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The Great Play 96

ORPHEUS AND OTHER POEMS.

Printed by D. BENTLEY & CO. At Montreal, Canada, this First day of May, A.D. 1896.

ORPHEUS.

All the paths descend To four great streams, whose turgid waters blend With suffering souls: here flows sad Acheron On whose black banks impatient spirits run And call to that grim boatman, ferrying o'er His last embarker to the nether shore In silence, bent with duty's measured pull, Certain of all to follow; there, too, full Of awful lamentations from lost souls Cocytus its fierce waves of sorrow rolls Wherein dwells one whose face is only seen--

Above the surface, human and serene, Below, her horrid serpent-form encoils And stings the hapless spirits in her toils With scorpion venom; Phlegethon rolls by Flaming with waves that hiss, and mount on high To lick with burning tongue each crusted shore Where not the vilest weed dare clamber o'er, There swim huge salamanders, whose desire Grows with the maddening tumult of the fire; And lastly, Styx, that pool of pitchy slime Whereby the great gods swear their vows sublime, In whose black channel hatred finds a home, And breeds with fury many a plague-born gnome Loathsome to gods and men.

These rivers run Far to the West, beyond the sinking sun, Beyond old Ocean's limits, past the range Of starry travel or where comets strange Rush in hot madness; there too Lethe flows Where souls must drink to gain the sweet repose Of all-forgetfulness, before the Fates Lose power to plague them, or their bygone states Haunt them like ghosts.

These waters safely crossed, The plains beneath thick filled with spirits lost, Avernus meets the view, vast, horrid lake At Hades' entrance; who its waters take, Sicken and die in torture that must rend With endless tooth, for such death has no end. Beyond Avernus stands the gate of Hell, With Cerberus to guard its portals well.

Unto that gate came Orpheus with his lute Whose most melodious music had made mute The wailing souls on Acheron's sad shore, And charmed old Charon, as he ferried o'er The son of great Apollo in his quest For her whom of all women he loved best, And as he came fierce Cerberus stood still Fixed by the magic of the player's skill: On Orpheus went and played, for he knew well The wondrous potency of this great spell Would by a pause be broken, and his fate Never to pass alive the solemn gate; He roused the Harpies, those most fearful things With heads and breasts of women and the wings Of birds, and talons of the lion fierce, Whose breath is poison and whose venoms pierce Deep in man's soul--the hags were planning then Foul plots for planting grief in hearts of men; He stayed stern Nemesis, now poised for flight As she in darkness left her mother Night; The three great judges of the soul now paused In giving sentence, for the music caused Minos and AEacus and Rhadamanthus think What change the gods had wrought, that at the brink Of Tartarus such heavenly sounds should rise To make the heart upleap and to the eyes Communicate swift tears of sudden joy-- Had Jupiter grown mad to let this boy, This gold-haired stripling with the silver strings Enter dark Hades with such sound that brings Pity to their stern breasts?

The Gorgons stare In vain at Orpheus through their viper-hair, He sings and heeds them not, and he alone Looks at them, eye for eye, and not to stone Is turned; the Lemures, that spectral swarm, That fill the space of Hades without form, Halt in their wanderings to hear the notes That fall as from a thousand song-birds' throats. Pale Death sits sharpening her dart and hears With sad dismay the sound that soothes her ears, Her arm grows powerless--the black dart falls With echoing clang on Hades' marbled halls; The triple sisters who turn mad the mind With envy, rage, and hatred, and make blind The heart with judgment false, hear the high strains, And knowledge of lost joy o'erwhelms their brains; Triptolemus stands still with bated breath While on his way to that great hall of death Where his stern fellow judges sit aghast Still pondering on Orpheus.

Now he passed Poor Marsyas, whose love of music great Lured him to challenge for his after-fate The laurel-crowned Apollo and his lyre, Wherefore he stayed in the eternal fire; But Orpheus, passing, played so wondrous well That all the flames about him flickered, fell, And left the wretch in peace to hear once more The power of sound he staked his spirit for. Black Discord in her den of hideous noise Grew sudden silent, and her breast with joys Filled, as the gentle tremblings of the lute Found subtle ways to reach her.

