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Jun 11, - The Hill of Venus by Nathan leondumoulin.nl-No‎: ‎
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Baring-Gould clearly sympathized with the hero, and his undogmatic secularism, dramatic descriptions of the landscape of the Venusberg, and comparative, anthropological approach to myth anticipated similar strains in Morris's work. Morris varied the plot in minor ways and alluded more frequently to the antiquity of Venus's worship and continuity between secular eros and Christian agape.

More drafts survive for "The Hill of Venus" than for any other Earthly Paradise tale, and they seem to span much of the period of the larger work's composition. They also vary somewhat from the patterns outlined in the headnote to this volume's "List ofDrafts. Morris has spent more time on bringing this strangely arresting tale to its final form than on any other poem in the book, and the fact that he did have to work so much on it, identifying himself with such intensity with the brooding spirit of doom that pervades it, gives it an interest beyond that which must already attach to the modern handling of this group of legends.

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Artist, Writer, Socialist, I, In her introduction to volume VI of the Collected Works, May Morris mentioned four preliminary drafts and quoted a few stanzas from the earliest version and twelve more from the drafts she called B and C. Huntington Library M. EP25 with a few corrections, additions and running notes in Morris's hand.

This early version resembles Morris's early Earthly Paradise style, includes earlier versions of interspersed songs, and gives more attention to tournaments and combats. Its Venus resembles more closely her less-complicated "Watching of the Falcon"-incarnation and other early Morris heroines who are unintentional but innocent causes of distress, and she also responds more warmly to her lover, here called Amyot. She warns him clearly, for example, that he may be exiled from her cave, and it is she who leaves Amyot, prompted by an unexplained desire to return to the sea.

The Hill of Venus

These variations in a relatively finished draft suggest that Morris prepared a near-'final' early version with the aid of the same copyist who prepared penultimate and final drafts of "The Story of Cupid and Psyche" and "Pygmalion and the Image," but continued to revise and create new versions until April , about eight months before the tale appeared in print in December.

This early version, like other earlier medieval tales such as "The Writing on the Image," has a more self-consciously artificial frame, and like that of its companion poem "The Ring Given to Venus," its plot also focuses more heavily on the evils of sorcery. In the opening section of this earlier version, for example, the narrator pauses at the entrance to a dark cavern, where a friendly old man warns him that Venus's sorcery has destroyed those who came before him. It is in this inner frame that we encounter Amyot, a knight attracted by stories of "that hollow hill" where women dance and bathe unclothed.

Like the hero of "Pygmalion and the Image," Amyot is dissatisfied with real women1s "hard light hearts, so ready to forget," and he decides to enter and try his luck. Led to Venus's retreat by one of her servants, Amyot falls asleep and Venus enters, undresses, and remains with him and her servant until Itthe middle of next day.

Amyout remians with Venus in a state of erotic bliss for five months, but she then leaves him for the sea and fisher-folk of her native Cyprus, and he feels a wave of predictable desolation. His original companion reappears, invites him to return to her, and promises a prolonged youth, "[f]or I have charms to hold grim eld at bay. Sincerely contrite, Amyot recounts his tale to the pontiff, but the latter tells him to "Go hence, thou hast no grain of hope," and he faints away in despair.

Later, however, the prelate sees the budding rod and seeks Amyot in vain until he dies himself. Louder the stream was, fallen dead was the wind, As up the vale they went into the night, No rest but rest of utter love to find Amid the marvel of new-born delight, And as her feet brushed through the dew, made white By the high moon, he cried: "For this, for this God made the world, that I might feel thy kiss! WHAT, is the tale not ended then? Woe's me! How many tales on earth have such an end: I longed, I found, I lived long happily, And fearless in death's fellowship did wend? Men say he grew exceeding wise in love, That all the beauty that the earth had known, At least in seeming, would come back, and move Betwixt the buds and blossoms overblown; Till, turning round to that which was his own, Blind would he grow with ecstasy of bliss, And find unhoped-for joy in each new kiss.

Men say that every dear voice love has made Throughout that love-filled loneliness would float, And make the roses tremble in the shade With unexpected sweetness of its note; Till he would turn unto her quivering throat, And, deaf belike, would feel the wave of sound From out her lips change all the air around. HELEN he saw move slow across the sward, Until before the feet of her she stood Who gave her, a bright bane and sad reward, Unto the PARIS that her hand yet wooed: Trembled her lips now, and the shame-stirred blood Flushed her smooth cheek; but hard he gazed, and yearned Unto the torch that Troy and him had burned.

Then, what had happed? Had the flowers shrunk, the warm breeze grown achill?

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It might be; but his love therewith did grow, And all his aching heart it seemed to fill With such desire as knows no chain nor will: Shoulder to shoulder quivering there they lay, In a changed world that had not night nor day. Others he saw, whose names could tell him nought Of any tale they might have sorrowed through; But their lips spake, when of their lives he sought, And many a story from their hearts he drew, Some sweet as any that old poets knew, p.


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But all with one accord, what else they said, Would praise with eager words the Queen of Love; Yet sometimes, while they spake, as if with dread, Would look askance adown the blossomed grove; Till a strange pain within his heart would move, And he would cling to her enfolding arm, Trembling with joy to find her breast yet warm. Then a great longing would there stir in him, That all those kisses might not satisfy; Dreams never dreamed before would gather dim About his eyes, and trembling would he cry To tell him how it was he should not die; To tell him how it was that he alone Should have a love all perfect and his own.

