No More Learning

Naught is behind us save the castle court,
Whatever is, I see, and there is no one near —
We are alone — and yet there surely stands
Another here behvecn us /

Leonard. I can see nothing but this bloody corpse !

Pancras. The corpse of his old faithful servant — dead!
It is a living spirit haunts this spot !
This is his cap and belt — look at his arms, —
There is the rock o'erhanging the abyss, —
And on that spot it was his great heart broke !

Leonard. Pancras, how pale you grow !

Pancras. Do you not see it ?

'Tis there I Up there . '



THE UNDIVINE COMEDY.



273



Leofiard. I see a mass of clouds

Wild-drifting o'er the top of that steep rock
O'erhanging the abyss. How high they pile !
Now they turn crimson in the sunset rays.

Pancras. There is a fearful symbol burning there !

Leonard. Your sight deceives you.

Pancras. Where are now my people ?

The millions who revered, and who obeyed me?

Leonard. You hear their acclamations, — they await
you.
Pancras, look not again on yon steep cliff, —
Your eyes die in their sockets as you gaze !

Pancras. Children and women often said that He
Would thus appear, — but on the last day only !

Leonard. Who ? Where ?

Pa? icras. Like a tall column there He stands,
In dazzling whiteness o'er yon precipice !
With both His Hands He leans upon His cross,
As an avenger on his sword ! Leonard,
His crown of thorns is interlaced with lightning. . . .

Leonard. What is the matter? . . . Pancras, answer
me !

Pancras. The dazzling flashes of His eyes are death !

Leonard. You're ghastly pale ! Come, let us quit this
spot !

Pancras. Oh ! , . . Leonard, spread your hands and
shade my eyes !
Press, press them till I see no more ! Tear me away !
Oh, shield me from that look ! It crushes me to dust !

Leonard {placing his hands over the eyes).
Will it do thus?

Pancras. Your hands are like a phantom's ! — ,
Powerless — with neither flesh nor bones !
Transparent as pure water, crystal, air,
They shut out nothing ! I can see ! Still see !

Leonard. Your eyes die in their sockets ! Lean on
me !

Pancras. Can you not give me darkness? Darkness !
Darkness !
He stands there motionless, — pierced with three nails, —
Three stars ! . . .

24



274



THE UNDIVINE COMEDY.



His outstretched arms are lightning flashes ! . . .
Darkness ! . . .

Leonard. I can see nothing ! Master ! Master !

Pancras. Darkness !

Leonard. Ho ! Citizens ! Ho ! Democrats ! aid ! aid !

Fancras. ViciSTi Galilee !

(JLe/ails stone dead. )



IRIDION.



(WRITTEN IN 1836-1837. )



Translated from the German edition, as rendered by Polono-Germamis,
published in Leipzig, 1847; carefully compared with the translation
made into French by M. Alexandre Lacaussade and published by Ladis-
las Mickiewicz, Paris, 1870.



PROLOGUE.



The old world stands on the brink of the grave. *
Everything which once had life falls into corruption,
crashes into ruins ; and gods and men together rave !

As Jupiter, sovereign of Olympus, expires, Rome, mis-
tress of the earth, writhes in her death agonies — and
raves! Fate {"Fatiim'") alone, the inflexible and im-
mutable Reason of the world," stands calm above the
hurrying whirlpool of Earth and Heaven !

In the heart of this chaos begins my song ; my song,
which gushes forth in irrepressible strains ! Spirit of
Destruction, come to my aid ! kindle my inspiration
until all bonds and fetters dissolve before it ! Let it flash
forth as impetuously as the lightnings of that tempest
which, gathering for centuries, whirled all that then had
life into the abyss ! And like all force after the accom-
plishment of its work, let it also perish !

The orient is bright with light, a new world appears ;
but it is not for me to sing its glory'l

275



276



I RID I ON,



O Rome ! where are now the stately forms once wont
to wander with such haughty pride over thy seven hills?
Where are thy high patricians, with their knives of sacri-
fice, and javelins in their hands? Where are thy hearts
of mystery, thy brows of menace, thy " Patres familias,"
the oppressors of the people, the conquerors of Italy and
Carthage?

Where are the long-veiled Vestals, bearing the sacred
fire in pure and consecrated hands, who were wont so
silently to mount the broad steps of thy Capitol ?

