Collected Works (Vol. III)

180 ORPHEUS They are sore afraid, They are weary with care. There is none to aid. There is none to pity. They wail in despair At the gate of the city. But I, shall I halt At the thrice-barred portal In the lampless vault, I, half an immortal ? By love of my mother, By might of my lyre, By Nature’s assistance, I, I, not another Demand my desire, Rebuke your resistance, By mighty Apollo Whose power yet abides, Though his light may not follow Through Stygian tides ! By my power over things Both living and dead, By my influence splendid In heavenly court, The song of me springs. My favour is dread. Be your portals rended! Your bolts be as nought ! The ethereal kings Encompass my head. My soul hath transcended The limits of thought ! Unbar me the gates! Revolve me the hinges! Mine be the Fate! Mine be the springes Wherein ye have taken The spirits forsaken ! But I, shall I quail at a nod? Shall I fail for a God? [s the soul of me shaken? Darklier winding And steeper the way, Baffling and blinding Eyes used to the day. Rocks cloven by thunder And shattered by storm Awry or asunder Rise and reform In marvellous coils Round the adamant road Whose tangles and toils Lead on the abode, Where dwell in the light Of justice infernal The judges that smite, That judge men aright, Whose laws are eternal ! Those kings that in reigning For bribing or feigning Swerved never an hair From justice and truth ; Turned never a care To wrath or to ruth; Did justice, and died. Thither I haste To face the austere Faces of peace. Shall the lyre cease? Its music be waste? Themselves not hear? I stride to the presence and sing: and my soul is not conquered of fear. Now the road widens and grows darker still As if the shadow of some ancient tower Cast its deep spell on the reluctant will. Still tortuous winds the deep descent; the hour Lies bitterer on my soul: I fear to fail, To loose in vain the lyre’s dissolving power On the white souls armed in that triple mail Of justice, virtue, truth: percipience Beyond the mute and melancholy veil That covers from the drowsy eye of sense The subtle thought that hides behind the mask. I fear indeed: but now the soul intense