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Title: Alciphron: A Fragment
Author: Thomas Moore [
More Titles by Moore]
LETTER I. FROM ALCIPHRON AT ALEXANDRIA TO CLEON AT ATHENS.
Well may you wonder at my flight
From those fair Gardens in whose bowers
Lingers whate'er of wise and bright,
Of Beauty's smile or Wisdom's light,
Is left to grace this world of ours.
Well may my comrades as they roam
On such sweet eyes as this inquire
Why I have left that happy home
Where all is found that all desire,
And Time hath wings that never tire:
Where bliss in all the countless shapes
That Fancy's self to bliss hath given
Comes clustering round like roadside grapes
That woo the traveller's lip at even;
Where Wisdom flings not joy away--
As Pallas in the stream they say
Once flung her flute--but smiling owns
That woman's lip can send forth tones
Worth all the music of those spheres
So many dream of but none hears;
Where Virtue's self puts on so well
Her sister Pleasure's smile that, loath
From either nymph apart to dwell,
We finish by embracing both.
Yes, such the place of bliss, I own
From all whose charms I just have flown;
And even while thus to thee I write,
And by the Nile's dark flood recline,
Fondly, in thought I wing my flight
Back to those groves and gardens bright,
And often think by this sweet light
How lovelily they all must shine;
Can see that graceful temple throw
Down the green slope its lengthened shade,
While on the marble steps below
There sits some fair Athenian maid,
Over some favorite volume bending;
And by her side a youthful sage
Holds back the ringlets that descending
Would else o'ershadow all the page.
But hence such thoughts!--nor let me grieve
O'er scenes of joy that I but leave,
As the bird quits awhile its nest
To come again with livelier zest.
And now to tell thee--what I fear
Thou'lt gravely smile at--_why_ I'm here
Tho' thro' my life's short, sunny dream,
I've floated without pain or care
Like a light leaf down pleasure's stream,
Caught in each sparkling eddy there;
Tho' never Mirth awaked a strain
That my heart echoed not again;
Yet have I felt, when even most gay,
Sad thoughts--I knew not whence or why--
Suddenly o'er my spirit fly,
Like clouds that ere we've time to say
"How bright the sky is!" shade the sky.
Sometimes so vague, so undefined
Were these strange darkenings of my mind--
"While naught but joy around me beamed
So causelessly they've come and flown,
That not of life or earth they seemed,
But shadows from some world unknown.
More oft, however, 'twas the thought
How soon that scene with all its play
Of life and gladness must decay--
Those lips I prest, the hands I caught--
Myself--the crowd that mirth had brought
Around me--swept like weeds away!
This thought it was that came to shed
O'er rapture's hour its worst alloys;
And close as shade with sunshine wed
Its sadness with my happiest joys.
Oh, but for this disheartening voice
Stealing amid our mirth to say
That all in which we most rejoice
Ere night may be the earthworm's prey--
_But_ for this bitter--only this--
Full as the world is brimmed with bliss,
And capable as feels my soul
Of draining to its dregs the whole,
I should turn earth to heaven and be,
If bliss made Gods, a Deity?
Thou know'st that night--the very last
That 'mong my Garden friends I past--
When the School held its feast of mirth
To celebrate our founder's birth.
And all that He in dreams but saw
When he set Pleasure on the throne
Of this bright world and wrote her law
In human hearts was felt and known--
_Not_ in unreal dreams but true,
Substantial joy as pulse e'er knew--
By hearts and bosoms, that each felt
_Itself_ the realm where Pleasure dwelt.
That night when all our mirth was o'er,
The minstrels silent, and the feet
Of the young maidens heard no more--
So stilly was the time, so sweet,
And such a calm came o'er that scene,
Where life and revel late had been--
Lone as the quiet of some bay
From which the sea hath ebbed away--
That still I lingered, lost in thought,
Gazing upon the stars of night,
Sad and intent as if I sought
Some mournful secret in their light;
And asked them mid that silence why
Man, glorious man, alone must die
While they, less wonderful than he,
Shine on thro' all eternity.
That night--thou haply may'st forget
Its loveliness--but 'twas a night
To make earth's meanest slave regret
Leaving a world so soft and bright.
On one side in the dark blue sky
Lonely and radiant was the eye
Of Jove himself, while on the other,
'Mong stars that came out one by one,
The young moon--like the Roman mother
Among her living jewels--shone.
"Oh that from yonder orbs," I thought,
"Pure and eternal as they are,
"There could to earth some power be brought,
"Some charm with their own essence fraught
"To make man deathless as a star,
"And open to his vast desires
"A course, as boundless and sublime
"As that which waits those comet-fires,
"That burn and roam throughout all time!"
While thoughts like these absorbed my mind,
That weariness which earthly bliss
However sweet still leaves behind,
As if to show how earthly 'tis,
Came lulling o'er me and I laid
My limbs at that fair statue's base--
That miracle, which Art hath made
Of all the choice of Nature's grace--
To which so oft I've knelt and sworn.
That could a living maid like her
Unto this wondering world be born,
I would myself turn worshipper.
Sleep came then o'er me--and I seemed
To be transported far away
To a bleak desert plain where gleamed
One single, melancholy ray.
Throughout that darkness dimly shed
From a small taper in the hand
Of one who pale as are the dead
Before me took his spectral stand,
And said while awfully a smile
Came o'er the wanness of his cheek--
"Go and beside the sacred Nile
"You'll find the Eternal Life you seek."
