Part 11

Was never voice of ours could say Our inmost in the sweetest way, Like yonder voice aloft, and link All hearers in the song they drink. Our wisdom speaks from failing blood, Our passion is too full in flood, We want the key of his wild note Of truthful in a tuneful throat; The song seraphically free Of taint of personality, So pure that it salutes the suns The voice of one for millions, In whom the millions rejoice For giving their one spirit voice. Yet men have we, whom we revere, Now names, and men still housing here, Whose lives, by many a battle-dint Defaced, and grinding wheels on flint, Yield substance, though they sing not, sweet For song our highest heaven to greet: Whom heavenly singing gives us new, Enspheres them brilliant in our blue, From firmest base to farthest leap, Because their love of Earth is deep, And they are warriors in accord With life to serve, and, pass reward, So touching purest and so heard In the brain’s reflex of yon bird: Wherefore their soul in me, or mine, Through self-forgetfulness divine, In them, that song aloft maintains, To fill the sky and thrill the plains With showerings drawn from human stores, As he to silence nearer soars, Extends the world at wings and dome, More spacious making more our home, Till lost on his aërial rings In light, and then the fancy sings.

PHOEBUS WITH ADMETUS

WHEN by Zeus relenting the mandate was revoked, Sentencing to exile the bright Sun-God, Mindful were the ploughmen of who the steer had yoked, Who: and what a track showed the upturned sod! Mindful were the shepherds, as now the noon severe Bent a burning eyebrow to brown evetide, How the rustic flute drew the silver to the sphere, Sister of his own, till her rays fell wide. God! of whom music And song and blood are pure, The day is never darkened That had thee here obscure.

Chirping none, the scarlet cicadas crouched in ranks: Slack the thistle-head piled its down-silk grey: Scarce the stony lizard sucked hollows in his flanks: Thick on spots of umbrage our drowsed flocks lay. Sudden bowed the chestnuts beneath a wind unheard, Lengthened ran the grasses, the sky grew slate: Then amid a swift flight of winged seed white as curd, Clear of limb a Youth smote the master’s gate. God! of whom music And song and blood are pure, The day is never darkened That had thee here obscure.

III

Water, first of singers, o’er rocky mount and mead, First of earthly singers, the sun-loved rill, Sang of him, and flooded the ripples on the reed, Seeking whom to waken and what ear fill. Water, sweetest soother to kiss a wound and cool, Sweetest and divinest, the sky-born brook, Chuckled, with a whimper, and made a mirror-pool Round the guest we welcomed, the strange hand shook. God! of whom music And song and blood are pure, The day is never darkened That had thee here obscure.

Many swarms of wild bees descended on our fields: Stately stood the wheatstalk with head bent high: Big of heart we laboured at storing mighty yields, Wool and corn, and clusters to make men cry! Hand-like rushed the vintage; we strung the bellied skins Plump, and at the sealing the Youth’s voice rose: Maidens clung in circle, on little fists their chins; Gentle beasties through pushed a cold long nose. God! of whom music And song and blood are pure, The day is never darkened That had thee here obscure.

Foot to fire in snowtime we trimmed the slender shaft: Often down the pit spied the lean wolf’s teeth Grin against his will, trapped by masterstrokes of craft; Helpless in his froth-wrath as green logs seethe! Safe the tender lambs tugged the teats, and winter sped Whirled before the crocus, the year’s new gold. Hung the hooky beak up aloft, the arrowhead Reddened through his feathers for our dear fold. God! of whom music And song and blood are pure, The day is never darkened That had thee here obscure.

Tales we drank of giants at war with Gods above: Rocks were they to look on, and earth climbed air! Tales of search for simples, and those who sought of love Ease because the creature was all too fair. Pleasant ran our thinking that while our work was good, Sure as fruits for sweat would the praise come fast. He that wrestled stoutest and tamed the billow-brood Danced in rings with girls, like a sail-flapped mast. God! of whom music And song and blood are pure, The day is never darkened That had thee here obscure.

VII

Lo, the herb of healing, when once the herb is known, Shines in shady woods bright as new-sprung flame. Ere the string was tightened we heard the mellow tone, After he had taught how the sweet sounds came Stretched about his feet, labour done, ’twas as you see Red pomegranates tumble and burst hard rind. So began contention to give delight and be Excellent in things aimed to make life kind. God! of whom music And song and blood are pure, The day is never darkened That had thee here obscure.

