Mapping Keats’s Progress: The Fall of Hyperion: A Dream CANTO I

References to this poem

The Fall of Hyperion: A Dream CANTO I

Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave
A paradise for a sect; the savage too
From forth the loftiest fashion of his sleep
Guesses at heaven pity these have not
Trac’d upon vellum or wild Indian leaf
The shadows of melodious utterance.
But bare of laurel they live, dream and die;
For Poesy alone can tell her dreams,
With the fine spell of words alone can save
Imagination from the sable charm
And dumb enchantment. Who alive can say
“Thou art no poet; mayst not tell thy dreams”?
Since every man whose soul is not a clod
Hath visions, and would speak, if he had lov’d
And been well nurtured in his mother tongue.
Whether the dream now purposed to rehearse
Be poet’s or fanatic’s will be known
When this warm scribe my hand is in the grave.
Methought I stood where trees of every clime,
Palm, myrtle, oak, and sycamore, and beech,
With plantane, and spice blossoms, made a screen;
In neighbourhood of fountains, by the noise
Soft showering in mine ears; and, by the touch
Of scent, not far from roses. Turning round,
I saw an arbour with a drooping roof
Of trellis vines, and bells, and larger blooms,
Like floral-censers swinging light in air;
Before its wreathed doorway, on a mound
Of moss, was spread a feast of summer fruits,
Which nearer seen, seem’d refuse of a meal
By angel tasted, or our mother Eve;
For empty shells were scattered on the grass,
And grape stalks but half bare, and remnants more,
Sweet smelling, whose pure kinds I could not know.
Still was more plenty than the fabled horn
Thrice emptied could pour forth, at banqueting
For Proserpine return’d to her own fields,
Where the white heifers low. And appetite
More yearning than on earth I ever felt
Growing within, I ate deliciously;
And, after not long, thirsted, for thereby
Stood a cool vessel of transparent juice,
Sipp’d by the wander’d bee, the which I took,
And, pledging all the mortals of the world,
And all the dead whose names are in our lips,
Drank. That full draught is parent of my theme.
No Asian poppy, nor elixir fine
Of the soon fading jealous caliphat;
No poison gender’d in close monkish cell
To thin the scarlet conclave of old men,
Could so have rapt unwilling life away.
Among the fragrant husks and berries crush’d,
Upon the grass I struggled hard against
The domineering potion; but in vain:
The cloudy swoon came on, and down I sunk
Like Silenus on an antique vase.
How long I slumber’d ’tis a chance to guess.
When sense of life return’d, I started up
As if with wings; but the fair trees were gone,
The mossy mound and arbour were no more;
I look’d around upon the carved sides
Of an old sanctuary with roof august,
Builded so high, it seem’d that filmed clouds
Might spread beneath, as o’er the stars of heaven;
So old the place was, I remembered none
The like upon the earth what I had seen
Of grey cathedrals, buttress’d walls, rent towers,
The superannuations of sunk realms,
Or nature’s rocks toil’d hard in waves and winds,
Seem’d but the faulture of decrepit things
To that eternal domed monument.
Upon the marble at my feet there lay
Store of strange vessels, and large draperies,
Which needs had been of dyed asbestos wove,
Or in that place the moth could not corrupt,
So white the linen; so, in some, distinct
Ran imageries from a sombre loom.
All in a mingled heap confus’d there lay
Robes, golden tongs, censer, and chafing dish,
Girdles, and chains, and holy jewelries.
Turning from these with awe, once more I rais’d
My eyes to fathom the space every way;
The embossed roof, the silent massy range
Of columns north and south, ending in mist
Of nothing; then to eastward, where black gates
Were shut against the sunrise evermore.
Then to the west I look’d, and saw far off
An image, huge of feature as a cloud,
At level of whose feet an altar slept,
To be approach’d on either side by steps,
And marble balustrade, and patient travail
To count with toil the innumerable degrees.
Towards the altar sober-pac’d I went,
Repressing haste, as too unholy there;
