The Harp-Player On Etna

I     THE LAST GLEN                                                     Hist! once more!     Listen, Pausanias! Aye, tis Callicles!     I know those notes among a thousand.        Hark!     CALLICLES                                             (Sings unseen, from below.)     The track winds down to the clear stream,     To cross the sparkling shallows; there     The, cattle love to gather, on their way     To the high mountain pastures, and to stay,     Till the rough cow-herds drive them past,     Knee-deep in the cool ford; for tis the last     Of all the woody, high, well-waterd dells     On Etna; and the beam     Of noon is broken there by chestnut boughs     Down its steep verdant sides; the air     Is freshend by the leaping stream, which throws     Eternal showers of spray on the mossd roots     Of trees, and veins of turf, and long dark shoots     Of ivy-plants, and fragrant hanging bells     Of hyacinths, and on late anemonies,     That muffle its wet banks; but glade,     And stream, and sward, and chestnut trees,     End here; Etna beyond, in the broad glare     Of the hot noon, without a shade,     Slope behind slope, up to the peak, lies bare;     The peak, round which the white clouds play.     In such a glen, on such a day,     On Pelion, on the grassy ground,     Chiron, the aged Centaur, lay,     The young Achilles standing by.     The Centaur taught him to explore     The mountains; where the glens are dry,     And the tired Centaurs come to rest,     And where the soaking springs abound,     And the straight ashes grow for spears,     And where the hill-goats come to feed,     And the sea-eagles build their nest.     He showd him Phthia far away,     And said: O boy, I taught this lore     To Peleus, in long distant years!     He told him of the Gods, the stars,     The tides;, and then of mortal wars,     And of the life which heroes lead     Before they reach the Elysian place     And rest in the immortal mead;     And all the wisdom of his race.     II     TYPHO     [He advances to the edge of the crater. Smoke     and fire break forth with a loud noise, and     CALLICLES is heard below singing:     The lyres voice is lovely everywhere!     In the court of Gods, in the city of men,     And in the lonely rock-strewn mountain glen.     In the still mountain air.     Only to Typho it sounds hatefully!     To Typho only, the rebel oerthrown,     Through whose heart Etna drives her roots of stone,     To imbed them in the sea.     Wherefore dost thou groan so loud?     Wherefore do thy nostrils flash,     Through the dark night, suddenly,     Typho, such red jets of flame?     Is thy torturd heart still proud?     Is thy fire-scathd arm still rash?     Still alert thy stone-crushd frame?     Doth thy fierce soul still deplore     The ancient rout by the Cilician hills,     And that curst treachery on the Mount of Gore?     Do thy bloodshot eyes still see     The fight that crownd thy ills,     Thy last defeat in this Sicilian sea?     Hast thou sworn, in thy sad lair,     Where east the strong sea-currents suckd thee down,     Never to cease to writhe, and try to sleep,     Letting the sea-stream wander through thy hair?     That thy groans, like thunder deep,     Begin to roll, and almost drown     The sweet notes, whose lulling spell     Gods and the race of mortals love so well,     When through thy eaves thou hearest music swell?     But an awful pleasure bland     Spreading oer the Thunderers face,     When the sound climbs near his seat,     The Olympian council sees;     As he lets his lax right hand,     Which the lightnings doth embrace,     Sink upon his mighty knees.     And the eagle, at the beck     Of the appeasing gracious harmony,     Droops all his sheeny, brown, deep-featherd neck,     Nestling nearer to Joves feet;     While oer his sovereign eye     The curtains of the blue films slowly meet,     And the white Olympus peaks     Rosily brighten, and the soothd Gods smile     At one another from their golden chairs,     And no one round the charmd circle speaks.     Only the loved Hebe bears     The cup about, whose draughts beguile     Pain and care, with a dark store     Of fresh-pulld violets wreathd and nodding oer;     And her flushd feet glow on the marble floor.     III     MARSYAS     CALLICLES (from below)     As the sky-brightening south-wind clears the day,     And makes the massd clouds roll,     The music of the lyre blows away     The clouds that wrap the soul.     Oh, that Fate had let me see     That triumph of the sweet persuasive lyre!     That famous, final victory     When jealous Pan with Marsyas did conspire!     When, from far Parnassus side,     Young Apollo, all the pride     Of the Phrygian flutes to tame,     To the Phrygian highlands came!     Where the long green reed-beds sway     In the rippled waters grey     Of that solitary lake     Where Maeanders springs are born;     Where the ridgd pine-wooded roots     Of Messogis westward break,     Mounting westward, high and higher.     There was held the famous strife;     There the Phrygian brought his flutes,     And Apollo brought his lyre;     And, when now the westering sun     Touchd the hills, the strife was done,     And the attentive Muses said     Marsyas! thou art vanquishd.     Then Apollos minister     Hangd upon a branching fir     Marsyas, that unhappy Faun,     And began to whet his knife.     But the Maenads, who were there,     Left their friend, and with robes flowing     In the wind, and loose dark hair     Oer their polishd bosoms blowing,     Each her ribbond tambourine     Flinging on the mountain sod,     With a lovely frightend mien     Came about the youthful God.     But he turnd his beauteous face     Haughtily another way,     From the grassy sun-warmd place,     Where in proud repose he lay,     With one arm over his head,     Watching how the whetting sped.     But aloof on the lake strand,     Did the young Olympus stand,     Weeping at his masters end;     For the Faun had been his friend.     For he taught him how to sing.     And he taught him flute-playing.     Many a morning had they gone     To the glimmering mountain lakes,     And had torn up by the roots     The tall crested water-reeds     With long plumes, and soft brown seeds,     And had carved them into flutes,     Sitting on a tabled stone     Where the shoreward ripple breaks.     And he taught him how to please     The red-snooded Phrygian girls,     Whom the summer evening sees     Flashing in the dances whirls     Underneath the starlit trees     In the mountain villages.     Therefore now Olympus stands,     At his masters piteous cries     Pressing fast with both his hands     His white garment to his eyes,     Not to see Apollos scorn;     Ah, poor Faun, poor Faun! ah, poor Faun!     IV     APOLLO     CALLICLES (front below)     Through the black, rushing smoke-bursts,     Thick breaks the red flame;     All Etna heaves fiercely     Her forest-clothd frame.     Not here, O Apollo     Are haunts meet for thee.     But, where Helicon breaks down     In cliff to the sea,     Where the moon-silverd inlets     Send far their light voice     Up the still vale of Thisbe,     O speed, and rejoice!     On the sward at the cliff-top     Lie strewn the white flocks;     On the cliff-side the pigeons     Roost deep in the rocks.     In the moonlight the shepherds,     Soft lulld by the rills,     Lie wrapt in their blankets,     Asleep on the hills.     What forms are these coming     So white through the gloom:     What garments out-glistening     The gold-flowerd broom?     What sweet-breathing presence     Out-perfumes the thyme?     What voices enrapture     The nights balmy prime?     Tis Apollo comes leading     His choir, the Nine.     The leader is fairest,     But all are divine.     They are lost in the hollows!     They stream up again!     What seeks on this mountain     The glorified train?     They bathe on this mountain,     In the spring by their road;     Then on to Olympus,     Their endless abode!     Whose praise do they mention     Of what is it told?     What will be for ever;     What was from of old.     First hymn they the Father     Of all things; and then     The rest of immortals,     The action of men.     The day in his hotness,     The strife with the palm;     The night in her silence,     The stars in their calm.