Resolute Strode Orpheus on his path, and to the right Stood Sisyphus, the stone just at the height Of the great mountain, ready to roll again Into the vale beneath, but that sweet strain Held it in place so long as it could reach The spot it rested on--and to beseech Eternal playing, Sisyphus held high Tired arms to Jove as Orpheus passed him by; There to the left Ixion ceased to feel The endless revolutions of the wheel Over the flaming river, and the fangs Of serpents leave him as he, listless, hangs Listening to such sweet music.

Now the lake Whose tempting waters Tantalus forsake When his parched lips and maddened hands would take Of their cool touch relief, hears the new sound And Tantalus with surfeit is near drowned For this brief respite, and with hungry clutch Plucks tender fruits before he could not touch, Eating in joyous wonder that Hell's God Gave him such feasting for a period. Now Orpheus passed the black, oblivious lair Of Sleep, a cave devoid of light or air, Paved with strange shapes and horrid phantasies Inanimate and senseless, and they rise, As through the cave's dark mouth the music sweet Fills to the inmost parts that foul retreat, Crying for air to breathe and light to see The wondrous worker of such harmony. Pluto's high throne within the distance looms, Built of the gold and marble of men's tombs Upon a base of bones, and by its side Stood the pale throne of his beloved bride, Persephone.--Behind her shadowy seat Shone one blue star and at its cloud-hid feet Glared the red oval of the waning moon That tells sage shepherds of a storm in June When flocks grow restless.--When the player came Nearer to that great place a sudden flame Shot from the silent air, and blazed as fierce As though a thousand lightning strokes would pierce In one vast sheet of overwhelming fire The daring mortal who would thus aspire To reach great Plato's love-shrine;--in the blaze Millions of serpents writhe, but Orpheus plays Heedless of all, nor dares to cease lest he Lose the safe conduct of his minstrelsy. Unharmed he passes through the floods of flame That would arrest his progress, and he came Unharmed beyond them.

Lo! before his eyes A scene of wondrous beauty did arise; Such as a poet sees when every sense Leaves its abode, and the intelligence Of soul usurps the functions of the mind, When unto every object he grows blind Seeing through all beyond.

For Pluto's throne Is more magnificent than Love might own In higher regions. Orpheus stood beneath The lowest step thereof; a flowery wreath Crowned his bright golden locks--the flowers Plucked from the dew-fed meadows and fair bowers Where he had wandered with his beauteous bride In happy love-quests, ere that eventide When he was wakened by the short, sharp cry Calling his name, and saw a snake glide by Into the thicket--when he saw the breast That oft had made his head a pillowy rest Marked with the fatal venom, which his lips, Used to the honey that the love-bee sips, Closed on in vain endeavor to remove The sentence of the gods on their sweet love-- When his strong hands clutched madly the thin air As unto Jove he poured his soul's deep prayer For pity--when, with all his blood turned lead, He looked and saw Eurydice was dead, And when 'gainst all the gods he took that oath Sacred to her, Death's awful bridal troth, That by the power of music's magic spell Against their will he would go down to Hell And rescue his lost love. Whereat Jove laughed And said to Bacchus as they gaily quaffed In high carousal: "Let the fool take care, Pluto can mind his own. Once in the lair Of Hades, e'en Apollo's son must stay, No goats from that black fold can ever stray."

Thus Orpheus stood; but now no longer mute, For to the rich-wrought tremblings of his lute He raised his rare-heard voice and stilled the word On Pluto's lips, and then all Hades heard:--

Persephone! Persephone! Recall thy lord's great love for thee, When in sweet Enna's golden meads Thou heard'st that rustling of the reeds, And in thy hands the love-crushed flowers Were grasped with fear, as from earth's bowers He strained thee to his mighty breast, And bore thee, senseless, to the West Beyond the opalescent sea That nightly sings its song of thee; Give back my soul's delight to me-- Eurydice! Eurydice!

