All eyes were on Enceladus's face,
And they beheld, while still Hyperion's name Flew from his lips up to the vaulted rocks, A pallid gleam across his features stern: Not savage, for he saw full many a God Wroth as himself. He look'd upon them all, And in each face he saw a gleam of light, But splendider in Saturn's, whose hoar locks Shone like the bubbling foam about a keel When the prow sweeps into a midnight cove. In pale and silver silence they remain'd, Till suddenly a splendour, like the morn, Pervaded all the beetling gloomy steeps, All the sad spaces of oblivion,
And every gulf, and every chasm old, And every height, and every sullen depth, Voiceless, or hoarse with loud tormented streams And all the everlasting cataracts,
And all the headlong torrents far and near, Mantled before in darkness and huge shade, Now saw the light and made it terrible. It was Hyperion:- a granite peak
His bright feet touch'd, and there he staid to view The misery his brilliance had betray'd
To the most hateful seeing of itself. Golden his hair of short Numidian curl, Regal his shape majestic, a vast shade
In midst of his own brightness, like the bulk Of Memnon's image at the set of sun To one who travels from the dusking East: Sighs, too, as mournful as that Memnon's harp, He utter'd, while his hands, contemplative, He press'd together, and in silence stood.
Despondence seized again the fallen Gods. At sight of the dejected King of Day, And many hid their faces from the light: But fierce Enceladus sent forth his eyes Among the brotherhood; and, at their glare, Uprose Iäpetus, and Creüs too,
And Phorcus, sea-born, and together strode To where he tower'd on his eminence. There those four shouted forth old Saturn's name. Hyperion from the peak loud answer'd, "Saturn!" Saturn sat near the Mother of the Gods, In whose face was no joy, though all the Gods Gave from their hollow throats the name of "Saturn!"
HUS, in alternate uproar and sad peace, Amazed were those Titans utterly.
O leave them, Muse! O leave them to their woes! For thou art weak to sing such tumults dire: A solitary sorrow best befits
Thy lips, and antheming a lonely grief.
Leave them, O Muse! for thou anon wilt find Many a fallen old Divinity
Wandering in vain about bewilder'd shores. Meantime touch piously the Delphic harp, And not a wind of heaven but will breathe In aid soft warble from the Dorian flute; For lo! 'tis for the Father of all verse. Flush everything that hath a vermeil hue,
Let the rose glow intense and warm the air, And let the clouds of even and of morn Float in voluptuous fleeces o'er the hills; Let the red wine within the goblet boil, Cold as a bubbling well; let faint-lipp'd shells, On sands or in great deeps, vermilion turn Through all their labyrinths; and let the maid Blush keenly, as with some warm kiss surprised. Chief isle of the embowered Cyclades, Rejoice, O Delos, with thine olives green, And poplars, and lawn-shading palms, and beech, In which the Zephyr breathes the loudest song, And hazels thick dark-stemm'd beneath the shade: Apollo is once more the golden theme!
Where was he, when the Giant of the Sun Stood bright, amid the sorrow of his peers? Together had he left his mother fair And his twin-sister sleeping in their bower, And in the morning twilight wander'd forth Beside the osiers of a rivulet,
Full ankle-deep in lilies of the vale.
The nightingale had ceased, and a few stars Were lingering in the heavens, while the thrush. Began calm-throated. Throughout all the isle There was no covert, no retired cave,
Unhaunted by the murmurous noise of waves, Though scarcely heard in many a green recess. He listen'd, and he wept, and his bright tears Went trickling down the golden bow he held. Thus with half-shut suffused eyes he stood, While from beneath some cumbrous boughs hard by With solemn step an awful Goddess came, And there was purport in her looks for him,
Which he with eager guess began to read Perplex'd, the while melodiously he said: "How camest thou over the unfooted sea? Or hath that antique mien and robed form Moved in these vales invisible till now? Sure I have heard those vestments sweeping o'er The fallen leaves, when I have sat alone In cool mid-forest. Surely I have traced The rustle of those ample skirts about
These grassy solitudes, and seen the flowers Lift up their heads, as still the whisper pass'd. Goddess! I have beheld those eyes before, And their eternal calm, and all that face, Or I have dream'd." "Yes," said the supreme shape, "Thou hast dream'd of me; and awaking up Didst find a lyre all golden by thy side,
Whose strings touch'd by thy fingers, all the vast Unwearied ear of the whole universe Listen'd in pain and pleasure at the birth Of such new tuneful wonder. Is 't not strange. That thou shouldst weep, so gifted? Tell me, youth, What sorrow thou canst feel; for I am sad When thou dost shed a tear: explain thy griefs To one who in this lonely isle hath been The watcher of thy sleep and hours of life, From the young day when first thy infant hand Pluck'd witless the weak flowers, till thine arm Could bend that bow heroic to all times. Show thy heart's secret to an ancient Power Who hath forsaken old and sacred thrones For prophecies of thee, and for the sake Of loveliness new-born."-Apollo then, With sudden scrutiny and gloomless eyes,
Thus answer'd, while his white melodious throat Throbb'd with the syllables:-"Mnemosyne ! Thy name is on my tongue, I know not how; Why should I tell thee what thou so well seest? Why should I strive to show what from thy lips Would come no mystery? For me, dark, dark, And painful vile oblivion seals my eyes:
I strive to search wherefore I am so sad, Until a melancholy numbs my limbs;
And then upon the grass I sit, and moan, Like one who once had wings. O why should I Feel cursed and thwarted, when the liegeless air Yields to my step aspirant? why should I Spurn the green turf as hateful to my feet? Goddess benign! point forth some unknown thing. Are there not other regions than this isle? What are the stars? There is the sun, the sun! And the most patient brilliance of the moon! And stars by thousands! Point me out the way To any one particular beauteous star, And I will flit into it with my lyre,
And make its silvery splendour pant with bliss. I have heard the cloudy thunder: where is power? Whose hand, whose essence, what divinity Makes this alarum in the elements,
While I here idle listen on the shores In fearless yet in aching ignorance ?
O tell me, lonely Goddess! by thy harp, That waileth every morn and eventide, Tell me why thus I rave about these groves. Mute thou remainest-mute? yet I can read A wondrous lesson in thy silent face: Knowledge enormous makes a God of me. VOL. III. 12
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