Where are thine orators, the leaders of the millions,
encircled by a sea of heads and rocked upon the waves
of popular applause, wooing the fickle mob, and only
living In the storm of tumultuous plaudits?

Where are thy indefatigable legions, virile and power-
ful, whose faces, bronzed by the rays of the sun, were
cooled in the sweat of actioir, and brightened by the
reflection of their naked swords?

Gone ! One by one, all have vanished. The Past has
taken them, and like a mother has lulled them to sleep
forever on her bosom.

And no one will ever be strong enough to tear them
from the Past !

Gone ! . . . Other forms take their places, but they
have no longer the austere beauty of the Demigods, nor
the gigantic force of the Titans. Though glittering with
gold, these figures are distorted and fantastic; crowns
wreathe theip brows, and garlanded cups are in their
hands, but daggers gleam through the rosy bloom, poison
beads their goblets, and convulsive spasms mar the grace
of their dances. One sees only a life of luxury, without
law or limits, in which songs and groans mingle with the
cries of gladiators and the bowlings of hyenas ! Accursed
be the spring which blooms in flowers of blood, perfumed
only by the unholy incense of base flattery ! Accursed
be such an existence ! It can be but transitory. It can
create nothing, and will leave nothing behind it but
infamy and the record of its impotent agony !

Populace and Ccesar, — lo ! the whole of Rome ! ^

Isis, mother of science and of silence, with thy feet
washed by the foam of the sea and swollen with thy long



I RID ION. 2^1

wanderings,— foreign tongues are sounding round thee !
Solitary and deserted thou standest upon the Roman Fo-
rum, as yet scarcely recognizing thyself, knowing not
where thou art, nor where are the banks of the Nile !

Mithras, Lord of Youth and Death, thou too hast been
drawn from the plains of Chaldea, the hills of Armenia,
to Rome ! Thou standest in the vaults of the Capitol,
having taken thy place amidst the other gods ; and in the
gloom of night thou wavest thy sacrificial knife above the
corpses of thy victims !

Through Grecian halls, and under the shadows of Co-
rinthian pillars, sound thy barbaric footsteps, O wild son
of the North ! At times thou pausest, leanest upon thine
axe, and with thy blue eyes seekest if thou mayst perchance
find there the god of thine own race,— strong Odin ! *
But Odin, the Cimbrian, has not yet appeared in the Cap-
itol. Loath to leave them, he still lingers amid his
boundless forests of pine, his broad fields of stainless
snow, his gray skies, and the choirs of Valhalla.

But in a little while he too will begin his pilgrimage to
Rome ! , .

On ! On, ye gods and menii< Rage as ye will— tis
your last raving upon earth ! From sunrise to sunset will
your paths cross ; from north to south, from midnight to
mid-day, will you hurry on, scarcely finding room for all
your throngs. Hasten on then ! Go and come, turn and
return ! Thus is it always before a world falls into ruins.

On, on, ye gods and men ! Rave as ye will, it is your
last course upon earth. Fate scorns^u, and repulsing
your errors, unfurls a new banner; — sooner or later you
will all fall before that symbol, — the Cross !

From this world which is stifling and destroying itself,
I tear away a single thought,— a thought of vengeance.
My love will dwell in it, and give it life, although it is
the child of madness, the presage of perdition.

On, on, ye gods and men ! forward in your giddying
whirl around my spirit ! Be the tones in which my
dreams are set ; the storm which flashes its lightning
around my thought ! I will give it a name, a form ; but
though conceived in Rome, the day in which Rome will
perish will not be the day of its death. It will last as

24*



278 I RID I ON.

long as the eartli and the nations of the earth. And it is
therefore, O my thought, that there will be no place for
thee in the Heavens !



Where art thou. Son of Vengeance ? In what land rest
thy bones ? And with what spirits now wanders thy spirit ?

I evoked the shadows of the dead from the world of
ruins ; before me on the Roman Forum at midnight stood
the Roman Senate, — phantoms cowering under the sense
of their depravity and cowardice, — but thou wert not
among the shrinking shades !

At my voice a gladiator rose from the vaults of the
Colosseum. He called his murdered brethren from their
rest, advancing at their head ; the moon shone down
upon their pale faces ; on every bosom yawned a gaping
wound, and in the sleep of death the blue lips still re-
peated : MORITURI TE SALUTANT CAESAR ! — but thoU wert

not among them !