Soon as he spoke these words the hue
Of death o'er all his features grew
Like the pale morning when o'er night
She gains the victory full of light;
While the small torch he held became
A glory in his hand whose flame
Brightened the desert suddenly,
Even to the far horizon's line--
Along whose level I could see
Gardens and groves that seemed to shine
As if then o'er them freshly played
A vernal rainbow's rich cascade;
And music floated every where,
Circling, as 'twere itself the air,
And spirits on whose wings the hue
Of heaven still lingered round me flew,
Till from all sides such splendors broke,
That with the excess of light I woke!
Such was my dream;--and I confess
Tho' none of all our creedless school
E'er conned, believed, or reverenced less
The fables of the priest-led fool
Who tells us of a soul, a mind,
Separate and pure within us shrined,
Which is to live--ah, hope too bright!--
For ever in yon fields of light;
Who fondly thinks the guardian eyes
Of Gods are on him--as if blest
And blooming in their own blue skies
The eternal Gods were not too wise
To let weak man disturb their rest!--
Tho' thinking of such creeds as thou
And all our Garden sages think,
Yet is there something, I allow,
In dreams like this--a sort of link
With worlds unseen which from the hour
I first could lisp my thoughts till now
Hath mastered me with spell-like power.
And who can tell, as we're combined
Of various atoms--some refined,
Like those that scintillate and play
In the fixt stars--some gross as they
That frown in clouds or sleep in clay--
Who can be sure but 'tis the best
And brightest atoms of our frame,
Those most akin to stellar flame,
That shine out thus, when we're at rest;--
Even as the stars themselves whose light
Comes out but in the silent night.
Or is it that there lurks indeed
Some truth in Man's prevailing creed
And that our Guardians from on high
Come in that pause from toil and sin
To put the senses' curtain by
And on the wakeful soul look in!
Vain thought!--but yet, howe'er it be,
Dreams more than once have proved to me
Oracles, truer far than Oak
Or Dove or Tripod ever spoke.
And 'twas the words--thou'lt hear and smile--
The words that phantom seemed to speak--
"Go and beside the sacred Nile
"You'll find the Eternal Life you seek"--
That haunting me by night, by day,
At length as with the unseen hand
Of Fate itself urged me away
From Athens to this Holy Land;
Where 'mong the secrets still untaught,
The mysteries that as yet nor sun
Nor eye hath reached--oh, blessed thought!--
May sleep this everlasting one.
Farewell--when to our Garden friends
Thou talk'st of the wild dream that sends
The gayest of their school thus far,
Wandering beneath Canopus' star,
Tell them that wander where he will
Or howsoe'er they now condemn
His vague and vain pursuit he still
Is worthy of the School and them;--
Still all their own--nor e'er forgets
Even while his heart and soul pursue
The Eternal Light which never sets,
The many meteor joys that _do_,
But seeks them, hails them with delight
Where'er they meet his longing sight.
And if his life _must_ wane away
Like other lives at least the day,
The hour it lasts shall like a fire
With incense fed in sweets expire.
LETTER II. FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.
_Memphis_.
'Tis true, alas--the mysteries and the lore
I came to study on this, wondrous shore.
Are all forgotten in the new delights.
The strange, wild joys that fill my days and nights.
Instead of dark, dull oracles that speak
From subterranean temples, those _I_ seek
Come from the breathing shrines where Beauty lives,
And Love, her priest, the soft responses gives.
Instead of honoring Isis in those rites
At Coptos held, I hail her when she lights
Her first young crescent on the holy stream--
When wandering youths and maidens watch her beam
And number o'er the nights she hath to run,
Ere she again embrace her bridegroom sun.
While o'er some mystic leaf that dimly lends
A clew into past times the student bends,
And by its glimmering guidance learns to tread
Back thro' the shadowy knowledge of the dead--
The only skill, alas, _I_ yet can claim
Lies in deciphering some new loved-one's name--
Some gentle missive hinting time and place,
In language soft as Memphian reed can trace.
And where--oh where's the heart that could withstand
The unnumbered witcheries of this sun-born land,
Where first young Pleasure's banner was unfurled
And Love hath temples ancient as the world!
Where mystery like the veil by Beauty worn
Hides but to win and shades but to adorn;
Where that luxurious melancholy born
Of passion and of genius sheds a gloom
Making joy holy;--where the bower and tomb
Stand side by side and Pleasure learns from Death
The instant value of each moment's breath.
Couldst thou but see how like a poet's dream
This lovely land now looks!--the glorious stream
That late between its banks was seen to glide
'Mong shrines and marble cities on each side
Glittering like jewels strung along a chain
Hath now sent forth its waters, and o'er plain
And valley like a giant from his bed
Rising with outstretched limbs hath grandly spread.
While far as sight can reach beneath as clear
And blue a heaven as ever blest our sphere,
Gardens and pillared streets and porphyry domes
And high-built temples fit to be the homes
Of mighty Gods, and pyramids whose hour
Outlasts all time above the waters tower!
Then, too, the scenes of pomp and joy that make
One theatre of this vast, peopled lake,
Where all that Love, Religion, Commerce gives
Of life and motion ever moves and lives.
Here, up the steps of temples from the wave
Ascending in procession slow and grave.
Priests in white garments go, with sacred wands
And silver cymbals gleaming in their hands;
While there, rich barks--fresh from those sunny tracts
Far off beyond the sounding cataracts--
Glide with their precious lading to the sea,
Plumes of bright birds, rhinoceros ivory,
Gems from the Isle of Meroe, and those grains
Of gold washed down by Abyssinian rains.