And, coming nearer, saw beside the shrine
One minist’ring; and there arose a flame.
When in mid-May the sickening east wind
Shifts sudden to the south, the small warm rain
Melts out the frozen incense from all flowers,
And fills the air with so much pleasant health
That even the dying man forgets his shroud;
Even so that lofty sacrificial fire,
Sending forth Maian incense, spread around
Forgetfulness of everything but bliss,
And clouded all the altar with soft smoke,
From whose white fragrant curtains thus I heard
Language pronounc’d. “If thou canst not ascend
These steps, die on that marble where thou art.
Thy flesh, near cousin to the common dust,
Will parch for lack of nutriment — thy bones
Will wither in few years, and vanish so
That not the quickest eye could find a grain
Of what thou now art on that pavement cold.
The sands of thy short life are spent this hour,
And no hand in the universe can turn
Thy hour glass, if these gummed leaves be burnt
Ere thou canst mount up these immortal steps.”
I heard, I look’d two senses both at once
So fine, so subtle, felt the tyranny
Of that fierce threat, and the hard task proposed.
Prodigious seem’d the toil, the leaves were yet
Burning, — when suddenly a palsied chill
Struck from the paved level up my limbs,
And was ascending quick to put cold grasp
Upon those streams that pulse beside the throat:
I shriek’d; and the sharp anquish of my shriek
Stung my own ears — I strove hard to escape
The numbness; strove to gain the lowest step.
Slow, heavy, deadly was my pace: the cold
Grew stifling, suffocating, at the heart;
And when I clasp’d my hands I felt them not.
One minute before death, my iced foot touch’d
The lowest stair; and as it touch’d, life seem’d
To pour in at the toes I mounted up,
As once fair angels on a ladder flew
From the green turf to heaven. — “Holy Power,”
Cried I, approaching near the horned shrine,
“What am I that should so be sav’d from death?
What am I that another death come not
To choak my utterance sacrilegious here?”
Then said the veiled shadow — “Thou hast felt
What ’tis to die and live again before
Thy fated hour. That thou hadst power to do so
Is thy own safety; thou hast dated on
Thy doom.”—“High Prophetess,” said I, “purge off
Benign, if so it please thee, my mind’s film.”
“None can usurp this height,” returned that shade,
“But those to whom the miseries of the world
Are misery, and will not let them rest.
All else who find a haven in the world,
Where they may thoughtless sleep away their days,
If by a chance into this fane they come,
Rot on the pavement where thou rotted’st half.”—
“Are there not thousands in the world,” said I,
Encourag’d by the sooth voice of the shade,
“Who love their fellows even to the death;
Who feel the giant agony of the world;
And more, like slaves to poor humanity,
Labour for mortal good? I sure should see
Other men here but I am here alone.”
“They whom thou spak’st of are no vision’ries,”
Rejoin’d that voice — “They are no dreamers weak,
They seek no wonder but the human face;
No music but a happy-noted voice —
They come not here, they have no thought to come —
And thou art here, for thou art less than they.
What benefit canst thou do, or all thy tribe,
To the great world? Thou art a dreaming thing;
A fever of thyself — think of the earth;
What bliss even in hope is there for thee?
What haven? Every creature hath its home;
Every sole man hath days of joy and pain,
Whether his labour be sublime or low —
The pain alone; the joy alone; distinct
Only the dreamer venoms all his days,
Bearing more woe than all his sins deserve.
Therefore, that happiness be somewhat shar’d,
Such things as thou art are admitted oft
Into like gardens thou didst pass erewhile,
And suffer’d in these temples; for that cause
Thou standest safe beneath this statue’s knees.”
“That I am favored for unworthiness,
By such propitious parley medicin’d
In sickness not ignoble, I rejoice,
Aye, and could weep for love of such award.”
So answer’d I, continuing, “if it please,
Majestic shadow, tell me sure not all
Those melodies sung into the world’s ear
