Orion

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ORION

AN EPIC POEM

Note

NOTE.

I have adopted the Greek mythological names throughout this poem, with a view of getting rid of commonizing associations. It has become an arduous, if not impossible task for the popular imagination to rise up to the purely poetic conception of such abstractions as a Juno, a Neptune, a Diana, amidst all the perverting associations with which they are now surrounded. As to such a change being more correct in writing from an old Greek fable, there can hardly be two opinions. The gods and goddesses of ancient Italy were perfectly distinct from those of ancient Greece, although certain prominent attributes existed in common between the Jupiter of the Romans, and Zeus of the Greeks; between Diana, and Artemis; between Vulcan, and Hephæstos; Neptune, and Poseidon, &c. It has been my object to create new associations, founded upon those of the antique age which are the most purely poetical and suggestive. With this view, the names are of no great importance to those who do not recognise them classically, and I trust that my fable would be perfectly intelligible to all classes of readers, by whatever names the characters were designated. Meantime, the design of this poem of "Orion" is far from being intended as a mere echo or reflection of the Past, and is in itself, and in other respects, a novel experiment upon the mind of a nation.

R. H. H.

Book I

ORION.

AuxTOC|title=Cantos|

Book I, Canto I

ORION.

Ye rocky heights of Chios, where the snow, Lit by the far-off and receding moon, Now feels the soft dawn's purpling twilight creep Over your ridges, while the singing dews, Like creatures on a mission from the spheres, Swarm down, and wait to be instinct with gold And solar fire!—ye mountains waving brown With thick-winged woods, and blotted with deep caves In secret places; and ye paths that stray E'en as ye list; what odours and what sighs Tend your sweet silence through the star-showered night, Like memories breathing of the Goddess forms That left your haunts, yet with the day return!

The shadow of a stag that fled across, Followed by a Giant's shadow with a spear!

"Hunter of Shadows, thou thyself a Shade," Be comforted in this,—that substance holds No higher attributes; one sovran law Alike develops both, and each shall hunt Its proper object, each in turn commanding The primal impulse, till gaunt Time become A shadow cast on space, to fluctuate, Waiting the breath of the Creative Power To give new types for substance yet unknown: So from faint nebulæ bright worlds are born; So worlds return to vapour. Dreams design Most solid lasting things, and from the eye That searches life, death evermore retreats.

The shadowy chase has vanished; round the swell Of the near mountain sweeps a bounding stag— Round whirls a god-like Giant close behind— O'er a fallen trunk the stag with slippery hoofs Stumbles—his sleek knees lightly touch the grass— Upward he springs—but in his forward leap, The Giant's hand hath caught him fast beneath

One shoulder tuft, and lifted high in air, Sustains! Now Phoibos' chariot rising bursts Over the summits with a circling blaze, Gilding those frantic antlers, and the head Of that so glorious Giant in his youth, Who, as he turns, the form succinct beholds Of Artemis,—her bow, with points drawn back, A golden hue on her white rounded breast Reflecting, while the arrow's ample barb Gleams o'er her hand, and at his heart is aimed.

The Giant lowered his arm—away the stag Breast forward plunged into a thicket near; The Goddess paused, and dropt her arrow's point— Raised it again—and then again relaxed Her tension, and while slow the shaft came gliding Over the centre of the bow, beside Her hand, and gently drooped, so did the knee Of that heroic shape do reverence Before the Goddess. Their clear eyes had ceased To flash, and gazed with earnest softening light.

His stature, though colossal, scarcely seemed Beyond the heroic mould, such symmetry

His form displayed; and in his countenance A noble honesty and ardour beamed, With child-like faith, unconscious of themselves, And of the world, its vanities and guile. Eyes of deep blue, large waves of chestnut locks, A forehead wide, and every feature strong, Yet without heaviness or angry line, Had he; and as he knelt, a trustful smile That dreads no consequence, and quite forgets All danger, lightly played around his mouth. Meanwhile the Nymphs and all the sylvan troop, Like wave on wave when coloured by the clouds, Pell-mell come rolling round the mountain side, And crowd around the Goddess, who commands The hunt to pause. At once the music stops— And all the hounds, with wistful looks, crouch down.

