Book III, Canto II: The Flesh; Triumph of Bacchus

" Then I came
To a lit palace in a lordlier quarter
Of this great builded province, till it seemed
I, entering the vestibule, heard warbled
A song, as of a siren warbling low,
Who lulls, inhales, and breathes away the soul.

Siren Song
' Here are bowers
In halls of pleasure,
Flushed with flowers
For love or leisure ;
Breathes no pain here,
Theirs nor yours.
All are fain here
Of honeyed hours ;
Here in pleasure
Hide we pain.
None may measure.
Nor refrain ;
Beauty blooming.
And flowing wine !
Yonder glooming.
Here Love-shine 1
Breathes no pain here.
Theirs nor thine,
O remain here !
Low recline !
In Love's illuming
Woes all wane,
Of Beauty blooming
All are fain !
O remain here !
Lo ! Love shining
After rain ! '

" The air faints with aroma of sweet flowers,
Marrying many-tendrilled labyrinths
Dew-diamonded, a harmony of hues ;
And some are flushed like delicate fair flesh
Of smooth, soft texture ; delicate love-organs
Impetalled hide, depend their fairy forms ;
Ruffled corolla, pitcher, salver, cell.
Dim haunts of humming-bird, or velvet moth ;
Doves pulsate with white wings, and make soft sound.
Such was the floral roof ; flowers overran
In lovely riot ample, mounting pillars,
Emergent from full bowers of greenery,
Water and marble, lily, water-lily.
Columns of alabaster, and soft stone,
That hath the moon's name, alternating far
Innumerable, feebly luminous.
A mellow chime dividing the lulled hours
Embroiders them with fairy tone fourfold ;
And we were soothed with ever-raining sound
Of fountains flying in the warm, low light
Of pendent lamp, wrought silver, gold, and gem,
Rich with adventure of immortal gods.
Fair acolyte waved censer, whence the curled
Perfume-cloud made the languid air one blue.
And linen-robed priest on marble altar
Made offering of fruit to Queen Astarte.

" Behind half-open broidery of bloom
The eye won often glimpse of an alcove
In floral bower, ceiled over with dim gold ;
There velvet pile lay on the floor inlaid
From looms of India, or Ispahan,
With lace from Valenciennes, with silk or satin
For coverlid ; they, with the downy pillow,
Have tint of purple plums, or apricot.
Of waning woods autumnal,
Salvia, moth-fan, plume of orient bird.
And here the storied walls luxuriant
Are mellow-limned ; for lo ! Pompeianwise,
All the young world feigned of a wanton joy
Of Eros, lo, Hebe, Ganymede,
And all the poets tell of Aphrodite,
Or her who lulled Ulysses in her isle,
The idle lake, the garden of Armida,
And more, what grave historian hath told
Of Rosamund, Antinous, Cleopatra.
Here forms of youthful loveliness recline,
I know not whether only tinted marble.
Or breathing amorous warm flesh and blood.

" Now from a grove of laurel and oleander.
Plum, fragrant fig, vine, myrtle, fern, pomegranate.
Recalling Daphne, or Byblos, where the Queen
Hath cave and fane anear the falling water.
And where she wooed, won, tended her
Adonis,
A masque of Beauty shone ; young Dionysus
He seemed, the leader of the company,
Who lolled in a chryselephantine car
Upon a pillow's damson velvet pile ;
An undulating form voluptuous.
All one warm waved and breathing ivory,
Aglow with male and female lovelihood,
The yellow panther fur worn negligent
Fondling one shoulder; stealthy-footed these
That hale the chariot, one a lithe, large tiger,
Blackbarred, and fulvous, eyed with furnaceflame,
A tawny lion one, his mane a jungle.
The face was fair and beardless like a maid's,
The soft waved hair vine-filleted ; he held
Aloft with one white arm's rare symmetry
A crystal brimmed with blood of grape that hath
Heart like a lucid carbuncle ; some fallen
Over his form envermeiled more the rose
Of ample bosom, and love-moulded flank ;
The fir-coned thyrsus lying along the shoulder,
And listless fingered by a delicate hand.
The languid eyes dim-dewy with desire.

