  ’Tis said that a noble Youth of old Was to his native village lost And to his home and aged sire; For he had wander’d (it is told) Where, pinnacled in eternal Frost, Apollo leads his awful Choir. Awful, for nought of human warms The agony of Their Song sublime, Which like the breath of Ice is given, Ascending in vapour from all forms, Where Gods in clear alternate chime Reveal Their mystery-thoughts to Heaven. Nor in those regions of windless Cold Is fiery the Sun tho’ fierce in light; But frozen-pale the numbed Moon Wanders along the ridges that fold Enormous Peaks, what time the Night Rivals with all her stars the Noon. For there, not dimly as here, the Stars, But globed and azure and crimson tinct, Climb up the windless wastes of Snow, Gold-footed, or thro’ the long-drawn bars Of mountain Mist with eyes unblink’d And scorn, gaze down on the world below; Or high on the topmost Peak and end Of ranges stand with sudden blaze, Like Angels born in spontaneous birth; Or wrap themselves in flame and descend Slowly like grieved gods to earth. And there for ever the patient Wind Rakes up the crystals of dry Snow, And mourns for ever her work undone; And there for ever, like Titans blind Their countenance lifting to Heaven’s glow, The sightless Mountains yearn for the Sun. There nightly the numbed Eagle quells (Full-feathered to his feet of horn) His swooning eye, his eyrie won, And slumbers, frozen by frosty spells Fast to the pinnacle; but at Morn Unfettered, leaps toward the Sun. He heard, he saw. Not to the air Dared breathe a breath; but with his sight Wreak’d on Immortals mortal wrong, And dared to see them as they were— The black Peaks blacken’d in Their light, The white Stars flashing with Their song. So fled. But when revealing Morn Show’d him descended, Giant grown, Men ant-like, petty, mean and weak, He rush’d returning. Then in scorn Th’ Immortals smote him to a Stone That aches for ever on the Peak. |
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