Stood, back reclined, and watching the slow clouds,
As doth a shepherd in a vacant mood.
Oft to some highest peak would he ascend,
And gaze below upon his giant friends,
Who looked like moving spots,
And oft, upon some green cliff ledge reclined,
Watch with sad eye the jocund chase afar
In the green landscape, where the quivering line
Led by the stag—who drew its rout behind
Of woodland shapes, confused as were their cries,
And sparkling bodies of fleet-chasing hounds,-
Passed like a magic picture, and was gone.
His husbandry soon ceased; he hated toil
Unvaried, ending always in itself,
And to the Goddess pleaded thoughtful hours
For his excuse, and indolent self disgust.
Small profit found his thought; his sympathies
Were driven inward and corroded there.
Sometimes he wandered to the lowland fens,
Where the wild mares toss their sharp manes i' the blast,
And scour through washy reeds and hollows damp —
Hardened in after-ages by long droughts -
And midst the elements he sought relief
From inward tempests. Once for many hours,
In silence, only broken from afar
By the deep lowing of some straying herd,
Moveless and without speech he watched a hind
Weeding a marsh; a brutish clog, half built,
Hog-faced and hog-backed with his daily toil,
Mudded and soot-stained by the steaming ooze,
As he himself were some unnatural growth;
Who yet, at times, whistled through broken fangs -
'Happier than I, this hind,' Orion thought.
Once tow'rds the city outskirts strayed his steps,
With a half purpose some relief to seek
Midst haunts of men, and on the way he met
A mastic-sifter with his fresh oiled face.
'O friend,' Orion said, 'why dost thou walk
With shining cheek so sadly in the sun?'
Sighing, the melancholy man replied: -
'The lentisk-trees have ceased to shed their gums;
Their tears are changed for mine, since by that tree
Myself and children live. My toil stands still.
Hard lot for man, who something hath within
More than a tree, and higher than its top,
Or circling clouds, to live by a mere root
And its dark graspings! Clearly I see this,
And know how 't is that toil unequally
Is shared on earth: but knowledge is not power
To a poor man alone 'gainst all the world,
Who, meantime, needs to eat. Like the hot springs
That boil themselves away, and serve for nought,
Which yet must have some office, rightly used,
Man hath a secret source, for some great end,
Which by delay seems wasted. Ignorance
Chokes us, and time outwits us.'- On he passed.
'That soul hath greater cause for grief than I,'
Orion thought-yet not the less was sad.
FROM BOOK II., CANTO III.
BUT since the breath of spring had stirred the woods, Through which the joyous tidings busily ran,
And oval buds of delicate pink and green
Broke, infant-like through bark of sapling boughs,
The vapors from the ocean had ascended,
Fume after fume, wreath upon wreath, and floor
On floor, till a gray curtain upward spread
From sea to sky, and both as one appeared.
Now came the snorting and intolerant steeds
Of the Sun's chariot tow'rds the summer signs;
At first obscurely, then with dazzling beams;
And cleared the heavens, but held the vapors there,
In cloudy architecture of all hues.
The stately fabrics and the Eastern pomps,
Tents, tombs, processions veiled, and temples vast,
Remained not long in their august repose,
But sank to ruins, and re-formed in likeness
Of monstrous beasts in lands and seas unknown.
These gradually dilating, limb from limb,
And head from bulk, were drawn apart, and floated
Hither and thither, till in ridges strewn,
Like to a rich and newly-furrowed field —
Then breaking into purple isles and spots,
Faded to faintness, and dissolved in air.
IN that dark hour when anguished he awoke,
Orion from the sea-shore made his way,
Feeling from cliff to cliff, from tree to tree,
Guided by knowledge of the varied tracks
Of land, the rocks, the mounds of fern, the grass, That 'neath his feet made known each spot he passed Hill, vale, and woodland; till he reached the caves, Once his rude happy dwelling. All was silent. Rhexergon and Biastor were abroad,
Searching the jasper quarries for a lynx
That had escaped the wreck. Deeply he sighed.
The quiet freshness came upon his heart,
Not sweetly, but with aching sense of loss.
He felt his way, and listened at the cave
Of Akinetos, whom he heard within
Sing to himself. And Akinetos rose,
Perceiving he was blind, — and with slow care
Rolled forth a stone, and placed him by his side.
Orion's tale soon closed; its outward acts And sad results were all that he could speak: The rest writhed inwardly, and — like the leads That sink the nets and all the struggles hide, Till a strong hand drags forth the prize his words Kept down the torment, uttered all within In hurrying anguish. Yet the clear, cold eye, Gray, deep-set, steady, of the Great Unmoved, Saw much of this beneath, and thus he spake.
'My son, why wouldst thou ever work and build,
And so bestir thyself, when certain grief,
Mischief, or error, and not seldom death,
Follows on all that individual will
Can of itself attain? I told thee this:
Nor for reproach repeat it, but to soothe
Thy mind with consciousness that not in thee
Was failure born. Its law preceded thine :
It governs every act, which needs must fail
I mean, give place — to make room for the next.
Each thinks he fails, because he thinks himself
A chain and centre, not a link that runs
In large and complex circles, all unknown.
Sit still. Remain with me. No difference
Will in the world be found: 't will know no change, Be sure. Say that an act hath been ordained? Some hand must do it: therefore do not move :
An instrument of action must be found,
And you escape both toil and consequence,
Which run their rounds with restless fools; for ever
One act leads to another, and disturbs
Man's rest and Reason which foresees no end.'
I feel that thou art wise,' Orion said;
'The worker ever comes to thee cast down!
Who with alacrity would frame, toil, build,
If he had wisdom in results like thee?
Would Strength life's soil upheave, though close it clung
And heavy, like a spade that digs in clay,
Therein to plant roots certain not to grow?
O miserable man! O fool of hope!
All I have done has wrought me no fixt good,
But grief more bitter as the bliss was sweet,
Because so fleeting. Why did Artemis
Me from my rough and useful life withdraw?
O'er wood and iron I had mastery,
And hunted shadows knowing they were shades.
Since then, my intellect she filled, and taught me
To hunt for lasting truth in the pale moon.
Such proved my love for her; and such hath proved
My love for Meropè, to me now lost.
I will remain here: I will build no more.'
He paused: but Akinetos was asleep.
Wherefore Orion at his feet sank down,
Tired of himself, of grief, and all the world,
And also slept. Ere dawn he had a dream:
'T was hopeful, lovely, though of no clear sense.
He said, 'Methinks it must betoken good;
Some help from Artemis, who may relent,
And think of me as one she sought to lift
To her own sphere of purity; or, indeed,
Some God may deem me worthy of a fate
Better than that which locks up all design
In pausing night. Perchance the dream may bode
That Meropè shall be to me restored,
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