Are useless: sure a poet is a sage;
A humanist, physician to all men.
That I am none I feel, as vultures feel
They are no birds when eagles are abroad.
What am I then? Thou spakest of my tribe
What tribe?” — The tall shade veil’d in drooping white
Then spake, so much more earnest, that the breath
Move’d the thin linen folds that drooping hung
About a golden censer from the hand
Pendent. — “Art thou not of the dreamer tribe?
The poet and the dreamer are distinct,
Diverse, sheer opposite, antipodes.
The one pours out a balm upon the world,
The other vexes it.” Then shouted I
Spite of myself, and with a Pythia’s spleen,
“Apollo! faded, farflown Apollo!
Where is thy misty pestilence to creep
Into the dwellings, thro’ the door crannies,
Of all mock lyrists, large self-worshipers,
And careless hectorers in proud bad verse.
Tho I breathe death with them it will be life
To see them sprawl before me into graves.
Majestic shadow, tell me where I am,
Whose altar this; for whom this incense curls
What image this, whose face I cannot see,
For the broad marble knees; and who thou art,
Of accent feminine, so courteous.”
Then the tall shade, in drooping linens veil’d,
Spake out, so much more earnest, that her breath
Stirr’d the thin folds of gauze that drooping hung
About a golden censer from her hand
Pendent; and by her voice I knew she shed
Long treasured tears. “This temple sad and lone
Is all spar’d from the thunder of a war
Foughten long since by giant hierarchy
Against rebellion this old image here,
Whose carved features wrinkled as he fell,
Is Saturn’s; I, Moneta, left supreme
Sole priestess of his desolation.” —
I had no words to answer; for my tongue,
Useless, could find about its roofed home
No syllable of a fit majesty
To make rejoinder to Moneta’s mourn.
There was a silence while the altar’s blaze
Was fainting for sweet food I look’d thereon,
And on the paved floor, where nigh were pil’d
Faggots of cinnamon, and many heaps
Of other crisped spicewood — then again
I look’d upon the altar and its horns
Whiten’d with ashes, and its lang’rous flame,
And then upon the offerings again;
And so by turns — till sad Moneta cried,
“The sacrifice is done, but not the less,
Will I be kind to thee for thy good will.
My power, which to me is still a curse,
Shall be to thee a wonder; for the scenes
Still swooning vivid through my globed brain
With an electral changing misery
Thou shalt with those dull mortal eyes behold,
Free from all pain, if wonder pain thee not.”
As near as an immortal’s sphered words
Could to a mother’s soften, were these last:
But yet I had a terror of her robes,
And chiefly of the veils, that from her brow
Hung pale, and curtain’d her in mysteries
That made my heart too small to hold its blood.
This saw that Goddess, and with sacred hand
Parted the veils. Then saw I a wan face,
Not pin’d by human sorrows, but bright blanch’d
By an immortal sickness which kills not;
It works a constant change, which happy death
Can put no end to; deathwards progressing
To no death was that visage; it had pass’d
The lily and the snow; and beyond these
I must not think now, though I saw that face —
But for her eyes I should have fled away.
They held me back, with a benignant light,
Soft mitigated by divinest lids
Half closed, and visionless entire they seem’d
Of all external things — they saw me not,
But in blank splendor beam’d like the mild moon,
Who comforts those she sees not, who knows not
What eyes are upward cast. As I had found
A grain of gold upon a mountain’s side,
And twing’d with avarice strain’d out my eyes
To search its sullen entrails rich with ore,
So at the view of sad moneta’s brow,
I ached to see what things the hollow brain
Behind enwombed what high tragedy
In the dark secret chambers of her skull
Was acting, that could give so dread a stress
To her cold lips, and fill with such a light
Her planetary eyes; and touch her voice
With such a sorrow — “Shade of Memory!”
Cried I, with act adorant at her feet,
“By all the gloom hung round thy fallen house,
By this last temple, by the golden age,
By great Apollo, thy dear foster child,
And by thyself, forlorn divinity,
