Classic Poem

The hour of worship's over; and the flute
And choral voices of the girls are mute;
And by degrees the people have departed
Homeward, with gentle step, and quiet-hearted;
The jealous easy, the desponding healed;
The timid, hopeful of their love concealed;
The sprightlier maiden, sure of nuptial joys;
And mothers, grateful for their rosy boys.

All, all is still about the odorous grove,
That wraps the temple of the Queen of Love,
All but the sparrows twittering from the eaves,
And inward voice of doves among the leaves,
And the cool, hiding noise of brooks in bowers,
And bees, that dart in bosoms of the flowers,
And now and then, a breath-increasing breeze
That comes amidst a world of tumbling trees;
And makes them pant, and shift against the light,
About the marble roof, solid and sunny bright

Only some stragglers loiter round the place
To catch a glimpse of Hero's heavenly face,—
Hero, the loveliest of a lovely train,
That did the gentle service of the fane.
And now and then, there comes upon their ears
A slender step; and some sweet girl appears,
Some sister priestess with a rosy crown,
Who hastens by, with eyes half looking down,
Carrying a golden torch, or ivory casket,
Or, on her head, doves in a milk-white basket.

But Hero comes not as she used to do;
They watch, and watch, and keep the door in view;
Till almost all, hopeless of further stay,
One after one, drop silently away.
At last she comes; yet scarcely has stepped out,
And cast, with a quick blush, her eyes about,
Than turning back, she leaves them in fresh pain:
Not long however,—for she comes again,
Bringing a golden torch;—and so with pace
A little slackened, and still rosier face,
Passes their looks; and turning by a bower,
Hastens to hide her in her lonely tower.

The tower o'erlooks the sea; and there she sits
Grave with glad thoughts, and watching it by fits;
For o'er that sea, and by that torch's light,
Her love Leander is to come at night;
To come, not sailing, nor with help of oar,
But with his own warm heart and arms—no more—
A naked bridegroom, bound from shore to shore.

And yet 'twas he that in the porch but now,
Had held her, and had kissed, she scarce knew how;
And after months of mutual admiration
Felt more than told, and glancing inclination,
(For he was but an ardent youth, and she
Of a severe and wealthier family,)
Had made her say, or rather look, in spite
Of what she said, that he might come that night,
And take her for his bride, and plight his truth
By Venus, and the waves, and uncorrupted youth.

So there she sat; and looking vaguely through
The arching trees that at her window grew,
Started a moment, as across the sea
She saw his bark go homeward airily.
But 'twas her wish that he should not remain
Waiting, till night, concealed about the fane;
And he himself, however loth to go,
Preferred returning for an hour or so,
To hinder friends from wondering with each other,
And above all, to comfort a kind mother.
So she sat fixed, thinking, and thinking on;
And wished, and yet did not, the time were gone;
And started then, and blushed, and then was fain
To try some work, and then sat down again;
And lost to the green trees with their sweet singers,
Tapped on the casement's ledge with idle fingers.

Hesper meanwhile, the star with amorous eye,
Shot his fine sparkle from the deep blue sky.
A depth of night succeeded, dark, but clear,
Such as presents the hollow starry sphere
Like a high gulf to heaven; and all above
Seems waking to a fervid work of love.
A nightingale, in transport, seemed to fling
His warble out, and then sit listening:
And ever and anon, amidst the flush
Of the thick leaves, there ran a breezy gush;
And then, from dewy myrtles lately bloomed,
An odour small, in at the window, fumed.

At last, with twinkle o'er a distant tower,
A star appeared that was to show the hour.
The virgin saw; and going to a room
Which held an altar burning with perfume,
Cut off a lock of her dark solid hair,
And laid it, with a little whispered prayer,
Before a statue, that of marble bright
Sat smiling downwards o'er the rosy light
Then at the flame the torch of gold she lit,
And o'er her head anxiously holding it,
Ascended to the roof; and leaning there,
Lifted its light into the darksome air.

The boy beheld—beheld it from the sea,
And parted his wet locks, and breathed with glee,
And rose, in swimming, more triumphantly.

