Hyperion, Book III

Thus 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 befitsThy lips, and antheming a lonely grief.Leave them, O Muse! for thou anon wilt findMany a fallen old DivinityWandering in vain about bewildered shores.Meantime touch piously the Delphic harp,And not a wind of heaven but will breatheIn aid soft warble from the Dorian flute;For lo! 'tis for the Father of all verse.Flush every thing that hath a vermeil hue,Let the rose glow intense and warm the air,And let the clouds of even and of mornFloat 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 turnThrough all their labyrinths; and let the maidBlush keenly, as with some warm kiss surpris'd.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 SunStood bright, amid the sorrow of his peers?Together had he left his mother fairAnd his twin-sister sleeping in their bower,And in the morning twilight wandered forthBeside the osiers of a rivulet,Full ankle-deep in lilies of the vale.The nightingale had ceas'd, and a few starsWere lingering in the heavens, while the thrushBegan calm-throated. Throughout all the isleThere was no covert, no retired caveUnhaunted by the murmurous noise of waves,Though scarcely heard in many a green recess.He listen'd, and he wept, and his bright tearsWent trickling down the golden bow he held.Thus with half-shut suffused eyes he stood,While from beneath some cumbrous boughs hard byWith solemn step an awful Goddess came,And there was purport in her looks for him,Which he with eager guess began to readPerplex'd, the while melodiously he said:"How cam'st thou over the unfooted sea?Or hath that antique mien and robed formMov'd in these vales invisible till now?Sure I have heard those vestments sweeping o'erThe fallen leaves, when I have sat aloneIn cool mid-forest. Surely I have tracedThe rustle of those ample skirts aboutThese grassy solitudes, and seen the flowersLift 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 upDidst find a lyre all golden by thy side,Whose strings touch'd by thy fingers, all the vastUnwearied ear of the whole universeListen'd in pain and pleasure at the birthOf such new tuneful wonder. Is't not strangeThat thou shouldst weep, so gifted? Tell me, youth,What sorrow thou canst feel; for I am sadWhen thou dost shed a tear: explain thy griefsTo one who in this lonely isle hath beenThe watcher of thy sleep and hours of life,From the young day when first thy infant handPluck'd witless the weak flowers, till thine armCould bend that bow heroic to all times.Show thy heart's secret to an ancient PowerWho hath forsaken old and sacred thronesFor prophecies of thee, and for the sakeOf loveliness new born."--Apollo then,With sudden scrutiny and gloomless eyes,Thus answer'd, while his white melodious throatThrobb'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 lipsWould 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 IFeel curs'd and thwarted, when the liegeless airYields to my step aspirant? why should ISpurn 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 wayTo 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 divinityMakes this alarum in the elements,While I here idle listen on the shoresIn 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 readA wondrous lesson in thy silent face:Knowledge enormous makes a God of me.Names, deeds, gray legends, dire events, rebellions,Majesties, sovran voices, agonies,Creations and destroyings, all at oncePour into the wide hollows of my brain,And deify me, as if some blithe wineOr bright elixir peerless I had drunk,And so become immortal."--Thus the God,While his enkindled eyes, with level glanceBeneath his white soft temples, stedfast keptTrembling with light upon Mnemosyne.Soon wild commotions shook him, and made flushAll the immortal fairness of his limbs;Most like the struggle at the gate of death;Or liker still to one who should take leaveOf pale immortal death, and with a pangAs hot as death's is chill, with fierce convulseDie into life: so young Apollo anguish'd:His very hair, his golden tresses famedKept undulation round his eager neck.During the pain Mnemosyne upheldHer arms as one who prophesied.--At lengthApollo shriek'd;--and lo! from all his limbsCelestial