'Mid the darkness upward cast. A rainbow's arch stood on the sea His plank, then plunged aside to die. THIRD SPIRIT. I sate beside a sage's bed, And the lamp was burning red On a poet's lips I slept, Dreaming like a love-adept In the sound his breathing kept. Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses, But feeds on the aërial kisses Of shapes that haunt thought's wildernesses. He will watch from dawn to gloom . Ione. The lake-reflected sun illume Forms more real than living man, And I sped to succour thee. Behold'st thou not two shapes from the east and west Come? as two doves to one beloved nest, Twin nurslings of the all-sustaining air, On swift still wings glide down the atmosphere. And hark! their sweet sad voices! 'tis despair Mingled with love, and then dissolved in sound. Panthea. Canst thou speak, sister? all my words are drowned. Orange and azure deepening into gold : Their soft smiles light the air like a star's fire. CHORUS OF SPIRITS. Hast thou beheld the form of Love? FIFTH SPIRIT. As over wide dominions I sped, like some swift cloud that wings the wide air's wilder nesses, That planet-crested shape swept by on lightning-braided pinions, And hollow ruin yawned behind: great sages bound in madness, And headless patriots, and pale youths who perished unupbraiding, Gleamed in the night. I wandered o'er, till thou, O King of Sadness, Turn'st by thy smile the worst I saw to recollected gladness. Ah Sister! Desolation is a delicate thing: It walks not on the earth, it floats not on the air, But treads with killing footstep, and fans with silent wing, Dream visions of aërial joy, and call the monster Love, CHORUS. Though Ruin now Love's shadow be On Death's white and winged steed Which the fleetest cannot flee, Trampling down both flower and weed, Man and beast, and foul and fair, Thou shalt quell this horseman grim, Spirits! how know ye this shall be? CHORUS. In the atmosphere we breathe, (As buds grow red when the snow-storms flee To shepherd boys, the prophecy Which through the deep and labyrinthine soul, Like echoes through long caverns, wind and roll. Prometheus. 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 All things are still. Alas! how heavily Though 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 gulf 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? Prometheus. 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 ACT. II. SCENE I.-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; As from the earth, clothing with golden clouds 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! 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 through yon peaks of cloud-like snow The Æolian music of her sea-green plumes Winnowing the crimson dawn? I feel, I see, [PANTHEA enters. Those eyes which burn through smiles that fade in tears, The shadow of that soul by which I live, How late thou art! the sphered sun had climbed The sea; my heart was sick with hope, before The printless air felt thy belated plumes. Panthea. Pardon, great Sister! but my wings were faint As are the noontide plumes of summer winds Satiate with sweet flowers. I was wont to sleep Unhappy love, had made, through use and pity, P Our young Ione's soft and milky arms Locked then, as now, behind my dark moist hair, Asia. And let me read thy dream. Panthea. Lift up thine eyes, As I have said, "Sister of her whose footsteps pave the world Wraps ere it drinks some cloud of wandering dew. Thy name, Among the many sounds, alone I heard, I listened through the night when sound was none. Canst thou divine what troubles me to-night? |