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diff --git a/30332.txt b/30332.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d31d003 --- /dev/null +++ b/30332.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9928 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Earthly Paradise, by William Morris + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Earthly Paradise + A Poem + +Author: William Morris + +Release Date: October 25, 2009 [EBook #30332] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE EARTHLY PARADISE *** + + + + +Produced by Thierry Alberto, Henry Craig, Stephanie Eason, +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +https://www.pgdp.net. + + + + + + + + + + THE + EARTHLY PARADISE + + A POEM. + + BY + + WILLIAM MORRIS + Author of the Life and Death of Jason. + + Part II. + + _ELEVENTH IMPRESSION_ + + LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. + 39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON + NEW YORK AND BOMBAY + 1903 + + + + +CONTENTS. + + PAGE + +_MAY_ 2 + + _The Story of Cupid and Psyche_ 5 + + _The Writing on the Image_ 98 + +_JUNE_ 112 + + _The Love of Alcestis_ 114 + + _The Lady of the Land_ 164 + +_JULY_ 186 + + _The Son of Croesus_ 188 + + _The Watching of the Falcon_ 210 + +_AUGUST_ 244 + + _Pygmalion and the Image_ 246 + + _Ogier the Dane_ 275 + + + + +THE EARTHLY PARADISE. + +MAY, JUNE, JULY, AUGUST. + + + + +MAY. + + + O love, this morn when the sweet nightingale + Had so long finished all he had to say, + That thou hadst slept, and sleep had told his tale; + And midst a peaceful dream had stolen away + In fragrant dawning of the first of May, + Didst thou see aught? didst thou hear voices sing + Ere to the risen sun the bells 'gan ring? + + For then methought the Lord of Love went by + To take possession of his flowery throne, + Ringed round with maids, and youths, and minstrelsy; + A little while I sighed to find him gone, + A little while the dawning was alone, + And the light gathered; then I held my breath, + And shuddered at the sight of Eld and Death. + + Alas! Love passed me in the twilight dun, + His music hushed the wakening ousel's song; + But on these twain shone out the golden sun, + And o'er their heads the brown bird's tune was strong, + As shivering, twixt the trees they stole along; + None noted aught their noiseless passing by, + The world had quite forgotten it must die. + + * * * * * + + Now must these men be glad a little while + That they had lived to see May once more smile + Upon the earth; wherefore, as men who know + How fast the bad days and the good days go, + They gathered at the feast: the fair abode + Wherein they sat, o'erlooked, across the road + Unhedged green meads, which willowy streams passed through, + And on that morn, before the fresh May dew + Had dried upon the sunniest spot of grass, + From bush to bush did youths and maidens pass + In raiment meet for May apparelled, + Gathering the milk-white blossoms and the red; + And now, with noon long past, and that bright day + Growing aweary, on the sunny way + They wandered, crowned with flowers, and loitering, + And weary, yet were fresh enough to sing + The carols of the morn, and pensive, still + Had cast away their doubt of death and ill, + And flushed with love, no more grew red with shame. + + So to the elders as they sat, there came, + With scent of flowers, the murmur of that folk + Wherethrough from time to time a song outbroke, + Till scarce they thought about the story due; + Yet, when anigh to sun-setting it grew, + A book upon the board an elder laid, + And turning from the open window said, + "Too fair a tale the lovely time doth ask, + For this of mine to be an easy task, + Yet in what words soever this is writ, + As for the matter, I dare say of it + That it is lovely as the lovely May; + Pass then the manner, since the learned say + No written record was there of the tale, + Ere we from our fair land of Greece set sail; + How this may be I know not, this I know + That such-like tales the wind would seem to blow + From place to place, e'en as the feathery seed + Is borne across the sea to help the need + Of barren isles; so, sirs, from seed thus sown, + This flower, a gift from other lands has grown. + + + + +THE STORY OF CUPID AND PSYCHE. + +ARGUMENT. + +Psyche, a king's daughter, by her exceeding beauty caused the people to + forget Venus; therefore the goddess would fain have destroyed her: + nevertheless she became the bride of Love, yet in an unhappy moment + lost him by her own fault, and wandering through the world suffered + many evils at the hands of Venus, for whom she must accomplish fearful + tasks. But the gods and all nature helped her, and in process of time + she was reunited to Love, forgiven by Venus, and made immortal by the + Father of gods and men. + + + In the Greek land of old there was a King + Happy in battle, rich in everything; + Most rich in this, that he a daughter had + Whose beauty made the longing city glad. + She was so fair, that strangers from the sea + Just landed, in the temples thought that she + Was Venus visible to mortal eyes, + New come from Cyprus for a world's surprise. + She was so beautiful that had she stood + On windy Ida by the oaken wood, + And bared her limbs to that bold shepherd's gaze, + Troy might have stood till now with happy days; + And those three fairest, all have left the land + And left her with the apple in her hand. + + And Psyche is her name in stories old, + As ever by our fathers we were told. + + All this beheld Queen Venus from her throne, + And felt that she no longer was alone + In beauty, but, if only for a while, + This maiden matched her god-enticing smile; + Therefore, she wrought in such a wise, that she, + If honoured as a goddess, certainly + Was dreaded as a goddess none the less, + And midst her wealth, dwelt long in loneliness. + Two sisters had she, and men deemed them fair, + But as King's daughters might be anywhere, + And these to men of name and great estate + Were wedded, while at home must Psyche wait. + The sons of kings before her silver feet + Still bowed, and sighed for her; in measures sweet + The minstrels to the people sung her praise, + Yet must she live a virgin all her days. + + So to Apollo's fane her father sent, + Seeking to know the dreadful Gods' intent, + And therewith sent he goodly gifts of price + A silken veil, wrought with a paradise, + Three golden bowls, set round with many a gem, + Three silver robes, with gold in every hem, + And a fair ivory image of the god + That underfoot a golden serpent trod; + And when three lords with these were gone away, + Nor could return until the fortieth day, + Ill was the King at ease, and neither took + Joy in the chase, or in the pictured book + The skilled Athenian limner had just wrought, + Nor in the golden cloths from India brought. + At last the day came for those lords' return, + And then 'twixt hope and fear the King did burn, + As on his throne with great pomp he was set, + And by him Psyche, knowing not as yet + Why they had gone: thus waiting, at noontide + They in the palace heard a voice outside, + And soon the messengers came hurrying, + And with pale faces knelt before the King, + And rent their clothes, and each man on his head + Cast dust, the while a trembling courtier read + This scroll, wherein the fearful answer lay, + Whereat from every face joy passed away. + + +THE ORACLE. + + O father of a most unhappy maid, + O King, whom all the world henceforth shall know + As wretched among wretches, be afraid + To ask the gods thy misery to show, + But if thou needs must hear it, to thy woe + Take back thy gifts to feast thine eyes upon, + When thine own flesh and blood some beast hath won. + + "For hear thy doom, a rugged rock there is + Set back a league from thine own palace fair, + There leave the maid, that she may wait the kiss + Of the fell monster that doth harbour there: + This is the mate for whom her yellow hair + And tender limbs have been so fashioned, + This is the pillow for her lovely head. + + "O what an evil from thy loins shall spring, + For all the world this monster overturns, + He is the bane of every mortal thing, + And this world ruined, still for more he yearns; + A fire there goeth from his mouth that burns + Worse than the flame of Phlegethon the red-- + To such a monster shall thy maid be wed. + + "And if thou sparest now to do this thing, + I will destroy thee and thy land also, + And of dead corpses shalt thou be the King, + And stumbling through the dark land shalt thou go, + Howling for second death to end thy woe; + Live therefore as thou mayst and do my will, + And be a King that men may envy still." + + What man was there, whose face changed not for grief + At hearing this? Psyche, shrunk like the leaf + The autumn frost first touches on the tree, + Stared round about with eyes that could not see, + And muttered sounds from lips that said no word, + And still within her ears the sentence heard + When all was said and silence fell on all + 'Twixt marble columns and adorned wall. + Then spoke the King, bowed down with misery: + "What help is left! O daughter, let us die, + Or else together fleeing from this land, + From town to town go wandering hand in hand + Thou and I, daughter, till all men forget + That ever on a throne I have been set, + And then, when houseless and disconsolate, + We ask an alms before some city gate, + The gods perchance a little gift may give, + And suffer thee and me like beasts to live." + Then answered Psyche, through her bitter tears, + "Alas! my father, I have known these years + That with some woe the gods have dowered me, + And weighed 'gainst riches infelicity; + Ill is it then against the gods to strive; + Live on, O father, those that are alive + May still be happy; would it profit me + To live awhile, and ere I died to see + Thee perish, and all folk who love me well, + And then at last be dragged myself to hell + Cursed of all men? nay, since all things must die, + And I have dreamed not of eternity, + Why weepest thou that I must die to-day? + Why weepest thou? cast thought of shame away. + The dead are not ashamed, they feel no pain; + I have heard folk who spoke of death as gain-- + And yet--ah, God, if I had been some maid, + Toiling all day, and in the night-time laid + Asleep on rushes--had I only died + Before this sweet life I had fully tried, + Upon that day when for my birth men sung, + And o'er the feasting folk the sweet bells rung." + + And therewith she arose and gat away, + And in her chamber, mourning long she lay, + Thinking of all the days that might have been, + And how that she was born to be a queen, + The prize of some great conqueror of renown, + The joy of many a country and fair town, + The high desire of every prince and lord, + One who could fright with careless smile or word + The hearts of heroes fearless in the war, + The glory of the world, the leading-star + Unto all honour and all earthly fame-- + --Round goes the wheel, and death and deadly shame + Shall be her lot, while yet of her men sing + Unwitting that the gods have done this thing. + Long time she lay there, while the sunbeams moved + Over her body through the flowers she loved; + And in the eaves the sparrows chirped outside, + Until for weariness she grew dry-eyed, + And into an unhappy sleep she fell. + + But of the luckless King now must we tell, + Who sat devising means to 'scape that shame, + Until the frightened people thronging came + About the palace, and drove back the guards, + Making their way past all the gates and wards; + And, putting chamberlains and marshals by, + Surged round the very throne tumultuously. + Then knew the wretched King all folk had heard + The miserable sentence, and the word + The gods had spoken; and from out his seat + He rose, and spoke in humble words, unmeet + For a great King, and prayed them give him grace, + While 'twixt his words the tears ran down his face + On to his raiment stiff with golden thread. + But little heeded they the words he said, + For very fear had made them pitiless; + Nor cared they for the maid and her distress, + But clashed their spears together and 'gan cry: + "For one man's daughter shall the people die, + And this fair land become an empty name, + Because thou art afraid to meet the shame + Wherewith the gods reward thy hidden sin? + Nay, by their glory do us right herein!" + "Ye are in haste to have a poor maid slain," + The King said; "but my will herein is vain, + For ye are many, I one aged man: + Let one man speak, if for his shame he can." + Then stepped a sturdy dyer forth, who said,-- + "Fear of the gods brings no shame, by my head. + Listen; thy daughter we would have thee leave + Upon the fated mountain this same eve; + And thither must she go right well arrayed + In marriage raiment, loose hair as a maid, + And saffron veil, and with her shall there go + Fair maidens bearing torches, two and two; + And minstrels, in such raiment as is meet + The god-ordained fearful spouse to greet. + So shalt thou save our wives and little ones, + And something better than a heap of stones, + Dwelt in by noisesome things, this town shall be, + And thou thyself shalt keep thy sovereignty; + But if thou wilt not do the thing I say, + Then shalt thou live in bonds from this same day, + And we will bear thy maid unto the hill, + And from the dread gods save the city still." + Then loud they shouted at the words he said, + And round the head of the unhappy maid, + Dreaming uneasily of long-past joys, + Floated the echo of that dreadful noise, + And changed her dreams to dreams of misery. + But when the King knew that the thing must be, + And that no help there was in this distress, + He bade them have all things in readiness + To take the maiden out at sun-setting, + And wed her to the unknown dreadful thing. + So through the palace passed with heavy cheer + Her women gathering the sad wedding gear, + Who lingering long, yet at the last must go, + To waken Psyche to her bitter woe. + So coming to her bower, they found her there, + From head to foot rolled in her yellow hair, + As in the saffron veil she should be soon + Betwixt the setting sun and rising moon; + But when above her a pale maiden bent + And touched her, from her heart a sigh she sent, + And waking, on their woeful faces stared, + Sitting upright, with one white shoulder bared + By writhing on the bed in wretchedness. + Then suddenly remembering her distress, + She bowed her head and 'gan to weep and wail + But let them wrap her in the bridal veil, + And bind the sandals to her silver feet, + And set the rose-wreath on her tresses sweet: + But spoke no word, yea, rather, wearily + Turned from the yearning face and pitying eye + Of any maid who seemed about to speak. + Now through the garden trees the sun 'gan break, + And that inevitable time drew near; + Then through the courts, grown cruel, strange, and drear, + Since the bright morn, they led her to the gate. + Where she beheld a golden litter wait. + Whereby the King stood, aged and bent to earth, + The flute-players with faces void of mirth, + The down-cast bearers of the ivory wands, + The maiden torch-bearers' unhappy bands. + + So then was Psyche taken to the hill, + And through the town the streets were void and still; + For in their houses all the people stayed, + Of that most mournful music sore afraid. + But on the way a marvel did they see, + For, passing by, where wrought of ivory, + There stood the Goddess of the flowery isle, + All folk could see the carven image smile. + But when anigh the hill's bare top they came, + Where Psyche must be left to meet her shame, + They set the litter down, and drew aside + The golden curtains from the wretched bride, + Who at their bidding rose and with them went + Afoot amidst her maids with head down-bent, + Until they came unto the drear rock's brow; + And there she stood apart, not weeping now, + But pale as privet blossom is in June. + There as the quivering flutes left off their tune, + In trembling arms the weeping, haggard King + Caught Psyche, who, like some half-lifeless thing, + Took all his kisses, and no word could say, + Until at last perforce he turned away; + Because the longest agony has end, + And homeward through the twilight did they wend. + + But Psyche, now faint and bewildered, + Remembered little of her pain and dread; + Her doom drawn nigh took all her fear away, + And left her faint and weary; as they say + It haps to one who 'neath a lion lies, + Who stunned and helpless feels not ere he dies + The horror of the yellow fell, the red + Hot mouth, and white teeth gleaming o'er his head; + So Psyche felt, as sinking on the ground + She cast one weary vacant look around, + And at the ending of that wretched day + Swooning beneath the risen moon she lay. + + * * * * * + + Now backward must our story go awhile + And unto Cyprus the fair flowered isle, + Where hid away from every worshipper + Was Venus sitting, and her son by her + Standing to mark what words she had to say, + While in his dreadful wings the wind did play: + Frowning she spoke, in plucking from her thigh + The fragrant flowers that clasped it lovingly. + "In such a town, O son, a maid there is + Whom any amorous man this day would kiss + As gladly as a goddess like to me, + And though I know an end to this must be, + When white and red and gold are waxen grey + Down on the earth, while unto me one day + Is as another; yet behold, my son, + And go through all my temples one by one + And look what incense rises unto me; + Hearken the talk of sailors from the sea + Just landed, ever will it be the same, + 'Hast thou then seen her?'--Yea, unto my shame + Within the temple that is called mine, + As through the veil I watched the altar shine + This happed; a man with outstretched hand there stood, + Glittering in arms, of smiling joyous mood, + With crisp, black hair, and such a face one sees + But seldom now, and limbs like Hercules; + But as he stood there in my holy place, + Across mine image came the maiden's face, + And when he saw her, straight the warrior said + Turning about unto an earthly maid, + 'O, lady Venus, thou art kind to me + After so much of wandering on the sea + To show thy very body to me here,' + But when this impious saying I did hear, + I sent them a great portent, for straightway + I quenched the fire, and no priest on that day + Could light it any more for all his prayer. + "So must she fall, so must her golden hair + Flash no more through the city, or her feet + Be seen like lilies moving down the street; + No more must men watch her soft raiment cling + About her limbs, no more must minstrels sing + The praises of her arms and hidden breast. + And thou it is, my son, must give me rest + From all this worship wearisomely paid + Unto a mortal who should be afraid + To match the gods in beauty; take thy bow + And dreadful arrows, and about her sow + The seeds of folly, and with such an one + I pray thee cause her mingle, fair my son, + That not the poorest peasant girl in Greece + Would look on for the gift of Jason's fleece. + Do this, and see thy mother glad again, + And free from insult, in her temples reign + Over the hearts of lovers in the spring." + + "Mother," he said, "thou askest no great thing, + Some wretch too bad for death I soon shall find, + Who round her perfect neck his arms shall wind. + She shall be driven from the palace gate + Where once her crowd of worshippers would wait + From earliest morning till the dew was dry + On chance of seeing her gold gown glancing by; + There through the storm of curses shall she go + In evil raiment midst the winter snow, + Or in the summer in rough sheepskins clad. + And thus, O mother, shall I make thee glad + Remembering all the honour thou hast brought + Unto mine altars; since as thine own thought + My thought is grown, my mind as thy dear mind." + + Then straight he rose from earth and down the wind + Went glittering 'twixt the blue sky and the sea, + And so unto the place came presently + Where Psyche dwelt, and through the gardens fair + Passed seeking her, and as he wandered there + Had still no thought but to do all her will, + Nor cared to think if it were good or ill: + So beautiful and pitiless he went, + And toward him still the blossomed fruit-trees leant, + And after him the wind crept murmuring, + And on the boughs the birds forgot to sing. + + Withal at last amidst a fair green close, + Hedged round about with woodbine and red rose, + Within the flicker of a white-thorn shade + In gentle sleep he found the maiden laid + One hand that held a book had fallen away + Across her body, and the other lay + Upon a marble fountain's plashing rim, + Among whose broken waves the fish showed dim, + But yet its wide-flung spray now woke her not, + Because the summer day at noon was hot, + And all sweet sounds and scents were lulling her. + So soon the rustle of his wings 'gan stir + Her looser folds of raiment, and the hair + Spread wide upon the grass and daisies fair, + As Love cast down his eyes with a half smile + Godlike and cruel; that faded in a while, + And long he stood above her hidden eyes + With red lips parted in a god's surprise. + + Then very Love knelt down beside the maid + And on her breast a hand unfelt he laid, + And drew the gown from off her dainty feet, + And set his fair cheek to her shoulder sweet, + And kissed her lips that knew of no love yet, + And wondered if his heart would e'er forget + The perfect arm that o'er her body lay. + + But now by chance a damsel came that way, + One of her ladies, and saw not the god, + Yet on his shafts cast down had well-nigh trod + In wakening Psyche, who rose up in haste + And girded up her gown about her waist, + And with that maid went drowsily away. + + From place to place Love followed her that day + And ever fairer to his eyes she grew, + So that at last when from her bower he flew, + And underneath his feet the moonlit sea + Went shepherding his waves disorderly, + He swore that of all gods and men, no one + Should hold her in his arms but he alone; + That she should dwell with him in glorious wise + Like to a goddess in some paradise; + Yea, he would get from Father Jove this grace + That she should never die, but her sweet face + And wonderful fair body should endure + Till the foundations of the mountains sure + Were molten in the sea; so utterly + Did he forget his mother's cruelty. + + And now that he might come to this fair end, + He found Apollo, and besought him lend + His throne of divination for a while, + Whereby he did the priestess there beguile, + To give the cruel answer ye have heard + Unto those lords, who wrote it word by word, + And back unto the King its threatenings bore, + Whereof there came that grief and mourning sore, + Of which ye wot; thereby is Psyche laid + Upon the mountain-top; thereby, afraid + Of some ill yet, within the city fair + Cower down the people that have sent her there. + + Withal did Love call unto him the Wind + Called Zephyrus, who most was to his mind, + And said, "O rainy wooer of the spring, + I pray thee, do for me an easy thing; + To such a hill-top go, O gentle Wind, + And there a sleeping maiden shalt thou find; + Her perfect body in thine arms with care + Take up, and unto the green valley bear + That lies before my noble house of gold; + There leave her lying on the daisies cold." + Then, smiling, toward the place the fair Wind went + While 'neath his wing the sleeping lilies bent, + And flying 'twixt the green earth and the sea + Made the huge anchored ships dance merrily, + And swung round from the east the gilded vanes + On many a palace, and from unhorsed wains + Twitched off the wheat-straw in his hurried flight; + But ere much time had passed he came in sight + Of Psyche laid in swoon upon the hill, + And smiling, set himself to do Love's will; + For in his arms he took her up with care, + Wondering to see a mortal made so fair, + And came into the vale in little space, + And set her down in the most flowery place; + And then unto the plains of Thessaly + Went ruffling up the edges of the sea. + + Now underneath the world the moon was gone, + But brighter shone the stars so left alone, + Until a faint green light began to show + Far in the east, whereby did all men know, + Who lay awake either with joy or pain, + That day was coming on their heads again; + Then widening, soon it spread to grey twilight, + And in a while with gold the east was bright; + The birds burst out a-singing one by one, + And o'er the hill-top rose the mighty sun. + Therewith did Psyche open wide her eyes, + And rising on her arm, with great surprise + Gazed on the flowers wherein so deep she lay, + And wondered why upon that dawn of day + Out in the fields she had lift up her head + Rather than in her balmy gold-hung bed. + Then, suddenly remembering all her woes, + She sprang upon her feet, and yet arose + Within her heart a mingled hope and dread + Of some new thing: and now she raised her head, + And gazing round about her timidly, + A lovely grassy valley could she see, + That steep grey cliffs upon three sides did bound, + And under these, a river sweeping round, + With gleaming curves the valley did embrace, + And seemed to make an island of that place; + And all about were dotted leafy trees, + The elm for shade, the linden for the bees, + The noble oak, long ready for the steel + Which in that place it had no fear to feel; + The pomegranate, the apple, and the pear, + That fruit and flowers at once made shift to bear, + Nor yet decayed therefor, and in them hung + Bright birds that elsewhere sing not, but here sung + As sweetly as the small brown nightingales + Within the wooded, deep Laconian vales. + But right across the vale, from side to side, + A high white wall all further view did hide, + But that above it, vane and pinnacle + Rose up, of some great house beyond to tell, + And still betwixt these, mountains far away + Against the sky rose shadowy, cold, and grey. + + She, standing in the yellow morning sun, + Could scarcely think her happy life was done, + Or that the place was made for misery; + Yea, some lone heaven it rather seemed to be, + Which for the coming band of gods did wait; + Hope touched her heart; no longer desolate, + Deserted of all creatures did she feel, + And o'er her face sweet colour 'gan to steal, + That deepened to a flush, as wandering thought + Desires before unknown unto her brought, + So mighty was the God, though far away. + But trembling midst her hope, she took her way + Unto a little door midmost the wall, + And still on odorous flowers her feet did fall, + And round about her did the strange birds sing, + Praising her beauty in their carolling. + Thus coming to the door, when now her hand + First touched the lock, in doubt she needs must stand, + And to herself she said, "Lo, here the trap! + And yet, alas! whatever now may hap, + How can I 'scape the ill which waiteth me? + Let me die now!" and herewith, tremblingly, + She raised the latch, and her sweet sinless eyes + Beheld a garden like a paradise, + Void of mankind, fairer than words can say, + Wherein did joyous harmless creatures play + After their kind, and all amidst the trees + Were strange-wrought founts and wondrous images; + And glimmering 'twixt the boughs could she behold + A house made beautiful with beaten gold, + Whose open doors in the bright sun did gleam; + Lonely, but not deserted did it seem. + Long time she stood debating what to do, + But at the last she passed the wicket through, + Which, shutting clamorously behind her, sent + A pang of fear throughout her as she went; + But when through all that green place she had passed + And by the palace porch she stood at last, + And saw how wonderfully the wall was wrought, + With curious stones from far-off countries brought, + And many an image and fair history + Of what the world has been, and yet shall be, + And all set round with golden craftsmanship, + Well-wrought as some renowned cup's royal lip, + She had a thought again to turn aside: + And yet again, not knowing where to bide, + She entered softly, and with trembling hands + Holding her gown; the wonder of all lands + Met there the wonders of the land and sea. + + Now went she through the chambers tremblingly, + And oft in going would she pause and stand, + And drop the gathered raiment from her hand, + Stilling the beating of her heart for fear + As voices whispering low she seemed to hear, + But then again the wind it seemed to be + Moving the golden hangings doubtfully, + Or some bewildered swallow passing close + Unto the pane, or some wind-beaten rose. + Soon seeing that no evil thing came near, + A little she began to lose her fear, + And gaze upon the wonders of the place, + And in the silver mirrors saw her face + Grown strange to her amidst that loneliness, + And stooped to feel the web her feet did press, + Wrought by the brown slim-fingered Indian's toil + Amidst the years of war and vain turmoil; + Or she the figures of the hangings felt, + Or daintily the unknown blossoms smelt, + Or stood and pondered what new thing might mean + The images of knight and king and queen + Wherewith the walls were pictured here and there, + Or touched rich vessels with her fingers fair, + And o'er her delicate smooth cheek would pass + The long-fixed bubbles of strange works of glass: + So wandered she amidst these marvels new + Until anigh the noontide now it grew. + At last she came unto a chamber cool + Paved cunningly in manner of a pool, + Where red fish seemed to swim through floating weed + And at the first she thought it so indeed, + And took the sandals quickly from her feet, + But when the glassy floor these did but meet + The shadow of a long-forgotten smile + Her anxious face a moment did beguile; + And crossing o'er, she found a table spread + With dainty food, as delicate white bread + And fruits piled up and covered savoury meat, + As though a king were coming there to eat, + For the worst vessel was of beaten gold. + Now when these dainties Psyche did behold + She fain had eaten, but did nowise dare, + Thinking she saw a god's feast lying there. + But as she turned to go the way she came + She heard a low soft voice call out her name, + Then she stood still, and trembling gazed around, + And seeing no man, nigh sank upon the ground, + Then through the empty air she heard the voice. + + "O, lovely one, fear not! rather rejoice + That thou art come unto thy sovereignty: + Sit now and eat, this feast is but for thee, + Yea, do whatso thou wilt with all things here, + And in thine own house cast away thy fear, + For all is thine, and little things are these + So loved a heart as thine, awhile to please. + "Be patient! thou art loved by such an one + As will not leave thee mourning here alone, + But rather cometh on this very night; + And though he needs must hide him from thy sight + Yet all his words of love thou well mayst hear, + And pour thy woes into no careless ear. + "Bethink thee then, with what solemnity + Thy folk, thy father, did deliver thee + To him who loves thee thus, and void of dread + Remember, sweet, thou art a bride new-wed." + + Now hearing this, did Psyche, trembling sore + And yet with lighter heart than heretofore, + Sit down and eat, till she grew scarce afeard; + And nothing but the summer noise she heard + Within the garden, then, her meal being done, + Within the window-seat she watched the sun + Changing the garden-shadows, till she grew + Fearless and happy, since she deemed she knew + The worst that could befall, while still the best + Shone a fair star far off: and mid the rest + This brought her after all her grief and fear, + She said, "How sweet it would be, could I hear, + Soft music mate the drowsy afternoon, + And drown awhile the bees' sad murmuring tune + Within these flowering limes." E'en as she spoke, + A sweet-voiced choir of unknown unseen folk + Singing to words that match the sense of these + Hushed the faint music of the linden trees. + + +SONG. + + O pensive, tender maid, downcast and shy, + Who turnest pale e'en at the name of love, + And with flushed face must pass the elm-tree by + Ashamed to hear the passionate grey dove + Moan to his mate, thee too the god shall move, + Thee too the maidens shall ungird one day, + And with thy girdle put thy shame away. + + What then, and shall white winter ne'er be done + Because the glittering frosty morn is fair? + Because against the early-setting sun + Bright show the gilded boughs though waste and bare? + Because the robin singeth free from care? + Ah! these are memories of a better day + When on earth's face the lips of summer lay. + + Come then, beloved one, for such as thee + Love loveth, and their hearts he knoweth well, + Who hoard their moments of felicity, + As misers hoard the medals that they tell, + Lest on the earth but paupers they should dwell: + "We hide our love to bless another day; + The world is hard, youth passes quick," they say. + + Ah, little ones, but if ye could forget + Amidst your outpoured love that you must die, + Then ye, my servants, were death's conquerors yet, + And love to you should be eternity + How quick soever might the days go by: + Yes, ye are made immortal on the day + Ye cease the dusty grains of time to weigh. + + Thou hearkenest, love? O, make no semblance then + That thou art loved, but as thy custom is + Turn thy grey eyes away from eyes of men, + With hands down-dropped, that tremble with thy bliss, + With hidden eyes, take thy first lover's kiss; + Call this eternity which is to-day, + Nor dream that this our love can pass away. + + They ceased, and Psyche pondering o'er their song, + Not fearing now that aught would do her wrong, + About the chambers wandered at her will, + And on the many marvels gazed her fill, + Where'er she passed still noting everything, + Then in the gardens heard the new birds sing + And watched the red fish in the fountains play, + And at the very faintest time of day + Upon the grass lay sleeping for a while + Midst heaven-sent dreams of bliss that made her smile; + And when she woke the shades were lengthening, + So to the place where she had heard them sing + She came again, and through a little door + Entered a chamber with a marble floor, + Open a-top unto the outer air, + Beneath which lay a bath of water fair, + Paved with strange stones and figures of bright gold, + And from the steps thereof could she behold + The slim-leaved trees against the evening sky + Golden and calm, still moving languidly. + So for a time upon the brink she sat, + Debating in her mind of this and that, + And then arose and slowly from her cast + Her raiment, and adown the steps she passed + Into the water, and therein she played, + Till of herself at last she grew afraid, + And of the broken image of her face, + And the loud splashing in that lonely place. + So from the bath she gat her quietly, + And clad herself in whatso haste might be; + And when at last she was apparelled + Unto a chamber came, where was a bed + Of gold and ivory, and precious wood + Some island bears where never man has stood; + And round about hung curtains of delight, + Wherein were interwoven Day and Night + Joined by the hands of Love, and round their wings + Knots of fair flowers no earthly May-time brings. + Strange for its beauty was the coverlet, + With birds and beasts and flowers wrought over it; + And every cloth was made in daintier wise + Than any man on earth could well devise: + Yea, there such beauty was in everything, + That she, the daughter of a mighty king, + Felt strange therein, and trembled lest that she, + Deceived by dreams, had wandered heedlessly + Into a bower for some fair goddess made. + Yet if perchance some man had thither strayed, + It had been long ere he had noted aught + But her sweet face, made pensive by the thought + Of all the wonders that she moved in there. + But looking round, upon a table fair + She saw a book wherein old tales were writ, + And by the window sat, to read in it + Until the dusk had melted into night, + When waxen tapers did her servants light + With unseen hands, until it grew like day. + And so at last upon the bed she lay, + And slept a dreamless sleep for weariness, + Forgetting all the wonder and distress. + + But at the dead of night she woke, and heard + A rustling noise, and grew right sore afeard, + Yea, could not move a finger for affright; + And all was darker now than darkest night. + + Withal a voice close by her did she hear. + "Alas, my love! why tremblest thou with fear, + While I am trembling with new happiness? + Forgive me, sweet, thy terror and distress: + Not otherwise could this our meeting be. + O loveliest! such bliss awaiteth thee, + For all thy trouble and thy shameful tears. + Such nameless honour, and such happy years, + As fall not unto women of the earth. + Loved as thou art, thy short-lived pains are worth + The glory and the joy unspeakable + Wherein the Treasure of the World shall dwell: + A little hope, a little patience yet, + Ere everything thou wilt, thou may'st forget, + Or else remember as a well-told tale, + That for some pensive pleasure may avail. + Canst thou not love me, then, who wrought thy woe, + That thou the height and depth of joy mightst know?" + + He spoke, and as upon the bed she lay, + Trembling amidst new thoughts, he sent a ray + Of finest love unto her inmost heart, + Till, murmuring low, she strove the night to part, + And like a bride who meets her love at last, + When the long days of yearning are o'erpast, + She reached to him her perfect arms unseen, + And said, "O Love, how wretched I have been! + What hast thou done?" And by her side he lay. + Till just before the dawning of the day. + + * * * * * + + The sun was high when Psyche woke again, + And turning to the place where he had lain + And seeing no one, doubted of the thing + That she had dreamed it, till a fair gold ring, + Unseen before, upon her hand she found, + And touching her bright head she felt it crowned + With a bright circlet; then withal she sighed. + And wondered how the oracle had lied, + And wished her father knew it, and straightway + Rose up and clad herself. Slow went the day, + Though helped with many a solace, till came night; + And therewithal the new, unseen delight, + She learned to call her Love. + So passed away + The days and nights, until upon a day + As in the shade, at noon she lay asleep. + She dreamed that she beheld her sisters weep, + And her old father clad in sorry guise, + Grown foolish with the weight of miseries, + Her friends black-clad and moving mournfully, + And folk in wonder landed from the sea, + At such a fall of such a matchless maid, + And in some press apart her raiment laid + Like precious relics, and an empty tomb + Set in the palace telling of her doom. + Therefore she wept in sleep, and woke with tears + Still on her face, and wet hair round her ears, + And went about unhappily that day, + Framing a gentle speech wherewith to pray + For leave to see her sisters once again, + That they might know her happy, and her pain + Turned all to joy, and honour come from shame. + And so at last night and her lover came, + And midst their fondling, suddenly she said, + "O Love, a little time we have been wed, + And yet I ask a boon of thee this night." + "Psyche," he said, "if my heart tells me right, + This thy desire may bring us bitter woe, + For who the shifting chance of fate can know? + Yet, forasmuch as mortal hearts are weak, + To-morrow shall my folk thy sisters seek, + And bear them hither; but before the day + Is fully ended must they go away. + And thou--beware--for, fresh and good and true, + Thou knowest not what worldly hearts may do, + Or what a curse gold is unto the earth. + Beware lest from thy full heart, in thy mirth, + Thou tell'st the story of thy love unseen: + Thy loving, simple heart, fits not a queen." + Then by her kisses did she know he frowned, + But close about him her fair arms she wound, + Until for happiness he 'gan to smile, + And in those arms forgat all else awhile. + + So the next day, for joy that they should come, + Would Psyche further deck her strange new home, + And even as she 'gan to think the thought, + Quickly her will by unseen hands was wrought, + Who came and went like thoughts. Yea, how should I + Tell of the works of gold and ivory, + The gems and images, those hands brought there + The prisoned things of earth, and sea, and air, + They brought to please their mistress? Many a beast, + Such as King Bacchus in his reckless feast + Makes merry with--huge elephants, snow-white + With gilded tusks, or dusky-grey with bright + And shining chains about their wrinkled necks; + The mailed rhinoceros, that of nothing recks; + Dusky-maned lions; spotted leopards fair + That through the cane-brake move, unseen as air; + The deep-mouthed tiger, dread of the brown man; + The eagle, and the peacock, and the swan-- + --These be the nobles of the birds and beasts. + But therewithal, for laughter at their feasts, + They brought them the gods' jesters, such as be + Quick-chattering apes, that yet in mockery + Of anxious men wrinkle their ugly brows; + Strange birds with pouches, birds with beaks like prows + Of merchant-ships, with tufted crests like threads, + With unimaginable monstrous heads. + Lo, such as these, in many a gilded cage + They brought, or chained for fear of sudden rage. + Then strewed they scented branches on the floor, + And hung rose-garlands up by the great door, + And wafted incense through the bowers and halls, + And hung up fairer hangings on the walls, + And filled the baths with water fresh and clear, + And in the chambers laid apparel fair, + And spread a table for a royal feast. + Then when from all these labours they had ceased, + Psyche they sung to sleep with lullabies; + Who slept not long, but opening soon her eyes, + Beheld her sisters on the threshold stand: + Then did she run to take them by the hand, + And laid her cheek to theirs, and murmured words + Of little meaning, like the moan of birds, + While they bewildered stood and gazed around, + Like people who in some strange land have found + One that they thought not of; but she at last + Stood back, and from her face the strayed locks cast, + And, smiling through her tears, said, "Ah, that ye + Should have to weep such useless tears for me! + Alas, the burden that the city bears + For nought! O me, my father's burning tears, + That into all this honour I am come! + Nay, does he live yet? Is the ancient home + Still standing? do the galleys throng the quays? + Do the brown Indians glitter down the ways + With rubies as of old? Yes, yes, ye smile, + For ye are thinking, but a little while + Apart from these has she been dwelling here; + Truly, yet long enough, loved ones and dear, + To make me other than I was of old, + Though now when your dear faces I behold + Am I myself again. But by what road + Have ye been brought to this my new abode?" + "Sister," said one, "I rose up from my bed + It seems this morn, and being apparelled, + And walking in my garden, in a swoon + Helpless and unattended I sank down, + Wherefrom I scarce am waked, for as a dream + Dost thou with all this royal glory seem, + But for thy kisses and thy words, O love." + "Yea, Psyche," said the other, "as I drove + The ivory shuttle through the shuttle-race, + All was changed suddenly, and in this place + I found myself, and standing on my feet, + Where me with sleepy words this one did greet. + Now, sister, tell us whence these wonders come + With all the godlike splendour of your home." + + "Sisters," she said, "more marvels shall ye see + When ye, have been a little while with me, + Whereof I cannot tell you more than this + That 'midst them all I dwell in ease and bliss, + Well loved and wedded to a mighty lord, + Fair beyond measure, from whose loving word + I know that happier days await me yet. + But come, my sisters, let us now forget + To seek for empty knowledge; ye shall take + Some little gifts for your lost sister's sake; + And whatso wonders ye may see or hear + Of nothing frightful have ye any fear." + Wondering they went with her, and looking round, + Each in the other's eyes a strange look found, + For these, her mother's daughters, had no part + In her divine fresh singleness of heart, + But longing to be great, remembered not + How short a time one heart on earth has got. + But keener still that guarded look now grew + As more of that strange lovely place they knew, + And as with growing hate, but still afeard, + The unseen choirs' heart-softening strains they heard, + Which did but harden these; and when at noon + They sought the shaded waters' freshening boon, + And all unhidden once again they saw + That peerless beauty, free from any flaw, + Which now at last had won its precious meed, + Her kindness then but fed the fire of greed + Within their hearts--her gifts, the rich attire + Wherewith she clad them, where like sparks of fire + The many-coloured gems shone midst the pearls + The soft silks' winding lines, the work of girls + By the Five Rivers; their fair marvellous crowns, + Their sandals' fastenings worth the rent of towns, + Zones and carved rings, and nameless wonders fair, + All things her faithful slaves had brought them there, + Given amid kisses, made them not more glad; + Since in their hearts the ravening worm they had + That love slays not, nor yet is satisfied + While aught but he has aught; yet still they tried + To look as they deemed loving folk should look, + And still with words of love her bounty took. + + So at the last all being apparelled, + Her sisters to the banquet Psyche led, + Fair were they, and each seemed a glorious queen + With all that wondrous daintiness beseen, + But Psyche clad in gown of dusky blue + Little adorned, with deep grey eyes that knew + The hidden marvels of Love's holy fire, + Seemed like the soul of innocent desire, + Shut from the mocking world, wherefrom those twain + Seemed come to lure her thence with labour vain. + + Now having reached the place where they should eat, + Ere 'neath the canopy the three took seat, + The eldest sister unto Psyche said, + "And he, dear love, the man that thou hast wed, + Will he not wish to-day thy kin to see? + Then could we tell of thy felicity + The better, to our folk and father dear." + Then Psyche reddened, "Nay, he is not here," + She stammered, "neither will be here to-day, + For mighty matters keep him far away." + "Alas!" the younger sister said, "Say then, + What is the likeness of this first of men; + What sayest thou about his loving eyne, + Are his locks black, or golden-red as thine?" + "Black-haired like me," said Psyche stammering, + And looking round, "what say I? like the king + Who rules the world, he seems to me at least-- + Come, sisters, sit, and let us make good feast! + My darling and my love ye shall behold + I doubt not soon, his crispy hair of gold, + His eyes unseen; and ye shall hear his voice, + That in my joy ye also may rejoice." + + Then did they hold their peace, although indeed + Her stammering haste they did not fail to heed. + But at their wondrous royal feast they sat + Thinking their thoughts, and spoke of this or that + Between the bursts of music, until when + The sun was leaving the abodes of men; + And then must Psyche to her sisters say + That she was bid, her husband being away, + To suffer none at night to harbour there, + No, not the mother that her body bare + Or father that begat her, therefore they + Must leave her now, till some still happier day. + And therewithal more precious gifts she brought + Whereof not e'en in dreams they could have thought + Things whereof noble stories might be told; + And said; "These matters that you here behold + Shall be the worst of gifts that you shall have; + Farewell, farewell! and may the high gods save + Your lives and fame; and tell our father dear + Of all the honour that I live in here, + And how that greater happiness shall come + When I shall reach a long-enduring home." + Then these, though burning through the night to stay, + Spake loving words, and went upon their way, + When weeping she had kissed them; but they wept + Such tears as traitors do, for as they stepped + Over the threshold, in each other's eyes + They looked, for each was eager to surprise + The envy that their hearts were filled withal, + That to their lips came welling up like gall. + + "So," said the first, "this palace without folk, + These wonders done with none to strike a stroke. + This singing in the air, and no one seen, + These gifts too wonderful for any queen, + The trance wherein we both were wrapt away, + And set down by her golden house to-day-- + --These are the deeds of gods, and not of men; + And fortunate the day was to her, when + Weeping she left the house where we were born, + And all men deemed her shamed and most forlorn." + Then said the other, reddening in her rage, + "She is the luckiest one of all this age; + And yet she might have told us of her case, + What god it is that dwelleth in the place, + Nor sent us forth like beggars from her gate. + And beggarly, O sister, is our fate, + Whose husbands wring from miserable hinds + What the first battle scatters to the winds; + While she to us whom from her door she drives + And makes of no account or honour, gives + Such wonderful and priceless gifts as these, + Fit to bedeck the limbs of goddesses! + And yet who knows but she may get a fall? + The strongest tower has not the highest wall, + Think well of this, when you sit safe at home + By this unto the river were they come, + Where waited Zephyrus unseen, who cast + A languor over them that quickly passed + Into deep sleep, and on the grass they sank; + Then straightway did he lift them from the bank, + And quickly each in her fair house set down, + Then flew aloft above the sleeping town. + Long in their homes they brooded over this, + And how that Psyche nigh a goddess is; + While all folk deemed that she quite lost had been + For nought they said of all that they had seen. + + But now that night when she, with many a kiss, + Had told their coming, and of that and this + That happed, he said, "These things, O Love, are well; + Glad am I that no evil thing befell. + And yet, between thy father's house and me + Must thou choose now; then either royally + Shalt thou go home, and wed some king at last, + And have no harm for all that here has passed; + Or else, my love, bear as thy brave heart may, + This loneliness in hope of that fair day, + Which, by my head, shall come to thee; and then + Shalt thou be glorious to the sons of men, + And by my side shalt sit in such estate + That in all time all men shall sing thy fate." + But with that word such love through her he breathed, + That round about him her fair arms she wreathed; + And so with loving passed the night away, + And with fresh hope came on the fresh May-day. + And so passed many a day and many a night. + And weariness was balanced with delight, + And into such a mind was Psyche brought, + That little of her father's house she thought, + But ever of the happy day to come + When she should go unto her promised home. + + Till she that threw the golden apple down + Upon the board, and lighted up Troy town, + On dusky wings came flying o'er the place, + And seeing Psyche with her happy face + Asleep beneath some fair tree blossoming, + Into her sleep straight cast an evil thing; + Whereby she dreamed she saw her father laid + Panting for breath beneath the golden shade + Of his great bed's embroidered canopy, + And with his last breath moaning heavily + Her name and fancied woes; thereat she woke, + And this ill dream through all her quiet broke, + And when next morn her Love from her would go, + And going, as it was his wont to do, + Would kiss her sleeping, he must find the tears + Filling the hollows of her rosy ears + And wetting half the golden hair that lay + Twixt him and her: then did he speak and say, + "O Love, why dost thou lie awake and weep, + Who for content shouldst have good heart to sleep + This cold hour ere the dawning?" Nought she said, + But wept aloud. Then cried he, "By my head! + Whate'er thou wishest I will do for thee; + Yea, if it make an end of thee and me." + "O Love," she said, "I scarce dare ask again, + Yet is there in mine heart an aching pain + To know what of my father is become: + So would I send my sisters to my home, + Because I doubt indeed they never told + Of all my honour in this house of gold; + And now of them a great oath would I take." + He said, "Alas! and hast thou been awake + For them indeed? who in my arms asleep + Mightst well have been; for their sakes didst thou weep, + Who mightst have smiled to feel my kiss on thee? + Yet as thou wishest once more shall it be, + Because my oath constrains me, and thy tears. + And yet again beware, and make these fears + Of none avail; nor waver any more, + I pray thee: for already to the shore + Of all delights and joys thou drawest nigh." + + He spoke, and from the chamber straight did fly + To highest heaven, and going softly then, + Wearied the father of all gods and men + With prayers for Psyche's immortality. + + Meantime went Zephyrus across the sea, + To bring her sisters to her arms again, + Though of that message little was he fain, + Knowing their malice and their cankered hearts. + For now these two had thought upon their parts + And made up a false tale for Psyche's ear; + For when awaked, to her they drew anear, + Sobbing, their faces in their hands they hid, + Nor when she asked them why this thing they did + Would answer aught, till trembling Psyche said, + "Nay, nay, what is it? is our father dead? + Or do ye weep these tears for shame that ye + Have told him not of my felicity, + To make me weep amidst my new-found bliss? + Be comforted, for short the highway is + To my forgiveness: this day shall ye go + And take him gifts, and tell him all ye know + Of this my unexpected happy lot." + Amidst fresh sobs one said, "We told him not + But by good counsel did we hide the thing, + Deeming it well that he should feel the sting + For once, than for awhile be glad again, + And after come to suffer double pain." + "Alas! what mean you, sister?" Psyche said, + For terror waxing pale as are the dead. + "O sister, speak!" "Child, by this loving kiss," + Spake one of them, "and that remembered bliss + We dwelt in when our mother was alive, + Or ever we began with ills to strive, + By all the hope thou hast to see again + Our aged father and to soothe his pain, + I charge thee tell me,--Hast thou seen the thing + Thou callest Husband?" + Breathless, quivering, + Psyche cried out, "Alas! what sayest thou? + What riddles wilt thou speak unto me now?" + "Alas!" she said; "then is it as I thought. + Sister, in dreadful places have we sought + To learn about thy case, and thus we found + A wise man, dwelling underneath the ground + In a dark awful cave: he told to us + A horrid tale thereof, and piteous, + That thou wert wedded to an evil thing, + A serpent-bodied fiend of poisonous sting, + Bestial of form, yet therewith lacking not + E'en such a soul as wicked men have got. + Thus ages long agone the gods made him, + And set him in a lake hereby to swim; + But every hundred years he hath this grace, + That he may change within this golden place + Into a fair young man by night alone. + Alas, my sister, thou hast cause to groan! + What sayest thou?