Poems. Edward Dowden

eastern Eos; cry across the storm!

      Through me man’s heart grows wider; little town

      Asleep in silent sunshine and smooth air,

      While babe grew man beneath your girdling towers,

      Wake, wonder, lift the eager head alert,

      Snake-like, and swift to strike, while altar-flame

      Rises for plighted faith with neighbour town

      That slept upon the mountain-shelf, and showed

      A small white temple in the morning sun.

      Oh, ever one way tending you keen prows

      Which shear the shadowy waves when stars are faint

      And break with emulous cries unto the dawn,

      I gaze and draw you onward; splendid names

      Lurk in you, and high deeds, and unachieved

      Virtues, and house-o’erwhelming crimes, while life

      Leaps in sharp flame ere all be ashes grey.

      Thus have I willed it ever since the hour

      When that great lord, the one man worshipful,

      Whose hands had haled the fierce Hippolyta

      Lightly from out her throng of martial maids,

      Would grace his triumph, strengthen his large joy

      With splendour of the swan-begotten child,

      Nor asked a ten years’ siege to make acquist

      Of all her virgin store. No dream that was,—

      The moonlight in the woods, our singing stream,

      Eurotas, the sleek panther at my feet,

      And on my heart a hero’s strong right hand.

      O draught of love immortal! Dastard world

      Too poor for great exchange of soul, too poor

      For equal lives made glorious! O too poor

      For Theseus and for Helena!

      Yet now

      It yields once more a brightness, if no love;

      Around me flash the tides, and in my ears

      A dangerous melody and piercing-clear

      Sing the twin siren-sisters, Death and Life;

      I rise and gird my spirit for the close.

      Last night Cassandra cried ‘Ruin, ruin, and ruin!’

      I mocked her not, nor disbelieved; the gloom

      Gathers, and twilight takes the unwary world.

      Hold me, ye Gods, a torch across the night,

      With one long flare blown back o’er tower and town,

      Till the last things of Troy complete themselves:

      —Then blackness, and the grey dust of a heart.”

      ATALANTA

      “Milanion, seven years ago this day

      You overcame me by a golden fraud,

      Traitor, and see I crown your cup with flowers,

      With violets and white sorrel from dim haunts,—

      A fair libation—ask you to what God?

      To Artemis, to Artemis my Queen.

      Not by my will did you escape the spear

      Though piteous I might be for your glad life,

      Husband, and for your foolish love: the Gods

      Who heard your vows had care of you: I stooped

      Half toward the beauty of the shining thing

      Through some blind motion of an instant joy,—

      As when our babe reached arms to pluck the moon

      A great, round fruit between dark apple-boughs,—

      And half, marking your wile, to fling away

      Needless advantage, conquer carelessly,

      And pass the goal with one light finger-touch

      Just while you leaned forth the bent body’s length

      To reach it. Could I guess I strove with three,

      With Aphrodite, Eros, and the third—

      Milanion? There upon the maple-post

      Your right hand rested: the event had sprung

      Complete from darkness, and possessed the world

      Ere yet conceived: upon the edge of doom

      I stood with foot arrested and blind heart,

      Aware of nought save some unmastered fate

      And reddening neck and brow. I heard you cry

      ‘Judgment, both umpires!’ saw you stand erect,

      Panting, and with a face so glad, so great

      It shone through all my dull bewilderment

      A beautiful uncomprehended joy,

      One perfect thing and bright in a strange world.

      But when I looked to see my father shamed,

      A-choke with rage and words of proper scorn,

      He nodded, and the beard upon his breast

      Pulled twice or thrice, well-pleased, and laughed aloud,

      And while the wrinkles gathered round his eyes

      Cried ‘Girl, well done! My brother’s son retain

      Shrewd head upon your shoulders! Maidens ho!

      A veil for Atalanta, and a zone

      Male fingers may unclasp! Lead home the bride,

      Prepare the nuptial chamber!’ At his word

      My life turned round: too great the shame had grown

      With all men leagued to mock me. Could I stay,

      Confront the vulgar gladness of the world

      At high emprise defeated, a free life

      Tethered, light dimmed, a virtue singular

      Subdued to ways of common use and wont?

      Must I become the men’s familiar jest,

      The comment of the matron-guild? I turned,

      I sought the woods, sought silence, solitude,

      Green depths divine, where the soft-footed ounce

      Lurks, and the light deer comes and drinks and goes,

      Familiar paths in which the mind might gain

      Footing, and haply from a vantage-ground

      Drive this new fate an arm’s-length, hand’s-breadth off

      A little while, till certitude of sight

      And strength returned.

      At evening I went back,

      Walked past the idle groups at gossipry,

      Sought you, and laid my hand upon your wrist,

      Drew you apart, and with no shaken voice

      Spoke, while the swift, hard strokes my heart out-beat

      Seemed growing audible, ‘Milanion,

      I am your wife for freedom and fair deeds:

      Choose: am I such an one a man could love?

      What need you? Some soft song to soothe your life,

      Or a clear cry at daybreak?’ And I ceased.

      How deemed you that first moment? That the Gods

      Had changed my heart? That I since morn had