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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/30332-0.txt b/30332-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d75d923 --- /dev/null +++ b/30332-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9533 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 30332 *** + + 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-ordainéd 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 calléd 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 apparelléd, + 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 apparelléd, + 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 charméd 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 adornéd 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 Tænarus, 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 Lacedæmon, and thence found her way + To Tænarus, 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-embracéd 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 Tænarus, 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 rememberéd + 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 Tænarus, 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-attiréd 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 daïs 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 daïs; 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 rememberéd + 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 Pheræ 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 adornéd 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 Pheræ 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 Nisæan 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 Pheræ, 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 + Pheræ 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 Pheræ 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-adornéd 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 Pheræ; 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 Pheræ 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-strainéd 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 Pheræ'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 Pheræ'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-veinéd 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 accurséd 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 wingéd 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 peakéd 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 Lyæus' 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 rememberéd, + 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 belovéd 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 Pheræ 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 Boebéis' 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-pavéd 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 apparelléd; + 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 rememberéd; + 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-belovéd 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 faërie; + 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 Cæsar'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 daïs 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 daïs 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 apparelléd + 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 daïs 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 trenchéd 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 lovéd 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 confusèd 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 confuséd 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 charméd 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 changéd 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 linkéd 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-healéd 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 changéd 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 perplexéd 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. + + HÆC. + + _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?_ + + HÆC + + _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 THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 30332 *** diff --git a/30332-8.txt b/30332-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e1b9556 --- /dev/null +++ b/30332-8.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: ISO-8859-1 + +*** 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-ordainéd 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 calléd 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 apparelléd, + 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 apparelléd, + 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 charméd 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 adornéd 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 Tænarus, 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 Lacedæmon, and thence found her way + To Tænarus, 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-embracéd 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 Tænarus, 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 rememberéd + 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 Tænarus, 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-attiréd 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 daïs 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 daïs; 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 rememberéd + 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 Pheræ 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 adornéd 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 Pheræ 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 Nisæan 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 Pheræ, 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 + Pheræ 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 Pheræ 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-adornéd 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 Pheræ; 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 Pheræ 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-strainéd 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 Pheræ'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 Pheræ'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-veinéd 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 accurséd 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 wingéd 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 peakéd 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 Lyæus' 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 rememberéd, + 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 belovéd 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 Pheræ 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 Boebéis' 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-pavéd 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 apparelléd; + 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 rememberéd; + 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-belovéd 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 faërie; + 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 Cæsar'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 daïs 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 daïs 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 apparelléd + 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 daïs 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 trenchéd 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 lovéd 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 confusèd 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 confuséd 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 charméd 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 changéd 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 linkéd 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-healéd 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 changéd 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 perplexéd 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. + + HÆC. + + _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?_ + + HÆC + + _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 30332-8.txt or 30332-8.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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didst thou hear voices sing<br /> +Ere to the risen sun the bells 'gan ring?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For then methought the Lord of Love went by</span><br /> +To take possession of his flowery throne,<br /> +Ringed round with maids, and youths, and minstrelsy;<br /> +A little while I sighed to find him gone,<br /> +A little while the dawning was alone,<br /> +And the light gathered; then I held my breath,<br /> +And shuddered at the sight of Eld and Death.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Alas! Love passed me in the twilight dun,</span><br /> +His music hushed the wakening ousel's song;<br /> +But on these twain shone out the golden sun,<br /> +And o'er their heads the brown bird's tune was strong,<br /> +As shivering, twixt the trees they stole along;<br /> +None noted aught their noiseless passing by,<br /> +The world had quite forgotten it must die.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span></p> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">N</span><span class="caps">ow</span> must these men be glad a little while</span><br /> +That they had lived to see May once more smile<br /> +Upon the earth; wherefore, as men who know<br /> +How fast the bad days and the good days go,<br /> +They gathered at the feast: the fair abode<br /> +Wherein they sat, o'erlooked, across the road<br /> +Unhedged green meads, which willowy streams passed through,<br /> +And on that morn, before the fresh May dew<br /> +Had dried upon the sunniest spot of grass,<br /> +From bush to bush did youths and maidens pass<br /> +In raiment meet for May apparelled,<br /> +Gathering the milk-white blossoms and the red;<br /> +And now, with noon long past, and that bright day<br /> +Growing aweary, on the sunny way<br /> +They wandered, crowned with flowers, and loitering,<br /> +And weary, yet were fresh enough to sing<br /> +The carols of the morn, and pensive, still<br /> +Had cast away their doubt of death and ill,<br /> +And flushed with love, no more grew red with shame.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So to the elders as they sat, there came,</span><br /> +With scent of flowers, the murmur of that folk<br /> +Wherethrough from time to time a song outbroke,<br /> +Till scarce they thought about the story due;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span>Yet, when anigh to sun-setting it grew,<br /> +A book upon the board an elder laid,<br /> +And turning from the open window said,<br /> +"Too fair a tale the lovely time doth ask,<br /> +For this of mine to be an easy task,<br /> +Yet in what words soever this is writ,<br /> +As for the matter, I dare say of it<br /> +That it is lovely as the lovely May;<br /> +Pass then the manner, since the learned say<br /> +No written record was there of the tale,<br /> +Ere we from our fair land of Greece set sail;<br /> +How this may be I know not, this I know<br /> +That such-like tales the wind would seem to blow<br /> +From place to place, e'en as the feathery seed<br /> +Is borne across the sea to help the need<br /> +Of barren isles; so, sirs, from seed thus sown,<br /> +This flower, a gift from other lands has grown.</p></div> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span></p> + +<h2>THE STORY OF CUPID AND PSYCHE.</h2> +<h3>ARGUMENT.</h3> + +<p class="hang">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.</p> +<p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span class="big">I</span><span class="caps">n</span> the Greek land of old there was a King<br /> +Happy in battle, rich in everything;<br /> +Most rich in this, that he a daughter had<br /> +Whose beauty made the longing city glad.<br /> +She was so fair, that strangers from the sea<br /> +Just landed, in the temples thought that she<br /> +Was Venus visible to mortal eyes,<br /> +New come from Cyprus for a world's surprise.<br /> +She was so beautiful that had she stood<br /> +On windy Ida by the oaken wood,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span>And bared her limbs to that bold shepherd's gaze,<br /> +Troy might have stood till now with happy days;<br /> +And those three fairest, all have left the land<br /> +And left her with the apple in her hand.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And Psyche is her name in stories old,</span><br /> +As ever by our fathers we were told.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">All this beheld Queen Venus from her throne,</span><br /> +And felt that she no longer was alone<br /> +In beauty, but, if only for a while,<br /> +This maiden matched her god-enticing smile;<br /> +Therefore, she wrought in such a wise, that she,<br /> +If honoured as a goddess, certainly<br /> +Was dreaded as a goddess none the less,<br /> +And midst her wealth, dwelt long in loneliness.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Two sisters had she, and men deemed them fair,</span><br /> +But as King's daughters might be anywhere,<br /> +And these to men of name and great estate<br /> +Were wedded, while at home must Psyche wait.<br /> +The sons of kings before her silver feet<br /> +Still bowed, and sighed for her; in measures sweet<br /> +The minstrels to the people sung her praise,<br /> +Yet must she live a virgin all her days.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So to Apollo's fane her father sent,</span><br /> +Seeking to know the dreadful Gods' intent,<br /> +And therewith sent he goodly gifts of price<br /> +A silken veil, wrought with a paradise,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span>Three golden bowls, set round with many a gem,<br /> +Three silver robes, with gold in every hem,<br /> +And a fair ivory image of the god<br /> +That underfoot a golden serpent trod;<br /> +And when three lords with these were gone away,<br /> +Nor could return until the fortieth day,<br /> +Ill was the King at ease, and neither took<br /> +Joy in the chase, or in the pictured book<br /> +The skilled Athenian limner had just wrought,<br /> +Nor in the golden cloths from India brought.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">At last the day came for those lords' return,</span><br /> +And then 'twixt hope and fear the King did burn,<br /> +As on his throne with great pomp he was set,<br /> +And by him Psyche, knowing not as yet<br /> +Why they had gone: thus waiting, at noontide<br /> +They in the palace heard a voice outside,<br /> +And soon the messengers came hurrying,<br /> +And with pale faces knelt before the King,<br /> +And rent their clothes, and each man on his head<br /> +Cast dust, the while a trembling courtier read<br /> +This scroll, wherein the fearful answer lay,<br /> +Whereat from every face joy passed away.</p></div> + +<p> </p> +<h3><span class="smcap">The Oracle.</span></h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">O</span> <span class="caps">father</span> of a most unhappy maid,</span><br /> +O King, whom all the world henceforth shall know<br /> +As wretched among wretches, be afraid<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span>To ask the gods thy misery to show,<br /> +But if thou needs must hear it, to thy woe<br /> +Take back thy gifts to feast thine eyes upon,<br /> +When thine own flesh and blood some beast hath won.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"For hear thy doom, a rugged rock there is</span><br /> +Set back a league from thine own palace fair,<br /> +There leave the maid, that she may wait the kiss<br /> +Of the fell monster that doth harbour there:<br /> +This is the mate for whom her yellow hair<br /> +And tender limbs have been so fashioned,<br /> +This is the pillow for her lovely head.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"O what an evil from thy loins shall spring,</span><br /> +For all the world this monster overturns,<br /> +He is the bane of every mortal thing,<br /> +And this world ruined, still for more he yearns;<br /> +A fire there goeth from his mouth that burns<br /> +Worse than the flame of Phlegethon the red—<br /> +To such a monster shall thy maid be wed.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"And if thou sparest now to do this thing,</span><br /> +I will destroy thee and thy land also,<br /> +And of dead corpses shalt thou be the King,<br /> +And stumbling through the dark land shalt thou go,<br /> +Howling for second death to end thy woe;<br /> +Live therefore as thou mayst and do my will,<br /> +And be a King that men may envy still."<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What man was there, whose face changed not for grief</span><br /> +At hearing this? Psyche, shrunk like the leaf<br /> +The autumn frost first touches on the tree,<br /> +Stared round about with eyes that could not see,<br /> +And muttered sounds from lips that said no word,<br /> +And still within her ears the sentence heard<br /> +When all was said and silence fell on all<br /> +'Twixt marble columns and adorned wall.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then spoke the King, bowed down with misery:</span><br /> +"What help is left! O daughter, let us die,<br /> +Or else together fleeing from this land,<br /> +From town to town go wandering hand in hand<br /> +Thou and I, daughter, till all men forget<br /> +That ever on a throne I have been set,<br /> +And then, when houseless and disconsolate,<br /> +We ask an alms before some city gate,<br /> +The gods perchance a little gift may give,<br /> +And suffer thee and me like beasts to live."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then answered Psyche, through her bitter tears,</span><br /> +"Alas! my father, I have known these years<br /> +That with some woe the gods have dowered me,<br /> +And weighed 'gainst riches infelicity;<br /> +Ill is it then against the gods to strive;<br /> +Live on, O father, those that are alive<br /> +May still be happy; would it profit me<br /> +To live awhile, and ere I died to see<br /> +Thee perish, and all folk who love me well,<br /> +And then at last be dragged myself to hell<br /> +Cursed of all men? nay, since all things must die,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span>And I have dreamed not of eternity,<br /> +Why weepest thou that I must die to-day?<br /> +Why weepest thou? cast thought of shame away.<br /> +The dead are not ashamed, they feel no pain;<br /> +I have heard folk who spoke of death as gain—<br /> +And yet—ah, God, if I had been some maid,<br /> +Toiling all day, and in the night-time laid<br /> +Asleep on rushes—had I only died<br /> +Before this sweet life I had fully tried,<br /> +Upon that day when for my birth men sung,<br /> +And o'er the feasting folk the sweet bells rung."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And therewith she arose and gat away,</span><br /> +And in her chamber, mourning long she lay,<br /> +Thinking of all the days that might have been,<br /> +And how that she was born to be a queen,<br /> +The prize of some great conqueror of renown,<br /> +The joy of many a country and fair town,<br /> +The high desire of every prince and lord,<br /> +One who could fright with careless smile or word<br /> +The hearts of heroes fearless in the war,<br /> +The glory of the world, the leading-star<br /> +Unto all honour and all earthly fame—<br /> +—Round goes the wheel, and death and deadly shame<br /> +Shall be her lot, while yet of her men sing<br /> +Unwitting that the gods have done this thing.<br /> +Long time she lay there, while the sunbeams moved<br /> +Over her body through the flowers she loved;<br /> +And in the eaves the sparrows chirped outside,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span>Until for weariness she grew dry-eyed,<br /> +And into an unhappy sleep she fell.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But of the luckless King now must we tell,</span><br /> +Who sat devising means to 'scape that shame,<br /> +Until the frightened people thronging came<br /> +About the palace, and drove back the guards,<br /> +Making their way past all the gates and wards;<br /> +And, putting chamberlains and marshals by,<br /> +Surged round the very throne tumultuously.<br /> +Then knew the wretched King all folk had heard<br /> +The miserable sentence, and the word<br /> +The gods had spoken; and from out his seat<br /> +He rose, and spoke in humble words, unmeet<br /> +For a great King, and prayed them give him grace,<br /> +While 'twixt his words the tears ran down his face<br /> +On to his raiment stiff with golden thread.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But little heeded they the words he said,</span><br /> +For very fear had made them pitiless;<br /> +Nor cared they for the maid and her distress,<br /> +But clashed their spears together and 'gan cry:<br /> +"For one man's daughter shall the people die,<br /> +And this fair land become an empty name,<br /> +Because thou art afraid to meet the shame<br /> +Wherewith the gods reward thy hidden sin?<br /> +Nay, by their glory do us right herein!"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Ye are in haste to have a poor maid slain,"</span><br /> +The King said; "but my will herein is vain,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span>For ye are many, I one aged man:<br /> +Let one man speak, if for his shame he can."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then stepped a sturdy dyer forth, who said,—</span><br /> +"Fear of the gods brings no shame, by my head.<br /> +Listen; thy daughter we would have thee leave<br /> +Upon the fated mountain this same eve;<br /> +And thither must she go right well arrayed<br /> +In marriage raiment, loose hair as a maid,<br /> +And saffron veil, and with her shall there go<br /> +Fair maidens bearing torches, two and two;<br /> +And minstrels, in such raiment as is meet<br /> +The god-ordainéd fearful spouse to greet.<br /> +So shalt thou save our wives and little ones,<br /> +And something better than a heap of stones,<br /> +Dwelt in by noisesome things, this town shall be,<br /> +And thou thyself shalt keep thy sovereignty;<br /> +But if thou wilt not do the thing I say,<br /> +Then shalt thou live in bonds from this same day,<br /> +And we will bear thy maid unto the hill,<br /> +And from the dread gods save the city still."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then loud they shouted at the words he said,</span><br /> +And round the head of the unhappy maid,<br /> +Dreaming uneasily of long-past joys,<br /> +Floated the echo of that dreadful noise,<br /> +And changed her dreams to dreams of misery.<br /> +But when the King knew that the thing must be,<br /> +And that no help there was in this distress,<br /> +He bade them have all things in readiness<br /> +To take the maiden out at sun-setting,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span>And wed her to the unknown dreadful thing.<br /> +So through the palace passed with heavy cheer<br /> +Her women gathering the sad wedding gear,<br /> +Who lingering long, yet at the last must go,<br /> +To waken Psyche to her bitter woe.<br /> +So coming to her bower, they found her there,<br /> +From head to foot rolled in her yellow hair,<br /> +As in the saffron veil she should be soon<br /> +Betwixt the setting sun and rising moon;<br /> +But when above her a pale maiden bent<br /> +And touched her, from her heart a sigh she sent,<br /> +And waking, on their woeful faces stared,<br /> +Sitting upright, with one white shoulder bared<br /> +By writhing on the bed in wretchedness.<br /> +Then suddenly remembering her distress,<br /> +She bowed her head and 'gan to weep and wail<br /> +But let them wrap her in the bridal veil,<br /> +And bind the sandals to her silver feet,<br /> +And set the rose-wreath on her tresses sweet:<br /> +But spoke no word, yea, rather, wearily<br /> +Turned from the yearning face and pitying eye<br /> +Of any maid who seemed about to speak.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now through the garden trees the sun 'gan break,</span><br /> +And that inevitable time drew near;<br /> +Then through the courts, grown cruel, strange, and drear,<br /> +Since the bright morn, they led her to the gate.<br /> +Where she beheld a golden litter wait.<br /> +Whereby the King stood, aged and bent to earth,<br /> +The flute-players with faces void of mirth,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span>The down-cast bearers of the ivory wands,<br /> +The maiden torch-bearers' unhappy bands.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So then was Psyche taken to the hill,</span><br /> +And through the town the streets were void and still;<br /> +For in their houses all the people stayed,<br /> +Of that most mournful music sore afraid.<br /> +But on the way a marvel did they see,<br /> +For, passing by, where wrought of ivory,<br /> +There stood the Goddess of the flowery isle,<br /> +All folk could see the carven image smile.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But when anigh the hill's bare top they came,</span><br /> +Where Psyche must be left to meet her shame,<br /> +They set the litter down, and drew aside<br /> +The golden curtains from the wretched bride,<br /> +Who at their bidding rose and with them went<br /> +Afoot amidst her maids with head down-bent,<br /> +Until they came unto the drear rock's brow;<br /> +And there she stood apart, not weeping now,<br /> +But pale as privet blossom is in June.<br /> +There as the quivering flutes left off their tune,<br /> +In trembling arms the weeping, haggard King<br /> +Caught Psyche, who, like some half-lifeless thing,<br /> +Took all his kisses, and no word could say,<br /> +Until at last perforce he turned away;<br /> +Because the longest agony has end,<br /> +And homeward through the twilight did they wend.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But Psyche, now faint and bewildered,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span>Remembered little of her pain and dread;<br /> +Her doom drawn nigh took all her fear away,<br /> +And left her faint and weary; as they say<br /> +It haps to one who 'neath a lion lies,<br /> +Who stunned and helpless feels not ere he dies<br /> +The horror of the yellow fell, the red<br /> +Hot mouth, and white teeth gleaming o'er his head;<br /> +So Psyche felt, as sinking on the ground<br /> +She cast one weary vacant look around,<br /> +And at the ending of that wretched day<br /> +Swooning beneath the risen moon she lay.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span class="big">N</span><span class="caps">ow</span> backward must our story go awhile<br /> +And unto Cyprus the fair flowered isle,<br /> +Where hid away from every worshipper<br /> +Was Venus sitting, and her son by her<br /> +Standing to mark what words she had to say,<br /> +While in his dreadful wings the wind did play:<br /> +Frowning she spoke, in plucking from her thigh<br /> +The fragrant flowers that clasped it lovingly.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"In such a town, O son, a maid there is</span><br /> +Whom any amorous man this day would kiss<br /> +As gladly as a goddess like to me,<br /> +And though I know an end to this must be,<br /> +When white and red and gold are waxen grey<br /> +Down on the earth, while unto me one day<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span>Is as another; yet behold, my son,<br /> +And go through all my temples one by one<br /> +And look what incense rises unto me;<br /> +Hearken the talk of sailors from the sea<br /> +Just landed, ever will it be the same,<br /> +'Hast thou then seen her?'—Yea, unto my shame<br /> +Within the temple that is calléd mine,<br /> +As through the veil I watched the altar shine<br /> +This happed; a man with outstretched hand there stood,<br /> +Glittering in arms, of smiling joyous mood,<br /> +With crisp, black hair, and such a face one sees<br /> +But seldom now, and limbs like Hercules;<br /> +But as he stood there in my holy place,<br /> +Across mine image came the maiden's face,<br /> +And when he saw her, straight the warrior said<br /> +Turning about unto an earthly maid,<br /> +'O, lady Venus, thou art kind to me<br /> +After so much of wandering on the sea<br /> +To show thy very body to me here,'<br /> +But when this impious saying I did hear,<br /> +I sent them a great portent, for straightway<br /> +I quenched the fire, and no priest on that day<br /> +Could light it any more for all his prayer.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"So must she fall, so must her golden hair</span><br /> +Flash no more through the city, or her feet<br /> +Be seen like lilies moving down the street;<br /> +No more must men watch her soft raiment cling<br /> +About her limbs, no more must minstrels sing<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span>The praises of her arms and hidden breast.<br /> +And thou it is, my son, must give me rest<br /> +From all this worship wearisomely paid<br /> +Unto a mortal who should be afraid<br /> +To match the gods in beauty; take thy bow<br /> +And dreadful arrows, and about her sow<br /> +The seeds of folly, and with such an one<br /> +I pray thee cause her mingle, fair my son,<br /> +That not the poorest peasant girl in Greece<br /> +Would look on for the gift of Jason's fleece.<br /> +Do this, and see thy mother glad again,<br /> +And free from insult, in her temples reign<br /> +Over the hearts of lovers in the spring."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Mother," he said, "thou askest no great thing,</span><br /> +Some wretch too bad for death I soon shall find,<br /> +Who round her perfect neck his arms shall wind.<br /> +She shall be driven from the palace gate<br /> +Where once her crowd of worshippers would wait<br /> +From earliest morning till the dew was dry<br /> +On chance of seeing her gold gown glancing by;<br /> +There through the storm of curses shall she go<br /> +In evil raiment midst the winter snow,<br /> +Or in the summer in rough sheepskins clad.<br /> +And thus, O mother, shall I make thee glad<br /> +Remembering all the honour thou hast brought<br /> +Unto mine altars; since as thine own thought<br /> +My thought is grown, my mind as thy dear mind."<br /> +<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then straight he rose from earth and down the wind</span><br /> +Went glittering 'twixt the blue sky and the sea,<br /> +And so unto the place came presently<br /> +Where Psyche dwelt, and through the gardens fair<br /> +Passed seeking her, and as he wandered there<br /> +Had still no thought but to do all her will,<br /> +Nor cared to think if it were good or ill:<br /> +So beautiful and pitiless he went,<br /> +And toward him still the blossomed fruit-trees leant,<br /> +And after him the wind crept murmuring,<br /> +And on the boughs the birds forgot to sing.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Withal at last amidst a fair green close,</span><br /> +Hedged round about with woodbine and red rose,<br /> +Within the flicker of a white-thorn shade<br /> +In gentle sleep he found the maiden laid<br /> +One hand that held a book had fallen away<br /> +Across her body, and the other lay<br /> +Upon a marble fountain's plashing rim,<br /> +Among whose broken waves the fish showed dim,<br /> +But yet its wide-flung spray now woke her not,<br /> +Because the summer day at noon was hot,<br /> +And all sweet sounds and scents were lulling her.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So soon the rustle of his wings 'gan stir</span><br /> +Her looser folds of raiment, and the hair<br /> +Spread wide upon the grass and daisies fair,<br /> +As Love cast down his eyes with a half smile<br /> +Godlike and cruel; that faded in a while,<br /> +And long he stood above her hidden eyes<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span>With red lips parted in a god's surprise.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then very Love knelt down beside the maid</span><br /> +And on her breast a hand unfelt he laid,<br /> +And drew the gown from off her dainty feet,<br /> +And set his fair cheek to her shoulder sweet,<br /> +And kissed her lips that knew of no love yet,<br /> +And wondered if his heart would e'er forget<br /> +The perfect arm that o'er her body lay.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But now by chance a damsel came that way,</span><br /> +One of her ladies, and saw not the god,<br /> +Yet on his shafts cast down had well-nigh trod<br /> +In wakening Psyche, who rose up in haste<br /> +And girded up her gown about her waist,<br /> +And with that maid went drowsily away.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From place to place Love followed her that day</span><br /> +And ever fairer to his eyes she grew,<br /> +So that at last when from her bower he flew,<br /> +And underneath his feet the moonlit sea<br /> +Went shepherding his waves disorderly,<br /> +He swore that of all gods and men, no one<br /> +Should hold her in his arms but he alone;<br /> +That she should dwell with him in glorious wise<br /> +Like to a goddess in some paradise;<br /> +Yea, he would get from Father Jove this grace<br /> +That she should never die, but her sweet face<br /> +And wonderful fair body should endure<br /> +Till the foundations of the mountains sure<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span>Were molten in the sea; so utterly<br /> +Did he forget his mother's cruelty.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And now that he might come to this fair end,</span><br /> +He found Apollo, and besought him lend<br /> +His throne of divination for a while,<br /> +Whereby he did the priestess there beguile,<br /> +To give the cruel answer ye have heard<br /> +Unto those lords, who wrote it word by word,<br /> +And back unto the King its threatenings bore,<br /> +Whereof there came that grief and mourning sore,<br /> +Of which ye wot; thereby is Psyche laid<br /> +Upon the mountain-top; thereby, afraid<br /> +Of some ill yet, within the city fair<br /> +Cower down the people that have sent her there.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Withal did Love call unto him the Wind</span><br /> +Called Zephyrus, who most was to his mind,<br /> +And said, "O rainy wooer of the spring,<br /> +I pray thee, do for me an easy thing;<br /> +To such a hill-top go, O gentle Wind,<br /> +And there a sleeping maiden shalt thou find;<br /> +Her perfect body in thine arms with care<br /> +Take up, and unto the green valley bear<br /> +That lies before my noble house of gold;<br /> +There leave her lying on the daisies cold."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then, smiling, toward the place the fair Wind went</span><br /> +While 'neath his wing the sleeping lilies bent,<br /> +And flying 'twixt the green earth and the sea<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span>Made the huge anchored ships dance merrily,<br /> +And swung round from the east the gilded vanes<br /> +On many a palace, and from unhorsed wains<br /> +Twitched off the wheat-straw in his hurried flight;<br /> +But ere much time had passed he came in sight<br /> +Of Psyche laid in swoon upon the hill,<br /> +And smiling, set himself to do Love's will;<br /> +For in his arms he took her up with care,<br /> +Wondering to see a mortal made so fair,<br /> +And came into the vale in little space,<br /> +And set her down in the most flowery place;<br /> +And then unto the plains of Thessaly<br /> +Went ruffling up the edges of the sea.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now underneath the world the moon was gone,</span><br /> +But brighter shone the stars so left alone,<br /> +Until a faint green light began to show<br /> +Far in the east, whereby did all men know,<br /> +Who lay awake either with joy or pain,<br /> +That day was coming on their heads again;<br /> +Then widening, soon it spread to grey twilight,<br /> +And in a while with gold the east was bright;<br /> +The birds burst out a-singing one by one,<br /> +And o'er the hill-top rose the mighty sun.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Therewith did Psyche open wide her eyes,</span><br /> +And rising on her arm, with great surprise<br /> +Gazed on the flowers wherein so deep she lay,<br /> +And wondered why upon that dawn of day<br /> +Out in the fields she had lift up her head<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span>Rather than in her balmy gold-hung bed.<br /> +Then, suddenly remembering all her woes,<br /> +She sprang upon her feet, and yet arose<br /> +Within her heart a mingled hope and dread<br /> +Of some new thing: and now she raised her head,<br /> +And gazing round about her timidly,<br /> +A lovely grassy valley could she see,<br /> +That steep grey cliffs upon three sides did bound,<br /> +And under these, a river sweeping round,<br /> +With gleaming curves the valley did embrace,<br /> +And seemed to make an island of that place;<br /> +And all about were dotted leafy trees,<br /> +The elm for shade, the linden for the bees,<br /> +The noble oak, long ready for the steel<br /> +Which in that place it had no fear to feel;<br /> +The pomegranate, the apple, and the pear,<br /> +That fruit and flowers at once made shift to bear,<br /> +Nor yet decayed therefor, and in them hung<br /> +Bright birds that elsewhere sing not, but here sung<br /> +As sweetly as the small brown nightingales<br /> +Within the wooded, deep Laconian vales.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But right across the vale, from side to side,</span><br /> +A high white wall all further view did hide,<br /> +But that above it, vane and pinnacle<br /> +Rose up, of some great house beyond to tell,<br /> +And still betwixt these, mountains far away<br /> +Against the sky rose shadowy, cold, and grey.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">She, standing in the yellow morning sun,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span>Could scarcely think her happy life was done,<br /> +Or that the place was made for misery;<br /> +Yea, some lone heaven it rather seemed to be,<br /> +Which for the coming band of gods did wait;<br /> +Hope touched her heart; no longer desolate,<br /> +Deserted of all creatures did she feel,<br /> +And o'er her face sweet colour 'gan to steal,<br /> +That deepened to a flush, as wandering thought<br /> +Desires before unknown unto her brought,<br /> +So mighty was the God, though far away.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But trembling midst her hope, she took her way</span><br /> +Unto a little door midmost the wall,<br /> +And still on odorous flowers her feet did fall,<br /> +And round about her did the strange birds sing,<br /> +Praising her beauty in their carolling.<br /> +Thus coming to the door, when now her hand<br /> +First touched the lock, in doubt she needs must stand,<br /> +And to herself she said, "Lo, here the trap!<br /> +And yet, alas! whatever now may hap,<br /> +How can I 'scape the ill which waiteth me?<br /> +Let me die now!" and herewith, tremblingly,<br /> +She raised the latch, and her sweet sinless eyes<br /> +Beheld a garden like a paradise,<br /> +Void of mankind, fairer than words can say,<br /> +Wherein did joyous harmless creatures play<br /> +After their kind, and all amidst the trees<br /> +Were strange-wrought founts and wondrous images;<br /> +And glimmering 'twixt the boughs could she behold<br /> +A house made beautiful with beaten gold,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span>Whose open doors in the bright sun did gleam;<br /> +Lonely, but not deserted did it seem.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Long time she stood debating what to do,</span><br /> +But at the last she passed the wicket through,<br /> +Which, shutting clamorously behind her, sent<br /> +A pang of fear throughout her as she went;<br /> +But when through all that green place she had passed<br /> +And by the palace porch she stood at last,<br /> +And saw how wonderfully the wall was wrought,<br /> +With curious stones from far-off countries brought,<br /> +And many an image and fair history<br /> +Of what the world has been, and yet shall be,<br /> +And all set round with golden craftsmanship,<br /> +Well-wrought as some renowned cup's royal lip,<br /> +She had a thought again to turn aside:<br /> +And yet again, not knowing where to bide,<br /> +She entered softly, and with trembling hands<br /> +Holding her gown; the wonder of all lands<br /> +Met there the wonders of the land and sea.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now went she through the chambers tremblingly,</span><br /> +And oft in going would she pause and stand,<br /> +And drop the gathered raiment from her hand,<br /> +Stilling the beating of her heart for fear<br /> +As voices whispering low she seemed to hear,<br /> +But then again the wind it seemed to be<br /> +Moving the golden hangings doubtfully,<br /> +Or some bewildered swallow passing close<br /> +Unto the pane, or some wind-beaten rose.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Soon seeing that no evil thing came near,</span><br /> +A little she began to lose her fear,<br /> +And gaze upon the wonders of the place,<br /> +And in the silver mirrors saw her face<br /> +Grown strange to her amidst that loneliness,<br /> +And stooped to feel the web her feet did press,<br /> +Wrought by the brown slim-fingered Indian's toil<br /> +Amidst the years of war and vain turmoil;<br /> +Or she the figures of the hangings felt,<br /> +Or daintily the unknown blossoms smelt,<br /> +Or stood and pondered what new thing might mean<br /> +The images of knight and king and queen<br /> +Wherewith the walls were pictured here and there,<br /> +Or touched rich vessels with her fingers fair,<br /> +And o'er her delicate smooth cheek would pass<br /> +The long-fixed bubbles of strange works of glass:<br /> +So wandered she amidst these marvels new<br /> +Until anigh the noontide now it grew.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">At last she came unto a chamber cool</span><br /> +Paved cunningly in manner of a pool,<br /> +Where red fish seemed to swim through floating weed<br /> +And at the first she thought it so indeed,<br /> +And took the sandals quickly from her feet,<br /> +But when the glassy floor these did but meet<br /> +The shadow of a long-forgotten smile<br /> +Her anxious face a moment did beguile;<br /> +And crossing o'er, she found a table spread<br /> +With dainty food, as delicate white bread<br /> +And fruits piled up and covered savoury meat,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span>As though a king were coming there to eat,<br /> +For the worst vessel was of beaten gold.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now when these dainties Psyche did behold</span><br /> + +She fain had eaten, but did nowise dare,<br /> +Thinking she saw a god's feast lying there.<br /> +But as she turned to go the way she came<br /> +She heard a low soft voice call out her name,<br /> +Then she stood still, and trembling gazed around,<br /> +And seeing no man, nigh sank upon the ground,<br /> +Then through the empty air she heard the voice.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"O, lovely one, fear not! rather rejoice</span><br /> +That thou art come unto thy sovereignty:<br /> +Sit now and eat, this feast is but for thee,<br /> +Yea, do whatso thou wilt with all things here,<br /> +And in thine own house cast away thy fear,<br /> +For all is thine, and little things are these<br /> +So loved a heart as thine, awhile to please.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Be patient! thou art loved by such an one</span><br /> +As will not leave thee mourning here alone,<br /> +But rather cometh on this very night;<br /> +And though he needs must hide him from thy sight<br /> +Yet all his words of love thou well mayst hear,<br /> +And pour thy woes into no careless ear.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Bethink thee then, with what solemnity</span><br /> +Thy folk, thy father, did deliver thee<br /> +To him who loves thee thus, and void of dread<br /> +Remember, sweet, thou art a bride new-wed."<br /> +<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now hearing this, did Psyche, trembling sore</span><br /> +And yet with lighter heart than heretofore,<br /> +Sit down and eat, till she grew scarce afeard;<br /> +And nothing but the summer noise she heard<br /> +Within the garden, then, her meal being done,<br /> +Within the window-seat she watched the sun<br /> +Changing the garden-shadows, till she grew<br /> +Fearless and happy, since she deemed she knew<br /> +The worst that could befall, while still the best<br /> +Shone a fair star far off: and mid the rest<br /> +This brought her after all her grief and fear,<br /> +She said, "How sweet it would be, could I hear,<br /> +Soft music mate the drowsy afternoon,<br /> +And drown awhile the bees' sad murmuring tune<br /> +Within these flowering limes." E'en as she spoke,<br /> +A sweet-voiced choir of unknown unseen folk<br /> +Singing to words that match the sense of these<br /> +Hushed the faint music of the linden trees.</p></div> + +<p> </p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Song.</span></h3> +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">O</span> <span class="caps">pensive,</span> tender maid, downcast and shy,</span><br /> +Who turnest pale e'en at the name of love,<br /> +And with flushed face must pass the elm-tree by<br /> +Ashamed to hear the passionate grey dove<br /> +Moan to his mate, thee too the god shall move,<br /> +Thee too the maidens shall ungird one day,<br /> +And with thy girdle put thy shame away.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What then, and shall white winter ne'er be done</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span>Because the glittering frosty morn is fair?<br /> +Because against the early-setting sun<br /> +Bright show the gilded boughs though waste and bare?<br /> +Because the robin singeth free from care?<br /> +Ah! these are memories of a better day<br /> +When on earth's face the lips of summer lay.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Come then, beloved one, for such as thee</span><br /> +Love loveth, and their hearts he knoweth well,<br /> +Who hoard their moments of felicity,<br /> +As misers hoard the medals that they tell,<br /> +Lest on the earth but paupers they should dwell:<br /> +"We hide our love to bless another day;<br /> +The world is hard, youth passes quick," they say.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ah, little ones, but if ye could forget</span><br /> +Amidst your outpoured love that you must die,<br /> +Then ye, my servants, were death's conquerors yet,<br /> +And love to you should be eternity<br /> +How quick soever might the days go by:<br /> +Yes, ye are made immortal on the day<br /> +Ye cease the dusty grains of time to weigh.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thou hearkenest, love? O, make no semblance then</span><br /> +That thou art loved, but as thy custom is<br /> +Turn thy grey eyes away from eyes of men,<br /> +With hands down-dropped, that tremble with thy bliss,<br /> +With hidden eyes, take thy first lover's kiss;<br /> +Call this eternity which is to-day,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span>Nor dream that this our love can pass away.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They ceased, and Psyche pondering o'er their song,</span><br /> +Not fearing now that aught would do her wrong,<br /> +About the chambers wandered at her will,<br /> +And on the many marvels gazed her fill,<br /> +Where'er she passed still noting everything,<br /> +Then in the gardens heard the new birds sing<br /> +And watched the red fish in the fountains play,<br /> +And at the very faintest time of day<br /> +Upon the grass lay sleeping for a while<br /> +Midst heaven-sent dreams of bliss that made her smile;<br /> +And when she woke the shades were lengthening,<br /> +So to the place where she had heard them sing<br /> +She came again, and through a little door<br /> +Entered a chamber with a marble floor,<br /> +Open a-top unto the outer air,<br /> +Beneath which lay a bath of water fair,<br /> +Paved with strange stones and figures of bright gold,<br /> +And from the steps thereof could she behold<br /> +The slim-leaved trees against the evening sky<br /> +Golden and calm, still moving languidly.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So for a time upon the brink she sat,</span><br /> +Debating in her mind of this and that,<br /> +And then arose and slowly from her cast<br /> +Her raiment, and adown the steps she passed<br /> +Into the water, and therein she played,<br /> +Till of herself at last she grew afraid,<br /> +And of the broken image of her face,<br /> +And the loud splashing in that lonely place.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span>So from the bath she gat her quietly,<br /> +And clad herself in whatso haste might be;<br /> +And when at last she was apparelled<br /> +Unto a chamber came, where was a bed<br /> +Of gold and ivory, and precious wood<br /> +Some island bears where never man has stood;<br /> +And round about hung curtains of delight,<br /> +Wherein were interwoven Day and Night<br /> +Joined by the hands of Love, and round their wings<br /> +Knots of fair flowers no earthly May-time brings.<br /> +Strange for its beauty was the coverlet,<br /> +With birds and beasts and flowers wrought over it;<br /> +And every cloth was made in daintier wise<br /> +Than any man on earth could well devise:<br /> +Yea, there such beauty was in everything,<br /> +That she, the daughter of a mighty king,<br /> +Felt strange therein, and trembled lest that she,<br /> +Deceived by dreams, had wandered heedlessly<br /> +Into a bower for some fair goddess made.<br /> +Yet if perchance some man had thither strayed,<br /> +It had been long ere he had noted aught<br /> +But her sweet face, made pensive by the thought<br /> +Of all the wonders that she moved in there.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But looking round, upon a table fair</span><br /> +She saw a book wherein old tales were writ,<br /> +And by the window sat, to read in it<br /> +Until the dusk had melted into night,<br /> +When waxen tapers did her servants light<br /> +With unseen hands, until it grew like day.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">And so at last upon the bed she lay,</span><br /> +And slept a dreamless sleep for weariness,<br /> +Forgetting all the wonder and distress.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But at the dead of night she woke, and heard</span><br /> +A rustling noise, and grew right sore afeard,<br /> +Yea, could not move a finger for affright;<br /> +And all was darker now than darkest night.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Withal a voice close by her did she hear.</span><br /> +"Alas, my love! why tremblest thou with fear,<br /> +While I am trembling with new happiness?<br /> +Forgive me, sweet, thy terror and distress:<br /> +Not otherwise could this our meeting be.<br /> +O loveliest! such bliss awaiteth thee,<br /> +For all thy trouble and thy shameful tears.<br /> +Such nameless honour, and such happy years,<br /> +As fall not unto women of the earth.<br /> +Loved as thou art, thy short-lived pains are worth<br /> +The glory and the joy unspeakable<br /> +Wherein the Treasure of the World shall dwell:<br /> +A little hope, a little patience yet,<br /> +Ere everything thou wilt, thou may'st forget,<br /> +Or else remember as a well-told tale,<br /> +That for some pensive pleasure may avail.<br /> +Canst thou not love me, then, who wrought thy woe,<br /> +That thou the height and depth of joy mightst know?"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He spoke, and as upon the bed she lay,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span>Trembling amidst new thoughts, he sent a ray<br /> +Of finest love unto her inmost heart,<br /> +Till, murmuring low, she strove the night to part,<br /> +And like a bride who meets her love at last,<br /> +When the long days of yearning are o'erpast,<br /> +She reached to him her perfect arms unseen,<br /> +And said, "O Love, how wretched I have been!<br /> +What hast thou done?" And by her side he lay.<br /> +Till just before the dawning of the day.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<div class="poem"> +<p><span class="big">T</span><span class="caps">he</span> sun was high when Psyche woke again,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And turning to the place where he had lain</span><br /> +And seeing no one, doubted of the thing<br /> +That she had dreamed it, till a fair gold ring,<br /> +Unseen before, upon her hand she found,<br /> +And touching her bright head she felt it crowned<br /> +With a bright circlet; then withal she sighed.<br /> +And wondered how the oracle had lied,<br /> +And wished her father knew it, and straightway<br /> +Rose up and clad herself. Slow went the day,<br /> +Though helped with many a solace, till came night;<br /> +And therewithal the new, unseen delight,<br /> +She learned to call her Love.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 11em;">So passed away</span><br /> +The days and nights, until upon a day<br /> +As in the shade, at noon she lay asleep.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span>She dreamed that she beheld her sisters weep,<br /> +And her old father clad in sorry guise,<br /> +Grown foolish with the weight of miseries,<br /> +Her friends black-clad and moving mournfully,<br /> +And folk in wonder landed from the sea,<br /> +At such a fall of such a matchless maid,<br /> +And in some press apart her raiment laid<br /> +Like precious relics, and an empty tomb<br /> +Set in the palace telling of her doom.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Therefore she wept in sleep, and woke with tears</span><br /> +Still on her face, and wet hair round her ears,<br /> +And went about unhappily that day,<br /> +Framing a gentle speech wherewith to pray<br /> +For leave to see her sisters once again,<br /> +That they might know her happy, and her pain<br /> +Turned all to joy, and honour come from shame.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And so at last night and her lover came,</span><br /> +And midst their fondling, suddenly she said,<br /> +"O Love, a little time we have been wed,<br /> +And yet I ask a boon of thee this night."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Psyche," he said, "if my heart tells me right,</span><br /> +This thy desire may bring us bitter woe,<br /> +For who the shifting chance of fate can know?<br /> +Yet, forasmuch as mortal hearts are weak,<br /> +To-morrow shall my folk thy sisters seek,<br /> +And bear them hither; but before the day<br /> +Is fully ended must they go away.<br /> +And thou—beware—for, fresh and good and true,<br /> +Thou knowest not what worldly hearts may do,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span>Or what a curse gold is unto the earth.<br /> +Beware lest from thy full heart, in thy mirth,<br /> +Thou tell'st the story of thy love unseen:<br /> +Thy loving, simple heart, fits not a queen."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then by her kisses did she know he frowned,</span><br /> +But close about him her fair arms she wound,<br /> +Until for happiness he 'gan to smile,<br /> +And in those arms forgat all else awhile.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So the next day, for joy that they should come,</span><br /> +Would Psyche further deck her strange new home,<br /> +And even as she 'gan to think the thought,<br /> +Quickly her will by unseen hands was wrought,<br /> +Who came and went like thoughts. Yea, how should I<br /> +Tell of the works of gold and ivory,<br /> +The gems and images, those hands brought there<br /> +The prisoned things of earth, and sea, and air,<br /> +They brought to please their mistress? Many a beast,<br /> +Such as King Bacchus in his reckless feast<br /> +Makes merry with—huge elephants, snow-white<br /> +With gilded tusks, or dusky-grey with bright<br /> +And shining chains about their wrinkled necks;<br /> +The mailed rhinoceros, that of nothing recks;<br /> +Dusky-maned lions; spotted leopards fair<br /> +That through the cane-brake move, unseen as air;<br /> +The deep-mouthed tiger, dread of the brown man;<br /> +The eagle, and the peacock, and the swan—<br /> +—These be the nobles of the birds and beasts.<br /> +But therewithal, for laughter at their feasts,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span>They brought them the gods' jesters, such as be<br /> +Quick-chattering apes, that yet in mockery<br /> +Of anxious men wrinkle their ugly brows;<br /> +Strange birds with pouches, birds with beaks like prows<br /> +Of merchant-ships, with tufted crests like threads,<br /> +With unimaginable monstrous heads.<br /> +Lo, such as these, in many a gilded cage<br /> +They brought, or chained for fear of sudden rage.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then strewed they scented branches on the floor,</span><br /> +And hung rose-garlands up by the great door,<br /> +And wafted incense through the bowers and halls,<br /> +And hung up fairer hangings on the walls,<br /> +And filled the baths with water fresh and clear,<br /> +And in the chambers laid apparel fair,<br /> +And spread a table for a royal feast.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then when from all these labours they had ceased,</span><br /> +Psyche they sung to sleep with lullabies;<br /> +Who slept not long, but opening soon her eyes,<br /> +Beheld her sisters on the threshold stand:<br /> +Then did she run to take them by the hand,<br /> +And laid her cheek to theirs, and murmured words<br /> +Of little meaning, like the moan of birds,<br /> +While they bewildered stood and gazed around,<br /> +Like people who in some strange land have found<br /> +One that they thought not of; but she at last<br /> +Stood back, and from her face the strayed locks cast,<br /> +And, smiling through her tears, said, "Ah, that ye<br /> +Should have to weep such useless tears for me!<br /> +Alas, the burden that the city bears<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span>For nought! O me, my father's burning tears,<br /> +That into all this honour I am come!<br /> +Nay, does he live yet? Is the ancient home<br /> +Still standing? do the galleys throng the quays?<br /> +Do the brown Indians glitter down the ways<br /> +With rubies as of old? Yes, yes, ye smile,<br /> +For ye are thinking, but a little while<br /> +Apart from these has she been dwelling here;<br /> +Truly, yet long enough, loved ones and dear,<br /> +To make me other than I was of old,<br /> +Though now when your dear faces I behold<br /> +Am I myself again. But by what road<br /> +Have ye been brought to this my new abode?"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Sister," said one, "I rose up from my bed</span><br /> +It seems this morn, and being apparelléd,<br /> +And walking in my garden, in a swoon<br /> +Helpless and unattended I sank down,<br /> +Wherefrom I scarce am waked, for as a dream<br /> +Dost thou with all this royal glory seem,<br /> +But for thy kisses and thy words, O love."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Yea, Psyche," said the other, "as I drove</span><br /> +The ivory shuttle through the shuttle-race,<br /> +All was changed suddenly, and in this place<br /> +I found myself, and standing on my feet,<br /> +Where me with sleepy words this one did greet.<br /> +Now, sister, tell us whence these wonders come<br /> +With all the godlike splendour of your home."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Sisters," she said, "more marvels shall ye see</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span>When ye, have been a little while with me,<br /> +Whereof I cannot tell you more than this<br /> +That 'midst them all I dwell in ease and bliss,<br /> +Well loved and wedded to a mighty lord,<br /> +Fair beyond measure, from whose loving word<br /> +I know that happier days await me yet.<br /> +But come, my sisters, let us now forget<br /> +To seek for empty knowledge; ye shall take<br /> +Some little gifts for your lost sister's sake;<br /> +And whatso wonders ye may see or hear<br /> +Of nothing frightful have ye any fear."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wondering they went with her, and looking round,</span><br /> +Each in the other's eyes a strange look found,<br /> +For these, her mother's daughters, had no part<br /> +In her divine fresh singleness of heart,<br /> +But longing to be great, remembered not<br /> +How short a time one heart on earth has got.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But keener still that guarded look now grew</span><br /> +As more of that strange lovely place they knew,<br /> +And as with growing hate, but still afeard,<br /> +The unseen choirs' heart-softening strains they heard,<br /> +Which did but harden these; and when at noon<br /> +They sought the shaded waters' freshening boon,<br /> +And all unhidden once again they saw<br /> +That peerless beauty, free from any flaw,<br /> +Which now at last had won its precious meed,<br /> +Her kindness then but fed the fire of greed<br /> +Within their hearts—her gifts, the rich attire<br /> +Wherewith she clad them, where like sparks of fire<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span>The many-coloured gems shone midst the pearls<br /> +The soft silks' winding lines, the work of girls<br /> +By the Five Rivers; their fair marvellous crowns,<br /> +Their sandals' fastenings worth the rent of towns,<br /> +Zones and carved rings, and nameless wonders fair,<br /> +All things her faithful slaves had brought them there,<br /> +Given amid kisses, made them not more glad;<br /> +Since in their hearts the ravening worm they had<br /> +That love slays not, nor yet is satisfied<br /> +While aught but he has aught; yet still they tried<br /> +To look as they deemed loving folk should look,<br /> +And still with words of love her bounty took.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So at the last all being apparelléd,</span><br /> +Her sisters to the banquet Psyche led,<br /> +Fair were they, and each seemed a glorious queen<br /> +With all that wondrous daintiness beseen,<br /> +But Psyche clad in gown of dusky blue<br /> +Little adorned, with deep grey eyes that knew<br /> +The hidden marvels of Love's holy fire,<br /> +Seemed like the soul of innocent desire,<br /> +Shut from the mocking world, wherefrom those twain<br /> +Seemed come to lure her thence with labour vain.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now having reached the place where they should eat,</span><br /> +Ere 'neath the canopy the three took seat,<br /> +The eldest sister unto Psyche said,<br /> +"And he, dear love, the man that thou hast wed,<br /> +Will he not wish to-day thy kin to see?<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span>Then could we tell of thy felicity<br /> +The better, to our folk and father dear."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then Psyche reddened, "Nay, he is not here,"</span><br /> +She stammered, "neither will be here to-day,<br /> +For mighty matters keep him far away."<br /> +"Alas!" the younger sister said, "Say then,<br /> +What is the likeness of this first of men;<br /> +What sayest thou about his loving eyne,<br /> +Are his locks black, or golden-red as thine?"<br /> +"Black-haired like me," said Psyche stammering,<br /> +And looking round, "what say I? like the king<br /> +Who rules the world, he seems to me at least—<br /> +Come, sisters, sit, and let us make good feast!<br /> +My darling and my love ye shall behold<br /> +I doubt not soon, his crispy hair of gold,<br /> +His eyes unseen; and ye shall hear his voice,<br /> +That in my joy ye also may rejoice."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then did they hold their peace, although indeed</span><br /> +Her stammering haste they did not fail to heed.<br /> +But at their wondrous royal feast they sat<br /> +Thinking their thoughts, and spoke of this or that<br /> +Between the bursts of music, until when<br /> +The sun was leaving the abodes of men;<br /> +And then must Psyche to her sisters say<br /> +That she was bid, her husband being away,<br /> +To suffer none at night to harbour there,<br /> +No, not the mother that her body bare<br /> +Or father that begat her, therefore they<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span>Must leave her now, till some still happier day.<br /> +And therewithal more precious gifts she brought<br /> +Whereof not e'en in dreams they could have thought<br /> +Things whereof noble stories might be told;<br /> +And said; "These matters that you here behold<br /> +Shall be the worst of gifts that you shall have;<br /> +Farewell, farewell! and may the high gods save<br /> +Your lives and fame; and tell our father dear<br /> +Of all the honour that I live in here,<br /> +And how that greater happiness shall come<br /> +When I shall reach a long-enduring home."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then these, though burning through the night to stay,</span><br /> +Spake loving words, and went upon their way,<br /> +When weeping she had kissed them; but they wept<br /> +Such tears as traitors do, for as they stepped<br /> +Over the threshold, in each other's eyes<br /> +They looked, for each was eager to surprise<br /> +The envy that their hearts were filled withal,<br /> +That to their lips came welling up like gall.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"So," said the first, "this palace without folk,</span><br /> +These wonders done with none to strike a stroke.<br /> +This singing in the air, and no one seen,<br /> +These gifts too wonderful for any queen,<br /> +The trance wherein we both were wrapt away,<br /> +And set down by her golden house to-day—<br /> +—These are the deeds of gods, and not of men;<br /> +And fortunate the day was to her, when<br /> +Weeping she left the house where we were born,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span>And all men deemed her shamed and most forlorn."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then said the other, reddening in her rage,</span><br /> +"She is the luckiest one of all this age;<br /> +And yet she might have told us of her case,<br /> +What god it is that dwelleth in the place,<br /> +Nor sent us forth like beggars from her gate.<br /> +And beggarly, O sister, is our fate,<br /> +Whose husbands wring from miserable hinds<br /> +What the first battle scatters to the winds;<br /> +While she to us whom from her door she drives<br /> +And makes of no account or honour, gives<br /> +Such wonderful and priceless gifts as these,<br /> +Fit to bedeck the limbs of goddesses!<br /> +And yet who knows but she may get a fall?<br /> +The strongest tower has not the highest wall,<br /> +Think well of this, when you sit safe at home<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">By this unto the river were they come,</span><br /> +Where waited Zephyrus unseen, who cast<br /> +A languor over them that quickly passed<br /> +Into deep sleep, and on the grass they sank;<br /> +Then straightway did he lift them from the bank,<br /> +And quickly each in her fair house set down,<br /> +Then flew aloft above the sleeping town.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Long in their homes they brooded over this,</span><br /> +And how that Psyche nigh a goddess is;<br /> +While all folk deemed that she quite lost had been<br /> +For nought they said of all that they had seen.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But now that night when she, with many a kiss,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span>Had told their coming, and of that and this<br /> +That happed, he said, "These things, O Love, are well;<br /> +Glad am I that no evil thing befell.<br /> +And yet, between thy father's house and me<br /> +Must thou choose now; then either royally<br /> +Shalt thou go home, and wed some king at last,<br /> +And have no harm for all that here has passed;<br /> +Or else, my love, bear as thy brave heart may,<br /> +This loneliness in hope of that fair day,<br /> +Which, by my head, shall come to thee; and then<br /> +Shalt thou be glorious to the sons of men,<br /> +And by my side shalt sit in such estate<br /> +That in all time all men shall sing thy fate."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But with that word such love through her he breathed,</span><br /> +That round about him her fair arms she wreathed;<br /> +And so with loving passed the night away,<br /> +And with fresh hope came on the fresh May-day.<br /> +And so passed many a day and many a night.<br /> +And weariness was balanced with delight,<br /> +And into such a mind was Psyche brought,<br /> +That little of her father's house she thought,<br /> +But ever of the happy day to come<br /> +When she should go unto her promised home.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Till she that threw the golden apple down</span><br /> +Upon the board, and lighted up Troy town,<br /> +On dusky wings came flying o'er the place,<br /> +And seeing Psyche with her happy face<br /> +Asleep beneath some fair tree blossoming,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span>Into her sleep straight cast an evil thing;<br /> +Whereby she dreamed she saw her father laid<br /> +Panting for breath beneath the golden shade<br /> +Of his great bed's embroidered canopy,<br /> +And with his last breath moaning heavily<br /> +Her name and fancied woes; thereat she woke,<br /> +And this ill dream through all her quiet broke,<br /> +And when next morn her Love from her would go,<br /> +And going, as it was his wont to do,<br /> +Would kiss her sleeping, he must find the tears<br /> +Filling the hollows of her rosy ears<br /> +And wetting half the golden hair that lay<br /> +Twixt him and her: then did he speak and say,<br /> +"O Love, why dost thou lie awake and weep,<br /> +Who for content shouldst have good heart to sleep<br /> +This cold hour ere the dawning?" Nought she said,<br /> +But wept aloud. Then cried he, "By my head!<br /> +Whate'er thou wishest I will do for thee;<br /> +Yea, if it make an end of thee and me."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"O Love," she said, "I scarce dare ask again,</span><br /> +Yet is there in mine heart an aching pain<br /> +To know what of my father is become:<br /> +So would I send my sisters to my home,<br /> +Because I doubt indeed they never told<br /> +Of all my honour in this house of gold;<br /> +And now of them a great oath would I take."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He said, "Alas! and hast thou been awake</span><br /> +For them indeed? who in my arms asleep<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span>Mightst well have been; for their sakes didst thou weep,<br /> +Who mightst have smiled to feel my kiss on thee?<br /> +Yet as thou wishest once more shall it be,<br /> +Because my oath constrains me, and thy tears.<br /> +And yet again beware, and make these fears<br /> +Of none avail; nor waver any more,<br /> +I pray thee: for already to the shore<br /> +Of all delights and joys thou drawest nigh."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He spoke, and from the chamber straight did fly</span><br /> +To highest heaven, and going softly then,<br /> +Wearied the father of all gods and men<br /> +With prayers for Psyche's immortality.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Meantime went Zephyrus across the sea,</span><br /> +To bring her sisters to her arms again,<br /> +Though of that message little was he fain,<br /> +Knowing their malice and their cankered hearts.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For now these two had thought upon their parts</span><br /> +And made up a false tale for Psyche's ear;<br /> +For when awaked, to her they drew anear,<br /> +Sobbing, their faces in their hands they hid,<br /> +Nor when she asked them why this thing they did<br /> +Would answer aught, till trembling Psyche said,<br /> +"Nay, nay, what is it? is our father dead?<br /> +Or do ye weep these tears for shame that ye<br /> +Have told him not of my felicity,<br /> +To make me weep amidst my new-found bliss?<br /> +Be comforted, for short the highway is<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span>To my forgiveness: this day shall ye go<br /> +And take him gifts, and tell him all ye know<br /> +Of this my unexpected happy lot."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Amidst fresh sobs one said, "We told him not</span><br /> +But by good counsel did we hide the thing,<br /> +Deeming it well that he should feel the sting<br /> +For once, than for awhile be glad again,<br /> +And after come to suffer double pain."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Alas! what mean you, sister?" Psyche said,</span><br /> +For terror waxing pale as are the dead.<br /> +"O sister, speak!" "Child, by this loving kiss,"<br /> +Spake one of them, "and that remembered bliss<br /> +We dwelt in when our mother was alive,<br /> +Or ever we began with ills to strive,<br /> +By all the hope thou hast to see again<br /> +Our aged father and to soothe his pain,<br /> +I charge thee tell me,—Hast thou seen the thing<br /> +Thou callest Husband?"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;">Breathless, quivering,</span><br /> +Psyche cried out, "Alas! what sayest thou?<br /> +What riddles wilt thou speak unto me now?"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Alas!" she said; "then is it as I thought.</span><br /> +Sister, in dreadful places have we sought<br /> +To learn about thy case, and thus we found<br /> +A wise man, dwelling underneath the ground<br /> +In a dark awful cave: he told to us<br /> +A horrid tale thereof, and piteous,<br /> +That thou wert wedded to an evil thing,<br /> +A serpent-bodied fiend of poisonous sting,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span>Bestial of form, yet therewith lacking not<br /> +E'en such a soul as wicked men have got.<br /> +Thus ages long agone the gods made him,<br /> +And set him in a lake hereby to swim;<br /> +But every hundred years he hath this grace,<br /> +That he may change within this golden place<br /> +Into a fair young man by night alone.<br /> +Alas, my sister, thou hast cause to groan!<br /> +What sayest thou?—<i>His words are fair and soft;</i><br /> +<i>He raineth loving kisses on me oft,</i><br /> +<i>Weeping for love; he tells me of a day</i><br /> +<i>When from this place we both shall go away,</i><br /> +<i>And he shall kiss me then no more unseen,</i><br /> +<i>The while I sit by him a glorious queen</i>——<br /> +—Alas, poor child! it pleaseth thee, his kiss?<br /> +Then must I show thee why he doeth this:<br /> +Because he willeth for a time to save<br /> +Thy body, wretched one! that he may have<br /> +Both child and mother for his watery hell—<br /> +Ah, what a tale this is for me to tell!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Thou prayest us to save thee, and we can;</span><br /> +Since for nought else we sought that wise old man,<br /> +Who for great gifts and seeing that of kings<br /> +We both were come, has told us all these things,<br /> +And given us a fair lamp of hallowed oil<br /> +That he has wrought with danger and much toil;<br /> +And thereto has he added a sharp knife,<br /> +In forging which he well-nigh lost his life,<br /> +About him so the devils of the pit<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span>Came swarming—O, my sister, hast thou it?"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Straight from her gown the other one drew out</span><br /> +The lamp and knife, which Psyche, dumb with doubt<br /> +And misery at once, took in her hand.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then said her sister, "From this doubtful land</span><br /> +Thou gav'st us royal gifts a while ago,<br /> +But these we give thee, though they lack for show,<br /> +Shall be to thee a better gift,—thy life.<br /> +Put now in some sure place this lamp and knife,<br /> +And when he sleeps rise silently from bed<br /> +And hold the hallowed lamp above his head,<br /> +And swiftly draw the charméd knife across<br /> +His cursed neck, thou well may'st bear the loss,<br /> +Nor shall he keep his man's shape more, when he<br /> +First feels the iron wrought so mysticly:<br /> +But thou, flee unto us, we have a tale,<br /> +Of what has been thy lot within this vale,<br /> +When we have 'scaped therefrom, which we shall do<br /> +By virtue of strange spells the old man knew.<br /> +Farewell, sweet sister! here we may not stay,<br /> +Lest in returning he should pass this way;<br /> +But in the vale we will not fail to wait<br /> +Till thou art loosened from thine evil fate."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thus went they, and for long they said not aught,</span><br /> +Fearful lest any should surprise their thought,<br /> +But in such wise had envy conquered fear,<br /> +That they were fain that eve to bide anear<br /> +Their sister's ruined home; but when they came<br /> +Unto the river, on them fell the same<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span>Resistless languor they had felt before.<br /> +And from the blossoms of that flowery shore<br /> +Their sleeping bodies soon did Zephyr bear,<br /> +For other folk to hatch new ills and care.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But on the ground sat Psyche all alone,</span><br /> +The lamp and knife beside her, and no moan<br /> +She made, but silent let the long hours go,<br /> +Till dark night closed around her and her woe.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then trembling she arose, for now drew near</span><br /> +The time of utter loneliness and fear,<br /> +And she must think of death, who until now<br /> +Had thought of ruined life, and love brought low;<br /> +And with, that thought, tormenting doubt there came,<br /> +And images of some unheard-of shame,<br /> +Until forlorn, entrapped of gods she felt,<br /> +As though in some strange hell her spirit dwelt.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet driven by her sisters' words at last,</span><br /> +And by remembrance of the time now past,<br /> +When she stood trembling, as the oracle<br /> +With all its fearful doom upon her fell,<br /> +She to her hapless wedding-chamber turned,<br /> +And while the waxen tapers freshly burned<br /> +She laid those dread gifts ready to her hand,<br /> +Then quenched the lights, and by the bed did stand,<br /> +Turning these matters in her troubled mind;<br /> +And sometimes hoped some glorious man to find<br /> +Beneath the lamp, fit bridegroom for a bride<br /> +Like her; ah, then! with what joy to his side<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span>Would she creep back in the dark silent night;<br /> +But whiles she quaked at thought of what a sight<br /> +The lamp might show her; the hot rush of blood<br /> +The knife might shed upon her as she stood,<br /> +The dread of some pursuit, the hurrying out,<br /> +Through rooms where every sound would seem a shout<br /> +Into the windy night among the trees,<br /> +Where many a changing monstrous sight one sees,<br /> +When nought at all has happed to chill the blood.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But as among these evil thoughts she stood,</span><br /> +She heard him coming, and straight crept to bed.<br /> +And felt him touch her with a new-born dread,<br /> +And durst not answer to his words of love.<br /> +But when he slept, she rose that tale to prove.<br /> +And sliding down as softly as might be,<br /> +And moving through the chamber quietly,<br /> +She gat the lamp within her trembling hand,<br /> +And long, debating of these things, did stand<br /> +In that thick darkness, till she seemed to be<br /> +A dweller in some black eternity,<br /> +And what she once had called the world did seem<br /> +A hollow void, a colourless mad dream;<br /> +For she felt so alone—three times in vain<br /> +She moved her heavy hand, three times again<br /> +It fell adown; at last throughout the place<br /> +Its flame glared, lighting up her woeful face,<br /> +Whose eyes the silken carpet did but meet,<br /> +Grown strange and awful, and her own wan feet<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span>As toward the bed she stole; but come thereto<br /> +Back with dosed eyes and quivering lips, she threw<br /> +Her lovely head, and strove to think of it,<br /> +While images of fearful things did flit<br /> +Before her eyes; thus, raising up the hand<br /> +That bore the lamp, one moment did she stand<br /> +As man's time tells it, and then suddenly<br /> +Opened her eyes, but scarce kept back a cry<br /> +At what she saw; for there before her lay<br /> +The very Love brighter than dawn of day;<br /> +And as he lay there smiling, her own name<br /> +His gentle lips in sleep began to frame,<br /> +And as to touch her face his hand did move;<br /> +O then, indeed, her faint heart swelled for love,<br /> +And she began to sob, and tears fell fast<br /> +Upon the bed.—But as she turned at last<br /> +To quench the lamp, there happed a little thing<br /> +That quenched her new delight, for flickering<br /> +The treacherous flame cast on his shoulder fair<br /> +A burning drop; he woke, and seeing her there<br /> +The meaning of that sad sight knew full well,<br /> +Nor was there need the piteous tale to tell.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then on her knees she fell with a great cry,</span><br /> +For in his face she saw the thunder nigh,<br /> +And she began to know what she had done,<br /> +And saw herself henceforth, unloved, alone,<br /> +Pass onward to the grave; and once again<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span>She heard the voice she now must love in vain<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Ah, has it come to pass? and hast thou lost</span><br /> +A life of love, and must thou still be tossed<br /> +One moment in the sun 'twixt night and night?<br /> +And must I lose what would have been delight,<br /> +Untasted yet amidst immortal bliss,<br /> +To wed a soul made worthy of my kiss,<br /> +Set in a frame so wonderfully made?<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"O wavering heart, farewell! be not afraid</span><br /> +That I with fire will burn thy body fair,<br /> +Or cast thy sweet limbs piecemeal through the air;<br /> +The fates shall work thy punishment alone,<br /> +And thine own memory of our kindness done.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Alas! what wilt thou do? how shalt thou bear</span><br /> +The cruel world, the sickening still despair,<br /> +The mocking, curious faces bent on thee,<br /> +When thou hast known what love there is in me?<br /> +O happy only, if thou couldst forget,<br /> +And live unholpen, lonely, loveless yet,<br /> +But untormented through the little span<br /> +That on the earth ye call the life of man.<br /> +Alas! that thou, too fair a thing to die,<br /> +Shouldst so be born to double misery!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Farewell! though I, a god, can never know</span><br /> +How thou canst lose thy pain, yet time will go<br /> +Over thine head, and thou mayst mingle yet<br /> +The bitter and the sweet, nor quite forget,<br /> +Nor quite remember, till these things shall seem<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span>The wavering memory of a lovely dream."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Therewith he caught his shafts up and his bow,</span><br /> +And striding through the chambers did he go,<br /> +Light all around him; and she, wailing sore,<br /> +Still followed after; but he turned no more,<br /> +And when into the moonlit night he came<br /> +From out her sight he vanished like a flame,<br /> +And on the threshold till the dawn of day<br /> +Through all the changes of the night she lay.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">A</span><span class="caps">t</span> daybreak when she lifted up her eyes,</span><br /> +She looked around with heavy dull surprise,<br /> +And rose to enter the fair golden place;<br /> +But then remembering all her piteous case<br /> +She turned away, lamenting very sore,<br /> +And wandered down unto the river shore;<br /> +There, at the head of a green pool and deep,<br /> +She stood so long that she forgot to weep,<br /> +And the wild things about the water-side<br /> +From such a silent thing cared not to hide;<br /> +The dace pushed 'gainst the stream, the dragon-fly,<br /> +With its green-painted wing, went flickering by;<br /> +The water-hen, the lustred kingfisher,<br /> +Went on their ways and took no heed of her;<br /> +The little reed birds never ceased to sing,<br /> +And still the eddy, like a living thing,<br /> +Broke into sudden gurgles at her feet.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span>But 'midst these fair things, on that morning sweet,<br /> +How could she, weary creature, find a place?<br /> +She moved at last, and lifting up her face,<br /> +Gathered her raiment up and cried, "Farewell,<br /> +O fairest lord! and since I cannot dwell<br /> +With thee in heaven, let me now hide my head<br /> +In whatsoever dark place dwell the dead!"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And with that word she leapt into the stream,</span><br /> +But the kind river even yet did deem<br /> +That she should live, and, with all gentle care,<br /> +Cast her ashore within a meadow fair.<br /> +Upon the other side, where Shepherd Pan<br /> +Sat looking down upon the water wan,<br /> +Goat-legged and merry, who called out, "Fair maid<br /> +Why goest thou hurrying to the feeble shade<br /> +Whence none return? Well do I know thy pain,<br /> +For I am old, and have not lived in vain;<br /> +Thou wilt forget all that within a while,<br /> +And on some other happy youth wilt smile;<br /> +And sure he must be dull indeed if he<br /> +Forget not all things in his ecstasy<br /> +At sight of such a wonder made for him,<br /> +That in that clinging gown makes mine eyes swim,<br /> +Old as I am: but to the god of Love<br /> +Pray now, sweet child, for all things can he move."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Weeping she passed him, but full reverently,</span><br /> +And well she saw that she was not to die<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span>Till she had filled the measure of her woe.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So through the meads she passed, half blind and slow,</span><br /> +And on her sisters somewhat now she thought;<br /> +And, pondering on the evil they had wrought,<br /> +The veil fell from her, and she saw their guile.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Alas!" she said, "can death make folk so vile?</span><br /> +What wonder that the gods are glorious then,<br /> +Who cannot feel the hates and fears of men?<br /> +Sisters, alas, for what ye used to be!<br /> +Once did I think, whatso might hap to me,<br /> +Still at the worst, within your arms to find<br /> +A haven of pure love; then were ye kind,<br /> +Then was your joy e'en as my very own—<br /> +And now, and now, if I can be alone<br /> + +That is my best: but that can never be,<br /> +For your unkindness still shall stay with me<br /> +When ye are dead—But thou, my love! my dear!<br /> +Wert thou not kind?—I should have lost my fear<br /> +Within a little—Yea, and e'en just now<br /> +With angry godhead on thy lovely brow,<br /> +Still thou wert kind—And art thou gone away<br /> +For ever? I know not, but day by day<br /> +Still will I seek thee till I come to die,<br /> +And nurse remembrance of felicity<br /> +Within my heart, although it wound me sore;<br /> +For what am I but thine for evermore!"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thenceforth her back upon the world she turned</span><br /> +As she had known it; in her heart there burned<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span>Such deathless love, that still untired she went:<br /> +The huntsman dropping down the woody bent,<br /> +In the still evening, saw her passing by,<br /> +And for her beauty fain would draw anigh,<br /> +But yet durst not; the shepherd on the down<br /> +Wondering, would shade his eyes with fingers brown,<br /> +As on the hill's brow, looking o'er the lands,<br /> +She stood with straining eyes and clinging hands,<br /> +While the wind blew the raiment from her feet;<br /> +The wandering soldier her grey eyes would meet,<br /> +That took no heed of him, and drop his own;<br /> +Like a thin dream she passed the clattering town;<br /> +On the thronged quays she watched the ships come in<br /> +Patient, amid the strange outlandish din;<br /> +Unscared she saw the sacked towns' miseries,<br /> +And marching armies passed before her eyes.<br /> +And still of her the god had such a care<br /> +That none might wrong her, though alone and fair.<br /> +Through rough and smooth she wandered many a day,<br /> +Till all her hope had well-nigh passed away.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Meanwhile the sisters, each in her own home,</span><br /> +Waited the day when outcast she should come<br /> +And ask their pity; when perchance, indeed,<br /> +They looked to give her shelter in her need,<br /> +And with soft words such faint reproaches take<br /> +As she durst make them for her ruin's sake;<br /> +But day passed day, and still no Psyche came,<br /> +And while they wondered whether, to their shame,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span>Their plot had failed, or gained its end too well,<br /> +And Psyche slain, no tale thereof could tell.—<br /> +Amidst these things, the eldest sister lay<br /> +Asleep one evening of a summer day,<br /> +Dreaming she saw the god of Love anigh,<br /> +Who seemed to say unto her lovingly,<br /> +"Hail unto thee, fair sister of my love;<br /> +Nor fear me for that thou her faith didst prove,<br /> +And found it wanting, for thou, too, art fair,<br /> +Nor is her place filled; rise, and have no care<br /> +For father or for friends, but go straightway<br /> +Unto the rock where she was borne that day;<br /> +There, if thou hast a will to be my bride,<br /> +Put thou all fear of horrid death aside,<br /> +And leap from off the cliff, and there will come<br /> +My slaves, to bear thee up and take thee home.<br /> +Haste then, before the summer night grows late,<br /> +For in my house thy beauty I await!"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So spake the dream; and through the night did sail,</span><br /> +And to the other sister bore the tale,<br /> +While this one rose, nor doubted of the thing,<br /> +Such deadly pride unto her heart did cling;<br /> +But by the tapers' light triumphantly,<br /> +Smiling, her mirrored body did she eye,<br /> +Then hastily rich raiment on her cast<br /> +And through the sleeping serving-people passed,<br /> +And looked with changed eyes on the moonlit street,<br /> +Nor scarce could feel the ground beneath her feet.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span>But long the time seemed to her, till she came<br /> +There where her sister once was borne to shame;<br /> +And when she reached the bare cliff's rugged brow<br /> +She cried aloud, "O Love, receive me now,<br /> +Who am not all unworthy to be thine!"<br /> +And with that word, her jewelled arms did shine<br /> +Outstretched beneath the moon, and with one breath<br /> +She sprung to meet the outstretched arms of Death,<br /> +The only god that waited for her there,<br /> +And in a gathered moment of despair<br /> +A hideous thing her traitrous life did seem.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But with the passing of that hollow dream</span><br /> +The other sister rose, and as she might,<br /> +Arrayed herself alone in that still night,<br /> +And so stole forth, and making no delay<br /> +Came to the rock anigh the dawn of day;<br /> +No warning there her sister's spirit gave,<br /> +No doubt came nigh the fore-doomed soul to save,<br /> +But with a fever burning in her blood,<br /> +With glittering eyes and crimson cheeks she stood<br /> +One moment on the brow, the while she cried,<br /> +"Receive me, Love, chosen to be thy bride<br /> +From all the million women of the world!"<br /> +Then o'er the cliff her wicked limbs were hurled,<br /> +Nor has the language of the earth a name<br /> +For that surprise of terror and of shame.</p></div> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">N</span><span class="caps">ow,</span> midst her wanderings, on a hot noontide,</span><br /> +Psyche passed down a road, where, on each side<br /> +The yellow cornfields lay, although as yet<br /> +Unto the stalks no sickle had been set;<br /> +The lark sung over them, the butterfly<br /> +Flickered from ear to ear distractedly,<br /> +The kestrel hung above, the weasel peered<br /> +From out the wheat-stalks on her unafeard,<br /> +Along the road the trembling poppies shed<br /> +On the burnt grass their crumpled leaves and red;<br /> +Most lonely was it, nothing Psyche knew<br /> +Unto what land of all the world she drew;<br /> +Aweary was she, faint and sick at heart,<br /> +Bowed to the earth by thoughts of that sad part<br /> +She needs must play: some blue flower from the corn<br /> +That in her fingers erewhile she had borne,<br /> +Now dropped from them, still clung unto her gown;<br /> +Over the hard way hung her head adown<br /> +Despairingly, but still her weary feet<br /> +Moved on half conscious, her lost love to meet.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So going, at the last she raised her eyes,</span><br /> +And saw a grassy mound before her rise<br /> +Over the yellow plain, and thereon was<br /> +A marble fane with doors of burnished brass,<br /> +That 'twixt the pillars set about it burned;<br /> +So thitherward from off the road she turned,<br /> +And soon she heard a rippling water sound,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span>And reached a stream that girt the hill around,<br /> +Whose green waves wooed her body lovingly;<br /> +So looking round, and seeing no soul anigh,<br /> +Unclad, she crossed the shallows, and there laid<br /> +Her dusty raiment in the alder-shade,<br /> +And slipped adown into the shaded pool,<br /> +And with the pleasure of the water cool<br /> +Soothed her tired limbs awhile, then with a sigh<br /> +Came forth, and clad her body hastily,<br /> +And up the hill made for the little fane.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But when its threshold now her feet did gain,</span><br /> +She, looking through the pillars of the shrine,<br /> +Beheld therein a golden image shine<br /> +Of golden Ceres; then she passed the door,<br /> +And with bowed head she stood awhile before<br /> +The smiling image, striving for some word<br /> +That did not name her lover and her lord,<br /> +Until midst rising tears at last she prayed:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"O kind one, if while yet I was a maid</span><br /> +I ever did thee pleasure, on this day<br /> +Be kind to me, poor wanderer on the way,<br /> +Who strive my love upon the earth to meet!<br /> +Then let me rest my weary, doubtful feet<br /> +Within thy quiet house a little while,<br /> +And on my rest if thou wouldst please to smile,<br /> +And send me news of my own love and lord,<br /> +It would not cost thee, lady, many a word."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But straight from out the shrine a sweet voice came,</span><br /> +"O Psyche, though of me thou hast no blame,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span>And though indeed thou sparedst not to give<br /> +What my soul loved, while happy thou didst live,<br /> +Yet little can I give now unto thee,<br /> +Since thou art rebel, slave, and enemy<br /> +Unto the love-inspiring Queen; this grace<br /> +Thou hast alone of me, to leave this place<br /> +Free as thou camest, though the lovely one<br /> +Seeks for the sorceress who entrapped her son<br /> +In every land, and has small joy in aught,<br /> +Until before her presence thou art brought."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then Psyche, trembling at the words she spake,</span><br /> +Durst answer nought, nor for that counsel's sake<br /> +Could other offerings leave except her tears,<br /> +As now, tormented by the new-born fears<br /> +The words divine had raised in her, she passed<br /> +The brazen threshold once again, and cast<br /> +A dreary hopeless look across the plain,<br /> +Whose golden beauty now seemed nought and vain<br /> +Unto her aching heart; then down the hill<br /> +She went, and crossed the shallows of the rill,<br /> +And wearily she went upon her way,<br /> +Nor any homestead passed upon that day,<br /> +Nor any hamlet, and at night lay down<br /> +Within a wood, far off from any town.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">There, waking at the dawn, did she behold,</span><br /> +Through the green leaves, a glimmer as of gold,<br /> +And, passing on, amidst an oak-grove found<br /> +A pillared temple gold-adorned and round,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span>Whose walls were hung with rich and precious things,<br /> +Worthy to be the ransom of great kings;<br /> +And in the midst of gold and ivory<br /> +An image of Queen Juno did she see;<br /> +Then her heart swelled within her, and she thought,<br /> +"Surely the gods hereto my steps have brought,<br /> +And they will yet be merciful and give<br /> +Some little joy to me, that I may live<br /> +Till my Love finds me." Then upon her knees<br /> +She fell, and prayed, "O Crown of goddesses,<br /> +I pray thee, give me shelter in this place,<br /> +Nor turn away from me thy much-loved face,<br /> +If ever I gave golden gifts to thee<br /> +In happier times when my right hand was free."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then from the inmost shrine there came a voice</span><br /> +That said, "It is so, well mayst thou rejoice<br /> +That of thy gifts I yet have memory,<br /> +Wherefore mayst thou depart forewarned and free;<br /> +Since she that won the golden apple lives,<br /> +And to her servants mighty gifts now gives<br /> +To find thee out, in whatso land thou art,<br /> +For thine undoing; loiter not, depart!<br /> +For what immortal yet shall shelter thee<br /> +From her that rose from out the unquiet sea?"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then Psyche moaned out in her grief and fear,</span><br /> +"Alas! and is there shelter anywhere<br /> +Upon the green flame-hiding earth?" said she,<br /> +"Or yet beneath it is there peace for me?<br /> +O Love, since in thine arms I cannot rest,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span>Or lay my weary head upon thy breast,<br /> +Have pity yet upon thy love forlorn,<br /> +Make me as though I never had been born!"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then wearily she went upon her way,</span><br /> +And so, about the middle of the day,<br /> +She came before a green and flowery place,<br /> +Walled round about in manner of a chase,<br /> +Whereof the gates as now were open wide;<br /> +Fair grassy glades and long she saw inside<br /> +Betwixt great trees, down which the unscared deer<br /> +Were playing; yet a pang of deadly fear,<br /> +She knew not why, shot coldly through her heart,<br /> +And thrice she turned as though she would depart,<br /> +And thrice returned, and in the gateway stood<br /> +With wavering feet: small flowers as red as blood<br /> +Were growing up amid the soft green grass,<br /> +And here and there a fallen rose there was,<br /> +And on the trodden grass a silken lace,<br /> +As though crowned revellers had passed by the place<br /> +The restless sparrows chirped upon the wall<br /> +And faint far music on her ears did fall,<br /> +And from the trees within, the pink-foot doves<br /> +Still told their weary tale unto their loves,<br /> +And all seemed peaceful more than words could say.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then she, whose heart still whispered, "Keep away."</span><br /> +Was drawn by strong desire unto the place,<br /> +So toward the greenest glade she set her face,<br /> +Murmuring, "Alas! and what a wretch am I,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span>That I should fear the summer's greenery!<br /> +Yea, and is death now any more an ill,<br /> +When lonely through the world I wander still."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But when she was amidst those ancient groves,</span><br /> +Whose close green leaves and choirs of moaning doves<br /> +Shut out the world, then so alone she seemed,<br /> +So strange, her former life was but as dreamed;<br /> +Beside the hopes and fears that drew her on,<br /> +Till so far through that green place she had won,<br /> +That she a rose-hedged garden could behold<br /> +Before a house made beautiful with gold;<br /> +Which, to her mind beset with that past dream,<br /> +And dim foreshadowings of ill fate, did seem<br /> +That very house, her joy and misery,<br /> +Where that fair sight her longing eyes did see<br /> +They should not see again; but now the sound<br /> +Of pensive music echoing all around,<br /> +Made all things like a picture, and from thence<br /> +Bewildering odours floating, dulled her sense,<br /> +And killed her fear, and, urged by strong desire<br /> +To see how all should end, she drew yet nigher,<br /> +And o'er the hedge beheld the heads of girls<br /> +Embraced by garlands fresh and orient pearls,<br /> +And heard sweet voices murmuring; then a thrill<br /> +Of utmost joy all memory seemed to kill<br /> +Of good or evil, and her eager hand<br /> +Was on the wicket, then her feet did stand<br /> +Upon new flowers, the while her dizzied eyes<br /> +Gazed wildly round on half-seen mysteries,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span>And wandered from unnoting face to face.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For round a fountain midst the flowery place</span><br /> +Did she behold full many a minstrel girl;<br /> +While nigh them, on the grass in giddy whirl,<br /> +Bright raiment and white limbs and sandalled feet<br /> +Flew round in time unto the music sweet,<br /> +Whose strains no more were pensive now nor sad,<br /> +But rather a fresh sound of triumph had;<br /> +And round the dance were gathered damsels fair,<br /> +Clad in rich robes adorned with jewels rare;<br /> +Or little hidden by some woven mist,<br /> +That, hanging round them, here a bosom kissed<br /> +And there a knee, or driven by the wind<br /> +About some lily's bowing stem was twined.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But when a little Psyche's eyes grew clear,</span><br /> +A sight they saw that brought back all her fear<br /> +A hundred-fold, though neither heaven nor earth<br /> +To such a fair sight elsewhere could give birth;<br /> +Because apart, upon a golden throne<br /> +Of marvellous work, a woman sat alone,<br /> +Watching the dancers with a smiling face,<br /> +Whose beauty sole had lighted up the place.<br /> +A crown there was upon her glorious head,<br /> +A garland round about her girdlestead,<br /> +Where matchless wonders of the hidden sea<br /> +Were brought together and set wonderfully;<br /> +Naked she was of all else, but her hair<br /> +About her body rippled here and there,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span>And lay in heaps upon the golden seat,<br /> +And even touched the gold cloth where her feet<br /> +Lay amid roses—ah, how kind she seemed!<br /> +What depths of love from out her grey eyes beamed!<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Well might the birds leave singing on the trees</span><br /> +To watch in peace that crown of goddesses,<br /> +Yet well might Psyche sicken at the sight,<br /> +And feel her feet wax heavy, her head light;<br /> +For now at last her evil day was come,<br /> +Since she had wandered to the very home<br /> +Of her most bitter cruel enemy.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Half-dead, yet must she turn about to flee,</span><br /> +But as her eyes back o'er her shoulder gazed,<br /> +And with weak hands her clinging gown she raised,<br /> +And from her lips unwitting came a moan,<br /> +She felt strong arms about her body thrown,<br /> +And, blind with fear, was haled along till she<br /> +Saw floating by her faint eyes dizzily<br /> +That vision of the pearls and roses fresh,<br /> +The golden carpet and the rosy flesh.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then, as in vain she strove to make some sound,</span><br /> +A sweet voice seemed to pierce the air around<br /> +With bitter words; her doom rang in her ears,<br /> +She felt the misery that lacketh tears.<br /> +"Come hither, damsels, and the pearl behold<br /> +That hath no price? See now the thrice-tried gold,<br /> +That all men worshipped, that a god would have<br /> +To be his bride! how like a wretched slave<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span>She cowers down, and lacketh even voice<br /> +To plead her cause! Come, damsels, and rejoice,<br /> +That now once more the waiting world will move,<br /> +Since she is found, the well-loved soul of love!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"And thou poor wretch, what god hath led thee here?</span><br /> +Art thou so lost in this abyss of fear,<br /> +Thou canst not weep thy misery and shame?<br /> +Canst thou not even speak thy shameful name?"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But even then the flame of fervent love</span><br /> +In Psyche's tortured heart began to move,<br /> +And gave her utterance, and she said, "Alas!<br /> +Surely the end of life has come to pass<br /> +For me, who have been bride of very Love,<br /> +Yet love still bides in me, O Seed of Jove,<br /> +For such I know thee; slay me, nought is lost!<br /> +For had I had the will to count the cost<br /> +And buy my love with all this misery,<br /> +Thus and no otherwise the thing should be.<br /> +Would I were dead, my wretched beauty gone,<br /> +No trouble now to thee or any one!"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And with that last word did she hang her head,</span><br /> +As one who hears not, whatsoe'er is said;<br /> +But Venus rising with a dreadful cry<br /> +Said, "O thou fool, I will not let thee die!<br /> +But thou shalt reap the harvest thou hast sown<br /> +And many a day thy wretched lot bemoan.<br /> +Thou art my slave, and not a day shall be<br /> +But I will find some fitting task for thee,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span>Nor will I slay thee till thou hop'st again.<br /> +What, thinkest thou that utterly in vain<br /> +Jove is my sire, and in despite my will<br /> +That thou canst mock me with thy beauty still?<br /> +Come forth, O strong-armed, punish this new slave,<br /> +That she henceforth a humble heart may have."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">All round about the damsels in a ring</span><br /> +Were drawn to see the ending of the thing,<br /> +And now as Psyche's eyes stared wildly round<br /> +No help in any face of them she found<br /> +As from the fair and dreadful face she turned<br /> +In whose grey eyes such steadfast anger burned;<br /> +Yet midst her agony she scarcely knew<br /> + +What thing it was the goddess bade them do,<br /> +And all the pageant, like a dreadful dream<br /> +Hopeless and long-enduring grew to seem;<br /> +Yea, when the strong-armed through the crowd did break,<br /> +Girls like to those, whose close-locked squadron shake<br /> +The echoing surface of the Asian plain,<br /> +And when she saw their threatening hands, in vain<br /> +She strove to speak, so like a dream it was;<br /> +So like a dream that this should come to pass,<br /> +And 'neath her feet the green earth opened not.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But when her breaking heart again waxed hot</span><br /> +With dreadful thoughts and prayers unspeakable<br /> +As all their bitter torment on her fell,<br /> +When she her own voice heard, nor knew its sound,<br /> +And like red flame she saw the trees and ground,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span>Then first she seemed to know what misery<br /> +To helpless folk upon the earth can be.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But while beneath the many moving feet</span><br /> +The small crushed flowers sent up their odour sweet,<br /> +Above sat Venus, calm, and very fair,<br /> +Her white limbs bared of all her golden hair,<br /> +Into her heart all wrath cast back again,<br /> +As on the terror and the helpless pain<br /> +She gazed with gentle eyes, and unmoved smile;<br /> +Such as in Cyprus, the fair blossomed isle,<br /> +When on the altar in the summer night<br /> +They pile the roses up for her delight,<br /> +Men see within their hearts, and long that they<br /> +Unto her very body there might pray.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">At last to them some dainty sign she made</span><br /> +To hold their cruel hands, and therewith bade<br /> +To bear her slave new gained from out her sight<br /> +And keep her safely till the morrow's light:<br /> +So her across the sunny sward they led<br /> +With fainting limbs, and heavy downcast head,<br /> +And into some nigh lightless prison cast<br /> +To brood alone o'er happy days long past<br /> +And all the dreadful times that yet should be.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But she being gone, one moment pensively</span><br /> +The goddess did the distant hills behold,<br /> +Then bade her girls bind up her hair of gold,<br /> +And veil her breast, the very forge of love,<br /> +With raiment that no earthly shuttle wove,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span>And 'gainst the hard earth arm her lovely feet:<br /> +Then she went forth, some shepherd king to meet<br /> +Deep in the hollow of a shaded vale,<br /> +To make his woes a long-enduring tale.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">B</span><span class="caps">ut</span> over Psyche, hapless and forlorn,</span><br /> +Unseen the sun rose on the morrow morn,<br /> +Nor knew she aught about the death of night<br /> +Until her gaoler's torches filled with light<br /> +The dreary place, blinding her unused eyes,<br /> +And she their voices heard that bade her rise;<br /> +She did their bidding, yet grown faint and pale<br /> +She shrank away and strove her arms to veil<br /> +In her gown's bosom, and to hide from them<br /> +Her little feet within her garment's hem;<br /> +But mocking her, they brought her thence away,<br /> +And led her forth into the light of day,<br /> +And brought her to a marble cloister fair<br /> +Where sat the queen on her adornéd chair,<br /> +But she, as down the sun-streaked place they came,<br /> +Cried out, "Haste! ye, who lead my grief and shame."<br /> +And when she stood before her trembling, said,<br /> +"Although within a palace thou wast bred<br /> +Yet dost thou carry but a slavish heart,<br /> +And fitting is it thou shouldst learn thy part,<br /> +And know the state whereunto thou art brought;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span>Now, heed what yesterday thy folly taught,<br /> +And set thyself to-day my will to do;<br /> +Ho ye, bring that which I commanded you."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then forth came two, and each upon her back</span><br /> +Bore up with pain a huge half-bursten sack,<br /> +Which, setting down, they opened on the floor,<br /> +And from their hempen mouths a stream did pour<br /> +Of mingled seeds, and grain, peas, pulse, and wheat,<br /> +Poppies and millet, and coriander sweet,<br /> +And many another brought from far-off lands,<br /> +Which mingling more with swift and ready hands<br /> +They piled into a heap confused and great.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And then said Venus, rising from her seat,</span><br /> +"Slave, here I leave thee, but before the night<br /> +These mingled seeds thy hands shall set aright,<br /> +All laid in heaps, each after its own kind,<br /> +And if in any heap I chance to find<br /> +An alien seed; thou knowest since yesterday<br /> +How disobedient slaves the forfeit pay."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Therewith she turned and left the palace fair</span><br /> +And from its outskirts rose into the air,<br /> +And flew until beneath her lay the sea,<br /> +Then, looking on its green waves lovingly,<br /> +Somewhat she dropped, and low adown she flew<br /> +Until she reached the temple that she knew<br /> +Within a sunny bay of her fair isle.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But Psyche sadly labouring all the while</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span>With hopeless heart felt the swift hours go by,<br /> +And knowing well what bitter mockery<br /> +Lay in that task, yet did she what she might<br /> +That something should be finished ere the night,<br /> +And she a little mercy yet might ask;<br /> +But the first hours of that long feverish task<br /> +Passed amid mocks; for oft the damsels came<br /> +About her, and made merry with her shame,<br /> +And laughed to see her trembling eagerness,<br /> +And how, with some small lappet of her dress,<br /> +She winnowed out the wheat, and how she bent<br /> +Over the millet, hopelessly intent;<br /> +And how she guarded well some tiny heap<br /> +But just begun, from their long raiments' sweep;<br /> +And how herself, with girt gown, carefully<br /> +She went betwixt the heaps that 'gan to lie<br /> +Along the floor; though they were small enow,<br /> +When shadows lengthened and the sun was low;<br /> +But at the last these left her labouring,<br /> +Not daring now to weep, lest some small thing<br /> +Should 'scape her blinded eyes, and soon far off<br /> +She heard the echoes of their careless scoff.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Longer the shades grew, quicker sank the sun,</span><br /> +Until at last the day was well-nigh done,<br /> +And every minute did she think to hear<br /> +The fair Queen's dreaded footsteps drawing near;<br /> +But Love, that moves the earth, and skies, and sea,<br /> +Beheld his old love in her misery,<br /> +And wrapped her heart in sudden gentle sleep;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span>And meanwhile caused unnumbered ants to creep<br /> +About her, and they wrought so busily<br /> +That all, ere sundown, was as it should be,<br /> +And homeward went again the kingless folk.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bewildered with her joy again she woke,</span><br /> +But scarce had time the unseen hands to bless,<br /> +That thus had helped her utter feebleness,<br /> +Ere Venus came, fresh from the watery way,<br /> +Panting with all the pleasure of the day;<br /> +But when she saw the ordered heaps, her smile<br /> +Faded away, she cried out, "Base and vile<br /> +Thou art indeed, this labour fitteth thee;<br /> +But now I know thy feigned simplicity,<br /> +Thine inward cunning, therefore hope no more,<br /> +Since thou art furnished well with hidden lore,<br /> +To 'scape thy due reward, if any day<br /> +Without some task accomplished, pass away!"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So with a frown she passed on, muttering,</span><br /> +"Nought have I done, to-morrow a new thing."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So the next morning Psyche did they lead</span><br /> +Unto a terrace o'er a flowery mead,<br /> +Where Venus sat, hid from the young sun's rays,<br /> +Upon the fairest of all summer days;<br /> +She pointed o'er the meads as they drew nigh,<br /> +And said, "See how that stream goes glittering by,<br /> +And on its banks my golden sheep now pass,<br /> +Cropping sweet mouthfuls of the flowery grass;<br /> +If thou, O cunning slave, to-day art fain<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span>To save thyself from well-remembered pain,<br /> +Put forth a little of thy hidden skill,<br /> +And with their golden fleece thy bosom fill;<br /> +Yet make no haste, but ere the sun is down<br /> +Cast it before my feet from out thy gown;<br /> +Surely thy labour is but light to-day."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then sadly went poor Psyche on her way,</span><br /> +Wondering wherein the snare lay, for she knew<br /> +No easy thing it was she had to do;<br /> +Nor had she failed indeed to note the smile<br /> +Wherewith the goddess praised her for the guile<br /> +That she, unhappy, lacked so utterly.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Amidst these thoughts she crossed the flowery lea,</span><br /> +And came unto the glittering river's side;<br /> +And, seeing it was neither deep nor wide,<br /> +She drew her sandals off, and to the knee<br /> +Girt up her gown, and by a willow-tree<br /> +Went down into the water, and but sank<br /> +Up to mid-leg therein; but from the bank<br /> +She scarce had gone three steps, before a voice<br /> +Called out to her, "Stay, Psyche, and rejoice<br /> +That I am here to help thee, a poor reed,<br /> +The soother of the loving hearts that bleed,<br /> +The pourer forth of notes, that oft have made<br /> +The weak man strong, and the rash man afraid.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Sweet child, when by me now thy dear foot trod,</span><br /> +I knew thee for the loved one of our god;<br /> +Then prithee take my counsel in good part;<br /> +Go to the shore again, and rest thine heart<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span>In sleep awhile, until the sun get low,<br /> +And then across the river shalt thou go<br /> +And find these evil creatures sleeping fast,<br /> +And on the bushes whereby they have passed<br /> +Much golden wool; take what seems good to thee,<br /> +And ere the sun sets go back easily.<br /> +But if within that mead thou sett'st thy feet<br /> +While yet they wake, an ill death shalt thou meet,<br /> +For they are of a cursed man-hating race,<br /> +Bred by a giant in a lightless place."