Upon the sacred Palatine, the hill of ruins and of
flowers, the ashes of the Rulers of the world started from
the dust at my command and stood before me. They
passed before my eyes, each with a diadem held fast to
his head with clots of blood, and under the diadem each
bore the sign of damnation upon his forclicad ; round
each form float(jd in heavy folds the royal purple ;
through the gashes' made by the dagger of tlie murderer
glittered the stars: — I looked for thee, but thou wert not
among them !

I heard the solemn i)rayers and chants of tlie Christian
martyrs; the tones burst from the catacombs ^ and rose
directly into Heaven; sadder and sweeter, clearer than
the rest, I heard a maiden's voice once known and dear
to thee, — but severed now from thine, it sought the sky
alone !

Where, then, art thou. Son of Vengeance, Son of my
Song? It is time for thee to rise and tread upon the
giant's corpse, — the corpse of Rome ! Remember thou
hast sworn to renounce faith, hope, and love forever to



IRIDION.



279



gaze but once upon the utter ruin : — then to go down where
there are millions, millions of souls.

The hour is here, the death-bell tolls ! Where once
the Eternal City ruled yawns a wide grave of ruins, bones
and ashes ; the creeping ivy twines around it, and creep-
ing people crawl beside it. Arise ! Come from the
grave ! The death-knell tolls and tolls ! I call thee
forth ! I — and the fearful Power from whom I may not
ransom thee : but thy name I will tear from his grasp !
Thy name shall not perish with thee in thy desolation !

Leave me ! these rough and savage paths are not for
you, my friends ! Remain on the Campagna at the foot
of the Apennines. I must go alone ; must see him once
ere he descends into the abyss, sinks to eternal death !

In the dim twilight of a narrow cavern, stretched on a
couch of stone within the vault, quite without breath he
rests; no palpitation tells of human sleep ; dreamless he
lies and waits his wakening, — that promised and terrible
awakening, with the dark Day of Judgment nearer to him
than to the rest of the world !

Fallen trees, rotted into tinder, glimmer like the eyes
of the sphinx around him, and a serpent with glittering
scales, which has lain through centuries beside him, is
coiled at his feet.
His features are dark as if bronzed by
fever ; the sleep of ages has failed to pour a cooling stream
over their lurid glow.

His form is like the Demigods of Greece ; such shapes
are seen on earth no more. His feet, white as a Parian
statue, rest on a block of black marble ; moss and long
ivy-wreaths twine above and below them. A white tunic
covers his breast, his riglit hand grasps a shattered lamj) ;
a sword, dim with mould and rust, lies beside it ; the left
hangs stiffened down ; its fingers are spasmodically
cramped, as if sleep had overcome him while still strug-
gling with despair.

Motionless between sleep and death he lies, — between
the last thought which passed centuries ago through his
soul and that to which he will awaken, — between the
cursing of a whole life and the damnation of eternity !

Son of my Thought, before thou wakest, I will recount
thy history !



2 So I RID ION.

In the Cimbrian Chersonesus,* along the foaming
streams of Silver Land,! ^^y father loved to stray hand
in hand with the Sea-Kings, although his home was in a
far and sunny clime, his speech was in an alien tongue,
and his face like that of the gods of Phidias.

Men and women loved him, for with the beauty of his
tales he could make short the longest night, or charm the
day at festivals and combats. The windings of the track-
less seas were well-known paths to him ; he could read
fair weather or storm in the glittering stars of Heaven;
he could fling the heavy javelin over the top of the
highest mast, and his brow lost not its calm even under
the blast of the black hurricane.

