Hyperion, or the Hermit in Greece

I see what needs to happen, and because I see it, it shall come to pass. Do not mistake my meaning! do not condemn me! I must advise you to leave me, my Diotima.

I can be for you nothing more, you lovely being! This heart has run dry, and my eyes see living life no more. Oh, my lips are withered; the sweet breath of love wells up in my bosom no more.

A single day has robbed me of all youth; by the Eurotas my life has wept itself weary, oh! by the Eurotas that in irredeemable shame wails with all its waves past Lacedaemon’s rubble. It’s there, there I was mown down by fate. — Am I to possess your love like alms? — I’m so utterly nothing, as unrenowned as the meanest menial. I’m shunned, cursed like a common rebel, and many a Greek in Morea will henceforth recount our heroic deeds to his children’s children as a tale of thieves.

Oh! and one thing I’ve long kept from you. My father solemnly disowned me, banished me beyond recall from the house of my youth, never wants to see me again, either in this life or the next, as he puts it. This was his response to the letter in which I told him of my undertaking.

But don’t ever let yourself be led astray by pity. Believe me, there’s a joy that still remains for us throughout. True pain inspires. Whoever mounts his misery stands higher. And what’s glorious is that only in suffering do we fully feel the freedom of the soul. Freedom! understand the word who can — it’s a profound word, Diotima. I’m so deeply beleaguered, so incredibly hurt, I’m without hope, without a goal, I’m utterly bereft of honour, and yet there’s a power within me, an indomitable something that sends sweet shudders through my bones whenever it stirs in me.

And I still have my Alabanda. He has as little to gain as I do. Him I can keep for myself without harm! Oh! the kingly youth would have deserved a better lot. He’s become so gentle and so still. That often nearly rends my heart. But each of us sustains the other. We say nothing to each other; what should we say? But for all that there’s a blessing in many a little labour of love we perform for one another.

There he sleeps and smiles contentedly, inthe midst of our misfortune. The good soul! he doesn’t know what I’m doing. He wouldn’t suffer it. ‘You must write to Diotima,’ he charged me, ‘and must tell her to make ready soon to flee with you to a more liveable land.’ But he doesn’t know that a heart that’s learned despair, such as his and mine, can be nothing more for the beloved. No! no! you could never ever find peace with Hyperion, you would have to become unfaithful, and that I will spare you.

And so farewell then, you sweet girl! farewell! I’d like to tell you, ‘go hither, go thither; there the springs of life purl forth.’ I’d like to point you to a freer land, a land full of beauty and full of soul, and say: ‘Escape

thither!’ But oh heaven! if I could do that, then I’d also be another and so there’d be no need for me to part from you — part? Alas! I know not what I do. I weened myself so calm, so cool. Now my head reels and my heart flings itself about like a restless patient. Woe on me! I destroy my last joy. But it has to be and nature’s ‘Alas!’ avails nothing here. I owe this to you, and besides I was born to be homeless and have no resting place. O earth! O you stars! shall I find nowhere to dwell in the end?

Just one more time I should like to return to your bosom, no matter where! Aether eyes! one more time in you to meet myself! to hang upon your lips, you lovely! you ineffable one! to drink in your rapturous, holy-sweet life — but don’t listen to that! I beseech you, pay no heed to that! I’d say I was a seducer, if you were to listen to it. You know me, you understand me. You know how deeply you heed me by not pitying me, by not listening to me.

I can, I may no more — how can the priest go on living if his god is no more? O genius of my people! O soul of Greece! down I must go, in the realm of the dead I must seek you.