Saturn

Now were the Titans gathered round their king,         In a waste region slipping tow'rd the verge         Of drear extremities that clasp the world -         A land half-moulded by the hasty gods,         And left beneath the bright scorn of the stars,         Grotesque, misfeatured, blackly gnarled with stone;         Or worn and marred from conflict with the deep         Conterminate, of Chaos. Here they stood,         Old Saturn midmost, like a central peak         Among the lesser hills that guard its base.         Defeat, that gloamed within each countenance         Like the first tinge of death, upon a sun         Gathering like some dusk vapor, found them cold,         Clumsy of limb, and halting as with weight         Of threatened worlds and trembling firmaments.         A wind cried round them like a trumpet-voice         Of phantom hosts - hurried, importunate,         And intermittent with a tightening fear.         Far off the sunset leapt, and the hard clouds,         Molten among the peaks, seemed furnaces         In which to make the fetters of the world.         Seared by the lightning of the younger gods,         They saw, beyond the grim and crouching hills,         Those levins thrust like spears into the heart         Of swollen clouds, or tearing through the sky         Like severing swords. Then, as the Titans watched,         The night rose like a black, enormous mist         Around them, wherein naught was visible         Save the sharp levin leaping in the north;         And no sound came, except of seas remote,         That seemed like Chaos ravening past the verge         Of all the world, fed with the crumbling coasts         Of Matter.                         Till the moon, discovering         That harsh swart wilderness of sand and stone         Tissued and twisted in chaotic weld,         Lit with illusory fire each Titan's form,         They sate in silence, mute as stranded orbs -         The wrack of Time, upcast on ruinous coasts,         And in the slow withdrawal of the tide         Safe for awhile. Small solace did they take         From that frore radiance glistering on the dull         Black desert gripped in iron silences,         Like a false triumph o'er contestless fates,         Or a mirage of life in wastes of Death.         Yet were they moved to speak, and Saturn's voice         Seeming the soul of that tremendous land         Set free in sound, startled the haughty stars.         "O Titans, gods, sustainers of the world,         Is this the end? Must Earth go down to Chaos,         Lacking our strength, beneath the unpracticed sway         Of godlings vain, precipitate with youth,         Who think, unrecking of disastrous chance,         To bind their will as reins upon the sun,         Or stand as columns to the ponderous heavens?         Must we behold, with eyes of impotence         That universal wrack, even though it whelm         These our usurpers in impartial doom         Beneath the shards and fragments of the world?         Were it not preferable to return,         And meeting them in fight unswervable,         Drag down the earth, ourselves, and these our foes,         One sacrifice unto the gods of Chaos?         Why should we stay, and live the tragedy         Of power that survives its use?"                                  Now spake         Enceladus, when that the echoings         Of Saturn's voice had fled remote, and seemed         Dead thunders caught and flung from star to star;         "Wouldst hurl thy kingdom down the nightward gulf,         Like to a stone a curious child might cast         To test the fall of some dark precipice?         Patience and caution should we take as mail,         Not rashness for a weapon - too keen sword         That cuts the straind knot of destiny,         Ne'er to be tied again. Were it not best         To watch the slow procedure of the days,         That we may grasp a time more opportune,         When desperation is not all our strength,         Nor the foe newly filled with victory?         Then may we hope to conquer back thy realm         For thee, not for the gods of nothingness."         He ceased, and after him no lesser god         Gave voice upon the shaken silences,         None venturing to risk comparison,         Inevitable then, of eloquence         With his; but silence like the ambiguousness         Of signal and of lesser stars o'ercast         And merged in one confusion by the moon,         Possessed that multitude, till Saturn rose.         Around his form the light intensified,         And strengthened with addition wild and strange,         Investing him as with a phantom robe,         And gathering like a crown about his brow.         His sword, whereon the shadows lay like rust         He took, and dipping it within the moon,         Made clean its length of blade, and from it cast         Swift flickerings at the stars. And then his voice         Came like a torrent, and from out his eyes         Streamed wilder power that mingled with the sound.                 *        *        *        *        *         And his resurgent power, in glance and word,         Poured through the Titans' souls, and was become         The fountains of their own, and at his flame         Their fires were lit once more, whose restlessness         Leapt and aspired against the steadfast stars.         And now they turned, majestic with resolve,         Where, red upon the forefront of the north,         Arcturus was a beacon to the winds.         And with the flickering winds, that lightly struck         The desert dust, then sprang again in air,         They passed athwart the foreland of the north.         Against their march they saw the shrunken waste,         A rivelled region like a world grown old         Whose sterile breast knew not the lips of Life         In all its epoch; or a world that was         The nurse of infant Death, ere he became         Too large, too strong for its restraining arms,         And towered athwart the suns.                         And there they crossed         Metallic slopes that rang like monstrous shields,         But gave not to their tread, and clanging plains         Like body-mail of greater, vaster gods.         Where hills made gibbous shadows in the moon,         They heard the eldritch laughters of the wind,         Seeming the mirth of death; and 'neath their gaze         Gaunt valleys deepened like an old despair.         Yet strode they on, through the moon's fantasies,         Bold with resolve, across a land like doubt.         