--_His words are fair and soft;_ + _He raineth loving kisses on me oft,_ + _Weeping for love; he tells me of a day_ + _When from this place we both shall go away,_ + _And he shall kiss me then no more unseen,_ + _The while I sit by him a glorious queen_---- + --Alas, poor child! it pleaseth thee, his kiss? + Then must I show thee why he doeth this: + Because he willeth for a time to save + Thy body, wretched one! that he may have + Both child and mother for his watery hell-- + Ah, what a tale this is for me to tell! + "Thou prayest us to save thee, and we can; + Since for nought else we sought that wise old man, + Who for great gifts and seeing that of kings + We both were come, has told us all these things, + And given us a fair lamp of hallowed oil + That he has wrought with danger and much toil; + And thereto has he added a sharp knife, + In forging which he well-nigh lost his life, + About him so the devils of the pit + Came swarming--O, my sister, hast thou it?" + Straight from her gown the other one drew out + The lamp and knife, which Psyche, dumb with doubt + And misery at once, took in her hand. + Then said her sister, "From this doubtful land + Thou gav'st us royal gifts a while ago, + But these we give thee, though they lack for show, + Shall be to thee a better gift,--thy life. + Put now in some sure place this lamp and knife, + And when he sleeps rise silently from bed + And hold the hallowed lamp above his head, + And swiftly draw the charmed knife across + His cursed neck, thou well may'st bear the loss, + Nor shall he keep his man's shape more, when he + First feels the iron wrought so mysticly: + But thou, flee unto us, we have a tale, + Of what has been thy lot within this vale, + When we have 'scaped therefrom, which we shall do + By virtue of strange spells the old man knew. + Farewell, sweet sister! here we may not stay, + Lest in returning he should pass this way; + But in the vale we will not fail to wait + Till thou art loosened from thine evil fate." + Thus went they, and for long they said not aught, + Fearful lest any should surprise their thought, + But in such wise had envy conquered fear, + That they were fain that eve to bide anear + Their sister's ruined home; but when they came + Unto the river, on them fell the same + Resistless languor they had felt before. + And from the blossoms of that flowery shore + Their sleeping bodies soon did Zephyr bear, + For other folk to hatch new ills and care. + + But on the ground sat Psyche all alone, + The lamp and knife beside her, and no moan + She made, but silent let the long hours go, + Till dark night closed around her and her woe. + Then trembling she arose, for now drew near + The time of utter loneliness and fear, + And she must think of death, who until now + Had thought of ruined life, and love brought low; + And with, that thought, tormenting doubt there came, + And images of some unheard-of shame, + Until forlorn, entrapped of gods she felt, + As though in some strange hell her spirit dwelt. + Yet driven by her sisters' words at last, + And by remembrance of the time now past, + When she stood trembling, as the oracle + With all its fearful doom upon her fell, + She to her hapless wedding-chamber turned, + And while the waxen tapers freshly burned + She laid those dread gifts ready to her hand, + Then quenched the lights, and by the bed did stand, + Turning these matters in her troubled mind; + And sometimes hoped some glorious man to find + Beneath the lamp, fit bridegroom for a bride + Like her; ah, then! with what joy to his side + Would she creep back in the dark silent night; + But whiles she quaked at thought of what a sight + The lamp might show her; the hot rush of blood + The knife might shed upon her as she stood, + The dread of some pursuit, the hurrying out, + Through rooms where every sound would seem a shout + Into the windy night among the trees, + Where many a changing monstrous sight one sees, + When nought at all has happed to chill the blood. + + But as among these evil thoughts she stood, + She heard him coming, and straight crept to bed. + And felt him touch her with a new-born dread, + And durst not answer to his words of love. + But when he slept, she rose that tale to prove. + And sliding down as softly as might be, + And moving through the chamber quietly, + She gat the lamp within her trembling hand, + And long, debating of these things, did stand + In that thick darkness, till she seemed to be + A dweller in some black eternity, + And what she once had called the world did seem + A hollow void, a colourless mad dream; + For she felt so alone--three times in vain + She moved her heavy hand, three times again + It fell adown; at last throughout the place + Its flame glared, lighting up her woeful face, + Whose eyes the silken carpet did but meet, + Grown strange and awful, and her own wan feet + As toward the bed she stole; but come thereto + Back with dosed eyes and quivering lips, she threw + Her lovely head, and strove to think of it, + While images of fearful things did flit + Before her eyes; thus, raising up the hand + That bore the lamp, one moment did she stand + As man's time tells it, and then suddenly + Opened her eyes, but scarce kept back a cry + At what she saw; for there before her lay + The very Love brighter than dawn of day; + And as he lay there smiling, her own name + His gentle lips in sleep began to frame, + And as to touch her face his hand did move; + O then, indeed, her faint heart swelled for love, + And she began to sob, and tears fell fast + Upon the bed.--But as she turned at last + To quench the lamp, there happed a little thing + That quenched her new delight, for flickering + The treacherous flame cast on his shoulder fair + A burning drop; he woke, and seeing her there + The meaning of that sad sight knew full well, + Nor was there need the piteous tale to tell. + + Then on her knees she fell with a great cry, + For in his face she saw the thunder nigh, + And she began to know what she had done, + And saw herself henceforth, unloved, alone, + Pass onward to the grave; and once again + She heard the voice she now must love in vain + "Ah, has it come to pass? and hast thou lost + A life of love, and must thou still be tossed + One moment in the sun 'twixt night and night? + And must I lose what would have been delight, + Untasted yet amidst immortal bliss, + To wed a soul made worthy of my kiss, + Set in a frame so wonderfully made? + "O wavering heart, farewell! be not afraid + That I with fire will burn thy body fair, + Or cast thy sweet limbs piecemeal through the air; + The fates shall work thy punishment alone, + And thine own memory of our kindness done. + "Alas! what wilt thou do? how shalt thou bear + The cruel world, the sickening still despair, + The mocking, curious faces bent on thee, + When thou hast known what love there is in me? + O happy only, if thou couldst forget, + And live unholpen, lonely, loveless yet, + But untormented through the little span + That on the earth ye call the life of man. + Alas! that thou, too fair a thing to die, + Shouldst so be born to double misery! + "Farewell! though I, a god, can never know + How thou canst lose thy pain, yet time will go + Over thine head, and thou mayst mingle yet + The bitter and the sweet, nor quite forget, + Nor quite remember, till these things shall seem + The wavering memory of a lovely dream." + Therewith he caught his shafts up and his bow, + And striding through the chambers did he go, + Light all around him; and she, wailing sore, + Still followed after; but he turned no more, + And when into the moonlit night he came + From out her sight he vanished like a flame, + And on the threshold till the dawn of day + Through all the changes of the night she lay. + + * * * * * + + At daybreak when she lifted up her eyes, + She looked around with heavy dull surprise, + And rose to enter the fair golden place; + But then remembering all her piteous case + She turned away, lamenting very sore, + And wandered down unto the river shore; + There, at the head of a green pool and deep, + She stood so long that she forgot to weep, + And the wild things about the water-side + From such a silent thing cared not to hide; + The dace pushed 'gainst the stream, the dragon-fly, + With its green-painted wing, went flickering by; + The water-hen, the lustred kingfisher, + Went on their ways and took no heed of her; + The little reed birds never ceased to sing, + And still the eddy, like a living thing, + Broke into sudden gurgles at her feet. + But 'midst these fair things, on that morning sweet, + How could she, weary creature, find a place? + She moved at last, and lifting up her face, + Gathered her raiment up and cried, "Farewell, + O fairest lord! and since I cannot dwell + With thee in heaven, let me now hide my head + In whatsoever dark place dwell the dead!" + And with that word she leapt into the stream, + But the kind river even yet did deem + That she should live, and, with all gentle care, + Cast her ashore within a meadow fair. + Upon the other side, where Shepherd Pan + Sat looking down upon the water wan, + Goat-legged and merry, who called out, "Fair maid + Why goest thou hurrying to the feeble shade + Whence none return? Well do I know thy pain, + For I am old, and have not lived in vain; + Thou wilt forget all that within a while, + And on some other happy youth wilt smile; + And sure he must be dull indeed if he + Forget not all things in his ecstasy + At sight of such a wonder made for him, + That in that clinging gown makes mine eyes swim, + Old as I am: but to the god of Love + Pray now, sweet child, for all things can he move." + Weeping she passed him, but full reverently, + And well she saw that she was not to die + Till she had filled the measure of her woe. + So through the meads she passed, half blind and slow, + And on her sisters somewhat now she thought; + And, pondering on the evil they had wrought, + The veil fell from her, and she saw their guile. + "Alas!" she said, "can death make folk so vile? + What wonder that the gods are glorious then, + Who cannot feel the hates and fears of men? + Sisters, alas, for what ye used to be! + Once did I think, whatso might hap to me, + Still at the worst, within your arms to find + A haven of pure love; then were ye kind, + Then was your joy e'en as my very own-- + And now, and now, if I can be alone + That is my best: but that can never be, + For your unkindness still shall stay with me + When ye are dead--But thou, my love! my dear! + Wert thou not kind?--I should have lost my fear + Within a little--Yea, and e'en just now + With angry godhead on thy lovely brow, + Still thou wert kind--And art thou gone away + For ever? I know not, but day by day + Still will I seek thee till I come to die, + And nurse remembrance of felicity + Within my heart, although it wound me sore; + For what am I but thine for evermore!" + + Thenceforth her back upon the world she turned + As she had known it; in her heart there burned + Such deathless love, that still untired she went: + The huntsman dropping down the woody bent, + In the still evening, saw her passing by, + And for her beauty fain would draw anigh, + But yet durst not; the shepherd on the down + Wondering, would shade his eyes with fingers brown, + As on the hill's brow, looking o'er the lands, + She stood with straining eyes and clinging hands, + While the wind blew the raiment from her feet; + The wandering soldier her grey eyes would meet, + That took no heed of him, and drop his own; + Like a thin dream she passed the clattering town; + On the thronged quays she watched the ships come in + Patient, amid the strange outlandish din; + Unscared she saw the sacked towns' miseries, + And marching armies passed before her eyes. + And still of her the god had such a care + That none might wrong her, though alone and fair. + Through rough and smooth she wandered many a day, + Till all her hope had well-nigh passed away. + + Meanwhile the sisters, each in her own home, + Waited the day when outcast she should come + And ask their pity; when perchance, indeed, + They looked to give her shelter in her need, + And with soft words such faint reproaches take + As she durst make them for her ruin's sake; + But day passed day, and still no Psyche came, + And while they wondered whether, to their shame, + Their plot had failed, or gained its end too well, + And Psyche slain, no tale thereof could tell.-- + Amidst these things, the eldest sister lay + Asleep one evening of a summer day, + Dreaming she saw the god of Love anigh, + Who seemed to say unto her lovingly, + "Hail unto thee, fair sister of my love; + Nor fear me for that thou her faith didst prove, + And found it wanting, for thou, too, art fair, + Nor is her place filled; rise, and have no care + For father or for friends, but go straightway + Unto the rock where she was borne that day; + There, if thou hast a will to be my bride, + Put thou all fear of horrid death aside, + And leap from off the cliff, and there will come + My slaves, to bear thee up and take thee home. + Haste then, before the summer night grows late, + For in my house thy beauty I await!" + + So spake the dream; and through the night did sail, + And to the other sister bore the tale, + While this one rose, nor doubted of the thing, + Such deadly pride unto her heart did cling; + But by the tapers' light triumphantly, + Smiling, her mirrored body did she eye, + Then hastily rich raiment on her cast + And through the sleeping serving-people passed, + And looked with changed eyes on the moonlit street, + Nor scarce could feel the ground beneath her feet. + But long the time seemed to her, till she came + There where her sister once was borne to shame; + And when she reached the bare cliff's rugged brow + She cried aloud, "O Love, receive me now, + Who am not all unworthy to be thine!" + And with that word, her jewelled arms did shine + Outstretched beneath the moon, and with one breath + She sprung to meet the outstretched arms of Death, + The only god that waited for her there, + And in a gathered moment of despair + A hideous thing her traitrous life did seem. + + But with the passing of that hollow dream + The other sister rose, and as she might, + Arrayed herself alone in that still night, + And so stole forth, and making no delay + Came to the rock anigh the dawn of day; + No warning there her sister's spirit gave, + No doubt came nigh the fore-doomed soul to save, + But with a fever burning in her blood, + With glittering eyes and crimson cheeks she stood + One moment on the brow, the while she cried, + "Receive me, Love, chosen to be thy bride + From all the million women of the world!" + Then o'er the cliff her wicked limbs were hurled, + Nor has the language of the earth a name + For that surprise of terror and of shame. + + * * * * * + + Now, midst her wanderings, on a hot noontide, + Psyche passed down a road, where, on each side + The yellow cornfields lay, although as yet + Unto the stalks no sickle had been set; + The lark sung over them, the butterfly + Flickered from ear to ear distractedly, + The kestrel hung above, the weasel peered + From out the wheat-stalks on her unafeard, + Along the road the trembling poppies shed + On the burnt grass their crumpled leaves and red; + Most lonely was it, nothing Psyche knew + Unto what land of all the world she drew; + Aweary was she, faint and sick at heart, + Bowed to the earth by thoughts of that sad part + She needs must play: some blue flower from the corn + That in her fingers erewhile she had borne, + Now dropped from them, still clung unto her gown; + Over the hard way hung her head adown + Despairingly, but still her weary feet + Moved on half conscious, her lost love to meet. + So going, at the last she raised her eyes, + And saw a grassy mound before her rise + Over the yellow plain, and thereon was + A marble fane with doors of burnished brass, + That 'twixt the pillars set about it burned; + So thitherward from off the road she turned, + And soon she heard a rippling water sound, + And reached a stream that girt the hill around, + Whose green waves wooed her body lovingly; + So looking round, and seeing no soul anigh, + Unclad, she crossed the shallows, and there laid + Her dusty raiment in the alder-shade, + And slipped adown into the shaded pool, + And with the pleasure of the water cool + Soothed her tired limbs awhile, then with a sigh + Came forth, and clad her body hastily, + And up the hill made for the little fane. + But when its threshold now her feet did gain, + She, looking through the pillars of the shrine, + Beheld therein a golden image shine + Of golden Ceres; then she passed the door, + And with bowed head she stood awhile before + The smiling image, striving for some word + That did not name her lover and her lord, + Until midst rising tears at last she prayed: + "O kind one, if while yet I was a maid + I ever did thee pleasure, on this day + Be kind to me, poor wanderer on the way, + Who strive my love upon the earth to meet! + Then let me rest my weary, doubtful feet + Within thy quiet house a little while, + And on my rest if thou wouldst please to smile, + And send me news of my own love and lord, + It would not cost thee, lady, many a word." + But straight from out the shrine a sweet voice came, + "O Psyche, though of me thou hast no blame, + And though indeed thou sparedst not to give + What my soul loved, while happy thou didst live, + Yet little can I give now unto thee, + Since thou art rebel, slave, and enemy + Unto the love-inspiring Queen; this grace + Thou hast alone of me, to leave this place + Free as thou camest, though the lovely one + Seeks for the sorceress who entrapped her son + In every land, and has small joy in aught, + Until before her presence thou art brought." + Then Psyche, trembling at the words she spake, + Durst answer nought, nor for that counsel's sake + Could other offerings leave except her tears, + As now, tormented by the new-born fears + The words divine had raised in her, she passed + The brazen threshold once again, and cast + A dreary hopeless look across the plain, + Whose golden beauty now seemed nought and vain + Unto her aching heart; then down the hill + She went, and crossed the shallows of the rill, + And wearily she went upon her way, + Nor any homestead passed upon that day, + Nor any hamlet, and at night lay down + Within a wood, far off from any town. + + There, waking at the dawn, did she behold, + Through the green leaves, a glimmer as of gold, + And, passing on, amidst an oak-grove found + A pillared temple gold-adorned and round, + Whose walls were hung with rich and precious things, + Worthy to be the ransom of great kings; + And in the midst of gold and ivory + An image of Queen Juno did she see; + Then her heart swelled within her, and she thought, + "Surely the gods hereto my steps have brought, + And they will yet be merciful and give + Some little joy to me, that I may live + Till my Love finds me." Then upon her knees + She fell, and prayed, "O Crown of goddesses, + I pray thee, give me shelter in this place, + Nor turn away from me thy much-loved face, + If ever I gave golden gifts to thee + In happier times when my right hand was free." + Then from the inmost shrine there came a voice + That said, "It is so, well mayst thou rejoice + That of thy gifts I yet have memory, + Wherefore mayst thou depart forewarned and free; + Since she that won the golden apple lives, + And to her servants mighty gifts now gives + To find thee out, in whatso land thou art, + For thine undoing; loiter not, depart! + For what immortal yet shall shelter thee + From her that rose from out the unquiet sea?" + Then Psyche moaned out in her grief and fear, + "Alas! and is there shelter anywhere + Upon the green flame-hiding earth?" said she, + "Or yet beneath it is there peace for me? + O Love, since in thine arms I cannot rest, + Or lay my weary head upon thy breast, + Have pity yet upon thy love forlorn, + Make me as though I never had been born!" + + Then wearily she went upon her way, + And so, about the middle of the day, + She came before a green and flowery place, + Walled round about in manner of a chase, + Whereof the gates as now were open wide; + Fair grassy glades and long she saw inside + Betwixt great trees, down which the unscared deer + Were playing; yet a pang of deadly fear, + She knew not why, shot coldly through her heart, + And thrice she turned as though she would depart, + And thrice returned, and in the gateway stood + With wavering feet: small flowers as red as blood + Were growing up amid the soft green grass, + And here and there a fallen rose there was, + And on the trodden grass a silken lace, + As though crowned revellers had passed by the place + The restless sparrows chirped upon the wall + And faint far music on her ears did fall, + And from the trees within, the pink-foot doves + Still told their weary tale unto their loves, + And all seemed peaceful more than words could say. + Then she, whose heart still whispered, "Keep away." + Was drawn by strong desire unto the place, + So toward the greenest glade she set her face, + Murmuring, "Alas! and what a wretch am I, + That I should fear the summer's greenery! + Yea, and is death now any more an ill, + When lonely through the world I wander still." + But when she was amidst those ancient groves, + Whose close green leaves and choirs of moaning doves + Shut out the world, then so alone she seemed, + So strange, her former life was but as dreamed; + Beside the hopes and fears that drew her on, + Till so far through that green place she had won, + That she a rose-hedged garden could behold + Before a house made beautiful with gold; + Which, to her mind beset with that past dream, + And dim foreshadowings of ill fate, did seem + That very house, her joy and misery, + Where that fair sight her longing eyes did see + They should not see again; but now the sound + Of pensive music echoing all around, + Made all things like a picture, and from thence + Bewildering odours floating, dulled her sense, + And killed her fear, and, urged by strong desire + To see how all should end, she drew yet nigher, + And o'er the hedge beheld the heads of girls + Embraced by garlands fresh and orient pearls, + And heard sweet voices murmuring; then a thrill + Of utmost joy all memory seemed to kill + Of good or evil, and her eager hand + Was on the wicket, then her feet did stand + Upon new flowers, the while her dizzied eyes + Gazed wildly round on half-seen mysteries, + And wandered from unnoting face to face. + For round a fountain midst the flowery place + Did she behold full many a minstrel girl; + While nigh them, on the grass in giddy whirl, + Bright raiment and white limbs and sandalled feet + Flew round in time unto the music sweet, + Whose strains no more were pensive now nor sad, + But rather a fresh sound of triumph had; + And round the dance were gathered damsels fair, + Clad in rich robes adorned with jewels rare; + Or little hidden by some woven mist, + That, hanging round them, here a bosom kissed + And there a knee, or driven by the wind + About some lily's bowing stem was twined. + + But when a little Psyche's eyes grew clear, + A sight they saw that brought back all her fear + A hundred-fold, though neither heaven nor earth + To such a fair sight elsewhere could give birth; + Because apart, upon a golden throne + Of marvellous work, a woman sat alone, + Watching the dancers with a smiling face, + Whose beauty sole had lighted up the place. + A crown there was upon her glorious head, + A garland round about her girdlestead, + Where matchless wonders of the hidden sea + Were brought together and set wonderfully; + Naked she was of all else, but her hair + About her body rippled here and there, + And lay in heaps upon the golden seat, + And even touched the gold cloth where her feet + Lay amid roses--ah, how kind she seemed! + What depths of love from out her grey eyes beamed! + + Well might the birds leave singing on the trees + To watch in peace that crown of goddesses, + Yet well might Psyche sicken at the sight, + And feel her feet wax heavy, her head light; + For now at last her evil day was come, + Since she had wandered to the very home + Of her most bitter cruel enemy. + Half-dead, yet must she turn about to flee, + But as her eyes back o'er her shoulder gazed, + And with weak hands her clinging gown she raised, + And from her lips unwitting came a moan, + She felt strong arms about her body thrown, + And, blind with fear, was haled along till she + Saw floating by her faint eyes dizzily + That vision of the pearls and roses fresh, + The golden carpet and the rosy flesh. + Then, as in vain she strove to make some sound, + A sweet voice seemed to pierce the air around + With bitter words; her doom rang in her ears, + She felt the misery that lacketh tears. + "Come hither, damsels, and the pearl behold + That hath no price? See now the thrice-tried gold, + That all men worshipped, that a god would have + To be his bride! how like a wretched slave + She cowers down, and lacketh even voice + To plead her cause! Come, damsels, and rejoice, + That now once more the waiting world will move, + Since she is found, the well-loved soul of love! + "And thou poor wretch, what god hath led thee here? + Art thou so lost in this abyss of fear, + Thou canst not weep thy misery and shame? + Canst thou not even speak thy shameful name?" + + But even then the flame of fervent love + In Psyche's tortured heart began to move, + And gave her utterance, and she said, "Alas! + Surely the end of life has come to pass + For me, who have been bride of very Love, + Yet love still bides in me, O Seed of Jove, + For such I know thee; slay me, nought is lost! + For had I had the will to count the cost + And buy my love with all this misery, + Thus and no otherwise the thing should be. + Would I were dead, my wretched beauty gone, + No trouble now to thee or any one!" + And with that last word did she hang her head, + As one who hears not, whatsoe'er is said; + But Venus rising with a dreadful cry + Said, "O thou fool, I will not let thee die! + But thou shalt reap the harvest thou hast sown + And many a day thy wretched lot bemoan. + Thou art my slave, and not a day shall be + But I will find some fitting task for thee, + Nor will I slay thee till thou hop'st again. + What, thinkest thou that utterly in vain + Jove is my sire, and in despite my will + That thou canst mock me with thy beauty still? + Come forth, O strong-armed, punish this new slave, + That she henceforth a humble heart may have." + All round about the damsels in a ring + Were drawn to see the ending of the thing, + And now as Psyche's eyes stared wildly round + No help in any face of them she found + As from the fair and dreadful face she turned + In whose grey eyes such steadfast anger burned; + Yet midst her agony she scarcely knew + What thing it was the goddess bade them do, + And all the pageant, like a dreadful dream + Hopeless and long-enduring grew to seem; + Yea, when the strong-armed through the crowd did break, + Girls like to those, whose close-locked squadron shake + The echoing surface of the Asian plain, + And when she saw their threatening hands, in vain + She strove to speak, so like a dream it was; + So like a dream that this should come to pass, + And 'neath her feet the green earth opened not. + But when her breaking heart again waxed hot + With dreadful thoughts and prayers unspeakable + As all their bitter torment on her fell, + When she her own voice heard, nor knew its sound, + And like red flame she saw the trees and ground, + Then first she seemed to know what misery + To helpless folk upon the earth can be. + + But while beneath the many moving feet + The small crushed flowers sent up their odour sweet, + Above sat Venus, calm, and very fair, + Her white limbs bared of all her golden hair, + Into her heart all wrath cast back again, + As on the terror and the helpless pain + She gazed with gentle eyes, and unmoved smile; + Such as in Cyprus, the fair blossomed isle, + When on the altar in the summer night + They pile the roses up for her delight, + Men see within their hearts, and long that they + Unto her very body there might pray. + At last to them some dainty sign she made + To hold their cruel hands, and therewith bade + To bear her slave new gained from out her sight + And keep her safely till the morrow's light: + So her across the sunny sward they led + With fainting limbs, and heavy downcast head, + And into some nigh lightless prison cast + To brood alone o'er happy days long past + And all the dreadful times that yet should be. + But she being gone, one moment pensively + The goddess did the distant hills behold, + Then bade her girls bind up her hair of gold, + And veil her breast, the very forge of love, + With raiment that no earthly shuttle wove, + And 'gainst the hard earth arm her lovely feet: + Then she went forth, some shepherd king to meet + Deep in the hollow of a shaded vale, + To make his woes a long-enduring tale. + + * * * * * + + But over Psyche, hapless and forlorn, + Unseen the sun rose on the morrow morn, + Nor knew she aught about the death of night + Until her gaoler's torches filled with light + The dreary place, blinding her unused eyes, + And she their voices heard that bade her rise; + She did their bidding, yet grown faint and pale + She shrank away and strove her arms to veil + In her gown's bosom, and to hide from them + Her little feet within her garment's hem; + But mocking her, they brought her thence away, + And led her forth into the light of day, + And brought her to a marble cloister fair + Where sat the queen on her adorned chair, + But she, as down the sun-streaked place they came, + Cried out, "Haste! ye, who lead my grief and shame." + And when she stood before her trembling, said, + "Although within a palace thou wast bred + Yet dost thou carry but a slavish heart, + And fitting is it thou shouldst learn thy part, + And know the state whereunto thou art brought; + Now, heed what yesterday thy folly taught, + And set thyself to-day my will to do; + Ho ye, bring that which I commanded you." + + Then forth came two, and each upon her back + Bore up with pain a huge half-bursten sack, + Which, setting down, they opened on the floor, + And from their hempen mouths a stream did pour + Of mingled seeds, and grain, peas, pulse, and wheat, + Poppies and millet, and coriander sweet, + And many another brought from far-off lands, + Which mingling more with swift and ready hands + They piled into a heap confused and great. + And then said Venus, rising from her seat, + "Slave, here I leave thee, but before the night + These mingled seeds thy hands shall set aright, + All laid in heaps, each after its own kind, + And if in any heap I chance to find + An alien seed; thou knowest since yesterday + How disobedient slaves the forfeit pay." + Therewith she turned and left the palace fair + And from its outskirts rose into the air, + And flew until beneath her lay the sea, + Then, looking on its green waves lovingly, + Somewhat she dropped, and low adown she flew + Until she reached the temple that she knew + Within a sunny bay of her fair isle. + + But Psyche sadly labouring all the while + With hopeless heart felt the swift hours go by, + And knowing well what bitter mockery + Lay in that task, yet did she what she might + That something should be finished ere the night, + And she a little mercy yet might ask; + But the first hours of that long feverish task + Passed amid mocks; for oft the damsels came + About her, and made merry with her shame, + And laughed to see her trembling eagerness, + And how, with some small lappet of her dress, + She winnowed out the wheat, and how she bent + Over the millet, hopelessly intent; + And how she guarded well some tiny heap + But just begun, from their long raiments' sweep; + And how herself, with girt gown, carefully + She went betwixt the heaps that 'gan to lie + Along the floor; though they were small enow, + When shadows lengthened and the sun was low; + But at the last these left her labouring, + Not daring now to weep, lest some small thing + Should 'scape her blinded eyes, and soon far off + She heard the echoes of their careless scoff. + Longer the shades grew, quicker sank the sun, + Until at last the day was well-nigh done, + And every minute did she think to hear + The fair Queen's dreaded footsteps drawing near; + But Love, that moves the earth, and skies, and sea, + Beheld his old love in her misery, + And wrapped her heart in sudden gentle sleep; + And meanwhile caused unnumbered ants to creep + About her, and they wrought so busily + That all, ere sundown, was as it should be, + And homeward went again the kingless folk. + Bewildered with her joy again she woke, + But scarce had time the unseen hands to bless, + That thus had helped her utter feebleness, + Ere Venus came, fresh from the watery way, + Panting with all the pleasure of the day; + But when she saw the ordered heaps, her smile + Faded away, she cried out, "Base and vile + Thou art indeed, this labour fitteth thee; + But now I know thy feigned simplicity, + Thine inward cunning, therefore hope no more, + Since thou art furnished well with hidden lore, + To 'scape thy due reward, if any day + Without some task accomplished, pass away!" + So with a frown she passed on, muttering, + "Nought have I done, to-morrow a new thing." + + So the next morning Psyche did they lead + Unto a terrace o'er a flowery mead, + Where Venus sat, hid from the young sun's rays, + Upon the fairest of all summer days; + She pointed o'er the meads as they drew nigh, + And said, "See how that stream goes glittering by, + And on its banks my golden sheep now pass, + Cropping sweet mouthfuls of the flowery grass; + If thou, O cunning slave, to-day art fain + To save thyself from well-remembered pain, + Put forth a little of thy hidden skill, + And with their golden fleece thy bosom fill; + Yet make no haste, but ere the sun is down + Cast it before my feet from out thy gown; + Surely thy labour is but light to-day." + Then sadly went poor Psyche on her way, + Wondering wherein the snare lay, for she knew + No easy thing it was she had to do; + Nor had she failed indeed to note the smile + Wherewith the goddess praised her for the guile + That she, unhappy, lacked so utterly. + Amidst these thoughts she crossed the flowery lea, + And came unto the glittering river's side; + And, seeing it was neither deep nor wide, + She drew her sandals off, and to the knee + Girt up her gown, and by a willow-tree + Went down into the water, and but sank + Up to mid-leg therein; but from the bank + She scarce had gone three steps, before a voice + Called out to her, "Stay, Psyche, and rejoice + That I am here to help thee, a poor reed, + The soother of the loving hearts that bleed, + The pourer forth of notes, that oft have made + The weak man strong, and the rash man afraid. + "Sweet child, when by me now thy dear foot trod, + I knew thee for the loved one of our god; + Then prithee take my counsel in good part; + Go to the shore again, and rest thine heart + In sleep awhile, until the sun get low, + And then across the river shalt thou go + And find these evil creatures sleeping fast, + And on the bushes whereby they have passed + Much golden wool; take what seems good to thee, + And ere the sun sets go back easily. + But if within that mead thou sett'st thy feet + While yet they wake, an ill death shalt thou meet, + For they are of a cursed man-hating race, + Bred by a giant in a lightless place." + But at these words soft tears filled Psyche's eyes + As hope of love within her heart did rise; + And when she saw she was not helpless yet + Her old desire she would not quite forget; + But turning back, upon the bank she lay + In happy dreams till nigh the end of day; + Then did she cross and gather of the wool, + And with her bosom and her gown-skirt full + Came back to Venus at the sun-setting; + But she afar off saw it glistering + And cried aloud, "Go, take the slave away, + And keep her safe for yet another day, + And on the morning will I think again + Of some fresh task, since with so little pain + She doeth what the gods find hard enow; + For since the winds were pleased this waif to blow + Unto my door, a fool I were indeed, + If I should fail to use her for my need." + So her they led away from that bright sun, + Now scarce more hopeful that the task was done, + Since by those bitter words she knew full well + Another tale the coming day would tell. + + But the next morn upon a turret high, + Where the wind kissed her raiment lovingly, + Stood Venus waiting her; and when she came + She said, "O slave, thy city's very shame, + Lift up thy cunning eyes, and looking hence + Shalt thou behold betwixt these battlements, + A black and barren mountain set aloof + From the green hills, shaped like a palace roof. + Ten leagues from hence it lieth, toward the north, + And from its rocks a fountain welleth forth, + Black like itself, and floweth down its side, + And in a while part into Styx doth glide, + And part into Cocytus runs away, + Now coming thither by the end of day, + Fill me this ewer from out the awful stream; + Such task a sorceress like thee will deem + A little matter; bring it not to pass, + And if thou be not made of steel or brass, + To-morrow shalt thou find the bitterest day + Thou yet hast known, and all be sport and play + To what thy heart in that hour shall endure-- + Behold, I swear it, and my word is sure!" + She turned therewith to go down toward the sea, + To meet her lover, who from Thessaly + Was come from some well-foughten field of war. + But Psyche, wandering wearily afar, + Reached the bare foot of that black rock at last, + And sat there grieving for the happy past, + For surely now, she thought, no help could be, + She had but reached the final misery, + Nor had she any counsel but to weep. + For not alone the place was very steep, + And craggy beyond measure, but she knew + What well it was that she was driven to, + The dreadful water that the gods swear by, + For there on either hand, as one draws nigh, + Are long-necked dragons ready for the spring, + And many another monstrous nameless thing, + The very sight of which is well-nigh death; + Then the black water as it goes crieth, + "Fly, wretched one, before you come to die! + Die, wretched man! I will not let you fly! + How have you heart to come before me here? + You have no heart, your life is turned to fear!" + Till the wretch falls adown with whirling brain, + And far below the sharp rocks end his pain. + Well then might Psyche wail her wretched fate, + And strive no more, but sitting weep and wait + Alone in that black land for kindly death, + With weary sobbing, wasting life and breath; + But o'er her head there flew the bird of Jove, + The bearer of his servant, friend of Love, + Who, when he saw her, straightway towards her flew, + And asked her why she wept, and when he knew, + And who she was, he said, "Cease all thy fear, + For to the black waves I thy ewer will bear, + And fill it for thee; but, remember me, + When thou art come unto thy majesty." + Then straight he flew, and through the dragon's wings + Went carelessly, nor feared their clatterings, + But set the ewer, filled, in her right hand, + And on that day saw many another land. + + Then Psyche through the night toiled back again, + And as she went, she thought, "Ah! all is vain, + For though once more I just escape indeed, + Yet hath she many another wile at need; + And to these days when I my life first learn, + With unavailing longing shall I turn, + When this that seemeth now so horrible + Shall then seem but the threshold of her hell. + Alas! what shall I do? for even now + In sleep I see her pitiless white brow, + And hear the dreadful sound of her commands, + While with my helpless body and bound hands + I tremble underneath the cruel whips; + And oft for dread of her, with quivering lips + I wake, and waking know the time draws nigh + When nought shall wake me from that misery-- + Behold, O Love, because of thee I live, + Because of thee, with these things still I strive." + + * * * * * + + Now with the risen sun her weary feet + The late-strewn roses of the floor did meet + Upon the marble threshold of the place; + But she being brought before the matchless face, + Fresh with the new life of another day, + Beheld her wondering, for the goddess lay + With half-shut eyes upon her golden bed, + And when she entered scarcely turned her head, + But smiling spake, "The gods are good to thee, + Nor shalt thou always be mine enemy; + But one more task I charge thee with to-day, + Now unto Proserpine take thou thy way, + And give this golden casket to her hands, + And pray the fair Queen of the gloomy lands + To fill the void shell with that beauty rare + That long ago as queen did set her there; + Nor needest thou to fail in this new thing, + Who hast to-day the heart and wit to bring + This dreadful water, and return alive; + And, that thou may'st the more in this thing strive, + If thou returnest I will show at last + My kindness unto thee, and all the past + Shalt thou remember as an ugly dream." + And now at first to Psyche did it seem + Her heart was softening to her, and the thought + Swelled her full heart to sobbing, and it brought + Into her yearning eyes half-happy tears: + But on her way cold thoughts and dreadful fears + Rose in her heart, for who indeed could teach + A living soul that dread abode to reach + And yet return? and then once more it seemed + The hope of mercy was but lightly dreamed, + And she remembered that triumphant smile, + And needs must think, "This is the final wile, + Alas! what trouble must a goddess take + So weak a thing as this poor heart to break. + "See now this tower! from off its top will I + Go quick to Proserpine--ah, good to die! + Rather than hear those shameful words again, + And bear that unimaginable pain + Which she has hoarded for to-morrow morn; + Now is the ending of my life forlorn! + O Love, farewell, thou seest all hope is dead, + Thou seest what torments on my wretched head + Thy bitter mother doth not cease to heap; + Farewell, O Love, for thee and life I weep. + Alas, my foolish heart! alas, my sin! + Alas, for all the love I could not win!" + + Now was this tower both old enough and grey, + Built by some king forgotten many a day, + And no man dwelt there, now that bitter war + From that bright land had long been driven afar; + There now she entered, trembling and afraid; + But 'neath