To the end of the trail / Richard Hovey [electronic text]

A VISION OF PARNASSUS

TO MIRIAM

"A Vision of Parnassus" was originally published as the Dedication to Launcelot and Guenevere, but on second thought I have felt that it was a not entirely congruous part of a series of dramatic poems. I have therefore transferred it to this volume. RICHARD HOVEY.
(The proposed volume was abandoned for other plans. So many have questioned whether this poem was purely metaphorical or partly personal that it seems best to state here that it was addressed to a beautiful personality of his early acquaintance. )

GOD, in whose being only we become And in whose wisdom only we grow wise, Eternal Love! first unto Thee I come, First unto Thee I lift adoring eyes. Before Thy face the prophet's speech is air, In songs of praise the only music lies, The only wisdom in the lips of prayer.

To Thee, Allfather, come I, as a son Who goes upon his father's business In distant lands, might ask a benison Upon his errand. Be Thou nigh to bless And let Thy sweetness in my heart abound, Else all my labor is a weariness And all my singing but an empty sound.

And thou, divine Apollo, hear my cry, Thou brightness of the glory of the Lord! Thou art the wings with which my song must fly, The breathing of its lips must be thy word, Its vision be the clearness of thy seeing, If in that heaven for which its thought has soared, It would at last serenely have its being.

Master of poets, hear me as I call! Circumfluent air wherethrough I take my flight, Withdraw thou not from me nor let me fall, Failing thy buoyance, into the void night! Upbear me on thy bosom as a bird! Apollo! lord of beauty and of light! Thee I invoke! Oh, let my cry be heard!

For I at least still worship at thy shrine, Though the blind world forgets thee; I at least Have given thee thought for meat and love for wine, Although thy temples stand without a priest And no one seeks the sweet Pierian springs, While still Astarte hold her horrid feast And Mammon's altars smoke with offerings.

But I have stood upon thy holy hill, And seen thy sacred laurel-blossoms blow, — I found me in a glen beside a rill Of stainless waters whose pellucid flow

Sang not as other fountains, but with clear Articulate murmurs spake, distinct and low, A secret teaching to my wondering ear.

Hard by the twin peaks of the mountain soared Like aspirations rising from the wood To where the blue Greek heaven lay all outpoured, A living lake of liquid plenitude, And clouds were wrapped about the crest of one, But clear against the sky the other stood, Sharply defined and violet with the sun.

And longer had I listened to the lore Of that strange stream, but that there reached my ear A woeful moan that made my heart ache sore, And, looking up, I saw a lady near Who fled aghast as one in mortal dread, With drawn face rigid with a nameless fear, And still her garments tripped her as she fled.

And hard upon her heels a horrid hound, With bloody jowl and mire upon his coat, Came baying till he made the wood resound. There was a brazen collar on his throat, With intricate antique deviced chased, And on that white-limbed lady did he gloat With hungry eyes, in his malignant haste.

And I, all sudden starting to my feet, Weaponless as I was, would have pursued That savage beast to save that lady sweet— But in my path a gentle stranger stood With tranquil eyes that forced my feet to stay, And, as I marvelled, deep within the wood The noise of that fell hunting died away.

"Not with the arm of flesh," the shade began, For not among the living was that stranger, "Mayst thou attack the beast. No courage can Avail against his cruel strength. The danger By other weapons must be combated. Till they are forged, he must remain a ranger, To make this sacred wood a place of dread.

"Come with me up the hill a little space And I will speak more of these mysteries." With that toward the peak he turned his face And we together passed among the trees, And as I went, still wondering, at his side, I said to him, becoming more at ease, "Who art thou, gentle spirit?" And he replied,

"I sang of that sad-prince whose mother's guile Made the whole world a prison for his heart, And of the meek magician of the isle; And many other matters craved my art,

When Raleigh quested for the golden shore." At this, all suddenly I gave a start And broke out "Master" — and could say no more.

By this we came into an open place That made a little hollow in the hill; And here I saw, as I upraised my face, That which my spirit with such awe did fill As the young priest might feel before the shrine, First time he speaks the words at whose low thrill God smites himself into the bread and wine.

For there was Dante, all his passionate face Made glorious with that peace he long did seek. Beside him Æschylus kept his Jove-like pace. A little further off the wrinkled cheek Of ancient Homer brushed almost the curled Gold locks of David — Israelite and Greek, Twin fountains of the music of the world!

