shell,And hark the mystery of its eery voiceFloat from the hollow windings of its curl,Then cast it far into the weedy seaTo view the salt-spray flash, like one soft plumeDropped from the wings of Eros, 'gainst the flameOf Helios' car down-sloping toward his bath.I see her beg a coral flute of redFrom a tailed Triton; and on Ithakan rocksHigh seated at the starry death of day,When Selene rose from off her salty couchTo smile a glory on her face of sorrow,Pipe forth sad airs that made the Sirens weepIn their green caves beneath the sodden sands,And hoar Poseidon clear his wrinkled frontAnd still his surgy clamors to a sigh.This do I see, and more; ah! yes, far more:I see her, 'mid the lonely groves of Crete,The wild hinds fright from the o'ervaulted greenOf thickest boscage, tangling their close covert,With horror of her torches and her wail,"Persephone! Persephone!" till the pinesOf rugged Dicte shuddered thro' their cones,And Echo shrieked down in her deepest chasmsA wild reply unto her wild complaint;As wild as when she voiced those maidens' woe,Athenian tribute to stern Minos, king,When coiling grim the Minotaur they sawFar in his endless labyrinth of stone.
Demeter sad! the wells of sorrow layEternal gushing in thy lonely path.
Methinks I see her now—an awful shapeTall o'er a dragon team in frenzied searchFrom Argive plains unto the jeweled shoresOf the remotest Ind, where Usha's handTinged her grief-cloven brow with kindly touch,And Savitar wheeled genial thro' the skiesO'er palmy regions of the faneless Brahm.
In melancholy search I see her roamO'er the steep peaks of Himalayas keenWith the unmellowed frosts of Boreal storms,Then back again with that wild mother woeWrit in the anguished fire of her eyes,—Back where old Atlas groans 'neath weight of worlds,And the Cimmerian twilight glooms the soul.Deep was her sleep in Persia's haunted vales,Where many a languid Philomela moanedThe bursting sorrow of a bursting soul.I see her nigh Ionia's swelling seasCull from the sands a labyrinthine shell,And hark the mystery of its eery voiceFloat from the hollow windings of its curl,Then cast it far into the weedy seaTo view the salt-spray flash, like one soft plumeDropped from the wings of Eros, 'gainst the flameOf Helios' car down-sloping toward his bath.I see her beg a coral flute of redFrom a tailed Triton; and on Ithakan rocksHigh seated at the starry death of day,When Selene rose from off her salty couchTo smile a glory on her face of sorrow,Pipe forth sad airs that made the Sirens weepIn their green caves beneath the sodden sands,And hoar Poseidon clear his wrinkled frontAnd still his surgy clamors to a sigh.
This do I see, and more; ah! yes, far more:I see her, 'mid the lonely groves of Crete,The wild hinds fright from the o'ervaulted greenOf thickest boscage, tangling their close covert,With horror of her torches and her wail,"Persephone! Persephone!" till the pinesOf rugged Dicte shuddered thro' their cones,And Echo shrieked down in her deepest chasmsA wild reply unto her wild complaint;As wild as when she voiced those maidens' woe,Athenian tribute to stern Minos, king,When coiling grim the Minotaur they sawFar in his endless labyrinth of stone.
"O Dionysos! Dionysos! the ivy-crowned!O let me sing thy triumph ere I die!"Within my sleep a Maenad came to me:A harp of crimson agate strung with goldWailed 'neath her waxen fingers, and her heart'Neath the white gauze, thro' which a moonlight shone,Kept time with its wild throbbings to her song."Aegeus sleeps, O Dionysos! sleepsPale 'neath the tumbling waves that sing his nameEternally at my dew-glist'ning feet.And so he died, O Dionysos! died!O let me sing thy triumph ere I die!"With the shrill syrinx and the kissing clangOf silver cymbals clashed by Ethiopes swart,O, pard-drawn youth, thou didst awake the worldTo joy and pleasure with thy sunny wine!Mad'st India bow and the dun, flooding NileGrow purple in the radiance of the wineCast from the richness of Silenus' cup,Whiles yet the heavens of heat saw dances wildWhirl mid the redness of the Libic sands,Which greedy drank the Bacchanalian draughtSpun from the giddy bowl, a rose-tinged mist,O'er the slant edge, red twinkling in the eyeOf brazen Ra, fierce turning overhead.What made gold Horus smile with golden lips?Anubis dire forget his ghosts to leadTo Hell's profoundness, and then stay to sipOne winking bubble from the wine-god's cup?What made Osiris, 'mid the palms of Nile,Leave Isis dreaming, and the frolic Pan'sHarsh trebles follow as a roaring bull,Far as the gleaming temples of Indra,And mourned in Memphis by his tawny priests?It was thy joys, sun-nourished fire of wine!The brimming purple of the hollow goldThey tasted and they worshiped—gods themselves!"Wan Echo sat once in a spiral shell;She, from its sea-dyed maziness of pearl,Saw the mixed pageant dancing on the strand,Where Nereus slept upon an isle of crags,And o'er the slope of his far-foaming headThe strangeness of the orgies wildly cried,Till the frore god shook many a billow curl,Serened his face and stretched a welcome handWith civil utt'rance for the Bacchus horn.But now there tarries in her eye-balls' disksThat nomad troop, and naught her tongue may saySave jostling words that haunt her muffled earsLike feeble wave-beats in a deep sea-cave."Ah! the white stars, O Dionysos! nowHave dropped their glittering blossoms slowly downBehind the snowy mountains in the West.Aegeus sleeps, hushed by my murmuring harp,And I have sung thy triumph; let me die!"
