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"The Kiss" by Artus Scheiner Hymn to Pan by John Keats "O thou, whose mighty palace roof doth hang From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, death Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness; Who lov'st to see the hamadryads dress Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken; And through whole solemn hours dost sit, and hearken The dreary melody of bedded reeds-- In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth; Bethinking thee, how melancholy loth Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx--do thou now, By thy love's milky brow! By all the trembling mazes that she ran, Hear us, great Pan! "O thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet, turtles Passion their voices cooingly 'mong myrtles, What time thou wanderest at eventide Through sunny meadows, that outskirt the side Of thine enmossed realms: O thou, to whom Broad leaved fig trees even now foredoom Their ripen'd fruitage; yellow girted bees Their golden honeycombs; our village leas Their fairest blossom'd beans and poppied corn; The chuckling linnet its five young unborn, To sing for thee; low creeping strawberries Their summer coolness; pent up butterflies Their freckled wings; yea, the fresh budding year All its completions--be quickly near, By every wind that nods the mountain pine, O forester divine! "Thou, to whom every faun and satyr flies For willing service; whether to surprise The squatted hare while in half sleeping fit; Or upward ragged precipices flit To save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw; Or by mysterious enticement draw Bewildered shepherd to their path again; Or to tread breathless round the frothy main, And gather up all fancifullest shells For thee to tumble into Naiads' cells, And, being hidden, laugh at their out-peeping; Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping, The while they pelt each other on the crown With silvery oak apples, and fir cones brown-- By all the echoes that about thee ring, Hear us, O satyr king! "O Hearkener to the loud clapping shears, While ever and anon to his shorn peers A ram goes bleating: Winder of the horn, When snouted wild-boars routing tender corn Anger our huntsmen: breather round our farms, To keep off mildews, and all weather harms. Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds, That come a swooning over hollow grounds, And wither drearily on barren moors: Dread opener of the mysterious doors Leading to universal knowledge--see, Great son of Dryope, The many that are come to pay their vows With leaves about their brows! "Be still the unimaginable lodge For solitary thinkings; such as dodge Conception to the very bourne of heaven, Then leave the naked brain: be still the leaven, That spreading in this dull and clodded earth Gives it a touch ethereal--a new birth: Be still a symbol of immensity; A firmament reflected in a sea; An element filling the space between, An unknown--but no more: we humbly screen With uplift hands our foreheads, lowly bending, And giving out a shout most heaven rending, Conjure thee to receive our humble Paean, Upon thy Mount Lycean!"

10 first lines thingy

Thank you to @spiced-wine-fic and @grundyscribbling for the tags: I found it interesting looking at your first lines. So here are the first lines from my ten most recent fics, and then I look for patterns.

Inventing Hobbits  “Well, I finished making Ents,” Yavanna said, flinging herself down in dramatic exhaustion into what, for an incarnate, would have been called ‘her favorite chair’. 

Speak, Friends, and Enter “Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatulûk, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul”

View from the Western Coast  An eternity, dark, cool, unformed. 

The Wondrous Tale of the Bee-wolf  Outside the long shaggy-thatched hall of Beorn, the winter wind was mourning against a sky grey with clouds that were heavy with the promise of more snow: a grey that was darkening as the short day failed.

Watch the wall my darling, while the gentlemen go by  A dark and clouded sky, waves lapping at the shore catching the light of the dark-lantern. 

A Leaf of the White Tree  Boromir had never really thought about death.

Fear, Fire, Foes The elf-kingdoms of Beleriand fell one by one. 

The Stones Remember Far below the ever-moving music of the waves, the wide hands of the kelp-forest move with the waters, swaying, as bright fish turn and scatter like silver jewels. 

 Gift of Uncertain Seas “Here,” Nerdanel called urgently. “Left a little!” 

Naught but Memory In Beleriand, at the mouth of the silver river Sirion, bright waves lap shimmering at the margins of a thousand tiny islands, girt with whispering reeds.

---------------------------------------------

Hm. Well, about half of these are word-pictures, and support my idea that I struggle to write where I can't work out what the weather is like. I don't think there's much pattern to the rest, but looking at these, I am thinking: blimey it's been a long time since I actually finished something and posted it. I live in a world of half-completed drafts now, it seems.

I'll tag @quillingmesoftly, @joyfullynervouscreator, @sotwk, and @oldshrewsburyian to do this meme!

