The Witch of Atlas

i

Incestuous Change bore to her father Time,

Error and Truth, had hunted from the Earth

      All those bright natures which adorned its prime,

And left us nothing to believe in, worth

      The pains of putting into learned rhyme,

A lady-witch there lived on Atlas' mountain

Within a cavern, by a secret fountain.

ii

The all-beholding Sun had ne'er beholden

In his wide voyage o'er continents and seas

      So fair a creature, as she lay enfolden

In the warm shadow of her loveliness;—

      He kissed her with his beams, and made all golden

The chamber of gray rock in which she lay—

She, in that dream of joy, dissolved away.

iii

And then into a cloud, such clouds as flit,

Like splendour-winged moths about a taper,

      Round the red west when the sun dies in it:

And then into a meteor, such as caper

      On hill-tops when the moon is in a fit:

Then, into one of those mysterious stars

Which hide themselves between the Earth and Mars.

iv

Her bow beside the folding-star, and bidden

With that bright sign the billows to indent

      The sea-deserted sand—like children chidden,

At her command they ever came and went—

      Since in that cave a dewy splendour hidden

Took shape and motion: with the living form

Of this embodied Power, the cave grew warm.

v

From her own beauty—deep her eyes, as are

Two openings of unfathomable night

      Seen through a Temple's cloven roof—her hair

Dark—the dim brain whirls dizzy with delight.

      Picturing her form; her soft smiles shone afar,

And her low voice was heard like love, and drew

All living things towards this wonder new.

vi

And then the wise and fearless elephant;

Then the sly serpent, in the golden flame

      Of his own volumes intervolved;—all gaunt

And sanguine beasts her gentle looks made tame.

      They drank before her at her sacred fount;

And every beast of beating heart grew bold,

Such gentleness and power even to behold.

vii

That she might teach them how they should forego

Their inborn thirst of death; the pard unstrung

      His sinews at her feet, and sought to know

With looks whose motions spoke without a tongue

      How he might be as gentle as the doe.

The magic circle of her voice and eyes

All savage natures did imparadise.

viii

Of lilies, and the wood-gods in a crew

Came, blithe, as in the olive copses thick

      Cicadae are, drunk with the noonday dew:

And Dryope and Faunus followed quick,

      Teasing the God to sing them something new;

Till in this cave they found the lady lone,

Sitting upon a seat of emerald stone.

ix

And though none saw him,—through the adamant

Of the deep mountains, through the trackless air,

      And through those living spirits, like a want,

He passed out of his everlasting lair

      Where the quick heart of the great world doth pant,

And felt that wondrous lady all alone,—

And she felt him, upon her emerald throne.

x

And every shepherdess of Ocean's flocks,

Who drives her white waves over the green sea,

      And Ocean with the brine on his gray locks,

And quaint Priapus with his company,

      All came, much wondering how the enwombèd rocks

Could have brought forth so beautiful a birth;—

Her love subdued their wonder and their mirth.

xi

And the rude kings of pastoral Garamant—

Their spirits shook within them, as a flame

      Stirred by the air under a cavern gaunt:

Pigmies, and Polyphemes, by many a name,

      Centaurs, and Satyrs, and such shapes as haunt

Wet clefts,—and lumps neither alive nor dead,

Dog-headed, bosom-eyed, and bird-footed.

xii

The bright world dim, and everything beside

Seemed like the fleeting image of a shade:

      No thought of living spirit could abide,

Which to her looks had ever been betrayed,

      On any object in the world so wide,

On any hope within the circling skies,

But on her form, and in her inmost eyes.

xiii

And twined three threads of fleecy mist, and three

Long lines of light, such as the dawn may kindle

      The clouds and waves and mountains with; and she

As many star-beams, ere their lamps could dwindle

      In the belated moon, wound skilfully;

And with these threads a subtle veil she wove—

A shadow for the splendour of her love.

xiv

Were stored with magic treasures—sounds of air,

Which had the power all spirits of compelling,

      Folded in cells of crystal silence there;

Such as we hear in youth, and think the feeling

      Will never die—yet ere we are aware,

The feeling and the sound are fled and gone,

And the regret they leave remains alone.

xv

Each in its thin sheath, like a chrysalis.

