(translated from the Latin of Catullus)
Sped
over deeps of the sea in his boat’s rapid gliding,
Attis,
his hurrying feet across Phrygia guiding,
Entered
the forested shades of the Goddess’ abiding.
There
in such frenzy his spirit bewildered was driven,
He from
his members with flint-edge their burden has riven.
Afterwards,
feeling that naught of his manhood remained,
He,
with whose bloodshed but lately the earth had been stained,
She the
light timbrel uplifted in fingers of snow –
Timbrel
and token, thy mysteries, Mother, to show –
Delicate
fingers the echoing oxhide to shake:
Tremulous
voice, that a song for her fellows would make:
“Seek
we together, O Gallae, the woodland’s deep hollow!
Wandering
kine of the Lady of Dindymus, follow!
Come,
ye self-exiled who sought for an alien home:
Followers
mine, will you follow me yet as I roam?
Ocean’s
quick fury enduring with fortitude’s merit,
Daring
your love-hating bodies from man to disherit –
Forth
let us speed for our Mistress, to gladden her spirit!
Idleness
leaving, at once and as one let us move
Seeking
the Phrygian shrine of the Goddess, the grove
There,
where the cymbals give voice and the timbrels reply,
Where
the curved flutes of the Phrygian sobbingly cry,
Ivy-crowned
Maenads their tresses tempestuous flinging,
Shrilling
their call as the sacred devices are swinging,
Whither
the vagabond cohorts of Cybele wander –
Lead we
the speed of our dancing, our offering yonder!”
Even as
Attis, mock-woman, thus sang to the crowd,
Sudden
from quivering tongues rang the dance-cry aloud:
Rang
the light timbrel, and hollow the cymbals were clashed,
Forth
to green Ida the swift-footed company dashed.
Attis,
too wrought to the frenzy, all breathless was faring
Through
the dark forest the foremost, the timbrel yet bearing,
Wild as
a heifer unbroken the yoke to elude:
Swiftly
the haste of their leader the Gallae pursued.
So it
befell, at the house of the Goddess arriving,
Foodless
they sank to their slumber, all spent with their striving:
Laden
with weariness, sleep on their eyelids was pressed,
Respite
from raging releasing their spirits to rest.
Only
when Sol with the gold of his countenance flaming
Lit the
pale heavens, the rockland, the seas beyond taming,
Hunted
the shadows with creature of hoofbeat proclaiming,
Sleep
from awakening Attis was swiftly departed:
Took
him the goddess Pasithea, tremulous-hearted!
Now, by
his slumber from flashing of fantasy freed,
Attis
himself in his heart could survey all his deed:
Clearly
his loss, and the place where he was, he could scan:
Swift
in the storm of his mind to the seashore he ran.
Out on
the waste of the waters her tearful eyes bent,
Thus to
her country she cried all her grievous lament:
“O my
dear country that bore me, that life to me gave!
Fool
that I am, I have fled like a runaway slave:
Runaway,
turning my foot towards Ida to hide,
Here
among snows, among frozen wild dens to abide,
Dens
where in frenzy I also my shelter may claim!
Where,
my dear country? – what region as thine shall I name?
How do
mine eyes of themselves seek in longing for thee,
While
for a little my spirit from raging is free!
Far
from my home, in these forests my life shall I measure,
Absent
from friends and from parents, from birthplace and treasure?
Absent
from market and wrestling-ground, contest and pleasure?
Sorrowful,
sorrowful spirit, lament and lament!
What is
there human of form that my fate has not lent?
I once
a man, and a youth, and a lad, and a boy,
I who
was first in our games, and the wrestling-ground’s joy:
Crowded
my gates, and to kindlier doors I was free:
Mine
were the blossoming garlands one morning to be
When I
should rise with the sun, and my house all arrayed:
Ministress
I of the Gods am, and Cybele’s maid!
Maenad,
and part of myself, shall my title be now,
Sterile,
and dweller in snows of green Ida’s cold brow.
Phrygia’s
summit: the rest of my life shall I view it,
Haunting
the glade with the hind, with the boar ranging through it?