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But at these words soft tears filled Psyche's eyes</span><br /> +As hope of love within her heart did rise;<br /> +And when she saw she was not helpless yet<br /> +Her old desire she would not quite forget;<br /> +But turning back, upon the bank she lay<br /> +In happy dreams till nigh the end of day;<br /> +Then did she cross and gather of the wool,<br /> +And with her bosom and her gown-skirt full<br /> +Came back to Venus at the sun-setting;<br /> +But she afar off saw it glistering<br /> +And cried aloud, "Go, take the slave away,<br /> +And keep her safe for yet another day,<br /> +And on the morning will I think again<br /> +Of some fresh task, since with so little pain<br /> +She doeth what the gods find hard enow;<br /> +For since the winds were pleased this waif to blow<br /> +Unto my door, a fool I were indeed,<br /> +If I should fail to use her for my need."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So her they led away from that bright sun,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span>Now scarce more hopeful that the task was done,<br /> +Since by those bitter words she knew full well<br /> +Another tale the coming day would tell.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But the next morn upon a turret high,</span><br /> +Where the wind kissed her raiment lovingly,<br /> +Stood Venus waiting her; and when she came<br /> +She said, "O slave, thy city's very shame,<br /> +Lift up thy cunning eyes, and looking hence<br /> +Shalt thou behold betwixt these battlements,<br /> +A black and barren mountain set aloof<br /> +From the green hills, shaped like a palace roof.<br /> +Ten leagues from hence it lieth, toward the north,<br /> +And from its rocks a fountain welleth forth,<br /> +Black like itself, and floweth down its side,<br /> +And in a while part into Styx doth glide,<br /> +And part into Cocytus runs away,<br /> +Now coming thither by the end of day,<br /> +Fill me this ewer from out the awful stream;<br /> +Such task a sorceress like thee will deem<br /> +A little matter; bring it not to pass,<br /> +And if thou be not made of steel or brass,<br /> +To-morrow shalt thou find the bitterest day<br /> +Thou yet hast known, and all be sport and play<br /> +To what thy heart in that hour shall endure—<br /> +Behold, I swear it, and my word is sure!"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">She turned therewith to go down toward the sea,</span><br /> +To meet her lover, who from Thessaly<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span>Was come from some well-foughten field of war.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But Psyche, wandering wearily afar,</span><br /> +Reached the bare foot of that black rock at last,<br /> +And sat there grieving for the happy past,<br /> +For surely now, she thought, no help could be,<br /> +She had but reached the final misery,<br /> +Nor had she any counsel but to weep.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For not alone the place was very steep,</span><br /> +And craggy beyond measure, but she knew<br /> +What well it was that she was driven to,<br /> +The dreadful water that the gods swear by,<br /> +For there on either hand, as one draws nigh,<br /> +Are long-necked dragons ready for the spring,<br /> +And many another monstrous nameless thing,<br /> +The very sight of which is well-nigh death;<br /> +Then the black water as it goes crieth,<br /> +"Fly, wretched one, before you come to die!<br /> +Die, wretched man! I will not let you fly!<br /> +How have you heart to come before me here?<br /> +You have no heart, your life is turned to fear!"<br /> +Till the wretch falls adown with whirling brain,<br /> +And far below the sharp rocks end his pain.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Well then might Psyche wail her wretched fate,</span><br /> +And strive no more, but sitting weep and wait<br /> +Alone in that black land for kindly death,<br /> +With weary sobbing, wasting life and breath;<br /> +But o'er her head there flew the bird of Jove,<br /> +The bearer of his servant, friend of Love,<br /> +Who, when he saw her, straightway towards her flew,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span>And asked her why she wept, and when he knew,<br /> +And who she was, he said, "Cease all thy fear,<br /> +For to the black waves I thy ewer will bear,<br /> +And fill it for thee; but, remember me,<br /> +When thou art come unto thy majesty."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then straight he flew, and through the dragon's wings</span><br /> +Went carelessly, nor feared their clatterings,<br /> +But set the ewer, filled, in her right hand,<br /> +And on that day saw many another land.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then Psyche through the night toiled back again,</span><br /> +And as she went, she thought, "Ah! all is vain,<br /> +For though once more I just escape indeed,<br /> +Yet hath she many another wile at need;<br /> +And to these days when I my life first learn,<br /> +With unavailing longing shall I turn,<br /> +When this that seemeth now so horrible<br /> +Shall then seem but the threshold of her hell.<br /> +Alas! what shall I do? for even now<br /> +In sleep I see her pitiless white brow,<br /> +And hear the dreadful sound of her commands,<br /> +While with my helpless body and bound hands<br /> +I tremble underneath the cruel whips;<br /> +And oft for dread of her, with quivering lips<br /> +I wake, and waking know the time draws nigh<br /> +When nought shall wake me from that misery—<br /> +Behold, O Love, because of thee I live,<br /> +Because of thee, with these things still I strive."</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">N</span><span class="caps">ow</span> with the risen sun her weary feet</span><br /> +The late-strewn roses of the floor did meet<br /> +Upon the marble threshold of the place;<br /> +But she being brought before the matchless face,<br /> +Fresh with the new life of another day,<br /> +Beheld her wondering, for the goddess lay<br /> +With half-shut eyes upon her golden bed,<br /> +And when she entered scarcely turned her head,<br /> +But smiling spake, "The gods are good to thee,<br /> +Nor shalt thou always be mine enemy;<br /> +But one more task I charge thee with to-day,<br /> +Now unto Proserpine take thou thy way,<br /> +And give this golden casket to her hands,<br /> +And pray the fair Queen of the gloomy lands<br /> +To fill the void shell with that beauty rare<br /> +That long ago as queen did set her there;<br /> +Nor needest thou to fail in this new thing,<br /> +Who hast to-day the heart and wit to bring<br /> +This dreadful water, and return alive;<br /> +And, that thou may'st the more in this thing strive,<br /> +If thou returnest I will show at last<br /> +My kindness unto thee, and all the past<br /> +Shalt thou remember as an ugly dream."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And now at first to Psyche did it seem</span><br /> +Her heart was softening to her, and the thought<br /> +Swelled her full heart to sobbing, and it brought<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span>Into her yearning eyes half-happy tears:<br /> +But on her way cold thoughts and dreadful fears<br /> +Rose in her heart, for who indeed could teach<br /> +A living soul that dread abode to reach<br /> +And yet return? and then once more it seemed<br /> +The hope of mercy was but lightly dreamed,<br /> +And she remembered that triumphant smile,<br /> +And needs must think, "This is the final wile,<br /> +Alas! what trouble must a goddess take<br /> +So weak a thing as this poor heart to break.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"See now this tower! from off its top will I</span><br /> +Go quick to Proserpine—ah, good to die!<br /> +Rather than hear those shameful words again,<br /> +And bear that unimaginable pain<br /> +Which she has hoarded for to-morrow morn;<br /> +Now is the ending of my life forlorn!<br /> +O Love, farewell, thou seest all hope is dead,<br /> +Thou seest what torments on my wretched head<br /> +Thy bitter mother doth not cease to heap;<br /> +Farewell, O Love, for thee and life I weep.<br /> +Alas, my foolish heart! alas, my sin!<br /> +Alas, for all the love I could not win!"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now was this tower both old enough and grey,</span><br /> +Built by some king forgotten many a day,<br /> +And no man dwelt there, now that bitter war<br /> +From that bright land had long been driven afar;<br /> +There now she entered, trembling and afraid;<br /> +But 'neath her doubtful steps the dust long laid<br /> +In utter rest, rose up into the air,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span>And wavered in the wind that down the stair<br /> +Rushed to the door; then she drew back a pace,<br /> +Moved by the coolness of the lonely place<br /> +That for so long had seen no ray of sun.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then shuddering did she hear these words begun,</span><br /> +Like a wind's moaning voice, "Have thou no fear<br /> +The hollow words of one long slain to hear!<br /> +Thou livest, and thy hope is not yet dead,<br /> +And if thou heedest me, thou well may'st tread<br /> +The road to hell, and yet return again.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"For thou must go o'er many a hill and plain</span><br /> +Until to Sparta thou art come at last,<br /> +And when the ancient city thou hast passed<br /> +A mountain shalt thou reach, that men now call<br /> +Mount Tænarus, that riseth like a wall<br /> +'Twixt plain and upland, therein shalt thou find<br /> +The wide mouth of a cavern huge and blind,<br /> +Wherein there cometh never any sun,<br /> +Whose dreadful darkness all things living shun;<br /> +This shun thou not, but yet take care to have<br /> +Three honey-cakes thy soul alive to save,<br /> +And in thy mouth a piece of money set,<br /> +Then through the dark go boldly, and forget<br /> +The stories thou hast heard of death and hell,<br /> +And heed my words, and then shall all be well.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"For when thou hast passed through that cavern blind,</span><br /> +A place of dim grey meadows shalt thou find,<br /> +Wherethrough to inmost hell a path doth lead,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span>Which follow thou, with diligence and heed;<br /> +For as thou goest there, thou soon shalt see<br /> +Two men like peasants loading painfully<br /> +A fallen ass; these unto thee will call<br /> +To help them, but give thou no heed at all,<br /> +But pass them swiftly; and then soon again<br /> +Within a shed three crones shalt thou see plain<br /> +Busily weaving, who shall bid thee leave<br /> +The road and fill their shuttles while they weave,<br /> +But slacken not thy steps for all their prayers,<br /> +For these are shadows only, and set snares.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"At last thou comest to a water wan,</span><br /> +And at the bank shall be the ferryman<br /> +Surly and grey; and when he asketh thee<br /> +Of money for thy passage, hastily<br /> +Show him thy mouth, and straight from off thy lip<br /> +The money he will take, and in his ship<br /> +Embark thee and set forward; but beware,<br /> +For on thy passage is another snare;<br /> +From out the waves a grisly head shall come,<br /> +Most like thy father thou hast left at home,<br /> +And pray for passage long and piteously,<br /> +But on thy life of him have no pity,<br /> +Else art thou lost; also thy father lives,<br /> +And in the temples of the high gods gives<br /> +Great daily gifts for thy returning home.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"When thou unto the other side art come,</span><br /> +A palace shalt thou see of fiery gold,<br /> +And by the door thereof shalt thou behold<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span>An ugly triple monster, that shall yell<br /> +For thine undoing; now behold him well,<br /> +And into each mouth of him cast a cake,<br /> +And no more heed of thee then shall he take,<br /> +And thou may'st pass into a glorious hall<br /> +Where many a wonder hangs upon the wall;<br /> +But far more wonderful than anything<br /> +The fair slim consort of the gloomy King,<br /> +Arrayed all royally shalt thou behold,<br /> +Who sitting on a carven throne of gold,<br /> +Whene'er thou enterest shall rise up to thee,<br /> +And bid thee welcome there most lovingly,<br /> +And pray thee on a royal bed to sit,<br /> +And share her feast; yet eat thou not of it,<br /> +But sitting on the ground eat bread alone,<br /> +Then do thy message kneeling by her throne;<br /> +And when thou hast the gift, return with speed;<br /> +The sleepy dog of thee shall take no heed,<br /> +The ferryman shall bear thee on thy way<br /> +Without more words, and thou shalt see the day<br /> +Unharmed if that dread box thou openest not;<br /> +But if thou dost, then death shall be thy lot.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"O beautiful, when safe thou com'st again,</span><br /> +Remember me, who lie here in such pain<br /> +Unburied; set me in some tomb of stone.<br /> +When thou hast gathered every little bone;<br /> +But never shalt thou set thereon a name,<br /> +Because my ending was with grief and shame,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span>Who was a Queen like thee long years agone,<br /> +And in this tower so long have lain alone."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then, pale and full of trouble, Psyche went</span><br /> +Bearing the casket, and her footsteps bent<br /> +To Lacedæmon, and thence found her way<br /> +To Tænarus, and there the golden day<br /> +For that dark cavern did she leave behind;<br /> +Then, going boldly through it, did she find<br /> +The shadowy meads which that wide way ran through,<br /> +Under a seeming sky 'twixt grey and blue;<br /> +No wind blew there, there was no bird or tree,<br /> +Or beast, and dim grey flowers she did but see<br /> +That never faded in that changeless place,<br /> +And if she had but seen a living face<br /> +Most strange and bright she would have thought it there,<br /> +Or if her own face, troubled yet so fair,<br /> +The still pools by the road-side could have shown<br /> +The dimness of that place she might have known;<br /> +But their dull surface cast no image back,<br /> +For all but dreams of light that land did lack.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So on she passed, still noting every thing,</span><br /> +Nor yet had she forgotten there to bring<br /> +The honey-cakes and money: in a while<br /> +She saw those shadows striving hard to pile<br /> +The bales upon the ass, and heard them call,<br /> +"O woman, help us! for our skill is small<br /> +And we are feeble in this place indeed;"<br /> +But swiftly did she pass, nor gave them heed,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span>Though after her from far their cries they sent.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then a long way adown that road she went,</span><br /> +Not seeing aught, till, as the Shade had said,<br /> +She came upon three women in a shed<br /> +Busily weaving, who cried, "Daughter, leave<br /> +The beaten road a while, and as we weave<br /> +Fill thou our shuttles with these endless threads,<br /> +For here our eyes are sleepy, and our heads<br /> +Are feeble in this miserable place."<br /> +But for their words she did but mend her pace,<br /> +Although her heart beat quick as she passed by.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then on she went, until she could espy</span><br /> +The wan, grey river lap the leaden bank<br /> +Wherefrom there sprouted sparsely sedges rank,<br /> +And there the road had end in that sad boat<br /> +Wherein the dead men unto Minos float;<br /> +There stood the ferryman, who now, seeing her, said,<br /> +"O living soul, that thus among the dead<br /> +Hast come, on whatso errand, without fear,<br /> +Know thou that penniless none passes here;<br /> +Of all the coins that rich men have on earth<br /> +To buy the dreadful folly they call mirth,<br /> +But one they keep when they have passed the grave<br /> +That o'er this stream a passage they may have;<br /> +And thou, though living, art but dead to me,<br /> +Who here, immortal, see mortality<br /> +Pass, stripped of this last thing that men desire<br /> +Unto the changeless meads or changeless fire."<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Speechless she shewed the money on her lip</span><br /> +Which straight he took, and set her in the ship,<br /> +And then the wretched, heavy oars he threw<br /> +Into the rowlocks and the flood they drew;<br /> +Silent, with eyes that looked beyond her face,<br /> +He laboured, and they left the dreary place.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But midmost of that water did arise</span><br /> +A dead man, pale, with ghastly staring eyes<br /> +That somewhat like her father still did seem,<br /> +But in such wise as figures in a dream;<br /> +Then with a lamentable voice it cried,<br /> +"O daughter, I am dead, and in this tide<br /> +For ever shall I drift, an unnamed thing,<br /> +Who was thy father once, a mighty king,<br /> +Unless thou take some pity on me now,<br /> +And bid the ferryman turn here his prow,<br /> +That I with thee to some abode may cross;<br /> +And little unto thee will be the loss,<br /> +And unto me the gain will be to come<br /> +To such a place as I may call a home,<br /> +Being now but dead and empty of delight,<br /> +And set in this sad place 'twixt dark and light."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now at these words the tears ran down apace</span><br /> +For memory of the once familiar face,<br /> +And those old days, wherein, a little child<br /> +'Twixt awe and love beneath those eyes she smiled;<br /> +False pity moved her very heart, although<br /> +The guile of Venus she failed not to know,<br /> +But tighter round the casket clasped her hands,<br /> +And shut her eyes, remembering the commands<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span>Of that dead queen: so safe to land she came.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And there in that grey country, like a flame</span><br /> +Before her eyes rose up the house of gold,<br /> +And at the gate she met the beast threefold,<br /> +Who ran to meet her open-mouthed, but she<br /> +Unto his jaws the cakes cast cunningly,<br /> +But trembling much; then on the ground he lay<br /> +Lolling his heads, and let her go her way;<br /> +And so she came into the mighty hall,<br /> +And saw those wonders hanging on the wall,<br /> +That all with pomegranates was covered o'er<br /> +In memory of the meal on that sad shore,<br /> +Whereby fair Enna was bewept in vain,<br /> +And this became a kingdom and a chain.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But on a throne, the Queen of all the dead</span><br /> +She saw therein with gold-embracéd head,<br /> +In royal raiment, beautiful and pale;<br /> +Then with slim hands her face did Psyche veil<br /> +In worship of her, who said, "Welcome here,<br /> +O messenger of Venus! thou art dear<br /> +To me thyself indeed, for of thy grace<br /> +And loveliness we know e'en in this place;<br /> +Rest thee then, fair one, on this royal bed<br /> +And with some dainty food shalt thou be fed;<br /> +Ho, ye who wait, bring in the tables now!"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Therewith were brought things glorious of show</span><br /> +On cloths and tables royally beseen,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span>By damsels each one fairer than a queen,<br /> +The very latchets of whose shoes were worth<br /> +The royal crown of any queen on earth;<br /> +But when upon them Psyche looked, she saw<br /> +That all these dainty matters without flaw<br /> +Were strange of shape and of strange-blended hues<br /> +So every cup and plate did she refuse<br /> +Those lovely hands brought to her, and she said,<br /> +"O Queen, to me amidst my awe and dread<br /> +These things are nought, my message is not done,<br /> +So let me rest upon this cold grey stone,<br /> +And while my eyes no higher than thy feet<br /> +Are lifted, eat the food that mortals eat."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Therewith upon the floor she sat her down</span><br /> +And from the folded bosom of her gown<br /> +Drew forth her bread and ate, while with cold eyes<br /> +Regarding her 'twixt anger and surprise,<br /> +The Queen sat silent for awhile, then spoke,<br /> +"Why art thou here, wisest of living folk?<br /> +Depart in haste, lest thou shouldst come to be<br /> +Thyself a helpless thing and shadowy!<br /> +Give me the casket then, thou need'st not say<br /> +Wherefore thou thus hast passed the awful way;<br /> +Bide there, and for thy mistress shalt thou have<br /> +The charm that beauty from all change can save."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then Psyche rose, and from her trembling hand</span><br /> +Gave her the casket, and awhile did stand<br /> +Alone within the hall, that changing light<br /> +From burning streams, and shadowy waves of night<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span>Made strange and dread, till to her, standing there<br /> +The world began to seem no longer fair,<br /> +Life no more to be hoped for, but that place<br /> +The peaceful goal of all the hurrying race,<br /> +The house she must return to on some day.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then sighing scarcely could she turn away</span><br /> +When with the casket came the Queen once more,<br /> +And said, "Haste now to leave this shadowy shore<br /> +Before thou changest; even now I see<br /> +Thine eyes are growing strange, thou look'st on me<br /> +E'en as the linnet looks upon the snake.<br /> +Behold, thy wisely-guarded treasure take,<br /> +And let thy breath of life no longer move<br /> +The shadows with the memories of past love."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But Psyche at that name, with quickened heart</span><br /> +Turned eagerly, and hastened to depart<br /> +Bearing that burden, hoping for the day;<br /> +Harmless, asleep, the triple monster lay,<br /> +The ferryman did set her in his boat<br /> +Unquestioned, and together did they float<br /> +Over the leaden water back again:<br /> +Nor saw she more those women bent with pain<br /> +Over their weaving, nor the fallen ass,<br /> +But swiftly up the grey road did she pass<br /> +And well-nigh now was come into the day<br /> +By hollow Tænarus, but o'er the way<br /> +The wings of Envy brooded all unseen;<br /> +Because indeed the cruel and fair Queen<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span>Knew well how she had sped; so in her breast,<br /> +Against the which the dreadful box was pressed,<br /> +Grew up at last this foolish, harmful thought.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Behold how far this beauty I have brought</span><br /> +To give unto my bitter enemy;<br /> +Might I not still a very goddess be<br /> +If this were mine which goddesses desire,<br /> +Yea, what if this hold swift consuming fire,<br /> +Why do I think it good for me to live,<br /> +That I my body once again may give<br /> +Into her cruel hands—come death! come life!<br /> +And give me end to all the bitter strife!"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Therewith down by the wayside did she sit</span><br /> +And turned the box round, long regarding it;<br /> +But at the last, with trembling hands, undid<br /> +The clasp, and fearfully raised up the lid;<br /> +But what was there she saw not, for her head<br /> +Fell back, and nothing she rememberéd<br /> +Of all her life, yet nought of rest she had,<br /> +The hope of which makes hapless mortals glad;<br /> +For while her limbs were sunk in deadly sleep<br /> +Most like to death, over her heart 'gan creep<br /> +Ill dreams; so that for fear and great distress<br /> +She would have cried, but in her helplessness<br /> +Could open not her mouth, or frame a word;<br /> +Although the threats of mocking things she heard,<br /> +And seemed, amidst new forms of horror bound,<br /> +To watch strange endless armies moving round,<br /> +With all their sleepless eyes still fixed on her,<br /> +Who from that changeless place should never stir.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span>Moveless she lay, and in that dreadful sleep<br /> +Scarce had the strength some few slow tears to weep.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And there she would have lain for evermore,</span><br /> +A marble image on the shadowy shore<br /> +In outward seeming, but within oppressed<br /> +With torments, knowing neither hope nor rest<br /> +But as she lay the Phœnix flew along<br /> +Going to Egypt, and knew all her wrong,<br /> +And pitied her, beholding her sweet face,<br /> +And flew to Love and told him of her case;<br /> +And Love, in guerdon of the tale he told,<br /> +Changed all the feathers of his neck to gold,<br /> +And he flew on to Egypt glad at heart.<br /> +But Love himself gat swiftly for his part<br /> +To rocky Tænarus, and found her there<br /> +Laid half a furlong from the outer air.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But at that sight out burst the smothered flame</span><br /> +Of love, when he remembered all her shame,<br /> +The stripes, the labour, and the wretched fear,<br /> +And kneeling down he whispered in her ear,<br /> +"Rise, Psyche, and be mine for evermore,<br /> +For evil is long tarrying on this shore."<br /> +Then when she heard him, straightway she arose,<br /> +And from her fell the burden of her woes;<br /> +And yet her heart within her well-nigh broke,<br /> +When she from grief to happiness awoke;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span>And loud her sobbing was in that grey place,<br /> +And with sweet shame she covered up her face.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But her dear hands, all wet with tears, he kissed,</span><br /> +And taking them about each dainty wrist<br /> +Drew them away, and in a sweet voice said,<br /> +"Raise up again, O Psyche, that dear head,<br /> +And of thy simpleness have no more shame;<br /> +Thou hast been tried, and cast away all blame<br /> +Into the sea of woes that thou didst bear,<br /> +The bitter pain, the hopelessness, the fear—<br /> +Holpen a little, loved with boundless love<br /> +Amidst them all—but now the shadows move<br /> +Fast toward the west, earth's day is well-nigh done,<br /> +One toil thou hast yet; by to-morrow's sun<br /> +Kneel the last time before my mother's feet,<br /> +Thy task accomplished; and my heart, O sweet,<br /> +Shall go with thee to ease thy toilsome way;<br /> +Farewell awhile! but that so glorious day<br /> +I promised thee of old, now cometh fast,<br /> +When even hope thy soul aside shall cast,<br /> +Amidst the joy that thou shalt surely win."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So saying, all that sleep he shut within</span><br /> +The dreadful casket, and aloft he flew,<br /> +But slowly she unto the cavern drew<br /> +Scarce knowing if she dreamed, and so she came<br /> +Unto the earth where yet the sun did flame<br /> +Low down between the pine-trunks, tall and red,<br /> +And with its last beams kissed her golden head.</p></div> + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span></p> + +<p> </p><p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">W</span><span class="caps">ith</span> what words Love unto the Father prayed</span><br /> +I know not, nor what deeds the balance weighed;<br /> +But this I know, that he prayed not in vain,<br /> +And Psyche's life the heavenly crown shall gain;<br /> +So round about the messenger was sent<br /> +To tell immortals of their King's intent,<br /> +And bid them gather to the Father's hall.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But while they got them ready at his call,</span><br /> +On through the night was Psyche toiling still,<br /> +To whom no pain nor weariness seemed ill<br /> +Since now once more she knew herself beloved;<br /> +But when the unresting world again had moved<br /> +Round into golden day, she came again<br /> +To that fair place where she had borne such pain,<br /> +And flushed and joyful in despite her fear,<br /> +Unto the goddess did she draw anear,<br /> +And knelt adown before her golden seat,<br /> +Laying the fatal casket at her feet;<br /> +Then at the first no word the Sea-born said,<br /> +But looked afar over her golden head,<br /> +Pondering upon the mighty deeds of fate;<br /> +While Psyche still, as one who well may wait,<br /> +Knelt, calm and motionless, nor said a word,<br /> +But ever thought of her sweet lovesome lord.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">At last the Queen said, "Girl, I bid thee rise,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span>For now hast thou found favour in mine eyes;<br /> +And I repent me of the misery<br /> +That in this place thou hast endured of me,<br /> +Although because of it, thy joy indeed<br /> +Shall now be more, that pleasure is thy meed."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then bending, on the forehead did she kiss</span><br /> +Fair Psyche, who turned red for shame and bliss;<br /> +But Venus smiled again on her, and said,<br /> +"Go now, and bathe, and be as well arrayed<br /> +As thou shouldst be, to sit beside my son;<br /> +I think thy life on earth is well-nigh done."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So thence once more was Psyche led away,</span><br /> +And cast into no prison on that day,<br /> +But brought unto a bath beset with flowers,<br /> +Made dainty with a fount's sweet-smelling showers,<br /> +And there being bathed, e'en in such fair attire<br /> +As veils the glorious Mother of Desire<br /> +Her limbs were veiled, then in the wavering shade,<br /> +Amidst the sweetest garden was she laid,<br /> +And while the damsels round her watch did keep,<br /> +At last she closed her weary eyes in sleep,<br /> +And woke no more to earth, for ere the day<br /> +Had yet grown late, once more asleep she lay<br /> +Within the West Wind's mighty arms, nor woke<br /> +Until the light of heaven upon her broke,<br /> +And on her trembling lips she felt the kiss<br /> +Of very Love, and mortal yet, for bliss<br /> +Must fall a-weeping. O for me! that I,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span>Who late have told her woe and misery,<br /> +Must leave untold the joy unspeakable<br /> +That on her tender wounded spirit fell!<br /> +Alas! I try to think of it in vain,<br /> +My lyre is but attuned to tears and pain,<br /> +How shall I sing the never-ending day?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Led by the hand of Love she took her way</span><br /> +Unto a vale beset with heavenly trees,<br /> +Where all the gathered gods and goddesses<br /> +Abode her coming; but when Psyche saw<br /> +The Father's face, she fainting with her awe<br /> +Had fallen, but that Love's arm held her up.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then brought the cup-bearer a golden cup,</span><br /> +And gently set it in her slender hand,<br /> +And while in dread and wonder she did stand,<br /> +The Father's awful voice smote on her ear,<br /> +"Drink now, O beautiful, and have no fear!<br /> +For with this draught shalt thou be born again.<br /> +And live for ever free from care and pain."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then, pale as privet, took she heart to drink,</span><br /> +And therewithal most strange new thoughts did think,<br /> +And unknown feelings seized her, and there came<br /> +Sudden remembrance, vivid as a flame,<br /> +Of everything that she had done on earth,<br /> +Although it all seemed changed in weight and worth,<br /> +Small things becoming great, and great things small;<br /> +And godlike pity touched her therewithal<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span>For her old self, for sons of men that die;<br /> +And that sweet new-born immortality<br /> +Now with full love her rested spirit fed.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then in that concourse did she lift her head,</span><br /> +And stood at last a very goddess there,<br /> +And all cried out at seeing her grown so fair.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So while in heaven quick passed the time away,</span><br /> +About the ending of that lovely day,<br /> +Bright shone the low sun over all the earth<br /> +For joy of such a wonderful new birth.</p></div> + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span></p> +<p> </p><p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">O</span><span class="caps">r</span> e'er his tale was done, night held the earth;</span><br /> +Yea, the brown bird grown bold, as sounds of mirth<br /> +Grew faint and scanty, now his tale had done,<br /> +And by his mate abode the next day's sun;<br /> +And in those old hearts did the story move<br /> +Remembrance of the mighty deeds of love,<br /> +And with these thoughts did hopes of life arise,<br /> +Till tears unseen were in their ancient eyes,<br /> +And in their yearning hearts unspoken prayers,<br /> +And idle seemed the world with all its cares.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Few words they said; the balmy odorous wind</span><br /> +Wandered about, some resting-place to find;<br /> +The young leaves rustled 'neath its gentle breath,<br /> +And here and there some blossom burst his sheath,<br /> +Adding unnoticed fragrance to the night;<br /> +But, as they pondered, a new golden light<br /> +Streamed over the green garden, and they heard<br /> +Sweet voices sing some ancient poet's word<br /> +In praise of May, and then in sight there came<br /> +The minstrels' figures underneath the flame<br /> +Of scented torches passing 'twixt the trees,<br /> +And soon the dusky hall grew bright with these,<br /> +And therewithal they put all thought away,<br /> +And midst the tinkling harps drank deep to May.</p></div> + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span></p> + +<p> </p><p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">T</span><span class="caps">hrough</span> many changes had the May-tide passed,</span><br /> +The hope of summer oft had been o'ercast,<br /> +Ere midst the gardens they once more were met;<br /> +But now the full-leaved trees might well forget<br /> +The changeful agony of doubtful spring,<br /> +For summer pregnant with so many a thing<br /> +Was at the door; right hot had been the day<br /> +Which they amid the trees had passed away,<br /> +And now betwixt the tulip beds they went<br /> +Unto the hall, and thoughts of days long spent<br /> +Gathered about them, as some blossom's smell<br /> +Unto their hearts familiar tales did tell.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But when they well were settled in the hall,</span><br /> +And now behind the trees the sun 'gan fall,<br /> +And they as yet no history had heard,<br /> +Laurence, the Swabian priest, took up the word,<br /> +And said, "Ye know from what has gone before,<br /> +That in my youth I followed mystic lore,<br /> +And many books I read in seeking it,<br /> +And through my memory this same eve doth flit<br /> +A certain tale I found in one of these,<br /> +Long ere mine eyes had looked upon the seas;<br /> +It made me shudder in the times gone by,<br /> +When I believed in many a mystery<br /> +I thought divine, that now I think, forsooth,<br /> +Men's own fears made, to fill the place of truth<br /> +Within their foolish hearts; short is the tale,<br /> +And therefore will the better now avail<br /> +To fill the space before the night comes on,<br /> +And unto rest once more the world is won.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span></p> + +<h2>THE WRITING ON THE IMAGE.</h2> + +<h3>ARGUMENT.</h3> + +<p class="hang">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.</p> + +<p> </p> +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">I</span><span class="caps">n</span> half-forgotten days of old,</span><br /> +As by our fathers we were told,<br /> +Within the town of Rome there stood<br /> +An image cut of cornel wood,<br /> +And on the upraised hand of it<br /> +Men might behold these letters writ:<br /> +"<span class="smcap">Percute hic</span>:" which is to say,<br /> +In that tongue that we speak to-day,<br /> +"<i>Strike here!</i>" nor yet did any know<br /> +The cause why this was written so.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thus in the middle of the square,</span><br /> +In the hot sun and summer air,<br /> +The snow-drift and the driving rain,<br /> +That image stood, with little pain,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span>For twice a hundred years and ten;<br /> +While many a band of striving men<br /> +Were driven betwixt woe and mirth<br /> +Swiftly across the weary earth,<br /> +From nothing unto dark nothing:<br /> +And many an emperor and king,<br /> +Passing with glory or with shame,<br /> +Left little record of his name,<br /> +And no remembrance of the face<br /> +Once watched with awe for gifts or grace<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Fear little, then, I counsel you,</span><br /> +What any son of man can do;<br /> +Because a log of wood will last<br /> +While many a life of man goes past,<br /> +And all is over in short space.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now so it chanced that to this place</span><br /> +There came a man of Sicily,<br /> +Who when the image he did see,<br /> +Knew full well who, in days of yore,<br /> +Had set it there; for much strange lore,<br /> +In Egypt and in Babylon,<br /> +This man with painful toil had won;<br /> +And many secret things could do;<br /> +So verily full well he knew<br /> +That master of all sorcery<br /> +Who wrought the thing in days gone by,<br /> +And doubted not that some great spell<br /> +It guarded, but could nowise tell<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span>What it might be. So, day by day,<br /> +Still would he loiter on the way,<br /> +And watch the image carefully,<br /> +Well mocked of many a passer-by.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And on a day he stood and gazed</span><br /> +Upon the slender finger, raised<br /> +Against a doubtful cloudy sky,<br /> +Nigh noontide; and thought, "Certainly<br /> +The master who made thee so fair<br /> +By wondrous art, had not stopped there,<br /> +But made thee speak, had he not thought<br /> +That thereby evil might be brought<br /> +Upon his spell." But as he spoke,<br /> +From out a cloud the noon sun broke<br /> +With watery light, and shadows cold:<br /> +Then did the Scholar well behold<br /> +How, from that finger carved to tell<br /> +Those words, a short black shadow fell<br /> +Upon a certain spot of ground,<br /> +And thereon, looking all around<br /> +And seeing none heeding, went straightway<br /> +Whereas the finger's shadow lay,<br /> +And with his knife about the place<br /> +A little circle did he trace;<br /> +Then home he turned with throbbing head,<br /> +And forthright gat him to his bed,<br /> +And slept until the night was late<br /> +And few men stirred from gate to gate.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So when at midnight he did wake,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span>Pickaxe and shovel did he take,<br /> +And, going to that now silent square,<br /> +He found the mark his knife made there,<br /> +And quietly with many a stroke<br /> +The pavement of the place he broke:<br /> +And so, the stones being set apart,<br /> +He 'gan to dig with beating heart,<br /> +And from the hole in haste he cast<br /> +The marl and gravel; till at last,<br /> +Full shoulder high, his arms were jarred,<br /> +For suddenly his spade struck hard<br /> +With clang against some metal thing:<br /> +And soon he found a brazen ring,<br /> +All green with rust, twisted, and great<br /> +As a man's wrist, set in a plate<br /> +Of copper, wrought all curiously<br /> +With words unknown though plain to see,<br /> +Spite of the rust; and flowering trees,<br /> +And beasts, and wicked images,<br /> +Whereat he shuddered: for he knew<br /> +What ill things he might come to do,<br /> +If he should still take part with these<br /> +And that Great Master strive to please.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But small time had he then to stand</span><br /> +And think, so straight he set his hand<br /> +Unto the ring, but where he thought<br /> +That by main strength it must be brought<br /> +From out its place, lo! easily<br /> +It came away, and let him see<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span>A winding staircase wrought of stone,<br /> +Wherethrough the new-come wind did moan.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then thought he, "If I come alive</span><br /> +From out this place well shall I thrive,<br /> +For I may look here certainly<br /> +The treasures of a king to see,<br /> +A mightier man than men are now.<br /> +So in few days what man shall know<br /> +The needy Scholar, seeing me<br /> +Great in the place where great men be,<br /> +The richest man in all the land?<br /> +Beside the best then shall I stand,<br /> +And some unheard-of palace have;<br /> +And if my soul I may not save<br /> +In heaven, yet here in all men's eyes<br /> +Will I make some sweet paradise,<br /> +With marble cloisters, and with trees<br /> +And bubbling wells, and fantasies,<br /> +And things all men deem strange and rare,<br /> +And crowds of women kind and fair,<br /> +That I may see, if so I please,<br /> +Laid on the flowers, or mid the trees<br /> +With half-clad bodies wandering.<br /> +There, dwelling happier than the king,<br /> +What lovely days may yet be mine!<br /> +How shall I live with love and wine,<br /> +And music, till I come to die!<br /> +And then——Who knoweth certainly<br /> +What haps to us when we are dead?<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span>Truly I think by likelihead<br /> +Nought haps to us of good or bad;<br /> +Therefore on earth will I be glad<br /> +A short space, free from hope or fear;<br /> +And fearless will I enter here<br /> +And meet my fate, whatso it be."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now on his back a bag had he,</span><br /> +To bear what treasure he might win,<br /> +And therewith now did he begin<br /> +To go adown the winding stair;<br /> +And found the walls all painted fair<br /> +With images of many a thing,<br /> +Warrior and priest, and queen and king,<br /> +But nothing knew what they might be.<br /> +Which things full clearly could he see,<br /> +For lamps were hung up here and there<br /> +Of strange device, but wrought right fair,<br /> +And pleasant savour came from them.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">At last a curtain, on whose hem</span><br /> +Unknown words in red gold were writ,<br /> +He reached, and softly raising it<br /> +Stepped back, for now did he behold<br /> +A goodly hall hung round with gold,<br /> +And at the upper end could see<br /> +Sitting, a glorious company:<br /> +Therefore he trembled, thinking well<br /> +They were no men, but fiends of hell.<br /> +But while he waited, trembling sore,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span>And doubtful of his late-earned lore,<br /> +A cold blast of the outer air<br /> +Blew out the lamps upon the stair<br /> +And all was dark behind him; then<br /> +Did he fear less to face those men<br /> +Than, turning round, to leave them there<br /> +While he went groping up the stair.<br /> +Yea, since he heard no cry or call<br /> +Or any speech from them at all,<br /> +He doubted they were images<br /> +Set there some dying king to please<br /> +By that Great Master of the art;<br /> +Therefore at last with stouter heart<br /> +He raised the cloth and entered in<br /> +In hope that happy life to win,<br /> +And drawing nigher did behold<br /> +That these were bodies dead and cold<br /> +Attired in full royal guise,<br /> +And wrought by art in such a wise<br /> +That living they all seemed to be,<br /> +Whose very eyes he well could see,<br /> +That now beheld not foul or fair,<br /> +Shining as though alive they were.<br /> +And midmost of that company<br /> +An ancient king that man could see,<br /> +A mighty man, whose beard of grey<br /> +A foot over his gold gown lay;<br /> +And next beside him sat his queen<br /> +Who in a flowery gown of green<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span>And golden mantle well was clad,<br /> +And on her neck a collar had<br /> +Too heavy for her dainty breast;<br /> +Her loins by such a belt were prest<br /> +That whoso in his treasury<br /> +Held that alone, a king might be.<br /> +On either side of these, a lord<br /> +Stood heedfully before the board,<br /> +And in their hands held bread and wine<br /> +For service; behind these did shine<br /> +The armour of the guards, and then<br /> +The well-attiréd serving-men,<br /> +The minstrels clad in raiment meet;<br /> +And over against the royal seat<br /> +Was hung a lamp, although no flame<br /> +Was burning there, but there was set<br /> +Within its open golden fret<br /> +A huge carbuncle, red and bright;<br /> +Wherefrom there shone forth such a light<br /> +That great hall was as clear by it,<br /> +As though by wax it had been lit,<br /> +As some great church at Easter-tide.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now set a little way aside,</span><br /> +Six paces from the daïs stood<br /> +An image made of brass and wood,<br /> +In likeness of a full-armed knight<br /> +Who pointed 'gainst the ruddy light<br /> +A huge shaft ready in a bow.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pondering how he could come to know</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span>What all these marvellous matters meant,<br /> +About the hall the Scholar went,<br /> +Trembling, though nothing moved as yet;<br /> +And for awhile did he forget<br /> +The longings that had brought him there<br /> +In wondering at these marvels fair;<br /> +And still for fear he doubted much<br /> +One jewel of their robes to touch.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But as about the hall he passed</span><br /> +He grew more used to them at last,<br /> +And thought, "Swiftly the time goes by,<br /> +And now no doubt the day draws nigh<br /> +Folk will be stirring: by my head<br /> +A fool I am to fear the dead,<br /> +Who have seen living things enow,<br /> +Whose very names no man can know,<br /> +Whose shapes brave men might well affright<br /> +More than the lion in the night<br /> +Wandering for food;" therewith he drew<br /> +Unto those royal corpses two,<br /> +That on dead brows still wore the crown;<br /> +And midst the golden cups set down<br /> +The rugged wallet from his back,<br /> +Patched of strong leather, brown and black.<br /> +Then, opening wide its mouth, took up<br /> +From off the board, a golden cup<br /> +The King's dead hand was laid upon,<br /> +Whose unmoved eyes upon him shone<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span>And recked no more of that last shame<br /> +Than if he were the beggar lame,<br /> +Who in old days was wont to wait<br /> +For a dog's meal beside the gate.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of which shame nought our man did reck.</span><br /> +But laid his hand upon the neck<br /> +Of the slim Queen, and thence undid<br /> +The jewelled collar, that straight slid<br /> +Down her smooth bosom to the board.<br /> +And when these matters he had stored<br /> +Safe in his sack, with both their crowns,<br /> +The jewelled parts of their rich gowns,<br /> +Their shoes and belts, brooches and rings,<br /> +And cleared the board of all rich things,<br /> +He staggered with them down the hall.<br /> +But as he went his eyes did fall<br /> +Upon a wonderful green stone,<br /> +Upon the hall-floor laid alone;<br /> +He said, "Though thou art not so great<br /> +To add by much unto the weight<br /> +Of this my sack indeed, yet thou,<br /> +Certes, would make me rich enow,<br /> +That verily with thee I might<br /> +Wage one-half of the world to fight<br /> +The other half of it, and I<br /> +The lord of all the world might die;—<br /> +I will not leave thee;" therewithal<br /> +He knelt down midmost of the hall,<br /> +Thinking it would come easily<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span>Into his hand; but when that he<br /> +Gat hold of it, full fast it stack,<br /> +So fuming, down he laid his sack,<br /> +And with both hands pulled lustily,<br /> +But as he strained, he cast his eye<br /> +Back to the daïs; there he saw<br /> +The bowman image 'gin to draw<br /> +The mighty bowstring to his ear,<br /> +So, shrieking out aloud for fear,<br /> +Of that rich stone he loosed his hold<br /> +And catching up his bag of gold,<br /> +Gat to his feet: but ere he stood<br /> +The evil thing of brass and wood<br /> +Up to his ear the notches drew;<br /> +And clanging, forth the arrow flew,<br /> +And midmost of the carbuncle<br /> +Clanging again, the forked barbs fell,<br /> +And all was dark as pitch straightway.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So there until the judgment day</span><br /> +Shall come and find his bones laid low<br /> +And raise them up for weal or woe,<br /> +This man must bide; cast down he lay<br /> +While all his past life day by day<br /> +In one short moment he could see<br /> +Drawn out before him, while that he<br /> +In terror by that fatal stone<br /> +Was laid, and scarcely dared to moan.<br /> +But in a while his hope returned,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span>And then, though nothing he discerned,<br /> +He gat him up upon his feet,<br /> +And all about the walls he beat<br /> +To find some token of the door,<br /> +But never could he find it more,<br /> +For by some dreadful sorcery<br /> +All was sealed close as it might be<br /> +And midst the marvels of that hall<br /> +This scholar found the end of all.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But in the town on that same night,</span><br /> +An hour before the dawn of light,<br /> +Such storm upon the place there fell,<br /> +That not the oldest man could tell<br /> +Of such another: and thereby<br /> +The image was burnt utterly,<br /> +Being stricken from the clouds above;<br /> +And folk deemed that same bolt did move<br /> +The pavement where that wretched one<br /> +Unto his foredoomed fate had gone,<br /> +Because the plate was set again<br /> +Into its place, and the great rain<br /> +Washed the earth down, and sorcery<br /> +Had hid the place where it did lie.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So soon the stones were set all straight,</span><br /> +But yet the folk, afraid of fate,<br /> +Where once the man of cornel wood<br /> +Through many a year of bad and good<br /> +Had kept his place, set up alone<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span>Great Jove himself, cut in white stone,<br /> +But thickly overlaid with gold.<br /> +"Which," saith my tale, "you may behold<br /> +Unto this day, although indeed<br /> +Some Lord or other, being in need,<br /> +Took every ounce of gold away."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But now, this tale in some past day</span><br /> +Being writ, I warrant all is gone,<br /> +Both gold and weather-beaten stone.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Be merry, masters, while ye may,</span><br /> +For men much quicker pass away.</p></div> + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span></p> +<p> </p><p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">T</span><span class="caps">hey</span> praised the tale, and for awhile they talked</span><br /> +Of other tales of treasure-seekers balked,<br /> +And shame and loss for men insatiate stored,<br /> +Nitocris' tomb, the Niblungs' fatal hoard,<br /> +The serpent-guarded treasures of the dead;<br /> +Then of how men would be rememberéd<br /> +When they are gone; and more than one could tell<br /> +Of what unhappy things therefrom befell;<br /> +Or how by folly men have gained a name;<br /> +A name indeed, not hallowed by the fame<br /> +Of any deeds remembered: and some thought,—<br /> +"Strange hopes and fears for what shall be but nought<br /> +To dead men! better it would be to give<br /> +What things they may, while on the earth they live<br /> +Unto the earth, and from the bounteous earth<br /> +To take their pay of sorrow or of mirth,<br /> +Hatred or love, and get them on their way;<br /> +And let the teeming earth fresh troubles make<br /> +For other men, and ever for their sake<br /> +Use what they left, when they are gone from it."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But while amid such musings they did sit,</span><br /> +Dark night being come, men lighted up the hall,<br /> +And the chief man for minstrelsy did call,<br /> +And other talk their dull thoughts chased away,<br /> +Nor did they part till night was mixed with day.</p></div> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span></p> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>JUNE.</h2> + +<div class="poem"> +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">O</span> <span class="caps">June,</span> O June, that we desired so,</span><br /> +Wilt thou not make us happy on this day?<br /> +Across the river thy soft breezes blow<br /> +Sweet with the scent of beanfields far away,<br /> +Above our heads rustle the aspens grey,<br /> +Calm is the sky with harmless clouds beset,<br /> +No thought of storm the morning vexes yet.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">See, we have left our hopes and fears behind</span><br /> +To give our very hearts up unto thee;<br /> +What better place than this then could we find<br /> +By this sweet stream that knows not of the sea,<br /> +That guesses not the city's misery,<br /> +This little stream whose hamlets scarce have names,<br /> +This far-off, lonely mother of the Thames?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Here then, O June, thy kindness will we take;</span><br /> +And if indeed but pensive men we seem,<br /> +What should we do? thou wouldst not have us wake<br /> +From out the arms of this rare happy dream<br /> +And wish to leave the murmur of the stream,<br /> +The rustling boughs, the twitter of the birds,<br /> +And all thy thousand peaceful happy words.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">N</span><span class="caps">ow</span> in the early June they deemed it good</span><br /> +That they should go unto a house that stood<br /> +On their chief river, so upon a day<br /> +With favouring wind and tide they took their way<br /> +Up the fair stream; most lovely was the time<br /> +Even amidst the days of that fair clime,<br /> +And still the wanderers thought about their lives,<br /> +And that desire that rippling water gives<br /> +To youthful hearts to wander anywhere.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So midst sweet sights and sounds a house most fair</span><br /> +They came to, set upon the river side<br /> +Where kindly folk their coming did abide;<br /> +There they took land, and in the lime-trees' shade<br /> +Beneath the trees they found the fair feast laid,<br /> +And sat, well pleased; but when the water-hen<br /> +Had got at last to think them harmless men,<br /> +And they with rest, and pleasure, and old wine,<br /> +Began to feel immortal and divine,<br /> +An elder spoke, "O gentle friends, the day<br /> +Amid such calm delight now slips away,<br /> +And ye yourselves are grown so bright and glad<br /> +I care not if I tell you something sad;<br /> +Sad, though the life I tell you of passed by,<br /> +Unstained by sordid strife or misery;<br /> +Sad, because though a glorious end it tells,<br /> +Yet on the end of glorious life it dwells,<br /> +And striving through all things to reach the best<br /> +Upon no midway happiness will rest."</p></div> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE LOVE OF ALCESTIS.</h2> + +<h3>ARGUMENT</h3> + +<p class="hang">Admetus, King of Pheræ 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.</p> +<p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">M</span><span class="caps">idst</span> sunny grass-clad meads that slope adown</span><br /> +To lake Bœbeis stands an ancient town,<br /> +Where dwelt of old a lord of Thessaly,<br /> +The son of Pheres and fair Clymene,<br /> +Who had to name Admetus: long ago<br /> +The dwellers by the lake have ceased to know<br /> +His name, because the world grows old, but then<br /> +He was accounted great among great men;<br /> +Young, strong, and godlike, lacking nought at all<br /> +Of gifts that unto royal men might fall<br /> +In those old simple days, before men went<br /> +To gather unseen harm and discontent,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span>Along with all the alien merchandise<br /> +That rich folk need, too restless to be wise.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now on the fairest of all autumn eves,</span><br /> +When midst the dusty, crumpled, dying leaves<br /> +The black grapes showed, and every press and vat<br /> +Was newly scoured, this King Admetus sat<br /> +Among his people, wearied in such wise<br /> +By hopeful toil as makes a paradise<br /> +Of the rich earth; for light and far away<br /> +Seemed all the labour of the coming day,<br /> +And no man wished for more than then he had,<br /> +Nor with another's mourning was made glad.<br /> +There in the pillared porch, their supper done,<br /> +They watched the fair departing of the sun;<br /> +The while the soft-eyed well-girt maidens poured<br /> +The joy of life from out the jars long stored<br /> +Deep in the earth, while little like a king,<br /> +As we call kings, but glad with everything,<br /> +The wise Thessalian sat and blessed his life,<br /> +So free from sickening fear and foolish strife.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But midst the joy of this festivity,</span><br /> +Turning aside he saw a man draw nigh,<br /> +Along the dusty grey vine-bordered road<br /> +That had its ending at his fair abode;<br /> +He seemed e'en from afar to set his face<br /> +Unto the King's adornéd reverend place,<br /> +And like a traveller went he wearily,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span>And yet as one who seems his rest to see.<br /> +A staff he bore, but nowise was he bent<br /> +With scrip or wallet; so withal he went<br /> +Straight to the King's high seat, and standing near,<br /> +Seemed a stout youth and noble, free from fear,<br /> +But peaceful and unarmed; and though ill clad,<br /> +And though the dust of that hot land he had<br /> +Upon his limbs and face, as fair was he<br /> +As any king's son you might lightly see,<br /> +Grey-eyed and crisp-haired, beautiful of limb,<br /> +And no ill eye the women cast on him.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But kneeling now, and stretching forth his hand,</span><br /> +He said, "O thou, the king of this fair land,<br /> +Unto a banished man some shelter give,<br /> +And help me with thy goods that I may live:<br /> +Thou hast good store, Admetus, yet may I,<br /> +Who kneel before thee now in misery,<br /> +Give thee more gifts before the end shall come<br /> +Than all thou hast laid safely in thine home."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Rise up, and be my guest," Admetus said,</span><br /> +"I need no gifts for this poor gift of bread,<br /> +The land is wide, and bountiful enow.<br /> +What thou canst do, to-morrow thou shalt show,<br /> +And be my man, perchance; but this night rest<br /> +Not questioned more than any passing guest.<br /> +Yea, even if a great king thou hast spilt,<br /> +Thou shall not answer aught but as thou wilt."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then the man rose and said, "O King, indeed</span><br /> +Of thine awarded silence have I need,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span>Nameless I am, nameless what I have done<br /> +Must be through many circles of the sun.<br /> +But for to-morrow—let me rather tell<br /> +On this same eve what things I can do well,<br /> +And let me put mine hand in thine and swear<br /> +To serve thee faithfully a changing year;<br /> +Nor think the woods of Ossa hold one beast<br /> +That of thy tenderest yearling shall make feast,<br /> +Whiles that I guard thy flocks, and thou shalt bear<br /> +Thy troubles easier when thou com'st to hear<br /> +The music I can make. Let these thy men<br /> +Witness against me if I fail thee, when<br /> +War falls upon thy lovely land and thee."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then the King smiled, and said, "So let it be,</span><br /> +Well shalt thou serve me, doing far less than this,<br /> +Nor for thy service due gifts shalt thou miss:<br /> +Behold I take thy faith with thy right hand,<br /> +Be thou true man unto this guarded land.<br /> +Ho ye! take this my guest, find raiment meet<br /> +Wherewith to clothe him; bathe his wearied feet,<br /> +And bring him back beside my throne to feast."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But to himself he said, "I am the least</span><br /> +Of all Thessalians if this man was born<br /> +In any earthly dwelling more forlorn<br /> +Than a king's palace."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 8.5em;">Then a damsel slim</span><br /> +Led him inside, nought loth to go with him,<br /> +And when the cloud of steam had curled to meet<br /> +Within the brass his wearied dusty feet,<br /> +She from a carved press brought him linen fair,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span>And a new-woven coat a king might wear,<br /> +And so being clad he came unto the feast,<br /> +But as he came again, all people ceased<br /> +What talk they held soever, for they thought<br /> +A very god among them had been brought;<br /> +And doubly glad the king Admetus was<br /> +At what that dying eve had brought to pass,<br /> +And bade him sit by him and feast his fill.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So there they sat till all the world was still,</span><br /> +And 'twixt the pillars their red torches' shine<br /> +Held forth unto the night a joyous sign.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span class="big">S</span><span class="caps">o</span> henceforth did this man at Pheræ dwell,<br /> +And what he set his hand to wrought right well,<br /> +And won much praise and love in everything,<br /> +And came to rule all herdsmen of the King;<br /> +But for two things in chief his fame did grow;<br /> +And first that he was better with the bow<br /> +Than any 'twixt Olympus and the sea,<br /> +And then that sweet, heart-piercing melody<br /> +He drew out from the rigid-seeming lyre,<br /> +And made the circle round the winter fire<br /> +More like to heaven than gardens of the May.<br /> +So many a heavy thought he chased away<br /> +From the King's heart, and softened many a hate,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span>And choked the spring of many a harsh debate;<br /> +And, taught by wounds, the snatchers of the wolds<br /> +Lurked round the gates of less well-guarded folds.<br /> +Therefore Admetus loved him, yet withal,<br /> +Strange doubts and fears upon his heart did fall;<br /> +For morns there were when he the man would meet,<br /> +His hair wreathed round with bay and blossoms sweet,<br /> +Gazing distraught into the brightening east,<br /> +Nor taking heed of either man or beast,<br /> +Or anything that was upon the earth.<br /> +Or sometimes, midst the hottest of the mirth,<br /> +Within the King's hall, would he seem to wake<br /> +As from a dream, and his stringed tortoise take<br /> +And strike the cords unbidden, till the hall<br /> +Filled with the glorious sound from wall to wall,<br /> +Trembled and seemed as it would melt away,<br /> +And sunken down the faces weeping lay<br /> +That erewhile laughed the loudest; only he<br /> +Stood upright, looking forward steadily<br /> +With sparkling eyes as one who cannot weep,<br /> +Until the storm of music sank to sleep.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But this thing seemed the doubtfullest of all</span><br /> +Unto the King, that should there chance to fall<br /> +A festal day, and folk did sacrifice<br /> +Unto the gods, ever by some device<br /> +The man would be away: yet with all this<br /> +His presence doubled all Admetus' bliss,<br /> +And happy in all things he seemed to live,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span>And great gifts to his herdsman did he give.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But now the year came round again to spring,</span><br /> +And southward to Iolchos went the King;<br /> +For there did Pelias hold a sacrifice<br /> +Unto the gods, and put forth things of price<br /> +For men to strive for in the people's sight;<br /> +So on a morn of April, fresh and bright,<br /> +Admetus shook the golden-studded reins,<br /> +And soon from windings of the sweet-banked lanes<br /> +The south wind blew the sound of hoof and wheel,<br /> +Clatter of brazen shields and clink of steel<br /> +Unto the herdsman's ears, who stood awhile<br /> +Hearkening the echoes with a godlike smile,<br /> +Then slowly gat him foldwards, murmuring,<br /> +"Fair music for the wooing of a King."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But in six days again Admetus came,</span><br /> +With no lost labour or dishonoured name;<br /> +A scarlet cloak upon his back he bare<br /> +A gold crown on his head, a falchion fair<br /> +Girt to his side; behind him four white steeds,<br /> +Whose dams had fed full in Nisæan meads;<br /> +All prizes that his valiant hands had won<br /> +Within the guarded lists of Tyro's son.<br /> +Yet midst the sound of joyous minstrelsy<br /> +No joyous man in truth he seemed to be;<br /> +So that folk looking on him said, "Behold,<br /> +The wise King will not show himself too bold<br /> +Amidst his greatness: the gods too are great,<br /> +And who can tell the dreadful ways of fate?"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Howe'er it was, he gat him through the town,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span>And midst their shouts at last he lighted down<br /> +At his own house, and held high feast that night;<br /> +And yet by seeming had but small delight<br /> +In aught that any man could do or say:<br /> +And on the morrow, just at dawn of day,<br /> +Rose up and clad himself, and took his spear.<br /> +And in the fresh and blossom-scented air<br /> +Went wandering till he reach Bœbeis' shore;<br /> +Yet by his troubled face set little store<br /> +By all the songs of birds and scent of flowers;<br /> +Yea, rather unto him the fragrant hours<br /> +Were grown but dull and empty of delight.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So going, at the last he came in sight</span><br /> +Of his new herdsman, who that morning lay<br /> +Close by the white sand of a little bay<br /> +The teeming ripple of Bœbeis lapped;<br /> +There he in cloak of white-wooled sheepskin wrapped<br /> +Against the cold dew, free from trouble sang,<br /> +The while the heifers' bells about him rang<br /> +And mingled with the sweet soft-throated birds<br /> +And bright fresh ripple: listen, then, these words<br /> +Will tell the tale of his felicity,<br /> +Halting and void of music though they be.</p></div> + +<p> </p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Song.</span></h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">O</span> <span class="caps">Dwellers</span> on the lovely earth,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Why will ye break your rest and mirth</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To weary us with fruitless prayer;</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Why will ye toil and take such care</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For children's children yet unborn,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And garner store of strife and scorn</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To gain a scarce-remembered name,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cumbered with lies and soiled with shame?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And if the gods care not for you,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What is this folly ye must do</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To win some mortal's feeble heart?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">O fools! when each man plays his part,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And heeds his fellow little more</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Than these blue waves that kiss the shore</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Take heed of how the daisies grow.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">O fools! and if ye could but know</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">How fair a world to you is given.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">O brooder on the hills of heaven,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When for my sin thou drav'st me forth,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Hadst thou forgot what this was worth,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thine own hand had made? The tears of men,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The death of threescore years and ten,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The trembling of the timorous race—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Had these things so bedimmed the place</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thine own hand made, thou couldst not know</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To what a heaven the earth might grow</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">If fear beneath the earth were laid,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">If hope failed not, nor love decayed.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He stopped, for he beheld his wandering lord,</span><br /> +Who, drawing near, heard little of his word,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span>And noted less; for in that haggard mood<br /> +Nought could he do but o'er his sorrows brood,<br /> +Whate'er they were, but now being come anigh,<br /> +He lifted up his drawn face suddenly,<br /> +And as the singer gat him to his feet,<br /> +His eyes Admetus' troubled eyes did meet,<br /> +As with some speech he now seemed labouring,<br /> +Which from his heart his lips refused to bring.<br /> +Then spoke the herdsman, "Master, what is this,<br /> +That thou, returned with honour to the bliss,<br /> +The gods have given thee here, still makest show<br /> +To be some wretch bent with the weight of woe?<br /> +What wilt thou have? What help there is in me<br /> +Is wholly thine, for in felicity<br /> +Within thine house thou still hast let me live,<br /> +Nor grudged most noble gifts to me to give."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Yea," said Admetus, "thou canst help indeed,</span><br /> +But as the spring shower helps the unsown mead.<br /> +Yet listen: at Iolchos the first day<br /> +Unto Diana's house I took my way,<br /> +Where all men gathered ere the games began,<br /> +There, at the right side of the royal man,<br /> +Who rules Iolchos, did his daughter stand,<br /> +Who with a suppliant bough in her right hand<br /> +Headed the band of maidens; but to me<br /> +More than a goddess did she seem to be,<br /> +Nor fit to die; and therewithal I thought<br /> +That we had all been thither called for nought<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span>But that her bridegroom Pelias might choose,<br /> +And with that thought desire did I let loose,<br /> +And striving not with Love, I gazed my fill,<br /> +As one who will not fear the coming ill:<br /> +All, foolish were mine eyes, foolish my heart,<br /> +To strive in such a marvel to have part!<br /> +What god shall wed her rather? no more fear<br /> +Than vexes Pallas vexed her forehead clear,<br /> +Faith shone from out her eyes, and on her lips<br /> +Unknown love trembled; the Phœnician ships<br /> +Within their dark holds nought so precious bring<br /> +As her soft golden hair, no daintiest thing<br /> +I ever saw was half so wisely wrought<br /> +As was her rosy ear; beyond all thought,<br /> +All words to tell of, her veiled body showed,<br /> +As, by the image of the Three-formed bowed,<br /> +She laid her offering down; then I drawn near<br /> +The murmuring of her gentle voice could hear,<br /> +As waking one hears music in the morn,<br /> +Ere yet the fair June sun is fully born;<br /> +And sweeter than the roses fresh with dew<br /> +Sweet odours floated round me, as she drew<br /> +Some golden thing from out her balmy breast<br /> +With her right hand, the while her left hand pressed<br /> +The hidden wonders of her girdlestead;<br /> +And when abashed I sank adown my head,<br /> +Dreading the god of Love, my eyes must meet<br /> +The happy bands about her perfect feet.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"What more? thou know'st perchance what thing love is?</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span>Kindness, and hot desire, and rage, and bliss,<br /> +None first a moment; but before that day<br /> +No love I knew but what might pass away<br /> +When hot desire was changed to certainty,<br /> +Or not abide much longer; e'en such stings<br /> +Had smitten me, as the first warm day brings<br /> +When March is dying; but now half a god<br /> +The crowded way unto the lists I trod,<br /> +Yet hopeless as a vanquished god at whiles,<br /> +And hideous seemed the laughter and the smiles,<br /> +And idle talk about me on the way.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"But none could stand before me on that day,</span><br /> +I was as god-possessed, not knowing how<br /> +The King had brought her forth but for a show,<br /> +To make his glory greater through the land:<br /> +Therefore at last victorious did I stand<br /> +Among my peers, nor yet one well-known name<br /> +Had gathered any honour from my shame.<br /> +For there indeed both men of Thessaly,<br /> +Œtolians, Thebans, dwellers by the sea,<br /> +And folk of Attica and Argolis,<br /> +Arcadian woodmen, islanders, whose bliss<br /> +Is to be tossed about from wave to wave,<br /> +All these at last to me the honour gave,<br /> +Nor did they grudge it: yea, and one man said,<br /> +A wise Thessalian with a snowy head,<br /> +And voice grown thin with age, 'O Pelias,<br /> +Surely to thee no evil thing it was<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span>That to thy house this rich Thessalian<br /> +Should come, to prove himself a valiant man<br /> +Amongst these heroes; for if I be wise<br /> +By dint of many years, with wistful eyes<br /> +Doth he behold thy daughter, this fair maid;<br /> +And surely, if the matter were well weighed,<br /> +Good were it both for thee and for the land<br /> +That he should take the damsel by the hand<br /> +And lead her hence, for ye near neighbours dwell;<br /> +What sayest thou, King, have I said ill or well?'<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"With that must I, a fool, stand forth and ask</span><br /> +If yet there lay before me some great task<br /> +That I must do ere I the maid should wed,<br /> +But Pelias, looking on us, smiled and said,<br /> +'O neighbour of Larissa, and thou too,<br /> +O King Admetus, this may seem to you<br /> +A little matter; yea, and for my part<br /> +E'en such a marriage would make glad my heart;<br /> +But we the blood of Salmoneus who share<br /> +With godlike gifts great burdens also bear,<br /> +Nor is this maid without them, for the day<br /> +On which her maiden zone she puts away<br /> +Shall be her death-day, if she wed with one<br /> +By whom this marvellous thing may not be done,<br /> +For in the traces neither must steeds paw<br /> +Before my threshold, or white oxen draw<br /> +The wain that comes my maid to take from me,<br /> +Far other beasts that day her slaves must be:<br /> +The yellow lion 'neath the lash must roar,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span>And by his side unscared, the forest boar<br /> +Toil at the draught: what sayest thou then hereto,<br /> +O lord of Pheræ, wilt thou come to woo<br /> +In such a chariot, and win endless fame,<br /> +Or turn thine eyes elsewhere with little shame?'<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"What answered I? O herdsman, I was mad</span><br /> +With sweet love and the triumph I had had.<br /> +I took my father's ring from off my hand,<br /> +And said, 'O heroes of the Grecian land,<br /> +Be witnesses that on my father's name<br /> +For this man's promise, do I take the shame<br /> +Of this deed undone, if I fail herein;<br /> +Fear not, O Pelias, but that I shall win<br /> +This ring from thee, when I shall come again<br /> +Through fair Iolchos, driving that strange wain.<br /> +Else by this token, thou, O King, shalt have<br /> +Pheræ my home, while on the tumbling wave<br /> +A hollow ship my sad abode shall be.'<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"So driven by some hostile deity,</span><br /> +Such words I said, and with my gifts hard won,<br /> +But little valued now, set out upon<br /> +My homeward way: but nearer as I drew<br /> +To mine abode, and ever fainter grew<br /> +In my weak heart the image of my love,<br /> +In vain with fear my boastful folly strove;<br /> +For I remembered that no god I was<br /> +Though I had chanced my fellows to surpass;<br /> +And I began to mind me in a while<br /> +What murmur rose, with what a mocking smile<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span>Pelias stretched out his hand to take the ring.<br /> +Made by my drunkard's gift now twice a king:<br /> +And when unto my palace-door I came<br /> +I had awakened fully to my shame;<br /> +For certainly no help is left to me,<br /> +But I must get me down unto the sea<br /> +And build a keel, and whatso things I may<br /> +Set in her hold, and cross the watery way<br /> +Whither Jove bids, and the rough winds may blow<br /> +Unto a land where none my folly know,<br /> +And there begin a weary life anew."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Eager and bright the herdsman's visage grew</span><br /> +The while this tale was told, and at the end<br /> +He said, "Admetus, I thy life may mend,<br /> +And thou at lovely Pheræ still may dwell;<br /> +Wait for ten days, and then may all be well,<br /> +And thou to fetch thy maiden home may go,<br /> +And to the King thy team unheard-of show.<br /> +And if not, then make ready for the sea<br /> +Nor will I fail indeed to go with thee,<br /> +And 'twixt the halyards and the ashen oar<br /> +Finish the service well begun ashore;<br /> +But meanwhile do I bid thee hope the best;<br /> +And take another herdsman for the rest,<br /> +For unto Ossa must I go alone<br /> +To do a deed not easy to be done."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then springing up he took his spear and bow</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span>And northward by the lake-shore 'gan to go;<br /> +But the King gazed upon him as he went,<br /> +Then, sighing, turned about, and homeward bent<br /> +His lingering steps, and hope began to spring<br /> +Within his heart, for some betokening<br /> +He seemed about the herdsman now to see<br /> +Of one from mortal cares and troubles free.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And so midst hopes and fears day followed day,</span><br /> +Until at last upon his bed he lay<br /> +When the grey, creeping dawn had now begun<br /> +To make the wide world ready for the sun<br /> +On the tenth day: sleepless had been the night<br /> +And now in that first hour of gathering light<br /> +For weariness he slept, and dreamed that he<br /> +Stood by the border of a fair, calm sea<br /> +At point to go a-shipboard, and to leave<br /> +Whatever from his sire he did receive<br /> +Of land or kingship; and withal he dreamed<br /> +That through the cordage a bright light there gleamed<br /> +Far off within the east; and nowise sad<br /> +He felt at leaving all he might have had,<br /> +But rather as a man who goes to see<br /> +Some heritage expected patiently.<br /> +But when he moved to leave the firm fixed shore,<br /> +The windless sea rose high and 'gan to roar,<br /> +And from the gangway thrust the ship aside,<br /> +Until he hung over a chasm wide<br /> +Vocal with furious waves, yet had no fear<br /> +For all the varied tumult he might hear,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span>But slowly woke up to the morning light<br /> +That to his eyes seemed past all memory bright,<br /> +And then strange sounds he heard, whereat his heart<br /> +Woke up to joyous life with one glad start,<br /> +And nigh his bed he saw the herdsman stand,<br /> +Holding a long white staff in his right hand,<br /> +Carved with strange figures; and withal he said,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Awake, Admetus! loiter not a-bed,</span><br /> +But haste thee to bring home thy promised bride,<br /> +For now an ivory chariot waits outside,<br /> +Yoked to such beasts as Pelias bade thee bring;<br /> +Whose guidance thou shalt find an easy thing,<br /> +If in thine hands thou holdest still this rod,<br /> +Whereon are carved the names of every god<br /> + +That rules the fertile earth; but having come<br /> +Unto King Pelias' well-adornéd home,<br /> +Abide not long, but take the royal maid,<br /> +And let her dowry in thy wain be laid,<br /> +Of silver and fine cloth and unmixed gold,<br /> +For this indeed will Pelias not withhold<br /> +When he shall see thee like a very god.<br /> +Then let thy beasts, ruled by this carven rod,<br /> +Turn round to Pheræ; yet must thou abide<br /> +Before thou comest to the streamlet's side<br /> +That feed its dykes; there, by the little wood<br /> +Wherein unto Diana men shed blood,<br /> +Will I await thee, and thou shalt descend<br /> +And hand-in-hand afoot through Pheræ wend;<br /> +And yet I bid thee, this night let thy bride<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span>Apart among the womenfolk abide;<br /> +That on the morrow thou with sacrifice<br /> +For these strange deeds may pay a fitting price."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But as he spoke with something like to awe,</span><br /> +His eyes and much-changed face Admetus saw,<br /> +And voiceless like a slave his words obeyed;<br /> +For rising up no more delay he made,<br /> +But took the staff and gained the palace-door<br /> +Where stood the beasts, whose mingled whine and roar<br /> +Had wrought his dream; there two and two they stood,<br /> +Thinking, it might be, of the tangled wood,<br /> +And all the joys of the food-hiding trees,<br /> +But harmless as their painted images<br /> +'Neath some dread spell; then, leaping up, he took<br /> +The reins in hand and the bossed leather shook,<br /> +And no delay the conquered beasts durst make<br /> +But drew, not silent; and folk just awake<br /> +When he went by, as though a god they saw,<br /> +Fell on their knees, and maidens come to draw<br /> +Fresh water from the fount sank trembling down,<br /> +And silence held the babbling wakened town.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So 'twixt the dewy hedges did he wend,</span><br /> +And still their noise afar the beasts did send,<br /> +His strange victorious advent to proclaim,<br /> +Till to Iolchos at the last he came,<br /> +And drew anigh the gates, whence in affright<br /> +The guards fled, helpless at the wondrous sight;<br /> +And through the town news of the coming spread<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span>Of some great god so that the scared priests led<br /> +Pale suppliants forth; who, in unmeet attire<br /> +And hastily-caught boughs and smouldering fire<br /> +Within their censers, in the market-place<br /> +Awaited him with many an upturned face,<br /> +Trembling with fear of that unnamed new god;<br /> +But through the midst of them his lions trod<br /> +With noiseless feet, nor noted aught their prey,<br /> +And the boars' hooves went pattering on the way,<br /> +While from their churning tusks the white foam flew<br /> +As raging, helpless, in the trace they drew.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But Pelias, knowing all the work of fate,</span><br /> +Sat in his brazen-pillared porch to wait<br /> +The coming of the King; the while the maid<br /> +In her fair marriage garments was arrayed,<br /> +And from strong places of his treasury<br /> +Men brought fine scarlet from the Syrian sea,<br /> +And works of brass, and ivory, and gold;<br /> +But when the strange yoked beasts he did behold<br /> +Come through the press of people terrified,<br /> +Then he arose and o'er the clamour cried,<br /> +"Hail, thou, who like a very god art come<br /> +To bring great honour to my damsel's home;"<br /> +And when Admetus tightened rein before<br /> +The gleaming, brazen-wrought, half-opened door.<br /> +He cried to Pelias, "Hail, to thee, O King;<br /> +Let me behold once more my father's ring,<br /> +Let me behold the prize that I have won,<br /> +Mine eyes are wearying now to look upon."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Fear not," he said, "the Fates are satisfied;</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span>Yet wilt thou not descend and here abide,<br /> +Doing me honour till the next bright morn<br /> +Has dried the dew upon the new-sprung corn,<br /> +That we in turn may give the honour due<br /> +To such a man that such a thing can do,<br /> +And unto all the gods may sacrifice?"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Nay," said Admetus, "if thou call'st me wise,</span><br /> +And like a very god thou dost me deem,<br /> +Shall I abide the ending of the dream<br /> +And so gain nothing? nay, let me be glad<br /> +That I at least one godlike hour have had<br /> +At whatsoever time I come to die,<br /> +That I may mock the world that passes by,<br /> +And yet forgets it." Saying this, indeed,<br /> +Of Pelias did he seem to take small heed,<br /> +But spoke as one unto himself may speak,<br /> +And still the half-shut door his eyes did seek,<br /> +Wherethrough from distant rooms sweet music came,<br /> +Setting his over-strainéd heart a-flame,<br /> +Because amidst the Lydian flutes he thought<br /> +From place to place his love the maidens brought.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then Pelias said, "What can I give to thee</span><br /> +Who fail'st so little of divinity?<br /> +Yet let my slaves lay these poor gifts within<br /> +Thy chariot, while my daughter strives to win<br /> +The favour of the spirits of this place,<br /> +Since from their altars she must turn her face<br /> +For ever now; hearken, her flutes I hear,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span>From the last chapel doth she draw anear."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then by Admetus' feet the folk 'gan pile</span><br /> +The precious things, but he no less the while<br /> +Stared at the door ajar, and thought it long<br /> +Ere with the flutes mingled the maidens' song,<br /> +And both grew louder, and the scarce-seen floor<br /> +Was fluttering with white raiment, and the door<br /> +By slender fingers was set open wide,<br /> +And midst her damsels he beheld the bride<br /> +Ungirt, with hair unbound and garlanded:<br /> +Then Pelias took her slender hand and said,<br /> +"Daughter, this is the man that takes from thee<br /> +Thy curse midst women, think no more to be<br /> +Childless, unloved, and knowing little bliss;<br /> +But now behold how like a god he is,<br /> +And yet with what prayers for the love of thee<br /> +He must have wearied some divinity,<br /> +And therefore in thine inmost heart be glad<br /> +That thou 'mongst women such a man hast had."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then she with wondering eyes that strange team saw</span><br /> +A moment, then as one with gathering awe<br /> +Might turn from Jove's bird unto very Jove,<br /> +So did she raise her grey eyes to her love,<br /> +But to her brow the blood rose therewithal,<br /> +And she must tremble, such a look did fall<br /> +Upon her faithful eyes, that none the less<br /> +Would falter aught, for all her shamefastness,<br /> +But rather to her lover's hungry eyes<br /> +Gave back a tender look of glad surprise,<br /> +Wherein love's flame began to flicker now.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Withal, her father kissed her on the brow,</span><br /> +And said, "O daughter, take this royal ring,<br /> +And set it on the finger of the King,<br /> +And come not back; and thou, Admetus, pour<br /> +This wine to Jove before my open door,<br /> +And glad at heart take back thine own with thee."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then with that word Alcestis silently,</span><br /> +And with no look cast back, and ring in hand,<br /> +Went forth, and soon beside her love did stand,<br /> +Nor on his finger failed to set the ring;<br /> +And then a golden cup the city's King<br /> +Gave to him, and he poured and said, "O thou,<br /> +From whatsoever place thou lookest now,<br /> +What prayers, what gifts unto thee shall I give<br /> +That we a little time with love may live?<br /> +A little time of love, then fall asleep<br /> +Together, while the crown of love we keep."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So spake he, and his strange beasts turned about,</span><br /> +And heeded not the people's wavering shout<br /> +That from their old fear and new pleasure sprung,<br /> +Nor noted aught of what the damsels sung,<br /> +Or of the flowers that after them they cast,<br /> +But like a dream the guarded city passed,<br /> +And 'twixt the song of birds and blossoms' scent<br /> +It seemed for many hundred years they went,<br /> +Though short the way was unto Pheræ's gates;<br /> +Time they forgat, and gods, and men, and fates,<br /> +However nigh unto their hearts they were;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span>The woodland boars, the yellow lords of fear<br /> +No more seemed strange to them, but all the earth<br /> +With all its changing sorrow and wild mirth<br /> +In that fair hour seemed new-born to the twain,<br /> +Grief seemed a play forgot, a pageant vain,<br /> +A picture painted, who knows where or when,<br /> +With soulless images of restless men;<br /> +For every thought but love was now gone by,<br /> +And they forgot that they should ever die.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But when they came anigh the sacred wood,</span><br /> +There, biding them, Admetus' herdsman stood,<br /> +At sight of whom those yoke-fellows unchecked<br /> +Stopped dead and little of Admetus recked<br /> +Who now, as one from dreams not yet awake,<br /> +Drew back his love and did his wain forsake,<br /> +And gave the carven rod and guiding bands<br /> +Into the waiting herdsman's outstretched hands,<br /> +But when he would have thanked him for the thing<br /> +That he had done, his speechless tongue must cling<br /> +Unto his mouth, and why he could not tell.<br /> +But the man said, "No words! thou hast done well<br /> +To me, as I to thee; the day may come<br /> +When thou shalt ask me for a fitting home,<br /> +Nor shalt thou ask in vain; but hasten now,<br /> +And to thine house this royal maiden show,<br /> +Then give her to thy women for this night.<br /> +But when thou wakest up to thy delight<br /> +To-morrow, do all things that should be done,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span>Nor of the gods, forget thou any one,<br /> +And on the next day will I come again<br /> +To tend thy flocks upon the grassy plain.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"But now depart, and from thine home send here</span><br /> +Chariot and horse, these gifts of thine to bear<br /> +Unto thine house, and going, look not back<br /> +Lest many a wished-for thing thou com'st to lack."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then hand in hand together, up the road</span><br /> +The lovers passed unto the King's abode,<br /> +And as they went, the whining snort and roar<br /> +From the yoked beasts they heard break out once more<br /> +And then die off, as they were led away,<br /> +But whether to some place lit up by day,<br /> +Or, 'neath the earth, they knew not, for the twain<br /> +Went hastening on, nor once looked back again.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But soon the minstrels met them, and a band</span><br /> +Of white-robed damsels flowery boughs in hand,<br /> +To bid them welcome to that pleasant place.<br /> +Then they, rejoicing much, in no long space<br /> +Came to the brazen-pillared porch, whereon<br /> +From 'twixt the passes of the hills yet shone<br /> +The dying sun; and there she stood awhile<br /> +Without the threshold, a faint tender smile<br /> +Trembling upon her lips 'twixt love and shame,<br /> +Until each side of her a maiden came<br /> +And raised her in their arms, that her fair feet<br /> +The polished brazen threshold might not meet,<br /> +And in Admetus' house she stood at last.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But to the women's chamber straight she passed</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span>Bepraised of all,—and so the wakeful night<br /> +Lonely the lovers passed e'en as they might.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But the next day with many a sacrifice,</span><br /> +Admetus wrought, for such a well-won prize,<br /> +A life so blest, the gods to satisfy,<br /> +And many a matchless beast that day did die<br /> +Upon the altars; nought unlucky seemed<br /> +To be amid the joyous crowd that gleamed<br /> +With gold and precious things, and only this<br /> +Seemed wanting to the King of Pheræ's bliss,<br /> +That all these pageants should be soon past by,<br /> +And hid by night the fair spring blossoms lie.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">Y</span><span class="caps">et</span> on the morrow-morn Admetus came,</span><br /> +A haggard man oppressed with grief and shame<br /> +Unto the spot beside Bœbeis' shore<br /> +Whereby he met his herdsman once before,<br /> +And there again he found him flushed and glad,<br /> +And from the babbling water newly clad,<br /> +Then he with downcast eyes these words began,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"O thou, whatso thy name is, god or man,</span><br /> +Hearken to me; meseemeth of thy deed<br /> +Some dread immortal taketh angry heed.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Last night the height of my desire seemed won,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span>All day my weary eyes had watched the sun<br /> +Rise up and sink, and now was come the night<br /> +When I should be alone with my delight;<br /> +Silent the house was now from floor to roof,<br /> +And in the well-hung chambers, far aloof,<br /> +The feasters lay; the moon was in the sky,<br /> +The soft spring wind was wafting lovingly<br /> +Across the gardens fresh scents to my sweet,<br /> +As, troubled with the sound of my own feet,<br /> +I passed betwixt the pillars, whose long shade<br /> +Black on the white red-veinéd floor was laid:<br /> +So happy was I that the briar-rose,<br /> +Rustling outside within the flowery close,<br /> +Seemed but Love's odorous wing—too real all seemed<br /> +For such a joy as I had never dreamed.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Why do I linger, as I lingered not</span><br /> +In that fair hour, now ne'er to be forgot<br /> +While my life lasts?—Upon the gilded door<br /> +I laid my hand; I stood upon the floor<br /> +Of the bride-chamber, and I saw the bride,<br /> +Lovelier than any dream, stand by the side<br /> +Of the gold bed, with hands that hid her face:<br /> +One cry of joy I gave, and then the place<br /> +Seemed changed to hell as in a hideous dream.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Still did the painted silver pillars gleam</span><br /> +Betwixt the scented torches and the moon;<br /> +Still did the garden shed its odorous boon<br /> +Upon the night; still did the nightingale<br /> +Unto his brooding mate tell all his tale:<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span>But, risen 'twixt my waiting love and me,<br /> +As soundless as the dread eternity,<br /> +Sprung up from nothing, could mine eyes behold<br /> +A huge dull-gleaming dreadful coil that rolled<br /> +In changing circles on the pavement fair.<br /> +Then for the sword that was no longer there<br /> +My hand sank to my side; around I gazed,<br /> +And 'twixt the coils I met her grey eyes, glazed<br /> +With sudden horror most unspeakable;<br /> +And when mine own upon no weapon fell,<br /> +For what should weapons do in such a place,<br /> +Unto the dragon's head I set my face,<br /> +And raised bare hands against him, but a cry<br /> +Burst on mine ears of utmost agony<br /> +That nailed me there, and she cried out to me,<br /> +'O get thee hence; alas, I cannot flee!<br /> +They coil about me now, my lips to kiss.<br /> +O love, why hast thou brought me unto this?'<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Alas, my shame! trembling, away I slunk,</span><br /> +Yet turning saw the fearful coil had sunk<br /> +To whence it came, my love's limbs freed I saw,<br /> +And a long breath at first I heard her draw<br /> +As one redeemed, then heard the hard sobs come,<br /> +And wailings for her new accurséd home.<br /> +But there outside across the door I lay,<br /> +Like a scourged hound, until the dawn of day;<br /> +And as her gentle breathing then I heard<br /> +As though she slept, before the earliest bird<br /> +Began his song, I wandered forth to seek<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span>Thee, O strange man, e'en as thou seest me, weak<br /> +With all the torment of the night, and shamed<br /> +With such a shame as never shall be named<br /> +To aught but thee—Yea, yea, and why to thee<br /> +Perchance this ends all thou wilt do for me?—<br /> +What then, and have I not a cure for that?<br /> +Lo, yonder is a rock where I have sat<br /> +Full many an hour while yet my life was life,<br /> +With hopes of all the coming wonder rife.<br /> +No sword hangs by my side, no god will turn<br /> +This cloudless hazy blue to black, and burn<br /> +My useless body with his lightning flash;<br /> +But the white waves above my bones may wash,<br /> +And when old chronicles our house shall name<br /> +They may leave out the letters and the shame,<br /> +That make Admetus, once a king of men—<br /> +And how could I be worse or better then?"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As one who notes a curious instrument</span><br /> +Working against the maker's own intent,<br /> +The herdsman eyed his wan face silently,<br /> +And smiling for a while, and then said he,—<br /> +"Admetus, thou, in spite of all I said,<br /> +Hast drawn this evil thing upon thine head,<br /> +Forgetting her who erewhile laid the curse<br /> +Upon the maiden, so for fear of worse<br /> +Go back again; for fair-limbed Artemis<br /> +Now bars the sweet attainment of thy bliss;<br /> +So taking heart, yet make no more delay<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span>But worship her upon this very day,<br /> +Nor spare for aught, and of thy trouble make<br /> +No semblance unto any for her sake;<br /> +And thick upon the fair bride-chamber floor<br /> +Strew dittany, and on each side the door<br /> +Hang up such poppy-leaves as spring may yield;<br /> +And for the rest, myself may be a shield<br /> +Against her wrath—nay, be thou not too bold<br /> +To ask me that which may not now be told.<br /> +Yea, even what thou deemest, hide it deep<br /> +Within thine heart, and let thy wonder sleep,<br /> +For surely thou shalt one day know my name,<br /> +When the time comes again that autumn's flame<br /> +Is dying off the vine-boughs, overturned,<br /> +Stripped of their wealth. But now let gifts be burned<br /> +To her I told thee of, and in three days<br /> +Shall I by many hard and rugged ways<br /> +Have come to thee again to bring thee peace.<br /> +Go, the sun rises and the shades decrease."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then, thoughtfully, Admetus gat him back,</span><br /> +Nor did the altars of the Huntress lack<br /> +The fattest of the flocks upon that day.<br /> +But when night came, in arms Admetus lay<br /> +Across the threshold of the bride-chamber,<br /> +And nought amiss that night he noted there,<br /> +But durst not enter, though about the door<br /> +Young poppy-leaves were twined, and on the floor,<br /> +Not flowered as yet with downy leaves and grey,<br /> +Fresh dittany beloved of wild goats lay.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">But when the whole three days and nights were done,</span><br /> +The herdsman came with rising of the sun,<br /> +And said, "Admetus, now rejoice again,<br /> +Thy prayers and offerings have not been in vain,<br /> +And thou at last mayst come unto thy bliss;<br /> +And if thou askest for a sign of this,<br /> +Take thou this token; make good haste to rise,<br /> +And get unto the garden-close that lies<br /> +Below these windows sweet with greenery,<br /> +And in the midst a marvel shalt thou see,<br /> +Three white, black-hearted poppies blossoming,<br /> +Though this is but the middle of the spring."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nor was it otherwise than he had said,</span><br /> +And on that day with joy the twain were wed,<br /> +And 'gan to lead a life of great delight;<br /> +But the strange woeful history of that night,<br /> +The monstrous car, the promise to the King,<br /> +All these through weary hours of chiselling<br /> +Were wrought in stone, and in Diana's wall<br /> +Set up, a joy and witness unto all.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But neither so would wingéd time abide,</span><br /> +The changing year came round to autumn-tide,<br /> +Until at last the day was fully come<br /> +When the strange guest first reached Admetus' home.<br /> +Then, when the sun was reddening to its end,<br /> +He to Admetus' brazen porch did wend,<br /> +Whom there he found feathering a poplar dart,<br /> +Then said he, "King, the time has come to part.<br /> +Come forth, for I have that to give thine ear<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span>No man upon the earth but thou must hear."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then rose the King, and with a troubled look</span><br /> +His well-steeled spear within his hand he took,<br /> +And by his herdsman silently he went<br /> +As to a peakéd hill his steps he bent,<br /> +Nor did the parting servant speak one word,<br /> +As up they climbed, unto his silent lord,<br /> +Till from the top he turned about his head<br /> +From all the glory of the gold light, shed<br /> +Upon the hill-top by the setting sun,<br /> +For now indeed the day was well-nigh done,<br /> +And all the eastern vale was grey and cold;<br /> +But when Admetus he did now behold,<br /> +Panting beside him from the steep ascent,<br /> +One much-changed godlike look on him he bent.<br /> +And said, "O mortal, listen, for I see<br /> +Thou deemest somewhat of what is in me;<br /> +Fear not! I love thee, even as I can<br /> +Who cannot feel the woes and ways of man<br /> +In spite of this my seeming, for indeed<br /> +Now thou beholdest Jove's immortal seed,<br /> +And what my name is I would tell thee now,<br /> +If men who dwell upon the earth as thou<br /> +Could hear the name and live; but on the earth.<br /> +With strange melodious stories of my birth,<br /> +Phœbus men call me, and Latona's son.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"And now my servitude with thee is done,</span><br /> +And I shall leave thee toiling on thine earth,<br /> +This handful, that within its little girth<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span>Holds that which moves you so, O men that die;<br /> +Behold, to-day thou hast felicity,<br /> +But the times change, and I can see a day<br /> +When all thine happiness shall fade away;<br /> +And yet be merry, strive not with the end,<br /> +Thou canst not change it; for the rest, a friend<br /> +This year has won thee who shall never fail;<br /> +But now indeed, for nought will it avail<br /> +To say what I may have in store for thee,<br /> +Of gifts that men desire; let these things be,<br /> +And live thy life, till death itself shall come,<br /> +And turn to nought the storehouse of thine home,<br /> +Then think of me; these feathered shafts behold,<br /> +That here have been the terror of the wold,<br /> +Take these, and count them still the best of all<br /> +Thine envied wealth, and when on thee shall fall<br /> +By any way the worst extremity,<br /> +Call upon me before thou com'st to die,<br /> +And lay these shafts with incense on a fire,<br /> +That thou mayst gain thine uttermost desire."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He ceased, but ere the golden tongue was still</span><br /> +An odorous mist had stolen up the hill,<br /> +And to Admetus first the god grew dim,<br /> +And then was but a lovely voice to him,<br /> +And then at last the sun had sunk to rest,<br /> +And a fresh wind blew lightly from the west<br /> +Over the hill-top, and no soul was there;<br /> +But the sad dying autumn field-flowers fair,<br /> +Rustled dry leaves about the windy place,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span>Where even now had been the godlike face,<br /> +And in their midst the brass-bound quiver lay.<br /> +Then, going further westward, far away,<br /> +He saw the gleaming of Peneus wan<br /> +'Neath the white sky, but never any man,<br /> +Except a grey-haired shepherd driving down<br /> +From off the long slopes to his fold-yard brown<br /> +His woolly sheep, with whom a maiden went,<br /> +Singing for labour done and sweet content<br /> +Of coming rest; with that he turned again,<br /> +And took the shafts up, never sped in vain,<br /> +And came unto his house most deep in thought<br /> +Of all the things the varied year had brought.</p></div> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">T</span><span class="caps">henceforth</span> in bliss and honour day by day</span><br /> +His measured span of sweet life wore away.<br /> +A happy man he was; no vain desire<br /> +Of foolish fame had set his heart a-fire;<br /> +No care he had the ancient bounds to change,<br /> +Nor yet for him must idle soldiers range<br /> +From place to place about the burdened land,<br /> +Or thick upon the ruined cornfields stand;<br /> +For him no trumpets blessed the bitter war,<br /> +Wherein the right and wrong so mingled are,<br /> +That hardly can the man of single heart<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span>Amid the sickening turmoil choose his part;<br /> +For him sufficed the changes of the year,<br /> +The god-sent terror was enough of fear<br /> +For him; enough the battle with the earth,<br /> +The autumn triumph over drought and dearth.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Better to him than wolf-moved battered shields,</span><br /> +O'er poor dead corpses, seemed the stubble-fields<br /> +Danced down beneath the moon, until the night<br /> +Grew dreamy with a shadowy sweet delight,<br /> +And with the high-risen moon came pensive thought,<br /> +And men in love's despite must grow distraught<br /> +And loiter in the dance, and maidens drop<br /> +Their gathered raiment, and the fifer stop<br /> +His dancing notes the pensive drone that chid,<br /> +And as they wander to their dwellings, hid<br /> +By the black shadowed trees, faint melody,<br /> +Mournful and sweet, their soft good-night must be.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Far better spoil the gathering vat bore in</span><br /> +Unto the pressing shed, than midst the din<br /> +Of falling houses in war's waggon lies<br /> +Besmeared with redder stains than Tyrian dyes;<br /> +Or when the temple of the sea-born one<br /> +With glittering crowns and gallant raiment shone,<br /> +Fairer the maidens seemed by no chain bound,<br /> +But such as amorous arms might cast around<br /> +Their lovely bodies, than the wretched band<br /> +Who midst the shipmen by the gangway stand;<br /> +Each lonely in her speechless misery,<br /> +And thinking of the worse time that shall be,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span>When midst of folk who scarce can speak her name,<br /> +She bears the uttermost of toil and shame.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Better to him seemed that victorious crown,</span><br /> +That midst the reverent silence of the town<br /> +He oft would set upon some singer's brow<br /> +Than was the conqueror's diadem, blest now<br /> +By lying priests, soon, bent and bloody, hung<br /> +Within the thorn by linnets well besung,<br /> +Who think but little of the corpse beneath,<br /> +Though ancient lands have trembled at his breath.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But to this King—fair Ceres' gifts, the days</span><br /> +Whereon men sung in flushed Lyæus' praise<br /> +Tales of old time, the bloodless sacrifice<br /> +Unto the goddess of the downcast eyes<br /> +And soft persuading lips, the ringing lyre<br /> +Unto the bearer of the holy fire<br /> +Who once had been amongst them—things like these<br /> +Seemed meet to him men's yearning to appease,<br /> +These were the triumphs of the peaceful king.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And so, betwixt seed-time and harvesting,</span><br /> +With little fear his life must pass away;<br /> +And for the rest, he, from the self-same day<br /> +That the god left him, seemed to have some share<br /> +In that same godhead he had harboured there:<br /> +In all things grew his wisdom and his wealth,<br /> +And folk beholding the fair state and health<br /> +Wherein his land was, said, that now at last<br /> +A fragment of the Golden Age was cast<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span>Over the place, for there was no debate,<br /> +And men forgot the very name of hate.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nor failed the love of her he erst had won</span><br /> +To hold his heart as still the years wore on,<br /> +And she, no whit less fair than on the day<br /> +When from Iolchos first she passed away,<br /> +Did all his will as though he were a god,<br /> +And loving still, the downward way she trod.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Honour and love, plenty and peace, he had;</span><br /> +Nor lacked for aught that makes a wise man glad,<br /> +That makes him like a rich well-honoured guest<br /> +Scarce sorry when the time comes, for the rest,<br /> +That at the end perforce must bow his head.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And yet—was death not much rememberéd,</span><br /> +As still with happy men the manner is?<br /> +Or, was he not so pleased with this world's bliss,<br /> +As to be sorry when the time should come<br /> +When but his name should hold his ancient home<br /> +While he dwelt nowhere? either way indeed,<br /> +Will be enough for most men's daily need,<br /> +And with calm faces they may watch the world,<br /> +And note men's lives hither and thither hurled,<br /> +As folk may watch the unfolding of a play—<br /> +Nor this, nor that was King Admetus' way,<br /> +For neither midst the sweetness of his life<br /> +Did he forget the ending of the strife,<br /> +Nor yet for heavy thoughts of passing pain<br /> +Did all his life seem lost to him or vain,<br /> +A wasteful jest of Jove, an empty dream;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span>Rather before him did a vague hope gleam,<br /> +That made him a great-hearted man and wise,<br /> +Who saw the deeds of men with far-seeing eyes,<br /> +And dealt them pitying justice still, as though<br /> +The inmost heart of each man he did know;<br /> +This hope it was, and not his kingly place<br /> +That made men's hearts rejoice to see his face<br /> +Rise in the council hall; through this, men felt<br /> +That in their midst a son of man there dwelt<br /> +Like and unlike them, and their friend through all;<br /> +And still as time went on, the more would fall<br /> +This glory on the King's belovéd head,<br /> +And round his life fresh hope and fear were shed.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet at the last his good days passed away,</span><br /> +And sick upon his bed Admetus lay,<br /> +'Twixt him and death nought but a lessening veil<br /> +Of hasty minutes, yet did hope not fail,<br /> +Nor did bewildering fear torment him then,<br /> +But still as ever, all the ways of men<br /> +Seemed dear to him: but he, while yet his breath<br /> +Still held the gateway 'gainst the arms of death,<br /> +Turned to his wife, who, bowed beside the bed,<br /> +Wept for his love, and dying goodlihead,<br /> +And bade her put all folk from out the room,<br /> +Then going to the treasury's rich gloom<br /> +To bear the arrows forth, the Lycian's gift.<br /> +So she, amidst her blinding tears, made shift<br /> +To find laid in the inmost treasury<br /> +Those shafts, and brought them unto him, but he,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span>Beholding them, beheld therewith his life,<br /> +Both that now past, with many marvels rife,<br /> +And that which he had hoped he yet should see.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then spoke he faintly, "Love, 'twixt thee and me</span><br /> +A film has come, and I am failing fast:<br /> +And now our ancient happy life is past;<br /> +For either this is death's dividing hand,<br /> +And all is done, or if the shadowy land<br /> +I yet escape, full surely if I live<br /> +The god with life some other gift will give,<br /> +And change me unto thee: e'en at this tide<br /> +Like a dead man among you all I bide,<br /> +Until I once again behold my guest,<br /> +And he has given me either life or rest:<br /> +Alas, my love! that thy too loving heart<br /> +Nor with my life or death can have a part.<br /> +O cruel words! yet death is cruel too:<br /> +Stoop down and kiss me, for I yearn for you<br /> +E'en as the autumn yearneth for the sun."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"O love, a little time we have been one,</span><br /> +And if we now are twain weep not therefore;<br /> +For many a man on earth desireth sore<br /> +To have some mate upon the toilsome road,<br /> +Some sharer of his still increasing load,<br /> +And yet for all his longing and his pain<br /> +His troubled heart must seek for love in vain,<br /> +And till he dies still must he be alone—<br /> +But now, although our love indeed is gone,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span>Yet to this land as thou art leal and true<br /> +Set now thine hand to what I bid thee do,<br /> +Because I may not die; rake up the brands<br /> +Upon the hearth, and from these trembling hands<br /> +Cast incense thereon, and upon them lay<br /> +These shafts, the relics of a happier day,<br /> +Then watch with me; perchance I may not die,<br /> +Though the supremest hour now draws anigh<br /> +Of life or death—O thou who madest me,<br /> +The only thing on earth alike to thee,<br /> +Why must I be unlike to thee in this?<br /> +Consider, if thou dost not do amiss<br /> +To slay the only thing that feareth death<br /> +Or knows its name, of all things drawing breath<br /> +Upon the earth: see now for no short hour,<br /> +For no half-halting death, to reach me slower<br /> +Than other men, I pray thee—what avail<br /> +To add some trickling grains unto the tale<br /> +Soon told, of minutes thou dost snatch away<br /> +From out the midst of that unending day<br /> +Wherein thou dwellest? rather grant me this<br /> +To right me wherein thou hast done amiss,<br /> +And give me life like thine for evermore."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So murmured he, contending very sore</span><br /> +Against the coming death; but she meanwhile<br /> +Faint with consuming love, made haste to pile<br /> +The brands upon the hearth, and thereon cast<br /> +Sweet incense, and the feathered shafts at last;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span>Then, trembling, back unto the bed she crept,<br /> +And lay down by his side, and no more wept,<br /> +Nay scarce could think of death for very love<br /> +That in her faithful heart for ever strove<br /> +'Gainst fear and grief: but now the incense-cloud<br /> +The old familiar chamber did enshroud,<br /> +And on the very verge of death drawn close<br /> +Wrapt both their weary souls in strange repose,<br /> +That through sweet sleep sent kindly images<br /> +Of simple things; and in the midst of these,<br /> +Whether it were but parcel of their dream,<br /> +Or that they woke to it as some might deem,<br /> +I know not, but the door was opened wide,<br /> +And the King's name a voice long silent cried,<br /> +And Phœbus on the very threshold trod,<br /> +And yet in nothing liker to a god<br /> +Than when he ruled Admetus' herds, for he<br /> +Still wore the homespun coat men used to see<br /> +Among the heifers in the summer morn,<br /> +And round about him hung the herdsman's horn,<br /> +And in his hand he bore the herdsman's spear<br /> +And cornel bow, the prowling dog-wolfs fear,<br /> +Though empty of its shafts the quiver was.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He to the middle of the room did pass,</span><br /> +And said, "Admetus, neither all for nought<br /> +My coming to thee is, nor have I brought<br /> +Good tidings to thee; poor man, thou shalt live<br /> +If any soul for thee sweet life will give<br /> +Enforced by none: for such a sacrifice<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span>Alone the fates can deem a fitting price<br /> +For thy redemption; in no battle-field,<br /> +Maddened by hope of glory life to yield,<br /> +To give it up to heal no city's shame<br /> +In hope of gaining long-enduring fame;<br /> +For whoso dieth for thee must believe<br /> +That thou with shame that last gift wilt receive,<br /> +And strive henceforward with forgetfulness<br /> +The honied draught of thy new life to bless.<br /> +Nay, and moreover such a glorious heart<br /> +Who loves thee well enough with life to part<br /> +But for thy love, with life must lose love too,<br /> +Which e'en when wrapped about in weeds of woe<br /> +Is godlike life indeed to such an one.