Some eager to burst forth, some weak and faint

      With the soft burthen of intensest bliss.

It was its work to bear to many a saint

      Whose heart adores the shrine which holiest is.

Even Love's:—and others white, green, gray, and black,

And of all shapes—and each was at her beck.

xvi

Of ever-blooming Eden-trees she kept,

Clipped in a floating net, a love-sick Fairy

      Had woven from dew-beams while the moon yet slept;

As bats at the wired window of a dairy.

      They beat their vans; and each was an adept,

When loosed and missioned, making wings of winds,

To stir sweet thoughts or sad, in destined minds.

xvii

Could medicine the sick soul to happy sleep,

And change eternal death into a night

      Of glorious dreams-or if eyes needs must weep,

Could make their tears all wonder and delight,

      She in her crystal vials did closely keep:

If men could drink of those clear vials, 'tis said

The living were not envied of the dead.

xviii

The works of some Saturnian Archimage,

Which taught the expiations at whose price

      Men from the Gods might win that happy age

Too lightly lost, redeeming native vice;

      And which might quench the Earth-consuming rage

Of gold and blood—till men should live and move

Harmonious as the sacred stars above;

xix

Not to be checked and not to be confined,

Obey the spells of Wisdom's wizard skill;

      Time, earth, and fire—the ocean and the wind,

And all their shapes—and man's imperial will;

      And other scrolls whose writings did unbind

The inmost lore of Love—let the profane

Tremble to ask what secrets they contain.

xx

To which the enchantment of her father's power

Had changed those ragged blocks of savage stone,

      Were heaped in the recesses of her bower;

Carved lamps and chalices, and vials which shone

      In their own golden beams—each like a flower,

Out of whose depth a fire-fly shakes his light

Under a cypress in a starless night.

xxi

And her own thoughts were each a minister,

Clothing themselves, or with the ocean foam,

      Or with the wind, or with the speed of fire,

To work whatever purposes might come

      Into her mind; such power her mighty Sire

Had girt them with, whether to fly or run,

Through all the regions which he shines upon.

xxii

Oreads and ISaiads, with long weedy locks,

Offered to do her bidding through the seas,

      Under the earth, and in the hollow rocks,

And far beneath the matted roots of trees,

      And in the gnarled heart of stubborn oaks,

So they might live for ever in the light

Of her sweet presence—each a satellite.

xxiii

'The fountains where the Naiades bedew

Their shining hair, at length are drained and dried;

      The solid oaks forget their strength, and strew

Their latest leaf upon the mountains wide;

      The boundless ocean like a drop of dew

Will be consumed—the stubborn centre must

Be scattered, like a cloud of summer dust.

xxiv

If I must sigh to think that this shall be,

If I must weep when the surviving Sun

      Shall smile on your decay—oh, ask not me

To love you till your little race is run;

      I cannot die as ye must—over me

Your leaves shall glance—the streams in which've dwell

Shall be my paths henceforth, and so—farewell!'—

xxv

Sparkled beneath the shower of her bright tears,

And every little circlet where they fell

      Flung to the cavern-roof inconstant spheres

And intertangled lines of light:—a knell

      Of sobbing voices came upon her ears

From those departing Forms, o'er the serene

Of the white streams and of the forest green.

xxvi

Spelling out scrolls of dread antiquity,

Under the cavern's fountain-lighted roof;

      Or broidering the pictured poesy

Of some high tale upon her growing woof,

      Which the sweet splendour of her smiles could dye

In hues outshining heaven—and ever she

Added some grace to the wrought poesy.

xxvii

Of sandal wood, rare gums, and cinnamon;

Men scarcely know how beautiful fire is—

      Each flame of it is as a precious stone

Dissolved in ever-moving light, and this

      Belongs to each and ail who gaze upon.

