THE contest of the Satyr with the God,
Oh who shall end it? Who shall end the strife
That fills all Art, all Nature and all Life,
And give the right of flaying with a nod?
Oh who when radiant noontide’s last note dies,
And darkness with its mystery draws near,
Shall bid the strains of twilight not arise
That fill the soul with wistfulness or fear?
Man gives his love in turn, he knows not why,
To sun or gloom according to his mood;
His ear, his heart, alternately is woo’d
By Nature’s carol or by Nature’s sigh.
And Marsyas’ reed-pipe and Apollo’s lyre
Make endless competition upon earth,
As men prefer the charm of vague desire,
Or charm of bright serenity and mirth.
But not alone the wistful strains of eve
Mean unseen Marsyas speaking to the heart;
Nor is he near, in Nature and in Art,
Alone where yearning makes the bosom heave.
Often in tones more passionate he wails,
Pensive no more but fiercely wild and shrill,
And fills the soul with rapture as it quails,
And charms us with the very fear of ill.
Wherever lonely Nature claims her right
Upon man’s love, and her wild fitful voice
With flute-like wailings makes his ear rejoice
In the wild music of a stormy night;
Wherever haunting Fancy fills the gloom
With ghostly sounds, with evil spirits’ sobs,
And exiled souls seem to bewail their doom,
And, half seduced, the heart with vague fear throbs;
Wherever Poetry with magic word
Lets Passion’s loosened elements fly free,
And hiss and thunder like a storm-churned sea,
And rave and howl—there Marsyas’ note is heard.
Oh, I have felt his music in my soul
Outwail the wailing wind when every tone
Has made my fancy, bursting all control,
Create new realms as wild as are his own,
With shapes of fear, with dread fantastic spells,
And sights more wondrous than the restless stream
Of visions in a Haschish-eater’s dream,
Where whirl and eddy countless heavens and hells.
And yet I love the light, nor am I one
Bred in the darkness of Cimmerian caves,
Who shrinks with blinking eyelids from the sun,
When with the dawn he leaps on laughing waves,
The sounds which that great Dorian God, whose glance
Kindles the blushes of the pale sea foam,
Draws from his beam-stringed lyre come thrilling home,
And make the ripples of my spirit dance.
Outside, beyond my threshold, I can hear
The hum of sun-ripe Nature’s million strings,
The song of man’s frail happiness rise clear
Above the mutability of things;
And though I think, if you but listen well,
That here, upon this many voiced earth
There be less sounds of carol and of mirth
Than sounds of sigh and moan and dirge and knell;
And though what here I offer echoes less
Apollo’s lyre than Marsyas’ reedy fife,
Whose fitful wailing in the wilderness
Sounds through the chinks and crannies of my life,
Apollo’s name is sweet, and I were loth
To let the name of Marsyas stand alone
Engraven on this book, while I can own
Allegiance to both lords and love them both.
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!
APOLLO.
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
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.
MARSYAS.
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!
APOLLO.
Out on thy strife
Of winds and birds!—See, see the golden spears
Gleam through the dust, and desperate charioteers
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!
MARSYAS.
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.
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.
APOLLO.
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?
MARSYAS.
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.
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.
APOLLO.
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!
MARSYAS.
Give ear—give ear!
From yonder grove in sudden gusts there comes
A sound of flutes, of cymbals and of drums;
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.
APOLLO.
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
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!
IN her work there is no flagging,
And her slight frame seems of steel;
And her face and eyes and motions,
Tried by countless nights of watching,
Nor fatigue nor pain reveal.
Yet the Sisters say she eats not,
Spurning food as ne’er did saint,
And they murmur: “She is nourished
By a miracle of Heaven;
God allows not she should faint.”
Through the darkened wards she passes
On her round from bed to bed;
And the sick who wait her coming
Cease their groaning, smiling faintly
As they hear her light quick tread.
Through the gabled lanes she hurries;
And the ribald men-at-arms
Hush their mirth, and stepping backward
Let her pass to soothe some death-bed,
Safe from insults and alarms;
And the priests and monks and townsfolk
Whom she passes greet her sight
With a strange respectful pleasure
As she nears in dark blue flannel
And huge cap of spotless white.
Oh, the busy Flemish city
Knows its Sister Mary well;
And the very children show her
To the stranger as she passes,
And her story all can tell:
How she won a lasting glory,
Cleaving to the dread bedside
When the Plague with livid pinions
Lighted on the crowded alleys,
How alone she made men listen
In their fear, and do her will;
Making help and making order
When the customary rulers
Trembled helpless, and stood still.
How she had the corpses buried
When they choked canal and street;
When alone the shackled convicts,
Goaded on with pike and halberd,
Cared to near with quaking feet.
But those days of fear are over,
And the pure canal reflects
Barges decked with pots of flowers
And long rows of tile-faced gables
Which no breeze of death infects.
And once more the city prospers
Through the cunning of its guilds;
While the restless shuttles clatter,
And in peace the busy Fleming
Weaves and tans and brews and builds;
And the bearded Spanish troopers,
Sitting idly in the shade,
Toss their dice with oath and rattle,
Or crack jokes with girls that pass them,
Laughing-eyed and unafraid.
