Gathering 'round me, onward borne, Second Spirit. A rainbow's arch stood on the sea. His plank, then plunged aside to die Third Spirit. I sate beside a sage's bed, Fourth Spirit. On a poet's lips I slept In the sound his breathing kept; Of shapes that haunt thought's wildernesses. The lake-reflected sun illume Nor heed nor see what things they be ; Forms more real than living man, Nurslings of immortality! One of these awakened me, And I sped to succour thee. Ione. Behold'st thou not two shapes from the east and west Come, as two doves to one beloved nest, On swift still wings glide down the atmosphere? Panthea. Canst thou speak, sister? all my words are drowned. Ione. Their beauty gives me voice. See how they float On their sustaining wings of skiey grain, Orange and azure deepening into gold: Their soft smiles light the air like a star's fire. Chorus of Spirits. Hast thou beheld the form of Love? Fifth Spirit. As over wide dominions [wildernesses, I sped, like some swift cloud that wings the wide air's That planet-crested shape swept by on nghtning-braided pinions, Scattering the liquid joy of life from his ambrosial tresses: His footsteps paved the world with light; but as I pass'd 'twas fading, [madness, And hollow Ruin yawned behind: great sages bound in And headless patriots and pale youths who perished, unupbraiding, [of sadness, Gleamed in the night. I wandered o'er, till thou, O King Turned by thy smile the worst I saw to recollected gladness. Sixth Spirit. Ah, sister! Desolation is a delicate thing: It walks not on the earth, it floats not on the air, But treads with silent footstep, and fans with silent wing The tender hopes which in their hearts the best and gentlest bear; Who, soothed to false repose by the fanning plumes above Chorus. Though Ruin now Love's shadow be, On Death's white and winged steed, Trampling down both flower and weed, Thou shalt quell this horseman grim, Pro. Spirits! how know ye this shall be? Chorus. In the atmosphere we breathe, As buds grow red when the snow-storms flee, Whose mild winds shake the elder brake, To sheperd boys, the prophecy Ione. Where are the Spirits fled? Panthea. Only a sense Remains of them, like the omnipotence Of music, when the inspired voice and lute Which thro' the deep and labyrinthine soul, Like echoes thro' long caverns, wind and roll. Pro. How fair these air-born shapes! and yet I feel The saviour and the strength of suffering man, Earth can console, Heaven can torment no more. Pro. I said all hope was vain but love: thou lovest. Pan. Deeply in truth; but the eastern star looks white And Asia waits in that far Indian vale The scene of her sad exile: rugged once And desolate and frozen, like this ravine; But now invested with fair flowers and herbs, And haunted by sweet airs and sounds, which flow END OF THE FIRST ACT. ACT II. SCENE I. Morning. A lovely Vale in the Indian Caucasus. Asia. From all the blasts of heaven thou hast descended And beating haunts the desolated heart, Which should have learnt repose: thou hast descended Cradled in tempests; thou dost wake, O Spring! O child of many winds! As suddenly Thou comest as the memory of a dream, As from the earth, clothing with golden clouds This is the season, this the day, the hour; At sunrise thou shouldst come, sweet sister mine, oo long desired, too long delaying, come ! ow like death-worms the wingless moments crawl! The point of one white star is quivering still Deep in the orange light of widening morn Beyond the purple mountains: thro' a chasm Of wind-divided mist the darker lake Reflects it: now it wanes: it gleams again As the waves fade, and as the burning threads Of woven cloud unravel in pale air: 'Tis lost! and thro' yon peaks of cloudlike snow The Eolian music of her sea-green plumes PANTHEA enters. I feel, I see, Those eyes which burn thro' smiles that fade in tears, Like stars half-quenched in mists of silver dew. Beloved and most beautiful, who wearest |