Eidolon, or The Course of a Soul Part 10

LXXIX.

Slowly she oped her silken-lidded eyes, As night steals from the virgin blue of morn, Gazing on him she loved, in sweet surprise, Thus tenderly within his bosom borne; Whilst clouded Memory through old time flies, Sinking where she from that dear breast was torn.

Ah! blessed future never s.n.a.t.c.h her thence, But sun the visions of her innocence.

Lx.x.x.

Report ran through the city that the maid Ransom'd from Death's cold grasp had happily been, And, in the moonlight, no unhousell'd shade Those fearful, conscience-stricken men had seen; Till they in day-born confidence array'd, Followed in quest, like blood-hounds swift and keen, Tracking love's footsteps out with cruel art, To its sweet resting place within the heart.

Lx.x.xI.

They came to Julian, and with honied guise Flatter'd him to restore the risen maid; Seek ye to charm the eagle of his prize, Within his eyrie on the mountain laid; But Love, more strong, all sapping art defies, Nor ever from its fixed trust is sway'd!

They came with arms, they came with vengeful threats, Poor fluttering dove! what danger thee besets.

Lx.x.xII.

Before the Father of the Church they went With humble suit, with supplications strong, Revenge and l.u.s.t confirming their intent, And like foul magic drawing them along.

Ave Maria! save the innocent, Nor let firm judgment minister to wrong, Warping the tenor of the righteous laws, To aid oppression and a hollow cause.

Lx.x.xIII.

It was decreed that she who thus had been Parted from all earth's cares and sympathies, Wafted by prayer into a fairer scene, As one who in pure penitency dies, Thence drew new birthright from that air serene To ransom her from antenatal ties.

Rejoice, Alceste, twice from Death thou'rt free!

Rejoice, O Julian! life is brought to thee.

Lx.x.xIV.

Sweet are the joys that follow on despair, Like sunrays kissing noontide mists away, Leaving the unveil'd summer skies more fair For the deep shades that on their brightness lay.

And love's sweet firmament dispell'd of care, Rivals the glories of its early day, Sunning their progress down life's troubled stream, Wrapt in each other, pillow'd in a dream.

PYGMALION.

PART I.

THE MAN.

In the blue aegean is Cyprus, Set in the midst of the waters Like a starry isle in the ocean of heaven.

The waters ripple around it With soft and luminous motion, Strewing the silvery sands With sh.e.l.ls amaranthine, and flowers Borne from amid the white coral stems, Like off'rings of peace from the ocean.

Amid it riseth Olympus,[A]

Stately and grand as the throne of the G.o.ds, And the island sleeps 'neath its shadow Like a fair babe 'neath the care of its father.

Streams clear as the diamond Evermore wander around it, Like the vein'd tide through our members, Quick with the blessings of beauty, And health and verdurous pleasure, Filling with yellow sheaves And plenty the bosom of Ceres; Calling forth flowers from the slumbering Earth, Like thoughts from the dream of a Poet, Till the island throughout is a garden, The child and the plaything of summer.

[A] The princ.i.p.al mountain of Cyprus was thus named.

In luscious cl.u.s.ters the fruit hangs In the sunshine, melting away From sweetness to sweetness.

The grapes cl.u.s.t'ring 'mid leaves, That give their bright hue to the eye Like the setting of rubies.

The nectarines and the pomegranates Glowing with crimson ripeness, And the orange trees with their blossoms Yielding sweet odour to every breeze, As the incense flows from the censer.

The air is languid with pleasure and love, Lulling the sense to dreams Elysian, Making life seem a glorious trance, Full of bright visions of heaven, Safe from the touch of reality, Toil none--woe none--pain, Wild and illusive as sleep-revelations.

Time to be poured like wine from a chalice Sparkling and joyous for aye, Drained amid mirth and music, The brows circled with ivy, And the goblet at last like a gift Thrust in the bosom of slumber.

Thus are the people of Cyprus; Young men and old making holiday, Decking them daintily forth In robes of Sidonian purple: The maidens all beauteous but wanton, Foolishly flinging youth's gifts, Its jewels--its richest adornment, Like dross on the altar of pleasure; Letting the worm of mortality Eat out their hearts till they bear Only the semblance of angels.

Amongst them like a gaunt and gnarled oak Waving majestic o'er a pigmy race, Pygmalion was; for by the mete of soul Man ranges in the phalanx of his age.

His heart was like an ocean, tremulous With radiant aspirations and high thoughts That fretted ever on mortality, Wearing life out with pa.s.sion and desire, Struggling against the limits of the flesh, The bonds and shackles of the Possible, That bound him, like Prometheus, to the dust, And clogg'd the upward winging of his soul.

He walk'd 'mongst men like one who felt the strength Of n.o.bler nature swelling in his breast, Eternal breathings fanning the Divine Within him into flame and utterance.

He spake not much, for that his heaving thoughts Yearn'd vainly for the living fire of heaven To burn them through the soul-core of the Time; But in the inner man the tumult sped In burning currents, like the ruddy streams From every pulse-beat of his o'er-fraught heart.

His soul hung in an atmosphere of grace, And beauty, midway betwixt earth and heaven, Revolving, like the moon through azure s.p.a.ce, Mid starry fancies and faint orbed dreams, That made bright land-marks in the spirit's flight.

Faint glimmerings of loveliness untold Flash'd ever on him in his solitudes, Luring him on to search and far pursuit Through empyrean alt.i.tudes of thought, Sped onward by the G.o.d-like thirst to grasp The spiritual, and with creative hand Mould it to corporal reality.