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"And now behold, three days ere life is done</span><br /> +Do the Fates give thee, and I, even I,<br /> +Upon thy life have shed felicity<br /> +And given thee love of men, that they in turn<br /> +With fervent love of thy dear love might burn.<br /> +The people love thee and thy silk-clad breast,<br /> +Thine open doors have given thee better rest<br /> +Than woods of spears or hills of walls might do.<br /> +And even now in wakefulness and woe<br /> +The city lies, calling to mind thy love<br /> +Wearying with ceaseless prayers the gods above.<br /> +But thou—thine heart is wise enough to know<br /> +That they no whit from their decrees will go."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So saying, swiftly from the room he passed;</span><br /> +But on the world no look Admetus cast,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span>But peacefully turned round unto the wall<br /> +As one who knows that quick death must befall:<br /> +For in his heart he thought, "Indeed too well<br /> +I know what men are, this strange tale to tell<br /> +To those that live with me: yea, they will weep,<br /> +And o'er my tomb most solemn days will keep,<br /> +And in great chronicles will write my name,<br /> +Telling to many an age my deeds and fame.<br /> +For living men such things as this desire,<br /> +And by such ways will they appease the fire<br /> +Of love and grief: but when death comes to stare<br /> +Full in men's faces, and the truth lays bare,<br /> +How can we then have wish for anything,<br /> +But unto life that gives us all to cling?"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So said he, and with closed eyes did await,</span><br /> +Sleeping or waking, the decrees of fate.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But now Alcestis rose, and by the bed</span><br /> +She stood, with wild thoughts passing through her head.<br /> +Dried were her tears, her troubled heart and sore<br /> +Throbbed with the anguish of her love no more.<br /> +A strange look on the dying man she cast,<br /> +Then covered up her face and said, "O past!<br /> +Past the sweet times that I remember well!<br /> +Alas, that such a tale my heart can tell!<br /> +Ah, how I trusted him! what love was mine!<br /> +How sweet to feel his arms about me twine,<br /> +And my heart beat with his! what wealth of bliss<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span>To hear his praises! all to come to this,<br /> +That now I durst not look upon his face,<br /> +Lest in my heart that other thing have place.<br /> +That which I knew not, that which men call hate.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"O me, the bitterness of God and fate!</span><br /> +A little time ago we two were one;<br /> +I had not lost him though his life was done,<br /> +For still was he in me—but now alone<br /> +Through the thick darkness must my soul make moan,<br /> +For I must die: how can I live to bear<br /> +An empty heart about, the nurse of fear?<br /> +How can I live to die some other tide,<br /> +And, dying, hear my loveless name outcried<br /> +About the portals of that weary land<br /> +Whereby my shadowy feet should come to stand.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Alcestis! O Alcestis, hadst thou known</span><br /> +That thou one day shouldst thus be left alone,<br /> +How hadst thou borne a living soul to love!<br /> +Hadst thou not rather lifted hands to Jove,<br /> +To turn thine heart to stone, thy front to brass,<br /> +That through this wondrous world thy soul might pass,<br /> +Well pleased and careless, as Diana goes<br /> +Through the thick woods, all pitiless of those<br /> +Her shafts smite down? Alas! how could it be<br /> +Can a god give a god's delights to thee?<br /> +Nay rather, Jove, but give me once again,<br /> +If for one moment only, that sweet pain<br /> +The love I had while still I thought to live!<br /> +Ah! wilt thou not, since unto thee I give<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span>My life, my hope?—But thou—I come to thee.<br /> +Thou sleepest: O wake not, nor speak to me<br /> +In silence let my last hour pass away,<br /> +And men forget my bitter feeble day."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With that she laid her down upon the bed,</span><br /> +And nestling to him, kissed his weary head,<br /> +And laid his wasted hand upon her breast,<br /> +Yet woke him not; and silence and deep rest<br /> +Fell on that chamber. The night wore away<br /> +Mid gusts of wailing wind, the twilight grey<br /> +Stole o'er the sea, and wrought his wondrous change<br /> +On things unseen by night, by day not strange,<br /> +But now half seen and strange; then came the sun,<br /> +And therewithal the silent world and dun<br /> +Waking, waxed many-coloured, full of sound,<br /> +As men again their heap of troubles found,<br /> +And woke up to their joy or misery.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But there, unmoved by aught, those twain did lie,</span><br /> +Until Admetus' ancient nurse drew near<br /> +Unto the open door, and full of fear<br /> +Beheld them moving not, and as folk dead;<br /> +Then, trembling with her eagerness and dread,<br /> +She cried, "Admetus! art thou dead indeed?<br /> +Alcestis! livest thou my words to heed?<br /> +Alas, alas, for this Thessalian folk!"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But with her piercing cry the King awoke,</span><br /> +And round about him wildly 'gan to stare,<br /> +As a bewildered man who knows not where<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span>He has awakened: but not thin or wan<br /> +His face was now, as of a dying man,<br /> +But fresh and ruddy; and his eyes shone clear,<br /> +As of a man who much of life may bear.<br /> +And at the first, but joy and great surprise<br /> +Shone out from those awakened, new-healed eyes;<br /> +But as for something more at last he yearned,<br /> +Unto his love with troubled brow he turned,<br /> +For still she seemed to sleep: alas, alas!<br /> +Her lonely shadow even now did pass<br /> +Along the changeless fields, oft looking back,<br /> +As though it yet had thought of some great lack.<br /> +And here, the hand just fallen from off his breast<br /> +Was cold; and cold the bosom his hand pressed.<br /> +And even as the colour lit the day<br /> +The colour from her lips had waned away;<br /> +Yet still, as though that longed-for happiness<br /> +Had come again her faithful heart to bless,<br /> +Those white lips smiled, unwrinkled was her brow,<br /> +But of her eyes no secrets might he know,<br /> +For, hidden by the lids of ivory,<br /> +Had they beheld that death a-drawing nigh.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then o'er her dead corpse King Admetus hung,</span><br /> +Such sorrow in his heart as his faint tongue<br /> +Refused to utter; yet the just-past night<br /> +But dimly he remembered, and the sight<br /> +Of the Far-darter, and the dreadful word<br /> +That seemed to cleave all hope as with a sword:<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span>Yet stronger in his heart a knowledge grew,<br /> +That nought it was but her fond heart and true<br /> +That all the marvel for his love had wrought,<br /> +Whereby from death to life he had been brought;<br /> +That dead, his life she was, as she had been<br /> +His life's delight while still she lived a queen.<br /> +And he fell wondering if his life were gain,<br /> +So wrapt as then in loneliness and pain;<br /> +Yet therewithal no tears would fill his eyes,<br /> +For as a god he was.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">Then did he rise</span><br /> +And gat him down unto the Council-place,<br /> +And when the people saw his well-loved face<br /> +Then cried aloud for joy to see him there.<br /> +And earth again to them seemed blest and fair.<br /> +And though indeed they did lament in turn,<br /> +When of Alcestis' end they came to learn,<br /> +Scarce was it more than seeming, or, at least,<br /> +The silence in the middle of a feast,<br /> +When men have memory of their heroes slain.<br /> +So passed the order of the world again,<br /> +Victorious Summer crowning lusty Spring,<br /> +Rich Autumn faint with wealth of harvesting,<br /> +And Winter the earth's sleep; and then again<br /> +Spring, Summer, Autumn, and the Winter's pain:<br /> +And still and still the same the years went by.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But Time, who slays so many a memory,</span><br /> +Brought hers to light, the short-lived loving Queen;<br /> +And her fair soul, as scent of flowers unseen,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span>Sweetened the turmoil of long centuries.<br /> +For soon, indeed, Death laid his hand on these,<br /> +The shouters round the throne upon that day.<br /> +And for Admetus, he, too, went his way,<br /> +Though if he died at all I cannot tell;<br /> +But either on the earth he ceased to dwell,<br /> +Or else, oft born again, had many a name.<br /> +But through all lands of Greece Alcestis' fame<br /> +Grew greater, and about her husband's twined<br /> +Lived, in the hearts of far-off men enshrined.<br /> +See I have told her tale, though I know not<br /> +What men are dwelling now on that green spot<br /> +Anigh Bœbeis, or if Pheræ still,<br /> +With name oft changed perchance, adown the hill<br /> +Still shows its white walls to the rising sun.<br /> +—The gods at least remember what is done.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">S</span><span class="caps">trange</span> felt the wanderers at his tale, for now</span><br /> +Their old desires it seemed once more to show<br /> +Unto their altered hearts, when now the rest,<br /> +Most surely coming, of all things seemed best;—<br /> +—Unless, by death perchance they yet might gain<br /> +Some space to try such deeds as now in vain<br /> +They heard of amidst stories of the past;<br /> +Such deeds as they for that wild hope had cast<br /> +From out their hands—they sighed to think of it,<br /> +And how as deedless men they there must sit.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet, with the measured falling of that rhyme</span><br /> +Mingled the lovely sights and glorious time,<br /> +Whereby, in spite of hope long past away,<br /> +In spite of knowledge growing day by day<br /> +Of lives so wasted, in despite of death,<br /> +With sweet content that eve they drew their breath,<br /> +And scarce their own lives seemed to touch them more<br /> +Than that dead Queen's beside Bœbéis' shore;<br /> +Bitter and sweet so mingled in them both,<br /> +Their lives and that old tale, they had been loth,<br /> +Perchance, to have them told another way.—<br /> +So passed the sun from that fair summer day.</p></div> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">J</span><span class="caps">une</span> drew unto its end, the hot bright days</span><br /> +Now gat from men as much of blame as praise,<br /> +As rainless still they passed, without a cloud,<br /> +And growing grey at last, the barley bowed<br /> +Before the south-east wind. On such a day<br /> +These folk amid the trellised roses lay,<br /> +And careless for a little while at least,<br /> +Crowned with the mingled blossoms held their feast:<br /> +Nor did the garden lack for younger folk,<br /> +Who cared no more for burning summer's yoke<br /> +Than the sweet breezes of the April-tide;<br /> +But through the thick trees wandered far and wide<br /> +From sun to shade, and shade to sun again,<br /> +Until they deemed the elders would be fain<br /> +To hear the tale, and shadows longer grew:<br /> +Then round about the grave old men they drew,<br /> +Both youths and maidens; and beneath their feet<br /> +The grass seemed greener, and the flowers more sweet<br /> +Unto the elders, as they stood around.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So through the calm air soon arose the sound</span><br /> +Of one old voice as now a Wanderer spoke.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span>"O friends, and ye, fair loving gentle folk,<br /> +Would I could better tell a tale to-day;<br /> +But hark to this, which while our good ship lay<br /> +Within the Weser such a while agone,<br /> +A Fleming told me, as we sat alone<br /> +One Sunday evening in the Rose-garland,<br /> +And all the other folk were gone a-land<br /> +After their pleasure, like sea-faring men.<br /> +Surely I deem it no great wonder then<br /> +That I remember everything he said,<br /> +Since from that Sunday eve strange fortune led<br /> +That keel and me on such a weary way—<br /> +Well, at the least it serveth you to-day."</p></div> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE LADY OF THE LAND.</h2> + +<h3>ARGUMENT.</h3> + +<p class="hang">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.</p> +<p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">I</span><span class="caps">t</span> happened once, some men of Italy</span><br /> +Midst the Greek Islands went a sea-roving,<br /> +And much good fortune had they on the sea:<br /> +Of many a man they had the ransoming,<br /> +And many a chain they gat, and goodly thing;<br /> +And midst their voyage to an isle they came,<br /> +Whereof my story keepeth not the name.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now though but little was there left to gain,</span><br /> +Because the richer folk had gone away,<br /> +Yet since by this of water they were fain<br /> +They came to anchor in a land-locked bay,<br /> +Whence in a while some went ashore to play,<br /> +Going but lightly armed in twos or threes,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span>For midst that folk they feared no enemies.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And of these fellows that thus went ashore,</span><br /> +One was there who left all his friends behind;<br /> +Who going inland ever more and more,<br /> +And being left quite alone, at last did find<br /> +A lonely valley sheltered from the wind,<br /> +Wherein, amidst an ancient cypress wood,<br /> +A long-deserted ruined castle stood.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The wood, once ordered in fair grove and glade,</span><br /> +With gardens overlooked by terraces,<br /> +And marble-pavéd pools for pleasure made,<br /> +Was tangled now, and choked with fallen trees;<br /> +And he who went there, with but little ease<br /> +Must stumble by the stream's side, once made meet<br /> +For tender women's dainty wandering feet.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The raven's croak, the low wind choked and drear,</span><br /> +The baffled stream, the grey wolf's doleful cry,<br /> +Were all the sounds that mariner could hear,<br /> +As through the wood he wandered painfully;<br /> +But as unto the house he drew anigh,<br /> +The pillars of a ruined shrine he saw,<br /> +The once fair temple of a fallen law.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">No image was there left behind to tell</span><br /> +Before whose face the knees of men had bowed;<br /> +An altar of black stone, of old wrought well,<br /> +Alone beneath a ruined roof now showed<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span>The goal whereto the folk were wont to crowd,<br /> +Seeking for things forgotten long ago,<br /> +Praying for heads long ages laid a-low.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Close to the temple was the castle-gate,</span><br /> +Doorless and crumbling; there our fellow turned,<br /> +Trembling indeed at what might chance to wait<br /> +The prey entrapped, yet with a heart that burned<br /> +To know the most of what might there be learned,<br /> +And hoping somewhat too, amid his fear,<br /> +To light on such things as all men hold dear.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Noble the house was, nor seemed built for war,</span><br /> +But rather like the work of other days,<br /> +When men, in better peace than now they are,<br /> +Had leisure on the world around to gaze,<br /> +And noted well the past times' changing ways;<br /> +And fair with sculptured stories it was wrought,<br /> +By lapse of time unto dim ruin brought.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now as he looked about on all these things,</span><br /> +And strove to read the mouldering histories,<br /> +Above the door an image with wide wings,<br /> +Whose unclad limbs a serpent seemed to seize,<br /> +He dimly saw, although the western breeze,<br /> +And years of biting frost and washing rain,<br /> +Had made the carver's labour well-nigh vain.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But this, though perished sore, and worn away,</span><br /> +He noted well, because it seemed to be,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span>After the fashion of another day,<br /> +Some great man's badge of war, or armoury,<br /> +And round it a carved wreath he seemed to see;<br /> +But taking note of these things, at the last<br /> +The mariner beneath the gateway passed.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And there a lovely cloistered court he found,</span><br /> +A fountain in the midst o'erthrown and dry,<br /> +And in the cloister briers twining round<br /> +The slender shafts; the wondrous imagery<br /> +Outworn by more than many years gone by,<br /> +Because the country people, in their fear<br /> +Of wizardry, had wrought destruction here;<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And piteously these fair things had been maimed;</span><br /> +There stood great Jove, lacking his head of might;<br /> +Here was the archer, swift Apollo, lamed;<br /> +The shapely limbs of Venus hid from sight<br /> +By weeds and shards; Diana's ankles light<br /> +Bound with the cable of some coasting ship;<br /> +And rusty nails through Helen's maddening lip.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Therefrom unto the chambers did he pass,</span><br /> +And found them fair still, midst of their decay,<br /> +Though in them now no sign of man there was,<br /> +And everything but stone had passed away<br /> +That made them lovely in that vanished day;<br /> +Nay, the mere walls themselves would soon be gone<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span>And nought be left but heaps of mouldering stone.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But he, when all the place he had gone o'er.</span><br /> +And with much trouble clomb the broken stair,<br /> +And from the topmost turret seen the shore<br /> +And his good ship drawn up at anchor there,<br /> +Came down again, and found a crypt most fair<br /> +Built wonderfully beneath the greatest hall,<br /> +And there he saw a door within the wall,<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Well-hinged, close shut; nor was there in that place</span><br /> +Another on its hinges, therefore he<br /> +Stood there and pondered for a little space,<br /> +And thought, "Perchance some marvel I shall see,<br /> +For surely here some dweller there must be,<br /> +Because this door seems whole, and new, and sound.<br /> +While nought but ruin I can see around."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So with that word, moved by a strong desire,</span><br /> +He tried the hasp, that yielded to his hand,<br /> +And in a strange place, lit as by a fire<br /> +Unseen but near, he presently did stand;<br /> +And by an odorous breeze his face was fanned,<br /> +As though in some Arabian plain he stood,<br /> +Anigh the border of a spice-tree wood.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He moved not for awhile, but looking round,</span><br /> +He wondered much to see the place so fair,<br /> +Because, unlike the castle above ground,<br /> +No pillager or wrecker had been there;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span>It seemed that time had passed on otherwhere,<br /> +Nor laid a finger on this hidden place,<br /> +Rich with the wealth of some forgotten race.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With hangings, fresh as when they left the loom,</span><br /> +The walls were hung a space above the head,<br /> +Slim ivory chairs were set about the room,<br /> +And in one corner was a dainty bed,<br /> +That seemed for some fair queen apparelléd;<br /> +And marble was the worst stone of the floor,<br /> +That with rich Indian webs was covered o'er.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The wanderer trembled when he saw all this,</span><br /> +Because he deemed by magic it was wrought;<br /> +Yet in his heart a longing for some bliss,<br /> +Whereof the hard and changing world knows nought,<br /> +Arose and urged him on, and dimmed the thought<br /> +That there perchance some devil lurked to slay<br /> +The heedless wanderer from the light of day.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Over against him was another door</span><br /> +Set in the wall, so, casting fear aside,<br /> +With hurried steps he crossed the varied floor,<br /> +And there again the silver latch he tried<br /> +And with no pain the door he opened wide,<br /> +And entering the new chamber cautiously<br /> +The glory of great heaps of gold could see.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Upon the floor uncounted medals lay,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span>Like things of little value; here and there<br /> +Stood golden caldrons, that might well outweigh<br /> +The biggest midst an emperor's copper-ware,<br /> +And golden cups were set on tables fair,<br /> +Themselves of gold; and in all hollow things<br /> +Were stored great gems, worthy the crowns of kings.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The walls and roof with gold were overlaid,</span><br /> +And precious raiment from the wall hung down;<br /> +The fall of kings that treasure might have stayed,<br /> +Or gained some longing conqueror great renown,<br /> +Or built again some god-destroyed old town;<br /> +What wonder, if this plunderer of the sea<br /> +Stood gazing at it long and dizzily?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But at the last his troubled eyes and dazed</span><br /> +He lifted from the glory of that gold,<br /> +And then the image, that well-nigh erased<br /> +Over the castle-gate he did behold,<br /> +Above a door well wrought in coloured gold<br /> +Again he saw; a naked girl with wings<br /> +Enfolded in a serpent's scaly rings.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And even as his eyes were fixed on it</span><br /> +A woman's voice came from the other side,<br /> +And through his heart strange hopes began to flit<br /> +That in some wondrous land he might abide<br /> +Not dying, master of a deathless bride,<br /> +So o'er the gold which now he scarce could see<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span>He went, and passed this last door eagerly.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then in a room he stood wherein there was</span><br /> +A marble bath, whose brimming water yet<br /> +Was scarcely still; a vessel of green glass<br /> +Half full of odorous ointment was there set<br /> +Upon the topmost step that still was wet,<br /> +And jewelled shoes and women's dainty gear,<br /> +Lay cast upon the varied pavement near.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In one quick glance these things his eyes did see,</span><br /> +But speedily they turned round to behold<br /> +Another sight, for throned on ivory<br /> +There sat a woman, whose wet tresses rolled<br /> +On to the floor in waves of gleaming gold,<br /> +Cast back from such a form as, erewhile shown<br /> +To one poor shepherd, lighted up Troy town.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Naked she was, the kisses of her feet</span><br /> +Upon the floor a dying path had made<br /> +From the full bath unto her ivory seat;<br /> +In her right hand, upon her bosom laid,<br /> +She held a golden comb, a mirror weighed<br /> +Her left hand down, aback her fair head lay<br /> +Dreaming awake of some long vanished day.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Her eyes were shut, but she seemed not to sleep,</span><br /> +Her lips were murmuring things unheard and low,<br /> +Or sometimes twitched as though she needs must weep<br /> +Though from her eyes the tears refused to flow,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span>And oft with heavenly red her cheek did glow,<br /> +As if remembrance of some half-sweet shame<br /> +Across the web of many memories came.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">There stood the man, scarce daring to draw breath</span><br /> +For fear the lovely sight should fade away;<br /> +Forgetting heaven, forgetting life and death,<br /> +Trembling for fear lest something he should say<br /> +Unwitting, lest some sob should yet betray<br /> +His presence there, for to his eager eyes<br /> +Already did the tears begin to rise.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But as he gazed she moved, and with a sigh</span><br /> +Bent forward, dropping down her golden head;<br /> +"Alas, alas! another day gone by,<br /> +Another day and no soul come," she said;<br /> +"Another year, and still I am not dead!"<br /> +And with that word once more her head she raised,<br /> +And on the trembling man with great eyes gazed.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then he imploring hands to her did reach,</span><br /> +And toward her very slowly 'gan to move<br /> +And with wet eyes her pity did beseech,<br /> +And seeing her about to speak he strove<br /> +From trembling lips to utter words of love;<br /> +But with a look she stayed his doubtful feet,<br /> +And made sweet music as their eyes did meet.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For now she spoke in gentle voice and clear,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span>Using the Greek tongue that he knew full well;<br /> +"What man art thou, that thus hast wandered here.<br /> +And found this lonely chamber where I dwell?<br /> +Beware, beware! for I have many a spell;<br /> +If greed of power and gold have led thee on,<br /> +Not lightly shall this untold wealth be won.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"But if thou com'st here, knowing of my tale,</span><br /> +In hope to bear away my body fair,<br /> +Stout must thine heart be, nor shall that avail<br /> +If thou a wicked soul in thee dost bear;<br /> +So once again I bid thee to beware,<br /> +Because no base man things like this may see,<br /> +And live thereafter long and happily."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Lady," he said, "in Florence is my home,</span><br /> +And in my city noble is my name;<br /> +Neither on peddling voyage am I come,<br /> +But, like my fathers, bent to gather fame;<br /> +And though thy face has set my heart a-flame<br /> +Yet of thy story nothing do I know,<br /> +But here have wandered heedlessly enow.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"But since the sight of thee mine eyes did bless,</span><br /> +What can I be but thine? what wouldst thou have?<br /> +From those thy words, I deem from some distress<br /> +By deeds of mine thy dear life I might save;<br /> +O then, delay not! if one ever gave<br /> +His life to any, mine I give to thee;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span>Come, tell me what the price of love must be?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Swift death, to be with thee a day and night</span><br /> +And with the earliest dawning to be slain?<br /> +Or better, a long year of great delight,<br /> +And many years of misery and pain?<br /> +Or worse, and this poor hour for all my gain?<br /> +A sorry merchant am I on this day,<br /> +E'en as thou wiliest so must I obey."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">She said, "What brave words! nought divine am I,</span><br /> +But an unhappy and unheard-of maid<br /> +Compelled by evil fate and destiny<br /> +To live, who long ago should have been laid<br /> +Under the earth within the cypress shade.<br /> +Hearken awhile, and quickly shalt thou know<br /> +What deed I pray thee to accomplish now.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"God grant indeed thy words are not for nought!</span><br /> +Then shalt thou save me, since for many a day<br /> +To such a dreadful life I have been brought:<br /> +Nor will I spare with all my heart to pay<br /> +What man soever takes my grief away;<br /> +Ah! I will love thee, if thou lovest me<br /> +But well enough my saviour now to be.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"My father lived a many years agone</span><br /> +Lord of this land, master of all cunning,<br /> +Who ruddy gold could draw from out grey stone,<br /> +And gather wealth from many an uncouth thing,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span>He made the wilderness rejoice and sing,<br /> +And such a leech he was that none could say<br /> +Without his word what soul should pass away.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Unto Diana such a gift he gave,</span><br /> +Goddess above, below, and on the earth,<br /> +That I should be her virgin and her slave<br /> +From the first hour of my most wretched birth;<br /> +Therefore my life had known but little mirth<br /> +When I had come unto my twentieth year<br /> +And the last time of hallowing drew anear.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"So in her temple had I lived and died</span><br /> +And all would long ago have passed away,<br /> +But ere that time came, did strange things betide,<br /> +Whereby I am alive unto this day;<br /> +Alas, the bitter words that I must say!<br /> +Ah! can I bring my wretched tongue to tell<br /> +How I was brought unto this fearful hell.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"A queen I was, what gods I knew I loved,</span><br /> +And nothing evil was there in my thought,<br /> +And yet by love my wretched heart was moved<br /> +Until to utter ruin I was brought!<br /> +Alas! thou sayest our gods were vain and nought,<br /> +Wait, wait, till thou hast heard this tale of mine.<br /> +Then shalt thou think them devilish or divine.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Hearken! in spite of father and of vow</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span>I loved a man; but for that sin I think<br /> +Men had forgiven me—yea, yea, even thou;<br /> +But from the gods the full cup must I drink,<br /> +And into misery unheard of sink,<br /> +Tormented when their own names are forgot,<br /> +And men must doubt e'er if they lived or not.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Glorious my lover was unto my sight,</span><br /> +Most beautiful,—of love we grew so fain<br /> +That we at last agreed, that on a night<br /> +We should be happy, but that he were slain<br /> +Or shut in hold, and neither joy nor pain<br /> +Should else forbid that hoped-for time to be;<br /> +So came the night that made a wretch of me.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Ah I well do I remember all that night,</span><br /> +When through the window shone the orb of June,<br /> +And by the bed flickered the taper's light,<br /> +Whereby I trembled, gazing at the moon:<br /> +Ah me! the meeting that we had, when soon<br /> +Into his strong, well-trusted arms I fell,<br /> +And many a sorrow we began to tell.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Ah me I what parting on that night we had!</span><br /> +I think the story of my great despair<br /> +A little while might merry folk make sad;<br /> +For, as he swept away my yellow hair<br /> +To make my shoulder and my bosom bare,<br /> +I raised mine eyes, and shuddering could behold<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span>A shadow cast upon the bed of gold:<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Then suddenly was quenched my hot desire</span><br /> +And he untwined his arms; the moon so pale<br /> +A while ago, seemed changed to blood and fire,<br /> +And yet my limbs beneath me did not fail,<br /> +And neither had I strength to cry or wail,<br /> +But stood there helpless, bare, and shivering,<br /> +With staring eyes still fixed upon the thing.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Because the shade that on the bed of gold</span><br /> +The changed and dreadful moon was throwing down<br /> +Was of Diana, whom I did behold,<br /> +With knotted hair, and shining girt-up gown,<br /> +And on the high white brow, a deadly frown<br /> +Bent upon us, who stood scarce drawing breath,<br /> +Striving to meet the horrible sure death.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"No word at all the dreadful goddess said,</span><br /> +But soon across my feet my lover lay,<br /> +And well indeed I knew that he was dead;<br /> +And would that I had died on that same day!<br /> +For in a while the image turned away,<br /> +And without words my doom I understood,<br /> +And felt a horror change my human blood.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"And there I fell, and on the floor I lay</span><br /> +By the dead man, till daylight came on me,<br /> +And not a word thenceforward could I say<br /> +For three years, till of grief and misery,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span>The lingering pest, the cruel enemy,<br /> +My father and his folk were dead and gone,<br /> +And in this castle I was left alone:<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"And then the doom foreseen upon me fell,</span><br /> +For Queen Diana did my body change<br /> +Into a fork-tongued dragon flesh and fell,<br /> +And through the island nightly do I range,<br /> +Or in the green sea mate with monsters strange,<br /> +When in the middle of the moonlit night<br /> +The sleepy mariner I do affright.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"But all day long upon this gold I lie</span><br /> +Within this place, where never mason's hand<br /> +Smote trowel on the marble noisily;<br /> +Drowsy I lie, no folk at my command,<br /> +Who once was called the Lady of the Land;<br /> +Who might have bought a kingdom with a kiss,<br /> +Yea, half the world with such a sight as this."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And therewithal, with rosy fingers light,</span><br /> +Backward her heavy-hanging hair she threw,<br /> +To give her naked beauty more to sight;<br /> +But when, forgetting all the things he knew,<br /> +Maddened with love unto the prize he drew,<br /> +She cried, "Nay, wait! for wherefore wilt thou die,<br /> +Why should we not be happy, thou and I?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Wilt thou not save me? once in every year</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span>This rightful form of mine that thou dost see<br /> +By favour of the goddess have I here<br /> +From sunrise unto sunset given me,<br /> +That some brave man may end my misery.<br /> +And thou—art thou not brave? can thy heart fail,<br /> +Whose eyes e'en now are weeping at my tale?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Then listen! when this day is overpast,</span><br /> +A fearful monster shall I be again,<br /> +And thou mayst be my saviour at the last,<br /> +Unless, once more, thy words are nought and vain;<br /> +If thou of love and sovereignty art fain,<br /> +Come thou next morn, and when thou seest here<br /> +A hideous dragon, have thereof no fear,<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"But take the loathsome head up in thine hands,</span><br /> +And kiss it, and be master presently<br /> +Of twice the wealth that is in all the lands,<br /> +From Cathay to the head of Italy;<br /> +And master also, if it pleaseth thee,<br /> +Of all thou praisest as so fresh and bright,<br /> +Of what thou callest crown of all delight.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Ah! with what joy then shall I see again</span><br /> +The sunlight on the green grass and the trees,<br /> +And hear the clatter of the summer rain,<br /> +And see the joyous folk beyond the seas.<br /> +Ah, me! to hold my child upon my knees,<br /> +After the weeping of unkindly tears,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span>And all the wrongs of these four hundred years.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Go now, go quick! leave this grey heap of stone;</span><br /> +And from thy glad heart think upon thy way,<br /> +How I shall love thee—yea, love thee alone,<br /> +That bringest me from dark death unto day;<br /> +For this shall be thy wages and thy pay;<br /> +Unheard-of wealth, unheard-of love is near,<br /> +If thou hast heart a little dread to bear."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Therewith she turned to go; but he cried out,</span><br /> +"Ah! wilt thou leave me then without one kiss,<br /> +To slay the very seeds of fear and doubt,<br /> +That glad to-morrow may bring certain bliss?<br /> +Hast thou forgotten how love lives by this,<br /> +The memory of some hopeful close embrace,<br /> +Low whispered words within some lonely place?"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But she, when his bright glittering eyes she saw,</span><br /> +And burning cheeks, cried out, "Alas, alas!<br /> +Must I be quite undone, and wilt thou draw<br /> +A worse fate on me than the first one was?<br /> +O haste thee from this fatal place to pass!<br /> +Yet, ere thou goest, take this, lest thou shouldst deem<br /> +Thou hast been fooled by some strange midday dream."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So saying, blushing like a new-kissed maid,</span><br /> +From off her neck a little gem she drew,<br /> +That, 'twixt those snowy rose-tinged hillocks laid,<br /> +The secrets of her glorious beauty knew;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span>And ere he well perceived what she would do,<br /> +She touched his hand, the gem within it lay,<br /> +And, turning, from his sight she fled away.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then at the doorway where her rosy heel</span><br /> +Had glanced and vanished, he awhile did stare,<br /> +And still upon his hand he seemed to feel<br /> +The varying kisses of her fingers fair;<br /> +Then turned he toward the dreary crypt and bare,<br /> +And dizzily throughout the castle passed,<br /> +Till by the ruined fane he stood at last.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then weighing still the gem within his hand,</span><br /> +He stumbled backward through the cypress wood,<br /> +Thinking the while of some strange lovely land,<br /> +Where all his life should be most fair and good;<br /> +Till on the valley's wall of hills he stood,<br /> +And slowly thence passed down unto the bay<br /> +Red with the death of that bewildering day.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">T</span><span class="caps">he</span> next day came, and he, who all the night</span><br /> +Had ceaselessly been turning in his bed,<br /> +Arose and clad himself in armour bright,<br /> +And many a danger he rememberéd;<br /> +Storming of towns, lone sieges full of dread,<br /> +That with renown his heart had borne him through,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span>And this thing seemed a little thing to do.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So on he went, and on the way he thought</span><br /> +Of all the glorious things of yesterday,<br /> +Nought of the price whereat they must be bought,<br /> +But ever to himself did softly say,<br /> +"No roaming now, my wars are passed away,<br /> +No long dull days devoid of happiness,<br /> +When such a love my yearning heart shall bless."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thus to the castle did he come at last,</span><br /> +But when unto the gateway he drew near,<br /> +And underneath its ruined archway passed<br /> +Into the court, a strange noise did he hear,<br /> +And through his heart there shot a pang of fear,<br /> +Trembling, he gat his sword into his hand,<br /> +And midmost of the cloisters took his stand.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But for a while that unknown noise increased</span><br /> +A rattling, that with strident roars did blend,<br /> +And whining moans; but suddenly it ceased,<br /> +A fearful thing stood at the cloister's end,<br /> +And eyed him for a while, then 'gan to wend<br /> +Adown the cloisters, and began again<br /> +That rattling, and the moan like fiends in pain.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And as it came on towards him, with its teeth</span><br /> +The body of a slain goat did it tear,<br /> +The blood whereof in its hot jaws did seethe,<br /> +And on its tongue he saw the smoking hair;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span>Then his heart sank, and standing trembling there,<br /> +Throughout his mind wild thoughts and fearful ran,<br /> +"Some fiend she was," he said, "the bane of man."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet he abode her still, although his blood</span><br /> +Curdled within him: the thing dropped the goat,<br /> +And creeping on, came close to where he stood,<br /> +And raised its head to him, and wrinkled throat,<br /> +Then he cried out and wildly at her smote,<br /> +Shutting his eyes, and turned and from the place<br /> +Ran swiftly, with a white and ghastly face.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But little things rough stones and tree-trunks seemed,</span><br /> +And if he fell, he rose and ran on still;<br /> +No more he felt his hurts than if he dreamed,<br /> +He made no stay for valley or steep hill,<br /> +Heedless he dashed through many a foaming rill,<br /> +Until he came unto the ship at last<br /> +And with no word into the deep hold passed.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Meanwhile the dragon, seeing him clean gone.</span><br /> +Followed him not, but crying horribly,<br /> +Caught up within her jaws a block of stone<br /> +And ground it into powder, then turned she,<br /> +With cries that folk could hear far out at sea,<br /> +And reached the treasure set apart of old,<br /> +To brood above the hidden heaps of gold.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet was she seen again on many a day</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span>By some half-waking mariner, or herd,<br /> +Playing amid the ripples of the bay,<br /> +Or on the hills making all things afeard,<br /> +Or in the wood, that did that castle gird,<br /> +But never any man again durst go<br /> +To seek her woman's form, and end her woe.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As for the man, who knows what things he bore?</span><br /> +What mournful faces peopled the sad night,<br /> +What wailings vexed him with reproaches sore,<br /> +What images of that nigh-gained delight!<br /> +What dreamed caresses from soft hands and white,<br /> +Turning to horrors ere they reached the best,<br /> +What struggles vain, what shame, what huge unrest?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">No man he knew, three days he lay and raved,</span><br /> +And cried for death, until a lethargy<br /> +Fell on him, and his fellows thought him saved;<br /> +But on the third night he awoke to die;<br /> +And at Byzantium doth his body lie<br /> +Between two blossoming pomegranate trees,<br /> +Within the churchyard of the Genoese.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">A</span> <span class="caps">moment's</span> silence as his tale had end,</span><br /> +And then the wind of that June night did blend<br /> +Their varied voices, as of that and this<br /> +They fell to talk: of those fair islands' bliss<br /> +They knew in other days, of hope they had<br /> +To live there long an easy life and glad,<br /> +With nought to vex them; and the younger men<br /> +Began to nourish strange dreams even then<br /> +Of sailing east, as these had once sailed west;<br /> +Because the story of that luckless quest<br /> +With hope, not fear, had filled their joyous hearts<br /> +And made them dream of new and noble parts<br /> +That they might act; of raising up the name<br /> +Their fathers bore, and winning boundless fame.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">These too with little patience seemed to hear,</span><br /> +That story end with shame and grief and fear;<br /> +A little thing the man had had to do,<br /> +They said, if longing burned within him so.<br /> +But at their words the older men must bow<br /> +Their heads, and, smiling, somewhat thoughtful grow,<br /> +Remembering well how fear in days gone by<br /> +Had dealt with them, and poisoned wretchedly<br /> +Good days, good deeds, and longings for all good:<br /> +Yet on the evil times they would not brood,<br /> +But sighing, strove to raise the weight of years,<br /> +And no more memory of their hopes and fears<br /> +They nourished, but such gentle thoughts as fed<br /> +The pensiveness which that sweet season bred.</p></div> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span></p> +<h2>JULY.</h2> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">F</span><span class="caps">air</span> was the morn to-day, the blossom's scent</span><br /> +Floated across the fresh grass, and the bees<br /> +With low vexed song from rose to lily went,<br /> +A gentle wind was in the heavy trees,<br /> +And thine eyes shone with joyous memories;<br /> +Fair was the early morn, and fair wert thou,<br /> +And I was happy—Ah, be happy now!<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Peace and content without us, love within</span><br /> +That hour there was, now thunder and wild rain,<br /> +Have wrapped the cowering world, and foolish sin,<br /> +And nameless pride, have made us wise in vain;<br /> +Ah, love! although the morn shall come again,<br /> +And on new rose-buds the new sun shall smile,<br /> +Can we regain what we have lost meanwhile?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">E'en now the west grows clear of storm and threat,</span><br /> +But midst the lightning did the fair sun die—<br /> +—Ah, he shall rise again for ages yet,<br /> +He cannot waste his life—but thou and I—<br /> +Who knows if next morn this felicity<br /> +My lips may feel, or if thou still shalt live<br /> +This seal of love renewed once more to give?</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">W</span><span class="caps">ithin</span> a lovely valley, watered well</span><br /> +With flowery streams, the July feast befell,<br /> +And there within the Chief-priest's fair abode<br /> +They cast aside their trouble's heavy load,<br /> +Scarce made aweary by the sultry day.<br /> +The earth no longer laboured; shaded lay<br /> +The sweet-breathed kine, across the sunny vale,<br /> +From hill to hill the wandering rook did sail,<br /> +Lazily croaking, midst his dreams of spring,<br /> +Nor more awake the pink-foot dove did cling<br /> +Unto the beech-bough, murmuring now and then;<br /> +All rested but the restless sons of men<br /> +And the great sun that wrought this happiness,<br /> +And all the vale with fruitful hopes did bless.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So in a marble chamber bright with flowers,</span><br /> +The old men feasted through the fresher hours,<br /> +And at the hottest time of all the day<br /> +When now the sun was on his downward way,<br /> +Sat listening to a tale an elder told,<br /> +New to his fathers while they yet did hold<br /> +The cities of some far-off Grecian isle,<br /> +Though in the heavens the cloud of force and guile<br /> +Was gathering dark that sent them o'er the sea<br /> +To win new lands for their posterity.</p></div> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE SON OF CRŒSUS.</h2> + +<h3>ARGUMENT.</h3> + +<p class="hang">Crœsus, 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.</p> +<p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">O</span><span class="caps">f</span> Crœsus tells my tale, a king of old</span><br /> +In Lydia, ere the Mede fell on the land,<br /> +A man made mighty by great heaps of gold,<br /> +Feared for the myriads strong of heart and hand<br /> +That 'neath his banners wrought out his command,<br /> +And though his latter ending happed on ill,<br /> +Yet first of every joy he had his fill.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Two sons he had, and one was dumb from birth;</span><br /> +The other one, that Atys had to name,<br /> +Grew up a fair youth, and of might and worth,<br /> +And well it seemed the race wherefrom he came<br /> +From him should never get reproach or shame:<br /> +But yet no stroke he struck before his death,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span>In no war-shout he spent his latest breath.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now Crœsus, lying on his bed anight</span><br /> +Dreamed that he saw this dear son laid a-low,<br /> +And folk lamenting he was slain outright,<br /> +And that some iron thing had dealt the blow;<br /> +By whose hand guided he could nowise know,<br /> +Or if in peace by traitors it were done,<br /> +Or in some open war not yet begun.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Three times one night this vision broke his sleep,</span><br /> +So that at last he rose up from his bed,<br /> +That he might ponder how he best might keep<br /> +The threatened danger from so dear a head;<br /> +And, since he now was old enough to wed,<br /> +The King sent men to search the lands around,<br /> +Until some matchless maiden should be found;<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That in her arms this Atys might forget</span><br /> +The praise of men, and fame of history,<br /> +Whereby full many a field has been made wet<br /> +With blood of men, and many a deep green sea<br /> +Been reddened therewithal, and yet shall be;<br /> +That her sweet voice might drown the people's praise,<br /> +Her eyes make bright the uneventful days.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So when at last a wonder they had brought,</span><br /> +From some sweet land down by the ocean's rim.<br /> +Than whom no fairer could by man be thought,<br /> +And ancient dames, scanning her limb by limb,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span>Had said that she was fair enough for him,<br /> +To her was Atys married with much show,<br /> +And looked to dwell with her in bliss enow.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And in meantime afield he never went,</span><br /> +Either to hunting or the frontier war,<br /> +No dart was cast, nor any engine bent<br /> +Anigh him, and the Lydian men afar<br /> +Must rein their steeds, and the bright blossoms mar<br /> +If they have any lust of tourney now,<br /> +And in far meadows must they bend the bow.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And also through the palace everywhere</span><br /> +The swords and spears were taken from the wall<br /> +That long with honour had been hanging there,<br /> +And from the golden pillars of the hall;<br /> +Lest by mischance some sacred blade should fall,<br /> +And in its falling bring revenge at last<br /> +For many a fatal battle overpast.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And every day King Crœsus wrought with care</span><br /> +To save his dear son from that threatened end,<br /> +And many a beast he offered up with prayer<br /> +Unto the gods, and much of wealth did spend,<br /> +That they so prayed might yet perchance defend<br /> +That life, until at least that he were dead,<br /> +With earth laid heavy on his unseeing head.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But in the midst even of the wedding feast</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span>There came a man, who by the golden hall<br /> +Sat down upon the steps, and man or beast<br /> +He heeded not, but there against the wall<br /> +He leaned his head, speaking no word at all,<br /> +Till, with his son and son's wife, came the King,<br /> +And then unto his gown the man did cling.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"What man art thou?" the King said to him then,</span><br /> +"That in such guise thou prayest on thy knee;<br /> +Hast thou some fell foe here among my men?<br /> +Or hast thou done an ill deed unto me?<br /> +Or has thy wife been carried over sea?<br /> +Or hast thou on this day great need of gold?<br /> +Or say, why else thou now art grown so bold."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"O King," he said, "I ask no gold to-day,</span><br /> +And though indeed thy greatness drew me here,<br /> +No wrong have I that thou couldst wipe away;<br /> +And nought of mine the pirate folk did bear<br /> +Across the sea; none of thy folk I fear:<br /> +But all the gods are now mine enemies,<br /> +Therefore I kneel before thee on my knees.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"For as with mine own brother on a day</span><br /> +Within the running place at home I played,<br /> +Unwittingly I smote him such-a-way<br /> +That dead upon the green grass he was laid;<br /> +Half-dead myself I fled away dismayed,<br /> +Wherefore I pray thee help me in my need,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span>And purify my soul of this sad deed.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"If of my name and country thou wouldst know,</span><br /> +In Phrygia yet my father is a king,<br /> +Gordius, the son of Midas, rich enow<br /> +In corn and cattle, golden cup and ring;<br /> +And mine own name before I did this thing<br /> +Was called Adrastus, whom, in street and hall,<br /> +The slayer of his brother men now call."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Friend," said the King, "have thou no fear of me;</span><br /> +For though, indeed, I am right happy now,<br /> +Yet well I know this may not always be,<br /> +And I may chance some day to kneel full low,<br /> +And to some happy man mine head to bow<br /> +With prayers to do a greater thing than this,<br /> +Dwell thou with us, and win again thy bliss.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"For in this city men in sport and play</span><br /> +Forget the trouble that the gods have sent;<br /> +Who therewithal send wine, and many a may<br /> +As fair as she for whom the Trojan went,<br /> +And many a dear delight besides have lent,<br /> +Which, whoso is well loved of them shall keep<br /> +Till in forgetful death he falls asleep.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Therefore to-morrow shall those rites be done</span><br /> +That kindred blood demands that thou hast shed,<br /> +That if the mouth of thine own mother's son<br /> +Did hap to curse thee ere he was quite dead,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span>The curse may lie the lighter on thine head,<br /> +Because the flower-crowned head of many a beast<br /> +Has fallen voiceless in our glorious feast."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then did Adrastus rise and thank the King,</span><br /> +And the next day when yet low was the sun,<br /> +The sacrifice and every other thing<br /> +That unto these dread rites belonged, was done;<br /> +And there Adrastus dwelt, hated of none,<br /> +And loved of many, and the King loved him,<br /> +For brave and wise he was and strong of limb.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But chiefly amongst all did Atys love</span><br /> +The luckless stranger, whose fair tales of war<br /> +The Lydian's heart abundantly did move,<br /> +And much they talked of wandering out afar<br /> +Some day, to lands where many marvels are,<br /> +With still the Phrygian through all things to be<br /> +The leader unto all felicity.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now at this time folk came unto the King</span><br /> +Who on a forest's borders dwelling were,<br /> +Wherein there roamed full many a dangerous thing,<br /> +As wolf and wild bull, lion and brown bear;<br /> +But chiefly in that forest was the lair<br /> +Of a great boar that no man could withstand.<br /> +And many a woe he wrought upon the land.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Since long ago that men in Calydon</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span>Held chase, no beast like him had once been seen<br /> +He ruined vineyards lying in the sun,<br /> +After his harvesting the men must glean<br /> +What he had left; right glad they had not been<br /> +Among the tall stalks of the ripening wheat,<br /> +The fell destroyer's fatal tusks to meet.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For often would the lonely man entrapped</span><br /> +In vain from his dire fury strive to hide<br /> +In some thick hedge, and other whiles it happed<br /> +Some careless stranger by his place would ride,<br /> +And the tusks smote his fallen horse's side,<br /> +And what help then to such a wretch could come<br /> +With sword he could not draw, and far from home?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or else girls, sent their water-jars to fill,</span><br /> +Would come back pale, too terrified to cry,<br /> +Because they had but seen him from the hill;<br /> +Or else again with side rent wretchedly,<br /> +Some hapless damsel midst the brake would lie.<br /> +Shortly to say, there neither man nor maid<br /> +Was safe afield whether they wrought or played.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Therefore were come these dwellers by the wood</span><br /> +To pray the King brave men to them to send,<br /> +That they might live; and if he deemed it good,<br /> +That Atys with the other knights should wend,<br /> +They thought their grief the easier should have end;<br /> +For both by gods and men they knew him loved,<br /> +And easily by hope of glory moved.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"O Sire," they said, "thou know'st how Hercules</span><br /> +Was not content to wait till folk asked aid,<br /> +But sought the pests among their guarded trees;<br /> +Thou know'st what name the Theban Cadmus made,<br /> +And how the bull of Marathon was laid<br /> +Dead on the fallows of the Athenian land,<br /> +And how folk worshipped Atalanta's hand.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Fair would thy son's name look upon the roll</span><br /> +Wherein such noble deeds as this are told;<br /> +And great delight shall surely fill thy soul,<br /> +Thinking upon his deeds when thou art old,<br /> +And thy brave heart is waxen faint and cold:<br /> +Dost thou not know, O King, how men will strive<br /> +That they, when dead, still in their sons may live?"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He shuddered as they spoke, because he thought,</span><br /> +Most certainly a winning tale is this<br /> +To draw him from the net where he is caught,<br /> +For hearts of men grow weary of all bliss;<br /> +Nor is he one to be content with his,<br /> +If he should hear the trumpet-blast of fame<br /> +And far-off people calling on his name.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Good friends," he said, "go, get ye back again.</span><br /> +And doubt not I will send you men to slay<br /> +This pest ye fear: yet shall your prayer be vain<br /> +If ye with any other speak to-day;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span>And for my son, with me he needs must stay,<br /> +For mighty cares oppress the Lydian land.<br /> +Fear not, for ye shall have a noble band."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And with that promise must they be content,</span><br /> +And so departed, having feasted well.<br /> +And yet some god or other ere they went,<br /> +If they were silent, this their tale must tell<br /> +To more than one man; therefore it befell,<br /> +That at the last Prince Atys knew the thing,<br /> +And came with angry eyes unto the King.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Father," he said, "since when am I grown vile</span><br /> +Since when am I grown helpless of my hands?<br /> +Or else what folk, with words enwrought with guile<br /> +Thine ears have poisoned; that when far-off lands<br /> +My fame might fill, by thy most strange commands<br /> +I needs must stay within this slothful home,<br /> +Whereto would God that I had never come?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"What! wilt thou take mine honour quite away</span><br /> +Wouldst thou, that, as with her I just have wed<br /> +I sit among thy folk at end of day,<br /> +She should be ever turning round her head<br /> +To watch some man for war apparelled<br /> +Because he wears a sword that he may use,<br /> +Which grace to me thou ever wilt refuse?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Or dost thou think, when thou hast run thy race</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span>And thou art gone, and in thy stead I reign,<br /> +The people will do honour to my place,<br /> +Or that the lords leal men will still remain,<br /> +If yet my father's sword be sharp in vain?<br /> +If on the wall his armour still hang up,<br /> +While for a spear I hold a drinking-cup?"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"O Son!" quoth Crœsus, "well I know thee brave</span><br /> +And worthy of high deeds of chivalry;<br /> +Therefore the more thy dear life would I save,<br /> +Which now is threatened by the gods on high;<br /> +Three times one night I dreamed I saw thee die,<br /> +Slain by some deadly iron-pointed thing,<br /> +While weeping lords stood round thee in a ring."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then loud laughed Atys, and he said again,</span><br /> +"Father, and did this ugly dream tell thee<br /> +What day it was on which I should be slain?<br /> +As may the gods grant I may one day be,<br /> +And not from sickness die right wretchedly,<br /> +Groaning with pain, my lords about my bed,<br /> +Wishing to God that I were fairly dead;<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"But slain in battle, as the Lydian kings</span><br /> +Have died ere now, in some great victory,<br /> +While all about the Lydian shouting rings<br /> +Death to the beaten foemen as they fly.<br /> +What death but this, O father! should I die?<br /> +But if my life by iron shall be done,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span>What steel to-day shall glitter in the sun?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Yea, father, if to thee it seemeth good</span><br /> +To keep me from the bright steel-bearing throng,<br /> +Let me be brave at least within the wood;<br /> +For surely, if thy dream be true, no wrong<br /> +Can hap to me from this beast's tushes strong:<br /> +Unless perchance the beast is grown so wise,<br /> +He haunts the forest clad in Lydian guise."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then Crœsus said: "O Son, I love thee so,</span><br /> +That thou shalt do thy will upon this tide:<br /> +But since unto this hunting thou must go,<br /> +A trusty friend along with thee shall ride,<br /> +Who not for anything shall leave thy side.<br /> +I think, indeed, he loves thee well enow<br /> +To thrust his heart 'twixt thee and any blow.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Go then, O Son, and if by some short span</span><br /> +Thy life be measured, how shall it harm thee,<br /> +If while life last thou art a happy man?<br /> +And thou art happy; only unto me<br /> +Is trembling left, and infelicity:<br /> +The trembling of the man who loves on earth,<br /> +But unto thee is hope and present mirth.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Nay, be thou not ashamed, for on this day</span><br /> +I fear not much: thou read'st my dream aright,<br /> +No teeth or claws shall take thy life away.<br /> +And it may chance, ere thy last glorious fight,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span>I shall be blinded by the endless night;<br /> +And brave Adrastus on this day shall be<br /> +Thy safeguard, and shall give good heart to me.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Go then, and send him hither, and depart;</span><br /> +And as the heroes did so mayst thou do,<br /> +Winning such fame as well may please thine heart."<br /> +With that word from the King did Atys go,<br /> +Who, left behind, sighed, saying, "May it be so,<br /> +Even as I hope; and yet I would to God<br /> +These men upon my threshold ne'er had trod."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So when Adrastus to the King was come</span><br /> +He said unto him, "O my Phrygian friend,<br /> +We in this land have given thee a home,<br /> +And 'gainst all foes your life will we defend:<br /> +Wherefore for us that life thou shouldest spend,<br /> +If any day there should be need therefor;<br /> +And now a trusty friend I need right sore.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Doubtless ere now thou hast heard many say</span><br /> +There is a doom that threatens my son's life;<br /> +Therefore this place is stript of arms to-day,<br /> +And therefore still bides Atys with his wife,<br /> +And tempts not any god by raising strife;<br /> +Yet none the less by no desire of his,<br /> +To whom would war be most abundant bliss.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"And since to-day some glory he may gain</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span>Against a monstrous bestial enemy<br /> +And that the meaning of my dream is plain;<br /> +That saith that he by steel alone shall die,<br /> +His burning wish I may not well deny,<br /> +Therefore afield to-morrow doth he wend<br /> +And herein mayst thou show thyself my friend—<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"For thou as captain of his band shalt ride,</span><br /> +And keep a watchful eye of everything,<br /> +Nor leave him whatsoever may betide:<br /> +Lo, thou art brave, the son of a great king,<br /> +And with thy praises doth this city ring,<br /> +Why should I tell thee what a name those gain,<br /> +Who dying for their friends, die not in vain?"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then said Adrastus, "Now were I grown base</span><br /> +Beyond all words, if I should spare for aught<br /> +In guarding him, so sit with smiling face,<br /> +And of this matter take no further thought,<br /> +Because with my life shall his life be bought,<br /> +If ill should hap; and no ill fate it were,<br /> +If I should die for what I hold so dear."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then went Adrastus, and next morn all things,</span><br /> +That 'longed unto the hunting were well dight,<br /> +And forth they went clad as the sons of kings,<br /> +Fair was the morn, as through the sunshine bright<br /> +They rode, the Prince half wild with great delight,<br /> +The Phrygian smiling on him soberly,<br /> +And ever looking round with watchful eye.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So through the city all the rout rode fast,</span><br /> +With many a great black-muzzled yellow hound;<br /> +And then the teeming country-side they passed,<br /> +Until they came to sour and rugged ground,<br /> +And there rode up a little heathy mound,<br /> +That overlooked the scrubby woods and low,<br /> +That of the beast's lair somewhat they might know.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And there a good man of the country-side</span><br /> +Showed them the places where he mostly lay;<br /> +And they, descending, through the wood did ride,<br /> +And followed on his tracks for half the day.<br /> +And at the last they brought him well to bay,<br /> +Within an oozy space amidst the wood,<br /> +About the which a ring of alders stood.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So when the hounds' changed voices clear they heard</span><br /> +With hearts aflame on towards him straight they drew<br /> +Atys the first of all, of nought afeard,<br /> +Except that folk should say some other slew<br /> +The beast; and lustily his horn he blew,<br /> +Going afoot; then, mighty spear in hand,<br /> +Adrastus headed all the following band.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now when they came unto the plot of ground</span><br /> +Where stood the boar, hounds dead about him lay<br /> +Or sprawled about, bleeding from many a wound,<br /> +But still the others held him well at bay,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span>Nor had he been bestead thus ere that day.<br /> +But yet, seeing Atys, straight he rushed at him,<br /> +Speckled with foam, bleeding in flank and limb.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then Atys stood and cast his well-steeled spear</span><br /> +With a great shout, and straight and well it flew;<br /> +For now the broad blade cutting through the ear,<br /> +A stream of blood from out the shoulder drew.<br /> +And therewithal another, no less true,<br /> +Adrastus cast, whereby the boar had died:<br /> +But Atys drew the bright sword from his side,<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And to the tottering beast he drew anigh:</span><br /> +But as the sun's rays ran adown the blade<br /> +Adrastus threw a javelin hastily,<br /> +For of the mighty beast was he afraid,<br /> +Lest by his wounds he should not yet be stayed,<br /> +But with a last rush cast his life away,<br /> +And dying there, the son of Crœsus slay.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But even as the feathered dart he hurled,</span><br /> +His strained, despairing eyes, beheld the end,<br /> +And changed seemed all the fashion of the world,<br /> +And past and future into one did blend,<br /> +As he beheld the fixed eyes of his friend,<br /> +That no reproach had in them, and no fear,<br /> +For Death had seized him ere he thought him near.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Adrastus shrieked, and running up he caught</span><br /> +The falling man, and from his bleeding side<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span>Drew out the dart, and, seeing that death had brought<br /> +Deliverance to him, he thereby had died;<br /> +But ere his hand the luckless steel could guide,<br /> +And he the refuge of poor souls could win,<br /> +The horror-stricken huntsmen had rushed in.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And these, with blows and cries he heeded nought</span><br /> +His unresisting hands made haste to bind;<br /> +Then of the alder-boughs a bier they wrought,<br /> +And laid the corpse thereon, and 'gan to wind<br /> +Homeward amidst the tangled wood and blind,<br /> +And going slowly, at the eventide,<br /> +Some leagues from Sardis did that day abide.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Onward next morn the slaughtered man they bore,</span><br /> +With him that slew him, and at end of day<br /> +They reached the city, and with mourning sore<br /> +Toward the King's palace did they take their way.<br /> +He in an open western chamber lay<br /> +Feasting, though inwardly his heart did burn<br /> +Until that Atys should to him return.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And when those wails first smote upon his ear</span><br /> +He set the wine-cup down, and to his feet<br /> +He rose, and bitter all-consuming fear<br /> +Swallowed his joy, and nigh he went to meet<br /> +That which was coming through the weeping street;<br /> +But in the end he thought it good to wait,<br /> +And stood there doubting all the ills of fate.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But when at last up to that royal place</span><br /> +Folk brought the thing he once had held so dear<br /> +Still stood the King, staring with ghastly face<br /> +As they brought forth Adrastus and the bier,<br /> +But spoke at last, slowly without a tear,<br /> +"O Phrygian man, that I did purify,<br /> +Is it through thee that Atys came to die?"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"O King," Adrastus said, "take now my life,</span><br /> +With whatso torment seemeth good to thee,<br /> +As my word went, for I would end this strife,<br /> +And underneath the earth lie quietly;<br /> +Nor is it my will here alive to be:<br /> +For as my brother, so Prince Atys died,<br /> +And this unlucky hand some god did guide."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then as a man constrained, the tale he told</span><br /> +From end to end, nor spared himself one whit:<br /> +And as he spoke, the wood did still behold,<br /> +The trodden grass, and Atys dead on it;<br /> +And many a change o'er the King's face did flit<br /> +Of kingly rage, and hatred and despair,<br /> +As on the slayer's face he still did stare.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">At last he said, "Thy death avails me nought.</span><br /> +The gods themselves have done this bitter deed,<br /> +That I was all too happy was their thought,<br /> +Therefore thy heart is dead and mine doth bleed,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span>And I am helpless as a trodden weed:<br /> +Thou art but as the handle of the spear,<br /> +The caster sits far off from any fear.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Yet, if thy hurt they meant, I can do this,—</span><br /> +—Loose him and let him go in peace from me—<br /> +I will not slay the slayer of all my bliss;<br /> +Yet go, poor man, for when thy face I see<br /> +I curse the gods for their felicity.<br /> +Surely some other slayer they would have found,<br /> +If thou hadst long ago been under ground.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Alas, Adrastus! in my inmost heart</span><br /> +I knew the gods would one day do this thing,<br /> +But deemed indeed that it would be thy part<br /> +To comfort me amidst my sorrowing;<br /> +Make haste to go, for I am still a King!<br /> +Madness may take me, I have many hands<br /> +Who will not spare to do my worst commands."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With that Adrastus' bonds were done away,</span><br /> +And forthwith to the city gates he ran,<br /> +And on the road where they had been that day<br /> +Rushed through the gathering night; and some lone man<br /> +Beheld next day his visage wild and wan,<br /> +Peering from out a thicket of the wood<br /> +Where he had spilt that well-belovéd blood.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And now the day of burial pomp must be,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span>And to those rites all lords of Lydia came<br /> +About the King, and that day, they and he<br /> +Cast royal gifts of rich things on the flame;<br /> +But while they stood and wept, and called by name<br /> +Upon the dead, amidst them came a man<br /> +With raiment rent, and haggard face and wan:<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who when the marshals would have thrust him out</span><br /> +And men looked strange on him, began to say,<br /> +"Surely the world is changed since ye have doubt<br /> +Of who I am; nay, turn me not away,<br /> +For ye have called me princely ere to-day—<br /> +Adrastus, son of Gordius, a great king,<br /> +Where unto Pallas Phrygian maidens sing.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"O Lydians, many a rich thing have ye cast</span><br /> +Into this flame, but I myself will give<br /> +A greater gift, since now I see at last<br /> +The gods are wearied for that still I live,<br /> +And with their will, why should I longer strive?<br /> +Atys, O Atys, thus I give to thee<br /> +A life that lived for thy felicity."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And therewith from his side a knife he drew,</span><br /> +And, crying out, upon the pile he leapt,<br /> +And with one mighty stroke himself he slew.<br /> +So there these princes both together slept,<br /> +And their light ashes, gathered up, were kept<br /> +Within a golden vessel wrought all o'er<br /> +With histories of this hunting of the boar.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">A</span> <span class="caps">gentle</span> wind had risen midst his tale,</span><br /> +That bore the sweet scents of the fertile vale<br /> +In at the open windows; and these men<br /> +The burden of their years scarce noted then,<br /> +Soothed by the sweet luxurious summer time,<br /> +And by the cadence of that ancient rhyme,<br /> +Spite of its saddening import; nay, indeed,<br /> +Of some such thoughts the Wanderers had need<br /> +As that tale gave them—Yea, a man shall be<br /> +A wonder for his glorious chivalry,<br /> +First in all wisdom, of a prudent mind,<br /> +Yet none the less him too his fate shall find<br /> +Unfenced by these, a man 'mongst other men.<br /> +Yea, and will Fortune pick out, now and then,<br /> +The noblest for the anvil of her blows;<br /> +Great names are few, and yet, indeed, who knows<br /> +What greater souls have fallen 'neath the stroke<br /> +Of careless fate? Purblind are most of folk,<br /> +The happy are the masters of the earth<br /> +Which ever give small heed to hapless worth;<br /> +So goes the world, and this we needs must bear<br /> +Like eld and death: yet there were some men there<br /> +Who drank in silence to the memory<br /> +Of those who failed on earth great men to be,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span>Though better than the men who won the crown.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But when the sun was fairly going down</span><br /> +They left the house, and, following up the stream,<br /> +In the low sun saw the kingfisher gleam<br /> +'Twixt bank and alder, and the grebe steal out<br /> +From the high sedge, and, in his restless doubt,<br /> +Dive down, and rise to see what men were there:<br /> +They saw the swallow chase high up in air<br /> +The circling gnats; the shaded dusky pool<br /> +Broke by the splashing chub; the ripple cool,<br /> +Rising and falling, of some distant weir<br /> +They heard, till it oppressed the listening ear,<br /> +As twilight grew: so back they turned again<br /> +Glad of their rest, and pleasure after pain.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">W</span><span class="caps">ithin</span> the gardens once again they met,</span><br /> +That now the roses did well-nigh forget,<br /> +For hot July was drawing to an end,<br /> +And August came the fainting year to mend<br /> +With fruit and grain; so 'neath the trellises,<br /> +Nigh blossomless, did they lie well at ease,<br /> +And watched the poppies burn across the grass,<br /> +And o'er the bindweed's bells the brown bee pass<br /> +Still murmuring of his gains: windless and bright<br /> +The morn had been, to help their dear delight;<br /> +But heavy clouds ere noon grew round the sun,<br /> +And, halfway to the zenith, wild and dun<br /> +The sky grew, and the thunder growled afar;<br /> +But, ere the steely clouds began their war,<br /> +A change there came, and, as by some great hand,<br /> +The clouds that hung in threatening o'er the land<br /> +Were drawn away; then a light wind arose<br /> +That shook the light stems of that flowery close,<br /> +And made men sigh for pleasure; therewithal<br /> +Did mirth upon the feasting elders fall,<br /> +And they no longer watched the lowering sky,<br /> +But called aloud for some new history.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then spoke the Suabian, "Sirs, this tale is told</span><br /> +Among our searchers for fine stones and gold,<br /> +And though I tell it wrong be good to me;<br /> +For I the written book did never see,<br /> +Made by some Fleming, as I think, wherein<br /> +Is told this tale of wilfulness and sin."</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE WATCHING OF THE FALCON.</h2> + +<h3>ARGUMENT.</h3> + +<p class="hang">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.</p> +<p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">A</span><span class="caps">cross</span> the sea a land there is,</span><br /> +Where, if fate will, may men have bliss,<br /> +For it is fair as any land:<br /> +There hath the reaper a full hand,<br /> +While in the orchard hangs aloft<br /> +The purple fig, a-growing soft;<br /> +And fair the trellised vine-bunches<br /> +Are swung across the high elm-trees;<br /> +And in the rivers great fish play,<br /> +While over them pass day by day<br /> +The laden barges to their place.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span>There maids are straight, and fair of face,<br /> +And men are stout for husbandry,<br /> +And all is well as it can be<br /> +Upon this earth where all has end.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For on them God is pleased to send</span><br /> +The gift of Death down from above.<br /> +That envy, hatred, and hot love,<br /> +Knowledge with hunger by his side,<br /> +And avarice and deadly pride,<br /> +There may have end like everything<br /> +Both to the shepherd and the king:<br /> +Lest this green earth become but hell<br /> +If folk for ever there should dwell.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Full little most men think of this,</span><br /> +But half in woe and half in bliss<br /> +They pass their lives, and die at last<br /> +Unwilling, though their lot be cast<br /> +In wretched places of the earth,<br /> +Where men have little joy from birth<br /> +Until they die; in no such case<br /> +Were those who tilled this pleasant place.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">There soothly men were loth to die,</span><br /> +Though sometimes in his misery<br /> +A man would say "Would I were dead!"<br /> +Alas! full little likelihead<br /> +That he should live for ever there.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So folk within that country fair</span><br /> +Lived on, nor from their memories drave<br /> +The thought of what they could not have.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span>And without need tormented still<br /> +Each other with some bitter ill;<br /> +Yea, and themselves too, growing grey<br /> +With dread of some long-lingering day,<br /> +That never came ere they were dead<br /> +With green sods growing on the head;<br /> +Nowise content with what they had,<br /> +But falling still from good to bad<br /> +While hard they sought the hopeless best<br /> +And seldom happy or at rest<br /> +Until at last with lessening blood<br /> +One foot within the grave they stood.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now so it chanced that in this land</span><br /> +There did a certain castle stand,<br /> +Set all alone deep in the hills,<br /> +Amid the sound of falling rills<br /> +Within a valley of sweet grass,<br /> +To which there went one narrow pass<br /> +Through the dark hills, but seldom trod.<br /> +Rarely did horse-hoof press the sod<br /> +About the quiet weedy moat,<br /> +Where unscared did the great fish float;<br /> +Because men dreaded there to see<br /> +The uncouth things of faërie;<br /> +Nathless by some few fathers old<br /> +These tales about the place were told<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That neither squire nor seneschal</span><br /> +Or varlet came in bower or hall,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span>Yet all things were in order due,<br /> +Hangings of gold and red and blue,<br /> +And tables with fair service set;<br /> +Cups that had paid the Cæsar's debt<br /> +Could he have laid his hands on them;<br /> +Dorsars, with pearls in every hem,<br /> +And fair embroidered gold-wrought things,<br /> +Fit for a company of kings;<br /> +And in the chambers dainty beds,<br /> +With pillows dight for fair young heads;<br /> +And horses in the stables were,<br /> +And in the cellars wine full clear<br /> +And strong, and casks of ale and mead;<br /> +Yea, all things a great lord could need.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For whom these things were ready there</span><br /> +None knew; but if one chanced to fare<br /> +Into that place at Easter-tide,<br /> +There would he find a falcon tied<br /> +Unto a pillar of the Hall;<br /> +And such a fate to him would fall,<br /> +That if unto the seventh night,<br /> +He watched the bird from dark to light,<br /> +And light to dark unceasingly,<br /> +On the last evening he should see<br /> +A lady beautiful past words;<br /> +Then, were he come of clowns or lords,<br /> +Son of a swineherd or a king,<br /> +There must she grant him anything<br /> +Perforce, that he might dare to ask,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span>And do his very hardest task<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But if he slumbered, ne'er again</span><br /> +The wretch would wake for he was slain<br /> +Helpless, by hands he could not see,<br /> +And torn and mangled wretchedly.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now said these elders—Ere this tide</span><br /> +Full many folk this thing have tried,<br /> +But few have got much good thereby;<br /> +For first, a many came to die<br /> +By slumbering ere their watch was done;<br /> +Or else they saw that lovely one,<br /> +And mazed, they knew not what to say;<br /> +Or asked some toy for all their pay,<br /> +That easily they might have won,<br /> +Nor staked their lives and souls thereon;<br /> +Or asking, asked for some great thing<br /> +That was their bane; as to be king<br /> +One asked, and died the morrow morn<br /> +That he was crowned, of all forlorn.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet thither came a certain man,</span><br /> +Who from being poor great riches wan<br /> +Past telling, whose grandsons now are<br /> +Great lords thereby in peace and war.<br /> +And in their coat-of-arms they bear,<br /> +Upon a field of azure fair,<br /> +A castle and a falcon, set<br /> +Below a chief of golden fret.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And in our day a certain knight</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span>Prayed to be worsted in no fight,<br /> +And so it happed to him: yet he<br /> +Died none the less most wretchedly.<br /> +And all his prowess was in vain,<br /> +For by a losel was he slain,<br /> +As on the highway side he slept<br /> +One summer night, of no man kept.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Such tales as these the fathers old</span><br /> +About that lonely castle told;<br /> +And in their day the King must try<br /> +Himself to prove that mystery,<br /> +Although, unless the fay could give<br /> +For ever on the earth to live,<br /> +Nought could he ask that he had not:<br /> +For boundless riches had he got,<br /> +Fair children, and a faithful wife;<br /> +And happily had passed his life,<br /> +And all fulfilled of victory,<br /> +Yet was he fain this thing to see.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So towards the mountains he set out</span><br /> +One noontide, with a gallant rout<br /> +Of knights and lords, and as the day<br /> +Began to fail came to the way<br /> +Where he must enter all alone,<br /> +Between the dreary walls of stone.<br /> +Thereon to that fair company<br /> +He bade farewell, who wistfully<br /> +Looked backward oft as home they rode,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span>But in the entry he abode<br /> +Of that rough unknown narrowing pass,<br /> +Where twilight at the high noon was.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then onward he began to ride:</span><br /> +Smooth rose the rocks on every side,<br /> +And seemed as they were cut by man;<br /> +Adown them ever water ran,<br /> +But they of living things were bare,<br /> +Yea, not a blade of grass grew there;<br /> +And underfoot rough was the way,<br /> +For scattered all about there lay<br /> +Great jagged pieces of black stone.<br /> +Throughout the pass the wind did moan,<br /> +With such wild noises, that the King<br /> +Could almost think he heard something<br /> +Spoken of men; as one might hear<br /> +The voices of folk standing near<br /> +One's chamber wall: yet saw he nought<br /> +Except those high walls strangely wrought,<br /> +And overhead the strip of sky.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So, going onward painfully,</span><br /> +He met therein no evil thing,<br /> +But came about the sun-setting<br /> +Unto the opening of the pass,<br /> +And thence beheld a vale of grass<br /> +Bright with the yellow daffodil;<br /> +And all the vale the sun did fill<br /> +With his last glory. Midmost there<br /> +Rose up a stronghold, built four-square,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span>Upon a flowery grassy mound,<br /> +That moat and high wall ran around.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thereby he saw a walled pleasance,</span><br /> +With walks and sward fit for the dance<br /> +Of Arthur's court in its best time,<br /> +That seemed to feel some magic clime;<br /> +For though through all the vale outside<br /> +Things were as in the April-tide,<br /> +And daffodils and cowslips grew<br /> +And hidden the March violets blew,<br /> +Within the bounds of that sweet close<br /> +Was trellised the bewildering rose;<br /> +There was the lily over-sweet,<br /> +And starry pinks for garlands meet;<br /> +And apricots hung on the wall<br /> +And midst the flowers did peaches fall,<br /> +And nought had blemish there or spot.<br /> +For in that place decay was not.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Silent awhile the King abode</span><br /> +Beholding all, then on he rode<br /> +And to the castle-gate drew nigh,<br /> +Till fell the drawbridge silently,<br /> +And when across it he did ride<br /> +He found the great gates open wide,<br /> +And entered there, but as he passed<br /> +The gates were shut behind him fast,<br /> +But not before that he could see<br /> +The drawbridge rise up silently.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then round he gazed oppressed with awe,</span><br /> +And there no living thing he saw<br /> +Except the sparrows in the eaves,<br /> +As restless as light autumn leaves<br /> +Blown by the fitful rainy wind.<br /> +Thereon his final goal to find,<br /> +He lighted off his war-horse good<br /> +And let him wander as he would,<br /> +When he had eased him of his gear;<br /> +Then gathering heart against his fear.<br /> +Just at the silent end of day<br /> +Through the fair porch he took his way<br /> +And found at last a goodly hall<br /> +With glorious hangings on the wall,<br /> +Inwrought with trees of every clime,<br /> +And stories of the ancient time,<br /> +But all of sorcery they were.<br /> +For o'er the daïs Venus fair,<br /> +Fluttered about by many a dove,<br /> +Made hopeless men for hopeless love,<br /> +Both sick and sorry; there they stood<br /> +Wrought wonderfully in various mood,<br /> +But wasted all by that hid fire<br /> +Of measureless o'er-sweet desire,<br /> +And let the hurrying world go by<br /> +Forgetting all felicity.<br /> +But down the hall the tale was wrought<br /> +How Argo in old time was brought<br /> +To Colchis for the fleece of gold.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span>And on the other side was told<br /> +How mariners for long years came<br /> +To Circe, winning grief and shame.<br /> +Until at last by hardihead<br /> +And craft, Ulysses won her bed.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Long upon these the King did look</span><br /> +And of them all good heed he took;<br /> +To see if they would tell him aught<br /> +About the matter that he sought,<br /> +But all were of the times long past;<br /> +So going all about, at last<br /> +When grown nigh weary of his search<br /> +A falcon on a silver perch,<br /> +Anigh the daïs did he see,<br /> +And wondered, because certainly<br /> +At his first coming 'twas not there;<br /> +But 'neath the bird a scroll most fair,<br /> +With golden letters on the white<br /> +He saw, and in the dim twilight<br /> +By diligence could he read this:—<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>"Ye who have not enow of bliss,</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>And in this hard world labour sore,</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>By manhood here may get you more,</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>And be fulfilled of everything,</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>Till ye be masters of the King.</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>And yet, since I who promise this</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>Am nowise God to give man bliss</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>Past ending, now in time beware,</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>And if you live in little care</i></span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>Then turn aback and home again,</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>Lest unknown woe ye chance to gain</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>In wishing for a thing untried."</i></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A little while did he abide,</span><br /> +When he had read this, deep in thought,<br /> +Wondering indeed if there were aught<br /> +He had not got, that a wise man<br /> +Would wish; yet in his mind it ran<br /> +That he might win a boundless realm,<br /> +Yea, come to wear upon his helm<br /> +The crown of the whole conquered earth;<br /> +That all who lived thereon, from birth<br /> +To death should call him King and Lord,<br /> +And great kings tremble at his word,<br /> +Until in turn he came to die.<br /> +Therewith a little did he sigh,<br /> +But thought, "Of Alexander yet<br /> +Men talk, nor would they e'er forget<br /> +My name, if this should come to be,<br /> +Whoever should come after me:<br /> +But while I lay wrapped round with gold<br /> +Should tales and histories manifold<br /> +Be written of me, false and true;<br /> +And as the time still onward drew<br /> +Almost a god would folk count me,<br /> +Saying, 'In our time none such be.'"<br /> +But therewith did he sigh again,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span>And said, "Ah, vain, and worse than vain!<br /> +For though the world forget me nought,<br /> +Yet by that time should I be brought<br /> +Where all the world I should forget,<br /> +And bitterly should I regret<br /> +That I, from godlike great renown,<br /> +To helpless death must fall adown:<br /> +How could I bear to leave it all?"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then straight upon his mind did fall</span><br /> +Thoughts of old longings half forgot,<br /> +Matters for which his heart was hot<br /> +A while ago: whereof no more<br /> +He cared for some, and some right sore<br /> +Had vexed him, being fulfilled at last.<br /> +And when the thought of these had passed<br /> +Still something was there left behind,<br /> +That by no torturing of his mind<br /> +Could he in any language name,<br /> +Or into form of wishing frame.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">At last he thought, "What matters it,</span><br /> +Before these seven days shall flit<br /> +Some great thing surely shall I find,<br /> +That gained will not leave grief behind,<br /> +Nor turn to deadly injury.<br /> +So now will I let these things be<br /> +And think of some unknown delight."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now, therewithal, was come the night</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span>And thus his watch was well begun;<br /> +And till the rising of the sun,<br /> +Waking, he paced about the hall,<br /> +And saw the hangings on the wall<br /> +Fade into nought, and then grow white<br /> +In patches by the pale moonlight,<br /> +And then again fade utterly<br /> +As still the moonbeams passed them by;<br /> +Then in a while, with hope of day,<br /> +Begin a little to grow grey,<br /> +Until familiar things they grew,<br /> +As up at last the great sun drew,<br /> +And lit them with his yellow light<br /> +At ending of another night<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then right glad was he of the day,</span><br /> +That passed with him in such-like way;<br /> +For neither man nor beast came near,<br /> +Nor any voices did he hear.<br /> +And when again it drew to night<br /> +Silent it passed, till first twilight<br /> +Of morning came, and then he heard<br /> +The feeble twittering of some bird,<br /> +That, in that utter silence drear,<br /> +Smote harsh and startling on his ear.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Therewith came on that lonely day</span><br /> +That passed him in no other way;<br /> +And thus six days and nights went by<br /> +And nothing strange had come anigh.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And on that day he well-nigh deemed</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span>That all that story had been dreamed.<br /> +Daylight and dark, and night and day,<br /> +Passed ever in their wonted way;<br /> +The wind played in the trees outside,<br /> +The rooks from out the high trees cried;<br /> +And all seemed natural, frank, and fair,<br /> +With little signs of magic there.<br /> +Yet neither could he quite forget<br /> +That close with summer blossoms set,<br /> +And fruit hung on trees blossoming,<br /> +When all about was early spring.<br /> +Yea, if all this by man were made,<br /> +Strange was it that yet undecayed<br /> +The food lay on the tables still<br /> +Unchanged by man, that wine did fill<br /> +The golden cups, yet bright and red.<br /> +And all was so apparelléd<br /> +For guests that came not, yet was all<br /> +As though that servants filled the hall.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So waxed and waned his hopes, and still</span><br /> +He formed no wish for good or ill.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And while he thought of this and that</span><br /> +Upon his perch the falcon sat<br /> +Unfed, unhooded, his bright eyes<br /> +Beholders of the hard-earned prize,<br /> +Glancing around him restlessly,<br /> +As though he knew the time drew nigh<br /> +When this long watching should be done.<br /> +<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">So little by little fell the sun,</span><br /> +From high noon unto sun-setting;<br /> +And in that lapse of time the King,<br /> +Though still he woke, yet none the less<br /> +Was dreaming in his sleeplessness<br /> +Of this and that which he had done<br /> +Before this watch he had begun;<br /> +Till, with a start, he looked at last<br /> +About him, and all dreams were past;<br /> +For now, though it was past twilight<br /> +Without, within all grew as bright<br /> +As when the noon-sun smote the wall,<br /> +Though no lamp shone within the hall.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then rose the King upon his feet,</span><br /> +And well-nigh heard his own heart beat,<br /> +And grew all pale for hope and fear,<br /> +As sound of footsteps caught his ear<br /> +But soft, and as some fair lady,<br /> +Going as gently as might be,<br /> +Stopped now and then awhile, distraught<br /> +By pleasant wanderings of sweet thought.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nigher the sound came, and more nigh,</span><br /> +Until the King unwittingly<br /> +Trembled, and felt his hair arise,<br /> +But on the door still kept his eyes.<br /> +That opened soon, and in the light<br /> +There stepped alone a lady bright,<br /> +And made straight toward him up the hall.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In golden garments was she clad</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span>And round her waist a belt she had<br /> +Of emeralds fair, and from her feet,<br /> +That shod with gold the floor did meet,<br /> +She held the raiment daintily,<br /> +And on her golden head had she<br /> +A rose-wreath round a pearl-wrought crown,<br /> +Softly she walked with eyes cast down,<br /> +Nor looked she any other than<br /> +An earthly lady, though no man<br /> +Has seen so fair a thing as she.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So when her face the King could see</span><br /> +Still more he trembled, and he thought,<br /> +"Surely my wish is hither brought,<br /> +And this will be a goodly day<br /> +If for mine own I win this may."<br /> +And therewithal she drew anear<br /> +Until the trembling King could hear<br /> +Her very breathing, and she raised<br /> +Her head and on the King's face gazed<br /> +With serious eyes, and stopping there,<br /> +Swept from her shoulders her long hair,<br /> +And let her gown fall on her feet,<br /> +Then spoke in a clear voice and sweet:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Well hast thou watched, so now, O King,</span><br /> +Be bold, and wish for some good thing;<br /> +And yet, I counsel thee, be wise.<br /> +Behold, spite of these lips and eyes,<br /> +Hundreds of years old now am I<br /> +And have seen joy and misery.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span>And thou, who yet hast lived in bliss.<br /> +I bid thee well consider this;<br /> +Better it were that men should live<br /> +As beasts, and take what earth can give,<br /> +The air, the warm sun and the grass<br /> +Until unto the earth they pass,<br /> +And gain perchance nought worse than rest<br /> +Than that not knowing what is best<br /> +For sons of men, they needs must thirst<br /> +For what shall make their lives accurst.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Therefore I bid thee now beware,</span><br /> +Lest getting something seeming fair,<br /> +Thou com'st in vain to long for more<br /> +Or lest the thing thou wishest for<br /> +Make thee unhappy till thou diest,<br /> +Or lest with speedy death thou buyest<br /> +A little hour of happiness<br /> +Or lazy joy with sharp distress.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Alas, why say I this to thee,</span><br /> +For now I see full certainly,<br /> +That thou wilt ask for such a thing,<br /> +It had been best for thee to fling<br /> +Thy body from a mountain-top,<br /> +Or in a white hot fire to drop,<br /> +Or ever thou hadst seen me here,<br /> +Nay then be speedy and speak clear."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then the King cried out eagerly,</span><br /> +Grown fearless, "Ah, be kind to me!<br /> +Thou knowest what I long for then!<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span>Thou know'st that I, a king of men,<br /> +Will ask for nothing else than thee!<br /> +Thou didst not say this could not be,<br /> +And I have had enough of bliss,<br /> +If I may end my life with this."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Hearken," she said, "what men will say</span><br /> +When they are mad; before to-day<br /> +I knew that words such things could mean,<br /> +And wondered that it could have been.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Think well, because this wished-for joy,</span><br /> +That surely will thy bliss destroy,<br /> +Will let thee live, until thy life<br /> +Is wrapped in such bewildering strife<br /> +That all thy days will seem but ill—<br /> +Now wilt thou wish for this thing still?"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Wilt thou then grant it?" cried the King;</span><br /> +"Surely thou art an earthly thing,<br /> +And all this is but mockery,<br /> +And thou canst tell no more than I<br /> +What ending to my life shall be."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Nay, then," she said, "I grant it thee</span><br /> +Perforce; come nigh, for I am thine<br /> +Until the morning sun doth shine,<br /> +And only coming time can prove<br /> +What thing I am."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 7em;">Dizzy with love,</span><br /> +And with surprise struck motionless<br /> +That this divine thing, with far less<br /> +Of striving than a village maid,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span>Had yielded, there he stood afraid,<br /> +Spite of hot words and passionate,<br /> +And strove to think upon his fate.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But as he stood there, presently</span><br /> +With smiling face she drew anigh,<br /> +And on his face he felt her breath.<br /> +"O love," she said, "dost thou fear death?<br /> +Not till next morning shalt thou die,<br /> +Or fall into thy misery."<br /> +Then on his hand her hand did fall,<br /> +And forth she led him down the hall,<br /> +Going full softly by his side.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"O love," she said, "now well betide</span><br /> +The day whereon thou cam'st to me.<br /> +I would this night a year might be,<br /> +Yea, life-long; such life as we have,<br /> +A thousand years from womb to grave."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And then that clinging hand seemed worth</span><br /> +Whatever joy was left on earth,<br /> +And every trouble he forgot,<br /> +And time and death remembered not:<br /> +Kinder she grew, she clung to him<br /> +With loving arms, her eyes did swim<br /> +With love and pity, as he strove<br /> +To show the wisdom of his love;<br /> +With trembling lips she praised his choice,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span>And said, "Ah, well may'st thou rejoice,<br /> +Well may'st thou think this one short night<br /> +Worth years of other men's delight.<br /> +If thy heart as mine own heart is,<br /> +Sunk in a boundless sea of bliss;<br /> +O love, rejoice with me! rejoice!"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But as she spoke, her honied voice</span><br /> +Trembled, and midst of sobs she said,<br /> +"O love, and art thou still afraid?<br /> +Return, then, to thine happiness,<br /> +Nor will I love thee any less;<br /> +But watch thee as a mother might<br /> +Her child at play."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 7em;">With strange delight</span><br /> +He stammered out, "Nay, keep thy tears<br /> +for me, and for my ruined years<br /> +Weep love, that I may love thee more,<br /> +My little hour will soon be o'er."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Ah, love," she said, "and thou art wise</span><br /> +As men are, with long miseries<br /> +Buying these idle words and vain,<br /> +My foolish love, with lasting pain;<br /> +And yet, thou wouldst have died at last<br /> +If in all wisdom thou hadst passed<br /> +Thy weary life: forgive me then,<br /> +In pitying the sad life of men."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then in such bliss his soul did swim,</span><br /> +But tender music unto him<br /> +Her words were; death and misery<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span>But empty names were grown to be,<br /> +As from that place his steps she drew,<br /> +And dark the hall behind them grew.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">B</span><span class="caps">ut</span> end comes to all earthly bliss,</span><br /> +And by his choice full short was his;<br /> +And in the morning, grey and cold,<br /> +Beside the daïs did she hold<br /> +His trembling hand, and wistfully<br /> +He, doubting what his fate should be,<br /> +Gazed at her solemn eyes, that now,<br /> +Beneath her calm, untroubled brow,<br /> +Were fixed on his wild face and wan;<br /> +At last she said, "Oh, hapless man,<br /> +Depart! thy full wish hast thou had;<br /> +A little time thou hast been glad,<br /> +Thou shalt be sorry till thou die.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"And though, indeed, full fain am I</span><br /> +This might not be; nathless, as day<br /> +Night follows, colourless and grey,<br /> +So this shall follow thy delight,<br /> +Your joy hath ending with last night—<br /> +Nay, peace, and hearken to thy fate.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Strife without peace, early and late,</span><br /> +Lasting long after thou art dead,<br /> +And laid with earth upon thine head;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span>War without victory shalt thou have,<br /> +Defeat, nor honour shalt thou save;<br /> +Thy fair land shall be rent and torn,<br /> +Thy people be of all forlorn,<br /> +And all men curse thee for this thing."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">She loosed his hand, but yet the King</span><br /> +Said, "Yea, and I may go with thee?<br /> +Why should we part? then let things be<br /> +E'en as they will!" "Poor man," she said,<br /> +"Thou ravest; our hot love is dead,<br /> +If ever it had any life:<br /> +Go, make thee ready for the strife<br /> +Wherein thy days shall soon be wrapped;<br /> +And of the things that here have happed<br /> +Make thou such joy as thou may'st do;<br /> +But I from this place needs must go,<br /> +Nor shalt thou ever see me more<br /> +Until thy troubled life is o'er:<br /> +Alas I to say 'farewell' to thee<br /> +Were nought but bitter mockery.<br /> +Fare as thou may'st, and with good heart<br /> +Play to the end thy wretched part."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Therewith she turned and went from him,</span><br /> +And with such pain his eyes did swim<br /> +He scarce could see her leave the place;<br /> +And then, with troubled and pale face,<br /> +He gat him thence: and soon he found<br /> +His good horse in the base-court bound;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span>So, loosing him, forth did he ride,<br /> +For the great gates were open wide,<br /> +And flat the heavy drawbridge lay.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So by the middle of the day,</span><br /> +That murky pass had he gone through,<br /> +And come to country that he knew;<br /> +And homeward turned his horse's head.<br /> +And passing village and homestead<br /> +Nigh to his palace came at last;<br /> +And still the further that he passed<br /> +From that strange castle of the fays,<br /> +More dreamlike seemed those seven days,<br /> +And dreamlike the delicious night;<br /> +And like a dream the shoulders white,<br /> +And clinging arms and yellow hair,<br /> +And dreamlike the sad morning there.<br /> +Until at last he 'gan to deem<br /> +That all might well have been a dream—<br /> +Yet why was life a weariness?<br /> +What meant this sting of sharp distress?<br /> +This longing for a hopeless love,<br /> +No sighing from his heart could move?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or else, 'She did not come and go</span><br /> +As fays might do, but soft and slow<br /> +Her lovely feet fell on the floor;<br /> +She set her fair hand to the door<br /> +As any dainty maid might do;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span>And though, indeed, there are but few<br /> +Beneath the sun as fair as she,<br /> +She seemed a fleshly thing to be.<br /> +Perchance a merry mock this is,<br /> +And I may some day have the bliss<br /> +To see her lovely face again,<br /> +As smiling she makes all things plain.<br /> +And then as I am still a king,<br /> +With me may she make tarrying<br /> +Full long, yea, till I come to die."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Therewith at last being come anigh</span><br /> +Unto his very palace gate,<br /> +He saw his knights and squires wait<br /> +His coming, therefore on the ground<br /> +He lighted, and they flocked around<br /> +Till he should tell them of his fare.<br /> +Then mocking said he, "Ye may dare,<br /> +The worst man of you all, to go<br /> +And watch as I was bold to do;<br /> +For nought I heard except the wind,<br /> +And nought I saw to call to mind."<br /> +So said he, but they noted well<br /> +That something more he had to tell<br /> +If it had pleased him; one old man,<br /> +Beholding his changed face and wan,<br /> +Muttered, "Would God it might be so!<br /> +Alas! I fear what fate may do;<br /> +Too much good fortune hast thou had<br /> +By anything to be more glad<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span>Than thou hast been, I fear thee then<br /> +Lest thou becom'st a curse to men."<br /> +But to his place the doomed King passed,<br /> +And all remembrance strove to cast<br /> +From out his mind of that past day,<br /> +And spent his life in sport and play.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">G</span><span class="caps">reat</span> among other kings, I said</span><br /> +He was before he first was led<br /> +Unto that castle of the fays,<br /> +But soon he lost his happy days<br /> +And all his goodly life was done.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And first indeed his best-loved son,</span><br /> +The very apple of his eye,<br /> +Waged war against him bitterly;<br /> +And when this son was overcome<br /> +And taken, and folk led him home,<br /> +And him the King had gone to meet,<br /> +Meaning with gentle words and sweet<br /> +To win him to his love again,<br /> +By his own hand he found him slain.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I know not if the doomed King yet</span><br /> +Remembered the fay lady's threat,<br /> +But troubles upon troubles came:<br /> +His daughter next was brought to shame,<br /> +Who unto all eyes seemed to be<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span>The image of all purity,<br /> +And fleeing from the royal place<br /> +The King no more beheld her face.<br /> +Then next a folk that came from far<br /> +Sent to the King great threats of war,<br /> +But he, full-fed of victory,<br /> +Deemed this a little thing to be,<br /> +And thought the troubles of his home<br /> +Thereby he well might overcome<br /> +Amid the hurry of the fight.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">His foemen seemed of little might,</span><br /> +Although they thronged like summer bees<br /> +About the outlying villages,<br /> +And on the land great ruin brought.<br /> +Well, he this barbarous people sought<br /> +With such an army as seemed meet<br /> +To put the world beneath his feet;<br /> +The day of battle came, and he,<br /> +Flushed with the hope of victory,<br /> +Grew happy, as he had not been<br /> +Since he those glorious eyes had seen.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They met,—his solid ranks of steel</span><br /> +There scarcely more the darts could feel<br /> +Of those new foemen, than if they<br /> +Had been a hundred miles away:—<br /> +They met,—a storied folk were his<br /> +To whom sharp war had long been bliss,<br /> +A thousand years of memories<br /> +Were flashing in their shielded eyes;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span>And grave philosophers they had<br /> +To bid them ever to be glad<br /> +To meet their death and get life done<br /> +Midst glorious deeds from sire to son.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And those they met were beasts, or worse,</span><br /> +To whom life seemed a jest, a curse;<br /> +Of fame and name they had not heard;<br /> +Honour to them was but a word,<br /> +A word spoke in another tongue;<br /> +No memories round their banners clung,<br /> +No walls they knew, no art of war,<br /> +By hunger were they driven afar<br /> +Unto the place whereon they stood,<br /> +Ravening for bestial joys and blood.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">No wonder if these barbarous men</span><br /> +Were slain by hundreds to each ten<br /> +Of the King's brave well-armoured folk,<br /> +No wonder if their charges broke<br /> +To nothing, on the walls of steel,<br /> +And back the baffled hordes must reel.<br /> +So stood throughout a summer day<br /> +Scarce touched the King's most fair array,<br /> +Yet as it drew to even-tide<br /> +The foe still surged on every side,<br /> +As hopeless hunger-bitten men,<br /> +About his folk grown wearied then.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Therewith the King beheld that crowd</span><br /> +Howling and dusk, and cried aloud,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span>"What do ye, warriors? and how long<br /> +Shall weak folk hold in check the strong?<br /> +Nay, forward banners! end the day<br /> +And show these folk how brave men play."<br /> +The young knights shouted at his word,<br /> +But the old folk in terror heard<br /> +The shouting run adown the line,<br /> +And saw men flush as if with wine—<br /> +"O Sire," they said, "the day is sure,<br /> +Nor will these folk the night endure<br /> +Beset with misery and fears."<br /> +Alas I they spoke to heedless ears;<br /> +For scarce one look on them he cast<br /> +But forward through the ranks he passed,<br /> +And cried out, "Who will follow me<br /> +To win a fruitful victory?"<br /> +And toward the foe in haste he spurred,<br /> +And at his back their shouts he heard,<br /> +Such shouts as he ne'er heard again.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They met—ere moonrise all the plain</span><br /> +Was filled by men in hurrying flight<br /> +The relics of that shameful fight;<br /> +The close array, the full-armed men,<br /> +The ancient fame availed not then,<br /> +The dark night only was a friend<br /> +To bring that slaughter to an end;<br /> +And surely there the King had died.<br /> +But driven by that back-rushing tide<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span>Against his will he needs must flee;<br /> +And as he pondered bitterly<br /> +On all that wreck that he had wrought,<br /> +From time to time indeed he thought<br /> +Of the fay woman's dreadful threat.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"But everything was not lost yet;</span><br /> +Next day he said, great was the rout<br /> +And shameful beyond any doubt,<br /> +But since indeed at eventide<br /> +The flight began, not many died,<br /> +And gathering all the stragglers now<br /> +His troops still made a gallant show—<br /> +Alas! it was a show indeed;<br /> +Himself desponding, did he lead<br /> +His beaten men against the foe,<br /> +Thinking at least to lie alow<br /> +Before the final rout should be<br /> +But scarce upon the enemy<br /> +Could these, whose shaken banners shook<br /> +The frightened world, now dare to look;<br /> +Nor yet could the doomed King die there<br /> +A death he once had held most fair;<br /> +Amid unwounded men he came<br /> +Back to his city, bent with shame,<br /> +Unkingly, midst his great distress,<br /> +Yea, weeping at the bitterness<br /> +Of women's curses that did greet<br /> +His passage down the troubled street<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">But sight of all the things they loved,</span><br /> +The memory of their manhood moved<br /> +Within the folk, and aged men<br /> +And boys must think of battle then.<br /> +And men that had not seen the foe<br /> +Must clamour to the war to go.