"Young Giant of the woods," said Artemis, "The bow, that ne'er till now its glittering points Bent back without recoil and whirring twang— That sound a shaft's flight, and that flight a death— For once to its quiescent shape returns Unsated. 'Midst these woodland vales and heights Seldom I rove, but from my train, have Nymphs

Permission sought full oft to lead the chase Among these echoes and these fleeting shades. Thee have they seen, as now, bounding beyond Their swiftest hounds to bear the stag away, As thou once more hadst surely done this morn, But for my presence. Say, then, whence thou spring'st; Where dwell'st thou—how art called—and wherefore thus Dar'st thou the sports of these my Wood-nymphs mar?"

"Goddess!" the Giant answered "I am sprung From the great Trident-bearer, who sustains And rocks the floating earth, and from the nymph— A huntress joying in the dreamy woods— Euryale. Little I use to speak, Save to my kindred giants, who in caves Amid yon forest dwell, beyond the rocks, Or to my Cyclop friends; nor know I what words Best suit a Goddess' ear. I and the winds Do better hold our colloquies, when shadows, After long hunting, vanish from my sight Into some field of gloom. I am called 'Orion,'— And for the sports I have so often marred, 'T was for my own I did it, but without A thought of whose the Nymphs, or least design

Of evil. Wherefore, Artemis, pardon me; Or if again thou'dst bend thy bow, first let me To great Poseidon offer up a prayer, That his divine waves with absorbing arms May take my body rather than dull earth."

With attitude relaxed from queenly pride To yet more queenly grace, the shaft she placed Within her burnished quiver, and the bow A Nymph unstrung, while with averted face— As gazing down the woodland vista slopes, Which oft her bright orb silvered through black shades When midnight throbbed to silence—Artemis asked, "And who are these thy brothers of the cave, And why dost with the Cyclops hold consort?"

"My wood-friends, all of ancestry renowned, Claim for their sires heroes, or kings, or gods; And two of them have seen the ways of men;" Orion answered, while with uplifted breast, Like a smooth wave o'ergilded by the morn, High heaving ere it cast itself ashore, Buoyant, elate, and massively erect, He stood. "They are my kindred thus descended, And, though not brothers, yet we recognize

A sort of brotherhood in this decree Of fate, or Zeus,—that nature filled our frames With larger share of bodily elements Than others mortal born. Seven giants we, Of different minds, and destinies, and powers, Yet glorified alike in corporal forms. Few are my years, O Artemis! few my needs, Though large my fancied wants, and small my knowledge, Save of one art. Earth's deep metallic veins Hephæstos taught me to refine and forge To shapes that in my fancy I devised, For use or ornament. To the lame God Grateful I felt, nor knew what thanks to give; But, ere a shadow-hunter I became— A dreamer of strange dreams by day and night— For him I built a palace underground, Of iron, black and rough as his own hands. Deep in the groaning disembowelled earth, The tower-broad pillars and huge stanchions, And slant supporting wedges I set up, Aided by the Cyclops who obeyed my voice Which through the metal fabric rang and pealed In orders echoing far, like thunder-dreams. With arches, galleries, and domes all carved— So that great figures started from the roof

And lofty coignes, or sat and downward gazed On those who strode below and gazed above— I filled it; in the centre framed a hall: Central in that, a throne; and for the light, Forged mighty hammers that should rise and fall On slanted rocks of granite and of flint, Worked by a torrent, for whose passage down A chasm I hewed. And here the God could take, Midst showery sparks and swathes of broad gold fire, His lone repose, lulled by the sounds he loved; Or, casting back the hammer-heads till they choked The water's course, enjoy, if so he wished, Midnight tremendous, silence, and iron sleep."

Thus in rough phrase, and with no other grace Than forthright truth, Orion told his tale; Then smiling looked around upon the Nymphs, Till all their bright eyes glowed and turned aside; And then he gazed down at the couchant hounds, Whose eyes and ears grew interrogative, For well the fleet-heeled robber they all knew.

Now spake an Ocean-nymph with sea-green eyes: "Goddess, he hath not told thee all; his skill And strength, unaided—singing as he wrought—

Scooped out the bay of Zankle, framed its port; Banked up the rampire that forbids the surge To break o'er Sicily; and a temple built To the sea-deities." "I had forgot;" Orion said: "These things, long since, were done."

"Hunter, I pardon thee, and from my Nymphs All memory of thy late offence I take, As though they ne'er had seen thee:" Artemis said, With a sweet voice and look. "Retire awhile, Ye sylvan troop, to yonder deep-mossed dell; And thou, Orion, henceforth in my train Thy station take." More had the Goddess said, But o'er the whiteness of a neck that ne'er One tanned kiss from the ardent sun received, A soft suffusion came; and waiting not Reply, her silver sandals glanced i' the rays, As doth a lizard playing on a hill, And on the spot where she that instant stood Nought but the bent and quivering grass was seen.