Here where the waters wind into a bay
Shadowy and cool some pilgrims on their way
To Sais or Bubastus among beds
Of lotus flowers that close above their heads
Push their light barks, and there as in a bower,
Sing, talk, or sleep away the sultry hour;
Oft dipping in the Nile, when faint with heat,
That leaf from which its waters drink most sweet.--
While haply not far off beneath a bank
Of blossoming acacias many a prank
Is played in the cool current by a train
Of laughing nymphs, lovely as she,[1] whose chain
Around two conquerors of the world was cast,
But, for a third too feeble, broke at last.
For oh! believe not them who dare to brand
As poor in charms the women of this land.
Tho' darkened by that sun whose spirit flows
Thro' every vein and tinges as it goes,
'Tis but the embrowning of the fruit that tells
How rich within the soul of ripeness dwells--
The hue their own dark sanctuaries wear,
Announcing heaven in half-caught glimpses there.
And never yet did tell-tale looks set free
The secret of young hearts more tenderly.
Such eyes!--long, shadowy, with that languid fall
Of the fringed lids which may be seen in all
Who live beneath the sun's too ardent rays--
Lending such looks as on their marriage days
Young maids cast down before a bridegroom's gaze!
Then for their grace--mark but the nymph-like shapes
Of the young village girls, when carrying grapes
From green Anthylla or light urns of flowers--
Not our own Sculpture in her happiest hours
E'er imaged forth even at the touch of him[2]
Whose touch was life, more luxury of limb!
Then, canst thou wonder if mid scenes like these
I should forget all graver mysteries,
All lore but Love's, all secrets but that best
In heaven or earth, the art of being blest!
Yet are there times--tho' brief I own their stay,
Like summer-clouds that shine themselves away--
Moments of gloom, when even these pleasures pall
Upon my saddening heart and I recall
That garden dream--that promise of a power,
Oh, were there such!--to lengthen out life's hour,
On, on, as thro' a vista far away
Opening before us into endless day!
And chiefly o'er my spirit did this thought
Come on that evening--bright as ever brought
Light's golden farewell to the world--when first
The eternal pyramids of Memphis burst
Awfully on my sight-standing sublime
Twixt earth and heaven, the watch-towers of Time,
From whose lone summit when his reign hath past
From earth for ever he will look his last!
There hung a calm and solemn sunshine round
Those mighty monuments, a hushing sound
In the still air that circled them which stole
Like music of past times into my soul.
I thought what myriads of the wise and brave
And beautiful had sunk into the grave,
Since earth first saw these wonders--and I said
"Are things eternal only for the Dead?
"Hath Man no loftier hope than this which dooms
"His only lasting trophies to be tombs?
"But _'tis_ not so--earth, heaven, all nature shows
"He _may_ become immortal--_may_ unclose
"The wings within him wrapt, and proudly rise
"Redeemed from earth, a creature of the skies!
"And who can say, among the written spells
"From Hermes' hand that in these shrines and cells
"Have from the Flood lay hid there may not be
"Some secret clew to immortality,
"Some amulet whose spell can keep life's fire
"Awake within us never to expire!
"'Tis known that on the Emerald Table, hid
"For ages in yon loftiest pyramid,
"The Thrice-Great[3] did himself engrave of old
"The chymic mystery that gives endless gold.
"And why may not this mightier secret dwell
"Within the same dark chambers? who can tell
"But that those kings who by the written skill
"Of the Emerald Table called forth gold at will
"And quarries upon quarries heapt and hurled,
"To build them domes that might outstand the world--
"Who knows, but that the heavenlier art which shares
"The life of Gods with man was also theirs--
"That they themselves, triumphant o'er the power
"Of fate and death, are living at this hour;
"And these, the giant homes they still possess.
"Not tombs but everlasting palaces
"Within whose depths hid from the world above
"Even now they wander with the few they love,
"Thro' subterranean gardens, by a light
"Unknown on earth which hath nor dawn nor night!
"Else, why those deathless structures? why the grand
"And hidden halls that undermine this land?
"Why else hath none of earth e'er dared to go
"Thro' the dark windings of that realm below,
"Nor aught from heaven itself except the God
"Of Silence thro' those endless labyrinths trod?"
Thus did I dream--wild, wandering dreams, I own,
But such as haunt me ever, if alone,
Or in that pause 'twixt joy and joy I be,
Like a ship husht between two waves at sea.
Then do these spirit whisperings like the sound
Of the Dark Future come appalling round;
Nor can I break the trance that holds me then,
Till high o'er Pleasure's surge I mount again!
Even now for new adventure, new delight,
My heart is on the wing;--this very night,
The Temple on that island halfway o'er
From Memphis' gardens to the eastern shore
Sends up its annual rite[4] to her whose beams
Bring the sweet time of night-flowers and dreams;
The nymph who dips her urn in silent lakes
And turns to silvery dew each drop it takes;--
Oh! not our Dian of the North who chains
In vestal ice the current of young veins,
But she who haunts the gay Bubastian[5] grove
And owns she sees from her bright heaven above,
Nothing on earth to match that heaven but Love.
Think then what bliss will be abroad to-night!--
Besides those sparkling nymphs who meet the sight
Day after day, familiar as the sun,
Coy buds of beauty yet unbreathed upon
And all the hidden loveliness that lies,--
Shut up as are the beams of sleeping eyes
Within these twilight shrines--tonight shall be
Let loose like birds for this festivity!
And mark, 'tis nigh; already the sun bids
His evening farewell to the Pyramids.
As he hath done age after age till they
Alone on earth seem ancient as his ray;
While their great shadows stretching from the light
Look like the first colossal steps of Night
Stretching across the valley to invade
The distant hills of porphyry with their shade.