<br /> +So a great army poured once more<br /> +From out the city, and before<br /> +The very gates they fought again,<br /> +But their late valour was in vain;<br /> +They died indeed, and that was good,<br /> +But nought they gained for all the blood<br /> +Poured out like water; for the foe,<br /> +Men might have stayed a while ago,<br /> +A match for very gods were grown,<br /> +So like the field in June-tide mown<br /> +The King's men fell, and but in vain<br /> +The remnant strove the town to gain;<br /> +Whose battlements were nought to stay<br /> +An untaught foe upon that day,<br /> +Though many a tale the annals told<br /> +Of sieges in the days of old,<br /> +When all the world then knew of war<br /> +From that fair place was driven afar.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As for the King, a charmed life</span><br /> +He seemed to bear; from out that strife<br /> +He came unhurt, and he could see,<br /> +As down the valley he did flee<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span>With his most wretched company,<br /> +His palace flaming to the sky.<br /> +Then in the very midst of woe<br /> +His yearning thoughts would backward go<br /> +Unto the castle of the fay;<br /> +He muttered, "Shall I curse that day,<br /> +The last delight that I have had,<br /> +For certainly I then was glad?<br /> +And who knows if what men call bliss<br /> +Had been much better now than this<br /> +When I am hastening to the end."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That fearful rest, that dreaded friend,</span><br /> +That Death, he did not gain as yet;<br /> +A band of men he soon did get,<br /> +A ruined rout of bad and good,<br /> +With whom within the tangled wood,<br /> +The rugged mountain, he abode,<br /> +And thenceforth oftentimes they rode<br /> +Into the fair land once called his,<br /> +And yet but little came of this,<br /> +Except more woe for Heaven to see<br /> +Some little added misery<br /> +Unto that miserable realm:<br /> +The barbarous foe did overwhelm<br /> +The cities and the fertile plain,<br /> +And many a peaceful man was slain,<br /> +And many a maiden brought to shame.<br /> +And yielded towns were set aflame;<br /> +For all the land was masterless.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Long dwelt the King in great distress,</span><br /> +From wood to mountain ever tost,<br /> +Mourning for all that he had lost,<br /> +Until it chanced upon a day,<br /> +Asleep in early morn he lay,<br /> +And in a vision there did see<br /> +Clad all in black, that fay lady<br /> +Whereby all this had come to pass,<br /> +But dim as in a misty glass:<br /> +She said, "I come thy death to tell<br /> +Yet now to thee may say 'farewell,'<br /> +For in a short space wilt thou be<br /> +Within an endless dim country<br /> +Where thou may'st well win woe or bliss,"<br /> +Therewith she stooped his lips to kiss<br /> +And vanished straightway from his sight.<br /> +So waking there he sat upright<br /> +And looked around, but nought could see<br /> +And heard but song-birds' melody,<br /> +For that was the first break of day.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then with a sigh adown he lay</span><br /> +And slept, nor ever woke again,<br /> +For in that hour was he slain<br /> +By stealthy traitors as he slept.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He of a few was much bewept,</span><br /> +But of most men was well forgot<br /> +While the town's ashes still were hot<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span>The foeman on that day did burn.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As for the land, great Time did turn</span><br /> +The bloody fields to deep green grass,<br /> +And from the minds of men did pass<br /> +The memory of that time of woe,<br /> +And at this day all things are so<br /> +As first I said; a land it is<br /> +Where men may dwell in rest and bliss<br /> +If so they will—Who yet will not,<br /> +Because their hasty hearts are hot<br /> +With foolish hate, and longing vain<br /> +The sire and dam of grief and pain.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">N</span><span class="caps">eath</span> the bright sky cool grew the weary earth,</span><br /> +And many a bud in that fair hour had birth<br /> +Upon the garden bushes; in the west<br /> +The sky got ready for the great sun's rest,<br /> +And all was fresh and lovely; none the less<br /> +Although those old men shared the happiness<br /> +Of the bright eve, 'twas mixed with memories<br /> +Of how they might in old times have been wise,<br /> +Not casting by for very wilfulness<br /> +What wealth might come their changing life to bless;<br /> +Lulling their hearts to sleep, amid the cold<br /> +Of bitter times, that so they might behold<br /> +Some joy at last, e'en if it lingered long.<br /> +That, wearing not their souls with grief and wrong,<br /> +They still might watch the changing world go by,<br /> +Content to live, content at last to die.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Alas! if they had reached content at last</span><br /> +It was perforce when all their strength was past;<br /> +And after loss of many days once bright,<br /> +With foolish hopes of unattained delight.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span></p> +<h2>AUGUST.</h2> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">A</span><span class="caps">cross</span> the gap made by our English hinds,</span><br /> +Amidst the Roman's handiwork, behold<br /> +Far off the long-roofed church; the shepherd binds<br /> +The withy round the hurdles of his fold;<br /> +Down in the foss the river fed of old,<br /> +That through long lapse of time has grown to be<br /> +The little grassy valley that you see.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Rest here awhile, not yet the eve is still,</span><br /> +The bees are wandering yet, and you may hear<br /> +The barley mowers on the trenchéd hill,<br /> +The sheep-bells, and the restless changing weir,<br /> +All little sounds made musical and clear<br /> +Beneath the sky that burning August gives.<br /> +While yet the thought of glorious Summer lives.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ah, love! such happy days, such days as these,</span><br /> +Must we still waste them, craving for the best,<br /> +Like lovers o'er the painted images<br /> +Of those who once their yearning hearts have blessed?<br /> +Have we been happy on our day of rest?<br /> +Thine eyes say "yes,"—but if it came again,<br /> +Perchance its ending would not seem so vain.</p></div> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">N</span><span class="caps">ow</span> came fulfilment of the year's desire,</span><br /> +The tall wheat, coloured by the August fire<br /> +Grew heavy-headed, dreading its decay,<br /> +And blacker grew the elm-trees day by day.<br /> +About the edges of the yellow corn,<br /> +And o'er the gardens grown somewhat outworn<br /> +The bees went hurrying to fill up their store;<br /> +The apple-boughs bent over more and more;<br /> +With peach and apricot the garden wall,<br /> +Was odorous, and the pears began to fall<br /> +From off the high tree with each freshening breeze.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So in a house bordered about with trees,</span><br /> +A little raised above the waving gold<br /> +The Wanderers heard this marvellous story told,<br /> +While 'twixt the gleaming flasks of ancient wine,<br /> +They watched the reapers' slow advancing line.</p></div> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span></p> +<h2>PYGMALION AND THE IMAGE.</h2> + +<h3>ARGUMENT.</h3> + +<p class="hang">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.</p> +<p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">A</span><span class="caps">t</span> Amathus, that from the southern side</span><br /> +Of Cyprus, looks across the Syrian sea,<br /> +There did in ancient time a man abide<br /> +Known to the island-dwellers, for that he<br /> +Had wrought most godlike works in imagery,<br /> +And day by day still greater honour won,<br /> +Which man our old books call Pygmalion.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet in the praise of men small joy he had,</span><br /> +But walked abroad with downcast brooding face.<br /> +Nor yet by any damsel was made glad;<br /> +For, sooth to say, the women of that place<br /> +Must seem to all men an accursed race,<br /> +Who with the Turner of all Hearts once strove<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span>And now their hearts must carry lust for love.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Upon a day it chanced that he had been</span><br /> +About the streets, and on the crowded quays,<br /> +Rich with unopened wealth of bales, had seen<br /> +The dark-eyed merchants of the southern seas<br /> +In chaffer with the base Propœtides,<br /> +And heavy-hearted gat him home again,<br /> +His once-loved life grown idle, poor, and vain.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And there upon his images he cast</span><br /> +His weary eyes, yet little noted them,<br /> +As still from name to name his swift thought passed.<br /> +For what to him was Juno's well-wrought hem,<br /> +Diana's shaft, or Pallas' olive-stem?<br /> +What help could Hermes' rod unto him give,<br /> +Until with shadowy things he came to live?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet note, that though, while looking on the sun,</span><br /> +The craftsman o'er his work some morn of spring<br /> +May chide his useless labour never done,<br /> +For all his murmurs, with no other thing<br /> +He soothes his heart, and dulls thought's poisonous sting,<br /> +And thus in thought's despite the world goes on;<br /> +And so it was with this Pygmalion.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Unto the chisel must he set his hand,</span><br /> +And slowly, still in troubled thought must pace,<br /> +About a work begun, that there doth stand,<br /> +And still returning to the self-same place,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span>Unto the image now must set his face,<br /> +And with a sigh his wonted toil begin,<br /> +Half-loathed, half-loved, a little rest to win.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The lessening marble that he worked upon,</span><br /> +A woman's form now imaged doubtfully,<br /> +And in such guise the work had he begun,<br /> +Because when he the untouched block did see<br /> +In wandering veins that form there seemed to be,<br /> +Whereon he cried out in a careless mood,<br /> +"O lady Venus, make this presage good!<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"And then this block of stone shall be thy maid,</span><br /> +And, not without rich golden ornament,<br /> +Shall bide within thy quivering myrtle-shade."<br /> +So spoke he, but the goddess, well content,<br /> +Unto his hand such godlike mastery sent,<br /> +That like the first artificer he wrought,<br /> +Who made the gift that woe to all men brought.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And yet, but such as he was wont to do,</span><br /> +At first indeed that work divine he deemed,<br /> +And as the white chips from the chisel flew<br /> +Of other matters languidly he dreamed,<br /> +For easy to his hand that labour seemed,<br /> +And he was stirred with many a troubling thought,<br /> +And many a doubt perplexed him as he wrought.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And yet, again, at last there came a day</span><br /> +When smoother and more shapely grew the stone<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span>And he, grown eager, put all thought away<br /> +But that which touched his craftsmanship alone,<br /> +And he would gaze at what his hands had done,<br /> +Until his heart with boundless joy would swell<br /> +That all was wrought so wonderfully well.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet long it was ere he was satisfied,</span><br /> +And with the pride that by his mastery<br /> +This thing was done, whose equal far and wide<br /> +In no town of the world a man could see,<br /> +Came burning longing that the work should be<br /> +E'en better still, and to his heart there came<br /> +A strange and strong desire he could not name.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The night seemed long, and long the twilight seemed,</span><br /> +A vain thing seemed his flowery garden fair;<br /> +Though through the night still of his work he dreamed,<br /> +And though his smooth-stemmed trees so nigh it were,<br /> +That thence he could behold the marble hair;<br /> +Nought was enough, until with steel in hand<br /> +He came before the wondrous stone to stand.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">No song could charm him, and no histories</span><br /> +Of men's misdoings could avail him now,<br /> +Nay, scarcely seaward had he turned his eyes,<br /> +If men had said, "The fierce Tyrrhenians row<br /> +Up through the bay, rise up and strike a blow<br /> +For life and goods;" for nought to him seemed dear<br /> +But to his well-loved work to be anear.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then vexed he grew, and knowing not his heart,</span><br /> +Unto himself he said, "Ah, what is this,<br /> +That I who oft was happy to depart,<br /> +And wander where the boughs each other kiss<br /> +'Neath the west wind, now have no other bliss<br /> +But in vain smoothing of this marble maid,<br /> +Whose chips this month a drachma had outweighed?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Lo I will get me to the woods and try</span><br /> +If I my woodcraft have forgotten quite,<br /> +And then, returning, lay this folly by,<br /> +And eat my fill, and sleep my sleep anight,<br /> +And 'gin to carve a Hercules aright<br /> +Upon the morrow, and perchance indeed<br /> +The Theban will be good to me at need."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With that he took his quiver and his bow,</span><br /> +And through the gates of Amathus he went,<br /> +And toward the mountain slopes began to go,<br /> +Within the woods to work out his intent.<br /> +Fair was the day, the honied beanfield's scent<br /> +The west wind bore unto him, o'er the way<br /> +The glittering noisy poplar leaves did play.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">All things were moving; as his hurried feet</span><br /> +Passed by, within the flowery swathe he heard<br /> +The sweeping of the scythe, the swallow fleet<br /> +Rose over him, the sitting partridge stirred<br /> +On the field's edge; the brown bee by him whirred,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span>Or murmured in the clover flowers below.<br /> +But he with bowed-down head failed not to go.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">At last he stopped, and, looking round, he said,</span><br /> +"Like one whose thirtieth year is well gone by,<br /> +The day is getting ready to be dead;<br /> +No rest, and on the border of the sky<br /> +Already the great banks of dark haze lie;<br /> +No rest—what do I midst this stir and noise?<br /> +What part have I in these unthinking joys?"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With that he turned, and toward the city-gate</span><br /> +Through the sweet fields went swifter than he came,<br /> +And cast his heart into the hands of fate;<br /> +Nor strove with it, when higher 'gan to flame<br /> +That strange and strong desire without a name;<br /> +Till panting, thinking of nought else, once more<br /> +His hand was on the latch of his own door.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">One moment there he lingered, as he said,</span><br /> +"Alas! what should I do if she were gone?"<br /> +But even with that word his brow waxed red<br /> +To hear his own lips name a thing of stone,<br /> +As though the gods some marvel there had done,<br /> +And made his work alive; and therewithal<br /> +In turn great pallor on his face did fall.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But with a sigh he passed into the house,</span><br /> +Yet even then his chamber-door must hold,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span>And listen there, half blind and timorous,<br /> +Until his heart should wax a little bold;<br /> +Then entering, motionless and white and cold,<br /> +He saw the image stand amidst the floor<br /> +All whitened now by labour done before.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Blinded with tears, his chisel up he caught,</span><br /> +And, drawing near, and sighing, tenderly<br /> +Upon the marvel of the face he wrought,<br /> +E'en as he used to pass the long days by;<br /> +But his sighs changed to sobbing presently,<br /> +And on the floor the useless steel he flung,<br /> +And, weeping loud, about the image clung.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Alas!" he cried, "why have I made thee then,</span><br /> +That thus thou mockest me? I know indeed<br /> +That many such as thou are loved of men,<br /> +Whose passionate eyes poor wretches still will lead<br /> +Into their net, and smile to see them bleed;<br /> +But these the god's made, and this hand made thee<br /> +Who wilt not speak one little word to me."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then from the image did he draw aback</span><br /> +To gaze on it through tears: and you had said,<br /> +Regarding it, that little did it lack<br /> +To be a living and most lovely maid;<br /> +Naked it was, its unbound locks were laid<br /> +Over the lovely shoulders; with one hand<br /> +Reached out, as to a lover, did it stand,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The other held a fair rose over-blown;</span><br /> +No smile was on the parted lips, the eyes<br /> +Seemed as if even now great love had shown<br /> +Unto them, something of its sweet surprise,<br /> +Yet saddened them with half-seen mysteries,<br /> +And still midst passion maiden-like she seemed,<br /> +As though of love unchanged for aye she dreamed.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Reproachfully beholding all her grace,</span><br /> +Pygmalion stood, until he grew dry-eyed,<br /> +And then at last he turned away his face<br /> +As if from her cold eyes his grief to hide;<br /> +And thus a weary while did he abide,<br /> +With nothing in his heart but vain desire,<br /> +The ever-burning, unconsuming fire.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But when again he turned his visage round</span><br /> +His eyes were brighter and no more he wept,<br /> +As if some little solace he had found,<br /> +Although his folly none the more had slept,<br /> +Rather some new-born god-sent madness kept<br /> +His other madness from destroying him,<br /> +And made the hope of death wax faint and dim;<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For, trembling and ashamed, from out the street</span><br /> +Strong men he called, and faint with jealousy<br /> +He caused them bear the ponderous, moveless feet<br /> +Unto the chamber where he used to lie,<br /> +So in a fair niche to his bed anigh,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span>Unwitting of his woe, they set it down,<br /> +Then went their ways beneath his troubled frown.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then to his treasury he went, and sought</span><br /> +Fair gems for its adornment, but all there<br /> +Seemed to his eager eyes but poor and nought,<br /> +Not worthy e'en to touch her rippled hair.<br /> +So he, departing, through the streets 'gan fare,<br /> +And from the merchants at a mighty cost<br /> +Bought gems that kings for no good deed had lost.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">These then he hung her senseless neck around,</span><br /> +Set on her fingers, and fair arms of stone,<br /> +Then cast himself before her on the ground,<br /> +Praying for grace for all that he had done<br /> +In leaving her untended and alone;<br /> +And still with every hour his madness grew<br /> +Though all his folly in his heart he knew.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">At last asleep before her feet he lay,</span><br /> +Worn out with passion, yet this burning pain<br /> +Returned on him, when with the light of day<br /> +He woke and wept before her feet again;<br /> +Then of the fresh and new-born morning fain,<br /> +Into his garden passed, and therefrom bore<br /> +New spoil of flowers his love to lay before.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A little altar, with fine gold o'erlaid,</span><br /> +Was in his house, that he a while ago<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span>At some great man's command had deftly made,<br /> +And this he now must take and set below<br /> +Her well-wrought feet, and there must red flame glow<br /> +About sweet wood, and he must send her thence<br /> +The odour of Arabian frankincense.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then as the smoke went up, he prayed and said,</span><br /> +"Thou, image, hear'st me not, nor wilt thou speak,<br /> +But I perchance shall know when I am dead,<br /> +If this has been some goddess' sport, to seek<br /> +A wretch, and in his heart infirm and weak<br /> +To set her glorious image, so that he,<br /> +Loving the form of immortality,<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"May make much laughter for the gods above:</span><br /> +Hear me, and if my love misliketh thee<br /> +Then take my life away, for I will love<br /> +Till death unfeared at last shall come to me,<br /> +And give me rest, if he of might may be<br /> +To slay the love of that which cannot die,<br /> +The heavenly beauty that can ne'er pass by."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">No word indeed the moveless image said,</span><br /> +But with the sweet grave eyes his hands had wrought<br /> +Still gazed down on his bowed imploring head,<br /> +Yet his own words some solace to him brought,<br /> +Gilding the net wherein his soul was caught<br /> +With something like to hope, and all that day<br /> +Some tender words he ever found to say;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And still he felt as something heard him speak;</span><br /> +Sometimes he praised her beauty, and sometimes<br /> +Reproached her in a feeble voice and weak,<br /> +And at the last drew forth a book of rhymes,<br /> +Wherein were writ the tales of many climes,<br /> +And read aloud the sweetness hid therein<br /> +Of lovers' sorrows and their tangled sin.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And when the sun went down, the frankincense</span><br /> +Again upon the altar-flame he cast<br /> +That through the open window floating thence<br /> +O'er the fresh odours of the garden passed;<br /> +And so another day was gone at last,<br /> +And he no more his love-lorn watch could keep,<br /> +But now for utter weariness must sleep.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But in the night he dreamed that she was gone,</span><br /> +And knowing that he dreamed, tried hard to wake<br /> +And could not, but forsaken and alone<br /> +He seemed to weep as though his heart would break,<br /> +And when the night her sleepy veil did take<br /> +From off the world, waking, his tears he found<br /> +Still wet upon the pillow all around.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then at the first, bewildered by those tears,</span><br /> +He fell a-wondering wherefore he had wept,<br /> +But suddenly remembering all his fears,<br /> +Panting with terror, from the bed he leapt,<br /> +But still its wonted place the image kept,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span>Nor moved for all the joyful ecstasy<br /> +Wherewith he blessed the day that showed it nigh.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then came the morning offering and the day,</span><br /> +Midst flowers and words of love and kisses sweet<br /> +From morn, through noon, to evening passed away,<br /> +And scarce unhappy, crouching at her feet<br /> +He saw the sun descend the sea to meet;<br /> +And scarce unhappy through the darkness crept<br /> +Unto his bed, and midst soft dreaming slept.</p></div> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">B</span><span class="caps">ut</span> the next morn, e'en while the incense-smoke</span><br /> +At sun-rising curled round about her head,<br /> +Sweet sound of songs the wonted quiet broke<br /> +Down in the street, and he by something led,<br /> +He knew not what, must leave his prayer unsaid,<br /> +And through the freshness of the morn must see<br /> +The folk who went with that sweet minstrelsy;<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Damsels and youths in wonderful attire,</span><br /> +And in their midst upon a car of gold<br /> +An image of the Mother of Desire,<br /> +Wrought by his hands in days that seemed grown old<br /> +Though those sweet limbs a garment did enfold,<br /> +Coloured like flame, enwrought with precious things,<br /> +Most fit to be the prize of striving kings.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then he remembered that the manner was</span><br /> +That fair-clad priests the lovely Queen should take<br /> +Thrice in the year, and through the city pass,<br /> +And with sweet songs the dreaming folk awake;<br /> +And through the clouds a light there seemed to break<br /> +When he remembered all the tales well told<br /> +About her glorious kindly deeds of old.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So his unfinished prayer he finished not,</span><br /> +But, kneeling, once more kissed the marble feet,<br /> +And, while his heart with many thoughts waxed hot,<br /> +He clad himself with fresh attire and meet<br /> +For that bright service, and with blossoms sweet<br /> +Entwined with tender leaves he crowned his head,<br /> +And followed after as the goddess led.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But long and vain unto him seemed the way</span><br /> +Until they came unto her house again;<br /> +Long years, the while they went about to lay<br /> +The honey-hiding dwellers on the plain,<br /> +The sweet companions of the yellowing grain<br /> +Upon her golden altar; long and long<br /> +Before, at end of their delicious song,<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They stripped her of her weed with reverend hands</span><br /> +And showed the ivory limbs his hand had wrought;<br /> +Yea, and too long e'en then ere those fair bands,<br /> +Dispersing here and there, the shadow sought<br /> +Of Indian spice-trees o'er the warm sea brought<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span>And toward the splashing of the fountain turned,<br /> +Mocked the noon sun that o'er the cloisters burned.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But when the crowd of worshippers was gone</span><br /> +And through the golden dimness of the place<br /> +The goddess' very servants paced alone,<br /> +Or some lone damsel murmured of her case<br /> +Apart from prying eyes, he turned his face<br /> +Unto that image made with toil and care,<br /> +In days when unto him it seemed most fair.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dusky and dim, though rich with gems and gold,</span><br /> +The house of Venus was; high in the dome<br /> +The burning sun-light you could now behold,<br /> +From nowhere else the light of day might come,<br /> +To shame the Shame-faced Mother's lovely home;<br /> +A long way off the shrine, the fresh sea-breeze,<br /> +Now just arising, brushed the myrtle-trees.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The torches of the flower-crowned, singing band</span><br /> +Erewhile, indeed, made more than daylight there,<br /> +Lighting the painted tales of many a land,<br /> +And carven heroes, with their unused glare;<br /> +But now a few soft, glimmering lamps there were<br /> +And on the altar a thin, flickering flame<br /> +Just showed the golden letters of her name.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Blue in the dome yet hung the incense-cloud,</span><br /> +And still its perfume lingered all around;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span>And, trodden by the light-foot, fervent crowd,<br /> +Thick lay the summer flowers upon the ground,<br /> +And now from far-off halls uprose the sound<br /> +Of Lydian music, and the dancer's cry,<br /> +As though some door were opened suddenly.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So there he stood, some help from her to gain,</span><br /> +Bewildered by that twilight midst of day;<br /> +Downcast with listening to the joyous strain<br /> +He had no part in, hopeless with delay<br /> +Of all the fair things he had meant to say;<br /> +Yet, as the incense on the flame he cast,<br /> +From stammering lips and pale these words there passed,—<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"O thou forgotten help, dost thou yet know</span><br /> +What thing it is I need, when even I,<br /> +Bent down before thee in this shame and woe,<br /> +Can frame no set of words to tell thee why<br /> +I needs must pray, O help me or I die!<br /> +Or slay me, and in slaying take from me<br /> +Even a dead man's feeble memory.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Say not thine help I have been slow to seek;</span><br /> +Here have I been from the first hour of morn,<br /> +Who stand before thy presence faint and weak,<br /> +Of my one poor delight left all forlorn;<br /> +Trembling with many fears, the hope outworn<br /> +I had when first I left my love, my shame,<br /> +To call upon thine oft-sung glorious name."<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He stopped to catch his breath, for as a sob</span><br /> +Did each word leave his mouth; but suddenly,<br /> +Like a live thing, the thin flame 'gan to throb<br /> +And gather force, and then shot up on high<br /> +A steady spike of light, that drew anigh<br /> +The sunbeam in the dome, then sank once more<br /> +Into a feeble flicker as before.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But at that sight the nameless hope he had</span><br /> +That kept him living midst unhappiness,<br /> +Stirred in his breast, and with changed face and glad<br /> +Unto the image forward must he press<br /> +With words of praise his first word to redress,<br /> +But then it was as though a thick black cloud<br /> +Altar, and fire, and ivory limbs did shroud.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He staggered back, amazed and full of awe,</span><br /> +But when, with anxious eyes, he gazed around,<br /> +About him still the worshippers he saw<br /> +Sunk in their wonted works, with no surprise<br /> +At what to him seemed awful mysteries;<br /> +Therewith he sighed and said, "This, too, I dream,<br /> +No better day upon my life shall beam."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And yet for long upon the place he gazed</span><br /> +Where other folk beheld the lovely Queen;<br /> +And while he looked the dusky veil seemed raised,<br /> +And every thing was as it erst had been;<br /> +And then he said, "Such marvels I have seen<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span>As some sick man may see from off his bed:<br /> +Ah, I am sick, and would that I were dead!"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Therewith, not questioning his heart at all,</span><br /> +He turned away and left the holy place,<br /> +When now the wide sun reddened towards his fall,<br /> +And a fresh west wind held the clouds in chase;<br /> +But coming out, at first he hid his face<br /> +Dazed with the light, and in the porch he stood,<br /> +Nor wished to move, or change his dreary mood.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet in a while the freshness of the eve</span><br /> +Pierced to his weary heart, and with a sigh<br /> +He raised his head, and slowly 'gan to leave<br /> +The high carved pillars; and so presently<br /> +Had passed the grove of whispering myrtles by,<br /> +And, mid the many noises of the street,<br /> +Made himself brave the eyes of men to meet.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thronged were the ways with folk in gay attire,</span><br /> +Nursing the end of that festivity;<br /> +Girls fit to move the moody man's desire<br /> +Brushed past him, and soft dainty minstrelsy<br /> +He heard amid the laughter, and might see,<br /> +Through open doors, the garden's green delight,<br /> +Where pensive lovers waited for the night;<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or resting dancers round the fountain drawn,</span><br /> +With faces flushed unto the breeze turned round,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span>Or wandering o'er the fragrant trodden lawn,<br /> +Took up their fallen garlands from the ground,<br /> +Or languidly their scattered tresses bound,<br /> +Or let their gathered raiment fall adown,<br /> +With eyes downcast beneath their lovers' frown.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What hope Pygmalion yet might have, when he</span><br /> +First left the pillars of the dreamy place,<br /> +Amid such sights had vanished utterly.<br /> +He turned his weary eyes from face to face,<br /> +Nor noted them, as at a lagging pace<br /> +He gat towards home, and still was murmuring,<br /> +"Ah life, sweet life! the only godlike thing!"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And as he went, though longing to be there</span><br /> +Whereas his sole desire awaited him,<br /> +Yet did he loath to see the image fair,<br /> +White and unchanged of face, unmoved of limb,<br /> +And to his heart came dreamy thoughts and dim<br /> +That unto some strange region he might come,<br /> +Nor ever reach again his loveless home.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet soon, indeed, before his door he stood,</span><br /> +And, as a man awaking from a dream,<br /> +Seemed waked from his old folly; nought seemed good<br /> +In all the things that he before had deemed<br /> +At least worth life, and on his heart there streamed<br /> +Cold light of day—he found himself alone,<br /> +Reft of desire, all love and madness gone.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And yet for that past folly must he weep,</span><br /> +As one might mourn the parted happiness<br /> +That, mixed with madness, made him smile in sleep;<br /> +And still some lingering sweetness seemed to bless<br /> +The hard life left of toil and loneliness,<br /> +Like a past song too sweet, too short, and yet<br /> +Emmeshed for ever in the memory's net.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Weeping he entered, murmuring, "O fair Queen,</span><br /> +I thank thee that my prayer was not for nought,<br /> +Truly a present helper hast thou been<br /> +To those who faithfully thy throne have sought!<br /> +Yet, since with pain deliverance I have bought,<br /> +Hast thou not yet some gift in store for me,<br /> +That I thine happy slave henceforth may be?"</p></div> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">T</span><span class="caps">hus</span> to his chamber at the last he came,</span><br /> +And, pushing through the still half-opened door,<br /> +He stood within; but there, for very shame<br /> +Of all the things that he had done before,<br /> +Still kept his eyes bent down upon the floor,<br /> +Thinking of all that he had done and said<br /> +Since he had wrought that luckless marble maid.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet soft his thoughts were, and the very place</span><br /> +Seemed perfumed with some nameless heavenly air<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span>So gaining courage, did he raise his face<br /> +Unto the work his hands had made so fair,<br /> +And cried aloud to see the niche all bare<br /> +Of that sweet form, while through his heart again<br /> +There shot a pang of his old yearning pain.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet while he stood, and knew not what to do</span><br /> +With yearning, a strange thrill of hope there came,<br /> +A shaft of new desire now pierced him through,<br /> +And therewithal a soft voice called his name,<br /> +And when he turned, with eager eyes aflame,<br /> +He saw betwixt him and the setting sun<br /> +The lively image of his lovéd one.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He trembled at the sight, for though her eyes,</span><br /> +Her very lips, were such as he had made,<br /> +And though her tresses fell but in such guise<br /> +As he had wrought them, now was she arrayed<br /> +In that fair garment that the priests had laid<br /> +Upon the goddess on that very morn,<br /> +Dyed like the setting sun upon the corn.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Speechless he stood, but she now drew anear,</span><br /> +Simple and sweet as she was wont to be,<br /> +And all at once her silver voice rang clear,<br /> +Filling his soul with great felicity,<br /> +And thus she spoke, "Pygmalion, come to me,<br /> +O dear companion of my new-found life,<br /> +For I am called thy lover and thy wife.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Listen, these words the Dread One bade me say</span><br /> +That was with me e'en now, <i>Pygmalion,</i><br /> +<i>My new-made soul I give to thee to-day,</i><br /> +<i>Come, feel the sweet breath that thy prayer has won,</i><br /> +<i>And lay thine hand this heaving breast upon!</i><br /> +<i>Come love, and walk with me between the trees,</i><br /> +<i>And feel the freshness of the evening breeze.</i><br /> +<br /> +<i>"Sweep mine hair round thy neck; behold my feet,</i><br /> +<i>The oft-kissed feet thou thoughtst should never move,</i><br /> +<i>Press down the daisies! draw me to thee, sweet,</i><br /> +<i>And feel the warm heart of thy living love</i><br /> +<i>Beat against thine, and bless the Seed of Jove</i><br /> +<i>Whose loving tender heart hath wrought all this,</i><br /> +<i>And wrapped us both in such a cloud of bliss.</i><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Ah, thou art wise to know what this may mean!</span><br /> +Sweet seem the words to me, and needs must I<br /> +Speak all the lesson of the lovely Queen:<br /> +But this I know, I would we were more nigh,<br /> +I have not heard thy voice but in the cry<br /> +Thou utteredst then, when thou believedst gone<br /> +The marvel of thine hands, the maid of stone."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">She reached her hand to him, and with kind eyes</span><br /> +Gazed into his; but he the fingers caught<br /> +And drew her to him, and midst ecstasies<br /> +Passing all words, yea, well-nigh passing thought,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span>Felt that sweet breath that he so long had sought,<br /> +Felt the warm life within her heaving breast<br /> +As in his arms his living love he pressed.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But as his cheek touched hers he heard her say,</span><br /> +"Wilt thou not speak, O love? why dost thou weep?<br /> +Art thou then sorry for this long-wished day,<br /> +Or dost thou think perchance thou wilt not keep<br /> +This that thou holdest, but in dreamy sleep?<br /> +Nay, let us do the bidding of the Queen,<br /> +And hand in hand walk through thy garden green;<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Then shalt thou tell me, still beholding me,</span><br /> +Full many things whereof I wish to know,<br /> +And as we walk from whispering tree to tree<br /> +Still more familiar to thee shall I grow,<br /> +And such things shalt thou say unto me now<br /> +As when thou deemedst thou wast quite alone,<br /> +A madman, kneeling to a thing of stone."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But at that word a smile lit up his eyes</span><br /> +And therewithal he spake some loving word,<br /> +And she at first looked up in grave surprise<br /> +When his deep voice and musical she heard,<br /> +And clung to him as grown somewhat afeard;<br /> +Then cried aloud and said, "O mighty one!<br /> +What joy with thee to look upon the sun."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then into that fair garden did they pass</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span>And all the story of his love he told,<br /> +And as the twain went o'er the dewy grass,<br /> +Beneath the risen moon could he behold<br /> +The bright tears trickling down, then, waxen bold,<br /> +He stopped and said, "Ah, love, what meaneth this?<br /> +Seest thou how tears still follow earthly bliss?"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then both her white arms round his neck she threw</span><br /> +And sobbing said, "O love, what hurteth me?<br /> +When first the sweetness of my life I knew,<br /> +Not this I felt, but when I first saw thee<br /> +A little pain and great felicity<br /> +Rose up within me, and thy talk e'en now<br /> +Made pain and pleasure ever greater grow?"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"O sweet," he said, "this thing is even love,</span><br /> +Whereof I told thee; that all wise men fear,<br /> +But yet escape not; nay, to gods above,<br /> +Unless the old tales lie, it draweth near.<br /> +But let my happy ears I pray thee hear<br /> +Thy story too, and how thy blessed birth<br /> +Has made a heaven of this once lonely earth."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"My sweet," she said, "as yet I am not wise,</span><br /> +Or stored with words, aright the tale to tell,<br /> +But listen: when I opened first mine eyes<br /> +I stood within the niche thou knowest well,<br /> +And from mine hand a heavy thing there fell<br /> +Carved like these flowers, nor could I see things clear,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span>And but a strange confusèd noise could hear.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"At last mine eyes could see a woman fair,</span><br /> +But awful as this round white moon o'erhead.<br /> +So that I trembled when I saw her there,<br /> +For with my life was born some touch of dread,<br /> +And therewithal I heard her voice that said,<br /> +'Come down, and learn to love and be alive,<br /> +For thee, a well-prized gift, to-day I give.'<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Then on the floor I stepped, rejoicing much,</span><br /> +Not knowing why, not knowing aught at all,<br /> +Till she reached out her hand my breast to touch,<br /> +And when her fingers thereupon did fall,<br /> +Thought came unto my life, and therewithal<br /> +I knew her for a goddess, and began<br /> +To murmur in some tongue unknown to man.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"And then indeed not in this guise was I,</span><br /> +No sandals had I, and no saffron gown,<br /> +But naked as thou knowest utterly,<br /> +E'en as my limbs beneath thine hand had grown,<br /> +And this fair perfumed robe then fell adown<br /> +Over the goddess' feet and swept the ground,<br /> +And round her loins a glittering belt was bound.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"But when the stammering of my tongue she heard</span><br /> +Upon my trembling lips her hand she laid,<br /> +And spoke again, 'Nay, say not any word,<br /> +All that thine heart would say I know unsaid,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span>Who even now thine heart and voice have made;<br /> +But listen rather, for thou knowest now<br /> +What these words mean, and still wilt wiser grow.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"'Thy body, lifeless till I gave it life,</span><br /> +A certain man, my servant, well hath wrought<br /> +I give thee to him as his love and wife,<br /> +With all thy dowry of desire and thought,<br /> +Since this his yearning heart hath ever sought;<br /> +Now from my temple is he on the way,<br /> +Deeming to find thee e'en as yesterday;<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"'Bide thou his coming by the bed-head there,</span><br /> +And when thou seest him set his eyes upon<br /> +Thine empty niche, and hear'st him cry for care,<br /> +Then call him by his name, Pygmalion,<br /> +And certainly thy lover hast thou won;<br /> +But when he stands before thee silently,<br /> +Say all these words that I shall teach to thee.'<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"With that she said what first I told thee, love</span><br /> +And then went on, 'Moreover thou shalt say<br /> +That I, the daughter of almighty Jove,<br /> +Have wrought for him this long-desired day;<br /> +In sign whereof, these things that pass away,<br /> +Wherein mine image men have well arrayed,<br /> +I give thee for thy wedding gear, O maid.'<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Therewith her raiment she put off from her.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span>And laid bare all her perfect loveliness,<br /> +And, smiling on me, came yet more anear,<br /> +And on my mortal lips her lips did press,<br /> +And said, 'Now herewith shalt thou love no less<br /> +Than Psyche loved my son in days of old;<br /> +Farewell, of thee shall many a tale be told.'<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"And even with that last word was she gone,</span><br /> +How, I know not, and I my limbs arrayed<br /> +In her fair gift, and waited thee alone—<br /> +Ah, love, indeed the word is true she said,<br /> +For now I love thee so, I grow afraid<br /> +Of what the gods upon our heads may send—<br /> +I love thee so, I think upon the end."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What words he said? How can I tell again</span><br /> +What words they said beneath the glimmering light,<br /> +Some tongue they used unknown to loveless men<br /> +As each to each they told their great delight,<br /> +Until for stillness of the growing night<br /> +Their soft sweet murmuring words seemed growing loud<br /> +And dim the moon grew, hid by fleecy cloud.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">S</span><span class="caps">uch</span> was the ending of his ancient rhyme,</span><br /> +That seemed to fit that soft and golden time,<br /> +When men were happy, they could scarce tell why,<br /> +Although they felt the rich year slipping by.<br /> +The sun went down, the harvest-moon arose,<br /> +And 'twixt the slim trees of that fruitful close<br /> +They saw the corn still falling 'neath its light,<br /> +While through the soft air of the windless night<br /> +The voices of the reapers' mates rang clear<br /> +In measured song, as of the fruitful year<br /> +They told, and its delights, and now and then<br /> +The rougher voices of the toiling men<br /> +Joined in the song, as one by one released<br /> +From that hard toil, they sauntered towards the feast<br /> +That waited them upon the strip of grass<br /> +That through the golden-glimmering sea did pass.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But those old men, glad to have lived so long,</span><br /> +Sat listening through the twilight to the song,<br /> +And when the night grew and all things were still<br /> +Throughout the wide vale from green hill to hill<br /> +Unto a happy harvesting they drank<br /> +Till once more o'er the hills the white moon sank.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span></p> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">A</span><span class="caps">ugust</span> had not gone by, though now was stored</span><br /> +In the sweet-smelling granaries all the hoard<br /> +Of golden corn; the land had made her gain,<br /> +And winter should howl round her doors in vain.<br /> +But o'er the same fields grey now and forlorn<br /> +The old men sat and heard the swineherd's horn,<br /> +Far off across the stubble, when the day<br /> +At end of harvest-tide was sad and grey;<br /> +And rain was in the wind's voice as it swept<br /> +Along the hedges where the lone quail crept,<br /> +Beneath the chattering of the restless pie.<br /> +The fruit-hung branches moved, and suddenly<br /> +The trembling apples smote the dewless grass,<br /> +And all the year to autumn-tide did pass.<br /> +E'en such a day it was as young men love<br /> +When swiftly through the veins the blood doth move,<br /> +And they, whose eyes can see not death at all,<br /> +To thoughts of stirring deeds and pleasure fall,<br /> +Because it seems to them to tell of life<br /> +After the dreamy days devoid of strife,<br /> +When every day with sunshine is begun,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span>And cloudless skies receive the setting sun.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">On such a day the older folk were fain</span><br /> +Of something new somewhat to dull the pain<br /> +Of sad, importunate old memories<br /> +That to their weary hearts must needs arise.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Alas! what new things on that day could come</span><br /> +From hearts that now so long had been the home<br /> +Of such dull thoughts, nay, rather let them tell<br /> +Some tale that fits their ancient longings well.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Rolf was the speaker, who said, "Friends, behold</span><br /> +This is e'en such a tale as those once told<br /> +Unto my greedy ears by Nicholas,<br /> +Before our quest for nothing came to pass."</p></div> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span></p> +<h2>OGIER THE DANE.</h2> + +<h3>ARGUMENT.</h3> + +<p class="hang">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.</p> +<p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">W</span><span class="caps">ithin</span> some Danish city by the sea,</span><br /> +Whose name, changed now, is all unknown to me,<br /> +Great mourning was there one fair summer eve,<br /> +Because the angels, bidden to receive<br /> +The fair Queen's lovely soul in Paradise,<br /> +Had done their bidding, and in royal guise<br /> +Her helpless body, once the prize of love,<br /> +Unable now for fear or hope to move,<br /> +Lay underneath the golden canopy;<br /> +And bowed down by unkingly misery<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span>The King sat by it, and not far away,<br /> +Within the chamber a fair man-child lay,<br /> +His mother's bane, the king that was to be,<br /> +Not witting yet of any royalty,<br /> +Harmless and loved, although so new to life.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Calm the June evening was, no sign of strife</span><br /> +The clear sky showed, no storm grew round the sun,<br /> +Unhappy that his day of bliss was done;<br /> +Dumb was the sea, and if the beech-wood stirred,<br /> +'Twas with the nestling of the grey-winged bird<br /> +Midst its thick leaves; and though the nightingale<br /> +Her ancient, hapless sorrow must bewail,<br /> +No more of woe there seemed within her song<br /> +Than such as doth to lovers' words belong,<br /> +Because their love is still unsatisfied.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But to the King, on that sweet eventide,</span><br /> +No earth there seemed, no heaven when earth was gone;<br /> +No help, no God! but lonely pain alone;<br /> +And he, midst unreal shadows, seemed to sit<br /> +Himself the very heart and soul of it.<br /> +But round the cradle of the new-born child<br /> +The nurses now the weary time beguiled<br /> +With stories of the just departed Queen;<br /> +And how, amid the heathen folk first seen,<br /> +She had been won to love and godliness;<br /> +And as they spoke, e'en midst his dull distress,<br /> +An eager whisper now and then did smite<br /> +Upon the King's ear, of some past delight,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span>Some once familiar name, and he would raise<br /> +His weary head, and on the speaker gaze<br /> +Like one about to speak, but soon again<br /> +Would drop his head and be alone with pain,<br /> +Nor think of these; who, silent in their turn,<br /> +Would sit and watch the waxen tapers burn<br /> +Amidst the dusk of the quick-gathering night,<br /> +Until beneath the high stars' glimmering light,<br /> +The fresh earth lay in colourless repose.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So passed the night, and now and then one rose</span><br /> +From out her place to do what might avail<br /> +To still the new-born infant's fretful wail;<br /> +Or through the softly-opened door there came<br /> +Some nurse new waked, who, whispering low the name<br /> +Of her whose turn was come, would take her place;<br /> +Then toward the King would turn about her face<br /> +And to her fellows whisper of the day,<br /> +And tell again of her just past away.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So waned the hours, the moon arose and grew,</span><br /> +From off the sea a little west-wind blew,<br /> +Rustling the garden-leaves like sudden rain;<br /> +And ere the moon began to fall again<br /> +The wind grew cold, a change was in the sky,<br /> +And in deep silence did the dawn draw nigh:<br /> +Then from her place a nurse arose to light<br /> +Fresh hallowed lights, for, dying with the night,<br /> +The tapers round about the dead Queen were;<br /> +But the King raised his head and 'gan to stare<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span>Upon her, as her sweeping gown did glide<br /> +About the floor, that in the stillness cried<br /> +Beneath her careful feet; and now as she<br /> +Had lit the second candle carefully,<br /> +And on its silver spike another one<br /> +Was setting, through her body did there run<br /> +A sudden tremor, and the hand was stayed<br /> +That on the dainty painted wax was laid;<br /> +Her eyelids fell down and she seemed to sleep,<br /> +And o'er the staring King began to creep<br /> +Sweet slumber too; the bitter lines of woe<br /> +That drew his weary face did softer grow,<br /> +His eyelids dropped, his arms fell to his side;<br /> +And moveless in their places did abide<br /> +The nursing women, held by some strong spell,<br /> +E'en as they were, and utter silence fell<br /> +Upon the mournful, glimmering chamber fair.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But now light footsteps coming up the stair,</span><br /> +Smote on the deadly stillness, and the sound<br /> +Of silken dresses trailing o'er the ground;<br /> +And heavenly odours through the chamber passed,<br /> +Unlike the scents that rose and lily cast<br /> +Upon the freshness of the dying night;<br /> +Then nigher drew the sound of footsteps light<br /> +Until the door swung open noiselessly—<br /> +A mass of sunlit flowers there seemed to be<br /> +Within the doorway, and but pale and wan<br /> +The flame showed now that serveth mortal man,<br /> +As one by one six seeming ladies passed<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span>Into the room, and o'er its sorrow cast<br /> +That thoughtless sense of joy bewildering,<br /> +That kisses youthful hearts amidst of spring;<br /> +Crowned were they, in such glorious raiment clad,<br /> +As yet no merchant of the world has had<br /> +Within his coffers; yet those crowns seemed fair<br /> +Only because they kissed their odorous hair,<br /> +And all that flowery raiment was but blessed<br /> +By those fair bodies that its splendour pressed.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now to the cradle from that glorious band,</span><br /> +A woman passed, and laid a tender hand<br /> +Upon the babe, and gently drew aside<br /> +The swathings soft that did his body hide;<br /> +And, seeing him so fair and great, she smiled,<br /> +And stooped, and kissed him, saying, "O noble child,<br /> +Have thou a gift from Gloriande this day;<br /> +For to the time when life shall pass away<br /> +From this dear heart, no fear of death or shame,<br /> +No weariness of good shall foul thy name."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So saying, to her sisters she returned;</span><br /> +And one came forth, upon whose brow there burned<br /> +A crown of rubies, and whose heaving breast<br /> +With happy rings a golden hauberk pressed;<br /> +She took the babe, and somewhat frowning said,<br /> +"This gift I give, that till thy limbs are laid<br /> +At rest for ever, to thine honoured life<br /> +There never shall be lacking war and strife,<br /> +That thou a long-enduring name mayst win,<br /> +And by thy deeds, good pardon for thy sin."<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">With that another, who, unseen, meanwhile</span><br /> +Had drawn anigh, said with a joyous smile,<br /> +"And this forgotten gift to thee I give,<br /> +That while amidst the turmoil thou dost live,<br /> +Still shalt thou win the game, and unto thee<br /> +Defeat and shame but idle words shall be."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then back they turned, and therewithal, the fourth</span><br /> +Said, "Take this gift for what it may be worth<br /> +For that is mine to give; lo, thou shalt be<br /> +Gentle of speech, and in all courtesy<br /> +The first of men: a little gift this is,<br /> +After these promises of fame and bliss."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then toward the babe the fifth fair woman went;</span><br /> +Grey-eyed she was, and simple, with eyes bent<br /> +Down on the floor, parted her red lips were,<br /> +And o'er her sweet face marvellously fair<br /> +Oft would the colour spread full suddenly;<br /> +Clad in a dainty gown and thin was she,<br /> +For some green summer of the fay-land dight,<br /> +Tripping she went, and laid her fingers light<br /> +Upon the child, and said, "O little one,<br /> +As long as thou shalt look upon the sun<br /> +Shall women long for thee; take heed to this<br /> +And give them what thou canst of love and bliss."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then, blushing for her words, therefrom she past,</span><br /> +And by the cradle stood the sixth and last,<br /> +The fairest of them all; awhile she gazed<br /> +Down on the child, and then her hand she raised,<br /> +And made the one side of her bosom bare;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span>"Ogier," she said, "if this be foul or fair<br /> +Thou know'st not now, but when thine earthly life<br /> +Is drunk out to the dregs, and war and strife<br /> +Have yielded thee whatever joy they may,<br /> +Thine head upon this bosom shalt thou lay;<br /> +And then, despite of knowledge or of God,<br /> +Will we be glad upon the flowery sod<br /> +Within the happy country where I dwell:<br /> +Ogier, my love that is to be, farewell!"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">She turned, and even as they came they passed</span><br /> +From out the place, and reached the gate at last<br /> +That oped before their feet, and speedily<br /> +They gained the edges of the murmuring sea,<br /> +And as they stood in silence, gazing there<br /> +Out to the west, they vanished into air,<br /> +I know not how, nor whereto they returned.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But mixed with twilight in the chamber burned</span><br /> +The flickering candles, and those dreary folk,<br /> +Unlike to sleepers, from their trance awoke,<br /> +But nought of what had happed meanwhile they knew<br /> +Through the half-opened casements now there blew<br /> +A sweet fresh air, that of the flowers and sea<br /> +Mingled together, smelt deliciously,<br /> +And from the unseen sun the spreading light<br /> +Began to make the fair June blossoms bright,<br /> +And midst their weary woe uprose the sun,<br /> +And thus has Ogier's noble life begun.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">H</span><span class="caps">ope</span> is our life, when first our life grows clear;</span><br /> +Hope and delight, scarce crossed by lines of fear,<br /> +Yet the day comes when fain we would not hope,<br /> +But forasmuch as we with life must cope,<br /> +Struggling with this and that, who knoweth why?<br /> +Hope will not give us up to certainty,<br /> +But still must bide with us: and with this man,<br /> +Whose life amid such promises began<br /> +Great things she wrought; but now the time has come<br /> +When he no more on earth may have his home.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Great things he suffered, great delights he had,</span><br /> +Unto great kings he gave good deeds for bad;<br /> +He ruled o'er kingdoms where his name no more<br /> +Is had in memory, and on many a shore<br /> +He left his sweat and blood to win a name<br /> +Passing the bounds of earthly creatures' fame.<br /> +A love he won and lost, a well-loved son<br /> +Whose little day of promise soon was done:<br /> +A tender wife he had, that he must leave<br /> +Before his heart her love could well receive;<br /> +Those promised gifts, that on his careless head<br /> +In those first hours of his fair life were shed<br /> +He took unwitting, and unwitting spent,<br /> +Nor gave himself to grief and discontent<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</a></span>Because he saw the end a-drawing nigh.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where is he now? in what land must he die,</span><br /> +To leave an empty name to us on earth?<br /> +A tale half true, to cast across our mirth<br /> +Some pensive thoughts of life that might have been;<br /> +Where is he now, that all this life has seen?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Behold, another eve upon the earth</span><br /> +Than that calm evening of the warrior's birth;<br /> +The sun is setting in the west, the sky<br /> +Is bright and clear and hard, and no clouds lie<br /> +About the golden circle of the sun;<br /> +But East, aloof from him, heavy and dun<br /> +Steel-grey they pack with edges red as blood,<br /> +And underneath them is the weltering flood<br /> +Of some huge sea, whose tumbling hills, as they<br /> +Turn restless sides about, are black or grey,<br /> +Or green, or glittering with the golden flame;<br /> +The wind has fallen now, but still the same<br /> +The mighty army moves, as if to drown<br /> +This lone, bare rock, whose shear scarped sides of brown<br /> +Cast off the weight of waves in clouds of spray.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Alas! what ships upon an evil day</span><br /> +Bent over to the wind in this ill sea?<br /> +What navy, whose rent bones lie wretchedly<br /> +Beneath these cliffs? a mighty one it was,<br /> +A fearful storm to bring such things to pass.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">This is the loadstone rock; no armament</span><br /> +Of warring nations, in their madness bent<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</a></span>Their course this way; no merchant wittingly<br /> +Has steered his keel unto this luckless sea;<br /> +Upon no shipman's card its name is writ,<br /> +Though worn-out mariners will speak of it<br /> +Within the ingle on the winter's night,<br /> +When all within is warm and safe and bright,<br /> +And the wind howls without: but 'gainst their will<br /> +Are some folk driven here, and then all skill<br /> +Against this evil rock is vain and nought,<br /> +And unto death the shipmen soon are brought;<br /> +For then the keel, as by a giant's hand,<br /> +Is drawn unto that mockery of a land,<br /> +And presently unto its sides doth cleave;<br /> +When if they 'scape swift death, yet none may leave<br /> +The narrow limits of that barren isle,<br /> +And thus are slain by famine in a while<br /> +Mocked, as they say, by night with images<br /> +Of noble castles among groves of trees,<br /> +By day with sounds of merry minstrelsy.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The sun sinks now below this hopeless sea,</span><br /> +The clouds are gone, and all the sky is bright;<br /> +The moon is rising o'er the growing night,<br /> +And by its shine may ye behold the bones<br /> +Of generations of these luckless ones<br /> +Scattered about the rock; but nigh the sea<br /> +Sits one alive, who uncomplainingly<br /> +Awaits his death. White-haired is he and old,<br /> +Arrayed in royal raiment, bright with gold,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</a></span>But tarnished with the waves and rough salt air;<br /> +Huge is he, of a noble face and fair,<br /> +As for an ancient man, though toil and eld<br /> +Furrow the cheeks that ladies once beheld<br /> +With melting hearts—Nay, listen, for he speaks!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"God, Thou hast made me strong! nigh seven weeks</span><br /> +Have passed since from the wreck we haled our store,<br /> +And five long days well told, have now passed o'er<br /> +Since my last fellow died, with my last bread<br /> +Between his teeth, and yet I am not dead.<br /> +Yea, but for this I had been strong enow<br /> +In some last bloody field my sword to show.<br /> +What matter? soon will all be past and done,<br /> +Where'er I died I must have died alone:<br /> +Yet, Caraheu, a good death had it been<br /> +Dying, thy face above me to have seen,<br /> +And heard my banner flapping in the wind,<br /> +Then, though my memory had not left thy mind,<br /> +Yet hope and fear would not have vexed thee more<br /> +When thou hadst known that everything was o'er;<br /> +But now thou waitest, still expecting me,<br /> +Whose sail shall never speck thy bright blue sea.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"And thou, Clarice, the merchants thou mayst call,</span><br /> +To tell thee tales within thy pictured hall,<br /> +But never shall they tell true tales of me:<br /> +Whatever sails the Kentish hills may see<br /> +Swept by the flood-tide toward thy well-walled town,<br /> +No more on my sails shall they look adown.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Get thee another leader, Charlemaine,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</a></span>For thou shalt look to see my shield in vain,<br /> +When in the fair fields of the Frankish land,<br /> +Thick as the corn they tread, the heathen stand.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"What matter? ye shall learn to live your lives;</span><br /> +Husbands and children, other friends and wives,<br /> +Shall wipe the tablets of your memory clean,<br /> +And all shall be as I had never been.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"And now, O God, am I alone with Thee;</span><br /> +A little thing indeed it seems to be<br /> +To give this life up, since it needs must go<br /> +Some time or other; now at last I know<br /> +How foolishly men play upon the earth,<br /> +When unto them a year of life seems worth<br /> +Honour and friends, and these vague hopes and sweet<br /> +That like real things my dying heart do greet,<br /> +Unreal while living on the earth I trod,<br /> +And but myself I knew no other god.<br /> +Behold, I thank Thee that Thou sweet'nest thus<br /> +This end, that I had thought most piteous,<br /> +If of another I had heard it told."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What man is this, who weak and worn and old</span><br /> +Gives up his life within that dreadful isle,<br /> +And on the fearful coming death can smile?<br /> +Alas! this man, so battered and outworn,<br /> +Is none but he, who, on that summer morn,<br /> +Received such promises of glorious life:<br /> +Ogier the Dane this is, to whom all strife<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</a></span>Was but as wine to stir awhile the blood,<br /> +To whom all life, however hard, was good:<br /> +This is the man, unmatched of heart and limb,<br /> +Ogier the Dane, whose sight has waxed not dim<br /> +For all the years that he on earth has dwelt;<br /> +Ogier the Dane, that never fear has felt,<br /> +Since he knew good from ill; Ogier the Dane,<br /> +The heathen's dread, the evil-doer's bane.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">B</span><span class="caps">right</span> had the moon grown as his words were done,</span><br /> +And no more was there memory of the sun<br /> +Within the west, and he grew drowsy now.<br /> +And somewhat smoother was his wrinkled brow<br /> +As thought died out beneath the hand of sleep,<br /> +And o'er his soul forgetfulness did creep,<br /> +Hiding the image of swift-coming death;<br /> +Until as peacefully he drew his breath<br /> +As on that day, past for a hundred years,<br /> +When, midst the nurse's quickly-falling tears,<br /> +He fell asleep to his first lullaby.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The night changed as he slept, white clouds and high</span><br /> +Began about the lonely moon to close;<br /> +And from the dark west a new wind arose,<br /> +And with the sound of heavy-falling waves<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</a></span>Mingled its pipe about the loadstone caves;<br /> +But when the twinkling stars were hid away,<br /> +And a faint light and broad, like dawn of day,<br /> +The moon upon that dreary country shed,<br /> +Ogier awoke, and lifting up his head<br /> +And smiling, muttered, "Nay, no more again;<br /> +Rather some pleasure new, some other pain,<br /> +Unthought of both, some other form of strife;"<br /> +For he had waked from dreams of his old life,<br /> +And through St. Omer's archer-guarded gate<br /> +Once more had seemed to pass, and saw the state<br /> +Of that triumphant king; and still, though all<br /> +Seemed changed, and folk by other names did call<br /> +Faces he knew of old, yet none the less<br /> +He seemed the same, and, midst that mightiness,<br /> +Felt his own power, and grew the more athirst<br /> +For coming glory, as of old, when first<br /> +He stood before the face of Charlemaine,<br /> +A helpless hostage with all life to gain.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But now, awake, his worn face once more sank</span><br /> +Between his hands, and, murmuring not, he drank<br /> +The draught of death that must that thirst allay.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But while he sat and waited for the day</span><br /> +A sudden light across the bare rock streamed,<br /> +Which at the first he noted not, but deemed<br /> +The moon her fleecy veil had broken through;<br /> +But ruddier indeed this new light grew<br /> +Than were the moon's grey beams, and, therewithal<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</a></span>Soft far-off music on his ears did fall;<br /> +Yet moved he not, but murmured, "This is death.<br /> +An easy thing like this to yield my breath,<br /> +Awake, yet dreaming, with no sounds of fear,<br /> +No dreadful sights to tell me it is near;<br /> +Yea, God, I thank Thee!" but with that last word<br /> +It seemed to him that he his own name heard<br /> +Whispered, as though the wind had borne it past;<br /> +With that he gat unto his feet at last,<br /> +But still awhile he stood, with sunken head,<br /> +And in a low and trembling voice he said,<br /> +"Lord, I am ready, whither shall I go?<br /> +I pray Thee unto me some token show."<br /> +And, as he said this, round about he turned,<br /> +And in the east beheld a light that burned<br /> +As bright as day; then, though his flesh might fear<br /> +The coming change that he believed so near,<br /> +Yet did his soul rejoice, for now he thought<br /> +Unto the very heaven to be brought:<br /> +And though he felt alive, deemed it might be<br /> +That he in sleep had died full easily.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then toward that light did he begin to go,</span><br /> +And still those strains he heard, far off and low,<br /> +That grew no louder; still that bright light streamed<br /> +Over the rocks, yet nothing brighter seemed,<br /> +But like the light of some unseen bright flame<br /> +Shone round about, until at last he came<br /> +Unto the dreary islet's other shore,<br /> +And then the minstrelsy he heard no more,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</a></span>And softer seemed the strange light unto him,<br /> +But yet or ever it had grown quite dim,<br /> +Beneath its waning light could he behold<br /> +A mighty palace set about with gold,<br /> +Above green meads and groves of summer trees<br /> +Far-off across the welter of the seas;<br /> +But, as he gazed, it faded from his sight,<br /> +And the grey hidden moon's diffused soft light,<br /> +Which soothly was but darkness to him now,<br /> +His sea-girt island prison did but show.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But o'er the sea he still gazed wistfully,</span><br /> +And said, "Alas! and when will this go by<br /> +And leave my soul in peace? must I still dream<br /> +Of life that once so dear a thing did seem,<br /> +That, when I wake, death may the bitterer be?<br /> +Here will I sit until he come to me,<br /> +And hide mine eyes and think upon my sin,<br /> +That so a little calm I yet may win<br /> +Before I stand within the awful place."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then down he sat and covered up his face.</span><br /> +Yet therewithal his trouble could not hide,<br /> +Nor waiting thus for death could he abide,<br /> +For, though he knew it not, the yearning pain<br /> +Of hope of life had touched his soul again—<br /> +If he could live awhile, if he could live!<br /> +The mighty being, who once was wont to give<br /> +The gift of life to many a trembling man;<br /> +Who did his own will since his life began;<br /> +Who feared not aught, but strong and great and free<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</a></span>Still cast aside the thought of what might be;<br /> +Must all this then be lost, and with no will,<br /> +Powerless and blind, must he some fate fulfil,<br /> +Nor know what he is doing any more?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Soon he arose and paced along the shore,</span><br /> +And gazed out seaward for the blessed light;<br /> +But nought he saw except the old sad sight,<br /> +The ceaseless tumbling of the billows grey,<br /> +The white upspringing of the spurts of spray<br /> +Amidst that mass of timbers, the rent bones<br /> +Of the sea-houses of the hapless ones<br /> +Once cast like him upon this deadly isle.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He stopped his pacing in a little while,</span><br /> +And clenched his mighty hands, and set his teeth,<br /> +And gazing at the ruin underneath,<br /> +He swung from off the bare cliff's jagged brow,<br /> +And on some slippery ledge he wavered now,<br /> +Without a hand-hold, and now stoutly clung<br /> +With hands alone, and o'er the welter hung,<br /> +Not caring aught if thus his life should end;<br /> +But safely amidst all this did he descend<br /> +The dreadful cliff, and since no beach was there,<br /> +But from the depths the rock rose stark and bare,<br /> +Nor crumbled aught beneath the hammering sea,<br /> +Upon the wrecks he stood unsteadily.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But now, amid the clamour of the waves,</span><br /> +And washing to-and-fro of beams and staves,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</a></span>Dizzy with hunger, dreamy with distress,<br /> +And all those days of fear and loneliness,<br /> +The ocean's tumult seemed the battle's roar,<br /> +His heart grew hot, as when in days of yore<br /> +He heard the cymbals clash amid the crowd<br /> +Of dusky faces; now he shouted loud,<br /> +And from crushed beam to beam began to leap,<br /> +And yet his footing somehow did he keep<br /> +Amidst their tossing, and indeed the sea<br /> +Was somewhat sunk upon the island's lee.<br /> +So quickly on from wreck to wreck he passed,<br /> +And reached the outer line of wrecks at last,<br /> +And there a moment stood unsteadily,<br /> +Amid the drift of spray that hurried by,<br /> +And drew Courtain his sword from out its sheath,<br /> +And poised himself to meet the coming death,<br /> +Still looking out to sea; but as he gazed,<br /> +And once or twice his doubtful feet he raised<br /> +To take the final plunge, that heavenly strain<br /> +Over the washing waves he heard again,<br /> +And from the dimness something bright he saw<br /> +Across the waste of waters towards him draw;<br /> +And hidden now, now raised aloft, at last<br /> +Unto his very feet a boat was cast,<br /> +Gilded inside and out, and well arrayed<br /> +With cushions soft; far fitter to have weighed<br /> +From some sweet garden on the shallow Seine,<br /> +Or in a reach of green Thames to have lain,<br /> +Than struggle with that huge confuséd sea;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</a></span>But Ogier gazed upon it doubtfully<br /> +One moment, and then, sheathing Courtain, said,<br /> +"What tales are these about the newly dead<br /> +The heathen told? what matter, let all pass;<br /> +This moment as one dead indeed I was,<br /> +And this must be what I have got to do,<br /> +I yet perchance may light on something new<br /> +Before I die; though yet perchance this keel<br /> +Unto the wondrous mass of charméd steel<br /> +Is drawn as others." With that word he leapt<br /> +Into the boat, and o'er the cushions crept<br /> +From stem to stern, but found no rudder there,<br /> +Nor any oars, nor were the cushions fair<br /> +Made wet by any dashing of the sea.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now while he pondered how these things could be,</span><br /> +The boat began to move therefrom at last,<br /> +But over him a drowsiness was cast,<br /> +And as o'er tumbling hills the skiff did pass,<br /> +He clean forgot his death and where he was.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">At last he woke up to a sunny day,</span><br /> +And, looking round, saw that his shallop lay<br /> +Moored at the edge of some fair tideless sea<br /> +Unto an overhanging thick-leaved tree,<br /> +Where in the green waves did the low bank dip<br /> +Its fresh and green grass-covered daisied lip;<br /> +But Ogier looking thence no more could see<br /> +That sad abode of death and misery,<br /> +Nor aught but wide and empty ocean, grey<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</a></span>With gathering haze, for now it neared midday;<br /> +Then from the golden cushions did he rise,<br /> +And wondering still if this were Paradise<br /> +He stepped ashore, but drew Courtain his sword<br /> +And muttered therewithal a holy word.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Fair was the place, as though amidst of May,</span><br /> +Nor did the brown birds fear the sunny day,<br /> +For with their quivering song the air was sweet;<br /> +Thick grew the field-flowers underneath his feet,<br /> +And on his head the blossoms down did rain,<br /> +Yet mid these fair things slowly and with pain<br /> +He 'gan to go, yea, even when his foot<br /> +First touched the flowery sod, to his heart's root<br /> +A coldness seemed to strike, and now each limb<br /> +Was growing stiff, his eyes waxed bleared and dim,<br /> +And all his stored-up memory 'gan to fail,<br /> +Nor yet would his once mighty heart avail<br /> +For lamentations o'er his changéd lot;<br /> +Yet urged by some desire, he knew not what,<br /> +Along a little path 'twixt hedges sweet,<br /> +Drawn sword in hand, he dragged his faltering feet,<br /> +For what then seemed to him a weary way,<br /> +Whereon his steps he needs must often stay<br /> +And lean upon the mighty well-worn sword<br /> +That in those hands, grown old, for king or lord<br /> +Had small respect in glorious days long past.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But still he crept along, and at the last</span><br /> +Came to a gilded wicket, and through this<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</a></span>Entered a garden fit for utmost bliss,<br /> +If that might last which needs must soon go by:<br /> +There 'gainst a tree he leaned, and with a sigh<br /> +He said, "O God, a sinner I have been,<br /> +And good it is that I these things have seen<br /> +Before I meet what Thou hast set apart<br /> +To cleanse the earthly folly from my heart;<br /> +But who within this garden now can dwell<br /> +Wherein guilt first upon the world befell?"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A little further yet he staggered on,</span><br /> +Till to a fountain-side at last he won,<br /> +O'er which two white-thorns their sweet blossoms shed.<br /> +There he sank down, and laid his weary head<br /> +Beside the mossy roots, and in a while<br /> +He slept, and dreamed himself within the isle;<br /> +That splashing fount the weary sea did seem,<br /> +And in his dream the fair place but a dream;<br /> +But when again to feebleness he woke<br /> +Upon his ears that heavenly music broke,<br /> +Not faint or far as in the isle it was,<br /> +But e'en as though the minstrels now did pass<br /> +Anigh his resting-place; then fallen in doubt,<br /> +E'en as he might, he rose and gazed about,<br /> +Leaning against the hawthorn stem with pain;<br /> +And yet his straining gaze was but in vain,<br /> +Death stole so fast upon him, and no more<br /> +Could he behold the blossoms as before,<br /> +No more the trees seemed rooted to the ground,<br /> +A heavy mist seemed gathering all around,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</a></span>And in its heart some bright thing seemed to be,<br /> +And round his head there breathed deliciously<br /> +Sweet odours, and that music never ceased.<br /> +But as the weight of Death's strong hand increased<br /> +Again he sank adown, and Courtain's noise<br /> +Within the scabbard seemed a farewell voice<br /> +Sent from the world he loved so well of old,<br /> +And all his life was as a story told,<br /> +And as he thought thereof he 'gan to smile<br /> +E'en as a child asleep, but in a while<br /> +It was as though he slept, and sleeping dreamed,<br /> +For in his half-closed eyes a glory gleamed,<br /> +As though from some sweet face and golden hair,<br /> +And on his breast were laid soft hands and fair,<br /> +And a sweet voice was ringing in his ears,<br /> +Broken as if with flow of joyous tears;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Ogier, sweet friend, hast thou not tarried long?</span><br /> +Alas! thine hundred years of strife and wrong!"<br /> +Then he found voice to say, "Alas! dear Lord,<br /> +Too long, too long; and yet one little word<br /> +Right many a year agone had brought me here."<br /> +Then to his face that face was drawn anear,<br /> +He felt his head raised up and gently laid<br /> +On some kind knee, again the sweet voice said,<br /> +"Nay, Ogier, nay, not yet, not yet, dear friend!<br /> +Who knoweth when our linkéd life shall end,<br /> +Since thou art come unto mine arms at last,<br /> +And all the turmoil of the world is past?<br /> +Why do I linger ere I see thy face<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</a></span>As I desired it in that mourning place<br /> +So many years ago—so many years,<br /> +Thou knewest not thy love and all her fears?"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Alas!" he said, "what mockery then is this</span><br /> +That thou wilt speak to me of earthly bliss?<br /> +No longer can I think upon the earth,<br /> +Have I not done with all its grief and mirth?<br /> +Yes, I was Ogier once, but if my love<br /> +Should come once more my dying heart to move,<br /> +Then must she come from 'neath the milk-white walls<br /> +Whereon to-day the hawthorn blossom falls<br /> +Outside St. Omer's—art thou she? her name<br /> +Which I remembered once mid death and fame<br /> +Is clean forgotten now; but yesterday,<br /> +Meseems, our son, upon her bosom lay:<br /> +Baldwin the fair—what hast thou done with him<br /> +Since Charlot slew him? All, mine eyes wax dim;<br /> +Woman, forbear! wilt thou not let me die?<br /> +Did I forget thee in the days gone by?<br /> +Then let me die, that we may meet again!"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He tried to move from her, but all in vain,</span><br /> +For life had well-nigh left him, but withal<br /> +He felt a kiss upon his forehead fall,<br /> +And could not speak; he felt slim fingers fair<br /> +Move to his mighty sword-worn hand, and there<br /> +Set on some ring, and still he could not speak,<br /> +And once more sleep weighed down his eyelids weak.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">B</span><span class="caps">ut,</span> ah! what land was this he woke unto?</span><br /> +What joy was this that filled his heart anew?<br /> +Had he then gained the very Paradise?<br /> +Trembling, he durst not at the first arise,<br /> +Although no more he felt the pain of eld,<br /> +Nor durst he raise his eyes that now beheld<br /> +Beside him the white flowers and blades of grass;<br /> +He durst not speak, lest he some monster was.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But while he lay and hoped, that gentle voice</span><br /> +Once more he heard; "Yea, thou mayst well rejoice<br /> +Thou livest still, my sweet, thou livest still,<br /> +Apart from every earthly fear and ill;<br /> +Wilt thou not love me, who have wrought thee this,<br /> +That I like thee may live in double bliss?"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then Ogier rose up, nowise like to one</span><br /> +Whose span of earthly life is nigh outrun,<br /> +But as he might have risen in old days<br /> +To see the spears cleave the fresh morning haze;<br /> +But, looking round, he saw no change there was<br /> +In the fair place wherethrough he first did pass,<br /> +Though all, grown clear and joyous to his eyes,<br /> +Now looked no worse than very Paradise;<br /> +Behind him were the thorns, the fountain fair<br /> +Still sent its glittering stream forth into air,<br /> +And by its basin a fair woman stood,<br /> +And as their eyes met his new-healéd blood<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</a></span>Rushed to his face; with unused thoughts and sweet<br /> +And hurrying hopes, his heart began to beat.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The fairest of all creatures did she seem;</span><br /> +So fresh and delicate you well might deem<br /> +That scarce for eighteen summers had she blessed<br /> +The happy, longing world; yet, for the rest,<br /> +Within her glorious eyes such wisdom dwelt<br /> +A child before her had the wise man felt,<br /> +And with the pleasure of a thousand years<br /> +Her lips were fashioned to move joy or tears<br /> +Among the longing folk where she might dwell,<br /> +To give at last the kiss unspeakable.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In such wise was she clad as folk may be,</span><br /> +Who, for no shame of their humanity,<br /> +For no sad changes of the imperfect year,<br /> +Rather for added beauty, raiment wear;<br /> +For, as the heat-foretelling grey-blue haze<br /> +Veils the green flowery morn of late May-days,<br /> +Her raiment veiled her; where the bands did meet<br /> +That bound the sandals to her dainty feet,<br /> +Gems gleamed; a fresh rose-wreath embraced her head,<br /> +And on her breast there lay a ruby red.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So with a supplicating look she turned</span><br /> +To meet the flame that in his own eyes burned,<br /> +And held out both her white arms lovingly,<br /> +As though to greet him as he drew anigh.<br /> +Stammering he said, "Who art thou? how am I<br /> +So cured of all my evils suddenly,<br /> +That certainly I felt no mightier, when,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</a></span>Amid the backward rush of beaten men,<br /> +About me drooped the axe-torn Oriflamme?<br /> +Alas! I fear that in some dream I am."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Ogier," she said, "draw near, perchance it is</span><br /> +That such a name God gives unto our bliss;<br /> +I know not, but if thou art such an one<br /> +As I must deem, all days beneath the sun<br /> +That thou hadst had, shall be but dreams indeed<br /> +To those that I have given thee at thy need.<br /> +For many years ago beside the sea<br /> +When thou wert born, I plighted troth with thee:<br /> +Come near then, and make mirrors of mine eyes,<br /> +That thou mayst see what these my mysteries<br /> +Have wrought in thee; surely but thirty years,<br /> +Passed amidst joy, thy new born body bears,<br /> +Nor while thou art with me, and on this shore<br /> +Art still full-fed of love, shalt thou seem more.<br /> +Nay, love, come nigher, and let me take thine hand,<br /> +The hope and fear of many a warring land,<br /> +And I will show thee wherein lies the spell,<br /> +Whereby this happy change upon thee fell."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Like a shy youth before some royal love,</span><br /> +Close up to that fair woman did he move,<br /> +And their hands met; yet to his changéd voice<br /> +He dared not trust; nay, scarcely could rejoice<br /> +E'en when her balmy breath he 'gan to feel,<br /> +And felt strange sweetness o'er his spirit steal<br /> +As her light raiment, driven by the wind,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</a></span>Swept round him, and, bewildered and half-blind<br /> +His lips the treasure of her lips did press,<br /> +And round him clung her perfect loveliness.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For one sweet moment thus they stood, and then</span><br /> +She drew herself from out his arms again,<br /> +And panting, lovelier for her love, did stand<br /> +Apart awhile, then took her lover's hand,<br /> +And, in a trembling voice, made haste to say,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"O Ogier, when thou camest here to-day,</span><br /> +I feared indeed, that in my play with fate,<br /> +I might have seen thee e'en one day too late,<br /> +Before this ring thy finger should embrace;<br /> +Behold it, love, and thy keen eyes may trace<br /> +Faint figures wrought upon the ruddy gold;<br /> +My father dying gave it me, nor told<br /> +The manner of its making, but I know<br /> +That it can make thee e'en as thou art now<br /> +Despite the laws of God—shrink not from me<br /> +Because I give an impious gift to thee—<br /> +Has not God made me also, who do this?<br /> +But I, who longed to share with thee my bliss,<br /> +Am of the fays, and live their changeless life,<br /> +And, like the gods of old, I see the strife<br /> +That moves the world, unmoved if so I will;<br /> +For we the fruit, that teaches good and ill,<br /> +Have never touched like you of Adam's race;<br /> +And while thou dwellest with me in this place<br /> +Thus shalt thou be—ah, and thou deem'st, indeed,<br /> +That thou shalt gain thereby no happy meed<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</a></span>Reft of the world's joys? nor canst understand<br /> +How thou art come into a happy land?—<br /> +Love, in thy world the priests of heaven still sing,<br /> +And tell thee of it many a joyous thing;<br /> +But think'st thou, bearing the world's joy and pain,<br /> +Thou couldst live there? nay, nay, but born again<br /> +Thou wouldst be happy with the angels' bliss;<br /> +And so with us no otherwise it is,<br /> +Nor hast thou cast thine old life quite away<br /> +Even as yet, though that shall be to-day.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"But for the love and country thou hast won,</span><br /> +Know thou, that thou art come to Avallon,<br /> +That is both thine and mine; and as for me,<br /> +Morgan le Fay men call me commonly<br /> +Within the world, but fairer names than this<br /> +I have for thee and me, 'twixt kiss and kiss."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ah, what was this? and was it all in vain,</span><br /> +That she had brought him here this life to gain?<br /> +For, ere her speech was done, like one turned blind<br /> +He watched the kisses of the wandering wind<br /> +Within her raiment, or as some one sees<br /> +The very best of well-wrought images<br /> +When he is blind with grief, did he behold<br /> +The wandering tresses of her locks of gold<br /> +Upon her shoulders; and no more he pressed<br /> +The hand that in his own hand lay at rest:<br /> +His eyes, grown dull with changing memories,<br /> +Could make no answer to her glorious eyes:<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</a></span>Cold waxed his heart, and weary and distraught,<br /> +With many a cast-by, hateful, dreary thought,<br /> +Unfinished in the old days; and withal<br /> +He needs must think of what might chance to fall<br /> +In this life new-begun; and good and bad<br /> +Tormented him, because as yet he had<br /> +A worldly heart within his frame made new,<br /> +And to the deeds that he was wont to do<br /> +Did his desires still turn. But she a while<br /> +Stood gazing at him with a doubtful smile,<br /> +And let his hand fall down; and suddenly<br /> +Sounded sweet music from some close nearby,<br /> +And then she spoke again: "Come, love, with me,<br /> +That thou thy new life and delights mayst see."<br /> +And gently with that word she led him thence,<br /> +And though upon him now there fell a sense<br /> +Of dreamy and unreal bewilderment,<br /> +As hand in hand through that green place they went,<br /> +Yet therewithal a strain of tender love<br /> +A little yet his restless heart did move.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So through the whispering trees they came at last</span><br /> +To where a wondrous house a shadow cast<br /> +Across the flowers, and o'er the daisied grass<br /> +Before it, crowds of lovely folk did pass,<br /> +Playing about in carelessness and mirth,<br /> +Unshadowed by the doubtful deeds of earth;<br /> +And from the midst a band of fair girls came,<br /> +With flowers and music, greeting him by name,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</a></span>And praising him; but ever like a dream<br /> +He could not break, did all to Ogier seem.<br /> +And he his old world did the more desire,<br /> +For in his heart still burned unquenched the fire,<br /> +That through the world of old so bright did burn:<br /> +Yet was he fain that kindness to return,<br /> +And from the depth of his full heart he sighed.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then toward the house the lovely Queen did guide</span><br /> +His listless steps, and seemed to take no thought<br /> +Of knitted brow or wandering eyes distraught,<br /> +But still with kind love lighting up her face<br /> +She led him through the door of that fair place,<br /> +While round about them did the damsels press;<br /> +And he was moved by all that loveliness<br /> +As one might be, who, lying half asleep<br /> +In the May morning, notes the light wind sweep<br /> +Over the tulip-beds: no more to him<br /> +Were gleaming eyes, red lips, and bodies slim,<br /> +Amidst that dream, although the first surprise<br /> +Of hurried love wherewith the Queen's sweet eyes<br /> +Had smitten him, still in his heart did stir.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And so at last he came, led on by her</span><br /> +Into a hall wherein a fair throne was,<br /> +And hand in hand thereto the twain did pass;<br /> +And there she bade him sit, and when alone<br /> +He took his place upon the double throne,<br /> +She cast herself before him on her knees,<br /> +Embracing his, and greatly did increase<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</a></span>The shame and love that vexed his troubled heart:<br /> +But now a line of girls the crowd did part,<br /> +Lovelier than all, and Ogier could behold<br /> +One in their midst who bore a crown of gold<br /> +Within her slender hands and delicate;<br /> +She, drawing nigh, beside the throne did wait<br /> +Until the Queen arose and took the crown,<br /> +Who then to Ogier's lips did stoop adown<br /> +And kissed him, and said, "Ogier, what were worth<br /> +Thy miserable days of strife on earth,<br /> +That on their ashes still thine eyes are turned?"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then, as she spoke these words, his changed heart burned</span><br /> +With sudden memories, and thereto had he<br /> +Made answer, but she raised up suddenly<br /> +The crown she held and set it on his head,<br /> +"Ogier," she cried, "those troublous days are dead;<br /> +Thou wert dead with them also, but for me;<br /> +Turn unto her who wrought these things for thee!"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then, as he felt her touch, a mighty wave</span><br /> +Of love swept o'er his soul, as though the grave<br /> +Did really hold his body; from his seat<br /> +He rose to cast himself before her feet;<br /> +But she clung round him, and in close embrace<br /> +The twain were locked amidst that thronging place.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thenceforth new life indeed has Ogier won,</span><br /> +And in the happy land of Avallon<br /> +Quick glide the years o'er his unchanging head;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</a></span>There saw he many men the world thought dead,<br /> +Living like him in sweet forgetfulness<br /> +Of all the troubles that did once oppress<br /> +Their vainly-struggling lives—ah, how can I<br /> +Tell of their joy as though I had been nigh?<br /> +Suffice it that no fear of death they knew,<br /> +That there no talk there was of false or true,<br /> +Of right or wrong, for traitors came not there;<br /> +That everything was bright and soft and fair,<br /> +And yet they wearied not for any change,<br /> +Nor unto them did constancy seem strange.<br /> +Love knew they, but its pain they never had,<br /> +But with each other's joy were they made glad;<br /> +Nor were their lives wasted by hidden fire,<br /> +Nor knew they of the unfulfilled desire<br /> +That turns to ashes all the joys of earth,<br /> +Nor knew they yearning love amidst the dearth<br /> +Of kind and loving hearts to spend it on,<br /> +Nor dreamed of discontent when all was won;<br /> +Nor need they struggle after wealth and fame;<br /> +Still was the calm flow of their lives the same,<br /> +And yet, I say, they wearied not of it—<br /> +So did the promised days by Ogier flit.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">T</span><span class="caps">hink</span> that a hundred years have now passed by,</span><br /> +Since ye beheld Ogier lie down to die<br /> +Beside the fountain; think that now ye are<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</a></span>In France, made dangerous with wasting war;<br /> +In Paris, where about each guarded gate,<br /> +Gathered in knots, the anxious people wait,<br /> +And press around each new-come man to learn<br /> +If Harfleur now the pagan wasters burn,<br /> +Or if the Rouen folk can keep their chain,<br /> +Or Pont de l'Arche unburnt still guards the Seine?<br /> +Or if 'tis true that Andelys succour wants?<br /> +That Vernon's folk are fleeing east to Mantes?<br /> +When will they come? or rather is it true<br /> +That a great band the Constable o'erthrew<br /> +Upon the marshes of the lower Seine,<br /> +And that their long-ships, turning back again,<br /> +Caught by the high-raised waters of the bore<br /> +Were driven here and there and cast ashore?<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Such questions did they ask, and, as fresh men</span><br /> +Came hurrying in, they asked them o'er again,<br /> +And from scared folk, or fools, or ignorant,<br /> +Still got new lies, or tidings very scant.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But now amidst these men at last came one,</span><br /> +A little ere the setting of the sun,<br /> +With two stout men behind him, armed right well,<br /> +Who ever as they rode on, sooth to tell,<br /> +With doubtful eyes upon their master stared,<br /> +Or looked about like troubled men and scared.<br /> +And he they served was noteworthy indeed;<br /> +Of ancient fashion were his arms and weed,<br /> +Rich past the wont of men in those sad times;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</a></span>His face was bronzed, as though by burning climes,<br /> +But lovely as the image of a god<br /> +Carved in the days before on earth Christ trod;<br /> +But solemn were his eyes, and grey as glass,<br /> +And like to ruddy gold his fine hair was:<br /> +A mighty man he was, and taller far<br /> +Than those who on that day must bear the war<br /> +The pagans waged: he by the warders stayed<br /> +Scarce looked on them, but straight their words obeyed<br /> +And showed his pass; then, asked about his name<br /> +And from what city of the world he came,<br /> +Said, that men called him now the Ancient Knight,<br /> +That he was come midst the king's men to fight<br /> +From St. Omer's; and as he spoke, he gazed<br /> +Down on the thronging street as one amazed,<br /> +And answered no more to the questioning<br /> +Of frightened folk of this or that sad thing;<br /> +But, ere he passed on, turned about at last<br /> +And on the wondering guard a strange look cast,<br /> +And said, "St. Mary! do such men as ye<br /> +Fight with the wasters from across the sea?<br /> +Then, certes, are ye lost, however good<br /> +Your hearts may be; not such were those who stood<br /> +Beside the Hammer-bearer years agone."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So said he, and as his fair armour shone</span><br /> +With beauty of a time long passed away,<br /> +So with the music of another day<br /> +His deep voice thrilled the awe-struck, listening folk.<br /> +<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet from the crowd a mocking voice outbroke,</span><br /> +That cried, "Be merry, masters, fear ye nought,<br /> +Surely good succour to our side is brought;<br /> +For here is Charlemaine come off his tomb<br /> +To save his faithful city from its doom."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Yea," said another, "this is certain news,</span><br /> +Surely ye know how all the carvers use<br /> +To carve the dead man's image at the best,<br /> +That guards the place where he may lie at rest;<br /> +Wherefore this living image looks indeed,<br /> +Spite of his ancient tongue and marvellous weed,<br /> +To have but thirty summers."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 11em;">At the name</span><br /> +Of Charlemaine, he turned to whence there came<br /> +The mocking voice, and somewhat knit his brow,<br /> +And seemed as he would speak, but scarce knew how;<br /> +So with a half-sigh soon sank back again<br /> +Into his dream, and shook his well-wrought rein,<br /> +And silently went on upon his way.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And this was Ogier: on what evil day</span><br /> +Has he then stumbled, that he needs must come,<br /> +Midst war and ravage, to the ancient home<br /> +Of his desires? did he grow weary then,<br /> +And wish to strive once more with foolish men<br /> +For worthless things? or is fair Avallon<br /> +Sunk in the sea, and all that glory gone?<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nay, thus it happed—One day she came to him</span><br /> +And said, "Ogier, thy name is waxing dim<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</a></span>Upon the world that thou rememberest not;<br /> +The heathen men are thick on many a spot<br /> +Thine eyes have seen, and which I love therefore;<br /> +And God will give His wonted help no more.<br /> +Wilt thou, then, help? canst thou have any mind<br /> +To give thy banner once more to the wind?<br /> +Since greater glory thou shalt win for this<br /> +Than erst thou gatheredst ere thou cam'st to bliss:<br /> +For men are dwindled both in heart and frame,<br /> +Nor holds the fair land any such a name<br /> +As thine, when thou wert living midst thy peers;<br /> +The world is worser for these hundred years."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From his calm eyes there gleamed a little fire,</span><br /> +And in his voice was something of desire,<br /> +To see the land where he was used to be,<br /> +As now he answered: "Nay, choose thou for me,<br /> +Thou art the wisest; it is more than well<br /> +Within this peaceful place with thee to dwell:<br /> +Nor ill perchance in that old land to die,<br /> +If, dying, I keep not the memory<br /> +Of this fair life of ours." "Nay, nay," said she,<br /> +"As to thy dying, that shall never be,<br /> +Whiles that thou keep'st my ring—and now, behold,<br /> +I take from thee thy charmed crown of gold,<br /> +And thou wilt be the Ogier that thou wast<br /> +Ere on the loadstone rock thy ship was cast:<br /> +Yet thou shalt have thy youthful body still,<br /> +And I will guard thy life from every ill."<br /> +<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">So was it done, and Ogier, armed right well,</span><br /> +Sleeping, was borne away by some strong spell,<br /> +And set upon the Flemish coast; and thence<br /> +Turned to St. Omer's, with a doubtful sense<br /> +Of being in some wild dream, the while he knew<br /> +That great delight forgotten was his due,<br /> +That all which there might hap was of small worth.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So on he went, and sometimes unto mirth</span><br /> +Did his attire move the country-folk,<br /> +But oftener when strange speeches from him broke<br /> +Concerning men and things for long years dead,<br /> +He filled the listeners with great awe and dread;<br /> +For in such wild times as these people were<br /> +Are men soon moved to wonder and to fear.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now through the streets of Paris did he ride,</span><br /> +And at a certain hostel did abide<br /> +Throughout that night, and ere he went next day<br /> +He saw a book that on a table lay,<br /> +And opening it 'gan read in lazy mood:<br /> +But long before it in that place he stood,<br /> +Noting nought else; for it did chronicle<br /> +The deeds of men whom once he knew right well,<br /> +When they were living in the flesh with him:<br /> +Yea, his own deeds he saw, grown strange and dim<br /> +Already, and true stories mixed with lies,<br /> +Until, with many thronging memories<br /> +Of those old days, his heart was so oppressed,<br /> +He 'gan to wish that he might lie at rest,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</a></span>Forgetting all things: for indeed by this<br /> +Little remembrance had he of the bliss<br /> +That wrapped his soul in peaceful Avallon.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But his changed life he needs must carry on;</span><br /> +For ye shall know the Queen was gathering men<br /> +To send unto the good King, who as then<br /> +In Rouen lay, beset by many a band<br /> +Of those who carried terror through the land,<br /> +And still by messengers for help he prayed:<br /> +Therefore a mighty muster was being made,<br /> +Of weak and strong, and brave and timorous,<br /> +Before the Queen anigh her royal house.<br /> +So thither on this morn did Ogier turn,<br /> +Some certain news about the war to learn;<br /> +And when he came at last into the square,<br /> +And saw the ancient palace great and fair<br /> +Rise up before him as in other days,<br /> +And in the merry morn the bright sun's rays<br /> +Glittering on gathered helms and moving spears,<br /> +He 'gan to feel as in the long-past years,<br /> +And his heart stirred within him. Now the Queen<br /> +Came from within, right royally beseen,<br /> +And took her seat beneath a canopy,<br /> +With lords and captains of the war anigh;<br /> +And as she came a mighty shout arose,<br /> +And round about began the knights to close,<br /> +Their oath of fealty to swear anew,<br /> +And learn what service they had got to do.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</a></span>But so it was, that some their shouts must stay<br /> +To gaze at Ogier as he took his way<br /> +Through the thronged place; and quickly too he gat<br /> +Unto the place whereas the Lady sat,<br /> +For men gave place unto him, fearing him:<br /> +For not alone was he most huge of limb,<br /> +And dangerous, but something in his face,<br /> +As his calm eyes looked o'er the crowded place,<br /> +Struck men with awe; and in the ancient days,<br /> +When men might hope alive on gods to gaze,<br /> +They would have thought, "The gods yet love our town<br /> +And from the heavens have sent a great one down."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Withal unto the throne he came so near,</span><br /> +That he the Queen's sweet measured voice could hear;<br /> +And swiftly now within him wrought the change<br /> +That first he felt amid those faces strange;<br /> +And his heart burned to taste the hurrying life<br /> +With such desires, such changing sweetness rife.<br /> +And yet, indeed, how should he live alone,<br /> +Who in the old past days such friends had known?<br /> +Then he began to think of Caraheu,<br /> +Of Bellicent the fair, and once more knew<br /> +The bitter pain of rent and ended love.<br /> +But while with hope and vain regret he strove,<br /> +He found none 'twixt him and the Queen's high seat,<br /> +And, stepping forth, he knelt before her feet<br /> +And took her hand to swear, as was the way<br /> +Of doing fealty in that ancient day,<br /> +And raised his eyes to hers; as fair was she<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</a></span>As any woman of the world might be<br /> +Full-limbed and tall, dark-haired, from her deep eyes,<br /> +The snare of fools, the ruin of the wise,<br /> +Love looked unchecked; and now her dainty hand,<br /> +The well-knit holder of the golden wand,<br /> +Trembled in his, she cast her eyes adown,<br /> +And her sweet brow was knitted to a frown,<br /> +As he, the taker of such oaths of yore,<br /> +Now unto her all due obedience swore,<br /> +Yet gave himself no name; and now the Queen,<br /> +Awed by his voice as other folk had been,<br /> +Yet felt a trembling hope within her rise<br /> +Too sweet to think of, and with love's surprise<br /> +Her cheek grew pale; she said, "Thy style and name<br /> +Thou tellest not, nor what land of thy fame<br /> +Is glad; for, certes, some land must be glad,<br /> +That in its bounds her house thy mother had."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Lady," he said, "from what far land I come</span><br /> +I well might tell thee, but another home<br /> +Have I long dwelt in, and its name have I<br /> +Forgotten now, forgotten utterly<br /> +Who were my fellows, and what deeds they did;<br /> +Therefore, indeed, shall my first name be hid<br /> +And my first country; call me on this day<br /> +The Ancient Knight, and let me go my way."<br /> +He rose withal, for she her fingers fair<br /> +Had drawn aback, and on him 'gan to stare<br /> +As one afeard; for something terrible<br /> +Was in his speech, and that she knew right well,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</a></span>Who 'gan to love him, and to fear that she,<br /> +Shut out by some strange deadly mystery,<br /> +Should never gain from him an equal love;<br /> +Yet, as from her high seat he 'gan to move,<br /> +She said, "O Ancient Knight, come presently,<br /> +When we have done this muster, unto me,<br /> +And thou shalt have thy charge and due command<br /> +For freeing from our foes this wretched land!"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then Ogier made his reverence and went,</span><br /> +And somewhat could perceive of her intent;<br /> +For in his heart life grew, and love with life<br /> +Grew, and therewith, 'twixt love and fame, was strife.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But, as he slowly gat him from the square,</span><br /> +Gazing at all the people gathered there,<br /> +A squire of the Queen's behind him came,<br /> +And breathless, called him by his new-coined name,<br /> +And bade him turn because the Queen now bade,<br /> +Since by the muster long she might be stayed,<br /> +That to the palace he should bring him straight,<br /> +Midst sport and play her coming back to wait;<br /> +Then Ogier turned, nought loath, and with him went,<br /> +And to a postern-gate his steps he bent,<br /> +That Ogier knew right well in days of old;<br /> +Worn was it now, and the bright hues and gold<br /> +Upon the shields above, with lapse of days,<br /> +Were faded much: but now did Ogier gaze<br /> +Upon the garden where he walked of yore,<br /> +Holding the hands that he should see no more;<br /> +For all was changed except the palace fair,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</a></span>That Charlemaine's own eyes had seen built there<br /> +Ere Ogier knew him; there the squire did lead<br /> +The Ancient Knight, who still took little heed<br /> +Of all the things that by the way he said,<br /> +For all his thoughts were on the days long dead.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">There in the painted hall he sat again,</span><br /> +And 'neath the pictured eyes of Charlemaine<br /> +He ate and drank, and felt it like a dream;<br /> +And midst his growing longings yet might deem<br /> +That he from sleep should wake up presently<br /> +In some fair city on the Syrian sea,<br /> +Or on the brown rocks of the loadstone isle.<br /> +But fain to be alone, within a while<br /> +He gat him to the garden, and there passed<br /> +By wondering squires and damsels, till at last,<br /> +Far from the merry folk who needs must play,<br /> +If on the world were coming its last day,<br /> +He sat him down, and through his mind there ran<br /> +Faint thoughts of that day, when, outworn and wan,<br /> +He lay down by the fountain-side to die.<br /> +But when he strove to gain clear memory<br /> +Of what had happed since on the isle he lay<br /> +Waiting for death, a hopeless castaway,<br /> +Thought, failing him, would rather bring again<br /> +His life among the peers of Charlemaine,<br /> +And vex his soul with hapless memories;<br /> +Until at last, worn out by thought of these,<br /> +And hopeless striving to find what was true,<br /> +And pondering on the deeds he had to do<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</a></span>Ere he returned, whereto he could not tell,<br /> +Sweet sleep upon his wearied spirit fell.<br /> +And on the afternoon of that fair day,<br /> +Forgetting all, beneath the trees he lay.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Meanwhile the Queen, affairs of state being done,</span><br /> +Went through the gardens with one dame alone<br /> +Seeking for Ogier, whom at last she found<br /> +Laid sleeping on the daisy-sprinkled ground.<br /> +Dreaming, I know not what, of other days.<br /> +Then on him for a while the Queen did gaze,<br /> +Drawing sweet poison from the lovely sight,<br /> +Then to her fellow turned, "The Ancient Knight—<br /> +What means he by this word of his?" she said;<br /> +"He were well mated with some lovely maid<br /> +Just pondering on the late-heard name of love."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Softly, my lady, he begins to move,"</span><br /> +Her fellow said, a woman old and grey;<br /> +"Look now, his arms are of another day;<br /> +None know him or his deeds; thy squire just said<br /> +He asked about the state of men long dead;<br /> +I fear what he may be; look, seest thou not<br /> +That ring that on one finger he has got,<br /> +Where figures strange upon the gold are wrought:<br /> +God grant that he from hell has not been brought<br /> +For our confusion, in this doleful war,<br /> +Who surely in enough of trouble are<br /> +Without such help;" then the Queen turned aside<br /> +Awhile, her drawn and troubled face to hide,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</a></span>For lurking dread this speech within her stirred;<br /> +But yet she said, "Thou sayest a foolish word,<br /> +This man is come against our enemies<br /> +To fight for us." Then down upon her knees<br /> +Fell the old woman by the sleeping knight,<br /> +And from his hand she drew with fingers light<br /> +The wondrous ring, and scarce again could rise<br /> +Ere 'neath the trembling Queen's bewildered eyes<br /> +The change began; his golden hair turned white,<br /> +His smooth cheek wrinkled, and his breathing light<br /> +Was turned to troublous struggling for his breath,<br /> +And on his shrunk lips lay the hand of death;<br /> +And, scarce less pale than he, the trembling Queen<br /> +Stood thinking on the beauty she had seen<br /> +And longed for, but a little while ago,<br /> +Yet with her terror still her love did grow,<br /> +And she began to weep as though she saw<br /> +Her beauty e'en to such an ending draw.<br /> +And 'neath her tears waking he oped his eyes,<br /> +And strove to speak, but nought but gasping sighs<br /> +His lips could utter; then he tried to reach<br /> +His hand to them, as though he would beseech<br /> +The gift of what was his: but all the while<br /> +The crone gazed on them with an evil smile,<br /> +Then holding toward the Queen that wondrous ring,<br /> +She said, "Why weep'st thou? having this fair thing,<br /> +Thou, losing nought the beauty that thou hast,<br /> +May'st watch the vainly struggling world go past,<br /> +Thyself unchanged." The Queen put forth her hand<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</a></span>And took the ring, and there awhile did stand<br /> +And strove to think of it, but still in her<br /> +Such all-absorbing longings love did stir,<br /> +So young she was, of death she could not think,<br /> +Or what a cup eld gives to man to drink;<br /> +Yet on her finger had she set the ring<br /> +When now the life that hitherto did cling<br /> +To Ogier's heart seemed fading quite away,<br /> +And scarcely breathing with shut eyes he lay.<br /> +Then, kneeling down, she murmured piteously,<br /> +"Ah, wilt thou love me if I give it thee,<br /> +And thou grow'st young again? what should I do<br /> +If with the eyes thou thus shalt gain anew<br /> +Thou shouldst look scorn on me?" But with that word<br /> +The hedge behind her, by the west wind stirred,<br /> +Cast fear into her heart of some one nigh,<br /> +And therewith on his finger hastily<br /> +She set the ring, then rose and stood apart<br /> +A little way, and in her doubtful heart<br /> +With love and fear was mixed desire of life.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But standing so, a look with great scorn rife</span><br /> +The elder woman, turning, cast on her,<br /> +Pointing to Ogier, who began to stir;<br /> +She looked, and all she erst saw now did seem<br /> +To have been nothing but a hideous dream,<br /> +As fair and young he rose from off the ground<br /> +And cast a dazed and puzzled look around,<br /> +Like one just waked from sleep in some strange place;<br /> +But soon his grave eyes rested on her face,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</a></span>And turned yet graver seeing her so pale,<br /> +And that her eyes were pregnant with some tale<br /> +Of love and fear; she 'neath his eyes the while<br /> +Forced her pale lips to semblance of a smile,<br /> +And said, "O Ancient Knight, thou sleepest then?<br /> +While through this poor land range the heathen men<br /> +Unmet of any but my King and Lord:<br /> +Nay, let us see the deeds of thine old sword."