The pale Omega of a wither’d race,
Let me behold, according as thou said’st,
What in thy brain so ferments to and fro.”—
No sooner had this conjuration pass’d
My devout lips; than side by side we stood,
(Like a stunt bramble by a solemn pine)
Deep in the shady sadness of a vale,
Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn,
Far from the fiery noon and eve’s one star.
Onward I look’d beneath the gloomy boughs,
And saw, what first I thought an image huge,
Like to the image pedestal’d so high
In Saturn’s temple. Then Moneta’s voice
Came brief upon mine ear, — “So Saturn sat
When he had lost his realms” — Whereon there grew
A power within me of enormous ken,
To see as a God sees, and take the depth
Of things as nimbly as the outward eye
Can size and shape pervade. The lofty theme
At those few words hung vast before my mind,
With half unravel’d web. I set myself
Upon an eagle’s watch, that I might see,
And seeing ne’er forget. No stir of life
Was in this shrouded vale, not so much air
As in the zoning of a summer’s day
Robs not one light seed from the feather’d grass,
But where the dead leaf fell there did it rest:
A stream went voiceless by, still deaden’d more
By reason of the fallen divinity
Spreading more shade the Naiad ’mid her reeds
Press’d her cold finger closer to her lips.
Along the margin sand large footmarks went
No farther than to where old Saturn’s feet
Had rested, and there slept, how long a sleep!
Degraded, cold, upon the sodden ground
His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead,
Unsceptred; and his realmless eyes were clos’d,
While his bow’d head seem’d listening to the Earth,
His antient mother, for some comfort yet.
It seem’d no force could wake him from his place;
But there came one who with a kindred hand
Touch’d his wide shoulders, after bending low
With reverence, though to one who knew it not.
Then came the griev’d voice of Mnemosyne,
And griev’d I hearken’d. “That divinity
Whom thou saw’st step from yon forlornest wood,
And with slow pace approach our fallen King,
Is Thea, softest-natur’d of our brood.”
I mark’d the goddess in fair statuary
Surpassing wan Moneta by the head,
And in her sorrow nearer woman’s tears.
There was a listening fear in her regard,
As if calamity had but begun;
As if the vanward clouds of evil days
Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear
Was with its stored thunder labouring up.
One hand she press’d upon that aching spot
Where beats the human heart; as if just there
Though an immortal, she felt cruel pain;
The other upon Saturn’s bended neck
She laid, and to the level of his hollow ear
Leaning, with parted lips, some words she spake
In solemn tenor and deep organ tune;
Some mourning words, which in our feeble tongue
Would come in this-like accenting; how frail
To that large utterance of the early Gods! —
“Saturn! look up — and for what, poor lost King?
I have no comfort for thee, no — not one;
I cannot cry, Wherefore thus sleepest thou?
For heaven is parted from thee, and the earth
Knows thee not, so afflicted, for a God;
And ocean too, with all its solemn noise,
Has from the sceptre pass’d, and all the air
Is emptied of thine hoary majesty.
Thy thunder, captious at the new command,
Rumbles reluctant o’er our fallen house;
And thy sharp lightning in unpracticed hands
Scorches and burns our once serene domain.
With such remorseless speed still come new woes
That unbelief has not a space to breathe.
Saturn, sleep on:—Me thoughtless, why should I
Thus violate thy slumbrous solitude?
Why should I ope thy melancholy eyes?
Saturn, sleep on, while at thy feet I weep.”
As when, upon a tranced summer-night,
Forests, branch-charmed by the earnest stars,
Dream, and so dream all night, without a noise,
Save from one gradual solitary gust,
Swelling upon the silence; dying off;
As if the ebbing air had but one wave;
So came these words, and went; the while in tears
She press’d her fair large forehead to the earth,
Just where her fallen hair might spread in curls,
A soft and silken mat for Saturn’s feet.
Long, long, those two were postured motionless,
