This passion, in their ire,

The Gods themselves inspire, To vex mankind with evils manifold, So that disease and pain

O'er the whole earth may reign, And nevermore return the Age of Gold.

PANDORA, waking.

A voice said in my sleep: "Do not

delay:

Do not delay; the golden moments fly! The oracle hath forbidden; yet not thee Doth it forbid, but Epimetheus only!" I am alone. These faces in the mirrors Are but the shadows and phantoms of myself;

They cannot help nor hinder. No one sees me,

Save the all-seeing Gods, who, knowing good

And knowing evil, have created me Such as I am, and filled me with desire Of knowing good and evil like themselves.

She approaches the chest.

I hesitate no longer. Weal or woe, Or life or death, the moment shall decide.

She lifts the lid. A dense mist rises from the chest, and fills the room. PANDORA falls senseless on the floor. Storm without.

CHORUS OF DREAMS FROM THE
GATE OF HORN.

Yes, the moment shall decide!
It already hath decided:
And the secret once confided
To the keeping of the Titan
Now is flying far and wide,
Whispered, told on every side,
To disquiet and to frighten.

Fever of the heart and brain,
Sorrow, pestilence, and pain,
Moans of anguish, maniac laughter,
All the evils that hereafter
Shall afflict and vex mankind,
All into the air have risen
From the chambers of their prison;
Only Hope remains behind."

VIII.

IN THE GARDEN.

EPIMETHEUS.

THE storm is past, but it hath left behind it

Ruin and desolation.

All the walks Are strewn with shattered boughs; the birds are silent;

The flowers, downtrodden by the wind, lie dead;

The swollen rivulet sobs with secret pain;

The melancholy reeds whisper together As if some dreadful deed had been committed

They dare not name, and all the air is heavy

With an unspoken sorrow! Premonitions,

Foreshadowings of some terrible disaster,

Oppress my heart. Ye Gods, avert the

And whatsoe'er he does seems best;
He ruleth by the right divine
Of helplessness, so lately born
In purple chambers of the morn,
As sovereign over thee and thine.
He speaketh not; and yet there lies
A conversation in his eyes;
The golden silence of the Greek,
The gravest wisdom of the wise,
Not spoken in language, but in looks
More legible than printed books,
As if he could but would not speak.
And now, O monarch absolute,
Thy power is put to proof; for, lo!
Resistless, fathomless, and slow,
The nurse comes rustling like the

sea,

And pushes back thy chair and thee, And so good night to King Canute.

IV.

As one who walking in a forest sees A lovely landscape through the parted trees,

Then sees it not, for boughs that intervene ;

Or as we see the moon sometimes revealed

Through drifting clouds, and then again concealed,

So I behold the scene.

There are two guests at table now;
The king, deposed, and older grown,
No longer occupies the throne, —
The crown is on his sister's brow;
A Princess from the Fairy Isles,
The very pattern girl of girls,
All covered and embowered in curls,
Rose-tinted from the Isle of Flowers,
And sailing with soft, silken sails
From far-off Dreamland into ours.
Above their bowls with rims of blue
Four azure eyes of deeper hue
Are looking, dreamy with delight;
Limpid as planets that emerge
Above the ocean's rounded verge,
Soft-shining through the summer
night.

Steadfast they gaze, yet nothing see

And so the stream of Time that lin

gereth

In level places, and so dull appears,
Runs with a swifter current as it nears
The gloomy mills of Death.

And now, like the magician's scroll,
That in the owner's keeping shrinks
With every wish he speaks or thinks,
Till the last wish consumes the
whole,

The table dwindles, and again

I see the two alone remain.

The crown of stars is broken in
parts;

Its jewels, brighter than the day,
Have one by one been stolen away
To shine in other homes and hearts.
One is a wanderer now afar
In Ceylon or in Zanzibar,
Or sunny regions of Cathay;
And one is in the boisterous camp
Mid clink of arms and horses' tramp,
And battle's terrible array.

I see the patient mother read,
With aching heart, of wrecks that
float

Disabled on those seas remote,
Or of some great heroic deed
On battle-fields, where thousands
bleed

To lift one hero into fame.
Anxious she bends her graceful head
Above these chronicles of pain,
And trembles with a secret dread
Lest there among the drowned or
slain

She find the one beloved name.

VII.

AFTER a day of cloud and wind and rain

Sometimes the setting sun breaks out again,

more,

Quick footsteps sound along the floor,

The trooping children crowd the stair,

And in and out and everywhere
Flashes along the corridor

The sunshine of their golden hair.

On the round table in the hall
Another Ariadne's Crown
Out of the sky hath fallen down;
More than one Monarch of the Moon
Is drumming with his silver spoon;
The light of love shines over all.

O fortunate, O happy day!
The people sing, the people say.
The ancient bridegroom and the
bride,

Smiling contented and serene
Upon the blithe, bewildering scene,
Behold, well-pleased, on every side
Their forms and features multiplied,
As the reflection of a light
Between two burnished mirrors
gleams,

Or lamps upon a bridge at night
Stretch on and on before the sight,
Till the long vista endless seems.