Forgot to-day, and many days maybe: Yet many days such questions came again, p. Folk on the earth fear they may love in vain, Ere first they see the love in answering eyes, And still from day to day fresh fear doth rise. Unanswered and forgot! How many questions asked, nor answered aught? And in that while two thoughts there stirred in him, And this the first: "Am I the only one Whose eyes thy glorious kisses have made dim?


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And what then with the others hast thou done? Where is the sweetness of their sick love gone? And in that while the second thought was this: "And if, wrapped in her love, I linger here Till God's last justice endeth all our bliss, Shall my eyes then, by hopeless pain made clear, See that a vile dream my vain life held dear, And I am lone? And yet awhile the dreadful dawn was stayed. How long who knoweth? But the third thought at last, unnamed for long, Bloomed, a weak flower of hope within his heart; And by its side unrest grew bitter strong, And, though his lips said not the word, "Depart;" Yet would he murmur: "Hopeless fair thou art!

Is there no love amid earth's sorrowing folk? For on a night, amid the lily and rose, Peaceful he woke from dreams of days bygone; Peaceful at first; and, seeing her lying close Beside him, had no memory of deeds done Since long before that eve he rode alone Amidst the wild wood; still awhile himseemed That of that fair close, those white limbs he dreamed. So there for long he lay in happy rest, As one too full of peace to wish to wake From dreams he knows are dreams. Upon her breast The soft wind did the dewy rose-leaves shake; From out a gleaming cloud the moon did break; Till, mid her balmy sleep, toward him she turned, And into his soul her touch his baseness burned.

A little space in stony dread he lay, Till something of a wretched hope at last Amidst his tangled misery drave its way. Slowly he rose, and, cold with terror, passed Through blossomed boughs, whose leaves, upon him cast As he brushed by, seemed full of life and sound, Though noiselessly they fell upon the ground. But soon he fled fast: and his goal he knew; For each day's life once burdened with delight Rose clear before him, as he hurried through That lonely hell the grey moon yet made bright; And midst them he remembered such a night Of his first days there, when, hand locked in hand, Sleepless with love, they wandered through the land;.

And how, as thus they went, and as he thought If he might still remember all her speech, Whatso fresh pleasure to him might be brought, A grove of windless myrtles they did reach, So dark, that closer they clung each to each, As children might; and how, the grove nigh done, They came upon a cliff of smooth grey stone; p.

And how, because the moon shone thereabout Betwixt the boughs grown thinner, he could see, Gazing along her smooth white arm stretched out, A cavern mid the cliff gape gloomily; And how she said: "Hither I guided thee, To show thee the dark danger and the death, But if thou have heed, of thy love and faith. Therewith he stayed: midst a bright mead he was, Whose flowers across her feet full oft had met While he beheld; a babbling stream did pass Unto the flowery close that held her yet.

Nought saw he but the black boughs, and he cried: "No sign, no sign for all thy kisses past! For all thy soft speech that hath lied and lied! No help, no cry to come back! Nought have I, God, for thee to take or leave, Unless this last faint hope thou wilt receive! And with that word he rushed into the cave. INTO bright sun he woke up suddenly, And sprang up like a man with foes beset Amidst of sleep; and crying an old cry Learned in the tilt-yard, blind and tottering yet, He stretched his hand out, that a tree-trunk met, p.

Until, though scarce remembering aught at all, Clearly he saw the world and where he was; For as he gazed around, his eyes did fall Upon a tree-encompassed plain of grass, Through which anigh him did a fair stream pass. He stood and looked, nor a long while did dare To turn and see what lay behind him there.

Again he looked about: the sun was bright, And leafless were the trees of that lone place, Last seen by him amid the storm's wild light; He passed his hand across his haggard face, And touched his brow; and therefrom did he raise, Unwittingly, a strange-wrought golden crown, Mingled with roses, faded now and brown. The cold March wind across his raiment ran As his hand dropped, and the crown fell to earth; p. Cold to the very bone, in that array He hugged himself against the biting wind, And toward the stream went slow upon his way; Nor yet amidst the mazes of his mind The whole tale of his misery might he find, Though well he knew he was come back again Unto a lost world fresh fulfilled of pain.

But ere he reached the rippling stony ford, His right foot smote on something in the grass, And, looking down, he saw a goodly sword, Though rusted, tangled in the weeds it was; Then to his heart did better memory pass, And in one flash he saw that bygone night, Big with its sudden hopes of strange delight. For, to you, now his blanched and unused hand Clutched the spoiled grip of his once trusty blade!

There, holding it point downward, did he stand, Until he heard a cry, and from a glade He saw a man come toward him; sore afraid Of that new face he was, as a lone child Of footsteps on a midnight road and wild. There he stood still, and watched the man draw near; A forester, who, gazing on him now, Seemed for his part stayed by some sudden fear That made him fit a shaft unto his bow, As his scared heart wild tales to him did show About that haunted hill-side and the cave, And scarce he thought by flight his soul to save.

But the knight reached the other side, and stood Staring with hopeless eyes through that cold day; And nothing that he now might do seemed good: Then muttered he: "Why did I flee away? My tears are frozen, and I cannot pray; Nought have I, God, for thee to take or leave, Unless that last faint hope thou didst receive. Who shall tell what thought stayed him? What hope his dull heart tore, as brown birds made Clear song about the thicket's edge, when he Rushed by their thorny haunts of melody?