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Christopher Brennan - II. The Quest Of Silence
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SECRETA SILVARUM: PRELUDE
 Oh yon, when Holda leaves her hill 
 of winter, on the quest of June, 
 black oaks with emerald lamplets thrill 
 that flicker forth to her magic tune. 
 At dawn the forest shivers whist 
 and all the hidden glades awake; 
 then sunshine gems the milk-white mist 
 and the soft-swaying branches make 
 along its edge a woven sound 
 of legends that allure and flit 
 and horns wound towards the enchanted ground 
 where, in the light moon-vapours lit, 
 all night, while the black woods in mass, 
 serried, forbid with goblin fear, 
 fay-revels gleam o`er the pale grass 
 till shrill-throats ring the matins near. 
 Oh there, oh there in the sweet o` the year, 
 adventurous in the witching green, 
 last feal of the errant spear, 
 to seek the eyes of lost Undine 
 clear blue above the blue cold stream 
 that lingers till her plaint be done, 
 oh, and perchance from that sad dream 
 to woo her, laughing, to the sun 
 and that glad blue that seems to flow 
 far up, where dipping branches lift 
 sidelong their soft-throng`d frondage slow 
 and slow the thin cloud-fleecelets drift. 
 Oh, there to drowse the summer thro` 
 deep in some odorous twilit lair, 
 swoon`d in delight of golden dew 
 within the sylvan witches hair; 
 the while on half-veil`d eyes to feel 
 the yellow sunshafts broken dim, 
 and seldom waftures moth-like steal 
 and settle, on the bare-flung limb: 
 or under royal autumn, pall`d 
 in smouldering magnificence, 
 to feel the olden heart enthrall`d 
 in wisdoms of forgotten sense, 
 and mad desire and pain that fill`d 
 red August`s heart of throbbing bloom 
 in one grave hour of knowledge still`d 
 where glory ponders o`er its doom: 
 and, when the boughs are sombre lace 
 and silence chisels silver rime, 
 o`er some old hearth, with dim-lit face, 
 to dream the vanish`d forest prime, 
 the springtime`s sweet and June`s delight, 
 more precious now that hard winds chill 
 the dews that made their mornings bright, 
 and Holda sleeps beneath her hill. 

I
 What tho` the outer day be brazen rude 
 not here the innocence of morn is fled: 
 this green unbroken dusk attests it wed 
 with freshness, where the shadowy breasts are nude, 
 hers guess`d, whose looks, felt dewy-cool, elude — 
 save this reproach that smiles on foolish dread: 
 wood-word, grave gladness in its heart, unsaid, 
 knoweth the guarded name of Quietude. 
 Nor start, if satyr-shapes across the path 
 tumble; it is but children: lo, the wrath 
 couchant, heraldic, of her beasts that pierce 
 with ivory single horn whate`er misplaced 
 outrageous nears, or whinny of the fierce 
 Centaur, or mailed miscreant unchaste. 

II
 O friendly shades, where anciently I grew! 
 me entering at dawn a child ye knew, 
 all little welcoming leaves, and jealous wove 
 your roof of lucid emerald above, 
 that scarce therethro` the envious sun might stray, 
 save smiling dusk or, lure for idle play, 
 such glancing finger your chance whim allows, 
 all that long forenoon of the tuneful boughs; 
 which growing on, the myriad small noise 
 and flitting of the wood-life`s busy joys, 
 thro` tenuous weft of sound, had left, divined, 
 the impending threat of silence, clear, behind: 
 and, noon now past, that hush descended large 
 in the wood`s heart, and caught me in its marge 
 of luminous foreboding widely flung; 
 so hourlong I have stray`d, and tho` among 
 the glimpsing lures of all green aisles delays 
 that revelation of its wondrous gaze, 
 yet am I glad to wander, glad to seek 
 and find not, so the gather`d tufts bespeak, 
 naked, reclined, its friendly neighbourhood — 
 as in this hollow of the rarer wood 
 where, listening, in the cool glen-shade, with me, 
 white-bloom`d and quiet, stands a single tree; 
 rich spilth of gold is on the eastward rise; 
 westward the violet gloom eludes mine eyes. 
 This is the house of Pan, not whom blind craze 
 and babbling wood-wits tell, where bare flints blaze, 
 noon-tide terrific with the single shout, 
 but whom behind each bole sly-peering out 
 the traveller knows, but turning, disappear`d 
 with chuckle of laughter in his thicket-beard, 
 and rustle of scurrying faun-feet where the ground 
 each autumn deeper feels its yellow mound. 
 Onward: and lo, at length, the secret glade, 
 soft-gleaming grey, what time the grey trunks fade 
 in the white vapours o`er its further rim. 
 `Tis no more time to linger: now more dim 
 the woods are throng`d to ward the haunted spot 
 where, as I turn my homeward face, I wot 
 the nymphs of twilight have resumed, unheard, 
 their glimmering dance upon the glimmering sward. 