Now, O
my deed I lament: now O now would undo it!”
Thus
from his lips as the hurrying syllables broke,
To the
all-hearkening Gods a new cry to evoke –
Then of
her lions great Cybele loosened the yoke:
Urging
that terror to cattle, the left of the pair,
“Angrily
harry him back to his place and his share!
Back to
his frenzy impel him and back to the grove,
He who
too freely away from my keeping would rove!
Smite
yourself, spite yourself, flailing your flanks with your tail,
Bellow
till Echo your fellow be, roar like the gale,
Flames
of your mane by the strength of your shoulders be shaken!”
Thus
the dire Goddess, and fastened the yoke half-forsaken.
Lashing
and roaring, inflaming the rage of his heart,
Crashing
through thickets the lion was swift to depart:
Till in
the plashing, the pallid domain of the tide,
There
by the marble-cool waters poor Attis he spied.
Once
leapt the lion, and Attis fled mad to the glade:
There
for the rest of his life he was Cybele’s maid.
Goddess,
great Cybele, Dindymus’ Lady, great Mother,
Far
from this dwelling of mine be thy frenzy to gather!
Those
whom thou drivest to rage, be they other, far other!
Copyright
© 2002 by Leon Barcynski
This splendid lyrical poem,
which explores elements of the myth of Orpheus and celebrates the mysteries of
the Octave, was composed in 1963 by Melita Denning (late Grand Master of the
Order Aurum Solis) and issued to the Order in that same year. It was employed
as an introduction to a study of the Orphic theogonies, and itself provided
material for psychological and magical analysis. It was later included in the
preliminary material of book 1 of The Magical Philosophy (Llewellyn, 1974), where it served both
as general dedicatory material for the entire series and as specific memorial
tribute to astrologer-magician Ernest Page, beloved Guardian of the Order of
the Sacred Word from 1959 until his death in 1966. The poem is reproduced here
as originally issued and distributed within the Order Aurum Solis.
I
I seek a
token
Higher
than death with breath of fire can abate,
Greater
than plant’s enchantment, than secret spoken,
Sweet
as song, strong as fate.
II
Grief’s
passion to purpose turning
Lingered
the Thracian, musician fingers ever for the dead
Questing
upon the strings, un-resting, never discerning
The
sounds that from those quivering seven bled:
Music
whose skill had he willed, from the walls of the hills a voice
Had
called of human tears, or the mirth of earth to rejoice:
Music
that held in its power each hour of the planets’ burning:
When
suddenly his mind heard, and its burden shed.
He
knew his way to tread.
III
How
travels living man to the land where Death is king?
Some
unquestioning, no heed giving, sightless go.
But
of those who know, there are few that sing
The
journeying of the terrible road to show.
In
the chasm where the traveller descends,
Half
down the riven pit, on the steep
Crumbling
cliff where drift of the daylight ends
A
tree is rooted deep,
Reaching
its mere bare greyness towards the air:
And
the twigs that are nearest the day are called Despair.
As
far beneath, where breathing is pent by wraiths of night,
With
ravelled shadow closed about, the traveller goes
In
doubt of living, perceiving without sight:
And
there it is the silent river flows
Oblivious
venomous mist for ever weaving:
And
there it is, the history truly vouches,
With
changeless gaze the triple horror couches:
Lip-slavering
hate, fear whimpering, howling, grieving,
And
leaden jaws that close.
But
here the harper safely passed, nor greatly heeded:
Clear
in his heart was the remembered day
When
trees entranced had danced to hear him play.
Not
yet to win his way a greater art he needed.
IV
Solemn
splendour of Hades’ hall!
Sombre
columns with golden capitals crowned,
And
jewelled throngs attending, languid all,
Pallid
as candle flames by the noonday drowned:
Where
the dark king with his consort virginal
Still
smiles as if he frowned.
V
O
Hades, here at thy throne
In
homage the doom I sing of kingdoms of man.
Ringed
be a land with pride, or of wider span
Than
can in a season ripen what spring beyond spring has sown.