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Queen," said he, "bid me then unto this work,</span><br /> +And certes I behind no wall would lurk,<br /> +Nor send for succour, while a scanty folk<br /> +Still followed after me to break the yoke:<br /> +I pray thee grace for sleeping, and were fain<br /> +That I might rather never sleep again<br /> +Then have such wretched dreams as I e'en now<br /> +Have waked from."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 7.5em;">Lovelier she seemed to grow</span><br /> +Unto him as he spoke; fresh colour came<br /> +Into her face, as though for some sweet shame,<br /> +While she with tearful eyes beheld him so,<br /> +That somewhat even must his burnt cheek glow,<br /> +His heart beat faster. But again she said,<br /> +"Nay, will dreams burden such a mighty head?<br /> +Then may I too have pardon for a dream:<br /> +Last night in sleep I saw thee, who didst seem<br /> +To be the King of France; and thou and I<br /> +Were sitting at some great festivity<br /> +Within the many-peopled gold-hung place."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The blush of shame was gone as on his face</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</a></span>She gazed, and saw him read her meaning clear<br /> +And knew that no cold words she had to fear,<br /> +But rather that for softer speech he yearned.<br /> +Therefore, with love alone her smooth cheek burned;<br /> +Her parted lips were hungry for his kiss,<br /> +She trembled at the near approaching bliss;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nathless, she checked her love a little while,</span><br /> +Because she felt the old dame's curious smile<br /> +Upon her, and she said, "O Ancient Knight,<br /> +If I then read my last night's dream aright,<br /> +Thou art come here our very help to be,<br /> +Perchance to give my husband back to me;<br /> +Come then, if thou this land art fain to save,<br /> +And show the wisdom thou must surely have<br /> +Unto my council; I will give thee then<br /> +What charge I may among my valiant men;<br /> +And certes thou wilt do so well herein,<br /> +That, ere long, something greater shalt thou win:<br /> +Come, then, deliverer of my throne and land,<br /> +And let me touch for once thy mighty hand<br /> +With these weak fingers."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9.5em;">As she spoke, she met</span><br /> +His eager hand, and all things did forget<br /> +But for one moment, for too wise were they<br /> +To cast the coming years of joy away;<br /> +Then with her other hand her gown she raised<br /> +And led him thence, and o'er her shoulder gazed<br /> +At her old follower with a doubtful smile,<br /> +As though to say, "Be wise, I know thy guile!"<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[Pg 322]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">But slowly she behind the lovers walked,</span><br /> +Muttering, "So be it! thou shalt not be balked<br /> +Of thy desire; be merry! I am wise,<br /> +Nor will I rob thee of thy Paradise<br /> +For any other than myself; and thou<br /> +May'st even happen to have had enow<br /> +Of this new love, before I get the ring,<br /> +And I may work for thee no evil thing."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now ye shall know that the old chronicle,</span><br /> +Wherein I read all this, doth duly tell<br /> +Of all the gallant deeds that Ogier did,<br /> +There may ye read them; nor let me be chid<br /> +If I therefore say little of these things,<br /> +Because the thought of Avallon still clings<br /> +Unto my heart, and scarcely can I bear<br /> +To think of that long, dragging, useless year,<br /> +Through which, with dulled and glimmering memory,<br /> +Ogier was grown content to live and die<br /> +Like other men; but this I have to say,<br /> +That in the council chamber on that day<br /> +The Old Knight showed his wisdom well enow,<br /> +While fainter still with love the Queen did grow<br /> +Hearing his words, beholding his grey eyes<br /> +Flashing with fire of warlike memories;<br /> +Yea, at the last he seemed so wise indeed<br /> +That she could give him now the charge, to lead<br /> +One wing of the great army that set out<br /> +From Paris' gates, midst many a wavering shout,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[Pg 323]</a></span>Midst trembling prayers, and unchecked wails and tears,<br /> +And slender hopes and unresisted fears.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now ere he went, upon his bed he lay,</span><br /> +Newly awakened at the dawn of day,<br /> +Gathering perplexéd thoughts of many a thing,<br /> +When, midst the carol that the birds did sing<br /> +Unto the coming of the hopeful sun,<br /> +He heard a sudden lovesome song begun<br /> +'Twixt two young voices in the garden green,<br /> +That seemed indeed the farewell of the Queen.</p></div> + +<h3><span class="smcap">Song.</span></h3> + +<h5>HÆC.</h5> +<div class="poem"><p><span style="margin-left: 4em;"><i>In the white-flowered hawthorn brake,</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>Love, be merry for my sake;</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>Twine the blossoms in my hair,</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>Kiss me where I am most fair—</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>Kiss me, love! for who knoweth</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>What thing cometh after death?</i></span></p></div> + +<h5>ILLE.</h5> +<div class="poem"><p><span style="margin-left: 4em;"><i>Nay, the garlanded gold hair</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>Hides thee where thou art most fair;</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>Hides the rose-tinged hills of snow—</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>Ah, sweet love, I have thee now!</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>Kiss me, love! for who knoweth</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>What thing cometh after death?</i></span></p></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[Pg 324]</a></span></p> +<h5>HÆC.</h5> +<div class="poem"><p><span style="margin-left: 4em;"><i>Shall we weep for a dead day,</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>Or set Sorrow in our way?</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>Hidden by my golden hair,</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>Wilt thou weep that sweet days wear?</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>Kiss me, love! for who knoweth</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>What thing cometh after death?</i></span></p></div> + +<h5>ILLE.</h5> +<div class="poem"><p><span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>Weep, O Love, the days that flit,</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><i>Now, while I can feel thy breath,</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>Then may I remember it</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><i>Sad and old, and near my death.</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>Kiss me, love! for who knoweth</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>What thing cometh after death?</i></span></p></div> + +<p> </p> +<div class="poem"> +<p>Soothed by the pleasure that the music brought<br /> +And sweet desire, and vague and dreamy thought<br /> +Of happiness it seemed to promise him,<br /> +He lay and listened till his eyes grew dim,<br /> +And o'er him 'gan forgetfulness to creep<br /> +Till in the growing light he lay asleep,<br /> +Nor woke until the clanging trumpet-blast<br /> +Had summoned him all thought away to cast:<br /> +Yet one more joy of love indeed he had<br /> +Ere with the battle's noise he was made glad;<br /> +For, as on that May morning forth they rode<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[Pg 325]</a></span>And passed before the Queen's most fair abode,<br /> +There at a window was she waiting them<br /> +In fair attire with gold in every hem,<br /> +And as the Ancient Knight beneath her passed<br /> +A wreath of flowering white-thorn down she cast,<br /> +And looked farewell to him, and forth he set<br /> +Thinking of all the pleasure he should get<br /> +From love and war, forgetting Avallon<br /> +And all that lovely life so lightly won;<br /> +Yea, now indeed the earthly life o'erpast<br /> +Ere on the loadstone rock his ship was cast<br /> +Was waxing dim, nor yet at all he learned<br /> +To 'scape the fire that erst his heart had burned.<br /> +And he forgat his deeds, forgat his fame,<br /> +Forgat the letters of his ancient name<br /> +As one waked fully shall forget a dream,<br /> +That once to him a wondrous tale did seem.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now I, though writing here no chronicle</span><br /> +E'en as I said, must nathless shortly tell<br /> +That, ere the army Rouen's gates could gain<br /> +By a broad arrow had the King been slain,<br /> +And helpless now the wretched country lay<br /> +Beneath the yoke, until the glorious day<br /> +When Ogier fell at last upon the foe,<br /> +And scattered them as helplessly as though<br /> +They had been beaten men without a name:<br /> +So when to Paris town once more he came<br /> +Few folk the memory of the King did keep<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[Pg 326]</a></span>Within their hearts, and if the folk did weep<br /> +At his returning, 'twas for joy indeed<br /> +That such a man had risen at their need<br /> +To work for them so great deliverance,<br /> +And loud they called on him for King of France.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But if the Queen's heart were the more a-flame</span><br /> +For all that she had heard of his great fame,<br /> +I know not; rather with some hidden dread<br /> +Of coming fate, she heard her lord was dead,<br /> +And her false dream seemed coming true at last,<br /> +For the clear sky of love seemed overcast<br /> +With clouds of God's great judgments, and the fear<br /> +Of hate and final parting drawing near.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So now when he before her throne did stand</span><br /> +Amidst the throng as saviour of the land,<br /> +And she her eyes to his kind eyes did raise,<br /> +And there before all her own love must praise;<br /> +Then did she fall a-weeping, and folk said,<br /> +"See, how she sorrows for the newly dead!<br /> +Amidst our joy she needs must think of him;<br /> +Let be, full surely shall her grief wax dim<br /> +And she shall wed again."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 10em;">So passed the year,</span><br /> +While Ogier set himself the land to clear<br /> +Of broken remnants of the heathen men,<br /> +And at the last, when May-time came again,<br /> +Must he be crowned King of the twice-saved land,<br /> +And at the altar take the fair Queen's hand<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[Pg 327]</a></span>And wed her for his own. And now by this<br /> +Had he forgotten clean the woe and bliss<br /> +Of his old life, and still was he made glad<br /> +As other men; and hopes and fears he had<br /> +As others, and bethought him not at all<br /> +Of what strange days upon him yet should fall<br /> +When he should live and these again be dead.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now drew the time round when he should be wed,</span><br /> +And in his palace on his bed he lay<br /> +Upon the dawning of the very day:<br /> +'Twixt sleep and waking was he, and could hear<br /> +E'en at that hour, through the bright morn and clear,<br /> +The hammering of the folk who toiled to make<br /> +Some well-wrought stages for the pageant's sake,<br /> +Though hardly yet the sparrows had begun<br /> +To twitter o'er the coming of the sun,<br /> +Nor through the palace did a creature move.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">There in the sweet entanglement of love</span><br /> +Midst languid thoughts of greater bliss he lay,<br /> +Remembering no more of that other day<br /> +Than the hot noon remembereth of the night,<br /> +Than summer thinketh of the winter white.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In that sweet hour he heard a voice that cried,</span><br /> +"Ogier, Ogier!" then, opening his eyes wide,<br /> +And rising on his elbow, gazed around,<br /> +And strange to him and empty was the sound<br /> +Of his own name; "Whom callest thou?" he said<br /> +"For I, the man who lie upon this bed,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[Pg 328]</a></span>Am Charles of France, and shall be King to-day,<br /> +But in a year that now is passed away<br /> +The Ancient Knight they called me: who is this,<br /> +Thou callest Ogier, then, what deeds are his?<br /> +And who art thou?" But at that word a sigh,<br /> +As of one grieved, came from some place anigh<br /> +His bed-side, and a soft voice spake again,<br /> +"This Ogier once was great amongst great men;<br /> +To Italy a helpless hostage led;<br /> +He saved the King when the false Lombard fled,<br /> +Bore forth the Oriflamme and gained the day;<br /> +Charlot he brought back, whom men led away,<br /> +And fought a day-long fight with Caraheu.<br /> +The ravager of Rome his right hand slew;<br /> +Nor did he fear the might of Charlemaine,<br /> +Who for a dreary year beset in vain<br /> +His lonely castle; yet at last caught then,<br /> +And shut in hold, needs must he come again<br /> +To give an unhoped great deliverance<br /> +Unto the burdened helpless land of France:<br /> +Denmark he gained thereafter, and he wore<br /> +The crown of England drawn from trouble sore;<br /> +At Tyre then he reigned, and Babylon<br /> +With mighty deeds he from the foemen won;<br /> +And when scarce aught could give him greater fame,<br /> +He left the world still thinking on his name.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"These things did Ogier, and these things didst thou,</span><br /> +Nor will I call thee by a new name now<br /> +Since I have spoken words of love to thee—<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[Pg 329]</a></span>Ogier, Ogier, dost thou remember me,<br /> +E'en if thou hast no thought of that past time<br /> +Before thou camest to our happy clime?"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As this was said, his mazed eyes saw indeed</span><br /> +A lovely woman clad in dainty weed<br /> +Beside his bed, and many a thought was stirred<br /> +Within his heart by that last plaintive word,<br /> +Though nought he said, but waited what should come<br /> +"Love," said she, "I am here to bring thee home;<br /> +Well hast thou done all that thou cam'st to do,<br /> +And if thou bidest here, for something new<br /> +Will folk begin to cry, and all thy fame<br /> +Shall then avail thee but for greater blame;<br /> +Thy love shall cease to love thee, and the earth<br /> +Thou lovest now shall be of little worth<br /> +While still thou keepest life, abhorring it<br /> +Behold, in men's lives that so quickly flit<br /> +Thus is it, how then shall it be with thee,<br /> +Who some faint image of eternity<br /> +Hast gained through me?—alas, thou heedest not!<br /> +On all these changing things thine heart is hot—<br /> +Take then this gift that I have brought from far,<br /> +And then may'st thou remember what we are;<br /> +The lover and the loved from long ago."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He trembled, and more memory seemed to grow</span><br /> +Within his heart as he beheld her stand,<br /> +Holding a glittering crown in her right hand:<br /> +"Ogier," she said, "arise and do on thee<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[Pg 330]</a></span>The emblems of thy worldly sovereignty,<br /> +For we must pass o'er many a sea this morn."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He rose, and in the glittering tunic worn</span><br /> +By Charlemaine he clad himself, and took<br /> +The ivory hand, that Charlemaine once shook<br /> +Over the people's heads in days of old;<br /> +Then on his feet he set the shoes of gold.<br /> +And o'er his shoulders threw the mantle fair,<br /> +And set the gold crown on his golden hair:<br /> +Then on the royal chair he sat him down,<br /> +As though he deemed the elders of the town<br /> +Should come to audience; and in all he seemed<br /> +To do these things e'en as a man who dreamed.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And now adown the Seine the golden sun</span><br /> +Shone out, as toward him drew that lovely one<br /> +And took from off his head the royal crown,<br /> +And, smiling, on the pillow laid it down<br /> +And said, "Lie there, O crown of Charlemaine,<br /> +Worn by a mighty man, and worn in vain,<br /> +Because he died, and all the things he did<br /> +Were changed before his face by earth was hid;<br /> +A better crown I have for my love's head,<br /> +Whereby he yet shall live, when all are dead<br /> +His hand has helped." Then on his head she set<br /> +The wondrous crown, and said, "Forget, forget!<br /> +Forget these weary things, for thou hast much<br /> +Of happiness to think of."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 10em;">At that touch</span><br /> +He rose, a happy light gleamed in his eyes;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[Pg 331]</a></span>And smitten by the rush of memories,<br /> +He stammered out, "O love! how came we here?<br /> +What do we in this land of Death and Fear?<br /> +Have I not been from thee a weary while?<br /> +Let us return—I dreamed about the isle;<br /> +I dreamed of other years of strife and pain,<br /> +Of new years full of struggles long and vain."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">She took him by the hand and said, "Come, love,</span><br /> +I am not changed;" and therewith did they move<br /> +Unto the door, and through the sleeping place<br /> +Swiftly they went, and still was Ogier's face<br /> +Turned on her beauty, and no thought was his<br /> +Except the dear returning of his bliss.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But at the threshold of the palace-gate</span><br /> +That opened to them, she awhile did wait,<br /> +And turned her eyes unto the rippling Seine<br /> +And said, "O love, behold it once again!"<br /> +He turned, and gazed upon the city grey<br /> +Smit by the gold of that sweet morn of May;<br /> +He heard faint noises as of wakening folk<br /> +As on their heads his day of glory broke;<br /> +He heard the changing rush of the swift stream<br /> +Against the bridge-piers. All was grown a dream<br /> +His work was over, his reward was come,<br /> +Why should he loiter longer from his home?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A little while she watched him silently,</span><br /> +Then beckoned him to follow with a sigh,<br /> +And, raising up the raiment from her feet,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[Pg 332]</a></span>Across the threshold stepped into the street;<br /> +One moment on the twain the low sun shone,<br /> +And then the place was void, and they were gone<br /> +How I know not; but this I know indeed,<br /> +That in whatso great trouble or sore need<br /> +The land of France since that fair day has been,<br /> +No more the sword of Ogier has she seen.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[Pg 333]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">S</span><span class="caps">uch</span> was the tale he told of Avallon.</span><br /> +E'en such an one as in days past had won<br /> +His youthful heart to think upon the quest;<br /> +But to those old hearts nigh in reach of rest,<br /> +Not much to be desired now it seemed—<br /> +Perchance the heart that of such things had dreamed<br /> +Had found no words in this death-laden tongue<br /> +We speak on earth, wherewith they might be sung;<br /> +Perchance the changing years that changed his heart<br /> +E'en in the words of that old tale had part,<br /> +Changing its sweet to bitter, to despair<br /> +The foolish hope that once had glittered there—<br /> +Or think, that in some bay of that far home<br /> +They then had sat, and watched the green waves come<br /> +Up to their feet with many promises;<br /> +Or the light wind midst blossom-laden trees,<br /> +In the sweet Spring had weighted many a word<br /> +Of no worth now, and many a hope had stirred<br /> +Long dead for ever.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">Howsoe'er that be</span><br /> +Among strange folk they now sat quietly,<br /> +As though that tale with them had nought to do,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[Pg 334]</a></span>As though its hopes and fears were something new<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But though, indeed, the outworn, dwindled band</span><br /> +Had no tears left for that once longed-for land,<br /> +The very wind must moan for their decay,<br /> +And from the sky, grown dull, and low, and grey,<br /> +Cold tears must fall upon the lonely field,<br /> +That such fair golden hopes erewhile did yield;<br /> +And on the blackening woods, wherein the doves<br /> +Sat silent now, forgetful of their loves.<br /> +Yet, since a little life at least was left,<br /> +They were not yet of every joy bereft,<br /> +For long ago was past the agony,<br /> +Midst which they found that they indeed must die;<br /> +And now well-nigh as much their pain was past<br /> +As though death's veil already had been cast<br /> +Over their heads—so, midst some little mirth,<br /> +They watched the dark night hide the gloomy earth.</p></div> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<h4>Printed by <span class="smcap">Ballantyne, Hanson & Co</span><br /> +Edinburgh & London</h4> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><b>Transcriber's Note:</b></p> +<p>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.</p> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 30332 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/30332-h/images/title.jpg b/30332-h/images/title.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..b9e919f --- /dev/null +++ b/30332-h/images/title.jpg 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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Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2f044da --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #30332 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/30332) diff --git a/old/30332-8.txt b/old/30332-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e1b9556 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/30332-8.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: ISO-8859-1 + +*** 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-ordainéd 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 calléd 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 apparelléd, + 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 apparelléd, + 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 charméd 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 adornéd 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 Tænarus, 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 Lacedæmon, and thence found her way + To Tænarus, 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-embracéd 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 Tænarus, 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 rememberéd + 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 Tænarus, 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-attiréd 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 daïs 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 daïs; 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 rememberéd + 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 Pheræ 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 adornéd 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 Pheræ 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 Nisæan 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 Pheræ, 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 + Pheræ 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 Pheræ 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-adornéd 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 Pheræ; 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 Pheræ 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-strainéd 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 Pheræ'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 Pheræ'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-veinéd 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 accurséd 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 wingéd 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 peakéd 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 Lyæus' 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 rememberéd, + 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 belovéd 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 Pheræ 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 Boebéis' 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-pavéd 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 apparelléd; + 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 rememberéd; + 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-belovéd 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 faërie; + 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 Cæsar'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 daïs 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 daïs 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 apparelléd + 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 daïs 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 trenchéd 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 lovéd 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 confusèd 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 confuséd 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 charméd 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 changéd 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 linkéd 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-healéd 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 changéd 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 perplexéd 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. + + HÆC. + + _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?_ + + HÆC + + _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 30332-8.txt or 30332-8.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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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: ISO-8859-1 + +*** 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. + + + + + + +</pre> + + + +<h2>THE</h2> +<h1>EARTHLY PARADISE</h1> +<h2>A POEM.</h2> + +<p> </p> +<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/title.jpg" alt="" /></div> +<p> </p> + +<h3>BY</h3> +<h2>WILLIAM MORRIS</h2> +<h4>Author of the Life and Death of Jason.</h4> +<p> </p> +<h3>Part II.</h3> +<p> </p> +<h4><i>ELEVENTH IMPRESSION</i></h4> +<p> </p> +<h3>LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.</h3> +<h4>39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON<br />NEW YORK AND BOMBAY<br />1903</h4> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<h2>CONTENTS.</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="Table of Contents"> +<tr><td> </td><td> </td><td align="right"><span class="smcap">page</span></td></tr> +<tr><td><i>MAY</i></td><td> </td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_2">2</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> </td><td><i>The Story of Cupid and Psyche</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_5">5</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> </td><td><i>The Writing on the Image</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_98">98</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><i>JUNE</i></td><td> </td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_112"><ins class="correction" title="original reads '118'">112</ins></a></td></tr> +<tr><td> </td><td><i>The Love of Alcestis</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_114">114</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> </td><td><i>The Lady of the Land</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_164">164</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><i>JULY</i></td><td> </td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_186">186</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> </td><td><i>The Son of Crœsus</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_188">188</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> </td><td><i>The Watching of the Falcon</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_210">210</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><i>AUGUST</i></td><td> </td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_244">244</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> </td><td><i>Pygmalion and the Image</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_246">246</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> </td><td><i>Ogier the Dane</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_275">275</a></td></tr></table> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p> + +<h3>THE</h3> +<h1>EARTHLY PARADISE.</h1> +<p> </p> +<h2>MAY, JUNE, JULY, AUGUST.</h2> +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span></p> + +<h2>MAY.</h2> + +<div class="poem"> +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">O</span> <span class="caps">love</span>, this morn when the sweet nightingale</span><br /> +Had so long finished all he had to say,<br /> +That thou hadst slept, and sleep had told his tale;<br /> +And midst a peaceful dream had stolen away<br /> +In fragrant dawning of the first of May,<br /> +Didst thou see aught? didst thou hear voices sing<br /> +Ere to the risen sun the bells 'gan ring?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For then methought the Lord of Love went by</span><br /> +To take possession of his flowery throne,<br /> +Ringed round with maids, and youths, and minstrelsy;<br /> +A little while I sighed to find him gone,<br /> +A little while the dawning was alone,<br /> +And the light gathered; then I held my breath,<br /> +And shuddered at the sight of Eld and Death.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Alas! Love passed me in the twilight dun,</span><br /> +His music hushed the wakening ousel's song;<br /> +But on these twain shone out the golden sun,<br /> +And o'er their heads the brown bird's tune was strong,<br /> +As shivering, twixt the trees they stole along;<br /> +None noted aught their noiseless passing by,<br /> +The world had quite forgotten it must die.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span></p> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">N</span><span class="caps">ow</span> must these men be glad a little while</span><br /> +That they had lived to see May once more smile<br /> +Upon the earth; wherefore, as men who know<br /> +How fast the bad days and the good days go,<br /> +They gathered at the feast: the fair abode<br /> +Wherein they sat, o'erlooked, across the road<br /> +Unhedged green meads, which willowy streams passed through,<br /> +And on that morn, before the fresh May dew<br /> +Had dried upon the sunniest spot of grass,<br /> +From bush to bush did youths and maidens pass<br /> +In raiment meet for May apparelled,<br /> +Gathering the milk-white blossoms and the red;<br /> +And now, with noon long past, and that bright day<br /> +Growing aweary, on the sunny way<br /> +They wandered, crowned with flowers, and loitering,<br /> +And weary, yet were fresh enough to sing<br /> +The carols of the morn, and pensive, still<br /> +Had cast away their doubt of death and ill,<br /> +And flushed with love, no more grew red with shame.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So to the elders as they sat, there came,</span><br /> +With scent of flowers, the murmur of that folk<br /> +Wherethrough from time to time a song outbroke,<br /> +Till scarce they thought about the story due;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span>Yet, when anigh to sun-setting it grew,<br /> +A book upon the board an elder laid,<br /> +And turning from the open window said,<br /> +"Too fair a tale the lovely time doth ask,<br /> +For this of mine to be an easy task,<br /> +Yet in what words soever this is writ,<br /> +As for the matter, I dare say of it<br /> +That it is lovely as the lovely May;<br /> +Pass then the manner, since the learned say<br /> +No written record was there of the tale,<br /> +Ere we from our fair land of Greece set sail;<br /> +How this may be I know not, this I know<br /> +That such-like tales the wind would seem to blow<br /> +From place to place, e'en as the feathery seed<br /> +Is borne across the sea to help the need<br /> +Of barren isles; so, sirs, from seed thus sown,<br /> +This flower, a gift from other lands has grown.</p></div> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span></p> + +<h2>THE STORY OF CUPID AND PSYCHE.</h2> +<h3>ARGUMENT.</h3> + +<p class="hang">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.</p> +<p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span class="big">I</span><span class="caps">n</span> the Greek land of old there was a King<br /> +Happy in battle, rich in everything;<br /> +Most rich in this, that he a daughter had<br /> +Whose beauty made the longing city glad.<br /> +She was so fair, that strangers from the sea<br /> +Just landed, in the temples thought that she<br /> +Was Venus visible to mortal eyes,<br /> +New come from Cyprus for a world's surprise.<br /> +She was so beautiful that had she stood<br /> +On windy Ida by the oaken wood,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span>And bared her limbs to that bold shepherd's gaze,<br /> +Troy might have stood till now with happy days;<br /> +And those three fairest, all have left the land<br /> +And left her with the apple in her hand.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And Psyche is her name in stories old,</span><br /> +As ever by our fathers we were told.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">All this beheld Queen Venus from her throne,</span><br /> +And felt that she no longer was alone<br /> +In beauty, but, if only for a while,<br /> +This maiden matched her god-enticing smile;<br /> +Therefore, she wrought in such a wise, that she,<br /> +If honoured as a goddess, certainly<br /> +Was dreaded as a goddess none the less,<br /> +And midst her wealth, dwelt long in loneliness.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Two sisters had she, and men deemed them fair,</span><br /> +But as King's daughters might be anywhere,<br /> +And these to men of name and great estate<br /> +Were wedded, while at home must Psyche wait.<br /> +The sons of kings before her silver feet<br /> +Still bowed, and sighed for her; in measures sweet<br /> +The minstrels to the people sung her praise,<br /> +Yet must she live a virgin all her days.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So to Apollo's fane her father sent,</span><br /> +Seeking to know the dreadful Gods' intent,<br /> +And therewith sent he goodly gifts of price<br /> +A silken veil, wrought with a paradise,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span>Three golden bowls, set round with many a gem,<br /> +Three silver robes, with gold in every hem,<br /> +And a fair ivory image of the god<br /> +That underfoot a golden serpent trod;<br /> +And when three lords with these were gone away,<br /> +Nor could return until the fortieth day,<br /> +Ill was the King at ease, and neither took<br /> +Joy in the chase, or in the pictured book<br /> +The skilled Athenian limner had just wrought,<br /> +Nor in the golden cloths from India brought.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">At last the day came for those lords' return,</span><br /> +And then 'twixt hope and fear the King did burn,<br /> +As on his throne with great pomp he was set,<br /> +And by him Psyche, knowing not as yet<br /> +Why they had gone: thus waiting, at noontide<br /> +They in the palace heard a voice outside,<br /> +And soon the messengers came hurrying,<br /> +And with pale faces knelt before the King,<br /> +And rent their clothes, and each man on his head<br /> +Cast dust, the while a trembling courtier read<br /> +This scroll, wherein the fearful answer lay,<br /> +Whereat from every face joy passed away.</p></div> + +<p> </p> +<h3><span class="smcap">The Oracle.</span></h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">O</span> <span class="caps">father</span> of a most unhappy maid,</span><br /> +O King, whom all the world henceforth shall know<br /> +As wretched among wretches, be afraid<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span>To ask the gods thy misery to show,<br /> +But if thou needs must hear it, to thy woe<br /> +Take back thy gifts to feast thine eyes upon,<br /> +When thine own flesh and blood some beast hath won.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"For hear thy doom, a rugged rock there is</span><br /> +Set back a league from thine own palace fair,<br /> +There leave the maid, that she may wait the kiss<br /> +Of the fell monster that doth harbour there:<br /> +This is the mate for whom her yellow hair<br /> +And tender limbs have been so fashioned,<br /> +This is the pillow for her lovely head.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"O what an evil from thy loins shall spring,</span><br /> +For all the world this monster overturns,<br /> +He is the bane of every mortal thing,<br /> +And this world ruined, still for more he yearns;<br /> +A fire there goeth from his mouth that burns<br /> +Worse than the flame of Phlegethon the red—<br /> +To such a monster shall thy maid be wed.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"And if thou sparest now to do this thing,</span><br /> +I will destroy thee and thy land also,<br /> +And of dead corpses shalt thou be the King,<br /> +And stumbling through the dark land shalt thou go,<br /> +Howling for second death to end thy woe;<br /> +Live therefore as thou mayst and do my will,<br /> +And be a King that men may envy still."<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What man was there, whose face changed not for grief</span><br /> +At hearing this? Psyche, shrunk like the leaf<br /> +The autumn frost first touches on the tree,<br /> +Stared round about with eyes that could not see,<br /> +And muttered sounds from lips that said no word,<br /> +And still within her ears the sentence heard<br /> +When all was said and silence fell on all<br /> +'Twixt marble columns and adorned wall.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then spoke the King, bowed down with misery:</span><br /> +"What help is left! O daughter, let us die,<br /> +Or else together fleeing from this land,<br /> +From town to town go wandering hand in hand<br /> +Thou and I, daughter, till all men forget<br /> +That ever on a throne I have been set,<br /> +And then, when houseless and disconsolate,<br /> +We ask an alms before some city gate,<br /> +The gods perchance a little gift may give,<br /> +And suffer thee and me like beasts to live."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then answered Psyche, through her bitter tears,</span><br /> +"Alas! my father, I have known these years<br /> +That with some woe the gods have dowered me,<br /> +And weighed 'gainst riches infelicity;<br /> +Ill is it then against the gods to strive;<br /> +Live on, O father, those that are alive<br /> +May still be happy; would it profit me<br /> +To live awhile, and ere I died to see<br /> +Thee perish, and all folk who love me well,<br /> +And then at last be dragged myself to hell<br /> +Cursed of all men? nay, since all things must die,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span>And I have dreamed not of eternity,<br /> +Why weepest thou that I must die to-day?<br /> +Why weepest thou? cast thought of shame away.<br /> +The dead are not ashamed, they feel no pain;<br /> +I have heard folk who spoke of death as gain—<br /> +And yet—ah, God, if I had been some maid,<br /> +Toiling all day, and in the night-time laid<br /> +Asleep on rushes—had I only died<br /> +Before this sweet life I had fully tried,<br /> +Upon that day when for my birth men sung,<br /> +And o'er the feasting folk the sweet bells rung."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And therewith she arose and gat away,</span><br /> +And in her chamber, mourning long she lay,<br /> +Thinking of all the days that might have been,<br /> +And how that she was born to be a queen,<br /> +The prize of some great conqueror of renown,<br /> +The joy of many a country and fair town,<br /> +The high desire of every prince and lord,<br /> +One who could fright with careless smile or word<br /> +The hearts of heroes fearless in the war,<br /> +The glory of the world, the leading-star<br /> +Unto all honour and all earthly fame—<br /> +—Round goes the wheel, and death and deadly shame<br /> +Shall be her lot, while yet of her men sing<br /> +Unwitting that the gods have done this thing.<br /> +Long time she lay there, while the sunbeams moved<br /> +Over her body through the flowers she loved;<br /> +And in the eaves the sparrows chirped outside,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span>Until for weariness she grew dry-eyed,<br /> +And into an unhappy sleep she fell.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But of the luckless King now must we tell,</span><br /> +Who sat devising means to 'scape that shame,<br /> +Until the frightened people thronging came<br /> +About the palace, and drove back the guards,<br /> +Making their way past all the gates and wards;<br /> +And, putting chamberlains and marshals by,<br /> +Surged round the very throne tumultuously.<br /> +Then knew the wretched King all folk had heard<br /> +The miserable sentence, and the word<br /> +The gods had spoken; and from out his seat<br /> +He rose, and spoke in humble words, unmeet<br /> +For a great King, and prayed them give him grace,<br /> +While 'twixt his words the tears ran down his face<br /> +On to his raiment stiff with golden thread.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But little heeded they the words he said,</span><br /> +For very fear had made them pitiless;<br /> +Nor cared they for the maid and her distress,<br /> +But clashed their spears together and 'gan cry:<br /> +"For one man's daughter shall the people die,<br /> +And this fair land become an empty name,<br /> +Because thou art afraid to meet the shame<br /> +Wherewith the gods reward thy hidden sin?<br /> +Nay, by their glory do us right herein!"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Ye are in haste to have a poor maid slain,"</span><br /> +The King said; "but my will herein is vain,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span>For ye are many, I one aged man:<br /> +Let one man speak, if for his shame he can."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then stepped a sturdy dyer forth, who said,—</span><br /> +"Fear of the gods brings no shame, by my head.<br /> +Listen; thy daughter we would have thee leave<br /> +Upon the fated mountain this same eve;<br /> +And thither must she go right well arrayed<br /> +In marriage raiment, loose hair as a maid,<br /> +And saffron veil, and with her shall there go<br /> +Fair maidens bearing torches, two and two;<br /> +And minstrels, in such raiment as is meet<br /> +The god-ordainéd fearful spouse to greet.<br /> +So shalt thou save our wives and little ones,<br /> +And something better than a heap of stones,<br /> +Dwelt in by noisesome things, this town shall be,<br /> +And thou thyself shalt keep thy sovereignty;<br /> +But if thou wilt not do the thing I say,<br /> +Then shalt thou live in bonds from this same day,<br /> +And we will bear thy maid unto the hill,<br /> +And from the dread gods save the city still."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then loud they shouted at the words he said,</span><br /> +And round the head of the unhappy maid,<br /> +Dreaming uneasily of long-past joys,<br /> +Floated the echo of that dreadful noise,<br /> +And changed her dreams to dreams of misery.<br /> +But when the King knew that the thing must be,<br /> +And that no help there was in this distress,<br /> +He bade them have all things in readiness<br /> +To take the maiden out at sun-setting,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span>And wed her to the unknown dreadful thing.<br /> +So through the palace passed with heavy cheer<br /> +Her women gathering the sad wedding gear,<br /> +Who lingering long, yet at the last must go,<br /> +To waken Psyche to her bitter woe.<br /> +So coming to her bower, they found her there,<br /> +From head to foot rolled in her yellow hair,<br /> +As in the saffron veil she should be soon<br /> +Betwixt the setting sun and rising moon;<br /> +But when above her a pale maiden bent<br /> +And touched her, from her heart a sigh she sent,<br /> +And waking, on their woeful faces stared,<br /> +Sitting upright, with one white shoulder bared<br /> +By writhing on the bed in wretchedness.<br /> +Then suddenly remembering her distress,<br /> +She bowed her head and 'gan to weep and wail<br /> +But let them wrap her in the bridal veil,<br /> +And bind the sandals to her silver feet,<br /> +And set the rose-wreath on her tresses sweet:<br /> +But spoke no word, yea, rather, wearily<br /> +Turned from the yearning face and pitying eye<br /> +Of any maid who seemed about to speak.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now through the garden trees the sun 'gan break,</span><br /> +And that inevitable time drew near;<br /> +Then through the courts, grown cruel, strange, and drear,<br /> +Since the bright morn, they led her to the gate.<br /> +Where she beheld a golden litter wait.<br /> +Whereby the King stood, aged and bent to earth,<br /> +The flute-players with faces void of mirth,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span>The down-cast bearers of the ivory wands,<br /> +The maiden torch-bearers' unhappy bands.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So then was Psyche taken to the hill,</span><br /> +And through the town the streets were void and still;<br /> +For in their houses all the people stayed,<br /> +Of that most mournful music sore afraid.<br /> +But on the way a marvel did they see,<br /> +For, passing by, where wrought of ivory,<br /> +There stood the Goddess of the flowery isle,<br /> +All folk could see the carven image smile.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But when anigh the hill's bare top they came,</span><br /> +Where Psyche must be left to meet her shame,<br /> +They set the litter down, and drew aside<br /> +The golden curtains from the wretched bride,<br /> +Who at their bidding rose and with them went<br /> +Afoot amidst her maids with head down-bent,<br /> +Until they came unto the drear rock's brow;<br /> +And there she stood apart, not weeping now,<br /> +But pale as privet blossom is in June.<br /> +There as the quivering flutes left off their tune,<br /> +In trembling arms the weeping, haggard King<br /> +Caught Psyche, who, like some half-lifeless thing,<br /> +Took all his kisses, and no word could say,<br /> +Until at last perforce he turned away;<br /> +Because the longest agony has end,<br /> +And homeward through the twilight did they wend.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But Psyche, now faint and bewildered,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span>Remembered little of her pain and dread;<br /> +Her doom drawn nigh took all her fear away,<br /> +And left her faint and weary; as they say<br /> +It haps to one who 'neath a lion lies,<br /> +Who stunned and helpless feels not ere he dies<br /> +The horror of the yellow fell, the red<br /> +Hot mouth, and white teeth gleaming o'er his head;<br /> +So Psyche felt, as sinking on the ground<br /> +She cast one weary vacant look around,<br /> +And at the ending of that wretched day<br /> +Swooning beneath the risen moon she lay.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span class="big">N</span><span class="caps">ow</span> backward must our story go awhile<br /> +And unto Cyprus the fair flowered isle,<br /> +Where hid away from every worshipper<br /> +Was Venus sitting, and her son by her<br /> +Standing to mark what words she had to say,<br /> +While in his dreadful wings the wind did play:<br /> +Frowning she spoke, in plucking from her thigh<br /> +The fragrant flowers that clasped it lovingly.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"In such a town, O son, a maid there is</span><br /> +Whom any amorous man this day would kiss<br /> +As gladly as a goddess like to me,<br /> +And though I know an end to this must be,<br /> +When white and red and gold are waxen grey<br /> +Down on the earth, while unto me one day<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span>Is as another; yet behold, my son,<br /> +And go through all my temples one by one<br /> +And look what incense rises unto me;<br /> +Hearken the talk of sailors from the sea<br /> +Just landed, ever will it be the same,<br /> +'Hast thou then seen her?'—Yea, unto my shame<br /> +Within the temple that is calléd mine,<br /> +As through the veil I watched the altar shine<br /> +This happed; a man with outstretched hand there stood,<br /> +Glittering in arms, of smiling joyous mood,<br /> +With crisp, black hair, and such a face one sees<br /> +But seldom now, and limbs like Hercules;<br /> +But as he stood there in my holy place,<br /> +Across mine image came the maiden's face,<br /> +And when he saw her, straight the warrior said<br /> +Turning about unto an earthly maid,<br /> +'O, lady Venus, thou art kind to me<br /> +After so much of wandering on the sea<br /> +To show thy very body to me here,'<br /> +But when this impious saying I did hear,<br /> +I sent them a great portent, for straightway<br /> +I quenched the fire, and no priest on that day<br /> +Could light it any more for all his prayer.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"So must she fall, so must her golden hair</span><br /> +Flash no more through the city, or her feet<br /> +Be seen like lilies moving down the street;<br /> +No more must men watch her soft raiment cling<br /> +About her limbs, no more must minstrels sing<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span>The praises of her arms and hidden breast.<br /> +And thou it is, my son, must give me rest<br /> +From all this worship wearisomely paid<br /> +Unto a mortal who should be afraid<br /> +To match the gods in beauty; take thy bow<br /> +And dreadful arrows, and about her sow<br /> +The seeds of folly, and with such an one<br /> +I pray thee cause her mingle, fair my son,<br /> +That not the poorest peasant girl in Greece<br /> +Would look on for the gift of Jason's fleece.<br /> +Do this, and see thy mother glad again,<br /> +And free from insult, in her temples reign<br /> +Over the hearts of lovers in the spring."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Mother," he said, "thou askest no great thing,</span><br /> +Some wretch too bad for death I soon shall find,<br /> +Who round her perfect neck his arms shall wind.<br /> +She shall be driven from the palace gate<br /> +Where once her crowd of worshippers would wait<br /> +From earliest morning till the dew was dry<br /> +On chance of seeing her gold gown glancing by;<br /> +There through the storm of curses shall she go<br /> +In evil raiment midst the winter snow,<br /> +Or in the summer in rough sheepskins clad.<br /> +And thus, O mother, shall I make thee glad<br /> +Remembering all the honour thou hast brought<br /> +Unto mine altars; since as thine own thought<br /> +My thought is grown, my mind as thy dear mind."<br /> +<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then straight he rose from earth and down the wind</span><br /> +Went glittering 'twixt the blue sky and the sea,<br /> +And so unto the place came presently<br /> +Where Psyche dwelt, and through the gardens fair<br /> +Passed seeking her, and as he wandered there<br /> +Had still no thought but to do all her will,<br /> +Nor cared to think if it were good or ill:<br /> +So beautiful and pitiless he went,<br /> +And toward him still the blossomed fruit-trees leant,<br /> +And after him the wind crept murmuring,<br /> +And on the boughs the birds forgot to sing.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Withal at last amidst a fair green close,</span><br /> +Hedged round about with woodbine and red rose,<br /> +Within the flicker of a white-thorn shade<br /> +In gentle sleep he found the maiden laid<br /> +One hand that held a book had fallen away<br /> +Across her body, and the other lay<br /> +Upon a marble fountain's plashing rim,<br /> +Among whose broken waves the fish showed dim,<br /> +But yet its wide-flung spray now woke her not,<br /> +Because the summer day at noon was hot,<br /> +And all sweet sounds and scents were lulling her.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So soon the rustle of his wings 'gan stir</span><br /> +Her looser folds of raiment, and the hair<br /> +Spread wide upon the grass and daisies fair,<br /> +As Love cast down his eyes with a half smile<br /> +Godlike and cruel; that faded in a while,<br /> +And long he stood above her hidden eyes<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span>With red lips parted in a god's surprise.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then very Love knelt down beside the maid</span><br /> +And on her breast a hand unfelt he laid,<br /> +And drew the gown from off her dainty feet,<br /> +And set his fair cheek to her shoulder sweet,<br /> +And kissed her lips that knew of no love yet,<br /> +And wondered if his heart would e'er forget<br /> +The perfect arm that o'er her body lay.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But now by chance a damsel came that way,</span><br /> +One of her ladies, and saw not the god,<br /> +Yet on his shafts cast down had well-nigh trod<br /> +In wakening Psyche, who rose up in haste<br /> +And girded up her gown about her waist,<br /> +And with that maid went drowsily away.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From place to place Love followed her that day</span><br /> +And ever fairer to his eyes she grew,<br /> +So that at last when from her bower he flew,<br /> +And underneath his feet the moonlit sea<br /> +Went shepherding his waves disorderly,<br /> +He swore that of all gods and men, no one<br /> +Should hold her in his arms but he alone;<br /> +That she should dwell with him in glorious wise<br /> +Like to a goddess in some paradise;<br /> +Yea, he would get from Father Jove this grace<br /> +That she should never die, but her sweet face<br /> +And wonderful fair body should endure<br /> +Till the foundations of the mountains sure<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span>Were molten in the sea; so utterly<br /> +Did he forget his mother's cruelty.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And now that he might come to this fair end,</span><br /> +He found Apollo, and besought him lend<br /> +His throne of divination for a while,<br /> +Whereby he did the priestess there beguile,<br /> +To give the cruel answer ye have heard<br /> +Unto those lords, who wrote it word by word,<br /> +And back unto the King its threatenings bore,<br /> +Whereof there came that grief and mourning sore,<br /> +Of which ye wot; thereby is Psyche laid<br /> +Upon the mountain-top; thereby, afraid<br /> +Of some ill yet, within the city fair<br /> +Cower down the people that have sent her there.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Withal did Love call unto him the Wind</span><br /> +Called Zephyrus, who most was to his mind,<br /> +And said, "O rainy wooer of the spring,<br /> +I pray thee, do for me an easy thing;<br /> +To such a hill-top go, O gentle Wind,<br /> +And there a sleeping maiden shalt thou find;<br /> +Her perfect body in thine arms with care<br /> +Take up, and unto the green valley bear<br /> +That lies before my noble house of gold;<br /> +There leave her lying on the daisies cold."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then, smiling, toward the place the fair Wind went</span><br /> +While 'neath his wing the sleeping lilies bent,<br /> +And flying 'twixt the green earth and the sea<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span>Made the huge anchored ships dance merrily,<br /> +And swung round from the east the gilded vanes<br /> +On many a palace, and from unhorsed wains<br /> +Twitched off the wheat-straw in his hurried flight;<br /> +But ere much time had passed he came in sight<br /> +Of Psyche laid in swoon upon the hill,<br /> +And smiling, set himself to do Love's will;<br /> +For in his arms he took her up with care,<br /> +Wondering to see a mortal made so fair,<br /> +And came into the vale in little space,<br /> +And set her down in the most flowery place;<br /> +And then unto the plains of Thessaly<br /> +Went ruffling up the edges of the sea.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now underneath the world the moon was gone,</span><br /> +But brighter shone the stars so left alone,<br /> +Until a faint green light began to show<br /> +Far in the east, whereby did all men know,<br /> +Who lay awake either with joy or pain,<br /> +That day was coming on their heads again;<br /> +Then widening, soon it spread to grey twilight,<br /> +And in a while with gold the east was bright;<br /> +The birds burst out a-singing one by one,<br /> +And o'er the hill-top rose the mighty sun.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Therewith did Psyche open wide her eyes,</span><br /> +And rising on her arm, with great surprise<br /> +Gazed on the flowers wherein so deep she lay,<br /> +And wondered why upon that dawn of day<br /> +Out in the fields she had lift up her head<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span>Rather than in her balmy gold-hung bed.<br /> +Then, suddenly remembering all her woes,<br /> +She sprang upon her feet, and yet arose<br /> +Within her heart a mingled hope and dread<br /> +Of some new thing: and now she raised her head,<br /> +And gazing round about her timidly,<br /> +A lovely grassy valley could she see,<br /> +That steep grey cliffs upon three sides did bound,<br /> +And under these, a river sweeping round,<br /> +With gleaming curves the valley did embrace,<br /> +And seemed to make an island of that place;<br /> +And all about were dotted leafy trees,<br /> +The elm for shade, the linden for the bees,<br /> +The noble oak, long ready for the steel<br /> +Which in that place it had no fear to feel;<br /> +The pomegranate, the apple, and the pear,<br /> +That fruit and flowers at once made shift to bear,<br /> +Nor yet decayed therefor, and in them hung<br /> +Bright birds that elsewhere sing not, but here sung<br /> +As sweetly as the small brown nightingales<br /> +Within the wooded, deep Laconian vales.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But right across the vale, from side to side,</span><br /> +A high white wall all further view did hide,<br /> +But that above it, vane and pinnacle<br /> +Rose up, of some great house beyond to tell,<br /> +And still betwixt these, mountains far away<br /> +Against the sky rose shadowy, cold, and grey.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">She, standing in the yellow morning sun,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span>Could scarcely think her happy life was done,<br /> +Or that the place was made for misery;<br /> +Yea, some lone heaven it rather seemed to be,<br /> +Which for the coming band of gods did wait;<br /> +Hope touched her heart; no longer desolate,<br /> +Deserted of all creatures did she feel,<br /> +And o'er her face sweet colour 'gan to steal,<br /> +That deepened to a flush, as wandering thought<br /> +Desires before unknown unto her brought,<br /> +So mighty was the God, though far away.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But trembling midst her hope, she took her way</span><br /> +Unto a little door midmost the wall,<br /> +And still on odorous flowers her feet did fall,<br /> +And round about her did the strange birds sing,<br /> +Praising her beauty in their carolling.<br /> +Thus coming to the door, when now her hand<br /> +First touched the lock, in doubt she needs must stand,<br /> +And to herself she said, "Lo, here the trap!<br /> +And yet, alas! whatever now may hap,<br /> +How can I 'scape the ill which waiteth me?<br /> +Let me die now!" and herewith, tremblingly,<br /> +She raised the latch, and her sweet sinless eyes<br /> +Beheld a garden like a paradise,<br /> +Void of mankind, fairer than words can say,<br /> +Wherein did joyous harmless creatures play<br /> +After their kind, and all amidst the trees<br /> +Were strange-wrought founts and wondrous images;<br /> +And glimmering 'twixt the boughs could she behold<br /> +A house made beautiful with beaten gold,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span>Whose open doors in the bright sun did gleam;<br /> +Lonely, but not deserted did it seem.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Long time she stood debating what to do,</span><br /> +But at the last she passed the wicket through,<br /> +Which, shutting clamorously behind her, sent<br /> +A pang of fear throughout her as she went;<br /> +But when through all that green place she had passed<br /> +And by the palace porch she stood at last,<br /> +And saw how wonderfully the wall was wrought,<br /> +With curious stones from far-off countries brought,<br /> +And many an image and fair history<br /> +Of what the world has been, and yet shall be,<br /> +And all set round with golden craftsmanship,<br /> +Well-wrought as some renowned cup's royal lip,<br /> +She had a thought again to turn aside:<br /> +And yet again, not knowing where to bide,<br /> +She entered softly, and with trembling hands<br /> +Holding her gown; the wonder of all lands<br /> +Met there the wonders of the land and sea.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now went she through the chambers tremblingly,</span><br /> +And oft in going would she pause and stand,<br /> +And drop the gathered raiment from her hand,<br /> +Stilling the beating of her heart for fear<br /> +As voices whispering low she seemed to hear,<br /> +But then again the wind it seemed to be<br /> +Moving the golden hangings doubtfully,<br /> +Or some bewildered swallow passing close<br /> +Unto the pane, or some wind-beaten rose.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Soon seeing that no evil thing came near,</span><br /> +A little she began to lose her fear,<br /> +And gaze upon the wonders of the place,<br /> +And in the silver mirrors saw her face<br /> +Grown strange to her amidst that loneliness,<br /> +And stooped to feel the web her feet did press,<br /> +Wrought by the brown slim-fingered Indian's toil<br /> +Amidst the years of war and vain turmoil;<br /> +Or she the figures of the hangings felt,<br /> +Or daintily the unknown blossoms smelt,<br /> +Or stood and pondered what new thing might mean<br /> +The images of knight and king and queen<br /> +Wherewith the walls were pictured here and there,<br /> +Or touched rich vessels with her fingers fair,<br /> +And o'er her delicate smooth cheek would pass<br /> +The long-fixed bubbles of strange works of glass:<br /> +So wandered she amidst these marvels new<br /> +Until anigh the noontide now it grew.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">At last she came unto a chamber cool</span><br /> +Paved cunningly in manner of a pool,<br /> +Where red fish seemed to swim through floating weed<br /> +And at the first she thought it so indeed,<br /> +And took the sandals quickly from her feet,<br /> +But when the glassy floor these did but meet<br /> +The shadow of a long-forgotten smile<br /> +Her anxious face a moment did beguile;<br /> +And crossing o'er, she found a table spread<br /> +With dainty food, as delicate white bread<br /> +And fruits piled up and covered savoury meat,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span>As though a king were coming there to eat,<br /> +For the worst vessel was of beaten gold.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now when these dainties Psyche did behold</span><br /> + +She fain had eaten, but did nowise dare,<br /> +Thinking she saw a god's feast lying there.<br /> +But as she turned to go the way she came<br /> +She heard a low soft voice call out her name,<br /> +Then she stood still, and trembling gazed around,<br /> +And seeing no man, nigh sank upon the ground,<br /> +Then through the empty air she heard the voice.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"O, lovely one, fear not! rather rejoice</span><br /> +That thou art come unto thy sovereignty:<br /> +Sit now and eat, this feast is but for thee,<br /> +Yea, do whatso thou wilt with all things here,<br /> +And in thine own house cast away thy fear,<br /> +For all is thine, and little things are these<br /> +So loved a heart as thine, awhile to please.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Be patient! thou art loved by such an one</span><br /> +As will not leave thee mourning here alone,<br /> +But rather cometh on this very night;<br /> +And though he needs must hide him from thy sight<br /> +Yet all his words of love thou well mayst hear,<br /> +And pour thy woes into no careless ear.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Bethink thee then, with what solemnity</span><br /> +Thy folk, thy father, did deliver thee<br /> +To him who loves thee thus, and void of dread<br /> +Remember, sweet, thou art a bride new-wed."<br /> +<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now hearing this, did Psyche, trembling sore</span><br /> +And yet with lighter heart than heretofore,<br /> +Sit down and eat, till she grew scarce afeard;<br /> +And nothing but the summer noise she heard<br /> +Within the garden, then, her meal being done,<br /> +Within the window-seat she watched the sun<br /> +Changing the garden-shadows, till she grew<br /> +Fearless and happy, since she deemed she knew<br /> +The worst that could befall, while still the best<br /> +Shone a fair star far off: and mid the rest<br /> +This brought her after all her grief and fear,<br /> +She said, "How sweet it would be, could I hear,<br /> +Soft music mate the drowsy afternoon,<br /> +And drown awhile the bees' sad murmuring tune<br /> +Within these flowering limes." E'en as she spoke,<br /> +A sweet-voiced choir of unknown unseen folk<br /> +Singing to words that match the sense of these<br /> +Hushed the faint music of the linden trees.</p></div> + +<p> </p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Song.</span></h3> +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">O</span> <span class="caps">pensive,</span> tender maid, downcast and shy,</span><br /> +Who turnest pale e'en at the name of love,<br /> +And with flushed face must pass the elm-tree by<br /> +Ashamed to hear the passionate grey dove<br /> +Moan to his mate, thee too the god shall move,<br /> +Thee too the maidens shall ungird one day,<br /> +And with thy girdle put thy shame away.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What then, and shall white winter ne'er be done</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span>Because the glittering frosty morn is fair?<br /> +Because against the early-setting sun<br /> +Bright show the gilded boughs though waste and bare?<br /> +Because the robin singeth free from care?<br /> +Ah! these are memories of a better day<br /> +When on earth's face the lips of summer lay.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Come then, beloved one, for such as thee</span><br /> +Love loveth, and their hearts he knoweth well,<br /> +Who hoard their moments of felicity,<br /> +As misers hoard the medals that they tell,<br /> +Lest on the earth but paupers they should dwell:<br /> +"We hide our love to bless another day;<br /> +The world is hard, youth passes quick," they say.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ah, little ones, but if ye could forget</span><br /> +Amidst your outpoured love that you must die,<br /> +Then ye, my servants, were death's conquerors yet,<br /> +And love to you should be eternity<br /> +How quick soever might the days go by:<br /> +Yes, ye are made immortal on the day<br /> +Ye cease the dusty grains of time to weigh.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thou hearkenest, love? O, make no semblance then</span><br /> +That thou art loved, but as thy custom is<br /> +Turn thy grey eyes away from eyes of men,<br /> +With hands down-dropped, that tremble with thy bliss,<br /> +With hidden eyes, take thy first lover's kiss;<br /> +Call this eternity which is to-day,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span>Nor dream that this our love can pass away.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They ceased, and Psyche pondering o'er their song,</span><br /> +Not fearing now that aught would do her wrong,<br /> +About the chambers wandered at her will,<br /> +And on the many marvels gazed her fill,<br /> +Where'er she passed still noting everything,<br /> +Then in the gardens heard the new birds sing<br /> +And watched the red fish in the fountains play,<br /> +And at the very faintest time of day<br /> +Upon the grass lay sleeping for a while<br /> +Midst heaven-sent dreams of bliss that made her smile;<br /> +And when she woke the shades were lengthening,<br /> +So to the place where she had heard them sing<br /> +She came again, and through a little door<br /> +Entered a chamber with a marble floor,<br /> +Open a-top unto the outer air,<br /> +Beneath which lay a bath of water fair,<br /> +Paved with strange stones and figures of bright gold,<br /> +And from the steps thereof could she behold<br /> +The slim-leaved trees against the evening sky<br /> +Golden and calm, still moving languidly.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So for a time upon the brink she sat,</span><br /> +Debating in her mind of this and that,<br /> +And then arose and slowly from her cast<br /> +Her raiment, and adown the steps she passed<br /> +Into the water, and therein she played,<br /> +Till of herself at last she grew afraid,<br /> +And of the broken image of her face,<br /> +And the loud splashing in that lonely place.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span>So from the bath she gat her quietly,<br /> +And clad herself in whatso haste might be;<br /> +And when at last she was apparelled<br /> +Unto a chamber came, where was a bed<br /> +Of gold and ivory, and precious wood<br /> +Some island bears where never man has stood;<br /> +And round about hung curtains of delight,<br /> +Wherein were interwoven Day and Night<br /> +Joined by the hands of Love, and round their wings<br /> +Knots of fair flowers no earthly May-time brings.<br /> +Strange for its beauty was the coverlet,<br /> +With birds and beasts and flowers wrought over it;<br /> +And every cloth was made in daintier wise<br /> +Than any man on earth could well devise:<br /> +Yea, there such beauty was in everything,<br /> +That she, the daughter of a mighty king,<br /> +Felt strange therein, and trembled lest that she,<br /> +Deceived by dreams, had wandered heedlessly<br /> +Into a bower for some fair goddess made.<br /> +Yet if perchance some man had thither strayed,<br /> +It had been long ere he had noted aught<br /> +But her sweet face, made pensive by the thought<br /> +Of all the wonders that she moved in there.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But looking round, upon a table fair</span><br /> +She saw a book wherein old tales were writ,<br /> +And by the window sat, to read in it<br /> +Until the dusk had melted into night,<br /> +When waxen tapers did her servants light<br /> +With unseen hands, until it grew like day.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">And so at last upon the bed she lay,</span><br /> +And slept a dreamless sleep for weariness,<br /> +Forgetting all the wonder and distress.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But at the dead of night she woke, and heard</span><br /> +A rustling noise, and grew right sore afeard,<br /> +Yea, could not move a finger for affright;<br /> +And all was darker now than darkest night.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Withal a voice close by her did she hear.</span><br /> +"Alas, my love! why tremblest thou with fear,<br /> +While I am trembling with new happiness?<br /> +Forgive me, sweet, thy terror and distress:<br /> +Not otherwise could this our meeting be.<br /> +O loveliest! such bliss awaiteth thee,<br /> +For all thy trouble and thy shameful tears.<br /> +Such nameless honour, and such happy years,<br /> +As fall not unto women of the earth.<br /> +Loved as thou art, thy short-lived pains are worth<br /> +The glory and the joy unspeakable<br /> +Wherein the Treasure of the World shall dwell:<br /> +A little hope, a little patience yet,<br /> +Ere everything thou wilt, thou may'st forget,<br /> +Or else remember as a well-told tale,<br /> +That for some pensive pleasure may avail.<br /> +Canst thou not love me, then, who wrought thy woe,<br /> +That thou the height and depth of joy mightst know?"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He spoke, and as upon the bed she lay,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span>Trembling amidst new thoughts, he sent a ray<br /> +Of finest love unto her inmost heart,<br /> +Till, murmuring low, she strove the night to part,<br /> +And like a bride who meets her love at last,<br /> +When the long days of yearning are o'erpast,<br /> +She reached to him her perfect arms unseen,<br /> +And said, "O Love, how wretched I have been!<br /> +What hast thou done?" And by her side he lay.<br /> +Till just before the dawning of the day.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<div class="poem"> +<p><span class="big">T</span><span class="caps">he</span> sun was high when Psyche woke again,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And turning to the place where he had lain</span><br /> +And seeing no one, doubted of the thing<br /> +That she had dreamed it, till a fair gold ring,<br /> +Unseen before, upon her hand she found,<br /> +And touching her bright head she felt it crowned<br /> +With a bright circlet; then withal she sighed.<br /> +And wondered how the oracle had lied,<br /> +And wished her father knew it, and straightway<br /> +Rose up and clad herself. Slow went the day,<br /> +Though helped with many a solace, till came night;<br /> +And therewithal the new, unseen delight,<br /> +She learned to call her Love.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 11em;">So passed away</span><br /> +The days and nights, until upon a day<br /> +As in the shade, at noon she lay asleep.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span>She dreamed that she beheld her sisters weep,<br /> +And her old father clad in sorry guise,<br /> +Grown foolish with the weight of miseries,<br /> +Her friends black-clad and moving mournfully,<br /> +And folk in wonder landed from the sea,<br /> +At such a fall of such a matchless maid,<br /> +And in some press apart her raiment laid<br /> +Like precious relics, and an empty tomb<br /> +Set in the palace telling of her doom.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Therefore she wept in sleep, and woke with tears</span><br /> +Still on her face, and wet hair round her ears,<br /> +And went about unhappily that day,<br /> +Framing a gentle speech wherewith to pray<br /> +For leave to see her sisters once again,<br /> +That they might know her happy, and her pain<br /> +Turned all to joy, and honour come from shame.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And so at last night and her lover came,</span><br /> +And midst their fondling, suddenly she said,<br /> +"O Love, a little time we have been wed,<br /> +And yet I ask a boon of thee this night."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Psyche," he said, "if my heart tells me right,</span><br /> +This thy desire may bring us bitter woe,<br /> +For who the shifting chance of fate can know?<br /> +Yet, forasmuch as mortal hearts are weak,<br /> +To-morrow shall my folk thy sisters seek,<br /> +And bear them hither; but before the day<br /> +Is fully ended must they go away.<br /> +And thou—beware—for, fresh and good and true,<br /> +Thou knowest not what worldly hearts may do,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span>Or what a curse gold is unto the earth.<br /> +Beware lest from thy full heart, in thy mirth,<br /> +Thou tell'st the story of thy love unseen:<br /> +Thy loving, simple heart, fits not a queen."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then by her kisses did she know he frowned,</span><br /> +But close about him her fair arms she wound,<br /> +Until for happiness he 'gan to smile,<br /> +And in those arms forgat all else awhile.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So the next day, for joy that they should come,</span><br /> +Would Psyche further deck her strange new home,<br /> +And even as she 'gan to think the thought,<br /> +Quickly her will by unseen hands was wrought,<br /> +Who came and went like thoughts. Yea, how should I<br /> +Tell of the works of gold and ivory,<br /> +The gems and images, those hands brought there<br /> +The prisoned things of earth, and sea, and air,<br /> +They brought to please their mistress? Many a beast,<br /> +Such as King Bacchus in his reckless feast<br /> +Makes merry with—huge elephants, snow-white<br /> +With gilded tusks, or dusky-grey with bright<br /> +And shining chains about their wrinkled necks;<br /> +The mailed rhinoceros, that of nothing recks;<br /> +Dusky-maned lions; spotted leopards fair<br /> +That through the cane-brake move, unseen as air;<br /> +The deep-mouthed tiger, dread of the brown man;<br /> +The eagle, and the peacock, and the swan—<br /> +—These be the nobles of the birds and beasts.<br /> +But therewithal, for laughter at their feasts,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span>They brought them the gods' jesters, such as be<br /> +Quick-chattering apes, that yet in mockery<br /> +Of anxious men wrinkle their ugly brows;<br /> +Strange birds with pouches, birds with beaks like prows<br /> +Of merchant-ships, with tufted crests like threads,<br /> +With unimaginable monstrous heads.<br /> +Lo, such as these, in many a gilded cage<br /> +They brought, or chained for fear of sudden rage.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then strewed they scented branches on the floor,</span><br /> +And hung rose-garlands up by the great door,<br /> +And wafted incense through the bowers and halls,<br /> +And hung up fairer hangings on the walls,<br /> +And filled the baths with water fresh and clear,<br /> +And in the chambers laid apparel fair,<br /> +And spread a table for a royal feast.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then when from all these labours they had ceased,</span><br /> +Psyche they sung to sleep with lullabies;<br /> +Who slept not long, but opening soon her eyes,<br /> +Beheld her sisters on the threshold stand:<br /> +Then did she run to take them by the hand,<br /> +And laid her cheek to theirs, and murmured words<br /> +Of little meaning, like the moan of birds,<br /> +While they bewildered stood and gazed around,<br /> +Like people who in some strange land have found<br /> +One that they thought not of; but she at last<br /> +Stood back, and from her face the strayed locks cast,<br /> +And, smiling through her tears, said, "Ah, that ye<br /> +Should have to weep such useless tears for me!<br /> +Alas, the burden that the city bears<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span>For nought! O me, my father's burning tears,<br /> +That into all this honour I am come!<br /> +Nay, does he live yet? Is the ancient home<br /> +Still standing? do the galleys throng the quays?<br /> +Do the brown Indians glitter down the ways<br /> +With rubies as of old? Yes, yes, ye smile,<br /> +For ye are thinking, but a little while<br /> +Apart from these has she been dwelling here;<br /> +Truly, yet long enough, loved ones and dear,<br /> +To make me other than I was of old,<br /> +Though now when your dear faces I behold<br /> +Am I myself again. But by what road<br /> +Have ye been brought to this my new abode?"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Sister," said one, "I rose up from my bed</span><br /> +It seems this morn, and being apparelléd,<br /> +And walking in my garden, in a swoon<br /> +Helpless and unattended I sank down,<br /> +Wherefrom I scarce am waked, for as a dream<br /> +Dost thou with all this royal glory seem,<br /> +But for thy kisses and thy words, O love."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Yea, Psyche," said the other, "as I drove</span><br /> +The ivory shuttle through the shuttle-race,<br /> +All was changed suddenly, and in this place<br /> +I found myself, and standing on my feet,<br /> +Where me with sleepy words this one did greet.<br /> +Now, sister, tell us whence these wonders come<br /> +With all the godlike splendour of your home."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Sisters," she said, "more marvels shall ye see</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span>When ye, have been a little while with me,<br /> +Whereof I cannot tell you more than this<br /> +That 'midst them all I dwell in ease and bliss,<br /> +Well loved and wedded to a mighty lord,<br /> +Fair beyond measure, from whose loving word<br /> +I know that happier days await me yet.<br /> +But come, my sisters, let us now forget<br /> +To seek for empty knowledge; ye shall take<br /> +Some little gifts for your lost sister's sake;<br /> +And whatso wonders ye may see or hear<br /> +Of nothing frightful have ye any fear."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wondering they went with her, and looking round,</span><br /> +Each in the other's eyes a strange look found,<br /> +For these, her mother's daughters, had no part<br /> +In her divine fresh singleness of heart,<br /> +But longing to be great, remembered not<br /> +How short a time one heart on earth has got.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But keener still that guarded look now grew</span><br /> +As more of that strange lovely place they knew,<br /> +And as with growing hate, but still afeard,<br /> +The unseen choirs' heart-softening strains they heard,<br /> +Which did but harden these; and when at noon<br /> +They sought the shaded waters' freshening boon,<br /> +And all unhidden once again they saw<br /> +That peerless beauty, free from any flaw,<br /> +Which now at last had won its precious meed,<br /> +Her kindness then but fed the fire of greed<br /> +Within their hearts—her gifts, the rich attire<br /> +Wherewith she clad them, where like sparks of fire<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span>The many-coloured gems shone midst the pearls<br /> +The soft silks' winding lines, the work of girls<br /> +By the Five Rivers; their fair marvellous crowns,<br /> +Their sandals' fastenings worth the rent of towns,<br /> +Zones and carved rings, and nameless wonders fair,<br /> +All things her faithful slaves had brought them there,<br /> +Given amid kisses, made them not more glad;<br /> +Since in their hearts the ravening worm they had<br /> +That love slays not, nor yet is satisfied<br /> +While aught but he has aught; yet still they tried<br /> +To look as they deemed loving folk should look,<br /> +And still with words of love her bounty took.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So at the last all being apparelléd,</span><br /> +Her sisters to the banquet Psyche led,<br /> +Fair were they, and each seemed a glorious queen<br /> +With all that wondrous daintiness beseen,<br /> +But Psyche clad in gown of dusky blue<br /> +Little adorned, with deep grey eyes that knew<br /> +The hidden marvels of Love's holy fire,<br /> +Seemed like the soul of innocent desire,<br /> +Shut from the mocking world, wherefrom those twain<br /> +Seemed come to lure her thence with labour vain.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now having reached the place where they should eat,</span><br /> +Ere 'neath the canopy the three took seat,<br /> +The eldest sister unto Psyche said,<br /> +"And he, dear love, the man that thou hast wed,<br /> +Will he not wish to-day thy kin to see?<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span>Then could we tell of thy felicity<br /> +The better, to our folk and father dear."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then Psyche reddened, "Nay, he is not here,"</span><br /> +She stammered, "neither will be here to-day,<br /> +For mighty matters keep him far away."<br /> +"Alas!" the younger sister said, "Say then,<br /> +What is the likeness of this first of men;<br /> +What sayest thou about his loving eyne,<br /> +Are his locks black, or golden-red as thine?"<br /> +"Black-haired like me," said Psyche stammering,<br /> +And looking round, "what say I? like the king<br /> +Who rules the world, he seems to me at least—<br /> +Come, sisters, sit, and let us make good feast!<br /> +My darling and my love ye shall behold<br /> +I doubt not soon, his crispy hair of gold,<br /> +His eyes unseen; and ye shall hear his voice,<br /> +That in my joy ye also may rejoice."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then did they hold their peace, although indeed</span><br /> +Her stammering haste they did not fail to heed.<br /> +But at their wondrous royal feast they sat<br /> +Thinking their thoughts, and spoke of this or that<br /> +Between the bursts of music, until when<br /> +The sun was leaving the abodes of men;<br /> +And then must Psyche to her sisters say<br /> +That she was bid, her husband being away,<br /> +To suffer none at night to harbour there,<br /> +No, not the mother that her body bare<br /> +Or father that begat her, therefore they<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span>Must leave her now, till some still happier day.<br /> +And therewithal more precious gifts she brought<br /> +Whereof not e'en in dreams they could have thought<br /> +Things whereof noble stories might be told;<br /> +And said; "These matters that you here behold<br /> +Shall be the worst of gifts that you shall have;<br /> +Farewell, farewell! and may the high gods save<br /> +Your lives and fame; and tell our father dear<br /> +Of all the honour that I live in here,<br /> +And how that greater happiness shall come<br /> +When I shall reach a long-enduring home."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then these, though burning through the night to stay,</span><br /> +Spake loving words, and went upon their way,<br /> +When weeping she had kissed them; but they wept<br /> +Such tears as traitors do, for as they stepped<br /> +Over the threshold, in each other's eyes<br /> +They looked, for each was eager to surprise<br /> +The envy that their hearts were filled withal,<br /> +That to their lips came welling up like gall.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"So," said the first, "this palace without folk,</span><br /> +These wonders done with none to strike a stroke.<br /> +This singing in the air, and no one seen,<br /> +These gifts too wonderful for any queen,<br /> +The trance wherein we both were wrapt away,<br /> +And set down by her golden house to-day—<br /> +—These are the deeds of gods, and not of men;<br /> +And fortunate the day was to her, when<br /> +Weeping she left the house where we were born,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span>And all men deemed her shamed and most forlorn."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then said the other, reddening in her rage,</span><br /> +"She is the luckiest one of all this age;<br /> +And yet she might have told us of her case,<br /> +What god it is that dwelleth in the place,<br /> +Nor sent us forth like beggars from her gate.<br /> +And beggarly, O sister, is our fate,<br /> +Whose husbands wring from miserable hinds<br /> +What the first battle scatters to the winds;<br /> +While she to us whom from her door she drives<br /> +And makes of no account or honour, gives<br /> +Such wonderful and priceless gifts as these,<br /> +Fit to bedeck the limbs of goddesses!<br /> +And yet who knows but she may get a fall?<br /> +The strongest tower has not the highest wall,<br /> +Think well of this, when you sit safe at home<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">By this unto the river were they come,</span><br /> +Where waited Zephyrus unseen, who cast<br /> +A languor over them that quickly passed<br /> +Into deep sleep, and on the grass they sank;<br /> +Then straightway did he lift them from the bank,<br /> +And quickly each in her fair house set down,<br /> +Then flew aloft above the sleeping town.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Long in their homes they brooded over this,</span><br /> +And how that Psyche nigh a goddess is;<br /> +While all folk deemed that she quite lost had been<br /> +For nought they said of all that they had seen.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But now that night when she, with many a kiss,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span>Had told their coming, and of that and this<br /> +That happed, he said, "These things, O Love, are well;<br /> +Glad am I that no evil thing befell.<br /> +And yet, between thy father's house and me<br /> +Must thou choose now; then either royally<br /> +Shalt thou go home, and wed some king at last,<br /> +And have no harm for all that here has passed;<br /> +Or else, my love, bear as thy brave heart may,<br /> +This loneliness in hope of that fair day,<br /> +Which, by my head, shall come to thee; and then<br /> +Shalt thou be glorious to the sons of men,<br /> +And by my side shalt sit in such estate<br /> +That in all time all men shall sing thy fate."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But with that word such love through her he breathed,</span><br /> +That round about him her fair arms she wreathed;<br /> +And so with loving passed the night away,<br /> +And with fresh hope came on the fresh May-day.<br /> +And so passed many a day and many a night.<br /> +And weariness was balanced with delight,<br /> +And into such a mind was Psyche brought,<br /> +That little of her father's house she thought,<br /> +But ever of the happy day to come<br /> +When she should go unto her promised home.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Till she that threw the golden apple down</span><br /> +Upon the board, and lighted up Troy town,<br /> +On dusky wings came flying o'er the place,<br /> +And seeing Psyche with her happy face<br /> +Asleep beneath some fair tree blossoming,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span>Into her sleep straight cast an evil thing;<br /> +Whereby she dreamed she saw her father laid<br /> +Panting for breath beneath the golden shade<br /> +Of his great bed's embroidered canopy,<br /> +And with his last breath moaning heavily<br /> +Her name and fancied woes; thereat she woke,<br /> +And this ill dream through all her quiet broke,<br /> +And when next morn her Love from her would go,<br /> +And going, as it was his wont to do,<br /> +Would kiss her sleeping, he must find the tears<br /> +Filling the hollows of her rosy ears<br /> +And wetting half the golden hair that lay<br /> +Twixt him and her: then did he speak and say,<br /> +"O Love, why dost thou lie awake and weep,<br /> +Who for content shouldst have good heart to sleep<br /> +This cold hour ere the dawning?" Nought she said,<br /> +But wept aloud. Then cried he, "By my head!<br /> +Whate'er thou wishest I will do for thee;<br /> +Yea, if it make an end of thee and me."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"O Love," she said, "I scarce dare ask again,</span><br /> +Yet is there in mine heart an aching pain<br /> +To know what of my father is become:<br /> +So would I send my sisters to my home,<br /> +Because I doubt indeed they never told<br /> +Of all my honour in this house of gold;<br /> +And now of them a great oath would I take."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He said, "Alas! and hast thou been awake</span><br /> +For them indeed? who in my arms asleep<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span>Mightst well have been; for their sakes didst thou weep,<br /> +Who mightst have smiled to feel my kiss on thee?<br /> +Yet as thou wishest once more shall it be,<br /> +Because my oath constrains me, and thy tears.<br /> +And yet again beware, and make these fears<br /> +Of none avail; nor waver any more,<br /> +I pray thee: for already to the shore<br /> +Of all delights and joys thou drawest nigh."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He spoke, and from the chamber straight did fly</span><br /> +To highest heaven, and going softly then,<br /> +Wearied the father of all gods and men<br /> +With prayers for Psyche's immortality.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Meantime went Zephyrus across the sea,</span><br /> +To bring her sisters to her arms again,<br /> +Though of that message little was he fain,<br /> +Knowing their malice and their cankered hearts.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For now these two had thought upon their parts</span><br /> +And made up a false tale for Psyche's ear;<br /> +For when awaked, to her they drew anear,<br /> +Sobbing, their faces in their hands they hid,<br /> +Nor when she asked them why this thing they did<br /> +Would answer aught, till trembling Psyche said,<br /> +"Nay, nay, what is it? is our father dead?<br /> +Or do ye weep these tears for shame that ye<br /> +Have told him not of my felicity,<br /> +To make me weep amidst my new-found bliss?<br /> +Be comforted, for short the highway is<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span>To my forgiveness: this day shall ye go<br /> +And take him gifts, and tell him all ye know<br /> +Of this my unexpected happy lot."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Amidst fresh sobs one said, "We told him not</span><br /> +But by good counsel did we hide the thing,<br /> +Deeming it well that he should feel the sting<br /> +For once, than for awhile be glad again,<br /> +And after come to suffer double pain."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Alas! what mean you, sister?" Psyche said,</span><br /> +For terror waxing pale as are the dead.<br /> +"O sister, speak!" "Child, by this loving kiss,"<br /> +Spake one of them, "and that remembered bliss<br /> +We dwelt in when our mother was alive,<br /> +Or ever we began with ills to strive,<br /> +By all the hope thou hast to see again<br /> +Our aged father and to soothe his pain,<br /> +I charge thee tell me,—Hast thou seen the thing<br /> +Thou callest Husband?"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;">Breathless, quivering,</span><br /> +Psyche cried out, "Alas! what sayest thou?<br /> +What riddles wilt thou speak unto me now?"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Alas!" she said; "then is it as I thought.</span><br /> +Sister, in dreadful places have we sought<br /> +To learn about thy case, and thus we found<br /> +A wise man, dwelling underneath the ground<br /> +In a dark awful cave: he told to us<br /> +A horrid tale thereof, and piteous,<br /> +That thou wert wedded to an evil thing,<br /> +A serpent-bodied fiend of poisonous sting,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span>Bestial of form, yet therewith lacking not<br /> +E'en such a soul as wicked men have got.<br /> +Thus ages long agone the gods made him,<br /> +And set him in a lake hereby to swim;<br /> +But every hundred years he hath this grace,<br /> +That he may change within this golden place<br /> +Into a fair young man by night alone.<br /> +Alas, my sister, thou hast cause to groan!<br /> +What sayest thou?—<i>His words are fair and soft;</i><br /> +<i>He raineth loving kisses on me oft,</i><br /> +<i>Weeping for love; he tells me of a day</i><br /> +<i>When from this place we both shall go away,</i><br /> +<i>And he shall kiss me then no more unseen,</i><br /> +<i>The while I sit by him a glorious queen</i>——<br /> +—Alas, poor child! it pleaseth thee, his kiss?<br /> +Then must I show thee why he doeth this:<br /> +Because he willeth for a time to save<br /> +Thy body, wretched one! that he may have<br /> +Both child and mother for his watery hell—<br /> +Ah, what a tale this is for me to tell!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Thou prayest us to save thee, and we can;</span><br /> +Since for nought else we sought that wise old man,<br /> +Who for great gifts and seeing that of kings<br /> +We both were come, has told us all these things,<br /> +And given us a fair lamp of hallowed oil<br /> +That he has wrought with danger and much toil;<br /> +And thereto has he added a sharp knife,<br /> +In forging which he well-nigh lost his life,<br /> +About him so the devils of the pit<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span>Came swarming—O, my sister, hast thou it?"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Straight from her gown the other one drew out</span><br /> +The lamp and knife, which Psyche, dumb with doubt<br /> +And misery at once, took in her hand.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then said her sister, "From this doubtful land</span><br /> +Thou gav'st us royal gifts a while ago,<br /> +But these we give thee, though they lack for show,<br /> +Shall be to thee a better gift,—thy life.<br /> +Put now in some sure place this lamp and knife,<br /> +And when he sleeps rise silently from bed<br /> +And hold the hallowed lamp above his head,<br /> +And swiftly draw the charméd knife across<br /> +His cursed neck, thou well may'st bear the loss,<br /> +Nor shall he keep his man's shape more, when he<br /> +First feels the iron wrought so mysticly:<br /> +But thou, flee unto us, we have a tale,<br /> +Of what has been thy lot within this vale,<br /> +When we have 'scaped therefrom, which we shall do<br /> +By virtue of strange spells the old man knew.<br /> +Farewell, sweet sister! here we may not stay,<br /> +Lest in returning he should pass this way;<br /> +But in the vale we will not fail to wait<br /> +Till thou art loosened from thine evil fate."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thus went they, and for long they said not aught,</span><br /> +Fearful lest any should surprise their thought,<br /> +But in such wise had envy conquered fear,<br /> +That they were fain that eve to bide anear<br /> +Their sister's ruined home; but when they came<br /> +Unto the river, on them fell the same<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span>Resistless languor they had felt before.<br /> +And from the blossoms of that flowery shore<br /> +Their sleeping bodies soon did Zephyr bear,<br /> +For other folk to hatch new ills and care.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But on the ground sat Psyche all alone,</span><br /> +The lamp and knife beside her, and no moan<br /> +She made, but silent let the long hours go,<br /> +Till dark night closed around her and her woe.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then trembling she arose, for now drew near</span><br /> +The time of utter loneliness and fear,<br /> +And she must think of death, who until now<br /> +Had thought of ruined life, and love brought low;<br /> +And with, that thought, tormenting doubt there came,<br /> +And images of some unheard-of shame,<br /> +Until forlorn, entrapped of gods she felt,<br /> +As though in some strange hell her spirit dwelt.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet driven by her sisters' words at last,</span><br /> +And by remembrance of the time now past,<br /> +When she stood trembling, as the oracle<br /> +With all its fearful doom upon her fell,<br /> +She to her hapless wedding-chamber turned,<br /> +And while the waxen tapers freshly burned<br /> +She laid those dread gifts ready to her hand,<br /> +Then quenched the lights, and by the bed did stand,<br /> +Turning these matters in her troubled mind;<br /> +And sometimes hoped some glorious man to find<br /> +Beneath the lamp, fit bridegroom for a bride<br /> +Like her; ah, then! with what joy to his side<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span>Would she creep back in the dark silent night;<br /> +But whiles she quaked at thought of what a sight<br /> +The lamp might show her; the hot rush of blood<br /> +The knife might shed upon her as she stood,<br /> +The dread of some pursuit, the hurrying out,<br /> +Through rooms where every sound would seem a shout<br /> +Into the windy night among the trees,<br /> +Where many a changing monstrous sight one sees,<br /> +When nought at all has happed to chill the blood.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But as among these evil thoughts she stood,</span><br /> +She heard him coming, and straight crept to bed.<br /> +And felt him touch her with a new-born dread,<br /> +And durst not answer to his words of love.<br /> +But when he slept, she rose that tale to prove.<br /> +And sliding down as softly as might be,<br /> +And moving through the chamber quietly,<br /> +She gat the lamp within her trembling hand,<br /> +And long, debating of these things, did stand<br /> +In that thick darkness, till she seemed to be<br /> +A dweller in some black eternity,<br /> +And what she once had called the world did seem<br /> +A hollow void, a colourless mad dream;<br /> +For she felt so alone—three times in vain<br /> +She moved her heavy hand, three times again<br /> +It fell adown; at last throughout the place<br /> +Its flame glared, lighting up her woeful face,<br /> +Whose eyes the silken carpet did but meet,<br /> +Grown strange and awful, and her own wan feet<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span>As toward the bed she stole; but come thereto<br /> +Back with dosed eyes and quivering lips, she threw<br /> +Her lovely head, and strove to think of it,<br /> +While images of fearful things did flit<br /> +Before her eyes; thus, raising up the hand<br /> +That bore the lamp, one moment did she stand<br /> +As man's time tells it, and then suddenly<br /> +Opened her eyes, but scarce kept back a cry<br /> +At what she saw; for there before her lay<br /> +The very Love brighter than dawn of day;<br /> +And as he lay there smiling, her own name<br /> +His gentle lips in sleep began to frame,<br /> +And as to touch her face his hand did move;<br /> +O then, indeed, her faint heart swelled for love,<br /> +And she began to sob, and tears fell fast<br /> +Upon the bed.—But as she turned at last<br /> +To quench the lamp, there happed a little thing<br /> +That quenched her new delight, for flickering<br /> +The treacherous flame cast on his shoulder fair<br /> +A burning drop; he woke, and seeing her there<br /> +The meaning of that sad sight knew full well,<br /> +Nor was there need the piteous tale to tell.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then on her knees she fell with a great cry,</span><br /> +For in his face she saw the thunder nigh,<br /> +And she began to know what she had done,<br /> +And saw herself henceforth, unloved, alone,<br /> +Pass onward to the grave; and once again<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span>She heard the voice she now must love in vain<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Ah, has it come to pass? and hast thou lost</span><br /> +A life of love, and must thou still be tossed<br /> +One moment in the sun 'twixt night and night?<br /> +And must I lose what would have been delight,<br /> +Untasted yet amidst immortal bliss,<br /> +To wed a soul made worthy of my kiss,<br /> +Set in a frame so wonderfully made?<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"O wavering heart, farewell! be not afraid</span><br /> +That I with fire will burn thy body fair,<br /> +Or cast thy sweet limbs piecemeal through the air;<br /> +The fates shall work thy punishment alone,<br /> +And thine own memory of our kindness done.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Alas! what wilt thou do? how shalt thou bear</span><br /> +The cruel world, the sickening still despair,<br /> +The mocking, curious faces bent on thee,<br /> +When thou hast known what love there is in me?<br /> +O happy only, if thou couldst forget,<br /> +And live unholpen, lonely, loveless yet,<br /> +But untormented through the little span<br /> +That on the earth ye call the life of man.<br /> +Alas! that thou, too fair a thing to die,<br /> +Shouldst so be born to double misery!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Farewell! though I, a god, can never know</span><br /> +How thou canst lose thy pain, yet time will go<br /> +Over thine head, and thou mayst mingle yet<br /> +The bitter and the sweet, nor quite forget,<br /> +Nor quite remember, till these things shall seem<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span>The wavering memory of a lovely dream."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Therewith he caught his shafts up and his bow,</span><br /> +And striding through the chambers did he go,<br /> +Light all around him; and she, wailing sore,<br /> +Still followed after; but he turned no more,<br /> +And when into the moonlit night he came<br /> +From out her sight he vanished like a flame,<br /> +And on the threshold till the dawn of day<br /> +Through all the changes of the night she lay.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">A</span><span class="caps">t</span> daybreak when she lifted up her eyes,</span><br /> +She looked around with heavy dull surprise,<br /> +And rose to enter the fair golden place;<br /> +But then remembering all her piteous case<br /> +She turned away, lamenting very sore,<br /> +And wandered down unto the river shore;<br /> +There, at the head of a green pool and deep,<br /> +She stood so long that she forgot to weep,<br /> +And the wild things about the water-side<br /> +From such a silent thing cared not to hide;<br /> +The dace pushed 'gainst the stream, the dragon-fly,<br /> +With its green-painted wing, went flickering by;<br /> +The water-hen, the lustred kingfisher,<br /> +Went on their ways and took no heed of her;<br /> +The little reed birds never ceased to sing,<br /> +And still the eddy, like a living thing,<br /> +Broke into sudden gurgles at her feet.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span>But 'midst these fair things, on that morning sweet,<br /> +How could she, weary creature, find a place?<br /> +She moved at last, and lifting up her face,<br /> +Gathered her raiment up and cried, "Farewell,<br /> +O fairest lord! and since I cannot dwell<br /> +With thee in heaven, let me now hide my head<br /> +In whatsoever dark place dwell the dead!"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And with that word she leapt into the stream,</span><br /> +But the kind river even yet did deem<br /> +That she should live, and, with all gentle care,<br /> +Cast her ashore within a meadow fair.<br /> +Upon the other side, where Shepherd Pan<br /> +Sat looking down upon the water wan,<br /> +Goat-legged and merry, who called out, "Fair maid<br /> +Why goest thou hurrying to the feeble shade<br /> +Whence none return? Well do I know thy pain,<br /> +For I am old, and have not lived in vain;<br /> +Thou wilt forget all that within a while,<br /> +And on some other happy youth wilt smile;<br /> +And sure he must be dull indeed if he<br /> +Forget not all things in his ecstasy<br /> +At sight of such a wonder made for him,<br /> +That in that clinging gown makes mine eyes swim,<br /> +Old as I am: but to the god of Love<br /> +Pray now, sweet child, for all things can he move."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Weeping she passed him, but full reverently,</span><br /> +And well she saw that she was not to die<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span>Till she had filled the measure of her woe.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So through the meads she passed, half blind and slow,</span><br /> +And on her sisters somewhat now she thought;<br /> +And, pondering on the evil they had wrought,<br /> +The veil fell from her, and she saw their guile.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Alas!" she said, "can death make folk so vile?</span><br /> +What wonder that the gods are glorious then,<br /> +Who cannot feel the hates and fears of men?<br /> +Sisters, alas, for what ye used to be!<br /> +Once did I think, whatso might hap to me,<br /> +Still at the worst, within your arms to find<br /> +A haven of pure love; then were ye kind,<br /> +Then was your joy e'en as my very own—<br /> +And now, and now, if I can be alone<br /> + +That is my best: but that can never be,<br /> +For your unkindness still shall stay with me<br /> +When ye are dead—But thou, my love! my dear!<br /> +Wert thou not kind?—I should have lost my fear<br /> +Within a little—Yea, and e'en just now<br /> +With angry godhead on thy lovely brow,<br /> +Still thou wert kind—And art thou gone away<br /> +For ever? I know not, but day by day<br /> +Still will I seek thee till I come to die,<br /> +And nurse remembrance of felicity<br /> +Within my heart, although it wound me sore;<br /> +For what am I but thine for evermore!"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thenceforth her back upon the world she turned</span><br /> +As she had known it; in her heart there burned<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span>Such deathless love, that still untired she went:<br /> +The huntsman dropping down the woody bent,<br /> +In the still evening, saw her passing by,<br /> +And for her beauty fain would draw anigh,<br /> +But yet durst not; the shepherd on the down<br /> +Wondering, would shade his eyes with fingers brown,<br /> +As on the hill's brow, looking o'er the lands,<br /> +She stood with straining eyes and clinging hands,<br /> +While the wind blew the raiment from her feet;<br /> +The wandering soldier her grey eyes would meet,<br /> +That took no heed of him, and drop his own;<br /> +Like a thin dream she passed the clattering town;<br /> +On the thronged quays she watched the ships come in<br /> +Patient, amid the strange outlandish din;<br /> +Unscared she saw the sacked towns' miseries,<br /> +And marching armies passed before her eyes.<br /> +And still of her the god had such a care<br /> +That none might wrong her, though alone and fair.<br /> +Through rough and smooth she wandered many a day,<br /> +Till all her hope had well-nigh passed away.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Meanwhile the sisters, each in her own home,</span><br /> +Waited the day when outcast she should come<br /> +And ask their pity; when perchance, indeed,<br /> +They looked to give her shelter in her need,<br /> +And with soft words such faint reproaches take<br /> +As she durst make them for her ruin's sake;<br /> +But day passed day, and still no Psyche came,<br /> +And while they wondered whether, to their shame,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span>Their plot had failed, or gained its end too well,<br /> +And Psyche slain, no tale thereof could tell.—<br /> +Amidst these things, the eldest sister lay<br /> +Asleep one evening of a summer day,<br /> +Dreaming she saw the god of Love anigh,<br /> +Who seemed to say unto her lovingly,<br /> +"Hail unto thee, fair sister of my love;<br /> +Nor fear me for that thou her faith didst prove,<br /> +And found it wanting, for thou, too, art fair,<br /> +Nor is her place filled; rise, and have no care<br /> +For father or for friends, but go straightway<br /> +Unto the rock where she was borne that day;<br /> +There, if thou hast a will to be my bride,<br /> +Put thou all fear of horrid death aside,<br /> +And leap from off the cliff, and there will come<br /> +My slaves, to bear thee up and take thee home.<br /> +Haste then, before the summer night grows late,<br /> +For in my house thy beauty I await!"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So spake the dream; and through the night did sail,</span><br /> +And to the other sister bore the tale,<br /> +While this one rose, nor doubted of the thing,<br /> +Such deadly pride unto her heart did cling;<br /> +But by the tapers' light triumphantly,<br /> +Smiling, her mirrored body did she eye,<br /> +Then hastily rich raiment on her cast<br /> +And through the sleeping serving-people passed,<br /> +And looked with changed eyes on the moonlit street,<br /> +Nor scarce could feel the ground beneath her feet.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span>But long the time seemed to her, till she came<br /> +There where her sister once was borne to shame;<br /> +And when she reached the bare cliff's rugged brow<br /> +She cried aloud, "O Love, receive me now,<br /> +Who am not all unworthy to be thine!"<br /> +And with that word, her jewelled arms did shine<br /> +Outstretched beneath the moon, and with one breath<br /> +She sprung to meet the outstretched arms of Death,<br /> +The only god that waited for her there,<br /> +And in a gathered moment of despair<br /> +A hideous thing her traitrous life did seem.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But with the passing of that hollow dream</span><br /> +The other sister rose, and as she might,<br /> +Arrayed herself alone in that still night,<br /> +And so stole forth, and making no delay<br /> +Came to the rock anigh the dawn of day;<br /> +No warning there her sister's spirit gave,<br /> +No doubt came nigh the fore-doomed soul to save,<br /> +But with a fever burning in her blood,<br /> +With glittering eyes and crimson cheeks she stood<br /> +One moment on the brow, the while she cried,<br /> +"Receive me, Love, chosen to be thy bride<br /> +From all the million women of the world!"<br /> +Then o'er the cliff her wicked limbs were hurled,<br /> +Nor has the language of the earth a name<br /> +For that surprise of terror and of shame.</p></div> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">N</span><span class="caps">ow,</span> midst her wanderings, on a hot noontide,</span><br /> +Psyche passed down a road, where, on each side<br /> +The yellow cornfields lay, although as yet<br /> +Unto the stalks no sickle had been set;<br /> +The lark sung over them, the butterfly<br /> +Flickered from ear to ear distractedly,<br /> +The kestrel hung above, the weasel peered<br /> +From out the wheat-stalks on her unafeard,<br /> +Along the road the trembling poppies shed<br /> +On the burnt grass their crumpled leaves and red;<br /> +Most lonely was it, nothing Psyche knew<br /> +Unto what land of all the world she drew;<br /> +Aweary was she, faint and sick at heart,<br /> +Bowed to the earth by thoughts of that sad part<br /> +She needs must play: some blue flower from the corn<br /> +That in her fingers erewhile she had borne,<br /> +Now dropped from them, still clung unto her gown;<br /> +Over the hard way hung her head adown<br /> +Despairingly, but still her weary feet<br /> +Moved on half conscious, her lost love to meet.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So going, at the last she raised her eyes,</span><br /> +And saw a grassy mound before her rise<br /> +Over the yellow plain, and thereon was<br /> +A marble fane with doors of burnished brass,<br /> +That 'twixt the pillars set about it burned;<br /> +So thitherward from off the road she turned,<br /> +And soon she heard a rippling water sound,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span>And reached a stream that girt the hill around,<br /> +Whose green waves wooed her body lovingly;<br /> +So looking round, and seeing no soul anigh,<br /> +Unclad, she crossed the shallows, and there laid<br /> +Her dusty raiment in the alder-shade,<br /> +And slipped adown into the shaded pool,<br /> +And with the pleasure of the water cool<br /> +Soothed her tired limbs awhile, then with a sigh<br /> +Came forth, and clad her body hastily,<br /> +And up the hill made for the little fane.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But when its threshold now her feet did gain,</span><br /> +She, looking through the pillars of the shrine,<br /> +Beheld therein a golden image shine<br /> +Of golden Ceres; then she passed the door,<br /> +And with bowed head she stood awhile before<br /> +The smiling image, striving for some word<br /> +That did not name her lover and her lord,<br /> +Until midst rising tears at last she prayed:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"O kind one, if while yet I was a maid</span><br /> +I ever did thee pleasure, on this day<br /> +Be kind to me, poor wanderer on the way,<br /> +Who strive my love upon the earth to meet!<br /> +Then let me rest my weary, doubtful feet<br /> +Within thy quiet house a little while,<br /> +And on my rest if thou wouldst please to smile,<br /> +And send me news of my own love and lord,<br /> +It would not cost thee, lady, many a word."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But straight from out the shrine a sweet voice came,</span><br /> +"O Psyche, though of me thou hast no blame,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span>And though indeed thou sparedst not to give<br /> +What my soul loved, while happy thou didst live,<br /> +Yet little can I give now unto thee,<br /> +Since thou art rebel, slave, and enemy<br /> +Unto the love-inspiring Queen; this grace<br /> +Thou hast alone of me, to leave this place<br /> +Free as thou camest, though the lovely one<br /> +Seeks for the sorceress who entrapped her son<br /> +In every land, and has small joy in aught,<br /> +Until before her presence thou art brought."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then Psyche, trembling at the words she spake,</span><br /> +Durst answer nought, nor for that counsel's sake<br /> +Could other offerings leave except her tears,<br /> +As now, tormented by the new-born fears<br /> +The words divine had raised in her, she passed<br /> +The brazen threshold once again, and cast<br /> +A dreary hopeless look across the plain,<br /> +Whose golden beauty now seemed nought and vain<br /> +Unto her aching heart; then down the hill<br /> +She went, and crossed the shallows of the rill,<br /> +And wearily she went upon her way,<br /> +Nor any homestead passed upon that day,<br /> +Nor any hamlet, and at night lay down<br /> +Within a wood, far off from any town.