The Lost Island [1887] 1895

To my sister Harriett

I

Silent and lonely, in the summer-night,

Lay the great city. Through the marble streets

No footstep moved: the palaces, the seats

Of wealth and power, the domes of malachite,

Where sculptured dragons, monsters carved in stone,

Alternated with statues clear and white,

Of ancient warrior-kings, that stood in rows

Along the Cyclopean porticoes,

Were hushed: and over all the moonlight shone.

II

Along the beach, beneath the massy wall,

The great sea rippled drowsily: afar

The headland glimmered, like a misty star,

Wearing a cloud wreath for a coronal;

And all the air was filled with tremulous sighs

Borne from the waste of waters, musical,

Yet dreamy soft, as some old Orphic hymn,

That floated up, what time the day grow dim,

From Dorian groves, and forest privacies.

III

Yet, in the voiceless silence of the hour,

An awful presence moved. Unseen, unheard,

It glided onward on its way, and stirred

The sleepers’ hearts with dreams of gloomy power,

Visions of fear, and throbbings of despair.

The plague was here. There was no house or bower,

Safe from his darts: from every door had gone

Some friend or father, some beloved one,

Borne to his grave by the red torches’ glare.

IV

And, as a lovely flower, that seems to fade

In summer’s heat, and bows its golden head,

Turning from those fierce heavens overspread,

To muse, in sadness, on some dewy glade.

So, many a maiden perished, white and still,

And many a soft angelic face that made

The sunshine of its home, grown cold and gray

Beneath the coming shadow, passed away;

So warm of late, now passionless and chill.

V

Alas! the little children—where was now

Their laughter, many voiced? —their sportive wiles,

Their bounding feet, and witchery of smiles,

With floating hair, and faces all aglow?

Silence and fear into their play had come,

Dulling each pulse and shadowing each brow;

And so they wept and wondered. Side by side,

Lay young and old, the bridegroom and his bride,

The child and sage, all summoned to one tomb.

VI

So rose, at times, through all the moonlit air,

Faint and scarce heard, like voices in a dream,

Low wailing sounds, that told of grief supreme,

The utterance of mourners gathered there.

Almost it seemed that every star which set

Was as a winged messenger, to bear

Some human life to those unloved abodes,

Where dwell, implacable, the lower gods,

Silent as stone, stern-eyed, with locks of jet.

VII

Fast waned the night, yet, ere the morning came,

The portals of the palace opened wide,

The sculptured valves fell back on either side,

The lamps within flashed forth a sudden flame;

And swift, into the dim uncertain light,

Which neither night nor day might wholly claim.

There stepped a figure of heroic mien,

Fair as a goddess, stately and serene,

A star-like apparition, pure and white.

VIII

This was the island queen, Evanoè;¹

All unattended, save by one stout thrall,

Who followed humbly, at some interval.

With noiseless foot she trod the marble way.

So passed she on, towards the open lea

That girt the town in shadowy array,

The palm trees, on her right hand, lifted high

Their crests, clear cut against the opal sky,

And, on her left, she heard the murmuring sea.

IX

Then, as the first faint breeze of morning fanned,

With odorous breath, her cheek incarnadine,

And thrilled each leaf and flower, and crisped the brine,

That crept, like molten silver, to the strand,

She halted at a wayside cottage door,

A lowly hut, that lay ’twixt sea and land,

Retired and peaceful as a hermitage,

Whose porch with orchids, blossoms of wild sage,

And bright convolvuli, was covered o’er.

X

There dwelt her aged nurse, now breathing slow

Her life away. With hand upon the latch,

The youthful queen a moment paused, to watch

The splendour of the morning, and the glow

That deepened in the East. Across the bay,

She saw the hilltops kindling, while, below,

The valleys lay in darkness. One by one,

The small clouds caught the flame: and lo! the sun

Leaped as a giant forth, and it was day.

XI

With throbbing heart she stood, and thoughtful brow:

Then sighed ‘Alas! why, in a world so fair,

‘Must death have place? Oh balmy summer air,

‘Sunshine and clouds, mountains and sea, and thou,

‘Illimitable dome of heaven above,

‘Phantoms of beauty, ever fresh as now,

‘Receive my greeting! Changeless as of old,

‘Ye still remain, when life and love are cold,

‘And the web rent, which youth so fondly wove.’

XII

She entered there: and in a moment stepped

From life to death, from sunshine into gloom,

From song of birds to stillness of the tomb,

Where all was silent, saving those who wept.