Some of my favorite parts of The Lays of Beleriand

I’m going to copy some of my favorite parts here, but this isn’t all of them, because that would just be the entire book. Still, this will be a long post. No one can stop me. This book is so good and I need to talk about it!

One of the versions of the Lay of the Children of Húrin begins like this:

Lo! the golden dragon of the God of Hell, the gloom of the woods of the world now gone, the woes of Men, and weeping of Elves fading faintly down forest pathways, is now to tell...

There is just something about the feeling this conveys. The gloom of the woods of the world now gone. That line is so good. It’s like these fragments of epic poems are from a real oral tradition passed down from the First Age, from the world now gone. Don’t get me started on the alliteration. Given who wrote it, I think it’s safe to say the alliterative style of Beowulf was definitely a major influence.

Another version begins:

Ye Gods who girt your guarded realms with moveless pinnacles, mountains pathless, o’er shrouded shores sheer uprising of the Bay of Faery on the borders of the World! Ye Men unmindful of the mirth of yore, wars and weeping in the worlds of old, of Morgoth’s might remembering nought! Lo! hear what Elves with ancient harps, lingering forlorn in lands untrodden, fading faintly down forest pathways, in shadowy isles on the Shadowy Seas, sing still in sorrow of the son of Húrin...

I can’t stand how good it is! How this is addressed to the Gods, and then addressed to Men who have forgotten the tales of the First Age. And then it tells you to listen to what Elves still sing in sorrow of the son of Húrin... They remember. They still mourn. There is this sense that even though the Gods have cut themselves off from the world, and Men have forgotten much of the past, there are still those who remember Túrin, and his story is worth telling. It gives me chills.

Here is Húrin in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, one of my favorite passages:

For Húrin standing storm unheeding, unbent in battle, with bitter laughter his axe wielded—as eagle’s wings the sound of its sweep, swinging deadly; as livid lightning it leaped and fell, as toppling trunks of trees riven his foes had fallen. Thus fought he on, where blades were blunted and in blood foundered the Men of Mithrim...

This is so heroic I cannot stand it. I can’t even process it, it’s so good. The alliteration is amazing. The imagery is incredible. That the sound of his axe is like a eagle’s wings recalls the fact that eagles carried him to Gondolin. The comparison to lightning reminds me of another heroic final stand, that of Fingolfin. In this passage there is such a vivid picture of the chaos and violence of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad and how brave Húrin was in this battle. He is a truly great character. And speaking of which, there are several versions of his conversation with Morgoth, and they are incredible!

Said the dread Lord of Hell: ‘Dauntless Húrin, stout steel-handed, stands before me yet quick a captive, as a coward might be! Then knows he my name, or needs be told what hope he has in the halls of iron? The bale most bitter, Balrogs’ torment!’ Then Húrin answered, Hithlum's chieftain— his shining eyes with sheen of fire in wrath were reddened: ‘O ruinous one, by fear unfettered I have fought thee long, nor dread thee now, nor thy demon slaves, fiends and phantoms, thou foe of Gods!’ His dark tresses, drenched and tangled, that fell o’er his face he flung backward, in the eye he looked of the evil Lord— since that day of dread to dare his glance has no mortal Man had might of soul.

Is it possible to love Húrin even more? This is just unbelievably good. Morgoth threatens him with torture and that is his reply! Steadfast indeed! I love the way the dialogue is composed and all of the alliteration, which really enhances the intensity of this scene. And I literally cannot convey how stirring this entire section is. It also has a lot of dialogue, which is exciting, since that is something often lacking in the prose Silmarillion.

The Lays of Beleriand also has an early version of the Darkening of Valinor, the flight of the Noldor (the flight of the Noldoli) and the Oath of Fëanor. The entire section is amazing.

The Darkening of Valinor:

A! the Trees of Light, tall and shapely, gold and silver, more glorious than the sun, than the moon more magical, o’er the meads of the Gods their fragrant frith and flowerladen gardens gleaming, once gladly shone. In death they are darkened, they drop their leaves from blackened branches bled by Morgoth and Ungoliant the grim the Gloomweaver. In spider’s form despair and shadow a shuddering fear and shapeless night she weaves in a web of winding venom that is black and breathless. Their branched fail, the light and laughter of their leaves are quenched. Mirk goes marching, mists of blackness, through the halls of the Mighty, hushed and empty, the gates of the Gods are in gloom mantled.

