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A year had flown, and o'er the sea away,In Cornwall, Tristram and Queen Iseult lay;In King Marc's chapel, in Tyntagel old—There in a ship they bore those lovers cold.5The young surviving Iseult, one bright day,Had wander'd forth. Her children were at playIn a green circular hollow in the heathWhich borders the sea-shore—a country pathCreeps over it from the till'd fields behind.10The hollow's grassy banks are soft-inclined,And to one standing on them, far and nearThe lone unbroken view spreads bright and clear°13Over the waste. This cirque° of open groundIs light and green; the heather, which all round15Creeps thickly, grows not here; but the pale grassIs strewn with rocks, and many a shiver'd massOf vein'd white-gleaming quartz, and here and there°18Dotted with holly-trees and juniper.°In the smooth centre of the opening stood20Three hollies side by side, and made a screen,Warm with the winter-sun, of burnish'd green°22With scarlet berries gemm'd, the fell-fare's° food.Under the glittering hollies Iseult stands,Watching her children play; their little hands25Are busy gathering spars of quartz, and streams°26Of stagshorn° for their hats; anon, with screams[p.56]Of mad delight they drop their spoils, and boundAmong the holly-clumps and broken ground,Racing full speed, and startling in their rush30The fell-fares and the speckled missel-thrushOut of their glossy coverts;—but when nowTheir cheeks were flush'd, and over each hot brow,Under the feather'd hats of the sweet pair,In blinding masses shower'd the golden hair—35Then Iseult call'd them to her, and the threeCluster'd under the holly-screen, and she°37Told them an old-world Breton history.°Warm in their mantles wrapt the three stood there,Under the hollies, in the clear still air—40Mantles with those rich furs deep glisteringWhich Venice ships do from swart Egypt bring.Long they stay'd still—then, pacing at their ease,Moved up and down under the glossy trees.But still, as they pursued their warm dry road,45From Iseult's lips the unbroken story flow'd,And still the children listen'd, their blue eyesFix'd on their mother's face in wide surprise;Nor did their looks stray once to the sea-side,Nor to the brown heaths round them, bright and wide,50Nor to the snow, which, though 'twas all awayFrom the open heath, still by the hedgerows lay,Nor to the shining sea-fowl, that with screamsBore up from where the bright Atlantic gleams,Swooping to landward; nor to where, quite clear,55The fell-fares settled on the thickets near.And they would still have listen'd, till dark nightCame keen and chill down on the heather bright;But, when the red glow on the sea grew cold,[p.57]And the grey turrets of the castle old60Look'd sternly through the frosty evening-air,Then Iseult took by the hand those children fair,And brought her tale to an end, and found the path,And led them home over the darkening heath.And is she happy? Does she see unmoved65The days in which she might have lived and lovedSlip without bringing bliss slowly away,One after one, to-morrow like to-day?Joy has not found her yet, nor ever will—Is it this thought which, makes her mien so still,70Her features so fatigued, her eyes, though sweet,So sunk, so rarely lifted save to meetHer children's? She moves slow; her voice aloneHath yet an infantine and silver tone,But even that comes languidly; in truth,75She seems one dying in a mask of youth.And now she will go home, and softly layHer laughing children in their beds, and playAwhile with them before they sleep; and thenShe'll light her silver lamp, which fishermen80Dragging their nets through the rough waves, afar,°81Along this iron coast,° know like a star,°And take her broidery-frame, and there she'll sitHour after hour, her gold curls sweeping it;Lifting her soft-bent head only to mind85Her children, or to listen to the wind.And when the clock peals midnight, she will moveHer work away, and let her fingers roveAcross the shaggy brows of Tristram's houndWho lies, guarding her feet, along the ground;90Or else she will fall musing, her blue eyes[p.58]Fixt, her slight hands clasp'd on her lap; then rise,°92And at her prie-dieu° kneel, until she have toldHer rosary-beads of ebony tipp'd with gold,Then to her soft sleep—and to-morrow'll be95To-day's exact repeated effigy.Yes, it is lonely for her in her hall.