Around, as signals of the setting beam,
Gay, gilded flags on every housetop gleam:
While, hark!--from all the temples a rich swell
Of music to the Moon--farewell--farewell.
NOTES:
[1] Cleopatra.
[2] Apellas.
[3] The Hermes Trismegistus.
[4] The great Festival of the Moon.
[5] Bubastis, or Isis, was the Diana of the Egyptian mythology.
LETTER III. FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.
_Memphis_.
There is some star--or may it be
That moon we saw so near last night--
Which comes athwart my destiny
For ever with misleading light.
If for a moment pure and wise
And calm I feel there quick doth fall
A spark from some disturbing eyes,
That thro' my heart, soul, being flies,
And makes a wildfire of it all.
I've seen--oh, Cleon, that this earth
Should e'er have given such beauty birth!--
That man--but, hold--hear all that past
Since yester-night from first to last.
The rising of the Moon, calm, slow,
And beautiful, as if she came
Fresh from the Elysian bowers below,
Was with a loud and sweet acclaim
Welcomed from every breezy height,
Where crowds stood waiting for her light.
And well might they who viewed the scene
Then lit up all around them, say
That never yet had Nature been
Caught sleeping in a lovelier ray
Or rivalled her own noontide face
With purer show of moonlight grace.
Memphis--still grand, tho' not the same
Unrivalled Memphis that could seize
From ancient Thebes the crown of Fame,
And wear it bright thro' centuries--
Now, in the moonshine, that came down
Like a last smile upon that crown.
Memphis, still grand among her lakes,
Her pyramids and shrines of fire,
Rose like a vision that half breaks
On one who dreaming still awakes
To music from some midnight choir:
While to the west--where gradual sinks
In the red sands from Libya rolled.
Some mighty column or fair sphynx,
That stood in kingly courts of old--
It seemed as, mid the pomps that shone
Thus gayly round him Time looked on,
Waiting till all now bright and blest,
Should sink beneath him like the rest.
No sooner had the setting sun
Proclaimed the festal rite begun,
And mid their idol's fullest beams
The Egyptian world was all afloat,
Than I who live upon these streams
Like a young Nile-bird turned my boat
To the fair island on whose shores
Thro' leafy palms and sycamores
Already shone the moving lights
Of pilgrims hastening to the rites.
While, far around like ruby sparks
Upon the water, lighted barks,
Of every form and kind--from those
That down Syene's cataract shoots,
To the grand, gilded barge that rows
To tambour's beat and breath of flutes,
And wears at night in words of flame
On the rich prow its master's name;--
All were alive and made this sea
Of cities busy as a hill
Of summer ants caught suddenly
In the overflowing of a rill.
Landed upon the isle, I soon
Thro' marble alleys and small groves
Of that mysterious palm she loves,
Reached the fair Temple of the Moon;
And there--as slowly thro' the last
Dim-lighted vestibule I past--
Between the porphyry pillars twined
With palm and ivy, I could see
A band of youthful maidens wind
In measured walk half dancingly,
Round a small shrine on which was placed
That bird[1] whose plumes of black and white
Wear in their hue by Nature traced
A type of the moon's shadowed light.
In drapery like woven snow
These nymphs were clad; and each below
The rounded bosom loosely wore
A dark blue zone or bandelet,
With little silver stars all o'er
As are the skies at midnight set.
While in their tresses, braided thro',
Sparkled that flower of Egypt's lakes,
The silvery lotus in whose hue
As much delight the young Moon takes
As doth the Day-God to behold
The lofty bean-flower's buds of gold.
And, as they gracefully went round
The worshipt bird, some to the beat
Of castanets, some to the sound
Of the shrill sistrum timed their feet;
While others at each step they took
A tinkling chain of silver shook.
They seemed all fair--but there was one
On whom the light had not yet shone,
Or shone but partly--so downcast
She held her brow, as slow she past.
And yet to me there seemed to dwell
A charm about that unseen face--
A something in the shade that fell
Over that brow's imagined grace
Which won me more than all the best
Outshining beauties of the rest.
And _her_ alone my eyes could see
Enchained by this sweet mystery;
And her alone I watched as round
She glided o'er that marble ground,
Stirring not more the unconscious air
Than if a Spirit were moving there.
Till suddenly, wide open flew
The Temple's folding gates and threw
A splendor from within, a flood
Of glory where these maidens stood.
While with that light--as if the same
Rich source gave birth to both--there came
A swell of harmony as grand
As e'er was born of voice and band,
Filling the gorgeous aisles around
With luxury of light and sound.
Then was it, by the flash that blazed
Full o'er her features--oh 'twas then,
As startingly her eyes she raised,
But quick let fall their lids again,
I saw--not Psyche's self when first
Upon the threshold of the skies
She paused, while heaven's glory burst
Newly upon her downcast eyes,
Could look more beautiful or blush
With holier shame than did this maid,
Whom now I saw in all that gush
Of splendor from the aisles, displayed.
Never--tho' well thou know'st how much
I've felt the sway of Beauty's star--
Never did her bright influence touch
My soul into its depths so far;
And had that vision lingered there
One minute more I should have flown,
Forgetful _who_ I was and where.
And at her feet in worship thrown
Proffered my soul thro' life her own.
But scarcely had that burst of light
And music broke on ear and sight,
Than up the aisle the bird took wing
As if on heavenly mission sent,
While after him with graceful spring
Like some unearthly creatures, meant
To live in that mixt element
Of light and song the young maids went;
And she who in my heart had thrown
A spark to burn for life was flown.
