Ardours and Endurances Part 9

IV

Away! My rapping footfalls drown _And of the All but the sobbing of the wind Manner of Within my ears and loud behind the Running._ The thunder of the Centaur's hooves Where, like a hailstorm, down he moves.

Past me the spun pines rock and hiss, Behind my feet stones pelted whizz, Hills rise before me, backward flow, The bare downs, bright'ning, mount below....

On. On. Down. Down. But, ah, no more!

My breath comes keener than the frore Indraught of age-long mountain frost; My head turns dizzy, feet are lost.

Yet scamper feet! A rock--a mound: Rap! Rap! I soar it at a bound.

On. On. Down. Down. A sudden brook, And now--in mid-air--lo! there look Laughingly up at me the eyes Of Hyads, and their fading cries Ring in my ears. Can they have seen The Centaur hurtle by between Them and the clouds? The downs up-fly.

Now earth's bowl rocks and reels the sky And through my chilly flaming tears The molten sun swoops, bursts, and veers....

Still rap my hoofs, though but the sound Tells me they yet rocket the ground.

The uproar loudens more behind.

My crook'd legs cross, my eyes go blind.

I claw the sky: for, O! I can Scarce lurch. I feel the sudden fan Of the great Centaur's galey breath Upon my nape, and like chill death His hand descends. But, ah! he laughs Even as Bacchus when he quaffs In jest or taunt a double bowl.

I, choking, reel, and, tripping, roll _The Faun Wildly aside. See! as I fall falls._ A rampant shape majestical Storms vehement by, and, storming, swings Hand across rushing lyre, which rings To strains, like rolling breakers tossed High o'er an adamantine coast, In praise of elemental Mirth, Strength, Beauty and the Golden Earth!

V

Beyond the rocks, below the trees, _Of Downs The great downs lie; nought but the breeze beloved Is heard upon them. All day long by Pan._ The shadows of the great clouds throng Across their sides: a noiseless rout.

Sometimes a peewit, blown about By airy surge, cries a lone cry Ere hurtled down the clarid sky; Sometimes is heard a shepherd's voice Shouting, and after it the noise Of many-pattering crowded sheep Herded within the gay dog's keep, Who also, barking, shouts. Save these Nought breaks the breezy silences Of the green sun-swept, cloud-swept s.p.a.ces....

Such downs Pan loves, and ofttime places His lonely altars on them.

I One of such now behold. A high Mound bears it, and its nakedness Of festal fruit and fragrant dress Hints 'tis new-built.

Up, then, and sound A rally to the sacred ground:

_Faun._ Come ye, merry shepherds all, Hulli-lulli-li-lo! FAUN'S RALLY.

Listen to my piping call: Hulli-li-lo!

Hasten to Pan's festival; Leave your sheep.

Cannot Pan a shrewd watch keep O'er his own?

Safe are they as pent in stall; Safe are they, for Pan has thrown Fear about them like a wall.

Wherefore, shepherds, hither run.

I have set my pipes to lip; Now they cry despondingly As mid shaken locks I dip.

Now shrill--as hark!--I lift them high To swirl the tune about the sky!

Up and down and round the sky Till want I further force to blow....

Wherefore, shepherds, hither run, Dance behind me as I skip; Strike the tossed tambours in unison, Dance, dance and make to dance the sun To your Hulli-li-lo!

_Shepherds._ Faun, I come. I hear. We hear--

_Faun._ This my Hulli-li-lo: Now afar and now anear.

_Shepherds._ Never sped the midnight deer Half so fast 'Fore Diana's star-ringed spear As now haste we to appear At thy Hulli-li-lo!

_Faun._ Joy, O shepherds, at the sound: Hulli-lulli-li-lo!

Pan's new altar I have found: Hulli-li-lo!

Cowslips prank its holy mound, With ivy have I wreathed it round-- But not yet Is the altar's dress complete Till with flowers its horns are bound.

_Shepherds._ Faun, we hear, and from the brook Flags are pulled; and now we hook Honeysuckle high, low Down to us with shepherd's crook; Breathing floss, Clematis twines, rushy stook, Apple blossom, down is shook At thy Hulli-li-lo!

_Faun._ Wreathe the pedestal anew; Hulli-lulli-li-lo!

Scatter violets scattering dew; Hulli-li-lo!

Honey that the brown bees brew Pour, and rosy blossoms strew; Spill such wine As in dim-bloomed cl.u.s.ters grew On your father's father's vine.