I don’t even know what to say. This is as poignantly and beautifully written as it is painful to read, because the death of the Two Trees is so horrible. In death they are darkened...the light and laughter of their leaves are quenched. There is a sense (as there is elsewhere in Tolkien’s writing) that the Two Trees were not just living things, they were beings that could feel. The fact that they bled (as they also did in The Silmarillion) lends even more horror to this moment. The death of the Trees was not just tragic because they were beautiful and the Gods and the Elves loved their light—it was tragic because they were living things and they suffered. Tolkien never wrote the Aldudénië, the poem lamenting the death of the Two Trees, so I think this is the closest thing we will ever have to what the Aldudénië may have been like (except it would have been in Elvish, of course). Also, I can’t help but notice that Ungoliant is in spider’s form, like in The Silmarillion. It’s easy to forget that she is not a spider, she is in the form of a spider, and that really adds to how mysterious and terrifying she is.

The next lines are amazing too:

Lo! the Elves murmur mourning in anguish, but no more shall be kindled the mirth of Cor in the winding ways of their walled city, towercrowned Tun, whose twinkling lamps are drowned in darkness...

I love how the imagery of the city is conveyed—winding, walled, towercrowned, twinkling. Tolkien doesn’t interrupt the poem to give a full description of what Tirion looks like, and he doesn’t need to; he hints at it with just a few adjectives in a few lines, and it’s just enough for readers to form a picture.

And here is the Oath of Fëanor:

Then his sons beside him, the seven kinsmen, crafty Curufin, Celegorm the fair, Damrod and Diriel and dark Cranthir, Maglor the mighty, and Maidros tall (the eldest, whose ardour yet more eager burnt than his father’s flame, than Fëanor’s wrath; him fate awaited with fell purpose), these leapt with laughter their lord beside, with linked hands there lightly took the oath unbreakable; blood thereafter it spilled like a sea and spent the swords of endless armies, nor hath ended yet: ‘Be he friend or foe or foul offspring of Morgoth Bauglir, be he mortal dark that in after days on earth shall dwell, shall no law nor love nor league of Gods, no might nor mercy, not moveless fate, defend him for ever from the fierce vengeance of the sons of Fëanor, whoso seize or steal or finding keep the fair enchanted globes of crystal whose glory dies not, the Silmarils. We have sworn for ever!’

This is amazing. I have so many thoughts. It’s so interesting that Maedhros is here described as more passionate about the oath, and more full of wrath, than even Fëanor himself. Also, it’s so cool how it speaks of the oath as a present tense thing: nor hath ended yet. And that whole part is so chilling: there lightly took the oath unbreakable; blood thereafter it spilled like a sea... That is terrifying, and such vivid imagery. I love it! It gives me chills every time! And in the oath itself you can really see the origin of the later version which appears in Morgoth’s Ring.

Another favorite passage of mine is this part about the Dagor Bragollach, which is not in alliterative verse like the other parts I’ve quoted, but in rhyming couplets:

Rivers of fire at dead of night in winter lying cold and white upon the plain burst forth, and high the red was mirrored in the sky. From Hithlum's walls they saw the fire, the steam and smoke in spire on spire leap up, till in confusion vast the stars were choked. And so it passed, the mighty field, and turned to dust, to drifting sand and yellow rust, to thirsty dunes where many bones lay broken among barren stones. Dor-na-Fauglith, Land of Thirst, they after named it, waste accurst, the raven-haunted roofless grave of many fair and many brave.

Those last two lines are so haunting. There’s something about the way this is written, what it says and doesn’t say. It doesn’t describe the fighting itself, just the beginning of the battle and the aftermath. And there are descriptions of the sky and the field and how it turned to dust before it tells you of the many bones of the dead, and then hits you with those last two lines, which are just brutal. It’s so tragic. When I read this I want to ride to Angband and challenge Morgoth to single combat myself. I can understand why Fingolfin felt such wrath and despair.

Speaking of which, The Lays of Beleriand also has a version of Fingolfin’s challenge to Morgoth, and it is so good! This is just the beginning of it:

In that vast shadow once of yore Fingolfin stood: his shield he bore with field of heaven’s blue and star of crystal shining pale afar. In overmastering wrath and hate desperate he smote upon that gate, the Gnomish king, there standing lone, while endless fortresses of stone engulfed the thin clear ringing keen of silver horn on baldric green. His hopeless challenge dauntless cried Fingolfin there: ‘Come, open wide, dark king, your ghastly brazen doors! Come forth, whom earth and heaven abhors! Come forth, O monstrous craven lord, and fight with thine own hand and sword, thou wielder of hosts of banded thralls, thou tyrant leaguered with strong walls, thou foe of Gods and elvish race! I wait thee here. Come! Show thy face!’

