Читать книгу Mortal Summer - Mark Van Doren - Страница 3

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The cave they slept in, halfway down Olympus

On the eastern slope, toward Asia, whence the archangels

Even then were coming—even then

Bright Michael, and tall Gabriel, and the dark-faced

Raphael, healer of men’s wounds, were flying,

Flying toward the ship all ten would take—

The cave they slept in sparkled as their eyelids

Opened; burned as they rose and stood; hummed

And trembled as the seven, the beautiful gods

Gazed at each other, wonderful again.

The sweet sleep of centuries was over,

If only as in dream; if only a mortal

Summer woke them out of endless death.

The grey eyes of Athene, flashing slowly,

Demanded of Hermes more than he could tell.

“It was not I that roused you.” Hermes pondered,

Tightening his sandals. “All at once,

And equally, we woke. Apollo there—”

The musical man-slayer listened and frowned—

“And Ares, and foam-loving Aphrodite

Yawned at the very instant Artemis did,

With me, and swart Hephaestus.” The lame smith,

Stroking his leather apron, blinked at the others,

Worshipful of brilliance. Even in Ares,

Scowling, and more quietly in her

The huntress, whose green robe the animals knew,

He found it; and of course in Aphrodite,

Wife to him once, he found it, a relentless

Laughter filling her eyes and her gold limbs.

“It was not I,” said Hermes.

Thunder sounded,

Weakly and far away. And yet no distance

Wrapped it. It was here in the lit cavern:

Here, or nowhere. And the trembling seven

Turned to the rock that sealed a deeper room.

There Zeus, there Hera sat, the feasted prisoners

Of a still greater person, one who changed

The world while there they mourned, remembering Ida.

Some day they too would sleep, but now weak thunder

Witnessed their remnant glory; which appalled

As ever the proud seven, until Hermes

Listened and leaned, then spoke.

“It was the king

Our father. He has willed that we should wander,

Even as in a dream, and be the gods

Of strangers. Somewhere west of the ocean stream

He sends us, to a circle of small hills—

Come, for I see the place!”

That suffered thunder

Sounded again, agreeing; and they went.

Out of the cave they poured, into spring sun

Whose warmth they yet increased, for the falling light

Was less than theirs was, moving as they moved.

No soldier and no shepherd, climbing here,

Would have discovered deity. The brambles

Hid as they ever had this stony hole

Whence seven had been wakened, and where still,

Enormous in dark chains, their parents wept.

Invisible to suns, the seven gathered

Round a white rock and gazed. The sea was there,

The Aegean, and a ship without a sail

Plied southward, trailing smoke; at which Hephaestus

Squinted. Then he slapped his thigh and smiled,

And waved for six to follow as down world

He leapt.

They landed, all of them, as lightly

As a fair flock of gulls upon the prow

Of the tramp Jonathan B. Travis, bound

Tomorrow for Gibraltar, then northwest,

Northwest, both night and day, till the ocean stream

Was conquered. Not a god had ever gone there,

Not one of these high seven, in the old

Dark sail time. Now, invisible to waves,

To men and birds, they watched twelve grimy sailors

Washing their clothes on deck; and wondered still

At the two wakes behind them, foam and funnel.

But who were these arriving, these gaunt three

On giant wings that folded as they fell

And staggered, then stood upright? Even now

Michael had dropped among them, with his archangel

Brethren, bony Gabriel and lank Raphael.

From nearer Asia, lonely a long while,

They had come flying, sick of the desert silence,

Sick of the centuries through which no lord,

No king of the host, had blessed them with command.

As orphaned eagles, missing their ancient’s cry,

They had come hither, hopeful of these seven,

Hopeful of noble company, of new act.

Now on the prow they gathered, and no sailor

Saw them; but Apollo did, and Artemis—

Fingering their bows—as Hermes reared

On tiptoe, smiling welcome. Aphrodite,

Slipping to lee of Ares, feigned a fear

More beautiful than truth was; while Hephaestus,

Curious, near-sighted, fingered those wing-joints

Athene only studied where she stood.

“Whoever you are,” said Hermes, “and whatever—

Pardon this—you were, sail now as we do,

And be the gods of strangers far to west.

If only as in dream the vessel draws us,

Zeus our sire consenting. Your own sire—”

But the three stared so sadly over the waves

That Hermes paused, and beckoning to Gabriel

Whispered with him alone while dolphins played

As lambs do on dry land, and fishes scattered.

Alone to Hermes, while the dolphins heaved

Grey backs above green water, Gabriel murmured:

“Your sire. We had one too. And have Him still,

Though silent. It is listening for his thunder

That leans us. He is busy with new folk,

New, humble folk he speaks to in a low voice.

We have not learned that language—humble words,

With never death or danger in the message.

A star stood still above a stable once,

And a weak infant wept. And there He left us.”

“Our sire,” said Hermes, “—he too sleeps away

Our centuries. We have the selfsame fortune.

Sail westward with us then.” And Gabriel nodded.

The steel that sliced the water swung at length,

And in three days they nosed between the Pillars;

Past which—and the ten all shuddered—monsters once

Made chaos of the world’s end. But no fangs

Closed over the black prow, and mile on mile

Slid under them, familiar as a meadow

To the small men they watched amid the smoke.

Mile on mile, by hundreds and by thousands,

The Atlantic sloped away. Then lands and harbors,

And a deep whistle groaning.

“Now!” said Hermes,

“Now!” So nine to one they lifted wing,

Or no-wing like their leader, and went on,

High over chimneys and chill rivers, north

By west till it was there—the rounded valley,

Green with new spring, where cattle bawled in barns

And people, patient, waited for hot June.