He had not long left home; but at the shore
He made no stay; his eye but just ran o'er
The hills behind; and stripping him, he laid
His clothes within a nook some holm-trees made,
And o'er the pebbles, in his naked pride,
Trampling the surf, rushed down into the tide.

Smooth was the sea that night, the lover strong,
And in the springy waves he danced along.
He rose, he dipped his breast, he aimed, he cut
With his clear arms, and from before him put
The parting waves, and in and out the air
His shoulders felt, and trailed his washing hair;
But when he saw the torch, oh, how he sprung,
And thrust his feet against the waves, and flung.
The foam behind, as though he scorned the sea,
And parted his wet locks, and breathed with glee,
And rose, and panted, most triumphantly!

Arrived at last on shallow ground, he saw
The flaring light, as if in haste, withdraw:
Again it issued just above the door
With a white hand, and vanished as before
Then rising, with a sudden-ceasing sound
Of wateriness, he stood on the firm ground,
And treading up a little slippery bank,
With jutting myrtles mixed, and verdure dank,
Came to a door ajar,—all hushed, all blind
With darkness; yet he guessed who stood behind;
And entering with a turn, the breathless youth
Slid round a gentle cheek, and kissed a warm kind mouth.

So lingered they awhile; then silent still
Went up the stairs; when she, with gentle thrill,
A little bashful, yet ashamed to be,
Performed the rites of hospitality.
His glazy limbs she dried, and dripping locks,
And emptied rosy essence from a box;
And so restored him to himself again
From the faint toil and rankness of the main.
Then, on the genial couch, she took his head,
And laid her bosom to his cheek, and said,—
‘Leander, I do love you; you can take
So brave a journey for a lady's sake;
And you are kind and good,—so that to meet
Your very aspect and your mind is sweet;
And I could be content (and here she blushed)
That you should lie to-night, embraced and hushed,
And take your rest after the toilsome sea;
Your love alone is such a wealth to me.’

But looking up with glad yet reverent eyes,
He breathed away the gentle self-disguise;
And folding her, with doubled wish to bless,
Strained to his heart the cordial shapeliness.
Pleasure be with them, and affectionate sleep!
I say no more; for foolish men still keep
Their vice-creating ways, and still are blindest
To what is happiest, loveliest, best, and kindest.

Thus passed the summer shadows in delight:
Leander came as surely as the night,
And when the morning woke upon the sea,
It saw him not, for back at home was he.
Sometimes, when it blew fresh, the struggling flare
Seemed out; but then he knew his Hero's care,
And that she only walled it with her cloak;
Brighter again from out the dark it broke.
Sometimes the night was almost clear as day,
Wanting no torch; and then, with easy play,
He dipped along beneath the silver moon,
Placidly hearkening to the water's tune.
The people round the country, who from far
Used to behold the torch, thought it a star,
Set there perhaps by Venus as a wonder,
To mark the favourite maiden who slept under
Therefore they trod about the grounds by day
Gently; and fishermen at night, they say,
With reverence kept aloof, cutting their silent way.

But whether we are things too weak to be
Long happy, beyond mere placidity;
Or whether we must taste bitterness here,
To exalt our relish for a perfect sphere;
Or whether there are joys, which when the gods
See plucked, as 'twere, from out their own abodes,
They say, ‘Those mortals have discerned a prize,
Which they must come up here to realize;’
Or lastly, whether like distempered men,
Who want their cure from nature's breast again,
We talk of griefs and follies, yet lay claim
To praise for both, and call it a good name,
Hugging our thorns, and taking reverend measures
To cut short all offenders who get pleasures,
I know not; but if one true joy there spring,
The world must have its speedy poisoning,—
Must interfere, some way, to make it hard
Of getting, or to blast it when not barred;
And thus it is, that happiest linked loves
Glance and are gone sometimes, like passing doves;
Or like two dancers gliding from a green;
Or two sky-streaks, filling with clouds between,
All we can hope is, that so sweet a smile
Goes somewhere to continue; and meanwhile,
Hopes, joys, and sorrows link our days together,
Like spring, and summer-time, and wintery weather.