This is...YES. I love this so much! I’m so overjoyed that Tolkien wrote it! The Silmarillion doesn’t tell us Fingolfin’s actual words to Morgoth when he called him forth to single combat, only that he named him craven, and lord of slaves. This is Fingolfin’s actual challenge, or a poetic retelling of it at least. This is larger than life. And the entire rest of this section is just as good. It describes the fight itself, and how Thorondor rescued Fingolfin’s body and bore it away to the mountains above Gondolin. And it is full of incredible descriptions and absolutely awe-inspiring lines. I will never recover from the sheer epicness of the line at the end of the section which reads, till Gondolin’s appointed doom.

Another of my favorite parts is this passage about the halls of Menegroth:

Then sudden, deep beneath the earth the silences with silver mirth were shaken and the rocks were ringing, the birds of Melian were singing; and wide the ways of shadow spread as into arched halls she led Beren in wonder. There a light like day immortal and like night of stars unclouded, shone and gleamed. A vault of topless trees it seemed, whose trunks of carven stone there stood like towers of an enchanted wood in magic fast for ever bound, bearing a roof whose branches wound in endless tracery of green lit by some leaf-emprisoned sheen of moon and sun, and wrought of gems, and each leaf hung on golden stems. Lo! there amid immortal flowers the nightingales in shining bowers sang o’er the head of Melian, while water for ever dripped and ran from fountains in the rocky floor. There Thingol sat. His crown he wore of green and silver, and round his chair a host in gleaming armour fair.

I mean this is just unbelievably beautiful! It’s gorgeous! The descriptions are so vivid! I want to go there! It’s also the most detailed description of Menegroth that exists, which makes me wonder what other details we might have gotten if Tolkien hadn’t abandoned the poetic Silmarillion.

Another part that never fails to give me chills is this, when Beren departs from Dorthonion:

Southward he turned, and south away his long and lonely journey lay, while ever loomed before his path the dreadful peaks of Gorgorath. Never had foot of man most bold yet trod those mountains steep and cold, nor climbed upon their sudden brink, whence, sickened, eyes must turn and shrink to see their southward cliffs fall sheer in rocky pinnacle and pier down into shadows that were laid before the sun and moon were made. In valleys woven with deceit and washed with waters bitter-sweet dark magic lurked in gulf and glen; but out away beyond the ken of mortal sight the eagle’s eye from dizzy towers that pierced the sky might grey and gleaming see afar, as sheen on water under star, Beleriand, Beleriand, the borders of the Elven-land.

Chills! Chills every time! First of all, shadows that were laid before the sun and moon were made is a terrifying concept and I love it so much. And second of all, Beleriand, Beleriand, the borders of the Elven-land! I love the way the momentum builds as the poem continues, and the sense of longing that those last lines convey... it gets me every time.

I don’t know what the point of this post is except to say I love The Lays of Beleriand so much! I could have made this post twice as long. Or three times as long. There are so many incredible parts of it. I just love this book and I wish it got more attention. I think when some people try reading HoMe they give up somewhere in the Lost Tales and never make it to The Lays of Beleriand, which is a tragedy. If you haven’t, please read The Lays of Beleriand! 

It was a cold grey day near the end of December. The East Wind was streaming through the bare branches of the trees, and seething in the dark pines on the hills. Ragged clouds were hurrying overhead, dark and low. As the cheerless shadows of the early evening began to fall the Company made ready to set out.

They were to start at dusk ...

... for Elrond counselled them to journey under cover of night as often as they could, until they were far from Rivendell.

`You should fear the many eyes of the servants of Sauron,' he said. 'I do not doubt that news of the discomfiture of the Riders has already reached him, and he will be filled with wrath. Soon now his spies on foot and wing will be abroad in the northern lands. Even of the sky above you must beware as you go on your way.'

The Company took little gear of war, for their hope was in secrecy not in battle. Aragorn had Andúril but no other weapon, and he went forth clad only in rusty green and brown. as a Ranger of the wilderness. Boromir had a long sword, in fashion like Andúril but of less lineage and he bore also a shield and his war-horn.