III
 The point of noon is past, outside: light is asleep; 
 brooding upon its perfect hour: the woods are deep 
 and solemn, fill`d with unseen presences of light 
 that glint, allure, and hide them; ever yet more bright 
 (it seems) the turn of a path will show them: nay, but rest; 
 seek not, and think not; dream, and know not; this is best: 
 the hour is full; be lost: whispering, the woods are bent, 
 This is the only revelation; be content. 

IIII
 The forest has its horrors, as the sea: 
 and ye that enter from the staling lea 
 into the early freshness kept around 
 the waiting trunks that watch its rarer bound, 
 after the glistening song that, sprinkled, leaves 
 an innocence upon the glancing leaves; 
 O ye that dream to find the morning yet 
 secret and chaste, beside her mirror set, 
 some glimmering source o`ershadow`d, where the light 
 is coolness felt, whom filter`d glints invite 
 thro` the slow-shifting green transparency; 
 O ye that hearken towards pale mystery 
 a rustle of hidden pinions, and obey 
 the beckoning of each little leaf asway: 
 return, return, or e`er to warn you back 
 the shadow bend along your rearward track 
 longer and longer from the brooding west; 
 return, and evening shall bosom your rest 
 in the warm gloom that wraps the blazing hearth: 
 there hear from wither`d lips long wean`d of mirth 
 the tale that lulls old watches; — How they rode, 
 brave-glittering once, where the brave morning glow`d 
 along the forest-edges, and were lost 
 for ever, where the crossing trunks are most; 
 and, far beyond the dim arcades of song, 
 where moon-mist weaves a dancing elfin throng, 
 and far beyond the luring glades that brood 
 around a maiden thought of Quietude, 
 the savage realm begins, of lonely dread, 
 black branches from the fetid marish bred 
 that lurks to trap the loyal careless foot, 
 and gaping trunks protrude a snaky root 
 o`er slinking paths that centre, where beneath
a sudden rock on the short blasted heath, 
 bare-set, a cavern lurks and holds within 
 its womb, obscene with some corroding sin, 
 coil`d on itself and stirring, a squat shade 
 before the entrance rusts a broken blade. 
 The forest hides its horrors, as the sea.

V
 No emerald spring, no royal autumn-red, 
 no glint of morn or sullen vanquish`d day 
 might venture against this obscene horror`s sway 
 blackly from the witch-blasted branches shed. 
 No silver bells around the bridle-head 
 ripple, and on no quest the pennons play: 
 the path`s romance is shuddering disarray, 
 or eaten by the marsh: the knights are dead. 
 The Lady of the Forest was a tale: 
 of the white unicorns that round her sleep 
 gamboll`d, no turf retains a print; and man, 
 rare traveller, feels, athwart the knitted bale 
 watching, now lord of loathly deaths that creep, 
 maliciously the senile leer of Pan. 
 Fire in the heavens, and fire along the hills, 
 and fire made solid in the flinty stone, 
 thick-mass`d or scatter`d pebble, fire that fills 
 the breathless hour that lives in fire alone. 
 This valley, long ago the patient bed 
 of floods that carv`d its antient amplitude, 
 in stillness of the Egyptian crypt outspread, 
 endures to drown in noon-days tyrant mood. 
 Behind the veil of burning silence bound, 
 vast life`s innumerous busy littleness 
 is hush`d in vague-conjectured blur of sound 
 that dulls the brain with slumbrous weight, unless 
 some dazzling puncture let the stridence throng 
 in the cicada`s torture-point of song. 

 Peace dwells in blessing o`er a place 
 folded within the hills to keep 
 and under dark boughs seawind-frayd: 
 and the kind slopes where soothings creep, 
 in the gold light or the green shade, 
 wear evermore the ancient face 
 of silence, and the eyes of sleep; 
 because they are listening evermore 
 unto the seawinds what they tell 
 to the wise, nodding, indifferent trees 
 high on the ridge that guard the dell, 
 of wars on many a far grey shore 
 and how the shores decay and fade 
 before the obstinate old seas: 
 and all their triumphing is made 
 a tale that dwindles with the eves, 
 while the soft dusk lingers, delay`d, 
 and drifts between the indolent leaves. 

 A gray and dusty daylight flows 
 athwart the shatter`d traceries, 
 pale absence of the ruin`d rose. 
 Here once, on labour-harden`d knees, 
 beneath the kindly vaulted gloom 
 that gather`d them in quickening ease, 
 they saw the rose of heaven bloom, 
 alone, in heights of musky air, 
 with many an angel`s painted plume. 
 So, shadowing forth their dim-felt prayer, 
 the daedal glass compell`d to grace 
 the outer days indifferent stare, 
 where now its disenhallow`d face 
 beholds the petal-ribs enclose 
 nought, in their web of shatter`d lace, 
 save this pale absence of the rose. 