Dance you now.

I my pipe cease--thus--to blow: Dance you on.

Dance about the sacred mound, Dance when every sound is gone....

Now the timbrels softly, sprightly Beat, and foot it gaily, lightly; Tiptoe o'er the secret ground, Dance the round.

Next, to the sole, trilling flute And your own subdued laughter Flutter all in throngs and mazes, Chase in streams of ardent faces, With bright eyes and oped mouth mute.

Now alone, One by one, Dance and dream, and dreaming float Till the mult.i.tude drifts after, And I wake a quicker note: Clap your hands aloft and cry; Surge in line tumultuously; Cry, and with a whirl of voices Fright the pigeons whickering by!

Praise the G.o.d of field and fold!

Shout until the hills have told, By their sudden echoes flying, Flying, crying, falling, dying, That upon his name we call, Who beside the river lying Hears us keep his festival.

VI

Wearied of solitary hills, _The Faun enters On which the wannish sunlight spills, the Valley._ And which the glooms of high clouds cross, Clouds wandering ever at a loss About th' immeasurable sky, I will descend. And by-and-by Glimpse beneath the shouldered down A hamlet reeking golden-brown; Creep through a willow copse to view Under an orchard avenue, A lithe girl in a sun-splashed smock Calling her perched pigeon flock, And as they coo and flutter over Laughing and carolling of her lover.

_Girl._ '_Little pigeon, grave and fleet_'-- All the golden grain you'd eat, Greedy! let the little bird Pick some. Sweet, your cooing's heard; You shall have this. There! Be bolder: Light you now upon my shoulder....

Cooroo? Cooroo in my ear?

Darling, yes, I hear, I hear: From this hand, then, you shall pluck it.

Foolish love! your wings have struck it, Spilt the grain the gra.s.s among.

--Flutter! Flutter!--where's my song?

'_Little pigeon, grave and fleet_'-- Too late now your wings you beat By my face: look in the ground; There, they say, all gold is found.

Little pigeon, grave and fleet, THE PIGEON SONG.

Eye-of-fire, sweet Snowy-wings, Think you that you can discover On what great green down my lover Lies by his sunny sheep and sings?

If you can, O go and greet Him from me; say: She is waiting....

Not for him, O no! but, sweet, Say June's nigh and doves, remating, Fill the dancing noontide heat With melodious debating.

Say the swift swoops from the beam; Soon the cuckoo must cease calling; Kingcups flare beside the stream, That not glides now but runs brawling; That wet roses are asteam In the sun and will be falling.

Say the chestnut sheds his bloom; Honey from straw hivings oozes; There's a nightjar in the coombe; Venus nightly burns, and chooses Most to blaze above my room; That the laggard 'tis that loses.

Say the nights are warm and free, And the great stars swarm above him; But soon starless night must be.

Yet if all these do not move him, Tell, O tell--but not too plainly!-- That I long for him and love him.

Little pigeon, grave and fleet, Fly you swiftly, tell him this; And I'll give you grain so golden Midas' self has ne'er beholden Aught so gold, and--yes!--a kiss.

Smiling at her eager voice, I will grant the girl her choice, Whispering to the pigeon: "Lo!

Yon's the way for you to go: Over the willows, past the copse, To where a sylph-like lime-tree tops A lonely knoll; then on and on Toward where yesternight there shone A silver comet, scarce descried, Against the fainting eventide."

VII

Away then! crashing through the wood, _Of the Faun's Prancing in a whimsey mood, Whimseys._ To yowl as a she-wolf does at dark Until th' infuriate watch-dogs bark; Or bid hushed tales of ghosts go round, Of warnings heard, but nothing found, By whistling at the village boor; Or poke my rogue face round a door And scare a huffy wife to fits, Who swears, "'Tis Pan himself!" or, "It's That grizzled sailor-man who slew His mate 'twixt Bogs and Dead Man's Yew!"

Next through the dairy steal to slake My thirst with cream, with honeycake Cram my sweet maw; slip in the churn A farm cat, that the tub may turn And fright maid Molly. I will seek Strawberries and stain chin, mouth and cheek With nuzzling in their scarlet bowl; Then in the goodman's bed I'll roll Because he loves me not; I'll sing Until the crowded rafters ring The while about my ears I hang Bobbed cherries.... Lastly I will clang Among the clattering pots and pans, Shout, cry "Oh help!" s.n.a.t.c.h up a man's Cloak, and slip out.