"Some foam-fair, and some amber of deep tone
The company to rear of him, yet nigh.
Fawn-youths and maidens robed in woven wind
Of that fine alien fabric, hiding only
As lucid wave hides, or a vernal haze ;
But some were rough and red, and rudely hewn.
Goat-shagged, satyric; all high-held the vine,
(Or quaffed it reeling), and the fir-cone rod ;
The fairer filleted with violet,
Anemone, or rose, Adonis-flower,
The rude with wine, or ivy ; syrinx, flute.
Sweetly they breathed into ; anon they pause,
Till Dionysus, from his car descending,
Tipsily leaned on one who may have been
That swart and swollen comrade, old Silenus,
Fain to enfold the yielding and flushed form,
Even as when the god wooed Ariadne ;
So one may see them on a vase, or gem.

' ' Then ' lo ! Evoe ! ' broke from all :
And from the band one whom I deemed a girl
In guise of boyhood, like some Rosalind,
Came with ahungered, lustrous eyes my way ;
The delicate neck, wave-bosom almond-hued
Emerge from silk and swansdown ; lucent hose
Cling to the ripe light limbs, and half disclose.
Luxuriant lily with a wealth of charms
Exuberant rending raiment of the sheath ;
The hair, a mist of gold, went minishing
Adown thenape; thinshadowlinedthedimple
By vermeil cheek, and under shell-pink ear.

" She, folding a fair arm around me, fain.
Lifts to my lips the ruby-mantling bowl.
And her own mouth more crimson ; then she draws
Within a shadowy nest near, an alcove
For dalliance amorous, . . .
After enjoyment vanishing. ... A change
Was wrought in my surroundings ; and there dawned
On me mine earlier love of southern summers.
Fate-ravished from me . . . now she is another's !
A mellow, ripe, a peerless womanhood !
' Art thou then yielded to mine arms at length,'
I breathed, ' my Helen ? Helen unto me,
A purer, lovelier Helen, but another's!' . . .

" She fadeth, ere I hold-her . . . then the form
Of one I am bound to shield from all dishonour
With spell of beauty dominant inflames,
And paralyses reasonable will. . . .

"Nowlooked the mournful, dim, disordered face
Of wounded Love reproachful on the storm
In my wild-heaving spirit, as the moon,
Pale, from a cloud, upon a troubled sea :
And then, I seemed to see Love lying dead.
The child, moreover, the dear child we lost
Appeared in vision ; but alas ! the eyes,
The eyes, more terrible than all, were turned
Away from mine, and when they fronted me.
They sought the ground ; or, veiled with his dear hands,
I feared they wept : I know they met not mine ! . . .

" Suddenly loud, harsh, dissonant peals of laughter
Startled and mocked me ! . . . 'Thy delirium
Conjured the vision, a mere wizard-wrought,
Illusive phantasy ! but now behold bare fact!' , . .
Lo ! I am in the chill bleared street again :
One spake —
'For you, Tannhauser, who have seen the
Christ,
Those earlier pleasure-houses are a ruin,
Nor any of you may build them ! Nay, for thee,
For thee in glamour of the Venusberg
There hides no refuge from the modern woe!
Wander abroad again ! begone ! nor linger !
I flash my sword of cherubim before
The fair wall of earth's Eden, lest returning
Ye take, and eat, and live content with earth.
Ye may not quell your proud dissatisfaction,
Nor feed the hunger of a highborn soul
With husk of sweet illusion like to these,
Nor shut your heart from any bitter cry,
Lapped in a luxury of degradation.
Rendering indifferent to alien loss;
Anon, even fearfully athirst for pain.
And if ye dally a moment, yet beware
The unholy hell of ever-enduring fire.
That endeth only, if it end, in death.
The spell of Circe, and her transformation.
Yea, Beauty is a shadow from high Heaven ;
But emblem only, not substantial ; hold not !
O queenly soul, refuse to be a slave.
And drudge for Passion ; fondle Beauty lightly ;
Nor let her hold thee spinning with the women
Immured from the free air of stalwart deed,
From bracing airs of strong, heroic deed.
But use her for thine own high ends, O queen,
Handmaiden, and not mistress ; for remember
Beauty, who flattereth poor outer sense,
BHnds often the eternal eye within !'

" 'Yet am I fain to reconcile demands
Both of the sense and spirit,' I replied.

"And then some choir invisible was heard,
Whose ode appeared responsive to the songs
A German, and an English poet made.