And on the land his horn was heard o'er hill and
valley : no bear nor wild beast could escape him ; when
he returned from chase or battle he could stretch his tired
limbs on moss and scented ferns, and, emptying foam-
ing cups, recount his combats, dangers, and adventures.
His Palace stood upon the shore of the wide waves; it
looked upon a sea thickly strewn with islands bright as
stars; it was inlaid with gold and ivory, and under the
shade of its white grove of pillars, slaves stood upon its
threshold and watched for his return. But thy father tar-
ried long, for he had learned to love the conch-shell horn
and the song of the young Priestess of Odin. He devoted
his youth to constant wandering that he might gather
means to achieve a great design. He raised the foaming
beaker to his lips, and drank the health of the king of
men, Sigurd, the Sea-King. And he said to the daughter
of Sigurd :

"Crimhild, daughter of Sigurd, my people have worn
fetters for centuries, and sigh ! And with my people lie
hundreds of others upon the stony coasts of the Sea of the
South, and sigh ! To free them I need energy and in-
spiration from thy firm breast. I am myself a slave by my
nation ; but my soul lives as an Avenger. My foes are

* The Romans called the peninsula of Jutland the Cimbrian Cherso-
nesus; the Scandinavian races were known as Cimbrians.

f The Cimbrian Chersonesus was called Silver Land by the birbiri-
ans, on account of the white glitter of the snow and the many sparkling
streams.



IRWrON. 281

numerous as the sea sands and strong as Titans; — to de-
stroy them, maiden, I require thy prophetic soul. Virgin,
the consecrated of Odin, come! Enter my threshold, be
the companion of my life, the helpmate of my struggles !

"And our descendants shall one day end the task
which may extend to distant centuries ! "

Then was thy father silent, but he had flashed upon her
the magic of his glances, and had daily woven his spells
of eloquent speech and eloquent silence more closely
around her. The young Priestess stood upon the cliffs
and gazed with loosened hair and gloomy eyes down
into the gray infinity of the sea, rapt and dreamy, mad
with love ! The shield of Odin no longer protected her,
she was willing to fly from the very steps of the altar, — to
follow the stranger to distant shores !

" Hermes, our boldest warriors have as yet ne'er dared
to gaze upon my brow, and thou ? Thou seemest to me
a hero just descended from Valhalla, — thou but callest
Crimhild, and lo ! I must become thy slave!

"Unknown to me thy Fatherland, unknown to me
thine enemies; even in dreams I've never seen the clime
to which thou leadest me, — but I go, unhappy one ! I go,
disgraced among my virgins, cursed by the wrath of Odin !
But once more must I seat myself upon the holy stone,
once more chant the hymn of the Virgin Priestess before
the God of my fathers ! "



Amphilochus Hermes follows the "maiden over beds of
moss, steep granite cliffs, through gloomy forests, and
down the paths of mountain torrents. Tall pines rustle
above, and sometimes the skeleton of a great oak wreathed
with mistletoe looks down upon him. The sky is gray
and gloomy, and countless paths open to bewilder and
entice them into the boundless wilderness, but the fear-
less maiden knows the way which leads to the god she
worships, to whom she is about to bid farewell forever.

Leaders of tribes, Lords of the Land, and Kings of the
Sea, with their companions and attendants, stand in a



282 IRIDfON.

semicircle round Odin and await his Priestess. Sigurd,
sprung from the gods and king of men, alone sits ; his
throne is the trunk of a fallen pine, and he gloomily
covers his face with his massive hand ; the scales of his
armor heave as his huge breast swells beneath them. But
he remains silent, and his warriors are silent around him.
Nothing is heard save the sighing of the trees and the
roaring of the sea as it flings its great waves against the
rocks beyond the forest.

Crimhild suddenly bursts through them, her eyes fast-
ened upon the gloomy face of Odin, — she hurries on to
her god with solemn earnestness.

The stranger, surrounded by his own retainers, remains
behind ; his hands are folded upon his Corinthian armor ;
absorbed in thought, he leans against a tree.

Under a low arch overhanging a cavern the Priestess
seats herself upon a great stone deeply cut with mystic
symbols, and seems lost in meditation. The god of the
people of the North stands above her ; his beard and hair
are stiff with ice and powdered with snow, his eye is
dazzlingly bright and cold, he holds a club in his giant
hands sprinkled with the blood of his victims; in his
breast yawns the ghastly wound which he inflicted upon
himself when the days of his incarnation were completed
and he burned with desire to return to the bloody festi-
vals of Valhalla.

Long rests the Priestess lost in thought ; then gradually
awaking, she slowly raises her arm, and speaks in muffled
tones :

"I know thee. Lord, among thy heroes! Thy spirit
flows in dark streams into my breast, — it rages through
me like a cataract shattering the rocks on which it pours,
— I am with thee there in the very midst of the whirl-
pool, — there in the wild night of thy scorn, — thy power is
mine ! Listen all to the Priestess ! "

Suddenly she lifts the golden-fringed lids veiling her
flashing eyes, stretches out her hands to the throng before
her, shudders as if in the death-spasm: and then her
words ring clear as the tones of heroes who have already
scaled the clouds, and who, floating above the storm, cry
through it to the children of their children.



