Man and beast, and foul and fair, Like a tempest thro' the air; Thou shalt quell this horseman grim, Woundless though in heart or limb. PROMETHEUS.
Spirits! how know ye this shall be?
In the atmosphere we breathe,
As buds grow red when the snow-storms flee,
From spring gathering up beneath,
Whose mild winds shake the elder brake,
And the wandering herdsmen know That the white-thorn soon will blow: Wisdom, Justice, Love, and Peace, When they struggle to increase, Are to us as soft winds be To shepherd boys, the prophecy Which begins and ends in thee.
Where are the Spirits fled?
Remains of them, like the omnipotence Of music, when the inspired voice and lute Languish, ere yet the responses are mute, Which thro' the deep and labyrinthine soul, Like echoes thro' long caverns, wind and roll.
How fair these air-born shapes! and yet I feel Most vain all hope but love; and thou art far, Asia who, when my being overflowed, Wert like a golden chalice to bright wine. Which else had sunk into the thirsty dust. All things are still: alas! how heavily
This quiet morning weighs upon my heart;
Tho' I should dream I could even sleep with grief If slumber were denied not. I would fain
Be what it is my destiny to be,
The saviour and the strength of suffering man,
Or sink into the original gulph of things: There is no agony, and no solace left;
Earth can console, Heaven can torment no more. PANTHEA.
Hast thou forgotten one who watches thee The cold dark night, and never sleeps but when The shadow of thy spirit falls on her?
I said all hope was vain but love: thou lovest. PANTHEA.
Deeply in truth; but the eastern star looks white, And Asia waits in that far Indian vale
The scene of her sad exile; rugged once And desolate and frozen, like this ravine; But now invested with fair flowers and herbs,
And haunted by sweet airs and sounds, which flow Among the woods and waters, from the æther Of her transforming presence, which would fade If it were mingled not with thine. Farewell!
MORNING. A LOVELY VALE IN THE INDIAN CAUCASUS. ASIA
From all the blasts of heaven thou hast descended: Yes, like a spirit, like a thought, which makes Unwonted tears throng to the horny eyes, And beatings haunt the desolated heart,
Which should have learnt repose: thou hast descended Cradled in tempests; thou dost wake, O Spring! O child of many winds! As suddenly
Thou comest as the memory of a dream, Which now is sad because it hath been sweet; Like genius, or like joy which riseth up
As from the earth, clothing with golden clouds The desart of our life.
This is the season, this the day, the hour;
At sunrise thou shouldst come, sweet sister mine, Too long desired, too long delaying, come! How like death-worms the wingless moments crawl: The point of one white star is quivering still Deep in the orange light of widening morn Beyond the purple mountains: thro' a chasm Of wind-divided mist the darker lake Reflects it: now it wanes: it gleams again As the waves fade, and as the burning threads Of woven cloud unravel in pale air:
'Tis lost and thro' yon peaks of cloudlike snow The roseate sun-light quivers: hear I not The Eolian music of her sea-green plumes Winnowing the crimson dawn?
Those eyes which burn thro' smiles that fade in tears, Like stars half quenched in mists of silver dew. Beloved and most beautiful, who wearest
The shadow of that soul by which I live,
How late thou art! the spherèd sun had climbed The sea; my heart was sick with hope, before The printless air felt thy belated plumes.
Pardon, great Sister! but my wings were faint With the delight of a remembered dream, As are the noon-tide plumes of summer winds Satiate with sweet flowers. I was wont to sleep Peacefully, and awake refreshed and calm Before the sacred Titan's fall, and thy Unhappy love, had made, thro' use and pity, Both love and woe familiar to my heart As they had grown to thine: erewhile I slept Under the glaucous caverns of old Ocean
Within dim bowers of green and purple moss, Our young Ione's soft and milky arms Locked then, as now, behind my dark, moist hair, While my shut eyes and cheek were pressed within The folded depth of her life-breathing bosom: But not as now, since I am made the wind Which fails beneath the music that I bear Of thy most wordless converse; since dissolved Into the sense with which love talks, my rest Was troubled and yet sweet; my waking hours Too full of care and pain.
And let me read thy dream.
With our sea-sister at his feet I slept. The mountain mists, condensing at our voice Under the moon, had spread their snowy flakes, From the keen ice shielding our linkèd sleep. Then two dreams came. One, I remember not. But in the other his pale wound-worn limbs Fell from Prometheus, and the azure night. Grew radiant with the glory of that form Which lives unchanged within, and his voice fell Like music which makes giddy the dim brain, Faint with intoxication of keen joy:
"Sister of her whose footsteps pave the world "With loveliness-more fair than aught but her, 'Whose shadow thou art-lift thine eyes on me.” I lifted them: the overpowering light
Of that immortal shape was shadowed o'er By love; which, from his soft and flowing limbs, And passion-parted lips, and keen, faint eyes, Steamed forth like vaporous fire; an atmosphere Which wrapt me in its all-dissolving power, As the warm æther of the morning sun Wraps ere it drinks some cloud of wandering dew. I saw not, heard not, moved not, only felt His presence flow and mingle thro' my blood
Till it became his life, and his grew mine, And I was thus absorbed, until it past, And like the vapours when the sun sinks down, Gathering again in drops upon the pines, And tremulous as they, in the deep night My being was condensed; and as the rays Of thought were slowly gathered, I could hear His voice, whose accents lingered ere they died Like footsteps of weak melody: thy name Among the many sounds alone I heard Of what might be articulate; tho' still
I listened through the night when sound was none, Ione wakened then, and said to me:
"Canst thou divine what troubles me to night? "I always knew what I desired before, "Nor ever found delight to wish in vain. 'But now I cannot tell thee what I seek; "I know not; something sweet, since it is sweet "Even to desire; it is thy sport, false sister; "Thou hast discovered some enchantment old, "Whose spells have stolen my spirit as I slept "And mingled it with thine: for when just now "We kissed, I felt within thy parted lips "The sweet air that sustained me, and the warmth "Of the life-blood, for loss of which I faint, "Quivered between our intertwining arms."
I answered not, for the Eastern star grew pale, But fled to thee.
Thou speakest, but thy words. Are as the air: I feel them not: Oh, lift Thine eyes, that I may read his written soul!
I lift them tho' they droop beneath the load
Of that they would express: what canst thou see But thine own fairest shadow imaged there?
Thine eyes are like the deep, blue, boundless heaven. Contracted to two circles underneath
Their long, fine lashes; dark, far, measureless,
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