_Beauty, perfect in blinding whiteness, Softly suffused thro' the world's dark shrouds, Kindling them all as they pass by her brightness,-- Hills, men, cities,--a pageant of clouds, She, the unchanging, shepherds their changes, Bids them mingle and form and flow, Flowers and flocks and the great hill-ranges Follow her cry and go._
Swift as the sweet June lightning flashes, Down she stoops to the purpling pool, Sudden and swift her white hand dashes Rainbow mists in his eyes! "Ah, fool! Hunter," she cries to the young Actæon, "Change to the hunted, rise and fly, Swift ere the wild pack utter its pæan, Swift for thy hounds draw nigh!"
Lo, as he trembles, the greenwood branches Dusk his brows with their antlered pride! Lo, as a stag thrown back on its haunches Quivers, with velvet nostrils wide, Lo, he changes! The soft fur darkens Down to the fetlock's lifted fear!-- Hounds are baying!--he snuffs and hearkens, "Fly, for the stag is here!"
Swift as he leapt thro' the ferns, Actæon, Young Actæon, the lordly stag, Full and mellow the deep-mouthed pæan Swelled behind him from crag to crag: Well he remembered that sweet throat leading, Wild with terror he raced and strained, On thro' the darkness, thorn-swept, bleeding: Ever they gained and gained!
Death, like a darkling huntsman holloed-- Swift, Actæon!--desire and shame Leading the pack of the passions followed. Red jaws frothing with white-hot flame, Volleying out of the glen, they leapt up, Snapped and fell short of the foam-flecked thighs ... Inch by terrible inch they crept up, Shadows with blood-shot eyes.
Still with his great heart bursting asunder Still thro' the night he struggled and bled; Suddenly round him the pack's low thunder Surged, the hounds that his own hand fed Fastened in his throat, with red jaws drinking Deep!--for a moment his antlered pride Soared o'er their passionate seas, then, sinking, Fell for the fangs to divide.
_Light of beauty, O, perfect in whiteness, Softly suffused thro' the years' dark veils, Kindling them all as they pass by her brightness, Filling our hearts with her old-world tales, She, the unchanging, shepherds their changes, Bids them mingle and form and flow, Flowers and flocks and the great hill-ranges Follow her cry and go._