IRIDION.



283



"Whither are you running by day and by night, O
my Brethren? Sons of my people, who is driving you
forever forward ? Who calls you on to leave the Silver
Land of streams ?

"The chained Giants start from the snowy rocks on
which they should lie until the end of the world ; half
rising, they strike their clanging fetters upon the ice crests,
and scent afar the smell of blood !

" Hark, how the hammer of Thor breaks through shield
and helmet 1 How it crushes the breast and shatters the
skulls of men !

" The laughter of the Dwarfs rings through space, — the
lance of Horgiebruda floats over the whole earth !

"Who can resist you, O my successors ? Ever faster
and faster you hurry on to the Eternal City, — there is the
banquet spread for you, — the cups foam to the brim with
the blood of your enemy ! Honors and places await you
there. — Take them with glory, my sons ! "

The clear tones of her voice suddenly sink in dim
murmurs ; her eyes seek something in the world of
visionary forms outspread before her, her lips struggle to
utter a word. This word comes, grows almost to con-
sciousness in the depths of her soul, twines like a serpent
round her heart, then like a serpent buries itself in its
folds, — vainly she seeks it — pale — wretched — fainting !
A moment of suspense — she will yet tear it from her
breast, — her eyes kindle into flame, and her face flashes
with higher inspiration :

"The city — the city of the seven hills is in flames, —
precious metals and clear gems melt and flow in the heat,
corpses fall in the blood and float away, — the great city
crashes down — and with it a great god ! . . .

"Help! Odin, help! — I perish unless I can utter thy
secret ! . . . The name I the name ! who will tell me the
name? "

Then sinks the head of thy mother, her eyes close,
her lips are motionless; the king still covers his face with
his hand, not daring to look at his daughter ; the warriors
stand as if turned to stone, for no one ventures to approach
the holy rock.

Young Priestess, thy god is dumb, and an eternal



284 IRIDION.

silence is fast settling upon thine own lips ; darkness is
shrouding thy soul, and the snow of death is on thy
brow ! But he who had promised thee another Father-
land and fairer gods forsakes thee not ; he starts from the
shadow of the oak, and boldly advances to thee. A cry
of rage echoes through the skies; the sea-kings angrily
rattle their javelins against their shields; hoary skalds
fling curses on the air ! But he has already crossed the
threatening circle ; he bends over thee; he gives thee his
hand and says :

"In the name of Rome, the name of thy enemy and
mine, I call thee back to life ! Crimhild, arise ! "

Then turning to the warriors, he cries loudly : " Rome !
Rome! Rome! " The reviving maiden rises, repeats
after him the mystic word in clear ringing tones; repeats
it again with the sweet voice of woman in a tone of fare-
well ; — and follows the stranger, as a wife the husband !



Slumbering Son of my Thought, thy father now stands
on the deck of his ship, and with an incredulous smile
upon his curved lips, pours full cups into the sea in honor
of Poseidon ; tlien turning to his slaves he says : " Tighten
the white sails; ply more rapidly the oars; and the God
of the Trident will still the waves before us ! "

And the planks tremble under their feet ; darkness
settles itself in level lines along the horizon ; and waves
rise hurrying from the depths to meet the skies, and then
lose themselves in the heart of the sea — as the Serpent
Python before being prostrated by the arrows of the
Sun : — capriciously they pour into each other, breaking
in snowy foam, while the wind roars like distant thunder,
or sobs in wild shrieks as it whistles above them.

Under a canopy supported by the swaying masts,
Hermes reclines upon the soft skins of the beasts captured
by himself in the Cliersonesus, the land of the Cimbrians ;
and with gentle voice describes to the maiden at his side
the land she is now approaching, painting to her the island



I RID ION, 285

near the mainland, with its vine-clad hills and shady
groves, among which stands her new home. He tells her
of his laborers and tradesmen, of his palace, ships, his
stores of arms and treasures, — and these all have their
allotted destination! For the people there rejoice not
under the leadership of their own chosen chiefs, but are
bowed under a heavy yoke,— clothing their shame in
gold, in silks, in sculptured marbles, and licking the dust
before the city which rises between the two seas.