In vain I tried to follow;--bands
Of reverend chanters filled the aisle:
Where'er I sought to pass, their wands
Motioned me back, while many a file
Of sacred nymphs--but ah, not they
Whom my eyes looked for thronged the way.
Perplext, impatient, mid this crowd
Of faces, lights--the o'erwhelming cloud
Of incense round me, and my blood
Full of its new-born fire--I stood,
Nor moved, nor breathed, but when I caught
A glimpse of some blue, spangled zone,
Or wreath of lotus, which I thought
Like those she wore at distance shone.
But no, 'twas vain--hour after hour,
Till my heart's throbbing turned to pain,
And my strained eyesight lost its power,
I sought her thus, but all in vain.
At length, hot--wildered--in despair,
I rushed into the cool night-air,
And hurrying (tho' with many a look
Back to the busy Temple) took
My way along the moonlight shore,
And sprung into my boat once more.
There is a Lake that to the north
Of Memphis stretches grandly forth,
Upon whose silent shore the Dead
Have a proud city of their own,[2]
With shrines and pyramids o'erspread--
Where many an ancient kingly head
Slumbers, immortalized in stone;
And where thro' marble grots beneath
The lifeless, ranged like sacred things,
Nor wanting aught of life but breath,
Lie in their painted coverings,
And on each new successive race
That visit their dim haunts below
Look with the same unwithering face
They wore three thousand years ago.
There. Silence, thoughtful God, who loves
The neighborhood of death in groves
Of asphodel lies hid and weaves
His hushing spell among the leaves--
Nor ever noise disturbs the air
Save the low, humming, mournful sound
Of priests within their shrines at prayer
For the fresh Dead entombed around.
'Twas toward this place of death--in mood
Made up of thoughts, half bright, half dark--
I now across the shining flood
Unconscious turned my light-winged bark.
The form of that young maid in all
Its beauty was before me still;
And oft I thought, if thus to call
Her image to my mind at will,
If but the memory of that one
Bright look of hers for ever gone,
Was to my heart worth all the rest
Of woman-kind, beheld, possest--
What would it be if wholly mine,
Within these arms as in a shrine,
Hallowed by Love, I saw her shine--
An idol, worshipt by the light
Of her own beauties, day and night--
If 'twas a blessing but to see
And lose again, what would _this_ be?
In thoughts like these--but often crost
By darker threads--my mind was lost,
Till near that City of the Dead,
Waked from my trance, I saw o'erhead--
As if by some enchanter bid
Suddenly from the wave to rise--
Pyramid over pyramid
Tower in succession to the skies;
While one, aspiring, as if soon,
'Twould touch the heavens, rose over all;
And, on its summit, the white moon
Rested as on a pedestal!
The silence of the lonely tombs
And temples round where naught was heard
But the high palm-tree's tufted plumes,
Shaken at times by breeze or bird,
Formed a deep contrast to the scene
Of revel where I late had been;
To those gay sounds that still came o'er,
Faintly from many a distant shore,
And the unnumbered lights that shone
Far o'er the flood from Memphis on
To the Moon's Isle and Babylon.
My oars were lifted and my boat
Lay rocked upon the rippling stream;
While my vague thoughts alike afloat,
Drifted thro' many an idle dream.
With all of which, wild and unfixt
As was their aim, that vision mixt,
That bright nymph of the Temple--now,
With the same innocence of brow
She wore within the lighted fane--
Now kindling thro' each pulse and vein
With passion of such deep-felt fire
As Gods might glory to inspire;--
And now--oh Darkness of the tomb,
That must eclipse even light like hers!
Cold, dead, and blackening mid the gloom
Of those eternal sepulchres.
Scarce had I turned my eyes away
From that dark death-place, at the thought,
When by the sound of dashing spray
From a light oar my ear was caught,
While past me, thro' the moonlight, sailed.
A little gilded bark that bore
Two female figures closely veiled
And mantled towards that funeral shore.
They landed--and the boat again
Put off across the watery plain.
Shall I confess--to _thee_ I may--
That never yet hath come the chance
Of a new music, a new ray
From woman's voice, from woman's glance,
Which--let it find me how it might,
In joy or grief--I did not bless,
And wander after as a light
Leading to undreamt, happiness.
And chiefly now when hopes so vain
Were stirring in my heart and brain,
When Fancy had allured my soul
Into a chase as vague and far
As would be his who fixt his goal
In the horizon or some star--
_Any_ bewilderment that brought
More near to earth my high-flown thought--
The faintest glimpse of joy, less pure,
Less high and heavenly, but more sure,
Came welcome--and was then to me
What the first flowery isle must be
To vagrant birds blown out to sea.
Quick to the shore I urged my bark,
And by the bursts of moonlight shed
Between the lofty tombs could mark
Those figures as with hasty tread
They glided on--till in the shade
Of a small pyramid, which thro'
Some boughs of palm its peak displayed,
They vanisht instant from my view.
I hurried to the spot--no trace
Of life was in that lonely place;
And had the creed I hold by taught
Of other worlds I might have thought
Some mocking spirits had from thence
Come in this guise to cheat my sense.
At length, exploring darkly round
The Pyramid's smooth sides, I found
An iron portal--opening high
'Twixt peak and base--and, with a prayer
To the bliss-loving Moon whose eye
Alone beheld me sprung in there.
Downward the narrow stairway led
Thro' many a duct obscure and dread,
A labyrinth for mystery made,
With wanderings onward, backward, round,
And gathering still, where'er it wound.
But deeper density of shade.