'Loud and clear it sounds in the valleys of the hills,' he said, `and then let all the foes of Gondor flee!' Putting it to his lips he blew a blast, and the echoes leapt from rock to rock, and all that heard that voice in Rivendell sprang to their feet.

Slow should you be to wind that horn again, Boromir, said Elrond. 'until you stand once more on the borders of your land, and dire need is on you.'

`Maybe,' said Boromir. 'But always I have let my horn cry at setting forth, and though thereafter we may walk in the shadows, I will not go forth as a thief in the night.'

Gimli the dwarf alone wore openly a short shirt of steel-rings, for dwarves make light of burdens; and in his belt was a broad-bladed axe. Legolas had a bow and a quiver, and at his belt a long white knife. The younger hobbits wore the swords that they had taken from the barrow; but Frodo took only Sting; and his mail-coat, as Bilbo wished, remained hidden. Gandalf bore his staff, but girt at his side was the elven-sword Glamdring, the mate of Orcrist that lay now upon the breast of Thorin under the Lonely Mountain.

All were well furnished by Elrond with thick warm clothes, and they had jackets and cloaks lined with fur. Spare food and clothes and blankets and other needs were laden on a pony, none other than the poor beast that they had brought from Bree.

The stay in Rivendell had worked a great wonder of change on him: he was glossy and seemed to have the vigour of youth. It was Sam who had insisted on choosing him, declaring that Bill (as he called him) would pine, if he did not come.

`That animal can nearly talk,' he said, `and would talk, if he stayed here much longer. He gave me a look as plain as Mr. Pippin could speak it: if you don't let me go with you, Sam, I'll follow on my own.' So Bill was going as the beast of burden, yet he was the only member of the Company that did not seem depressed.

Their farewells had been said in the great hall by the fire, and they were only waiting now for Gandalf, who had not yet come out of the house. A gleam of firelight came from the open doors, and soft lights were glowing in many windows. Bilbo huddled in a cloak stood silent on the doorstep beside Frodo. Aragorn sat with his head bowed to his knees; only Elrond knew fully what this hour meant to him. The others could be seen as grey shapes in the darkness.

Sam was standing by the pony, sucking his teeth, and staring moodily into the gloom where the river roared stonily below; his desire for adventure was at its lowest ebb.

`Bill, my lad,' he said, `you oughtn't to have took up with us. You could have stayed here and eat the best hay till the new grass comes.' Bill swished his tail and said nothing.

JRR Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings, The Fellowship of the Ring, The Ring goes South

Untitled # 10555

From thy part of the morning their think of what in Virtue words my

desire, chiefly cheek as objects statues scoundred like a key in warm,

as he jump backache after self-substant and uncovert caves, with other

and now time’s foole, that time one reserve; and wore than their believes

in a flows up and mosaic, as love is them singing all be thy

burning raiment. Deny thought,—with winds, nor everything my knots to that

subjection far awa. Girt round up there all speed of zealous pilgrim

laugh’d not long yourself extreme holy and purpose, rob’d in Silence against

my whose good cannot fed. Is play, pierce tea. Piles upturned better

the given grace the door, my darling, that, until mid-day, and hath no

one of yourself frost which the wild hopes, the sped, until none touch morn out

only walked her stomach’s perhaps from me his seeing trees and against

hear’s palaces last? Plagued with the sun of Illusion, that weekend built

bosse the secret a lights, came fruit doth me; know that scene the Boston to

be plays about in light by a forest way, in the tubes and decay

and on the gloriously afloat, and hearts of nation at the heard

that flowers with vocal rest, which at bond time to tell her will tak my

lips did the fountain,—for to her nothing, soothe has evening ears: they both,

making the dying Splendour old bygones in love been sense and the state.

„Not for that did Ceres stay her steps; the very sanctity of the place inflames her wrath; with angry hand she brandishes her axe, ready to strike Jove himself. She hesitates whether to cut down pines or lay low knotless cedars, scans likely trunks and lofty trees and shakes their branches with vigorous hand.. . . Two cypresses in the grass hard by raised their inviolate heads to heaven;. . . These she would have as her torches; she attacks each with vigorous blows, her gown girt back, her arms bared and armed with the axe. First one she strikes, then the other, and rains blows upon their trembling trunks with might and main. Together they crash to the ground, lay their foliage in the dust and lie upon the plain, wept of Fauns and wood-nymphs. She seizes both just as they are, uplifts them and, with hair out-streaming behind her, climbs panting the slopes of the mountain, passes beyond the flames and inaccessible precipices, and treads the lava that brooks no mortal footstep: . . .   darkness and the shades give her passage, and Hell rings to her iron tread, till she halts beside Phlegethon’s wave and fires her torch from its brimming waves.