Through the half-opened casement floated in

The perfume of rare flowers: a lily crept

Along the sill, in drooping sympathy;

The while a honeybee went humming by,²

And faintly came from far the city’s din.

XIII

Yet, as a lake’s calm surface, dull and chill,

Is roused to wavelets by a falling stone,

The sinking soul, that seemed for ever gone,

Woke at the sudden footstep, and a thrill

Of recognition o’er the features passed.

Then, with a mighty effort of strong will,

She laid her hand, most gently, on the head

Of two fair children, kneeling by her bed,

With mute, appealing gaze; it was her last.

XIV

So all was done. Still shone the sun abroad;

And bird and insect, butterfly and flower,

Basked in the glorious splendour of the hour;

Still, through the air, like footsteps of a god,

Murmured the low soft wind, and all was bright:

No shadow fell on these, nor were they awed,

When, through their midst, a naked human soul

Passed, like an exhalation, to its goal;

A bubble rising to the Infinite.

XV

After few days, the pale form laid at rest

In grassy sward, beside the ocean foam,

The queen set forth towards her palace home:

And, not unmindful of that last bequest,

Took with her those two children as her own.

Weeping they left the comfortable nest,

Where their young life had passed its callow years,

But loving hands soon wiped away their tears,

And hope, new-born, upon their pathway shone.

XVI

It was the eventide. At home once more,

Within her chamber sat Evanoè,

Watching the shadows of the closing day

Gather and darken over sea and shore.

Her soul drank deeply of the soft repose

That lay on all things: so she pondered o’er

The past and present, and, on angel’s wings,

Her spirit rose in rapt imaginings,

Beyond the sphere of earth, and earthly woes.

XVII

She sat alone. It was an antique room,

Lofty, not large; the cornice pearl-inlaid;

The floor mosaic; and the wall arrayed

With tapestry whose softly shaded gloom

Was lit with life-like figures, passing fair,

The product of some long-forgotten loom.

White marble forms, hunters and kings of old,

Stood in quaint nooks, and vases of wrought gold

Held richest flowers, whose perfume filled the air.

XVIII

She thought of many a legendary rhyme

Told by her nurse, in the long-vanished days

When she, a child, sat listening, with fixed gaze,

To those delightful stories of old time.

Here sat she, patient, on her lowly stool,

And heard how, first, when struck the fated chime,

Out of the deep, like a fair lotus flower,

ATLANTIS rose, and, warmed by sun and shower,

Expanded, bearing all things beautiful.³

XIX

Thereon the gods came down, and dwelt with men:

Through the dim avenues of giant trees

They walked conversing; or on peaceful seas

Sublimely trod, nor shrank from human ken.

The air was musical with song and mirth

Of vigorous, lusty life: from glade and glen

Soft clouds of incense rose: the passing hours

Seemed garlanded with amaranthine flowers;

Nor yet was pain or sorrow known on earth.

XX

How was it now? Alas, on all the land

Despair lay darkling, and a mournful cry

Went up, as when a crowded argosy

Sinks, perishing, upon a rocky strand.

‘Oh,’ thought she, ‘If some god, some mighty one,

‘Should come to sweep, as with a conqueror’s hand,

‘This pestilence from out the heavy air,

‘And bring back health, and joy, and all things fair,

‘Him would I honour: he should share my throne.’

XXI

Scarce had the wish been framed, when came a sound

Of sudden thunder, muttering afar,

Nearer it swelled, until, beneath the jar,

The strong walls shook and wavered all around:

A shiver ran along the marble floor,

Up-heaving, like a wave: from out the ground

Mysterious murmurs came: then over all,

Darkness descended, deep, funereal,

Still as the grave, a sea without a shore.

XXII

A spherèd radiance, serene and clear,

Broke in upon the gloom—so softly bright

It seemed some kingly star had lent its light,

Whence came these accents to her startled ear;

‘Evanoè! Thy vow hath brought me down,

‘To woo and win thee as a suitor here.

‘Fear not. Within few days, I come again,

‘The plague removed; and thou shalt know me then,

‘Lord of the winds, a Marut, Sanadon!’⁴

XXIII

She heard: she trembled: and her heart beat high,

Amazed with thoughts conflicting; yet she stood

Calm and unfearing in her lion mood,

Fronting all chances with unquailing eye.

Round her the shadows deepened: then, at last,

She woke from stupor, and beheld the sky

All wild above and threatening, and the stars

Fast blotted out by gathering cloudy bars,

And heard the hollow moaning of the blast.

