Orpheus

A:Not far from hence. From yonder pointed hill,Crowned with a ring of oaks, you may beholdA dark and barren field, through which there flows,Sluggish and black, a deep but narrow stream,Which the wind ripples not, and the fair moonGazes in vain, and finds no mirror there.Follow the herbless banks of that strange brookUntil you pause beside a darksome pond,The fountain of this rivulet, whose gushCannot be seen, hid by a rayless nightThat lives beneath the overhanging rockThat shades the pool--an endless spring of gloom,Upon whose edge hovers the tender light,Trembling to mingle with its paramour,--But, as Syrinx fled Pan, so night flies day,Or, with most sullen and regardless hate,Refuses stern her heaven-born embrace.On one side of this jagged and shapeless hillThere is a cave, from which there eddies upA pale mist, like aereal gossamer,Whose breath destroys all life--awhile it veilsThe rock--then, scattered by the wind, it fliesAlong the stream, or lingers on the clefts,Killing the sleepy worms, if aught bide there.Upon the beetling edge of that dark rockThere stands a group of cypresses; not suchAs, with a graceful spire and stirring life,Pierce the pure heaven of your native vale,Whose branches the air plays among, but notDisturbs, fearing to spoil their solemn grace;But blasted and all wearily they stand,One to another clinging; their weak boughsSigh as the wind buffets them, and they shakeBeneath its blasts--a weatherbeaten crew!

CHORUS:What wondrous sound is that, mournful and faint,But more melodious than the murmuring windWhich through the columns of a temple glides?

A:It is the wandering voice of Orpheus' lyre,Borne by the winds, who sigh that their rude kingHurries them fast from these air-feeding notes;But in their speed they bear along with themThe waning sound, scattering it like dewUpon the startled sense.

CHORUS:Does he still sing?Methought he rashly cast away his harpWhen he had lost Eurydice.

A:Ah, no!Awhile he paused. As a poor hunted stagA moment shudders on the fearful brinkOf a swift stream--the cruel hounds press onWith deafening yell, the arrows glance and wound,--He plunges in: so Orpheus, seized and tornBy the sharp fangs of an insatiate grief,Maenad-like waved his lyre in the bright air,And wildly shrieked 'Where she is, it is dark!'And then he struck from forth the strings a soundOf deep and fearful melody. Alas!In times long past, when fair EurydiceWith her bright eyes sat listening by his side,He gently sang of high and heavenly themes.As in a brook, fretted with little wavesBy the light airs of spring--each riplet makesA many-sided mirror for the sun,While it flows musically through green banks,Ceaseless and pauseless, ever clear and fresh,So flowed his song, reflecting the deep joyAnd tender love that fed those sweetest notes,The heavenly offspring of ambrosial food.But that is past. Returning from drear Hell,He chose a lonely seat of unhewn stone,Blackened with lichens, on a herbless plain.Then from the deep and overflowing springOf his eternal ever-moving griefThere rose to Heaven a sound of angry song.'Tis as a mighty cataract that partsTwo sister rocks with waters swift and strong,And casts itself with horrid roar and dinAdown a steep; from a perennial sourceIt ever flows and falls, and breaks the airWith loud and fierce, but most harmonious roar,And as it falls casts up a vaporous sprayWhich the sun clothes in hues of Iris light.Thus the tempestuous torrent of his griefIs clothed in sweetest sounds and varying wordsOf poesy. Unlike all human works,It never slackens, and through every changeWisdom and beauty and the power divineOf mighty poesy together dwell,Mingling in sweet accord. As I have seenA fierce south blast tear through the darkened sky,Driving along a rack of winged clouds,Which may not pause, but ever hurry on,As their wild shepherd wills them, while the stars,Twinkling and dim, peep from between the plumes.Anon the sky is cleared, and the high domeOf serene Heaven, starred with fiery flowers,Shuts in the shaken earth; or the still moonSwiftly, yet gracefully, begins her walk,Rising all bright behind the eastern hills.I talk of moon, and wind, and stars, and notOf song; but, would I echo his high song,Nature must lend me words ne'er used before,Or I must borrow from her perfect works,To picture forth his perfect attributes.He does no longer sit upon his throneOf rock upon a desert herbless plain,For the evergreen and knotted ilexes,And cypresses that seldom wave their boughs,And sea-green olives with their grateful fruit,And elms dragging along the twisted vines,Which drop their berries as they follow fast,And blackthorn bushes with their infant raceOf blushing rose-blooms; beeches, to lovers dear,And weeping willow trees; all swift or slow,As their huge boughs or lighter dress permit,Have circled in his throne, and Earth herselfHas sent from her maternal breast a growthOf starlike flowers and herbs of odour sweet,To pave the temple that his poesyHas framed, while near his feet grim lions couch,And kids, fearless from love, creep near his lair.Even the blind worms seem to feel the sound.The birds are silent, hanging down their heads,Perched on the lowest branches of the trees;Not even the nightingale intrudes a noteIn rivalry, but all entranced she listens.