"O Dionysos! Dionysos! the ivy-crowned!O let me sing thy triumph ere I die!"
Within my sleep a Maenad came to me:A harp of crimson agate strung with goldWailed 'neath her waxen fingers, and her heart'Neath the white gauze, thro' which a moonlight shone,Kept time with its wild throbbings to her song.
"Aegeus sleeps, O Dionysos! sleepsPale 'neath the tumbling waves that sing his nameEternally at my dew-glist'ning feet.And so he died, O Dionysos! died!O let me sing thy triumph ere I die!
"With the shrill syrinx and the kissing clangOf silver cymbals clashed by Ethiopes swart,O, pard-drawn youth, thou didst awake the worldTo joy and pleasure with thy sunny wine!Mad'st India bow and the dun, flooding NileGrow purple in the radiance of the wineCast from the richness of Silenus' cup,Whiles yet the heavens of heat saw dances wildWhirl mid the redness of the Libic sands,Which greedy drank the Bacchanalian draughtSpun from the giddy bowl, a rose-tinged mist,O'er the slant edge, red twinkling in the eyeOf brazen Ra, fierce turning overhead.What made gold Horus smile with golden lips?Anubis dire forget his ghosts to leadTo Hell's profoundness, and then stay to sipOne winking bubble from the wine-god's cup?What made Osiris, 'mid the palms of Nile,Leave Isis dreaming, and the frolic Pan'sHarsh trebles follow as a roaring bull,Far as the gleaming temples of Indra,And mourned in Memphis by his tawny priests?It was thy joys, sun-nourished fire of wine!The brimming purple of the hollow goldThey tasted and they worshiped—gods themselves!
"Wan Echo sat once in a spiral shell;She, from its sea-dyed maziness of pearl,Saw the mixed pageant dancing on the strand,Where Nereus slept upon an isle of crags,And o'er the slope of his far-foaming headThe strangeness of the orgies wildly cried,Till the frore god shook many a billow curl,Serened his face and stretched a welcome handWith civil utt'rance for the Bacchus horn.But now there tarries in her eye-balls' disksThat nomad troop, and naught her tongue may saySave jostling words that haunt her muffled earsLike feeble wave-beats in a deep sea-cave.
"Ah! the white stars, O Dionysos! nowHave dropped their glittering blossoms slowly downBehind the snowy mountains in the West.Aegeus sleeps, hushed by my murmuring harp,And I have sung thy triumph; let me die!"
When down the Hartz the echoes swarmHe rides beneath the sounding stormWith mad "halloo!" and wild alarmOf hound and horn—a wonder,With his hunter black as night,Ban-dogs fleet and fast as light,And a stag as silver whiteDrives before, like mist, in flight,Glimmering 'neath the bursten thunder.The were-wolf shuns his ruinous track,Long-howling hid in braken black;Around the forests reel and crackAnd mountain torrents tumble;And the spirits of the airWhistling whirl with scattered hair,Teeth that flash and eyes that glare,'Round him as he chases thereWith a noise of rains that rumble.From thick Thuringian thickets growlFierce, fearful monsters black and foul;And close before him a stritch-owlWails like a ghost unquiet:Then the clouds aside are drivenAnd the moonlight, stormy striven.Falls around the castle rivenOf the Dumburg, and the heavenMaddens then with blacker riot.
When down the Hartz the echoes swarmHe rides beneath the sounding stormWith mad "halloo!" and wild alarmOf hound and horn—a wonder,With his hunter black as night,Ban-dogs fleet and fast as light,And a stag as silver whiteDrives before, like mist, in flight,Glimmering 'neath the bursten thunder.
The were-wolf shuns his ruinous track,Long-howling hid in braken black;Around the forests reel and crackAnd mountain torrents tumble;And the spirits of the airWhistling whirl with scattered hair,Teeth that flash and eyes that glare,'Round him as he chases thereWith a noise of rains that rumble.
From thick Thuringian thickets growlFierce, fearful monsters black and foul;And close before him a stritch-owlWails like a ghost unquiet:Then the clouds aside are drivenAnd the moonlight, stormy striven.Falls around the castle rivenOf the Dumburg, and the heavenMaddens then with blacker riot.
I.The lake she haunts lies dreamily'Neath sleepy boughs of melody,And far away an olden sea,An olden sea booms mellow;And the sunset's glamours smiteIts clean water with strong lightWov'n to wondrous flowers, where fightBreezy blue and winking white,Ruby red and tarnished yellow.II.'Mid green rushes there that swing,Flowering flags where voices singWhen low winds are murmuring,Murmuring to stars that glitter;Blossom-white with purple locks,'Neath unfolded starry flocks,In the dusky waves she rocks,Rocks and all the landscape mocksWith a song most sweet and bitter.III.Low it comes like sighs in dreams;Tears that fall in burning streams;Then a sudden burst of beams,Beams of song that soar and wrangle,Till the woods are taken quite,And red stars are waxen white,Lilies tall, bowed left and right,Gasp and die with very mightOf the serpent notes that strangle.IV.Dark, dim, and sad on mournful landsWhite-throated stars heaped in her hands,Like wild-wood buds, the Twilight stands,The Twilight standing lingers,Till the Limnad coming singsWitcheries whose beauty bringsA great moon from hidden springs,Mad with amorous quiverings,Feet of fire and silver fingers.V.In the vales Auloniads,On the mountains Oreads,On the meads Leimoniads,That in naked beauty glisten;Pan and Satyrs, Dryades,Fountain-lisping Naiades,Foam-lipped Oceanides,Breathless 'mid their seas or trees,Stay mad sports to look and listen.VI.Large-limbed, Egypt-eyed she stands—Night on dim and ghostly lands,And in rapture from her handsSome wild molten stars are shaken.Let her stand and rushes swing;Let lank flags dip murmuring,Low, lost winds come like a wing;Theywill waken though she sing,But one mortal ne'er will waken.
