Hypolympia; Or, The Gods in the Island, an Ironic Fantasy. Gosse Edmund

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      Tell me what it is.

      Hermes.

      I have found at the back of the palace a small rural waggon, and I have caught two ponies, with coats like grey velvet, and great antelopes' eyes – dear little creatures. I have harnessed them, and now I want you to sit in this cart, while I am dressed like some herdsman of these barbarians, and lead the ponies, and we will go together to coax Demeter out into the fields.

      Persephone.

      Oh! Hermes, how splendid of you. Let us fly to carry out your plan. Circe, will you not come with us?

      Circe.

      Or shall I not rather go to prepare the mind of Demeter for an agreeable surprise? Shall you be happy by yourselves, Kronos and Rhea?

      Rhea.

      Quite happy, for we desire to sleep.

      [Exit Circe to right, Hermes and Persephone to left.]

      III

      [A ring of turf, in a hollow of the slope, surrounded by beech-trees, except on one side, where a marsh descends to a small tarn. Over the latter is rising the harvest moon. Phœbus Apollo alone; he watches the luminary for a long time in silence.]

      Phœbus.

      Selene! sister! – since that tawny shell,

      Stained by thy tears and hollowed by thy sighs,

      Recalls thee still to mind – dost thou regard,

      From some tumultuous covert of this woodland,

      Thy whilom sphere and palace? Nun of the skies,

      In coy virginity of pulse, thy hands

      Repelled me when I sought to win thy lair,

      Fraternal, with no thoughts but humorous ones;

      And in thy chill revulsion, through thy skies,

      At my advance thy crystal home would fade,

      A ghost, a shadow, a film, a papery dream.

      Thou and thy moon were one. What is it now,

      Thy phantom paradise of gorgeous pearl,

      With sibilant streams and palmy tier on tier

      Of wind-bewhitened foliage? Still it floats,

      As when thy congregated harps and viols

      Beat slow harmonious progress, light on light,

      Across our stainless canopy of heaven.

      Ah! but how changed, Selene! If thy form

      Crouches among these harsher herbs, O turn

      Thy withering face away, and press thine eyes

      To darkness in the strings of dusty heather,

      Since that loose globe of orange pallor totters,

      Racked with the fires of anarchy, and sheds

      The embers of thy glory; and the cradles

      Of thy imperial maidenhood are foul

      With sulphur and the craterous ash of hell.

      O gaze not, sister, on the loathsome wreck

      Of what was once thy moon. Yet, if thou must

      With tear-fed eyes visit thine ancient realm,

      Bend down until the fringe of thy faint lids

      Hides all save what is in this tarn reflected —

      Cold, pallid, swimming in the lustrous pool,

      There only worthy of thy clear regard,

      A vision purified in woe.

      [The reeds in the tarn are stirred, and there is audible a faint shriek and a ripple of laughter. A shrouded figure rises from the marsh, and, hastening by Phœbus through the darkness, is lost in the woods. It is followed closely by Pan, who, observing Phœbus, pauses in embarrassment.]

      Phœbus.

      I thought I was alone.

      Pan.

      And so did we, sire.

      Phœbus.

      Am I to congratulate you on your distractions?

      Pan.

      I have a natural inclination to marshy places.

      Phœbus.

      This is a ghastly night, Pan.

      Pan.

      I had not observed it, sire. Yes, doubtless a ghastly night. But I was occupied, and I am no naturalist. This glen curiously reminded me of rushy Ladon. I am a great student of reeds, and I was agreeably surprised to find some very striking specimens here – worthy of the Arcadian watercourses, as I am a deity. I should say, was a deity.

      Phœbus.

      They will help, perhaps, to reconcile you to mortality. You can add them to your collection.

      Pan.

      That, sire, is my hope. The stems are particularly full and smooth, and the heads of the best of them rustle back with a profusion of flaxen flowerage, remarkably agreeable to the touch. I broke one as your Highness approached. But the wind, or some goblin, bore it from me. This curious place seems full of earth-spirits.

      Phœbus.

      You must study them, too, Pan. That will supply you with another object.

      Pan.

      But the marsh water has a property unknown to the Olympian springs. I suspect it of being poisoned. After standing long in it, I found myself troubled with aching in the shank, from knee to hoof. If this is repeated, my studies of reed-life will be made dolorously difficult.

      Phœbus.

      It must now be part of your pleasure to husband your enjoyments. You have always rolled in the twinkle of the vine-leaves, hot enough and not too hot, with grapes – immense musky clusters – just within your reach. If you think of it philosophically —

      Pan.

      How, sire?

      Phœbus.

      Philosophically… Well, if you think of it sensibly, you will see that there was a certain dreariness in this uniformity of satisfaction. Rather amusing, surely, to find the cluster occasionally spring up out of reach, to find the polished waist of the reed slip from your hands? Occasionally, of course; just enough to give a zest to pursuit.

      Pan.

      Ah! there was pursuit in Ladon, but it was pursuit which always closed easily in capture. What I am afraid of is that here capture may prove the exception. Your Highness … but a slight family connection and our adversities are making me strangely familiar…

      Phœbus.

      Speak on, my good Pan.

      Pan.

      Your Highness was once something of a botanist?

      Phœbus.

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