And now they passed among huge mountain-bulks,         Themselves like peaks detached, and moving slow         'Mid fettered brethren, adding weight and gloom         To that mute conclave great against the stars.         Emerging thence, the Titans marched where still         Their own portentous shadows went before         Like night that fled but shrunk not, dusking all         That desert way.                     And thus they came where Sleep,         The sleep of weary victory, had seized         The younger gods as captives, borne beyond         All flight of mounting battle-ecstasies         In that high triumph of forgetfulness.         And on that sleep the striding Titans broke,         Vague and immense at first like forming dreams         To those disturbd gods, in mist of drowse         Purblind and doubtful yet, though soon they knew         Their erst-defeated foes, and rising stood         In silent ranks expectant, that appeared         To move, with shaking of astonished fires         That bristled forth, or were displayed like plumes         Late folded close, now trembling terribly,         Pending between the desert and the stars.         Then, sudden as the waking from a dream,         The battle leapt, where striving shapes of gods         Moved brightly through the whirled and stricken air,         Sweeping it to a froth of fire; and all         That ancient, deep-established desert rocked,         Shaken as by an onset of the gulfs         Of gathered and impatient Chaos, while,         Above the place where central battle burned         The stars drew back in fright or dazzlement,         Paling to more secluded distances.         Lo, where the moon had wrought illusive dreams         That clothed the wild in doubt and fantasy,         Hiding its hideousness with bright mirage,         Or deepening it with gulfs and glooms of Hell,         Mightier confusion, chaos absolute         Upon the imperilled sky and trembling world,         Now made a certainty within itself,         The one thing sure in shaken sky or world.         Maelstroms of battle caught in storms of fire,         Torn and involved by weaponry of gods -         Crescented blades that met with rounds of shields;         Grappling of shapes, seen through the riven blaze         An instant, then once more obscure, and known         Only by giant heavings of that war         Of furious gods and roused elements,         Divided, leagued, contending evermore         Along the desert - these, augmentative         Round one thick center, stunned the faltering night.         So huge that chaos, complicate within         With movements of gigantic legionry,         Antagonistic streams, impetuous-hurled         Where Jove and Saturn thunder-crested, led         In fight unswervable - so wide the strife         Of differing impulse, that Decision found         No foothold, till that first confusion should         In ordered conflict re-arrange, and stand         With its true forces known. This seemed remote,         With that wide struggle pending terribly,         As if all-various, colored Time had made         A truce with white Eternity, and both         Stood watching from afar.                         Through drifts of haze         The broadening moon, made ominous with red,         Glared from the westering night. And now that war         Built for itself, far up, a cope of cloud,         And drew it down, far off, upon all sides,         Impervious to the moon and sworded stars.         And by their own wild light the gods fought on         'Neath that stupendous concave like a sky         Filled and illumed with glare of bursting suns.         And cast by their own light, upon that sky         The gods' own shadows moved like shapen gloom,         Phantasmagoric, changed and amplified,         A shifting frieze that flickered dreadfully         In spectral battle indecisive. Then,         Swift, as it had begun, the contest turned,         And on the heaving Titans' massive front         It seemed that all the motion and the strength         Self-thwarting and confounded, of that strife,         Was flung in centered impact terrible,         With rush of all that fire, tempestuous-blown         As if before some wind of further space,         Striking the earth. Lo, all the Titans' flame         Bent back upon themselves, and they were hurled         In vaster disarray, with vanguard piled         On rear and center. Saturn could not stem         The loosened torrents of long-pent defeat;         He, with his host, was but as drift thereon,         Borne wildly down the whelmed and reeling world.         Hurling like slanted rain, the lurid levin         Fell o'er that flight of Titans, and behind,         In striding menace, all-victorious Jove         Loomed like some craggy cloud with thunders crowned         And footed with the winds. In that defeat,         With Jove's pursuit involved and manifold,         Few found escape unscathed, and some went down         Like senile suns that grapple with the dark,         And reel in flame tremendous, and are still.         Ebbing, the battle left those elder gods         Upcast once more on coasts of black defeat -         Gripped in despair, a vaster Tartarus.         The victor gods, their storms and thunders spent,         Went dwindling northward like embattled clouds,         And where the lingering haze of fight dissolved,         The pallor of the dawn began to spread         On darkness purple like the pain of Death.         Ringed with that desolation, Saturn stood         Mute, and the Titans answered unto him         With brother silence. Motionless, they seemed         Some peristyle or range of columns great,         Alone enduring of a fallen fane         In deserts of some vaster world whence Life         And Faith have vanished long, that vaguely slips         To an immemoried end. And twilight slow         Crept round those lofty shapes august, and seemed         Such as might be the faltering ghostly noon         Of mightier suns that totter down to death.         Then turned they, passing from that dismal place         Blasted anew with battle, ere the swift         Striding of light athwart stupendous chasms         And wasteful plains, should overtake them there,         Bowed with too heavy a burden of defeat.         Slowly they turned, and passed upon the west         Where, like a weariness immovable         In menace huge, the plain its monstrous bulk,         The peaks its hydra heads, the whole world crouched         Against their march with the diminished stars.