I.
The lake she haunts lies dreamily'Neath sleepy boughs of melody,And far away an olden sea,An olden sea booms mellow;And the sunset's glamours smiteIts clean water with strong lightWov'n to wondrous flowers, where fightBreezy blue and winking white,Ruby red and tarnished yellow.
II.
'Mid green rushes there that swing,Flowering flags where voices singWhen low winds are murmuring,Murmuring to stars that glitter;Blossom-white with purple locks,'Neath unfolded starry flocks,In the dusky waves she rocks,Rocks and all the landscape mocksWith a song most sweet and bitter.
III.
Low it comes like sighs in dreams;Tears that fall in burning streams;Then a sudden burst of beams,Beams of song that soar and wrangle,Till the woods are taken quite,And red stars are waxen white,Lilies tall, bowed left and right,Gasp and die with very mightOf the serpent notes that strangle.
IV.
Dark, dim, and sad on mournful landsWhite-throated stars heaped in her hands,Like wild-wood buds, the Twilight stands,The Twilight standing lingers,Till the Limnad coming singsWitcheries whose beauty bringsA great moon from hidden springs,Mad with amorous quiverings,Feet of fire and silver fingers.
V.
In the vales Auloniads,On the mountains Oreads,On the meads Leimoniads,That in naked beauty glisten;Pan and Satyrs, Dryades,Fountain-lisping Naiades,Foam-lipped Oceanides,Breathless 'mid their seas or trees,Stay mad sports to look and listen.
VI.
Large-limbed, Egypt-eyed she stands—Night on dim and ghostly lands,And in rapture from her handsSome wild molten stars are shaken.Let her stand and rushes swing;Let lank flags dip murmuring,Low, lost winds come like a wing;Theywill waken though she sing,But one mortal ne'er will waken.
The moon in the East is glowing;I sit by the moaning sea;The mists down the sea are blowing,Down the sea all dewily.The sands at my feet are shaking,The stars in the sky are wan;The mists for the shore are making,With a glimmer drifting on.From the mist comes a song, sweet wailingIn the voice of a love-lorn maid,And I hear her gown soft trailingAs she doth lightly wade.The night hangs pale above meUpon her starry throne,And I know the maid doth love meWho maketh such sweet moan.From out the mist comes trippingA Mermaiden full fair,Across the white sea skippingWith locks of tawny hair.Her locks with sea-ooze drippingShe wrings with a snowy hand;Her dress is thinly clippingTwo breasts which perfect stand.Oh, she was fair as the heavenOn an autumnal eve,And my love to her was givenWhen I saw how she did grieve.Amort o'er the sea came speedingThis sea sprite samite-clad,And my heart for love was bleeding,But its beating I forbade.On the strand where the sand was rockingShe stood and sang an air,And the winds in her hair kept lockingTheir fingers cool and bare.Soft in her arms did she fold me,While sweet and low she moaned;Her love and her grief she told me,And the ocean sighed and groaned.But I stilled my heart's wild beating,For I knew her love was dim;Full coldly received her greeting,Tho' my life burnt in each limb.In my ear right sweet she was sighingWith the voice of the pink-veined shells;Her arms 'round my neck kept tying,And gazed in mine eyes' deep wells.With her kisses cold did she woo me,But I dimmed my heart's wild beat;With the stars of her eyes did she sue me,But their passion did mine defeat.With the cloud of her sea-dipped tressesShe veiled her beautiful face;—And oh! how I longed for her kissesAnd sighed for her soft embrace!But out in the mist she went wailingWhen the dawn besilvered the night,With her robes of samite trailingIn the foam-flowers sad and white.Like a spirit grieved went moaningIn a twilight over the sea,And it seemed the night was groaning,And my heart beat wild in me.But I hushed my heart's fierce beating,For a Mermaid false was she;Yet I sighed at her faintly fleetingAcross the dim, dark sea.The moon all withered is glowing,The mist and she are gone;My heart to ice is growing,And I sob at the coming dawn.
The moon in the East is glowing;I sit by the moaning sea;The mists down the sea are blowing,Down the sea all dewily.
The sands at my feet are shaking,The stars in the sky are wan;The mists for the shore are making,With a glimmer drifting on.
From the mist comes a song, sweet wailingIn the voice of a love-lorn maid,And I hear her gown soft trailingAs she doth lightly wade.
The night hangs pale above meUpon her starry throne,And I know the maid doth love meWho maketh such sweet moan.
From out the mist comes trippingA Mermaiden full fair,Across the white sea skippingWith locks of tawny hair.
Her locks with sea-ooze drippingShe wrings with a snowy hand;Her dress is thinly clippingTwo breasts which perfect stand.
Oh, she was fair as the heavenOn an autumnal eve,And my love to her was givenWhen I saw how she did grieve.
Amort o'er the sea came speedingThis sea sprite samite-clad,And my heart for love was bleeding,But its beating I forbade.
On the strand where the sand was rockingShe stood and sang an air,And the winds in her hair kept lockingTheir fingers cool and bare.
Soft in her arms did she fold me,While sweet and low she moaned;Her love and her grief she told me,And the ocean sighed and groaned.
But I stilled my heart's wild beating,For I knew her love was dim;Full coldly received her greeting,Tho' my life burnt in each limb.