The Witch beheld it not, for in her hand

She held a woof that dimmed the burning brand.

xxviii

All night within the fountain—as in sleep.

Its emerald crags glowed in her beauty's glance;

      Through the green splendour of the water deep

She saw the constellations reel and dance

      Like fire-flies—and withal did ever keep

The tenour of her contemplations calm,

With open eyes, closed feet, and folded palm.

xxix

From the white pinnacles of that cold hill,

She passed at dewfall to a space extended,

      Where in a lawn of flowering asphodel

Amid a wood of pines and cedars blended,

      There yawned an inextinguishable well

Of crimson fire—full even to the brim,

And overflowing all the margin trim.

xxx

Of wintry winds shook that innocuous liquor

In many a mimic moon and bearded star

      O'er woods and lawns;—the serpent heard it flicker

In sleep, and dreaming still, he crept afar—

      And when the windless snow descended thicker

Than autumn leaves, she watched it as it came

Melt on the surface of the level flame.

xxxi

For Venus, as the chariot of her star;

But it was found too feeble to be fraught

      With all the ardours in that sphere which are,

And so she sold it, and Apollo bought

      And gave it to this daughter: from a car

Changed to the fairest and the lightest boat

Which ever upon mortal stream did float.

xxxii

The first-born Love out of his cradle lept.

And clove dun Chaos with his wings of gold,

      And like a horticultural adept,

Stole a strange seed, and wrapped it up in mould,

      And sowed it in his mother's star, and kept

Watering it all the summer with sweet dew,

And with his wings fanning it as it grew.

xxxiii

Fell, and the long and gourd-like fruit began

To turn the light and dew by inward power

      To its own substance; woven tracery ran

Of light firm texture, ribbed and branching, o'er

      The solid rind, like a leaf's veined fan—

Of which Love scooped this boat—and with soft motion

Piloted it round the circumfluous ocean.

xxxiv

A living spirit within all its frame,

Breathing the soul of swiftness into it.

      Couched on the fountain like a panther tame,

One of the twain at Evan's feet that sit—

      Or as on Vesta's sceptre a swift flame—

Or on blind Homer's heart a winged thought,—

In joyous expectation lay the boat.

xxxv

Together, tempering the repugnant mass

With liquid love—all things together grow

      Through which the harmony of love can pass;

And a fair Shape out of her hands did flow—

      A living Image, which did far surpass

In beauty that bright shape of vital stone

Which drew the heart out of Pygmalion.

xxxvi

It seemed to have developed no defect

Of either sex, yet all the grace of both,—

      In gentleness and strength its limbs were decked;

The bosom swelled lightly with its full youth.

      The countenance was such as might select

Some artist that his skill should never die,

Imaging forth such perfect purity.

xxxvii

Fit to have borne it to the seventh sphere,

Tipped with the speed of liquid lightenings,

      Dyed in the ardours of the atmosphere:

She led her creature to the boiling springs

      Where the light boat was moored, and said: 'Sit here!'

And pointed to the prow, and took her seat

Beside the rudder, with opposing feet.

xxxviii

Around their inland islets, and amid

The panther-peopled forests, whose shade cast

      Darkness and odours, and a pleasure hid

In melancholy gloom, the pinnace passed;

      By many a star-surrounded pyramid

Of icy crag cleaving the purple sky,

And caverns yawning round unfathomably.

xxxix

With slanted gleam athwart the forest tops,

Tempered like golden evening, feebly fell;

A green and glowing light, like that which drops

      From folded lilies in which glow-worms dwell,

When Earth over her face Night's mantle wraps;

      Between the severed mountains lay on high,

Over the stream, a narrow rift of sky.