Like sculpture builded up upon the grave
Of their own power. A long awful time
I look’d upon them; still they were the same;
The frozen God still bending to the earth,
And the sad Goddess weeping at his feet.
Moneta silent. Without stay or prop
But my own weak mortality, I bore
The load of this eternal quietude,
The unchanging gloom, and the three fixed shapes
Ponderous upon my senses a whole moon.
For by my burning brain I measured sure
Her silver seasons shedded on the night
And ever day by day methought I grew
More gaunt and ghostly — oftentimes I pray’d
Intense, that death would take me from the vale
And all its burthens — gasping with despair
Of change, hour after hour I curs’d myself
Until old Saturn rais’d his faded eyes,
And look’d around and saw his kingdom gone,
And all the gloom and sorrow of the place,
And that fair kneeling Goddess at his feet.
As the moist scent of flowers, and grass, and leaves
Fills forest dells with a pervading air,
Known to the woodland nostril, so the words
Of Saturn fill’d the mossy glooms around,
Even to the hollows of time-eaten oaks,
And to the winding in the foxes’ holes,
With sad low tones, while thus he spake, and sent
Strange musings to the solitary Pan.
“Moan, brethren, moan; for we are swallow’d up
And buried from all godlike exercise
Of influence benign on planets pale,
And peaceful sway above man’s harvesting,
And all those acts which deity supreme
Doth ease its heart of love in. Moan and wail.
Moan, brethren, moan; for lo! the rebel spheres
Spin round, the stars their antient courses keep,
Clouds still with shadowy moisture haunt the earth,
Still suck their fill of light from sun and moon,
Still buds the tree, and still the sea-shores murmur.
There is no death in all the universe
No smell of death — there shall be death — Moan, moan,
Moan, Cybele, moan, for thy pernicious babes
Have chang’d a God into a shaking palsy.
Moan, brethren, moan, for I have no strength left,
Weak as the reed — weak — feeble as my voice —
O, O, the pain, the pain of feebleness.
Moan, moan; for still I thaw—or give me help:
Throw down those imps, and give me victory.
Let me hear other groans; and trumpets blown
Of triumph calm, and hymns of festival
From the gold peaks of heaven’s high piled clouds;
Voices of soft proclaim, and silver stir
Of strings in hollow shells; and let there be
Beautiful things made new, for the surprize
Of the sky-children.” — So he feebly ceas’d,
With such a poor and sickly sounding pause,
Methought I heard some old man of the earth
Bewailing earthly loss; nor could my eyes
And ears act with that pleasant unison of sense
Which marries sweet sound with the grace of form,
And dolourous accent from a tragic harp
With large-limb’d visions. More I scrutinized
Still fix’d he sat beneath the sable trees,
Whose arms spread straggling in wild serpent forms,
With leaves all hush’d: his awful presence there
(Now all was silent) gave a deadly lie
To what I erewhile heard only his lips
Trembled amid the white curls of his beard.
They told the truth, though, round, the snowy locks
Hung nobly, as upon the face of heaven
A midday fleece of clouds. Thea arose
And stretch’d her white arm through the hollow dark,
Pointing some whither whereat he too rose
Like a vast giant seen by men at sea
To grow pale from the waves at dull midnight.
They melted from my sight into the woods:
Ere I could turn, Moneta cried — “These twain
Are speeding to the families of grief,
Where roof’d in by black rocks they waste in pain
And darkness for no hope.” — And she spake on,
As ye may read who can unwearied pass
Onward from the antichamber of this dream,
Where even at the open doors awhile
I must delay, and glean my memory
Of her high phrase: perhaps no further dare.

Mapping Keats’s Progress
A Critical Chronology

The Fall of Hyperion: A Dream CANTO I

MLA Style: Works Cited

Chicago Style: Note

Chicago Style: Bibliography

Mapping Keats’s ProgressA Critical Chronology

The Fall of Hyperion: A Dream CANTO I

MLA Style: Works Cited

Chicago Style: Note

Chicago Style: Bibliography

Mapping Keats’s Progress
A Critical Chronology