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">There, waking at the dawn, did she behold,</span><br /> +Through the green leaves, a glimmer as of gold,<br /> +And, passing on, amidst an oak-grove found<br /> +A pillared temple gold-adorned and round,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span>Whose walls were hung with rich and precious things,<br /> +Worthy to be the ransom of great kings;<br /> +And in the midst of gold and ivory<br /> +An image of Queen Juno did she see;<br /> +Then her heart swelled within her, and she thought,<br /> +"Surely the gods hereto my steps have brought,<br /> +And they will yet be merciful and give<br /> +Some little joy to me, that I may live<br /> +Till my Love finds me." Then upon her knees<br /> +She fell, and prayed, "O Crown of goddesses,<br /> +I pray thee, give me shelter in this place,<br /> +Nor turn away from me thy much-loved face,<br /> +If ever I gave golden gifts to thee<br /> +In happier times when my right hand was free."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then from the inmost shrine there came a voice</span><br /> +That said, "It is so, well mayst thou rejoice<br /> +That of thy gifts I yet have memory,<br /> +Wherefore mayst thou depart forewarned and free;<br /> +Since she that won the golden apple lives,<br /> +And to her servants mighty gifts now gives<br /> +To find thee out, in whatso land thou art,<br /> +For thine undoing; loiter not, depart!<br /> +For what immortal yet shall shelter thee<br /> +From her that rose from out the unquiet sea?"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then Psyche moaned out in her grief and fear,</span><br /> +"Alas! and is there shelter anywhere<br /> +Upon the green flame-hiding earth?" said she,<br /> +"Or yet beneath it is there peace for me?<br /> +O Love, since in thine arms I cannot rest,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span>Or lay my weary head upon thy breast,<br /> +Have pity yet upon thy love forlorn,<br /> +Make me as though I never had been born!"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then wearily she went upon her way,</span><br /> +And so, about the middle of the day,<br /> +She came before a green and flowery place,<br /> +Walled round about in manner of a chase,<br /> +Whereof the gates as now were open wide;<br /> +Fair grassy glades and long she saw inside<br /> +Betwixt great trees, down which the unscared deer<br /> +Were playing; yet a pang of deadly fear,<br /> +She knew not why, shot coldly through her heart,<br /> +And thrice she turned as though she would depart,<br /> +And thrice returned, and in the gateway stood<br /> +With wavering feet: small flowers as red as blood<br /> +Were growing up amid the soft green grass,<br /> +And here and there a fallen rose there was,<br /> +And on the trodden grass a silken lace,<br /> +As though crowned revellers had passed by the place<br /> +The restless sparrows chirped upon the wall<br /> +And faint far music on her ears did fall,<br /> +And from the trees within, the pink-foot doves<br /> +Still told their weary tale unto their loves,<br /> +And all seemed peaceful more than words could say.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then she, whose heart still whispered, "Keep away."</span><br /> +Was drawn by strong desire unto the place,<br /> +So toward the greenest glade she set her face,<br /> +Murmuring, "Alas! and what a wretch am I,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span>That I should fear the summer's greenery!<br /> +Yea, and is death now any more an ill,<br /> +When lonely through the world I wander still."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But when she was amidst those ancient groves,</span><br /> +Whose close green leaves and choirs of moaning doves<br /> +Shut out the world, then so alone she seemed,<br /> +So strange, her former life was but as dreamed;<br /> +Beside the hopes and fears that drew her on,<br /> +Till so far through that green place she had won,<br /> +That she a rose-hedged garden could behold<br /> +Before a house made beautiful with gold;<br /> +Which, to her mind beset with that past dream,<br /> +And dim foreshadowings of ill fate, did seem<br /> +That very house, her joy and misery,<br /> +Where that fair sight her longing eyes did see<br /> +They should not see again; but now the sound<br /> +Of pensive music echoing all around,<br /> +Made all things like a picture, and from thence<br /> +Bewildering odours floating, dulled her sense,<br /> +And killed her fear, and, urged by strong desire<br /> +To see how all should end, she drew yet nigher,<br /> +And o'er the hedge beheld the heads of girls<br /> +Embraced by garlands fresh and orient pearls,<br /> +And heard sweet voices murmuring; then a thrill<br /> +Of utmost joy all memory seemed to kill<br /> +Of good or evil, and her eager hand<br /> +Was on the wicket, then her feet did stand<br /> +Upon new flowers, the while her dizzied eyes<br /> +Gazed wildly round on half-seen mysteries,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span>And wandered from unnoting face to face.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For round a fountain midst the flowery place</span><br /> +Did she behold full many a minstrel girl;<br /> +While nigh them, on the grass in giddy whirl,<br /> +Bright raiment and white limbs and sandalled feet<br /> +Flew round in time unto the music sweet,<br /> +Whose strains no more were pensive now nor sad,<br /> +But rather a fresh sound of triumph had;<br /> +And round the dance were gathered damsels fair,<br /> +Clad in rich robes adorned with jewels rare;<br /> +Or little hidden by some woven mist,<br /> +That, hanging round them, here a bosom kissed<br /> +And there a knee, or driven by the wind<br /> +About some lily's bowing stem was twined.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But when a little Psyche's eyes grew clear,</span><br /> +A sight they saw that brought back all her fear<br /> +A hundred-fold, though neither heaven nor earth<br /> +To such a fair sight elsewhere could give birth;<br /> +Because apart, upon a golden throne<br /> +Of marvellous work, a woman sat alone,<br /> +Watching the dancers with a smiling face,<br /> +Whose beauty sole had lighted up the place.<br /> +A crown there was upon her glorious head,<br /> +A garland round about her girdlestead,<br /> +Where matchless wonders of the hidden sea<br /> +Were brought together and set wonderfully;<br /> +Naked she was of all else, but her hair<br /> +About her body rippled here and there,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span>And lay in heaps upon the golden seat,<br /> +And even touched the gold cloth where her feet<br /> +Lay amid roses—ah, how kind she seemed!<br /> +What depths of love from out her grey eyes beamed!<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Well might the birds leave singing on the trees</span><br /> +To watch in peace that crown of goddesses,<br /> +Yet well might Psyche sicken at the sight,<br /> +And feel her feet wax heavy, her head light;<br /> +For now at last her evil day was come,<br /> +Since she had wandered to the very home<br /> +Of her most bitter cruel enemy.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Half-dead, yet must she turn about to flee,</span><br /> +But as her eyes back o'er her shoulder gazed,<br /> +And with weak hands her clinging gown she raised,<br /> +And from her lips unwitting came a moan,<br /> +She felt strong arms about her body thrown,<br /> +And, blind with fear, was haled along till she<br /> +Saw floating by her faint eyes dizzily<br /> +That vision of the pearls and roses fresh,<br /> +The golden carpet and the rosy flesh.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then, as in vain she strove to make some sound,</span><br /> +A sweet voice seemed to pierce the air around<br /> +With bitter words; her doom rang in her ears,<br /> +She felt the misery that lacketh tears.<br /> +"Come hither, damsels, and the pearl behold<br /> +That hath no price? See now the thrice-tried gold,<br /> +That all men worshipped, that a god would have<br /> +To be his bride! how like a wretched slave<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span>She cowers down, and lacketh even voice<br /> +To plead her cause! Come, damsels, and rejoice,<br /> +That now once more the waiting world will move,<br /> +Since she is found, the well-loved soul of love!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"And thou poor wretch, what god hath led thee here?</span><br /> +Art thou so lost in this abyss of fear,<br /> +Thou canst not weep thy misery and shame?<br /> +Canst thou not even speak thy shameful name?"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But even then the flame of fervent love</span><br /> +In Psyche's tortured heart began to move,<br /> +And gave her utterance, and she said, "Alas!<br /> +Surely the end of life has come to pass<br /> +For me, who have been bride of very Love,<br /> +Yet love still bides in me, O Seed of Jove,<br /> +For such I know thee; slay me, nought is lost!<br /> +For had I had the will to count the cost<br /> +And buy my love with all this misery,<br /> +Thus and no otherwise the thing should be.<br /> +Would I were dead, my wretched beauty gone,<br /> +No trouble now to thee or any one!"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And with that last word did she hang her head,</span><br /> +As one who hears not, whatsoe'er is said;<br /> +But Venus rising with a dreadful cry<br /> +Said, "O thou fool, I will not let thee die!<br /> +But thou shalt reap the harvest thou hast sown<br /> +And many a day thy wretched lot bemoan.<br /> +Thou art my slave, and not a day shall be<br /> +But I will find some fitting task for thee,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span>Nor will I slay thee till thou hop'st again.<br /> +What, thinkest thou that utterly in vain<br /> +Jove is my sire, and in despite my will<br /> +That thou canst mock me with thy beauty still?<br /> +Come forth, O strong-armed, punish this new slave,<br /> +That she henceforth a humble heart may have."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">All round about the damsels in a ring</span><br /> +Were drawn to see the ending of the thing,<br /> +And now as Psyche's eyes stared wildly round<br /> +No help in any face of them she found<br /> +As from the fair and dreadful face she turned<br /> +In whose grey eyes such steadfast anger burned;<br /> +Yet midst her agony she scarcely knew<br /> + +What thing it was the goddess bade them do,<br /> +And all the pageant, like a dreadful dream<br /> +Hopeless and long-enduring grew to seem;<br /> +Yea, when the strong-armed through the crowd did break,<br /> +Girls like to those, whose close-locked squadron shake<br /> +The echoing surface of the Asian plain,<br /> +And when she saw their threatening hands, in vain<br /> +She strove to speak, so like a dream it was;<br /> +So like a dream that this should come to pass,<br /> +And 'neath her feet the green earth opened not.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But when her breaking heart again waxed hot</span><br /> +With dreadful thoughts and prayers unspeakable<br /> +As all their bitter torment on her fell,<br /> +When she her own voice heard, nor knew its sound,<br /> +And like red flame she saw the trees and ground,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span>Then first she seemed to know what misery<br /> +To helpless folk upon the earth can be.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But while beneath the many moving feet</span><br /> +The small crushed flowers sent up their odour sweet,<br /> +Above sat Venus, calm, and very fair,<br /> +Her white limbs bared of all her golden hair,<br /> +Into her heart all wrath cast back again,<br /> +As on the terror and the helpless pain<br /> +She gazed with gentle eyes, and unmoved smile;<br /> +Such as in Cyprus, the fair blossomed isle,<br /> +When on the altar in the summer night<br /> +They pile the roses up for her delight,<br /> +Men see within their hearts, and long that they<br /> +Unto her very body there might pray.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">At last to them some dainty sign she made</span><br /> +To hold their cruel hands, and therewith bade<br /> +To bear her slave new gained from out her sight<br /> +And keep her safely till the morrow's light:<br /> +So her across the sunny sward they led<br /> +With fainting limbs, and heavy downcast head,<br /> +And into some nigh lightless prison cast<br /> +To brood alone o'er happy days long past<br /> +And all the dreadful times that yet should be.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But she being gone, one moment pensively</span><br /> +The goddess did the distant hills behold,<br /> +Then bade her girls bind up her hair of gold,<br /> +And veil her breast, the very forge of love,<br /> +With raiment that no earthly shuttle wove,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span>And 'gainst the hard earth arm her lovely feet:<br /> +Then she went forth, some shepherd king to meet<br /> +Deep in the hollow of a shaded vale,<br /> +To make his woes a long-enduring tale.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">B</span><span class="caps">ut</span> over Psyche, hapless and forlorn,</span><br /> +Unseen the sun rose on the morrow morn,<br /> +Nor knew she aught about the death of night<br /> +Until her gaoler's torches filled with light<br /> +The dreary place, blinding her unused eyes,<br /> +And she their voices heard that bade her rise;<br /> +She did their bidding, yet grown faint and pale<br /> +She shrank away and strove her arms to veil<br /> +In her gown's bosom, and to hide from them<br /> +Her little feet within her garment's hem;<br /> +But mocking her, they brought her thence away,<br /> +And led her forth into the light of day,<br /> +And brought her to a marble cloister fair<br /> +Where sat the queen on her adornéd chair,<br /> +But she, as down the sun-streaked place they came,<br /> +Cried out, "Haste! ye, who lead my grief and shame."<br /> +And when she stood before her trembling, said,<br /> +"Although within a palace thou wast bred<br /> +Yet dost thou carry but a slavish heart,<br /> +And fitting is it thou shouldst learn thy part,<br /> +And know the state whereunto thou art brought;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span>Now, heed what yesterday thy folly taught,<br /> +And set thyself to-day my will to do;<br /> +Ho ye, bring that which I commanded you."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then forth came two, and each upon her back</span><br /> +Bore up with pain a huge half-bursten sack,<br /> +Which, setting down, they opened on the floor,<br /> +And from their hempen mouths a stream did pour<br /> +Of mingled seeds, and grain, peas, pulse, and wheat,<br /> +Poppies and millet, and coriander sweet,<br /> +And many another brought from far-off lands,<br /> +Which mingling more with swift and ready hands<br /> +They piled into a heap confused and great.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And then said Venus, rising from her seat,</span><br /> +"Slave, here I leave thee, but before the night<br /> +These mingled seeds thy hands shall set aright,<br /> +All laid in heaps, each after its own kind,<br /> +And if in any heap I chance to find<br /> +An alien seed; thou knowest since yesterday<br /> +How disobedient slaves the forfeit pay."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Therewith she turned and left the palace fair</span><br /> +And from its outskirts rose into the air,<br /> +And flew until beneath her lay the sea,<br /> +Then, looking on its green waves lovingly,<br /> +Somewhat she dropped, and low adown she flew<br /> +Until she reached the temple that she knew<br /> +Within a sunny bay of her fair isle.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But Psyche sadly labouring all the while</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span>With hopeless heart felt the swift hours go by,<br /> +And knowing well what bitter mockery<br /> +Lay in that task, yet did she what she might<br /> +That something should be finished ere the night,<br /> +And she a little mercy yet might ask;<br /> +But the first hours of that long feverish task<br /> +Passed amid mocks; for oft the damsels came<br /> +About her, and made merry with her shame,<br /> +And laughed to see her trembling eagerness,<br /> +And how, with some small lappet of her dress,<br /> +She winnowed out the wheat, and how she bent<br /> +Over the millet, hopelessly intent;<br /> +And how she guarded well some tiny heap<br /> +But just begun, from their long raiments' sweep;<br /> +And how herself, with girt gown, carefully<br /> +She went betwixt the heaps that 'gan to lie<br /> +Along the floor; though they were small enow,<br /> +When shadows lengthened and the sun was low;<br /> +But at the last these left her labouring,<br /> +Not daring now to weep, lest some small thing<br /> +Should 'scape her blinded eyes, and soon far off<br /> +She heard the echoes of their careless scoff.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Longer the shades grew, quicker sank the sun,</span><br /> +Until at last the day was well-nigh done,<br /> +And every minute did she think to hear<br /> +The fair Queen's dreaded footsteps drawing near;<br /> +But Love, that moves the earth, and skies, and sea,<br /> +Beheld his old love in her misery,<br /> +And wrapped her heart in sudden gentle sleep;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span>And meanwhile caused unnumbered ants to creep<br /> +About her, and they wrought so busily<br /> +That all, ere sundown, was as it should be,<br /> +And homeward went again the kingless folk.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bewildered with her joy again she woke,</span><br /> +But scarce had time the unseen hands to bless,<br /> +That thus had helped her utter feebleness,<br /> +Ere Venus came, fresh from the watery way,<br /> +Panting with all the pleasure of the day;<br /> +But when she saw the ordered heaps, her smile<br /> +Faded away, she cried out, "Base and vile<br /> +Thou art indeed, this labour fitteth thee;<br /> +But now I know thy feigned simplicity,<br /> +Thine inward cunning, therefore hope no more,<br /> +Since thou art furnished well with hidden lore,<br /> +To 'scape thy due reward, if any day<br /> +Without some task accomplished, pass away!"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So with a frown she passed on, muttering,</span><br /> +"Nought have I done, to-morrow a new thing."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So the next morning Psyche did they lead</span><br /> +Unto a terrace o'er a flowery mead,<br /> +Where Venus sat, hid from the young sun's rays,<br /> +Upon the fairest of all summer days;<br /> +She pointed o'er the meads as they drew nigh,<br /> +And said, "See how that stream goes glittering by,<br /> +And on its banks my golden sheep now pass,<br /> +Cropping sweet mouthfuls of the flowery grass;<br /> +If thou, O cunning slave, to-day art fain<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span>To save thyself from well-remembered pain,<br /> +Put forth a little of thy hidden skill,<br /> +And with their golden fleece thy bosom fill;<br /> +Yet make no haste, but ere the sun is down<br /> +Cast it before my feet from out thy gown;<br /> +Surely thy labour is but light to-day."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then sadly went poor Psyche on her way,</span><br /> +Wondering wherein the snare lay, for she knew<br /> +No easy thing it was she had to do;<br /> +Nor had she failed indeed to note the smile<br /> +Wherewith the goddess praised her for the guile<br /> +That she, unhappy, lacked so utterly.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Amidst these thoughts she crossed the flowery lea,</span><br /> +And came unto the glittering river's side;<br /> +And, seeing it was neither deep nor wide,<br /> +She drew her sandals off, and to the knee<br /> +Girt up her gown, and by a willow-tree<br /> +Went down into the water, and but sank<br /> +Up to mid-leg therein; but from the bank<br /> +She scarce had gone three steps, before a voice<br /> +Called out to her, "Stay, Psyche, and rejoice<br /> +That I am here to help thee, a poor reed,<br /> +The soother of the loving hearts that bleed,<br /> +The pourer forth of notes, that oft have made<br /> +The weak man strong, and the rash man afraid.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Sweet child, when by me now thy dear foot trod,</span><br /> +I knew thee for the loved one of our god;<br /> +Then prithee take my counsel in good part;<br /> +Go to the shore again, and rest thine heart<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span>In sleep awhile, until the sun get low,<br /> +And then across the river shalt thou go<br /> +And find these evil creatures sleeping fast,<br /> +And on the bushes whereby they have passed<br /> +Much golden wool; take what seems good to thee,<br /> +And ere the sun sets go back easily.<br /> +But if within that mead thou sett'st thy feet<br /> +While yet they wake, an ill death shalt thou meet,<br /> +For they are of a cursed man-hating race,<br /> +Bred by a giant in a lightless place."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But at these words soft tears filled Psyche's eyes</span><br /> +As hope of love within her heart did rise;<br /> +And when she saw she was not helpless yet<br /> +Her old desire she would not quite forget;<br /> +But turning back, upon the bank she lay<br /> +In happy dreams till nigh the end of day;<br /> +Then did she cross and gather of the wool,<br /> +And with her bosom and her gown-skirt full<br /> +Came back to Venus at the sun-setting;<br /> +But she afar off saw it glistering<br /> +And cried aloud, "Go, take the slave away,<br /> +And keep her safe for yet another day,<br /> +And on the morning will I think again<br /> +Of some fresh task, since with so little pain<br /> +She doeth what the gods find hard enow;<br /> +For since the winds were pleased this waif to blow<br /> +Unto my door, a fool I were indeed,<br /> +If I should fail to use her for my need."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So her they led away from that bright sun,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span>Now scarce more hopeful that the task was done,<br /> +Since by those bitter words she knew full well<br /> +Another tale the coming day would tell.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But the next morn upon a turret high,</span><br /> +Where the wind kissed her raiment lovingly,<br /> +Stood Venus waiting her; and when she came<br /> +She said, "O slave, thy city's very shame,<br /> +Lift up thy cunning eyes, and looking hence<br /> +Shalt thou behold betwixt these battlements,<br /> +A black and barren mountain set aloof<br /> +From the green hills, shaped like a palace roof.<br /> +Ten leagues from hence it lieth, toward the north,<br /> +And from its rocks a fountain welleth forth,<br /> +Black like itself, and floweth down its side,<br /> +And in a while part into Styx doth glide,<br /> +And part into Cocytus runs away,<br /> +Now coming thither by the end of day,<br /> +Fill me this ewer from out the awful stream;<br /> +Such task a sorceress like thee will deem<br /> +A little matter; bring it not to pass,<br /> +And if thou be not made of steel or brass,<br /> +To-morrow shalt thou find the bitterest day<br /> +Thou yet hast known, and all be sport and play<br /> +To what thy heart in that hour shall endure—<br /> +Behold, I swear it, and my word is sure!"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">She turned therewith to go down toward the sea,</span><br /> +To meet her lover, who from Thessaly<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span>Was come from some well-foughten field of war.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But Psyche, wandering wearily afar,</span><br /> +Reached the bare foot of that black rock at last,<br /> +And sat there grieving for the happy past,<br /> +For surely now, she thought, no help could be,<br /> +She had but reached the final misery,<br /> +Nor had she any counsel but to weep.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For not alone the place was very steep,</span><br /> +And craggy beyond measure, but she knew<br /> +What well it was that she was driven to,<br /> +The dreadful water that the gods swear by,<br /> +For there on either hand, as one draws nigh,<br /> +Are long-necked dragons ready for the spring,<br /> +And many another monstrous nameless thing,<br /> +The very sight of which is well-nigh death;<br /> +Then the black water as it goes crieth,<br /> +"Fly, wretched one, before you come to die!<br /> +Die, wretched man! I will not let you fly!<br /> +How have you heart to come before me here?<br /> +You have no heart, your life is turned to fear!"<br /> +Till the wretch falls adown with whirling brain,<br /> +And far below the sharp rocks end his pain.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Well then might Psyche wail her wretched fate,</span><br /> +And strive no more, but sitting weep and wait<br /> +Alone in that black land for kindly death,<br /> +With weary sobbing, wasting life and breath;<br /> +But o'er her head there flew the bird of Jove,<br /> +The bearer of his servant, friend of Love,<br /> +Who, when he saw her, straightway towards her flew,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span>And asked her why she wept, and when he knew,<br /> +And who she was, he said, "Cease all thy fear,<br /> +For to the black waves I thy ewer will bear,<br /> +And fill it for thee; but, remember me,<br /> +When thou art come unto thy majesty."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then straight he flew, and through the dragon's wings</span><br /> +Went carelessly, nor feared their clatterings,<br /> +But set the ewer, filled, in her right hand,<br /> +And on that day saw many another land.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then Psyche through the night toiled back again,</span><br /> +And as she went, she thought, "Ah! all is vain,<br /> +For though once more I just escape indeed,<br /> +Yet hath she many another wile at need;<br /> +And to these days when I my life first learn,<br /> +With unavailing longing shall I turn,<br /> +When this that seemeth now so horrible<br /> +Shall then seem but the threshold of her hell.<br /> +Alas! what shall I do? for even now<br /> +In sleep I see her pitiless white brow,<br /> +And hear the dreadful sound of her commands,<br /> +While with my helpless body and bound hands<br /> +I tremble underneath the cruel whips;<br /> +And oft for dread of her, with quivering lips<br /> +I wake, and waking know the time draws nigh<br /> +When nought shall wake me from that misery—<br /> +Behold, O Love, because of thee I live,<br /> +Because of thee, with these things still I strive."</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">N</span><span class="caps">ow</span> with the risen sun her weary feet</span><br /> +The late-strewn roses of the floor did meet<br /> +Upon the marble threshold of the place;<br /> +But she being brought before the matchless face,<br /> +Fresh with the new life of another day,<br /> +Beheld her wondering, for the goddess lay<br /> +With half-shut eyes upon her golden bed,<br /> +And when she entered scarcely turned her head,<br /> +But smiling spake, "The gods are good to thee,<br /> +Nor shalt thou always be mine enemy;<br /> +But one more task I charge thee with to-day,<br /> +Now unto Proserpine take thou thy way,<br /> +And give this golden casket to her hands,<br /> +And pray the fair Queen of the gloomy lands<br /> +To fill the void shell with that beauty rare<br /> +That long ago as queen did set her there;<br /> +Nor needest thou to fail in this new thing,<br /> +Who hast to-day the heart and wit to bring<br /> +This dreadful water, and return alive;<br /> +And, that thou may'st the more in this thing strive,<br /> +If thou returnest I will show at last<br /> +My kindness unto thee, and all the past<br /> +Shalt thou remember as an ugly dream."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And now at first to Psyche did it seem</span><br /> +Her heart was softening to her, and the thought<br /> +Swelled her full heart to sobbing, and it brought<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span>Into her yearning eyes half-happy tears:<br /> +But on her way cold thoughts and dreadful fears<br /> +Rose in her heart, for who indeed could teach<br /> +A living soul that dread abode to reach<br /> +And yet return? and then once more it seemed<br /> +The hope of mercy was but lightly dreamed,<br /> +And she remembered that triumphant smile,<br /> +And needs must think, "This is the final wile,<br /> +Alas! what trouble must a goddess take<br /> +So weak a thing as this poor heart to break.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"See now this tower! from off its top will I</span><br /> +Go quick to Proserpine—ah, good to die!<br /> +Rather than hear those shameful words again,<br /> +And bear that unimaginable pain<br /> +Which she has hoarded for to-morrow morn;<br /> +Now is the ending of my life forlorn!<br /> +O Love, farewell, thou seest all hope is dead,<br /> +Thou seest what torments on my wretched head<br /> +Thy bitter mother doth not cease to heap;<br /> +Farewell, O Love, for thee and life I weep.<br /> +Alas, my foolish heart! alas, my sin!<br /> +Alas, for all the love I could not win!"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now was this tower both old enough and grey,</span><br /> +Built by some king forgotten many a day,<br /> +And no man dwelt there, now that bitter war<br /> +From that bright land had long been driven afar;<br /> +There now she entered, trembling and afraid;<br /> +But 'neath her doubtful steps the dust long laid<br /> +In utter rest, rose up into the air,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span>And wavered in the wind that down the stair<br /> +Rushed to the door; then she drew back a pace,<br /> +Moved by the coolness of the lonely place<br /> +That for so long had seen no ray of sun.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then shuddering did she hear these words begun,</span><br /> +Like a wind's moaning voice, "Have thou no fear<br /> +The hollow words of one long slain to hear!<br /> +Thou livest, and thy hope is not yet dead,<br /> +And if thou heedest me, thou well may'st tread<br /> +The road to hell, and yet return again.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"For thou must go o'er many a hill and plain</span><br /> +Until to Sparta thou art come at last,<br /> +And when the ancient city thou hast passed<br /> +A mountain shalt thou reach, that men now call<br /> +Mount Tænarus, that riseth like a wall<br /> +'Twixt plain and upland, therein shalt thou find<br /> +The wide mouth of a cavern huge and blind,<br /> +Wherein there cometh never any sun,<br /> +Whose dreadful darkness all things living shun;<br /> +This shun thou not, but yet take care to have<br /> +Three honey-cakes thy soul alive to save,<br /> +And in thy mouth a piece of money set,<br /> +Then through the dark go boldly, and forget<br /> +The stories thou hast heard of death and hell,<br /> +And heed my words, and then shall all be well.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"For when thou hast passed through that cavern blind,</span><br /> +A place of dim grey meadows shalt thou find,<br /> +Wherethrough to inmost hell a path doth lead,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span>Which follow thou, with diligence and heed;<br /> +For as thou goest there, thou soon shalt see<br /> +Two men like peasants loading painfully<br /> +A fallen ass; these unto thee will call<br /> +To help them, but give thou no heed at all,<br /> +But pass them swiftly; and then soon again<br /> +Within a shed three crones shalt thou see plain<br /> +Busily weaving, who shall bid thee leave<br /> +The road and fill their shuttles while they weave,<br /> +But slacken not thy steps for all their prayers,<br /> +For these are shadows only, and set snares.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"At last thou comest to a water wan,</span><br /> +And at the bank shall be the ferryman<br /> +Surly and grey; and when he asketh thee<br /> +Of money for thy passage, hastily<br /> +Show him thy mouth, and straight from off thy lip<br /> +The money he will take, and in his ship<br /> +Embark thee and set forward; but beware,<br /> +For on thy passage is another snare;<br /> +From out the waves a grisly head shall come,<br /> +Most like thy father thou hast left at home,<br /> +And pray for passage long and piteously,<br /> +But on thy life of him have no pity,<br /> +Else art thou lost; also thy father lives,<br /> +And in the temples of the high gods gives<br /> +Great daily gifts for thy returning home.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"When thou unto the other side art come,</span><br /> +A palace shalt thou see of fiery gold,<br /> +And by the door thereof shalt thou behold<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span>An ugly triple monster, that shall yell<br /> +For thine undoing; now behold him well,<br /> +And into each mouth of him cast a cake,<br /> +And no more heed of thee then shall he take,<br /> +And thou may'st pass into a glorious hall<br /> +Where many a wonder hangs upon the wall;<br /> +But far more wonderful than anything<br /> +The fair slim consort of the gloomy King,<br /> +Arrayed all royally shalt thou behold,<br /> +Who sitting on a carven throne of gold,<br /> +Whene'er thou enterest shall rise up to thee,<br /> +And bid thee welcome there most lovingly,<br /> +And pray thee on a royal bed to sit,<br /> +And share her feast; yet eat thou not of it,<br /> +But sitting on the ground eat bread alone,<br /> +Then do thy message kneeling by her throne;<br /> +And when thou hast the gift, return with speed;<br /> +The sleepy dog of thee shall take no heed,<br /> +The ferryman shall bear thee on thy way<br /> +Without more words, and thou shalt see the day<br /> +Unharmed if that dread box thou openest not;<br /> +But if thou dost, then death shall be thy lot.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"O beautiful, when safe thou com'st again,</span><br /> +Remember me, who lie here in such pain<br /> +Unburied; set me in some tomb of stone.<br /> +When thou hast gathered every little bone;<br /> +But never shalt thou set thereon a name,<br /> +Because my ending was with grief and shame,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span>Who was a Queen like thee long years agone,<br /> +And in this tower so long have lain alone."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then, pale and full of trouble, Psyche went</span><br /> +Bearing the casket, and her footsteps bent<br /> +To Lacedæmon, and thence found her way<br /> +To Tænarus, and there the golden day<br /> +For that dark cavern did she leave behind;<br /> +Then, going boldly through it, did she find<br /> +The shadowy meads which that wide way ran through,<br /> +Under a seeming sky 'twixt grey and blue;<br /> +No wind blew there, there was no bird or tree,<br /> +Or beast, and dim grey flowers she did but see<br /> +That never faded in that changeless place,<br /> +And if she had but seen a living face<br /> +Most strange and bright she would have thought it there,<br /> +Or if her own face, troubled yet so fair,<br /> +The still pools by the road-side could have shown<br /> +The dimness of that place she might have known;<br /> +But their dull surface cast no image back,<br /> +For all but dreams of light that land did lack.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So on she passed, still noting every thing,</span><br /> +Nor yet had she forgotten there to bring<br /> +The honey-cakes and money: in a while<br /> +She saw those shadows striving hard to pile<br /> +The bales upon the ass, and heard them call,<br /> +"O woman, help us! for our skill is small<br /> +And we are feeble in this place indeed;"<br /> +But swiftly did she pass, nor gave them heed,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span>Though after her from far their cries they sent.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then a long way adown that road she went,</span><br /> +Not seeing aught, till, as the Shade had said,<br /> +She came upon three women in a shed<br /> +Busily weaving, who cried, "Daughter, leave<br /> +The beaten road a while, and as we weave<br /> +Fill thou our shuttles with these endless threads,<br /> +For here our eyes are sleepy, and our heads<br /> +Are feeble in this miserable place."<br /> +But for their words she did but mend her pace,<br /> +Although her heart beat quick as she passed by.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then on she went, until she could espy</span><br /> +The wan, grey river lap the leaden bank<br /> +Wherefrom there sprouted sparsely sedges rank,<br /> +And there the road had end in that sad boat<br /> +Wherein the dead men unto Minos float;<br /> +There stood the ferryman, who now, seeing her, said,<br /> +"O living soul, that thus among the dead<br /> +Hast come, on whatso errand, without fear,<br /> +Know thou that penniless none passes here;<br /> +Of all the coins that rich men have on earth<br /> +To buy the dreadful folly they call mirth,<br /> +But one they keep when they have passed the grave<br /> +That o'er this stream a passage they may have;<br /> +And thou, though living, art but dead to me,<br /> +Who here, immortal, see mortality<br /> +Pass, stripped of this last thing that men desire<br /> +Unto the changeless meads or changeless fire."<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Speechless she shewed the money on her lip</span><br /> +Which straight he took, and set her in the ship,<br /> +And then the wretched, heavy oars he threw<br /> +Into the rowlocks and the flood they drew;<br /> +Silent, with eyes that looked beyond her face,<br /> +He laboured, and they left the dreary place.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But midmost of that water did arise</span><br /> +A dead man, pale, with ghastly staring eyes<br /> +That somewhat like her father still did seem,<br /> +But in such wise as figures in a dream;<br /> +Then with a lamentable voice it cried,<br /> +"O daughter, I am dead, and in this tide<br /> +For ever shall I drift, an unnamed thing,<br /> +Who was thy father once, a mighty king,<br /> +Unless thou take some pity on me now,<br /> +And bid the ferryman turn here his prow,<br /> +That I with thee to some abode may cross;<br /> +And little unto thee will be the loss,<br /> +And unto me the gain will be to come<br /> +To such a place as I may call a home,<br /> +Being now but dead and empty of delight,<br /> +And set in this sad place 'twixt dark and light."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now at these words the tears ran down apace</span><br /> +For memory of the once familiar face,<br /> +And those old days, wherein, a little child<br /> +'Twixt awe and love beneath those eyes she smiled;<br /> +False pity moved her very heart, although<br /> +The guile of Venus she failed not to know,<br /> +But tighter round the casket clasped her hands,<br /> +And shut her eyes, remembering the commands<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span>Of that dead queen: so safe to land she came.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And there in that grey country, like a flame</span><br /> +Before her eyes rose up the house of gold,<br /> +And at the gate she met the beast threefold,<br /> +Who ran to meet her open-mouthed, but she<br /> +Unto his jaws the cakes cast cunningly,<br /> +But trembling much; then on the ground he lay<br /> +Lolling his heads, and let her go her way;<br /> +And so she came into the mighty hall,<br /> +And saw those wonders hanging on the wall,<br /> +That all with pomegranates was covered o'er<br /> +In memory of the meal on that sad shore,<br /> +Whereby fair Enna was bewept in vain,<br /> +And this became a kingdom and a chain.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But on a throne, the Queen of all the dead</span><br /> +She saw therein with gold-embracéd head,<br /> +In royal raiment, beautiful and pale;<br /> +Then with slim hands her face did Psyche veil<br /> +In worship of her, who said, "Welcome here,<br /> +O messenger of Venus! thou art dear<br /> +To me thyself indeed, for of thy grace<br /> +And loveliness we know e'en in this place;<br /> +Rest thee then, fair one, on this royal bed<br /> +And with some dainty food shalt thou be fed;<br /> +Ho, ye who wait, bring in the tables now!"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Therewith were brought things glorious of show</span><br /> +On cloths and tables royally beseen,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span>By damsels each one fairer than a queen,<br /> +The very latchets of whose shoes were worth<br /> +The royal crown of any queen on earth;<br /> +But when upon them Psyche looked, she saw<br /> +That all these dainty matters without flaw<br /> +Were strange of shape and of strange-blended hues<br /> +So every cup and plate did she refuse<br /> +Those lovely hands brought to her, and she said,<br /> +"O Queen, to me amidst my awe and dread<br /> +These things are nought, my message is not done,<br /> +So let me rest upon this cold grey stone,<br /> +And while my eyes no higher than thy feet<br /> +Are lifted, eat the food that mortals eat."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Therewith upon the floor she sat her down</span><br /> +And from the folded bosom of her gown<br /> +Drew forth her bread and ate, while with cold eyes<br /> +Regarding her 'twixt anger and surprise,<br /> +The Queen sat silent for awhile, then spoke,<br /> +"Why art thou here, wisest of living folk?<br /> +Depart in haste, lest thou shouldst come to be<br /> +Thyself a helpless thing and shadowy!<br /> +Give me the casket then, thou need'st not say<br /> +Wherefore thou thus hast passed the awful way;<br /> +Bide there, and for thy mistress shalt thou have<br /> +The charm that beauty from all change can save."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then Psyche rose, and from her trembling hand</span><br /> +Gave her the casket, and awhile did stand<br /> +Alone within the hall, that changing light<br /> +From burning streams, and shadowy waves of night<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span>Made strange and dread, till to her, standing there<br /> +The world began to seem no longer fair,<br /> +Life no more to be hoped for, but that place<br /> +The peaceful goal of all the hurrying race,<br /> +The house she must return to on some day.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then sighing scarcely could she turn away</span><br /> +When with the casket came the Queen once more,<br /> +And said, "Haste now to leave this shadowy shore<br /> +Before thou changest; even now I see<br /> +Thine eyes are growing strange, thou look'st on me<br /> +E'en as the linnet looks upon the snake.<br /> +Behold, thy wisely-guarded treasure take,<br /> +And let thy breath of life no longer move<br /> +The shadows with the memories of past love."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But Psyche at that name, with quickened heart</span><br /> +Turned eagerly, and hastened to depart<br /> +Bearing that burden, hoping for the day;<br /> +Harmless, asleep, the triple monster lay,<br /> +The ferryman did set her in his boat<br /> +Unquestioned, and together did they float<br /> +Over the leaden water back again:<br /> +Nor saw she more those women bent with pain<br /> +Over their weaving, nor the fallen ass,<br /> +But swiftly up the grey road did she pass<br /> +And well-nigh now was come into the day<br /> +By hollow Tænarus, but o'er the way<br /> +The wings of Envy brooded all unseen;<br /> +Because indeed the cruel and fair Queen<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span>Knew well how she had sped; so in her breast,<br /> +Against the which the dreadful box was pressed,<br /> +Grew up at last this foolish, harmful thought.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Behold how far this beauty I have brought</span><br /> +To give unto my bitter enemy;<br /> +Might I not still a very goddess be<br /> +If this were mine which goddesses desire,<br /> +Yea, what if this hold swift consuming fire,<br /> +Why do I think it good for me to live,<br /> +That I my body once again may give<br /> +Into her cruel hands—come death! come life!<br /> +And give me end to all the bitter strife!"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Therewith down by the wayside did she sit</span><br /> +And turned the box round, long regarding it;<br /> +But at the last, with trembling hands, undid<br /> +The clasp, and fearfully raised up the lid;<br /> +But what was there she saw not, for her head<br /> +Fell back, and nothing she rememberéd<br /> +Of all her life, yet nought of rest she had,<br /> +The hope of which makes hapless mortals glad;<br /> +For while her limbs were sunk in deadly sleep<br /> +Most like to death, over her heart 'gan creep<br /> +Ill dreams; so that for fear and great distress<br /> +She would have cried, but in her helplessness<br /> +Could open not her mouth, or frame a word;<br /> +Although the threats of mocking things she heard,<br /> +And seemed, amidst new forms of horror bound,<br /> +To watch strange endless armies moving round,<br /> +With all their sleepless eyes still fixed on her,<br /> +Who from that changeless place should never stir.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span>Moveless she lay, and in that dreadful sleep<br /> +Scarce had the strength some few slow tears to weep.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And there she would have lain for evermore,</span><br /> +A marble image on the shadowy shore<br /> +In outward seeming, but within oppressed<br /> +With torments, knowing neither hope nor rest<br /> +But as she lay the Phœnix flew along<br /> +Going to Egypt, and knew all her wrong,<br /> +And pitied her, beholding her sweet face,<br /> +And flew to Love and told him of her case;<br /> +And Love, in guerdon of the tale he told,<br /> +Changed all the feathers of his neck to gold,<br /> +And he flew on to Egypt glad at heart.<br /> +But Love himself gat swiftly for his part<br /> +To rocky Tænarus, and found her there<br /> +Laid half a furlong from the outer air.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But at that sight out burst the smothered flame</span><br /> +Of love, when he remembered all her shame,<br /> +The stripes, the labour, and the wretched fear,<br /> +And kneeling down he whispered in her ear,<br /> +"Rise, Psyche, and be mine for evermore,<br /> +For evil is long tarrying on this shore."<br /> +Then when she heard him, straightway she arose,<br /> +And from her fell the burden of her woes;<br /> +And yet her heart within her well-nigh broke,<br /> +When she from grief to happiness awoke;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span>And loud her sobbing was in that grey place,<br /> +And with sweet shame she covered up her face.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But her dear hands, all wet with tears, he kissed,</span><br /> +And taking them about each dainty wrist<br /> +Drew them away, and in a sweet voice said,<br /> +"Raise up again, O Psyche, that dear head,<br /> +And of thy simpleness have no more shame;<br /> +Thou hast been tried, and cast away all blame<br /> +Into the sea of woes that thou didst bear,<br /> +The bitter pain, the hopelessness, the fear—<br /> +Holpen a little, loved with boundless love<br /> +Amidst them all—but now the shadows move<br /> +Fast toward the west, earth's day is well-nigh done,<br /> +One toil thou hast yet; by to-morrow's sun<br /> +Kneel the last time before my mother's feet,<br /> +Thy task accomplished; and my heart, O sweet,<br /> +Shall go with thee to ease thy toilsome way;<br /> +Farewell awhile! but that so glorious day<br /> +I promised thee of old, now cometh fast,<br /> +When even hope thy soul aside shall cast,<br /> +Amidst the joy that thou shalt surely win."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So saying, all that sleep he shut within</span><br /> +The dreadful casket, and aloft he flew,<br /> +But slowly she unto the cavern drew<br /> +Scarce knowing if she dreamed, and so she came<br /> +Unto the earth where yet the sun did flame<br /> +Low down between the pine-trunks, tall and red,<br /> +And with its last beams kissed her golden head.</p></div> + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span></p> + +<p> </p><p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">W</span><span class="caps">ith</span> what words Love unto the Father prayed</span><br /> +I know not, nor what deeds the balance weighed;<br /> +But this I know, that he prayed not in vain,<br /> +And Psyche's life the heavenly crown shall gain;<br /> +So round about the messenger was sent<br /> +To tell immortals of their King's intent,<br /> +And bid them gather to the Father's hall.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But while they got them ready at his call,</span><br /> +On through the night was Psyche toiling still,<br /> +To whom no pain nor weariness seemed ill<br /> +Since now once more she knew herself beloved;<br /> +But when the unresting world again had moved<br /> +Round into golden day, she came again<br /> +To that fair place where she had borne such pain,<br /> +And flushed and joyful in despite her fear,<br /> +Unto the goddess did she draw anear,<br /> +And knelt adown before her golden seat,<br /> +Laying the fatal casket at her feet;<br /> +Then at the first no word the Sea-born said,<br /> +But looked afar over her golden head,<br /> +Pondering upon the mighty deeds of fate;<br /> +While Psyche still, as one who well may wait,<br /> +Knelt, calm and motionless, nor said a word,<br /> +But ever thought of her sweet lovesome lord.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">At last the Queen said, "Girl, I bid thee rise,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span>For now hast thou found favour in mine eyes;<br /> +And I repent me of the misery<br /> +That in this place thou hast endured of me,<br /> +Although because of it, thy joy indeed<br /> +Shall now be more, that pleasure is thy meed."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then bending, on the forehead did she kiss</span><br /> +Fair Psyche, who turned red for shame and bliss;<br /> +But Venus smiled again on her, and said,<br /> +"Go now, and bathe, and be as well arrayed<br /> +As thou shouldst be, to sit beside my son;<br /> +I think thy life on earth is well-nigh done."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So thence once more was Psyche led away,</span><br /> +And cast into no prison on that day,<br /> +But brought unto a bath beset with flowers,<br /> +Made dainty with a fount's sweet-smelling showers,<br /> +And there being bathed, e'en in such fair attire<br /> +As veils the glorious Mother of Desire<br /> +Her limbs were veiled, then in the wavering shade,<br /> +Amidst the sweetest garden was she laid,<br /> +And while the damsels round her watch did keep,<br /> +At last she closed her weary eyes in sleep,<br /> +And woke no more to earth, for ere the day<br /> +Had yet grown late, once more asleep she lay<br /> +Within the West Wind's mighty arms, nor woke<br /> +Until the light of heaven upon her broke,<br /> +And on her trembling lips she felt the kiss<br /> +Of very Love, and mortal yet, for bliss<br /> +Must fall a-weeping. O for me! that I,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span>Who late have told her woe and misery,<br /> +Must leave untold the joy unspeakable<br /> +That on her tender wounded spirit fell!<br /> +Alas! I try to think of it in vain,<br /> +My lyre is but attuned to tears and pain,<br /> +How shall I sing the never-ending day?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Led by the hand of Love she took her way</span><br /> +Unto a vale beset with heavenly trees,<br /> +Where all the gathered gods and goddesses<br /> +Abode her coming; but when Psyche saw<br /> +The Father's face, she fainting with her awe<br /> +Had fallen, but that Love's arm held her up.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then brought the cup-bearer a golden cup,</span><br /> +And gently set it in her slender hand,<br /> +And while in dread and wonder she did stand,<br /> +The Father's awful voice smote on her ear,<br /> +"Drink now, O beautiful, and have no fear!<br /> +For with this draught shalt thou be born again.<br /> +And live for ever free from care and pain."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then, pale as privet, took she heart to drink,</span><br /> +And therewithal most strange new thoughts did think,<br /> +And unknown feelings seized her, and there came<br /> +Sudden remembrance, vivid as a flame,<br /> +Of everything that she had done on earth,<br /> +Although it all seemed changed in weight and worth,<br /> +Small things becoming great, and great things small;<br /> +And godlike pity touched her therewithal<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span>For her old self, for sons of men that die;<br /> +And that sweet new-born immortality<br /> +Now with full love her rested spirit fed.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then in that concourse did she lift her head,</span><br /> +And stood at last a very goddess there,<br /> +And all cried out at seeing her grown so fair.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So while in heaven quick passed the time away,</span><br /> +About the ending of that lovely day,<br /> +Bright shone the low sun over all the earth<br /> +For joy of such a wonderful new birth.</p></div> + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span></p> +<p> </p><p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">O</span><span class="caps">r</span> e'er his tale was done, night held the earth;</span><br /> +Yea, the brown bird grown bold, as sounds of mirth<br /> +Grew faint and scanty, now his tale had done,<br /> +And by his mate abode the next day's sun;<br /> +And in those old hearts did the story move<br /> +Remembrance of the mighty deeds of love,<br /> +And with these thoughts did hopes of life arise,<br /> +Till tears unseen were in their ancient eyes,<br /> +And in their yearning hearts unspoken prayers,<br /> +And idle seemed the world with all its cares.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Few words they said; the balmy odorous wind</span><br /> +Wandered about, some resting-place to find;<br /> +The young leaves rustled 'neath its gentle breath,<br /> +And here and there some blossom burst his sheath,<br /> +Adding unnoticed fragrance to the night;<br /> +But, as they pondered, a new golden light<br /> +Streamed over the green garden, and they heard<br /> +Sweet voices sing some ancient poet's word<br /> +In praise of May, and then in sight there came<br /> +The minstrels' figures underneath the flame<br /> +Of scented torches passing 'twixt the trees,<br /> +And soon the dusky hall grew bright with these,<br /> +And therewithal they put all thought away,<br /> +And midst the tinkling harps drank deep to May.</p></div> + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span></p> + +<p> </p><p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">T</span><span class="caps">hrough</span> many changes had the May-tide passed,</span><br /> +The hope of summer oft had been o'ercast,<br /> +Ere midst the gardens they once more were met;<br /> +But now the full-leaved trees might well forget<br /> +The changeful agony of doubtful spring,<br /> +For summer pregnant with so many a thing<br /> +Was at the door; right hot had been the day<br /> +Which they amid the trees had passed away,<br /> +And now betwixt the tulip beds they went<br /> +Unto the hall, and thoughts of days long spent<br /> +Gathered about them, as some blossom's smell<br /> +Unto their hearts familiar tales did tell.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But when they well were settled in the hall,</span><br /> +And now behind the trees the sun 'gan fall,<br /> +And they as yet no history had heard,<br /> +Laurence, the Swabian priest, took up the word,<br /> +And said, "Ye know from what has gone before,<br /> +That in my youth I followed mystic lore,<br /> +And many books I read in seeking it,<br /> +And through my memory this same eve doth flit<br /> +A certain tale I found in one of these,<br /> +Long ere mine eyes had looked upon the seas;<br /> +It made me shudder in the times gone by,<br /> +When I believed in many a mystery<br /> +I thought divine, that now I think, forsooth,<br /> +Men's own fears made, to fill the place of truth<br /> +Within their foolish hearts; short is the tale,<br /> +And therefore will the better now avail<br /> +To fill the space before the night comes on,<br /> +And unto rest once more the world is won.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span></p> + +<h2>THE WRITING ON THE IMAGE.</h2> + +<h3>ARGUMENT.</h3> + +<p class="hang">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.</p> + +<p> </p> +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">I</span><span class="caps">n</span> half-forgotten days of old,</span><br /> +As by our fathers we were told,<br /> +Within the town of Rome there stood<br /> +An image cut of cornel wood,<br /> +And on the upraised hand of it<br /> +Men might behold these letters writ:<br /> +"<span class="smcap">Percute hic</span>:" which is to say,<br /> +In that tongue that we speak to-day,<br /> +"<i>Strike here!</i>" nor yet did any know<br /> +The cause why this was written so.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thus in the middle of the square,</span><br /> +In the hot sun and summer air,<br /> +The snow-drift and the driving rain,<br /> +That image stood, with little pain,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span>For twice a hundred years and ten;<br /> +While many a band of striving men<br /> +Were driven betwixt woe and mirth<br /> +Swiftly across the weary earth,<br /> +From nothing unto dark nothing:<br /> +And many an emperor and king,<br /> +Passing with glory or with shame,<br /> +Left little record of his name,<br /> +And no remembrance of the face<br /> +Once watched with awe for gifts or grace<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Fear little, then, I counsel you,</span><br /> +What any son of man can do;<br /> +Because a log of wood will last<br /> +While many a life of man goes past,<br /> +And all is over in short space.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now so it chanced that to this place</span><br /> +There came a man of Sicily,<br /> +Who when the image he did see,<br /> +Knew full well who, in days of yore,<br /> +Had set it there; for much strange lore,<br /> +In Egypt and in Babylon,<br /> +This man with painful toil had won;<br /> +And many secret things could do;<br /> +So verily full well he knew<br /> +That master of all sorcery<br /> +Who wrought the thing in days gone by,<br /> +And doubted not that some great spell<br /> +It guarded, but could nowise tell<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span>What it might be. So, day by day,<br /> +Still would he loiter on the way,<br /> +And watch the image carefully,<br /> +Well mocked of many a passer-by.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And on a day he stood and gazed</span><br /> +Upon the slender finger, raised<br /> +Against a doubtful cloudy sky,<br /> +Nigh noontide; and thought, "Certainly<br /> +The master who made thee so fair<br /> +By wondrous art, had not stopped there,<br /> +But made thee speak, had he not thought<br /> +That thereby evil might be brought<br /> +Upon his spell." But as he spoke,<br /> +From out a cloud the noon sun broke<br /> +With watery light, and shadows cold:<br /> +Then did the Scholar well behold<br /> +How, from that finger carved to tell<br /> +Those words, a short black shadow fell<br /> +Upon a certain spot of ground,<br /> +And thereon, looking all around<br /> +And seeing none heeding, went straightway<br /> +Whereas the finger's shadow lay,<br /> +And with his knife about the place<br /> +A little circle did he trace;<br /> +Then home he turned with throbbing head,<br /> +And forthright gat him to his bed,<br /> +And slept until the night was late<br /> +And few men stirred from gate to gate.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So when at midnight he did wake,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span>Pickaxe and shovel did he take,<br /> +And, going to that now silent square,<br /> +He found the mark his knife made there,<br /> +And quietly with many a stroke<br /> +The pavement of the place he broke:<br /> +And so, the stones being set apart,<br /> +He 'gan to dig with beating heart,<br /> +And from the hole in haste he cast<br /> +The marl and gravel; till at last,<br /> +Full shoulder high, his arms were jarred,<br /> +For suddenly his spade struck hard<br /> +With clang against some metal thing:<br /> +And soon he found a brazen ring,<br /> +All green with rust, twisted, and great<br /> +As a man's wrist, set in a plate<br /> +Of copper, wrought all curiously<br /> +With words unknown though plain to see,<br /> +Spite of the rust; and flowering trees,<br /> +And beasts, and wicked images,<br /> +Whereat he shuddered: for he knew<br /> +What ill things he might come to do,<br /> +If he should still take part with these<br /> +And that Great Master strive to please.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But small time had he then to stand</span><br /> +And think, so straight he set his hand<br /> +Unto the ring, but where he thought<br /> +That by main strength it must be brought<br /> +From out its place, lo! easily<br /> +It came away, and let him see<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span>A winding staircase wrought of stone,<br /> +Wherethrough the new-come wind did moan.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then thought he, "If I come alive</span><br /> +From out this place well shall I thrive,<br /> +For I may look here certainly<br /> +The treasures of a king to see,<br /> +A mightier man than men are now.<br /> +So in few days what man shall know<br /> +The needy Scholar, seeing me<br /> +Great in the place where great men be,<br /> +The richest man in all the land?<br /> +Beside the best then shall I stand,<br /> +And some unheard-of palace have;<br /> +And if my soul I may not save<br /> +In heaven, yet here in all men's eyes<br /> +Will I make some sweet paradise,<br /> +With marble cloisters, and with trees<br /> +And bubbling wells, and fantasies,<br /> +And things all men deem strange and rare,<br /> +And crowds of women kind and fair,<br /> +That I may see, if so I please,<br /> +Laid on the flowers, or mid the trees<br /> +With half-clad bodies wandering.<br /> +There, dwelling happier than the king,<br /> +What lovely days may yet be mine!<br /> +How shall I live with love and wine,<br /> +And music, till I come to die!<br /> +And then——Who knoweth certainly<br /> +What haps to us when we are dead?<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span>Truly I think by likelihead<br /> +Nought haps to us of good or bad;<br /> +Therefore on earth will I be glad<br /> +A short space, free from hope or fear;<br /> +And fearless will I enter here<br /> +And meet my fate, whatso it be."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now on his back a bag had he,</span><br /> +To bear what treasure he might win,<br /> +And therewith now did he begin<br /> +To go adown the winding stair;<br /> +And found the walls all painted fair<br /> +With images of many a thing,<br /> +Warrior and priest, and queen and king,<br /> +But nothing knew what they might be.<br /> +Which things full clearly could he see,<br /> +For lamps were hung up here and there<br /> +Of strange device, but wrought right fair,<br /> +And pleasant savour came from them.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">At last a curtain, on whose hem</span><br /> +Unknown words in red gold were writ,<br /> +He reached, and softly raising it<br /> +Stepped back, for now did he behold<br /> +A goodly hall hung round with gold,<br /> +And at the upper end could see<br /> +Sitting, a glorious company:<br /> +Therefore he trembled, thinking well<br /> +They were no men, but fiends of hell.<br /> +But while he waited, trembling sore,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span>And doubtful of his late-earned lore,<br /> +A cold blast of the outer air<br /> +Blew out the lamps upon the stair<br /> +And all was dark behind him; then<br /> +Did he fear less to face those men<br /> +Than, turning round, to leave them there<br /> +While he went groping up the stair.<br /> +Yea, since he heard no cry or call<br /> +Or any speech from them at all,<br /> +He doubted they were images<br /> +Set there some dying king to please<br /> +By that Great Master of the art;<br /> +Therefore at last with stouter heart<br /> +He raised the cloth and entered in<br /> +In hope that happy life to win,<br /> +And drawing nigher did behold<br /> +That these were bodies dead and cold<br /> +Attired in full royal guise,<br /> +And wrought by art in such a wise<br /> +That living they all seemed to be,<br /> +Whose very eyes he well could see,<br /> +That now beheld not foul or fair,<br /> +Shining as though alive they were.<br /> +And midmost of that company<br /> +An ancient king that man could see,<br /> +A mighty man, whose beard of grey<br /> +A foot over his gold gown lay;<br /> +And next beside him sat his queen<br /> +Who in a flowery gown of green<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span>And golden mantle well was clad,<br /> +And on her neck a collar had<br /> +Too heavy for her dainty breast;<br /> +Her loins by such a belt were prest<br /> +That whoso in his treasury<br /> +Held that alone, a king might be.<br /> +On either side of these, a lord<br /> +Stood heedfully before the board,<br /> +And in their hands held bread and wine<br /> +For service; behind these did shine<br /> +The armour of the guards, and then<br /> +The well-attiréd serving-men,<br /> +The minstrels clad in raiment meet;<br /> +And over against the royal seat<br /> +Was hung a lamp, although no flame<br /> +Was burning there, but there was set<br /> +Within its open golden fret<br /> +A huge carbuncle, red and bright;<br /> +Wherefrom there shone forth such a light<br /> +That great hall was as clear by it,<br /> +As though by wax it had been lit,<br /> +As some great church at Easter-tide.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now set a little way aside,</span><br /> +Six paces from the daïs stood<br /> +An image made of brass and wood,<br /> +In likeness of a full-armed knight<br /> +Who pointed 'gainst the ruddy light<br /> +A huge shaft ready in a bow.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pondering how he could come to know</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span>What all these marvellous matters meant,<br /> +About the hall the Scholar went,<br /> +Trembling, though nothing moved as yet;<br /> +And for awhile did he forget<br /> +The longings that had brought him there<br /> +In wondering at these marvels fair;<br /> +And still for fear he doubted much<br /> +One jewel of their robes to touch.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But as about the hall he passed</span><br /> +He grew more used to them at last,<br /> +And thought, "Swiftly the time goes by,<br /> +And now no doubt the day draws nigh<br /> +Folk will be stirring: by my head<br /> +A fool I am to fear the dead,<br /> +Who have seen living things enow,<br /> +Whose very names no man can know,<br /> +Whose shapes brave men might well affright<br /> +More than the lion in the night<br /> +Wandering for food;" therewith he drew<br /> +Unto those royal corpses two,<br /> +That on dead brows still wore the crown;<br /> +And midst the golden cups set down<br /> +The rugged wallet from his back,<br /> +Patched of strong leather, brown and black.<br /> +Then, opening wide its mouth, took up<br /> +From off the board, a golden cup<br /> +The King's dead hand was laid upon,<br /> +Whose unmoved eyes upon him shone<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span>And recked no more of that last shame<br /> +Than if he were the beggar lame,<br /> +Who in old days was wont to wait<br /> +For a dog's meal beside the gate.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of which shame nought our man did reck.</span><br /> +But laid his hand upon the neck<br /> +Of the slim Queen, and thence undid<br /> +The jewelled collar, that straight slid<br /> +Down her smooth bosom to the board.<br /> +And when these matters he had stored<br /> +Safe in his sack, with both their crowns,<br /> +The jewelled parts of their rich gowns,<br /> +Their shoes and belts, brooches and rings,<br /> +And cleared the board of all rich things,<br /> +He staggered with them down the hall.<br /> +But as he went his eyes did fall<br /> +Upon a wonderful green stone,<br /> +Upon the hall-floor laid alone;<br /> +He said, "Though thou art not so great<br /> +To add by much unto the weight<br /> +Of this my sack indeed, yet thou,<br /> +Certes, would make me rich enow,<br /> +That verily with thee I might<br /> +Wage one-half of the world to fight<br /> +The other half of it, and I<br /> +The lord of all the world might die;—<br /> +I will not leave thee;" therewithal<br /> +He knelt down midmost of the hall,<br /> +Thinking it would come easily<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span>Into his hand; but when that he<br /> +Gat hold of it, full fast it stack,<br /> +So fuming, down he laid his sack,<br /> +And with both hands pulled lustily,<br /> +But as he strained, he cast his eye<br /> +Back to the daïs; there he saw<br /> +The bowman image 'gin to draw<br /> +The mighty bowstring to his ear,<br /> +So, shrieking out aloud for fear,<br /> +Of that rich stone he loosed his hold<br /> +And catching up his bag of gold,<br /> +Gat to his feet: but ere he stood<br /> +The evil thing of brass and wood<br /> +Up to his ear the notches drew;<br /> +And clanging, forth the arrow flew,<br /> +And midmost of the carbuncle<br /> +Clanging again, the forked barbs fell,<br /> +And all was dark as pitch straightway.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So there until the judgment day</span><br /> +Shall come and find his bones laid low<br /> +And raise them up for weal or woe,<br /> +This man must bide; cast down he lay<br /> +While all his past life day by day<br /> +In one short moment he could see<br /> +Drawn out before him, while that he<br /> +In terror by that fatal stone<br /> +Was laid, and scarcely dared to moan.<br /> +But in a while his hope returned,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span>And then, though nothing he discerned,<br /> +He gat him up upon his feet,<br /> +And all about the walls he beat<br /> +To find some token of the door,<br /> +But never could he find it more,<br /> +For by some dreadful sorcery<br /> +All was sealed close as it might be<br /> +And midst the marvels of that hall<br /> +This scholar found the end of all.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But in the town on that same night,</span><br /> +An hour before the dawn of light,<br /> +Such storm upon the place there fell,<br /> +That not the oldest man could tell<br /> +Of such another: and thereby<br /> +The image was burnt utterly,<br /> +Being stricken from the clouds above;<br /> +And folk deemed that same bolt did move<br /> +The pavement where that wretched one<br /> +Unto his foredoomed fate had gone,<br /> +Because the plate was set again<br /> +Into its place, and the great rain<br /> +Washed the earth down, and sorcery<br /> +Had hid the place where it did lie.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So soon the stones were set all straight,</span><br /> +But yet the folk, afraid of fate,<br /> +Where once the man of cornel wood<br /> +Through many a year of bad and good<br /> +Had kept his place, set up alone<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span>Great Jove himself, cut in white stone,<br /> +But thickly overlaid with gold.<br /> +"Which," saith my tale, "you may behold<br /> +Unto this day, although indeed<br /> +Some Lord or other, being in need,<br /> +Took every ounce of gold away."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But now, this tale in some past day</span><br /> +Being writ, I warrant all is gone,<br /> +Both gold and weather-beaten stone.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Be merry, masters, while ye may,</span><br /> +For men much quicker pass away.</p></div> + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span></p> +<p> </p><p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">T</span><span class="caps">hey</span> praised the tale, and for awhile they talked</span><br /> +Of other tales of treasure-seekers balked,<br /> +And shame and loss for men insatiate stored,<br /> +Nitocris' tomb, the Niblungs' fatal hoard,<br /> +The serpent-guarded treasures of the dead;<br /> +Then of how men would be rememberéd<br /> +When they are gone; and more than one could tell<br /> +Of what unhappy things therefrom befell;<br /> +Or how by folly men have gained a name;<br /> +A name indeed, not hallowed by the fame<br /> +Of any deeds remembered: and some thought,—<br /> +"Strange hopes and fears for what shall be but nought<br /> +To dead men! better it would be to give<br /> +What things they may, while on the earth they live<br /> +Unto the earth, and from the bounteous earth<br /> +To take their pay of sorrow or of mirth,<br /> +Hatred or love, and get them on their way;<br /> +And let the teeming earth fresh troubles make<br /> +For other men, and ever for their sake<br /> +Use what they left, when they are gone from it."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But while amid such musings they did sit,</span><br /> +Dark night being come, men lighted up the hall,<br /> +And the chief man for minstrelsy did call,<br /> +And other talk their dull thoughts chased away,<br /> +Nor did they part till night was mixed with day.</p></div> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span></p> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>JUNE.</h2> + +<div class="poem"> +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">O</span> <span class="caps">June,</span> O June, that we desired so,</span><br /> +Wilt thou not make us happy on this day?<br /> +Across the river thy soft breezes blow<br /> +Sweet with the scent of beanfields far away,<br /> +Above our heads rustle the aspens grey,<br /> +Calm is the sky with harmless clouds beset,<br /> +No thought of storm the morning vexes yet.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">See, we have left our hopes and fears behind</span><br /> +To give our very hearts up unto thee;<br /> +What better place than this then could we find<br /> +By this sweet stream that knows not of the sea,<br /> +That guesses not the city's misery,<br /> +This little stream whose hamlets scarce have names,<br /> +This far-off, lonely mother of the Thames?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Here then, O June, thy kindness will we take;</span><br /> +And if indeed but pensive men we seem,<br /> +What should we do? thou wouldst not have us wake<br /> +From out the arms of this rare happy dream<br /> +And wish to leave the murmur of the stream,<br /> +The rustling boughs, the twitter of the birds,<br /> +And all thy thousand peaceful happy words.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">N</span><span class="caps">ow</span> in the early June they deemed it good</span><br /> +That they should go unto a house that stood<br /> +On their chief river, so upon a day<br /> +With favouring wind and tide they took their way<br /> +Up the fair stream; most lovely was the time<br /> +Even amidst the days of that fair clime,<br /> +And still the wanderers thought about their lives,<br /> +And that desire that rippling water gives<br /> +To youthful hearts to wander anywhere.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So midst sweet sights and sounds a house most fair</span><br /> +They came to, set upon the river side<br /> +Where kindly folk their coming did abide;<br /> +There they took land, and in the lime-trees' shade<br /> +Beneath the trees they found the fair feast laid,<br /> +And sat, well pleased; but when the water-hen<br /> +Had got at last to think them harmless men,<br /> +And they with rest, and pleasure, and old wine,<br /> +Began to feel immortal and divine,<br /> +An elder spoke, "O gentle friends, the day<br /> +Amid such calm delight now slips away,<br /> +And ye yourselves are grown so bright and glad<br /> +I care not if I tell you something sad;<br /> +Sad, though the life I tell you of passed by,<br /> +Unstained by sordid strife or misery;<br /> +Sad, because though a glorious end it tells,<br /> +Yet on the end of glorious life it dwells,<br /> +And striving through all things to reach the best<br /> +Upon no midway happiness will rest."</p></div> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE LOVE OF ALCESTIS.</h2> + +<h3>ARGUMENT</h3> + +<p class="hang">Admetus, King of Pheræ 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.</p> +<p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">M</span><span class="caps">idst</span> sunny grass-clad meads that slope adown</span><br /> +To lake Bœbeis stands an ancient town,<br /> +Where dwelt of old a lord of Thessaly,<br /> +The son of Pheres and fair Clymene,<br /> +Who had to name Admetus: long ago<br /> +The dwellers by the lake have ceased to know<br /> +His name, because the world grows old, but then<br /> +He was accounted great among great men;<br /> +Young, strong, and godlike, lacking nought at all<br /> +Of gifts that unto royal men might fall<br /> +In those old simple days, before men went<br /> +To gather unseen harm and discontent,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span>Along with all the alien merchandise<br /> +That rich folk need, too restless to be wise.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now on the fairest of all autumn eves,</span><br /> +When midst the dusty, crumpled, dying leaves<br /> +The black grapes showed, and every press and vat<br /> +Was newly scoured, this King Admetus sat<br /> +Among his people, wearied in such wise<br /> +By hopeful toil as makes a paradise<br /> +Of the rich earth; for light and far away<br /> +Seemed all the labour of the coming day,<br /> +And no man wished for more than then he had,<br /> +Nor with another's mourning was made glad.<br /> +There in the pillared porch, their supper done,<br /> +They watched the fair departing of the sun;<br /> +The while the soft-eyed well-girt maidens poured<br /> +The joy of life from out the jars long stored<br /> +Deep in the earth, while little like a king,<br /> +As we call kings, but glad with everything,<br /> +The wise Thessalian sat and blessed his life,<br /> +So free from sickening fear and foolish strife.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But midst the joy of this festivity,</span><br /> +Turning aside he saw a man draw nigh,<br /> +Along the dusty grey vine-bordered road<br /> +That had its ending at his fair abode;<br /> +He seemed e'en from afar to set his face<br /> +Unto the King's adornéd reverend place,<br /> +And like a traveller went he wearily,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span>And yet as one who seems his rest to see.<br /> +A staff he bore, but nowise was he bent<br /> +With scrip or wallet; so withal he went<br /> +Straight to the King's high seat, and standing near,<br /> +Seemed a stout youth and noble, free from fear,<br /> +But peaceful and unarmed; and though ill clad,<br /> +And though the dust of that hot land he had<br /> +Upon his limbs and face, as fair was he<br /> +As any king's son you might lightly see,<br /> +Grey-eyed and crisp-haired, beautiful of limb,<br /> +And no ill eye the women cast on him.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But kneeling now, and stretching forth his hand,</span><br /> +He said, "O thou, the king of this fair land,<br /> +Unto a banished man some shelter give,<br /> +And help me with thy goods that I may live:<br /> +Thou hast good store, Admetus, yet may I,<br /> +Who kneel before thee now in misery,<br /> +Give thee more gifts before the end shall come<br /> +Than all thou hast laid safely in thine home."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Rise up, and be my guest," Admetus said,</span><br /> +"I need no gifts for this poor gift of bread,<br /> +The land is wide, and bountiful enow.<br /> +What thou canst do, to-morrow thou shalt show,<br /> +And be my man, perchance; but this night rest<br /> +Not questioned more than any passing guest.<br /> +Yea, even if a great king thou hast spilt,<br /> +Thou shall not answer aught but as thou wilt."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then the man rose and said, "O King, indeed</span><br /> +Of thine awarded silence have I need,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span>Nameless I am, nameless what I have done<br /> +Must be through many circles of the sun.<br /> +But for to-morrow—let me rather tell<br /> +On this same eve what things I can do well,<br /> +And let me put mine hand in thine and swear<br /> +To serve thee faithfully a changing year;<br /> +Nor think the woods of Ossa hold one beast<br /> +That of thy tenderest yearling shall make feast,<br /> +Whiles that I guard thy flocks, and thou shalt bear<br /> +Thy troubles easier when thou com'st to hear<br /> +The music I can make. Let these thy men<br /> +Witness against me if I fail thee, when<br /> +War falls upon thy lovely land and thee."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then the King smiled, and said, "So let it be,</span><br /> +Well shalt thou serve me, doing far less than this,<br /> +Nor for thy service due gifts shalt thou miss:<br /> +Behold I take thy faith with thy right hand,<br /> +Be thou true man unto this guarded land.<br /> +Ho ye! take this my guest, find raiment meet<br /> +Wherewith to clothe him; bathe his wearied feet,<br /> +And bring him back beside my throne to feast."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But to himself he said, "I am the least</span><br /> +Of all Thessalians if this man was born<br /> +In any earthly dwelling more forlorn<br /> +Than a king's palace."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 8.5em;">Then a damsel slim</span><br /> +Led him inside, nought loth to go with him,<br /> +And when the cloud of steam had curled to meet<br /> +Within the brass his wearied dusty feet,<br /> +She from a carved press brought him linen fair,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span>And a new-woven coat a king might wear,<br /> +And so being clad he came unto the feast,<br /> +But as he came again, all people ceased<br /> +What talk they held soever, for they thought<br /> +A very god among them had been brought;<br /> +And doubly glad the king Admetus was<br /> +At what that dying eve had brought to pass,<br /> +And bade him sit by him and feast his fill.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So there they sat till all the world was still,</span><br /> +And 'twixt the pillars their red torches' shine<br /> +Held forth unto the night a joyous sign.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span class="big">S</span><span class="caps">o</span> henceforth did this man at Pheræ dwell,<br /> +And what he set his hand to wrought right well,<br /> +And won much praise and love in everything,<br /> +And came to rule all herdsmen of the King;<br /> +But for two things in chief his fame did grow;<br /> +And first that he was better with the bow<br /> +Than any 'twixt Olympus and the sea,<br /> +And then that sweet, heart-piercing melody<br /> +He drew out from the rigid-seeming lyre,<br /> +And made the circle round the winter fire<br /> +More like to heaven than gardens of the May.<br /> +So many a heavy thought he chased away<br /> +From the King's heart, and softened many a hate,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span>And choked the spring of many a harsh debate;<br /> +And, taught by wounds, the snatchers of the wolds<br /> +Lurked round the gates of less well-guarded folds.<br /> +Therefore Admetus loved him, yet withal,<br /> +Strange doubts and fears upon his heart did fall;<br /> +For morns there were when he the man would meet,<br /> +His hair wreathed round with bay and blossoms sweet,<br /> +Gazing distraught into the brightening east,<br /> +Nor taking heed of either man or beast,<br /> +Or anything that was upon the earth.<br /> +Or sometimes, midst the hottest of the mirth,<br /> +Within the King's hall, would he seem to wake<br /> +As from a dream, and his stringed tortoise take<br /> +And strike the cords unbidden, till the hall<br /> +Filled with the glorious sound from wall to wall,<br /> +Trembled and seemed as it would melt away,<br /> +And sunken down the faces weeping lay<br /> +That erewhile laughed the loudest; only he<br /> +Stood upright, looking forward steadily<br /> +With sparkling eyes as one who cannot weep,<br /> +Until the storm of music sank to sleep.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But this thing seemed the doubtfullest of all</span><br /> +Unto the King, that should there chance to fall<br /> +A festal day, and folk did sacrifice<br /> +Unto the gods, ever by some device<br /> +The man would be away: yet with all this<br /> +His presence doubled all Admetus' bliss,<br /> +And happy in all things he seemed to live,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span>And great gifts to his herdsman did he give.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But now the year came round again to spring,</span><br /> +And southward to Iolchos went the King;<br /> +For there did Pelias hold a sacrifice<br /> +Unto the gods, and put forth things of price<br /> +For men to strive for in the people's sight;<br /> +So on a morn of April, fresh and bright,<br /> +Admetus shook the golden-studded reins,<br /> +And soon from windings of the sweet-banked lanes<br /> +The south wind blew the sound of hoof and wheel,<br /> +Clatter of brazen shields and clink of steel<br /> +Unto the herdsman's ears, who stood awhile<br /> +Hearkening the echoes with a godlike smile,<br /> +Then slowly gat him foldwards, murmuring,<br /> +"Fair music for the wooing of a King."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But in six days again Admetus came,</span><br /> +With no lost labour or dishonoured name;<br /> +A scarlet cloak upon his back he bare<br /> +A gold crown on his head, a falchion fair<br /> +Girt to his side; behind him four white steeds,<br /> +Whose dams had fed full in Nisæan meads;<br /> +All prizes that his valiant hands had won<br /> +Within the guarded lists of Tyro's son.<br /> +Yet midst the sound of joyous minstrelsy<br /> +No joyous man in truth he seemed to be;<br /> +So that folk looking on him said, "Behold,<br /> +The wise King will not show himself too bold<br /> +Amidst his greatness: the gods too are great,<br /> +And who can tell the dreadful ways of fate?"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Howe'er it was, he gat him through the town,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span>And midst their shouts at last he lighted down<br /> +At his own house, and held high feast that night;<br /> +And yet by seeming had but small delight<br /> +In aught that any man could do or say:<br /> +And on the morrow, just at dawn of day,<br /> +Rose up and clad himself, and took his spear.<br /> +And in the fresh and blossom-scented air<br /> +Went wandering till he reach Bœbeis' shore;<br /> +Yet by his troubled face set little store<br /> +By all the songs of birds and scent of flowers;<br /> +Yea, rather unto him the fragrant hours<br /> +Were grown but dull and empty of delight.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So going, at the last he came in sight</span><br /> +Of his new herdsman, who that morning lay<br /> +Close by the white sand of a little bay<br /> +The teeming ripple of Bœbeis lapped;<br /> +There he in cloak of white-wooled sheepskin wrapped<br /> +Against the cold dew, free from trouble sang,<br /> +The while the heifers' bells about him rang<br /> +And mingled with the sweet soft-throated birds<br /> +And bright fresh ripple: listen, then, these words<br /> +Will tell the tale of his felicity,<br /> +Halting and void of music though they be.</p></div> + +<p> </p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Song.</span></h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">O</span> <span class="caps">Dwellers</span> on the lovely earth,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Why will ye break your rest and mirth</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To weary us with fruitless prayer;</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Why will ye toil and take such care</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For children's children yet unborn,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And garner store of strife and scorn</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To gain a scarce-remembered name,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cumbered with lies and soiled with shame?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And if the gods care not for you,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What is this folly ye must do</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To win some mortal's feeble heart?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">O fools! when each man plays his part,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And heeds his fellow little more</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Than these blue waves that kiss the shore</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Take heed of how the daisies grow.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">O fools! and if ye could but know</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">How fair a world to you is given.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">O brooder on the hills of heaven,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When for my sin thou drav'st me forth,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Hadst thou forgot what this was worth,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thine own hand had made? The tears of men,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The death of threescore years and ten,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The trembling of the timorous race—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Had these things so bedimmed the place</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thine own hand made, thou couldst not know</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To what a heaven the earth might grow</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">If fear beneath the earth were laid,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">If hope failed not, nor love decayed.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He stopped, for he beheld his wandering lord,</span><br /> +Who, drawing near, heard little of his word,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span>And noted less; for in that haggard mood<br /> +Nought could he do but o'er his sorrows brood,<br /> +Whate'er they were, but now being come anigh,<br /> +He lifted up his drawn face suddenly,<br /> +And as the singer gat him to his feet,<br /> +His eyes Admetus' troubled eyes did meet,<br /> +As with some speech he now seemed labouring,<br /> +Which from his heart his lips refused to bring.<br /> +Then spoke the herdsman, "Master, what is this,<br /> +That thou, returned with honour to the bliss,<br /> +The gods have given thee here, still makest show<br /> +To be some wretch bent with the weight of woe?<br /> +What wilt thou have? What help there is in me<br /> +Is wholly thine, for in felicity<br /> +Within thine house thou still hast let me live,<br /> +Nor grudged most noble gifts to me to give."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Yea," said Admetus, "thou canst help indeed,</span><br /> +But as the spring shower helps the unsown mead.<br /> +Yet listen: at Iolchos the first day<br /> +Unto Diana's house I took my way,<br /> +Where all men gathered ere the games began,<br /> +There, at the right side of the royal man,<br /> +Who rules Iolchos, did his daughter stand,<br /> +Who with a suppliant bough in her right hand<br /> +Headed the band of maidens; but to me<br /> +More than a goddess did she seem to be,<br /> +Nor fit to die; and therewithal I thought<br /> +That we had all been thither called for nought<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span>But that her bridegroom Pelias might choose,<br /> +And with that thought desire did I let loose,<br /> +And striving not with Love, I gazed my fill,<br /> +As one who will not fear the coming ill:<br /> +All, foolish were mine eyes, foolish my heart,<br /> +To strive in such a marvel to have part!<br /> +What god shall wed her rather? no more fear<br /> +Than vexes Pallas vexed her forehead clear,<br /> +Faith shone from out her eyes, and on her lips<br /> +Unknown love trembled; the Phœnician ships<br /> +Within their dark holds nought so precious bring<br /> +As her soft golden hair, no daintiest thing<br /> +I ever saw was half so wisely wrought<br /> +As was her rosy ear; beyond all thought,<br /> +All words to tell of, her veiled body showed,<br /> +As, by the image of the Three-formed bowed,<br /> +She laid her offering down; then I drawn near<br /> +The murmuring of her gentle voice could hear,<br /> +As waking one hears music in the morn,<br /> +Ere yet the fair June sun is fully born;<br /> +And sweeter than the roses fresh with dew<br /> +Sweet odours floated round me, as she drew<br /> +Some golden thing from out her balmy breast<br /> +With her right hand, the while her left hand pressed<br /> +The hidden wonders of her girdlestead;<br /> +And when abashed I sank adown my head,<br /> +Dreading the god of Love, my eyes must meet<br /> +The happy bands about her perfect feet.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"What more? thou know'st perchance what thing love is?</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span>Kindness, and hot desire, and rage, and bliss,<br /> +None first a moment; but before that day<br /> +No love I knew but what might pass away<br /> +When hot desire was changed to certainty,<br /> +Or not abide much longer; e'en such stings<br /> +Had smitten me, as the first warm day brings<br /> +When March is dying; but now half a god<br /> +The crowded way unto the lists I trod,<br /> +Yet hopeless as a vanquished god at whiles,<br /> +And hideous seemed the laughter and the smiles,<br /> +And idle talk about me on the way.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"But none could stand before me on that day,</span><br /> +I was as god-possessed, not knowing how<br /> +The King had brought her forth but for a show,<br /> +To make his glory greater through the land:<br /> +Therefore at last victorious did I stand<br /> +Among my peers, nor yet one well-known name<br /> +Had gathered any honour from my shame.<br /> +For there indeed both men of Thessaly,<br /> +Œtolians, Thebans, dwellers by the sea,<br /> +And folk of Attica and Argolis,<br /> +Arcadian woodmen, islanders, whose bliss<br /> +Is to be tossed about from wave to wave,<br /> +All these at last to me the honour gave,<br /> +Nor did they grudge it: yea, and one man said,<br /> +A wise Thessalian with a snowy head,<br /> +And voice grown thin with age, 'O Pelias,<br /> +Surely to thee no evil thing it was<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span>That to thy house this rich Thessalian<br /> +Should come, to prove himself a valiant man<br /> +Amongst these heroes; for if I be wise<br /> +By dint of many years, with wistful eyes<br /> +Doth he behold thy daughter, this fair maid;<br /> +And surely, if the matter were well weighed,<br /> +Good were it both for thee and for the land<br /> +That he should take the damsel by the hand<br /> +And lead her hence, for ye near neighbours dwell;<br /> +What sayest thou, King, have I said ill or well?'<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"With that must I, a fool, stand forth and ask</span><br /> +If yet there lay before me some great task<br /> +That I must do ere I the maid should wed,<br /> +But Pelias, looking on us, smiled and said,<br /> +'O neighbour of Larissa, and thou too,<br /> +O King Admetus, this may seem to you<br /> +A little matter; yea, and for my part<br /> +E'en such a marriage would make glad my heart;<br /> +But we the blood of Salmoneus who share<br /> +With godlike gifts great burdens also bear,<br /> +Nor is this maid without them, for the day<br /> +On which her maiden zone she puts away<br /> +Shall be her death-day, if she wed with one<br /> +By whom this marvellous thing may not be done,<br /> +For in the traces neither must steeds paw<br /> +Before my threshold, or white oxen draw<br /> +The wain that comes my maid to take from me,<br /> +Far other beasts that day her slaves must be:<br /> +The yellow lion 'neath the lash must roar,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span>And by his side unscared, the forest boar<br /> +Toil at the draught: what sayest thou then hereto,<br /> +O lord of Pheræ, wilt thou come to woo<br /> +In such a chariot, and win endless fame,<br /> +Or turn thine eyes elsewhere with little shame?'<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"What answered I? O herdsman, I was mad</span><br /> +With sweet love and the triumph I had had.<br /> +I took my father's ring from off my hand,<br /> +And said, 'O heroes of the Grecian land,<br /> +Be witnesses that on my father's name<br /> +For this man's promise, do I take the shame<br /> +Of this deed undone, if I fail herein;<br /> +Fear not, O Pelias, but that I shall win<br /> +This ring from thee, when I shall come again<br /> +Through fair Iolchos, driving that strange wain.<br /> +Else by this token, thou, O King, shalt have<br /> +Pheræ my home, while on the tumbling wave<br /> +A hollow ship my sad abode shall be.'<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"So driven by some hostile deity,</span><br /> +Such words I said, and with my gifts hard won,<br /> +But little valued now, set out upon<br /> +My homeward way: but nearer as I drew<br /> +To mine abode, and ever fainter grew<br /> +In my weak heart the image of my love,<br /> +In vain with fear my boastful folly strove;<br /> +For I remembered that no god I was<br /> +Though I had chanced my fellows to surpass;<br /> +And I began to mind me in a while<br /> +What murmur rose, with what a mocking smile<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span>Pelias stretched out his hand to take the ring.<br /> +Made by my drunkard's gift now twice a king:<br /> +And when unto my palace-door I came<br /> +I had awakened fully to my shame;<br /> +For certainly no help is left to me,<br /> +But I must get me down unto the sea<br /> +And build a keel, and whatso things I may<br /> +Set in her hold, and cross the watery way<br /> +Whither Jove bids, and the rough winds may blow<br /> +Unto a land where none my folly know,<br /> +And there begin a weary life anew."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Eager and bright the herdsman's visage grew</span><br /> +The while this tale was told, and at the end<br /> +He said, "Admetus, I thy life may mend,<br /> +And thou at lovely Pheræ still may dwell;<br /> +Wait for ten days, and then may all be well,<br /> +And thou to fetch thy maiden home may go,<br /> +And to the King thy team unheard-of show.<br /> +And if not, then make ready for the sea<br /> +Nor will I fail indeed to go with thee,<br /> +And 'twixt the halyards and the ashen oar<br /> +Finish the service well begun ashore;<br /> +But meanwhile do I bid thee hope the best;<br /> +And take another herdsman for the rest,<br /> +For unto Ossa must I go alone<br /> +To do a deed not easy to be done."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then springing up he took his spear and bow</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span>And northward by the lake-shore 'gan to go;<br /> +But the King gazed upon him as he went,<br /> +Then, sighing, turned about, and homeward bent<br /> +His lingering steps, and hope began to spring<br /> +Within his heart, for some betokening<br /> +He seemed about the herdsman now to see<br /> +Of one from mortal cares and troubles free.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And so midst hopes and fears day followed day,</span><br /> +Until at last upon his bed he lay<br /> +When the grey, creeping dawn had now begun<br /> +To make the wide world ready for the sun<br /> +On the tenth day: sleepless had been the night<br /> +And now in that first hour of gathering light<br /> +For weariness he slept, and dreamed that he<br /> +Stood by the border of a fair, calm sea<br /> +At point to go a-shipboard, and to leave<br /> +Whatever from his sire he did receive<br /> +Of land or kingship; and withal he dreamed<br /> +That through the cordage a bright light there gleamed<br /> +Far off within the east; and nowise sad<br /> +He felt at leaving all he might have had,<br /> +But rather as a man who goes to see<br /> +Some heritage expected patiently.<br /> +But when he moved to leave the firm fixed shore,<br /> +The windless sea rose high and 'gan to roar,<br /> +And from the gangway thrust the ship aside,<br /> +Until he hung over a chasm wide<br /> +Vocal with furious waves, yet had no fear<br /> +For all the varied tumult he might hear,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span>But slowly woke up to the morning light<br /> +That to his eyes seemed past all memory bright,<br /> +And then strange sounds he heard, whereat his heart<br /> +Woke up to joyous life with one glad start,<br /> +And nigh his bed he saw the herdsman stand,<br /> +Holding a long white staff in his right hand,<br /> +Carved with strange figures; and withal he said,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Awake, Admetus! loiter not a-bed,</span><br /> +But haste thee to bring home thy promised bride,<br /> +For now an ivory chariot waits outside,<br /> +Yoked to such beasts as Pelias bade thee bring;<br /> +Whose guidance thou shalt find an easy thing,<br /> +If in thine hands thou holdest still this rod,<br /> +Whereon are carved the names of every god<br /> + +That rules the fertile earth; but having come<br /> +Unto King Pelias' well-adornéd home,<br /> +Abide not long, but take the royal maid,<br /> +And let her dowry in thy wain be laid,<br /> +Of silver and fine cloth and unmixed gold,<br /> +For this indeed will Pelias not withhold<br /> +When he shall see thee like a very god.<br /> +Then let thy beasts, ruled by this carven rod,<br /> +Turn round to Pheræ; yet must thou abide<br /> +Before thou comest to the streamlet's side<br /> +That feed its dykes; there, by the little wood<br /> +Wherein unto Diana men shed blood,<br /> +Will I await thee, and thou shalt descend<br /> +And hand-in-hand afoot through Pheræ wend;<br /> +And yet I bid thee, this night let thy bride<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span>Apart among the womenfolk abide;<br /> +That on the morrow thou with sacrifice<br /> +For these strange deeds may pay a fitting price."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But as he spoke with something like to awe,</span><br /> +His eyes and much-changed face Admetus saw,<br /> +And voiceless like a slave his words obeyed;<br /> +For rising up no more delay he made,<br /> +But took the staff and gained the palace-door<br /> +Where stood the beasts, whose mingled whine and roar<br /> +Had wrought his dream; there two and two they stood,<br /> +Thinking, it might be, of the tangled wood,<br /> +And all the joys of the food-hiding trees,<br /> +But harmless as their painted images<br /> +'Neath some dread spell; then, leaping up, he took<br /> +The reins in hand and the bossed leather shook,<br /> +And no delay the conquered beasts durst make<br /> +But drew, not silent; and folk just awake<br /> +When he went by, as though a god they saw,<br /> +Fell on their knees, and maidens come to draw<br /> +Fresh water from the fount sank trembling down,<br /> +And silence held the babbling wakened town.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So 'twixt the dewy hedges did he wend,</span><br /> +And still their noise afar the beasts did send,<br /> +His strange victorious advent to proclaim,<br /> +Till to Iolchos at the last he came,<br /> +And drew anigh the gates, whence in affright<br /> +The guards fled, helpless at the wondrous sight;<br /> +And through the town news of the coming spread<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span>Of some great god so that the scared priests led<br /> +Pale suppliants forth; who, in unmeet attire<br /> +And hastily-caught boughs and smouldering fire<br /> +Within their censers, in the market-place<br /> +Awaited him with many an upturned face,<br /> +Trembling with fear of that unnamed new god;<br /> +But through the midst of them his lions trod<br /> +With noiseless feet, nor noted aught their prey,<br /> +And the boars' hooves went pattering on the way,<br /> +While from their churning tusks the white foam flew<br /> +As raging, helpless, in the trace they drew.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But Pelias, knowing all the work of fate,</span><br /> +Sat in his brazen-pillared porch to wait<br /> +The coming of the King; the while the maid<br /> +In her fair marriage garments was arrayed,<br /> +And from strong places of his treasury<br /> +Men brought fine scarlet from the Syrian sea,<br /> +And works of brass, and ivory, and gold;<br /> +But when the strange yoked beasts he did behold<br /> +Come through the press of people terrified,<br /> +Then he arose and o'er the clamour cried,<br /> +"Hail, thou, who like a very god art come<br /> +To bring great honour to my damsel's home;"<br /> +And when Admetus tightened rein before<br /> +The gleaming, brazen-wrought, half-opened door.<br /> +He cried to Pelias, "Hail, to thee, O King;<br /> +Let me behold once more my father's ring,<br /> +Let me behold the prize that I have won,<br /> +Mine eyes are wearying now to look upon."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Fear not," he said, "the Fates are satisfied;</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span>Yet wilt thou not descend and here abide,<br /> +Doing me honour till the next bright morn<br /> +Has dried the dew upon the new-sprung corn,<br /> +That we in turn may give the honour due<br /> +To such a man that such a thing can do,<br /> +And unto all the gods may sacrifice?"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Nay," said Admetus, "if thou call'st me wise,</span><br /> +And like a very god thou dost me deem,<br /> +Shall I abide the ending of the dream<br /> +And so gain nothing? nay, let me be glad<br /> +That I at least one godlike hour have had<br /> +At whatsoever time I come to die,<br /> +That I may mock the world that passes by,<br /> +And yet forgets it." Saying this, indeed,<br /> +Of Pelias did he seem to take small heed,<br /> +But spoke as one unto himself may speak,<br /> +And still the half-shut door his eyes did seek,<br /> +Wherethrough from distant rooms sweet music came,<br /> +Setting his over-strainéd heart a-flame,<br /> +Because amidst the Lydian flutes he thought<br /> +From place to place his love the maidens brought.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then Pelias said, "What can I give to thee</span><br /> +Who fail'st so little of divinity?<br /> +Yet let my slaves lay these poor gifts within<br /> +Thy chariot, while my daughter strives to win<br /> +The favour of the spirits of this place,<br /> +Since from their altars she must turn her face<br /> +For ever now; hearken, her flutes I hear,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span>From the last chapel doth she draw anear."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then by Admetus' feet the folk 'gan pile</span><br /> +The precious things, but he no less the while<br /> +Stared at the door ajar, and thought it long<br /> +Ere with the flutes mingled the maidens' song,<br /> +And both grew louder, and the scarce-seen floor<br /> +Was fluttering with white raiment, and the door<br /> +By slender fingers was set open wide,<br /> +And midst her damsels he beheld the bride<br /> +Ungirt, with hair unbound and garlanded:<br /> +Then Pelias took her slender hand and said,<br /> +"Daughter, this is the man that takes from thee<br /> +Thy curse midst women, think no more to be<br /> +Childless, unloved, and knowing little bliss;<br /> +But now behold how like a god he is,<br /> +And yet with what prayers for the love of thee<br /> +He must have wearied some divinity,<br /> +And therefore in thine inmost heart be glad<br /> +That thou 'mongst women such a man hast had."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then she with wondering eyes that strange team saw</span><br /> +A moment, then as one with gathering awe<br /> +Might turn from Jove's bird unto very Jove,<br /> +So did she raise her grey eyes to her love,<br /> +But to her brow the blood rose therewithal,<br /> +And she must tremble, such a look did fall<br /> +Upon her faithful eyes, that none the less<br /> +Would falter aught, for all her shamefastness,<br /> +But rather to her lover's hungry eyes<br /> +Gave back a tender look of glad surprise,<br /> +Wherein love's flame began to flicker now.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Withal, her father kissed her on the brow,</span><br /> +And said, "O daughter, take this royal ring,<br /> +And set it on the finger of the King,<br /> +And come not back; and thou, Admetus, pour<br /> +This wine to Jove before my open door,<br /> +And glad at heart take back thine own with thee."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then with that word Alcestis silently,</span><br /> +And with no look cast back, and ring in hand,<br /> +Went forth, and soon beside her love did stand,<br /> +Nor on his finger failed to set the ring;<br /> +And then a golden cup the city's King<br /> +Gave to him, and he poured and said, "O thou,<br /> +From whatsoever place thou lookest now,<br /> +What prayers, what gifts unto thee shall I give<br /> +That we a little time with love may live?<br /> +A little time of love, then fall asleep<br /> +Together, while the crown of love we keep."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So spake he, and his strange beasts turned about,</span><br /> +And heeded not the people's wavering shout<br /> +That from their old fear and new pleasure sprung,<br /> +Nor noted aught of what the damsels sung,<br /> +Or of the flowers that after them they cast,<br /> +But like a dream the guarded city passed,<br /> +And 'twixt the song of birds and blossoms' scent<br /> +It seemed for many hundred years they went,<br /> +Though short the way was unto Pheræ's gates;<br /> +Time they forgat, and gods, and men, and fates,<br /> +However nigh unto their hearts they were;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span>The woodland boars, the yellow lords of fear<br /> +No more seemed strange to them, but all the earth<br /> +With all its changing sorrow and wild mirth<br /> +In that fair hour seemed new-born to the twain,<br /> +Grief seemed a play forgot, a pageant vain,<br /> +A picture painted, who knows where or when,<br /> +With soulless images of restless men;<br /> +For every thought but love was now gone by,<br /> +And they forgot that they should ever die.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But when they came anigh the sacred wood,</span><br /> +There, biding them, Admetus' herdsman stood,<br /> +At sight of whom those yoke-fellows unchecked<br /> +Stopped dead and little of Admetus recked<br /> +Who now, as one from dreams not yet awake,<br /> +Drew back his love and did his wain forsake,<br /> +And gave the carven rod and guiding bands<br /> +Into the waiting herdsman's outstretched hands,<br /> +But when he would have thanked him for the thing<br /> +That he had done, his speechless tongue must cling<br /> +Unto his mouth, and why he could not tell.<br /> +But the man said, "No words! thou hast done well<br /> +To me, as I to thee; the day may come<br /> +When thou shalt ask me for a fitting home,<br /> +Nor shalt thou ask in vain; but hasten now,<br /> +And to thine house this royal maiden show,<br /> +Then give her to thy women for this night.<br /> +But when thou wakest up to thy delight<br /> +To-morrow, do all things that should be done,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span>Nor of the gods, forget thou any one,<br /> +And on the next day will I come again<br /> +To tend thy flocks upon the grassy plain.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"But now depart, and from thine home send here</span><br /> +Chariot and horse, these gifts of thine to bear<br /> +Unto thine house, and going, look not back<br /> +Lest many a wished-for thing thou com'st to lack."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then hand in hand together, up the road</span><br /> +The lovers passed unto the King's abode,<br /> +And as they went, the whining snort and roar<br /> +From the yoked beasts they heard break out once more<br /> +And then die off, as they were led away,<br /> +But whether to some place lit up by day,<br /> +Or, 'neath the earth, they knew not, for the twain<br /> +Went hastening on, nor once looked back again.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But soon the minstrels met them, and a band</span><br /> +Of white-robed damsels flowery boughs in hand,<br /> +To bid them welcome to that pleasant place.<br /> +Then they, rejoicing much, in no long space<br /> +Came to the brazen-pillared porch, whereon<br /> +From 'twixt the passes of the hills yet shone<br /> +The dying sun; and there she stood awhile<br /> +Without the threshold, a faint tender smile<br /> +Trembling upon her lips 'twixt love and shame,<br /> +Until each side of her a maiden came<br /> +And raised her in their arms, that her fair feet<br /> +The polished brazen threshold might not meet,<br /> +And in Admetus' house she stood at last.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But to the women's chamber straight she passed</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span>Bepraised of all,—and so the wakeful night<br /> +Lonely the lovers passed e'en as they might.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But the next day with many a sacrifice,</span><br /> +Admetus wrought, for such a well-won prize,<br /> +A life so blest, the gods to satisfy,<br /> +And many a matchless beast that day did die<br /> +Upon the altars; nought unlucky seemed<br /> +To be amid the joyous crowd that gleamed<br /> +With gold and precious things, and only this<br /> +Seemed wanting to the King of Pheræ's bliss,<br /> +That all these pageants should be soon past by,<br /> +And hid by night the fair spring blossoms lie.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">Y</span><span class="caps">et</span> on the morrow-morn Admetus came,</span><br /> +A haggard man oppressed with grief and shame<br /> +Unto the spot beside Bœbeis' shore<br /> +Whereby he met his herdsman once before,<br /> +And there again he found him flushed and glad,<br /> +And from the babbling water newly clad,<br /> +Then he with downcast eyes these words began,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"O thou, whatso thy name is, god or man,</span><br /> +Hearken to me; meseemeth of thy deed<br /> +Some dread immortal taketh angry heed.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Last night the height of my desire seemed won,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span>All day my weary eyes had watched the sun<br /> +Rise up and sink, and now was come the night<br /> +When I should be alone with my delight;<br /> +Silent the house was now from floor to roof,<br /> +And in the well-hung chambers, far aloof,<br /> +The feasters lay; the moon was in the sky,<br /> +The soft spring wind was wafting lovingly<br /> +Across the gardens fresh scents to my sweet,<br /> +As, troubled with the sound of my own feet,<br /> +I passed betwixt the pillars, whose long shade<br /> +Black on the white red-veinéd floor was laid:<br /> +So happy was I that the briar-rose,<br /> +Rustling outside within the flowery close,<br /> +Seemed but Love's odorous wing—too real all seemed<br /> +For such a joy as I had never dreamed.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Why do I linger, as I lingered not</span><br /> +In that fair hour, now ne'er to be forgot<br /> +While my life lasts?—Upon the gilded door<br /> +I laid my hand; I stood upon the floor<br /> +Of the bride-chamber, and I saw the bride,<br /> +Lovelier than any dream, stand by the side<br /> +Of the gold bed, with hands that hid her face:<br /> +One cry of joy I gave, and then the place<br /> +Seemed changed to hell as in a hideous dream.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Still did the painted silver pillars gleam</span><br /> +Betwixt the scented torches and the moon;<br /> +Still did the garden shed its odorous boon<br /> +Upon the night; still did the nightingale<br /> +Unto his brooding mate tell all his tale:<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span>But, risen 'twixt my waiting love and me,<br /> +As soundless as the dread eternity,<br /> +Sprung up from nothing, could mine eyes behold<br /> +A huge dull-gleaming dreadful coil that rolled<br /> +In changing circles on the pavement fair.<br /> +Then for the sword that was no longer there<br /> +My hand sank to my side; around I gazed,<br /> +And 'twixt the coils I met her grey eyes, glazed<br /> +With sudden horror most unspeakable;<br /> +And when mine own upon no weapon fell,<br /> +For what should weapons do in such a place,<br /> +Unto the dragon's head I set my face,<br /> +And raised bare hands against him, but a cry<br /> +Burst on mine ears of utmost agony<br /> +That nailed me there, and she cried out to me,<br /> +'O get thee hence; alas, I cannot flee!