Pan-i

' Pan is not dead, he lives for ever !
Mere and mountain, forest, seas,
Ocean, thunder, rippling river.
All are living Presences;
Yea, though alien language sever,
We hold communion with these !
Hail ! ever young and fair Apollo !
Large-hearted, earth-enrapturing Sun !
Navigating night's blue hollow,
Cynthia, Artemis, O Moon,
Lady Earth you meekly follow.
Till your radiant race be run ;
Pan is not dead !

' Earth, Cybele, the crowned with towers.
Lion-haled, with many a breast,
Mother-Earth, dispensing powers
To every creature, doth invest
With life and strength, engendering showers
Health, wealth, beauty, or withholds;
Till at length she gently folds
Every child, and lays to rest !
Pan is not dead !

' Hearken ! rhythmic ocean-thunder !
Wind, wild anthem in the pines !
When the lightning rends asunder
Heavens, to open gleaming mines,
Vasty tones with mountains under
Talk where ashy cloud inclines . , .
Over hoar brows of the heights;
Ware the swiftly flaming lights !
Pan is not dead !

" Whence the " innumerable laughter,"
All the dancing, all the glees
Of blithely buoyant billowed seas,
If it be not a sweet wafture
From joy of Oceanides ?
Whence the dancing and the glees.
In the boughs of woodland trees.
When they clap their hands together,
Hold up flowers in the warm weather?
Gentle elfins of the fur.
Flowers, Venus' stomacher.
Grey doves who belong to her.
Singing birds, or peeping bud,
Lucid lives in limpid flood,
Fishes, shells, a rainbow brood —
If Pan be dead ?

'Naiads of the willowy water !
Sylvans in the warbling wood !
Oreads, many a mountain daughter
Of the shadowy solitude !
Whence the silence of green leaves,
Where young zephyr only heaves
Sighs in a luxurious mood.
Or a delicate whisper fell
From light lips of Ariel,
If Pan be dead ?

' Wave illumined ocean palaces
Musically waterpaven.
Whose are walls enchased like chalices ;
Gemmed with living gems, a haven
For foamy, wandering emerald,
Where the waterlights are called
To mazy play upon the ceiling.
Thrills of some delicious feeling !
Sylph-like wonders here lie hid
In dim dome of Nereid ;
Tender-tinted, richly hued,
Fair sea-flowers disclose their feelers
With a pearly morn imbued,
While to bather's open lid
Water fairies float, revealers
Of all the marvels in the flood,
And Pan not dead !
' We are nourished upon science ;
Will ye pay yourselves with words ?
Gladly will we yield affiance
To what grand order she affords
For use, for wonder ; yet she knows
No whit whence all the vision flows !
Ah ! sister, brother, poets, ye
Thrill to a low minstrelsy
Never any worldling heard ;
Ye who cherish the password,
Allowing you, with babes, to go
Within the Presence-chamber so
Familiarly to meet your queen ;
For she is of your kith and kin !
Ye are like him of old who heard
In convent garden the white bird ;
A hundred years flew over him
Unheeding ! All the world was dim ;
At length, unknown, he homeward came
To brethren, now no more the same ;
Then, at evening of that day,
Two white birds heavenward flew away ;
Pan is not dead !

' Spirit only talks with spirit ;
Converse with the ordered whole,
However alien language blur it.
May only be of soul with soul.
In our image-moulding sense
We order varied influence
From the World-Intelligence ;
And if Nature feed our frame.
She may nourish pride or shame,
Holy, or unholy flame ;
Real forms the maniac sees,
Whom he cherisheth, or flees ;
Real souls the sleeper kens
In dreamland's eerie shadowed glens.
Pan is not dead !

' Every star and every planet
Feed the fire of Destiny ;
Or for good, or evil fan it,
Here, Hermes, Hecate;
By ruling bias, and career,
To all hath been assigned a sphere,
In realms invisible and here.
Obedience, administration
For individual or nation.
Ceres, Pluto, Proserpine
Are the years' youth, and decline,
Seasonable oil or wine,
Phantasmagory yours or mine ;
And if sense be fed by Nature,
With ne'er a show of usurpature
She may feed our spirit too,
And with hers our own imbue ;
Ruling influence from her,
Tallied with our character ;
Dionysus, Fauns may move
To revel, or the lower love.
Unrisen Ariel control.
Undine of yet unopened soul,
Fallen ghost invite to fall ;
Or She, who is the heart of all,
Uranian Aphrodite, whom
The world laid in a Syrian tomb
Under the name of Jesus, She
May dominate victoriously.
And Pan be dead !