This city, as is well known to the world, is the Queen
of lies and oppression. Under the spell of her poison-
ous breath, brother rises against brother, and son against
father, and traitors against the land which has given
them birth; and as untiringly as Time, she swallows up
all the kings of the earth. The calm flies from the brow
of thy father as bespeaks; it darkens like the tempest
breaking over the flying ship.

" Once was my Hellas the soul of the nations ; her
songs and oracles ruled the world ! But the haughty bar-
barians from the East rushed in multitudinous hosts upon
her, with the clang of swords and the whir of arrows.
The heavenly fire, torn from the gods, was her only por-
tion. Alas ! my beautiful, unfortunate Hellas trusted in
the accursed city seated upon the seven hills; rough
hordes pressed from it to her happy isles and myrtle-
crowned shores; cruel and false, it seized my wretched
country, not by might of arms and glorious war, but
divided her by the poison of treachery, and intoxicated
her with the nectar of false promises! "

At this moment the clouds break away, a few stars fl:ime
from the heavens ; but when Hermes again looks forth the
heavenly eyes are dimmed with scudding vapors and ex-
halations from the land, and he cries to the steersman:
'* To the right ! Steer all night to the right, and at dawn
we shall float in the Straits of Gades ! "

Then folding thy mother closely to his bosom, he tells
her of his mighty ancestors ; of Philopocmen, justly called
the last of the Greeks, who fought against the plots of the
accursed city, then of the barbarian king who, after the
losses of thirty years, at last fell by his own hand, since
which time no man had be^ n bold enough to undertake



286 I RID ION.

the protection of the enslaved world. After a short si-
lence dedicated to the memory of the great Mithridates,
he resumes his account, while thy mother listens motion-
less and with her blue eyes fastened upon him.

*' Crimhild, through thy inspiration thy god has re-
vealed what was divined in the vague foresight of my
fathers, what I myself have dimly seen and felt in the
flames of my own hate. Hail, daughter of the sea-king !
The city of sin, after the destruction of the free and the
living, has at last turned the sword against her own breast \

" Her treasures, collected from every part of the earth,
are no longer sufficient to satisfy her lusts; her arms arc
already slipping from her hands, her last hours are tolling
in the midst of carousals and murders.

"Laugh at the storms and waves, my wife, for we are
not to die here, — we are to take our part in that mighty
destruction ! "

After these words the voice of the hero is still fuller
of scorn and bitterness; he speaks of the gods of Hellas,
once so mighty, but in whom men have lost all faith :
their oracles have long been dumb, but their forms still
stand, for the world grown old cannot readily forget the
customs of her youth. All the gods of the earth are to be
seen in the accursed city; some of exceeding beauty from
the hand of the Greek sculptor, worthy of immortality ;
others distorted, monstrous, grown up without form from
the sands of the desert, hewn from the peaks of distant
hills, — but he tells her that he knows there is but one
God, who in the beginning laid his hand upon the night
and whirl of chaos, and conquered it for ever and ever !

"His name? " cries the Priestess of Odin. "Fate,"
he replies, as he goes to the helm of the vessel, for the
night is dark and the storm is again upon them.



Son of my Thought, dost thou remember the lovely isle
of Chiara, ui)on which passed thy childhood with thy
sister, the divine Elsinoe? Remcmberest thou the expe-
ditions of thy father, when, spreading his mast with sails.



IRIDION. 287

— not the three-cornered sails of the Greek, but the tall
sheets of the Barbarian, — with the Dacian helmet on his
head, and the battle-axe of the Cimbrian in his hand, he
would, favored by the night, slip out of the cove and
steer boldly on through the windings of the Archipelago?
All the thoughts of Jugurtha and Mithridates burn in his
soul, his intents of Vengeance lead him to seek the wildest
Barbarians ; now he visits the swamps of the Palus Moeo-
tis, the wastes where horses fly fleet as the wind ; now he
goes to the deserts of Africa where range the Syrtians
dipping their arrows in the deadliest poisons ; anywhere
and everywhere he hurries where he deems it possible to
raise enemies against his enemy. He presses the hand of
savage kings, learns their tongues and the use of their
arms, lavishes rich gifts upon them, and stimulates their
desires by promises of pleasure and booty.