<br /> +They coil about me now, my lips to kiss.<br /> +O love, why hast thou brought me unto this?'<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Alas, my shame! trembling, away I slunk,</span><br /> +Yet turning saw the fearful coil had sunk<br /> +To whence it came, my love's limbs freed I saw,<br /> +And a long breath at first I heard her draw<br /> +As one redeemed, then heard the hard sobs come,<br /> +And wailings for her new accurséd home.<br /> +But there outside across the door I lay,<br /> +Like a scourged hound, until the dawn of day;<br /> +And as her gentle breathing then I heard<br /> +As though she slept, before the earliest bird<br /> +Began his song, I wandered forth to seek<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span>Thee, O strange man, e'en as thou seest me, weak<br /> +With all the torment of the night, and shamed<br /> +With such a shame as never shall be named<br /> +To aught but thee—Yea, yea, and why to thee<br /> +Perchance this ends all thou wilt do for me?—<br /> +What then, and have I not a cure for that?<br /> +Lo, yonder is a rock where I have sat<br /> +Full many an hour while yet my life was life,<br /> +With hopes of all the coming wonder rife.<br /> +No sword hangs by my side, no god will turn<br /> +This cloudless hazy blue to black, and burn<br /> +My useless body with his lightning flash;<br /> +But the white waves above my bones may wash,<br /> +And when old chronicles our house shall name<br /> +They may leave out the letters and the shame,<br /> +That make Admetus, once a king of men—<br /> +And how could I be worse or better then?"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As one who notes a curious instrument</span><br /> +Working against the maker's own intent,<br /> +The herdsman eyed his wan face silently,<br /> +And smiling for a while, and then said he,—<br /> +"Admetus, thou, in spite of all I said,<br /> +Hast drawn this evil thing upon thine head,<br /> +Forgetting her who erewhile laid the curse<br /> +Upon the maiden, so for fear of worse<br /> +Go back again; for fair-limbed Artemis<br /> +Now bars the sweet attainment of thy bliss;<br /> +So taking heart, yet make no more delay<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span>But worship her upon this very day,<br /> +Nor spare for aught, and of thy trouble make<br /> +No semblance unto any for her sake;<br /> +And thick upon the fair bride-chamber floor<br /> +Strew dittany, and on each side the door<br /> +Hang up such poppy-leaves as spring may yield;<br /> +And for the rest, myself may be a shield<br /> +Against her wrath—nay, be thou not too bold<br /> +To ask me that which may not now be told.<br /> +Yea, even what thou deemest, hide it deep<br /> +Within thine heart, and let thy wonder sleep,<br /> +For surely thou shalt one day know my name,<br /> +When the time comes again that autumn's flame<br /> +Is dying off the vine-boughs, overturned,<br /> +Stripped of their wealth. But now let gifts be burned<br /> +To her I told thee of, and in three days<br /> +Shall I by many hard and rugged ways<br /> +Have come to thee again to bring thee peace.<br /> +Go, the sun rises and the shades decrease."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then, thoughtfully, Admetus gat him back,</span><br /> +Nor did the altars of the Huntress lack<br /> +The fattest of the flocks upon that day.<br /> +But when night came, in arms Admetus lay<br /> +Across the threshold of the bride-chamber,<br /> +And nought amiss that night he noted there,<br /> +But durst not enter, though about the door<br /> +Young poppy-leaves were twined, and on the floor,<br /> +Not flowered as yet with downy leaves and grey,<br /> +Fresh dittany beloved of wild goats lay.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">But when the whole three days and nights were done,</span><br /> +The herdsman came with rising of the sun,<br /> +And said, "Admetus, now rejoice again,<br /> +Thy prayers and offerings have not been in vain,<br /> +And thou at last mayst come unto thy bliss;<br /> +And if thou askest for a sign of this,<br /> +Take thou this token; make good haste to rise,<br /> +And get unto the garden-close that lies<br /> +Below these windows sweet with greenery,<br /> +And in the midst a marvel shalt thou see,<br /> +Three white, black-hearted poppies blossoming,<br /> +Though this is but the middle of the spring."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nor was it otherwise than he had said,</span><br /> +And on that day with joy the twain were wed,<br /> +And 'gan to lead a life of great delight;<br /> +But the strange woeful history of that night,<br /> +The monstrous car, the promise to the King,<br /> +All these through weary hours of chiselling<br /> +Were wrought in stone, and in Diana's wall<br /> +Set up, a joy and witness unto all.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But neither so would wingéd time abide,</span><br /> +The changing year came round to autumn-tide,<br /> +Until at last the day was fully come<br /> +When the strange guest first reached Admetus' home.<br /> +Then, when the sun was reddening to its end,<br /> +He to Admetus' brazen porch did wend,<br /> +Whom there he found feathering a poplar dart,<br /> +Then said he, "King, the time has come to part.<br /> +Come forth, for I have that to give thine ear<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span>No man upon the earth but thou must hear."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then rose the King, and with a troubled look</span><br /> +His well-steeled spear within his hand he took,<br /> +And by his herdsman silently he went<br /> +As to a peakéd hill his steps he bent,<br /> +Nor did the parting servant speak one word,<br /> +As up they climbed, unto his silent lord,<br /> +Till from the top he turned about his head<br /> +From all the glory of the gold light, shed<br /> +Upon the hill-top by the setting sun,<br /> +For now indeed the day was well-nigh done,<br /> +And all the eastern vale was grey and cold;<br /> +But when Admetus he did now behold,<br /> +Panting beside him from the steep ascent,<br /> +One much-changed godlike look on him he bent.<br /> +And said, "O mortal, listen, for I see<br /> +Thou deemest somewhat of what is in me;<br /> +Fear not! I love thee, even as I can<br /> +Who cannot feel the woes and ways of man<br /> +In spite of this my seeming, for indeed<br /> +Now thou beholdest Jove's immortal seed,<br /> +And what my name is I would tell thee now,<br /> +If men who dwell upon the earth as thou<br /> +Could hear the name and live; but on the earth.<br /> +With strange melodious stories of my birth,<br /> +Phœbus men call me, and Latona's son.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"And now my servitude with thee is done,</span><br /> +And I shall leave thee toiling on thine earth,<br /> +This handful, that within its little girth<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span>Holds that which moves you so, O men that die;<br /> +Behold, to-day thou hast felicity,<br /> +But the times change, and I can see a day<br /> +When all thine happiness shall fade away;<br /> +And yet be merry, strive not with the end,<br /> +Thou canst not change it; for the rest, a friend<br /> +This year has won thee who shall never fail;<br /> +But now indeed, for nought will it avail<br /> +To say what I may have in store for thee,<br /> +Of gifts that men desire; let these things be,<br /> +And live thy life, till death itself shall come,<br /> +And turn to nought the storehouse of thine home,<br /> +Then think of me; these feathered shafts behold,<br /> +That here have been the terror of the wold,<br /> +Take these, and count them still the best of all<br /> +Thine envied wealth, and when on thee shall fall<br /> +By any way the worst extremity,<br /> +Call upon me before thou com'st to die,<br /> +And lay these shafts with incense on a fire,<br /> +That thou mayst gain thine uttermost desire."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He ceased, but ere the golden tongue was still</span><br /> +An odorous mist had stolen up the hill,<br /> +And to Admetus first the god grew dim,<br /> +And then was but a lovely voice to him,<br /> +And then at last the sun had sunk to rest,<br /> +And a fresh wind blew lightly from the west<br /> +Over the hill-top, and no soul was there;<br /> +But the sad dying autumn field-flowers fair,<br /> +Rustled dry leaves about the windy place,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span>Where even now had been the godlike face,<br /> +And in their midst the brass-bound quiver lay.<br /> +Then, going further westward, far away,<br /> +He saw the gleaming of Peneus wan<br /> +'Neath the white sky, but never any man,<br /> +Except a grey-haired shepherd driving down<br /> +From off the long slopes to his fold-yard brown<br /> +His woolly sheep, with whom a maiden went,<br /> +Singing for labour done and sweet content<br /> +Of coming rest; with that he turned again,<br /> +And took the shafts up, never sped in vain,<br /> +And came unto his house most deep in thought<br /> +Of all the things the varied year had brought.</p></div> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">T</span><span class="caps">henceforth</span> in bliss and honour day by day</span><br /> +His measured span of sweet life wore away.<br /> +A happy man he was; no vain desire<br /> +Of foolish fame had set his heart a-fire;<br /> +No care he had the ancient bounds to change,<br /> +Nor yet for him must idle soldiers range<br /> +From place to place about the burdened land,<br /> +Or thick upon the ruined cornfields stand;<br /> +For him no trumpets blessed the bitter war,<br /> +Wherein the right and wrong so mingled are,<br /> +That hardly can the man of single heart<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span>Amid the sickening turmoil choose his part;<br /> +For him sufficed the changes of the year,<br /> +The god-sent terror was enough of fear<br /> +For him; enough the battle with the earth,<br /> +The autumn triumph over drought and dearth.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Better to him than wolf-moved battered shields,</span><br /> +O'er poor dead corpses, seemed the stubble-fields<br /> +Danced down beneath the moon, until the night<br /> +Grew dreamy with a shadowy sweet delight,<br /> +And with the high-risen moon came pensive thought,<br /> +And men in love's despite must grow distraught<br /> +And loiter in the dance, and maidens drop<br /> +Their gathered raiment, and the fifer stop<br /> +His dancing notes the pensive drone that chid,<br /> +And as they wander to their dwellings, hid<br /> +By the black shadowed trees, faint melody,<br /> +Mournful and sweet, their soft good-night must be.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Far better spoil the gathering vat bore in</span><br /> +Unto the pressing shed, than midst the din<br /> +Of falling houses in war's waggon lies<br /> +Besmeared with redder stains than Tyrian dyes;<br /> +Or when the temple of the sea-born one<br /> +With glittering crowns and gallant raiment shone,<br /> +Fairer the maidens seemed by no chain bound,<br /> +But such as amorous arms might cast around<br /> +Their lovely bodies, than the wretched band<br /> +Who midst the shipmen by the gangway stand;<br /> +Each lonely in her speechless misery,<br /> +And thinking of the worse time that shall be,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span>When midst of folk who scarce can speak her name,<br /> +She bears the uttermost of toil and shame.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Better to him seemed that victorious crown,</span><br /> +That midst the reverent silence of the town<br /> +He oft would set upon some singer's brow<br /> +Than was the conqueror's diadem, blest now<br /> +By lying priests, soon, bent and bloody, hung<br /> +Within the thorn by linnets well besung,<br /> +Who think but little of the corpse beneath,<br /> +Though ancient lands have trembled at his breath.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But to this King—fair Ceres' gifts, the days</span><br /> +Whereon men sung in flushed Lyæus' praise<br /> +Tales of old time, the bloodless sacrifice<br /> +Unto the goddess of the downcast eyes<br /> +And soft persuading lips, the ringing lyre<br /> +Unto the bearer of the holy fire<br /> +Who once had been amongst them—things like these<br /> +Seemed meet to him men's yearning to appease,<br /> +These were the triumphs of the peaceful king.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And so, betwixt seed-time and harvesting,</span><br /> +With little fear his life must pass away;<br /> +And for the rest, he, from the self-same day<br /> +That the god left him, seemed to have some share<br /> +In that same godhead he had harboured there:<br /> +In all things grew his wisdom and his wealth,<br /> +And folk beholding the fair state and health<br /> +Wherein his land was, said, that now at last<br /> +A fragment of the Golden Age was cast<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span>Over the place, for there was no debate,<br /> +And men forgot the very name of hate.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nor failed the love of her he erst had won</span><br /> +To hold his heart as still the years wore on,<br /> +And she, no whit less fair than on the day<br /> +When from Iolchos first she passed away,<br /> +Did all his will as though he were a god,<br /> +And loving still, the downward way she trod.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Honour and love, plenty and peace, he had;</span><br /> +Nor lacked for aught that makes a wise man glad,<br /> +That makes him like a rich well-honoured guest<br /> +Scarce sorry when the time comes, for the rest,<br /> +That at the end perforce must bow his head.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And yet—was death not much rememberéd,</span><br /> +As still with happy men the manner is?<br /> +Or, was he not so pleased with this world's bliss,<br /> +As to be sorry when the time should come<br /> +When but his name should hold his ancient home<br /> +While he dwelt nowhere? either way indeed,<br /> +Will be enough for most men's daily need,<br /> +And with calm faces they may watch the world,<br /> +And note men's lives hither and thither hurled,<br /> +As folk may watch the unfolding of a play—<br /> +Nor this, nor that was King Admetus' way,<br /> +For neither midst the sweetness of his life<br /> +Did he forget the ending of the strife,<br /> +Nor yet for heavy thoughts of passing pain<br /> +Did all his life seem lost to him or vain,<br /> +A wasteful jest of Jove, an empty dream;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span>Rather before him did a vague hope gleam,<br /> +That made him a great-hearted man and wise,<br /> +Who saw the deeds of men with far-seeing eyes,<br /> +And dealt them pitying justice still, as though<br /> +The inmost heart of each man he did know;<br /> +This hope it was, and not his kingly place<br /> +That made men's hearts rejoice to see his face<br /> +Rise in the council hall; through this, men felt<br /> +That in their midst a son of man there dwelt<br /> +Like and unlike them, and their friend through all;<br /> +And still as time went on, the more would fall<br /> +This glory on the King's belovéd head,<br /> +And round his life fresh hope and fear were shed.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet at the last his good days passed away,</span><br /> +And sick upon his bed Admetus lay,<br /> +'Twixt him and death nought but a lessening veil<br /> +Of hasty minutes, yet did hope not fail,<br /> +Nor did bewildering fear torment him then,<br /> +But still as ever, all the ways of men<br /> +Seemed dear to him: but he, while yet his breath<br /> +Still held the gateway 'gainst the arms of death,<br /> +Turned to his wife, who, bowed beside the bed,<br /> +Wept for his love, and dying goodlihead,<br /> +And bade her put all folk from out the room,<br /> +Then going to the treasury's rich gloom<br /> +To bear the arrows forth, the Lycian's gift.<br /> +So she, amidst her blinding tears, made shift<br /> +To find laid in the inmost treasury<br /> +Those shafts, and brought them unto him, but he,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span>Beholding them, beheld therewith his life,<br /> +Both that now past, with many marvels rife,<br /> +And that which he had hoped he yet should see.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then spoke he faintly, "Love, 'twixt thee and me</span><br /> +A film has come, and I am failing fast:<br /> +And now our ancient happy life is past;<br /> +For either this is death's dividing hand,<br /> +And all is done, or if the shadowy land<br /> +I yet escape, full surely if I live<br /> +The god with life some other gift will give,<br /> +And change me unto thee: e'en at this tide<br /> +Like a dead man among you all I bide,<br /> +Until I once again behold my guest,<br /> +And he has given me either life or rest:<br /> +Alas, my love! that thy too loving heart<br /> +Nor with my life or death can have a part.<br /> +O cruel words! yet death is cruel too:<br /> +Stoop down and kiss me, for I yearn for you<br /> +E'en as the autumn yearneth for the sun."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"O love, a little time we have been one,</span><br /> +And if we now are twain weep not therefore;<br /> +For many a man on earth desireth sore<br /> +To have some mate upon the toilsome road,<br /> +Some sharer of his still increasing load,<br /> +And yet for all his longing and his pain<br /> +His troubled heart must seek for love in vain,<br /> +And till he dies still must he be alone—<br /> +But now, although our love indeed is gone,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span>Yet to this land as thou art leal and true<br /> +Set now thine hand to what I bid thee do,<br /> +Because I may not die; rake up the brands<br /> +Upon the hearth, and from these trembling hands<br /> +Cast incense thereon, and upon them lay<br /> +These shafts, the relics of a happier day,<br /> +Then watch with me; perchance I may not die,<br /> +Though the supremest hour now draws anigh<br /> +Of life or death—O thou who madest me,<br /> +The only thing on earth alike to thee,<br /> +Why must I be unlike to thee in this?<br /> +Consider, if thou dost not do amiss<br /> +To slay the only thing that feareth death<br /> +Or knows its name, of all things drawing breath<br /> +Upon the earth: see now for no short hour,<br /> +For no half-halting death, to reach me slower<br /> +Than other men, I pray thee—what avail<br /> +To add some trickling grains unto the tale<br /> +Soon told, of minutes thou dost snatch away<br /> +From out the midst of that unending day<br /> +Wherein thou dwellest? rather grant me this<br /> +To right me wherein thou hast done amiss,<br /> +And give me life like thine for evermore."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So murmured he, contending very sore</span><br /> +Against the coming death; but she meanwhile<br /> +Faint with consuming love, made haste to pile<br /> +The brands upon the hearth, and thereon cast<br /> +Sweet incense, and the feathered shafts at last;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span>Then, trembling, back unto the bed she crept,<br /> +And lay down by his side, and no more wept,<br /> +Nay scarce could think of death for very love<br /> +That in her faithful heart for ever strove<br /> +'Gainst fear and grief: but now the incense-cloud<br /> +The old familiar chamber did enshroud,<br /> +And on the very verge of death drawn close<br /> +Wrapt both their weary souls in strange repose,<br /> +That through sweet sleep sent kindly images<br /> +Of simple things; and in the midst of these,<br /> +Whether it were but parcel of their dream,<br /> +Or that they woke to it as some might deem,<br /> +I know not, but the door was opened wide,<br /> +And the King's name a voice long silent cried,<br /> +And Phœbus on the very threshold trod,<br /> +And yet in nothing liker to a god<br /> +Than when he ruled Admetus' herds, for he<br /> +Still wore the homespun coat men used to see<br /> +Among the heifers in the summer morn,<br /> +And round about him hung the herdsman's horn,<br /> +And in his hand he bore the herdsman's spear<br /> +And cornel bow, the prowling dog-wolfs fear,<br /> +Though empty of its shafts the quiver was.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He to the middle of the room did pass,</span><br /> +And said, "Admetus, neither all for nought<br /> +My coming to thee is, nor have I brought<br /> +Good tidings to thee; poor man, thou shalt live<br /> +If any soul for thee sweet life will give<br /> +Enforced by none: for such a sacrifice<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span>Alone the fates can deem a fitting price<br /> +For thy redemption; in no battle-field,<br /> +Maddened by hope of glory life to yield,<br /> +To give it up to heal no city's shame<br /> +In hope of gaining long-enduring fame;<br /> +For whoso dieth for thee must believe<br /> +That thou with shame that last gift wilt receive,<br /> +And strive henceforward with forgetfulness<br /> +The honied draught of thy new life to bless.<br /> +Nay, and moreover such a glorious heart<br /> +Who loves thee well enough with life to part<br /> +But for thy love, with life must lose love too,<br /> +Which e'en when wrapped about in weeds of woe<br /> +Is godlike life indeed to such an one.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"And now behold, three days ere life is done</span><br /> +Do the Fates give thee, and I, even I,<br /> +Upon thy life have shed felicity<br /> +And given thee love of men, that they in turn<br /> +With fervent love of thy dear love might burn.<br /> +The people love thee and thy silk-clad breast,<br /> +Thine open doors have given thee better rest<br /> +Than woods of spears or hills of walls might do.<br /> +And even now in wakefulness and woe<br /> +The city lies, calling to mind thy love<br /> +Wearying with ceaseless prayers the gods above.<br /> +But thou—thine heart is wise enough to know<br /> +That they no whit from their decrees will go."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So saying, swiftly from the room he passed;</span><br /> +But on the world no look Admetus cast,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span>But peacefully turned round unto the wall<br /> +As one who knows that quick death must befall:<br /> +For in his heart he thought, "Indeed too well<br /> +I know what men are, this strange tale to tell<br /> +To those that live with me: yea, they will weep,<br /> +And o'er my tomb most solemn days will keep,<br /> +And in great chronicles will write my name,<br /> +Telling to many an age my deeds and fame.<br /> +For living men such things as this desire,<br /> +And by such ways will they appease the fire<br /> +Of love and grief: but when death comes to stare<br /> +Full in men's faces, and the truth lays bare,<br /> +How can we then have wish for anything,<br /> +But unto life that gives us all to cling?"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So said he, and with closed eyes did await,</span><br /> +Sleeping or waking, the decrees of fate.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But now Alcestis rose, and by the bed</span><br /> +She stood, with wild thoughts passing through her head.<br /> +Dried were her tears, her troubled heart and sore<br /> +Throbbed with the anguish of her love no more.<br /> +A strange look on the dying man she cast,<br /> +Then covered up her face and said, "O past!<br /> +Past the sweet times that I remember well!<br /> +Alas, that such a tale my heart can tell!<br /> +Ah, how I trusted him! what love was mine!<br /> +How sweet to feel his arms about me twine,<br /> +And my heart beat with his! what wealth of bliss<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span>To hear his praises! all to come to this,<br /> +That now I durst not look upon his face,<br /> +Lest in my heart that other thing have place.<br /> +That which I knew not, that which men call hate.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"O me, the bitterness of God and fate!</span><br /> +A little time ago we two were one;<br /> +I had not lost him though his life was done,<br /> +For still was he in me—but now alone<br /> +Through the thick darkness must my soul make moan,<br /> +For I must die: how can I live to bear<br /> +An empty heart about, the nurse of fear?<br /> +How can I live to die some other tide,<br /> +And, dying, hear my loveless name outcried<br /> +About the portals of that weary land<br /> +Whereby my shadowy feet should come to stand.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Alcestis! O Alcestis, hadst thou known</span><br /> +That thou one day shouldst thus be left alone,<br /> +How hadst thou borne a living soul to love!<br /> +Hadst thou not rather lifted hands to Jove,<br /> +To turn thine heart to stone, thy front to brass,<br /> +That through this wondrous world thy soul might pass,<br /> +Well pleased and careless, as Diana goes<br /> +Through the thick woods, all pitiless of those<br /> +Her shafts smite down? Alas! how could it be<br /> +Can a god give a god's delights to thee?<br /> +Nay rather, Jove, but give me once again,<br /> +If for one moment only, that sweet pain<br /> +The love I had while still I thought to live!<br /> +Ah! wilt thou not, since unto thee I give<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span>My life, my hope?—But thou—I come to thee.<br /> +Thou sleepest: O wake not, nor speak to me<br /> +In silence let my last hour pass away,<br /> +And men forget my bitter feeble day."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With that she laid her down upon the bed,</span><br /> +And nestling to him, kissed his weary head,<br /> +And laid his wasted hand upon her breast,<br /> +Yet woke him not; and silence and deep rest<br /> +Fell on that chamber. The night wore away<br /> +Mid gusts of wailing wind, the twilight grey<br /> +Stole o'er the sea, and wrought his wondrous change<br /> +On things unseen by night, by day not strange,<br /> +But now half seen and strange; then came the sun,<br /> +And therewithal the silent world and dun<br /> +Waking, waxed many-coloured, full of sound,<br /> +As men again their heap of troubles found,<br /> +And woke up to their joy or misery.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But there, unmoved by aught, those twain did lie,</span><br /> +Until Admetus' ancient nurse drew near<br /> +Unto the open door, and full of fear<br /> +Beheld them moving not, and as folk dead;<br /> +Then, trembling with her eagerness and dread,<br /> +She cried, "Admetus! art thou dead indeed?<br /> +Alcestis! livest thou my words to heed?<br /> +Alas, alas, for this Thessalian folk!"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But with her piercing cry the King awoke,</span><br /> +And round about him wildly 'gan to stare,<br /> +As a bewildered man who knows not where<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span>He has awakened: but not thin or wan<br /> +His face was now, as of a dying man,<br /> +But fresh and ruddy; and his eyes shone clear,<br /> +As of a man who much of life may bear.<br /> +And at the first, but joy and great surprise<br /> +Shone out from those awakened, new-healed eyes;<br /> +But as for something more at last he yearned,<br /> +Unto his love with troubled brow he turned,<br /> +For still she seemed to sleep: alas, alas!<br /> +Her lonely shadow even now did pass<br /> +Along the changeless fields, oft looking back,<br /> +As though it yet had thought of some great lack.<br /> +And here, the hand just fallen from off his breast<br /> +Was cold; and cold the bosom his hand pressed.<br /> +And even as the colour lit the day<br /> +The colour from her lips had waned away;<br /> +Yet still, as though that longed-for happiness<br /> +Had come again her faithful heart to bless,<br /> +Those white lips smiled, unwrinkled was her brow,<br /> +But of her eyes no secrets might he know,<br /> +For, hidden by the lids of ivory,<br /> +Had they beheld that death a-drawing nigh.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then o'er her dead corpse King Admetus hung,</span><br /> +Such sorrow in his heart as his faint tongue<br /> +Refused to utter; yet the just-past night<br /> +But dimly he remembered, and the sight<br /> +Of the Far-darter, and the dreadful word<br /> +That seemed to cleave all hope as with a sword:<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span>Yet stronger in his heart a knowledge grew,<br /> +That nought it was but her fond heart and true<br /> +That all the marvel for his love had wrought,<br /> +Whereby from death to life he had been brought;<br /> +That dead, his life she was, as she had been<br /> +His life's delight while still she lived a queen.<br /> +And he fell wondering if his life were gain,<br /> +So wrapt as then in loneliness and pain;<br /> +Yet therewithal no tears would fill his eyes,<br /> +For as a god he was.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">Then did he rise</span><br /> +And gat him down unto the Council-place,<br /> +And when the people saw his well-loved face<br /> +Then cried aloud for joy to see him there.<br /> +And earth again to them seemed blest and fair.<br /> +And though indeed they did lament in turn,<br /> +When of Alcestis' end they came to learn,<br /> +Scarce was it more than seeming, or, at least,<br /> +The silence in the middle of a feast,<br /> +When men have memory of their heroes slain.<br /> +So passed the order of the world again,<br /> +Victorious Summer crowning lusty Spring,<br /> +Rich Autumn faint with wealth of harvesting,<br /> +And Winter the earth's sleep; and then again<br /> +Spring, Summer, Autumn, and the Winter's pain:<br /> +And still and still the same the years went by.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But Time, who slays so many a memory,</span><br /> +Brought hers to light, the short-lived loving Queen;<br /> +And her fair soul, as scent of flowers unseen,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span>Sweetened the turmoil of long centuries.<br /> +For soon, indeed, Death laid his hand on these,<br /> +The shouters round the throne upon that day.<br /> +And for Admetus, he, too, went his way,<br /> +Though if he died at all I cannot tell;<br /> +But either on the earth he ceased to dwell,<br /> +Or else, oft born again, had many a name.<br /> +But through all lands of Greece Alcestis' fame<br /> +Grew greater, and about her husband's twined<br /> +Lived, in the hearts of far-off men enshrined.<br /> +See I have told her tale, though I know not<br /> +What men are dwelling now on that green spot<br /> +Anigh Bœbeis, or if Pheræ still,<br /> +With name oft changed perchance, adown the hill<br /> +Still shows its white walls to the rising sun.<br /> +—The gods at least remember what is done.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">S</span><span class="caps">trange</span> felt the wanderers at his tale, for now</span><br /> +Their old desires it seemed once more to show<br /> +Unto their altered hearts, when now the rest,<br /> +Most surely coming, of all things seemed best;—<br /> +—Unless, by death perchance they yet might gain<br /> +Some space to try such deeds as now in vain<br /> +They heard of amidst stories of the past;<br /> +Such deeds as they for that wild hope had cast<br /> +From out their hands—they sighed to think of it,<br /> +And how as deedless men they there must sit.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet, with the measured falling of that rhyme</span><br /> +Mingled the lovely sights and glorious time,<br /> +Whereby, in spite of hope long past away,<br /> +In spite of knowledge growing day by day<br /> +Of lives so wasted, in despite of death,<br /> +With sweet content that eve they drew their breath,<br /> +And scarce their own lives seemed to touch them more<br /> +Than that dead Queen's beside Bœbéis' shore;<br /> +Bitter and sweet so mingled in them both,<br /> +Their lives and that old tale, they had been loth,<br /> +Perchance, to have them told another way.—<br /> +So passed the sun from that fair summer day.</p></div> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">J</span><span class="caps">une</span> drew unto its end, the hot bright days</span><br /> +Now gat from men as much of blame as praise,<br /> +As rainless still they passed, without a cloud,<br /> +And growing grey at last, the barley bowed<br /> +Before the south-east wind. On such a day<br /> +These folk amid the trellised roses lay,<br /> +And careless for a little while at least,<br /> +Crowned with the mingled blossoms held their feast:<br /> +Nor did the garden lack for younger folk,<br /> +Who cared no more for burning summer's yoke<br /> +Than the sweet breezes of the April-tide;<br /> +But through the thick trees wandered far and wide<br /> +From sun to shade, and shade to sun again,<br /> +Until they deemed the elders would be fain<br /> +To hear the tale, and shadows longer grew:<br /> +Then round about the grave old men they drew,<br /> +Both youths and maidens; and beneath their feet<br /> +The grass seemed greener, and the flowers more sweet<br /> +Unto the elders, as they stood around.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So through the calm air soon arose the sound</span><br /> +Of one old voice as now a Wanderer spoke.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span>"O friends, and ye, fair loving gentle folk,<br /> +Would I could better tell a tale to-day;<br /> +But hark to this, which while our good ship lay<br /> +Within the Weser such a while agone,<br /> +A Fleming told me, as we sat alone<br /> +One Sunday evening in the Rose-garland,<br /> +And all the other folk were gone a-land<br /> +After their pleasure, like sea-faring men.<br /> +Surely I deem it no great wonder then<br /> +That I remember everything he said,<br /> +Since from that Sunday eve strange fortune led<br /> +That keel and me on such a weary way—<br /> +Well, at the least it serveth you to-day."</p></div> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE LADY OF THE LAND.</h2> + +<h3>ARGUMENT.</h3> + +<p class="hang">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.</p> +<p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">I</span><span class="caps">t</span> happened once, some men of Italy</span><br /> +Midst the Greek Islands went a sea-roving,<br /> +And much good fortune had they on the sea:<br /> +Of many a man they had the ransoming,<br /> +And many a chain they gat, and goodly thing;<br /> +And midst their voyage to an isle they came,<br /> +Whereof my story keepeth not the name.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now though but little was there left to gain,</span><br /> +Because the richer folk had gone away,<br /> +Yet since by this of water they were fain<br /> +They came to anchor in a land-locked bay,<br /> +Whence in a while some went ashore to play,<br /> +Going but lightly armed in twos or threes,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span>For midst that folk they feared no enemies.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And of these fellows that thus went ashore,</span><br /> +One was there who left all his friends behind;<br /> +Who going inland ever more and more,<br /> +And being left quite alone, at last did find<br /> +A lonely valley sheltered from the wind,<br /> +Wherein, amidst an ancient cypress wood,<br /> +A long-deserted ruined castle stood.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The wood, once ordered in fair grove and glade,</span><br /> +With gardens overlooked by terraces,<br /> +And marble-pavéd pools for pleasure made,<br /> +Was tangled now, and choked with fallen trees;<br /> +And he who went there, with but little ease<br /> +Must stumble by the stream's side, once made meet<br /> +For tender women's dainty wandering feet.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The raven's croak, the low wind choked and drear,</span><br /> +The baffled stream, the grey wolf's doleful cry,<br /> +Were all the sounds that mariner could hear,<br /> +As through the wood he wandered painfully;<br /> +But as unto the house he drew anigh,<br /> +The pillars of a ruined shrine he saw,<br /> +The once fair temple of a fallen law.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">No image was there left behind to tell</span><br /> +Before whose face the knees of men had bowed;<br /> +An altar of black stone, of old wrought well,<br /> +Alone beneath a ruined roof now showed<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span>The goal whereto the folk were wont to crowd,<br /> +Seeking for things forgotten long ago,<br /> +Praying for heads long ages laid a-low.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Close to the temple was the castle-gate,</span><br /> +Doorless and crumbling; there our fellow turned,<br /> +Trembling indeed at what might chance to wait<br /> +The prey entrapped, yet with a heart that burned<br /> +To know the most of what might there be learned,<br /> +And hoping somewhat too, amid his fear,<br /> +To light on such things as all men hold dear.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Noble the house was, nor seemed built for war,</span><br /> +But rather like the work of other days,<br /> +When men, in better peace than now they are,<br /> +Had leisure on the world around to gaze,<br /> +And noted well the past times' changing ways;<br /> +And fair with sculptured stories it was wrought,<br /> +By lapse of time unto dim ruin brought.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now as he looked about on all these things,</span><br /> +And strove to read the mouldering histories,<br /> +Above the door an image with wide wings,<br /> +Whose unclad limbs a serpent seemed to seize,<br /> +He dimly saw, although the western breeze,<br /> +And years of biting frost and washing rain,<br /> +Had made the carver's labour well-nigh vain.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But this, though perished sore, and worn away,</span><br /> +He noted well, because it seemed to be,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span>After the fashion of another day,<br /> +Some great man's badge of war, or armoury,<br /> +And round it a carved wreath he seemed to see;<br /> +But taking note of these things, at the last<br /> +The mariner beneath the gateway passed.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And there a lovely cloistered court he found,</span><br /> +A fountain in the midst o'erthrown and dry,<br /> +And in the cloister briers twining round<br /> +The slender shafts; the wondrous imagery<br /> +Outworn by more than many years gone by,<br /> +Because the country people, in their fear<br /> +Of wizardry, had wrought destruction here;<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And piteously these fair things had been maimed;</span><br /> +There stood great Jove, lacking his head of might;<br /> +Here was the archer, swift Apollo, lamed;<br /> +The shapely limbs of Venus hid from sight<br /> +By weeds and shards; Diana's ankles light<br /> +Bound with the cable of some coasting ship;<br /> +And rusty nails through Helen's maddening lip.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Therefrom unto the chambers did he pass,</span><br /> +And found them fair still, midst of their decay,<br /> +Though in them now no sign of man there was,<br /> +And everything but stone had passed away<br /> +That made them lovely in that vanished day;<br /> +Nay, the mere walls themselves would soon be gone<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span>And nought be left but heaps of mouldering stone.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But he, when all the place he had gone o'er.</span><br /> +And with much trouble clomb the broken stair,<br /> +And from the topmost turret seen the shore<br /> +And his good ship drawn up at anchor there,<br /> +Came down again, and found a crypt most fair<br /> +Built wonderfully beneath the greatest hall,<br /> +And there he saw a door within the wall,<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Well-hinged, close shut; nor was there in that place</span><br /> +Another on its hinges, therefore he<br /> +Stood there and pondered for a little space,<br /> +And thought, "Perchance some marvel I shall see,<br /> +For surely here some dweller there must be,<br /> +Because this door seems whole, and new, and sound.<br /> +While nought but ruin I can see around."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So with that word, moved by a strong desire,</span><br /> +He tried the hasp, that yielded to his hand,<br /> +And in a strange place, lit as by a fire<br /> +Unseen but near, he presently did stand;<br /> +And by an odorous breeze his face was fanned,<br /> +As though in some Arabian plain he stood,<br /> +Anigh the border of a spice-tree wood.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He moved not for awhile, but looking round,</span><br /> +He wondered much to see the place so fair,<br /> +Because, unlike the castle above ground,<br /> +No pillager or wrecker had been there;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span>It seemed that time had passed on otherwhere,<br /> +Nor laid a finger on this hidden place,<br /> +Rich with the wealth of some forgotten race.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With hangings, fresh as when they left the loom,</span><br /> +The walls were hung a space above the head,<br /> +Slim ivory chairs were set about the room,<br /> +And in one corner was a dainty bed,<br /> +That seemed for some fair queen apparelléd;<br /> +And marble was the worst stone of the floor,<br /> +That with rich Indian webs was covered o'er.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The wanderer trembled when he saw all this,</span><br /> +Because he deemed by magic it was wrought;<br /> +Yet in his heart a longing for some bliss,<br /> +Whereof the hard and changing world knows nought,<br /> +Arose and urged him on, and dimmed the thought<br /> +That there perchance some devil lurked to slay<br /> +The heedless wanderer from the light of day.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Over against him was another door</span><br /> +Set in the wall, so, casting fear aside,<br /> +With hurried steps he crossed the varied floor,<br /> +And there again the silver latch he tried<br /> +And with no pain the door he opened wide,<br /> +And entering the new chamber cautiously<br /> +The glory of great heaps of gold could see.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Upon the floor uncounted medals lay,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span>Like things of little value; here and there<br /> +Stood golden caldrons, that might well outweigh<br /> +The biggest midst an emperor's copper-ware,<br /> +And golden cups were set on tables fair,<br /> +Themselves of gold; and in all hollow things<br /> +Were stored great gems, worthy the crowns of kings.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The walls and roof with gold were overlaid,</span><br /> +And precious raiment from the wall hung down;<br /> +The fall of kings that treasure might have stayed,<br /> +Or gained some longing conqueror great renown,<br /> +Or built again some god-destroyed old town;<br /> +What wonder, if this plunderer of the sea<br /> +Stood gazing at it long and dizzily?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But at the last his troubled eyes and dazed</span><br /> +He lifted from the glory of that gold,<br /> +And then the image, that well-nigh erased<br /> +Over the castle-gate he did behold,<br /> +Above a door well wrought in coloured gold<br /> +Again he saw; a naked girl with wings<br /> +Enfolded in a serpent's scaly rings.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And even as his eyes were fixed on it</span><br /> +A woman's voice came from the other side,<br /> +And through his heart strange hopes began to flit<br /> +That in some wondrous land he might abide<br /> +Not dying, master of a deathless bride,<br /> +So o'er the gold which now he scarce could see<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span>He went, and passed this last door eagerly.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then in a room he stood wherein there was</span><br /> +A marble bath, whose brimming water yet<br /> +Was scarcely still; a vessel of green glass<br /> +Half full of odorous ointment was there set<br /> +Upon the topmost step that still was wet,<br /> +And jewelled shoes and women's dainty gear,<br /> +Lay cast upon the varied pavement near.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In one quick glance these things his eyes did see,</span><br /> +But speedily they turned round to behold<br /> +Another sight, for throned on ivory<br /> +There sat a woman, whose wet tresses rolled<br /> +On to the floor in waves of gleaming gold,<br /> +Cast back from such a form as, erewhile shown<br /> +To one poor shepherd, lighted up Troy town.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Naked she was, the kisses of her feet</span><br /> +Upon the floor a dying path had made<br /> +From the full bath unto her ivory seat;<br /> +In her right hand, upon her bosom laid,<br /> +She held a golden comb, a mirror weighed<br /> +Her left hand down, aback her fair head lay<br /> +Dreaming awake of some long vanished day.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Her eyes were shut, but she seemed not to sleep,</span><br /> +Her lips were murmuring things unheard and low,<br /> +Or sometimes twitched as though she needs must weep<br /> +Though from her eyes the tears refused to flow,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span>And oft with heavenly red her cheek did glow,<br /> +As if remembrance of some half-sweet shame<br /> +Across the web of many memories came.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">There stood the man, scarce daring to draw breath</span><br /> +For fear the lovely sight should fade away;<br /> +Forgetting heaven, forgetting life and death,<br /> +Trembling for fear lest something he should say<br /> +Unwitting, lest some sob should yet betray<br /> +His presence there, for to his eager eyes<br /> +Already did the tears begin to rise.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But as he gazed she moved, and with a sigh</span><br /> +Bent forward, dropping down her golden head;<br /> +"Alas, alas! another day gone by,<br /> +Another day and no soul come," she said;<br /> +"Another year, and still I am not dead!"<br /> +And with that word once more her head she raised,<br /> +And on the trembling man with great eyes gazed.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then he imploring hands to her did reach,</span><br /> +And toward her very slowly 'gan to move<br /> +And with wet eyes her pity did beseech,<br /> +And seeing her about to speak he strove<br /> +From trembling lips to utter words of love;<br /> +But with a look she stayed his doubtful feet,<br /> +And made sweet music as their eyes did meet.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For now she spoke in gentle voice and clear,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span>Using the Greek tongue that he knew full well;<br /> +"What man art thou, that thus hast wandered here.<br /> +And found this lonely chamber where I dwell?<br /> +Beware, beware! for I have many a spell;<br /> +If greed of power and gold have led thee on,<br /> +Not lightly shall this untold wealth be won.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"But if thou com'st here, knowing of my tale,</span><br /> +In hope to bear away my body fair,<br /> +Stout must thine heart be, nor shall that avail<br /> +If thou a wicked soul in thee dost bear;<br /> +So once again I bid thee to beware,<br /> +Because no base man things like this may see,<br /> +And live thereafter long and happily."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Lady," he said, "in Florence is my home,</span><br /> +And in my city noble is my name;<br /> +Neither on peddling voyage am I come,<br /> +But, like my fathers, bent to gather fame;<br /> +And though thy face has set my heart a-flame<br /> +Yet of thy story nothing do I know,<br /> +But here have wandered heedlessly enow.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"But since the sight of thee mine eyes did bless,</span><br /> +What can I be but thine? what wouldst thou have?<br /> +From those thy words, I deem from some distress<br /> +By deeds of mine thy dear life I might save;<br /> +O then, delay not! if one ever gave<br /> +His life to any, mine I give to thee;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span>Come, tell me what the price of love must be?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Swift death, to be with thee a day and night</span><br /> +And with the earliest dawning to be slain?<br /> +Or better, a long year of great delight,<br /> +And many years of misery and pain?<br /> +Or worse, and this poor hour for all my gain?<br /> +A sorry merchant am I on this day,<br /> +E'en as thou wiliest so must I obey."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">She said, "What brave words! nought divine am I,</span><br /> +But an unhappy and unheard-of maid<br /> +Compelled by evil fate and destiny<br /> +To live, who long ago should have been laid<br /> +Under the earth within the cypress shade.<br /> +Hearken awhile, and quickly shalt thou know<br /> +What deed I pray thee to accomplish now.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"God grant indeed thy words are not for nought!</span><br /> +Then shalt thou save me, since for many a day<br /> +To such a dreadful life I have been brought:<br /> +Nor will I spare with all my heart to pay<br /> +What man soever takes my grief away;<br /> +Ah! I will love thee, if thou lovest me<br /> +But well enough my saviour now to be.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"My father lived a many years agone</span><br /> +Lord of this land, master of all cunning,<br /> +Who ruddy gold could draw from out grey stone,<br /> +And gather wealth from many an uncouth thing,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span>He made the wilderness rejoice and sing,<br /> +And such a leech he was that none could say<br /> +Without his word what soul should pass away.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Unto Diana such a gift he gave,</span><br /> +Goddess above, below, and on the earth,<br /> +That I should be her virgin and her slave<br /> +From the first hour of my most wretched birth;<br /> +Therefore my life had known but little mirth<br /> +When I had come unto my twentieth year<br /> +And the last time of hallowing drew anear.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"So in her temple had I lived and died</span><br /> +And all would long ago have passed away,<br /> +But ere that time came, did strange things betide,<br /> +Whereby I am alive unto this day;<br /> +Alas, the bitter words that I must say!<br /> +Ah! can I bring my wretched tongue to tell<br /> +How I was brought unto this fearful hell.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"A queen I was, what gods I knew I loved,</span><br /> +And nothing evil was there in my thought,<br /> +And yet by love my wretched heart was moved<br /> +Until to utter ruin I was brought!<br /> +Alas! thou sayest our gods were vain and nought,<br /> +Wait, wait, till thou hast heard this tale of mine.<br /> +Then shalt thou think them devilish or divine.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Hearken! in spite of father and of vow</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span>I loved a man; but for that sin I think<br /> +Men had forgiven me—yea, yea, even thou;<br /> +But from the gods the full cup must I drink,<br /> +And into misery unheard of sink,<br /> +Tormented when their own names are forgot,<br /> +And men must doubt e'er if they lived or not.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Glorious my lover was unto my sight,</span><br /> +Most beautiful,—of love we grew so fain<br /> +That we at last agreed, that on a night<br /> +We should be happy, but that he were slain<br /> +Or shut in hold, and neither joy nor pain<br /> +Should else forbid that hoped-for time to be;<br /> +So came the night that made a wretch of me.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Ah I well do I remember all that night,</span><br /> +When through the window shone the orb of June,<br /> +And by the bed flickered the taper's light,<br /> +Whereby I trembled, gazing at the moon:<br /> +Ah me! the meeting that we had, when soon<br /> +Into his strong, well-trusted arms I fell,<br /> +And many a sorrow we began to tell.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Ah me I what parting on that night we had!</span><br /> +I think the story of my great despair<br /> +A little while might merry folk make sad;<br /> +For, as he swept away my yellow hair<br /> +To make my shoulder and my bosom bare,<br /> +I raised mine eyes, and shuddering could behold<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span>A shadow cast upon the bed of gold:<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Then suddenly was quenched my hot desire</span><br /> +And he untwined his arms; the moon so pale<br /> +A while ago, seemed changed to blood and fire,<br /> +And yet my limbs beneath me did not fail,<br /> +And neither had I strength to cry or wail,<br /> +But stood there helpless, bare, and shivering,<br /> +With staring eyes still fixed upon the thing.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Because the shade that on the bed of gold</span><br /> +The changed and dreadful moon was throwing down<br /> +Was of Diana, whom I did behold,<br /> +With knotted hair, and shining girt-up gown,<br /> +And on the high white brow, a deadly frown<br /> +Bent upon us, who stood scarce drawing breath,<br /> +Striving to meet the horrible sure death.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"No word at all the dreadful goddess said,</span><br /> +But soon across my feet my lover lay,<br /> +And well indeed I knew that he was dead;<br /> +And would that I had died on that same day!<br /> +For in a while the image turned away,<br /> +And without words my doom I understood,<br /> +And felt a horror change my human blood.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"And there I fell, and on the floor I lay</span><br /> +By the dead man, till daylight came on me,<br /> +And not a word thenceforward could I say<br /> +For three years, till of grief and misery,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span>The lingering pest, the cruel enemy,<br /> +My father and his folk were dead and gone,<br /> +And in this castle I was left alone:<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"And then the doom foreseen upon me fell,</span><br /> +For Queen Diana did my body change<br /> +Into a fork-tongued dragon flesh and fell,<br /> +And through the island nightly do I range,<br /> +Or in the green sea mate with monsters strange,<br /> +When in the middle of the moonlit night<br /> +The sleepy mariner I do affright.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"But all day long upon this gold I lie</span><br /> +Within this place, where never mason's hand<br /> +Smote trowel on the marble noisily;<br /> +Drowsy I lie, no folk at my command,<br /> +Who once was called the Lady of the Land;<br /> +Who might have bought a kingdom with a kiss,<br /> +Yea, half the world with such a sight as this."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And therewithal, with rosy fingers light,</span><br /> +Backward her heavy-hanging hair she threw,<br /> +To give her naked beauty more to sight;<br /> +But when, forgetting all the things he knew,<br /> +Maddened with love unto the prize he drew,<br /> +She cried, "Nay, wait! for wherefore wilt thou die,<br /> +Why should we not be happy, thou and I?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Wilt thou not save me? once in every year</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span>This rightful form of mine that thou dost see<br /> +By favour of the goddess have I here<br /> +From sunrise unto sunset given me,<br /> +That some brave man may end my misery.<br /> +And thou—art thou not brave? can thy heart fail,<br /> +Whose eyes e'en now are weeping at my tale?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Then listen! when this day is overpast,</span><br /> +A fearful monster shall I be again,<br /> +And thou mayst be my saviour at the last,<br /> +Unless, once more, thy words are nought and vain;<br /> +If thou of love and sovereignty art fain,<br /> +Come thou next morn, and when thou seest here<br /> +A hideous dragon, have thereof no fear,<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"But take the loathsome head up in thine hands,</span><br /> +And kiss it, and be master presently<br /> +Of twice the wealth that is in all the lands,<br /> +From Cathay to the head of Italy;<br /> +And master also, if it pleaseth thee,<br /> +Of all thou praisest as so fresh and bright,<br /> +Of what thou callest crown of all delight.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Ah! with what joy then shall I see again</span><br /> +The sunlight on the green grass and the trees,<br /> +And hear the clatter of the summer rain,<br /> +And see the joyous folk beyond the seas.<br /> +Ah, me! to hold my child upon my knees,<br /> +After the weeping of unkindly tears,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span>And all the wrongs of these four hundred years.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Go now, go quick! leave this grey heap of stone;</span><br /> +And from thy glad heart think upon thy way,<br /> +How I shall love thee—yea, love thee alone,<br /> +That bringest me from dark death unto day;<br /> +For this shall be thy wages and thy pay;<br /> +Unheard-of wealth, unheard-of love is near,<br /> +If thou hast heart a little dread to bear."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Therewith she turned to go; but he cried out,</span><br /> +"Ah! wilt thou leave me then without one kiss,<br /> +To slay the very seeds of fear and doubt,<br /> +That glad to-morrow may bring certain bliss?<br /> +Hast thou forgotten how love lives by this,<br /> +The memory of some hopeful close embrace,<br /> +Low whispered words within some lonely place?"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But she, when his bright glittering eyes she saw,</span><br /> +And burning cheeks, cried out, "Alas, alas!<br /> +Must I be quite undone, and wilt thou draw<br /> +A worse fate on me than the first one was?<br /> +O haste thee from this fatal place to pass!<br /> +Yet, ere thou goest, take this, lest thou shouldst deem<br /> +Thou hast been fooled by some strange midday dream."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So saying, blushing like a new-kissed maid,</span><br /> +From off her neck a little gem she drew,<br /> +That, 'twixt those snowy rose-tinged hillocks laid,<br /> +The secrets of her glorious beauty knew;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span>And ere he well perceived what she would do,<br /> +She touched his hand, the gem within it lay,<br /> +And, turning, from his sight she fled away.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then at the doorway where her rosy heel</span><br /> +Had glanced and vanished, he awhile did stare,<br /> +And still upon his hand he seemed to feel<br /> +The varying kisses of her fingers fair;<br /> +Then turned he toward the dreary crypt and bare,<br /> +And dizzily throughout the castle passed,<br /> +Till by the ruined fane he stood at last.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then weighing still the gem within his hand,</span><br /> +He stumbled backward through the cypress wood,<br /> +Thinking the while of some strange lovely land,<br /> +Where all his life should be most fair and good;<br /> +Till on the valley's wall of hills he stood,<br /> +And slowly thence passed down unto the bay<br /> +Red with the death of that bewildering day.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">T</span><span class="caps">he</span> next day came, and he, who all the night</span><br /> +Had ceaselessly been turning in his bed,<br /> +Arose and clad himself in armour bright,<br /> +And many a danger he rememberéd;<br /> +Storming of towns, lone sieges full of dread,<br /> +That with renown his heart had borne him through,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span>And this thing seemed a little thing to do.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So on he went, and on the way he thought</span><br /> +Of all the glorious things of yesterday,<br /> +Nought of the price whereat they must be bought,<br /> +But ever to himself did softly say,<br /> +"No roaming now, my wars are passed away,<br /> +No long dull days devoid of happiness,<br /> +When such a love my yearning heart shall bless."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thus to the castle did he come at last,</span><br /> +But when unto the gateway he drew near,<br /> +And underneath its ruined archway passed<br /> +Into the court, a strange noise did he hear,<br /> +And through his heart there shot a pang of fear,<br /> +Trembling, he gat his sword into his hand,<br /> +And midmost of the cloisters took his stand.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But for a while that unknown noise increased</span><br /> +A rattling, that with strident roars did blend,<br /> +And whining moans; but suddenly it ceased,<br /> +A fearful thing stood at the cloister's end,<br /> +And eyed him for a while, then 'gan to wend<br /> +Adown the cloisters, and began again<br /> +That rattling, and the moan like fiends in pain.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And as it came on towards him, with its teeth</span><br /> +The body of a slain goat did it tear,<br /> +The blood whereof in its hot jaws did seethe,<br /> +And on its tongue he saw the smoking hair;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span>Then his heart sank, and standing trembling there,<br /> +Throughout his mind wild thoughts and fearful ran,<br /> +"Some fiend she was," he said, "the bane of man."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet he abode her still, although his blood</span><br /> +Curdled within him: the thing dropped the goat,<br /> +And creeping on, came close to where he stood,<br /> +And raised its head to him, and wrinkled throat,<br /> +Then he cried out and wildly at her smote,<br /> +Shutting his eyes, and turned and from the place<br /> +Ran swiftly, with a white and ghastly face.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But little things rough stones and tree-trunks seemed,</span><br /> +And if he fell, he rose and ran on still;<br /> +No more he felt his hurts than if he dreamed,<br /> +He made no stay for valley or steep hill,<br /> +Heedless he dashed through many a foaming rill,<br /> +Until he came unto the ship at last<br /> +And with no word into the deep hold passed.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Meanwhile the dragon, seeing him clean gone.</span><br /> +Followed him not, but crying horribly,<br /> +Caught up within her jaws a block of stone<br /> +And ground it into powder, then turned she,<br /> +With cries that folk could hear far out at sea,<br /> +And reached the treasure set apart of old,<br /> +To brood above the hidden heaps of gold.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet was she seen again on many a day</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span>By some half-waking mariner, or herd,<br /> +Playing amid the ripples of the bay,<br /> +Or on the hills making all things afeard,<br /> +Or in the wood, that did that castle gird,<br /> +But never any man again durst go<br /> +To seek her woman's form, and end her woe.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As for the man, who knows what things he bore?</span><br /> +What mournful faces peopled the sad night,<br /> +What wailings vexed him with reproaches sore,<br /> +What images of that nigh-gained delight!<br /> +What dreamed caresses from soft hands and white,<br /> +Turning to horrors ere they reached the best,<br /> +What struggles vain, what shame, what huge unrest?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">No man he knew, three days he lay and raved,</span><br /> +And cried for death, until a lethargy<br /> +Fell on him, and his fellows thought him saved;<br /> +But on the third night he awoke to die;<br /> +And at Byzantium doth his body lie<br /> +Between two blossoming pomegranate trees,<br /> +Within the churchyard of the Genoese.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">A</span> <span class="caps">moment's</span> silence as his tale had end,</span><br /> +And then the wind of that June night did blend<br /> +Their varied voices, as of that and this<br /> +They fell to talk: of those fair islands' bliss<br /> +They knew in other days, of hope they had<br /> +To live there long an easy life and glad,<br /> +With nought to vex them; and the younger men<br /> +Began to nourish strange dreams even then<br /> +Of sailing east, as these had once sailed west;<br /> +Because the story of that luckless quest<br /> +With hope, not fear, had filled their joyous hearts<br /> +And made them dream of new and noble parts<br /> +That they might act; of raising up the name<br /> +Their fathers bore, and winning boundless fame.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">These too with little patience seemed to hear,</span><br /> +That story end with shame and grief and fear;<br /> +A little thing the man had had to do,<br /> +They said, if longing burned within him so.<br /> +But at their words the older men must bow<br /> +Their heads, and, smiling, somewhat thoughtful grow,<br /> +Remembering well how fear in days gone by<br /> +Had dealt with them, and poisoned wretchedly<br /> +Good days, good deeds, and longings for all good:<br /> +Yet on the evil times they would not brood,<br /> +But sighing, strove to raise the weight of years,<br /> +And no more memory of their hopes and fears<br /> +They nourished, but such gentle thoughts as fed<br /> +The pensiveness which that sweet season bred.</p></div> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span></p> +<h2>JULY.</h2> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">F</span><span class="caps">air</span> was the morn to-day, the blossom's scent</span><br /> +Floated across the fresh grass, and the bees<br /> +With low vexed song from rose to lily went,<br /> +A gentle wind was in the heavy trees,<br /> +And thine eyes shone with joyous memories;<br /> +Fair was the early morn, and fair wert thou,<br /> +And I was happy—Ah, be happy now!<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Peace and content without us, love within</span><br /> +That hour there was, now thunder and wild rain,<br /> +Have wrapped the cowering world, and foolish sin,<br /> +And nameless pride, have made us wise in vain;<br /> +Ah, love! although the morn shall come again,<br /> +And on new rose-buds the new sun shall smile,<br /> +Can we regain what we have lost meanwhile?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">E'en now the west grows clear of storm and threat,</span><br /> +But midst the lightning did the fair sun die—<br /> +—Ah, he shall rise again for ages yet,<br /> +He cannot waste his life—but thou and I—<br /> +Who knows if next morn this felicity<br /> +My lips may feel, or if thou still shalt live<br /> +This seal of love renewed once more to give?</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">W</span><span class="caps">ithin</span> a lovely valley, watered well</span><br /> +With flowery streams, the July feast befell,<br /> +And there within the Chief-priest's fair abode<br /> +They cast aside their trouble's heavy load,<br /> +Scarce made aweary by the sultry day.<br /> +The earth no longer laboured; shaded lay<br /> +The sweet-breathed kine, across the sunny vale,<br /> +From hill to hill the wandering rook did sail,<br /> +Lazily croaking, midst his dreams of spring,<br /> +Nor more awake the pink-foot dove did cling<br /> +Unto the beech-bough, murmuring now and then;<br /> +All rested but the restless sons of men<br /> +And the great sun that wrought this happiness,<br /> +And all the vale with fruitful hopes did bless.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So in a marble chamber bright with flowers,</span><br /> +The old men feasted through the fresher hours,<br /> +And at the hottest time of all the day<br /> +When now the sun was on his downward way,<br /> +Sat listening to a tale an elder told,<br /> +New to his fathers while they yet did hold<br /> +The cities of some far-off Grecian isle,<br /> +Though in the heavens the cloud of force and guile<br /> +Was gathering dark that sent them o'er the sea<br /> +To win new lands for their posterity.</p></div> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE SON OF CRŒSUS.</h2> + +<h3>ARGUMENT.</h3> + +<p class="hang">Crœsus, 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.</p> +<p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">O</span><span class="caps">f</span> Crœsus tells my tale, a king of old</span><br /> +In Lydia, ere the Mede fell on the land,<br /> +A man made mighty by great heaps of gold,<br /> +Feared for the myriads strong of heart and hand<br /> +That 'neath his banners wrought out his command,<br /> +And though his latter ending happed on ill,<br /> +Yet first of every joy he had his fill.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Two sons he had, and one was dumb from birth;</span><br /> +The other one, that Atys had to name,<br /> +Grew up a fair youth, and of might and worth,<br /> +And well it seemed the race wherefrom he came<br /> +From him should never get reproach or shame:<br /> +But yet no stroke he struck before his death,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span>In no war-shout he spent his latest breath.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now Crœsus, lying on his bed anight</span><br /> +Dreamed that he saw this dear son laid a-low,<br /> +And folk lamenting he was slain outright,<br /> +And that some iron thing had dealt the blow;<br /> +By whose hand guided he could nowise know,<br /> +Or if in peace by traitors it were done,<br /> +Or in some open war not yet begun.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Three times one night this vision broke his sleep,</span><br /> +So that at last he rose up from his bed,<br /> +That he might ponder how he best might keep<br /> +The threatened danger from so dear a head;<br /> +And, since he now was old enough to wed,<br /> +The King sent men to search the lands around,<br /> +Until some matchless maiden should be found;<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That in her arms this Atys might forget</span><br /> +The praise of men, and fame of history,<br /> +Whereby full many a field has been made wet<br /> +With blood of men, and many a deep green sea<br /> +Been reddened therewithal, and yet shall be;<br /> +That her sweet voice might drown the people's praise,<br /> +Her eyes make bright the uneventful days.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So when at last a wonder they had brought,</span><br /> +From some sweet land down by the ocean's rim.<br /> +Than whom no fairer could by man be thought,<br /> +And ancient dames, scanning her limb by limb,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span>Had said that she was fair enough for him,<br /> +To her was Atys married with much show,<br /> +And looked to dwell with her in bliss enow.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And in meantime afield he never went,</span><br /> +Either to hunting or the frontier war,<br /> +No dart was cast, nor any engine bent<br /> +Anigh him, and the Lydian men afar<br /> +Must rein their steeds, and the bright blossoms mar<br /> +If they have any lust of tourney now,<br /> +And in far meadows must they bend the bow.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And also through the palace everywhere</span><br /> +The swords and spears were taken from the wall<br /> +That long with honour had been hanging there,<br /> +And from the golden pillars of the hall;<br /> +Lest by mischance some sacred blade should fall,<br /> +And in its falling bring revenge at last<br /> +For many a fatal battle overpast.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And every day King Crœsus wrought with care</span><br /> +To save his dear son from that threatened end,<br /> +And many a beast he offered up with prayer<br /> +Unto the gods, and much of wealth did spend,<br /> +That they so prayed might yet perchance defend<br /> +That life, until at least that he were dead,<br /> +With earth laid heavy on his unseeing head.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But in the midst even of the wedding feast</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span>There came a man, who by the golden hall<br /> +Sat down upon the steps, and man or beast<br /> +He heeded not, but there against the wall<br /> +He leaned his head, speaking no word at all,<br /> +Till, with his son and son's wife, came the King,<br /> +And then unto his gown the man did cling.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"What man art thou?" the King said to him then,</span><br /> +"That in such guise thou prayest on thy knee;<br /> +Hast thou some fell foe here among my men?<br /> +Or hast thou done an ill deed unto me?<br /> +Or has thy wife been carried over sea?<br /> +Or hast thou on this day great need of gold?<br /> +Or say, why else thou now art grown so bold."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"O King," he said, "I ask no gold to-day,</span><br /> +And though indeed thy greatness drew me here,<br /> +No wrong have I that thou couldst wipe away;<br /> +And nought of mine the pirate folk did bear<br /> +Across the sea; none of thy folk I fear:<br /> +But all the gods are now mine enemies,<br /> +Therefore I kneel before thee on my knees.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"For as with mine own brother on a day</span><br /> +Within the running place at home I played,<br /> +Unwittingly I smote him such-a-way<br /> +That dead upon the green grass he was laid;<br /> +Half-dead myself I fled away dismayed,<br /> +Wherefore I pray thee help me in my need,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span>And purify my soul of this sad deed.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"If of my name and country thou wouldst know,</span><br /> +In Phrygia yet my father is a king,<br /> +Gordius, the son of Midas, rich enow<br /> +In corn and cattle, golden cup and ring;<br /> +And mine own name before I did this thing<br /> +Was called Adrastus, whom, in street and hall,<br /> +The slayer of his brother men now call."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Friend," said the King, "have thou no fear of me;</span><br /> +For though, indeed, I am right happy now,<br /> +Yet well I know this may not always be,<br /> +And I may chance some day to kneel full low,<br /> +And to some happy man mine head to bow<br /> +With prayers to do a greater thing than this,<br /> +Dwell thou with us, and win again thy bliss.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"For in this city men in sport and play</span><br /> +Forget the trouble that the gods have sent;<br /> +Who therewithal send wine, and many a may<br /> +As fair as she for whom the Trojan went,<br /> +And many a dear delight besides have lent,<br /> +Which, whoso is well loved of them shall keep<br /> +Till in forgetful death he falls asleep.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Therefore to-morrow shall those rites be done</span><br /> +That kindred blood demands that thou hast shed,<br /> +That if the mouth of thine own mother's son<br /> +Did hap to curse thee ere he was quite dead,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span>The curse may lie the lighter on thine head,<br /> +Because the flower-crowned head of many a beast<br /> +Has fallen voiceless in our glorious feast."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then did Adrastus rise and thank the King,</span><br /> +And the next day when yet low was the sun,<br /> +The sacrifice and every other thing<br /> +That unto these dread rites belonged, was done;<br /> +And there Adrastus dwelt, hated of none,<br /> +And loved of many, and the King loved him,<br /> +For brave and wise he was and strong of limb.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But chiefly amongst all did Atys love</span><br /> +The luckless stranger, whose fair tales of war<br /> +The Lydian's heart abundantly did move,<br /> +And much they talked of wandering out afar<br /> +Some day, to lands where many marvels are,<br /> +With still the Phrygian through all things to be<br /> +The leader unto all felicity.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now at this time folk came unto the King</span><br /> +Who on a forest's borders dwelling were,<br /> +Wherein there roamed full many a dangerous thing,<br /> +As wolf and wild bull, lion and brown bear;<br /> +But chiefly in that forest was the lair<br /> +Of a great boar that no man could withstand.<br /> +And many a woe he wrought upon the land.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Since long ago that men in Calydon</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span>Held chase, no beast like him had once been seen<br /> +He ruined vineyards lying in the sun,<br /> +After his harvesting the men must glean<br /> +What he had left; right glad they had not been<br /> +Among the tall stalks of the ripening wheat,<br /> +The fell destroyer's fatal tusks to meet.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For often would the lonely man entrapped</span><br /> +In vain from his dire fury strive to hide<br /> +In some thick hedge, and other whiles it happed<br /> +Some careless stranger by his place would ride,<br /> +And the tusks smote his fallen horse's side,<br /> +And what help then to such a wretch could come<br /> +With sword he could not draw, and far from home?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or else girls, sent their water-jars to fill,</span><br /> +Would come back pale, too terrified to cry,<br /> +Because they had but seen him from the hill;<br /> +Or else again with side rent wretchedly,<br /> +Some hapless damsel midst the brake would lie.<br /> +Shortly to say, there neither man nor maid<br /> +Was safe afield whether they wrought or played.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Therefore were come these dwellers by the wood</span><br /> +To pray the King brave men to them to send,<br /> +That they might live; and if he deemed it good,<br /> +That Atys with the other knights should wend,<br /> +They thought their grief the easier should have end;<br /> +For both by gods and men they knew him loved,<br /> +And easily by hope of glory moved.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"O Sire," they said, "thou know'st how Hercules</span><br /> +Was not content to wait till folk asked aid,<br /> +But sought the pests among their guarded trees;<br /> +Thou know'st what name the Theban Cadmus made,<br /> +And how the bull of Marathon was laid<br /> +Dead on the fallows of the Athenian land,<br /> +And how folk worshipped Atalanta's hand.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Fair would thy son's name look upon the roll</span><br /> +Wherein such noble deeds as this are told;<br /> +And great delight shall surely fill thy soul,<br /> +Thinking upon his deeds when thou art old,<br /> +And thy brave heart is waxen faint and cold:<br /> +Dost thou not know, O King, how men will strive<br /> +That they, when dead, still in their sons may live?"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He shuddered as they spoke, because he thought,</span><br /> +Most certainly a winning tale is this<br /> +To draw him from the net where he is caught,<br /> +For hearts of men grow weary of all bliss;<br /> +Nor is he one to be content with his,<br /> +If he should hear the trumpet-blast of fame<br /> +And far-off people calling on his name.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Good friends," he said, "go, get ye back again.</span><br /> +And doubt not I will send you men to slay<br /> +This pest ye fear: yet shall your prayer be vain<br /> +If ye with any other speak to-day;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span>And for my son, with me he needs must stay,<br /> +For mighty cares oppress the Lydian land.<br /> +Fear not, for ye shall have a noble band."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And with that promise must they be content,</span><br /> +And so departed, having feasted well.<br /> +And yet some god or other ere they went,<br /> +If they were silent, this their tale must tell<br /> +To more than one man; therefore it befell,<br /> +That at the last Prince Atys knew the thing,<br /> +And came with angry eyes unto the King.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Father," he said, "since when am I grown vile</span><br /> +Since when am I grown helpless of my hands?<br /> +Or else what folk, with words enwrought with guile<br /> +Thine ears have poisoned; that when far-off lands<br /> +My fame might fill, by thy most strange commands<br /> +I needs must stay within this slothful home,<br /> +Whereto would God that I had never come?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"What! wilt thou take mine honour quite away</span><br /> +Wouldst thou, that, as with her I just have wed<br /> +I sit among thy folk at end of day,<br /> +She should be ever turning round her head<br /> +To watch some man for war apparelled<br /> +Because he wears a sword that he may use,<br /> +Which grace to me thou ever wilt refuse?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Or dost thou think, when thou hast run thy race</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span>And thou art gone, and in thy stead I reign,<br /> +The people will do honour to my place,<br /> +Or that the lords leal men will still remain,<br /> +If yet my father's sword be sharp in vain?<br /> +If on the wall his armour still hang up,<br /> +While for a spear I hold a drinking-cup?"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"O Son!" quoth Crœsus, "well I know thee brave</span><br /> +And worthy of high deeds of chivalry;<br /> +Therefore the more thy dear life would I save,<br /> +Which now is threatened by the gods on high;<br /> +Three times one night I dreamed I saw thee die,<br /> +Slain by some deadly iron-pointed thing,<br /> +While weeping lords stood round thee in a ring."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then loud laughed Atys, and he said again,</span><br /> +"Father, and did this ugly dream tell thee<br /> +What day it was on which I should be slain?<br /> +As may the gods grant I may one day be,<br /> +And not from sickness die right wretchedly,<br /> +Groaning with pain, my lords about my bed,<br /> +Wishing to God that I were fairly dead;<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"But slain in battle, as the Lydian kings</span><br /> +Have died ere now, in some great victory,<br /> +While all about the Lydian shouting rings<br /> +Death to the beaten foemen as they fly.<br /> +What death but this, O father! should I die?<br /> +But if my life by iron shall be done,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span>What steel to-day shall glitter in the sun?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Yea, father, if to thee it seemeth good</span><br /> +To keep me from the bright steel-bearing throng,<br /> +Let me be brave at least within the wood;<br /> +For surely, if thy dream be true, no wrong<br /> +Can hap to me from this beast's tushes strong:<br /> +Unless perchance the beast is grown so wise,<br /> +He haunts the forest clad in Lydian guise."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then Crœsus said: "O Son, I love thee so,</span><br /> +That thou shalt do thy will upon this tide:<br /> +But since unto this hunting thou must go,<br /> +A trusty friend along with thee shall ride,<br /> +Who not for anything shall leave thy side.<br /> +I think, indeed, he loves thee well enow<br /> +To thrust his heart 'twixt thee and any blow.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Go then, O Son, and if by some short span</span><br /> +Thy life be measured, how shall it harm thee,<br /> +If while life last thou art a happy man?<br /> +And thou art happy; only unto me<br /> +Is trembling left, and infelicity:<br /> +The trembling of the man who loves on earth,<br /> +But unto thee is hope and present mirth.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Nay, be thou not ashamed, for on this day</span><br /> +I fear not much: thou read'st my dream aright,<br /> +No teeth or claws shall take thy life away.<br /> +And it may chance, ere thy last glorious fight,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span>I shall be blinded by the endless night;<br /> +And brave Adrastus on this day shall be<br /> +Thy safeguard, and shall give good heart to me.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Go then, and send him hither, and depart;</span><br /> +And as the heroes did so mayst thou do,<br /> +Winning such fame as well may please thine heart."<br /> +With that word from the King did Atys go,<br /> +Who, left behind, sighed, saying, "May it be so,<br /> +Even as I hope; and yet I would to God<br /> +These men upon my threshold ne'er had trod."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So when Adrastus to the King was come</span><br /> +He said unto him, "O my Phrygian friend,<br /> +We in this land have given thee a home,<br /> +And 'gainst all foes your life will we defend:<br /> +Wherefore for us that life thou shouldest spend,<br /> +If any day there should be need therefor;<br /> +And now a trusty friend I need right sore.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Doubtless ere now thou hast heard many say</span><br /> +There is a doom that threatens my son's life;<br /> +Therefore this place is stript of arms to-day,<br /> +And therefore still bides Atys with his wife,<br /> +And tempts not any god by raising strife;<br /> +Yet none the less by no desire of his,<br /> +To whom would war be most abundant bliss.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"And since to-day some glory he may gain</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span>Against a monstrous bestial enemy<br /> +And that the meaning of my dream is plain;<br /> +That saith that he by steel alone shall die,<br /> +His burning wish I may not well deny,<br /> +Therefore afield to-morrow doth he wend<br /> +And herein mayst thou show thyself my friend—<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"For thou as captain of his band shalt ride,</span><br /> +And keep a watchful eye of everything,<br /> +Nor leave him whatsoever may betide:<br /> +Lo, thou art brave, the son of a great king,<br /> +And with thy praises doth this city ring,<br /> +Why should I tell thee what a name those gain,<br /> +Who dying for their friends, die not in vain?"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then said Adrastus, "Now were I grown base</span><br /> +Beyond all words, if I should spare for aught<br /> +In guarding him, so sit with smiling face,<br /> +And of this matter take no further thought,<br /> +Because with my life shall his life be bought,<br /> +If ill should hap; and no ill fate it were,<br /> +If I should die for what I hold so dear."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then went Adrastus, and next morn all things,</span><br /> +That 'longed unto the hunting were well dight,<br /> +And forth they went clad as the sons of kings,<br /> +Fair was the morn, as through the sunshine bright<br /> +They rode, the Prince half wild with great delight,<br /> +The Phrygian smiling on him soberly,<br /> +And ever looking round with watchful eye.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So through the city all the rout rode fast,</span><br /> +With many a great black-muzzled yellow hound;<br /> +And then the teeming country-side they passed,<br /> +Until they came to sour and rugged ground,<br /> +And there rode up a little heathy mound,<br /> +That overlooked the scrubby woods and low,<br /> +That of the beast's lair somewhat they might know.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And there a good man of the country-side</span><br /> +Showed them the places where he mostly lay;<br /> +And they, descending, through the wood did ride,<br /> +And followed on his tracks for half the day.<br /> +And at the last they brought him well to bay,<br /> +Within an oozy space amidst the wood,<br /> +About the which a ring of alders stood.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So when the hounds' changed voices clear they heard</span><br /> +With hearts aflame on towards him straight they drew<br /> +Atys the first of all, of nought afeard,<br /> +Except that folk should say some other slew<br /> +The beast; and lustily his horn he blew,<br /> +Going afoot; then, mighty spear in hand,<br /> +Adrastus headed all the following band.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now when they came unto the plot of ground</span><br /> +Where stood the boar, hounds dead about him lay<br /> +Or sprawled about, bleeding from many a wound,<br /> +But still the others held him well at bay,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span>Nor had he been bestead thus ere that day.<br /> +But yet, seeing Atys, straight he rushed at him,<br /> +Speckled with foam, bleeding in flank and limb.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then Atys stood and cast his well-steeled spear</span><br /> +With a great shout, and straight and well it flew;<br /> +For now the broad blade cutting through the ear,<br /> +A stream of blood from out the shoulder drew.<br /> +And therewithal another, no less true,<br /> +Adrastus cast, whereby the boar had died:<br /> +But Atys drew the bright sword from his side,<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And to the tottering beast he drew anigh:</span><br /> +But as the sun's rays ran adown the blade<br /> +Adrastus threw a javelin hastily,<br /> +For of the mighty beast was he afraid,<br /> +Lest by his wounds he should not yet be stayed,<br /> +But with a last rush cast his life away,<br /> +And dying there, the son of Crœsus slay.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But even as the feathered dart he hurled,</span><br /> +His strained, despairing eyes, beheld the end,<br /> +And changed seemed all the fashion of the world,<br /> +And past and future into one did blend,<br /> +As he beheld the fixed eyes of his friend,<br /> +That no reproach had in them, and no fear,<br /> +For Death had seized him ere he thought him near.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Adrastus shrieked, and running up he caught</span><br /> +The falling man, and from his bleeding side<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span>Drew out the dart, and, seeing that death had brought<br /> +Deliverance to him, he thereby had died;<br /> +But ere his hand the luckless steel could guide,<br /> +And he the refuge of poor souls could win,<br /> +The horror-stricken huntsmen had rushed in.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And these, with blows and cries he heeded nought</span><br /> +His unresisting hands made haste to bind;<br /> +Then of the alder-boughs a bier they wrought,<br /> +And laid the corpse thereon, and 'gan to wind<br /> +Homeward amidst the tangled wood and blind,<br /> +And going slowly, at the eventide,<br /> +Some leagues from Sardis did that day abide.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Onward next morn the slaughtered man they bore,</span><br /> +With him that slew him, and at end of day<br /> +They reached the city, and with mourning sore<br /> +Toward the King's palace did they take their way.<br /> +He in an open western chamber lay<br /> +Feasting, though inwardly his heart did burn<br /> +Until that Atys should to him return.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And when those wails first smote upon his ear</span><br /> +He set the wine-cup down, and to his feet<br /> +He rose, and bitter all-consuming fear<br /> +Swallowed his joy, and nigh he went to meet<br /> +That which was coming through the weeping street;<br /> +But in the end he thought it good to wait,<br /> +And stood there doubting all the ills of fate.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But when at last up to that royal place</span><br /> +Folk brought the thing he once had held so dear<br /> +Still stood the King, staring with ghastly face<br /> +As they brought forth Adrastus and the bier,<br /> +But spoke at last, slowly without a tear,<br /> +"O Phrygian man, that I did purify,<br /> +Is it through thee that Atys came to die?"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"O King," Adrastus said, "take now my life,</span><br /> +With whatso torment seemeth good to thee,<br /> +As my word went, for I would end this strife,<br /> +And underneath the earth lie quietly;<br /> +Nor is it my will here alive to be:<br /> +For as my brother, so Prince Atys died,<br /> +And this unlucky hand some god did guide."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then as a man constrained, the tale he told</span><br /> +From end to end, nor spared himself one whit:<br /> +And as he spoke, the wood did still behold,<br /> +The trodden grass, and Atys dead on it;<br /> +And many a change o'er the King's face did flit<br /> +Of kingly rage, and hatred and despair,<br /> +As on the slayer's face he still did stare.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">At last he said, "Thy death avails me nought.</span><br /> +The gods themselves have done this bitter deed,<br /> +That I was all too happy was their thought,<br /> +Therefore thy heart is dead and mine doth bleed,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span>And I am helpless as a trodden weed:<br /> +Thou art but as the handle of the spear,<br /> +The caster sits far off from any fear.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Yet, if thy hurt they meant, I can do this,—</span><br /> +—Loose him and let him go in peace from me—<br /> +I will not slay the slayer of all my bliss;<br /> +Yet go, poor man, for when thy face I see<br /> +I curse the gods for their felicity.<br /> +Surely some other slayer they would have found,<br /> +If thou hadst long ago been under ground.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Alas, Adrastus! in my inmost heart</span><br /> +I knew the gods would one day do this thing,<br /> +But deemed indeed that it would be thy part<br /> +To comfort me amidst my sorrowing;<br /> +Make haste to go, for I am still a King!<br /> +Madness may take me, I have many hands<br /> +Who will not spare to do my worst commands."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With that Adrastus' bonds were done away,</span><br /> +And forthwith to the city gates he ran,<br /> +And on the road where they had been that day<br /> +Rushed through the gathering night; and some lone man<br /> +Beheld next day his visage wild and wan,<br /> +Peering from out a thicket of the wood<br /> +Where he had spilt that well-belovéd blood.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And now the day of burial pomp must be,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span>And to those rites all lords of Lydia came<br /> +About the King, and that day, they and he<br /> +Cast royal gifts of rich things on the flame;<br /> +But while they stood and wept, and called by name<br /> +Upon the dead, amidst them came a man<br /> +With raiment rent, and haggard face and wan:<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who when the marshals would have thrust him out</span><br /> +And men looked strange on him, began to say,<br /> +"Surely the world is changed since ye have doubt<br /> +Of who I am; nay, turn me not away,<br /> +For ye have called me princely ere to-day—<br /> +Adrastus, son of Gordius, a great king,<br /> +Where unto Pallas Phrygian maidens sing.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"O Lydians, many a rich thing have ye cast</span><br /> +Into this flame, but I myself will give<br /> +A greater gift, since now I see at last<br /> +The gods are wearied for that still I live,<br /> +And with their will, why should I longer strive?<br /> +Atys, O Atys, thus I give to thee<br /> +A life that lived for thy felicity."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And therewith from his side a knife he drew,</span><br /> +And, crying out, upon the pile he leapt,<br /> +And with one mighty stroke himself he slew.<br /> +So there these princes both together slept,<br /> +And their light ashes, gathered up, were kept<br /> +Within a golden vessel wrought all o'er<br /> +With histories of this hunting of the boar.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">A</span> <span class="caps">gentle</span> wind had risen midst his tale,</span><br /> +That bore the sweet scents of the fertile vale<br /> +In at the open windows; and these men<br /> +The burden of their years scarce noted then,<br /> +Soothed by the sweet luxurious summer time,<br /> +And by the cadence of that ancient rhyme,<br /> +Spite of its saddening import; nay, indeed,<br /> +Of some such thoughts the Wanderers had need<br /> +As that tale gave them—Yea, a man shall be<br /> +A wonder for his glorious chivalry,<br /> +First in all wisdom, of a prudent mind,<br /> +Yet none the less him too his fate shall find<br /> +Unfenced by these, a man 'mongst other men.<br /> +Yea, and will Fortune pick out, now and then,<br /> +The noblest for the anvil of her blows;<br /> +Great names are few, and yet, indeed, who knows<br /> +What greater souls have fallen 'neath the stroke<br /> +Of careless fate? Purblind are most of folk,<br /> +The happy are the masters of the earth<br /> +Which ever give small heed to hapless worth;<br /> +So goes the world, and this we needs must bear<br /> +Like eld and death: yet there were some men there<br /> +Who drank in silence to the memory<br /> +Of those who failed on earth great men to be,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span>Though better than the men who won the crown.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But when the sun was fairly going down</span><br /> +They left the house, and, following up the stream,<br /> +In the low sun saw the kingfisher gleam<br /> +'Twixt bank and alder, and the grebe steal out<br /> +From the high sedge, and, in his restless doubt,<br /> +Dive down, and rise to see what men were there:<br /> +They saw the swallow chase high up in air<br /> +The circling gnats; the shaded dusky pool<br /> +Broke by the splashing chub; the ripple cool,<br /> +Rising and falling, of some distant weir<br /> +They heard, till it oppressed the listening ear,<br /> +As twilight grew: so back they turned again<br /> +Glad of their rest, and pleasure after pain.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">W</span><span class="caps">ithin</span> the gardens once again they met,</span><br /> +That now the roses did well-nigh forget,<br /> +For hot July was drawing to an end,<br /> +And August came the fainting year to mend<br /> +With fruit and grain; so 'neath the trellises,<br /> +Nigh blossomless, did they lie well at ease,<br /> +And watched the poppies burn across the grass,<br /> +And o'er the bindweed's bells the brown bee pass<br /> +Still murmuring of his gains: windless and bright<br /> +The morn had been, to help their dear delight;<br /> +But heavy clouds ere noon grew round the sun,<br /> +And, halfway to the zenith, wild and dun<br /> +The sky grew, and the thunder growled afar;<br /> +But, ere the steely clouds began their war,<br /> +A change there came, and, as by some great hand,<br /> +The clouds that hung in threatening o'er the land<br /> +Were drawn away; then a light wind arose<br /> +That shook the light stems of that flowery close,<br /> +And made men sigh for pleasure; therewithal<br /> +Did mirth upon the feasting elders fall,<br /> +And they no longer watched the lowering sky,<br /> +But called aloud for some new history.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then spoke the Suabian, "Sirs, this tale is told</span><br /> +Among our searchers for fine stones and gold,<br /> +And though I tell it wrong be good to me;<br /> +For I the written book did never see,<br /> +Made by some Fleming, as I think, wherein<br /> +Is told this tale of wilfulness and sin."</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE WATCHING OF THE FALCON.</h2> + +<h3>ARGUMENT.</h3> + +<p class="hang">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.</p> +<p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">A</span><span class="caps">cross</span> the sea a land there is,</span><br /> +Where, if fate will, may men have bliss,<br /> +For it is fair as any land:<br /> +There hath the reaper a full hand,<br /> +While in the orchard hangs aloft<br /> +The purple fig, a-growing soft;<br /> +And fair the trellised vine-bunches<br /> +Are swung across the high elm-trees;<br /> +And in the rivers great fish play,<br /> +While over them pass day by day<br /> +The laden barges to their place.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span>There maids are straight, and fair of face,<br /> +And men are stout for husbandry,<br /> +And all is well as it can be<br /> +Upon this earth where all has end.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For on them God is pleased to send</span><br /> +The gift of Death down from above.<br /> +That envy, hatred, and hot love,<br /> +Knowledge with hunger by his side,<br /> +And avarice and deadly pride,<br /> +There may have end like everything<br /> +Both to the shepherd and the king:<br /> +Lest this green earth become but hell<br /> +If folk for ever there should dwell.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Full little most men think of this,</span><br /> +But half in woe and half in bliss<br /> +They pass their lives, and die at last<br /> +Unwilling, though their lot be cast<br /> +In wretched places of the earth,<br /> +Where men have little joy from birth<br /> +Until they die; in no such case<br /> +Were those who tilled this pleasant place.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">There soothly men were loth to die,</span><br /> +Though sometimes in his misery<br /> +A man would say "Would I were dead!"<br /> +Alas! full little likelihead<br /> +That he should live for ever there.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So folk within that country fair</span><br /> +Lived on, nor from their memories drave<br /> +The thought of what they could not have.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span>And without need tormented still<br /> +Each other with some bitter ill;<br /> +Yea, and themselves too, growing grey<br /> +With dread of some long-lingering day,<br /> +That never came ere they were dead<br /> +With green sods growing on the head;<br /> +Nowise content with what they had,<br /> +But falling still from good to bad<br /> +While hard they sought the hopeless best<br /> +And seldom happy or at rest<br /> +Until at last with lessening blood<br /> +One foot within the grave they stood.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now so it chanced that in this land</span><br /> +There did a certain castle stand,<br /> +Set all alone deep in the hills,<br /> +Amid the sound of falling rills<br /> +Within a valley of sweet grass,<br /> +To which there went one narrow pass<br /> +Through the dark hills, but seldom trod.<br /> +Rarely did horse-hoof press the sod<br /> +About the quiet weedy moat,<br /> +Where unscared did the great fish float;<br /> +Because men dreaded there to see<br /> +The uncouth things of faërie;<br /> +Nathless by some few fathers old<br /> +These tales about the place were told<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That neither squire nor seneschal</span><br /> +Or varlet came in bower or hall,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span>Yet all things were in order due,<br /> +Hangings of gold and red and blue,<br /> +And tables with fair service set;<br /> +Cups that had paid the Cæsar's debt<br /> +Could he have laid his hands on them;<br /> +Dorsars, with pearls in every hem,<br /> +And fair embroidered gold-wrought things,<br /> +Fit for a company of kings;<br /> +And in the chambers dainty beds,<br /> +With pillows dight for fair young heads;<br /> +And horses in the stables were,<br /> +And in the cellars wine full clear<br /> +And strong, and casks of ale and mead;<br /> +Yea, all things a great lord could need.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For whom these things were ready there</span><br /> +None knew; but if one chanced to fare<br /> +Into that place at Easter-tide,<br /> +There would he find a falcon tied<br /> +Unto a pillar of the Hall;<br /> +And such a fate to him would fall,<br /> +That if unto the seventh night,<br /> +He watched the bird from dark to light,<br /> +And light to dark unceasingly,<br /> +On the last evening he should see<br /> +A lady beautiful past words;<br /> +Then, were he come of clowns or lords,<br /> +Son of a swineherd or a king,<br /> +There must she grant him anything<br /> +Perforce, that he might dare to ask,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span>And do his very hardest task<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But if he slumbered, ne'er again</span><br /> +The wretch would wake for he was slain<br /> +Helpless, by hands he could not see,<br /> +And torn and mangled wretchedly.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now said these elders—Ere this tide</span><br /> +Full many folk this thing have tried,<br /> +But few have got much good thereby;<br /> +For first, a many came to die<br /> +By slumbering ere their watch was done;<br /> +Or else they saw that lovely one,<br /> +And mazed, they knew not what to say;<br /> +Or asked some toy for all their pay,<br /> +That easily they might have won,<br /> +Nor staked their lives and souls thereon;<br /> +Or asking, asked for some great thing<br /> +That was their bane; as to be king<br /> +One asked, and died the morrow morn<br /> +That he was crowned, of all forlorn.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet thither came a certain man,</span><br /> +Who from being poor great riches wan<br /> +Past telling, whose grandsons now are<br /> +Great lords thereby in peace and war.<br /> +And in their coat-of-arms they bear,<br /> +Upon a field of azure fair,<br /> +A castle and a falcon, set<br /> +Below a chief of golden fret.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And in our day a certain knight</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span>Prayed to be worsted in no fight,<br /> +And so it happed to him: yet he<br /> +Died none the less most wretchedly.<br /> +And all his prowess was in vain,<br /> +For by a losel was he slain,<br /> +As on the highway side he slept<br /> +One summer night, of no man kept.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Such tales as these the fathers old</span><br /> +About that lonely castle told;<br /> +And in their day the King must try<br /> +Himself to prove that mystery,<br /> +Although, unless the fay could give<br /> +For ever on the earth to live,<br /> +Nought could he ask that he had not:<br /> +For boundless riches had he got,<br /> +Fair children, and a faithful wife;<br /> +And happily had passed his life,<br /> +And all fulfilled of victory,<br /> +Yet was he fain this thing to see.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So towards the mountains he set out</span><br /> +One noontide, with a gallant rout<br /> +Of knights and lords, and as the day<br /> +Began to fail came to the way<br /> +Where he must enter all alone,<br /> +Between the dreary walls of stone.<br /> +Thereon to that fair company<br /> +He bade farewell, who wistfully<br /> +Looked backward oft as home they rode,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span>But in the entry he abode<br /> +Of that rough unknown narrowing pass,<br /> +Where twilight at the high noon was.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then onward he began to ride:</span><br /> +Smooth rose the rocks on every side,<br /> +And seemed as they were cut by man;<br /> +Adown them ever water ran,<br /> +But they of living things were bare,<br /> +Yea, not a blade of grass grew there;<br /> +And underfoot rough was the way,<br /> +For scattered all about there lay<br /> +Great jagged pieces of black stone.<br /> +Throughout the pass the wind did moan,<br /> +With such wild noises, that the King<br /> +Could almost think he heard something<br /> +Spoken of men; as one might hear<br /> +The voices of folk standing near<br /> +One's chamber wall: yet saw he nought<br /> +Except those high walls strangely wrought,<br /> +And overhead the strip of sky.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So, going onward painfully,</span><br /> +He met therein no evil thing,<br /> +But came about the sun-setting<br /> +Unto the opening of the pass,<br /> +And thence beheld a vale of grass<br /> +Bright with the yellow daffodil;<br /> +And all the vale the sun did fill<br /> +With his last glory. Midmost there<br /> +Rose up a stronghold, built four-square,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span>Upon a flowery grassy mound,<br /> +That moat and high wall ran around.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thereby he saw a walled pleasance,</span><br /> +With walks and sward fit for the dance<br /> +Of Arthur's court in its best time,<br /> +That seemed to feel some magic clime;<br /> +For though through all the vale outside<br /> +Things were as in the April-tide,<br /> +And daffodils and cowslips grew<br /> +And hidden the March violets blew,<br /> +Within the bounds of that sweet close<br /> +Was trellised the bewildering rose;<br /> +There was the lily over-sweet,<br /> +And starry pinks for garlands meet;<br /> +And apricots hung on the wall<br /> +And midst the flowers did peaches fall,<br /> +And nought had blemish there or spot.<br /> +For in that place decay was not.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Silent awhile the King abode</span><br /> +Beholding all, then on he rode<br /> +And to the castle-gate drew nigh,<br /> +Till fell the drawbridge silently,<br /> +And when across it he did ride<br /> +He found the great gates open wide,<br /> +And entered there, but as he passed<br /> +The gates were shut behind him fast,<br /> +But not before that he could see<br /> +The drawbridge rise up silently.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then round he gazed oppressed with awe,</span><br /> +And there no living thing he saw<br /> +Except the sparrows in the eaves,<br /> +As restless as light autumn leaves<br /> +Blown by the fitful rainy wind.<br /> +Thereon his final goal to find,<br /> +He lighted off his war-horse good<br /> +And let him wander as he would,<br /> +When he had eased him of his gear;<br /> +Then gathering heart against his fear.<br /> +Just at the silent end of day<br /> +Through the fair porch he took his way<br /> +And found at last a goodly hall<br /> +With glorious hangings on the wall,<br /> +Inwrought with trees of every clime,<br /> +And stories of the ancient time,<br /> +But all of sorcery they were.<br /> +For o'er the daïs Venus fair,<br /> +Fluttered about by many a dove,<br /> +Made hopeless men for hopeless love,<br /> +Both sick and sorry; there they stood<br /> +Wrought wonderfully in various mood,<br /> +But wasted all by that hid fire<br /> +Of measureless o'er-sweet desire,<br /> +And let the hurrying world go by<br /> +Forgetting all felicity.<br /> +But down the hall the tale was wrought<br /> +How Argo in old time was brought<br /> +To Colchis for the fleece of gold.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span>And on the other side was told<br /> +How mariners for long years came<br /> +To Circe, winning grief and shame.<br /> +Until at last by hardihead<br /> +And craft, Ulysses won her bed.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Long upon these the King did look</span><br /> +And of them all good heed he took;<br /> +To see if they would tell him aught<br /> +About the matter that he sought,<br /> +But all were of the times long past;<br /> +So going all about, at last<br /> +When grown nigh weary of his search<br /> +A falcon on a silver perch,<br /> +Anigh the daïs did he see,<br /> +And wondered, because certainly<br /> +At his first coming 'twas not there;<br /> +But 'neath the bird a scroll most fair,<br /> +With golden letters on the white<br /> +He saw, and in the dim twilight<br /> +By diligence could he read this:—<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>"Ye who have not enow of bliss,</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>And in this hard world labour sore,</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>By manhood here may get you more,</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>And be fulfilled of everything,</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>Till ye be masters of the King.</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>And yet, since I who promise this</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>Am nowise God to give man bliss</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>Past ending, now in time beware,</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>And if you live in little care</i></span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>Then turn aback and home again,</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>Lest unknown woe ye chance to gain</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>In wishing for a thing untried."</i></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A little while did he abide,</span><br /> +When he had read this, deep in thought,<br /> +Wondering indeed if there were aught<br /> +He had not got, that a wise man<br /> +Would wish; yet in his mind it ran<br /> +That he might win a boundless realm,<br /> +Yea, come to wear upon his helm<br /> +The crown of the whole conquered earth;<br /> +That all who lived thereon, from birth<br /> +To death should call him King and Lord,<br /> +And great kings tremble at his word,<br /> +Until in turn he came to die.<br /> +Therewith a little did he sigh,<br /> +But thought, "Of Alexander yet<br /> +Men talk, nor would they e'er forget<br /> +My name, if this should come to be,<br /> +Whoever should come after me:<br /> +But while I lay wrapped round with gold<br /> +Should tales and histories manifold<br /> +Be written of me, false and true;<br /> +And as the time still onward drew<br /> +Almost a god would folk count me,<br /> +Saying, 'In our time none such be.'"<br /> +But therewith did he sigh again,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span>And said, "Ah, vain, and worse than vain!<br /> +For though the world forget me nought,<br /> +Yet by that time should I be brought<br /> +Where all the world I should forget,<br /> +And bitterly should I regret<br /> +That I, from godlike great renown,<br /> +To helpless death must fall adown:<br /> +How could I bear to leave it all?"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then straight upon his mind did fall</span><br /> +Thoughts of old longings half forgot,<br /> +Matters for which his heart was hot<br /> +A while ago: whereof no more<br /> +He cared for some, and some right sore<br /> +Had vexed him, being fulfilled at last.<br /> +And when the thought of these had passed<br /> +Still something was there left behind,<br /> +That by no torturing of his mind<br /> +Could he in any language name,<br /> +Or into form of wishing frame.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">At last he thought, "What matters it,</span><br /> +Before these seven days shall flit<br /> +Some great thing surely shall I find,<br /> +That gained will not leave grief behind,<br /> +Nor turn to deadly injury.<br /> +So now will I let these things be<br /> +And think of some unknown delight."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now, therewithal, was come the night</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span>And thus his watch was well begun;<br /> +And till the rising of the sun,<br /> +Waking, he paced about the hall,<br /> +And saw the hangings on the wall<br /> +Fade into nought, and then grow white<br /> +In patches by the pale moonlight,<br /> +And then again fade utterly<br /> +As still the moonbeams passed them by;<br /> +Then in a while, with hope of day,<br /> +Begin a little to grow grey,<br /> +Until familiar things they grew,<br /> +As up at last the great sun drew,<br /> +And lit them with his yellow light<br /> +At ending of another night<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then right glad was he of the day,</span><br /> +That passed with him in such-like way;<br /> +For neither man nor beast came near,<br /> +Nor any voices did he hear.<br /> +And when again it drew to night<br /> +Silent it passed, till first twilight<br /> +Of morning came, and then he heard<br /> +The feeble twittering of some bird,<br /> +That, in that utter silence drear,<br /> +Smote harsh and startling on his ear.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Therewith came on that lonely day</span><br /> +That passed him in no other way;<br /> +And thus six days and nights went by<br /> +And nothing strange had come anigh.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And on that day he well-nigh deemed</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span>That all that story had been dreamed.<br /> +Daylight and dark, and night and day,<br /> +Passed ever in their wonted way;<br /> +The wind played in the trees outside,<br /> +The rooks from out the high trees cried;<br /> +And all seemed natural, frank, and fair,<br /> +With little signs of magic there.<br /> +Yet neither could he quite forget<br /> +That close with summer blossoms set,<br /> +And fruit hung on trees blossoming,<br /> +When all about was early spring.