XXIV

All night the tempest raged. Adown the street,

With thunder-call the mad winds raved again:

Day dawned in gloom, and went, and came again,

And still the storm winds, furious and fleet,

Coursed on, above: and sun and stars were dead.

Then came a change. Again with silver feet,

The moonlight came, and kissed each bruised flower;

And morning came, and all the healing power

Of freshened airs, and sunshine overhead.

XXV

So, like a nightmare vision, passed away

The pestilence, and all its gloomy shows.

The fourth day came to end: in hushed repose,

The golden gloaming faded into gray,

Gleaming with stars: and shadows vespertine

Filled all the room where sat Evanoè.

Then came again the god. As some strong spell,

She felt his presence, murmuring ‘It is well:

‘My people live—are saved—and I—am thine!’

XXVI

Oh joy! oh happiness! In life’s wide waste,

Are there not days whose memory remains

As of an oasis in desert plains;

A reminiscence not to be effaced

Throughout all griefs and all the after-time?

Still, through the gloom, it shines; a pharos, placed

On that far line of youth’s enchanted shore,

Where lived we, in the golden days of yore,

When life was new, and all things in their prime.

XXVII

And they were happy through long sunny years,

The island-queen and Sanadon. They moved

In a rich atmosphere of light, and roved

Throughout their realm, like those united spheres,

That walk in pairs along the starry sky,

What time the vault of heaven unveiled appears.

And those two children, once their grandame’s care,

Eiridion and Thya, grew up fair,

And strong, and graced with gentle courtesy.

XXVIII

Joyous as summer birds, they wandered oft

Through regions wild and full of loveliness,

Through lonely places, where the hum and stress

Of cities came not, and the air was soft

With balmy odours of sweet-scented pines;

Where, in clear blue, the white clouds sailed aloft,

And streams flowed on through plains, or leaped in falls

From rock to rock, in broken intervals,

Bordered with lotus-blooms, and leafy vines.

XXIX

Sometimes they went inland, and visited

The mountain solitudes and privacies,

Wherein the island waters had their rise:

And taking, thus, some river at its head,

They drifted downwards on its placid stream,

Passing by caverns dark, and full of dread,

By headlands frowning vast, and flowery sward,

By golden sands, and beds of odorous nard,

And banyan groves, all wondrous as a dream.

XXX

Then, borne aloft in his aerial car,

The Marut brought them over sea and land,

Towards the rising sun, beyond the strand

Of far Iberia. Shining like a star,

Old Atna raised aloft his crown of snow;⁵

But they passed onward, o’er the sandy bar

Of rocky Salmydessus, white with foam,

And traversed so the Euxine, near the home

Of Scythians, and the broad Araxes’ flow.⁶

XXXI

Far to the north they saw the boundless plain,

Where roved the mammoth. There, in dusky bands,

Innumerable as the ocean sands,

They wandered, with white tusks and shaggy mane,

Hugest of living beasts that looked on man.

So came they to a rugged mountain chain,

Gloomy and dark, a wilderness forlorn,

So wild, it seemed the world’s extremest borne,

Withered and grey with some unending ban.

XXXII

Then, with a sudden, lamentable cry;

Thya exclaimed, ‘Oh father, oh my lord,

‘What awful shape hangs there, with brow all scored,

‘As if with flame of lightning from on high,

‘Yet unsubdued, and wearing as a king

‘The garment of his silent agony?’

To whom the Marut: ‘This is Themis’ son,

‘The Titan, who, for love to mortals shewn,

‘Is doomed, by Zeus, to penal suffering.’⁷

XXXIII

‘Go, aid him, if thou wilt. These are, to me,

‘An alien race, and alien deities:

‘But thou, sweet Thya—there can be, than this,

‘No task or office more befitting thee.’

So went she, at the word, with hasty feet,

To some ravine hard by, where sparkled free

A tiny fount of water, icy cold,

And took a hollow shell, therein to hold

The precious draught, than Amrita more sweet.⁸

XXXIV

With fearless heart, though hesitating gait,

Low bending in her earnest sympathy,

She stood before the Shape, and raised on high

The proffered cup, with eyes compassionate,

And touched his lips, with words of loving cheer:

And the great Sufferer felt his pangs abate,

And looked on her with wondering, as one

To whom all kindness hath been long unknown,

And dropped, amazed, a solitary tear.

XXXV

Then o’er the wilderness a shadow passed,

With sounds of spirit-wailing, soft and low.