her doubtful steps the dust long laid + In utter rest, rose up into the air, + And wavered in the wind that down the stair + Rushed to the door; then she drew back a pace, + Moved by the coolness of the lonely place + That for so long had seen no ray of sun. + Then shuddering did she hear these words begun, + Like a wind's moaning voice, "Have thou no fear + The hollow words of one long slain to hear! + Thou livest, and thy hope is not yet dead, + And if thou heedest me, thou well may'st tread + The road to hell, and yet return again. + "For thou must go o'er many a hill and plain + Until to Sparta thou art come at last, + And when the ancient city thou hast passed + A mountain shalt thou reach, that men now call + Mount Taenarus, that riseth like a wall + 'Twixt plain and upland, therein shalt thou find + The wide mouth of a cavern huge and blind, + Wherein there cometh never any sun, + Whose dreadful darkness all things living shun; + This shun thou not, but yet take care to have + Three honey-cakes thy soul alive to save, + And in thy mouth a piece of money set, + Then through the dark go boldly, and forget + The stories thou hast heard of death and hell, + And heed my words, and then shall all be well. + "For when thou hast passed through that cavern blind, + A place of dim grey meadows shalt thou find, + Wherethrough to inmost hell a path doth lead, + Which follow thou, with diligence and heed; + For as thou goest there, thou soon shalt see + Two men like peasants loading painfully + A fallen ass; these unto thee will call + To help them, but give thou no heed at all, + But pass them swiftly; and then soon again + Within a shed three crones shalt thou see plain + Busily weaving, who shall bid thee leave + The road and fill their shuttles while they weave, + But slacken not thy steps for all their prayers, + For these are shadows only, and set snares. + "At last thou comest to a water wan, + And at the bank shall be the ferryman + Surly and grey; and when he asketh thee + Of money for thy passage, hastily + Show him thy mouth, and straight from off thy lip + The money he will take, and in his ship + Embark thee and set forward; but beware, + For on thy passage is another snare; + From out the waves a grisly head shall come, + Most like thy father thou hast left at home, + And pray for passage long and piteously, + But on thy life of him have no pity, + Else art thou lost; also thy father lives, + And in the temples of the high gods gives + Great daily gifts for thy returning home. + "When thou unto the other side art come, + A palace shalt thou see of fiery gold, + And by the door thereof shalt thou behold + An ugly triple monster, that shall yell + For thine undoing; now behold him well, + And into each mouth of him cast a cake, + And no more heed of thee then shall he take, + And thou may'st pass into a glorious hall + Where many a wonder hangs upon the wall; + But far more wonderful than anything + The fair slim consort of the gloomy King, + Arrayed all royally shalt thou behold, + Who sitting on a carven throne of gold, + Whene'er thou enterest shall rise up to thee, + And bid thee welcome there most lovingly, + And pray thee on a royal bed to sit, + And share her feast; yet eat thou not of it, + But sitting on the ground eat bread alone, + Then do thy message kneeling by her throne; + And when thou hast the gift, return with speed; + The sleepy dog of thee shall take no heed, + The ferryman shall bear thee on thy way + Without more words, and thou shalt see the day + Unharmed if that dread box thou openest not; + But if thou dost, then death shall be thy lot. + + "O beautiful, when safe thou com'st again, + Remember me, who lie here in such pain + Unburied; set me in some tomb of stone. + When thou hast gathered every little bone; + But never shalt thou set thereon a name, + Because my ending was with grief and shame, + Who was a Queen like thee long years agone, + And in this tower so long have lain alone." + + Then, pale and full of trouble, Psyche went + Bearing the casket, and her footsteps bent + To Lacedaemon, and thence found her way + To Taenarus, and there the golden day + For that dark cavern did she leave behind; + Then, going boldly through it, did she find + The shadowy meads which that wide way ran through, + Under a seeming sky 'twixt grey and blue; + No wind blew there, there was no bird or tree, + Or beast, and dim grey flowers she did but see + That never faded in that changeless place, + And if she had but seen a living face + Most strange and bright she would have thought it there, + Or if her own face, troubled yet so fair, + The still pools by the road-side could have shown + The dimness of that place she might have known; + But their dull surface cast no image back, + For all but dreams of light that land did lack. + So on she passed, still noting every thing, + Nor yet had she forgotten there to bring + The honey-cakes and money: in a while + She saw those shadows striving hard to pile + The bales upon the ass, and heard them call, + "O woman, help us! for our skill is small + And we are feeble in this place indeed;" + But swiftly did she pass, nor gave them heed, + Though after her from far their cries they sent. + Then a long way adown that road she went, + Not seeing aught, till, as the Shade had said, + She came upon three women in a shed + Busily weaving, who cried, "Daughter, leave + The beaten road a while, and as we weave + Fill thou our shuttles with these endless threads, + For here our eyes are sleepy, and our heads + Are feeble in this miserable place." + But for their words she did but mend her pace, + Although her heart beat quick as she passed by. + + Then on she went, until she could espy + The wan, grey river lap the leaden bank + Wherefrom there sprouted sparsely sedges rank, + And there the road had end in that sad boat + Wherein the dead men unto Minos float; + There stood the ferryman, who now, seeing her, said, + "O living soul, that thus among the dead + Hast come, on whatso errand, without fear, + Know thou that penniless none passes here; + Of all the coins that rich men have on earth + To buy the dreadful folly they call mirth, + But one they keep when they have passed the grave + That o'er this stream a passage they may have; + And thou, though living, art but dead to me, + Who here, immortal, see mortality + Pass, stripped of this last thing that men desire + Unto the changeless meads or changeless fire." + Speechless she shewed the money on her lip + Which straight he took, and set her in the ship, + And then the wretched, heavy oars he threw + Into the rowlocks and the flood they drew; + Silent, with eyes that looked beyond her face, + He laboured, and they left the dreary place. + But midmost of that water did arise + A dead man, pale, with ghastly staring eyes + That somewhat like her father still did seem, + But in such wise as figures in a dream; + Then with a lamentable voice it cried, + "O daughter, I am dead, and in this tide + For ever shall I drift, an unnamed thing, + Who was thy father once, a mighty king, + Unless thou take some pity on me now, + And bid the ferryman turn here his prow, + That I with thee to some abode may cross; + And little unto thee will be the loss, + And unto me the gain will be to come + To such a place as I may call a home, + Being now but dead and empty of delight, + And set in this sad place 'twixt dark and light." + Now at these words the tears ran down apace + For memory of the once familiar face, + And those old days, wherein, a little child + 'Twixt awe and love beneath those eyes she smiled; + False pity moved her very heart, although + The guile of Venus she failed not to know, + But tighter round the casket clasped her hands, + And shut her eyes, remembering the commands + Of that dead queen: so safe to land she came. + + And there in that grey country, like a flame + Before her eyes rose up the house of gold, + And at the gate she met the beast threefold, + Who ran to meet her open-mouthed, but she + Unto his jaws the cakes cast cunningly, + But trembling much; then on the ground he lay + Lolling his heads, and let her go her way; + And so she came into the mighty hall, + And saw those wonders hanging on the wall, + That all with pomegranates was covered o'er + In memory of the meal on that sad shore, + Whereby fair Enna was bewept in vain, + And this became a kingdom and a chain. + But on a throne, the Queen of all the dead + She saw therein with gold-embraced head, + In royal raiment, beautiful and pale; + Then with slim hands her face did Psyche veil + In worship of her, who said, "Welcome here, + O messenger of Venus! thou art dear + To me thyself indeed, for of thy grace + And loveliness we know e'en in this place; + Rest thee then, fair one, on this royal bed + And with some dainty food shalt thou be fed; + Ho, ye who wait, bring in the tables now!" + Therewith were brought things glorious of show + On cloths and tables royally beseen, + By damsels each one fairer than a queen, + The very latchets of whose shoes were worth + The royal crown of any queen on earth; + But when upon them Psyche looked, she saw + That all these dainty matters without flaw + Were strange of shape and of strange-blended hues + So every cup and plate did she refuse + Those lovely hands brought to her, and she said, + "O Queen, to me amidst my awe and dread + These things are nought, my message is not done, + So let me rest upon this cold grey stone, + And while my eyes no higher than thy feet + Are lifted, eat the food that mortals eat." + Therewith upon the floor she sat her down + And from the folded bosom of her gown + Drew forth her bread and ate, while with cold eyes + Regarding her 'twixt anger and surprise, + The Queen sat silent for awhile, then spoke, + "Why art thou here, wisest of living folk? + Depart in haste, lest thou shouldst come to be + Thyself a helpless thing and shadowy! + Give me the casket then, thou need'st not say + Wherefore thou thus hast passed the awful way; + Bide there, and for thy mistress shalt thou have + The charm that beauty from all change can save." + Then Psyche rose, and from her trembling hand + Gave her the casket, and awhile did stand + Alone within the hall, that changing light + From burning streams, and shadowy waves of night + Made strange and dread, till to her, standing there + The world began to seem no longer fair, + Life no more to be hoped for, but that place + The peaceful goal of all the hurrying race, + The house she must return to on some day. + Then sighing scarcely could she turn away + When with the casket came the Queen once more, + And said, "Haste now to leave this shadowy shore + Before thou changest; even now I see + Thine eyes are growing strange, thou look'st on me + E'en as the linnet looks upon the snake. + Behold, thy wisely-guarded treasure take, + And let thy breath of life no longer move + The shadows with the memories of past love." + + But Psyche at that name, with quickened heart + Turned eagerly, and hastened to depart + Bearing that burden, hoping for the day; + Harmless, asleep, the triple monster lay, + The ferryman did set her in his boat + Unquestioned, and together did they float + Over the leaden water back again: + Nor saw she more those women bent with pain + Over their weaving, nor the fallen ass, + But swiftly up the grey road did she pass + And well-nigh now was come into the day + By hollow Taenarus, but o'er the way + The wings of Envy brooded all unseen; + Because indeed the cruel and fair Queen + Knew well how she had sped; so in her breast, + Against the which the dreadful box was pressed, + Grew up at last this foolish, harmful thought. + "Behold how far this beauty I have brought + To give unto my bitter enemy; + Might I not still a very goddess be + If this were mine which goddesses desire, + Yea, what if this hold swift consuming fire, + Why do I think it good for me to live, + That I my body once again may give + Into her cruel hands--come death! come life! + And give me end to all the bitter strife!" + Therewith down by the wayside did she sit + And turned the box round, long regarding it; + But at the last, with trembling hands, undid + The clasp, and fearfully raised up the lid; + But what was there she saw not, for her head + Fell back, and nothing she remembered + Of all her life, yet nought of rest she had, + The hope of which makes hapless mortals glad; + For while her limbs were sunk in deadly sleep + Most like to death, over her heart 'gan creep + Ill dreams; so that for fear and great distress + She would have cried, but in her helplessness + Could open not her mouth, or frame a word; + Although the threats of mocking things she heard, + And seemed, amidst new forms of horror bound, + To watch strange endless armies moving round, + With all their sleepless eyes still fixed on her, + Who from that changeless place should never stir. + Moveless she lay, and in that dreadful sleep + Scarce had the strength some few slow tears to weep. + + And there she would have lain for evermore, + A marble image on the shadowy shore + In outward seeming, but within oppressed + With torments, knowing neither hope nor rest + But as she lay the Phoenix flew along + Going to Egypt, and knew all her wrong, + And pitied her, beholding her sweet face, + And flew to Love and told him of her case; + And Love, in guerdon of the tale he told, + Changed all the feathers of his neck to gold, + And he flew on to Egypt glad at heart. + But Love himself gat swiftly for his part + To rocky Taenarus, and found her there + Laid half a furlong from the outer air. + + But at that sight out burst the smothered flame + Of love, when he remembered all her shame, + The stripes, the labour, and the wretched fear, + And kneeling down he whispered in her ear, + "Rise, Psyche, and be mine for evermore, + For evil is long tarrying on this shore." + Then when she heard him, straightway she arose, + And from her fell the burden of her woes; + And yet her heart within her well-nigh broke, + When she from grief to happiness awoke; + And loud her sobbing was in that grey place, + And with sweet shame she covered up her face. + But her dear hands, all wet with tears, he kissed, + And taking them about each dainty wrist + Drew them away, and in a sweet voice said, + "Raise up again, O Psyche, that dear head, + And of thy simpleness have no more shame; + Thou hast been tried, and cast away all blame + Into the sea of woes that thou didst bear, + The bitter pain, the hopelessness, the fear-- + Holpen a little, loved with boundless love + Amidst them all--but now the shadows move + Fast toward the west, earth's day is well-nigh done, + One toil thou hast yet; by to-morrow's sun + Kneel the last time before my mother's feet, + Thy task accomplished; and my heart, O sweet, + Shall go with thee to ease thy toilsome way; + Farewell awhile! but that so glorious day + I promised thee of old, now cometh fast, + When even hope thy soul aside shall cast, + Amidst the joy that thou shalt surely win." + So saying, all that sleep he shut within + The dreadful casket, and aloft he flew, + But slowly she unto the cavern drew + Scarce knowing if she dreamed, and so she came + Unto the earth where yet the sun did flame + Low down between the pine-trunks, tall and red, + And with its last beams kissed her golden head. + + * * * * * + + With what words Love unto the Father prayed + I know not, nor what deeds the balance weighed; + But this I know, that he prayed not in vain, + And Psyche's life the heavenly crown shall gain; + So round about the messenger was sent + To tell immortals of their King's intent, + And bid them gather to the Father's hall. + But while they got them ready at his call, + On through the night was Psyche toiling still, + To whom no pain nor weariness seemed ill + Since now once more she knew herself beloved; + But when the unresting world again had moved + Round into golden day, she came again + To that fair place where she had borne such pain, + And flushed and joyful in despite her fear, + Unto the goddess did she draw anear, + And knelt adown before her golden seat, + Laying the fatal casket at her feet; + Then at the first no word the Sea-born said, + But looked afar over her golden head, + Pondering upon the mighty deeds of fate; + While Psyche still, as one who well may wait, + Knelt, calm and motionless, nor said a word, + But ever thought of her sweet lovesome lord. + At last the Queen said, "Girl, I bid thee rise, + For now hast thou found favour in mine eyes; + And I repent me of the misery + That in this place thou hast endured of me, + Although because of it, thy joy indeed + Shall now be more, that pleasure is thy meed." + Then bending, on the forehead did she kiss + Fair Psyche, who turned red for shame and bliss; + But Venus smiled again on her, and said, + "Go now, and bathe, and be as well arrayed + As thou shouldst be, to sit beside my son; + I think thy life on earth is well-nigh done." + + So thence once more was Psyche led away, + And cast into no prison on that day, + But brought unto a bath beset with flowers, + Made dainty with a fount's sweet-smelling showers, + And there being bathed, e'en in such fair attire + As veils the glorious Mother of Desire + Her limbs were veiled, then in the wavering shade, + Amidst the sweetest garden was she laid, + And while the damsels round her watch did keep, + At last she closed her weary eyes in sleep, + And woke no more to earth, for ere the day + Had yet grown late, once more asleep she lay + Within the West Wind's mighty arms, nor woke + Until the light of heaven upon her broke, + And on her trembling lips she felt the kiss + Of very Love, and mortal yet, for bliss + Must fall a-weeping. O for me! that I, + Who late have told her woe and misery, + Must leave untold the joy unspeakable + That on her tender wounded spirit fell! + Alas! I try to think of it in vain, + My lyre is but attuned to tears and pain, + How shall I sing the never-ending day? + + Led by the hand of Love she took her way + Unto a vale beset with heavenly trees, + Where all the gathered gods and goddesses + Abode her coming; but when Psyche saw + The Father's face, she fainting with her awe + Had fallen, but that Love's arm held her up. + Then brought the cup-bearer a golden cup, + And gently set it in her slender hand, + And while in dread and wonder she did stand, + The Father's awful voice smote on her ear, + "Drink now, O beautiful, and have no fear! + For with this draught shalt thou be born again. + And live for ever free from care and pain." + + Then, pale as privet, took she heart to drink, + And therewithal most strange new thoughts did think, + And unknown feelings seized her, and there came + Sudden remembrance, vivid as a flame, + Of everything that she had done on earth, + Although it all seemed changed in weight and worth, + Small things becoming great, and great things small; + And godlike pity touched her therewithal + For her old self, for sons of men that die; + And that sweet new-born immortality + Now with full love her rested spirit fed. + + Then in that concourse did she lift her head, + And stood at last a very goddess there, + And all cried out at seeing her grown so fair. + + So while in heaven quick passed the time away, + About the ending of that lovely day, + Bright shone the low sun over all the earth + For joy of such a wonderful new birth. + + * * * * * + + Or e'er his tale was done, night held the earth; + Yea, the brown bird grown bold, as sounds of mirth + Grew faint and scanty, now his tale had done, + And by his mate abode the next day's sun; + And in those old hearts did the story move + Remembrance of the mighty deeds of love, + And with these thoughts did hopes of life arise, + Till tears unseen were in their ancient eyes, + And in their yearning hearts unspoken prayers, + And idle seemed the world with all its cares. + + Few words they said; the balmy odorous wind + Wandered about, some resting-place to find; + The young leaves rustled 'neath its gentle breath, + And here and there some blossom burst his sheath, + Adding unnoticed fragrance to the night; + But, as they pondered, a new golden light + Streamed over the green garden, and they heard + Sweet voices sing some ancient poet's word + In praise of May, and then in sight there came + The minstrels' figures underneath the flame + Of scented torches passing 'twixt the trees, + And soon the dusky hall grew bright with these, + And therewithal they put all thought away, + And midst the tinkling harps drank deep to May. + + * * * * * + + Through many changes had the May-tide passed, + The hope of summer oft had been o'ercast, + Ere midst the gardens they once more were met; + But now the full-leaved trees might well forget + The changeful agony of doubtful spring, + For summer pregnant with so many a thing + Was at the door; right hot had been the day + Which they amid the trees had passed away, + And now betwixt the tulip beds they went + Unto the hall, and thoughts of days long spent + Gathered about them, as some blossom's smell + Unto their hearts familiar tales did tell. + But when they well were settled in the hall, + And now behind the trees the sun 'gan fall, + And they as yet no history had heard, + Laurence, the Swabian priest, took up the word, + And said, "Ye know from what has gone before, + That in my youth I followed mystic lore, + And many books I read in seeking it, + And through my memory this same eve doth flit + A certain tale I found in one of these, + Long ere mine eyes had looked upon the seas; + It made me shudder in the times gone by, + When I believed in many a mystery + I thought divine, that now I think, forsooth, + Men's own fears made, to fill the place of truth + Within their foolish hearts; short is the tale, + And therefore will the better now avail + To fill the space before the night comes on, + And unto rest once more the world is won. + + + + +THE WRITING ON THE IMAGE. + +ARGUMENT. + +How on an image that stood anciently in Rome were written certain words, + which none understood, until a Scholar, coming there, knew their + meaning, and thereby discovered great marvels, but withal died + miserably. + + + In half-forgotten days of old, + As by our fathers we were told, + Within the town of Rome there stood + An image cut of cornel wood, + And on the upraised hand of it + Men might behold these letters writ: + "PERCUTE HIC:" which is to say, + In that tongue that we speak to-day, + "_Strike here!_" nor yet did any know + The cause why this was written so. + + Thus in the middle of the square, + In the hot sun and summer air, + The snow-drift and the driving rain, + That image stood, with little pain, + For twice a hundred years and ten; + While many a band of striving men + Were driven betwixt woe and mirth + Swiftly across the weary earth, + From nothing unto dark nothing: + And many an emperor and king, + Passing with glory or with shame, + Left little record of his name, + And no remembrance of the face + Once watched with awe for gifts or grace + Fear little, then, I counsel you, + What any son of man can do; + Because a log of wood will last + While many a life of man goes past, + And all is over in short space. + + Now so it chanced that to this place + There came a man of Sicily, + Who when the image he did see, + Knew full well who, in days of yore, + Had set it there; for much strange lore, + In Egypt and in Babylon, + This man with painful toil had won; + And many secret things could do; + So verily full well he knew + That master of all sorcery + Who wrought the thing in days gone by, + And doubted not that some great spell + It guarded, but could nowise tell + What it might be. So, day by day, + Still would he loiter on the way, + And watch the image carefully, + Well mocked of many a passer-by. + And on a day he stood and gazed + Upon the slender finger, raised + Against a doubtful cloudy sky, + Nigh noontide; and thought, "Certainly + The master who made thee so fair + By wondrous art, had not stopped there, + But made thee speak, had he not thought + That thereby evil might be brought + Upon his spell." But as he spoke, + From out a cloud the noon sun broke + With watery light, and shadows cold: + Then did the Scholar well behold + How, from that finger carved to tell + Those words, a short black shadow fell + Upon a certain spot of ground, + And thereon, looking all around + And seeing none heeding, went straightway + Whereas the finger's shadow lay, + And with his knife about the place + A little circle did he trace; + Then home he turned with throbbing head, + And forthright gat him to his bed, + And slept until the night was late + And few men stirred from gate to gate. + So when at midnight he did wake, + Pickaxe and shovel did he take, + And, going to that now silent square, + He found the mark his knife made there, + And quietly with many a stroke + The pavement of the place he broke: + And so, the stones being set apart, + He 'gan to dig with beating heart, + And from the hole in haste he cast + The marl and gravel; till at last, + Full shoulder high, his arms were jarred, + For suddenly his spade struck hard + With clang against some metal thing: + And soon he found a brazen ring, + All green with rust, twisted, and great + As a man's wrist, set in a plate + Of copper, wrought all curiously + With words unknown though plain to see, + Spite of the rust; and flowering trees, + And beasts, and wicked images, + Whereat he shuddered: for he knew + What ill things he might come to do, + If he should still take part with these + And that Great Master strive to please. + But small time had he then to stand + And think, so straight he set his hand + Unto the ring, but where he thought + That by main strength it must be brought + From out its place, lo! easily + It came away, and let him see + A winding staircase wrought of stone, + Wherethrough the new-come wind did moan. + Then thought he, "If I come alive + From out this place well shall I thrive, + For I may look here certainly + The treasures of a king to see, + A mightier man than men are now. + So in few days what man shall know + The needy Scholar, seeing me + Great in the place where great men be, + The richest man in all the land? + Beside the best then shall I stand, + And some unheard-of palace have; + And if my soul I may not save + In heaven, yet here in all men's eyes + Will I make some sweet paradise, + With marble cloisters, and with trees + And bubbling wells, and fantasies, + And things all men deem strange and rare, + And crowds of women kind and fair, + That I may see, if so I please, + Laid on the flowers, or mid the trees + With half-clad bodies wandering. + There, dwelling happier than the king, + What lovely days may yet be mine! + How shall I live with love and wine, + And music, till I come to die! + And then----Who knoweth certainly + What haps to us when we are dead? + Truly I think by likelihead + Nought haps to us of good or bad; + Therefore on earth will I be glad + A short space, free from hope or fear; + And fearless will I enter here + And meet my fate, whatso it be." + + Now on his back a bag had he, + To bear what treasure he might win, + And therewith now did he begin + To go adown the winding stair; + And found the walls all painted fair + With images of many a thing, + Warrior and priest, and queen and king, + But nothing knew what they might be. + Which things full clearly could he see, + For lamps were hung up here and there + Of strange device, but wrought right fair, + And pleasant savour came from them. + At last a curtain, on whose hem + Unknown words in red gold were writ, + He reached, and softly raising it + Stepped back, for now did he behold + A goodly hall hung round with gold, + And at the upper end could see + Sitting, a glorious company: + Therefore he trembled, thinking well + They were no men, but fiends of hell. + But while he waited, trembling sore, + And doubtful of his late-earned lore, + A cold blast of the outer air + Blew out the lamps upon the stair + And all was dark behind him; then + Did he fear less to face those men + Than, turning round, to leave them there + While he went groping up the stair. + Yea, since he heard no cry or call + Or any speech from them at all, + He doubted they were images + Set there some dying king to please + By that Great Master of the art; + Therefore at last with stouter heart + He raised the cloth and entered in + In hope that happy life to win, + And drawing nigher did behold + That these were bodies dead and cold + Attired in full royal guise, + And wrought by art in such a wise + That living they all seemed to be, + Whose very eyes he well could see, + That now beheld not foul or fair, + Shining as though alive they were. + And midmost of that company + An ancient king that man could see, + A mighty man, whose beard of grey + A foot over his gold gown lay; + And next beside him sat his queen + Who in a flowery gown of green + And golden mantle well was clad, + And on her neck a collar had + Too heavy for her dainty breast; + Her loins by such a belt were prest + That whoso in his treasury + Held that alone, a king might be. + On either side of these, a lord + Stood heedfully before the board, + And in their hands held bread and wine + For service; behind these did shine + The armour of the guards, and then + The well-attired serving-men, + The minstrels clad in raiment meet; + And over against the royal seat + Was hung a lamp, although no flame + Was burning there, but there was set + Within its open golden fret + A huge carbuncle, red and bright; + Wherefrom there shone forth such a light + That great hall was as clear by it, + As though by wax it had been lit, + As some great church at Easter-tide. + Now set a little way aside, + Six paces from the dais stood + An image made of brass and wood, + In likeness of a full-armed knight + Who pointed 'gainst the ruddy light + A huge shaft ready in a bow. + Pondering how he could come to know + What all these marvellous matters meant, + About the hall the Scholar went, + Trembling, though nothing moved as yet; + And for awhile did he forget + The longings that had brought him there + In wondering at these marvels fair; + And still for fear he doubted much + One jewel of their robes to touch. + + But as about the hall he passed + He grew more used to them at last, + And thought, "Swiftly the time goes by, + And now no doubt the day draws nigh + Folk will be stirring: by my head + A fool I am to fear the dead, + Who have seen living things enow, + Whose very names no man can know, + Whose shapes brave men might well affright + More than the lion in the night + Wandering for food;" therewith he drew + Unto those royal corpses two, + That on dead brows still wore the crown; + And midst the golden cups set down + The rugged wallet from his back, + Patched of strong leather, brown and black. + Then, opening wide its mouth, took up + From off the board, a golden cup + The King's dead hand was laid upon, + Whose unmoved eyes upon him shone + And recked no more of that last shame + Than if he were the beggar lame, + Who in old days was wont to wait + For a dog's meal beside the gate. + Of which shame nought our man did reck. + But laid his hand upon the neck + Of the slim Queen, and thence undid + The jewelled collar, that straight slid + Down her smooth bosom to the board. + And when these matters he had stored + Safe in his sack, with both their crowns, + The jewelled parts of their rich gowns, + Their shoes and belts, brooches and rings, + And cleared the board of all rich things, + He staggered with them down the hall. + But as he went his eyes did fall + Upon a wonderful green stone, + Upon the hall-floor laid alone; + He said, "Though thou art not so great + To add by much unto the weight + Of this my sack indeed, yet thou, + Certes, would make me rich enow, + That verily with thee I might + Wage one-half of the world to fight + The other half of it, and I + The lord of all the world might die;-- + I will not leave thee;" therewithal + He knelt down midmost of the hall, + Thinking it would come easily + Into his hand; but when that he + Gat hold of it, full fast it stack, + So fuming, down he laid his sack, + And with both hands pulled lustily, + But as he strained, he cast his eye + Back to the dais; there he saw + The bowman image 'gin to draw + The mighty bowstring to his ear, + So, shrieking out aloud for fear, + Of that rich stone he loosed his hold + And catching up his bag of gold, + Gat to his feet: but ere he stood + The evil thing of brass and wood + Up to his ear the notches drew; + And clanging, forth the arrow flew, + And midmost of the carbuncle + Clanging again, the forked barbs fell, + And all was dark as pitch straightway. + + So there until the judgment day + Shall come and find his bones laid low + And raise them up for weal or woe, + This man must bide; cast down he lay + While all his past life day by day + In one short moment he could see + Drawn out before him, while that he + In terror by that fatal stone + Was laid, and scarcely dared to moan. + But in a while his hope returned, + And then, though nothing he discerned, + He gat him up upon his feet, + And all about the walls he beat + To find some token of the door, + But never could he find it more, + For by some dreadful sorcery + All was sealed close as it might be + And midst the marvels of that hall + This scholar found the end of all. + + But in the town on that same night, + An hour before the dawn of light, + Such storm upon the place there fell, + That not the oldest man could tell + Of such another: and thereby + The image was burnt utterly, + Being stricken from the clouds above; + And folk deemed that same bolt did move + The pavement where that wretched one + Unto his foredoomed fate had gone, + Because the plate was set again + Into its place, and the great rain + Washed the earth down, and sorcery + Had hid the place where it did lie. + So soon the stones were set all straight, + But yet the folk, afraid of fate, + Where once the man of cornel wood + Through many a year of bad and good + Had kept his place, set up alone + Great Jove himself, cut in white stone, + But thickly overlaid with gold. + "Which," saith my tale, "you may behold + Unto this day, although indeed + Some Lord or other, being in need, + Took every ounce of gold away." + But now, this tale in some past day + Being writ, I warrant all is gone, + Both gold and weather-beaten stone. + + Be merry, masters, while ye may, + For men much quicker pass away. + + * * * * * + + They praised the tale, and for awhile they talked + Of other tales of treasure-seekers balked, + And shame and loss for men insatiate stored, + Nitocris' tomb, the Niblungs' fatal hoard, + The serpent-guarded treasures of the dead; + Then of how men would be remembered + When they are gone; and more than one could tell + Of what unhappy things therefrom befell; + Or how by folly men have gained a name; + A name indeed, not hallowed by the fame + Of any deeds remembered: and some thought,-- + "Strange hopes and fears for what shall be but nought + To dead men! better it would be to give + What things they may, while on the earth they live + Unto the earth, and from the bounteous earth + To take their pay of sorrow or of mirth, + Hatred or love, and get them on their way; + And let the teeming earth fresh troubles make + For other men, and ever for their sake + Use what they left, when they are gone from it." + + But while amid such musings they did sit, + Dark night being come, men lighted up the hall, + And the chief man for minstrelsy did call, + And other talk their dull thoughts chased away, + Nor did they part till night was mixed with day. + + + + +JUNE. + + + O June, O June, that we desired so, + Wilt thou not make us happy on this day? + Across the river thy soft breezes blow + Sweet with the scent of beanfields far away, + Above our heads rustle the aspens grey, + Calm is the sky with harmless clouds beset, + No thought of storm the morning vexes yet. + + See, we have left our hopes and fears behind + To give our very hearts up unto thee; + What better place than this then could we find + By this sweet stream that knows not of the sea, + That guesses not the city's misery, + This little stream whose hamlets scarce have names, + This far-off, lonely mother of the Thames? + + Here then, O June, thy kindness will we take; + And if indeed but pensive men we seem, + What should we do? thou wouldst not have us wake + From out the arms of this rare happy dream + And wish to leave the murmur of the stream, + The rustling boughs, the twitter of the birds, + And all thy thousand peaceful happy words. + + * * * * * + + Now in the early June they deemed it good + That they should go unto a house that stood + On their chief river, so upon a day + With favouring wind and tide they took their way + Up the fair stream; most lovely was the time + Even amidst the days of that fair clime, + And still the wanderers thought about their lives, + And that desire that rippling water gives + To youthful hearts to wander anywhere. + So midst sweet sights and sounds a house most fair + They came to, set upon the river side + Where kindly folk their coming did abide; + There they took land, and in the lime-trees' shade + Beneath the trees they found the fair feast laid, + And sat, well pleased; but when the water-hen + Had got at last to think them harmless men, + And they with rest, and pleasure, and old wine, + Began to feel immortal and divine, + An elder spoke, "O gentle friends, the day + Amid such calm delight now slips away, + And ye yourselves are grown so bright and glad + I care not if I tell you something sad; + Sad, though the life I tell you of passed by, + Unstained by sordid strife or misery; + Sad, because though a glorious end it tells, + Yet on the end of glorious life it dwells, + And striving through all things to reach the best + Upon no midway happiness will rest." + + + + +THE LOVE OF ALCESTIS. + +ARGUMENT + +Admetus, King of Pherae in Thessaly, received unwittingly Apollo as his + servant, by the help of whom he won to wife Alcestis, daughter of + Pelias: afterwards too, as in other things, so principally in this, + Apollo gave him help, that when he came to die, he obtained of the + Fates for him, that if another would die willingly in his stead, then + he should live still; and when to every one else this seemed + impossible, Alcestis gave her life for her husband's. + + + Midst sunny grass-clad meads that slope adown + To lake Boebeis stands an ancient town, + Where dwelt of old a lord of Thessaly, + The son of Pheres and fair Clymene, + Who had to name Admetus: long ago + The dwellers by the lake have ceased to know + His name, because the world grows old, but then + He was accounted great among great men; + Young, strong, and godlike, lacking nought at all + Of gifts that unto royal men might fall + In those old simple days, before men went + To gather unseen harm and discontent, + Along with all the alien merchandise + That rich folk need, too restless to be wise. + + Now on the fairest of all autumn eves, + When midst the dusty, crumpled, dying leaves + The black grapes showed, and every press and vat + Was newly scoured, this King Admetus sat + Among his people, wearied in such wise + By hopeful toil as makes a paradise + Of the rich earth; for light and far away + Seemed all the labour of the coming day, + And no man wished for more than then he had, + Nor with another's mourning was made glad. + There in the pillared porch, their supper done, + They watched the fair departing of the sun; + The while the soft-eyed well-girt maidens poured + The joy of life from out the jars long stored + Deep in the earth, while little like a king, + As we call kings, but glad with everything, + The wise Thessalian sat and blessed his life, + So free from sickening fear and foolish strife. + But midst the joy of this festivity, + Turning aside he saw a man draw nigh, + Along the dusty grey vine-bordered road + That had its ending at his fair abode; + He seemed e'en from afar to set his face + Unto the King's adorned reverend place, + And like a traveller went he wearily, + And yet as one who seems his rest to see. + A staff he bore, but nowise was he bent + With scrip or wallet; so withal he went + Straight to the King's high seat, and standing near, + Seemed a stout youth and noble, free from fear, + But peaceful and unarmed; and though ill clad, + And though the dust of that hot land he had + Upon his limbs and face, as fair was he + As any king's son you might lightly see, + Grey-eyed and crisp-haired, beautiful of limb, + And no ill eye the women cast on him. + But kneeling now, and stretching forth his hand, + He said, "O thou, the king of this fair land, + Unto a banished man some shelter give, + And help me with thy goods that I may live: + Thou hast good store, Admetus, yet may I, + Who kneel before thee now in misery, + Give thee more gifts before the end shall come + Than all thou hast laid safely in thine home." + "Rise up, and be my guest," Admetus said, + "I need no gifts for this poor gift of bread, + The land is wide, and bountiful enow. + What thou canst do, to-morrow thou shalt show, + And be my man, perchance; but this night rest + Not questioned more than any passing guest. + Yea, even if a great king thou hast spilt, + Thou shall not answer aught but as thou wilt." + Then the man rose and said, "O King, indeed + Of thine awarded silence have I need, + Nameless I am, nameless what I have done + Must be through many circles of the sun. + But for to-morrow--let me rather tell + On this same eve what things I can do well, + And let me put mine hand in thine and swear + To serve thee faithfully a changing year; + Nor think the woods of Ossa hold one beast + That of thy tenderest yearling shall make feast, + Whiles that I guard thy flocks, and thou shalt bear + Thy troubles easier when thou com'st to hear + The music I can make. Let these thy men + Witness against me if I fail thee, when + War falls upon thy lovely land and thee." + Then the King smiled, and said, "So let it be, + Well shalt thou serve me, doing far less than this, + Nor for thy service due gifts shalt thou miss: + Behold I take thy faith with thy right hand, + Be thou true man unto this guarded land. + Ho ye! take this my guest, find raiment meet + Wherewith to clothe him; bathe his wearied feet, + And bring him back beside my throne to feast." + But to himself he said, "I am the least + Of all Thessalians if this man was born + In any earthly dwelling more forlorn + Than a king's palace." + Then a damsel slim + Led him inside, nought loth to go with him, + And when the cloud of steam had curled to meet + Within the brass his wearied dusty feet, + She from a carved press brought him linen fair, + And a new-woven coat a king might wear, + And so being clad he came unto the feast, + But as he came again, all people ceased + What talk they held soever, for they thought + A very god among them had been brought; + And doubly glad the king Admetus was + At what that dying eve had brought to pass, + And bade him sit by him and feast his fill. + So there they sat till all the world was still, + And 'twixt the pillars their red torches' shine + Held forth unto the night a joyous sign. + + * * * * * + + So henceforth did this man at Pherae dwell, + And what he set his hand to wrought right well, + And won much praise and love in everything, + And came to rule all herdsmen of the King; + But for two things in chief his fame did grow; + And first that he was better with the bow + Than any 'twixt Olympus and the sea, + And then that sweet, heart-piercing melody + He drew out from the rigid-seeming lyre, + And made the circle round the winter fire + More like to heaven than gardens of the May. + So many a heavy thought he chased away + From the King's heart, and softened many a hate, + And choked the spring of many a harsh debate; + And, taught by wounds, the snatchers of the wolds + Lurked round the gates of less well-guarded folds. + Therefore Admetus loved him, yet withal, + Strange doubts and fears upon his heart did fall; + For morns there were when he the man would meet, + His hair wreathed round with bay and blossoms sweet, + Gazing distraught into the brightening east, + Nor taking heed of either man or beast, + Or anything that was upon the earth. + Or sometimes, midst the hottest of the mirth, + Within the King's hall, would he seem to wake + As from a dream, and his stringed tortoise take + And strike the cords unbidden, till the hall + Filled with the glorious sound from wall to wall, + Trembled and seemed as it would melt away, + And sunken down the faces weeping lay + That erewhile laughed the loudest; only he + Stood upright, looking forward steadily + With sparkling eyes as one who cannot weep, + Until the storm of music sank to sleep. + + But this thing seemed the doubtfullest of all + Unto the King, that should there chance to fall + A festal day, and folk did sacrifice + Unto the gods, ever by some device + The man would be away: yet with all this + His presence doubled all Admetus' bliss, + And happy in all things he seemed to live, + And great gifts to his herdsman did he give. + But now the year came round again to spring, + And southward to Iolchos went the King; + For there did Pelias hold a sacrifice + Unto the gods, and put forth things of price + For men to strive for in the people's sight; + So on a morn of April, fresh and bright, + Admetus shook the golden-studded reins, + And soon from windings of the sweet-banked lanes + The south wind blew the sound of hoof and wheel, + Clatter of brazen shields and clink of steel + Unto the herdsman's ears, who stood awhile + Hearkening the echoes with a godlike smile, + Then slowly gat him foldwards, murmuring, + "Fair music for the wooing of a King." + But in six days again Admetus came, + With no lost labour or dishonoured name; + A scarlet cloak upon his back he bare + A gold crown on his head, a falchion fair + Girt to his side; behind him four white steeds, + Whose dams had fed full in Nisaean meads; + All prizes that his valiant hands had won + Within the guarded lists of Tyro's son. + Yet midst the sound of joyous minstrelsy + No joyous man in truth he seemed to be; + So that folk looking on him said, "Behold, + The wise King will not show himself too bold + Amidst his greatness: the gods too are great, + And who can tell the dreadful ways of fate?" + Howe'er it was, he gat him through the town, + And midst their shouts at last he lighted down + At his own house, and held high feast that night; + And yet by seeming had but small delight + In aught that any man could do or say: + And on the morrow, just at dawn of day, + Rose up and clad himself, and took his spear. + And in the fresh and blossom-scented air + Went wandering till he reach Boebeis' shore; + Yet by his troubled face set little store + By all the songs of birds and scent of flowers; + Yea, rather unto him the fragrant hours + Were grown but dull and empty of delight. + So going, at the last he came in sight + Of his new herdsman, who that morning lay + Close by the white sand of a little bay + The teeming ripple of Boebeis lapped; + There he in cloak of white-wooled sheepskin wrapped + Against the cold dew, free from trouble sang, + The while the heifers' bells about him rang + And mingled with the sweet soft-throated birds + And bright fresh ripple: listen, then, these words + Will tell the tale of his felicity, + Halting and void of music though they be. + + +SONG. + + O Dwellers on the lovely earth, + Why will ye break your rest and mirth + To weary us with fruitless prayer; + Why will ye toil and take such care + For children's children yet unborn, + And garner store of strife and scorn + To gain a scarce-remembered name, + Cumbered with lies and soiled with shame? + And if the gods care not for you, + What is this folly ye must do + To win some mortal's feeble heart? + O fools! when each man plays his part, + And heeds his fellow little more + Than these blue waves that kiss the shore + Take heed of how the daisies grow. + O fools! and if ye could but know + How fair a world to you is given. + + O brooder on the hills of heaven, + When for my sin thou drav'st me forth, + Hadst thou forgot what this was worth, + Thine own hand had made? The tears of men, + The death of threescore years and ten, + The trembling of the timorous race-- + Had these things so bedimmed the place + Thine own hand made, thou couldst not know + To what a heaven the earth might grow + If fear beneath the earth were laid, + If hope failed not, nor love decayed. + + He stopped, for he beheld his wandering lord, + Who, drawing near, heard little of his word, + And noted less; for in that haggard mood + Nought could he do but o'er his sorrows brood, + Whate'er they were, but now being come anigh, + He lifted up his drawn face suddenly, + And as the singer gat him to his feet, + His eyes Admetus' troubled