Above the isle of Chios, night by night, The clear moon lingered ever on her course, Covering the forest foliage, where it swept In its unbroken breadth along the slopes,

With placid silver; edging leaf and trunk Where gloom clung deep around; but chiefly sought With melancholy splendour to illume The dark-mouthed caverns where Orion lay Dreaming among his kinsmen. Ere the breath Of Phoibos' steeds rose from the wakening sea, And long before the immortal wheel-spokes cast Their hazy apparition up the sky Behind the mountain peaks, pale Artemis left Her fainting orb, and touched the loftiest snows With feet as pure, and white, and crystal cold, In the sweet misty woodland to rejoin Orion with her Nymphs. And he was blest In her divine smile, and his life began A new and higher period, nor the haunts Of those his giant brethren ever sought, But shunned them and their ways, and slept alone Upon a verdant rock, while o'er him floated The clear moon, causing music in his brain Until the sky-lark rose. He felt 't was love.

Book I, Canto II

ORION.

Midst ponderous substance had Orion's life Dawned, and his acts were massive as his form. Those his companions of the forest owned Like corporal forces, but their several minds And aims were not as his. The Worker he, The builder-up of things, and of himself: His wood-friends were Rhexergon, of descent Royal, heroic—breaker-down of things— A coaster, skilled in fishing and in ships;— Autarces, arch-backed like the forest boar, Short-haired, harsh-voiced, of fierce and wayward will;— Harpax, with large loose mouth, and restless hand, Son of the God of Folly by a maid

Who cursed him—and the child, an idiot else, Grew keen, in rapine taking great delight;— Forceful Biastor;—smooth Encolyon, The son of Hermes, yet in all things slow, With sight oblique and forehead slanting high, The dull retarder, chainer of the wheel;— And Akinetos—who, since first the dawn Sat on his marble forehead, ne'er had gazed Onward with purpose of activity, Nor felled a tree, nor hollowed out a cave, Nor built a roof, nor aided any work, Nor heaved a sigh, nor cared for anything Save contemplation of the eternal scheme— The Great Unmoved—a giant much revered.

Forgotten by their sires in other loves, Here had they chiefly dwelt, and in these caves, Save two, Encolyon and the Great Unmoved, Who came from Ithaca. The islanders Had driven them thence; and this the idle cause. The barren stony land had ne'er produced Enough of grain for food; but by the skill Of their artificers in iron and brass, And by their herds of goats and cloud-woolled sheep,

With other isles the Ithacans exchanged, And each was well supplied. Encolyon's brain Some goddess—and 't was Discord, as results Made plain—one night inspired with sage alarms, And straight the King of Ithaca he sought, Imploring him, "if that he duly prized A heaven-blest crown and subjects all content, To drive the ships, sent from the neighbouring isles, Forth from his port, or sink the grain they brought: Else would his people, over-fed, grow slothful, Rude, and importunate with new conceits, And soon degenerating in their race, Neglect their proper island, and their King. But, on its own resources nobly forced, Then would the stony Ithaca become Great in herself by self-dependent power."

To this the King gave ear, and on the shore He, with Encolyon, for an omen prayed; And soon along the horizontal line Rising, they saw a threatening rack of clouds, Black as the fleet from Aulis 'gainst doomed Troy,— In after-time well known. Encolyon cried "Behold propitious anger on the isle,

For its wrong doings!" Wherefore all the grain From friendly islands they, with scorn, sent back. A famine soon in Ithaca spread wide, And hungry people prowled about at night, Then clamoured, and took arms—their war-cry "bread!" Thus was the dormant evil of their hearts Attested, and the King his people knew, And bitterly their want of reverence felt.

Encolyon, in his stature tall confiding, Though Akinetos warned him not to move, Went gravely forth the rebel throngs to meet. The politic giant's staid demeanour awed The angry mass at first, and with their eyes They seemed to listen, doubtful of their ears, So puzzling was his speech. He to the King And his chief heroes then discoursed apart, Convincing them that all the wheels went well. With head bent sideways from the light, he looked Like to some statesman of consummate mind Working an ancient problem; and then spake In language critical, final, stolid, astute, Concluding with affectionate appeal To common sense, and all we hold most dear.

"Keep down—put back—prevent! O Gods prevent!" This was his famous saying. Now the King Led out his patriot army—but ere long The army hungered too—the King was slain— Encolyon fled, and hid within a ship.