Love was his guiding star--his bright ideal Shining above all visions and all dreams, As doth the Pole-star o'er the icy North; Love in its broad and fineless empery Ruling, directing all by right divine, Pressing its seal of va.s.salage on thought, And crushing pa.s.sion with relentless heel; Love--the refiner, whose alchymic art Trans.m.u.teth very dross to purest gold, Pa.s.sing emotion through the furnace heat That scorcheth up its perishable frame, And yields the essence purified for Act.

The soul that wanders like the mission'd dove Along the chaos waste of boundless thought, Must have some ark to nestle in on Earth, And shelter from the endless Undefined.

So to Eve's daughters would Pygmalion seek, Won by sweet hopes and promises of good And beauty, such as emblem'd to him still The end accomplish'd of aspiring thirst-- Essence and grace materialized. In them He saw the sum of Nature's perfectness, The acme of idealism reach'd: Fair forms, smooth with the ruddy glow of health, And ripening time, whose every motion seemed The wak'ning of ethereal gracefulness To life, and on whose lineaments the light Of a seraphic imagery play'd; Forms lithe and rounded by the art of youth To be the shrines of spirit excellence, And hold the fusion of immortal grace Unblemish'd by corporeal defect.

What found he then? Flower-wreathed chalices Tinted with rosy dyes, bright elegance Of shape and garniture, but br.i.m.m.i.n.g up Draughts bitter to the taste and nauseous.

He gazed upon their beauty, which his soul In thought had dower'd with purity and truth, As from the inward reflex of itself; But, gazing, all his visions pa.s.s'd away, And cold reality rose death-like up To mow the aureate blossoms from his soul.

In Amathus the chill grey morning dawn'd That woke him to truth's ruggedness, and left Life struggling, joyless, sunless, to its goal.

Woman stood forth before him beautiful, But mocking heaven with a shameless brow, Wearing foul lewdness like a victor's crown, And dashing virtue's elixir away.

From the deep fountains of her eyes there flow'd No lucid streams of holiness and love, But l.u.s.t and utter wantonness, that fill'd The heart with loathing, fraught with death to Hope.

Her crimson lips shed forth no silvery strains Of gentleness and peace to hymn life's bark Across the heaving waters of this Time, But folly and discordant revelry Sounded around her evermore, and woo'd To sin and shame with notes once toned for heaven.

No Priestess she of lovely innocence, Stoled for the work with beauty nigh divine, But, warping all her natal destiny, Prostrate she lay before the shrine of vice, Yielding herself a living sacrifice To the deep blasting of the idol's breath.

The heart clings fondly to the last faint hope That bindeth still the once dear to its love, Rejecting credence whilst a doubt remains, And so Pygmalion. Thought he, 'tis a phase Through which her soul doth pa.s.s, like rippling streams That filter for a s.p.a.ce through earth's deep pores, Emerging thence more pure and bright than erst, And set himself with patient love to watch The giddy current of her blinded soul, For the subsidence of its troubled waves.

It came not; till his spirit sick'ning o'er, Pour'd forth its bitterness and wounded sense.

"Oh! living lie! truth's outward counterfeit!

Fair masquerade of virtue's unknown charms!

Thou too hast perish'd from my trusting soul; Thy beauty yet endureth, the fair sweep Of limb and rounded form, such as my art Can yield the senseless marble; but the soul That made the work of heaven stand forth alone, So peerless in its radiant loveliness, Hath perished 'neath mortality's cold grasp, And yielded up the patent of its charm.

Henceforth I can compete with Heaven, and fill My world with bright creations as its own, Unmarr'd by inner loathsomeness and sin, That rushing through its pulses like a blight Make beauty hideous. Thou, my soul, return, Sit on thy throne, and with creative might People thy kingdom with a beauteous race, Fair form'd, and n.o.bly featured, and the life Set undulating on the Parian, Whom viewing, thou may'st cry with lofty joy, 'Behold the life without its baser part.'

O Beauty! I have loved thee with full heart, Follow'd thy shadowy guidance as the cloud Sails at the unseen steering of the wind; Sought thee in Heaven and Earth and Nature all, Led by supreme adorings and desires, Till by communion with thy perfect soul, Mine hath grown wise, in measure, to discern.

Not now can I be satiate with grace That gildeth but the superficial frame With the false tissue of deep-seeming life; The searching knife must pierce into the heart, And shew a frame veined with the same warm stream That melts in blushes on the downy cheek.

My bright ideal, like the bow of heaven, Hath faded into nothingness, and made A blank upon the clouded sky of life.

Can my soul live and love not?

"I will call Art my divinity, and bid her frame New joys to cherish such as Earth hath not Create by natural developement; Nature shall be my monitress, and teach The chisel knowledge of all loveliness, That wrought upon the snowy Parian, Shall give invest.i.ture of life's pure part, Grace, ease, and motion's unexerted power.

Better no soul than one debauched and foul, And shaming beauty with eternal blots; Therefore my creature shall be beautiful With all that makes up woman's excellence; Youth's bloom imprinted on her gentle charms, And tenderness set playing on her lips, Whilst round her gracious presence for a robe Shall float the vesture of pure modesty; A woman, she, save in the fallen soul, A spotless angel framed, but spiritless; This being shall I mould, and with my love Animate to ideal consciousness, Then let her sisterhood pa.s.s humbled on, Unheeded in the depth of my content."

PART II.

THE WORKER.