xl

With folded wings and unawakened eyes;

And o'er its gentle countenance did play

      The busy dreams, as thick as summer flies,

Chasing the rapid smiles that would not stay,

      And drinking the warm tears, and the sweet sighs

Inhaling, which, with busy murmur vain,

They had aroused from that full heart and brain.

xli

Upon a stream of wind, the pinnace went:

Now lingering on the pools, in which abode

      The calm and darkness of the deep content

In which they paused; now o'er the shallow road

      Of white and dancing waters, all besprent

With sand and polished pebbles:—mortal boat

In such a shallow rapid could not float.

xlii

Their snow-like waters into golden air,

Or under chasms unfathomable ever

      Sepulchre them, till in their rage they tear

A subterranean portal for the river,

      It fled—the circling sunbows did upbear

Its fall down the hoar precipice of spray,

Lighting it far upon its lampless way.

xlii

The labyrinths of some many-winding vale,

Which to the inmost mountain upward tend—

      She called 'Hermaphroditus!'—and the pale

And heavy hue which slumber could extend

      Over its lips and eyes, as on the gale

A rapid shadow from a slope of grass,

Into the darkness of the stream did pass.

xliv

With stars of fire spotting the stream below;

And from above into the Sun's dominions

      Flinging a glory, like the golden glow

In which Spring clothes her emerald-winged minions,

      All interwoven with fine feathery snow

And moonlight splendour of intensest rime,

With which frost paints the pines in winter time.

xlv

Which ever hung about that lady bright,

With its aethereal vans—and speeding there,

      Like a star up the torrent of the night,

Or a swift eagle in the morning glare

      Breasting the whirlwind with impetuous flight,

The pinnace, oared by those enchanted wings,

Clove the fierce streams towards their upper springs.

xlvi

Of a noon-wandering meteor flung to Heaven;

The still air seemed as if its waves did flow

      In tempest down the mountains; loosely driven

The lady's radiant hair streamed to and fro:

      Beneath, the billows having vainly striven

Indignant and impetuous, roared to feel

The swift and steady motion of the keel.

xlvii

Or in the noon of interlunar night,

The lady-witch in visions could not chain

      Her spirit; but sailed forth under the light

Of shooting stars, and bade extend amain

      Its storm-outspeeding wings, the Hermaphrodite;

She to the Austral waters took her way,

Beyond the fabulous Thamondocana,—

xlviii

Which rain could never bend, or whirl-blast shake,

With the Antarctic constellations paven,

      Canopus and his crew, lay the Austral lake—

There she would build herself a windless haven

      Out of the clouds whose moving turrets make

The bastions of the storm, when through the sky

The spirits of the tempest thundered by:

xlix

The tremulous stars sparkled unfathomably,

And around which the solid vapours hoar,

      Based on the level waters, to the sky

Lifted their dreadful crags, and like a shore

      Of wintry mountains, inaccessibly

Hemmed in with rifts and precipices gray,

And hanging crags, many a cove and bay.

l

Of the wind's scourge, foamed like a wounded thing,

And the incessant hail with stony clash

      Ploughed up the waters, and the flagging wing

Of the roused cormorant in the lightning flash

      Looked like the wreck of some wind-wandering

Fragment of inky thunder-smoke—this haven

Was as a gem to copy Heaven engraven,—

li

Circling the image of a shooting star,

Even as a tiger on Hydaspes' banks

      Outspeeds the antelopes which speediest are.