Forthwith a crowd to Akinetos thronged, Crying, "What say'st thou, giant who art wise? What shall we do?" And Akinetos said, "Great hunger is a single thing—one want: Satisfy that, and strength will be acquired To multiply desire—wants without end! Therefore be patient: leave all else to fate."

Stubborn the people as their own dry rocks— Enraged as the wild winds—to reason deaf— And also wanting food—cursed his calm thought— Cast stones upon him, and had surely slain But that without resistance he bore all, And without word; so they, being tired, relented, And bore him to the ship, where, in the hold, Encolyon lay at length with in-drawn breath. To Chios sailed the ship. The Ithacans Chose a new king, and traded with the isles.

In this companionship Orion's bent Of nature had not merged; his working spirit Sought from the fallen trunks and rocks to frame Rude image of his fancies, till at length He won Hephæaestos' love, from whom he learnt The god's own solid art. But this attained, And proved by mastery, a restless dream Dawned on his soul which he desired to shape, Yet knew not how, nor saw its like around, But vaguely felt at times, and thought he saw In shadows. Wherefore through the forest depths, Through vales and over hills, a hunter fleet He chased his unknown hopes; and when the stag, Or goat, or ounce, he overtook and seized, Ever he set them free, and e'en the bear And raging boar his spear refrained to strike, Save by its shadow, as they roaring fled. The bodily thing became to him as nought When gained; nor satisfied with efforts passed.

Now from a Goddess did he quickly learn The mystery of his mood, and saw how vain His early life had been, and felt new roots Quicken within him, branches new that sprung

Aloft, and with expanding energies Tingled, and for immortal fruit prepared.

She met him in her beauty. Oft when dawn With a grave red looked through the ash-pale woods, And quick dews singing fell, while with a pulse As quick, Orion stood beneath the trees, And gazed upon the uncertain scene,—his heart Forewarned his senses with a rapturous thrill. He turned, and from the misty green afar, In silence did the Goddess' train appear Rounding a thicket. Slow the crowding hounds Tript circling onward; Nymphs with quivered backs, And clear elastic limbs of nut-brown hue, Or like tanned wall-fruit, ripening and compact; And short-horned Fauns down gazing on their pipes; And Oceanides with tresses green Plaited in order, or by golden nets In various device confined, each bearing Shell lyres and pearl-mouthed trumpets of the sea; Dryads and Oreads decked with oak-leaf crowns And heath-bells, dancing in the fragrant air; And Sylvans, who, half Faun, half shepherd, lead A grassy life, with cymbals in each hand

Pressed cross-wise on the breast, waiting the sign;— Attendant round a pale gold chariot moved: By two large-antlered milk-white stags 't was drawn, Their sleek hides 'neath the fine dews quivering, In delicate delight. Above them rose The fair-haired Goddess, onward softly gliding, As though erect she stood on wafted clouds. She smiled not; but the crescent on her brow Gleamed with a tender light. He knew 't was love.

Giddy with happiness Orion's spirit Now danced in air;—his heart tumultuous beat Too high a measure and too wild, to taste The fullness that he dreamed encompassed him, But he could not encompass, nor scarce dare Clearly to recognize. And Artemis smiled Upon him with a radiance silver sweet, And o'er his forehead oft her hand she waved, Till visions of the purity of love Above him floated, and his being filled.

Language of Gods she taught him; and displayed, Far as 't was fitting, and from all gross acts Refined, their several wondrous histories:

But chief of all, in accents nobly sad, She told of kindness by Poseidon done, His ocean sire, when swan-necked Leto bearing Twins of bright destiny and heirs of heaven— Herself and Phoibos—cruelly was driven Through the bleak ways of earth, and found no rest, Pursued by serpent jealousy, for Zeus Had loved fair Leto; how Orion's sire A floating isle that sometimes 'neath the waves Drifted unseen, sometimes shewed watery rocks, Smote with his trident, and majestical Delos arose—stood fast—and gave a home To fainting Leto,—and a place of birth For deities—the Sun, and his loved Orb. The mysteries, worship, and the sacrifice Of her Ephesian Temple, she displayed Before his wondering thought, and oft he knelt In solitude, when of its hundred columns, Each reared by kingly hands, wakeful he dreamed, And felt his Goddess love too high removed. The ocean realm below, and all its caves And bristling vegetation, plant and flower, And forests in their dense petrific shade Where the tides moan for sleep which never comes;

All this she taught him, and continually Knowledge of human life made clear to him Through facts and fables. He the intricate web Of nature, gradually of himself began To unwind, and see that gods and men were one— Born of one element, imperfect both, Yet aspirant, and with perfection's germ Somewhere within. He brooded o'er these things.