eyes did meet, + As with some speech he now seemed labouring, + Which from his heart his lips refused to bring. + Then spoke the herdsman, "Master, what is this, + That thou, returned with honour to the bliss, + The gods have given thee here, still makest show + To be some wretch bent with the weight of woe? + What wilt thou have? What help there is in me + Is wholly thine, for in felicity + Within thine house thou still hast let me live, + Nor grudged most noble gifts to me to give." + + "Yea," said Admetus, "thou canst help indeed, + But as the spring shower helps the unsown mead. + Yet listen: at Iolchos the first day + Unto Diana's house I took my way, + Where all men gathered ere the games began, + There, at the right side of the royal man, + Who rules Iolchos, did his daughter stand, + Who with a suppliant bough in her right hand + Headed the band of maidens; but to me + More than a goddess did she seem to be, + Nor fit to die; and therewithal I thought + That we had all been thither called for nought + But that her bridegroom Pelias might choose, + And with that thought desire did I let loose, + And striving not with Love, I gazed my fill, + As one who will not fear the coming ill: + All, foolish were mine eyes, foolish my heart, + To strive in such a marvel to have part! + What god shall wed her rather? no more fear + Than vexes Pallas vexed her forehead clear, + Faith shone from out her eyes, and on her lips + Unknown love trembled; the Phoenician ships + Within their dark holds nought so precious bring + As her soft golden hair, no daintiest thing + I ever saw was half so wisely wrought + As was her rosy ear; beyond all thought, + All words to tell of, her veiled body showed, + As, by the image of the Three-formed bowed, + She laid her offering down; then I drawn near + The murmuring of her gentle voice could hear, + As waking one hears music in the morn, + Ere yet the fair June sun is fully born; + And sweeter than the roses fresh with dew + Sweet odours floated round me, as she drew + Some golden thing from out her balmy breast + With her right hand, the while her left hand pressed + The hidden wonders of her girdlestead; + And when abashed I sank adown my head, + Dreading the god of Love, my eyes must meet + The happy bands about her perfect feet. + "What more? thou know'st perchance what thing love is? + Kindness, and hot desire, and rage, and bliss, + None first a moment; but before that day + No love I knew but what might pass away + When hot desire was changed to certainty, + Or not abide much longer; e'en such stings + Had smitten me, as the first warm day brings + When March is dying; but now half a god + The crowded way unto the lists I trod, + Yet hopeless as a vanquished god at whiles, + And hideous seemed the laughter and the smiles, + And idle talk about me on the way. + "But none could stand before me on that day, + I was as god-possessed, not knowing how + The King had brought her forth but for a show, + To make his glory greater through the land: + Therefore at last victorious did I stand + Among my peers, nor yet one well-known name + Had gathered any honour from my shame. + For there indeed both men of Thessaly, + Oetolians, Thebans, dwellers by the sea, + And folk of Attica and Argolis, + Arcadian woodmen, islanders, whose bliss + Is to be tossed about from wave to wave, + All these at last to me the honour gave, + Nor did they grudge it: yea, and one man said, + A wise Thessalian with a snowy head, + And voice grown thin with age, 'O Pelias, + Surely to thee no evil thing it was + That to thy house this rich Thessalian + Should come, to prove himself a valiant man + Amongst these heroes; for if I be wise + By dint of many years, with wistful eyes + Doth he behold thy daughter, this fair maid; + And surely, if the matter were well weighed, + Good were it both for thee and for the land + That he should take the damsel by the hand + And lead her hence, for ye near neighbours dwell; + What sayest thou, King, have I said ill or well?' + "With that must I, a fool, stand forth and ask + If yet there lay before me some great task + That I must do ere I the maid should wed, + But Pelias, looking on us, smiled and said, + 'O neighbour of Larissa, and thou too, + O King Admetus, this may seem to you + A little matter; yea, and for my part + E'en such a marriage would make glad my heart; + But we the blood of Salmoneus who share + With godlike gifts great burdens also bear, + Nor is this maid without them, for the day + On which her maiden zone she puts away + Shall be her death-day, if she wed with one + By whom this marvellous thing may not be done, + For in the traces neither must steeds paw + Before my threshold, or white oxen draw + The wain that comes my maid to take from me, + Far other beasts that day her slaves must be: + The yellow lion 'neath the lash must roar, + And by his side unscared, the forest boar + Toil at the draught: what sayest thou then hereto, + O lord of Pherae, wilt thou come to woo + In such a chariot, and win endless fame, + Or turn thine eyes elsewhere with little shame?' + "What answered I? O herdsman, I was mad + With sweet love and the triumph I had had. + I took my father's ring from off my hand, + And said, 'O heroes of the Grecian land, + Be witnesses that on my father's name + For this man's promise, do I take the shame + Of this deed undone, if I fail herein; + Fear not, O Pelias, but that I shall win + This ring from thee, when I shall come again + Through fair Iolchos, driving that strange wain. + Else by this token, thou, O King, shalt have + Pherae my home, while on the tumbling wave + A hollow ship my sad abode shall be.' + "So driven by some hostile deity, + Such words I said, and with my gifts hard won, + But little valued now, set out upon + My homeward way: but nearer as I drew + To mine abode, and ever fainter grew + In my weak heart the image of my love, + In vain with fear my boastful folly strove; + For I remembered that no god I was + Though I had chanced my fellows to surpass; + And I began to mind me in a while + What murmur rose, with what a mocking smile + Pelias stretched out his hand to take the ring. + Made by my drunkard's gift now twice a king: + And when unto my palace-door I came + I had awakened fully to my shame; + For certainly no help is left to me, + But I must get me down unto the sea + And build a keel, and whatso things I may + Set in her hold, and cross the watery way + Whither Jove bids, and the rough winds may blow + Unto a land where none my folly know, + And there begin a weary life anew." + + Eager and bright the herdsman's visage grew + The while this tale was told, and at the end + He said, "Admetus, I thy life may mend, + And thou at lovely Pherae still may dwell; + Wait for ten days, and then may all be well, + And thou to fetch thy maiden home may go, + And to the King thy team unheard-of show. + And if not, then make ready for the sea + Nor will I fail indeed to go with thee, + And 'twixt the halyards and the ashen oar + Finish the service well begun ashore; + But meanwhile do I bid thee hope the best; + And take another herdsman for the rest, + For unto Ossa must I go alone + To do a deed not easy to be done." + + Then springing up he took his spear and bow + And northward by the lake-shore 'gan to go; + But the King gazed upon him as he went, + Then, sighing, turned about, and homeward bent + His lingering steps, and hope began to spring + Within his heart, for some betokening + He seemed about the herdsman now to see + Of one from mortal cares and troubles free. + And so midst hopes and fears day followed day, + Until at last upon his bed he lay + When the grey, creeping dawn had now begun + To make the wide world ready for the sun + On the tenth day: sleepless had been the night + And now in that first hour of gathering light + For weariness he slept, and dreamed that he + Stood by the border of a fair, calm sea + At point to go a-shipboard, and to leave + Whatever from his sire he did receive + Of land or kingship; and withal he dreamed + That through the cordage a bright light there gleamed + Far off within the east; and nowise sad + He felt at leaving all he might have had, + But rather as a man who goes to see + Some heritage expected patiently. + But when he moved to leave the firm fixed shore, + The windless sea rose high and 'gan to roar, + And from the gangway thrust the ship aside, + Until he hung over a chasm wide + Vocal with furious waves, yet had no fear + For all the varied tumult he might hear, + But slowly woke up to the morning light + That to his eyes seemed past all memory bright, + And then strange sounds he heard, whereat his heart + Woke up to joyous life with one glad start, + And nigh his bed he saw the herdsman stand, + Holding a long white staff in his right hand, + Carved with strange figures; and withal he said, + "Awake, Admetus! loiter not a-bed, + But haste thee to bring home thy promised bride, + For now an ivory chariot waits outside, + Yoked to such beasts as Pelias bade thee bring; + Whose guidance thou shalt find an easy thing, + If in thine hands thou holdest still this rod, + Whereon are carved the names of every god + That rules the fertile earth; but having come + Unto King Pelias' well-adorned home, + Abide not long, but take the royal maid, + And let her dowry in thy wain be laid, + Of silver and fine cloth and unmixed gold, + For this indeed will Pelias not withhold + When he shall see thee like a very god. + Then let thy beasts, ruled by this carven rod, + Turn round to Pherae; yet must thou abide + Before thou comest to the streamlet's side + That feed its dykes; there, by the little wood + Wherein unto Diana men shed blood, + Will I await thee, and thou shalt descend + And hand-in-hand afoot through Pherae wend; + And yet I bid thee, this night let thy bride + Apart among the womenfolk abide; + That on the morrow thou with sacrifice + For these strange deeds may pay a fitting price." + + But as he spoke with something like to awe, + His eyes and much-changed face Admetus saw, + And voiceless like a slave his words obeyed; + For rising up no more delay he made, + But took the staff and gained the palace-door + Where stood the beasts, whose mingled whine and roar + Had wrought his dream; there two and two they stood, + Thinking, it might be, of the tangled wood, + And all the joys of the food-hiding trees, + But harmless as their painted images + 'Neath some dread spell; then, leaping up, he took + The reins in hand and the bossed leather shook, + And no delay the conquered beasts durst make + But drew, not silent; and folk just awake + When he went by, as though a god they saw, + Fell on their knees, and maidens come to draw + Fresh water from the fount sank trembling down, + And silence held the babbling wakened town. + So 'twixt the dewy hedges did he wend, + And still their noise afar the beasts did send, + His strange victorious advent to proclaim, + Till to Iolchos at the last he came, + And drew anigh the gates, whence in affright + The guards fled, helpless at the wondrous sight; + And through the town news of the coming spread + Of some great god so that the scared priests led + Pale suppliants forth; who, in unmeet attire + And hastily-caught boughs and smouldering fire + Within their censers, in the market-place + Awaited him with many an upturned face, + Trembling with fear of that unnamed new god; + But through the midst of them his lions trod + With noiseless feet, nor noted aught their prey, + And the boars' hooves went pattering on the way, + While from their churning tusks the white foam flew + As raging, helpless, in the trace they drew. + But Pelias, knowing all the work of fate, + Sat in his brazen-pillared porch to wait + The coming of the King; the while the maid + In her fair marriage garments was arrayed, + And from strong places of his treasury + Men brought fine scarlet from the Syrian sea, + And works of brass, and ivory, and gold; + But when the strange yoked beasts he did behold + Come through the press of people terrified, + Then he arose and o'er the clamour cried, + "Hail, thou, who like a very god art come + To bring great honour to my damsel's home;" + And when Admetus tightened rein before + The gleaming, brazen-wrought, half-opened door. + He cried to Pelias, "Hail, to thee, O King; + Let me behold once more my father's ring, + Let me behold the prize that I have won, + Mine eyes are wearying now to look upon." + "Fear not," he said, "the Fates are satisfied; + Yet wilt thou not descend and here abide, + Doing me honour till the next bright morn + Has dried the dew upon the new-sprung corn, + That we in turn may give the honour due + To such a man that such a thing can do, + And unto all the gods may sacrifice?" + "Nay," said Admetus, "if thou call'st me wise, + And like a very god thou dost me deem, + Shall I abide the ending of the dream + And so gain nothing? nay, let me be glad + That I at least one godlike hour have had + At whatsoever time I come to die, + That I may mock the world that passes by, + And yet forgets it." Saying this, indeed, + Of Pelias did he seem to take small heed, + But spoke as one unto himself may speak, + And still the half-shut door his eyes did seek, + Wherethrough from distant rooms sweet music came, + Setting his over-strained heart a-flame, + Because amidst the Lydian flutes he thought + From place to place his love the maidens brought. + Then Pelias said, "What can I give to thee + Who fail'st so little of divinity? + Yet let my slaves lay these poor gifts within + Thy chariot, while my daughter strives to win + The favour of the spirits of this place, + Since from their altars she must turn her face + For ever now; hearken, her flutes I hear, + From the last chapel doth she draw anear." + Then by Admetus' feet the folk 'gan pile + The precious things, but he no less the while + Stared at the door ajar, and thought it long + Ere with the flutes mingled the maidens' song, + And both grew louder, and the scarce-seen floor + Was fluttering with white raiment, and the door + By slender fingers was set open wide, + And midst her damsels he beheld the bride + Ungirt, with hair unbound and garlanded: + Then Pelias took her slender hand and said, + "Daughter, this is the man that takes from thee + Thy curse midst women, think no more to be + Childless, unloved, and knowing little bliss; + But now behold how like a god he is, + And yet with what prayers for the love of thee + He must have wearied some divinity, + And therefore in thine inmost heart be glad + That thou 'mongst women such a man hast had." + Then she with wondering eyes that strange team saw + A moment, then as one with gathering awe + Might turn from Jove's bird unto very Jove, + So did she raise her grey eyes to her love, + But to her brow the blood rose therewithal, + And she must tremble, such a look did fall + Upon her faithful eyes, that none the less + Would falter aught, for all her shamefastness, + But rather to her lover's hungry eyes + Gave back a tender look of glad surprise, + Wherein love's flame began to flicker now. + Withal, her father kissed her on the brow, + And said, "O daughter, take this royal ring, + And set it on the finger of the King, + And come not back; and thou, Admetus, pour + This wine to Jove before my open door, + And glad at heart take back thine own with thee." + Then with that word Alcestis silently, + And with no look cast back, and ring in hand, + Went forth, and soon beside her love did stand, + Nor on his finger failed to set the ring; + And then a golden cup the city's King + Gave to him, and he poured and said, "O thou, + From whatsoever place thou lookest now, + What prayers, what gifts unto thee shall I give + That we a little time with love may live? + A little time of love, then fall asleep + Together, while the crown of love we keep." + So spake he, and his strange beasts turned about, + And heeded not the people's wavering shout + That from their old fear and new pleasure sprung, + Nor noted aught of what the damsels sung, + Or of the flowers that after them they cast, + But like a dream the guarded city passed, + And 'twixt the song of birds and blossoms' scent + It seemed for many hundred years they went, + Though short the way was unto Pherae's gates; + Time they forgat, and gods, and men, and fates, + However nigh unto their hearts they were; + The woodland boars, the yellow lords of fear + No more seemed strange to them, but all the earth + With all its changing sorrow and wild mirth + In that fair hour seemed new-born to the twain, + Grief seemed a play forgot, a pageant vain, + A picture painted, who knows where or when, + With soulless images of restless men; + For every thought but love was now gone by, + And they forgot that they should ever die. + + But when they came anigh the sacred wood, + There, biding them, Admetus' herdsman stood, + At sight of whom those yoke-fellows unchecked + Stopped dead and little of Admetus recked + Who now, as one from dreams not yet awake, + Drew back his love and did his wain forsake, + And gave the carven rod and guiding bands + Into the waiting herdsman's outstretched hands, + But when he would have thanked him for the thing + That he had done, his speechless tongue must cling + Unto his mouth, and why he could not tell. + But the man said, "No words! thou hast done well + To me, as I to thee; the day may come + When thou shalt ask me for a fitting home, + Nor shalt thou ask in vain; but hasten now, + And to thine house this royal maiden show, + Then give her to thy women for this night. + But when thou wakest up to thy delight + To-morrow, do all things that should be done, + Nor of the gods, forget thou any one, + And on the next day will I come again + To tend thy flocks upon the grassy plain. + "But now depart, and from thine home send here + Chariot and horse, these gifts of thine to bear + Unto thine house, and going, look not back + Lest many a wished-for thing thou com'st to lack." + Then hand in hand together, up the road + The lovers passed unto the King's abode, + And as they went, the whining snort and roar + From the yoked beasts they heard break out once more + And then die off, as they were led away, + But whether to some place lit up by day, + Or, 'neath the earth, they knew not, for the twain + Went hastening on, nor once looked back again. + But soon the minstrels met them, and a band + Of white-robed damsels flowery boughs in hand, + To bid them welcome to that pleasant place. + Then they, rejoicing much, in no long space + Came to the brazen-pillared porch, whereon + From 'twixt the passes of the hills yet shone + The dying sun; and there she stood awhile + Without the threshold, a faint tender smile + Trembling upon her lips 'twixt love and shame, + Until each side of her a maiden came + And raised her in their arms, that her fair feet + The polished brazen threshold might not meet, + And in Admetus' house she stood at last. + But to the women's chamber straight she passed + Bepraised of all,--and so the wakeful night + Lonely the lovers passed e'en as they might. + But the next day with many a sacrifice, + Admetus wrought, for such a well-won prize, + A life so blest, the gods to satisfy, + And many a matchless beast that day did die + Upon the altars; nought unlucky seemed + To be amid the joyous crowd that gleamed + With gold and precious things, and only this + Seemed wanting to the King of Pherae's bliss, + That all these pageants should be soon past by, + And hid by night the fair spring blossoms lie. + + * * * * * + + Yet on the morrow-morn Admetus came, + A haggard man oppressed with grief and shame + Unto the spot beside Boebeis' shore + Whereby he met his herdsman once before, + And there again he found him flushed and glad, + And from the babbling water newly clad, + Then he with downcast eyes these words began, + "O thou, whatso thy name is, god or man, + Hearken to me; meseemeth of thy deed + Some dread immortal taketh angry heed. + "Last night the height of my desire seemed won, + All day my weary eyes had watched the sun + Rise up and sink, and now was come the night + When I should be alone with my delight; + Silent the house was now from floor to roof, + And in the well-hung chambers, far aloof, + The feasters lay; the moon was in the sky, + The soft spring wind was wafting lovingly + Across the gardens fresh scents to my sweet, + As, troubled with the sound of my own feet, + I passed betwixt the pillars, whose long shade + Black on the white red-veined floor was laid: + So happy was I that the briar-rose, + Rustling outside within the flowery close, + Seemed but Love's odorous wing--too real all seemed + For such a joy as I had never dreamed. + "Why do I linger, as I lingered not + In that fair hour, now ne'er to be forgot + While my life lasts?--Upon the gilded door + I laid my hand; I stood upon the floor + Of the bride-chamber, and I saw the bride, + Lovelier than any dream, stand by the side + Of the gold bed, with hands that hid her face: + One cry of joy I gave, and then the place + Seemed changed to hell as in a hideous dream. + "Still did the painted silver pillars gleam + Betwixt the scented torches and the moon; + Still did the garden shed its odorous boon + Upon the night; still did the nightingale + Unto his brooding mate tell all his tale: + But, risen 'twixt my waiting love and me, + As soundless as the dread eternity, + Sprung up from nothing, could mine eyes behold + A huge dull-gleaming dreadful coil that rolled + In changing circles on the pavement fair. + Then for the sword that was no longer there + My hand sank to my side; around I gazed, + And 'twixt the coils I met her grey eyes, glazed + With sudden horror most unspeakable; + And when mine own upon no weapon fell, + For what should weapons do in such a place, + Unto the dragon's head I set my face, + And raised bare hands against him, but a cry + Burst on mine ears of utmost agony + That nailed me there, and she cried out to me, + 'O get thee hence; alas, I cannot flee! + They coil about me now, my lips to kiss. + O love, why hast thou brought me unto this?' + "Alas, my shame! trembling, away I slunk, + Yet turning saw the fearful coil had sunk + To whence it came, my love's limbs freed I saw, + And a long breath at first I heard her draw + As one redeemed, then heard the hard sobs come, + And wailings for her new accursed home. + But there outside across the door I lay, + Like a scourged hound, until the dawn of day; + And as her gentle breathing then I heard + As though she slept, before the earliest bird + Began his song, I wandered forth to seek + Thee, O strange man, e'en as thou seest me, weak + With all the torment of the night, and shamed + With such a shame as never shall be named + To aught but thee--Yea, yea, and why to thee + Perchance this ends all thou wilt do for me?-- + What then, and have I not a cure for that? + Lo, yonder is a rock where I have sat + Full many an hour while yet my life was life, + With hopes of all the coming wonder rife. + No sword hangs by my side, no god will turn + This cloudless hazy blue to black, and burn + My useless body with his lightning flash; + But the white waves above my bones may wash, + And when old chronicles our house shall name + They may leave out the letters and the shame, + That make Admetus, once a king of men-- + And how could I be worse or better then?" + + As one who notes a curious instrument + Working against the maker's own intent, + The herdsman eyed his wan face silently, + And smiling for a while, and then said he,-- + "Admetus, thou, in spite of all I said, + Hast drawn this evil thing upon thine head, + Forgetting her who erewhile laid the curse + Upon the maiden, so for fear of worse + Go back again; for fair-limbed Artemis + Now bars the sweet attainment of thy bliss; + So taking heart, yet make no more delay + But worship her upon this very day, + Nor spare for aught, and of thy trouble make + No semblance unto any for her sake; + And thick upon the fair bride-chamber floor + Strew dittany, and on each side the door + Hang up such poppy-leaves as spring may yield; + And for the rest, myself may be a shield + Against her wrath--nay, be thou not too bold + To ask me that which may not now be told. + Yea, even what thou deemest, hide it deep + Within thine heart, and let thy wonder sleep, + For surely thou shalt one day know my name, + When the time comes again that autumn's flame + Is dying off the vine-boughs, overturned, + Stripped of their wealth. But now let gifts be burned + To her I told thee of, and in three days + Shall I by many hard and rugged ways + Have come to thee again to bring thee peace. + Go, the sun rises and the shades decrease." + Then, thoughtfully, Admetus gat him back, + Nor did the altars of the Huntress lack + The fattest of the flocks upon that day. + But when night came, in arms Admetus lay + Across the threshold of the bride-chamber, + And nought amiss that night he noted there, + But durst not enter, though about the door + Young poppy-leaves were twined, and on the floor, + Not flowered as yet with downy leaves and grey, + Fresh dittany beloved of wild goats lay. + But when the whole three days and nights were done, + The herdsman came with rising of the sun, + And said, "Admetus, now rejoice again, + Thy prayers and offerings have not been in vain, + And thou at last mayst come unto thy bliss; + And if thou askest for a sign of this, + Take thou this token; make good haste to rise, + And get unto the garden-close that lies + Below these windows sweet with greenery, + And in the midst a marvel shalt thou see, + Three white, black-hearted poppies blossoming, + Though this is but the middle of the spring." + Nor was it otherwise than he had said, + And on that day with joy the twain were wed, + And 'gan to lead a life of great delight; + But the strange woeful history of that night, + The monstrous car, the promise to the King, + All these through weary hours of chiselling + Were wrought in stone, and in Diana's wall + Set up, a joy and witness unto all. + But neither so would winged time abide, + The changing year came round to autumn-tide, + Until at last the day was fully come + When the strange guest first reached Admetus' home. + Then, when the sun was reddening to its end, + He to Admetus' brazen porch did wend, + Whom there he found feathering a poplar dart, + Then said he, "King, the time has come to part. + Come forth, for I have that to give thine ear + No man upon the earth but thou must hear." + Then rose the King, and with a troubled look + His well-steeled spear within his hand he took, + And by his herdsman silently he went + As to a peaked hill his steps he bent, + Nor did the parting servant speak one word, + As up they climbed, unto his silent lord, + Till from the top he turned about his head + From all the glory of the gold light, shed + Upon the hill-top by the setting sun, + For now indeed the day was well-nigh done, + And all the eastern vale was grey and cold; + But when Admetus he did now behold, + Panting beside him from the steep ascent, + One much-changed godlike look on him he bent. + And said, "O mortal, listen, for I see + Thou deemest somewhat of what is in me; + Fear not! I love thee, even as I can + Who cannot feel the woes and ways of man + In spite of this my seeming, for indeed + Now thou beholdest Jove's immortal seed, + And what my name is I would tell thee now, + If men who dwell upon the earth as thou + Could hear the name and live; but on the earth. + With strange melodious stories of my birth, + Phoebus men call me, and Latona's son. + "And now my servitude with thee is done, + And I shall leave thee toiling on thine earth, + This handful, that within its little girth + Holds that which moves you so, O men that die; + Behold, to-day thou hast felicity, + But the times change, and I can see a day + When all thine happiness shall fade away; + And yet be merry, strive not with the end, + Thou canst not change it; for the rest, a friend + This year has won thee who shall never fail; + But now indeed, for nought will it avail + To say what I may have in store for thee, + Of gifts that men desire; let these things be, + And live thy life, till death itself shall come, + And turn to nought the storehouse of thine home, + Then think of me; these feathered shafts behold, + That here have been the terror of the wold, + Take these, and count them still the best of all + Thine envied wealth, and when on thee shall fall + By any way the worst extremity, + Call upon me before thou com'st to die, + And lay these shafts with incense on a fire, + That thou mayst gain thine uttermost desire." + + He ceased, but ere the golden tongue was still + An odorous mist had stolen up the hill, + And to Admetus first the god grew dim, + And then was but a lovely voice to him, + And then at last the sun had sunk to rest, + And a fresh wind blew lightly from the west + Over the hill-top, and no soul was there; + But the sad dying autumn field-flowers fair, + Rustled dry leaves about the windy place, + Where even now had been the godlike face, + And in their midst the brass-bound quiver lay. + Then, going further westward, far away, + He saw the gleaming of Peneus wan + 'Neath the white sky, but never any man, + Except a grey-haired shepherd driving down + From off the long slopes to his fold-yard brown + His woolly sheep, with whom a maiden went, + Singing for labour done and sweet content + Of coming rest; with that he turned again, + And took the shafts up, never sped in vain, + And came unto his house most deep in thought + Of all the things the varied year had brought. + + * * * * * + + Thenceforth in bliss and honour day by day + His measured span of sweet life wore away. + A happy man he was; no vain desire + Of foolish fame had set his heart a-fire; + No care he had the ancient bounds to change, + Nor yet for him must idle soldiers range + From place to place about the burdened land, + Or thick upon the ruined cornfields stand; + For him no trumpets blessed the bitter war, + Wherein the right and wrong so mingled are, + That hardly can the man of single heart + Amid the sickening turmoil choose his part; + For him sufficed the changes of the year, + The god-sent terror was enough of fear + For him; enough the battle with the earth, + The autumn triumph over drought and dearth. + Better to him than wolf-moved battered shields, + O'er poor dead corpses, seemed the stubble-fields + Danced down beneath the moon, until the night + Grew dreamy with a shadowy sweet delight, + And with the high-risen moon came pensive thought, + And men in love's despite must grow distraught + And loiter in the dance, and maidens drop + Their gathered raiment, and the fifer stop + His dancing notes the pensive drone that chid, + And as they wander to their dwellings, hid + By the black shadowed trees, faint melody, + Mournful and sweet, their soft good-night must be. + Far better spoil the gathering vat bore in + Unto the pressing shed, than midst the din + Of falling houses in war's waggon lies + Besmeared with redder stains than Tyrian dyes; + Or when the temple of the sea-born one + With glittering crowns and gallant raiment shone, + Fairer the maidens seemed by no chain bound, + But such as amorous arms might cast around + Their lovely bodies, than the wretched band + Who midst the shipmen by the gangway stand; + Each lonely in her speechless misery, + And thinking of the worse time that shall be, + When midst of folk who scarce can speak her name, + She bears the uttermost of toil and shame. + Better to him seemed that victorious crown, + That midst the reverent silence of the town + He oft would set upon some singer's brow + Than was the conqueror's diadem, blest now + By lying priests, soon, bent and bloody, hung + Within the thorn by linnets well besung, + Who think but little of the corpse beneath, + Though ancient lands have trembled at his breath. + But to this King--fair Ceres' gifts, the days + Whereon men sung in flushed Lyaeus' praise + Tales of old time, the bloodless sacrifice + Unto the goddess of the downcast eyes + And soft persuading lips, the ringing lyre + Unto the bearer of the holy fire + Who once had been amongst them--things like these + Seemed meet to him men's yearning to appease, + These were the triumphs of the peaceful king. + + And so, betwixt seed-time and harvesting, + With little fear his life must pass away; + And for the rest, he, from the self-same day + That the god left him, seemed to have some share + In that same godhead he had harboured there: + In all things grew his wisdom and his wealth, + And folk beholding the fair state and health + Wherein his land was, said, that now at last + A fragment of the Golden Age was cast + Over the place, for there was no debate, + And men forgot the very name of hate. + Nor failed the love of her he erst had won + To hold his heart as still the years wore on, + And she, no whit less fair than on the day + When from Iolchos first she passed away, + Did all his will as though he were a god, + And loving still, the downward way she trod. + Honour and love, plenty and peace, he had; + Nor lacked for aught that makes a wise man glad, + That makes him like a rich well-honoured guest + Scarce sorry when the time comes, for the rest, + That at the end perforce must bow his head. + And yet--was death not much remembered, + As still with happy men the manner is? + Or, was he not so pleased with this world's bliss, + As to be sorry when the time should come + When but his name should hold his ancient home + While he dwelt nowhere? either way indeed, + Will be enough for most men's daily need, + And with calm faces they may watch the world, + And note men's lives hither and thither hurled, + As folk may watch the unfolding of a play-- + Nor this, nor that was King Admetus' way, + For neither midst the sweetness of his life + Did he forget the ending of the strife, + Nor yet for heavy thoughts of passing pain + Did all his life seem lost to him or vain, + A wasteful jest of Jove, an empty dream; + Rather before him did a vague hope gleam, + That made him a great-hearted man and wise, + Who saw the deeds of men with far-seeing eyes, + And dealt them pitying justice still, as though + The inmost heart of each man he did know; + This hope it was, and not his kingly place + That made men's hearts rejoice to see his face + Rise in the council hall; through this, men felt + That in their midst a son of man there dwelt + Like and unlike them, and their friend through all; + And still as time went on, the more would fall + This glory on the King's beloved head, + And round his life fresh hope and fear were shed. + + Yet at the last his good days passed away, + And sick upon his bed Admetus lay, + 'Twixt him and death nought but a lessening veil + Of hasty minutes, yet did hope not fail, + Nor did bewildering fear torment him then, + But still as ever, all the ways of men + Seemed dear to him: but he, while yet his breath + Still held the gateway 'gainst the arms of death, + Turned to his wife, who, bowed beside the bed, + Wept for his love, and dying goodlihead, + And bade her put all folk from out the room, + Then going to the treasury's rich gloom + To bear the arrows forth, the Lycian's gift. + So she, amidst her blinding tears, made shift + To find laid in the inmost treasury + Those shafts, and brought them unto him, but he, + Beholding them, beheld therewith his life, + Both that now past, with many marvels rife, + And that which he had hoped he yet should see. + Then spoke he faintly, "Love, 'twixt thee and me + A film has come, and I am failing fast: + And now our ancient happy life is past; + For either this is death's dividing hand, + And all is done, or if the shadowy land + I yet escape, full surely if I live + The god with life some other gift will give, + And change me unto thee: e'en at this tide + Like a dead man among you all I bide, + Until I once again behold my guest, + And he has given me either life or rest: + Alas, my love! that thy too loving heart + Nor with my life or death can have a part. + O cruel words! yet death is cruel too: + Stoop down and kiss me, for I yearn for you + E'en as the autumn yearneth for the sun." + "O love, a little time we have been one, + And if we now are twain weep not therefore; + For many a man on earth desireth sore + To have some mate upon the toilsome road, + Some sharer of his still increasing load, + And yet for all his longing and his pain + His troubled heart must seek for love in vain, + And till he dies still must he be alone-- + But now, although our love indeed is gone, + Yet to this land as thou art leal and true + Set now thine hand to what I bid thee do, + Because I may not die; rake up the brands + Upon the hearth, and from these trembling hands + Cast incense thereon, and upon them lay + These shafts, the relics of a happier day, + Then watch with me; perchance I may not die, + Though the supremest hour now draws anigh + Of life or death--O thou who madest me, + The only thing on earth alike to thee, + Why must I be unlike to thee in this? + Consider, if thou dost not do amiss + To slay the only thing that feareth death + Or knows its name, of all things drawing breath + Upon the earth: see now for no short hour, + For no half-halting death, to reach me slower + Than other men, I pray thee--what avail + To add some trickling grains unto the tale + Soon told, of minutes thou dost snatch away + From out the midst of that unending day + Wherein thou dwellest? rather grant me this + To right me wherein thou hast done amiss, + And give me life like thine for evermore." + + So murmured he, contending very sore + Against the coming death; but she meanwhile + Faint with consuming love, made haste to pile + The brands upon the hearth, and thereon cast + Sweet incense, and the feathered shafts at last; + Then, trembling, back unto the bed she crept, + And lay down by his side, and no more wept, + Nay scarce could think of death for very love + That in her faithful heart for ever strove + 'Gainst fear and grief: but now the incense-cloud + The old familiar chamber did enshroud, + And on the very verge of death drawn close + Wrapt both their weary souls in strange repose, + That through sweet sleep sent kindly images + Of simple things; and in the midst of these, + Whether it were but parcel of their dream, + Or that they woke to it as some might deem, + I know not, but the door was opened wide, + And the King's name a voice long silent cried, + And Phoebus on the very threshold trod, + And yet in nothing liker to a god + Than when he ruled Admetus' herds, for he + Still wore the homespun coat men used to see + Among the heifers in the summer morn, + And round about him hung the herdsman's horn, + And in his hand he bore the herdsman's spear + And cornel bow, the prowling dog-wolfs fear, + Though empty of its shafts the quiver was. + He to the middle of the room did pass, + And said, "Admetus, neither all for nought + My coming to thee is, nor have I brought + Good tidings to thee; poor man, thou shalt live + If any soul for thee sweet life will give + Enforced by none: for such a sacrifice + Alone the fates can deem a fitting price + For thy redemption; in no battle-field, + Maddened by hope of glory life to yield, + To give it up to heal no city's shame + In hope of gaining long-enduring fame; + For whoso dieth for thee must believe + That thou with shame that last gift wilt receive, + And strive henceforward with forgetfulness + The honied draught of thy new life to bless. + Nay, and moreover such a glorious heart + Who loves thee well enough with life to part + But for thy love, with life must lose love too, + Which e'en when wrapped about in weeds of woe + Is godlike life indeed to such an one. + "And now behold, three days ere life is done + Do the Fates give thee, and I, even I, + Upon thy life have shed felicity + And given thee love of men, that they in turn + With fervent love of thy dear love might burn. + The people love thee and thy silk-clad breast, + Thine open doors have given thee better rest + Than woods of spears or hills of walls might do. + And even now in wakefulness and woe + The city lies, calling to mind thy love + Wearying with ceaseless prayers the gods above. + But thou--thine heart is wise enough to know + That they no whit from their decrees will go." + + So saying, swiftly from the room he passed; + But on the world no look Admetus cast, + But peacefully turned round unto the wall + As one who knows that quick death must befall: + For in his heart he thought, "Indeed too well + I know what men are, this strange tale to tell + To those that live with me: yea, they will weep, + And o'er my tomb most solemn days will keep, + And in great chronicles will write my name, + Telling to many an age my deeds and fame. + For living men such things as this desire, + And by such ways will they appease the fire + Of love and grief: but when death comes to stare + Full in men's faces, and the truth lays bare, + How can we then have wish for anything, + But unto life that gives us all to cling?" + So said he, and with closed eyes did await, + Sleeping or waking, the decrees of fate. + + But now Alcestis rose, and by the bed + She stood, with wild thoughts passing through her head. + Dried were her tears, her troubled heart and sore + Throbbed with the anguish of her love no more. + A strange look on the dying man she cast, + Then covered up her face and said, "O past! + Past the sweet times that I remember well! + Alas, that such a tale my heart can tell! + Ah, how I trusted him! what love was mine! + How sweet to feel his arms about me twine, + And my heart beat with his! what wealth of bliss + To hear his praises! all to come to this, + That now I durst not look upon his face, + Lest in my heart that other thing have place. + That which I knew not, that which men call hate. + "O me, the bitterness of God and fate! + A little time ago we two were one; + I had not lost him though his life was done, + For still was he in me--but now alone + Through the thick darkness must my soul make moan, + For I must die: how can I live to bear + An empty heart about, the nurse of fear? + How can I live to die some other tide, + And, dying, hear my loveless name outcried + About the portals of that weary land + Whereby my shadowy feet should come to stand. + "Alcestis! O Alcestis, hadst thou known + That thou one day shouldst thus be left alone, + How hadst thou borne a living soul to love! + Hadst thou not rather lifted hands to Jove, + To turn thine heart to stone, thy front to brass, + That through this wondrous world thy soul might pass, + Well pleased and careless, as Diana goes + Through the thick woods, all pitiless of those + Her shafts smite down? Alas! how could it be + Can a god give a god's delights to thee? + Nay rather, Jove, but give me once again, + If for one moment only, that sweet pain + The love I had while still I thought to live! + Ah! wilt thou not, since unto thee I give + My life, my hope?--But thou--I come to thee. + Thou sleepest: O wake not, nor speak to me + In silence let my last hour pass away, + And men forget my bitter feeble day." + + With that she laid her down upon the bed, + And nestling to him, kissed his weary head, + And laid his wasted hand upon her breast, + Yet woke him not; and silence and deep rest + Fell on that chamber. The night wore away + Mid gusts of wailing wind, the twilight grey + Stole o'er the sea, and wrought his wondrous change + On things unseen by night, by day not strange, + But now half seen and strange; then came the sun, + And therewithal the silent world and dun + Waking, waxed many-coloured, full of sound, + As men again their heap of troubles found, + And woke up to their joy or misery. + But there, unmoved by aught, those twain did lie, + Until Admetus' ancient nurse drew near + Unto the open door, and full of fear + Beheld them moving not, and as folk dead; + Then, trembling with her eagerness and dread, + She cried, "Admetus! art thou dead indeed? + Alcestis! livest thou my words to heed? + Alas, alas, for this Thessalian folk!" + But with her piercing cry the King awoke, + And round about him wildly 'gan to stare, + As a bewildered man who knows not where + He has awakened: but not thin or wan + His face was now, as of a dying man, + But fresh and ruddy; and his eyes shone clear, + As of a man who much of life may bear. + And at the first, but joy and great surprise + Shone out from those awakened, new-healed eyes; + But as for something more at last he yearned, + Unto his love with troubled brow he turned, + For still she seemed to sleep: alas, alas! + Her lonely shadow even now did pass + Along the changeless fields, oft looking back, + As though it yet had thought of some great lack. + And here, the hand just fallen from off his breast + Was cold; and cold the bosom his hand pressed. + And even as the colour lit the day + The colour from her lips had waned away; + Yet still, as though that longed-for happiness + Had come again her faithful heart to bless, + Those white lips smiled, unwrinkled was her brow, + But of her eyes no secrets might he know, + For, hidden by the lids of ivory, + Had they beheld that death a-drawing nigh. + + Then o'er her dead corpse King Admetus hung, + Such sorrow in his heart as his faint tongue + Refused to utter; yet the just-past night + But dimly he remembered, and the sight + Of the Far-darter, and the dreadful word + That seemed to cleave all hope as with a sword: + Yet stronger in his heart a knowledge grew, + That nought it was but her fond heart and true + That all the marvel for his love had wrought, + Whereby from death to life he had been brought; + That dead, his life she was, as she had been + His life's delight while still she lived a queen. + And he fell wondering if his life were gain, + So wrapt as then in loneliness and pain; + Yet therewithal no tears would fill his eyes, + For as a god he was. + Then did he rise + And gat him down unto the Council-place, + And when the people saw his well-loved face + Then cried aloud for joy to see him there. + And earth again to them seemed blest and fair. + And though indeed they did lament in turn, + When of Alcestis' end they came to learn, + Scarce was it more than seeming, or, at least, + The silence in the middle of a feast, + When men have memory of their heroes slain. + So passed the order of the world again, + Victorious Summer crowning lusty Spring, + Rich Autumn faint with wealth of harvesting, + And Winter the earth's sleep; and then again + Spring, Summer, Autumn, and the Winter's pain: + And still and still the same the years went by. + + But Time, who slays so many a memory, + Brought hers to light, the short-lived loving Queen; + And her fair soul, as scent of flowers unseen, + Sweetened the turmoil of long centuries. + For soon, indeed, Death laid his hand on these, + The shouters round the throne upon that day. + And for Admetus, he, too, went his way, + Though if he died at all I cannot tell; + But either on the earth he ceased to dwell, + Or else, oft born again, had many a name. + But through all lands of Greece Alcestis' fame + Grew greater, and about her husband's twined + Lived, in the hearts of far-off men enshrined. + See I have told her tale, though I know not + What men are dwelling now on that green spot + Anigh Boebeis, or if Pherae still, + With name oft changed perchance, adown the hill + Still shows its white walls to the rising sun. + --The gods at least remember what is done. + + * * * * * + + Strange felt the wanderers at his tale, for now + Their old desires it seemed once more to show + Unto their altered hearts, when now the rest, + Most surely coming, of all things seemed best;-- + --Unless, by death perchance they yet might gain + Some space to try such deeds as now in vain + They heard of amidst stories of the past; + Such deeds as they for that wild hope had cast + From out their hands--they sighed to think of it, + And how as deedless men they there must sit. + + Yet, with the measured falling of that rhyme + Mingled the lovely sights and glorious time, + Whereby, in spite of hope long past away, + In spite of knowledge growing day by day + Of lives so wasted, in despite of death, + With sweet content that eve they drew their breath, + And scarce their own lives seemed to touch them more + Than that dead Queen's beside Boebeis' shore; + Bitter and sweet so mingled in them both, + Their lives and that old tale, they had been loth, + Perchance, to have them told another way.