.....

Silent night had now in her turn visited upon the world her gift of sleep. Ceres, with her wounded breast, starts on her long journey, and, as she sets out, speaks as follows: “Little thought I, Proserpine, to carry for thee such torches as these. I had hoped what every mother hopes; marriage and festal torches and a wedding-song to be sung in heaven – such was my expectation. Are we divinities thus the sport of fate? does Lachesis vent her spleen on us as on mankind? How lofty was but now mine estate, surrounded with suitors innumerable for my daughter’s hand! What mother of many children but would have owned her my inferior by reason of my only daughter! Thou wast my first joy and my last; I was called prolific for that I bare thee. Thou wert my glory, my comfort, dear object of a mother’s pride; with thee alive I was goddess indeed, with thee safe I was Juno’s equal. Now am I an outcast, beggared. ‘Tis the Father’s will. Yet why make Jove answerable for my tears? ‘Twas I who so cruelly undid thee, I confess it, for I deserted thee and heedlessly exposed thee to threatening foes. Too deeply was I enmeshed in careless enjoyment of shrill-voiced revel, and, happy amid the din of arms, I was yoking Phrygian lions whilst thou wast being carried off. Yet see the punishment visited upon me. My face is seared with wounds and long gashes furrow my bloody breast. My womb, forgetful that it gave thee birth, is beaten with continual blows.”

– Claudian, De Raptu Proserpinae

A few more impressions of Napoleon’s tomb on St. Helena from members of the Ross Antarctic Expedition, while they were there in February 1840. (Joseph Hooker was not impressed).

William Cunningham, diary entry for Monday, February 3rd, 1840:

Visited the Tomb of Napoleon; found nothing very interesting about it save that it was the grave of the greatest General the world ever produced without any thing to mark it except a Large flat Stone without name or Epitaph to Say who Slept beneath. I turned and left it & felt a pang for [him].  

Robert McCormick, Voyages of Discovery in the Arctic and Antarctic Seas, and Around the World (1884):

Thursday, [February] 6th - Having sent a large case of specimens of natural history, my first instalment for the Admiralty, on board the Samuel Enderby for England, I landed on an excursion to Napoleon's tomb, which we reached at five p.m., amid bright sunshine. I had a most refreshing draught of sparkling clear water from the well at which the mighty Napoleon used to drink. I took a sketch of the tomb, over which some of my feathered friends and favourite birds, the ducks, were irreverently waddling, after which we repaired to Mrs. Torbutt's cottage, just below it, and had some refreshment, inserting our names at the same time in the visitors' book. At 6.40 p.m. we commenced our return, but it was dark before we reached Jamestown and got on board.

Napoleon's grave is covered by three large plain slabs, enclosed within iron palisades. At its head a small geranium was growing. A group of seven willows flanks the northern side, with a larger tree on the south side. The whole of the interior greensward enclosure, surrounded by a wooden fence, perhaps a hundred feet in circumference, is filled with cypress and fir-trees, alternating with each other. About fifty yards above this is the old sergeant's cottage who has charge of the keys to the enclosure, and he at once admitted us, although we had come without an order from the town-major, which is usually necessary for admission. After taking a sketch and gathering some sprigs of the willows, we drove off again, and got on board at eleven p.m. The general aspect of Longwood and its environs, the valley of the tomb, far exceeded my expectations from previous descriptions. An extensive command of prospect around, presenting a pleasing, rural, peaceful appearance, which, on a fine sunny day, with the birds singing, as was the case when I saw it, with the bold rugged hills of the Flagstaff and the Barn, and glimpses of the sea between, altogether forms a fine background to the picture. But from every bearing the three plain slabs, beneath which repose the remains of, perhaps, the greatest man the world ever saw, girt round with their bristling palisades, these again enclosed by a green sward, encircled by cypress and fir-trees, and the group of weeping willows overhanging the tomb itself in the sequestered nook forming the extremity of the valley, produced on my mind, at the first glance, the most striking and impressive effect of any scene my eye ever before rested upon, so marked a feature does it present in this romantic glen.

Atlas and the Hesperides c.1922-25 by John Singer Sargent.