°97The children, and the grey-hair'd seneschal,°Her women, and Sir Tristram's aged hound,Are there the sole companions to be found.100But these she loves; and noiser life than thisShe would find ill to bear, weak as she is.She has her children, too, and night and dayIs with them; and the wide heaths where they play,The hollies, and the cliff, and the sea-shore,105The sand, the sea-birds, and the distant sails,These are to her dear as to them; the talesWith which this day the children she beguiledShe gleaned from Breton grandames, when a child,In every hut along this sea-coast wild.110She herself loves them still, and, when they are told,Can forget all to hear them, as of old.Dear saints, it is not sorrow, as I hear,Not suffering, which shuts up eye and earTo all that has delighted them before,115And lets us be what we were once no more.No, we may suffer deeply, yet retainPower to be moved and soothed, for all our pain,By what of old pleased us, and will again.No, 'tis the gradual furnace of the world,120In whose hot air our spirits are upcurl'dUntil they crumble, or else grow like steel—[p.59]Which kills in us the bloom, the youth, the spring—Which leaves the fierce necessity to feel,But takes away the power—this can avail,125By drying up our joy in everything,To make our former pleasures all seem stale.This, or some tyrannous single thought, some fitOf passion, which subdues our souls to it,Till for its sake alone we live and move—130Call it ambition, or remorse, or love—This too can change us wholly, and make seemAll which we did before, shadow and dream.And yet, I swear, it angers me to see°134How this fool passion gulls° men potently;135Being, in truth, but a diseased unrest,And an unnatural overheat at best.How they are full of languor and distressNot having it; which when they do possess,They straightway are burnt up with fume and care,°140And spend their lives in posting here and there°Where this plague drives them; and have little ease,Are furious with themselves, and hard to please.°143Like that bold Cæsar,° the famed Roman wight,Who wept at reading of a Grecian knight145Who made a name at younger years than he;Or that renown'd mirror of chivalry,°147Prince Alexander,° Philip's peerless son,Who carried the great war from Macedon°149Into the Soudan's° realm, and thundered on150To die at thirty-five in Babylon.What tale did Iseult to the children say,Under the hollies, that bright-winter's day?[p.60]She told them of the fairy-haunted landAway the other side of Brittany,155Beyond the heaths, edged by the lonely sea;°156Of the deep forest-glades of Broce-liande,°Through whose green boughs the golden sunshine creepsWhere Merlin by the enchanted thorn-tree sleeps.°159For here he came with the fay° Vivian,160One April, when the warm days first began.He was on foot, and that false fay, his friend,On her white palfrey; here he met his end,In these lone sylvan glades, that April-day.°164This tale of Merlin and the lovely fay°165Was the one Iseult chose, and she brought clearBefore the children's fancy him and her.Blowing between the stems, the forest-airHad loosen'd the brown locks of Vivian's hair,Which play'd on her flush'd cheek, and her blue eyes170Sparkled with mocking glee and exercise.Her palfrey's flanks were mired and bathed in sweat,For they had travell'd far and not stopp'd yet.A brier in that tangled wildernessHad scored her white right hand, which she allows175To rest ungloved on her green riding-dress;The other warded off the drooping boughs.But still she chatted on, with her blue eyesFix'd full on Merlin's face, her stately prize.Her 'haviour had the morning's fresh clear grace,180The spirit of the woods was in her face.She look'd so witching fair, that learned wightForgot his craft, and his best wits took flight;And he grew fond, and eager to obey°184His mistress, use her empire° as she may.[p.61]185They came to where the brushwood ceased, and dayPeer'd 'twixt the stems; and the ground broke away,In a sloped sward down to a brawling brook;And up as high as where they stood to lookOn the brook's farther side was clear, but then190The underwood and trees began again.This open glen was studded thick with thornsThen white with blossom; and you saw the horns,Through last year's fern, of the shy fallow-deerWho come at noon down to the water here.195You saw the bright-eyed squirrels dart alongUnder the thorns on the green sward; and strongThe blackbird whistled from the dingles near,And the weird chipping of the woodpeckerRang lonelily and sharp; the sky was fair,200And a fresh breath of spring stirr'd everywhere.Merlin and Vivian stopp'd on the slope's brow,To gaze on the light sea of leaf and boughWhich glistering plays all round them, lone and mild.As if to itself the quiet forest smiled.205Upon the brow-top grew a thorn, and hereThe grass was dry and moss'd, and you saw clearAcross the hollow; white anemonesStarr'd the cool turf, and clumps of primrosesRan out from the dark underwood behind.210No fairer resting-place a man could find."Here let us halt," said Merlin then; and sheNodded, and tied her palfrey to a tree.They sate them down together, and a sleepFell upon Merlin, more like death, so deep.215Her finger on her lips, then Vivian roseAnd from her brown-lock'd head the wimple throws,[p.62]And takes it in her hand, and waves it overThe blossom'd thorn-tree and her sleeping lover.