Persephone! Persephone! I bring love's garland unto thee:-- She made it with her loving hands, She plaited it in golden bands, And placed it on my chosen brow When by my side she sat, as now Thou sittest by thy great lord's side: That night no lover snatched his bride, But Death seized all remorselessly, And took her soul beyond the sea; And life became a memory-- Eurydice! Eurydice!

Persephone! Persephone! Let this lute's magic minstrelsy Find with love's music, sweet and clear, Thy heart-depths through each pearly ear: Behold! how when I strike one string The lone sound floats with cheerless ring; Behold! when double chords are driven, With harmony the air is riven; So Fate plays on our souls, and we Yield plaints of love or misery; Give back my soul's delight to me-- Eurydice! Eurydice!

Persephone! Persephone! Mark how thy lord yet frowns on me, Behold the tightening of his lip-- Kiss--kiss his mouth lest there may slip One word of doom to dash my hope; Bend down on him thine eyes and cope With love the gleams that in them shine, The while I summon to me, mine; Break--break--by love and memory The bond of Hades, set me free Her soul, that is the soul of me-- Eurydice! Eurydice!

Persephone! Persephone! Clasp him so close he may not see; Look deep into his soul with love That from thine eyes he shall not move His own;--ah! thus I gazed on her That night and heard no serpent stir, For love, once thralling all the mind, Makes all the little senses blind; 'Tis well! he drinks love's alchemy! Where'er in Hades thou may'st be-- Come back! my love! come back to me, Eurydice! Eurydice!

Persephone! Persephone! Lull him with love that unto me No thought may leap with sudden ire, And steal again my heart's desire When she shall come. Ye Gods! that light! It shone when on that fatal night The daemons took her from my side;-- 'Tis she! they bring her back! my bride! Let Pluto wake--let Jove decree-- My self--my soul--come back to me My joy in life and death to be-- Eurydice! Eurydice!

Persephone! Persephone! A moment more and we are free; I feel the breath of outer air, I see the upper stars so fair, I hear the lapping of salt waves, I see the light of day that saves, I feel the pulsing heart-throbs run Through her fair limbs, I watch the sun Uprising in her eyes--and see! Its living light thrills into me; She has come back! come back to me-- Eurydice! Eurydice!

DEAD SUMMER.

The lord and lover of the year is slain, Fair Summer! Nature's joy and earth's sweet pride. The wind mourns sadly as a mournful bride Loading the air with monodies of pain; Down from the branches rustle, light as rain, The rarely-coloured leaves; afar and wide Blight-stricken blossoms strew the country-side, No more to deck it with delight again; The bright winged choristers that carolled round Sweet overflowings of supernal joy, No more their thrilling ecstasies employ To glad man's soul with music's purest sound; Summer lies dead upon the lap of earth, Pale melancholy weeps where late laughed mirth.

AUTUMN.

When Autumn, like a prophet filled with fears, Warns Summer's golden beauty of that death Which soon the chilling blast of Winter's breath Shall bring; fond Nature by her falling tears Attests her grief unchanged through all the years, And from the blossoms that lie dead beneath Seizing the unseen colours, weaves a wreath, And lo! a garland on each tree appears. So, when to thee life's end is drawing near And weeping kinsmen kneel about thy bed May all the rays of goodness thou hast shed From out the buried past shine bright and clear, And golden deeds and thoughts of heavenly hues Over thy fading mind soft light diffuse.

THE SKY-LARK.

Blithe is the lark when first the morning breaks, And from his nest up-circling through the air He leaves below a world of shadowy care, And off his wings the dew of darkness shakes; For those high lakes of blue he gladly makes, With song that overfloweth everywhere Like the sweet grace that falleth after prayer To one who from sin's sleep at last awakes. Poets have sung thy praises;--but thy song Is far above all sound of poet's voice, Though listening to thy notes he may rejoice, And wonder if some raptured angel-throng Pause in their service as thou soarest near, And to thy music lend entranc?d ear.