One day, at noontide, when the chase was done, Which with unresting speed since dawn had.held, The woods were all with golden fire alive, And heavy limbs tingled with glowing heat. Sylvans and Fauns at full length cast them down, And cooled their flame-red faces in the grass, Or o'er a streamlet bent, and dipped their heads Deep as the top hair of their pointed ears; While Nymphs and Oceanides retired To grots and sacred groves, with loitering steps, And bosoms swelled and throbbing, like a bird's Held between human hands. The hounds with tongues, Crimson, and lolling hot upon the green, And outstretched noses, flatly crouched; their skins

Clouded or spotted, like the field-bean's flower, Or tiger-lily, painted the wide lawns.

Orion wandered deep into a vale Alone; from all the rest his steps he bent, Thoughtful, yet with no object in his mind; Languid, yet restless. Near a hazel copse, Whose ripe nuts hung in clusters twined with grapes, He paused, down gazing, 'till upon his sense A fragrance stole, as of ambrosia wafted Through the warm shades by some divinity Amid the woods. With gradual step he moved Onward, and soon the poppied entrance found Of a secluded bower. He entered straight, Unconsciously attracted, and beheld His Goddess love, who slept—her robe cast off, Her sandals, bow and quiver, thrown aside, Yet with her hair still braided, and her brow Decked with her crescent light. Awed and alarmed By loving reverence—which dreads offence E'en though the wrong were never known, and feels Its heart's religion for religion's self, Besides its object's claim—swift he retired.

The entrance gained, what thoughts, what visions his! What danger had he 'scaped, what innocent crime, Which Artemis might yet have felt so deep! He blest the God of Sleep who thus had held Her senses! Yet, what loveliness had glanced Before his mind—scarce seen! Might it not be Illusion?—some bright shadow of a hope First dawning? Would not sleep's God still exert Safe influence, if that he once more stole back And gazed an instant? 'T were not well to do, And would o'erstain with doubt the accident Which first had led him there. He dare not risk The chance 't were not illusion—oh, if true! While thus he murmured hesitating, slow, As slow and hesitating he returned Instinctively, and on the Goddess gazed!

With adoration and delicious fear, Lingering he stood; then pace by pace retired, 'Till in the hazel copse sighing he paused, And with most earnest face and vacant eye, And brow perplexed, stared at a tree. His hands Were clenched; his feet pressed down the soil,

And changed their place. Suddenly lie turned round, And made his way direct into the bower.

There was a slumbrous silence in the air, By noon-tide's sultry murmurs from without Made more oblivious. Not a pipe was heard From field or wood; but the grave beetle's drone Passed near the entrance: once the cuckoo called O'er distant meads, and once a horn began Melodious plaint, then died away. A sound Of murmurous music yet was in the breeze, For silver gnats that harp on glassy strings, And rise and fall in sparkling clouds, sustained Their dizzy dances o'er the seething meads. With brain as dizzy stood Orion now I' the quivering bower. There rapturous he beheld, As in a trance, not conscious of himself, The perfect sculpture of that naked form, Whose Parian whiteness and clear outline gleamed In its own hue, nor from the foliage took One tint, nor from his ample frame one shade. Her lovely hair hung drooping, half unbound,— Fair silken braids, fawn-tinted delicately, That on one shoulder lodged their opening coil.

Her large round arms of dazzling beauty lay In matchless symmetry and inviolate grace Along the mossy floor. At length he dropped Softly upon his knees, his clasped hands raised Above his head, 'till by resistless impulse His arms descending, were expanded wide—— Swift as a flash, erect the Goddess rose!

Her eyes shot through Orion, and he felt Within his breast an icy dart. Confronted, Mutely they stood, but all the bower was filled With rising mist that chilled him to the bone, Colder, as more obscure the space became; And ere the last collected shape he saw Of Artemis, dispersing fast amid Dense vapoury clouds, the aching wintriness Had risen to his teeth, and fixed his eyes, Like glistening stones in the congealing air.

Book I, Canto III

ORION.