In her light boat; and many quips and cranks

      She played upon the water, till the car

Of the late moon, like a sick matron wan,

To journey from the misty east began.

lii

Of those high clouds, white, golden and vermilion,

The armies of her ministering spirits—

      In mighty legions, million after million,

They came, each troop emblazoning its merits

      On meteor flags; and many a proud pavilion

Of the intertexture of the atmosphere

They pitched upon the plain of the calm mere.

liii

Of woven exhalations, underlaid

With lambent lightning-fire, as may be seen

      A dome of thin and open ivory inlaid

With crimson silk—cressets from the serene

      Hung there, and on the water for her tread

A tapestry of fleece-like mist was strewn,

Dyed in the beams of the ascending moon.

liv

Upon those wandering isles of aery dew,

Which highest shoals of mountain shipwreck not,

      She sate, and heard all that had happened new

Between the earth and moon, since they had brought

      The last intelligence—and now she grew

Pale as that moon, lost in the watery night—

And now she wept, and now she laughed outright.

lv

The steepest ladder of the crudded rack

Up to some beaked cape of cloud sublime,

      And like Arion on the dolphin's back

Ride singing through the shoreless air;—oft-time

      Following the serpent lightning's winding track,

She ran upon the platforms of the wind,

And laughed to hear the fire-balls roar behind.

lvi

Which whirl the earth in its diurnal round,

She would ascend, and win the spirits there

      To let her join their chorus. Mortals found

That on those days the sky was calm and fair,

      And mystic snatches of harmonious sound

Wandered upon the earth where'er she passed,

And happy thoughts of hope, too sweet to last.

lvii

To glide adown old Nilus, where he threads

Egypt and Aethiopia, from the steep

      Of utmost Axumè, until he spreads,

Like a calm flock of silver-fleeced sheep.

      His waters on the plain: and crested heads

Of cities and proud temples gleam amid,

And many a vapour-belted pyramid.

lviii

Strewn with faint blooms like bridal chamber floors,

Where naked boys bridling tame water-snakes,

      Or charioteering ghastly alligators,

Had left on the sweet waters mighty wakes

      Of those huge forms—within the brazen doors

Of the great Labyrinth slept both boy and beast,

Tired with the pomp of their Osirian feast.

lix

The shadows of the massy temples lie.

And never are erased—but tremble ever

      Like things which every cloud can doom to die,

Through lotus-paven canals, and wheresoever

      The works of man pierced that serenest sky

With tombs, and towers, and fanes, 'twas her delight

To wander in the shadow of the night.

lx

Whose soft step deepens slumber, her light feet

Passed through the peopled haunts of humankind,

      Scattering sweet visions from her presence sweet,

Through fane, and palace-court, and labyrinth mined

      With many a dark and subterranean street

Under the Nile, through chambers high and deep

She passed, observing mortals in their sleep.

lxi

Mortals subdued in all the shapes of sleep.

Here lay two sister twins in infancy;

      There, a lone youth who in his dreams did weep;

Within, two lovers linked innocently

      In their loose locks which over both did creep

Like ivy from one stem;—and there lay calm

Old age with snow-bright hair and folded palm.

lxii

Not to be mirrored in a holy song—

Distortions foul of supernatural awe,

      And pale imaginings of visioned wrong;

And all the code of Custom's lawless law

      Written upon the brows of old and young:

'This,' said the wizard maiden, 'is the strife

Which stirs the liquid surface of man's life.'

lxiii

We, the weak manners of that wide lake

Where'er its shores extend or billows roll,

      Our course unpiloted and starless make

O'er its wild surface to an unknown goal:—

      But she in the calm depths her way could take,

Where in bright bowers immortal forms abide

Beneath the weltering of the restless tide.

lxiv

Of sunlike gems; and round each temple-court

In dormitories ranged, row after row,

      She saw the priests asleep—all of one sort—

For all were educated to be so.—

      The peasants in their huts, and in the port

The sailors she saw cradled on the waves,

And the dead lulled within their dreamless graves.

xlv

Were to her sight like the diaphanous

Veils, in which those sweet ladies oft array

      Their delicate limbs, who would conceal from us

Only their scorn of all concealment: they

      Move in the light of their own beauty thus.