In my ear right sweet she was sighingWith the voice of the pink-veined shells;Her arms 'round my neck kept tying,And gazed in mine eyes' deep wells.
With her kisses cold did she woo me,But I dimmed my heart's wild beat;With the stars of her eyes did she sue me,But their passion did mine defeat.
With the cloud of her sea-dipped tressesShe veiled her beautiful face;—And oh! how I longed for her kissesAnd sighed for her soft embrace!
But out in the mist she went wailingWhen the dawn besilvered the night,With her robes of samite trailingIn the foam-flowers sad and white.
Like a spirit grieved went moaningIn a twilight over the sea,And it seemed the night was groaning,And my heart beat wild in me.
But I hushed my heart's fierce beating,For a Mermaid false was she;Yet I sighed at her faintly fleetingAcross the dim, dark sea.
The moon all withered is glowing,The mist and she are gone;My heart to ice is growing,And I sob at the coming dawn.
The gods of Asaheim, incensed with Loke,A whirlwind yoked with thunder-footed steeds,And, carried thus, boomed o'er the booming seas,Far as the teeming wastes of Jotunheim,To punish Loke for all his wily crimes.They found him sitting nigh a mountain-force,Which flashing roared from crags of ribbed snow,Lamenting strange and weird in rushing notesOf the old Strömkarl, who therein smote a harpAnd sang in mystic syllables of runes.For 'tis the wild man's harp and voice you hear:He sits behind the crackling cataractWithin a grotto dim of mist and foam,His long, thin beard, white as the flying sprayFlung to the midnight in a sounding caveBy the blind fish that leap against the winds;Gemmed with the large dews of the cataract,Swings in the sucking breeze, and swinging beatsTime to his harp's strains quav'ring soft and sadBeneath the talons of his pale, lean hand.And all the waters, leaping, tingling shakeLike shivering stars within the frozen skies,When as the Giants of Frost rule o'er the deep,And nip their buds with fingers hoar of ice.Here banished found they mischief-making LokeBeneath the faint arch of young Bifrost sate,His foxy face between large, naked knees;Deep, wily eyes fixed on the darting fishIn seeming thought, but aye one corner wanFlashed at the Asas where they clustered fair,Soft on a mountain's aged locks of snow,Their tawny tresses ruddy in the wind.Then great-limbed Thor sprang wind-like forth:—Red was his beard forked with the livid light,That clings among the tempest's locks of bale,Or fillets her tumultuous temples black.And drops with wild confusion on the hills;And thro' his beard, like to the storm's strong voice,His sullen words were strained, and when he spakeThe oldest forests bowed their crowns of leaves,And barmy skulls of mead half-raised were stayedWithin Valhalla, and heroes great were dumb.As when, the horror of the spear-shock o'er,And all the plains and skies of Thule are gorgedWith gore and screams of those that fight or die,The Valkyries in their far-glimmering helmsFlash from the windy sunset's mists of redUnto the chalk-faced dead,—whose beaten casquesAnd sea-swol'n shields, with sapless, red-hewn limbs,Wave 'mid the dead-green billows, stormy-browed,That roar along the Baltic's wintry coast,And wail amid the iron-circled coves,—To cull dead heroes for the hall of shields,—Where yells the toast and rings the tournament,—A dumbness falls upon the shattered field;The clinging billows 'mid the restless deadMoan o'er their wide-stretched eyes and glassy sleep;And all the blood-blurred banners, gustless, darkHard ashen faces waiting for the choice.The thunderer did Loke shrewd ensnare,Incensed for pristine evil wrought on him.When erst dark Loke deflowered his spouse, fair SifThe blue eyed, of her golden, baby locks.Him the Asas dragged beneath a burning mountInto a cavern black, by earthquakes rentWhen Earth was young to heave her spawn of Trolls,The vermin which engendered in the corpseOf Ymer huge, whose flesh did make the world.Here where the stars ne'er shone, nor nature's strainsOf legendary woodlands, peaks, and streamsEre came, they pinned him supine to the rocks,Whose frigid touch filed at his brittle bones,And tore a groan from lips of quiv'ring froth,That made the warty reptiles cold and hugeHiss from their midnight lairs and blaze great eyes.Lone in the night he heard the white bear roarFrom some green-glancing berge that stemmed dark seasWith all its moan of torrents foaming downThe ice-crags of its crystal mountain crests.And 'neath the firry steep a wild swine shrieked,And fought the snarling wolf; his midriff rippedWith spume-flaked ivories where the moss was brok'nFar down within the horror of a gorge;And once he saw souls of dead mortals whirlWith red-strown hair within the Arctic skies,And all his stolid face was eddied o'erBy one faint smile, which grimly flash'd and pass'd,And he knew not its stonyness had changed.And all was rock above him, rock beneath:And all the clammy crawling things that spatBlack venom at him from deep dens of rock,And that swart boundless flood of flowing death,Which with its sooty spray clung to a cliffAnd slid beside his marble gaze, to himWere as the rock that curled above and hung;Were as the rock that spread beneath and pierced;For as to the blind to him were lidless eyes.And pity 'twas not darker than it was,And crammed with terrors populous as Hel'sOr that cursed dome of corpses, Naastrand dire,Whose roofs and walls of yawning serpents slickHang writhing down, flat heads—reed-beds of snakes—From whose red, hissing fangs flow slimy streamsOf blist'ring venom, gath'ring to a flood,Wherein the basest shades eternal wadeAnd feel the anguish crawling down the neck,Or glue the hair, or glut the dull, dead ear,Or choke the blasted eye until it swimsIn lurid pain and blazes 'gainst the source.The roar of waters and the wail of pinesWhen whirlwinds roll