-- + So passed the sun from that fair summer day. + + * * * * * + + June drew unto its end, the hot bright days + Now gat from men as much of blame as praise, + As rainless still they passed, without a cloud, + And growing grey at last, the barley bowed + Before the south-east wind. On such a day + These folk amid the trellised roses lay, + And careless for a little while at least, + Crowned with the mingled blossoms held their feast: + Nor did the garden lack for younger folk, + Who cared no more for burning summer's yoke + Than the sweet breezes of the April-tide; + But through the thick trees wandered far and wide + From sun to shade, and shade to sun again, + Until they deemed the elders would be fain + To hear the tale, and shadows longer grew: + Then round about the grave old men they drew, + Both youths and maidens; and beneath their feet + The grass seemed greener, and the flowers more sweet + Unto the elders, as they stood around. + + So through the calm air soon arose the sound + Of one old voice as now a Wanderer spoke. + "O friends, and ye, fair loving gentle folk, + Would I could better tell a tale to-day; + But hark to this, which while our good ship lay + Within the Weser such a while agone, + A Fleming told me, as we sat alone + One Sunday evening in the Rose-garland, + And all the other folk were gone a-land + After their pleasure, like sea-faring men. + Surely I deem it no great wonder then + That I remember everything he said, + Since from that Sunday eve strange fortune led + That keel and me on such a weary way-- + Well, at the least it serveth you to-day." + + + + +THE LADY OF THE LAND. + +ARGUMENT. + +A certain man having landed on an island in the Greek Sea found there a + beautiful damsel, whom he would fain have delivered from a strange + and dreadful doom, but failing herein, he died soon afterwards. + + + It happened once, some men of Italy + Midst the Greek Islands went a sea-roving, + And much good fortune had they on the sea: + Of many a man they had the ransoming, + And many a chain they gat, and goodly thing; + And midst their voyage to an isle they came, + Whereof my story keepeth not the name. + + Now though but little was there left to gain, + Because the richer folk had gone away, + Yet since by this of water they were fain + They came to anchor in a land-locked bay, + Whence in a while some went ashore to play, + Going but lightly armed in twos or threes, + For midst that folk they feared no enemies. + + And of these fellows that thus went ashore, + One was there who left all his friends behind; + Who going inland ever more and more, + And being left quite alone, at last did find + A lonely valley sheltered from the wind, + Wherein, amidst an ancient cypress wood, + A long-deserted ruined castle stood. + + The wood, once ordered in fair grove and glade, + With gardens overlooked by terraces, + And marble-paved pools for pleasure made, + Was tangled now, and choked with fallen trees; + And he who went there, with but little ease + Must stumble by the stream's side, once made meet + For tender women's dainty wandering feet. + + The raven's croak, the low wind choked and drear, + The baffled stream, the grey wolf's doleful cry, + Were all the sounds that mariner could hear, + As through the wood he wandered painfully; + But as unto the house he drew anigh, + The pillars of a ruined shrine he saw, + The once fair temple of a fallen law. + + No image was there left behind to tell + Before whose face the knees of men had bowed; + An altar of black stone, of old wrought well, + Alone beneath a ruined roof now showed + The goal whereto the folk were wont to crowd, + Seeking for things forgotten long ago, + Praying for heads long ages laid a-low. + + Close to the temple was the castle-gate, + Doorless and crumbling; there our fellow turned, + Trembling indeed at what might chance to wait + The prey entrapped, yet with a heart that burned + To know the most of what might there be learned, + And hoping somewhat too, amid his fear, + To light on such things as all men hold dear. + + Noble the house was, nor seemed built for war, + But rather like the work of other days, + When men, in better peace than now they are, + Had leisure on the world around to gaze, + And noted well the past times' changing ways; + And fair with sculptured stories it was wrought, + By lapse of time unto dim ruin brought. + + Now as he looked about on all these things, + And strove to read the mouldering histories, + Above the door an image with wide wings, + Whose unclad limbs a serpent seemed to seize, + He dimly saw, although the western breeze, + And years of biting frost and washing rain, + Had made the carver's labour well-nigh vain. + + But this, though perished sore, and worn away, + He noted well, because it seemed to be, + After the fashion of another day, + Some great man's badge of war, or armoury, + And round it a carved wreath he seemed to see; + But taking note of these things, at the last + The mariner beneath the gateway passed. + + And there a lovely cloistered court he found, + A fountain in the midst o'erthrown and dry, + And in the cloister briers twining round + The slender shafts; the wondrous imagery + Outworn by more than many years gone by, + Because the country people, in their fear + Of wizardry, had wrought destruction here; + + And piteously these fair things had been maimed; + There stood great Jove, lacking his head of might; + Here was the archer, swift Apollo, lamed; + The shapely limbs of Venus hid from sight + By weeds and shards; Diana's ankles light + Bound with the cable of some coasting ship; + And rusty nails through Helen's maddening lip. + + Therefrom unto the chambers did he pass, + And found them fair still, midst of their decay, + Though in them now no sign of man there was, + And everything but stone had passed away + That made them lovely in that vanished day; + Nay, the mere walls themselves would soon be gone + And nought be left but heaps of mouldering stone. + + But he, when all the place he had gone o'er. + And with much trouble clomb the broken stair, + And from the topmost turret seen the shore + And his good ship drawn up at anchor there, + Came down again, and found a crypt most fair + Built wonderfully beneath the greatest hall, + And there he saw a door within the wall, + + Well-hinged, close shut; nor was there in that place + Another on its hinges, therefore he + Stood there and pondered for a little space, + And thought, "Perchance some marvel I shall see, + For surely here some dweller there must be, + Because this door seems whole, and new, and sound. + While nought but ruin I can see around." + + So with that word, moved by a strong desire, + He tried the hasp, that yielded to his hand, + And in a strange place, lit as by a fire + Unseen but near, he presently did stand; + And by an odorous breeze his face was fanned, + As though in some Arabian plain he stood, + Anigh the border of a spice-tree wood. + + He moved not for awhile, but looking round, + He wondered much to see the place so fair, + Because, unlike the castle above ground, + No pillager or wrecker had been there; + It seemed that time had passed on otherwhere, + Nor laid a finger on this hidden place, + Rich with the wealth of some forgotten race. + + With hangings, fresh as when they left the loom, + The walls were hung a space above the head, + Slim ivory chairs were set about the room, + And in one corner was a dainty bed, + That seemed for some fair queen apparelled; + And marble was the worst stone of the floor, + That with rich Indian webs was covered o'er. + + The wanderer trembled when he saw all this, + Because he deemed by magic it was wrought; + Yet in his heart a longing for some bliss, + Whereof the hard and changing world knows nought, + Arose and urged him on, and dimmed the thought + That there perchance some devil lurked to slay + The heedless wanderer from the light of day. + + Over against him was another door + Set in the wall, so, casting fear aside, + With hurried steps he crossed the varied floor, + And there again the silver latch he tried + And with no pain the door he opened wide, + And entering the new chamber cautiously + The glory of great heaps of gold could see. + + Upon the floor uncounted medals lay, + Like things of little value; here and there + Stood golden caldrons, that might well outweigh + The biggest midst an emperor's copper-ware, + And golden cups were set on tables fair, + Themselves of gold; and in all hollow things + Were stored great gems, worthy the crowns of kings. + + The walls and roof with gold were overlaid, + And precious raiment from the wall hung down; + The fall of kings that treasure might have stayed, + Or gained some longing conqueror great renown, + Or built again some god-destroyed old town; + What wonder, if this plunderer of the sea + Stood gazing at it long and dizzily? + + But at the last his troubled eyes and dazed + He lifted from the glory of that gold, + And then the image, that well-nigh erased + Over the castle-gate he did behold, + Above a door well wrought in coloured gold + Again he saw; a naked girl with wings + Enfolded in a serpent's scaly rings. + + And even as his eyes were fixed on it + A woman's voice came from the other side, + And through his heart strange hopes began to flit + That in some wondrous land he might abide + Not dying, master of a deathless bride, + So o'er the gold which now he scarce could see + He went, and passed this last door eagerly. + + Then in a room he stood wherein there was + A marble bath, whose brimming water yet + Was scarcely still; a vessel of green glass + Half full of odorous ointment was there set + Upon the topmost step that still was wet, + And jewelled shoes and women's dainty gear, + Lay cast upon the varied pavement near. + + In one quick glance these things his eyes did see, + But speedily they turned round to behold + Another sight, for throned on ivory + There sat a woman, whose wet tresses rolled + On to the floor in waves of gleaming gold, + Cast back from such a form as, erewhile shown + To one poor shepherd, lighted up Troy town. + + Naked she was, the kisses of her feet + Upon the floor a dying path had made + From the full bath unto her ivory seat; + In her right hand, upon her bosom laid, + She held a golden comb, a mirror weighed + Her left hand down, aback her fair head lay + Dreaming awake of some long vanished day. + + Her eyes were shut, but she seemed not to sleep, + Her lips were murmuring things unheard and low, + Or sometimes twitched as though she needs must weep + Though from her eyes the tears refused to flow, + And oft with heavenly red her cheek did glow, + As if remembrance of some half-sweet shame + Across the web of many memories came. + + There stood the man, scarce daring to draw breath + For fear the lovely sight should fade away; + Forgetting heaven, forgetting life and death, + Trembling for fear lest something he should say + Unwitting, lest some sob should yet betray + His presence there, for to his eager eyes + Already did the tears begin to rise. + + But as he gazed she moved, and with a sigh + Bent forward, dropping down her golden head; + "Alas, alas! another day gone by, + Another day and no soul come," she said; + "Another year, and still I am not dead!" + And with that word once more her head she raised, + And on the trembling man with great eyes gazed. + + Then he imploring hands to her did reach, + And toward her very slowly 'gan to move + And with wet eyes her pity did beseech, + And seeing her about to speak he strove + From trembling lips to utter words of love; + But with a look she stayed his doubtful feet, + And made sweet music as their eyes did meet. + + For now she spoke in gentle voice and clear, + Using the Greek tongue that he knew full well; + "What man art thou, that thus hast wandered here. + And found this lonely chamber where I dwell? + Beware, beware! for I have many a spell; + If greed of power and gold have led thee on, + Not lightly shall this untold wealth be won. + + "But if thou com'st here, knowing of my tale, + In hope to bear away my body fair, + Stout must thine heart be, nor shall that avail + If thou a wicked soul in thee dost bear; + So once again I bid thee to beware, + Because no base man things like this may see, + And live thereafter long and happily." + + "Lady," he said, "in Florence is my home, + And in my city noble is my name; + Neither on peddling voyage am I come, + But, like my fathers, bent to gather fame; + And though thy face has set my heart a-flame + Yet of thy story nothing do I know, + But here have wandered heedlessly enow. + + "But since the sight of thee mine eyes did bless, + What can I be but thine? what wouldst thou have? + From those thy words, I deem from some distress + By deeds of mine thy dear life I might save; + O then, delay not! if one ever gave + His life to any, mine I give to thee; + Come, tell me what the price of love must be? + + "Swift death, to be with thee a day and night + And with the earliest dawning to be slain? + Or better, a long year of great delight, + And many years of misery and pain? + Or worse, and this poor hour for all my gain? + A sorry merchant am I on this day, + E'en as thou wiliest so must I obey." + + She said, "What brave words! nought divine am I, + But an unhappy and unheard-of maid + Compelled by evil fate and destiny + To live, who long ago should have been laid + Under the earth within the cypress shade. + Hearken awhile, and quickly shalt thou know + What deed I pray thee to accomplish now. + + "God grant indeed thy words are not for nought! + Then shalt thou save me, since for many a day + To such a dreadful life I have been brought: + Nor will I spare with all my heart to pay + What man soever takes my grief away; + Ah! I will love thee, if thou lovest me + But well enough my saviour now to be. + + "My father lived a many years agone + Lord of this land, master of all cunning, + Who ruddy gold could draw from out grey stone, + And gather wealth from many an uncouth thing, + He made the wilderness rejoice and sing, + And such a leech he was that none could say + Without his word what soul should pass away. + + "Unto Diana such a gift he gave, + Goddess above, below, and on the earth, + That I should be her virgin and her slave + From the first hour of my most wretched birth; + Therefore my life had known but little mirth + When I had come unto my twentieth year + And the last time of hallowing drew anear. + + "So in her temple had I lived and died + And all would long ago have passed away, + But ere that time came, did strange things betide, + Whereby I am alive unto this day; + Alas, the bitter words that I must say! + Ah! can I bring my wretched tongue to tell + How I was brought unto this fearful hell. + + "A queen I was, what gods I knew I loved, + And nothing evil was there in my thought, + And yet by love my wretched heart was moved + Until to utter ruin I was brought! + Alas! thou sayest our gods were vain and nought, + Wait, wait, till thou hast heard this tale of mine. + Then shalt thou think them devilish or divine. + + "Hearken! in spite of father and of vow + I loved a man; but for that sin I think + Men had forgiven me--yea, yea, even thou; + But from the gods the full cup must I drink, + And into misery unheard of sink, + Tormented when their own names are forgot, + And men must doubt e'er if they lived or not. + + "Glorious my lover was unto my sight, + Most beautiful,--of love we grew so fain + That we at last agreed, that on a night + We should be happy, but that he were slain + Or shut in hold, and neither joy nor pain + Should else forbid that hoped-for time to be; + So came the night that made a wretch of me. + + "Ah I well do I remember all that night, + When through the window shone the orb of June, + And by the bed flickered the taper's light, + Whereby I trembled, gazing at the moon: + Ah me! the meeting that we had, when soon + Into his strong, well-trusted arms I fell, + And many a sorrow we began to tell. + + "Ah me I what parting on that night we had! + I think the story of my great despair + A little while might merry folk make sad; + For, as he swept away my yellow hair + To make my shoulder and my bosom bare, + I raised mine eyes, and shuddering could behold + A shadow cast upon the bed of gold: + + "Then suddenly was quenched my hot desire + And he untwined his arms; the moon so pale + A while ago, seemed changed to blood and fire, + And yet my limbs beneath me did not fail, + And neither had I strength to cry or wail, + But stood there helpless, bare, and shivering, + With staring eyes still fixed upon the thing. + + "Because the shade that on the bed of gold + The changed and dreadful moon was throwing down + Was of Diana, whom I did behold, + With knotted hair, and shining girt-up gown, + And on the high white brow, a deadly frown + Bent upon us, who stood scarce drawing breath, + Striving to meet the horrible sure death. + + "No word at all the dreadful goddess said, + But soon across my feet my lover lay, + And well indeed I knew that he was dead; + And would that I had died on that same day! + For in a while the image turned away, + And without words my doom I understood, + And felt a horror change my human blood. + + "And there I fell, and on the floor I lay + By the dead man, till daylight came on me, + And not a word thenceforward could I say + For three years, till of grief and misery, + The lingering pest, the cruel enemy, + My father and his folk were dead and gone, + And in this castle I was left alone: + + "And then the doom foreseen upon me fell, + For Queen Diana did my body change + Into a fork-tongued dragon flesh and fell, + And through the island nightly do I range, + Or in the green sea mate with monsters strange, + When in the middle of the moonlit night + The sleepy mariner I do affright. + + "But all day long upon this gold I lie + Within this place, where never mason's hand + Smote trowel on the marble noisily; + Drowsy I lie, no folk at my command, + Who once was called the Lady of the Land; + Who might have bought a kingdom with a kiss, + Yea, half the world with such a sight as this." + + And therewithal, with rosy fingers light, + Backward her heavy-hanging hair she threw, + To give her naked beauty more to sight; + But when, forgetting all the things he knew, + Maddened with love unto the prize he drew, + She cried, "Nay, wait! for wherefore wilt thou die, + Why should we not be happy, thou and I? + + "Wilt thou not save me? once in every year + This rightful form of mine that thou dost see + By favour of the goddess have I here + From sunrise unto sunset given me, + That some brave man may end my misery. + And thou--art thou not brave? can thy heart fail, + Whose eyes e'en now are weeping at my tale? + + "Then listen! when this day is overpast, + A fearful monster shall I be again, + And thou mayst be my saviour at the last, + Unless, once more, thy words are nought and vain; + If thou of love and sovereignty art fain, + Come thou next morn, and when thou seest here + A hideous dragon, have thereof no fear, + + "But take the loathsome head up in thine hands, + And kiss it, and be master presently + Of twice the wealth that is in all the lands, + From Cathay to the head of Italy; + And master also, if it pleaseth thee, + Of all thou praisest as so fresh and bright, + Of what thou callest crown of all delight. + + "Ah! with what joy then shall I see again + The sunlight on the green grass and the trees, + And hear the clatter of the summer rain, + And see the joyous folk beyond the seas. + Ah, me! to hold my child upon my knees, + After the weeping of unkindly tears, + And all the wrongs of these four hundred years. + + "Go now, go quick! leave this grey heap of stone; + And from thy glad heart think upon thy way, + How I shall love thee--yea, love thee alone, + That bringest me from dark death unto day; + For this shall be thy wages and thy pay; + Unheard-of wealth, unheard-of love is near, + If thou hast heart a little dread to bear." + + Therewith she turned to go; but he cried out, + "Ah! wilt thou leave me then without one kiss, + To slay the very seeds of fear and doubt, + That glad to-morrow may bring certain bliss? + Hast thou forgotten how love lives by this, + The memory of some hopeful close embrace, + Low whispered words within some lonely place?" + + But she, when his bright glittering eyes she saw, + And burning cheeks, cried out, "Alas, alas! + Must I be quite undone, and wilt thou draw + A worse fate on me than the first one was? + O haste thee from this fatal place to pass! + Yet, ere thou goest, take this, lest thou shouldst deem + Thou hast been fooled by some strange midday dream." + + So saying, blushing like a new-kissed maid, + From off her neck a little gem she drew, + That, 'twixt those snowy rose-tinged hillocks laid, + The secrets of her glorious beauty knew; + And ere he well perceived what she would do, + She touched his hand, the gem within it lay, + And, turning, from his sight she fled away. + + Then at the doorway where her rosy heel + Had glanced and vanished, he awhile did stare, + And still upon his hand he seemed to feel + The varying kisses of her fingers fair; + Then turned he toward the dreary crypt and bare, + And dizzily throughout the castle passed, + Till by the ruined fane he stood at last. + + Then weighing still the gem within his hand, + He stumbled backward through the cypress wood, + Thinking the while of some strange lovely land, + Where all his life should be most fair and good; + Till on the valley's wall of hills he stood, + And slowly thence passed down unto the bay + Red with the death of that bewildering day. + + * * * * * + + The next day came, and he, who all the night + Had ceaselessly been turning in his bed, + Arose and clad himself in armour bright, + And many a danger he remembered; + Storming of towns, lone sieges full of dread, + That with renown his heart had borne him through, + And this thing seemed a little thing to do. + + So on he went, and on the way he thought + Of all the glorious things of yesterday, + Nought of the price whereat they must be bought, + But ever to himself did softly say, + "No roaming now, my wars are passed away, + No long dull days devoid of happiness, + When such a love my yearning heart shall bless." + + Thus to the castle did he come at last, + But when unto the gateway he drew near, + And underneath its ruined archway passed + Into the court, a strange noise did he hear, + And through his heart there shot a pang of fear, + Trembling, he gat his sword into his hand, + And midmost of the cloisters took his stand. + + But for a while that unknown noise increased + A rattling, that with strident roars did blend, + And whining moans; but suddenly it ceased, + A fearful thing stood at the cloister's end, + And eyed him for a while, then 'gan to wend + Adown the cloisters, and began again + That rattling, and the moan like fiends in pain. + + And as it came on towards him, with its teeth + The body of a slain goat did it tear, + The blood whereof in its hot jaws did seethe, + And on its tongue he saw the smoking hair; + Then his heart sank, and standing trembling there, + Throughout his mind wild thoughts and fearful ran, + "Some fiend she was," he said, "the bane of man." + + Yet he abode her still, although his blood + Curdled within him: the thing dropped the goat, + And creeping on, came close to where he stood, + And raised its head to him, and wrinkled throat, + Then he cried out and wildly at her smote, + Shutting his eyes, and turned and from the place + Ran swiftly, with a white and ghastly face. + + But little things rough stones and tree-trunks seemed, + And if he fell, he rose and ran on still; + No more he felt his hurts than if he dreamed, + He made no stay for valley or steep hill, + Heedless he dashed through many a foaming rill, + Until he came unto the ship at last + And with no word into the deep hold passed. + + Meanwhile the dragon, seeing him clean gone. + Followed him not, but crying horribly, + Caught up within her jaws a block of stone + And ground it into powder, then turned she, + With cries that folk could hear far out at sea, + And reached the treasure set apart of old, + To brood above the hidden heaps of gold. + + Yet was she seen again on many a day + By some half-waking mariner, or herd, + Playing amid the ripples of the bay, + Or on the hills making all things afeard, + Or in the wood, that did that castle gird, + But never any man again durst go + To seek her woman's form, and end her woe. + + As for the man, who knows what things he bore? + What mournful faces peopled the sad night, + What wailings vexed him with reproaches sore, + What images of that nigh-gained delight! + What dreamed caresses from soft hands and white, + Turning to horrors ere they reached the best, + What struggles vain, what shame, what huge unrest? + + No man he knew, three days he lay and raved, + And cried for death, until a lethargy + Fell on him, and his fellows thought him saved; + But on the third night he awoke to die; + And at Byzantium doth his body lie + Between two blossoming pomegranate trees, + Within the churchyard of the Genoese. + + * * * * * + + A moment's silence as his tale had end, + And then the wind of that June night did blend + Their varied voices, as of that and this + They fell to talk: of those fair islands' bliss + They knew in other days, of hope they had + To live there long an easy life and glad, + With nought to vex them; and the younger men + Began to nourish strange dreams even then + Of sailing east, as these had once sailed west; + Because the story of that luckless quest + With hope, not fear, had filled their joyous hearts + And made them dream of new and noble parts + That they might act; of raising up the name + Their fathers bore, and winning boundless fame. + These too with little patience seemed to hear, + That story end with shame and grief and fear; + A little thing the man had had to do, + They said, if longing burned within him so. + But at their words the older men must bow + Their heads, and, smiling, somewhat thoughtful grow, + Remembering well how fear in days gone by + Had dealt with them, and poisoned wretchedly + Good days, good deeds, and longings for all good: + Yet on the evil times they would not brood, + But sighing, strove to raise the weight of years, + And no more memory of their hopes and fears + They nourished, but such gentle thoughts as fed + The pensiveness which that sweet season bred. + + + + +JULY. + + + Fair was the morn to-day, the blossom's scent + Floated across the fresh grass, and the bees + With low vexed song from rose to lily went, + A gentle wind was in the heavy trees, + And thine eyes shone with joyous memories; + Fair was the early morn, and fair wert thou, + And I was happy--Ah, be happy now! + + Peace and content without us, love within + That hour there was, now thunder and wild rain, + Have wrapped the cowering world, and foolish sin, + And nameless pride, have made us wise in vain; + Ah, love! although the morn shall come again, + And on new rose-buds the new sun shall smile, + Can we regain what we have lost meanwhile? + + E'en now the west grows clear of storm and threat, + But midst the lightning did the fair sun die-- + --Ah, he shall rise again for ages yet, + He cannot waste his life--but thou and I-- + Who knows if next morn this felicity + My lips may feel, or if thou still shalt live + This seal of love renewed once more to give? + + * * * * * + + Within a lovely valley, watered well + With flowery streams, the July feast befell, + And there within the Chief-priest's fair abode + They cast aside their trouble's heavy load, + Scarce made aweary by the sultry day. + The earth no longer laboured; shaded lay + The sweet-breathed kine, across the sunny vale, + From hill to hill the wandering rook did sail, + Lazily croaking, midst his dreams of spring, + Nor more awake the pink-foot dove did cling + Unto the beech-bough, murmuring now and then; + All rested but the restless sons of men + And the great sun that wrought this happiness, + And all the vale with fruitful hopes did bless. + So in a marble chamber bright with flowers, + The old men feasted through the fresher hours, + And at the hottest time of all the day + When now the sun was on his downward way, + Sat listening to a tale an elder told, + New to his fathers while they yet did hold + The cities of some far-off Grecian isle, + Though in the heavens the cloud of force and guile + Was gathering dark that sent them o'er the sea + To win new lands for their posterity. + + + + +THE SON OF CROESUS. + +ARGUMENT. + +Croesus, King of Lydia, dreamed that he saw his son slain by an iron + weapon, and though by every means he strove to avert this doom from + him, yet thus it happened, for his son was slain by the hand of the + man who seemed least of all likely to do the deed. + + + Of Croesus tells my tale, a king of old + In Lydia, ere the Mede fell on the land, + A man made mighty by great heaps of gold, + Feared for the myriads strong of heart and hand + That 'neath his banners wrought out his command, + And though his latter ending happed on ill, + Yet first of every joy he had his fill. + + Two sons he had, and one was dumb from birth; + The other one, that Atys had to name, + Grew up a fair youth, and of might and worth, + And well it seemed the race wherefrom he came + From him should never get reproach or shame: + But yet no stroke he struck before his death, + In no war-shout he spent his latest breath. + + Now Croesus, lying on his bed anight + Dreamed that he saw this dear son laid a-low, + And folk lamenting he was slain outright, + And that some iron thing had dealt the blow; + By whose hand guided he could nowise know, + Or if in peace by traitors it were done, + Or in some open war not yet begun. + + Three times one night this vision broke his sleep, + So that at last he rose up from his bed, + That he might ponder how he best might keep + The threatened danger from so dear a head; + And, since he now was old enough to wed, + The King sent men to search the lands around, + Until some matchless maiden should be found; + + That in her arms this Atys might forget + The praise of men, and fame of history, + Whereby full many a field has been made wet + With blood of men, and many a deep green sea + Been reddened therewithal, and yet shall be; + That her sweet voice might drown the people's praise, + Her eyes make bright the uneventful days. + + So when at last a wonder they had brought, + From some sweet land down by the ocean's rim. + Than whom no fairer could by man be thought, + And ancient dames, scanning her limb by limb, + Had said that she was fair enough for him, + To her was Atys married with much show, + And looked to dwell with her in bliss enow. + + And in meantime afield he never went, + Either to hunting or the frontier war, + No dart was cast, nor any engine bent + Anigh him, and the Lydian men afar + Must rein their steeds, and the bright blossoms mar + If they have any lust of tourney now, + And in far meadows must they bend the bow. + + And also through the palace everywhere + The swords and spears were taken from the wall + That long with honour had been hanging there, + And from the golden pillars of the hall; + Lest by mischance some sacred blade should fall, + And in its falling bring revenge at last + For many a fatal battle overpast. + + And every day King Croesus wrought with care + To save his dear son from that threatened end, + And many a beast he offered up with prayer + Unto the gods, and much of wealth did spend, + That they so prayed might yet perchance defend + That life, until at least that he were dead, + With earth laid heavy on his unseeing head. + + But in the midst even of the wedding feast + There came a man, who by the golden hall + Sat down upon the steps, and man or beast + He heeded not, but there against the wall + He leaned his head, speaking no word at all, + Till, with his son and son's wife, came the King, + And then unto his gown the man did cling. + + "What man art thou?" the King said to him then, + "That in such guise thou prayest on thy knee; + Hast thou some fell foe here among my men? + Or hast thou done an ill deed unto me? + Or has thy wife been carried over sea? + Or hast thou on this day great need of gold? + Or say, why else thou now art grown so bold." + + "O King," he said, "I ask no gold to-day, + And though indeed thy greatness drew me here, + No wrong have I that thou couldst wipe away; + And nought of mine the pirate folk did bear + Across the sea; none of thy folk I fear: + But all the gods are now mine enemies, + Therefore I kneel before thee on my knees. + + "For as with mine own brother on a day + Within the running place at home I played, + Unwittingly I smote him such-a-way + That dead upon the green grass he was laid; + Half-dead myself I fled away dismayed, + Wherefore I pray thee help me in my need, + And purify my soul of this sad deed. + + "If of my name and country thou wouldst know, + In Phrygia yet my father is a king, + Gordius, the son of Midas, rich enow + In corn and cattle, golden cup and ring; + And mine own name before I did this thing + Was called Adrastus, whom, in street and hall, + The slayer of his brother men now call." + + "Friend," said the King, "have thou no fear of me; + For though, indeed, I am right happy now, + Yet well I know this may not always be, + And I may chance some day to kneel full low, + And to some happy man mine head to bow + With prayers to do a greater thing than this, + Dwell thou with us, and win again thy bliss. + + "For in this city men in sport and play + Forget the trouble that the gods have sent; + Who therewithal send wine, and many a may + As fair as she for whom the Trojan went, + And many a dear delight besides have lent, + Which, whoso is well loved of them shall keep + Till in forgetful death he falls asleep. + + "Therefore to-morrow shall those rites be done + That kindred blood demands that thou hast shed, + That if the mouth of thine own mother's son + Did hap to curse thee ere he was quite dead, + The curse may lie the lighter on thine head, + Because the flower-crowned head of many a beast + Has fallen voiceless in our glorious feast." + + Then did Adrastus rise and thank the King, + And the next day when yet low was the sun, + The sacrifice and every other thing + That unto these dread rites belonged, was done; + And there Adrastus dwelt, hated of none, + And loved of many, and the King loved him, + For brave and wise he was and strong of limb. + + But chiefly amongst all did Atys love + The luckless stranger, whose fair tales of war + The Lydian's heart abundantly did move, + And much they talked of wandering out afar + Some day, to lands where many marvels are, + With still the Phrygian through all things to be + The leader unto all felicity. + + Now at this time folk came unto the King + Who on a forest's borders dwelling were, + Wherein there roamed full many a dangerous thing, + As wolf and wild bull, lion and brown bear; + But chiefly in that forest was the lair + Of a great boar that no man could withstand. + And many a woe he wrought upon the land. + + Since long ago that men in Calydon + Held chase, no beast like him had once been seen + He ruined vineyards lying in the sun, + After his harvesting the men must glean + What he had left; right glad they had not been + Among the tall stalks of the ripening wheat, + The fell destroyer's fatal tusks to meet. + + For often would the lonely man entrapped + In vain from his dire fury strive to hide + In some thick hedge, and other whiles it happed + Some careless stranger by his place would ride, + And the tusks smote his fallen horse's side, + And what help then to such a wretch could come + With sword he could not draw, and far from home? + + Or else girls, sent their water-jars to fill, + Would come back pale, too terrified to cry, + Because they had but seen him from the hill; + Or else again with side rent wretchedly, + Some hapless damsel midst the brake would lie. + Shortly to say, there neither man nor maid + Was safe afield whether they wrought or played. + + Therefore were come these dwellers by the wood + To pray the King brave men to them to send, + That they might live; and if he deemed it good, + That Atys with the other knights should wend, + They thought their grief the easier should have end; + For both by gods and men they knew him loved, + And easily by hope of glory moved. + + "O Sire," they said, "thou know'st how Hercules + Was not content to wait till folk asked aid, + But sought the pests among their guarded trees; + Thou know'st what name the Theban Cadmus made, + And how the bull of Marathon was laid + Dead on the fallows of the Athenian land, + And how folk worshipped Atalanta's hand. + + "Fair would thy son's name look upon the roll + Wherein such noble deeds as this are told; + And great delight shall surely fill thy soul, + Thinking upon his deeds when thou art old, + And thy brave heart is waxen faint and cold: + Dost thou not know, O King, how men will strive + That they, when dead, still in their sons may live?" + + He shuddered as they spoke, because he thought, + Most certainly a winning tale is this + To draw him from the net where he is caught, + For hearts of men grow weary of all bliss; + Nor is he one to be content with his, + If he should hear the trumpet-blast of fame + And far-off people calling on his name. + + "Good friends," he said, "go, get ye back again. + And doubt not I will send you men to slay + This pest ye fear: yet shall your prayer be vain + If ye with any other speak to-day; + And for my son, with me he needs must stay, + For mighty cares oppress the Lydian land. + Fear not, for ye shall have a noble band." + + And with that promise must they be content, + And so departed, having feasted well. + And yet some god or other ere they went, + If they were silent, this their tale must tell + To more than one man; therefore it befell, + That at the last Prince Atys knew the thing, + And came with angry eyes unto the King. + + "Father," he said, "since when am I grown vile + Since when am I grown helpless of my hands? + Or else what folk, with words enwrought with guile + Thine ears have poisoned; that when far-off lands + My fame might fill, by thy most strange commands + I needs must stay within this slothful home, + Whereto would God that I had never come? + + "What! wilt thou take mine honour quite away + Wouldst thou, that, as with her I just have wed + I sit among thy folk at end of day, + She should be ever turning round her head + To watch some man for war apparelled + Because he wears a sword that he may use, + Which grace to me thou ever wilt refuse? + + "Or dost thou think, when thou hast run thy race + And thou art gone, and in thy stead I reign, + The people will do honour to my place, + Or that the lords leal men will still remain, + If yet my father's sword be sharp in vain? + If on the wall his armour still hang up, + While for a spear I hold a drinking-cup?" + + "O Son!" quoth Croesus, "well I know thee brave + And worthy of high deeds of chivalry; + Therefore the more thy dear life would I save, + Which now is threatened by the gods on high; + Three times one night I dreamed I saw thee die, + Slain by some deadly iron-pointed thing, + While weeping lords stood round thee in a ring." + + Then loud laughed Atys, and he said again, + "Father, and did this ugly dream tell thee + What day it was on which I should be slain? + As may the gods grant I may one day be, + And not from sickness die right wretchedly, + Groaning with pain, my lords about my bed, + Wishing to God that I were fairly dead; + + "But slain in battle, as the Lydian kings + Have died ere now, in some great victory, + While all about the Lydian shouting rings + Death to the beaten foemen as they fly. + What death but this, O father! should I die? + But if my life by iron shall be done, + What steel to-day shall glitter in the sun? + + "Yea, father, if to thee it seemeth good + To keep me from the bright steel-bearing throng, + Let me be brave at least within the wood; + For surely, if thy dream be true, no wrong + Can hap to me from this beast's tushes strong: + Unless perchance the beast is grown so wise, + He haunts the forest clad in Lydian guise." + + Then Croesus said: "O Son, I love thee so, + That thou shalt do thy will upon this tide: + But since unto this hunting thou must go, + A trusty friend along with thee shall ride, + Who not for anything shall leave thy side. + I think, indeed, he loves thee well enow + To thrust his heart 'twixt thee and any blow. + + "Go then, O Son, and if by some short span + Thy life be measured, how shall it harm thee, + If while life last thou art a happy man? + And thou art happy; only unto me + Is trembling left, and infelicity: + The trembling of the man who loves on earth, + But unto thee is hope and present mirth. + + "Nay, be thou not ashamed, for on this day + I fear not much: thou read'st my dream aright, + No teeth or claws shall take thy life away. + And it may chance, ere thy last glorious fight, + I shall be blinded by the endless night; + And brave Adrastus on this day shall be + Thy safeguard, and shall give good heart to me. + + "Go then, and send him hither, and depart; + And as the heroes did so mayst thou do, + Winning such fame as well may please thine heart." + With that word from the King did Atys go, + Who, left behind, sighed, saying, "May it be so, + Even as I hope; and yet I would to God + These men upon my threshold ne'er had trod." + + So when Adrastus to the King was come + He said unto him, "O my Phrygian friend, + We in this land have given thee a home, + And 'gainst all foes your life will we defend: + Wherefore for us that life thou shouldest spend, + If any day there should be need therefor; + And now a trusty friend I need right sore. + + "Doubtless ere now thou hast heard many say + There is a doom that threatens my son's life; + Therefore this place is stript of arms to-day, + And therefore still bides Atys with his wife, + And tempts not any god by raising strife; + Yet none the less by no desire of his, + To whom would war be most abundant bliss. + + "And since to-day some glory he may gain + Against a monstrous bestial enemy + And that the meaning of my dream is plain; + That saith that he by steel alone shall die, + His burning wish I may not well deny, + Therefore afield to-morrow doth he wend + And herein mayst thou show thyself my friend-- + + "For thou as captain of his band shalt ride, + And keep a watchful eye of everything, + Nor leave him whatsoever may betide: + Lo, thou art brave, the son of a great king, + And with thy praises doth this city ring, + Why should I tell thee what a name those gain, + Who dying for their friends, die not in vain?" + + Then said Adrastus, "Now were I grown base + Beyond all words, if I should spare for aught + In guarding him, so sit with smiling face, + And of this matter take no further thought, + Because with my life shall his life be bought, + If ill should hap; and no ill fate it were, + If I should die for what I hold so dear." + + Then went Adrastus, and next morn all things, + That 'longed unto the hunting were well dight, + And forth they went clad as the sons of kings, + Fair was the morn, as through the sunshine bright + They rode, the Prince half wild with great delight, + The Phrygian smiling on him soberly, + And ever looking round with watchful eye. + + So through the city all the rout rode fast, + With many a great black-muzzled yellow hound; + And then the teeming country-side they passed, + Until they came to sour and rugged ground, + And there rode up a little heathy mound, + That overlooked the scrubby woods and low, + That of the beast's lair somewhat they might know. + + And there a good man of the country-side + Showed them the places where he mostly lay; + And they, descending, through the wood did ride, + And followed on his tracks for half the day. + And at the last they brought him well to bay, + Within an oozy space amidst the wood, + About the which a ring of alders stood. + + So when the hounds' changed voices clear they heard + With hearts aflame on towards him straight they drew + Atys the first of all, of nought afeard, + Except that folk should say some other slew + The beast; and lustily his horn he blew, + Going afoot; then, mighty spear in hand, + Adrastus headed all the following band. + + Now when they came unto the plot of ground + Where stood the boar, hounds dead about him lay + Or sprawled about, bleeding from many a wound, + But still the others held him well at bay, + Nor had he been bestead thus ere that day. + But yet, seeing Atys, straight he rushed at him, + Speckled with foam, bleeding in flank and limb. + + Then Atys stood and cast his well-steeled spear + With a great shout, and straight and well it flew; + For now the broad blade cutting through the ear, + A stream of blood from out the shoulder drew. + And therewithal another, no less true, + Adrastus cast, whereby the boar had died: + But Atys drew the bright sword from his side, + + And to the tottering beast he drew anigh: + But as the sun's rays ran adown the blade + Adrastus threw a javelin hastily, + For of the mighty beast was he afraid, + Lest by his wounds he should not yet be stayed, + But with a last rush cast his life away, + And dying there, the son of Croesus slay. + + But even as the feathered dart he hurled, + His strained, despairing eyes, beheld the end, + And changed seemed all the fashion of the world, + And past and future into one did blend, + As he beheld the fixed eyes of his friend, + That no reproach had in them, and no fear, + For Death had seized him ere he thought him near. + + Adrastus shrieked, and running up he caught + The falling man, and from his bleeding side + Drew out the dart, and, seeing that death had brought + Deliverance to him, he thereby had died; + But ere his hand the luckless steel could guide, + And he the refuge of poor souls could win, + The horror-stricken huntsmen had rushed in. + + And these, with blows and cries he heeded nought + His unresisting hands made haste to bind; + Then of the alder-boughs a bier they wrought, + And laid the corpse thereon, and 'gan to wind + Homeward amidst the tangled wood and blind, + And going slowly, at the eventide, + Some leagues from Sardis did that day abide. + + Onward next morn the slaughtered man they bore, + With him that slew him, and at end of day + They reached the city, and with mourning sore + Toward the King's palace did they take their way. + He in an open western chamber lay + Feasting, though inwardly his heart did burn + Until that Atys should to him return. + + And when those wails first smote upon his ear + He set the wine-cup down, and to his feet + He rose, and bitter all-consuming fear + Swallowed his joy, and nigh he went to meet + That which was coming through the weeping street; + But in the end he thought it good to wait, + And stood there doubting all the ills of fate. + + But when at last up to that royal place + Folk brought the thing he once had held so dear + Still stood the King, staring with ghastly face + As they brought forth Adrastus and the bier, + But spoke at last, slowly without a tear, + "O Phrygian man, that I did purify, + Is it through thee that Atys came to die?" + + "O King," Adrastus said, "take now my life, + With whatso torment seemeth good to thee, + As my word went, for I would end this strife, + And underneath the earth lie quietly; + Nor is it my will here alive to be: + For as my brother, so Prince Atys died, + And this unlucky hand some god did guide." + + Then as a man constrained, the tale he told + From end to end, nor spared himself one whit: + And as he spoke, the wood did still behold, + The trodden grass, and Atys dead on it; + And many a change o'er the King's face did flit + Of kingly rage, and hatred and despair, + As on the slayer's face he still did stare. + + At last he said, "Thy death avails me nought. + The gods themselves have done this bitter deed, + That I was all too happy was their thought, + Therefore thy heart is dead and mine doth bleed, + And I am helpless as a trodden weed: + Thou art but as the handle of the spear, + The caster sits far off from any fear. + + "Yet, if thy hurt they meant, I can do this,-- + --Loose him and let him go in peace from me-- + I will not slay the slayer of all my bliss; + Yet go, poor man, for when thy face I see + I curse the gods for their felicity. + Surely some other slayer they would have found, + If thou hadst long ago been under ground. + + "Alas, Adrastus! in my inmost heart + I knew the gods would one day do this thing, + But deemed indeed that it would be thy part + To comfort me amidst my sorrowing; + Make haste to go, for I am still a King! + Madness may take me, I have many hands + Who will not spare to do my worst commands." + + With that Adrastus' bonds were done away, + And forthwith to the city gates he ran, + And on the road where they had been that day + Rushed through the gathering night; and some lone man + Beheld next day his visage wild and wan, + Peering from out a thicket of the wood + Where he had spilt that well-beloved blood. + + And now the day of burial pomp must be, + And to those rites all lords of Lydia came + About the King, and that day, they and he + Cast royal gifts of rich things on the flame; + But