For autumn now was over; and the crane
Began to clang against the coming rain,
And peevish winds ran cutting o'er the sea,
Which at its best looked dark and slatily.
The gentle girl, before he went away,
Would look out sadly toward the cold-eyed day,
And often beg him not to come that night;
But still he came, and still she blessed his sight;
And so, from day to day, he came and went,
Till time had almost made her confident.

One evening, as she sat, twining sweet bay
And myrtle garlands for a holiday,
And watched at intervals the dreary sky,
In which the dim sun held a languid eye,
She thought with such a full and quiet sweetness
Of all Leander's love and his completeness,
All that he was, and said, and looked, and dared,
His form, his step, his noble head full-haired,
And how she loved him, as might other women,
And yet he earned her still with nightly swimming,—
That the sharp pleasure moved her like a grief,
And tears came dropping with their meek relief.

Meantime the sun had sunk; the hilly mark,
Across the straits, mixed with the mightier dark,
And night came on. All noises by degrees
Were hushed,—the fisher's call, the birds, the trees,
All but the washing of the eternal seas.

Hero looked out, and trembling augured ill,
The darkness held its breath so very still
But yet she hoped he might arrive before
The storm began, or not be far from shore;
And crying, as she stretched forth in the air,
‘Bless him!’ she turned, and said a tearful prayer,
And mounted to the tower, and shook the torch's flare.

But he, Leander, almost half across,
Threw his blithe locks behind him with a toss,
And hailed the light victoriously, secure
Of clasping his kind love, so sweet and sure;
When suddenly, a blast, as if in wrath,
Sheer from the hills, came headlong on his path;
Then started off; and driving round the sea,
Dashed up the panting waters roaringly.
The youth at once was thrust beneath the main
With blinded eyes, but quickly rose again,
And with a smile at heart, and stouter pride,
Surmounted, like a god, the rearing tide
But what? The torch gone out! So long too! See,
He thinks it comes! Ah, yes,—'tis she! 'tis she!
Again he springs; and though the winds arise
Fiercer and fiercer, swims with ardent eyes;
And always, though with ruffian waves dashed hard,
Turns thither with glad groan his stout regard;
And always, though his sense seems washed away,
Emerges, fighting tow'rds the cordial ray.

But driven about at last, and drenched the while,
The noble boy loses that inward smile.
For now, from one black atmosphere, the rain
Sweeps into stubborn mixture with the main;
And the brute wind, unmuffling all its roar,
Storms;—and the light, gone out, is seen no more
Then dreadful thoughts of death, of waves heaped on him,
And friends, and parting daylight, rush upon him
He thinks of prayers to Neptune and his daughters,
And Venus, Hero's queen, sprung from the waters;
And then of Hero only,—how she fares,
And what she'll feel, when the blank morn appears;
And at that thought he stiffens once again
His limbs, and pants, and strains, and climbs,—in vain.
Fierce draughts he swallows of the wilful wave,
His tossing hands are lax, his blind look grave,
Till the poor youth (and yet no coward he)
Spoke once her name, and yielding wearily,
Wept in the middle of the scornful sea.

I need not tell how Hero, when her light
Would burn no longer, passed that dreadful night;
How she exclaimed, and wept, and could not sit
One instant in one place; nor how she lit
The torch a hundred times, and when she found
'Twas all in vain, her gentle head turned round
Almost with rage; and in her fond despair
She tried to call him through the deafening air.

But when he came not,—when from hour to hour
He came not,—though the storm had spent its power,
And when the casement, at the dawn of light,
Began to show a square of ghastly white,
She went up to the tower, and straining out
To search the seas, downwards, and round about,
She saw, at last,—she saw her lord indeed
Floating, and washed about, like a vile weed;
On which such strength of passion and dismay
Seized her, and such an impotence to stay,
That from the turret, like a stricken dove;
With fluttering arms she leaped, and joined her drowned love.