the granite bowlders downFrom flinty crags of storm to bellowing seas—On noisome winds the howls of torture roll,And rising die, cause the live dome to writhe,And swift pour down a tempest steep of woe.Huge Skade, of Winter daughter, giantess,One twisting serpent hung above Loke's head,So that the blistering slaver might splash downUpon his chalky face, and torture him,—For so the Asas willed for his vast crimes.But Loke's wife, Sigin, endured not this,And brooked not to behold her husband's pain.She sate herself beside his writhen limbs,And held a cup to cull the venomed dewWhich flamed the scowling blackness as it fell.To him she spake, who swelled his breast and groanedE'en as some mighty sea, when 'neath its wavesThe huge leviathan by whalers chased,—Cleaving thick waters in his spinning flight,The barbèd harpoon feasting on his life,—Rolls up pale mounded billows o'er black finsFar in the North Atlantic's sounding seas:—"O Loke! lock those wide-drawn eyes of thine,And let white silver-lidded slumber fallIn the soft utterance of my low speech!And I will flutter all my amber curlsTo cast wind currents o'er thy pallid brow!—Drink deepest sleep, for, see, I catch thy doom!—So pale thy face which glimmers thro' the night!So pale! and knew I death as mortals knowI'd say that he mysterious had on theeLaid hands of talons and so slain thy soul!So still! and all the night bears down my heart!So pale!—and sleep is lost to thee and me!—Sleep, that were welcome in this heavy gloom!—It clings to me like pestilential fogs!I seem but clodded filth and float in filth!It chokes my words and claws them from my tongueTo sound as dull confusèd as the boomHeard thro' the stagnant earth when armies meetWith ring of war-ax on the brazen helms,And all the mountains clash unto the soundOf shocking spears that splinter on gray ore!For by dead banks of stone my words are yelledWhile yet they touch the tongue to grasp the thought;And all the creatures huddled in their holesCreep forth to glare and hiss them back again!Yet, for thy love, O Loke, could I braveAll trebled horrors that wise Odin mayHeap on, and, suff'ring, love thee all the more!"For thou dost love me, and this life is naughtWithout thy majesty of form and mind,For, dark to all, alone art fair to me!And to thy level and thy passions allI raise the puny hillock of my soul,Tho' oft it droops below thy lofty height,Far 'mid the crimson clouds of windless dawnsReaching the ruby of a glorious crest.And then aspire I not, but cower in aweDown 'mid low, printless winds that take no morn.—"At least my countenance may win from theeA reflex of that alabaster coldThat stones thy brow, and pale in kindred woe!And when this stony brow of thine is cleftBy myriad furrows, tortures of slow Time,And all the beauties of thy locks are past,Now glossy as the brown seal's velvet fur,Their drifts of winter strown around this caveTo gray the glutton gloom that hangs like lead,—For Idunn's fruit is now debarred thy lips,And thou shalt age e'en as I age with thee!—Then will the thought of that dread twilight cheerThe burthen of thy anguish; for wilt thouNot in the great annihilation aidOf gods and worlds, that roll thro' misty groovesOf cycled ages to wild Ragnaroke?Then shalt thou joy! for all those stars which glueTheir blinking scales unto old Ymer's skullIn clots shall fall! and as this brooding nightSticks to and gluts us till we strangling clutchWith purple lips for air—and feel but frostDrag laboring down the throat to swell the freightThat cuddles to the heart and clogs its life,So shall those falling flakes spread sea-like farIn lakes of flame and foggy pestilenceO'er the hot earth, and drown all men and gods."But, oh, thy face! pale, pale its marble gleamsThro' the thick night! and low the serpent wreathesAnd twists his scaly coils that livid hangAbove thee alabaster as a shrine!—Oh, could I kiss the lips toward which he writhesAnd yield them the last spark of living flameThat burns in my wan blood, and, yielding—die!Oh, could I gaze once more into large eyesWhose liquid depths glassed domes of molten stars,And see them as they glowed when Morning dancedO'er scattered flowers from the rosy hillsThat lined the orient skies beneath one star!When first we met and loved among the pines,The melancholy pines that plumed the cliffsAnd rocked and sang unto the smooth fiordsLike old wild women to their sleeping babes!Then could I die e'en as the mortals die,And smile in dying!—But the reptile baulksAll effort to behold, or on white lipsTo feast the ardor of my vain desire!Thy face alone shines on my straining sightLike some dim moon beneath a night of mist,—And now the creatures come to feel at me—The serpent swings above and darts his fang,And I can naught but hold the cup and breathe."Then thro' the blackness of the dripping caveTumultuous spake he, rage his utterance;Large as the thunder when it lunging rolls,Heavy with earthquake and portending ruin,Tempestuous words o'er everlasting seasDumb with the silence of eternal ice;His eyes in horrid spasms, and his throat,Corded and gnarled with veins of boisterous blood,Swollen with fury, and stern, wintery lipsFlaked with rebellious foam and agonyFor thwarted rage and baulkment of designs.Rash vaunter of loud wrath, one brawny fist,Convulsed with clenchment in its gyve of ore,Clutched mad defiance and bold blasphemy,Headlong for battle-launching at all godsThat bow meek necks before high Odin's throne;Yet all unhurled and vain as mists of morn,Or foam wind-wasted on the sterile sandsOf rainy seas where Ran, from whistling cavesWatching the tempest ravened dragon wreck,Feels 'twixt lean miser fingers slipperyAlready oily gold of Vikings' drowned.Reverberated, the loud-scoffing rockAll his unburdened blasphemies againFlung back a million fold from riotous throatsIn which demoniac laughter howled