°219Nine times she waved the fluttering wimple° round,220And made a little plot of magic ground.And in that daised circle, as men say,°222Is Merlin prisoner° till the judgment-day;But she herself whither she will can rove—°224For she was passing weary of his love.°
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°1Down the Savoy° valleys sounding,Echoing round this castle old,°3'Mid the distant mountain-chalets°Hark! what bell for church is toll'd?5In the bright October morningSavoy's Duke had left his bride.From the castle, past the drawbridge,Flow'd the hunters' merry tide.Steeds are neighing, gallants glittering;10Gay, her smiling lord to greet,From her mullion'd chamber-casementSmiles the Duchess Marguerite.From Vienna, by the Danube,Here she came, a bride, in spring.15Now the autumn crisps the forest;Hunters gather, bugles ring.[p.64]°17Hounds are pulling, prickers° swearing,Horses fret, and boar-spears glance.Off!—They sweep the marshy forests.20Westward, on the side of France.Hark! the game's on foot; they scatter!—Down the forest-ridings lone,Furious, single horsemen gallop——Hark! a shout—a crash—a groan!25Pale and breathless, came the hunters;On the turf dead lies the boar—God! the Duke lies stretch'd beside him,Senseless, weltering in his gore.
In the dull October evening,30Down the leaf-strewn forest-road,To the castle, past the drawbridge,Came the hunters with their load.In the hall, with sconces blazing,Ladies waiting round her seat,°35Clothed in smiles, beneath the dais°Sate the Duchess Marguerite.Hark! below the gates unbarring!Tramp of men and quick commands!"—'Tis my lord come back from hunting—"40And the Duchess claps her hands.Slow and tired, came the hunters—Stopp'd in darkness in the court."—Ho, this way, ye laggard hunters!To the hall! What sport? What sport?"—[p.65]45Slow they enter'd with their master;In the hall they laid him down.On his coat were leaves and blood-stains,On his brow an angry frown.Dead her princely youthful husband50Lay before his youthful wife,Bloody, 'neath the flaring sconces—And the sight froze all her life.
In Vienna, by the Danube,Kings hold revel, gallants meet.55Gay of old amid the gayestWas the Duchess Marguerite.In Vienna, by the Danube,Feast and dance her youth beguiled.Till that hour she never sorrow'd;60But from then she never smiled.'Mid the Savoy mountain valleysFar from town or haunt of man,Stands a lonely church, unfinish'd,Which the Duchess Maud began;65Old, that Duchess stern began it,In grey age, with palsied hands;But she died while it was building,And the Church unfinish'd stands—°69Stands as erst° the builders left it,70When she sank into her grave;°71Mountain greensward paves the chancel,°°72Harebells flower in the nave.[p.66]"—In my castle all is sorrow,"Said the Duchess Marguerite then;75"Guide me, some one, to the mountain!We will build the Church again."—°77Sandall'd palmers,° faring homeward,Austrian knights from Syria came."—Austrian wanderers bring, O warders!80Homage to your Austrian dame."—From the gate the warders answer'd:"—Gone, O knights, is she you knew!Dead our Duke, and gone his Duchess;Seek her at the Church of Brou!"—85Austrian knights and march-worn palmersClimb the winding mountain-way.—Reach the valley, where the FabricRises higher day by day.Stones are sawing, hammers ringing;90On the work the bright sun shines,In the Savoy mountain-meadows,By the stream, below the pines.On her palfry white the DuchessSate and watch'd her working train—95Flemish carvers, Lombard gilders,German masons, smiths from Spain.Clad in black, on her white palfrey,Her old architect beside—[p.67]There they found her in the mountains,100Morn and noon and eventide.There she sate, and watch'd the builders,Till the Church was roof'd and done.Last of all, the builders rear'd herIn the nave a tomb of stone.105On the tomb two forms they sculptured,Lifelike in the marble pale—One, the Duke in helm and armour;One, the Duchess in her veil.°109Round the tomb the carved stone fretwork°110Was at Easter-tide put on.Then the Duchess closed her labours;And she died at the St. John.
