Collected Works (Vol. III)

190 ORPHEUS Respin what Atropos once cut—that story Were vain for thee—that which is past is past, Nor-can Omnipotence avail the land’s Death—Spring’s is alien though ancestral blood, And a new birth is current in the bud. Str. 3. Think, then, the deed impossible is done Since Theseus fared forth to the ambient air ! His thread once cut—was that indeed respun Or patched by witchery? a deceit? a snare ? I tell ye; past and future are but one, And present—nothing; shall not Hades dare His own omnipotence against the Sun, And let no tittle of his glory share With all the earth’s recuperating wheel, And evéry dawn’s sure falchion-flash of steel? Ant. 3 [Echo of the Damned]. Indeed, a deed impossible was done Were the new Theseus heavier than the air. Nay! but a new thread phantom-frail was spun And men’s blind eyes discovered not the snare, Else were that elder cord and this yet one, Cut but in fancy. Yet, shall mortal dare To fling a wanton word against the Sun, And stand forth candidate for lot and share Where hangs Prometheus, rolls Ixion’s wheel, And the stone rolls upon the limbs of steel? LEpode. These echoes, in my mind foul torturers, Present my fears, and image my distrust. No answer comes, no voice the silence stirs With joyful ‘‘ may ” or melancholy ‘‘ must.” Nor, though the gloom requicken, may I see Hades enthroned, my prayers who heedeth: nought, Nor glowing tear of bowed Persephone Drooped earthward for the ninefold misery wrought. In utter sorrow ever bound she stays, Hears not my song, nor heedeth anything, Whose mind lamenting turns to ancient days And Nysian meadows and the hour of spring. Yea, but perchance to touch that secret chord Were to awake that sorrow into life ; Sting, as a wound a deep-envenomed sword, The inmost soul of the Aidonean wife. Listen ! I tune my music to that hour ; The careless maidens and the virgin laughter, The bloom of springtide and the fatal flower, And all that joy the sorrow echoing after. So that, dread Hades, thou mayst hear and yield, Thyself unmastered and inexorable, The gentle maid as crying in that field, Now thy soul’s keeper on the throne of Hell! Hail, Hades! song, Repealest not the heaven’s unjust decree, Revengest not for me the woe and wrong, Shalt glean my sorrow from Persephone. Hail, Hades! In the gloom the echoing cry Swells, and the chorus darkens as I sing, And all the fibres of Eternity Shake as I loose the loud indignant string. Hail, Hades! hear thy wrong proclaimed aloud, And thou the wronger safe because too great, To like offence harden thy neck, and proud Blow thou the dismal challenge unto Fate ! Thou who hearest not my In Asia, on the Nysian plains, she played, A slender maid, With the deep-bosomed Oceanides ; Where the tall trees Girded the meadow with grave walls of green. Alone, unseen, The tender little lady strayed, Moving across the breeze.