Another, not himself, he to and fro Questioned and canvassed it with subtlest wit, And none but those who loved him best could know That which he knew not, how it galled and bit Upon his being; a snake which fold by fold Pressed out the life of life, a clinging fiend Which clenched him if he stirred with deadlier And so his grief remained — let it remain — untold. PART II Prince Athanase had one belovèd friend, An old, old man, with hair of silver white, And lips where heavenly smiles would hang and blend With his wise words, and eyes whose arrowy light Had spared in Greece the blight that cramps and blinds And in his olive bower at Enoe Had sate from earliest youth. Like one who finds A fertile island in the barren sea, One mariner who has survived his mates Many a drear month in a great ship—so he With soul-sustaining songs, and sweet debates And thus Zonoras, by forever seeing A bloodier power than ruled thy ruins then, Was grass-grown, and the unremembered tears And as the lady looked with faithful grief Where she once saw that horseman toil, with brief And blighting hope, who with the news of death Struck body and soul as with a mortal blight, She saw beneath the chestnuts, far beneath, An old man toiling up, a weary wight; She saw his white hairs glittering in the light Of the wood-fire, and round his shoulders fall; And Athanase, her child, who must have been Then three years old, sate opposite and gazed Such was Zonoras; and as daylight finds When autumn nights have nipped all weaker kinds, Thus through his age, dark, cold, and tempesttossed, Shone truth upon Zonoras; and he filled From fountains pure, nigh overgrown and lost, The spirit of Prince Athanase, a child, And sweet and subtle talk they evermore, The youth, as shadows on a grassy hill Strange truths and new to that experienced man ; Still they were friends, as few have ever been Who mark the extremes of life's discordant span. 41 One, Mrs. Shelley, 18391 || An, Mrs. Shelley, 1824. So in the caverns of the forest green, By summer woodmen ; and when winter's roar Hanging upon the peaked wave afar, Then saw their lamp from Laian's turret gleam, Piercing the stormy darkness like a star Which pours beyond the sea one steadfast beam, Whilst all the constellations of the sky Seemed reeling through the storm. They did but seem For, lo! the wintry clouds are all gone by, And bright Arcturus through yon pines is glowing, And far o'er southern waves, immovably Belted Orion hangs - warm light is flowing From the young moon into the sunset's chasm. "O summer eve with power divine, bestowing "On thine own bird the sweet enthusiasm Which overflows in notes of liquid gladness, Filling the sky like light! How many a spasm 58 So, Mrs. Shelley, 18391 || And, Mrs. Shelley, 1824. 75 eve, Mrs. Shelley, 18391 || night, Mrs. Shelley, 1824. "Of fevered brains, oppressed with grief and mad ness, Were lulled by thee, delightful nightingale ! And these soft waves, murmuring a gentle sadness, "And the far sighings of yon piny dale Made vocal by some wind we feel not here, "To lighten a strange load!"- No human ear Heard this lament; but o'er the visage wan Of Athanase a ruffling atmosphere Of dark emotion, a swift shadow, ran, Beheld his mystic friend's whole being shake, And with a soft and equal pressure, pressed "Paused in yon waves her mighty horns to wet, How in those beams we walked, half resting on the sea? 'Tis just one year sure thou dost not forget "Then Plato's words of light in thee and me Lingered like moonlight in the moonless east ; For we had just then read - thy memory |