Upon the glistening leaden roofOf the new Pile, the sunlight shines;The stream goes leaping by.The hills are clothed with pines sun-proof;5'Mid bright green fields, below the pines,Stands the Church on high.What Church is this, from men aloof?—'Tis the Church of Brou.At sunrise, from their dewy lair10Crossing the stream, the kine are seenRound the wall to stray—[p.68]The churchyard wall that clips the squareOf open hill-sward fresh and greenWhere last year they lay.15But all things now are order'd fairRound the Church of Brou.°17On Sundays, at the matin-chime,°The Alpine peasants, two and three,Climb up here to pray;20Burghers and dames, at summer's prime,°21Ride out to church from Chambery,°°22Dight° with mantles gay.But else it is a lonely timeRound the Church of Brou.25On Sundays, too, a priest doth comeFrom the wall'd town beyond the pass,Down the mountain-way;And then you hear the organ's hum,You hear the white-robed priest say mass,30And the people pray.But else the woods and fields are dumbRound the Church of Brou.And after church, when mass is done,The people to the nave repair35Round the tomb to stray;And marvel at the Forms of stone,°37And praise the chisell'd broideries° rare—Then they drop away.The princely Pair are left alone40In the Church of Brou.
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So rest, for ever rest, O princely Pair!In your high church, 'mid the still mountain-air,Where horn, and hound, and vassals never come.Only the blessed Saints are smiling dumb,5From the rich painted windows of the nave,°6On aisle, and transept,° and your marble grave;Where thou, young Prince! shalt never more ariseFrom the fringed mattress where thy Duchess lies,On autumn-mornings, when the bugle sounds,10And ride across the drawbridge with thy houndsTo hunt the boar in the crisp woods till eve;And thou, O Princess! shalt no more receive,Thou and thy ladies, in the hall of state,The jaded hunters with their bloody freight,15Coming benighted to the castle-gate.So sleep, for ever sleep, O marble Pair!Or, if ye wake, let it be then, when fairOn the carved western front a flood of lightStreams from the setting sun, and colours bright20Prophets, transfigured Saints, and Martyrs brave,In the vast western window of the nave,And on the pavement round the Tomb there glintsA chequer-work of glowing sapphire-tints,And amethyst, and ruby—then unclose25Your eyelids on the stone where ye repose,And from your broider'd pillows lift your heads,And rise upon your cold white marble beds;[p.70]And, looking down on the warm rosy tints,Which chequer, at your feet, the illumined flints,30Say:What is this? we are in bliss—forgiven—Behold the pavement of the courts of Heaven!Or let it be on autumn nights, when rainDoth rustlingly above your heads complainOn the smooth leaden roof, and on the walls35Shedding her pensive light at intervalsThe moon through the clere-story windows shines,And the wind washes through the mountain-pines.Then, gazing up 'mid the dim pillars high,°39The foliaged marble forest° where ye lie,40Hush, ye will say,it is eternity!This is the glimmering verge of Heaven, and theseThe columns of the heavenly palaces!And, in the sweeping of the wind, your earThe passage of the Angels' wings will hear,°45And on the lichen-crusted leads° aboveThe rustle of the eternal rain of love.
Strew on her roses, roses,And never a spray of yew!In quiet she reposes;Ah, would that I did too!5Her mirth the world required;She bathed it in smiles of glee.But her heart was tired, tired,And now they let her be.[p.71]Her life was turning, turning,10In mazes of heat and sound.But for peace her soul was yearning,And now peace laps her round.°13Her cabin'd,° ample spirit,It flutter'd and fail'd for breath15To-night it doth inherit°16The vasty° hall of death.