and roared,Bellowing tremendous tumult, till his ears,Flooded and gorged with maniac curses, grewStunned, deaf and senseless, and the rebel words,Erst rolled and thundered in his godly speech,Recoiled in oaths that, shrunk in serpent loops,Coiled mad anathemas of violence,Voluminous-ringed, about his heart of ice,That now in wasted wrath of bitter foam,—Which burst and bare big ineffectual groans,Wretched and huge with infinite weariness,—Spent all its storm of ponderous misery.Her sorrow found some vent in rain of tears,And all the cave was dumb and dead with night,Unbroken save of Sigin's heaving sobs,Or the baulked god's deep groans where chain'd he layTo see the spotted serpent crisp aboveAnd aye gape poison at his lidless eyes.And when her bowl was brimmed till one more dropHad cast the fifth white o'er the scorching edge,Into the black, deep flood beside she pouredIts stagnant torture; one second's tithe the time—The reptile's bale blurs all his milky cheek,Burns to his bones; he starting fell, stiff twistsThe sinewy steel that hugs his massive limbsAnd shrieks so loud within those solitudes,The caverns yawn unto the stormy skies,The orey mountains rock and groan for fear,High spew their fiery thunders, smoke, and stones.And this all in a mist-land dim and numb,Where giants reign, rude kings in holds of iceBased crag-like on high vivid frozen cliffs,The bandit castles of the Northern wastes.Beneath the shimmering dance of Arctic lights,Which lamp them on, they storm to fight the gods;Swathed in their stubborn mail of sleet and snow,Embattled 'mid the clouds with fiends of ruin,In militant throng-legions scorn the gods;From yawning trumpets wrought of whirling cloudsSnarl war to Thor, who, in his goat-dragged wain,Hurls thundering forth to fight their lowering troops,That lift black 'scutcheons of tempests orbed,Great brands of wind, and slings of whistling storm,From which are flung their hurricanes of hail.With such they oft withstand the strength of Thor'sDwarf-stithied mace, Mjolner, when he ringsTo find admittance to their brains of mist,And, cleaving, drives them to their barren realms,Where echoes of lost wars and wars to beRumble 'mid ruined icebergs to the caves,Or clang with northern shock of icy spears;While Balder, from the abyss of deathful fogsRestored, smiles kindlier on the whit'ning lands.Here Loke is doomed to lie in tortures chainedUntil that last dread twilight of the gods,Wild Ragnaroke, when Odin's self shall pass:The moon and sun consumed, the fiery hostFrom Muspelheim shall flaming split the heavens,Blot out the stars with lustre of their arms;And down the squarèd legions led by SurtSwift whirl in fogs of flame to war with gods;Nor Thor avail, but suffocated fallIn contest with the Midgard serpent vast.All men and gods abolished with the world,Which into an abyss of fume and flameSinks like a meteor of the Summer night,That slides into the gold of burning eveAnd with eve's gold is burning, blent and lost.But, like an exhalation, from the wreckA new and lovelier world with juster godsAnd better men shall rise, and soar awayOn wings of Love thro' skies where Truth displaysThe glory of her form, Wisdom her eyes.—Behold! the Golden Age again returns!
The gods of Asaheim, incensed with Loke,A whirlwind yoked with thunder-footed steeds,And, carried thus, boomed o'er the booming seas,Far as the teeming wastes of Jotunheim,To punish Loke for all his wily crimes.
They found him sitting nigh a mountain-force,Which flashing roared from crags of ribbed snow,Lamenting strange and weird in rushing notesOf the old Strömkarl, who therein smote a harpAnd sang in mystic syllables of runes.For 'tis the wild man's harp and voice you hear:He sits behind the crackling cataractWithin a grotto dim of mist and foam,His long, thin beard, white as the flying sprayFlung to the midnight in a sounding caveBy the blind fish that leap against the winds;Gemmed with the large dews of the cataract,Swings in the sucking breeze, and swinging beatsTime to his harp's strains quav'ring soft and sadBeneath the talons of his pale, lean hand.And all the waters, leaping, tingling shakeLike shivering stars within the frozen skies,When as the Giants of Frost rule o'er the deep,And nip their buds with fingers hoar of ice.
Here banished found they mischief-making LokeBeneath the faint arch of young Bifrost sate,His foxy face between large, naked knees;Deep, wily eyes fixed on the darting fishIn seeming thought, but aye one corner wanFlashed at the Asas where they clustered fair,Soft on a mountain's aged locks of snow,Their tawny tresses ruddy in the wind.
Then great-limbed Thor sprang wind-like forth:—Red was his beard forked with the livid light,That clings among the tempest's locks of bale,Or fillets her tumultuous temples black.And drops with wild confusion on the hills;And thro' his beard, like to the storm's strong voice,His sullen words were strained, and when he spakeThe oldest forests bowed their crowns of leaves,And barmy skulls of mead half-raised were stayedWithin Valhalla, and heroes great were dumb.
As when, the horror of the spear-shock o'er,And all the plains and skies of Thule are gorgedWith gore and screams of those that fight or die,The Valkyries in their far-glimmering helmsFlash from the windy sunset's mists of redUnto the chalk-faced dead,—whose beaten casquesAnd sea-swol'n shields, with sapless, red-hewn limbs,Wave 'mid the dead-green billows, stormy-browed,That roar along the Baltic's wintry coast,And wail amid the iron-circled coves,—To cull dead heroes for the hall of shields,—Where yells the toast and rings the tournament,—A dumbness falls upon the shattered field;The clinging billows 'mid the restless deadMoan o'er their wide-stretched eyes and glassy sleep;And all the blood-blurred banners, gustless, darkHard ashen faces waiting for the choice.