During these long absences, the days pass in pain for
thy mother. But no stranger nor slave -ever reads a trace
of anguish in her noble features, nor do her lips quiver
when she bids them to be still.

But often, taking thee and Elsinoe by the hand, she
leads you through the long halls to the interior of the
palace where, amid niches covered with moss and shells,
stands a fierce warrior of rock.

Immortal rage wrinkles his broad low brow, his hands
hold the skull of a slaughtered enemy, at his feet are piled
long icicles and blocks of ice cut from Parian marble.
Thy mother bows her head before him, and thinks of her
vanished Fatherland.

"Iridion, my Sigurd, thou wilt never see the Silver
Land of streams, nor thy Grandfather, the King of Men 1
Look ! there stands my holy God ! My dreadful Inspirer !
The Lord of Valhalla ! the invincible Odin! " Then
pressing thy sister to her bosom: " Where is thy father,
Elsinoe? Speak, and tell~me where he lingers. I hear
the roaring of the winds and the dull sobbing of the
waves ; his tall bark rocks on the fathomless abyss of
waters, or, stripped of its winged sails, drives on some
coast accursed ! . . . But no, he will chain the storms,
escape the Barbarians, and return home with the fame of
a demigod ! "



288 IRIDION.

And when the horn of the returning hero is heard
winding over the sea, nearer and ever nearer through the
myrtle groves; when Hermes, bronzed by the sun and
weather-beaten by the tempests, throws himself into the
arms of his wife, his dark eye glittering with passion and
flashing with triumphant hope ; — happy, happy days return
to Chiara ; the Priestess forgets her dark forebodings, and
peaceful and glad you all^vander together over grass and
flowers, white sands and shells, through halls of marble,
among tripods and perfumed incense, and when evening
comes, you rest upon the lap of your mother, or in the
strong arms of your father, and when he blesses you at
night before you go to rest, with his hand upon your
bowed heads, he says : Remember to hate Rome / When
grown tip pursue her with a curse ! You, Iridion, with fire
and sword f You, Elsi^io'e, with prophecies and woman^ s art !

Ofttimes comes a Proconsul, Praetor, or officer of the
Emperor to Chiara; then long couches are laid and tables
spread with luxuries ; the wine of Lesbia pours in streams,
and the voices of the female slaves, accompanied by the
lutes of the males, chant the hymns of old Homer: —
*' Anacreon ! Anacreon ! " cry the Romans. With scorn-
ful smiles thy father beckons to the singers, fills the cups
of the Romans, gives fresh wreaths, and when they fall
into uproar and merriment, he boldly recounts the deeds
of the Past, relates the glories of the contest with Car-
thage, sings of the slaughtered legions of Varus, of the
revolt of Sertorius in Spain, and drinks the health of the
P^mperor wliile he crushes the cuj) in his clinched hand.

The thirteenth anniversary of the day on which the
Priestess had forsaken her god is now rapidly approach-
ing. Her voice grows wild when she calls her children ;
her looks are sad as she presses them to her breast. She
speaks of her f:ither, her motlier, her sister, the Chiefs of
her People ; half-broken farewells thrill her quivering
lips ; but in the presence of Hermes she tries to collect
her thoughts.

" Crimhild, daughter of kings, what is it oppresses
thee? "

" Hast thou never heard of the vengeance of the immor-
tal Spirits, Hermes? For a happy time I have been only



IRWION. 2 89

thine, — on the farthest confines of the world is an island
covered with ice, — a flaming mountain rises from its heart,
— the Giant of Death lies there enchained, — his arm is
already stretched forth to grasp me, — his hand will soon
hangover the depths to hurl the white web of my life into
the bottomless abyss ! "

Hermes fondly stretches his hand above her temples ;
its shadow falls like a stream of peace upon her brow, and
presses into her soul.

" Crimhild, look up to the glowing sky of Greece, and
out upon its blue sea ! Turn not back to the gray clouds
of the North, nor to its harsh God ! The star of Amphi-
lochus shines upon and guards thee ! He will not suffer
thee to be betrayed to the Evil Spirits ! "

But a heavy weight is on his heart !