Mist clogs the sunshine.Smoky dwarf housesHem me round everywhere;A vague dejection5Weighs down my soul.Yet, while I languish,Everywhere countlessProspects unroll themselves,And countless beings10Pass countless moods.Far hence, in Asia,On the smooth convent-roofs,On the gilt terraces,°14Of holy Lassa,°15Bright shines the sun.[p.72]Grey time-worn marbles°17Hold the pure Muses°;°18In their cool gallery,°°19By yellow Tiber,°20They still look fair.°21Strange unloved uproar°Shrills round their portal;°23Yet not on Helicon°Kept they more cloudless25Their noble calm.Through sun-proof alleysIn a lone, sand-hemm'dCity of Africa,A blind, led beggar,30Age-bow'd, asks alms.No bolder robber°32Erst° abode ambush'dDeep in the sandy waste;No clearer eyesight35Spied prey afar.Saharan sand-windsSear'd his keen eyeballs;Spent is the spoil he won.For him the present40Holds only pain.Two young, fair lovers,Where the warm June-wind,[p.73]Fresh from the summer fieldsPlays fondly round them,45Stand, tranced in joy.With sweet, join'd voices,And with eyes brimming:°48"Ah," they cry, "Destiny,°Prolong the present!50Time, stand still here!"The prompt stern GoddessShakes her head, frowning;Time gives his hour-glassIts due reversal;55Their hour is gone.With weak indulgenceDid the just GoddessLengthen their happiness,She lengthen'd also60Distress elsewhere.The hour, whose happyUnalloy'd momentsI would eternalise,Ten thousand mourners65Well pleased see end.The bleak, stern hour,Whose severe momentsI would annihilate,Is pass'd by others70In warmth, light, joy.[p.74]Time, so complain'd of,Who to no one manShows partiality,Brings round to all men75Some undimm'd hours.
Was it a dream? We sail'd, I thought we sail'd,Martin and I, down the green Alpine stream,Border'd, each bank, with pines; the morning sun,On the wet umbrage of their glossy tops,5On the red pinings of their forest-floor,Drew a warm scent abroad; behind the pinesThe mountain-skirts, with all their sylvan changeOf bright-leaf'd chestnuts and moss'd walnut-treesAnd the frail scarlet-berried ash, began.10Swiss chalets glitter'd on the dewy slopes,And from some swarded shelf, high up, there cameNotes of wild pastoral music—over allRanged, diamond-bright, the eternal wall of snow.Upon the mossy rocks at the stream's edge,15Back'd by the pines, a plank-built cottage stood,Bright in the sun; the climbing gourd-plant's leavesMuffled its walls, and on the stone-strewn roofLay the warm golden gourds; golden, within,Under the eaves, peer'd rows of Indian corn.20We shot beneath the cottage with the stream.On the brown, rude-carved balcony, two formsCame forth—Olivia's, Marguerite! and thine.[p.75]Clad were they both in white, flowers in their breast;Straw hats bedeck'd their heads, with ribbons blue,25Which danced, and on their shoulders, fluttering, play'd.They saw us, they conferred; their bosoms heaved,And more than mortal impulse fill'd their eyes.Their lips moved; their white arms, waved eagerly,Flash'd once, like falling streams; we rose, we gazed.30One moment, on the rapid's top, our boatHung poised—and then the darting river of Life(Such now, methought, it was), the river of Life,Loud thundering, bore us by; swift, swift it foam'd,Black under cliffs it raced, round headlands shone.35Soon the plank'd cottage by the sun-warm'd pinesFaded—the moss—the rocks; us burning plains,Bristled with cities, us the sea received.
In this lone, open glade I lie,Screen'd by deep boughs on either hand;And at its end, to stay the eye,°4Those black-crown'd, red-boled pine-trees° stand!5Birds here make song, each bird has his,Across the girdling city's hum.How green under the boughs it is!How thick the tremulous sheep-cries come![p.76]Sometimes a child will cross the glade10To take his nurse his broken toy;Sometimes a thrush flit overheadDeep in her unknown day's employ.Here at my feet what wonders pass,°14What endless, active life is here°!15What blowing daisies, fragrant grass!An air-stirr'd forest, fresh and clear.Scarce fresher is the mountain-sodWhere the tired angler lies, stretch'd out,And, eased of basket and of rod,20Counts his day's spoil, the spotted trout.°21In the huge world,° which roars hard by,Be others happy if they can!But in my helpless cradle I°24Was breathed on by the rural Pan.°25I, on men's impious uproar hurl'd,Think often, as I hear them rave,That peace has left the upper worldAnd now keeps only in the grave.Yet here is peace for ever new!30When I who watch them am away,Still all things in this glade go throughThe changes of their quiet day.Then to their happy rest they pass!The flowers upclose, the birds are fed,35The night comes down upon the grass,The child sleeps warmly in his bed.[p.77]Calm soul of all things! make it mineTo feel, amid the city's jar,That there abides a peace of thine,40Man did not make, and cannot mar.The will to neither strive nor cry,°42The power to feel with others give°!Calm, calm me more! nor let me dieBefore I have begun to live.