The thunderer did Loke shrewd ensnare,Incensed for pristine evil wrought on him.When erst dark Loke deflowered his spouse, fair SifThe blue eyed, of her golden, baby locks.Him the Asas dragged beneath a burning mountInto a cavern black, by earthquakes rentWhen Earth was young to heave her spawn of Trolls,The vermin which engendered in the corpseOf Ymer huge, whose flesh did make the world.Here where the stars ne'er shone, nor nature's strainsOf legendary woodlands, peaks, and streamsEre came, they pinned him supine to the rocks,Whose frigid touch filed at his brittle bones,And tore a groan from lips of quiv'ring froth,That made the warty reptiles cold and hugeHiss from their midnight lairs and blaze great eyes.
Lone in the night he heard the white bear roarFrom some green-glancing berge that stemmed dark seasWith all its moan of torrents foaming downThe ice-crags of its crystal mountain crests.And 'neath the firry steep a wild swine shrieked,And fought the snarling wolf; his midriff rippedWith spume-flaked ivories where the moss was brok'nFar down within the horror of a gorge;And once he saw souls of dead mortals whirlWith red-strown hair within the Arctic skies,And all his stolid face was eddied o'erBy one faint smile, which grimly flash'd and pass'd,And he knew not its stonyness had changed.And all was rock above him, rock beneath:And all the clammy crawling things that spatBlack venom at him from deep dens of rock,And that swart boundless flood of flowing death,Which with its sooty spray clung to a cliffAnd slid beside his marble gaze, to himWere as the rock that curled above and hung;Were as the rock that spread beneath and pierced;For as to the blind to him were lidless eyes.
And pity 'twas not darker than it was,And crammed with terrors populous as Hel'sOr that cursed dome of corpses, Naastrand dire,Whose roofs and walls of yawning serpents slickHang writhing down, flat heads—reed-beds of snakes—From whose red, hissing fangs flow slimy streamsOf blist'ring venom, gath'ring to a flood,Wherein the basest shades eternal wadeAnd feel the anguish crawling down the neck,Or glue the hair, or glut the dull, dead ear,Or choke the blasted eye until it swimsIn lurid pain and blazes 'gainst the source.The roar of waters and the wail of pinesWhen whirlwinds roll the granite bowlders downFrom flinty crags of storm to bellowing seas—On noisome winds the howls of torture roll,And rising die, cause the live dome to writhe,And swift pour down a tempest steep of woe.
Huge Skade, of Winter daughter, giantess,One twisting serpent hung above Loke's head,So that the blistering slaver might splash downUpon his chalky face, and torture him,—For so the Asas willed for his vast crimes.
But Loke's wife, Sigin, endured not this,And brooked not to behold her husband's pain.She sate herself beside his writhen limbs,And held a cup to cull the venomed dewWhich flamed the scowling blackness as it fell.To him she spake, who swelled his breast and groanedE'en as some mighty sea, when 'neath its wavesThe huge leviathan by whalers chased,—Cleaving thick waters in his spinning flight,The barbèd harpoon feasting on his life,—Rolls up pale mounded billows o'er black finsFar in the North Atlantic's sounding seas:—
"O Loke! lock those wide-drawn eyes of thine,And let white silver-lidded slumber fallIn the soft utterance of my low speech!And I will flutter all my amber curlsTo cast wind currents o'er thy pallid brow!—Drink deepest sleep, for, see, I catch thy doom!—So pale thy face which glimmers thro' the night!So pale! and knew I death as mortals knowI'd say that he mysterious had on theeLaid hands of talons and so slain thy soul!So still! and all the night bears down my heart!So pale!—and sleep is lost to thee and me!—Sleep, that were welcome in this heavy gloom!—It clings to me like pestilential fogs!I seem but clodded filth and float in filth!It chokes my words and claws them from my tongueTo sound as dull confusèd as the boomHeard thro' the stagnant earth when armies meetWith ring of war-ax on the brazen helms,And all the mountains clash unto the soundOf shocking spears that splinter on gray ore!For by dead banks of stone my words are yelledWhile yet they touch the tongue to grasp the thought;And all the creatures huddled in their holesCreep forth to glare and hiss them back again!Yet, for thy love, O Loke, could I braveAll trebled horrors that wise Odin mayHeap on, and, suff'ring, love thee all the more!
"For thou dost love me, and this life is naughtWithout thy majesty of form and mind,For, dark to all, alone art fair to me!And to thy level and thy passions allI raise the puny hillock of my soul,Tho' oft it droops below thy lofty height,Far 'mid the crimson clouds of windless dawnsReaching the ruby of a glorious crest.And then aspire I not, but cower in aweDown 'mid low, printless winds that take no morn.—
"At least my countenance may win from theeA reflex of that alabaster coldThat stones thy brow, and pale in kindred woe!And when this stony brow of thine is cleftBy myriad furrows, tortures of slow Time,And all the beauties of thy locks are past,Now glossy as the brown seal's velvet fur,Their drifts of winter strown around this caveTo gray the glutton gloom that hangs like lead,—For Idunn's fruit is now debarred thy lips,And thou shalt age e'en as I age with thee!—Then will the thought of that dread twilight cheerThe burthen of thy anguish; for wilt thouNot in the great annihilation aidOf gods and worlds, that roll thro' misty groovesOf cycled ages to wild Ragnaroke?Then shalt thou joy! for all those stars which glueTheir blinking scales unto old Ymer's skullIn clots shall fall! and as this brooding nightSticks to and gluts us till we strangling clutchWith purple lips for air—and feel but frostDrag laboring down the throat to swell the freightThat cuddles to the heart and clogs its life,So shall those falling flakes spread sea-like farIn lakes of flame and foggy pestilenceO'er the hot earth, and drown all men and gods.