From rock and valley, from the ground below,

From dark abysmal rifts, and spaces vast,

From mossy stone, and shrub, and lonely tree,

Came hollow murmurings; ‘Oh thou, who hast

‘So much loved man and all created things,

‘Thou who hast given us heaven-aspiring wings,

‘Prometheus! Soul of love! We weep with thee!’

XXXVI

Silent in thought, the four held on their way

Through sandy wastes, past Sindhu’s rapid stream;

Till rose, among the hills, the distant gleam

Of Manasa: and here they made their stay.

It was a lake secluded, in deep calm,

From worldly tumult, and the troublous day,

Where peace unbroken reigned: so still and cool,

Here might repose the heart with anguish full,

And every sorrow here might find its balm.⁹

XXXVII

At length, refreshed with welcome rest, they rose,

Crossing the Hima mountains, home of snow,

The stony girdle of the world, and so

Entered on Aryavartha’s sacred close.

Land of the marvellous! Here, being’s tide

Swept on exultant, through the long repose

Of silent centuries: and glowing life

Came forth, with thousand forms of beauty rife,

On flowery plain and shady mountainside.¹⁰

XXXVIII

So came they to a dwelling in the wild,

Where weeping filled the house: ‘Because, today,’

They said, ‘a Daitya comes to bear away

‘A victim from us. Shall it be our child,

‘That we must give? The mother, or the sire?

‘One must we offer, else, unreconciled,

‘He will not leave us. Oh, unhappy fate!’

So mourned the simple folk, disconsolate,

Lamenting loud, in mingled grief and ire.

XXXIX

The father spoke out then: ‘Me let him take;

‘Lo, I am old: the earth no more to me

‘Brings fresh delight, as once: the flowery lea,

‘Sunshine, and music, and sweet singing, wake

‘No answering echo in my spirit now;

‘The great gods smile on those who, for the sake

‘Of others, dare to die. My life is done.

‘But you, beloved ones, live on, live on,

‘Through lengthened years, and with unclouded brow!’

XL

To whom the mother quickly made reply,

‘And who will then protect our child, where all

‘Is strange and perilous, and help is small?

‘Some strong defender should be ever by,

‘And therefore is it better that I go.’

This heard the boy, and raised, with laughing eye,

A blade of spear-grass in his hand, and said,

‘With this will I strike off the giant’s head.’

The parents heard, and smiled amid their woe.

XLI

Then, at the Marut’s word, Eiridion

Took up his father’s mighty sword, a blade

Forged by celestial hands, and lightly swayed

The heavy falchion, flashing in the sun,

And laughed to hear it whistle through the air.

So, terrible as Indra, strode he on,¹¹

Adown the forest path, all hushed and dim

—A temple, sculptured fair with leaf and limb—

And met, and slew the cruel Daitya there.

XLII

Such were the lessons which the Marut taught,

Lessons of pity and of hardihood.

Then rose the four from that green solitude,

And floated westward, over Hadramaut,

Region of death; and passed Canopus hoar,

Fresh as a vision of the morning then, and sought

The silence of the lonely western sea,

Unknown and vast, with wild waves rolling free,

Beyond Pyrene, and the sun set shore.¹²

XLIII

Through the dim shadows of the moonlit night,

What phantom comes? The winds have sunk to sleep,

There is no sound or motion on the deep,

Wrapt, as a bride, in veil of gauzy light.

What galley, slow and ghostlike, parts the foam,

With labouring oars, and shredded sails of white,

Battered with storms? ‘Behold,’ said Sanadon,

‘Girt with his friends, Ulysses wanders on,

‘Adventurous, forgetful of his home!’

XLIV

The large browed chieftains from Scamander’s plain,¹³

Sages and warriors, kings of eldest time,

Sitting as gods—Ulysses, with the rime

Of years upon his beard—the sails—the vane,

Were seen a moment through the gloom; then passed

Beyond their ken, and all was night again.

Slow waned the hours: and when the morning came,

Amid all the pearly orient grew aflame

With crimson light, they reached their isle at last.

XLV

But now, strange notes of warning filled the air:

The sun grew dark at noon without a cloud;

And solemn voices nightly called aloud,

‘The hour is well-nigh come! prepare, prepare;

‘Atlantis sinks in ruin, and the wave

‘Rolls over her who was erewhile so fair!’

Men heard and trembled. Throughout all the land,

Life, with its toils and pleasures, seemed at stand;

Death came apace, and none was there to save.

XLVI

Then came a voice, by night, to Sanadon,

‘Arise, and leave the island to its doom!’

Sadly replied he, ‘Let it be my tomb,

‘If Indra’s sons can die!—I have put on

‘This human nature, with its warmth of love;

‘Shall I renounce the blessings I have won?

