Hyperion. Book III
Thus
in
altemate
uproar
and
sad
peace,
Amazed
were
those
Titans
utterly.
O
leave
them,
Muse!
O
leave
them
to
their
woes;
For
thou
art
weak
to
sing
such
tumults
dire:
A
solitary
sorrow
best
befits
Thy
lips,
and
antheming
a
lonely
grief.
Leave
them,
O
Muse!
for
thou
anon
wilt
find
Many
a
fallen
old
Divinity
Wandering
in
vain
about
bewildered
shores.
Meantime
touch
piously
the
Delphic
harp,
And
not
a
wind
of
heaven
but
will
breathe
In
aid
soft
warble
from
the
Dorian
flute;
For
lo!
'tis
for
the
Father
of
all
verse.
Flush
everything
that
hath
a
vermeil
hue,
Let
the
rose
glow
intense
and
warm
the
air,
And
let
the
clouds
of
even
and
of
morn
Float
in
voluptuous
fleeces
o'er
the
hills;
Let
the
red
wine
within
the
goblet
boil,
Cold
as
a
bubbling
well;
let
faint-lipp'd
shells,
On
sands,
or
in
great
deeps,
vermilion
turn
Through
all
their
labyrinths;
and
let
the
maid
Blush
keenly,
as
with
some
warm
kiss
surpris'd.
Chief
isle
of
the
embowered
Cyclades,
Rejoice,
O
Delos,
with
thine
olives
green,
And
poplars,
and
lawn-shading
palms,
and
beech,
In
which
the
Zephyr
breathes
the
loudest
song,
And
hazels
thick,
dark-stemm'd
beneath
the
shade:
Apollo
is
once
more
the
golden
theme!
Where
was
he,
when
the
Giant
of
the
sun
Stood
bright,
amid
the
sorrow
of
his
peers?
Together
had
he
left
his
mother
fair
And
his
twin-sister
sleeping
in
their
bower,
And
in
the
morning
twilight
wandered
forth
Beside
the
osiers
of
a
rivulet,
Full
ankle-deep
in
lilies
of
the
vale.
The
nightingale
had
ceas'd,
and
a
few
stars
Were
lingering
in
the
heavens,
while
the
thrush
Began
calm-throated.
Throughout
all
the
isle
There
was
no
covert,
no
retired
cave,
Unhaunted
by
the
murmurous
noise
of
waves,
Though
scarcely
heard
in
many
a
green
recess.
He
listen'd,
and
he
wept,
and
his
bright
tears
Went
trickling
down
the
golden
bow
he
held.
Thus
with
half-shut
suffused
eyes
he
stood,
While
from
beneath
some
cumbrous
boughs
hard
by
With
solemn
step
an
awful
Goddess
came,
And
there
was
purport
in
her
looks
for
him,
Which
he
with
eager
guess
began
to
read
Perplex'd,
the
while
melodiously
he
said:
"How
cam'st
thou
over
the
unfooted
sea?
Or
hath
that
antique
mien
and
robed
form
Mov'd
in
these
vales
invisible
till
now?
Sure
I
have
heard
those
vestments
sweeping
o'er
The
fallen
leaves,
when
I
have
sat
alone
In
cool
mid-forest.
Surely
I
have
traced
The
rustle
of
those
ample
skirts
about
These
grassy
solitudes,
and
seen
the
flowers
Lift
up
their
heads,
as
still
the
whisper
pass'd.
Goddess!
I
have
beheld
those
eyes
before,
And
their
eternal
calm,
and
all
that
face,
Or
I
have
dream'd."—-"Yes,"
said
the
supreme
shape,
"Thou
hast
dream'd
of
me;
and
awaking
up
Didst
find
a
lyre
all
golden
by
thy
side,
Whose
strings
touch'd
by
thy
fingers,
all
the
vast
Unwearied
ear
of
the
whole
universe
Listen'd
in
pain
and
pleasure
at
the
birth
Of
such
new
tuneful
wonder.