 Breaking the desert`s tawny level ring 
 three columns, an oasis; but no shade 
 falls from the curl`d acanthus-leaves; no spring 
 bubbles soft laughter for its leaning maid. 
 The cell is waste: where once the god abode 
 a burning desolation furls its wing: 
 enter, and lo! once more, the hopeless road 
 world-wide, the tawny desert`s level ring. 

 Before she pass`d behind the glacier wall 
 that hides her white eternal sorceries 
 the northern witch, in clinging ermine pall, 
 cast one last look along the shallow seas, 
 a look that held them in its numbing thrall 
 and melted onward to the sandy leas 
 where our lorn city lives its lingering fall 
 and wistful summer shrinks in scant-clad trees. 
 Hence came one greyness over grass and stone: 
 the silent-lapping waters fade and tone 
 into the air and into them the land; 
 and all along our stagnant waterways 
 a drown`d and dusky gleaming sleeps, unbann`d, 
 the lurking twilight of her vanish`d gaze. 

 Out of no quarter of the charted sky 
 flung in the bitter wind intolerably, 
 abrupt, the trump that sings behind the end 
 exults alone. Here grass is none to bend: 
 the stony plain blackens with rapid night 
 that best reveals the land`s inflicted blight 
 since in the smitten hero-hand the sword 
 broke, and the hope the long-dumb folk adored, 
 and over all the north a tragic flare 
 told Valhall perish`d and the void`s despair 
 to dwell as erst, all disinhabited, 
 a vault above the heart its hungering led. 
 The strident clangour cuts; but space is whole, 
 inert, absorb`d in dead regret. Here, sole, 
 on the bare uplands, stands, vast thro` the gloom 
 staring, to mark an irretrievable doom, 
 the stranger stone, sphinx-couchant, thunder-hurl`d 
 from red star-ruin o`er the elder world.

 This night is not of gentle draperies 
 or cluster`d banners where the star-breaths roam, 
 nor hangs above the torch a lurching dome 
 of purple shade that slips with phantom ease; 
 but, on our apathy encroaching, these, 
 stable, whose smooth defiance none hath clomb, 
 basalt and jade, a patience of the gnome, 
 polish`d and shadow-brimm`d transparencies. 
 Far, where our oubliette is shut, above, 
 we guess the ample lids that never move 
 beneath her brows, each massive arch inert 
 hung high-contemptuous o`er the blatant wars 
 we deem`d well waged for her, who may avert 
 some Janus-face that smiles on hidden stars. 

 Lightning: and, momently, the silhouette, 
 flat on the far horizon, comes and goes 
 of that night-haunting city; minaret, 
 dome, spire, all sharp while yet the levin glows. 
 Day knows it not; whether fierce noon-tide fuse 
 earth`s rim with sky in throbbing haze, or clear 
 gray softness tinge afresh the enamell`d hues 
 of mead and stream, it shows no tipping spear. 
 Night builds it: now upon the marbled plain 
 a blur, discern`d lurking, ever more nigh; 
 now close against the walls that hem my reign 
 a leaguer-town, threatening my scope of sky. 
 So late I saw it; in a misty moon 
 it bulk`d, all dusky and transparent, dumb 
 as ever, fast in some prodigious swoon: 
 its battlements deserted — who might come? 
 — ay, one! his eyes, `neath the high turban`s plume, 
 watch`d mine, intent, behind the breast-high stone: 
 his face drew mine across the milky gloom: 
 a sudden moonbeam show`d it me, my own! 

 ONE! an iron core, shock`d and dispers`d 
 in throbs of sound that ebb across the bay: 
 I shudder: the one clang smites disarray 
 thro` all my sense, that starts awake, inhears`d 
 in the whole lifeless world: and some accurs`d 
 miasma steals, resumed from all decay, 
 where the dead tide lies flat round the green quay, 
 hinting what self-fordone despairs it nurs`d. 
 The corpse of time is stark upon the night: 
 my soul is coffin`d, staring, grave-bedight, 
 upon some dance of death that reels and feasts 
 around its living tomb, with vampire grin, 
 inverted sacraments of Satan`s priests — 
 and, mask`d no more, the maniac face of sin.

 There is a far-off thrill that troubles me: 
 a faint thin ripple of shadow, momently, 
 dies out across my lucid icy cell. 
 I am betrayed by winter to the spell 
 of morbid sleep, that somewhere rolls its waves 
 insidiously, gather`d from unblest graves, 
 to creep above each distant crumbled mole. 
 When that assault is full against my soul, 
 I must go down, thro` chapels black with mould, 
 past ruin`d doors, whose arches, ridged with gold, 
 catch, in their grooves, a gloom more blackly dript, 
 some stairway winding hours-long towards the crypt 
 where panic night lies stricken `neath the curse 
 exuding from the dense enormous hearse 
 of some old vampire-god, whose bulk, within, 
 lies gross and festering in his shroud of sin.
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