CONSTANCY.

I did not ask thy love nor tell mine own When others sought thee in thy sovereign days, For my sad heart, beholding the bright blaze Of thy great beauty, seemed to turn to stone, And on my lips that now have bolder grown, No word would form to utter thy high praise; So stricken was I in love's conquering ways That my poor soul consumed its love alone.

Vindictive time now veils thy queen-like charms To thy old champions, and they quickly leave, As grim misfortune comes to cross their arms And pluck thy colours from each coward sleeve, All fly the tilt-yard. Now to Fate's alarms I fling my gage at last. Wilt thou believe?

A BALLADE OF THE STREET.

High clamour of rooks o'er a meadow of clover That make for their haunts at the break of the day; Low babble of brooks where the rain-spotted plover Paddles at noon through the sand-banks grey; Gold-banded bees on their murmuring way To the honey-filled blossoms that yield their sweet-- These are the visions that round us play As we steer through the turbulent throng of the street.

Slow pacing of herds and the song of the drover; A score of clean sails in a Kentish bay, With a glimpse of the castle and cliffs of Dover, And the girdle of sea that shall gleam alway; Far off in the fields where they make the hay Darby and Dorothy manage to meet, And kiss for a moment--alack-a-day! As we steer through the turbulent throng of the street.

Across the wide world Love is ever a rover, In palace or cot not content to stay. Soon the pastoral play of our youth is over With its spangles of hope and its fine array. June stifles the flowers that are born in May, And their beauties the autumn shall not repeat; Our fancies the Fates try to strangle and slay-- As we steer through the turbulent throng of the street.

Let us heed not the passers or what they say, While Love in our hearts finds a safe retreat, For souls can reach Heaven, though feet may stray As they steer through the turbulent throng of the street.

THE BLUSH.

Within my heart there fell a hush, I thought my very soul had died, When first I saw my lady blush And own the love she strove to hide.

I thought my very soul had died Before affection bade her speak, And own the love she strove to hide With silent ways and manners meek.

Before affection bade her speak, I watched her as she used to go With silent ways and manners meek, Whilst I with love was all aglow.

I watched her as she used to go To gather simple blossoms fair, Whilst I with love was all aglow Yet dared not lay my passion bare.

To gather simple blossoms fair I often went--to give to her, Yet dared not lay my passion bare Though all my soul with love did stir.

I often went to give to her My life if she would deign to take, Though all my soul with love did stir My lips their silence dared not break.

My life if she would deign to take 'Twas her's, not mine--yet strange to tell My lips their silence dared not break, Ere she had learned love's sacred spell.

I thought she loved, alas! not me-- Within my heart there fell a hush, The truth was told ah! ecstasy! When first I saw my lady blush.

THE RONDEAU.

First find your refrain--then build as you go With delicate touch, neither heavy nor slow, But dainty and light as a gossamer thread, Or the fleecy white cloud that is breaking o'erhead, Or the sea-foam that curls in the soft evening glow; And your rhyme must be swinging--not all in a row, But as waves on the sands in fine ebb and quick flow; Yet of rules for a rondeau I hold this the head-- First find your refrain.

For the subject--there's nothing above or below, That a poet can learn or a critic may know, But a rondeau will hold a rhyme-ring that will wed The thought to the thing; yet whatever is said Will ne'er be a rondeau till you with one blow-- First find your refrain.

WINTER.

Winter's blast is coldly sweeping O'er the pallid face of earth; All the merry elves are sleeping, Wearied out with last year's mirth; Dismal spirits doomed to wander, Never resting anywhere, Chase the sparkling crystals yonder Through the chill and cheerless air; Where the birds sang in the branches Not a sound is heard at all; Snowy flakes in avalanches Flutter down with silent fall; Where the grasses nursed the flowers Not a sign of life is seen And the frost has turned the showers Into sheets of icy sheen; All the air is sadly sighing, All the trees with sorrows ring; All is dying--dying--dying Winter--go! come back, O Spring.

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