The Portico of Circe's Palace. Evening.A YOUTH.CIRCE.°The Youth. Faster, faster,O Circe, Goddess,Let the wild, thronging train,The bright procession5Of eddying forms,Sweep through my soul!Thou standest, smilingDown on me! thy right arm,Lean'd up against the column there,10Props thy soft cheek;Thy left holds, hanging loosely,°12The deep cup, ivy-cinctured,°I held but now.[p.78]Is it, then, evening15So soon? I see, the night-dews,Cluster'd in thick beads, dimThe agate brooch-stonesOn thy white shoulder;The cool night-wind, too,20Blows through the portico,Stirs thy hair, Goddess,Waves thy white robe!Circe. Whence art thou, sleeper?The Youth. When the white dawn first25Through the rough fir-planksOf my hut, by the chestnuts,Up at the valley-head,Came breaking, Goddess!I sprang up, I threw round me30My dappled fawn-skin;Passing out, from the wet turf,Where they lay, by the hut door,I snatch'd up my vine-crown, my fir-staff,All drench'd in dew—35Came swift down to join°36The rout° early gather'dIn the town, round the temple,°38Iacchus'° white fane°On yonder hill.40Quick I pass'd, followingThe wood-cutters' cart-trackDown the dark valley;—I sawOn my left, through, the beeches,[p.79]Thy palace, Goddess,45Smokeless, empty!Trembling, I enter'd; beheldThe court all silent,°48The lions sleeping,°On the altar this bowl.50I drank, Goddess!And sank down here, sleeping,On the steps of thy portico.Circe. Foolish boy! Why tremblest thou?Thou lovest it, then, my wine?55Wouldst more of it? See, how glows,Through the delicate, flush'd marble,The red, creaming liquor,Strown with dark seeds!Drink, then! I chide thee not,60Deny thee not my bowl.Come, stretch forth thy hand, then—so!Drink—drink again!The Youth. Thanks, gracious one!Ah, the sweet fumes again!65More soft, ah me,More subtle-winding°67Than Pan's flute-music!°Faint—faint! Ah me,Again the sweet sleep!70Circe. Hist! Thou—within there!°71Come forth, Ulysses°!°72Art° tired with hunting?°73While we range° the woodland,°74See what the day brings.°[p.80]75Ulysses. Ever new magic!Hast thou then lured hither,Wonderful Goddess, by thy art,The young, languid-eyed Ampelus,Iacchus' darling—80Or some youth beloved of Pan,°81Of Pan and the Nymphs°?That he sits, bending downwardHis white, delicate neckTo the ivy-wreathed marge85Of thy cup; the bright, glancing vine-leavesThat crown his hair,Falling forward, minglingWith the dark ivy-plants—His fawn-skin, half untied,90Smear'd with red wine-stains? Who is he,That he sits, overweigh'dBy fumes of wine and sleep,So late, in thy portico?What youth, Goddess,—what guest95Of Gods or mortals?Circe. Hist! he wakes!I lured him not hither, Ulysses.Nay, ask him!The Youth. Who speaks? Ah, who comes forth100To thy side, Goddess, from within?How shall I name him?This spare, dark-featured,Quick-eyed stranger?Ah, and I see too105His sailor's bonnet,[p.81]His short coat, travel-tarnish'd,°107With one arm bare°!—Art thou not he, whom fameThis long time rumours°110The favour'd guest of Circe,° brought by the waves?Art thou he, stranger?The wise Ulysses,Laertes' son?Ulysses. I am Ulysses.115And thou, too, sleeper?Thy voice is sweet.It may be thou hast follow'dThrough the islands some divine bard,By age taught many things,°120Age and the Muses°;And heard him delightingThe chiefs and peopleIn the banquet, and learn'd his songs,Of Gods and Heroes,125Of war and arts,And peopled cities,Inland, or builtBy the grey sea.—If so, then hail!I honour and welcome thee.130The Youth. The Gods are happy.They turn on all sidesTheir shining eyes,And see below them°134The earth and men.°°135They see Tiresias°Sitting, staff in hand,[p.82]On the warm, grassy°138Asopus° bank,His robe drawn over140His old, sightless head,Revolving inly°142The doom of Thebes.°°143They see the Centaurs°In the upper glens°145Of Pelion,° in the streams,Where red-berried ashes fringeThe clear-brown shallow pools,With streaming flanks, and headsRear'd proudly, snuffing150The mountain wind.They see the IndianDrifting, knife in hand,His frail boat moor'd toA floating isle thick-matted155With large-leaved, low-creeping melon-plants,And the dark cucumber.He reaps, and stows them,Drifting—drifting;—round him,Round his green harvest-plot,160Flow the cool lake-waves,°161The mountains ring them.