But these and all now lay with sleep upon them,

And little thought a Witch was looking on them.

lxvi

Beheld as living spirits—to her eyes

The naked beauty of the soul lay bare,

      And often through a rude and worn disguise

She saw the inner form most bright and fair—

      And then she had a charm of strange device,

Which, murmured on mute lips with tender tone,

Could make that spirit mingle with her own.

lxvii

For such a charm when Tithon became gray?

Or how much, Venus, of thy silver heaven

      Wouldst thou have yielded, ere Proserpina

Had half (oh! why not all?) the debt forgiven

      Which dear Adonis had been doomed to pay,

To any witch who would have taught you it?

The Heliad doth not know its value yet.

lxviii

Knew what love was, and felt itself alone—

But holy Dian could not chaster be

      Before she stooped to kiss Endymion,

Than now this lady—like a sexless bee

      Tasting all blossoms, and confined to none,

Among those mortal forms, the wizard-maiden

Passed with an eye serene and heart unladen.

lxix

Strange panacea in a crystal bowl:—

They drank in their deep sleep of that sweet wave,

      And lived thenceforward as if some control,

Mightier than life, were in them; and the grave

      Of such, when death oppressed the weary soul,

Was as a green and overarching bower

Lit by the gems of many a starry flower.

lxx

Restored the embalmers' ruining, and shook

The light out of the funeral lamps, to be

      A mimic day within that deathy nook;

And she unwound the woven imagery

      Of second childhood's swaddling bands, and took

The coffin, its last cradle, from its niche,

And threw it with contempt into a ditch.

lxxi

Mute, breathing, beating, warm, and undecaying,

Like one asleep in a green hermitage,

      With gentle smiles about its eyelids playing,

And living in its dreams beyond the rage

      Of death or life; while they were still arraying

In liveries ever new, the rapid, blind

And fleeting generations of mankind.

lxxii

Of those who were less beautiful, and make

All harsh and crooked purposes more vain

      Than in the desert is the serpent's wake

Which the sand covers—all his evil gain

      The miser in such dreams would rise and shake

Into a beggar's lap;—the lying scribe

Would his own lies betray without a bribe.

lxxiii

Translating hieroglyphics into Greek,

How the God Apis really was a bull,

      And nothing more; and bid the herald stick

The same against the temple doors, and pull

      The old cant down; they licensed all to speak

Whate'er they thought of hawks, and cats, and geese,

By pastoral letters to each diocese.

lxxiv

And robes, and seat him on his glorious seat,

And on the right hand of the sunlike throne

      Would place a gaudy mock-bird to repeat

The chatterings of the monkey.—Every one

      Of the prone courtiers crawled to kiss the feet

Of their great Emperor, when the morning came,

And kissed—alas, how many kiss the same!

lxxv

Walked out of quarters in somnambulism;

Round the red anvils you might see them stand

      Like Cyclopses in Vulcan's sooty abysm,

Beating their swords to ploughshares;—in a band

      The gaolers sent those of the liberal schism

Free through the streets of Memphis, much, I wis,

To the annoyance of king Amasis.

lxxvi

They hardly knew whether they loved or not,

Would rise out of their rest, and take sweet joy,

      To the fulfilment of their inmost thought;

And when next day the maiden and the boy

      Met one another, both, like sinners caught,

Blushed at the thing which each believed was done

Only in fancy—till the tenth moon shone;

lxxvii

Of many thousand schemes which lovers find.

The Witch found one,—and so they took their fill

      Of happiness in marriage warm and kind.

Friends who, by practice of some envious skill,

      Were torn apart—a wide wound, mind from mind!—

She did unite again with visions clear

Of deep affection and of truth sincere.

lxxviii

Of mortal men, and what she did to Sprites

And Gods, entangling them in her sweet ditties

      To do her will, and show their subtle sleights,

I will declare another time; for it is

      A tale more fit for the weird winter nights

Than for these garish summer days, when we

Scarcely believe much more than we can see.