Though
high cities besides with store of gold have shone,
Yet
when, O king, thou dost but call thine own,
Man’s
government is done.
Or
shall I sing the fate of ancient things?
Wherever
the power, the honour of age is won
And
treasure of measured time has greatly grown.
There,
when some hour thy pleasure’s message brings –
O
strings, falter and moan --
At once all
is gone.
Shall
learning be our boast?
Short
time, a life, for that unearthly reaping!
Nor
ever shows some frail earth-questing ghost
More
grant of all his hoarded knowledge keeping
Than
strife of stuttered words his life could have uttered sleeping.
The
wise who learn to die, their prize avails the most.
VI
So
sang, so played on the seven strings’ sweetness and pain
The
stranger, every hope laying low at Hades’ feet:
Broken,
plaintive every tone was made.
Whether
of good or of pride, to Death was the gain:
The
faithful sailor lost, the trader by storm betrayed,
Glory
of courage in war outpoured, vainly scorning retreat.
Then
to a stronger cry the music leading
His
inmost grief he told.
Of
the bride from his long gaze torn -- from his tortured pleading --
Beauty
that vied with morning, borne alone to the cold
Skyless
night of Hades’ hold.
And
with his love his life’s harsh overturning.
Not,
he sighed, that I sought; although awhile
In
her smile I caught more joy than the Fates allow:
But
one doom waits, however we make its trial.
Where
Zeus has struck, a vine may deck the barren bough
But
Hades’ victim is smitten beyond denial
And
past adorning.
VII
But
mark, O king: hear and heed a deed of mine!
See,
my harp has a new thing, the new, the eighth string!
Thine
is power on the dower of earth, but this is divine.
Freedom
I cry, the birth of freedom I sound and sing:
Greater
than fate, the eighth string: O king, do you know its worth?
VIII
Seven
sounds ring for all the earth has seen.
Weave
and change the player may, aspiring
Beyond
that range: but the leaping fire of his lay
Falls
back, back as if tiring
In
mortal weariness its bonds between:
For
all the sun has seen is indeed thy prey
But
the eighth string makes thy power its mirth.
This
is the octave: gate that closes
By
opening onward: end that suspends all end.
Here
then, O king, is my token:
Phoenix,
the scale as a stair of fire to ascend
Where
ever higher she hovers, never reposes.
By
this, the one thing free in a world at thy feet,
I
bid thee behold at last thy sovereignty broken.
My
own I claim, not entreat.
IX
So
thus his music earned the unheard-of boon
To
bring his bride again to sight of the skies:
But
how to tell
His
faith’s one flaw, one doubt that all was well,
Doubt
of ill chance, that glanced about too soon?
She
faded from his eyes:
But
thus far wise, he knew, though his heart had failed,
The
mystery was true and had prevailed
Though
never his should be the blissful prize.
X
How
lives the lover by love and by death forsaken?
He
lives to rove as if blind to time and place,
But
the beloved finding in every face
To
a life beyond his life he must awaken.
The
harper his way has taken
To
slopes of rock and grass where slow flocks move,
Now
bent on solitude his sorrow’s bond to sever,
Now
with the herd-boys met, matching in mock endeavour –
As
if the novice-power of his harp to prove –
Their
music’s wild grace shaken,
Their
wine-ripe fruit-sweet fluting to the river:
But
death was ever present though absent ever,
And
never present, never absent was love.
XI
Listeners
came,
Guessing
his name revered, to tell, and bear
Of
his fame a listener’s share:
But
not the old clear praises could they frame,
So
strange the maze he traced from his song’s beginning:
The
bride gained yet denied to him, lost yet closer than air,
And
death’s gate unbarred, ajar for the winning.
But
he welcomed them with laughter, and wrought a splendour of sound --
The
sport of after echoes around the mountain meadow --
And
the women danced, their spirit seeming as his unbound
And
the earth but shadow.
Nearer
whirled the dancers, one tossed glance seeking
From
him who played of heart’s desire, eyes lost in light of vision:
Till
a girl sped to his side, from height of the frenzy breaking,
Grasped
his wrist resistless away from the strings, and cried
‘Darkness
and nothing is this, or day and the kiss of your bride?