VIII

You with shelly horns, rams! and, promontory goats, You whose browsing beards dip in coldest dew! Bulls, that walk the pastures in kingly-flashing coats! Laurel, ivy, vine, wreathed for feasts not few! You that build the shade-roof, and you that court the rays, You that leap besprinkling the rock stream-rent: He has been our fellow, the morning of our days! Us he chose for housemates, and this way went. God! of whom music And song and blood are pure, The day is never darkened That had thee here obscure.

MELAMPUS

WITH love exceeding a simple love of the things That glide in grasses and rubble of woody wreck; Or change their perch on a beat of quivering wings From branch to branch, only restful to pipe and peck; Or, bristled, curl at a touch their snouts in a ball; Or cast their web between bramble and thorny hook; The good physician Melampus, loving them all, Among them walked, as a scholar who reads a book.

For him the woods were a home and gave him the key Of knowledge, thirst for their treasures in herbs and flowers. The secrets held by the creatures nearer than we To earth he sought, and the link of their life with ours: And where alike we are, unlike where, and the veined Division, veined parallel, of a blood that flows In them, in us, from the source by man unattained Save marks he well what the mystical woods disclose.

III

And this he deemed might be boon of love to a breast Embracing tenderly each little motive shape, The prone, the flitting, who seek their food whither best Their wits direct, whither best from their foes escape. For closer drawn to our mother’s natural milk, As babes they learn where her motherly help is great: They know the juice for the honey, juice for the silk, And need they medical antidotes, find them straight.

Of earth and sun they are wise, they nourish their broods, Weave, build, hive, burrow and battle, take joy and pain Like swimmers varying billows: never in woods Runs white insanity fleeing itself: all sane The woods revolve: as the tree its shadowing limns To some resemblance in motion, the rooted life Restrains disorder: you hear the primitive hymns Of earth in woods issue wild of the web of strife.

Now sleeping once on a day of marvellous fire, A brood of snakes he had cherished in grave regret That death his people had dealt their dam and their sire, Through savage dread of them, crept to his neck, and set Their tongues to lick him: the swift affectionate tongue Of each ran licking the slumberer: then his ears A forked red tongue tickled shrewdly: sudden upsprung, He heard a voice piping: Ay, for he has no fears!

A bird said that, in the notes of birds, and the speech Of men, it seemed: and another renewed: He moves To learn and not to pursue, he gathers to teach; He feeds his young as do we, and as we love loves. No fears have I of a man who goes with his head To earth, chance looking aloft at us, kind of hand: I feel to him as to earth of whom we are fed; I pipe him much for his good could he understand.

VII

Melampus touched at his ears, laid finger on wrist He was not dreaming, he sensibly felt and heard. Above, through leaves, where the tree-twigs inter-twist, He spied the birds and the bill of the speaking bird. His cushion mosses in shades of various green, The lumped, the antlered, he pressed, while the sunny snake Slipped under: draughts he had drunk of clear Hippocrene, It seemed, and sat with a gift of the Gods awake.

VIII

Divinely thrilled was the man, exultingly full, As quick well-waters that come of the heart of earth, Ere yet they dart in a brook are one bubble-pool To light and sound, wedding both at the leap of birth. The soul of light vivid shone, a stream within stream; The soul of sound from a musical shell outflew; Where others hear but a hum and see but a beam, The tongue and eye of the fountain of life he knew.

He knew the Hours: they were round him, laden with seed Of hours bestrewn upon vapour, and one by one They winged as ripened in fruit the burden decreed For each to scatter; they flushed like the buds in sun, Bequeathing seed to successive similar rings, Their sisters, bearers to men of what men have earned: He knew them, talked with the yet unreddened; the stings, The sweets, they warmed at their bosoms divined, discerned.

Not unsolicited, sought by diligent feet, By riddling fingers expanded, oft watched in growth With brooding deep as the noon-ray’s quickening wheat, Ere touch’d, the pendulous flower of the plants of sloth, The plants of rigidness, answered question and squeeze, Revealing wherefore it bloomed, uninviting, bent, Yet making harmony breathe of life and disease, The deeper chord of a wonderful instrument.

So passed he luminous-eyed for earth and the fates We arm to bruise or caress us: his ears were charged With tones of love in a whirl of voluble hates, With music wrought of distraction his heart enlarged. Celestial-shining, though mortal, singer, though mute, He drew the Master of harmonies, voiced or stilled, To seek him; heard at the silent medicine-root A song, beheld in fulfilment the unfulfilled.