Complete Works of Thomas Love Peacock

by Thomas Love Peacock

  And streams are bright, and sweet birds sing;

  And where is the infant’s sorrowing?” —

  Dimly he heard the words she said,

  Nor well their latent meaning drew;

  But languidly he raised his head,

  And on the damsel fixed his view.

  Was it a form of mortal mould

  That did his dazzled sense impress?

  Even painful from its loveliness!

  Her bright hair in the moonbeams glowing,

  A rose-bud wreath above confined,

  From whence, as from a fountain, flowing,

  Long ringlets round her temples twined,

  And fell in many a graceful fold,

  Streaming in curls of feathery lightness

  Around her neck’s marmoreal whiteness.

  Love, in the smile that round her lips,

  Twin roses of persuasion, played,

  — Nectaries of balmier sweets than sips

  The Hymettian bee, — his ambush laid;

  And his own shafts of liquid fire

  Came on the soul with sweet surprise,

  Through the soft dews of young desire

  That trembled in her large dark eyes;

  But in those eyes there seemed to move

  A flame, almost too bright for love,

  That shone, with intermitting flashes,

  Beneath their long deep-shadowy lashes.

  — “What ails thee, youth?” — her lips repeat,

  In tones more musically sweet

  Than breath of shepherd’s twilight reed,

  Prom far to woodland echo borne,

  That floats like dew o’er stream and mead,

  And whispers peace to souls that mourn.

  — “What ails thee, youth?”—” A fearful sign

  For one whose dear sake led me hither:

  Love repels me from his shrine,

  And seems to say: That maid divine

  Like those ill-omened flowers shall wither.” —

  — “Flowers may die on many a stem;

  Fruits may fall from many a tree;

  Not the more for loss of them

  Shall this fair world a desert be:

  Thou in every grove will see

  Fruits and flowers enough for thee.

  Stranger! I with thee will share

  The votive fruits and flowers I bear,

  Rich in fragrance, fresh in bloom;—’

  These may find a happier doom:

  If they change not, fade not now,

  Deem that Love accepts thy vow.” —

  The youth, mistrustless, from the maid

  Received, and on the altar laid

  The votive wreath: it did not fade; —

  And she on his her offering threw.

  Did fancy cloud Anthemion’s view?

  Or did those sister garlands fair

  Indeed entwine and blend again,

  Wreathed into one, even as they were,

  Ere she, their brilliant sweets to share,

  Unwove their flowery chain?

  She fixed on him her radiant eyes,

  And—” Love’s propitious power,” — she said, —

  “Accepts thy second sacrifice.

  The sun descends tow’rds ocean’s bed.

  Day by day the sun doth set,

  And day by day the sun doth rise,

  And grass, with evening dew-drops wet,

  The morning radiance dries:

  And what if beauty slept, where peers

  That mossy grass? and lover’s tears

  Were mingled with that evening dew?

  The morning sun would dry them too.

  Many a loving heart is near,

  That shall its plighted love forsake:

  Many lips are breathing here

  Vows a few short days will break:

  Many, lone amidst mankind,

  Claim from love’s unpitying power

  The kindred heart they ne’er shall find:

  Many, at this festal hour,

  Joyless in the joyous scene,

  Pass, with idle glance unmoved,

  Even those whom they could best have loved,

  Had means of mutual knowledge been:

  Some meet for once and part for aye,

  Like thee and me, and scarce a day

  Shall each by each remembered he:

  But take the flower I give to thee,

  And till it fades remember me.” —

  Anthemion answered not: his brain

  Was troubled with conflicting thought:

  A dim and dizzy sense of pain

  That maid’s surpassing beauty brought;

  And strangely on his fancy wrought

  Her mystic moralizings, fraught

  With half-prophetic sense, and breathed

  In tones so sweetly wild.

  Unconsciously the flower he took,

  And with absorbed admiring look

  Gazed, as with fascinated eye

  The lone hard gazes on the sky,

  Who, in the bright clouds rolled and wreathed

  Around the sun’s descending car,

  Sees shadowy rocks sublimely piled,

  And phantom standards wide unfurled,

  And towers of an aerial world

  Embattled for unearthly war.

  So stood Anthemion, till among

  The mazes of the festal throng

  The damsel from his sight had past;

  Yet well he marked that once she cast

  A backward look, perchance to see

  If he watched her still so fixedly.

  CANTO II.

  DOES Love so weave his subtle spell,

  So closely bind his golden chain,

  That only one fair form may dwell

  In dear remembrance, and in vain

  May other beauty seek to gain

  A place that idol form beside

  In feelings all preoccupied?

  Or does one radiant image, shrined

  Within the inmost soul’s recess,

  Exalt, expand, and make the mind

  A temple, to receive and bless

  All forms of kindred loveliness?

  Howbeit, as from those myrtle bowers,

  And that bright altar crowned with flowers,.

