Poetry

blows legend-laden thro’ the trees.
In melancholy realms big tears are shed,
More sorrow like to this, and such like woe,
Too huge for mortal tongue or pen of scribe.
The Titans fierce, self-hid or prison-bound,
Groan for the old allegiance once more,
Listening in their doom for Saturn’s voice.
But one of the whole eagle-brood still keeps
His sovereignty, and rule, and majesty:
Blazing Hyperion on his orbed fire
Still sits, still snuffs the incense teeming up
From Man to the Sun’s God⁠—yet insecure.
For as upon the earth dire prodigies
Fright and perplex, so also shudders he;
Not at dog’s howl or gloom-bird’s hated screech,
Or the familiar visiting of one
Upon the first toll of his passing bell,
Or prophesyings of the midnight lamp;
But horrors, portioned to a giant nerve,
Make great Hyperion ache. His palace bright,
Bastion’d with pyramids of shining gold,
And touch’d with shade of bronzed obelisks,
Glares a blood-red thro’ all the thousand courts,
Arches, and domes, and fiery galleries;
And all its curtains of Aurorian clouds
Flash angerly; when he would taste the wreaths
Of incense breath’d aloft from sacred hills,
Instead of sweets, his ample palate takes
Savour of poisonous brass and metals sick;
Wherefore when harbour’d in the sleepy West,
After the full completion of fair day.
For rest divine upon exalted couch,
And slumber in the arms of melody,
He paces through the pleasant hours of ease,
With strides colossal, on from hall to hall,
While far within each aisle and deep recess
His winged minions in close clusters stand
Amaz’d, and full of fear; like anxious men,
Who on a wide plain gather in sad troops,
When earthquakes jar their battlements and towers.
Even now where Saturn, rous’d from icy trance,
Goes step for step with Thea from yon woods,
Hyperion, leaving twilight in the rear,
Is sloping to the threshold of the West.
Thither we tend.” Now in clear light I stood,
Reliev’d from the dusk vale. Mnemosyne
Was sitting on a square-edg’d polish’d stone,
That in its lucid depths reflected pure
Her priestess’ garments. My quick eyes ran on
From stately nave to nave, from vault to vault,
Through bow’rs of fragrant and enwreathed light,
And diamond-paved lustrous long arcades.
Anon rush’d by the bright Hyperion;
His flaming robes stream’d out beyond his heels,
And gave a roar as if of earthly fire,
That scar’d away the meek ethereal hours,
And made their dove-wings tremble. On he flared.

The Cap and Bells

Or, The Jealousies

A Faery Tale. Unfinished

I

In midmost Ind, beside Hydaspes cool,
There stood, or hover’d, tremulous in the air,
A faery city, ’neath the potent rule
Of Emperor Elfinan; fam’d ev’rywhere
For love of mortal women, maidens fair,
Whose lips were solid, whose soft hands were made
Of a fit mould and beauty, ripe and rare,
To pamper his slight wooing, warm yet staid:
He loved girls smooth as shades, but hated a mere shade.

II

This was a crime forbidden by the law;
And all the priesthood of his city wept,
For ruin and dismay they well foresaw,
If impious prince no bound or limit kept,
And faery Zendervester overstept;
They wept, he sinn’d, and still he would sin on,
They dreamt of sin, and he sinn’d while they slept;
In vain the pulpit thunder’d at the throne,
Caricature was vain, and vain the tart lampoon.

III

Which seeing, his high court of parliament
Laid a remonstrance at his Highness’ feet,
Praying his royal senses to content
Themselves with what in faery land was sweet,
Befitting best that shade with shade should meet:
Whereat, to calm their fears, he promised soon
From mortal tempters all to make retreat⁠—
Ay, even on the first of the new moon,
An immaterial wife to espouse as heaven’s boon.

IV

Meantime he sent a fluttering embassy
To Pigmio, of Imaus sovereign,
To half beg, and half demand, respectfully,
The hand of his fair daughter Bellanaine;
An audience had, and speeching done, they gain
Their point, and bring the weeping bride away;
Whom, with but one attendant, safely lain
Upon their wings, they bore in bright array,
While little harps were touch’d by many a lyric fay.

V

As in old pictures tender cherubim
A child’s soul thro’ the sapphired canvas bear,
So, thro’ a real heaven, on they swim
With the sweet princess on her plumaged lair,
Speed giving to the winds her lustrous hair;
And so she journey’d, sleeping or awake,
Save when, for healthful exercise and air,
She chose to “promener à l’aile,” or take
A pigeon’s somerset, for sport or change’s sake.

VI

“Dear Princess, do not whisper me so loud,”
Quoth Corallina, nurse and confidant,
“Do not you see there, lurking in a cloud,
Close at your back, that sly old Crafticant?
He hears a whisper plainer than a rant:
Dry up your tears, and do not look so blue;
He’s Elfinan’s great state-spy militant,
He’s running, lying, flying footman, too⁠—
Dear mistress, let him have no handle against you!

VII

“Show him a mouse’s tail, and he will guess,
With metaphysic swiftness, at the mouse;
Show him a garden, and with speed no less,
He’ll surmise sagely of a dwelling-house,
And plot, in the same minute, how to chouse
The owner out of it; show him a⁠—” “Peace!
Peace! nor contrive thy mistress’ ire to rouse!”
Return’d the princess, “my tongue shall not cease
Till from this hated match I get a free release.

VIII

“Ah, beauteous mortal!” “Hush!” quoth Coralline,
“Really you must not talk of him indeed.”
“You hush!” replied the mistress, with a shine
Of anger in her eyes, enough to breed
In stouter hearts than nurse’s fear and dread:
’Twas not the glance itself made nursey flinch,
But of its threat she took the utmost heed;
Not liking in her heart an hour-long pinch,
Or a sharp needle run into her back an inch.

IX

So she was silenced, and fair Bellanaine,
Writhing her little body with ennui,
Continued to lament and to complain,
That Fate, cross-purposing, should let her be
Ravish’d away, far from her dear countree;
That all her feelings should be set at nought,
In trumping up this match so hastily,