"But, oh, thy face! pale, pale its marble gleamsThro' the thick night! and low the serpent wreathesAnd twists his scaly coils that livid hangAbove thee alabaster as a shrine!—Oh, could I kiss the lips toward which he writhesAnd yield them the last spark of living flameThat burns in my wan blood, and, yielding—die!Oh, could I gaze once more into large eyesWhose liquid depths glassed domes of molten stars,And see them as they glowed when Morning dancedO'er scattered flowers from the rosy hillsThat lined the orient skies beneath one star!When first we met and loved among the pines,The melancholy pines that plumed the cliffsAnd rocked and sang unto the smooth fiordsLike old wild women to their sleeping babes!Then could I die e'en as the mortals die,And smile in dying!—But the reptile baulksAll effort to behold, or on white lipsTo feast the ardor of my vain desire!Thy face alone shines on my straining sightLike some dim moon beneath a night of mist,—And now the creatures come to feel at me—The serpent swings above and darts his fang,And I can naught but hold the cup and breathe."
Then thro' the blackness of the dripping caveTumultuous spake he, rage his utterance;Large as the thunder when it lunging rolls,Heavy with earthquake and portending ruin,Tempestuous words o'er everlasting seasDumb with the silence of eternal ice;His eyes in horrid spasms, and his throat,Corded and gnarled with veins of boisterous blood,Swollen with fury, and stern, wintery lipsFlaked with rebellious foam and agonyFor thwarted rage and baulkment of designs.Rash vaunter of loud wrath, one brawny fist,Convulsed with clenchment in its gyve of ore,Clutched mad defiance and bold blasphemy,Headlong for battle-launching at all godsThat bow meek necks before high Odin's throne;Yet all unhurled and vain as mists of morn,Or foam wind-wasted on the sterile sandsOf rainy seas where Ran, from whistling cavesWatching the tempest ravened dragon wreck,Feels 'twixt lean miser fingers slipperyAlready oily gold of Vikings' drowned.Reverberated, the loud-scoffing rockAll his unburdened blasphemies againFlung back a million fold from riotous throatsIn which demoniac laughter howled and roared,Bellowing tremendous tumult, till his ears,Flooded and gorged with maniac curses, grewStunned, deaf and senseless, and the rebel words,Erst rolled and thundered in his godly speech,Recoiled in oaths that, shrunk in serpent loops,Coiled mad anathemas of violence,Voluminous-ringed, about his heart of ice,That now in wasted wrath of bitter foam,—Which burst and bare big ineffectual groans,Wretched and huge with infinite weariness,—Spent all its storm of ponderous misery.
Her sorrow found some vent in rain of tears,And all the cave was dumb and dead with night,Unbroken save of Sigin's heaving sobs,Or the baulked god's deep groans where chain'd he layTo see the spotted serpent crisp aboveAnd aye gape poison at his lidless eyes.
And when her bowl was brimmed till one more dropHad cast the fifth white o'er the scorching edge,Into the black, deep flood beside she pouredIts stagnant torture; one second's tithe the time—The reptile's bale blurs all his milky cheek,Burns to his bones; he starting fell, stiff twistsThe sinewy steel that hugs his massive limbsAnd shrieks so loud within those solitudes,The caverns yawn unto the stormy skies,The orey mountains rock and groan for fear,High spew their fiery thunders, smoke, and stones.
And this all in a mist-land dim and numb,Where giants reign, rude kings in holds of iceBased crag-like on high vivid frozen cliffs,The bandit castles of the Northern wastes.Beneath the shimmering dance of Arctic lights,Which lamp them on, they storm to fight the gods;Swathed in their stubborn mail of sleet and snow,Embattled 'mid the clouds with fiends of ruin,In militant throng-legions scorn the gods;From yawning trumpets wrought of whirling cloudsSnarl war to Thor, who, in his goat-dragged wain,Hurls thundering forth to fight their lowering troops,That lift black 'scutcheons of tempests orbed,Great brands of wind, and slings of whistling storm,From which are flung their hurricanes of hail.With such they oft withstand the strength of Thor'sDwarf-stithied mace, Mjolner, when he ringsTo find admittance to their brains of mist,And, cleaving, drives them to their barren realms,Where echoes of lost wars and wars to beRumble 'mid ruined icebergs to the caves,Or clang with northern shock of icy spears;While Balder, from the abyss of deathful fogsRestored, smiles kindlier on the whit'ning lands.
Here Loke is doomed to lie in tortures chainedUntil that last dread twilight of the gods,Wild Ragnaroke, when Odin's self shall pass:The moon and sun consumed, the fiery hostFrom Muspelheim shall flaming split the heavens,Blot out the stars with lustre of their arms;And down the squarèd legions led by SurtSwift whirl in fogs of flame to war with gods;Nor Thor avail, but suffocated fallIn contest with the Midgard serpent vast.All men and gods abolished with the world,Which into an abyss of fume and flameSinks like a meteor of the Summer night,That slides into the gold of burning eveAnd with eve's gold is burning, blent and lost.But, like an exhalation, from the wreckA new and lovelier world with juster godsAnd better men shall rise, and soar awayOn wings of Love thro' skies where Truth displaysThe glory of her form, Wisdom her eyes.—Behold! the Golden Age again returns!