Sister Mary, Sister Mary,
In thy soul there is some change:
For thy face the while thou watchest
By a pale young Spanish soldier
Works with struggle strong and strange.
Thou hast watched a hundred death-beds
Ever calm without dismay;
Fighting like a steady fighter
While the shade of Death pressed onward
Night on night and day on day;
And when Death had proved the stronger
Thou wouldst heave one sigh at most,
And then turn to some new moaner,
Ready to resume the battle,
Now thy soul is filled with anguish
Strange and wild, thou know’st not why;
While a voice unknown and inward
Seems to whisper, far and faintly,
“If he dies, thou too wilt die,”
Many months has he been lying
In thy ward and rises not;
Youth and strength avail him nothing;
Growing daily whiter, whiter;
Dying of men know not what.
And he murmurs: “Sister Mary,
Now the end is nearing fast;
Thou hast nursed me like God’s Angel,
But the hand of God is on me
And thy care must end at last.
“I have few, few days remaining;
Now I scarce can draw my breath;
See my hand: no blood is in it;
And I feel like one who slowly,
Slowly, slowly, bleeds to death.”
And his worn and heavy eyelids
Close again as if in sleep;
While thou lookest at his features
With a long and searching anguish
In thy eyes—that dare not weep.
Sister Mary, Sister Mary,
Watch him closer, closer still!
There be things within the boundless
Realm of Horror, unsuspected—
Things that slowly, slowly, kill!
In his face there is no colour,
And his hand is ivory-white;
But upon his throat is something
Like a small red stain or puncture,
Something like a leech’s bite.
Sister Mary, Sister Mary,
Dost thou see that small red stain?
Hast thou never noticed something
Like it on the throats of others
Whom thy care has nursed in vain?
Have no rumours reached thee, Sister,
Of a Thing that haunts these wards
When the scanty sleep thou takest
Cheats the sick of the protection
Which thy vigilance affords?
When, at night, the ward is silent
And the night-lamp’s dimness hides,
And the nurse on duty slumbers
In her chair with measured breathing,
Then it glides, and glides, and glides,
Like a woman’s form, new risen
From the grave with soundless feet,
Clad in something which the shadows
Of the night-lamp render doubtful
Whether robe or winding-sheet.
And its eyes seem fixed and sightless,
Like the eyeballs of the dead;
But it gropes not and moves onward
Sure and silent, seeking something,
And if any, lying sleepless,
Sees it, he becomes as stone;
Terror glues his lips together,
While his eyes are forced to follow
All its movements, one by one.
And he sees it stop, and hover
Round a bed, with wavering will,
Like a bat which, ere it settles,
Flits in circles ever smaller,
Nearer, nearer, nearer still.
Then it bends across the sleeper
Restless in the sultry night,
And begins to fan him gently
With its garment, till his slumber
Groweth deep, and dreamless quite;
And its corpse-like face unstiffens
And its dead eyes seem to gloat
As, approaching and approaching,
It applies its mouth of horror
Slowly, firmly, to his throat.
Sister Mary, Sister Mary,
Has no rumour told thee this?
What if he whose life thou lovest
Like thine own, and more, were dying
Of that long terrific kiss?
From the Hospital’s arched window,
Open to the summer air,
You can see the monks in couples
All returning home at sunset
Through the old cathedral square.
On the steps of the cathedral,
In the weak declining sun
Sit the beggars and the cripples;
While faint gusts of organ-rolling
Tell that vespers have begun.
Slowly creeps the tide of shadow
Up the steps of sculptured front,
Driving back the yellow sunshine
On each pinnacle and buttress
Which the twilight soon makes blunt.
Slowly evening grasps the city,
And the square grows still and lone;
No one passes save, it may be,
Up the steps and through the portal,
Some stray monk or tottering crone.
In this room, which seems the study
Of the Hospital’s chief leech,
There is no one; but the twilight
Makes all objects seem mysterious,
Like a conscious watcher each.
Here the snakes whose venom healeth
Stand in jars in hideous file;
While the skulls that crown the book-shelves
Seem to grin; and from the ceiling
Hangs the huge stuffed crocodile.
Here be kept the drugs and cordials
Which the Jew from Syria brings,
And perchance drugs yet more precious,
Melted topaz, pounded ruby
Such as save the lives of kings.
All is silent in the study;
But the door-hinge creaks anon,
And a woman enters softly
Seeking something that seems hidden—
One unnaturally wan.
What she seeks is not in phials
Nor in jars, but in a book;
And she mutters as she searches
Through the book-shelves with a kind of
Brooding hurry in her look;
And she finds the book, and takes it
To the window for more light;
And she reads a passage slowly
With constrained and hissing breathing
And dark brow contracted tight.
“Most of them,” it says, “are corpses
That have lain beneath the moon,
And that quit their graves at midnight,
Prowling round to prey on sleepers;
But the daybreak scares them soon.
“But the worst, called soulless bodies,
Plague the world but now and then;
They have died in some great sickness;
But reviving in the moonbeams
Rise once more and mix with men.
?