Singer,
give proof of the truth of your song: give us life, O magician!’
XII
So
the first hands smote: the crowd so loudly calling and shrieking
His
own throat’s cry he doubted, or if he panted dumb.
He
saw his arm unplanted
His
no more to raise though breath were granted.
Then
to his neck, death-consented, one struck:
And
night was come.
XIII
They
strewed him to the sobbing winds, to the rain
That
dropped on the hills, his head to the flooding river.
And
all the land was shrill with shuddering pain.
But
so the doom was past:
Day
serene has smiled from darkness flying:
One
with his love is that child of the lords undying.
Blest
at last:
And
earth has his song for ever.
Who comes maying, comes maying with me? -
Lad and maiden, sweetheart and friend –
Softly slip from your house-doors free:
Sweet May-night in the woods we'll spend!
We'll pass by where the hawthorns white
Breathe their bridal odour of love:
Not a twig shall we pluck till light -
Sweet May-night in the woods we'll rove!
Bring ye plenty of bread and ale,
Meat and sweet as it pleases ye, bring:
Lanterns vying with moonlight pale,
In the woods we shall sup and sing!
Praise the Goddess-Queen for whose feast
Love's the hymnal and kisses the creed:
Two and two 'mid the leaves embraced,
Sweet May-night in joy let us speed!
Bathed in dew when the daybreak is come,
Boughs of hawthorn bear we away -
Crowned and decked with its sacred bloom,
In the morning we'll bring home the May!
[He:] O beauty's blossom, most cruel maid,
A grievous foe have
you been to me:
My heart you took
and my trust betrayed
And
smiled as I sank in the dark sea.
But why, why did
you turn away
And why so
faithless when I was true?
O, summer love has
its shining day,
But
winter love watches the night through!
[She:] 'Twas you, O golden my lord, confessed
To my loving ear
your immortal race,
And if I tricked you I did but jest
Yet
perish now lacking your kind grace.
O, blame be to the
wind that drives
My fainting steps
where the first leaves fly!
For winter love
with the pine-tree thrives
But
summer love will with its bloom die.
[He:] My sweet and fairest one, live to seal
Our bond of love in
my light anew!
O turn to me as the
heavens wheel,
For
I am returned to seek you:
So turn again to me
now at last
And we shall fear
for no wind that blows:
For winter love
through the storm holds fast,
And
summer love laughs with the red rose!
[Both:] The year declines from its summer height
In burning glory of
autumn gold,
Yet pales already
the early light
And
stubble stands in the mists cold:
But leads winter to
spring's new birth
While love and
wonder their treasures pour,
Still bringing down
to this mortal earth
The
beams of a deathless splendour.
Now the fields are bare and
sober,
Shorn of
harvest's goodly cheer,
Now the days of dim October
All are
spent, and spent the year:
Through the night and morrow,
Robed
in sorrow,
Modron seeks her son so dear!
Now the far gates swing
asunder;
Light from
world to world they spill:
Souls departed move in wonder
Hither
past the dreaded sill,
Venture, neither chidden
Nor
forbidden,
Down the Star-road as they
will!
Bread and salt and wine and
honey
Offer we,
and pile the fire!
Guests who come so strange a
journey
Win the
greeting they desire,
While the span of nature,
Past
and future,
This night's vision grasps
entire!
Worship we at day's red
waking
Gods of
ever-living might:
Brigid, Lady of all Making,
Lugh, who
wields the Spear of Light;
Softly hymn that other,
Modron,
Mother,
She whose son is gone from
sight!
On the third day, song is
ended,
Fires are
cold and hearts decline --
Till we see a radiance
splendid
That forgotten cabin
Guards
the Mabin,
Guards the Goddess' son
divine!
High he bears the flame
returning,
High his
head, with gladness crowned!
High and bright the beacons
burning
Welcome
him, the Lost and Found!
From the darkness winning
Fresh
beginning,
Love and joy he sheds around!