Were not the crocuses that grew
Under that ilex-tree
As beautiful in scent and hue As ever fed the bee?
We stood beside the pools that lie Under the forest bough,
And each seemed like a sky Gulfed in a world below;
A purple firmament of light,
Which in the dark earth lay,
More boundless than the depth of night, And clearer than the day –
In which the massy forests grew As in the upper air,
More perfect both in shape and hue Than any waving there.
Like one beloved the scene had lent
To the dark water's breast
Its every leaf and lineament
With that clear truth expressed;
There lay far glades and neighboring lawn, And through the dark green crowd The white sun twinkling like the dawn Under a speckled cloud.
Sweet views, which in our world above Can never well be seen,
Were imaged by the water's love Of that fair forest green.
And all was interfused beneath Within an Elysium air An atmosphere without a breath, A silence sleeping there.
Until a wandering wind crept by, Like an unwelcome thought, Which from my mind's too faithful eye Blots thy bright image out.
For thou art good and dear and kind, The forest ever green,
But less of peace in S's mind, Than calm in waters seen.
NOT far from hence. From yonder pointed hill, Crowned with a ring of oaks, you may behold A dark and barren field, through which there flows, Sluggish and black, a deep but narrow stream, Which the wind ripples not, and the fair moon Gazes in vain, and finds no mirror there. Follow the herbless banks of that strange brook Until you pause beside a darksome pond, The fountain of this rivulet, whose gush
Orpheus. Published by Garnett, 1862, and dated, 1820. Revised and enlarged by Rossetti, 1870.
2 oaks, Rossetti || oak, Garnett.
Cannot be seen, hid by a rayless night
That lives beneath the overhanging rock
That shades the pool an endless spring of gloom,
Upon whose edge hovers the tender light, Trembling to mingle with its paramour,— But, as Syrinx fled Pan, so night flies day, Or, with most sullen and regardless hate, Refuses stern her heaven-born embrace. On one side of this jagged and shapeless hill There is a cave, from which there eddies up A pale mist, like aërial gossamer,
Whose breath destroys all life; awhile it veils The rock; then, scattered by the wind, it flies Along the stream, or lingers on the clefts, Killing the sleepy worms, if aught bide there. Upon the beetling edge of that dark rock There stands a group of cypresses; not such As, with a graceful spire and stirring life, Pierce the pure heaven of your native vale, Whose branches the air plays among, but not Disturbs, fearing to spoil their solemn grace; But blasted and all wearily they stand, One to another clinging; their weak boughs Sigh as the wind buffets them, and they shake Beneath its blasts - a weather-beaten crew!
What wondrous sound is that, mournful and faint, But more melodious than the murmuring wind Which through the columns of a temple glides?
31 they, Rossetti || these, Garnett. 37 which, Rossetti || that, Garnett.
It is the wandering voice of Orpheus' lyre, Borne by the winds, who sigh that their rude king Hurries them fast from these air-feeding notes; But in their speed they bear along with them The waning sound, scattering it like dew Upon the startled sense.
Methought he rashly cast away his harp
When he had lost Eurydice.
Of a swift stream the cruel hounds press on With deafening yell, the arrows glance and wound,
He plunges in: so Orpheus, seized and torn By the sharp fangs of an insatiate grief, Mænad-like waved his lyre in the bright air,
And wildly shrieked, "Where she is, it is dark!" And then he struck from forth the strings a sound Of deep and fearful melody. Alas!
In times long past, when fair Eurydice
With her bright eyes sat listening by his side, He gently sang of high and heavenly themes. As in a brook, fretted with little waves, By the light airs of spring, each riplet makes A many-sided mirror for the sun,
While it flows musically through green banks, Ceaseless and pauseless, ever clear and fresh, So flowed his song, reflecting the deep joy And tender love that fed those sweetest notes, The heavenly offspring of ambrosial food. But that is past. Returning from drear Hell, He chose a lonely seat of unhewn stone, Blackened with lichens, on a herbless plain. Then from the deep and overflowing spring Of his eternal, ever-moving grief
There rose to Heaven a sound of angry song. 'Tis as a mighty cataract that parts
Two sister rocks with waters swift and strong, And casts itself with horrid roar and din Adown a steep; from a perennial source It ever flows and falls, and breaks the air With loud and fierce, but most harmonious roar, And as it falls casts up a vaporous spray Which the sun clothes in hues of Iris light. Thus the tempestuous torrent of his grief Is clothed in sweetest sounds and varying words Of poesy. Unlike all human works
It never slackens, and through every change Wisdom and beauty and the power divine Of mighty poesy together dwell,
Mingling in sweet accord. As I have seen
A fierce south blast tear through the darkened sky, Driving along a rack of wingèd clouds,
Which may not pause, but ever hurry on,
As their wild shepherd wills them, while the stars, Twinkling and dim, peep from between the plumes. 91 while, Rossetti || whilst, Garnett.
92 the, Rossetti || their, Garnett.
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