Scarce had I asked myself, "Can aught
"That man delights in sojourn here?"--
When, suddenly, far off, I caught
A glimpse of light, remote, but clear--
Whose welcome glimmer seemed to pour
From some alcove or cell that ended
The long, steep, marble corridor,
Thro' which I now, all hope, descended.
Never did Spartan to his bride
With warier foot at midnight glide.
It seemed as echo's self were dead
In this dark place, so mute my tread.
Reaching at length that light, I saw--
Oh! listen to the scene now raised
Before my eyes--then guess the awe,
The still, rapt awe with which I gazed.
'Twas a small chapel, lined around
With the fair, spangling marble found
In many a ruined shrine that stands
Half seen above the Libyan sands.
The walls were richly sculptured o'er,
And charactered with that dark lore
Of times before the Flood, whose key
Was lost in the "Universal Sea."--
While on the roof was pictured bright
The Theban beetle as he shines,
When the Nile's mighty flow declines
And forth the creature springs to light,
With life regenerate in his wings:--
Emblem of vain imaginings!
Of a new world, when this is gone,
In which the spirit still lives on!
Direct beneath this type, reclined
On a black granite altar, lay
A female form, in crystal shrined,
And looking fresh as if the ray
Of soul had fled but yesterday,
While in relief of silvery hue
Graved on the altar's front were seen
A branch of lotus, broken in two,
As that fair creature's life had been,
And a small bird that from its spray
Was winging like her soul away.
But brief the glimpse I now could spare
To the wild, mystic wonders round;
For there was yet one wonder there
That held me as by witchery bound.
The lamp that thro' the chamber shed
Its vivid beam was at the head
Of her who on that altar slept;
And near it stood when first I came--
Bending her brow, as if she kept
Sad watch upon its silent flame--
A female form as yet so placed
Between the lamp's strong glow and me,
That I but saw, in outline traced,
The shadow of her symmetry.
Yet did my heart--I scarce knew why--
Even at that shadowed shape beat high.
Nor was it long ere full in sight
The figure turned; and by the light
That touched her features as she bent
Over the crystal monument,
I saw 'twas she--the same--the same--
That lately stood before me, brightening
The holy spot where she but came
And went again like summer lightning!
Upon the crystal o'er the breast
Of her who took that silent rest,
There was a cross of silver lying--
Another type of that blest home,
Which hope and pride and fear of dying
Build for us in a world to come:--
This silver cross the maiden raised
To her pure lips:--then, having gazed
Some minutes on that tranquil face,
Sleeping in all death's mournful grace,
Upward she turned her brow serene,
As if intent on heaven those eyes
Saw them nor roof nor cloud between
Their own pure orbits and the skies,
And, tho' her lips no motion made,
And that fixt look was all her speech,
I saw that the rapt spirit prayed
Deeper within than words could reach.
Strange power of Innocence, to turn
To its own hue whate'er comes near,
And make even vagrant Passion burn
With purer warmth within its sphere!
She who but one short hour before
Had come like sudden wild-fire o'er
My heart and brain--whom gladly even
From that bright Temple in the face
Of those proud ministers of heaven,
I would have borne in wild embrace,
And risked all punishment, divine
And human, but to make her mine;--
She, she was now before me, thrown
By fate itself into my arms--
There standing, beautiful, alone,
With naught to guard her but her charms.
Yet did I, then--did even a breath
From my parched lips, too parched to move,
Disturb a scene where thus, beneath
Earth's silent covering, Youth and Death
Held converse thro' undying love?
No--smile and taunt me as thou wilt--
Tho' but to gaze thus was delight,
Yet seemed it like a wrong, a guilt,
To win by stealth so pure a sight:
And rather than a look profane
Should then have met those thoughtful eyes,
Or voice or whisper broke the chain
That linked her spirit with the skies,
I would have gladly in that place
From which I watched her heavenward face,
Let my heart break, without one beat
That could disturb a prayer so sweet.
Gently, as if on every tread.
My life, my more than life depended,
Back thro' the corridor that led
To this blest scene I now ascended,
And with slow seeking and some pain
And many a winding tried in vain
Emerged to upper earth again.
The sun had freshly risen, and down
The marble hills of Araby,
Scattered as from a conqueror's crown
His beams into that living sea.
There seemed a glory in his light,
Newly put on--as if for pride.
Of the high homage paid this night
To his own Isis, his young bride.,
Now fading feminine away
In her proud Lord's superior ray.
My mind's first impulse was to fly
At once from this entangling net--
New scenes to range, new loves to try,
Or in mirth, wine and luxury
Of every sense that might forget.
But vain the effort--spell-bound still,
I lingered, without power or will
To turn my eyes from that dark door,
Which now enclosed her 'mong the dead;
Oft fancying, thro' the boughs that o'er
The sunny pile their flickering shed.
'Twas her light form again I saw
Starting to earth--still pure and bright,
But wakening, as I hoped, less awe,
Thus seen by morning's natural light,
Than in that strange, dim cell at night.
But no, alas--she ne'er returned:
Nor yet--tho' still I watch--nor yet,
Tho' the red sun for hours hath burned,
And now in his mid course hath met
The peak of that eternal pile
He pauses still at noon to bless,
Standing beneath his downward smile,
Like a great Spirit shadowless!--
Nor yet she comes--while here, alone,
Sauntering thro' this death-peopled place,
Where no heart beats except my own,
Or 'neath a palm-tree's shelter thrown,
By turns I watch and rest and trace
These lines that are to waft to thee
My last night's wondrous history.
