Delphi Complete Poetical Works of The Confederation Poets (Illustrated)

ORION

TWO mighty arms of thunder-cloven rock
Stretched ever westward toward the setting sun,
And took into their ancient scarred embrace
A laughing valley and a crooning bay.
The gods had stilled them in their primal throes,
And broken down their writhed extremities
Sheer to the open sea. And now pine-belts
And strayed fir-copses lined their shaggy sides;
And inland toward the island’s quiet heart
White torrents cleft the screens, and answered each
To other from the high cliffs closer drawn,
Kept ever brimming from eternal caves
In azure deeps of snow, and feeding full
A strong, swift river. And the river flowed
With tumult, till it caught the mighty speech
Rolled upward from the ocean, when it paused,
And hushed its rapid song in reverence,
And wound slow-footed through the summer vale,
And met its sovereign with majestic calm.
The sunset with its red and purple skirts
Hung softly o’er the bay, whose rippled breast
Flushed crimson, and the froth-streaks round the beach
Were glowing pink. The sands burned ruddy gold,
And foot-marks crossing them lay sharp and black.
A flood of purple glory swept the shores,
And spread upon the vineyards, and the groves
Of olives round the river-banks, and clothed
The further matted jungles; whence it climbed
The ragged scaurs and jagg’d ravines, until
It lay a splendor on the endless snow.

Where the slow swirls were swallowed in the tide,
Some stone-throws from the stream’s mouth, there the sward
Stretched thick and starry from the ridge’s foot
Down to the waves’ wet limits, scattering off
Across the red sand level stunted tufts
Of yellow beach-grass, whose brown panicles
Wore garlands of blown foam. Amidst the slope
Three sacred laurels drooped their dark-green boughs
About a high-piled altar. There the king,
Œnopion, to whose sceptre bowed with awe
The people dwellers in the steep-shored Chios,
Stood praying westward; in his outstretched hand
The griding knife, well whetted, clothed with dread.
The royal priest’s dark tresses, made aware
Of coming winter by some autumn snows,
Hung down his blue-dyed mantle, which he girt
Up seemly for the sacrifice; a beard,
Short, black, and silken, clothed his lips and chin ;
Beneath deep brows his keen eyes lurked half hid,
And never rested: now they drank the stream
Poured from the fiery sunset’s sunken springs.
A supplication moved his silent lips,
Swift-winged to seek Apollo, and beseech
Regard unto the rites e’en now begun.
Anon he dropped his arm; and straight the youths,
Chosen of Chios’ fairest race, upbore
The victim to the pile, — a tawny wolf,
Blood-stained, fast bound in pliant withes, fed fat
On many a bleating spoil of careless folds,
His red tongue lolling from his fangéd jaws,
His eyes, inflamed, shrinking with terror and hate,
His writhen sinews strained convulsively.
Meanwhile from out a neighbor gorge, which spake
Rough torrent-thunders through its cloak of pines,
Along the shore came one who seemed to wear
The grandeur of the mountains for a robe,
The torrent’s strength for girdle, and for crown
The sea’s calm for dread fury capable, —
A Hunter laden with the spotted pride
Of kingly beasts before not dared of men, —
And stood without the laurels’ sacred shade,
Which his large presence deepened. When the knife
Let blood well-pleasing to Apollo forth
The victim’s gasping throat, — who yet cried not,
But glared still hate upon his murderers
And died uncraven, — then the Hunter bent
His godlike head with awe unto the gods,
And so kept bowed, the while the King drew forth
Wine from a full skin-bottle nigh and poured
A beaded, dark libation. Then he raised
His head again, — like a tall pine that bends
Unto a sudden blast, and so keeps bent
Some moments, till the tempest passes by, —
And cast his burden down before the King,
And said, —
               “With skins of lions, leopards, bears,
Lynxes, and wolves, I come, O King, fulfilling
My pledge, and seeking the delayed fulfilling
Of some long hopes. For now the mountain lairs
Are empty, and the valley folds secure.
The inland jungles shall be vexed no more
With muffled roarings through the cloudy night,
And heavy splashings in the misty pools.
The echo-peopled crags shall howl no more
With hungry yelpings ‘mid the hoary firs.
The breeding ewe in the thicket will not wake
With wolves’ teeth at her throat, nor drinking bull
Bellow in vain beneath the leopard’s paw.
Your maidens will not fear to quit by night
Their cottages to meet their shepherd lads;
And these shall leave safe flocks, and have no need
Of blazing fagots. Nor without some toils
Are these things so. For mighty beasts did yield
Their ornament up most reluctantly;
And some did grievous battle. But the pledge
And surety of a blissful harborage,
Whither through buffets rude I needs must fare,
Made heavy labors light. And if, hard pressed,
My knees perchance waxed faint, or mine eyes dim,
The strong earth stayed me, and the unbowed hills,
The wide air, and the ever-joyous sun,
And free sea leaping up beneath the sun, —
All were to me for kindly ministrants,
And lent glad service to their last-born, — man,
Whom, reverent, the gods, too, favored well.
And if to me, sleepless, alone, by night
Came phantoms from polluted spots, and shades
Unfettered, wavering round my cliff-edged couch,
Fain to aghast me; them I heeded not,
As not worth heed. For there the deep-eyed Night
Looked down on me; unflagging voices called
From unpent waters falling; tireless wings
Of long winds bare me tongueless messages
From star-consulting, silent pinnacles ;
And breadth, and depth, and stillness fathered me.
But now, O King, seeing I have at cost
Of no slight labor done thy rugged hest,
And seeing hard strife should win sweet favors, grant
The good long wrought for, that amid the groves
And sunny vineyards I may drink deep draughts
Of Love’s skilled mixing, and of sweet mouth’s gift
Of maiden-lipped, snow-breasted Merope.”
So sped the wingéd words. And thus the King,
Œnopion, to whose sceptre bowed with awe
The people, dwellers in the steep-shored Chios :
“Great honor hast thou won and shalt possess,
And I will pay thee to the uttermost.
Thy couch this night be softer, and more blest
Thy visions,” — but in subtlety he spake,
And went apart a little from the place,
And filled with sullen wine two cups, well wrought.

But one he tinctured with a Colchian drug
And gave his guest to drink, with honeyed words,
But crooked, serpent-smooth,— “Drink this, in pledge
Of those deep draughts for which thou art athirst.
And now I go to bid the maid be glad
And make all ready. Rest thee here with these,
And I will come and fetch thee.” And he went
Up from the shore and in among the vines,
Until his mantle gleamed athwart the lanes
Of sunset through the far, gray olive-groves.

The Hunter turned, and heeded not the men,
But went apart close by the sleepless sea
And sat him down, because his eyes were dim,
And his head heavy, and his sinews faint.
And now it was about the set of sun,
And the west sea-line with its quivering rim
Had hid...