Is't
not
strange
That
thou
shouldst
weep,
so
gifted?
Tell
me,
youth,
What
sorrow
thou
canst
feel;
for
I
am
sad
When
thou
dost
shed
a
tear:
explain
thy
griefs
To
one
who
in
this
lonely
isle
hath
been
The
watcher
of
thy
sleep
and
hours
of
life,
From
the
young
day
when
first
thy
infant
hand
Pluck'd
witless
the
weak
flowers,
till
thine
arm
Could
bend
that
bow
heroic
to
all
times.
Show
thy
heart's
secret
to
an
ancient
Power
Who
hath
forsaken
old
and
sacred
thrones
For
prophecies
of
thee,
and
for
the
sake
Of
loveliness
new
born."—-Apollo
then,
With
sudden
scrutiny
and
gloomless
eyes,
Thus
answer'd,
while
his
white
melodious
throat
Throbb'd
with
the
syllables.—-"Mnemosyne!
Thy
name
is
on
my
tongue,
I
know
not
how;
Why
should
I
tell
thee
what
thou
so
well
seest?
Why
should
I
strive
to
show
what
from
thy
lips
Would
come
no
mystery?
For
me,
dark,
dark,
And
painful
vile
oblivion
seals
my
eyes:
I
strive
to
search
wherefore
I
am
so
sad,
Until
a
melancholy
numbs
my
limbs;
And
then
upon
the
grass
I
sit,
and
moan,
Like
one
who
once
had
wings.—-O
why
should
I
Feel
curs'd
and
thwarted,
when
the
liegeless
air
Yields
to
my
step
aspirant?
why
should
I
Spurn
the
green
turf
as
hateful
to
my
feet?
Goddess
benign,
point
forth
some
unknown
thing:
Are
there
not
other
regions
than
this
isle?
What
are
the
stars?
There
is
the
sun,
the
sun!
And
the
most
patient
brilliance
of
the
moon!
And
stars
by
thousands!
Point
me
out
the
way
To
any
one
particular
beauteous
star,
And
I
will
flit
into
it
with
my
lyre,
And
make
its
silvery
splendor
pant
with
bliss.
I
have
heard
the
cloudy
thunder:
Where
is
power?
Whose
hand,
whose
essence,
what
divinity
Makes
this
alarum
in
the
elements,
While
I
here
idle
listen
on
the
shores
In
fearless
yet
in
aching
ignorance?
O
tell
me,
lonely
Goddess,
by
thy
harp,
That
waileth
every
morn
and
eventide,
Tell
me
why
thus
I
rave
about
these
groves!
Mute
thou
remainest—-Mute!
yet
I
can
read
A
wondrous
lesson
in
thy
silent
face:
Knowledge
enormous
makes
a
God
of
me.
Names,
deeds,
gray
legends,
dire
events,
rebellions,
Majesties,
sovran
voices,
agonies,
Creations
and
destroyings,
all
at
once
Pour
into
the
wide
hollows
of
my
brain,
And
deify
me,
as
if
some
blithe
wine
Or
bright
elixir
peerless
I
had
drunk,
And
so
become
immortal."—-Thus
the
God,
While
his
enkindled
eyes,
with
level
glance
Beneath
his
white
soft
temples,
steadfast
kept
Trembling
with
light
upon
Mnemosyne.
Soon
wild
commotions
shook
him,
and
made
flush
All
the
immortal
fairness
of
his
limbs;
Most
like
the
struggle
at
the
gate
of
death;
Or
liker
still
to
one
who
should
take
leave
Of
pale
immortal
death,
and
with
a
pang
As
hot
as
death's
is
chill,
with
fierce
convulse
Die
into
life:
so
young
Apollo
anguish'd:
His
very
hair,
his
golden
tresses
famed,
Kept
undulation
round
his
eager
neck.
During
the
pain
Mnemosyne
upheld
Her
arms
as
one
who
prophesied.
At
length
Apollo
shriek'd;—-and
lo!
from
all
his
limbs
Celestial