O'er plastic nature any change may come, Save that which seeks to crush the primal germ; And outward circumstance may breed within, A second nature which o'ercomes the first, But ne'er destroys, though dormant or subdued. More toil for him whose wandering fancies teem With too much life, and that vitality Which eats into itself; more toil of brain And limb, sole panacea for the change From tyrant senses to pure intellect. Wherefore, his work redoubled, Artemis Directs Orion's course; not as before With grave and all-subduing tenderness,

While with white fingers midst his chestnut locks, In her speech pausing, gently would she hang Violets, as white as her own hands, and sprigs Of Cretan dittany, whose nodding spikes Flushed deeper pink beneath the sacred touch,— But with a penetrating influence And front austere, as suiting best the Queen Of maiden immortality. His soul Strove hard to ascend and leave the earth behind; And by the Goddess' guidance every hour Had its fixed duties. Husbandry of fields She taught those giant hands, and how to raise The sweetest herbs and roots, which now his food Became; nor taste and culture of the vine Permitted, nor of slaughtered kine the flesh, Nor forest boar, nor other thing that owns An animal life. Lastly, she taught his mind To reason on itself, far as the bounds Of sense external furnish images And types in attestation of each phase Of man's internal sphere—large orbit space For varied lights—and also shewed the way Rightly his complex knowledge to employ, And from their shadows trace substantial things,

Things back again to shadows—thus evolving The principle of thought, from root to air.

This done, the blossom and the fruit of all Was her prime truth, into each element Of his life's feelings and its acts, to instil: 'T was Love's divinest essence. In the soul, Central its altar's flame for ever burns Inviolate, and knowing not the change Which time and fate o'er all else in the world Bring speedily, or with a creeping film That hides decay. Ever at peace it dwells With its secure desires, which are soul-fed, Nor on idolatrous devotion made Dependent, nor on will and wayward moods Of others; 't is self-centred as a star, And in the music of the conscious nerves, Finds bliss, which e'en the slightest touch or look Of this magnetic passion can create, And render perfect. Nor doth absence break The links of ecstasy, which from a heart By heart are drawn, but 'midst the glare of day, The depths of night, alone or in a crowd, Imagination of love's balmy breath

Can to the spirit fashion and expand Love's own pure rapture and delirium. To this fixed sublimation there belong No conflicts of pale doubts, anxieties, Mean jealousies, anguish of heart-crushed slaves, And forlorn faces looking out on seas Of coming madness, from the stony gaps Through which departed truth and bliss have fled; But high communion, and a rapturous sense Of passion's element, whereof all life Is made ; and therefore life should ne'er attain A mastery o'er its pure creative light.

Midst chequered sunbeams through the glancing woods No more Orion hunted; from the dawn Till eve, within some lonely grot he sat, His thoughts reviewing, or beneath a rock Stood, back reclined, and watching the slow clouds, As doth a shepherd in a vacant mood. Oft to some highest peak would he ascend, And gaze below upon his giant friends, Who looked like moving spots, so dark and small; And oft, upon some green cliff ledge reclined,

Watch with sad eye the jocund chase afar In the green landscape, where the quivering line Led by the stag—who drew its rout behind Of woodland shapes, confused as were their cries, And sparkling bodies of fleet-chasing hounds,— Passed like a magic picture, and was gone. His husbandry soon ceased; he hated toil Unvaried, ending always in itself, And to the Goddess pleaded thoughtful hours For his excuse, and indolent self-disgust. Small profit found his thought; his sympathies Were driven inward, and corroded there.

Sometimes he wandered to the lowland fens, Where the wild mares toss their sharp manes in the blast, And scour through washy reeds and hollows damp— Hardened in after ages by long droughts; Arid and stony in the present time— And midst the elements he sought relief From inward tempests. Once for many hours, In silence, only broken from afar By the deep lowing of some straying herd, Moveless and without speech he watched a hind

Weeding a marsh; a brutish clod, half built, Hog-faced and hog-backed with his daily toil, Mudded and root-stained by the steaming ooze, As he himself were some unnatural growth; Who yet, at times, whistled through broken fangs— "Happier than I, this hind," Orion thought.

Once tow'rds the city outskirts strayed his steps, With a half purpose some relief to seek Midst haunts of men, and on the way he met A mastic-sifter with his fresh-oiled face. "O friend!" Orion said, "why dost thou walk With shining cheek so sadly in the sun?" Sighing, the melancholy man replied:— "The lentisk-trees have ceased to shed their gums; Their tears are changed for mine, since by that tree Myself and children live. My toil stands still. Hard lot for man, who something hath within More than a tree, and higher than its top, Or circling clouds, to live by a mere root And its dark graspings! Clearly I see this, And know how 't is that toil unequally Is shared on earth: but knowledge is not power To a poor man alone 'gainst all the world,