📍Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.

In Greek mythology, Atlas was a Titan condemned to hold up the celestial heavens for eternity following the Titanomachy. Son of Iapteus and Asia, brother to Epimetheus and Prometheus; Atlas plays a role in myths of the greatest Greek heroes: Heracles and Perseus. Credited with inventing the first celestial sphere, Atlas was proficient in mathematics, philosophy and astronomy with the latter he is also credited with its invention.

"Atlas, whose pine-wreathed head is ever girt with black clouds, and beaten with wind and rain; fallen snow mantles his shoulders while rivers plunge down the aged chin and his rough beard is stiff with ice." - Virgil, The Aeneid Book IV translated by H.R. Fairclough.

This passage conveys how Altas struggled. Beaten, dishevelled and carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders he stoicly carries this burden to keep Uranus and Gaia apart. He stood at the western edge of the Earth in the vicinity of Hera's apple grove. Atlas was the father of the Hesperides - the nymphs of sleep who tended to the garden which contained a tree bearing golden apples.

One of the Twelve Labours of Hercales was to fetch some golden apples from the garden. Heracles offered to hold up the heavens for Atlas while he fetched the apples from his daughters. Atlas attempted to trick Heracles into carrying the heavens permanently by offering to deliver the apples himself. Heracles was suspicious and pretended to agree. He tricked Altas into taking hold of the sky once more and ran away with the apples.

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arról, hogy miért jobb a hülyéknek vidéken, mint a városban, avagy régen az orvosi irodalom is

If a few caged pigeons and captured linnets are more able to interest the patients at Bethlem, than to remind them of their own loss of liberty, what interest would not these patients derive from hearing the free songs of the lark and the blackbird, when he sings his best in the hawthorn tree. “O blackbird, sing me something well,” may in vain be asked of the poor captive where there are “No smooth plots of fruitful ground, Where he may warble, eat, and dwell.” But in the country, the music of God’s free choristers, may perhaps touch the heart even of a poor lunatic ; while in the wards of a town girt mad-house, the most elaborate thrill of the most accomplished bullfinch may strike upon the ear of the half-reasoning, half-sympathising inmates, like the cuckoo note of Sterne’s starling, “I can’t get out; I can’t get out.”

Wort Girt ask game 🕷❓🖨 !!!!!!!!

🕷 Any silly fears? (Not trauma… like super silly)

I'm very scared (in a silly way) of those sugar cookies that are iced to look like salty foods. AHHHH I have to close whatever app it was and start over xD Cookies can only be decorated to look like funny things or other desserts or else my brain will explode

❓ If you were to ask the universe one question, what would it be?

I would ask the universe to show me the most beautiful moment in human history. Like that concert where thousands of people in the audience are singing that Queen song or how thousands of years ago there was that ancient human who lived to be very old because his community cared so much for him like mushing his food since he didn't have teeth anymore. I think I deserve to know xD

🖨 If you could choose something or someone from any piece of art to come to life, who or what would it be?

pixie hollow dust tree pixie hollow dust tree pixie hollow dust tree PIXIE HOLLOW DUST TREEEEEE-

(any questions that are repeated through other asks will still be answered ^^)

Naught but Memory

Arondir was born in Beleriand, by the river-mouth of Sirion. A short story with four watercolour paintings.

In Beleriand, at the mouth of the silver river Sirion, bright waves lap shimmering at the margins of a thousand tiny islands, girt with whispering reeds. Late spring under a warm sun, and the tall lilac spires of the clary sage sway in the sunlight, filling the air with a fresh herbal scent.

Arondir and his mother have gathered the sage flowers and set them in their hair.

Far to the North, across the wide plains, under dark peaks a terrible war is raging, yet here beside the numberless mouths of Sirion, wandering freely from the birchwoods of Nimbrethil to the willow-meads of Nan-tathren, a child of the Silvan elves tends a young sapling in peace.

The years pass, both very swift and very slow. Arondir’s people do not count the passing years for themselves but as the seasons pass like ripples in the long, long stream, the trees grow tall and the leaves long.

Where once a few families of Elves wandered under the stars, now many more have come, fleeing from the darkness in the North: from dragonfire and ruin, from orcs, and from red blades in the hands of their own kin. They have fled the darkening skies and sulphurous airs, and come here, where the light still lies glimmering upon the water at the river’s mouth, and the birch-leaves sway.

