Ion: A Monody

I.

Why, oh, ye willows, and ye pastures bare,
Why will ye thus your bloom so late delay,
Wrap in chill weeds the sere and sullen day,
And cheerless greet me wandering in despair?
Tell me, ah, tell me! — ye of old could tell, —
Whither my vanished Ion now doth fare.
Say, have ye seen him lately pass this way,
Ye who his wonted haunts did know full well?
Heard ye his voice forth from the thicket swell,
Where midst the drooping ferns he loved to stray?
Caught ye no glimpses of my truant there?
Tell me, oh, tell me, whither he hath flown —
Beloved Ion flown, and left ye sad and lone,
Whilst I through wood and field his loss bemoan.

II.

Early through field and wood each Spring we sped,
Young Ion leading o'er the reedy pass;
How fleet his footsteps and how sure his tread!
His converse deep and weighty; — where, alas!
Like force of thought with subtlest beauty wed?
The bee and bird and flower, the pile of grass,
The lore of stars, the azure sky o'erhead,
The eye's warm glance, the Fates of love and dread, —
All mirrored were in his prismatic glass;
For endless Being's myriad-minded race
Had in his thought their registry and place —
Bright with intelligence, or drugged with sleep,
Hid in dark cave, aloft on mountain steep,
In seas immersed, ensouled in starry keep.

III.

Now Echo answers lone from cliff and brake,
Where we in springtime sauntering loved to go —
Or at the mossy bank beyond the lake,
On its green plushes oft ourselves did throw:
There from the sparkling wave our thirst to slake,
Dipped in the spring that bubbled up below,
Our hands for cups, and did with glee partake.
Next to the Hermit's cell our way we make,
Where sprightly talk doth hold the morning late;
Deserted now: ah, Hylas, too, is gone!
Hylas, dear Ion's friend and mine, — I all alone,
Alone am left by unrelenting fate, —
Vanished my loved ones all, — the good, the great —
Why am I spared? why left disconsolate?

IV.

Slow winds our Indian stream through meadows green,
By bending willows, tangled fen and brake,
Smooth field and farmstead doth its flow forsake;
'Twas in far woodpaths Ion, too, was seen,
But oftenest found at Walden's emerald lake,
(The murmuring pines inverted in its sheen;)
There in his skiff he rippling rhymes did make,
Its answering shores echoing the verse between:
Full-voiced the meaning of the wizard song,
Far wood and wave and shore, with kindred will,
Strophe, antistrophe, in turn prolong: —
Now wave and shore and wood are mute and chill,
Ion, melodious bard, hath dropt his quill,
His harp is silent, and his voice is still.

V.

Blameless was Ion, beautiful to see,
With native genius, with rich gifts endowed;
He might of his descent be nobly proud,
Yet meekly tempered was, spake modestly,
Nor sought the plaudits of the noisy crowd,
When Duty called him in the thick to be.
His life flowed calmly clear, not hoarse nor loud;
He wearied not of immortality,
Nor like Tithonus begged a time-spun shroud;
But life-long drank at fountains of pure truth,
The seer unsated of eternal youth.
'Tis not for Ion's sake these tears I shed,
'Tis for the Age he nursed, his genius fed, —
Ion immortal is, — he is not dead.

VI.

Did e'en the Ionian bard, Mæonides,
Blind minstrel wandering out of Asia's night,
The Iliad of Troy's loves and rivalries,
In strains forever tuneful to recite,
His ruptured listeners the more delight?
Or dropt learned Plato 'neath his olive trees,
More star-bright wisdom in the world's full sight,
Well garnered in familiar colloquies,
Than did our harvester in fields of light?
Nor spoke more charmingly young Charmides,
Than our glad rhapsodist in his far flight
Across the continents, both new and old;
His tale to studious thousands thus he told
In summer's solstice and midwinter's cold.

VII.

Shall from the shades another Orpheus rise
Sweeping with venturous hand the vocal string,
Kindle glad raptures, visions of surprise,
And wake to ecstacy each slumberous thing;
Flash life and thought anew in wondering eyes,
As when our seer transcendent, sweet, and wise,
World-wide his native melodies did sing,
Flushed with fair hopes and ancient memories?
Ah, no his matchless lyre must silent lie,
None hath the vanished minstrel's wondrous skill
To touch that instrument with art and will;
With him winged Poesy doth droop and die,
While our dull age, left voiceless, with sad eye
Follows his flight to groves of song on high.

VIII.

Come, then, Mnemosyne! and on me wait,
As if for Ion's harp thou gav'st thine own;
Recall the memories of man's ancient state,
Ere to this low orb had his form dropt down,
Clothed in the cerements of his chosen fate;
Oblivious here of heavenly glories flown,
Lapsed from the high, the fair, the blest estate,
Unknowing these, and by himself unknown:
Lo! Ion, unfallen from his lordly prime,
Paused in his passing flight, and, giving ear
To heedless sojourners in weary time,
Sang his full song of hope and lofty cheer;
Aroused them from dull sleep, from grisly fear,
And toward the stars their faces did uprear.

IX.

Why didst thou haste away, ere yet the green
Enameled meadow, the sequestered dell,
The blossoming orchard, leafy grove were seen
In the sweet season thou hadst sung so well?
Why cast this shadow o'er the vernal scene?
No more its rustic charms of thee may tell
And so content us with their simple mien.
Was it that memory's unrelinquished spell
(Ere man had stumbled here amid the tombs,)
Revived for thee that Spring's perennial blooms,
Those cloud-capped alcoves where we once did dwell?
Translated wast thou in some rapturous dream?
Our once familiar faces strange must seem,
Whilst from thine own celestial smiles did stream!

X.

I tread the marble leading to his door,
(Allowed the freedom of a chosen friend; )
He greets me not as was his wont before,
The Fates within frown on me as of yore, —
Could ye not once your offices suspend?
Had Atropos her severing shears forbore!
Or Clotho stooped the sundered thread to mend!
Yet why dear Ion's destiny deplore?
What more had envious Time himself to give?
His fame had reached the ocean's farthest shore, —
Why prisoned here should Ion longer live?
The questioning Sphinx declared him void of blame;
For wiser answer none could ever frame;
Beyond all time survives his mighty name.

XI.

Now pillowed near loved Hylas' lowly bed,
Beneath our aged oaks and sighing pines,
Pale Ion rests awhile his laureled head;
(How sweet his slumber as he there reclines!)
Why weep for Ion here? He is not dead,
Nought of him Personal that mound confines;
The hues ethereal of the morning red
This clod embraces never, nor enshrines.
Away the mourning multitude hath sped,
And round us closes fast the gathering night,
As from the drowsy dell the sun declines.
Ion hath vanished from our clouded sight, —
But on the morrow, with the budding May,
A-field goes Ion, at first flush of day,
Across the pastures on his dewy way.