°They see the ScythianOn the wide stepp, unharnessingHis wheel'd house at noon.165He tethers his beast down, and makes his meal—Mares' milk, and bread[p.83]°167Baked on the embers°;—all aroundThe boundless, waving grass-plains stretch, thick-starr'dWith saffron and the yellow hollyhock170And flag-leaved iris-flowers.Sitting in his cart,He makes his meal; before him, for long miles,Alive with bright green lizards,And the springing bustard-fowl,175The track, a straight black line,Furrows the rich soil; here and thereClusters of lonely moundsTopp'd with rough-hewn,Grey, rain-blear'd statues, overpeer°180The sunny waste.°They see the ferryOn the broad, clay-laden.°183Lone Chorasmian stream°;—thereonWith snort and strain,185Two horses, strongly swimming, towThe ferry-boat, with woven ropesTo either bowFirm harness'd by the mane; a chief,With shout and shaken spear,190Stands at the prow, and guides them; but asternThe cowering merchants, in long robes,Sit pale beside their wealthOf silk-bales and of balsam-drops,Of gold and ivory,195Of turquoise-earth and amethyst,Jasper and chalcedony,°197And milk-barr'd onyx-stones.°[p.84]The loaded boat swings groaningIn the yellow eddies;200The Gods behold them.They see the HeroesSitting in the dark shipOn the foamless, long-heavingViolet sea,205At sunset nearing°206The Happy Islands.°These things, Ulysses,The wise bards alsoBehold and sing.210But oh, what labour!O prince, what pain!They too can seeTiresias;—but the Gods,Who give them vision,215Added this law:That they should bear tooHis groping blindness,His dark foreboding,His scorn'd white hairs;°220Bear Hera's anger°Through a life lengthen'dTo seven ages.They see the CentaursOn Pelion;—then they feel,225They too, the maddening wineSwell their large veins to bursting; in wild painThey feel the biting spears[p.85]°228Of the grim Lapithæ,° and Theseus,° drive,°229Drive crashing through their bones°; they feel230High on a jutting rock in the red stream°231Alcmena's dreadful son°Ply his bow;—such a priceThe Gods exact for song:To become what we sing.235They see the IndianOn his mountain lake; but squallsMake their skiff reel, and wormsIn the unkind spring have gnawnTheir melon-harvest to the heart.—They see240The Scythian; but long frostsParch them in winter-time on the bare stepp,Till they too fade like grass; they crawlLike shadows forth in spring.They see the merchants°245On the Oxus stream°;—but careMust visit first them too, and make them pale.Whether, through whirling sand,A cloud of desert robber-horse have burstUpon their caravan; or greedy kings,250In the wall'd cities the way passes through,Crush'd them with tolls; or fever-airs,On some great river's marge,Mown them down, far from home.°254They see the Heroes°255Near harbour;—but they shareTheir lives, and former violent toil in Thebes,°257Seven-gated Thebes, or Troy°;[p.86]Or where the echoing oarsOf Argo first°260Startled the unknown sea.°°261The old Silenus°Came, lolling in the sunshine,From the dewy forest-coverts,This way, at noon.265Sitting by me, while his FaunsDown at the water-sideSprinkled and smoothedHis drooping garland,He told me these things.270But I, Ulysses,Sitting on the warm steps,Looking over the valley,All day long, have seen,Without pain, without labour,°275Sometimes a wild-hair'd Mænad°—°276Sometimes a Faun with torches°—And sometimes, for a moment,Passing through the dark stemsFlowing-robed, the beloved,280The desired, the divine,Beloved Iacchus.Ah, cool night-wind, tremulous stars!Ah, glimmering water,Fitful earth-murmur,285Dreaming woods!Ah, golden-hair'd, strangely smiling Goddess,And thou, proved, much enduring,[p.87]Wave-toss'd Wanderer!Who can stand still?290Ye fade, ye swim, ye waver before me—The cup again!Faster, faster,O Circe, Goddess,Let the wild, thronging train,295The bright processionOf eddying forms,Sweep through my soul!