THE STRAYED REVELLER°

THE STRAYED REVELLER°

The Portico of Circe's Palace. Evening. A YOUTH. CIRCE.° The Youth. Faster, faster, O Circe, Goddess, Let the wild, thronging train, The bright procession 5Of eddying forms, Sweep through my soul! Thou standest, smiling Down 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, evening 15So soon? I see, the night-dews, Cluster'd in thick beads, dim The agate brooch-stones On 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 first 25Through the rough fir-planks Of my hut, by the chestnuts, Up at the valley-head, Came breaking, Goddess! I sprang up, I threw round me 30My 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'd In the town, round the temple, °38Iacchus'° white fane° On yonder hill. 40Quick I pass'd, following The wood-cutters' cart-track Down the dark valley;—I saw On my left, through, the beeches, [p.79] Thy palace, Goddess, 45Smokeless, empty! Trembling, I enter'd; beheld The 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! 70 Circe. Hist! Thou—within there! °71Come forth, Ulysses°! °72Art° tired with hunting? °73While we range° the woodland, °74See what the day brings.° [p.80] 75 Ulysses. 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 downward His white, delicate neck To the ivy-wreathed marge 85Of thy cup; the bright, glancing vine-leaves That crown his hair, Falling forward, mingling With the dark ivy-plants— His fawn-skin, half untied, 90Smear'd with red wine-stains? Who is he, That he sits, overweigh'd By fumes of wine and sleep, So late, in thy portico? What youth, Goddess,—what guest 95Of Gods or mortals? Circe. Hist! he wakes! I lured him not hither, Ulysses. Nay, ask him! The Youth. Who speaks? Ah, who comes forth 100To thy side, Goddess, from within? How shall I name him? This spare, dark-featured, Quick-eyed stranger? Ah, and I see too 105His sailor's bonnet, [p.81] His short coat, travel-tarnish'd, °107With one arm bare°!— Art thou not he, whom fame This 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'd Through the islands some divine bard, By age taught many things, °120Age and the Muses°; And heard him delighting The chiefs and people In the banquet, and learn'd his songs, Of Gods and Heroes, 125Of war and arts, And peopled cities, Inland, or built By the grey sea.—If so, then hail! I honour and welcome thee. 130The Youth. The Gods are happy. They turn on all sides Their 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 over 140His 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 fringe The clear-brown shallow pools, With streaming flanks, and heads Rear'd proudly, snuffing 150The mountain wind. They see the Indian Drifting, knife in hand, His frail boat moor'd to A floating isle thick-matted 155With 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 Scythian On the wide stepp, unharnessing His 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 around The boundless, waving grass-plains stretch, thick-starr'd With saffron and the yellow hollyhock 170And 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 there Clusters of lonely mounds Topp'd with rough-hewn, Grey, rain-blear'd statues, overpeer °180The sunny waste.° They see the ferry On the broad, clay-laden. °183Lone Chorasmian stream°;—thereon With snort and strain, 185Two horses, strongly swimming, tow The ferry-boat, with woven ropes To either bow Firm harness'd by the mane; a chief, With shout and shaken spear, 190Stands at the prow, and guides them; but astern The cowering merchants, in long robes, Sit pale beside their wealth Of 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 groaning In the yellow eddies; 200The Gods behold them. They see the Heroes Sitting in the dark ship On the foamless, long-heaving Violet sea, 205At sunset nearing °206The Happy Islands.° These things, Ulysses, The wise bards also Behold and sing. 210But oh, what labour! O prince, what pain! They too can see Tiresias;—but the Gods, Who give them vision, 215Added this law: That they should bear too His groping blindness, His dark foreboding, His scorn'd white hairs; °220Bear Hera's anger° Through a life lengthen'd To seven ages. They see the Centaurs On Pelion;—then they feel, 225They too, the maddening wine Swell their large veins to bursting; in wild pain They feel the biting spears [p.85] °228Of the grim Lapithæ,° and Theseus,° drive, °229Drive crashing through their bones°; they feel 230High on a jutting rock in the red stream °231Alcmena's dreadful son° Ply his bow;—such a price The Gods exact for song: To become what we sing. 235They see the Indian On his mountain lake; but squalls Make their skiff reel, and worms In the unkind spring have gnawn Their melon-harvest to the heart.—They see 240The Scythian; but long frosts Parch them in winter-time on the bare stepp, Till they too fade like grass; they crawl Like shadows forth in spring. They see the merchants °245On the Oxus stream°;—but care Must visit first them too, and make them pale. Whether, through whirling sand, A cloud of desert robber-horse have burst Upon 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 share Their lives, and former violent toil in Thebes, °257Seven-gated Thebes, or Troy°; [p.86] Or where the echoing oars Of 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 Fauns Down at the water-side Sprinkled and smoothed His 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 stems Flowing-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 procession Of eddying forms, Sweep through my soul!