APOLLO AND MARSYAS.

Low, but far heard, Across the Phrygian forest goes a sound That seems to hush the pines that moan all round. Is it the weird Wail of a she-wolf plundered of her own? Or some maimed Satyr left to die alone? Or has great Pan, in lonely places feared, To some belated wretch his wild face shown? Oh strong rough Pan, God of lone spots where sudden awe o’erwhelms Weak souls, but never mine—I love thy realms! I love the wan Half-leafless glens, which Autumn’s plaint repeat From tree to tree; I love the shy fawn’s bleat; The cry of lynx and wood-cat safe from man; The fox’s short sharp bark from sure retreat. The deep lone woods Which men call silent teem with voice: I hear Vague wails, low calls, weird notes, now far, now near. The storm-born floods That sweep the glens, the gurgling hurrying springs Impart dim secrets, vague prophetic things; The whispering winds awake strange wistful moods. But hush, my flute! Apollo, strike thy strings!

The harvest-hymns Rise from the fields, where, in the setting sun, The reapers stretch by sheaves of golden dun Their weary limbs; While many a sunburnt lad or maiden weaves With every corn-flower that the sickle leaves Demeter’s harvest-crowns, or binds and trims For the Great Mother her allotted sheaves. The whole west glows Like a vast sea of rosy molten ore Where, here and there, great tracks of pearly shore Or gleaming rows Of crimson reefs and isles of amber blaze; And through the whole a mighty fan of rays Spreads as the sun approaches earth and throws A farewell glance before he goes his ways. A rich warm scent Of summer ripeness fills the fertile plain; The ox, unyoked, kneels chewing near the wain; In one sound blent The voices of the insect-swarms that fill Each furrow, indefatigably trill And chirp and hum; until the bright day spent, Invokes the dusk to make the lone fields still.

What voice-like sounds Off the Trinacrian coast, low, plaintive, sweet, Blend with the breeze? or is it Fancy’s cheat? There seem no grounds For watch or fear: the waves have sunk to sleep In twilight on the bosom of the deep. The ship seems half becalmed, and eve surrounds The crew with dolphins in perpetual leap. But hark again! Now here, now there, now all around the ship The voices sound each from an unseen lip! Dost hear the strain? It charms, it lulls, it lures, yet seems to fill The soul with something ominous of ill, A strange vague song with which man strives in vain, Which melts the heart while it benumbs the will. The weird sounds float Across the waters from the rocky shore; The listless crew grow drowsy more and more. No signs denote A coming storm; but something slow and strong Sucks unperceived those spell-bound men along: Awake, awake! the whirlpool grasps the boat! It seethes, it roars, it drowns the Sirens’ song!

Out on thy strife Of winds and birds!—See, see the golden spears Gleam through the dust, and desperate charioteers And Death and Life Sweep by all wildly blent!—See, see how flash The helmets in the sun, as onward dash The waves of war! The very air seems rife With goading Gods who wield an unseen lash! O Sun, shine down On Freedom’s ranks; pour strength into their hearts, And blind the foe with thy resistless darts! On, on! the crown Is for you all, both those who live and die! See, see, they waver! now they turn and fly In wild mad rout and trample down their own, While thick as autumn leaves their strewn dead lie. And as decrease The rattle and the roar, the crash and cries, Triumphant hymns from all the vast plain rise, And never cease To shake the stars.—Sound high, sound high, my strings! For from the bloodstained dust the laurel springs; Ay, and the olive with its fruit of peace, And freedom’s garnered grain and earth’s best things!

Right sweetly played! But oh, I love the caves where all is mute Save unseen dropping waters, or my flute, Whose tones are made So strange by echo, that, transformed, increased, They ape the voice of some wild wounded beast Or eager hounds; or wail in cavernous shade Like souls in Hades wailing unreleased. And not less well I love deep gorges, whether, in the spring, With crash of slipping snow their echoes ring; Or they compel A summer storm’s pent thunder, peal on peal, To roll along them; or their rent flanks feel Autumnal waters roar; or fierce howls tell Of captive wintry winds in wild appeal. Hark, hark! a scream Of battling eagles o’er a sheer abyss, And wind of wings above a torrent’s hiss. The rock-pent stream Catches the drops of blood, and whirls away The slow rotating feathers from the fray; While from the sky the smaller falcons seem To watch their kings and circle without stay.