‘Shall I forsake these trusting hearts, and rise,

‘False, and a fugitive, to yonder skies?

‘I stay with them. Let the kind gods approve.’

XLVII

The Voice made answer, ‘Thou hast spoken well:

‘All things grow old and change: but Love remains.’

Again the Marut, ‘Ere our respite wanes,

‘Ere comes the end, and sounds the fatal knell,

‘Tell me, oh pitying spirit, may there be

‘Some rescue, some escape, for those who dwell

‘Beneath my sceptre?’ — ‘Go thou forth alone,

‘Walk as a mortal through the dark Unknown,’

Replied the Voice, ‘So shall the rest be free!’

XLVIII

Thoughtful the Marut rose from fevered sleep,

And went abroad. The moon yet shone on high;

The dews fell softly through the summer sky;

He walked along the margin of the deep,

And drank the healing quiet of the time.

What saw he then, that made his pulses leap

With quick surprise? A stranded bark lay there;

A wreck, with naked ribs and timbers bare,

Drifted, perchance, from some far Scythian clime.

XLIX

Then came the light again into his eyes.

Homeward he went, and straightway summoned all,

By sound of trumpet, to the council hall:

And told them, thus assembled, in what guise

Deliverance might come. As yet, the isle

Had launched no sea-boat: let the great emprise

Be ventured now: let strong and willing hands

Follow, as type, the wreck upon the sands:

So might the gods upon their labour smile.

L

They answered with a shout that shook the dome,

As if with thunder. Then the work began.

From sunny slopes, and meads Elysian,

From lonely bays, besprent with ocean foam,

And dales, where summer’s choicest blossoms shone,

Trooping they came, forsaking house and home.

So laboured they untiring, night and day,

And, ere two waning moons had passed away,

A fleet was ready, and the work was done.

LI

Alas! ye lovely scenes, whose incense rose

Day after day, in silent orison,

Ye vales, and groves of palms, all overgrown

With trailing lilies, where the air was close

With scent of odorous gums, and passion flowers,

Your hour has come. Your ages of repose

Are now at end, and sudden ruin falls

On all the glory of your festivals,

And all the festal splendour of your bowers.

LII

With quivering earthquake pangs, as if it feared

To meet its doom, the island slowly sank.

The ships were crowded. Last upon the bank,

Stood Sanadon, who waved his hand, and cheered

His parting friends, and bade them all farewell:

‘The sentence of the gods must be revered,

‘And I remain, a willing sacrifice,

‘That ye may live: And now, no more than this:

‘Think of me sometime, wheresoe’r ye dwell!’

LIII

Then rose a sound of many voiced lament:

‘Come with us, come! Thou who art all our own,

‘Still lead us on! We may not go alone.’

But he, as one that changeth not his bent,

Remained unmoving, and with mournful eye

Looked round on all that sad environment.

His cherished ones were near: swift, to his side

Evanoè came, with words of love and pride,

‘Bravest and best! Tis sweet with thee to die.’

LIV

The heavens darkened: Yet the setting sun

Shed momentary splendour on the scene;

Where, with bowed heads, the Marut and the queen

Stood; with fair Thya and Eiridion

A pace or so behind. The maiden knelt

In silent prayer. The hero leaned upon

The mighty sword of proof, whose beamy ray

Now flashed a last farewell to light and day,

Ere in the depths below for aye it dwelt.

LV

So with the sound of thunder, and the war

Of elements, and horror of deep night,

The ocean waves, with floods of foamy white,

And sinuous arms, wide-curving from afar,

Whelmed in the deep the long, indented shore.

The darkness passed: the light of moon and star

Came forth again: and gentle breezes swept

The plain of waters: but Atlantis slept

Far down, in silence, to awake no more.

LVI

And they, the wanderers, who ventured forth

To seek a home beyond the unknown sea,

How fared they on their way? They lived to be

Forefathers of the mighty ones of earth,

Founders of worldwide realms, now vanished long.¹⁴

But still, to them, the island of their birth

Was always sacred, and its memory

Still lived, unfading, as the years rolled by,

A germ of legend, and a theme for song.

LVII

Age followed age: great empires rose and fell;

But still Evanoè and Sanadon

Lived in men’s thoughts, and ever urged them on

To deeds heroic: and there was a spell

To youthful warriors, in Eiridion’s name:

And maidens wept to hear their mothers tell

The story of sweet Thya, young and fair,

Who passed from out the golden summer air

To icy death. Such was their meed of fame.