XI

But, lo! amid the woodland green Of the

What mantles of strange blue are seen? Philosopher.

What sage is he who slowly leads

Disciples on and little heeds

The holiness of sylvan haunt,

Where even the silver bird dare chant

But seldom? where the sunlight lies

Here scalding gold, and yonder dies

Into a humid, still, green gloom?

Hath not he in the forum room

To vent himself, that now with rude

Rabble he scareth Solitude

From her ultimate hiding-place?

Now steps he forward a slow pace,

And‘ gins his discourse. Hear him prate,

O woods, to silence consecrate;

Hear him, O flowers, whose golden eyes

Speak more than all Man's orat'ries!—

Meanwhile, though nations in distress

Cower at a comet's loveliness And his

Shaken across the midnight sky; Oration.

Though the wind roars, and Victory,

A virgin fierce, on vans of gold

Stoops through the cloud's white smother rolled

Over the armies’ shock and flow

Across the broad green hills below,

Yet hovers and will not circle down

To cast t'ward one the leafy crown;

Though men drive galleys’ golden beaks

To isles beyond the sunset peaks,

And cities on the sea behold

Whose walls are glass, whose gates are gold,

Whose turrets, risen in an hour,

Dazzle between the sun and shower,

Whose sole inhabitants are kings

Six cubits high with gryphon's wings

And beard and mien more glorious

Than Midas or Assaracus;

Though priests in many a hill-top fane

Lift anguished hands — and lift in vain —

Toward the sun's shaft dancing through

The bright roof's square of wind-swept blue;

Though‘ cross the stars nightly arise

The silver fumes of sacrifice;

Though a new Helen bring new scars,

Pyres piled upon wrecked golden cars,

Stacked spears, rolled smoke, and spirits sped

Like a streaked flame toward the dead:

Though all these be, yet grows not old

Delight of sunned and windy wold,

Of soaking downs aglare, asteam,

Of still tarns where the yellow gleam

Of a far sunrise slowly breaks,

Or sunset strews with golden flakes

The deeps which soon the stars will throng.

For earth yet keeps her undersong

Of comfort and of ultimate peace,

That whoso seeks shall never cease

To hear at dawn or noon or night.

Joys hath she, too, joys thin and bright,

Too thin, too bright, for those to hear

Who listen with an eager ear,

Or course about and seek to spy,

Within an hour, eternity.

First must the spirit cast aside

This world's and next his own poor pride

And learn the universe to scan

More as a flower less as a man.

Then shall he hear the lonely dead

Sing and the stars sing overhead,

And every spray upon the heath

And larks above and ants beneath;

The stream shall take him in her arms;

Blue skies shall rest him in their calms;

The wind shall be a lovely friend,

And every leaf and bough shall bend

Over him with a lover's grace.

The hills shall bare a perfect face

Full of a high solemnity;

The heavenly clouds shall weep, and be

Content as overhead they swim

To be high brothers unto him.

No more shall he feel pitched and hurled

Uncomprehended into this world

For every place shall be his place,

And he shall recognize its face.

At dawn he shall upon his path;

No sword shall touch him, nor the wrath

Of the ranked crowd of clamorous men.

At even he shall home again,

And lay him down to sleep at ease,

One with the Night and the Night's peace.

Ev'n Sorrow, to be escaped of none,

But a more deep communion

Shall be to him, and Death at last

No more dreaded than the Past,

Whose shadow in the brain of earth

Informs him now and gave him birth.

Up, O Faun, up! is he a man The Faun's

So dares affront the great god Pan? Anger.

Creep I now close....

( Has he not heard

Ever the lamb cry as the bird

Descends upon its helpless head

To pluck its eyes out? Blank with dread

Did he ne'er press in stumbling haste

Over the wide moor's tossing waste?

Or, stripped to plunge, did never eye

The sunned pool smiling treacherously,

Despair and terror in his heart?

Hate on him! )

See: he draws apart

That with himself he may commune

The while to a low murmuring tune

Wrung from a golden-stringed lyre

The young men chant. Hist! Draws he nigher?

Now crouch I mid a thicket where

The spicy hedge-rose warms the air

With giddy scent, and for an hour

Woos with her open-bosomed flower

The full gaze of her lord the sun,

And through whose thorns the sunbeams run

Spangling the cavern of the brake

With chequered shade such as the snake

Loves to repose in, that the heat

Upon his sullen coils may beat,

Breeding within his ancient heart

Such malice that his tongue must dart

Flickering in silence out and in,

The while adown his withered skin,

From horns above his murderous eyes,

The cold surge shudders, ebbs, and dies.

And now yon comes, with solemn head And of the Trick

Sunk upon breast, with laurel spread the Faun played,

About his thought-bewrinkled brows. thereby symbolizing

All hail, philosopher! I rouse the Rule of Pan

Thee by a low and single hiss. in Nature.

He is frozen still. A sudden bliss

Seizes me, and a branch I shake

As gently as an unseen snake

Swinging toward him.

But he stands,

Clasps and unclasps his gradual hands

In silence save for one long sigh

Of terror.

And I draw more nigh.

Beneath his glazed eyes I sway

Three leaves upon one stilly spray:

He blenches.

Ha! it was well done,

That final hiss.

I am alone:

For with a harsh cry he has fled

Hideously stumbling, and is led

Speechless away.

The lyre, forgot,

Lies in the grass....