Dost thou remember, in that Isle
Of our own Sea where thou and I
Lingered so long, so happy a while,
Till all the summer flowers went by--
How gay it was when sunset brought
To the cool Well our favorite maids--
Some we had won, and some we sought--
To dance within the fragrant shades,
And till the stars went down attune
Their Fountain Hymns[3] to the young moon?
That time, too--oh, 'tis like a dream--
When from Scamander's holy tide
I sprung as Genius of the Stream,
And bore away that blooming bride,
Who thither came, to yield her charms
(As Phrygian maids are wont ere wed)
Into the cold Scamander's arms,
But met and welcomed mine, instead--
Wondering as on my neck she fell,
How river-gods could love so well!
Who would have thought that he who roved
Like the first bees of summer then,
Rifling each sweet nor ever loved
But the free hearts that loved again,
Readily as the reed replies
To the least breath that round it sighs--
Is the same dreamer who last night
Stood awed and breathless at the sight
Of one Egyptian girl; and now
Wanders among these tombs with brow
Pale, watchful, sad, as tho' he just,
Himself, had risen from out their dust!
Yet so it is--and the same thirst
For something high and pure, above
This withering world, which from the first
Made me drink deep of woman's love--
As the one joy, to heaven most near
Of all our hearts can meet with here--
Still burns me up, still keeps awake
A fever naught but death can slake.
Farewell; whatever may befall--
Or bright, or dark--thou'lt know it all.
NOTES:
[1] The Ibis.
[2] Necropolis, or the City of the Dead, to the south of Memphis.
[3] These Songs of the Well, as they were called by the ancients, are still common in the Greek isles.
LETTER IV. FROM ORCUS, HIGH PRIEST OF MEMPHIS, TO DECIUS, THE PRAETORIAN PREFECT.
Rejoice, my friend, rejoice;--the youthful Chief
Of that light Sect which mocks at all belief,
And gay and godless makes the present hour
Its only heaven, is now within our power.
Smooth, impious school!--not all the weapons aimed,
At priestly creeds, since first a creed was framed,
E'er struck so deep as that sly dart they wield,
The Bacchant's pointed spear in laughing flowers concealed.
And oh, 'twere victory to this heart, as sweet
As any _thou _canst boast--even when the feet
Of thy proud war-steed wade thro' Christian blood,
To wrap this scoffer in Faith's blinding hood,
And bring him tamed and prostrate to implore
The vilest gods even Egypt's saints adore.
What!--do these sages think, to _them_ alone
The key of this world's happiness is known?
That none but they who make such proud parade
Of Pleasure's smiling favors win the maid,
Or that Religion keeps no secret place,
No niche in her dark fanes for Love to grace?
Fools!--did they know how keen the zest that's given
To earthly joy when seasoned well with heaven;
How Piety's grave mask improves the hue
Of Pleasure's laughing features, half seen thro',
And how the Priest set aptly within reach
Of two rich worlds, traffics for bliss with each,
Would they not, Decius--thou, whom the ancient tie
'Twixt Sword and Altar makes our best ally--
Would they not change their creed, their craft, for ours?
Leave the gross daylight joys that in their bowers
Languish with too much sun, like o'er-blown flowers,
For the veiled loves, the blisses undisplayed
That slyly lurk within the Temple's shade?
And, 'stead of haunting the trim Garden's school--
Where cold Philosophy usurps a rule,
Like the pale moon's, o'er passion's heaving tide,
Till Pleasure's self is chilled by Wisdom's pride--
Be taught by _us_, quit shadows for the true,
Substantial joys we sager Priests pursue,
Who far too wise to theorize on bliss
Or pleasure's substance for its shade to miss.
Preach _other_ worlds but live for only _this_:-
Thanks to the well-paid Mystery round us flung,
Which, like its type the golden cloud that hung
O'er Jupiter's love-couch its shade benign,
Round human frailty wraps a veil divine.
Still less should they presume, weak wits, that they
Alone despise the craft of us who pray;--
Still less their creedless vanity deceive
With the fond thought that we who pray believe.
Believe!--Apis forbid--forbid it, all
Ye monster Gods before whose shrines we fall--
Deities framed in jest as if to try
How far gross Man can vulgarize the sky;
How far the same low fancy that combines
Into a drove of brutes yon zodiac's signs,
And turns that Heaven itself into a place
Of sainted sin and deified disgrace,
Can bring Olympus even to shame more deep,
Stock it with things that earth itself holds cheap.
Fish, flesh, and fowl, the kitchen's sacred brood,
Which Egypt keeps for worship, not for food--
All, worthy idols of a Faith that sees
In dogs, cats, owls, and apes, divinities!
Believe!--oh, Decius, thou, who feel'st no care
For things divine beyond the soldier's share,
Who takes on trust the faith for which he bleeds,
A good, fierce God to swear by, all he needs--
Little canst thou, whose creed around thee hangs
Loose as thy summer war-cloak guess the pangs
Of loathing and self-scorn with which a heart
Stubborn as mine is acts the zealot's part--
The deep and dire disgust with which I wade
Thro' the foul juggling of this holy trade--
This mud profound of mystery where the feet
At every step sink deeper in deceit.
Oh! many a time, when, mid the Temple's blaze,
O'er prostrate fools the sacred cist I raise,
Did I not keep still proudly in my mind
The power this priestcraft gives me o'er mankind--
A lever, of more might, in skilful hand,
To move this world, than Archimede e'er planned--
I should in vengeance of the shame I feel
At my own mockery crush the slaves that kneel
Besotted round; and--like that kindred breed
Of reverend, well-drest crocodiles they feed,
At famed Arsinoe[1]--make my keepers bless,
With their last throb, my sharp-fanged Holiness.