  Anthemion turned, as thought’s wild stream

  Its interrupted course resumed,

  Still, like the phantom of a dream,

  Before his dazzled memory bloomed

  The image of that maiden strange:

  Yet not a passing thought of change

  He knew, nor once his fancy strayed

  From his long-loved Arcadian maid.

  Vaguely his mind the scene retraced,

  Image on image wildly driven.

  As in his bosom’s fold he placed

  The flower that radiant nymph had given.

  With idle steps, at random bent,

  Through Thespia’s crowded ways he went;

  And on his troubled ear the strains

  Of choral music idly smote;

  And with vacant eye he saw the trains

  Of youthful dancers round him float,

  As the musing bard from his sylvan seat

  Looks on the dance of the noontide heat,

  Or the play of the watery flowers, that quiver

  In the eddies of a lowland river.

  Around, beside him, to and fro,

  The assembled thousands hurrying go.

  These the palæstric sports invite,

  Where courage, strength, and skill contend;

  The gentler Muses those delight,

  Where throngs of silent listeners bend

  While rival hards, with lips of fire,

  Attune to love the impassioned lyre;

  Or where the mimic scene displays

  Some solemn tale of elder days,

  Despairing Phædra’s vengeful doom,

  Alcestis’ love too dearly tried,

  Or H�
�mon dying on the tomb

  That closes o’er his living bride.

  But choral dance, and bardic strain,

  Palæstric sport, and scenic tale,

  Around Anthemion spread in vain

  Their mixed attractions: sad and pale

  He moved along, in musing sadness,

  Amid all sights and sounds of gladness.

  A sudden voice his musings broke.

  He looked; an aged man was near,

  Of rugged brow, and eye severe.

  — “What evil,” — thus the stranger spoke, —

  “Has this our city done to thee,

  Ill-omened boy, that thou should’st be

  A blot on our solemnity?

  Or what Alastor bade thee wear

  That laurel-rose, to Love profane,

  Whose leaves in semblance falsely fair

  Of Love’s maternal flower, contain

  For purest fragrance deadliest bane?

  Art thou a scorner? dost thou throw

  Defiance at his power? Beware!

  Full soon thy impious youth may know

  What pangs his shafts of anger bear;

  For not the sun’s descending dart,

  Nor yet the lightning-brand of Jove,

  Fall like the shaft that strikes the heart

  Thrown by the mightier hand of Love.” —

  — “Oh stranger! not with impious thought

  My steps this holy rite have sought.

  With pious heart and offerings due

  I mingled in the votive train;

  Nor did I deem this flower profane;

  Nor she, I ween, its evil knew,

  That radiant girl, who bade me cherish

  Her memory till its bloom should perish.” — !

  — “Who, and what, and whence was she?” —

  — “A stranger till this hour to me.” —

  — “Oh youth, beware! that laurel-rose

  Around Larissa’s evil walls

  In tufts of rank luxuriance grows,

  ‘Mid dreary valleys, by the falls

  Of haunted streams; arid magic knows

  Ho herb or plant of deadlier might,

  When impious footsteps wake by night

  The echoes of those dismal dells,

  What time the murky midnight dew

  Trembles on many a leaf and blossom,

  That draws from earth’s polluted bosom

  Mysterious virtue, to imbue

  The chalice of unnatural spells.

  Oft, those dreary rocks among,

  The murmurs of unholy song,

  Breathed by lips as fair as hers

  By whose false hands that flower was given,

  The solid earth’s firm breast have riven,

  And burst the silent sepulchres,

  And called strange shapes of ghastly fear,

  To hold, beneath the sickening moon,

  Portentous parle, at night’s deep noon,

  With beauty skilled in mysteries drear.

  Oh, youth! Larissa’s maids are fair;

  But the daemons of the earth and air

  Their spells obey, their councils share,

  And wide o’er earth and ocean bear

  Their mandates to the storms that tear’

  The rock-enrooted oak, and sweep

  With whirlwind wings the labouring deep.

  Their words of power can make the streams

  Boll refluent on their mountain-springs,

  Can torture sleep with direful dreams,

  And on the shapes of earthly things,

  Man, beast, bird, fish, with influence strange,

  Breathe foul and fearful interchange,

  And fix in marble bonds the form

  Ere while with natural being warm,

  And give to senseless stones and stocks

  Motion, and breath, and shape that mocks,

  As far as nicest eye can scan,

  The action and the life of man.

  Beware! yet once again beware!

  Ere round thy inexperienced mind,

  With voice and semblance falsely fair,

  A chain Thessalian magic bind,

  Which never more, oh youth! believe,

  Shall either earth or heaven unweave.” —

  While yet he spoke, the morning scene,

  In more portentous hues arrayed,

  Dwelt on Anthemion’s mind: a shade

  Of deeper mystery veiled the mien

  And words of that refulgent maid.

