Œdipus
KINGDOM and spouse me prompted less than thought
Of that Mysterious One whose image, fell
But beautiful, drew me as Amphion’s lyre
The steadfast stones. But most herself, herself,
And not her fatal riddle, vexed my peace.
Cruel and sweet and strong, the subtle spell
Of mingled potencies, love, wonder, fear,
Forever stirring my unquiet heart,
Tangled my fate with hers. For, looking deep
In my own mind, seeking the plummet-line
To sound her mystery, I, startled, found,
Instead of my own stature, safe and small,
A lengthened, wavering shadow, dimly cast
By flickering lamp upon dissolving mists
From unknown shape, — nothing, or anything,
Or all. My own familiar being slipped
From my sure grasp and faded into air.
But ever, as it vanished, seemed to blend
In one long thrill of shifting bliss and pain
With hers, as shadow into substance melts.
Strange, strange the bond that mocked, yet held me fast:
Me, whom prophetic fingers from my birth
Beckon or warn ; me, ominous to myself.
Vainly by day and night my baffled thought
Pondered the import of this prodigy,
Till, ’twixt the life that filled my throbbing breast
And that half hint of complex life, I hung
Most like the dim reflection of a bridge
Spanning the stream that parts our literal world
From shores unmindful of us. Gradually
I felt the presence of another life,
Wide, rich, and strong, and tranquil, of which mine
Was but a faint, inconstant echo, fill
All height and depth and distance; drinking up
My drop of separate being, nevermore
Rounded in small completeness, — nevermore
Self-centred, whole. Thenceforth my pulses beat
In the large measure of my stretched sense.
Visions and sounds not meant for me disturbed
The easy rhythm of youth’s unheeding tread,
And I fell out of step with man, because
I listened for the wide pace of the gods :
Yet heard them not, but only seemed to hear ;
And seemed to know that their full meaning broke
Just where, on the far edge of human thought,
That Being sat, and drew me to her, thrilled
Of that Mysterious One whose image, fell
But beautiful, drew me as Amphion’s lyre
The steadfast stones. But most herself, herself,
And not her fatal riddle, vexed my peace.
Cruel and sweet and strong, the subtle spell
Of mingled potencies, love, wonder, fear,
Forever stirring my unquiet heart,
Tangled my fate with hers. For, looking deep
In my own mind, seeking the plummet-line
To sound her mystery, I, startled, found,
Instead of my own stature, safe and small,
A lengthened, wavering shadow, dimly cast
By flickering lamp upon dissolving mists
From unknown shape, — nothing, or anything,
Or all. My own familiar being slipped
From my sure grasp and faded into air.
But ever, as it vanished, seemed to blend
In one long thrill of shifting bliss and pain
With hers, as shadow into substance melts.
Strange, strange the bond that mocked, yet held me fast:
Me, whom prophetic fingers from my birth
Beckon or warn ; me, ominous to myself.
Vainly by day and night my baffled thought
Pondered the import of this prodigy,
Till, ’twixt the life that filled my throbbing breast
And that half hint of complex life, I hung
Most like the dim reflection of a bridge
Spanning the stream that parts our literal world
From shores unmindful of us. Gradually
I felt the presence of another life,
Wide, rich, and strong, and tranquil, of which mine
Was but a faint, inconstant echo, fill
All height and depth and distance; drinking up
My drop of separate being, nevermore
Rounded in small completeness, — nevermore
Self-centred, whole. Thenceforth my pulses beat
In the large measure of my stretched sense.
Visions and sounds not meant for me disturbed
The easy rhythm of youth’s unheeding tread,
And I fell out of step with man, because
I listened for the wide pace of the gods :
Yet heard them not, but only seemed to hear ;
And seemed to know that their full meaning broke
Just where, on the far edge of human thought,
That Being sat, and drew me to her, thrilled
With something that made music in my heart, Yet filled me with immeasurable dread,
Shaming my manhood. For the jealous gods,
Though they may use us for their pastime, still
Cannot recall the gifts themselves bestow, —
Courage, and scorn of pain, and thirst for fame.
So, whether I had stumbled on their snare
Or stumbled on their secret, whether I
Tossed in the wind of my own fantasy,
Floated in limbo of immortal thoughts,
Or on the breath of divine traffic rocked,
That which I was, I was, — man capable
To act man’s part, and let what must be, be.