On the distant beach, two small children are playing with their mother: Elrond and Elros, twin half-elven children of Eärendil, who was born under the white towers of Gondolin before it fell, and Elwing, last princess of Doriath, and the inheritor of the gem of light, the precious Silmaril.

The refuge by the mouths of Sirion did not last long. Another year, and the red-handed sons of Fëanor came down on the haven by night, seeking to take the Silmaril by force. Arondir had been journeying through the woods. He looked back at the hidden haven behind him, and saw his home burn.

There were no more safe places nor quiet havens left in Beleriand. Morgoth’s hand spread fear all across the land, his orcs roaming freely under the dark of skies that were bitter with smoke from the three-peaked fortress-mountain, Thangorodrim.

Then at the last, out of the West came a great host, greater than any that had been seen or heard of before, and lightning was around them, and light shone in their eyes, and their banners were of white and of gold.

In that great war, which lasted over forty years, all the peoples fought: Elves and Men and Dwarves and also birds, and beasts and the Powers of the earth on either side.

When Arondir first braided up his hair to put on a war-helm, he hoped that Beleriand could be saved. That the river Sirion could run silver and green once more through willow-meads and wide scented meadows of sage, down among tall reeds under screaming gulls to meet the Sea.

But Morgoth was too strong: his dragons and his hosts were legion, and his necromancers set even the dead to fight for him. The land was ripped apart and ruined, and at last came the Sea, and drowned the Havens of Sirion deep, lost beneath the wave.

When he knew that Beleriand would be lost forever, Arondir cut his hair.

His land was no more, his family gone. All that was left to him were those beside whom he had fought through the long years of war.

When the King called for elves willing to go into the South, to watch over the lands where Morgoth’s Men had lived, Arondir had no home, nowhere he wished to go. He volunteered.

The World Of Ice And Fire: The Rhoynar (Revised 12/8/22)

Warning, Spoilers Ahead…

  The Rhoyne is the “mightiest river in the world” and its many tributaries spread across western Essos.  The Rhoynar refer to the river as “Mother Rhoyne”.

The Rhoynar, like ancient Egypt, grew rich off “the bounty of their river” and developed a “civilization and culture as storied and ancient as the Old Empire of Ghis”. The civilization was famed for their fishers, traders, teachers, scholars, and workers in wood and stone and metal.

 The Rhoynish cities were known for their art and music. The cities were fiercely independent, each with its own ruler.

The most famous cities of the Rhoynar were:

Ghoyan Drohe in the Velvet Hills, known for its groves and waterfalls

Ny Sar, the city of fountains, alive with song

Ar Noy on the Qhoyne, famous for its halls of green marble

Sar Mell, pale and filled with flowers

Sarhoy, sea-girt with canals and saltwater gardens

Chroyane, the greatest city, a festival city with its great Palace of Love

 Gender equality was the norm among the Rhoynar. A trait that passes on to Dorne after the great migration led by Nymeria. Cities could be ruled by either a prince or a princess and women “fought as fierecely as the males”.

The Rhoynar had their own magic – one based on water. “It was said the Mother Rhoyne herself whispered to her children of every threat, that the Rhoynar princes wielded strange, uncanny powers…and that their cities were protected by ‘watery walls’ that would rise down to drown any foe.”

 Quick recap on known magic systems:

Rhoynar – water

Valyrians – fire & blood magic

Children of the Forest/Greenseers – nature, specifically weirwood trees

R’hollor – fire

Others – Ice and death

Faceless Men – Death

Warlords of Quaith – Evening of the Shade (weirwood-derived?)

Drowned God/Merlings – water

Asshai – Death and Shadows

Euron’s upcoming apocalypse – Everything up to and including the kitchen sink, will feature lots of blood and death magic

 A peaceful people, the Rhoynar were still a formidable foe to the Andals. The Rhoynar warriors were known for their silver-scaled armor, fish-head helm, tall spear, and turtle-shell shield. The spear would also become a famed weapon of the Dornish.

The Rhoynar lived in peace for centuries, not interested in expansion, content to live near the mighty river – “their home, mother, and god”. Besides the occasional skirmish with “savage people in the hills and forests”, life was golden.

The Rhoynar is the clear winner of the ancient civilizations we’ve encountered so far: gender equality, culture and love of nature, no slavery, no colonization.

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end.  The Rhoynar’s ending began with the fall of Old Ghis.

Up next, the Rhoynar versus the Valyrian Freehold.