while they stood and wept, and called by name + Upon the dead, amidst them came a man + With raiment rent, and haggard face and wan: + + Who when the marshals would have thrust him out + And men looked strange on him, began to say, + "Surely the world is changed since ye have doubt + Of who I am; nay, turn me not away, + For ye have called me princely ere to-day-- + Adrastus, son of Gordius, a great king, + Where unto Pallas Phrygian maidens sing. + + "O Lydians, many a rich thing have ye cast + Into this flame, but I myself will give + A greater gift, since now I see at last + The gods are wearied for that still I live, + And with their will, why should I longer strive? + Atys, O Atys, thus I give to thee + A life that lived for thy felicity." + + And therewith from his side a knife he drew, + And, crying out, upon the pile he leapt, + And with one mighty stroke himself he slew. + So there these princes both together slept, + And their light ashes, gathered up, were kept + Within a golden vessel wrought all o'er + With histories of this hunting of the boar. + + * * * * * + + A gentle wind had risen midst his tale, + That bore the sweet scents of the fertile vale + In at the open windows; and these men + The burden of their years scarce noted then, + Soothed by the sweet luxurious summer time, + And by the cadence of that ancient rhyme, + Spite of its saddening import; nay, indeed, + Of some such thoughts the Wanderers had need + As that tale gave them--Yea, a man shall be + A wonder for his glorious chivalry, + First in all wisdom, of a prudent mind, + Yet none the less him too his fate shall find + Unfenced by these, a man 'mongst other men. + Yea, and will Fortune pick out, now and then, + The noblest for the anvil of her blows; + Great names are few, and yet, indeed, who knows + What greater souls have fallen 'neath the stroke + Of careless fate? Purblind are most of folk, + The happy are the masters of the earth + Which ever give small heed to hapless worth; + So goes the world, and this we needs must bear + Like eld and death: yet there were some men there + Who drank in silence to the memory + Of those who failed on earth great men to be, + Though better than the men who won the crown. + But when the sun was fairly going down + They left the house, and, following up the stream, + In the low sun saw the kingfisher gleam + 'Twixt bank and alder, and the grebe steal out + From the high sedge, and, in his restless doubt, + Dive down, and rise to see what men were there: + They saw the swallow chase high up in air + The circling gnats; the shaded dusky pool + Broke by the splashing chub; the ripple cool, + Rising and falling, of some distant weir + They heard, till it oppressed the listening ear, + As twilight grew: so back they turned again + Glad of their rest, and pleasure after pain. + + * * * * * + + Within the gardens once again they met, + That now the roses did well-nigh forget, + For hot July was drawing to an end, + And August came the fainting year to mend + With fruit and grain; so 'neath the trellises, + Nigh blossomless, did they lie well at ease, + And watched the poppies burn across the grass, + And o'er the bindweed's bells the brown bee pass + Still murmuring of his gains: windless and bright + The morn had been, to help their dear delight; + But heavy clouds ere noon grew round the sun, + And, halfway to the zenith, wild and dun + The sky grew, and the thunder growled afar; + But, ere the steely clouds began their war, + A change there came, and, as by some great hand, + The clouds that hung in threatening o'er the land + Were drawn away; then a light wind arose + That shook the light stems of that flowery close, + And made men sigh for pleasure; therewithal + Did mirth upon the feasting elders fall, + And they no longer watched the lowering sky, + But called aloud for some new history. + Then spoke the Suabian, "Sirs, this tale is told + Among our searchers for fine stones and gold, + And though I tell it wrong be good to me; + For I the written book did never see, + Made by some Fleming, as I think, wherein + Is told this tale of wilfulness and sin." + + + + +THE WATCHING OF THE FALCON. + +ARGUMENT. + +The case of this falcon was such, that whoso watched it without sleeping + for seven days and seven nights, had his first wish granted him by a + fay lady, that appeared to him thereon; and some wished one thing, and + some another. But a certain king, who watched the falcon daily, would + wish for nought but the love of that fay; which wish being + accomplished, was afterwards his ruin. + + + Across the sea a land there is, + Where, if fate will, may men have bliss, + For it is fair as any land: + There hath the reaper a full hand, + While in the orchard hangs aloft + The purple fig, a-growing soft; + And fair the trellised vine-bunches + Are swung across the high elm-trees; + And in the rivers great fish play, + While over them pass day by day + The laden barges to their place. + There maids are straight, and fair of face, + And men are stout for husbandry, + And all is well as it can be + Upon this earth where all has end. + For on them God is pleased to send + The gift of Death down from above. + That envy, hatred, and hot love, + Knowledge with hunger by his side, + And avarice and deadly pride, + There may have end like everything + Both to the shepherd and the king: + Lest this green earth become but hell + If folk for ever there should dwell. + Full little most men think of this, + But half in woe and half in bliss + They pass their lives, and die at last + Unwilling, though their lot be cast + In wretched places of the earth, + Where men have little joy from birth + Until they die; in no such case + Were those who tilled this pleasant place. + There soothly men were loth to die, + Though sometimes in his misery + A man would say "Would I were dead!" + Alas! full little likelihead + That he should live for ever there. + So folk within that country fair + Lived on, nor from their memories drave + The thought of what they could not have. + And without need tormented still + Each other with some bitter ill; + Yea, and themselves too, growing grey + With dread of some long-lingering day, + That never came ere they were dead + With green sods growing on the head; + Nowise content with what they had, + But falling still from good to bad + While hard they sought the hopeless best + And seldom happy or at rest + Until at last with lessening blood + One foot within the grave they stood. + + Now so it chanced that in this land + There did a certain castle stand, + Set all alone deep in the hills, + Amid the sound of falling rills + Within a valley of sweet grass, + To which there went one narrow pass + Through the dark hills, but seldom trod. + Rarely did horse-hoof press the sod + About the quiet weedy moat, + Where unscared did the great fish float; + Because men dreaded there to see + The uncouth things of faerie; + Nathless by some few fathers old + These tales about the place were told + That neither squire nor seneschal + Or varlet came in bower or hall, + Yet all things were in order due, + Hangings of gold and red and blue, + And tables with fair service set; + Cups that had paid the Caesar's debt + Could he have laid his hands on them; + Dorsars, with pearls in every hem, + And fair embroidered gold-wrought things, + Fit for a company of kings; + And in the chambers dainty beds, + With pillows dight for fair young heads; + And horses in the stables were, + And in the cellars wine full clear + And strong, and casks of ale and mead; + Yea, all things a great lord could need. + For whom these things were ready there + None knew; but if one chanced to fare + Into that place at Easter-tide, + There would he find a falcon tied + Unto a pillar of the Hall; + And such a fate to him would fall, + That if unto the seventh night, + He watched the bird from dark to light, + And light to dark unceasingly, + On the last evening he should see + A lady beautiful past words; + Then, were he come of clowns or lords, + Son of a swineherd or a king, + There must she grant him anything + Perforce, that he might dare to ask, + And do his very hardest task + But if he slumbered, ne'er again + The wretch would wake for he was slain + Helpless, by hands he could not see, + And torn and mangled wretchedly. + + Now said these elders--Ere this tide + Full many folk this thing have tried, + But few have got much good thereby; + For first, a many came to die + By slumbering ere their watch was done; + Or else they saw that lovely one, + And mazed, they knew not what to say; + Or asked some toy for all their pay, + That easily they might have won, + Nor staked their lives and souls thereon; + Or asking, asked for some great thing + That was their bane; as to be king + One asked, and died the morrow morn + That he was crowned, of all forlorn. + Yet thither came a certain man, + Who from being poor great riches wan + Past telling, whose grandsons now are + Great lords thereby in peace and war. + And in their coat-of-arms they bear, + Upon a field of azure fair, + A castle and a falcon, set + Below a chief of golden fret. + And in our day a certain knight + Prayed to be worsted in no fight, + And so it happed to him: yet he + Died none the less most wretchedly. + And all his prowess was in vain, + For by a losel was he slain, + As on the highway side he slept + One summer night, of no man kept. + + Such tales as these the fathers old + About that lonely castle told; + And in their day the King must try + Himself to prove that mystery, + Although, unless the fay could give + For ever on the earth to live, + Nought could he ask that he had not: + For boundless riches had he got, + Fair children, and a faithful wife; + And happily had passed his life, + And all fulfilled of victory, + Yet was he fain this thing to see. + So towards the mountains he set out + One noontide, with a gallant rout + Of knights and lords, and as the day + Began to fail came to the way + Where he must enter all alone, + Between the dreary walls of stone. + Thereon to that fair company + He bade farewell, who wistfully + Looked backward oft as home they rode, + But in the entry he abode + Of that rough unknown narrowing pass, + Where twilight at the high noon was. + Then onward he began to ride: + Smooth rose the rocks on every side, + And seemed as they were cut by man; + Adown them ever water ran, + But they of living things were bare, + Yea, not a blade of grass grew there; + And underfoot rough was the way, + For scattered all about there lay + Great jagged pieces of black stone. + Throughout the pass the wind did moan, + With such wild noises, that the King + Could almost think he heard something + Spoken of men; as one might hear + The voices of folk standing near + One's chamber wall: yet saw he nought + Except those high walls strangely wrought, + And overhead the strip of sky. + So, going onward painfully, + He met therein no evil thing, + But came about the sun-setting + Unto the opening of the pass, + And thence beheld a vale of grass + Bright with the yellow daffodil; + And all the vale the sun did fill + With his last glory. Midmost there + Rose up a stronghold, built four-square, + Upon a flowery grassy mound, + That moat and high wall ran around. + Thereby he saw a walled pleasance, + With walks and sward fit for the dance + Of Arthur's court in its best time, + That seemed to feel some magic clime; + For though through all the vale outside + Things were as in the April-tide, + And daffodils and cowslips grew + And hidden the March violets blew, + Within the bounds of that sweet close + Was trellised the bewildering rose; + There was the lily over-sweet, + And starry pinks for garlands meet; + And apricots hung on the wall + And midst the flowers did peaches fall, + And nought had blemish there or spot. + For in that place decay was not. + + Silent awhile the King abode + Beholding all, then on he rode + And to the castle-gate drew nigh, + Till fell the drawbridge silently, + And when across it he did ride + He found the great gates open wide, + And entered there, but as he passed + The gates were shut behind him fast, + But not before that he could see + The drawbridge rise up silently. + Then round he gazed oppressed with awe, + And there no living thing he saw + Except the sparrows in the eaves, + As restless as light autumn leaves + Blown by the fitful rainy wind. + Thereon his final goal to find, + He lighted off his war-horse good + And let him wander as he would, + When he had eased him of his gear; + Then gathering heart against his fear. + Just at the silent end of day + Through the fair porch he took his way + And found at last a goodly hall + With glorious hangings on the wall, + Inwrought with trees of every clime, + And stories of the ancient time, + But all of sorcery they were. + For o'er the dais Venus fair, + Fluttered about by many a dove, + Made hopeless men for hopeless love, + Both sick and sorry; there they stood + Wrought wonderfully in various mood, + But wasted all by that hid fire + Of measureless o'er-sweet desire, + And let the hurrying world go by + Forgetting all felicity. + But down the hall the tale was wrought + How Argo in old time was brought + To Colchis for the fleece of gold. + And on the other side was told + How mariners for long years came + To Circe, winning grief and shame. + Until at last by hardihead + And craft, Ulysses won her bed. + Long upon these the King did look + And of them all good heed he took; + To see if they would tell him aught + About the matter that he sought, + But all were of the times long past; + So going all about, at last + When grown nigh weary of his search + A falcon on a silver perch, + Anigh the dais did he see, + And wondered, because certainly + At his first coming 'twas not there; + But 'neath the bird a scroll most fair, + With golden letters on the white + He saw, and in the dim twilight + By diligence could he read this:-- + + _"Ye who have not enow of bliss,_ + _And in this hard world labour sore,_ + _By manhood here may get you more,_ + _And be fulfilled of everything,_ + _Till ye be masters of the King._ + _And yet, since I who promise this_ + _Am nowise God to give man bliss_ + _Past ending, now in time beware,_ + _And if you live in little care_ + _Then turn aback and home again,_ + _Lest unknown woe ye chance to gain_ + _In wishing for a thing untried."_ + + A little while did he abide, + When he had read this, deep in thought, + Wondering indeed if there were aught + He had not got, that a wise man + Would wish; yet in his mind it ran + That he might win a boundless realm, + Yea, come to wear upon his helm + The crown of the whole conquered earth; + That all who lived thereon, from birth + To death should call him King and Lord, + And great kings tremble at his word, + Until in turn he came to die. + Therewith a little did he sigh, + But thought, "Of Alexander yet + Men talk, nor would they e'er forget + My name, if this should come to be, + Whoever should come after me: + But while I lay wrapped round with gold + Should tales and histories manifold + Be written of me, false and true; + And as the time still onward drew + Almost a god would folk count me, + Saying, 'In our time none such be.'" + But therewith did he sigh again, + And said, "Ah, vain, and worse than vain! + For though the world forget me nought, + Yet by that time should I be brought + Where all the world I should forget, + And bitterly should I regret + That I, from godlike great renown, + To helpless death must fall adown: + How could I bear to leave it all?" + Then straight upon his mind did fall + Thoughts of old longings half forgot, + Matters for which his heart was hot + A while ago: whereof no more + He cared for some, and some right sore + Had vexed him, being fulfilled at last. + And when the thought of these had passed + Still something was there left behind, + That by no torturing of his mind + Could he in any language name, + Or into form of wishing frame. + + At last he thought, "What matters it, + Before these seven days shall flit + Some great thing surely shall I find, + That gained will not leave grief behind, + Nor turn to deadly injury. + So now will I let these things be + And think of some unknown delight." + + Now, therewithal, was come the night + And thus his watch was well begun; + And till the rising of the sun, + Waking, he paced about the hall, + And saw the hangings on the wall + Fade into nought, and then grow white + In patches by the pale moonlight, + And then again fade utterly + As still the moonbeams passed them by; + Then in a while, with hope of day, + Begin a little to grow grey, + Until familiar things they grew, + As up at last the great sun drew, + And lit them with his yellow light + At ending of another night + Then right glad was he of the day, + That passed with him in such-like way; + For neither man nor beast came near, + Nor any voices did he hear. + And when again it drew to night + Silent it passed, till first twilight + Of morning came, and then he heard + The feeble twittering of some bird, + That, in that utter silence drear, + Smote harsh and startling on his ear. + Therewith came on that lonely day + That passed him in no other way; + And thus six days and nights went by + And nothing strange had come anigh. + And on that day he well-nigh deemed + That all that story had been dreamed. + Daylight and dark, and night and day, + Passed ever in their wonted way; + The wind played in the trees outside, + The rooks from out the high trees cried; + And all seemed natural, frank, and fair, + With little signs of magic there. + Yet neither could he quite forget + That close with summer blossoms set, + And fruit hung on trees blossoming, + When all about was early spring. + Yea, if all this by man were made, + Strange was it that yet undecayed + The food lay on the tables still + Unchanged by man, that wine did fill + The golden cups, yet bright and red. + And all was so apparelled + For guests that came not, yet was all + As though that servants filled the hall. + So waxed and waned his hopes, and still + He formed no wish for good or ill. + And while he thought of this and that + Upon his perch the falcon sat + Unfed, unhooded, his bright eyes + Beholders of the hard-earned prize, + Glancing around him restlessly, + As though he knew the time drew nigh + When this long watching should be done. + + So little by little fell the sun, + From high noon unto sun-setting; + And in that lapse of time the King, + Though still he woke, yet none the less + Was dreaming in his sleeplessness + Of this and that which he had done + Before this watch he had begun; + Till, with a start, he looked at last + About him, and all dreams were past; + For now, though it was past twilight + Without, within all grew as bright + As when the noon-sun smote the wall, + Though no lamp shone within the hall. + Then rose the King upon his feet, + And well-nigh heard his own heart beat, + And grew all pale for hope and fear, + As sound of footsteps caught his ear + But soft, and as some fair lady, + Going as gently as might be, + Stopped now and then awhile, distraught + By pleasant wanderings of sweet thought. + Nigher the sound came, and more nigh, + Until the King unwittingly + Trembled, and felt his hair arise, + But on the door still kept his eyes. + That opened soon, and in the light + There stepped alone a lady bright, + And made straight toward him up the hall. + In golden garments was she clad + And round her waist a belt she had + Of emeralds fair, and from her feet, + That shod with gold the floor did meet, + She held the raiment daintily, + And on her golden head had she + A rose-wreath round a pearl-wrought crown, + Softly she walked with eyes cast down, + Nor looked she any other than + An earthly lady, though no man + Has seen so fair a thing as she. + So when her face the King could see + Still more he trembled, and he thought, + "Surely my wish is hither brought, + And this will be a goodly day + If for mine own I win this may." + And therewithal she drew anear + Until the trembling King could hear + Her very breathing, and she raised + Her head and on the King's face gazed + With serious eyes, and stopping there, + Swept from her shoulders her long hair, + And let her gown fall on her feet, + Then spoke in a clear voice and sweet: + "Well hast thou watched, so now, O King, + Be bold, and wish for some good thing; + And yet, I counsel thee, be wise. + Behold, spite of these lips and eyes, + Hundreds of years old now am I + And have seen joy and misery. + And thou, who yet hast lived in bliss. + I bid thee well consider this; + Better it were that men should live + As beasts, and take what earth can give, + The air, the warm sun and the grass + Until unto the earth they pass, + And gain perchance nought worse than rest + Than that not knowing what is best + For sons of men, they needs must thirst + For what shall make their lives accurst. + "Therefore I bid thee now beware, + Lest getting something seeming fair, + Thou com'st in vain to long for more + Or lest the thing thou wishest for + Make thee unhappy till thou diest, + Or lest with speedy death thou buyest + A little hour of happiness + Or lazy joy with sharp distress. + "Alas, why say I this to thee, + For now I see full certainly, + That thou wilt ask for such a thing, + It had been best for thee to fling + Thy body from a mountain-top, + Or in a white hot fire to drop, + Or ever thou hadst seen me here, + Nay then be speedy and speak clear." + Then the King cried out eagerly, + Grown fearless, "Ah, be kind to me! + Thou knowest what I long for then! + Thou know'st that I, a king of men, + Will ask for nothing else than thee! + Thou didst not say this could not be, + And I have had enough of bliss, + If I may end my life with this." + "Hearken," she said, "what men will say + When they are mad; before to-day + I knew that words such things could mean, + And wondered that it could have been. + "Think well, because this wished-for joy, + That surely will thy bliss destroy, + Will let thee live, until thy life + Is wrapped in such bewildering strife + That all thy days will seem but ill-- + Now wilt thou wish for this thing still?" + "Wilt thou then grant it?" cried the King; + "Surely thou art an earthly thing, + And all this is but mockery, + And thou canst tell no more than I + What ending to my life shall be." + "Nay, then," she said, "I grant it thee + Perforce; come nigh, for I am thine + Until the morning sun doth shine, + And only coming time can prove + What thing I am." + Dizzy with love, + And with surprise struck motionless + That this divine thing, with far less + Of striving than a village maid, + Had yielded, there he stood afraid, + Spite of hot words and passionate, + And strove to think upon his fate. + + But as he stood there, presently + With smiling face she drew anigh, + And on his face he felt her breath. + "O love," she said, "dost thou fear death? + Not till next morning shalt thou die, + Or fall into thy misery." + Then on his hand her hand did fall, + And forth she led him down the hall, + Going full softly by his side. + "O love," she said, "now well betide + The day whereon thou cam'st to me. + I would this night a year might be, + Yea, life-long; such life as we have, + A thousand years from womb to grave." + + And then that clinging hand seemed worth + Whatever joy was left on earth, + And every trouble he forgot, + And time and death remembered not: + Kinder she grew, she clung to him + With loving arms, her eyes did swim + With love and pity, as he strove + To show the wisdom of his love; + With trembling lips she praised his choice, + And said, "Ah, well may'st thou rejoice, + Well may'st thou think this one short night + Worth years of other men's delight. + If thy heart as mine own heart is, + Sunk in a boundless sea of bliss; + O love, rejoice with me! rejoice!" + But as she spoke, her honied voice + Trembled, and midst of sobs she said, + "O love, and art thou still afraid? + Return, then, to thine happiness, + Nor will I love thee any less; + But watch thee as a mother might + Her child at play." + With strange delight + He stammered out, "Nay, keep thy tears + for me, and for my ruined years + Weep love, that I may love thee more, + My little hour will soon be o'er." + "Ah, love," she said, "and thou art wise + As men are, with long miseries + Buying these idle words and vain, + My foolish love, with lasting pain; + And yet, thou wouldst have died at last + If in all wisdom thou hadst passed + Thy weary life: forgive me then, + In pitying the sad life of men." + Then in such bliss his soul did swim, + But tender music unto him + Her words were; death and misery + But empty names were grown to be, + As from that place his steps she drew, + And dark the hall behind them grew. + + * * * * * + + But end comes to all earthly bliss, + And by his choice full short was his; + And in the morning, grey and cold, + Beside the dais did she hold + His trembling hand, and wistfully + He, doubting what his fate should be, + Gazed at her solemn eyes, that now, + Beneath her calm, untroubled brow, + Were fixed on his wild face and wan; + At last she said, "Oh, hapless man, + Depart! thy full wish hast thou had; + A little time thou hast been glad, + Thou shalt be sorry till thou die. + "And though, indeed, full fain am I + This might not be; nathless, as day + Night follows, colourless and grey, + So this shall follow thy delight, + Your joy hath ending with last night-- + Nay, peace, and hearken to thy fate. + "Strife without peace, early and late, + Lasting long after thou art dead, + And laid with earth upon thine head; + War without victory shalt thou have, + Defeat, nor honour shalt thou save; + Thy fair land shall be rent and torn, + Thy people be of all forlorn, + And all men curse thee for this thing." + She loosed his hand, but yet the King + Said, "Yea, and I may go with thee? + Why should we part? then let things be + E'en as they will!" "Poor man," she said, + "Thou ravest; our hot love is dead, + If ever it had any life: + Go, make thee ready for the strife + Wherein thy days shall soon be wrapped; + And of the things that here have happed + Make thou such joy as thou may'st do; + But I from this place needs must go, + Nor shalt thou ever see me more + Until thy troubled life is o'er: + Alas I to say 'farewell' to thee + Were nought but bitter mockery. + Fare as thou may'st, and with good heart + Play to the end thy wretched part." + + Therewith she turned and went from him, + And with such pain his eyes did swim + He scarce could see her leave the place; + And then, with troubled and pale face, + He gat him thence: and soon he found + His good horse in the base-court bound; + So, loosing him, forth did he ride, + For the great gates were open wide, + And flat the heavy drawbridge lay. + + So by the middle of the day, + That murky pass had he gone through, + And come to country that he knew; + And homeward turned his horse's head. + And passing village and homestead + Nigh to his palace came at last; + And still the further that he passed + From that strange castle of the fays, + More dreamlike seemed those seven days, + And dreamlike the delicious night; + And like a dream the shoulders white, + And clinging arms and yellow hair, + And dreamlike the sad morning there. + Until at last he 'gan to deem + That all might well have been a dream-- + Yet why was life a weariness? + What meant this sting of sharp distress? + This longing for a hopeless love, + No sighing from his heart could move? + + Or else, 'She did not come and go + As fays might do, but soft and slow + Her lovely feet fell on the floor; + She set her fair hand to the door + As any dainty maid might do; + And though, indeed, there are but few + Beneath the sun as fair as she, + She seemed a fleshly thing to be. + Perchance a merry mock this is, + And I may some day have the bliss + To see her lovely face again, + As smiling she makes all things plain. + And then as I am still a king, + With me may she make tarrying + Full long, yea, till I come to die." + Therewith at last being come anigh + Unto his very palace gate, + He saw his knights and squires wait + His coming, therefore on the ground + He lighted, and they flocked around + Till he should tell them of his fare. + Then mocking said he, "Ye may dare, + The worst man of you all, to go + And watch as I was bold to do; + For nought I heard except the wind, + And nought I saw to call to mind." + So said he, but they noted well + That something more he had to tell + If it had pleased him; one old man, + Beholding his changed face and wan, + Muttered, "Would God it might be so! + Alas! I fear what fate may do; + Too much good fortune hast thou had + By anything to be more glad + Than thou hast been, I fear thee then + Lest thou becom'st a curse to men." + But to his place the doomed King passed, + And all remembrance strove to cast + From out his mind of that past day, + And spent his life in sport and play. + + * * * * * + + Great among other kings, I said + He was before he first was led + Unto that castle of the fays, + But soon he lost his happy days + And all his goodly life was done. + And first indeed his best-loved son, + The very apple of his eye, + Waged war against him bitterly; + And when this son was overcome + And taken, and folk led him home, + And him the King had gone to meet, + Meaning with gentle words and sweet + To win him to his love again, + By his own hand he found him slain. + I know not if the doomed King yet + Remembered the fay lady's threat, + But troubles upon troubles came: + His daughter next was brought to shame, + Who unto all eyes seemed to be + The image of all purity, + And fleeing from the royal place + The King no more beheld her face. + Then next a folk that came from far + Sent to the King great threats of war, + But he, full-fed of victory, + Deemed this a little thing to be, + And thought the troubles of his home + Thereby he well might overcome + Amid the hurry of the fight. + His foemen seemed of little might, + Although they thronged like summer bees + About the outlying villages, + And on the land great ruin brought. + Well, he this barbarous people sought + With such an army as seemed meet + To put the world beneath his feet; + The day of battle came, and he, + Flushed with the hope of victory, + Grew happy, as he had not been + Since he those glorious eyes had seen. + They met,--his solid ranks of steel + There scarcely more the darts could feel + Of those new foemen, than if they + Had been a hundred miles away:-- + They met,--a storied folk were his + To whom sharp war had long been bliss, + A thousand years of memories + Were flashing in their shielded eyes; + And grave philosophers they had + To bid them ever to be glad + To meet their death and get life done + Midst glorious deeds from sire to son. + And those they met were beasts, or worse, + To whom life seemed a jest, a curse; + Of fame and name they had not heard; + Honour to them was but a word, + A word spoke in another tongue; + No memories round their banners clung, + No walls they knew, no art of war, + By hunger were they driven afar + Unto the place whereon they stood, + Ravening for bestial joys and blood. + + No wonder if these barbarous men + Were slain by hundreds to each ten + Of the King's brave well-armoured folk, + No wonder if their charges broke + To nothing, on the walls of steel, + And back the baffled hordes must reel. + So stood throughout a summer day + Scarce touched the King's most fair array, + Yet as it drew to even-tide + The foe still surged on every side, + As hopeless hunger-bitten men, + About his folk grown wearied then. + Therewith the King beheld that crowd + Howling and dusk, and cried aloud, + "What do ye, warriors? and how long + Shall weak folk hold in check the strong? + Nay, forward banners! end the day + And show these folk how brave men play." + The young knights shouted at his word, + But the old folk in terror heard + The shouting run adown the line, + And saw men flush as if with wine-- + "O Sire," they said, "the day is sure, + Nor will these folk the night endure + Beset with misery and fears." + Alas I they spoke to heedless ears; + For scarce one look on them he cast + But forward through the ranks he passed, + And cried out, "Who will follow me + To win a fruitful victory?" + And toward the foe in haste he spurred, + And at his back their shouts he heard, + Such shouts as he ne'er heard again. + + They met--ere moonrise all the plain + Was filled by men in hurrying flight + The relics of that shameful fight; + The close array, the full-armed men, + The ancient fame availed not then, + The dark night only was a friend + To bring that slaughter to an end; + And surely there the King had died. + But driven by that back-rushing tide + Against his will he needs must flee; + And as he pondered bitterly + On all that wreck that he had wrought, + From time to time indeed he thought + Of the fay woman's dreadful threat. + + "But everything was not lost yet; + Next day he said, great was the rout + And shameful beyond any doubt, + But since indeed at eventide + The flight began, not many died, + And gathering all the stragglers now + His troops still made a gallant show-- + Alas! it was a show indeed; + Himself desponding, did he lead + His beaten men against the foe, + Thinking at least to lie alow + Before the final rout should be + But scarce upon the enemy + Could these, whose shaken banners shook + The frightened world, now dare to look; + Nor yet could the doomed King die there + A death he once had held most fair; + Amid unwounded men he came + Back to his city, bent with shame, + Unkingly, midst his great distress, + Yea, weeping at the bitterness + Of women's curses that did greet + His passage down the troubled street + But sight of all the things they loved, + The memory of their manhood moved + Within the folk, and aged men + And boys must think of battle then. + And men that had not seen the foe + Must clamour to the war to go. + So a great army poured once more + From out the city, and before + The very gates they fought again, + But their late valour was in vain; + They died indeed, and that was good, + But nought they gained for all the blood + Poured out like water; for the foe, + Men might have stayed a while ago, + A match for very gods were grown, + So like the field in June-tide mown + The King's men fell, and but in vain + The remnant strove the town to gain; + Whose battlements were nought to stay + An untaught foe upon that day, + Though many a tale the annals told + Of sieges in the days of old, + When all the world then knew of war + From that fair place was driven afar. + + As for the King, a charmed life + He seemed to bear; from out that strife + He came unhurt, and he could see, + As down the valley he did flee + With his most wretched company, + His palace flaming to the sky. + Then in the very midst of woe + His yearning thoughts would backward go + Unto the castle of the fay; + He muttered, "Shall I curse that day, + The last delight that I have had, + For certainly I then was glad? + And who knows if what men call bliss + Had been much better now than this + When I am hastening to the end." + That fearful rest, that dreaded friend, + That Death, he did not gain as yet; + A band of men he soon did get, + A ruined rout of bad and good, + With whom within the tangled wood, + The rugged mountain, he abode, + And thenceforth oftentimes they rode + Into the fair land once called his, + And yet but little came of this, + Except more woe for Heaven to see + Some little added misery + Unto that miserable realm: + The barbarous foe did overwhelm + The cities and the fertile plain, + And many a peaceful man was slain, + And many a maiden brought to shame. + And yielded towns were set aflame; + For all the land was masterless. + Long dwelt the King in great distress, + From wood to mountain ever tost, + Mourning for all that he had lost, + Until it chanced upon a day, + Asleep in early morn he lay, + And in a vision there did see + Clad all in black, that fay lady + Whereby all this had come to pass, + But dim as in a misty glass: + She said, "I come thy death to tell + Yet now to thee may say 'farewell,' + For in a short space wilt thou be + Within an endless dim country + Where thou may'st well win woe or bliss," + Therewith she stooped his lips to kiss + And vanished straightway from his sight. + So waking there he sat upright + And looked around, but nought could see + And heard but song-birds' melody, + For that was the first break of day. + + Then with a sigh adown he lay + And slept, nor ever woke again, + For in that hour was he slain + By stealthy traitors as he slept. + He of a few was much bewept, + But of most men was well forgot + While the town's ashes still were hot + The foeman on that day did burn. + As for the land, great Time did turn + The bloody fields to deep green grass, + And from the minds of men did pass + The memory of that time of woe, + And at this day all things are so + As first I said; a land it is + Where men may dwell in rest and bliss + If so they will--Who yet will not, + Because their hasty hearts are hot + With foolish hate, and longing vain + The sire and dam of grief and pain. + + * * * * * + + Neath the bright sky cool grew the weary earth, + And many a bud in that fair hour had birth + Upon the garden bushes; in the west + The sky got ready for the great sun's rest, + And all was fresh and lovely; none the less + Although those old men shared the happiness + Of the bright eve, 'twas mixed with memories + Of how they might in old times have been wise, + Not casting by for very wilfulness + What wealth might come their changing life to bless; + Lulling their hearts to sleep, amid the cold + Of bitter times, that so they might behold + Some joy at last, e'en if it lingered long. + That, wearing not their souls with grief and wrong, + They still might watch the changing world go by, + Content to live, content at last to die. + Alas! if they had reached content at last + It was perforce when all their strength was past; + And after loss of many days once bright, + With foolish hopes of unattained delight. + + + + +AUGUST. + + + Across the gap made by our English hinds, + Amidst the Roman's handiwork, behold + Far off the long-roofed church; the shepherd binds + The withy round the hurdles of his fold; + Down in the foss the river fed of old, + That through long lapse of time has grown to be + The little grassy valley that you see. + + Rest here awhile, not yet the eve is still, + The bees are wandering yet, and you may hear + The barley mowers on the trenched hill, + The sheep-bells, and the restless changing weir, + All little sounds made musical and clear + Beneath the sky that burning August gives. + While yet the thought of glorious Summer lives. + + Ah, love! such happy days, such days as these, + Must we still waste them, craving for the best, + Like lovers o'er the painted images + Of those who once their yearning hearts have blessed? + Have we been happy on our day of rest? + Thine eyes say "yes,"--but if it came again, + Perchance its ending would not seem so vain. + + * * * * * + + Now came fulfilment of the year's desire, + The tall wheat, coloured by the August fire + Grew heavy-headed, dreading its decay, + And blacker grew the elm-trees day by day. + About the edges of the yellow corn, + And o'er the gardens grown somewhat outworn + The bees went hurrying to fill up their store; + The apple-boughs bent over more and more; + With peach and apricot the garden wall, + Was odorous, and the pears began to fall + From off the high tree with each freshening breeze. + So in a house bordered about with trees, + A little raised above the waving gold + The Wanderers heard this marvellous story told, + While 'twixt the gleaming flasks of ancient wine, + They watched the reapers' slow advancing line. + + + + +PYGMALION AND THE IMAGE. + +ARGUMENT. + +A man of Cyprus, a sculptor named Pygmalion, made an image of a woman, + fairer than any that had yet been seen, and in the end came to love + his own handiwork as though it had been alive: wherefore, praying to + Venus for help, he obtained his end, for she made the image alive + indeed, and a woman, and Pygmalion wedded her. + + + At Amathus, that from the southern side + Of Cyprus, looks across the Syrian sea, + There did in ancient time a man abide + Known to the island-dwellers, for that he + Had wrought most godlike works in imagery, + And day by day still greater honour won, + Which man our old books call Pygmalion. + + Yet in the praise of men small joy he had, + But walked abroad with downcast brooding face. + Nor yet by any damsel was made glad; + For, sooth to say, the women of that place + Must seem to all men an accursed race, + Who with the Turner of all Hearts once strove + And now their hearts must carry lust for love. + + Upon a day it chanced that he had been + About the streets, and on the crowded quays, + Rich with unopened wealth of bales, had seen + The dark-eyed merchants of the southern seas + In chaffer with the base Propoetides, + And heavy-hearted gat him home again, + His once-loved life grown idle, poor, and vain. + + And there upon his images he cast + His weary eyes, yet little noted them, + As still from name to name his swift thought passed. + For what to him was Juno's well-wrought hem, + Diana's shaft, or Pallas' olive-stem? + What help could Hermes' rod unto him give, + Until with shadowy things he came to live? + + Yet note, that though, while looking on the sun, + The craftsman o'er his work some morn of spring + May chide his useless labour never done, + For all his murmurs, with no other thing + He soothes his heart, and dulls thought's poisonous sting, + And thus in thought's despite the world goes on; + And so it was with this Pygmalion. + + Unto the chisel must he set his hand, + And slowly, still in troubled thought must pace, + About a work begun, that there doth stand, + And still returning to the self-same place, + Unto the image now must set his face, + And with a sigh his wonted toil begin, + Half-loathed, half-loved, a little rest to win. + + The lessening marble that he worked upon, + A woman's form now imaged doubtfully, + And in such guise the work had he begun, + Because when he the untouched block did see + In wandering veins that form there seemed to be, + Whereon he cried out in a careless mood, + "O lady Venus, make this presage good! + + "And then this block of stone shall be thy maid, + And, not without rich golden ornament, + Shall bide within thy quivering myrtle-shade." + So spoke he, but the goddess, well content, + Unto his hand such godlike mastery sent, + That like the first artificer he wrought, + Who made the gift that woe to all men brought. + + And yet, but such as he was wont to do, + At first indeed that work divine he deemed, + And as the white chips from the chisel flew + Of other matters languidly he dreamed, + For easy to his hand that labour seemed, + And he was stirred with many a troubling thought, + And many a doubt perplexed him as he wrought. + + And yet, again, at last there came a day + When smoother and more shapely grew the stone + And he, grown eager, put all thought away + But that which touched his craftsmanship alone, + And he would gaze at what his hands had done, + Until his heart with boundless joy would swell + That all was wrought so wonderfully well. + + Yet long it was ere he was satisfied, + And with the pride that by his mastery + This thing was done, whose equal far and wide + In no town of the world a man could see, + Came burning longing that the work should be + E'en better still, and to his heart there came + A strange and strong desire he could not name. + + The night seemed long, and long the twilight seemed, + A vain thing seemed his flowery garden fair; + Though through the night still of his work he dreamed, + And though his smooth-stemmed trees so nigh it were, + That thence he could behold the marble hair; + Nought was enough, until with steel in hand + He came before the wondrous stone to stand. + + No song could charm him, and no histories + Of men's misdoings could avail him now, + Nay, scarcely seaward had he turned his eyes, + If men had said, "The fierce Tyrrhenians row + Up through the bay, rise up and strike a blow + For life and goods;" for nought to him seemed dear + But to his well-loved work to be anear. + + Then vexed he grew, and knowing not his heart, + Unto himself he said, "Ah, what is this, + That I who oft was happy to depart, + And wander where the boughs each other kiss + 'Neath the west wind, now have no other bliss + But in vain smoothing of this marble maid, + Whose chips this month a drachma had outweighed? + + "Lo I will get me to the woods and try + If I my woodcraft have forgotten quite, + And then, returning, lay this folly by, + And eat my fill, and sleep my sleep anight, + And 'gin to carve a Hercules aright + Upon the morrow, and perchance indeed + The Theban will be good to me at need." + + With that he took his quiver and his bow, + And through the gates of Amathus he went, + And toward the mountain slopes began to go, + Within the woods to work out his intent. + Fair was the day, the honied beanfield's scent + The west wind bore unto him, o'er the way + The glittering noisy poplar leaves did play. + + All things were moving; as his hurried feet + Passed by, within the flowery swathe he heard + The sweeping of the scythe, the swallow fleet + Rose over him, the sitting partridge stirred + On the field's edge; the brown bee by him whirred, + Or murmured in the clover flowers below. + But he with bowed-down head failed not to go. + + At last he stopped, and, looking round, he said, + "Like one whose thirtieth year is well gone by, + The day is getting ready to be dead; + No rest, and on the border of the sky + Already the great banks of dark haze lie; + No rest--what do I midst this stir and noise? + What part have I in these unthinking joys?" + + With that he turned, and toward the city-gate + Through the sweet fields went swifter than he came, + And cast his heart into the hands of fate; + Nor strove with it, when higher 'gan to flame + That strange and strong desire without a name; + Till panting, thinking of nought else, once more + His hand was on the latch of his own door. + + One moment there he lingered, as he said, + "Alas! what should I do if she were gone?" + But even with that word his brow waxed red + To hear his own lips name a thing of stone, + As though the gods some marvel there had done, + And made his work alive; and therewithal + In turn great pallor on his face did fall. + + But with a sigh he passed into the house, + Yet even then his chamber-door must hold, + And listen there, half blind and timorous, + Until his heart should wax a little bold; + Then entering, motionless and white and cold, + He saw the image stand amidst the floor + All whitened now by labour done before. + + Blinded with tears, his chisel up he caught, + And, drawing near, and sighing, tenderly + Upon the marvel of the face he wrought, + E'en as he used to pass the long days by; + But his sighs changed to sobbing presently, + And on the floor the useless steel he flung, + And, weeping loud, about the image clung. + + "Alas!" he cried, "why have I made thee then, + That thus thou mockest me? I know indeed + That many such as thou are loved of men, + Whose passionate eyes poor wretches still will lead + Into their net, and smile to see them bleed; + But these the god's made, and this hand made thee + Who wilt not speak one little word to me." + + Then from the image did he draw aback + To gaze on it through tears: and you had said, + Regarding it, that little did it lack + To be a living and most lovely maid; + Naked it was, its unbound locks were laid + Over the lovely shoulders; with one hand + Reached out, as to a lover, did it stand, + + The other held a fair rose over-blown; + No smile was on the parted lips, the eyes + Seemed as if even now great love had shown + Unto them, something of its sweet surprise, + Yet saddened them with half-seen mysteries, + And still midst passion maiden-like she seemed, + As though of love unchanged for aye she dreamed. + + Reproachfully beholding all her grace, + Pygmalion stood, until he grew dry-eyed, + And then at last he turned away his face + As if from her cold eyes his grief to hide; + And thus a weary while did he abide, + With nothing in his heart but vain desire, + The ever-burning, unconsuming fire. + + But when again he turned his visage round + His eyes were brighter and no more he wept, + As if some little solace he had found, + Although his folly none the more had slept, + Rather some new-born god-sent madness kept + His other madness from destroying him, + And made the hope of death wax faint and dim; + + For, trembling and ashamed, from out the street + Strong men he called, and faint with jealousy + He