So grew the strong desire to understand
The whither, whence, and why of man or sphinx ;
Till, arming my weak fears with fortitude,
I dared confront my Terror ; dared behold
Near what far off was terrible and fair, —
More fair, more terrible now to my faint heart,
Pierced with a power that made me long to yield,
Yet constant to destroy. Time stopped his flight,
Expectant, while I looked through eyes that blazed
Scornful and ravenous, down to a soul
Doubting and dark and void, though now made big
And insolent with triumph ; yet beneath
That front of pride, and o’er the lion heart,
The tender refuge of her woman’s breast,
In protest mute, lay pitiful and mild.
Slowly the balance of our beings swung
In that long gaze, and all my passionate fears
Drained to her lower level. Then a voice
Came like low thunder from reluctant lips,
And one by one words dropped upon my ear,
Falling like stones, but changing as they fell,
In my foreboding mind, to wingèd thoughts.
Their meaning, slow and clear, broke like the dawn
Across the desert’s farthest, vanishing rim.
Wide open swung the gates of prophecy;
Waves of a mighty ocean suddenly
Broke on my inward sense; I felt the wind
Blow on my cheek from Hades’ opened door.
But she, that riddle, read within my eye
My answer true, and her imperious gaze
Faltered and faded. From her visage bold
Fled its late spell of mystery and dread,
While blank astonishment and horror froze
Its shame and rage to stone. Then, frantic, she
Dashed at despair, as I, erewhile, at fate,
Her triumph, doubt, and doom all merged in mine.
Shaming my manhood. For the jealous gods,
Though they may use us for their pastime, still
Cannot recall the gifts themselves bestow, —
Courage, and scorn of pain, and thirst for fame.
So, whether I had stumbled on their snare
Or stumbled on their secret, whether I
Tossed in the wind of my own fantasy,
Floated in limbo of immortal thoughts,
Or on the breath of divine traffic rocked,
That which I was, I was, — man capable
To act man’s part, and let what must be, be.
So grew the strong desire to understand
The whither, whence, and why of man or sphinx ;
Till, arming my weak fears with fortitude,
I dared confront my Terror ; dared behold
Near what far off was terrible and fair, —
More fair, more terrible now to my faint heart,
Pierced with a power that made me long to yield,
Yet constant to destroy. Time stopped his flight,
Expectant, while I looked through eyes that blazed
Scornful and ravenous, down to a soul
Doubting and dark and void, though now made big
And insolent with triumph ; yet beneath
That front of pride, and o’er the lion heart,
The tender refuge of her woman’s breast,
In protest mute, lay pitiful and mild.
Slowly the balance of our beings swung
In that long gaze, and all my passionate fears
Drained to her lower level. Then a voice
Came like low thunder from reluctant lips,
And one by one words dropped upon my ear,
Falling like stones, but changing as they fell,
In my foreboding mind, to wingèd thoughts.
Their meaning, slow and clear, broke like the dawn
Across the desert’s farthest, vanishing rim.
Wide open swung the gates of prophecy;
Waves of a mighty ocean suddenly
Broke on my inward sense; I felt the wind
Blow on my cheek from Hades’ opened door.
But she, that riddle, read within my eye
My answer true, and her imperious gaze
Faltered and faded. From her visage bold
Fled its late spell of mystery and dread,
While blank astonishment and horror froze
Its shame and rage to stone. Then, frantic, she
Dashed at despair, as I, erewhile, at fate,
Her triumph, doubt, and doom all merged in mine.
So Œdipus, in his seven-gated Thebes, —
When, in deep sleep, out of the gathering gloom
Of thickly crowding portents, sudden flashed
A vision of the Sphinx, cleaving the night, — rehearsed
That obscure page, traced by his proper hand
Though not in his own character, while the curse
Close creeping, darkened all his laboring mind,
And o’er his star its baleful shadow flung.
When, in deep sleep, out of the gathering gloom
Of thickly crowding portents, sudden flashed
A vision of the Sphinx, cleaving the night, — rehearsed
That obscure page, traced by his proper hand
Though not in his own character, while the curse
Close creeping, darkened all his laboring mind,
And o’er his star its baleful shadow flung.
Agnes Paton.