  The frown, that, ere he breathed his vow,

  Dwelt on the brazen statue’s brow;

  His votive flowers, so strangely blighted;

  The wreath her beauteous hands untwined

  To share with him, that, self-combined,

  Its sister tendrils reunited,

  Strange sympathy! as in his mind

  These forms of troubled memory blended

  With dreams of evil undefined,

  Of magic and Thessalian guile,

  How by the warning voice portended

  Of that mysterious man, awhile,

  Even when the stranger’s speech had ended,

  He stood as if he listened still.

  At length he said:—” Oh, reverend stranger!

  Thy solemn words are words of fear.

  Hot for myself I shrink from danger;

  But there is one to me more dear

  Than all within this earthly sphere,

  And many are the omens ill

  That threaten her: to Jove’s high will

  We bow; but if in human skill

  Be ought of aid or expiation

  That may this peril turn away,

  For old Experience holds his station

  On that grave brow, oh stranger! say.” —

  — “Oh youth I experience sad indeed

  Is mine; and should I tell my tale,

  Therein thou might’st too clearly read

  How little may all aid avail

  To him, whose hapless steps around

  Thessalian spells their chains have bound:

  And yet such counsel as I may

  I give to thee. Ere close of day

  Seek thou the planes, whose broad shades fall

  On the stream that laves you mountain’s base:

  There on thy Natal Genius call

  For aid, and with avèrted face

  Give to the stream that flower, nor look

  Upon the running wave again;

  For, if thou should’st, the sacred plane

  Has heard thy suppliant vows in vain;

  Nor then thy Natal Genius can,

  Nor Phoebus, nor Arcadian Pan,

  Dissolve thy tenfold chain.” —

  The stranger said, and turned away.

  Anthemion sought the plane-grove’s shade.

  ’Twas near the closing hour of day.

  The slanting sunbeam’s golden ray,

  That through the massy foliage made

  Scarce here and there a passage, played

  Upon the silver-eddying stream,

  Even on the rocky channel throwing

  Through the clear flood its golden gleam.

  The bright waves danced beneath the beam

  To the music of their own sweet flowing.

  The flowering sallows on the bank,

  Beneath the o’ershadowing plane-trees wreathing

  In sweet association, drank

  The grateful moisture, round them breathing

  Soft fragrance through the lonely wood.

  There, where the mingling foliage wove

  Its closest bower, two altars stood,

  This to the Genius of the Grove,

  That to the Naiad of the Flood.

  So light a breath was on the trees,

  That rather like a spirit’s sigh

  Than motion of an earthly breeze,

  Among the summits broad and high

  Of those tall planes its whispers stirred;

&nb
sp; And save that gentlest symphony

  Of air and stream, no sound was heard,

  But of the solitary bird,

  That aye, at summer’s evening hour,

  When music save her own is none,

  Attunes, from her invisible bower,

  Her hymn to the descending sun.

  Anthemion paused upon the shore:

  All thought of magic’s impious lore,

  All dread of evil powers, combined

  Against his peace, attempered ill

  With that sweet scene; and on his mind

  Fair, graceful, gentle, radiant still,

  The form of that strange damsel came;

  And something like a sense of shame

  He felt, as if his coward thought

  Foul wrong to guileless beauty wrought.

  At length—” Oh radiant girl!” — he said, —

  “If in the cause that bids me tread

  These banks, be mixed injurious dread

  Of thy fair thoughts, the fears of love

  Must with thy injured kindness plead #

  My pardon for the wrongful deed.

  Ye Nymphs and Sylvan Gods, that rove

  The precincts of this sacred wood!

  Thou, Achelous’ gentle daughter,

  Bright Naiad of this beauteous water!

  And thou, my Natal Genius good!

  Lo! with pure hands the crystal flood

  Collecting, on these altars blest,

  Libation holiest, brightest, best,

  I pour. If round my footsteps dwell

  Unholy sign or evil spell,

  Receive me in your guardian sway;

  And thou, oh gentle Naiad! hear

  With this false flower those spells away,

  If such be lingering there.” —

  Then from the stream he turned his view,

  And o’er his hack the flower he threw.

  Hark! from the wave a sudden cry,

  Of one in last extremity,

  A voice as of a drowning maid!

  The echoes of the sylvan shade

  Gave response long and drear.

  He starts: he does not turn. Again!

  It is Calliroe’s cry! In vain

  Could that dear maiden’s cry of pain

  Strike on Anthemion’s ear?

  At once, forgetting all beside,

  He turned to plunge into the tide,

  But all again was still:

  The sun upon the surface bright

  Poured his last line of crimson light,

  Half-sunk behind the hill:

  But through the solemn plane-trees past

  The pinions of a mightier blast,

  And in its many-sounding sweep,

  Among the foliage broad and deep,

  Aerial voices seemed to sigh,

  As if the spirits of the grove

  Mourned, in prophetic sympathy

  With some disastrous love.

  CANTO III.

  BY living streams, in sylvan shades,

  Where winds and waves symphonious make

  Sweet melody, the youths and maids

  No more with coral music wake