Say, _is_ it to be borne, that scoffers, vain
Of their own freedom from the altar's chain,
Should mock thus all that thou thy blood hast sold.
And I my truth, pride, freedom, to uphold?
It must not be:--think'st thou that Christian sect,
Whose followers quick as broken waves, erect
Their crests anew and swell into a tide,
That threats to sweep away our shrines of pride--
Think'st thou with all their wondrous spells even they
Would triumph thus, had not the constant play
Of Wit's resistless archery cleared their way?--
That mocking spirit, worst of all the foes,
Our solemn fraud, our mystic mummery knows,
Whose wounding flash thus ever 'mong the signs
Of a fast-falling creed, prelusive shines,
Threatening such change as do the awful freaks
Of summer lightning ere the tempest breaks.
But, to my point--a youth of this vain school,
But one, whom Doubt itself hath failed to cool
Down to that freezing point where Priests despair
Of any spark from the altar catching there--
Hath, some nights since--it was, me thinks, the night
That followed the full Moon's great annual rite--
Thro' the dark, winding ducts that downward stray
To these earth--hidden temples, tracked his way,
Just at that hour when, round the Shrine, and me,
The choir of blooming nymphs thou long'st to see,
Sing their last night-hymn in the Sanctuary.
The clangor of the marvellous Gate that stands
At the Well's lowest depth--which none but hands
Of new, untaught adventurers, from above,
Who know not the safe path, e'er dare to move--
Gave signal that a foot profane was nigh:--
'Twas the Greek youth, who, by that morning's sky,
Had been observed, curiously wandering round
The mighty fanes of our sepulchral ground.
Instant, the Initiate's Trials were prepared,--
The Fire, Air, Water; all that Orpheus dared,
That Plato, that the bright-haired Samian[2] past,
With trembling hope, to come to--_what_, at last?
Go, ask the dupes of Priestcraft; question him
Who mid terrific sounds and spectres dim
Walks at Eleusis; ask of those who brave
The dazzling miracles of Mithra's Cave
With its seven starry gates; ask all who keep
Those terrible night-mysteries where they weep
And howl sad dirges to the answering breeze.
O'er their dead Gods, their mortal Deities--
Amphibious, hybrid things that died as men,
Drowned, hanged, empaled, to rise as gods again;--
Ask _them_, what mighty secret lurks below
This seven-fold mystery--can they tell thee? No;
Gravely they keep that only secret, well
And fairly kept--that they have none to tell;
And duped themselves console their humbled pride
By duping thenceforth all mankind beside.
And such the advance in fraud since Orpheus' time--
That earliest master of our craft sublime--
So many minor Mysteries, imps of fraud,
From the great Orphic Egg have winged abroad,
That, still to uphold our Temple's ancient boast,
And seem most holy, we must cheat the most;
Work the best miracles, wrap nonsense round
In pomp and darkness till it seems profound;
Play on the hopes, the terrors of mankind,
With changeful skill; and make the human mind
Like our own Sanctuary, where no ray
But by the Priest's permission wins its way--
Where thro' the gloom as wave our wizard rods.
Monsters at will are conjured into Gods;
While Reason like a grave-faced mummy stands
With her arms swathed in hieroglyphic bands.
But chiefly in that skill with which we use
Man's wildest passions for Religion's views,
Yoking them to her car like fiery steeds,
Lies the main art in which our craft succeeds.
And oh be blest, ye men of yore, whose toil
Hath, for our use, scooped out from Egypt's soil
This hidden Paradise, this mine of fanes,
Gardens and palaces where Pleasure reigns
In a rich, sunless empire of her own,
With all earth's luxuries lighting up her throne:--
A realm for mystery made, which undermines
The Nile itself and, 'neath the Twelve Great Shrines
That keep Initiation's holy rite,
Spreads its long labyrinths of unearthly light.
A light that knows no change--its brooks that run
Too deep for day, its gardens without sun,
Where soul and sense, by turns, are charmed, surprised.
And all that bard or prophet e'er devised
For man's Elysium, priests have realized.
Here, at this moment--all his trials past.
And heart and nerve unshrinking to the last--
Our new Initiate roves--as yet left free
To wander thro' this realm of mystery;
Feeding on such illusions as prepare
The soul, like mist o'er waterfalls, to wear
All shapes and lines at Fancy's varying will,
Thro' every shifting aspect, vapor still;--
Vague glimpses of the Future, vistas shown.
By scenic skill, into that world unknown.
Which saints and sinners claim alike their own;
And all those other witching, wildering arts,
Illusions, terrors, that make human hearts,
Ay, even the wisest and the hardiest quail
To _any_ goblin throned behind a veil.
Yes--such the spells shall haunt his eye, his ear,
Mix wild his night-dreams, form his atmosphere;
Till, if our Sage be not tamed down, at length,
His wit, his wisdom, shorn of all their strength,
Like Phrygian priests, in honor of the shrine--
If he become not absolutely mine,
Body and soul and like the tame decoy
Which wary hunters of wild doves employ
Draw converts also, lure his brother wits
To the dark cage where his own spirit flits.
And give us if not saints good hypocrites--
If I effect not this then be it said
The ancient spirit of our craft hath fled,
Gone with that serpent-god the Cross hath chased
To hiss its soul out in the Theban waste.
NOTES:
[1] For the trinkets with which the sacred Crocodiles were ornamented see the "Epicurean" chap x.
[2] Pythagoras.
[The end]
Thomas Moore's poem: Alciphron: A Fragment
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