What cry is that which breaks from the interior of the
palace, echoing through the vaults, and losing itself
among the pillars of the hall? The slaves hasten to the
inner rooms, enter the apartment of their lord ; there,
stretched upon a couch of porphyry, lies the Priestess ;
Hermes, the Greek, with bowed head stands beside her,
and crushes with his feet a cup whose rim is still beaded
with pearly drops. The slaves veil their eyes with droop-
ing lids, stand, listen, wait; but when Amphilochus lifts
his face, and turns it towards them, they shiver; for the
first time in his life anguish which he cannot master
distorts the godlike features of their lord.

" Go, bring Iridion with his sister here !

" Crimhild, I bid defiance to thy savage god ! There,
where surrounded by his heroes he drinks hot blood from
human skulls, on the highest throne of his dread palace, —
even there shall press the blasting curse of the Greek Am-
philochus ! . , . Oh, leave me not, my wife ! in vain ! in
vain ! But a few drops remain of the accursed draught,
— the whole cup of poison seethes in thy white breast I
Oh, Crimhild! Crimhild! "

She raises her head ; her face is as white as a pale statue
resting upon a sarcophagus :

"I saw him thrice last night, — he came from Valhalla
like an ocean of gloom, and cried to me : My Priestess !

*' He stretched out his strong arm, loaded with iron,
25*



290



IRIDION.



over the sleeping Iridion, the sleeping Elsinoe, and
menaced them with his resistless power. He threatened
to curse and blast their whole being unless I came to
him !

" For a time I was only thine, — but see ! there at his feet
lie the knife of sacrifice, the black veil, and the death-
wreath of a priestess ! When I die, place the knife at my
side, shroud me in the black veil, and wind the wreath
around my brow ! "

She rises, mounts the marble steps on the top of which
stands Odin ; she bends her noble form before him ; she
stretches out her white arms, trembling as if she would
fain wave away the shadow of death, while the folds of
her long white robe sweep the steps on which she stands;
then she descends and supports herself upon her husband ;
he winds his arm around her, and together they enter the
sanctuary. He totters, for he battles with an unseen,
unknown power, casting such looks to Heaven as Prome-
theus from his rock of pain, or as Laocoon in his anguish
lifts reproachfully to the gods from the fatal coast of the
sea; but he stoops not to tears, and is silent in his woe.

Pate seizes both in an irresistible grasp !

Then for the last time, Iridion, her look rests upon thy
young head ! At the feet of Odin she greets thee, as a
last farewell, with the name of thy grandfother : " Sigurd !
be the terror of the Proud ! "

" Elsinoe, my sjjirit will be ever with thee ! Remem-
ber the Silver I^and of streams, and forget not my god !
My children, I die for you ! "

Her lips grow pale, blue shadows fall around her azure
eyes, — now slie calls you both, — and then waves you
away from her poisoned breast ! Suddenly her thoughts
wander, — they fly afar to other places and to other times,
— her gray-haired father bows his head upon his powerful
hand, — the curses of the sea-kings are in her ears, — she
stretches out her arms, and, dying, utters prophecies as
the young Priestess of Odin was wont to do :

"To Battle! To Battle, my Ikothers ! Raise your
tents upon the seven hills, — upon the Capitol itself your
feast is spread, — the skulls of blood await the sons of Odin,
■ — fur below you, gnashing her teeth and wailing, — pros-



IRIDION.



291



trate — ruined — trodden in crimson pools, — lies Rome !
Rome ! Rome ! "

She falls exhausted at the feet of her god ; Amphilochus
raises her in his close embrace ; she tries to wind her arms
around his neck, but they sink powerless ! She falls back-
ward, — her hair hangs lower, lower to the ground, — and
a lifeless corpse at last sinks from the trembling hands of
Hermes upon the marble floor !

He kneels beside it, places the knife of sacrifice in its
hand, shrouds the black veil about it, and twines the
death-wreath of the priestess round the cold brow !

Then swiftly rising, as if seized by sudden madness, he
cries: ''Slaves, bring the axe from the Cimbrian Cher-
sonesus ! "

They bring it, trembling as they give it to their lord ;
he grasps it firmly in his powerful hands, gathers all his
mortal strength to combat the Immortal, and strides to
the dread image ! He looks upon it, — lifts the heavy
axe, — waves it thrice round his head, — it falls !