At Delphi poem – Alfred Austin

I

Apollo! Apollo! Apollo!

II

Where hast thou, Apollo, gone?

I have wandered on and on,

Through the shaggy Dorian gorges,

Down from where Parnassus forges

Thunder for the Phocian valleys;

Where the Pleistus springs and sallies

Past ravines and caverns dread,

Have, like it, meanderëd;

But I cannot see thee, hear thee,

Find thee, feel thee, get anear thee.

Though in quest of thee I go where

Thou didst haunt, I find thee nowhere,

Apollo! Apollo! Apollo!

III

Still no answer comes. . . . Apollo!

Vainly do I call and holloa

Into each Crissoean cleft

Where the last year’s leaves are left.

Deem not I have pushed my way

But from stony Amphissà.

I have come from far-off land,

Traversed foam, traversed sand,

From green pastures sea-surrounded,

Where thy phorminx never sounded;

O’er the broad and barren acres

Of the vainly furrowed breakers,

Across mountains loftier far

Than the peaks of Pindus are;

Skirted groves of pine and fir

Denser than lone Tempe’s were,

With no selfish tread, but only

I might find thee, lovely, lonely,

Lingering by thy sacred city:

On me wilt thou not have pity?

Sun-god! Song-god! I implore thee!

Glow, and let me pale before thee,

Apollo! Apollo! Apollo!

IV

Fallen tablet, prostrate column,

Solitude and silence solemn!

Half-tilled patches, squalid hovels,

Where life multiplies and grovels-

Is this Delphi, this the shrine

Of the Musagete divine?

This the cavern, this the cell,

Of the Pythian oracle!

Where the tripod, where the altar,

Incense, embassy, and psalter?

Can this pool of cresses be

Cradle of pure Castaly?

From the rock though still it bubbles,

Travels onwards, halts, and doubles,

Where the Muses wont to lave

Limbs as vestal as its wave,

‘Mong the flashing waters flashing,-

Gaunt and withered crones are washing.

Not a note of lyre or zittern,

But, below, the booming bittern

Waits his quarry to inveigle,

While o’erhead the silent eagle,

Blinking, stares at the blank sun-

All of thee that is not gone,

Apollo! Apollo!

V

Who art thou, intruder weird!

With the fine and flowing beard?

Whom no snowy robes encumber,

But a habit black and sombre,

Yet in whose composëd eyes

Lurks the light of mysteries.

Priest thou seemest, but not one

Of the loved Latona’s son.

In thy aspect is no gladness,

Glance nor gleam of joyous madness,

Only gloom, only sadness.

Underneath thy knotted girdle

Thoughts congeal and passions curdle,

And about thy brow ascetic

Lives nor light nor line prophetic.

Priest, but priest not of Apollo,

Whither wouldst thou have me follow?

Lead but onward, I will enter

Where thy cold gaze seems to centre,

Underneath yon portal dismal,

Into dusk and chill abysmal.

Hast thou pent him? Is He lying

There within, dethroned and dying?

If thou breathest, hear me crying,

“Apollo! Apollo! Apollo!”

VI

No, but here He cannot be,

God of light and poesy!

What are these I see around,

Gloomy upon gloomy ground,

Making wall and roof to seem

Sepulchre of morbid dream?

Visages with aspect stony,

Bodies lean, and lank, and bony,

In whose lineaments I trace

Neither love, nor joy, nor grace:

Youth with limbs disused and old,

Maidens pale, contorted, cold,

Flames devouring, pincers wrenching

Muscles naked but unblenching,

Writhing snakes forked venom darting

Into flesh-wounds, gaping, smarting,

Furies shagged with tresses fell,

Ghouls and ghosts of nether hell!

Priest of beauty! Priest of song!

Aid me, if thou still art strong!

See me! save me! bear me whither

Glows thy light that brought me hither,

Apollo! Apollo! Apollo!

VII

O the sunshine once again!

O to stand a man ‘mong men!

Lo! the horrid nightmare pales

In the light of flowing vales,

In the gaze of steadfast mountains,

Sidelong runnels, forward fountains,

Spacious sky, receding air,

Breadth and bounty everywhere.

What if all the gods be dead,

Nature reigneth in their stead.

Let me dream the noon away

Underneath this full-blown bay,

Where the yellow bees are busy,

Till they stagger, drowsy, dizzy,

From the honeyed wine that wells

Up the branches to the cells

Of the myriad-clustered flowers

Dropping golden flakes in showers.

Here reclined, I will surrender

Sense and soul unto the tender

Mingling of remote and close:

Gods voluptuous, gods morose;

Altars at whose marble meet

Downcast eyes and dancing feet;

Awful dirges, glad carouse,

Unveiled bosoms, shaded brows,

Wreathëd steer and tonsured skull,

Shapes austere with beautiful;

Till the past and present swim

In an ether distant, dim,

And the Delphic fumes rise denser

From a silver-swinging censer,

And in one harmonious dream,

Through a heavenly nimbus, gleam

Lovely limbs and longings saintly,

And pale virgins murmur faintly,

“Apollo! Apollo! Apollo!”

VIII

Priest, but priest not of Apollo,

Why dost thou my footsteps follow

From the deep dark shrine down there

To this temple of the air?

What, profaner! wouldst thou lay

Hands upon the sacred bay,

Tearing Daphne limb from limb!

Hast thou, then, no dread of Him?

How? For me? Avaunt, and pass!

I am not fool Marsyas.

Stay! Then to my forehead bind it,

Round my temples wreathe and wind it;

‘Chance the Avenger then will come,

Haunt and grot no more be dumb,

But the rills and steeps be ringing,

And a long array come singing,

“Apollo! Apollo! Apollo!”

IX

All in vain! Nor prayer nor taunt

Tempts him back to his loved haunt.

Fretted tablet, fallen column,

Solitude and silence solemn!

He again from Peneus ne’er

Will to Castaly repair;

Never more in cavern dread

Will his oracles be read;

Now I know that Thou art dead,

Apollo!

X

Then like fountain in mine ear

Spake the god aloud and clear:

“Take it! Wear it! Tis for thee,

Singer from the Northern Sea.

If the least, not last of those,

Suckled ‘mong the genial snows.

Though the Muses may have left

Tempe’s glen and Delphi’s cleft,

Wanderer! they have only gone

Hence to murmuring Albion.

Need was none to travel hither:

Child of England, go back thither.

Traverse foam, traverse sand;

Back, and in thy native land

Thou wilt find what thou dost seek.

There the oracles still speak;

There the mounting fumes inspire

Glowing brain and living lyre.

There the Muses prompt the strain,

There they renovate my reign;

There thou wilt not call in vain,

`Apollo! Apollo! Apollo!”’