The noon creeps slow, And wraps the windless world in heat and glare, And droning beetles stir alone the air; While, soft and low, A chant of women weaving at the loom Falls on the ear from some cool darkened room, Where flits the restless shuttle to and fro Beneath bare arms that glimmer in the gloom. A fresh clear chant About frail clouds that sea-sprites weave in vain, And woven rainbows, harbingers of rain For things that pant; About Arachne and her wondrous woof; About grim Time who weaves white hairs in proof That men grow old, and that life’s thread grows scant, Weave, women, weave! still Hesperus holds aloof; Still shoots the sun His random shafts through leafy shade to rouse The shepherd up, who seeks yet thicker boughs; Still peep and run The bright green lizard on the heated stones; Still through the glare the whirling beetle drones; Still noontide sleep may end sweet dreams begun. Marsyas, resume thy flute. What say its tones?

Small lurid clouds Veil and unveil the moon; while, through the lone Wild Phrygian woods, hot gusts of storm-wind moan. Each shadow shrouds Some unknown conscious harm; and all around Glide unseen rustling things upon the ground. The air seems full of grabbing hands, and crowds Of evil fancies wake at every sound. Now in the night The sorceress prowls, while others slumber deep, Cursing the God who robs her of her sleep. The moon’s vague light Makes her knife gleam, as, muttering low, She seeks the thrice-curst mandrake which uprooted shrieks, Such shrieks as drive the unexpecting wight Who hears them, mad, and blanch her own white cheeks. Now sound strange sighs, If it be true that evil spirits love, And seek each other when the moon above Half veils her eyes; The woods repeat unhallowed coos and calls, Kisses and sobs of love whose sound appals Beyond all shrieks, all moanings and all cries, While passion grows as deeper shadow falls.

A golden haze Has made the bright sea dreamy; and near coasts Look far, and faint as sunshine-faded ghosts. From neighbouring bays A mingled sense of odoriferous wood And fallen blossoms floats upon the flood That scarcely heaves, save where the dolphins play; While some few sea-gulls motionlessly brood. And o’er that sea, Bright, tepid, calm, the sunset breezes waft A chant of sailors from a home-bound craft; The white gulls flee At its approach; while from the beach, where run The tidings of return and riches won, Come other chants to welcome distantly The ship that seems to sail from out the sun. Oh ply the oar, Ye sun-tanned youths! does patient love not wait With tight-strained heart, intent upon your fate? The old loved shore Is close, close, close! ye hear the lyre’s loud strings— Ye almost hear the words that gladness sings. Oh ply the oar with might, and each shall pour Into Love’s lap the treasures that he brings!

Give ear—give ear! From yonder grove in sudden gusts there comes A sound of flutes, of cymbals and of drums; And now I hear Wild cries of Mænads who, with ivy crowned, Toss their mad heads and whirl and leap and bound, Brandishing snakes; while, in voluptuous fear, The pale ecstatic votaries press around. Whirl faster still, Ye fierce flushed Mænads, lither than the asp, Or gleaming adder writhing in your grasp! The wild flutes fill The air with madness! Let the hot shift slip, And show the panting breast, the glistening hip! Dance ever faster, though the dance should kill! Whirl on, with flaming eye and quivering lip! I come, I come, O Cybele, great Cybele, that hast Thy chief throne here, I come to thee at last! From my far home I bring at last to thy deep rustling grove The wild pent fire that in my bosom strove; I come to lift thy praise to heaven’s dome; Perchance to die, on tasting thy dread love.

Where sunshine clings To Parian columns, what chaste marshalled throng Brings thee, Athena, wreaths of flowers and song? Thy pure fane rings With measured chants; on horses small and fleet Come stalwart youths; while with restrainèd feet The troop of virgins climb the steps, that brings The sacred olive and the sacred wheat. Hark, never cease The pure chaste hymns to hail the mighty child Of the cleft brows of Zeus, all undefiled; Armed friend of peace From whose strong breastplate streams transcendent light, Whose spear makes dim the meteors of the night; Pure Patroness of plenty and increase, Mistress of sunny cities walled and white! And, oh, to-day, Thou armed and placid Pallas, deadly foe Of all things lewd and wild who once didst throw In scorn away The lewd wild flute, too base for thy pure breath, And doom whoe’er should find it to slow death, Come to my aid, and let my pure lyre play Such bright chaste sounds as shall deserve the wreath!