And yet one more there was who toward my guide Came smiling like the younger of two brothers — The singer of that scholar who allied The Devil to him and beheld the Mothers. And to me, too, he turned him courteously. In welcome, and he went on to the others, Who gave me greeting with sweet gravity.

Then he who first encountered me, defeating My rash speed, spoke with brief straightforwardness And told them of the manner of our meeting, And of the lady who was in such stress. And then he laid his hand upon my hair — And oh, the gentleness of that caress! —Saying to me, "And thou didst find her fair!

"This is that lady whom I throned so high! Alas, that she should be brought down so low! Each morning from that horror she must fly, Each morning be devoured by that fell foe; Yet ever when the new day quickeneth, Again she must renew her ancient woe — Perpetual struggle and perpetual death!

"If thou wilt be her knight, set forth with care, For thou shalt find a foe in every tree, To cast a venomed arrow unaware. But if thou lovest and art brave, then be Regardless of the shafts against thee hurled — Set free the lady and thou shalt set free Thyself as well and with thyself the world.

"Not as a warrior undertake this vow, But in the sacred vestments of a priest.

Song is more perilous than steel. Seek thou Until the Song-God's temple-doors thou seest And from the altar take his sword. Then follow Thy quest and do thy battle with the beast, Panoplied in the armor of Apollo."

Then, as one who has climbed a mountain peak, Sees at first glance the outspread world upstart, Valley and lake and hill, but does not seek As yet so isolate each several part, A-gaze in contemplation of the whole, So all my song came rushing on my heart And as a flame joy flashed up in my soul.

And as a flame that flashes and goes out, So all that rapture quickly sank and died, For that great theme benumbed me with misdoubt If I, in truth, were strong enough to guide The chariot of so intricate a rhyme. "Alas, this quest is not for me," I sighed. "Master, why point me where I cannot climb?

"The tragic laurel is not for my head — A simple singer, artless and unwise." Thereat the Tuscan turned to me and said Gravely, all Beatrice in his eyes, "And art thou worthy, then, of Miriam?"' And I was dumb a moment for surprise And my heart said, "Unworthy, indeed, I am."

But shame, as for a creaven thought, gave place To high resolve with awesome wonderment, And "I will sing," I said, and, full of grace, Those spirits smiled on me as well content. Therewith they took leave of that greenery, And with them through the glades I also went — I was the seventh of that company.

O thou in whom all womanhood is mine! O thou in whom I praise all womanhood! Miriam, the honor of my song is thine. It was the sweet sound of thy name subdued My lips to breathe their too adventurous theme. O fair enwomaning of the Sweet and Good! A sweetest thought to me in God's long dream!

I cannot praise thee rightly as I ought, Nor tell by what high miracle it is That thou, who art so marvellously wrought, Shouldst be the spirit that should meet and kiss My spirit in this bond of soul and sense From which begin all other unities Of wider scope but impact less intense.

I praise in thee all force, in thee all form, For these in thee may best be understood; I praise all life, because thy cheek is warm; I praise all will, because thy will is good;

I praise in thee my country and my kin; In thee the otherness of womanhood; In thee all hearts that Love is welcome in.

The things that lie without us, are but curled And unsubstantial smoke-wreaths to the sight; Thou art the point at which I touch the world, The point thou touchest, I — thus benedight! This is the mystery of the law by which The ordered spirit-multitudes unite In diapasons manifold and rich.

So lies the world in little in thy heart, And so I praise and love all things in thee. Yet chiefly for thine own sweet self, my art Strives to build up its tower of harmony. Chiefly for thy sweet self I pour my life As myrrh and spikenard on thy head, to be A chrism to do thee honor, Queen and Wife.

For all the songs that all the poets sing Were not too great an honor for thy worth, Seeing thou art the source from which songs spring. And all the crowns and kingdoms of the earth, Glory of Bourbon and renown of Guelph, Would only serve thy royalty for mirth, Seeing thou art crowned more highly, being thyself.

O sweet as only vigor can be sweet! O strong as only loveliness is strong! I come before thee with unsandaled feet, As one escaping from the chaffering throng Draws nigh an altar, and with bended knee Devote myself, the singer to the song, And song and singer each alike to thee.