' Whence are plague, fog, famine, fevers,
Blighting winds, and "weather harms"?
Are sorceries malign the weavers,
Through inaudible ill charms?
Disease, confusion, haunting sadness,
Lust, delirium, murder, madness.
Cyclone, grim earthquake, accident,
In some witch-cauldron brewed and blent ?
Now I see the open pit ;
Abaddon flameth forth from it !
Like lurid smoke the fiends are hurled
Abroad now to confound the world !
Disordered minds
Howl, shriek, wail in the wailing winds
Pan is not dead !

' Whence the gentle thought unbidden,
Resolve benign, heroic, just.
Lovely image of one hidden.
Higher cherished, lower chidden,
Self downtrodden in the dust ?
Silent hand of consolation
On the brows of our vexation.
On the burning brows of sorrow?
Much of all, be sure, we borrow
For that Profound of ours within.
From our holy kith and kin !
Pan is not dead !

' Warmth and light from shielding, sheeny
Wings of angels, or Athene,
Call the Guardian what you will,
Impelling, or consoling still !
While if to Christ, or Virgin mother,
Hate, greed, offer prayer, no other
Than Belial, Mammon, Ashtaroth
Draw nigh to hear, and answer both :
When lurid-eyed priest waves the cross
For slaughter, gain that is but loss
Demons contemptuously toss !
What though ye name the evil clan
Typhon, Satan, Ahriman,
Pan is not dead !

' Their bodies are the shows of nature.
Their spirits far withdrawn from ours ;
We vary in our nomenclature
For the Demiurgic Powers,
To whom high duties are assigned
In our economy of mind,
As in our mortal order ; they
Lead souls upon their endless way;
From whom the tender, sweet suggestion
Arrives uncalled, unheralded,
Illumination, haunting question,
Approval, blame from some one hid,
Perchance from one we count as dead ;
Our eyes are holden ; they are near.
Who oftenwhile may see and hear !
By the auroral gate of birth,
In the youthful morning mirth,
At the portal of dim death
Their guardianship continueth ;
Pan is not dead ! . . .

' Ah ! why then shrilled in the .-Egsean
The choral wail, the loud lament,
Confusion of the gods Idnean,
Dire defeat, and banishment.
When the lowly young Judrean
Dying head on cross had bent ?
"Great Pan is dead !"
' Sun, and Moon, and Earth, and Stars,
Serene behind our cloudy bars.
With the Magi from the East,
Yield glad homage to the Least,
Offer myrrh, and gold, and gem
Before the Babe of Bethlehem,
Now Pan is dead !

' Yea, before the wondrous story
Of loving, self-surrendering Man
Paled the world's inferior glory.
Knelt the proud Olympian ;
Then the darkness of the cross
Enthroned supreme Love's utter loss ;
Then Ambition, Pride, and Lust
Into nether hell were thrust.
And Pan was dead !
The loveliness of Aphrodite
Waned before a lovelier far.
Fainting in the rays more mighty
Of the bright and Morning Star ;
Lovely will to give and bless
Maketh form and feature less ;
Young-eyed Eros will sustain
His triumph, following in His train ;
Kings conquered by One more Divine
In the courts imperial shine,
Thralls owing fealty to Him,
Who dying left their glory dim ;
Feudatories, ranged in splendour,
Sworn high services to render.
With lions, leopards, fawning mild,
And drawn swords round a Little Child !
Pan, Pan is dead !

" P"or while the dawn expands, and heightens,
Greater gods arrive to reign.
Jupiter dethrones the Titans,
Osiris rules the world again.
But in a more majestic guise ;
Sinai thunders not, nor lightens,
Eagle, sun-confronting eyes
Veils before mild mysteries !
Balder, Gautama, full -fain
Pay humble tribute while they wane ;
All the earlier Beauty prone is
Before a lovelier than Adonis !
Till even the Person of our Lord,
In yonder daylight of the Spirit,
On all the people to be poured
By the dear influence of His merit,
Will fade in the full summer-shine
Of all grown Human, and Divine,
And every mode of worship fall,
Eternal God be all in all ;
Pan lives, though dead ! '