caused them bear the ponderous, moveless feet + Unto the chamber where he used to lie, + So in a fair niche to his bed anigh, + Unwitting of his woe, they set it down, + Then went their ways beneath his troubled frown. + + Then to his treasury he went, and sought + Fair gems for its adornment, but all there + Seemed to his eager eyes but poor and nought, + Not worthy e'en to touch her rippled hair. + So he, departing, through the streets 'gan fare, + And from the merchants at a mighty cost + Bought gems that kings for no good deed had lost. + + These then he hung her senseless neck around, + Set on her fingers, and fair arms of stone, + Then cast himself before her on the ground, + Praying for grace for all that he had done + In leaving her untended and alone; + And still with every hour his madness grew + Though all his folly in his heart he knew. + + At last asleep before her feet he lay, + Worn out with passion, yet this burning pain + Returned on him, when with the light of day + He woke and wept before her feet again; + Then of the fresh and new-born morning fain, + Into his garden passed, and therefrom bore + New spoil of flowers his love to lay before. + + A little altar, with fine gold o'erlaid, + Was in his house, that he a while ago + At some great man's command had deftly made, + And this he now must take and set below + Her well-wrought feet, and there must red flame glow + About sweet wood, and he must send her thence + The odour of Arabian frankincense. + + Then as the smoke went up, he prayed and said, + "Thou, image, hear'st me not, nor wilt thou speak, + But I perchance shall know when I am dead, + If this has been some goddess' sport, to seek + A wretch, and in his heart infirm and weak + To set her glorious image, so that he, + Loving the form of immortality, + + "May make much laughter for the gods above: + Hear me, and if my love misliketh thee + Then take my life away, for I will love + Till death unfeared at last shall come to me, + And give me rest, if he of might may be + To slay the love of that which cannot die, + The heavenly beauty that can ne'er pass by." + + No word indeed the moveless image said, + But with the sweet grave eyes his hands had wrought + Still gazed down on his bowed imploring head, + Yet his own words some solace to him brought, + Gilding the net wherein his soul was caught + With something like to hope, and all that day + Some tender words he ever found to say; + + And still he felt as something heard him speak; + Sometimes he praised her beauty, and sometimes + Reproached her in a feeble voice and weak, + And at the last drew forth a book of rhymes, + Wherein were writ the tales of many climes, + And read aloud the sweetness hid therein + Of lovers' sorrows and their tangled sin. + + And when the sun went down, the frankincense + Again upon the altar-flame he cast + That through the open window floating thence + O'er the fresh odours of the garden passed; + And so another day was gone at last, + And he no more his love-lorn watch could keep, + But now for utter weariness must sleep. + + But in the night he dreamed that she was gone, + And knowing that he dreamed, tried hard to wake + And could not, but forsaken and alone + He seemed to weep as though his heart would break, + And when the night her sleepy veil did take + From off the world, waking, his tears he found + Still wet upon the pillow all around. + + Then at the first, bewildered by those tears, + He fell a-wondering wherefore he had wept, + But suddenly remembering all his fears, + Panting with terror, from the bed he leapt, + But still its wonted place the image kept, + Nor moved for all the joyful ecstasy + Wherewith he blessed the day that showed it nigh. + + Then came the morning offering and the day, + Midst flowers and words of love and kisses sweet + From morn, through noon, to evening passed away, + And scarce unhappy, crouching at her feet + He saw the sun descend the sea to meet; + And scarce unhappy through the darkness crept + Unto his bed, and midst soft dreaming slept. + + * * * * * + + But the next morn, e'en while the incense-smoke + At sun-rising curled round about her head, + Sweet sound of songs the wonted quiet broke + Down in the street, and he by something led, + He knew not what, must leave his prayer unsaid, + And through the freshness of the morn must see + The folk who went with that sweet minstrelsy; + + Damsels and youths in wonderful attire, + And in their midst upon a car of gold + An image of the Mother of Desire, + Wrought by his hands in days that seemed grown old + Though those sweet limbs a garment did enfold, + Coloured like flame, enwrought with precious things, + Most fit to be the prize of striving kings. + + Then he remembered that the manner was + That fair-clad priests the lovely Queen should take + Thrice in the year, and through the city pass, + And with sweet songs the dreaming folk awake; + And through the clouds a light there seemed to break + When he remembered all the tales well told + About her glorious kindly deeds of old. + + So his unfinished prayer he finished not, + But, kneeling, once more kissed the marble feet, + And, while his heart with many thoughts waxed hot, + He clad himself with fresh attire and meet + For that bright service, and with blossoms sweet + Entwined with tender leaves he crowned his head, + And followed after as the goddess led. + + But long and vain unto him seemed the way + Until they came unto her house again; + Long years, the while they went about to lay + The honey-hiding dwellers on the plain, + The sweet companions of the yellowing grain + Upon her golden altar; long and long + Before, at end of their delicious song, + + They stripped her of her weed with reverend hands + And showed the ivory limbs his hand had wrought; + Yea, and too long e'en then ere those fair bands, + Dispersing here and there, the shadow sought + Of Indian spice-trees o'er the warm sea brought + And toward the splashing of the fountain turned, + Mocked the noon sun that o'er the cloisters burned. + + But when the crowd of worshippers was gone + And through the golden dimness of the place + The goddess' very servants paced alone, + Or some lone damsel murmured of her case + Apart from prying eyes, he turned his face + Unto that image made with toil and care, + In days when unto him it seemed most fair. + + Dusky and dim, though rich with gems and gold, + The house of Venus was; high in the dome + The burning sun-light you could now behold, + From nowhere else the light of day might come, + To shame the Shame-faced Mother's lovely home; + A long way off the shrine, the fresh sea-breeze, + Now just arising, brushed the myrtle-trees. + + The torches of the flower-crowned, singing band + Erewhile, indeed, made more than daylight there, + Lighting the painted tales of many a land, + And carven heroes, with their unused glare; + But now a few soft, glimmering lamps there were + And on the altar a thin, flickering flame + Just showed the golden letters of her name. + + Blue in the dome yet hung the incense-cloud, + And still its perfume lingered all around; + And, trodden by the light-foot, fervent crowd, + Thick lay the summer flowers upon the ground, + And now from far-off halls uprose the sound + Of Lydian music, and the dancer's cry, + As though some door were opened suddenly. + + So there he stood, some help from her to gain, + Bewildered by that twilight midst of day; + Downcast with listening to the joyous strain + He had no part in, hopeless with delay + Of all the fair things he had meant to say; + Yet, as the incense on the flame he cast, + From stammering lips and pale these words there passed,-- + + "O thou forgotten help, dost thou yet know + What thing it is I need, when even I, + Bent down before thee in this shame and woe, + Can frame no set of words to tell thee why + I needs must pray, O help me or I die! + Or slay me, and in slaying take from me + Even a dead man's feeble memory. + + "Say not thine help I have been slow to seek; + Here have I been from the first hour of morn, + Who stand before thy presence faint and weak, + Of my one poor delight left all forlorn; + Trembling with many fears, the hope outworn + I had when first I left my love, my shame, + To call upon thine oft-sung glorious name." + + He stopped to catch his breath, for as a sob + Did each word leave his mouth; but suddenly, + Like a live thing, the thin flame 'gan to throb + And gather force, and then shot up on high + A steady spike of light, that drew anigh + The sunbeam in the dome, then sank once more + Into a feeble flicker as before. + + But at that sight the nameless hope he had + That kept him living midst unhappiness, + Stirred in his breast, and with changed face and glad + Unto the image forward must he press + With words of praise his first word to redress, + But then it was as though a thick black cloud + Altar, and fire, and ivory limbs did shroud. + + He staggered back, amazed and full of awe, + But when, with anxious eyes, he gazed around, + About him still the worshippers he saw + Sunk in their wonted works, with no surprise + At what to him seemed awful mysteries; + Therewith he sighed and said, "This, too, I dream, + No better day upon my life shall beam." + + And yet for long upon the place he gazed + Where other folk beheld the lovely Queen; + And while he looked the dusky veil seemed raised, + And every thing was as it erst had been; + And then he said, "Such marvels I have seen + As some sick man may see from off his bed: + Ah, I am sick, and would that I were dead!" + + Therewith, not questioning his heart at all, + He turned away and left the holy place, + When now the wide sun reddened towards his fall, + And a fresh west wind held the clouds in chase; + But coming out, at first he hid his face + Dazed with the light, and in the porch he stood, + Nor wished to move, or change his dreary mood. + + Yet in a while the freshness of the eve + Pierced to his weary heart, and with a sigh + He raised his head, and slowly 'gan to leave + The high carved pillars; and so presently + Had passed the grove of whispering myrtles by, + And, mid the many noises of the street, + Made himself brave the eyes of men to meet. + + Thronged were the ways with folk in gay attire, + Nursing the end of that festivity; + Girls fit to move the moody man's desire + Brushed past him, and soft dainty minstrelsy + He heard amid the laughter, and might see, + Through open doors, the garden's green delight, + Where pensive lovers waited for the night; + + Or resting dancers round the fountain drawn, + With faces flushed unto the breeze turned round, + Or wandering o'er the fragrant trodden lawn, + Took up their fallen garlands from the ground, + Or languidly their scattered tresses bound, + Or let their gathered raiment fall adown, + With eyes downcast beneath their lovers' frown. + + What hope Pygmalion yet might have, when he + First left the pillars of the dreamy place, + Amid such sights had vanished utterly. + He turned his weary eyes from face to face, + Nor noted them, as at a lagging pace + He gat towards home, and still was murmuring, + "Ah life, sweet life! the only godlike thing!" + + And as he went, though longing to be there + Whereas his sole desire awaited him, + Yet did he loath to see the image fair, + White and unchanged of face, unmoved of limb, + And to his heart came dreamy thoughts and dim + That unto some strange region he might come, + Nor ever reach again his loveless home. + + Yet soon, indeed, before his door he stood, + And, as a man awaking from a dream, + Seemed waked from his old folly; nought seemed good + In all the things that he before had deemed + At least worth life, and on his heart there streamed + Cold light of day--he found himself alone, + Reft of desire, all love and madness gone. + + And yet for that past folly must he weep, + As one might mourn the parted happiness + That, mixed with madness, made him smile in sleep; + And still some lingering sweetness seemed to bless + The hard life left of toil and loneliness, + Like a past song too sweet, too short, and yet + Emmeshed for ever in the memory's net. + + Weeping he entered, murmuring, "O fair Queen, + I thank thee that my prayer was not for nought, + Truly a present helper hast thou been + To those who faithfully thy throne have sought! + Yet, since with pain deliverance I have bought, + Hast thou not yet some gift in store for me, + That I thine happy slave henceforth may be?" + + * * * * * + + Thus to his chamber at the last he came, + And, pushing through the still half-opened door, + He stood within; but there, for very shame + Of all the things that he had done before, + Still kept his eyes bent down upon the floor, + Thinking of all that he had done and said + Since he had wrought that luckless marble maid. + + Yet soft his thoughts were, and the very place + Seemed perfumed with some nameless heavenly air + So gaining courage, did he raise his face + Unto the work his hands had made so fair, + And cried aloud to see the niche all bare + Of that sweet form, while through his heart again + There shot a pang of his old yearning pain. + + Yet while he stood, and knew not what to do + With yearning, a strange thrill of hope there came, + A shaft of new desire now pierced him through, + And therewithal a soft voice called his name, + And when he turned, with eager eyes aflame, + He saw betwixt him and the setting sun + The lively image of his loved one. + + He trembled at the sight, for though her eyes, + Her very lips, were such as he had made, + And though her tresses fell but in such guise + As he had wrought them, now was she arrayed + In that fair garment that the priests had laid + Upon the goddess on that very morn, + Dyed like the setting sun upon the corn. + + Speechless he stood, but she now drew anear, + Simple and sweet as she was wont to be, + And all at once her silver voice rang clear, + Filling his soul with great felicity, + And thus she spoke, "Pygmalion, come to me, + O dear companion of my new-found life, + For I am called thy lover and thy wife. + + "Listen, these words the Dread One bade me say + That was with me e'en now, _Pygmalion,_ + _My new-made soul I give to thee to-day,_ + _Come, feel the sweet breath that thy prayer has won,_ + _And lay thine hand this heaving breast upon!_ + _Come love, and walk with me between the trees,_ + _And feel the freshness of the evening breeze._ + + _"Sweep mine hair round thy neck; behold my feet,_ + _The oft-kissed feet thou thoughtst should never move,_ + _Press down the daisies! draw me to thee, sweet,_ + _And feel the warm heart of thy living love_ + _Beat against thine, and bless the Seed of Jove_ + _Whose loving tender heart hath wrought all this,_ + _And wrapped us both in such a cloud of bliss._ + + "Ah, thou art wise to know what this may mean! + Sweet seem the words to me, and needs must I + Speak all the lesson of the lovely Queen: + But this I know, I would we were more nigh, + I have not heard thy voice but in the cry + Thou utteredst then, when thou believedst gone + The marvel of thine hands, the maid of stone." + + She reached her hand to him, and with kind eyes + Gazed into his; but he the fingers caught + And drew her to him, and midst ecstasies + Passing all words, yea, well-nigh passing thought, + Felt that sweet breath that he so long had sought, + Felt the warm life within her heaving breast + As in his arms his living love he pressed. + + But as his cheek touched hers he heard her say, + "Wilt thou not speak, O love? why dost thou weep? + Art thou then sorry for this long-wished day, + Or dost thou think perchance thou wilt not keep + This that thou holdest, but in dreamy sleep? + Nay, let us do the bidding of the Queen, + And hand in hand walk through thy garden green; + + "Then shalt thou tell me, still beholding me, + Full many things whereof I wish to know, + And as we walk from whispering tree to tree + Still more familiar to thee shall I grow, + And such things shalt thou say unto me now + As when thou deemedst thou wast quite alone, + A madman, kneeling to a thing of stone." + + But at that word a smile lit up his eyes + And therewithal he spake some loving word, + And she at first looked up in grave surprise + When his deep voice and musical she heard, + And clung to him as grown somewhat afeard; + Then cried aloud and said, "O mighty one! + What joy with thee to look upon the sun." + + Then into that fair garden did they pass + And all the story of his love he told, + And as the twain went o'er the dewy grass, + Beneath the risen moon could he behold + The bright tears trickling down, then, waxen bold, + He stopped and said, "Ah, love, what meaneth this? + Seest thou how tears still follow earthly bliss?" + + Then both her white arms round his neck she threw + And sobbing said, "O love, what hurteth me? + When first the sweetness of my life I knew, + Not this I felt, but when I first saw thee + A little pain and great felicity + Rose up within me, and thy talk e'en now + Made pain and pleasure ever greater grow?" + + "O sweet," he said, "this thing is even love, + Whereof I told thee; that all wise men fear, + But yet escape not; nay, to gods above, + Unless the old tales lie, it draweth near. + But let my happy ears I pray thee hear + Thy story too, and how thy blessed birth + Has made a heaven of this once lonely earth." + + "My sweet," she said, "as yet I am not wise, + Or stored with words, aright the tale to tell, + But listen: when I opened first mine eyes + I stood within the niche thou knowest well, + And from mine hand a heavy thing there fell + Carved like these flowers, nor could I see things clear, + And but a strange confused noise could hear. + + "At last mine eyes could see a woman fair, + But awful as this round white moon o'erhead. + So that I trembled when I saw her there, + For with my life was born some touch of dread, + And therewithal I heard her voice that said, + 'Come down, and learn to love and be alive, + For thee, a well-prized gift, to-day I give.' + + "Then on the floor I stepped, rejoicing much, + Not knowing why, not knowing aught at all, + Till she reached out her hand my breast to touch, + And when her fingers thereupon did fall, + Thought came unto my life, and therewithal + I knew her for a goddess, and began + To murmur in some tongue unknown to man. + + "And then indeed not in this guise was I, + No sandals had I, and no saffron gown, + But naked as thou knowest utterly, + E'en as my limbs beneath thine hand had grown, + And this fair perfumed robe then fell adown + Over the goddess' feet and swept the ground, + And round her loins a glittering belt was bound. + + "But when the stammering of my tongue she heard + Upon my trembling lips her hand she laid, + And spoke again, 'Nay, say not any word, + All that thine heart would say I know unsaid, + Who even now thine heart and voice have made; + But listen rather, for thou knowest now + What these words mean, and still wilt wiser grow. + + "'Thy body, lifeless till I gave it life, + A certain man, my servant, well hath wrought + I give thee to him as his love and wife, + With all thy dowry of desire and thought, + Since this his yearning heart hath ever sought; + Now from my temple is he on the way, + Deeming to find thee e'en as yesterday; + + "'Bide thou his coming by the bed-head there, + And when thou seest him set his eyes upon + Thine empty niche, and hear'st him cry for care, + Then call him by his name, Pygmalion, + And certainly thy lover hast thou won; + But when he stands before thee silently, + Say all these words that I shall teach to thee.' + + "With that she said what first I told thee, love + And then went on, 'Moreover thou shalt say + That I, the daughter of almighty Jove, + Have wrought for him this long-desired day; + In sign whereof, these things that pass away, + Wherein mine image men have well arrayed, + I give thee for thy wedding gear, O maid.' + + "Therewith her raiment she put off from her. + And laid bare all her perfect loveliness, + And, smiling on me, came yet more anear, + And on my mortal lips her lips did press, + And said, 'Now herewith shalt thou love no less + Than Psyche loved my son in days of old; + Farewell, of thee shall many a tale be told.' + + "And even with that last word was she gone, + How, I know not, and I my limbs arrayed + In her fair gift, and waited thee alone-- + Ah, love, indeed the word is true she said, + For now I love thee so, I grow afraid + Of what the gods upon our heads may send-- + I love thee so, I think upon the end." + + What words he said? How can I tell again + What words they said beneath the glimmering light, + Some tongue they used unknown to loveless men + As each to each they told their great delight, + Until for stillness of the growing night + Their soft sweet murmuring words seemed growing loud + And dim the moon grew, hid by fleecy cloud. + + * * * * * + + Such was the ending of his ancient rhyme, + That seemed to fit that soft and golden time, + When men were happy, they could scarce tell why, + Although they felt the rich year slipping by. + The sun went down, the harvest-moon arose, + And 'twixt the slim trees of that fruitful close + They saw the corn still falling 'neath its light, + While through the soft air of the windless night + The voices of the reapers' mates rang clear + In measured song, as of the fruitful year + They told, and its delights, and now and then + The rougher voices of the toiling men + Joined in the song, as one by one released + From that hard toil, they sauntered towards the feast + That waited them upon the strip of grass + That through the golden-glimmering sea did pass. + But those old men, glad to have lived so long, + Sat listening through the twilight to the song, + And when the night grew and all things were still + Throughout the wide vale from green hill to hill + Unto a happy harvesting they drank + Till once more o'er the hills the white moon sank. + + * * * * * + + August had not gone by, though now was stored + In the sweet-smelling granaries all the hoard + Of golden corn; the land had made her gain, + And winter should howl round her doors in vain. + But o'er the same fields grey now and forlorn + The old men sat and heard the swineherd's horn, + Far off across the stubble, when the day + At end of harvest-tide was sad and grey; + And rain was in the wind's voice as it swept + Along the hedges where the lone quail crept, + Beneath the chattering of the restless pie. + The fruit-hung branches moved, and suddenly + The trembling apples smote the dewless grass, + And all the year to autumn-tide did pass. + E'en such a day it was as young men love + When swiftly through the veins the blood doth move, + And they, whose eyes can see not death at all, + To thoughts of stirring deeds and pleasure fall, + Because it seems to them to tell of life + After the dreamy days devoid of strife, + When every day with sunshine is begun, + And cloudless skies receive the setting sun. + On such a day the older folk were fain + Of something new somewhat to dull the pain + Of sad, importunate old memories + That to their weary hearts must needs arise. + Alas! what new things on that day could come + From hearts that now so long had been the home + Of such dull thoughts, nay, rather let them tell + Some tale that fits their ancient longings well. + Rolf was the speaker, who said, "Friends, behold + This is e'en such a tale as those once told + Unto my greedy ears by Nicholas, + Before our quest for nothing came to pass." + + + + +OGIER THE DANE. + +ARGUMENT. + +When Ogier was born, six fay ladies came to the cradle where he lay, and + gave him various gifts, as to be brave and happy and the like; but the + sixth gave him to be her love when he should have lived long in the + world: so Ogier grew up and became the greatest of knights, and at + last, after many years, fell into the hands of that fay, and with her, + as the story tells, he lives now, though he returned once to the + world, as is shown in the process of this tale. + + + Within some Danish city by the sea, + Whose name, changed now, is all unknown to me, + Great mourning was there one fair summer eve, + Because the angels, bidden to receive + The fair Queen's lovely soul in Paradise, + Had done their bidding, and in royal guise + Her helpless body, once the prize of love, + Unable now for fear or hope to move, + Lay underneath the golden canopy; + And bowed down by unkingly misery + The King sat by it, and not far away, + Within the chamber a fair man-child lay, + His mother's bane, the king that was to be, + Not witting yet of any royalty, + Harmless and loved, although so new to life. + + Calm the June evening was, no sign of strife + The clear sky showed, no storm grew round the sun, + Unhappy that his day of bliss was done; + Dumb was the sea, and if the beech-wood stirred, + 'Twas with the nestling of the grey-winged bird + Midst its thick leaves; and though the nightingale + Her ancient, hapless sorrow must bewail, + No more of woe there seemed within her song + Than such as doth to lovers' words belong, + Because their love is still unsatisfied. + But to the King, on that sweet eventide, + No earth there seemed, no heaven when earth was gone; + No help, no God! but lonely pain alone; + And he, midst unreal shadows, seemed to sit + Himself the very heart and soul of it. + But round the cradle of the new-born child + The nurses now the weary time beguiled + With stories of the just departed Queen; + And how, amid the heathen folk first seen, + She had been won to love and godliness; + And as they spoke, e'en midst his dull distress, + An eager whisper now and then did smite + Upon the King's ear, of some past delight, + Some once familiar name, and he would raise + His weary head, and on the speaker gaze + Like one about to speak, but soon again + Would drop his head and be alone with pain, + Nor think of these; who, silent in their turn, + Would sit and watch the waxen tapers burn + Amidst the dusk of the quick-gathering night, + Until beneath the high stars' glimmering light, + The fresh earth lay in colourless repose. + So passed the night, and now and then one rose + From out her place to do what might avail + To still the new-born infant's fretful wail; + Or through the softly-opened door there came + Some nurse new waked, who, whispering low the name + Of her whose turn was come, would take her place; + Then toward the King would turn about her face + And to her fellows whisper of the day, + And tell again of her just past away. + + So waned the hours, the moon arose and grew, + From off the sea a little west-wind blew, + Rustling the garden-leaves like sudden rain; + And ere the moon began to fall again + The wind grew cold, a change was in the sky, + And in deep silence did the dawn draw nigh: + Then from her place a nurse arose to light + Fresh hallowed lights, for, dying with the night, + The tapers round about the dead Queen were; + But the King raised his head and 'gan to stare + Upon her, as her sweeping gown did glide + About the floor, that in the stillness cried + Beneath her careful feet; and now as she + Had lit the second candle carefully, + And on its silver spike another one + Was setting, through her body did there run + A sudden tremor, and the hand was stayed + That on the dainty painted wax was laid; + Her eyelids fell down and she seemed to sleep, + And o'er the staring King began to creep + Sweet slumber too; the bitter lines of woe + That drew his weary face did softer grow, + His eyelids dropped, his arms fell to his side; + And moveless in their places did abide + The nursing women, held by some strong spell, + E'en as they were, and utter silence fell + Upon the mournful, glimmering chamber fair. + But now light footsteps coming up the stair, + Smote on the deadly stillness, and the sound + Of silken dresses trailing o'er the ground; + And heavenly odours through the chamber passed, + Unlike the scents that rose and lily cast + Upon the freshness of the dying night; + Then nigher drew the sound of footsteps light + Until the door swung open noiselessly-- + A mass of sunlit flowers there seemed to be + Within the doorway, and but pale and wan + The flame showed now that serveth mortal man, + As one by one six seeming ladies passed + Into the room, and o'er its sorrow cast + That thoughtless sense of joy bewildering, + That kisses youthful hearts amidst of spring; + Crowned were they, in such glorious raiment clad, + As yet no merchant of the world has had + Within his coffers; yet those crowns seemed fair + Only because they kissed their odorous hair, + And all that flowery raiment was but blessed + By those fair bodies that its splendour pressed. + Now to the cradle from that glorious band, + A woman passed, and laid a tender hand + Upon the babe, and gently drew aside + The swathings soft that did his body hide; + And, seeing him so fair and great, she smiled, + And stooped, and kissed him, saying, "O noble child, + Have thou a gift from Gloriande this day; + For to the time when life shall pass away + From this dear heart, no fear of death or shame, + No weariness of good shall foul thy name." + So saying, to her sisters she returned; + And one came forth, upon whose brow there burned + A crown of rubies, and whose heaving breast + With happy rings a golden hauberk pressed; + She took the babe, and somewhat frowning said, + "This gift I give, that till thy limbs are laid + At rest for ever, to thine honoured life + There never shall be lacking war and strife, + That thou a long-enduring name mayst win, + And by thy deeds, good pardon for thy sin." + With that another, who, unseen, meanwhile + Had drawn anigh, said with a joyous smile, + "And this forgotten gift to thee I give, + That while amidst the turmoil thou dost live, + Still shalt thou win the game, and unto thee + Defeat and shame but idle words shall be." + Then back they turned, and therewithal, the fourth + Said, "Take this gift for what it may be worth + For that is mine to give; lo, thou shalt be + Gentle of speech, and in all courtesy + The first of men: a little gift this is, + After these promises of fame and bliss." + Then toward the babe the fifth fair woman went; + Grey-eyed she was, and simple, with eyes bent + Down on the floor, parted her red lips were, + And o'er her sweet face marvellously fair + Oft would the colour spread full suddenly; + Clad in a dainty gown and thin was she, + For some green summer of the fay-land dight, + Tripping she went, and laid her fingers light + Upon the child, and said, "O little one, + As long as thou shalt look upon the sun + Shall women long for thee; take heed to this + And give them what thou canst of love and bliss." + Then, blushing for her words, therefrom she past, + And by the cradle stood the sixth and last, + The fairest of them all; awhile she gazed + Down on the child, and then her hand she raised, + And made the one side of her bosom bare; + "Ogier," she said, "if this be foul or fair + Thou know'st not now, but when thine earthly life + Is drunk out to the dregs, and war and strife + Have yielded thee whatever joy they may, + Thine head upon this bosom shalt thou lay; + And then, despite of knowledge or of God, + Will we be glad upon the flowery sod + Within the happy country where I dwell: + Ogier, my love that is to be, farewell!" + + She turned, and even as they came they passed + From out the place, and reached the gate at last + That oped before their feet, and speedily + They gained the edges of the murmuring sea, + And as they stood in silence, gazing there + Out to the west, they vanished into air, + I know not how, nor whereto they returned. + + But mixed with twilight in the chamber burned + The flickering candles, and those dreary folk, + Unlike to sleepers, from their trance awoke, + But nought of what had happed meanwhile they knew + Through the half-opened casements now there blew + A sweet fresh air, that of the flowers and sea + Mingled together, smelt deliciously, + And from the unseen sun the spreading light + Began to make the fair June blossoms bright, + And midst their weary woe uprose the sun, + And thus has Ogier's noble life begun. + + * * * * * + + Hope is our life, when first our life grows clear; + Hope and delight, scarce crossed by lines of fear, + Yet the day comes when fain we would not hope, + But forasmuch as we with life must cope, + Struggling with this and that, who knoweth why? + Hope will not give us up to certainty, + But still must bide with us: and with this man, + Whose life amid such promises began + Great things she wrought; but now the time has come + When he no more on earth may have his home. + Great things he suffered, great delights he had, + Unto great kings he gave good deeds for bad; + He ruled o'er kingdoms where his name no more + Is had in memory, and on many a shore + He left his sweat and blood to win a name + Passing the bounds of earthly creatures' fame. + A love he won and lost, a well-loved son + Whose little day of promise soon was done: + A tender wife he had, that he must leave + Before his heart her love could well receive; + Those promised gifts, that on his careless head + In those first hours of his fair life were shed + He took unwitting, and unwitting spent, + Nor gave himself to grief and discontent + Because he saw the end a-drawing nigh. + Where is he now? in what land must he die, + To leave an empty name to us on earth? + A tale half true, to cast across our mirth + Some pensive thoughts of life that might have been; + Where is he now, that all this life has seen? + + Behold, another eve upon the earth + Than that calm evening of the warrior's birth; + The sun is setting in the west, the sky + Is bright and clear and hard, and no clouds lie + About the golden circle of the sun; + But East, aloof from him, heavy and dun + Steel-grey they pack with edges red as blood, + And underneath them is the weltering flood + Of some huge sea, whose tumbling hills, as they + Turn restless sides about, are black or grey, + Or green, or glittering with the golden flame; + The wind has fallen now, but still the same + The mighty army moves, as if to drown + This lone, bare rock, whose shear scarped sides of brown + Cast off the weight of waves in clouds of spray. + Alas! what ships upon an evil day + Bent over to the wind in this ill sea? + What navy, whose rent bones lie wretchedly + Beneath these cliffs? a mighty one it was, + A fearful storm to bring such things to pass. + + This is the loadstone rock; no armament + Of warring nations, in their madness bent + Their course this way; no merchant wittingly + Has steered his keel unto this luckless sea; + Upon no shipman's card its name is writ, + Though worn-out mariners will speak of it + Within the ingle on the winter's night, + When all within is warm and safe and bright, + And the wind howls without: but 'gainst their will + Are some folk driven here, and then all skill + Against this evil rock is vain and nought, + And unto death the shipmen soon are brought; + For then the keel, as by a giant's hand, + Is drawn unto that mockery of a land, + And presently unto its sides doth cleave; + When if they 'scape swift death, yet none may leave + The narrow limits of that barren isle, + And thus are slain by famine in a while + Mocked, as they say, by night with images + Of noble castles among groves of trees, + By day with sounds of merry minstrelsy. + + The sun sinks now below this hopeless sea, + The clouds are gone, and all the sky is bright; + The moon is rising o'er the growing night, + And by its shine may ye behold the bones + Of generations of these luckless ones + Scattered about the rock; but nigh the sea + Sits one alive, who uncomplainingly + Awaits his death. White-haired is he and old, + Arrayed in royal raiment, bright with gold, + But tarnished with the waves and rough salt air; + Huge is he, of a noble face and fair, + As for an ancient man, though toil and eld + Furrow the cheeks that ladies once beheld + With melting hearts--Nay, listen, for he speaks! + "God, Thou hast made me strong! nigh seven weeks + Have passed since from the wreck we haled our store, + And five long days well told, have now passed o'er + Since my last fellow died, with my last bread + Between his teeth, and yet I am not dead. + Yea, but for this I had been strong enow + In some last bloody field my sword to show. + What matter? soon will all be past and done, + Where'er I died I must have died alone: + Yet, Caraheu, a good death had it been + Dying, thy face above me to have seen, + And heard my banner flapping in the wind, + Then, though my memory had not left thy mind, + Yet hope and fear would not have vexed thee more + When thou hadst known that everything was o'er; + But now thou waitest, still expecting me, + Whose sail shall never speck thy bright blue sea. + "And thou, Clarice, the merchants thou mayst call, + To tell thee tales within thy pictured hall, + But never shall they tell true tales of me: + Whatever sails the Kentish hills may see + Swept by the flood-tide toward thy well-walled town, + No more on my sails shall they look adown. + "Get thee another leader, Charlemaine, + For thou shalt look to see my shield in vain, + When in the fair fields of the Frankish land, + Thick as the corn they tread, the heathen stand. + "What matter? ye shall learn to live your lives; + Husbands and children, other friends and wives, + Shall wipe the tablets of your memory clean, + And all shall be as I had never been. + + "And now, O God, am I alone with Thee; + A little thing indeed it seems to be + To give this life up, since it needs must go + Some time or other; now at last I know + How foolishly men play upon the earth, + When unto them a year of life seems worth + Honour and friends, and these vague hopes and sweet + That like real things my dying heart do greet, + Unreal while living on the earth I trod, + And but myself I knew no other god. + Behold, I thank Thee that Thou sweet'nest thus + This end, that I had thought most piteous, + If of another I had heard it told." + + What man is this, who weak and worn and old + Gives up his life within that dreadful isle, + And on the fearful coming death can smile? + Alas! this man, so battered and outworn, + Is none but he, who, on that summer morn, + Received such promises of glorious life: + Ogier the Dane this is, to whom all strife + Was but as wine to stir awhile the blood, + To whom all life, however hard, was good: + This is the man, unmatched of heart and limb, + Ogier the Dane, whose sight has waxed not dim + For all the years that he on earth has dwelt; + Ogier the Dane, that never fear has felt, + Since he knew good from ill; Ogier the Dane, + The heathen's dread, the evil-doer's bane. + + * * * * * + + Bright had the moon grown as his words were done, + And no more was there memory of the sun + Within the west, and he grew drowsy now. + And somewhat smoother was his wrinkled brow + As thought died out beneath the hand of sleep, + And o'er his soul forgetfulness did creep, + Hiding the image of swift-coming death; + Until as peacefully he drew his breath + As on that day, past for a hundred years, + When, midst the nurse's quickly-falling tears, + He fell asleep to his first lullaby. + The night changed as he slept, white clouds and high + Began about the lonely moon to close; + And from the dark west a new wind arose, + And with the sound of heavy-falling waves + Mingled its pipe about the loadstone caves; + But when the twinkling stars were hid away, + And a faint light and broad, like dawn of day, + The moon upon that dreary country shed, + Ogier awoke, and lifting up his head + And smiling, muttered, "Nay, no more again; + Rather some pleasure new, some other pain, + Unthought of both, some other form of strife;" + For he had waked from dreams of his old life, + And through St. Omer's archer-guarded gate + Once more had seemed to pass, and saw the state + Of that triumphant king; and still, though all + Seemed changed, and folk by other names did call + Faces he knew of old, yet none the less + He seemed the same, and, midst that mightiness, + Felt his own power, and grew the more athirst + For coming glory, as of old, when first + He stood before the face of Charlemaine, + A helpless hostage with all life to gain. + But now, awake, his worn face once more sank + Between his hands, and, murmuring not, he drank + The draught of death that must that thirst allay. + + But while he sat and waited for the day + A sudden light across the bare rock streamed, + Which at the first he noted not, but deemed + The moon her fleecy veil had broken through; + But ruddier indeed this new light grew + Than were the moon's grey beams, and, therewithal + Soft far-off music on his ears did fall; + Yet moved he not, but murmured, "This is death. + An easy thing like this to yield my breath, + Awake, yet dreaming, with no sounds of fear, + No dreadful sights to tell me it is near; + Yea, God, I thank Thee!" but with that last word + It seemed to him that he his own name heard + Whispered, as though the wind had borne it past; + With that he gat unto his feet at last, + But still awhile he stood, with sunken head, + And in a low and trembling voice he said, + "Lord, I am ready, whither shall I go? + I pray Thee unto me some token show." + And, as he said this, round about he turned, + And in the east beheld a light that burned + As bright as day; then, though his flesh might fear + The coming change that he believed so near, + Yet did his soul rejoice, for now he thought + Unto the very heaven to be brought: + And though he felt alive, deemed it might be + That he in sleep had died full easily. + Then toward that light did he begin to go, + And still those strains he heard, far off and low, + That grew no louder; still that bright light streamed + Over the rocks, yet nothing brighter seemed, + But like the light of some unseen bright flame + Shone round about, until at last he came + Unto the dreary islet's other shore, + And then the minstrelsy he heard no more, + And softer seemed the strange light unto him, + But yet or ever it had grown quite dim, + Beneath its waning light could he behold + A mighty palace set about with gold, + Above green meads and groves of summer trees + Far-off across the welter of the seas; + But, as he gazed, it faded from his sight, + And the grey hidden moon's diffused soft light, + Which soothly was but darkness to him now, + His sea-girt island prison did but show. + But o'er the sea he still gazed wistfully, + And said, "Alas! and when will this go by + And leave my soul in peace? must I still dream + Of life that once so dear a thing did seem, + That, when I wake, death may the bitterer be? + Here will I sit until he come to me, + And hide mine eyes and think upon my sin, + That so a little calm I yet may win + Before I stand within the awful place." + Then down he sat and covered up his face. + Yet therewithal his trouble could not hide, + Nor waiting thus for death could he abide, + For, though he knew it not, the yearning pain + Of hope of life had touched his soul again-- + If he could live awhile, if he could live! + The mighty being, who once was wont to give + The gift of life to many a trembling man; + Who did his own will since his life began; + Who feared not aught, but strong and great and free + Still cast aside the thought of what might be; + Must all this then be lost, and with no will, + Powerless and blind, must he some fate fulfil, + Nor know what he is doing any more? + + Soon he arose and paced along the shore, + And gazed out seaward for the blessed light; + But nought he saw except the old sad sight, + The ceaseless tumbling of the billows grey, + The white upspringing of the spurts of spray + Amidst that mass of timbers, the rent bones + Of the sea-houses of the hapless ones + Once cast like him upon this deadly isle. + He stopped his pacing in a little while, + And clenched his mighty hands, and set his teeth, + And gazing at the ruin underneath, + He swung from off the bare cliff's jagged brow, + And on some slippery ledge he wavered now, + Without a hand-hold, and now stoutly clung + With hands alone, and o'er the welter hung, + Not caring aught if thus his life should end; + But safely amidst all this did he descend + The dreadful cliff, and since no beach was there, + But from the depths the rock rose stark and bare, + Nor crumbled aught beneath the hammering sea, + Upon the wrecks he stood unsteadily. + + But now, amid the clamour of the waves, + And washing to-and-fro of beams and staves, + Dizzy with hunger, dreamy with distress, + And all those days of fear and loneliness, + The ocean's tumult seemed the battle's roar, + His heart grew hot, as when in days of yore + He heard the cymbals clash amid the crowd + Of dusky faces; now he shouted loud, + And from crushed beam to beam began to leap, + And yet his footing somehow did he keep + Amidst their tossing, and indeed the sea + Was somewhat sunk upon the island's lee. + So quickly on from wreck to wreck he passed, + And reached the outer line of wrecks at last, + And there a moment stood unsteadily, + Amid the drift of spray that hurried by, + And drew Courtain his sword from out its sheath, + And poised himself to meet the coming death, + Still looking out to sea; but as he gazed, + And once or twice his doubtful feet he raised + To take the final plunge, that heavenly strain + Over the washing waves he heard again, + And from the dimness something bright he saw + Across the waste of waters towards him draw; + And hidden now, now raised aloft, at last + Unto his very feet a boat was cast, + Gilded inside and out, and well arrayed + With cushions soft; far fitter to have weighed + From some sweet garden on the shallow Seine, + Or in a reach of green Thames to have lain, + Than struggle with that huge confused sea; + But Ogier gazed upon it doubtfully + One moment, and then, sheathing Courtain, said, + "What tales are these about the newly dead + The heathen told? what matter, let all pass; + This moment as one dead indeed I was, + And this must be what I have got to do, + I yet perchance may light on something new + Before I die; though yet perchance this keel + Unto the wondrous mass of charmed steel + Is drawn as others." With that word he leapt + Into the boat, and o'er the cushions crept + From stem to stern, but found no rudder there, + Nor any oars, nor were the cushions fair + Made wet by any dashing of the sea. + Now while he pondered how these things could be, + The boat began to move therefrom at last, + But over him a drowsiness was cast, + And as o'er tumbling hills the skiff did pass, + He clean forgot his death and where he was. + + At last he woke up to a sunny day, + And, looking round, saw that his shallop lay + Moored at the edge of some fair tideless sea + Unto an overhanging thick-leaved tree, + Where in the green waves did the low bank dip + Its fresh and green grass-covered daisied lip; + But Ogier looking thence no more could see + That sad abode of death and misery, + Nor aught but wide and empty ocean, grey + With gathering haze, for now it neared midday; + Then from the golden cushions did he rise, + And wondering still if this were Paradise + He stepped ashore, but drew Courtain his sword + And muttered therewithal a holy word. + Fair was the place, as though amidst of May, + Nor did the brown birds fear the sunny day, + For with their quivering song the air was sweet; + Thick grew the field-flowers underneath his feet, + And on his head the blossoms down did rain, + Yet mid these fair things slowly and with pain + He 'gan to go, yea, even when his foot + First touched the flowery sod, to his heart's root + A coldness seemed to strike, and now each limb + Was growing stiff, his eyes waxed bleared and dim, + And all his stored-up memory 'gan to fail, + Nor yet would his once mighty heart avail + For lamentations o'er his changed lot; + Yet urged by some desire, he knew not what, + Along a little path 'twixt hedges sweet, + Drawn sword in hand, he dragged his faltering feet, + For what then seemed to him a weary way, + Whereon his steps he needs must often stay + And lean upon the mighty well-worn sword + That in those hands, grown old, for king or lord + Had small respect in glorious days long past. + + But still he crept along, and at the last + Came to a gilded wicket, and through this + Entered a garden fit for utmost bliss, + If that might last which needs must soon go by: + There 'gainst a tree he leaned, and with a sigh + He said, "O God, a sinner I have been, + And good it is that I these things have seen + Before I meet what Thou hast set apart + To cleanse the earthly folly from my heart; + But who within this garden now can dwell + Wherein guilt first upon the world befell?" + A little further yet he staggered on, + Till to a fountain-side at last he won, + O'er which two white-thorns their sweet blossoms shed. + There he sank down, and laid his weary head + Beside the mossy roots, and in a while + He slept, and dreamed himself within the isle; + That splashing fount the weary sea did seem, + And in his dream the fair place but a dream; + But when again to feebleness he woke + Upon his ears that heavenly music broke, + Not faint or far as in the isle it was, + But e'en as though the minstrels now did pass + Anigh his resting-place; then fallen in doubt, + E'en as he might, he rose and gazed about, + Leaning against the hawthorn stem with pain; + And yet his straining gaze was but in vain, + Death stole so fast upon him, and no more + Could he behold the blossoms as before, + No more the trees seemed rooted to the ground, + A heavy mist seemed gathering all around, + And in its heart some bright thing seemed to be, + And round his head there breathed deliciously + Sweet odours, and that music never ceased. + But as the weight of Death's strong hand increased + Again he sank adown, and Courtain's noise + Within the scabbard seemed a farewell voice + Sent from the world he loved so well of old, + And all his life was as a story told, + And as he thought thereof he 'gan to smile + E'en as a child asleep, but in a while + It was as though he slept, and sleeping dreamed, + For in his half-closed eyes a glory gleamed, + As though from some sweet face and golden hair, + And on his breast were laid soft hands and fair, + And a sweet voice was ringing in his ears, + Broken as if with flow of joyous tears; + "Ogier, sweet friend, hast thou not tarried long? + Alas! thine hundred years of strife and wrong!" + Then he found voice to say, "Alas! dear Lord, + Too long, too long; and yet one little word + Right many a year agone had brought me here." + Then to his face that face was drawn anear, + He felt his head raised up and gently laid + On some kind knee, again the sweet voice said, + "Nay, Ogier, nay, not yet, not yet, dear friend! + Who knoweth when our linked life shall end, + Since thou art come unto mine arms at last, + And all the turmoil of the world is past? + Why do I linger ere I see thy face + As I desired it in that mourning place + So many years ago--so many years, + Thou knewest not thy love and all her fears?" + "Alas!" he said, "what mockery then is this + That thou wilt speak to me of earthly bliss? + No longer can I think upon the earth, + Have I not done with all its grief and mirth? + Yes, I was Ogier once, but if my love + Should come once more my dying heart to move, + Then must she come from 'neath the milk-white walls + Whereon to-day the hawthorn blossom falls + Outside St. Omer's--art thou she? her name + Which I remembered once mid death and fame + Is clean forgotten now; but yesterday, + Meseems, our son, upon her bosom lay: + Baldwin the fair--what hast thou done with him + Since Charlot slew him? All, mine eyes wax dim; + Woman, forbear! wilt thou not let me die? + Did I forget thee in the days gone by? + Then let me die, that we may meet again!" + + He tried to move from her, but all in vain, + For life had well-nigh left him, but withal + He felt a kiss upon his forehead fall, + And could not speak; he felt slim fingers fair + Move to his mighty sword-worn hand, and there + Set on some ring, and still he could not speak, + And once more sleep weighed down his eyelids weak. + + * * * * * + + But, ah! what land was this he woke unto? + What joy was this that filled his heart anew? + Had he then gained the very Paradise? + Trembling, he durst not at the first arise, + Although no more he felt the pain of eld, + Nor durst he raise his eyes that now beheld + Beside him the white flowers and blades of grass; + He durst not speak, lest he some monster was. + But while he lay and hoped, that gentle voice + Once more he heard; "Yea, thou mayst well rejoice + Thou livest still, my sweet, thou livest still, + Apart from every earthly fear and ill; + Wilt thou not love me, who have wrought thee this, + That I like thee may live in double bliss?" + Then Ogier rose up, nowise like to one + Whose span of earthly life is nigh outrun, + But as he might have risen in old days + To see the spears cleave the fresh morning haze; + But, looking round, he saw no change there was + In the fair place wherethrough he first did pass, + Though all, grown clear and joyous to his eyes, + Now looked no worse than very Paradise; + Behind him were the thorns, the fountain fair + Still sent its glittering stream forth into air, + And by its basin a fair woman stood, + And as their eyes met his new-healed blood + Rushed to his face; with unused thoughts and sweet + And hurrying hopes, his heart began to beat. + The fairest of all creatures did she seem; + So fresh and delicate you well might deem + That scarce for eighteen summers had she blessed + The happy, longing world; yet, for the rest, + Within her glorious eyes such wisdom dwelt + A child before her had the wise man felt, + And with the pleasure of a thousand years + Her lips were fashioned to move joy or tears + Among the longing folk where she might dwell, + To give at last the kiss unspeakable. + In such wise was she clad as folk may be, + Who, for no shame of their humanity, + For no sad changes of the imperfect year, + Rather for added beauty, raiment wear; + For, as the heat-foretelling grey-blue haze + Veils the green flowery morn of late May-days, + Her raiment veiled her; where the bands did meet + That bound the sandals to her dainty feet, + Gems gleamed; a fresh rose-wreath embraced her head, + And on her breast there lay a ruby red. + So with a supplicating look she turned + To meet the flame that in his own eyes burned, + And held out both her white arms lovingly, + As though to greet him as he drew anigh. + Stammering he said, "Who art thou? how am I + So cured of all my evils suddenly, + That certainly I felt no mightier, when, + Amid the backward rush of beaten men, + About me drooped the axe-torn Oriflamme? + Alas! I fear that in some dream I am." + "Ogier," she said, "draw near, perchance it is + That such a name God gives unto our bliss; + I know not, but if thou art such an one + As I must deem, all days beneath the sun + That thou hadst had, shall be but dreams indeed + To those that I have given thee at thy need. + For many years ago beside the sea + When thou wert born, I plighted troth with thee: + Come near then, and make mirrors of mine eyes, + That thou mayst see what these my mysteries + Have wrought in thee; surely but thirty years, + Passed amidst joy, thy new born body bears, + Nor while thou art with me, and on this shore + Art still full-fed of love, shalt thou seem more. + Nay, love, come nigher, and let me take thine hand, + The hope and fear of many a warring land, + And I will show thee wherein lies the spell, + Whereby this happy change upon thee fell." + + Like a shy youth before some royal love, + Close up to that fair woman did he move, + And their hands met; yet to his changed voice + He dared not trust; nay, scarcely could rejoice + E'en when her balmy breath he 'gan to feel, + And felt strange sweetness o'er his spirit steal + As her light raiment, driven by the wind, + Swept round him, and, bewildered and half-blind + His lips the treasure of her lips did press, + And round him clung her perfect loveliness. + For one sweet moment thus they stood, and then + She drew herself from out his arms again, + And panting, lovelier for her love, did stand + Apart awhile, then took her lover's hand, + And, in a trembling voice, made haste to say,-- + "O Ogier, when thou camest here to-day, + I feared indeed, that in my play with fate, + I might have seen thee e'en one day too late, + Before this ring thy finger should embrace; + Behold it, love, and thy keen eyes may trace + Faint figures wrought upon the ruddy gold; + My father dying gave it me, nor told + The manner of its making, but I know + That it can make thee e'en as thou art now + Despite the laws of God--shrink not from me + Because I give an impious gift to thee-- + Has not God made me also, who do this? + But I, who longed to share with thee my bliss, + Am of the fays, and live their changeless life, + And, like the gods of old, I see the strife + That moves the world, unmoved if so I will; + For we the fruit, that teaches good and ill, + Have never touched like you of Adam's race; + And while thou dwellest with me in this place + Thus shalt thou be--ah, and thou deem'st, indeed, + That thou shalt gain thereby no happy meed + Reft of the world's joys? nor canst understand + How thou art come into a happy land?-- + Love, in thy world the priests of heaven still sing, + And tell thee of it many a joyous thing; + But think'st thou, bearing the world's joy and pain, + Thou couldst live there? nay, nay, but born again + Thou wouldst be happy with the angels' bliss; + And so with us no otherwise it is, + Nor hast thou cast thine old life quite away + Even as yet, though that shall be to-day. + "But for the love and country thou hast won, + Know thou, that thou art come to Avallon, + That is both thine and mine; and as for me, + Morgan le Fay men call me commonly + Within the world, but fairer names than this + I have for thee and me, 'twixt kiss and kiss." + + Ah, what was this? and was it all in vain, + That she had brought him here this life to gain? + For, ere her speech was done, like one turned blind + He watched the kisses of the wandering wind + Within her raiment, or as some one sees + The very best of well-wrought images + When he is blind with grief, did he behold + The wandering tresses of her locks of gold + Upon her shoulders; and no more he pressed + The hand that in his own hand lay at rest: + His eyes, grown dull with changing memories, + Could make no answer to her glorious eyes: + Cold waxed his heart, and weary and distraught, + With many a cast-by, hateful, dreary thought, + Unfinished in the old days; and withal + He needs must think of what might chance to fall + In this life new-begun; and good and bad + Tormented him, because as yet he had + A worldly heart within his frame made new, + And to the deeds that he was wont to do + Did his desires still turn. But she a while + Stood gazing at him with a doubtful smile, + And let his hand fall down; and suddenly + Sounded sweet music from some close nearby, + And then she spoke again: "Come, love, with me, + That thou thy new life and delights mayst see." + And gently with that word she led him thence, + And though upon him now there fell a sense + Of dreamy and unreal bewilderment, + As hand in hand through that green place they went, + Yet therewithal a strain of tender love + A little yet his restless heart did move. + + So through the whispering trees they came at last + To where a wondrous house a shadow cast + Across the flowers, and o'er the daisied grass + Before it, crowds of lovely folk did pass, + Playing about in carelessness and mirth, + Unshadowed by the doubtful deeds of earth; + And from the midst a band of fair girls came, + With flowers and music, greeting him by name, + And praising him; but ever like a dream + He could not break, did all to Ogier seem. + And he his old world did the more desire, + For in his heart still burned unquenched the fire, + That through the world of old so bright did burn: + Yet was he fain that kindness to return, + And from the depth of his full heart he sighed. + Then toward the house the lovely Queen did guide + His listless steps, and seemed to take no thought + Of knitted brow or wandering eyes distraught, + But still with kind love lighting up her face + She led him through the door of that fair place, + While round about them did the damsels press; + And he was moved by all that loveliness + As one might be, who, lying half asleep + In the May morning, notes the light wind sweep + Over the tulip-beds: no more to him + Were gleaming eyes, red lips, and bodies slim, + Amidst that dream, although the first surprise + Of hurried love wherewith the Queen's sweet eyes + Had smitten him, still in his heart did stir. + + And so at last he came, led on by her + Into a hall wherein a fair throne was, + And hand in hand thereto the twain did pass; + And there she bade him sit, and when alone + He took his place upon the double throne, + She cast herself before him on her knees, + Embracing his, and greatly did increase + The shame and love that vexed his troubled heart: + But now a line of girls the crowd did part, + Lovelier than all, and Ogier could behold + One in their midst who bore a crown of gold + Within her slender hands and delicate; + She, drawing nigh, beside the throne did wait + Until the Queen arose and took the crown, + Who then to Ogier's lips did stoop adown + And kissed him, and said, "Ogier, what were worth + Thy miserable days of strife on earth, + That on their ashes still thine eyes are turned?" + Then, as she spoke these words, his changed heart burned + With sudden memories, and thereto had he + Made answer, but she raised up suddenly + The crown she held and set it on his head, + "Ogier," she cried, "those troublous days are dead; + Thou wert dead with them also, but for me; + Turn unto her who wrought these things for thee!" + Then, as he felt her touch, a mighty wave + Of love swept o'er his soul, as though the grave + Did really hold his body; from his seat + He rose to cast himself before her feet; + But she clung round him, and in close embrace + The twain were locked amidst that thronging place. + + Thenceforth new life indeed has Ogier won, + And in the happy land of Avallon + Quick glide the years o'er his unchanging head; + There saw he many men the world thought dead, + Living like him in sweet forgetfulness + Of all the troubles that did once oppress + Their vainly-struggling lives--ah, how can I + Tell of their joy as though I had been nigh? + Suffice it that no fear of death they knew, + That there no talk there was of false or true, + Of right or wrong, for traitors came not there; + That everything was bright and soft and fair, + And yet they wearied not for any change, + Nor unto them did constancy seem strange. + Love knew they, but its pain they never had, + But with each other's joy were they made glad; + Nor were their lives wasted by hidden fire, + Nor knew they of the unfulfilled desire + That turns to ashes all the joys of earth, + Nor knew they yearning love amidst the dearth + Of kind and loving hearts to spend it on, + Nor dreamed of discontent when all was won; + Nor need they struggle after wealth and fame; + Still was the calm flow of their lives the same, + And yet, I say, they wearied not of it-- + So did the promised days by Ogier flit. + + * * * * * + + Think that a hundred years have now passed by, + Since ye beheld Ogier lie down to die + Beside the fountain; think that now ye are + In France, made dangerous with wasting war; + In Paris, where about each guarded gate, + Gathered in knots, the anxious people wait, + And press around each new-come man to learn + If Harfleur now the pagan wasters burn, + Or if the Rouen folk can keep their chain, + Or Pont de l'Arche unburnt still guards the Seine? + Or if 'tis true that Andelys succour wants? + That Vernon's folk are fleeing east to Mantes? + When will they come? or rather is it true + That a great band the Constable o'erthrew + Upon the marshes of the lower Seine, + And that their long-ships, turning back again, + Caught by the high-raised waters of the bore + Were driven here and there and cast ashore? + Such questions did they ask, and, as fresh men + Came hurrying in, they asked them o'er again, + And from scared folk, or fools, or ignorant, + Still got new lies, or tidings very scant. + + But now amidst these men at last came one, + A little ere the setting of the sun, + With two stout men behind him, armed right well, + Who ever as they rode on, sooth to tell, + With doubtful eyes upon their master stared, + Or looked about like troubled men and scared. + And he they served was noteworthy indeed; + Of ancient fashion were his arms and weed, + Rich past the wont of men in those sad times; + His face was bronzed, as though by burning climes, + But lovely as the image of a god + Carved in the days before on earth Christ trod; + But solemn were his eyes, and grey as glass, + And like to ruddy gold his fine hair was: + A mighty man he was, and taller far + Than those who on that day must bear the war + The pagans waged: he by the warders stayed + Scarce looked on them, but straight their words obeyed + And showed his pass; then, asked about his name + And from what city of the world he came, + Said, that men called him now the Ancient Knight, + That he was come midst the king's men to fight + From St. Omer's; and as he spoke, he gazed + Down on the thronging street as one amazed, + And answered no more to the questioning + Of frightened folk of this or that sad thing; + But, ere he passed on, turned about at last + And on the wondering guard a strange look cast, + And said, "St. Mary! do such men as ye + Fight with the wasters from across the sea? + Then, certes, are ye lost, however good + Your hearts may be; not such were those who stood + Beside the Hammer-bearer years agone." + So said he, and as his fair armour shone + With beauty of a time long passed away, + So with the music of another day + His deep voice thrilled the awe-struck, listening folk. + + Yet from the crowd a mocking voice outbroke, + That cried, "Be merry, masters, fear ye nought, + Surely good succour to our side is brought; + For here is Charlemaine come off his tomb + To save his faithful city from its doom." + "Yea," said another, "this is certain news, + Surely ye know how all the carvers use + To carve the dead man's image at the best, + That guards the place where he may lie at rest; + Wherefore this living image looks indeed, + Spite of his ancient tongue and marvellous weed, + To have but thirty summers." + At the name + Of Charlemaine, he turned to whence there came + The mocking voice, and somewhat knit his brow, + And seemed as he would speak, but scarce knew how; + So with a half-sigh soon sank back again + Into his dream, and shook his well-wrought rein, + And silently went on upon his way. + + And this was Ogier: on what evil day + Has he then stumbled, that he needs must come, + Midst war and ravage, to the ancient home + Of his desires? did he grow weary then, + And wish to strive once more with foolish men + For worthless things? or is fair Avallon + Sunk in the sea, and all that glory gone? + Nay, thus it happed--One day she came to him + And said, "Ogier, thy name is waxing dim + Upon the world that thou rememberest not; + The heathen men are thick on many a spot + Thine eyes have seen, and which I love therefore; + And God will give His wonted help no more. + Wilt thou, then, help? canst thou have any mind + To give thy banner once more to the wind? + Since greater glory thou shalt win for this + Than erst thou gatheredst ere thou cam'st to bliss: + For men are dwindled both in heart and frame, + Nor holds the fair land any such a name + As thine, when thou wert living midst thy peers; + The world is worser for these hundred years." + From his calm eyes there gleamed a little fire, + And in his voice was something of desire, + To see the land where he was used to be, + As now he answered: "Nay, choose thou for me, + Thou art the wisest; it is more than well + Within this peaceful place with thee to dwell: + Nor ill perchance in that old land to die, + If, dying, I keep not the memory + Of this fair life of ours." "Nay, nay," said she, + "As to thy dying, that shall never be, + Whiles that thou keep'st my ring--and now, behold, + I take from thee thy charmed crown of gold, + And thou wilt be the Ogier that thou wast + Ere on the loadstone rock thy ship was cast: + Yet thou shalt have thy youthful body still, + And I will guard thy life from every ill." + + So was it done, and Ogier, armed right well, + Sleeping, was borne away by some strong spell, + And set upon the Flemish coast; and thence + Turned to St. Omer's, with a doubtful sense + Of being in some wild dream, the while he knew + That great delight forgotten was his due, + That all which there might hap was of small worth. + So on he went, and sometimes unto mirth + Did his attire move the country-folk, + But oftener when strange speeches from him broke + Concerning men and things for long years dead, + He filled the listeners with great awe and dread; + For in such wild times as these people were + Are men soon moved to wonder and to fear. + + Now through the streets of Paris did he ride, + And at a certain hostel did abide + Throughout that night, and ere he went next day + He saw a book that on a table lay, + And opening it 'gan read in lazy mood: + But long before it in that place he stood, + Noting nought else; for it did chronicle + The deeds of men whom once he knew right well, + When they were living in the flesh with him: + Yea, his own deeds he saw, grown strange and dim + Already, and true stories mixed with lies, + Until, with many thronging memories + Of those old days, his heart was so oppressed, + He 'gan to wish that he might lie at rest, + Forgetting all things: for indeed by this + Little remembrance had he of the bliss + That wrapped his soul in peaceful Avallon. + + But his changed life he needs must carry on; + For ye shall know the Queen was gathering men + To send unto the good King, who as then + In Rouen lay, beset by many a band + Of those who carried terror through the land, + And still by messengers for help he prayed: + Therefore a mighty muster was being made, + Of weak and strong, and brave and timorous, + Before the Queen anigh her royal house. + So thither on this morn did Ogier turn, + Some certain news about the war to learn; + And when he came at last into the square, + And saw the ancient palace great and fair + Rise up before him as in other days, + And in the merry morn the bright sun's rays + Glittering on gathered helms and moving spears, + He 'gan to feel as in the long-past years, + And his heart stirred within him. Now the Queen + Came from within, right royally beseen, + And took her seat beneath a canopy, + With lords and captains of the war anigh; + And as she came a mighty shout arose, + And round about began the knights to close, + Their oath of fealty to swear anew, + And learn what service they had got to do. + But so it was, that some their shouts must stay + To gaze at Ogier as he took his way + Through the thronged place; and quickly too he gat + Unto the place whereas the Lady sat, + For men gave place unto him, fearing him: + For not alone was he most huge of limb, + And dangerous, but something in his face, + As his calm eyes looked o'er the crowded place, + Struck men with awe; and in the ancient days, + When men might hope alive on gods to gaze, + They would have thought, "The gods yet love our town + And from the heavens have sent a great one down." + Withal unto the throne he came so near, + That he the Queen's sweet measured voice could hear; + And swiftly now within him wrought the change + That first he felt amid those faces strange; + And his heart burned to taste the hurrying life + With such desires, such changing sweetness rife. + And yet, indeed, how should he live alone, + Who in the old past days such friends had known? + Then he began to think of Caraheu, + Of Bellicent the fair, and once more knew + The bitter pain of rent and ended love. + But while with hope and vain regret he strove, + He found none 'twixt him and the Queen's high seat, + And, stepping forth, he knelt before her feet + And took her hand to swear, as was the way + Of doing fealty in that ancient day, + And raised his eyes to hers; as fair was she + As any woman of the world might be + Full-limbed and tall, dark-haired, from her deep eyes, + The snare of fools, the ruin of the wise, + Love looked unchecked; and now her dainty hand, + The well-knit holder of the golden wand, + Trembled in his, she cast her eyes adown, + And her sweet brow was knitted to a frown, + As he, the taker of such oaths of yore, + Now unto her all due obedience swore, + Yet gave himself no name; and now the Queen, + Awed by his voice as other folk had been, + Yet felt a trembling hope within her rise + Too sweet to think of, and with love's surprise + Her cheek grew pale; she said, "Thy style and name + Thou tellest not, nor what land of thy fame + Is glad; for, certes, some land must be glad, + That in its bounds her house thy mother had." + "Lady," he said, "from what far land I come + I well might tell thee, but another home + Have I long dwelt in, and its name have I + Forgotten now, forgotten utterly + Who were my fellows, and what deeds they did; + Therefore, indeed, shall my first name be hid + And my first country; call me on this day + The Ancient Knight, and let me go my way." + He rose withal, for she her fingers fair + Had drawn aback, and on him 'gan to stare + As one afeard; for something terrible + Was in his speech, and that she knew right well, + Who 'gan to love him, and to fear that she, + Shut out by some strange deadly mystery, + Should never gain from him an equal love; + Yet, as from her high seat he 'gan to move, + She said, "O Ancient Knight, come presently, + When we have done this muster, unto me, + And thou shalt have thy charge and due command + For freeing from our foes this wretched land!" + Then Ogier made his reverence and went, + And somewhat could perceive of her intent; + For in his heart life grew, and love with life + Grew, and therewith, 'twixt love and fame, was strife. + But, as he slowly gat him from the square, + Gazing at all the people gathered there, + A squire of the Queen's behind him came, + And breathless, called him by his new-coined name, + And bade him turn because the Queen now bade, + Since by the muster long she might be stayed, + That to the palace he should bring him straight, + Midst sport and play her coming back to wait; + Then Ogier turned, nought loath, and with him went, + And to a postern-gate his steps he bent, + That Ogier knew right well in days of old; + Worn was it now, and the bright hues and gold + Upon the shields above, with lapse of days, + Were faded much: but now did Ogier gaze + Upon the garden where he walked of yore, + Holding the hands that he should see no more; + For all was changed except the palace fair, + That Charlemaine's own eyes had seen built there + Ere Ogier knew him; there the squire did lead + The Ancient Knight, who still took little heed + Of all the things that by the way he said, + For all his thoughts were on the days long dead. + There in the painted hall he sat again, + And 'neath the pictured eyes of Charlemaine + He ate and drank, and felt it like a dream; + And midst his growing longings yet might deem + That he from sleep should wake up presently + In some fair city on the Syrian sea, + Or on the brown rocks of the loadstone isle. + But fain to be alone, within a while + He gat him to the garden, and there passed + By wondering squires and damsels, till at last, + Far from the merry folk who needs must play, + If on the world were coming its last day, + He sat him down, and through his mind there ran + Faint thoughts of that day, when, outworn and wan, + He lay down by the fountain-side to die. + But when he strove to gain clear memory + Of what had happed since on the isle he lay + Waiting for death, a hopeless castaway, + Thought, failing him, would rather bring again + His life among the peers of Charlemaine, + And vex his soul with hapless memories; + Until at last, worn out by thought of these, + And hopeless striving to find what was true, + And pondering on the deeds he had to do + Ere he returned, whereto he could not tell, + Sweet sleep upon his wearied spirit fell. + And on the afternoon of that fair day, + Forgetting all, beneath the trees he lay. + + Meanwhile the Queen, affairs of state being done, + Went through the gardens with one dame alone + Seeking for Ogier, whom at last she found + Laid sleeping on the daisy-sprinkled ground. + Dreaming, I know not what, of other days. + Then on him for a while the Queen did gaze, + Drawing sweet poison from the lovely sight, + Then to her fellow turned, "The Ancient Knight-- + What means he by this word of his?" she said; + "He were well mated with some lovely maid + Just pondering on the late-heard name of love." + "Softly, my lady, he begins to move," + Her fellow said, a woman old and grey; + "Look now, his arms are of another day; + None know him or his deeds; thy squire just said + He asked about the state of men long dead; + I fear what he may be; look, seest thou not + That ring that on one finger he has got, + Where figures strange upon the gold are wrought: + God grant that he from hell has not been brought + For our confusion, in this doleful war, + Who surely in enough of trouble are + Without such help;" then the Queen turned aside + Awhile, her drawn and troubled face to hide, + For lurking dread this speech within her stirred; + But yet she said, "Thou sayest a foolish word, + This man is come against our enemies + To fight for us." Then down upon her knees + Fell the old woman by the sleeping knight, + And from his hand she drew with fingers light + The wondrous ring, and scarce again could rise + Ere 'neath the trembling Queen's bewildered eyes + The change began; his golden hair turned white, + His smooth cheek wrinkled, and his breathing light + Was turned to troublous struggling for his breath, + And on his shrunk lips lay the hand of death; + And, scarce less pale than he, the trembling Queen + Stood thinking on the beauty she had seen + And longed for, but a little while ago, + Yet with her terror still her love did grow, + And she began to weep as though she saw + Her beauty e'en to such an ending draw. + And 'neath her tears waking he oped his eyes, + And strove to speak, but nought but gasping sighs + His lips could utter; then he tried to reach + His hand to them, as though he would beseech + The gift of what was his: but all the while + The crone gazed on them with an evil smile, + Then holding toward the Queen that wondrous ring, + She said, "Why weep'st thou? having this fair thing, + Thou, losing nought the beauty that thou hast, + May'st watch the vainly struggling world go past, + Thyself unchanged." The Queen put forth her hand + And took the ring, and there awhile did stand + And strove to think of it, but still in her + Such all-absorbing longings love did stir, + So young she was, of death she could not think, + Or what a cup eld gives to man to drink; + Yet on her finger had she set the ring + When now the life that hitherto did cling + To Ogier's heart seemed fading quite away, + And scarcely breathing with shut eyes he lay. + Then, kneeling down, she murmured piteously, + "Ah, wilt thou love me if I give it thee, + And thou grow'st young again? what should I do + If with the eyes thou thus shalt gain anew + Thou shouldst look scorn on me?" But with that word + The hedge behind her, by the west wind stirred, + Cast fear into her heart of some one nigh, + And therewith on his finger hastily + She set the ring, then rose and stood apart + A little way, and in her doubtful heart + With love and fear was mixed desire of life. + But standing so, a look with great scorn rife + The elder woman, turning, cast on her, + Pointing to Ogier, who began to stir; + She looked, and all she erst saw now did seem + To have been nothing but a hideous dream, + As fair and young he rose from off the ground + And cast a dazed and puzzled look around, + Like one just waked from sleep in some strange place; + But soon his grave eyes rested on her face, + And turned yet graver seeing her so pale, + And that her eyes were pregnant with some tale + Of love and fear; she 'neath his eyes the while + Forced her pale lips to semblance of a smile, + And said, "O Ancient Knight, thou sleepest then? + While through this poor land range the heathen men + Unmet of any but my King and Lord: + Nay, let us see the deeds of thine old sword." + "Queen," said he, "bid me then unto this work, + And certes I behind no wall would lurk, + Nor send for succour, while a scanty folk + Still followed after me to break the yoke: + I pray thee grace for sleeping, and were fain + That I might rather never sleep again + Then have such wretched dreams as I e'en now + Have waked from." + Lovelier she seemed to grow + Unto him as he spoke; fresh colour came + Into her face, as though for some sweet shame, + While she with tearful eyes beheld him so, + That somewhat even must his burnt cheek glow, + His heart beat faster. But again she said, + "Nay, will dreams burden such a mighty head? + Then may I too have pardon for a dream: + Last night in sleep I saw thee, who didst seem + To be the King of France; and thou and I + Were sitting at some great festivity + Within the many-peopled gold-hung place." + The blush of shame was gone as on his face + She gazed, and saw him read her meaning clear + And knew that no cold words she had to fear, + But rather that for softer speech he yearned. + Therefore, with love alone her smooth cheek burned; + Her parted lips were hungry for his kiss, + She trembled at the near approaching bliss; + Nathless, she checked her love a little while, + Because she felt the old dame's curious smile + Upon her, and she said, "O Ancient Knight, + If I then read my last night's dream aright, + Thou art come here our very help to be, + Perchance to give my husband back to me; + Come then, if thou this land art fain to save, + And show the wisdom thou must surely have + Unto my council; I will give thee then + What charge I may among my valiant men; + And certes thou wilt do so well herein, + That, ere long, something greater shalt thou win: + Come, then, deliverer of my throne and land, + And let me touch for once thy mighty hand + With these weak fingers." + As she spoke, she met + His eager hand, and all things did forget + But for one moment, for too wise were they + To cast the coming years of joy away; + Then with her other hand her gown she raised + And led him thence, and o'er her shoulder gazed + At her old follower with a doubtful smile, + As though to say, "Be wise, I know thy guile!" + But slowly she behind the lovers walked, + Muttering, "So be it! thou shalt not be balked + Of thy desire; be merry! I am wise, + Nor will I rob thee of thy Paradise + For any other than myself; and thou + May'st even happen to have had enow + Of this new love, before I get the ring, + And I may work for thee no evil thing." + + Now ye shall know that the old chronicle, + Wherein I read all this, doth duly tell + Of all the gallant deeds that Ogier did, + There may ye read them; nor let me be chid + If I therefore say little of these things, + Because the thought of Avallon still clings + Unto my heart, and scarcely can I bear + To think of that long, dragging, useless year, + Through which, with dulled and glimmering memory, + Ogier was grown content to live and die + Like other men; but this I have to say, + That in the council chamber on that day + The Old Knight showed his wisdom well enow, + While fainter still with love the Queen did grow + Hearing his words, beholding his grey eyes + Flashing with fire of warlike memories; + Yea, at the last he seemed so wise indeed + That she could give him now the charge, to lead + One wing of the great army that set out + From Paris' gates, midst many a wavering shout, + Midst trembling prayers, and unchecked wails and tears, + And slender hopes and unresisted fears. + + Now ere he went, upon his bed he lay, + Newly awakened at the dawn of day, + Gathering perplexed thoughts of many a thing, + When, midst the carol that the birds did sing + Unto the coming of the hopeful sun, + He heard a sudden lovesome song begun + 'Twixt two young voices in the garden green, + That seemed indeed the farewell of the Queen. + + +SONG. + + HAEC. + + _In the white-flowered hawthorn brake,_ + _Love, be merry for my sake;_ + _Twine the blossoms in my hair,_ + _Kiss me where I am most fair--_ + _Kiss me, love! for who knoweth_ + _What thing cometh after death?_ + + ILLE. + + _Nay, the garlanded gold hair_ + _Hides thee where thou art most fair;_ + _Hides the rose-tinged hills of snow--_ + _Ah, sweet love, I have thee now!_ + _Kiss me, love! for who knoweth_ + _What thing cometh after death?_ + + HAEC + + _Shall we weep for a dead day,_ + _Or set Sorrow in our way?_ + _Hidden by my golden hair,_ + _Wilt thou weep that sweet days wear?_ + _Kiss me, love! for who knoweth_ + _What thing cometh after death?_ + + ILLE. + + _Weep, O Love, the days that flit,_ + _Now, while I can feel thy breath,_ + _Then may I remember it_ + _Sad and old, and near my death._ + _Kiss me, love! for who knoweth_ + _What thing cometh after death?_ + + Soothed by the pleasure that the music brought + And sweet desire, and vague and dreamy thought + Of happiness it seemed to promise him, + He lay and listened till his eyes grew dim, + And o'er him 'gan forgetfulness to creep + Till in the growing light he lay asleep, + Nor woke until the clanging trumpet-blast + Had summoned him all thought away to cast: + Yet one more joy of love indeed he had + Ere with the battle's noise he was made glad; + For, as on that May morning forth they rode + And passed before the Queen's most fair abode, + There at a window was she waiting them + In fair attire with gold in every hem, + And as the Ancient Knight beneath her passed + A wreath of flowering white-thorn down she cast, + And looked farewell to him, and forth he set + Thinking of all the pleasure he should get + From love and war, forgetting Avallon + And all that lovely life so lightly won; + Yea, now indeed the earthly life o'erpast + Ere on the loadstone rock his ship was cast + Was waxing dim, nor yet at all he learned + To 'scape the fire that erst his heart had burned. + And he forgat his deeds, forgat his fame, + Forgat the letters of his ancient name + As one waked fully shall forget a dream, + That once to him a wondrous tale did seem. + + Now I, though writing here no chronicle + E'en as I said, must nathless shortly tell + That, ere the army Rouen's gates could gain + By a broad arrow had the King been slain, + And helpless now the wretched country lay + Beneath the yoke, until the glorious day + When Ogier fell at last upon the foe, + And scattered them as helplessly as though + They had been beaten men without a name: + So when to Paris town once more he came + Few folk the memory of the King did keep + Within their hearts, and if the folk did weep + At his returning, 'twas for joy indeed + That such a man had risen at their need + To work for them so great deliverance, + And loud they called on him for King of France. + + But if the Queen's heart were the more a-flame + For all that she had heard of his great fame, + I know not; rather with some hidden dread + Of coming fate, she heard her lord was dead, + And her false dream seemed coming true at last, + For the clear sky of love seemed overcast + With clouds of God's great judgments, and the fear + Of hate and final parting drawing near. + So now when he before her throne did stand + Amidst the throng as saviour of the land, + And she her eyes to his kind eyes did raise, + And there before all her own love must praise; + Then did she fall a-weeping, and folk said, + "See, how she sorrows for the newly dead! + Amidst our joy she needs must think of him; + Let be, full surely shall her grief wax dim + And she shall wed again." + So passed the year, + While Ogier set himself the land to clear + Of broken remnants of the heathen men, + And at the last, when May-time came again, + Must he be crowned King of the twice-saved land, + And at the altar take the fair Queen's hand + And wed her for his own. And now by this + Had he forgotten clean the woe and bliss + Of his old life, and still was he made glad + As other men; and hopes and fears he had + As others, and bethought him not at all + Of what strange days upon him yet should fall + When he should live and these again be dead. + + Now drew the time round when he should be wed, + And in his palace on his bed he lay + Upon the dawning of the very day: + 'Twixt sleep and waking was he, and could hear + E'en at that hour, through the bright morn and clear, + The hammering of the folk who toiled to make + Some well-wrought stages for the pageant's sake, + Though hardly yet the sparrows had begun + To twitter o'er the coming of the sun, + Nor through the palace did a creature move. + There in the sweet entanglement of love + Midst languid thoughts of greater bliss he lay, + Remembering no more of that other day + Than the hot noon remembereth of the night, + Than summer thinketh of the winter white. + In that sweet hour he heard a voice that cried, + "Ogier, Ogier!" then, opening his eyes wide, + And rising on his elbow, gazed around, + And strange to him and empty was the sound + Of his own name; "Whom callest thou?" he said + "For I, the man who lie upon this bed, + Am Charles of France, and shall be King to-day, + But in a year that now is passed away + The Ancient Knight they called me: who is this, + Thou callest Ogier, then, what deeds are his? + And who art thou?" But at that word a sigh, + As of one grieved, came from some place anigh + His bed-side, and a soft voice spake again, + "This Ogier once was great amongst great men; + To Italy a helpless hostage led; + He saved the King when the false Lombard fled, + Bore forth the Oriflamme and gained the day; + Charlot he brought back, whom men led away, + And fought a day-long fight with Caraheu. + The ravager of Rome his right hand slew; + Nor did he fear the might of Charlemaine, + Who for a dreary year beset in vain + His lonely castle; yet at last caught then, + And shut in hold, needs must he come again + To give an unhoped great deliverance + Unto the burdened helpless land of France: + Denmark he gained thereafter, and he wore + The crown of England drawn from trouble sore; + At Tyre then he reigned, and Babylon + With mighty deeds he from the foemen won; + And when scarce aught could give him greater fame, + He left the world still thinking on his name. + "These things did Ogier, and these things didst thou, + Nor will I call thee by a new name now + Since I have spoken words of love to thee-- + Ogier, Ogier, dost thou remember me, + E'en if thou hast no thought of that past time + Before thou camest to our happy clime?" + + As this was said, his mazed eyes saw indeed + A lovely woman clad in dainty weed + Beside his bed, and many a thought was stirred + Within his heart by that last plaintive word, + Though nought he said, but waited what should come + "Love," said she, "I am here to bring thee home; + Well hast thou done all that thou cam'st to do, + And if thou bidest here, for something new + Will folk begin to cry, and all thy fame + Shall then avail thee but for greater blame; + Thy love shall cease to love thee, and the earth + Thou lovest now shall be of little worth + While still thou keepest life, abhorring it + Behold, in men's lives that so quickly flit + Thus is it, how then shall it be with thee, + Who some faint image of eternity + Hast gained through me?--alas, thou heedest not! + On all these changing things thine heart is hot-- + Take then this gift that I have brought from far, + And then may'st thou remember what we are; + The lover and the loved from long ago." + He trembled, and more memory seemed to grow + Within his heart as he beheld her stand, + Holding a glittering crown in her right hand: + "Ogier," she said, "arise and do on thee + The emblems of thy worldly sovereignty, + For we must pass o'er many a sea this morn." + He rose, and in the glittering tunic worn + By Charlemaine he clad himself, and took + The ivory hand, that Charlemaine once shook + Over the people's heads in days of old; + Then on his feet he set the shoes of gold. + And o'er his shoulders threw the mantle fair, + And set the gold crown on his golden hair: + Then on the royal chair he sat him down, + As though he deemed the elders of the town + Should come to audience; and in all he seemed + To do these things e'en as a man who dreamed. + + And now adown the Seine the golden sun + Shone out, as toward him drew that lovely one + And took from off his head the royal crown, + And, smiling, on the pillow laid it down + And said, "Lie there, O crown of Charlemaine, + Worn by a mighty man, and worn in vain, + Because he died, and all the things he did + Were changed before his face by earth was hid; + A better crown I have for my love's head, + Whereby he yet shall live, when all are dead + His hand has helped." Then on his head she set + The wondrous crown, and said, "Forget, forget! + Forget these weary things, for thou hast much + Of happiness to think of." + At that touch + He rose, a happy light gleamed in his eyes; + And smitten by the rush of memories, + He stammered out, "O love! how came we here? + What do we in this land of Death and Fear? + Have I not been from thee a weary while? + Let us return--I dreamed about the isle; + I dreamed of other years of strife and pain, + Of new years full of struggles long and vain." + She took him by the hand and said, "Come, love, + I am not changed;" and therewith did they move + Unto the door, and through the sleeping place + Swiftly they went, and still was Ogier's face + Turned on her beauty, and no thought was his + Except the dear returning of his bliss. + But at the threshold of the palace-gate + That opened to them, she awhile did wait, + And turned her eyes unto the rippling Seine + And said, "O love, behold it once again!" + He turned, and gazed upon the city grey + Smit by the gold of that sweet morn of May; + He heard faint noises as of wakening folk + As on their heads his day of glory broke; + He heard the changing rush of the swift stream + Against the bridge-piers. All was grown a dream + His work was over, his reward was come, + Why should he loiter longer from his home? + + A little while she watched him silently, + Then beckoned him to follow with a sigh, + And, raising up the raiment from her feet, + Across the threshold stepped into the street; + One moment on the twain the low sun shone, + And then the place was void, and they were gone + How I know not; but this I know indeed, + That in whatso great trouble or sore need + The land of France since that fair day has been, + No more the sword of Ogier has she seen. + + * * * * * + + Such was the tale he told of Avallon. + E'en such an one as in days past had won + His youthful heart to think upon the quest; + But to those old hearts nigh in reach of rest, + Not much to be desired now it seemed-- + Perchance the heart that of such things had dreamed + Had found no words in this death-laden tongue + We speak on earth, wherewith they might be sung; + Perchance the changing years that changed his heart + E'en in the words of that old tale had part, + Changing its sweet to bitter, to despair + The foolish hope that once had glittered there-- + Or think, that in some bay of that far home + They then had sat, and watched the green waves come + Up to their feet with many promises; + Or the light wind midst blossom-laden trees, + In the sweet Spring had weighted many a word + Of no worth now, and many a hope had stirred + Long dead for ever. + Howsoe'er that be + Among strange folk they now sat quietly, + As though that tale with them had nought to do, + As though its hopes and fears were something new + But though, indeed, the outworn, dwindled band + Had no tears left for that once longed-for land, + The very wind must moan for their decay, + And from the sky, grown dull, and low, and grey, + Cold tears must fall upon the lonely field, + That such fair golden hopes erewhile did yield; + And on the blackening woods, wherein the doves + Sat silent now, forgetful of their loves. + Yet, since a little life at least was left, + They were not yet of every joy bereft, + For long ago was past the agony, + Midst which they found that they indeed must die; + And now well-nigh as much their pain was past + As though death's veil already had been cast + Over their heads--so, midst some little mirth, + They watched the dark night hide the gloomy earth. + + + + + Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO + Edinburgh & London + + + + +Transcriber's Notes: + +Passages in italics are indicated by _underscore_. + +Page "118" has been corrected to "112" in the Contents. + +Some quotes are opened with marks but are not closed and, since they +require interpretation, have been left open as presented in the original +text. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Earthly Paradise, by William Morris + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE EARTHLY PARADISE *** + +***** This file should be named 30332.txt or 30332.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/0/3/3/30332/ + +Produced by Thierry Alberto, Henry Craig, Stephanie Eason, +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +https://www.pgdp.net. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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