<br /> +Yea, if all this by man were made,<br /> +Strange was it that yet undecayed<br /> +The food lay on the tables still<br /> +Unchanged by man, that wine did fill<br /> +The golden cups, yet bright and red.<br /> +And all was so apparelléd<br /> +For guests that came not, yet was all<br /> +As though that servants filled the hall.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So waxed and waned his hopes, and still</span><br /> +He formed no wish for good or ill.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And while he thought of this and that</span><br /> +Upon his perch the falcon sat<br /> +Unfed, unhooded, his bright eyes<br /> +Beholders of the hard-earned prize,<br /> +Glancing around him restlessly,<br /> +As though he knew the time drew nigh<br /> +When this long watching should be done.<br /> +<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">So little by little fell the sun,</span><br /> +From high noon unto sun-setting;<br /> +And in that lapse of time the King,<br /> +Though still he woke, yet none the less<br /> +Was dreaming in his sleeplessness<br /> +Of this and that which he had done<br /> +Before this watch he had begun;<br /> +Till, with a start, he looked at last<br /> +About him, and all dreams were past;<br /> +For now, though it was past twilight<br /> +Without, within all grew as bright<br /> +As when the noon-sun smote the wall,<br /> +Though no lamp shone within the hall.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then rose the King upon his feet,</span><br /> +And well-nigh heard his own heart beat,<br /> +And grew all pale for hope and fear,<br /> +As sound of footsteps caught his ear<br /> +But soft, and as some fair lady,<br /> +Going as gently as might be,<br /> +Stopped now and then awhile, distraught<br /> +By pleasant wanderings of sweet thought.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nigher the sound came, and more nigh,</span><br /> +Until the King unwittingly<br /> +Trembled, and felt his hair arise,<br /> +But on the door still kept his eyes.<br /> +That opened soon, and in the light<br /> +There stepped alone a lady bright,<br /> +And made straight toward him up the hall.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In golden garments was she clad</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span>And round her waist a belt she had<br /> +Of emeralds fair, and from her feet,<br /> +That shod with gold the floor did meet,<br /> +She held the raiment daintily,<br /> +And on her golden head had she<br /> +A rose-wreath round a pearl-wrought crown,<br /> +Softly she walked with eyes cast down,<br /> +Nor looked she any other than<br /> +An earthly lady, though no man<br /> +Has seen so fair a thing as she.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So when her face the King could see</span><br /> +Still more he trembled, and he thought,<br /> +"Surely my wish is hither brought,<br /> +And this will be a goodly day<br /> +If for mine own I win this may."<br /> +And therewithal she drew anear<br /> +Until the trembling King could hear<br /> +Her very breathing, and she raised<br /> +Her head and on the King's face gazed<br /> +With serious eyes, and stopping there,<br /> +Swept from her shoulders her long hair,<br /> +And let her gown fall on her feet,<br /> +Then spoke in a clear voice and sweet:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Well hast thou watched, so now, O King,</span><br /> +Be bold, and wish for some good thing;<br /> +And yet, I counsel thee, be wise.<br /> +Behold, spite of these lips and eyes,<br /> +Hundreds of years old now am I<br /> +And have seen joy and misery.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span>And thou, who yet hast lived in bliss.<br /> +I bid thee well consider this;<br /> +Better it were that men should live<br /> +As beasts, and take what earth can give,<br /> +The air, the warm sun and the grass<br /> +Until unto the earth they pass,<br /> +And gain perchance nought worse than rest<br /> +Than that not knowing what is best<br /> +For sons of men, they needs must thirst<br /> +For what shall make their lives accurst.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Therefore I bid thee now beware,</span><br /> +Lest getting something seeming fair,<br /> +Thou com'st in vain to long for more<br /> +Or lest the thing thou wishest for<br /> +Make thee unhappy till thou diest,<br /> +Or lest with speedy death thou buyest<br /> +A little hour of happiness<br /> +Or lazy joy with sharp distress.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Alas, why say I this to thee,</span><br /> +For now I see full certainly,<br /> +That thou wilt ask for such a thing,<br /> +It had been best for thee to fling<br /> +Thy body from a mountain-top,<br /> +Or in a white hot fire to drop,<br /> +Or ever thou hadst seen me here,<br /> +Nay then be speedy and speak clear."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then the King cried out eagerly,</span><br /> +Grown fearless, "Ah, be kind to me!<br /> +Thou knowest what I long for then!<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span>Thou know'st that I, a king of men,<br /> +Will ask for nothing else than thee!<br /> +Thou didst not say this could not be,<br /> +And I have had enough of bliss,<br /> +If I may end my life with this."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Hearken," she said, "what men will say</span><br /> +When they are mad; before to-day<br /> +I knew that words such things could mean,<br /> +And wondered that it could have been.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Think well, because this wished-for joy,</span><br /> +That surely will thy bliss destroy,<br /> +Will let thee live, until thy life<br /> +Is wrapped in such bewildering strife<br /> +That all thy days will seem but ill—<br /> +Now wilt thou wish for this thing still?"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Wilt thou then grant it?" cried the King;</span><br /> +"Surely thou art an earthly thing,<br /> +And all this is but mockery,<br /> +And thou canst tell no more than I<br /> +What ending to my life shall be."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Nay, then," she said, "I grant it thee</span><br /> +Perforce; come nigh, for I am thine<br /> +Until the morning sun doth shine,<br /> +And only coming time can prove<br /> +What thing I am."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 7em;">Dizzy with love,</span><br /> +And with surprise struck motionless<br /> +That this divine thing, with far less<br /> +Of striving than a village maid,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span>Had yielded, there he stood afraid,<br /> +Spite of hot words and passionate,<br /> +And strove to think upon his fate.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But as he stood there, presently</span><br /> +With smiling face she drew anigh,<br /> +And on his face he felt her breath.<br /> +"O love," she said, "dost thou fear death?<br /> +Not till next morning shalt thou die,<br /> +Or fall into thy misery."<br /> +Then on his hand her hand did fall,<br /> +And forth she led him down the hall,<br /> +Going full softly by his side.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"O love," she said, "now well betide</span><br /> +The day whereon thou cam'st to me.<br /> +I would this night a year might be,<br /> +Yea, life-long; such life as we have,<br /> +A thousand years from womb to grave."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And then that clinging hand seemed worth</span><br /> +Whatever joy was left on earth,<br /> +And every trouble he forgot,<br /> +And time and death remembered not:<br /> +Kinder she grew, she clung to him<br /> +With loving arms, her eyes did swim<br /> +With love and pity, as he strove<br /> +To show the wisdom of his love;<br /> +With trembling lips she praised his choice,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span>And said, "Ah, well may'st thou rejoice,<br /> +Well may'st thou think this one short night<br /> +Worth years of other men's delight.<br /> +If thy heart as mine own heart is,<br /> +Sunk in a boundless sea of bliss;<br /> +O love, rejoice with me! rejoice!"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But as she spoke, her honied voice</span><br /> +Trembled, and midst of sobs she said,<br /> +"O love, and art thou still afraid?<br /> +Return, then, to thine happiness,<br /> +Nor will I love thee any less;<br /> +But watch thee as a mother might<br /> +Her child at play."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 7em;">With strange delight</span><br /> +He stammered out, "Nay, keep thy tears<br /> +for me, and for my ruined years<br /> +Weep love, that I may love thee more,<br /> +My little hour will soon be o'er."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Ah, love," she said, "and thou art wise</span><br /> +As men are, with long miseries<br /> +Buying these idle words and vain,<br /> +My foolish love, with lasting pain;<br /> +And yet, thou wouldst have died at last<br /> +If in all wisdom thou hadst passed<br /> +Thy weary life: forgive me then,<br /> +In pitying the sad life of men."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then in such bliss his soul did swim,</span><br /> +But tender music unto him<br /> +Her words were; death and misery<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span>But empty names were grown to be,<br /> +As from that place his steps she drew,<br /> +And dark the hall behind them grew.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">B</span><span class="caps">ut</span> end comes to all earthly bliss,</span><br /> +And by his choice full short was his;<br /> +And in the morning, grey and cold,<br /> +Beside the daïs did she hold<br /> +His trembling hand, and wistfully<br /> +He, doubting what his fate should be,<br /> +Gazed at her solemn eyes, that now,<br /> +Beneath her calm, untroubled brow,<br /> +Were fixed on his wild face and wan;<br /> +At last she said, "Oh, hapless man,<br /> +Depart! thy full wish hast thou had;<br /> +A little time thou hast been glad,<br /> +Thou shalt be sorry till thou die.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"And though, indeed, full fain am I</span><br /> +This might not be; nathless, as day<br /> +Night follows, colourless and grey,<br /> +So this shall follow thy delight,<br /> +Your joy hath ending with last night—<br /> +Nay, peace, and hearken to thy fate.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Strife without peace, early and late,</span><br /> +Lasting long after thou art dead,<br /> +And laid with earth upon thine head;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span>War without victory shalt thou have,<br /> +Defeat, nor honour shalt thou save;<br /> +Thy fair land shall be rent and torn,<br /> +Thy people be of all forlorn,<br /> +And all men curse thee for this thing."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">She loosed his hand, but yet the King</span><br /> +Said, "Yea, and I may go with thee?<br /> +Why should we part? then let things be<br /> +E'en as they will!" "Poor man," she said,<br /> +"Thou ravest; our hot love is dead,<br /> +If ever it had any life:<br /> +Go, make thee ready for the strife<br /> +Wherein thy days shall soon be wrapped;<br /> +And of the things that here have happed<br /> +Make thou such joy as thou may'st do;<br /> +But I from this place needs must go,<br /> +Nor shalt thou ever see me more<br /> +Until thy troubled life is o'er:<br /> +Alas I to say 'farewell' to thee<br /> +Were nought but bitter mockery.<br /> +Fare as thou may'st, and with good heart<br /> +Play to the end thy wretched part."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Therewith she turned and went from him,</span><br /> +And with such pain his eyes did swim<br /> +He scarce could see her leave the place;<br /> +And then, with troubled and pale face,<br /> +He gat him thence: and soon he found<br /> +His good horse in the base-court bound;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span>So, loosing him, forth did he ride,<br /> +For the great gates were open wide,<br /> +And flat the heavy drawbridge lay.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So by the middle of the day,</span><br /> +That murky pass had he gone through,<br /> +And come to country that he knew;<br /> +And homeward turned his horse's head.<br /> +And passing village and homestead<br /> +Nigh to his palace came at last;<br /> +And still the further that he passed<br /> +From that strange castle of the fays,<br /> +More dreamlike seemed those seven days,<br /> +And dreamlike the delicious night;<br /> +And like a dream the shoulders white,<br /> +And clinging arms and yellow hair,<br /> +And dreamlike the sad morning there.<br /> +Until at last he 'gan to deem<br /> +That all might well have been a dream—<br /> +Yet why was life a weariness?<br /> +What meant this sting of sharp distress?<br /> +This longing for a hopeless love,<br /> +No sighing from his heart could move?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or else, 'She did not come and go</span><br /> +As fays might do, but soft and slow<br /> +Her lovely feet fell on the floor;<br /> +She set her fair hand to the door<br /> +As any dainty maid might do;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span>And though, indeed, there are but few<br /> +Beneath the sun as fair as she,<br /> +She seemed a fleshly thing to be.<br /> +Perchance a merry mock this is,<br /> +And I may some day have the bliss<br /> +To see her lovely face again,<br /> +As smiling she makes all things plain.<br /> +And then as I am still a king,<br /> +With me may she make tarrying<br /> +Full long, yea, till I come to die."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Therewith at last being come anigh</span><br /> +Unto his very palace gate,<br /> +He saw his knights and squires wait<br /> +His coming, therefore on the ground<br /> +He lighted, and they flocked around<br /> +Till he should tell them of his fare.<br /> +Then mocking said he, "Ye may dare,<br /> +The worst man of you all, to go<br /> +And watch as I was bold to do;<br /> +For nought I heard except the wind,<br /> +And nought I saw to call to mind."<br /> +So said he, but they noted well<br /> +That something more he had to tell<br /> +If it had pleased him; one old man,<br /> +Beholding his changed face and wan,<br /> +Muttered, "Would God it might be so!<br /> +Alas! I fear what fate may do;<br /> +Too much good fortune hast thou had<br /> +By anything to be more glad<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span>Than thou hast been, I fear thee then<br /> +Lest thou becom'st a curse to men."<br /> +But to his place the doomed King passed,<br /> +And all remembrance strove to cast<br /> +From out his mind of that past day,<br /> +And spent his life in sport and play.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">G</span><span class="caps">reat</span> among other kings, I said</span><br /> +He was before he first was led<br /> +Unto that castle of the fays,<br /> +But soon he lost his happy days<br /> +And all his goodly life was done.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And first indeed his best-loved son,</span><br /> +The very apple of his eye,<br /> +Waged war against him bitterly;<br /> +And when this son was overcome<br /> +And taken, and folk led him home,<br /> +And him the King had gone to meet,<br /> +Meaning with gentle words and sweet<br /> +To win him to his love again,<br /> +By his own hand he found him slain.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I know not if the doomed King yet</span><br /> +Remembered the fay lady's threat,<br /> +But troubles upon troubles came:<br /> +His daughter next was brought to shame,<br /> +Who unto all eyes seemed to be<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span>The image of all purity,<br /> +And fleeing from the royal place<br /> +The King no more beheld her face.<br /> +Then next a folk that came from far<br /> +Sent to the King great threats of war,<br /> +But he, full-fed of victory,<br /> +Deemed this a little thing to be,<br /> +And thought the troubles of his home<br /> +Thereby he well might overcome<br /> +Amid the hurry of the fight.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">His foemen seemed of little might,</span><br /> +Although they thronged like summer bees<br /> +About the outlying villages,<br /> +And on the land great ruin brought.<br /> +Well, he this barbarous people sought<br /> +With such an army as seemed meet<br /> +To put the world beneath his feet;<br /> +The day of battle came, and he,<br /> +Flushed with the hope of victory,<br /> +Grew happy, as he had not been<br /> +Since he those glorious eyes had seen.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They met,—his solid ranks of steel</span><br /> +There scarcely more the darts could feel<br /> +Of those new foemen, than if they<br /> +Had been a hundred miles away:—<br /> +They met,—a storied folk were his<br /> +To whom sharp war had long been bliss,<br /> +A thousand years of memories<br /> +Were flashing in their shielded eyes;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span>And grave philosophers they had<br /> +To bid them ever to be glad<br /> +To meet their death and get life done<br /> +Midst glorious deeds from sire to son.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And those they met were beasts, or worse,</span><br /> +To whom life seemed a jest, a curse;<br /> +Of fame and name they had not heard;<br /> +Honour to them was but a word,<br /> +A word spoke in another tongue;<br /> +No memories round their banners clung,<br /> +No walls they knew, no art of war,<br /> +By hunger were they driven afar<br /> +Unto the place whereon they stood,<br /> +Ravening for bestial joys and blood.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">No wonder if these barbarous men</span><br /> +Were slain by hundreds to each ten<br /> +Of the King's brave well-armoured folk,<br /> +No wonder if their charges broke<br /> +To nothing, on the walls of steel,<br /> +And back the baffled hordes must reel.<br /> +So stood throughout a summer day<br /> +Scarce touched the King's most fair array,<br /> +Yet as it drew to even-tide<br /> +The foe still surged on every side,<br /> +As hopeless hunger-bitten men,<br /> +About his folk grown wearied then.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Therewith the King beheld that crowd</span><br /> +Howling and dusk, and cried aloud,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span>"What do ye, warriors? and how long<br /> +Shall weak folk hold in check the strong?<br /> +Nay, forward banners! end the day<br /> +And show these folk how brave men play."<br /> +The young knights shouted at his word,<br /> +But the old folk in terror heard<br /> +The shouting run adown the line,<br /> +And saw men flush as if with wine—<br /> +"O Sire," they said, "the day is sure,<br /> +Nor will these folk the night endure<br /> +Beset with misery and fears."<br /> +Alas I they spoke to heedless ears;<br /> +For scarce one look on them he cast<br /> +But forward through the ranks he passed,<br /> +And cried out, "Who will follow me<br /> +To win a fruitful victory?"<br /> +And toward the foe in haste he spurred,<br /> +And at his back their shouts he heard,<br /> +Such shouts as he ne'er heard again.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They met—ere moonrise all the plain</span><br /> +Was filled by men in hurrying flight<br /> +The relics of that shameful fight;<br /> +The close array, the full-armed men,<br /> +The ancient fame availed not then,<br /> +The dark night only was a friend<br /> +To bring that slaughter to an end;<br /> +And surely there the King had died.<br /> +But driven by that back-rushing tide<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span>Against his will he needs must flee;<br /> +And as he pondered bitterly<br /> +On all that wreck that he had wrought,<br /> +From time to time indeed he thought<br /> +Of the fay woman's dreadful threat.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"But everything was not lost yet;</span><br /> +Next day he said, great was the rout<br /> +And shameful beyond any doubt,<br /> +But since indeed at eventide<br /> +The flight began, not many died,<br /> +And gathering all the stragglers now<br /> +His troops still made a gallant show—<br /> +Alas! it was a show indeed;<br /> +Himself desponding, did he lead<br /> +His beaten men against the foe,<br /> +Thinking at least to lie alow<br /> +Before the final rout should be<br /> +But scarce upon the enemy<br /> +Could these, whose shaken banners shook<br /> +The frightened world, now dare to look;<br /> +Nor yet could the doomed King die there<br /> +A death he once had held most fair;<br /> +Amid unwounded men he came<br /> +Back to his city, bent with shame,<br /> +Unkingly, midst his great distress,<br /> +Yea, weeping at the bitterness<br /> +Of women's curses that did greet<br /> +His passage down the troubled street<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">But sight of all the things they loved,</span><br /> +The memory of their manhood moved<br /> +Within the folk, and aged men<br /> +And boys must think of battle then.<br /> +And men that had not seen the foe<br /> +Must clamour to the war to go.<br /> +So a great army poured once more<br /> +From out the city, and before<br /> +The very gates they fought again,<br /> +But their late valour was in vain;<br /> +They died indeed, and that was good,<br /> +But nought they gained for all the blood<br /> +Poured out like water; for the foe,<br /> +Men might have stayed a while ago,<br /> +A match for very gods were grown,<br /> +So like the field in June-tide mown<br /> +The King's men fell, and but in vain<br /> +The remnant strove the town to gain;<br /> +Whose battlements were nought to stay<br /> +An untaught foe upon that day,<br /> +Though many a tale the annals told<br /> +Of sieges in the days of old,<br /> +When all the world then knew of war<br /> +From that fair place was driven afar.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As for the King, a charmed life</span><br /> +He seemed to bear; from out that strife<br /> +He came unhurt, and he could see,<br /> +As down the valley he did flee<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span>With his most wretched company,<br /> +His palace flaming to the sky.<br /> +Then in the very midst of woe<br /> +His yearning thoughts would backward go<br /> +Unto the castle of the fay;<br /> +He muttered, "Shall I curse that day,<br /> +The last delight that I have had,<br /> +For certainly I then was glad?<br /> +And who knows if what men call bliss<br /> +Had been much better now than this<br /> +When I am hastening to the end."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That fearful rest, that dreaded friend,</span><br /> +That Death, he did not gain as yet;<br /> +A band of men he soon did get,<br /> +A ruined rout of bad and good,<br /> +With whom within the tangled wood,<br /> +The rugged mountain, he abode,<br /> +And thenceforth oftentimes they rode<br /> +Into the fair land once called his,<br /> +And yet but little came of this,<br /> +Except more woe for Heaven to see<br /> +Some little added misery<br /> +Unto that miserable realm:<br /> +The barbarous foe did overwhelm<br /> +The cities and the fertile plain,<br /> +And many a peaceful man was slain,<br /> +And many a maiden brought to shame.<br /> +And yielded towns were set aflame;<br /> +For all the land was masterless.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Long dwelt the King in great distress,</span><br /> +From wood to mountain ever tost,<br /> +Mourning for all that he had lost,<br /> +Until it chanced upon a day,<br /> +Asleep in early morn he lay,<br /> +And in a vision there did see<br /> +Clad all in black, that fay lady<br /> +Whereby all this had come to pass,<br /> +But dim as in a misty glass:<br /> +She said, "I come thy death to tell<br /> +Yet now to thee may say 'farewell,'<br /> +For in a short space wilt thou be<br /> +Within an endless dim country<br /> +Where thou may'st well win woe or bliss,"<br /> +Therewith she stooped his lips to kiss<br /> +And vanished straightway from his sight.<br /> +So waking there he sat upright<br /> +And looked around, but nought could see<br /> +And heard but song-birds' melody,<br /> +For that was the first break of day.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then with a sigh adown he lay</span><br /> +And slept, nor ever woke again,<br /> +For in that hour was he slain<br /> +By stealthy traitors as he slept.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He of a few was much bewept,</span><br /> +But of most men was well forgot<br /> +While the town's ashes still were hot<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span>The foeman on that day did burn.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As for the land, great Time did turn</span><br /> +The bloody fields to deep green grass,<br /> +And from the minds of men did pass<br /> +The memory of that time of woe,<br /> +And at this day all things are so<br /> +As first I said; a land it is<br /> +Where men may dwell in rest and bliss<br /> +If so they will—Who yet will not,<br /> +Because their hasty hearts are hot<br /> +With foolish hate, and longing vain<br /> +The sire and dam of grief and pain.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">N</span><span class="caps">eath</span> the bright sky cool grew the weary earth,</span><br /> +And many a bud in that fair hour had birth<br /> +Upon the garden bushes; in the west<br /> +The sky got ready for the great sun's rest,<br /> +And all was fresh and lovely; none the less<br /> +Although those old men shared the happiness<br /> +Of the bright eve, 'twas mixed with memories<br /> +Of how they might in old times have been wise,<br /> +Not casting by for very wilfulness<br /> +What wealth might come their changing life to bless;<br /> +Lulling their hearts to sleep, amid the cold<br /> +Of bitter times, that so they might behold<br /> +Some joy at last, e'en if it lingered long.<br /> +That, wearing not their souls with grief and wrong,<br /> +They still might watch the changing world go by,<br /> +Content to live, content at last to die.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Alas! if they had reached content at last</span><br /> +It was perforce when all their strength was past;<br /> +And after loss of many days once bright,<br /> +With foolish hopes of unattained delight.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span></p> +<h2>AUGUST.</h2> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">A</span><span class="caps">cross</span> the gap made by our English hinds,</span><br /> +Amidst the Roman's handiwork, behold<br /> +Far off the long-roofed church; the shepherd binds<br /> +The withy round the hurdles of his fold;<br /> +Down in the foss the river fed of old,<br /> +That through long lapse of time has grown to be<br /> +The little grassy valley that you see.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Rest here awhile, not yet the eve is still,</span><br /> +The bees are wandering yet, and you may hear<br /> +The barley mowers on the trenchéd hill,<br /> +The sheep-bells, and the restless changing weir,<br /> +All little sounds made musical and clear<br /> +Beneath the sky that burning August gives.<br /> +While yet the thought of glorious Summer lives.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ah, love! such happy days, such days as these,</span><br /> +Must we still waste them, craving for the best,<br /> +Like lovers o'er the painted images<br /> +Of those who once their yearning hearts have blessed?<br /> +Have we been happy on our day of rest?<br /> +Thine eyes say "yes,"—but if it came again,<br /> +Perchance its ending would not seem so vain.</p></div> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">N</span><span class="caps">ow</span> came fulfilment of the year's desire,</span><br /> +The tall wheat, coloured by the August fire<br /> +Grew heavy-headed, dreading its decay,<br /> +And blacker grew the elm-trees day by day.<br /> +About the edges of the yellow corn,<br /> +And o'er the gardens grown somewhat outworn<br /> +The bees went hurrying to fill up their store;<br /> +The apple-boughs bent over more and more;<br /> +With peach and apricot the garden wall,<br /> +Was odorous, and the pears began to fall<br /> +From off the high tree with each freshening breeze.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So in a house bordered about with trees,</span><br /> +A little raised above the waving gold<br /> +The Wanderers heard this marvellous story told,<br /> +While 'twixt the gleaming flasks of ancient wine,<br /> +They watched the reapers' slow advancing line.</p></div> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span></p> +<h2>PYGMALION AND THE IMAGE.</h2> + +<h3>ARGUMENT.</h3> + +<p class="hang">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.</p> +<p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">A</span><span class="caps">t</span> Amathus, that from the southern side</span><br /> +Of Cyprus, looks across the Syrian sea,<br /> +There did in ancient time a man abide<br /> +Known to the island-dwellers, for that he<br /> +Had wrought most godlike works in imagery,<br /> +And day by day still greater honour won,<br /> +Which man our old books call Pygmalion.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet in the praise of men small joy he had,</span><br /> +But walked abroad with downcast brooding face.<br /> +Nor yet by any damsel was made glad;<br /> +For, sooth to say, the women of that place<br /> +Must seem to all men an accursed race,<br /> +Who with the Turner of all Hearts once strove<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span>And now their hearts must carry lust for love.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Upon a day it chanced that he had been</span><br /> +About the streets, and on the crowded quays,<br /> +Rich with unopened wealth of bales, had seen<br /> +The dark-eyed merchants of the southern seas<br /> +In chaffer with the base Propœtides,<br /> +And heavy-hearted gat him home again,<br /> +His once-loved life grown idle, poor, and vain.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And there upon his images he cast</span><br /> +His weary eyes, yet little noted them,<br /> +As still from name to name his swift thought passed.<br /> +For what to him was Juno's well-wrought hem,<br /> +Diana's shaft, or Pallas' olive-stem?<br /> +What help could Hermes' rod unto him give,<br /> +Until with shadowy things he came to live?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet note, that though, while looking on the sun,</span><br /> +The craftsman o'er his work some morn of spring<br /> +May chide his useless labour never done,<br /> +For all his murmurs, with no other thing<br /> +He soothes his heart, and dulls thought's poisonous sting,<br /> +And thus in thought's despite the world goes on;<br /> +And so it was with this Pygmalion.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Unto the chisel must he set his hand,</span><br /> +And slowly, still in troubled thought must pace,<br /> +About a work begun, that there doth stand,<br /> +And still returning to the self-same place,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span>Unto the image now must set his face,<br /> +And with a sigh his wonted toil begin,<br /> +Half-loathed, half-loved, a little rest to win.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The lessening marble that he worked upon,</span><br /> +A woman's form now imaged doubtfully,<br /> +And in such guise the work had he begun,<br /> +Because when he the untouched block did see<br /> +In wandering veins that form there seemed to be,<br /> +Whereon he cried out in a careless mood,<br /> +"O lady Venus, make this presage good!<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"And then this block of stone shall be thy maid,</span><br /> +And, not without rich golden ornament,<br /> +Shall bide within thy quivering myrtle-shade."<br /> +So spoke he, but the goddess, well content,<br /> +Unto his hand such godlike mastery sent,<br /> +That like the first artificer he wrought,<br /> +Who made the gift that woe to all men brought.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And yet, but such as he was wont to do,</span><br /> +At first indeed that work divine he deemed,<br /> +And as the white chips from the chisel flew<br /> +Of other matters languidly he dreamed,<br /> +For easy to his hand that labour seemed,<br /> +And he was stirred with many a troubling thought,<br /> +And many a doubt perplexed him as he wrought.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And yet, again, at last there came a day</span><br /> +When smoother and more shapely grew the stone<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span>And he, grown eager, put all thought away<br /> +But that which touched his craftsmanship alone,<br /> +And he would gaze at what his hands had done,<br /> +Until his heart with boundless joy would swell<br /> +That all was wrought so wonderfully well.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet long it was ere he was satisfied,</span><br /> +And with the pride that by his mastery<br /> +This thing was done, whose equal far and wide<br /> +In no town of the world a man could see,<br /> +Came burning longing that the work should be<br /> +E'en better still, and to his heart there came<br /> +A strange and strong desire he could not name.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The night seemed long, and long the twilight seemed,</span><br /> +A vain thing seemed his flowery garden fair;<br /> +Though through the night still of his work he dreamed,<br /> +And though his smooth-stemmed trees so nigh it were,<br /> +That thence he could behold the marble hair;<br /> +Nought was enough, until with steel in hand<br /> +He came before the wondrous stone to stand.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">No song could charm him, and no histories</span><br /> +Of men's misdoings could avail him now,<br /> +Nay, scarcely seaward had he turned his eyes,<br /> +If men had said, "The fierce Tyrrhenians row<br /> +Up through the bay, rise up and strike a blow<br /> +For life and goods;" for nought to him seemed dear<br /> +But to his well-loved work to be anear.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then vexed he grew, and knowing not his heart,</span><br /> +Unto himself he said, "Ah, what is this,<br /> +That I who oft was happy to depart,<br /> +And wander where the boughs each other kiss<br /> +'Neath the west wind, now have no other bliss<br /> +But in vain smoothing of this marble maid,<br /> +Whose chips this month a drachma had outweighed?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Lo I will get me to the woods and try</span><br /> +If I my woodcraft have forgotten quite,<br /> +And then, returning, lay this folly by,<br /> +And eat my fill, and sleep my sleep anight,<br /> +And 'gin to carve a Hercules aright<br /> +Upon the morrow, and perchance indeed<br /> +The Theban will be good to me at need."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With that he took his quiver and his bow,</span><br /> +And through the gates of Amathus he went,<br /> +And toward the mountain slopes began to go,<br /> +Within the woods to work out his intent.<br /> +Fair was the day, the honied beanfield's scent<br /> +The west wind bore unto him, o'er the way<br /> +The glittering noisy poplar leaves did play.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">All things were moving; as his hurried feet</span><br /> +Passed by, within the flowery swathe he heard<br /> +The sweeping of the scythe, the swallow fleet<br /> +Rose over him, the sitting partridge stirred<br /> +On the field's edge; the brown bee by him whirred,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span>Or murmured in the clover flowers below.<br /> +But he with bowed-down head failed not to go.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">At last he stopped, and, looking round, he said,</span><br /> +"Like one whose thirtieth year is well gone by,<br /> +The day is getting ready to be dead;<br /> +No rest, and on the border of the sky<br /> +Already the great banks of dark haze lie;<br /> +No rest—what do I midst this stir and noise?<br /> +What part have I in these unthinking joys?"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With that he turned, and toward the city-gate</span><br /> +Through the sweet fields went swifter than he came,<br /> +And cast his heart into the hands of fate;<br /> +Nor strove with it, when higher 'gan to flame<br /> +That strange and strong desire without a name;<br /> +Till panting, thinking of nought else, once more<br /> +His hand was on the latch of his own door.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">One moment there he lingered, as he said,</span><br /> +"Alas! what should I do if she were gone?"<br /> +But even with that word his brow waxed red<br /> +To hear his own lips name a thing of stone,<br /> +As though the gods some marvel there had done,<br /> +And made his work alive; and therewithal<br /> +In turn great pallor on his face did fall.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But with a sigh he passed into the house,</span><br /> +Yet even then his chamber-door must hold,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span>And listen there, half blind and timorous,<br /> +Until his heart should wax a little bold;<br /> +Then entering, motionless and white and cold,<br /> +He saw the image stand amidst the floor<br /> +All whitened now by labour done before.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Blinded with tears, his chisel up he caught,</span><br /> +And, drawing near, and sighing, tenderly<br /> +Upon the marvel of the face he wrought,<br /> +E'en as he used to pass the long days by;<br /> +But his sighs changed to sobbing presently,<br /> +And on the floor the useless steel he flung,<br /> +And, weeping loud, about the image clung.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Alas!" he cried, "why have I made thee then,</span><br /> +That thus thou mockest me? I know indeed<br /> +That many such as thou are loved of men,<br /> +Whose passionate eyes poor wretches still will lead<br /> +Into their net, and smile to see them bleed;<br /> +But these the god's made, and this hand made thee<br /> +Who wilt not speak one little word to me."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then from the image did he draw aback</span><br /> +To gaze on it through tears: and you had said,<br /> +Regarding it, that little did it lack<br /> +To be a living and most lovely maid;<br /> +Naked it was, its unbound locks were laid<br /> +Over the lovely shoulders; with one hand<br /> +Reached out, as to a lover, did it stand,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The other held a fair rose over-blown;</span><br /> +No smile was on the parted lips, the eyes<br /> +Seemed as if even now great love had shown<br /> +Unto them, something of its sweet surprise,<br /> +Yet saddened them with half-seen mysteries,<br /> +And still midst passion maiden-like she seemed,<br /> +As though of love unchanged for aye she dreamed.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Reproachfully beholding all her grace,</span><br /> +Pygmalion stood, until he grew dry-eyed,<br /> +And then at last he turned away his face<br /> +As if from her cold eyes his grief to hide;<br /> +And thus a weary while did he abide,<br /> +With nothing in his heart but vain desire,<br /> +The ever-burning, unconsuming fire.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But when again he turned his visage round</span><br /> +His eyes were brighter and no more he wept,<br /> +As if some little solace he had found,<br /> +Although his folly none the more had slept,<br /> +Rather some new-born god-sent madness kept<br /> +His other madness from destroying him,<br /> +And made the hope of death wax faint and dim;<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For, trembling and ashamed, from out the street</span><br /> +Strong men he called, and faint with jealousy<br /> +He caused them bear the ponderous, moveless feet<br /> +Unto the chamber where he used to lie,<br /> +So in a fair niche to his bed anigh,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span>Unwitting of his woe, they set it down,<br /> +Then went their ways beneath his troubled frown.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then to his treasury he went, and sought</span><br /> +Fair gems for its adornment, but all there<br /> +Seemed to his eager eyes but poor and nought,<br /> +Not worthy e'en to touch her rippled hair.<br /> +So he, departing, through the streets 'gan fare,<br /> +And from the merchants at a mighty cost<br /> +Bought gems that kings for no good deed had lost.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">These then he hung her senseless neck around,</span><br /> +Set on her fingers, and fair arms of stone,<br /> +Then cast himself before her on the ground,<br /> +Praying for grace for all that he had done<br /> +In leaving her untended and alone;<br /> +And still with every hour his madness grew<br /> +Though all his folly in his heart he knew.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">At last asleep before her feet he lay,</span><br /> +Worn out with passion, yet this burning pain<br /> +Returned on him, when with the light of day<br /> +He woke and wept before her feet again;<br /> +Then of the fresh and new-born morning fain,<br /> +Into his garden passed, and therefrom bore<br /> +New spoil of flowers his love to lay before.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A little altar, with fine gold o'erlaid,</span><br /> +Was in his house, that he a while ago<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span>At some great man's command had deftly made,<br /> +And this he now must take and set below<br /> +Her well-wrought feet, and there must red flame glow<br /> +About sweet wood, and he must send her thence<br /> +The odour of Arabian frankincense.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then as the smoke went up, he prayed and said,</span><br /> +"Thou, image, hear'st me not, nor wilt thou speak,<br /> +But I perchance shall know when I am dead,<br /> +If this has been some goddess' sport, to seek<br /> +A wretch, and in his heart infirm and weak<br /> +To set her glorious image, so that he,<br /> +Loving the form of immortality,<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"May make much laughter for the gods above:</span><br /> +Hear me, and if my love misliketh thee<br /> +Then take my life away, for I will love<br /> +Till death unfeared at last shall come to me,<br /> +And give me rest, if he of might may be<br /> +To slay the love of that which cannot die,<br /> +The heavenly beauty that can ne'er pass by."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">No word indeed the moveless image said,</span><br /> +But with the sweet grave eyes his hands had wrought<br /> +Still gazed down on his bowed imploring head,<br /> +Yet his own words some solace to him brought,<br /> +Gilding the net wherein his soul was caught<br /> +With something like to hope, and all that day<br /> +Some tender words he ever found to say;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And still he felt as something heard him speak;</span><br /> +Sometimes he praised her beauty, and sometimes<br /> +Reproached her in a feeble voice and weak,<br /> +And at the last drew forth a book of rhymes,<br /> +Wherein were writ the tales of many climes,<br /> +And read aloud the sweetness hid therein<br /> +Of lovers' sorrows and their tangled sin.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And when the sun went down, the frankincense</span><br /> +Again upon the altar-flame he cast<br /> +That through the open window floating thence<br /> +O'er the fresh odours of the garden passed;<br /> +And so another day was gone at last,<br /> +And he no more his love-lorn watch could keep,<br /> +But now for utter weariness must sleep.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But in the night he dreamed that she was gone,</span><br /> +And knowing that he dreamed, tried hard to wake<br /> +And could not, but forsaken and alone<br /> +He seemed to weep as though his heart would break,<br /> +And when the night her sleepy veil did take<br /> +From off the world, waking, his tears he found<br /> +Still wet upon the pillow all around.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then at the first, bewildered by those tears,</span><br /> +He fell a-wondering wherefore he had wept,<br /> +But suddenly remembering all his fears,<br /> +Panting with terror, from the bed he leapt,<br /> +But still its wonted place the image kept,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span>Nor moved for all the joyful ecstasy<br /> +Wherewith he blessed the day that showed it nigh.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then came the morning offering and the day,</span><br /> +Midst flowers and words of love and kisses sweet<br /> +From morn, through noon, to evening passed away,<br /> +And scarce unhappy, crouching at her feet<br /> +He saw the sun descend the sea to meet;<br /> +And scarce unhappy through the darkness crept<br /> +Unto his bed, and midst soft dreaming slept.</p></div> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">B</span><span class="caps">ut</span> the next morn, e'en while the incense-smoke</span><br /> +At sun-rising curled round about her head,<br /> +Sweet sound of songs the wonted quiet broke<br /> +Down in the street, and he by something led,<br /> +He knew not what, must leave his prayer unsaid,<br /> +And through the freshness of the morn must see<br /> +The folk who went with that sweet minstrelsy;<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Damsels and youths in wonderful attire,</span><br /> +And in their midst upon a car of gold<br /> +An image of the Mother of Desire,<br /> +Wrought by his hands in days that seemed grown old<br /> +Though those sweet limbs a garment did enfold,<br /> +Coloured like flame, enwrought with precious things,<br /> +Most fit to be the prize of striving kings.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then he remembered that the manner was</span><br /> +That fair-clad priests the lovely Queen should take<br /> +Thrice in the year, and through the city pass,<br /> +And with sweet songs the dreaming folk awake;<br /> +And through the clouds a light there seemed to break<br /> +When he remembered all the tales well told<br /> +About her glorious kindly deeds of old.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So his unfinished prayer he finished not,</span><br /> +But, kneeling, once more kissed the marble feet,<br /> +And, while his heart with many thoughts waxed hot,<br /> +He clad himself with fresh attire and meet<br /> +For that bright service, and with blossoms sweet<br /> +Entwined with tender leaves he crowned his head,<br /> +And followed after as the goddess led.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But long and vain unto him seemed the way</span><br /> +Until they came unto her house again;<br /> +Long years, the while they went about to lay<br /> +The honey-hiding dwellers on the plain,<br /> +The sweet companions of the yellowing grain<br /> +Upon her golden altar; long and long<br /> +Before, at end of their delicious song,<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They stripped her of her weed with reverend hands</span><br /> +And showed the ivory limbs his hand had wrought;<br /> +Yea, and too long e'en then ere those fair bands,<br /> +Dispersing here and there, the shadow sought<br /> +Of Indian spice-trees o'er the warm sea brought<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span>And toward the splashing of the fountain turned,<br /> +Mocked the noon sun that o'er the cloisters burned.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But when the crowd of worshippers was gone</span><br /> +And through the golden dimness of the place<br /> +The goddess' very servants paced alone,<br /> +Or some lone damsel murmured of her case<br /> +Apart from prying eyes, he turned his face<br /> +Unto that image made with toil and care,<br /> +In days when unto him it seemed most fair.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dusky and dim, though rich with gems and gold,</span><br /> +The house of Venus was; high in the dome<br /> +The burning sun-light you could now behold,<br /> +From nowhere else the light of day might come,<br /> +To shame the Shame-faced Mother's lovely home;<br /> +A long way off the shrine, the fresh sea-breeze,<br /> +Now just arising, brushed the myrtle-trees.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The torches of the flower-crowned, singing band</span><br /> +Erewhile, indeed, made more than daylight there,<br /> +Lighting the painted tales of many a land,<br /> +And carven heroes, with their unused glare;<br /> +But now a few soft, glimmering lamps there were<br /> +And on the altar a thin, flickering flame<br /> +Just showed the golden letters of her name.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Blue in the dome yet hung the incense-cloud,</span><br /> +And still its perfume lingered all around;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span>And, trodden by the light-foot, fervent crowd,<br /> +Thick lay the summer flowers upon the ground,<br /> +And now from far-off halls uprose the sound<br /> +Of Lydian music, and the dancer's cry,<br /> +As though some door were opened suddenly.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So there he stood, some help from her to gain,</span><br /> +Bewildered by that twilight midst of day;<br /> +Downcast with listening to the joyous strain<br /> +He had no part in, hopeless with delay<br /> +Of all the fair things he had meant to say;<br /> +Yet, as the incense on the flame he cast,<br /> +From stammering lips and pale these words there passed,—<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"O thou forgotten help, dost thou yet know</span><br /> +What thing it is I need, when even I,<br /> +Bent down before thee in this shame and woe,<br /> +Can frame no set of words to tell thee why<br /> +I needs must pray, O help me or I die!<br /> +Or slay me, and in slaying take from me<br /> +Even a dead man's feeble memory.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Say not thine help I have been slow to seek;</span><br /> +Here have I been from the first hour of morn,<br /> +Who stand before thy presence faint and weak,<br /> +Of my one poor delight left all forlorn;<br /> +Trembling with many fears, the hope outworn<br /> +I had when first I left my love, my shame,<br /> +To call upon thine oft-sung glorious name."<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He stopped to catch his breath, for as a sob</span><br /> +Did each word leave his mouth; but suddenly,<br /> +Like a live thing, the thin flame 'gan to throb<br /> +And gather force, and then shot up on high<br /> +A steady spike of light, that drew anigh<br /> +The sunbeam in the dome, then sank once more<br /> +Into a feeble flicker as before.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But at that sight the nameless hope he had</span><br /> +That kept him living midst unhappiness,<br /> +Stirred in his breast, and with changed face and glad<br /> +Unto the image forward must he press<br /> +With words of praise his first word to redress,<br /> +But then it was as though a thick black cloud<br /> +Altar, and fire, and ivory limbs did shroud.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He staggered back, amazed and full of awe,</span><br /> +But when, with anxious eyes, he gazed around,<br /> +About him still the worshippers he saw<br /> +Sunk in their wonted works, with no surprise<br /> +At what to him seemed awful mysteries;<br /> +Therewith he sighed and said, "This, too, I dream,<br /> +No better day upon my life shall beam."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And yet for long upon the place he gazed</span><br /> +Where other folk beheld the lovely Queen;<br /> +And while he looked the dusky veil seemed raised,<br /> +And every thing was as it erst had been;<br /> +And then he said, "Such marvels I have seen<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span>As some sick man may see from off his bed:<br /> +Ah, I am sick, and would that I were dead!"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Therewith, not questioning his heart at all,</span><br /> +He turned away and left the holy place,<br /> +When now the wide sun reddened towards his fall,<br /> +And a fresh west wind held the clouds in chase;<br /> +But coming out, at first he hid his face<br /> +Dazed with the light, and in the porch he stood,<br /> +Nor wished to move, or change his dreary mood.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet in a while the freshness of the eve</span><br /> +Pierced to his weary heart, and with a sigh<br /> +He raised his head, and slowly 'gan to leave<br /> +The high carved pillars; and so presently<br /> +Had passed the grove of whispering myrtles by,<br /> +And, mid the many noises of the street,<br /> +Made himself brave the eyes of men to meet.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thronged were the ways with folk in gay attire,</span><br /> +Nursing the end of that festivity;<br /> +Girls fit to move the moody man's desire<br /> +Brushed past him, and soft dainty minstrelsy<br /> +He heard amid the laughter, and might see,<br /> +Through open doors, the garden's green delight,<br /> +Where pensive lovers waited for the night;<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or resting dancers round the fountain drawn,</span><br /> +With faces flushed unto the breeze turned round,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span>Or wandering o'er the fragrant trodden lawn,<br /> +Took up their fallen garlands from the ground,<br /> +Or languidly their scattered tresses bound,<br /> +Or let their gathered raiment fall adown,<br /> +With eyes downcast beneath their lovers' frown.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What hope Pygmalion yet might have, when he</span><br /> +First left the pillars of the dreamy place,<br /> +Amid such sights had vanished utterly.<br /> +He turned his weary eyes from face to face,<br /> +Nor noted them, as at a lagging pace<br /> +He gat towards home, and still was murmuring,<br /> +"Ah life, sweet life! the only godlike thing!"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And as he went, though longing to be there</span><br /> +Whereas his sole desire awaited him,<br /> +Yet did he loath to see the image fair,<br /> +White and unchanged of face, unmoved of limb,<br /> +And to his heart came dreamy thoughts and dim<br /> +That unto some strange region he might come,<br /> +Nor ever reach again his loveless home.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet soon, indeed, before his door he stood,</span><br /> +And, as a man awaking from a dream,<br /> +Seemed waked from his old folly; nought seemed good<br /> +In all the things that he before had deemed<br /> +At least worth life, and on his heart there streamed<br /> +Cold light of day—he found himself alone,<br /> +Reft of desire, all love and madness gone.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And yet for that past folly must he weep,</span><br /> +As one might mourn the parted happiness<br /> +That, mixed with madness, made him smile in sleep;<br /> +And still some lingering sweetness seemed to bless<br /> +The hard life left of toil and loneliness,<br /> +Like a past song too sweet, too short, and yet<br /> +Emmeshed for ever in the memory's net.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Weeping he entered, murmuring, "O fair Queen,</span><br /> +I thank thee that my prayer was not for nought,<br /> +Truly a present helper hast thou been<br /> +To those who faithfully thy throne have sought!<br /> +Yet, since with pain deliverance I have bought,<br /> +Hast thou not yet some gift in store for me,<br /> +That I thine happy slave henceforth may be?"</p></div> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">T</span><span class="caps">hus</span> to his chamber at the last he came,</span><br /> +And, pushing through the still half-opened door,<br /> +He stood within; but there, for very shame<br /> +Of all the things that he had done before,<br /> +Still kept his eyes bent down upon the floor,<br /> +Thinking of all that he had done and said<br /> +Since he had wrought that luckless marble maid.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet soft his thoughts were, and the very place</span><br /> +Seemed perfumed with some nameless heavenly air<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span>So gaining courage, did he raise his face<br /> +Unto the work his hands had made so fair,<br /> +And cried aloud to see the niche all bare<br /> +Of that sweet form, while through his heart again<br /> +There shot a pang of his old yearning pain.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet while he stood, and knew not what to do</span><br /> +With yearning, a strange thrill of hope there came,<br /> +A shaft of new desire now pierced him through,<br /> +And therewithal a soft voice called his name,<br /> +And when he turned, with eager eyes aflame,<br /> +He saw betwixt him and the setting sun<br /> +The lively image of his lovéd one.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He trembled at the sight, for though her eyes,</span><br /> +Her very lips, were such as he had made,<br /> +And though her tresses fell but in such guise<br /> +As he had wrought them, now was she arrayed<br /> +In that fair garment that the priests had laid<br /> +Upon the goddess on that very morn,<br /> +Dyed like the setting sun upon the corn.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Speechless he stood, but she now drew anear,</span><br /> +Simple and sweet as she was wont to be,<br /> +And all at once her silver voice rang clear,<br /> +Filling his soul with great felicity,<br /> +And thus she spoke, "Pygmalion, come to me,<br /> +O dear companion of my new-found life,<br /> +For I am called thy lover and thy wife.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Listen, these words the Dread One bade me say</span><br /> +That was with me e'en now, <i>Pygmalion,</i><br /> +<i>My new-made soul I give to thee to-day,</i><br /> +<i>Come, feel the sweet breath that thy prayer has won,</i><br /> +<i>And lay thine hand this heaving breast upon!</i><br /> +<i>Come love, and walk with me between the trees,</i><br /> +<i>And feel the freshness of the evening breeze.</i><br /> +<br /> +<i>"Sweep mine hair round thy neck; behold my feet,</i><br /> +<i>The oft-kissed feet thou thoughtst should never move,</i><br /> +<i>Press down the daisies! draw me to thee, sweet,</i><br /> +<i>And feel the warm heart of thy living love</i><br /> +<i>Beat against thine, and bless the Seed of Jove</i><br /> +<i>Whose loving tender heart hath wrought all this,</i><br /> +<i>And wrapped us both in such a cloud of bliss.</i><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Ah, thou art wise to know what this may mean!</span><br /> +Sweet seem the words to me, and needs must I<br /> +Speak all the lesson of the lovely Queen:<br /> +But this I know, I would we were more nigh,<br /> +I have not heard thy voice but in the cry<br /> +Thou utteredst then, when thou believedst gone<br /> +The marvel of thine hands, the maid of stone."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">She reached her hand to him, and with kind eyes</span><br /> +Gazed into his; but he the fingers caught<br /> +And drew her to him, and midst ecstasies<br /> +Passing all words, yea, well-nigh passing thought,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span>Felt that sweet breath that he so long had sought,<br /> +Felt the warm life within her heaving breast<br /> +As in his arms his living love he pressed.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But as his cheek touched hers he heard her say,</span><br /> +"Wilt thou not speak, O love? why dost thou weep?<br /> +Art thou then sorry for this long-wished day,<br /> +Or dost thou think perchance thou wilt not keep<br /> +This that thou holdest, but in dreamy sleep?<br /> +Nay, let us do the bidding of the Queen,<br /> +And hand in hand walk through thy garden green;<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Then shalt thou tell me, still beholding me,</span><br /> +Full many things whereof I wish to know,<br /> +And as we walk from whispering tree to tree<br /> +Still more familiar to thee shall I grow,<br /> +And such things shalt thou say unto me now<br /> +As when thou deemedst thou wast quite alone,<br /> +A madman, kneeling to a thing of stone."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But at that word a smile lit up his eyes</span><br /> +And therewithal he spake some loving word,<br /> +And she at first looked up in grave surprise<br /> +When his deep voice and musical she heard,<br /> +And clung to him as grown somewhat afeard;<br /> +Then cried aloud and said, "O mighty one!<br /> +What joy with thee to look upon the sun."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then into that fair garden did they pass</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span>And all the story of his love he told,<br /> +And as the twain went o'er the dewy grass,<br /> +Beneath the risen moon could he behold<br /> +The bright tears trickling down, then, waxen bold,<br /> +He stopped and said, "Ah, love, what meaneth this?<br /> +Seest thou how tears still follow earthly bliss?"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then both her white arms round his neck she threw</span><br /> +And sobbing said, "O love, what hurteth me?<br /> +When first the sweetness of my life I knew,<br /> +Not this I felt, but when I first saw thee<br /> +A little pain and great felicity<br /> +Rose up within me, and thy talk e'en now<br /> +Made pain and pleasure ever greater grow?"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"O sweet," he said, "this thing is even love,</span><br /> +Whereof I told thee; that all wise men fear,<br /> +But yet escape not; nay, to gods above,<br /> +Unless the old tales lie, it draweth near.<br /> +But let my happy ears I pray thee hear<br /> +Thy story too, and how thy blessed birth<br /> +Has made a heaven of this once lonely earth."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"My sweet," she said, "as yet I am not wise,</span><br /> +Or stored with words, aright the tale to tell,<br /> +But listen: when I opened first mine eyes<br /> +I stood within the niche thou knowest well,<br /> +And from mine hand a heavy thing there fell<br /> +Carved like these flowers, nor could I see things clear,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span>And but a strange confusèd noise could hear.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"At last mine eyes could see a woman fair,</span><br /> +But awful as this round white moon o'erhead.<br /> +So that I trembled when I saw her there,<br /> +For with my life was born some touch of dread,<br /> +And therewithal I heard her voice that said,<br /> +'Come down, and learn to love and be alive,<br /> +For thee, a well-prized gift, to-day I give.'<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Then on the floor I stepped, rejoicing much,</span><br /> +Not knowing why, not knowing aught at all,<br /> +Till she reached out her hand my breast to touch,<br /> +And when her fingers thereupon did fall,<br /> +Thought came unto my life, and therewithal<br /> +I knew her for a goddess, and began<br /> +To murmur in some tongue unknown to man.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"And then indeed not in this guise was I,</span><br /> +No sandals had I, and no saffron gown,<br /> +But naked as thou knowest utterly,<br /> +E'en as my limbs beneath thine hand had grown,<br /> +And this fair perfumed robe then fell adown<br /> +Over the goddess' feet and swept the ground,<br /> +And round her loins a glittering belt was bound.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"But when the stammering of my tongue she heard</span><br /> +Upon my trembling lips her hand she laid,<br /> +And spoke again, 'Nay, say not any word,<br /> +All that thine heart would say I know unsaid,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span>Who even now thine heart and voice have made;<br /> +But listen rather, for thou knowest now<br /> +What these words mean, and still wilt wiser grow.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"'Thy body, lifeless till I gave it life,</span><br /> +A certain man, my servant, well hath wrought<br /> +I give thee to him as his love and wife,<br /> +With all thy dowry of desire and thought,<br /> +Since this his yearning heart hath ever sought;<br /> +Now from my temple is he on the way,<br /> +Deeming to find thee e'en as yesterday;<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"'Bide thou his coming by the bed-head there,</span><br /> +And when thou seest him set his eyes upon<br /> +Thine empty niche, and hear'st him cry for care,<br /> +Then call him by his name, Pygmalion,<br /> +And certainly thy lover hast thou won;<br /> +But when he stands before thee silently,<br /> +Say all these words that I shall teach to thee.'<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"With that she said what first I told thee, love</span><br /> +And then went on, 'Moreover thou shalt say<br /> +That I, the daughter of almighty Jove,<br /> +Have wrought for him this long-desired day;<br /> +In sign whereof, these things that pass away,<br /> +Wherein mine image men have well arrayed,<br /> +I give thee for thy wedding gear, O maid.'<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Therewith her raiment she put off from her.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span>And laid bare all her perfect loveliness,<br /> +And, smiling on me, came yet more anear,<br /> +And on my mortal lips her lips did press,<br /> +And said, 'Now herewith shalt thou love no less<br /> +Than Psyche loved my son in days of old;<br /> +Farewell, of thee shall many a tale be told.'<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"And even with that last word was she gone,</span><br /> +How, I know not, and I my limbs arrayed<br /> +In her fair gift, and waited thee alone—<br /> +Ah, love, indeed the word is true she said,<br /> +For now I love thee so, I grow afraid<br /> +Of what the gods upon our heads may send—<br /> +I love thee so, I think upon the end."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What words he said? How can I tell again</span><br /> +What words they said beneath the glimmering light,<br /> +Some tongue they used unknown to loveless men<br /> +As each to each they told their great delight,<br /> +Until for stillness of the growing night<br /> +Their soft sweet murmuring words seemed growing loud<br /> +And dim the moon grew, hid by fleecy cloud.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">S</span><span class="caps">uch</span> was the ending of his ancient rhyme,</span><br /> +That seemed to fit that soft and golden time,<br /> +When men were happy, they could scarce tell why,<br /> +Although they felt the rich year slipping by.<br /> +The sun went down, the harvest-moon arose,<br /> +And 'twixt the slim trees of that fruitful close<br /> +They saw the corn still falling 'neath its light,<br /> +While through the soft air of the windless night<br /> +The voices of the reapers' mates rang clear<br /> +In measured song, as of the fruitful year<br /> +They told, and its delights, and now and then<br /> +The rougher voices of the toiling men<br /> +Joined in the song, as one by one released<br /> +From that hard toil, they sauntered towards the feast<br /> +That waited them upon the strip of grass<br /> +That through the golden-glimmering sea did pass.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But those old men, glad to have lived so long,</span><br /> +Sat listening through the twilight to the song,<br /> +And when the night grew and all things were still<br /> +Throughout the wide vale from green hill to hill<br /> +Unto a happy harvesting they drank<br /> +Till once more o'er the hills the white moon sank.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span></p> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">A</span><span class="caps">ugust</span> had not gone by, though now was stored</span><br /> +In the sweet-smelling granaries all the hoard<br /> +Of golden corn; the land had made her gain,<br /> +And winter should howl round her doors in vain.<br /> +But o'er the same fields grey now and forlorn<br /> +The old men sat and heard the swineherd's horn,<br /> +Far off across the stubble, when the day<br /> +At end of harvest-tide was sad and grey;<br /> +And rain was in the wind's voice as it swept<br /> +Along the hedges where the lone quail crept,<br /> +Beneath the chattering of the restless pie.<br /> +The fruit-hung branches moved, and suddenly<br /> +The trembling apples smote the dewless grass,<br /> +And all the year to autumn-tide did pass.<br /> +E'en such a day it was as young men love<br /> +When swiftly through the veins the blood doth move,<br /> +And they, whose eyes can see not death at all,<br /> +To thoughts of stirring deeds and pleasure fall,<br /> +Because it seems to them to tell of life<br /> +After the dreamy days devoid of strife,<br /> +When every day with sunshine is begun,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span>And cloudless skies receive the setting sun.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">On such a day the older folk were fain</span><br /> +Of something new somewhat to dull the pain<br /> +Of sad, importunate old memories<br /> +That to their weary hearts must needs arise.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Alas! what new things on that day could come</span><br /> +From hearts that now so long had been the home<br /> +Of such dull thoughts, nay, rather let them tell<br /> +Some tale that fits their ancient longings well.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Rolf was the speaker, who said, "Friends, behold</span><br /> +This is e'en such a tale as those once told<br /> +Unto my greedy ears by Nicholas,<br /> +Before our quest for nothing came to pass."</p></div> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span></p> +<h2>OGIER THE DANE.</h2> + +<h3>ARGUMENT.</h3> + +<p class="hang">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.</p> +<p> </p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">W</span><span class="caps">ithin</span> some Danish city by the sea,</span><br /> +Whose name, changed now, is all unknown to me,<br /> +Great mourning was there one fair summer eve,<br /> +Because the angels, bidden to receive<br /> +The fair Queen's lovely soul in Paradise,<br /> +Had done their bidding, and in royal guise<br /> +Her helpless body, once the prize of love,<br /> +Unable now for fear or hope to move,<br /> +Lay underneath the golden canopy;<br /> +And bowed down by unkingly misery<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span>The King sat by it, and not far away,<br /> +Within the chamber a fair man-child lay,<br /> +His mother's bane, the king that was to be,<br /> +Not witting yet of any royalty,<br /> +Harmless and loved, although so new to life.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Calm the June evening was, no sign of strife</span><br /> +The clear sky showed, no storm grew round the sun,<br /> +Unhappy that his day of bliss was done;<br /> +Dumb was the sea, and if the beech-wood stirred,<br /> +'Twas with the nestling of the grey-winged bird<br /> +Midst its thick leaves; and though the nightingale<br /> +Her ancient, hapless sorrow must bewail,<br /> +No more of woe there seemed within her song<br /> +Than such as doth to lovers' words belong,<br /> +Because their love is still unsatisfied.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But to the King, on that sweet eventide,</span><br /> +No earth there seemed, no heaven when earth was gone;<br /> +No help, no God! but lonely pain alone;<br /> +And he, midst unreal shadows, seemed to sit<br /> +Himself the very heart and soul of it.<br /> +But round the cradle of the new-born child<br /> +The nurses now the weary time beguiled<br /> +With stories of the just departed Queen;<br /> +And how, amid the heathen folk first seen,<br /> +She had been won to love and godliness;<br /> +And as they spoke, e'en midst his dull distress,<br /> +An eager whisper now and then did smite<br /> +Upon the King's ear, of some past delight,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span>Some once familiar name, and he would raise<br /> +His weary head, and on the speaker gaze<br /> +Like one about to speak, but soon again<br /> +Would drop his head and be alone with pain,<br /> +Nor think of these; who, silent in their turn,<br /> +Would sit and watch the waxen tapers burn<br /> +Amidst the dusk of the quick-gathering night,<br /> +Until beneath the high stars' glimmering light,<br /> +The fresh earth lay in colourless repose.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So passed the night, and now and then one rose</span><br /> +From out her place to do what might avail<br /> +To still the new-born infant's fretful wail;<br /> +Or through the softly-opened door there came<br /> +Some nurse new waked, who, whispering low the name<br /> +Of her whose turn was come, would take her place;<br /> +Then toward the King would turn about her face<br /> +And to her fellows whisper of the day,<br /> +And tell again of her just past away.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So waned the hours, the moon arose and grew,</span><br /> +From off the sea a little west-wind blew,<br /> +Rustling the garden-leaves like sudden rain;<br /> +And ere the moon began to fall again<br /> +The wind grew cold, a change was in the sky,<br /> +And in deep silence did the dawn draw nigh:<br /> +Then from her place a nurse arose to light<br /> +Fresh hallowed lights, for, dying with the night,<br /> +The tapers round about the dead Queen were;<br /> +But the King raised his head and 'gan to stare<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span>Upon her, as her sweeping gown did glide<br /> +About the floor, that in the stillness cried<br /> +Beneath her careful feet; and now as she<br /> +Had lit the second candle carefully,<br /> +And on its silver spike another one<br /> +Was setting, through her body did there run<br /> +A sudden tremor, and the hand was stayed<br /> +That on the dainty painted wax was laid;<br /> +Her eyelids fell down and she seemed to sleep,<br /> +And o'er the staring King began to creep<br /> +Sweet slumber too; the bitter lines of woe<br /> +That drew his weary face did softer grow,<br /> +His eyelids dropped, his arms fell to his side;<br /> +And moveless in their places did abide<br /> +The nursing women, held by some strong spell,<br /> +E'en as they were, and utter silence fell<br /> +Upon the mournful, glimmering chamber fair.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But now light footsteps coming up the stair,</span><br /> +Smote on the deadly stillness, and the sound<br /> +Of silken dresses trailing o'er the ground;<br /> +And heavenly odours through the chamber passed,<br /> +Unlike the scents that rose and lily cast<br /> +Upon the freshness of the dying night;<br /> +Then nigher drew the sound of footsteps light<br /> +Until the door swung open noiselessly—<br /> +A mass of sunlit flowers there seemed to be<br /> +Within the doorway, and but pale and wan<br /> +The flame showed now that serveth mortal man,<br /> +As one by one six seeming ladies passed<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span>Into the room, and o'er its sorrow cast<br /> +That thoughtless sense of joy bewildering,<br /> +That kisses youthful hearts amidst of spring;<br /> +Crowned were they, in such glorious raiment clad,<br /> +As yet no merchant of the world has had<br /> +Within his coffers; yet those crowns seemed fair<br /> +Only because they kissed their odorous hair,<br /> +And all that flowery raiment was but blessed<br /> +By those fair bodies that its splendour pressed.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now to the cradle from that glorious band,</span><br /> +A woman passed, and laid a tender hand<br /> +Upon the babe, and gently drew aside<br /> +The swathings soft that did his body hide;<br /> +And, seeing him so fair and great, she smiled,<br /> +And stooped, and kissed him, saying, "O noble child,<br /> +Have thou a gift from Gloriande this day;<br /> +For to the time when life shall pass away<br /> +From this dear heart, no fear of death or shame,<br /> +No weariness of good shall foul thy name."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So saying, to her sisters she returned;</span><br /> +And one came forth, upon whose brow there burned<br /> +A crown of rubies, and whose heaving breast<br /> +With happy rings a golden hauberk pressed;<br /> +She took the babe, and somewhat frowning said,<br /> +"This gift I give, that till thy limbs are laid<br /> +At rest for ever, to thine honoured life<br /> +There never shall be lacking war and strife,<br /> +That thou a long-enduring name mayst win,<br /> +And by thy deeds, good pardon for thy sin."<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">With that another, who, unseen, meanwhile</span><br /> +Had drawn anigh, said with a joyous smile,<br /> +"And this forgotten gift to thee I give,<br /> +That while amidst the turmoil thou dost live,<br /> +Still shalt thou win the game, and unto thee<br /> +Defeat and shame but idle words shall be."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then back they turned, and therewithal, the fourth</span><br /> +Said, "Take this gift for what it may be worth<br /> +For that is mine to give; lo, thou shalt be<br /> +Gentle of speech, and in all courtesy<br /> +The first of men: a little gift this is,<br /> +After these promises of fame and bliss."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then toward the babe the fifth fair woman went;</span><br /> +Grey-eyed she was, and simple, with eyes bent<br /> +Down on the floor, parted her red lips were,<br /> +And o'er her sweet face marvellously fair<br /> +Oft would the colour spread full suddenly;<br /> +Clad in a dainty gown and thin was she,<br /> +For some green summer of the fay-land dight,<br /> +Tripping she went, and laid her fingers light<br /> +Upon the child, and said, "O little one,<br /> +As long as thou shalt look upon the sun<br /> +Shall women long for thee; take heed to this<br /> +And give them what thou canst of love and bliss."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then, blushing for her words, therefrom she past,</span><br /> +And by the cradle stood the sixth and last,<br /> +The fairest of them all; awhile she gazed<br /> +Down on the child, and then her hand she raised,<br /> +And made the one side of her bosom bare;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span>"Ogier," she said, "if this be foul or fair<br /> +Thou know'st not now, but when thine earthly life<br /> +Is drunk out to the dregs, and war and strife<br /> +Have yielded thee whatever joy they may,<br /> +Thine head upon this bosom shalt thou lay;<br /> +And then, despite of knowledge or of God,<br /> +Will we be glad upon the flowery sod<br /> +Within the happy country where I dwell:<br /> +Ogier, my love that is to be, farewell!"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">She turned, and even as they came they passed</span><br /> +From out the place, and reached the gate at last<br /> +That oped before their feet, and speedily<br /> +They gained the edges of the murmuring sea,<br /> +And as they stood in silence, gazing there<br /> +Out to the west, they vanished into air,<br /> +I know not how, nor whereto they returned.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But mixed with twilight in the chamber burned</span><br /> +The flickering candles, and those dreary folk,<br /> +Unlike to sleepers, from their trance awoke,<br /> +But nought of what had happed meanwhile they knew<br /> +Through the half-opened casements now there blew<br /> +A sweet fresh air, that of the flowers and sea<br /> +Mingled together, smelt deliciously,<br /> +And from the unseen sun the spreading light<br /> +Began to make the fair June blossoms bright,<br /> +And midst their weary woe uprose the sun,<br /> +And thus has Ogier's noble life begun.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">H</span><span class="caps">ope</span> is our life, when first our life grows clear;</span><br /> +Hope and delight, scarce crossed by lines of fear,<br /> +Yet the day comes when fain we would not hope,<br /> +But forasmuch as we with life must cope,<br /> +Struggling with this and that, who knoweth why?<br /> +Hope will not give us up to certainty,<br /> +But still must bide with us: and with this man,<br /> +Whose life amid such promises began<br /> +Great things she wrought; but now the time has come<br /> +When he no more on earth may have his home.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Great things he suffered, great delights he had,</span><br /> +Unto great kings he gave good deeds for bad;<br /> +He ruled o'er kingdoms where his name no more<br /> +Is had in memory, and on many a shore<br /> +He left his sweat and blood to win a name<br /> +Passing the bounds of earthly creatures' fame.<br /> +A love he won and lost, a well-loved son<br /> +Whose little day of promise soon was done:<br /> +A tender wife he had, that he must leave<br /> +Before his heart her love could well receive;<br /> +Those promised gifts, that on his careless head<br /> +In those first hours of his fair life were shed<br /> +He took unwitting, and unwitting spent,<br /> +Nor gave himself to grief and discontent<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</a></span>Because he saw the end a-drawing nigh.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where is he now? in what land must he die,</span><br /> +To leave an empty name to us on earth?<br /> +A tale half true, to cast across our mirth<br /> +Some pensive thoughts of life that might have been;<br /> +Where is he now, that all this life has seen?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Behold, another eve upon the earth</span><br /> +Than that calm evening of the warrior's birth;<br /> +The sun is setting in the west, the sky<br /> +Is bright and clear and hard, and no clouds lie<br /> +About the golden circle of the sun;<br /> +But East, aloof from him, heavy and dun<br /> +Steel-grey they pack with edges red as blood,<br /> +And underneath them is the weltering flood<br /> +Of some huge sea, whose tumbling hills, as they<br /> +Turn restless sides about, are black or grey,<br /> +Or green, or glittering with the golden flame;<br /> +The wind has fallen now, but still the same<br /> +The mighty army moves, as if to drown<br /> +This lone, bare rock, whose shear scarped sides of brown<br /> +Cast off the weight of waves in clouds of spray.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Alas! what ships upon an evil day</span><br /> +Bent over to the wind in this ill sea?<br /> +What navy, whose rent bones lie wretchedly<br /> +Beneath these cliffs? a mighty one it was,<br /> +A fearful storm to bring such things to pass.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">This is the loadstone rock; no armament</span><br /> +Of warring nations, in their madness bent<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</a></span>Their course this way; no merchant wittingly<br /> +Has steered his keel unto this luckless sea;<br /> +Upon no shipman's card its name is writ,<br /> +Though worn-out mariners will speak of it<br /> +Within the ingle on the winter's night,<br /> +When all within is warm and safe and bright,<br /> +And the wind howls without: but 'gainst their will<br /> +Are some folk driven here, and then all skill<br /> +Against this evil rock is vain and nought,<br /> +And unto death the shipmen soon are brought;<br /> +For then the keel, as by a giant's hand,<br /> +Is drawn unto that mockery of a land,<br /> +And presently unto its sides doth cleave;<br /> +When if they 'scape swift death, yet none may leave<br /> +The narrow limits of that barren isle,<br /> +And thus are slain by famine in a while<br /> +Mocked, as they say, by night with images<br /> +Of noble castles among groves of trees,<br /> +By day with sounds of merry minstrelsy.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The sun sinks now below this hopeless sea,</span><br /> +The clouds are gone, and all the sky is bright;<br /> +The moon is rising o'er the growing night,<br /> +And by its shine may ye behold the bones<br /> +Of generations of these luckless ones<br /> +Scattered about the rock; but nigh the sea<br /> +Sits one alive, who uncomplainingly<br /> +Awaits his death. White-haired is he and old,<br /> +Arrayed in royal raiment, bright with gold,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</a></span>But tarnished with the waves and rough salt air;<br /> +Huge is he, of a noble face and fair,<br /> +As for an ancient man, though toil and eld<br /> +Furrow the cheeks that ladies once beheld<br /> +With melting hearts—Nay, listen, for he speaks!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"God, Thou hast made me strong! nigh seven weeks</span><br /> +Have passed since from the wreck we haled our store,<br /> +And five long days well told, have now passed o'er<br /> +Since my last fellow died, with my last bread<br /> +Between his teeth, and yet I am not dead.<br /> +Yea, but for this I had been strong enow<br /> +In some last bloody field my sword to show.<br /> +What matter? soon will all be past and done,<br /> +Where'er I died I must have died alone:<br /> +Yet, Caraheu, a good death had it been<br /> +Dying, thy face above me to have seen,<br /> +And heard my banner flapping in the wind,<br /> +Then, though my memory had not left thy mind,<br /> +Yet hope and fear would not have vexed thee more<br /> +When thou hadst known that everything was o'er;<br /> +But now thou waitest, still expecting me,<br /> +Whose sail shall never speck thy bright blue sea.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"And thou, Clarice, the merchants thou mayst call,</span><br /> +To tell thee tales within thy pictured hall,<br /> +But never shall they tell true tales of me:<br /> +Whatever sails the Kentish hills may see<br /> +Swept by the flood-tide toward thy well-walled town,<br /> +No more on my sails shall they look adown.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Get thee another leader, Charlemaine,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</a></span>For thou shalt look to see my shield in vain,<br /> +When in the fair fields of the Frankish land,<br /> +Thick as the corn they tread, the heathen stand.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"What matter? ye shall learn to live your lives;</span><br /> +Husbands and children, other friends and wives,<br /> +Shall wipe the tablets of your memory clean,<br /> +And all shall be as I had never been.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"And now, O God, am I alone with Thee;</span><br /> +A little thing indeed it seems to be<br /> +To give this life up, since it needs must go<br /> +Some time or other; now at last I know<br /> +How foolishly men play upon the earth,<br /> +When unto them a year of life seems worth<br /> +Honour and friends, and these vague hopes and sweet<br /> +That like real things my dying heart do greet,<br /> +Unreal while living on the earth I trod,<br /> +And but myself I knew no other god.<br /> +Behold, I thank Thee that Thou sweet'nest thus<br /> +This end, that I had thought most piteous,<br /> +If of another I had heard it told."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What man is this, who weak and worn and old</span><br /> +Gives up his life within that dreadful isle,<br /> +And on the fearful coming death can smile?<br /> +Alas! this man, so battered and outworn,<br /> +Is none but he, who, on that summer morn,<br /> +Received such promises of glorious life:<br /> +Ogier the Dane this is, to whom all strife<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</a></span>Was but as wine to stir awhile the blood,<br /> +To whom all life, however hard, was good:<br /> +This is the man, unmatched of heart and limb,<br /> +Ogier the Dane, whose sight has waxed not dim<br /> +For all the years that he on earth has dwelt;<br /> +Ogier the Dane, that never fear has felt,<br /> +Since he knew good from ill; Ogier the Dane,<br /> +The heathen's dread, the evil-doer's bane.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">B</span><span class="caps">right</span> had the moon grown as his words were done,</span><br /> +And no more was there memory of the sun<br /> +Within the west, and he grew drowsy now.<br /> +And somewhat smoother was his wrinkled brow<br /> +As thought died out beneath the hand of sleep,<br /> +And o'er his soul forgetfulness did creep,<br /> +Hiding the image of swift-coming death;<br /> +Until as peacefully he drew his breath<br /> +As on that day, past for a hundred years,<br /> +When, midst the nurse's quickly-falling tears,<br /> +He fell asleep to his first lullaby.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The night changed as he slept, white clouds and high</span><br /> +Began about the lonely moon to close;<br /> +And from the dark west a new wind arose,<br /> +And with the sound of heavy-falling waves<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</a></span>Mingled its pipe about the loadstone caves;<br /> +But when the twinkling stars were hid away,<br /> +And a faint light and broad, like dawn of day,<br /> +The moon upon that dreary country shed,<br /> +Ogier awoke, and lifting up his head<br /> +And smiling, muttered, "Nay, no more again;<br /> +Rather some pleasure new, some other pain,<br /> +Unthought of both, some other form of strife;"<br /> +For he had waked from dreams of his old life,<br /> +And through St. Omer's archer-guarded gate<br /> +Once more had seemed to pass, and saw the state<br /> +Of that triumphant king; and still, though all<br /> +Seemed changed, and folk by other names did call<br /> +Faces he knew of old, yet none the less<br /> +He seemed the same, and, midst that mightiness,<br /> +Felt his own power, and grew the more athirst<br /> +For coming glory, as of old, when first<br /> +He stood before the face of Charlemaine,<br /> +A helpless hostage with all life to gain.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But now, awake, his worn face once more sank</span><br /> +Between his hands, and, murmuring not, he drank<br /> +The draught of death that must that thirst allay.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But while he sat and waited for the day</span><br /> +A sudden light across the bare rock streamed,<br /> +Which at the first he noted not, but deemed<br /> +The moon her fleecy veil had broken through;<br /> +But ruddier indeed this new light grew<br /> +Than were the moon's grey beams, and, therewithal<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</a></span>Soft far-off music on his ears did fall;<br /> +Yet moved he not, but murmured, "This is death.<br /> +An easy thing like this to yield my breath,<br /> +Awake, yet dreaming, with no sounds of fear,<br /> +No dreadful sights to tell me it is near;<br /> +Yea, God, I thank Thee!" but with that last word<br /> +It seemed to him that he his own name heard<br /> +Whispered, as though the wind had borne it past;<br /> +With that he gat unto his feet at last,<br /> +But still awhile he stood, with sunken head,<br /> +And in a low and trembling voice he said,<br /> +"Lord, I am ready, whither shall I go?<br /> +I pray Thee unto me some token show."<br /> +And, as he said this, round about he turned,<br /> +And in the east beheld a light that burned<br /> +As bright as day; then, though his flesh might fear<br /> +The coming change that he believed so near,<br /> +Yet did his soul rejoice, for now he thought<br /> +Unto the very heaven to be brought:<br /> +And though he felt alive, deemed it might be<br /> +That he in sleep had died full easily.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then toward that light did he begin to go,</span><br /> +And still those strains he heard, far off and low,<br /> +That grew no louder; still that bright light streamed<br /> +Over the rocks, yet nothing brighter seemed,<br /> +But like the light of some unseen bright flame<br /> +Shone round about, until at last he came<br /> +Unto the dreary islet's other shore,<br /> +And then the minstrelsy he heard no more,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</a></span>And softer seemed the strange light unto him,<br /> +But yet or ever it had grown quite dim,<br /> +Beneath its waning light could he behold<br /> +A mighty palace set about with gold,<br /> +Above green meads and groves of summer trees<br /> +Far-off across the welter of the seas;<br /> +But, as he gazed, it faded from his sight,<br /> +And the grey hidden moon's diffused soft light,<br /> +Which soothly was but darkness to him now,<br /> +His sea-girt island prison did but show.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But o'er the sea he still gazed wistfully,</span><br /> +And said, "Alas! and when will this go by<br /> +And leave my soul in peace? must I still dream<br /> +Of life that once so dear a thing did seem,<br /> +That, when I wake, death may the bitterer be?<br /> +Here will I sit until he come to me,<br /> +And hide mine eyes and think upon my sin,<br /> +That so a little calm I yet may win<br /> +Before I stand within the awful place."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then down he sat and covered up his face.</span><br /> +Yet therewithal his trouble could not hide,<br /> +Nor waiting thus for death could he abide,<br /> +For, though he knew it not, the yearning pain<br /> +Of hope of life had touched his soul again—<br /> +If he could live awhile, if he could live!<br /> +The mighty being, who once was wont to give<br /> +The gift of life to many a trembling man;<br /> +Who did his own will since his life began;<br /> +Who feared not aught, but strong and great and free<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</a></span>Still cast aside the thought of what might be;<br /> +Must all this then be lost, and with no will,<br /> +Powerless and blind, must he some fate fulfil,<br /> +Nor know what he is doing any more?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Soon he arose and paced along the shore,</span><br /> +And gazed out seaward for the blessed light;<br /> +But nought he saw except the old sad sight,<br /> +The ceaseless tumbling of the billows grey,<br /> +The white upspringing of the spurts of spray<br /> +Amidst that mass of timbers, the rent bones<br /> +Of the sea-houses of the hapless ones<br /> +Once cast like him upon this deadly isle.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He stopped his pacing in a little while,</span><br /> +And clenched his mighty hands, and set his teeth,<br /> +And gazing at the ruin underneath,<br /> +He swung from off the bare cliff's jagged brow,<br /> +And on some slippery ledge he wavered now,<br /> +Without a hand-hold, and now stoutly clung<br /> +With hands alone, and o'er the welter hung,<br /> +Not caring aught if thus his life should end;<br /> +But safely amidst all this did he descend<br /> +The dreadful cliff, and since no beach was there,<br /> +But from the depths the rock rose stark and bare,<br /> +Nor crumbled aught beneath the hammering sea,<br /> +Upon the wrecks he stood unsteadily.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But now, amid the clamour of the waves,</span><br /> +And washing to-and-fro of beams and staves,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</a></span>Dizzy with hunger, dreamy with distress,<br /> +And all those days of fear and loneliness,<br /> +The ocean's tumult seemed the battle's roar,<br /> +His heart grew hot, as when in days of yore<br /> +He heard the cymbals clash amid the crowd<br /> +Of dusky faces; now he shouted loud,<br /> +And from crushed beam to beam began to leap,<br /> +And yet his footing somehow did he keep<br /> +Amidst their tossing, and indeed the sea<br /> +Was somewhat sunk upon the island's lee.<br /> +So quickly on from wreck to wreck he passed,<br /> +And reached the outer line of wrecks at last,<br /> +And there a moment stood unsteadily,<br /> +Amid the drift of spray that hurried by,<br /> +And drew Courtain his sword from out its sheath,<br /> +And poised himself to meet the coming death,<br /> +Still looking out to sea; but as he gazed,<br /> +And once or twice his doubtful feet he raised<br /> +To take the final plunge, that heavenly strain<br /> +Over the washing waves he heard again,<br /> +And from the dimness something bright he saw<br /> +Across the waste of waters towards him draw;<br /> +And hidden now, now raised aloft, at last<br /> +Unto his very feet a boat was cast,<br /> +Gilded inside and out, and well arrayed<br /> +With cushions soft; far fitter to have weighed<br /> +From some sweet garden on the shallow Seine,<br /> +Or in a reach of green Thames to have lain,<br /> +Than struggle with that huge confuséd sea;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</a></span>But Ogier gazed upon it doubtfully<br /> +One moment, and then, sheathing Courtain, said,<br /> +"What tales are these about the newly dead<br /> +The heathen told? what matter, let all pass;<br /> +This moment as one dead indeed I was,<br /> +And this must be what I have got to do,<br /> +I yet perchance may light on something new<br /> +Before I die; though yet perchance this keel<br /> +Unto the wondrous mass of charméd steel<br /> +Is drawn as others." With that word he leapt<br /> +Into the boat, and o'er the cushions crept<br /> +From stem to stern, but found no rudder there,<br /> +Nor any oars, nor were the cushions fair<br /> +Made wet by any dashing of the sea.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now while he pondered how these things could be,</span><br /> +The boat began to move therefrom at last,<br /> +But over him a drowsiness was cast,<br /> +And as o'er tumbling hills the skiff did pass,<br /> +He clean forgot his death and where he was.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">At last he woke up to a sunny day,</span><br /> +And, looking round, saw that his shallop lay<br /> +Moored at the edge of some fair tideless sea<br /> +Unto an overhanging thick-leaved tree,<br /> +Where in the green waves did the low bank dip<br /> +Its fresh and green grass-covered daisied lip;<br /> +But Ogier looking thence no more could see<br /> +That sad abode of death and misery,<br /> +Nor aught but wide and empty ocean, grey<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</a></span>With gathering haze, for now it neared midday;<br /> +Then from the golden cushions did he rise,<br /> +And wondering still if this were Paradise<br /> +He stepped ashore, but drew Courtain his sword<br /> +And muttered therewithal a holy word.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Fair was the place, as though amidst of May,</span><br /> +Nor did the brown birds fear the sunny day,<br /> +For with their quivering song the air was sweet;<br /> +Thick grew the field-flowers underneath his feet,<br /> +And on his head the blossoms down did rain,<br /> +Yet mid these fair things slowly and with pain<br /> +He 'gan to go, yea, even when his foot<br /> +First touched the flowery sod, to his heart's root<br /> +A coldness seemed to strike, and now each limb<br /> +Was growing stiff, his eyes waxed bleared and dim,<br /> +And all his stored-up memory 'gan to fail,<br /> +Nor yet would his once mighty heart avail<br /> +For lamentations o'er his changéd lot;<br /> +Yet urged by some desire, he knew not what,<br /> +Along a little path 'twixt hedges sweet,<br /> +Drawn sword in hand, he dragged his faltering feet,<br /> +For what then seemed to him a weary way,<br /> +Whereon his steps he needs must often stay<br /> +And lean upon the mighty well-worn sword<br /> +That in those hands, grown old, for king or lord<br /> +Had small respect in glorious days long past.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But still he crept along, and at the last</span><br /> +Came to a gilded wicket, and through this<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</a></span>Entered a garden fit for utmost bliss,<br /> +If that might last which needs must soon go by:<br /> +There 'gainst a tree he leaned, and with a sigh<br /> +He said, "O God, a sinner I have been,<br /> +And good it is that I these things have seen<br /> +Before I meet what Thou hast set apart<br /> +To cleanse the earthly folly from my heart;<br /> +But who within this garden now can dwell<br /> +Wherein guilt first upon the world befell?"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A little further yet he staggered on,</span><br /> +Till to a fountain-side at last he won,<br /> +O'er which two white-thorns their sweet blossoms shed.<br /> +There he sank down, and laid his weary head<br /> +Beside the mossy roots, and in a while<br /> +He slept, and dreamed himself within the isle;<br /> +That splashing fount the weary sea did seem,<br /> +And in his dream the fair place but a dream;<br /> +But when again to feebleness he woke<br /> +Upon his ears that heavenly music broke,<br /> +Not faint or far as in the isle it was,<br /> +But e'en as though the minstrels now did pass<br /> +Anigh his resting-place; then fallen in doubt,<br /> +E'en as he might, he rose and gazed about,<br /> +Leaning against the hawthorn stem with pain;<br /> +And yet his straining gaze was but in vain,<br /> +Death stole so fast upon him, and no more<br /> +Could he behold the blossoms as before,<br /> +No more the trees seemed rooted to the ground,<br /> +A heavy mist seemed gathering all around,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</a></span>And in its heart some bright thing seemed to be,<br /> +And round his head there breathed deliciously<br /> +Sweet odours, and that music never ceased.<br /> +But as the weight of Death's strong hand increased<br /> +Again he sank adown, and Courtain's noise<br /> +Within the scabbard seemed a farewell voice<br /> +Sent from the world he loved so well of old,<br /> +And all his life was as a story told,<br /> +And as he thought thereof he 'gan to smile<br /> +E'en as a child asleep, but in a while<br /> +It was as though he slept, and sleeping dreamed,<br /> +For in his half-closed eyes a glory gleamed,<br /> +As though from some sweet face and golden hair,<br /> +And on his breast were laid soft hands and fair,<br /> +And a sweet voice was ringing in his ears,<br /> +Broken as if with flow of joyous tears;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Ogier, sweet friend, hast thou not tarried long?</span><br /> +Alas! thine hundred years of strife and wrong!"<br /> +Then he found voice to say, "Alas! dear Lord,<br /> +Too long, too long; and yet one little word<br /> +Right many a year agone had brought me here."<br /> +Then to his face that face was drawn anear,<br /> +He felt his head raised up and gently laid<br /> +On some kind knee, again the sweet voice said,<br /> +"Nay, Ogier, nay, not yet, not yet, dear friend!<br /> +Who knoweth when our linkéd life shall end,<br /> +Since thou art come unto mine arms at last,<br /> +And all the turmoil of the world is past?<br /> +Why do I linger ere I see thy face<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</a></span>As I desired it in that mourning place<br /> +So many years ago—so many years,<br /> +Thou knewest not thy love and all her fears?"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Alas!" he said, "what mockery then is this</span><br /> +That thou wilt speak to me of earthly bliss?<br /> +No longer can I think upon the earth,<br /> +Have I not done with all its grief and mirth?<br /> +Yes, I was Ogier once, but if my love<br /> +Should come once more my dying heart to move,<br /> +Then must she come from 'neath the milk-white walls<br /> +Whereon to-day the hawthorn blossom falls<br /> +Outside St. Omer's—art thou she? her name<br /> +Which I remembered once mid death and fame<br /> +Is clean forgotten now; but yesterday,<br /> +Meseems, our son, upon her bosom lay:<br /> +Baldwin the fair—what hast thou done with him<br /> +Since Charlot slew him? All, mine eyes wax dim;<br /> +Woman, forbear! wilt thou not let me die?<br /> +Did I forget thee in the days gone by?<br /> +Then let me die, that we may meet again!"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He tried to move from her, but all in vain,</span><br /> +For life had well-nigh left him, but withal<br /> +He felt a kiss upon his forehead fall,<br /> +And could not speak; he felt slim fingers fair<br /> +Move to his mighty sword-worn hand, and there<br /> +Set on some ring, and still he could not speak,<br /> +And once more sleep weighed down his eyelids weak.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">B</span><span class="caps">ut,</span> ah! what land was this he woke unto?</span><br /> +What joy was this that filled his heart anew?<br /> +Had he then gained the very Paradise?<br /> +Trembling, he durst not at the first arise,<br /> +Although no more he felt the pain of eld,<br /> +Nor durst he raise his eyes that now beheld<br /> +Beside him the white flowers and blades of grass;<br /> +He durst not speak, lest he some monster was.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But while he lay and hoped, that gentle voice</span><br /> +Once more he heard; "Yea, thou mayst well rejoice<br /> +Thou livest still, my sweet, thou livest still,<br /> +Apart from every earthly fear and ill;<br /> +Wilt thou not love me, who have wrought thee this,<br /> +That I like thee may live in double bliss?"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then Ogier rose up, nowise like to one</span><br /> +Whose span of earthly life is nigh outrun,<br /> +But as he might have risen in old days<br /> +To see the spears cleave the fresh morning haze;<br /> +But, looking round, he saw no change there was<br /> +In the fair place wherethrough he first did pass,<br /> +Though all, grown clear and joyous to his eyes,<br /> +Now looked no worse than very Paradise;<br /> +Behind him were the thorns, the fountain fair<br /> +Still sent its glittering stream forth into air,<br /> +And by its basin a fair woman stood,<br /> +And as their eyes met his new-healéd blood<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</a></span>Rushed to his face; with unused thoughts and sweet<br /> +And hurrying hopes, his heart began to beat.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The fairest of all creatures did she seem;</span><br /> +So fresh and delicate you well might deem<br /> +That scarce for eighteen summers had she blessed<br /> +The happy, longing world; yet, for the rest,<br /> +Within her glorious eyes such wisdom dwelt<br /> +A child before her had the wise man felt,<br /> +And with the pleasure of a thousand years<br /> +Her lips were fashioned to move joy or tears<br /> +Among the longing folk where she might dwell,<br /> +To give at last the kiss unspeakable.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In such wise was she clad as folk may be,</span><br /> +Who, for no shame of their humanity,<br /> +For no sad changes of the imperfect year,<br /> +Rather for added beauty, raiment wear;<br /> +For, as the heat-foretelling grey-blue haze<br /> +Veils the green flowery morn of late May-days,<br /> +Her raiment veiled her; where the bands did meet<br /> +That bound the sandals to her dainty feet,<br /> +Gems gleamed; a fresh rose-wreath embraced her head,<br /> +And on her breast there lay a ruby red.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So with a supplicating look she turned</span><br /> +To meet the flame that in his own eyes burned,<br /> +And held out both her white arms lovingly,<br /> +As though to greet him as he drew anigh.<br /> +Stammering he said, "Who art thou? how am I<br /> +So cured of all my evils suddenly,<br /> +That certainly I felt no mightier, when,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</a></span>Amid the backward rush of beaten men,<br /> +About me drooped the axe-torn Oriflamme?<br /> +Alas! I fear that in some dream I am."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Ogier," she said, "draw near, perchance it is</span><br /> +That such a name God gives unto our bliss;<br /> +I know not, but if thou art such an one<br /> +As I must deem, all days beneath the sun<br /> +That thou hadst had, shall be but dreams indeed<br /> +To those that I have given thee at thy need.<br /> +For many years ago beside the sea<br /> +When thou wert born, I plighted troth with thee:<br /> +Come near then, and make mirrors of mine eyes,<br /> +That thou mayst see what these my mysteries<br /> +Have wrought in thee; surely but thirty years,<br /> +Passed amidst joy, thy new born body bears,<br /> +Nor while thou art with me, and on this shore<br /> +Art still full-fed of love, shalt thou seem more.<br /> +Nay, love, come nigher, and let me take thine hand,<br /> +The hope and fear of many a warring land,<br /> +And I will show thee wherein lies the spell,<br /> +Whereby this happy change upon thee fell."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Like a shy youth before some royal love,</span><br /> +Close up to that fair woman did he move,<br /> +And their hands met; yet to his changéd voice<br /> +He dared not trust; nay, scarcely could rejoice<br /> +E'en when her balmy breath he 'gan to feel,<br /> +And felt strange sweetness o'er his spirit steal<br /> +As her light raiment, driven by the wind,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</a></span>Swept round him, and, bewildered and half-blind<br /> +His lips the treasure of her lips did press,<br /> +And round him clung her perfect loveliness.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For one sweet moment thus they stood, and then</span><br /> +She drew herself from out his arms again,<br /> +And panting, lovelier for her love, did stand<br /> +Apart awhile, then took her lover's hand,<br /> +And, in a trembling voice, made haste to say,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"O Ogier, when thou camest here to-day,</span><br /> +I feared indeed, that in my play with fate,<br /> +I might have seen thee e'en one day too late,<br /> +Before this ring thy finger should embrace;<br /> +Behold it, love, and thy keen eyes may trace<br /> +Faint figures wrought upon the ruddy gold;<br /> +My father dying gave it me, nor told<br /> +The manner of its making, but I know<br /> +That it can make thee e'en as thou art now<br /> +Despite the laws of God—shrink not from me<br /> +Because I give an impious gift to thee—<br /> +Has not God made me also, who do this?<br /> +But I, who longed to share with thee my bliss,<br /> +Am of the fays, and live their changeless life,<br /> +And, like the gods of old, I see the strife<br /> +That moves the world, unmoved if so I will;<br /> +For we the fruit, that teaches good and ill,<br /> +Have never touched like you of Adam's race;<br /> +And while thou dwellest with me in this place<br /> +Thus shalt thou be—ah, and thou deem'st, indeed,<br /> +That thou shalt gain thereby no happy meed<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</a></span>Reft of the world's joys? nor canst understand<br /> +How thou art come into a happy land?—<br /> +Love, in thy world the priests of heaven still sing,<br /> +And tell thee of it many a joyous thing;<br /> +But think'st thou, bearing the world's joy and pain,<br /> +Thou couldst live there? nay, nay, but born again<br /> +Thou wouldst be happy with the angels' bliss;<br /> +And so with us no otherwise it is,<br /> +Nor hast thou cast thine old life quite away<br /> +Even as yet, though that shall be to-day.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"But for the love and country thou hast won,</span><br /> +Know thou, that thou art come to Avallon,<br /> +That is both thine and mine; and as for me,<br /> +Morgan le Fay men call me commonly<br /> +Within the world, but fairer names than this<br /> +I have for thee and me, 'twixt kiss and kiss."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ah, what was this? and was it all in vain,</span><br /> +That she had brought him here this life to gain?<br /> +For, ere her speech was done, like one turned blind<br /> +He watched the kisses of the wandering wind<br /> +Within her raiment, or as some one sees<br /> +The very best of well-wrought images<br /> +When he is blind with grief, did he behold<br /> +The wandering tresses of her locks of gold<br /> +Upon her shoulders; and no more he pressed<br /> +The hand that in his own hand lay at rest:<br /> +His eyes, grown dull with changing memories,<br /> +Could make no answer to her glorious eyes:<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</a></span>Cold waxed his heart, and weary and distraught,<br /> +With many a cast-by, hateful, dreary thought,<br /> +Unfinished in the old days; and withal<br /> +He needs must think of what might chance to fall<br /> +In this life new-begun; and good and bad<br /> +Tormented him, because as yet he had<br /> +A worldly heart within his frame made new,<br /> +And to the deeds that he was wont to do<br /> +Did his desires still turn. But she a while<br /> +Stood gazing at him with a doubtful smile,<br /> +And let his hand fall down; and suddenly<br /> +Sounded sweet music from some close nearby,<br /> +And then she spoke again: "Come, love, with me,<br /> +That thou thy new life and delights mayst see."<br /> +And gently with that word she led him thence,<br /> +And though upon him now there fell a sense<br /> +Of dreamy and unreal bewilderment,<br /> +As hand in hand through that green place they went,<br /> +Yet therewithal a strain of tender love<br /> +A little yet his restless heart did move.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So through the whispering trees they came at last</span><br /> +To where a wondrous house a shadow cast<br /> +Across the flowers, and o'er the daisied grass<br /> +Before it, crowds of lovely folk did pass,<br /> +Playing about in carelessness and mirth,<br /> +Unshadowed by the doubtful deeds of earth;<br /> +And from the midst a band of fair girls came,<br /> +With flowers and music, greeting him by name,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</a></span>And praising him; but ever like a dream<br /> +He could not break, did all to Ogier seem.<br /> +And he his old world did the more desire,<br /> +For in his heart still burned unquenched the fire,<br /> +That through the world of old so bright did burn:<br /> +Yet was he fain that kindness to return,<br /> +And from the depth of his full heart he sighed.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then toward the house the lovely Queen did guide</span><br /> +His listless steps, and seemed to take no thought<br /> +Of knitted brow or wandering eyes distraught,<br /> +But still with kind love lighting up her face<br /> +She led him through the door of that fair place,<br /> +While round about them did the damsels press;<br /> +And he was moved by all that loveliness<br /> +As one might be, who, lying half asleep<br /> +In the May morning, notes the light wind sweep<br /> +Over the tulip-beds: no more to him<br /> +Were gleaming eyes, red lips, and bodies slim,<br /> +Amidst that dream, although the first surprise<br /> +Of hurried love wherewith the Queen's sweet eyes<br /> +Had smitten him, still in his heart did stir.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And so at last he came, led on by her</span><br /> +Into a hall wherein a fair throne was,<br /> +And hand in hand thereto the twain did pass;<br /> +And there she bade him sit, and when alone<br /> +He took his place upon the double throne,<br /> +She cast herself before him on her knees,<br /> +Embracing his, and greatly did increase<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</a></span>The shame and love that vexed his troubled heart:<br /> +But now a line of girls the crowd did part,<br /> +Lovelier than all, and Ogier could behold<br /> +One in their midst who bore a crown of gold<br /> +Within her slender hands and delicate;<br /> +She, drawing nigh, beside the throne did wait<br /> +Until the Queen arose and took the crown,<br /> +Who then to Ogier's lips did stoop adown<br /> +And kissed him, and said, "Ogier, what were worth<br /> +Thy miserable days of strife on earth,<br /> +That on their ashes still thine eyes are turned?"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then, as she spoke these words, his changed heart burned</span><br /> +With sudden memories, and thereto had he<br /> +Made answer, but she raised up suddenly<br /> +The crown she held and set it on his head,<br /> +"Ogier," she cried, "those troublous days are dead;<br /> +Thou wert dead with them also, but for me;<br /> +Turn unto her who wrought these things for thee!"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then, as he felt her touch, a mighty wave</span><br /> +Of love swept o'er his soul, as though the grave<br /> +Did really hold his body; from his seat<br /> +He rose to cast himself before her feet;<br /> +But she clung round him, and in close embrace<br /> +The twain were locked amidst that thronging place.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thenceforth new life indeed has Ogier won,</span><br /> +And in the happy land of Avallon<br /> +Quick glide the years o'er his unchanging head;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</a></span>There saw he many men the world thought dead,<br /> +Living like him in sweet forgetfulness<br /> +Of all the troubles that did once oppress<br /> +Their vainly-struggling lives—ah, how can I<br /> +Tell of their joy as though I had been nigh?<br /> +Suffice it that no fear of death they knew,<br /> +That there no talk there was of false or true,<br /> +Of right or wrong, for traitors came not there;<br /> +That everything was bright and soft and fair,<br /> +And yet they wearied not for any change,<br /> +Nor unto them did constancy seem strange.<br /> +Love knew they, but its pain they never had,<br /> +But with each other's joy were they made glad;<br /> +Nor were their lives wasted by hidden fire,<br /> +Nor knew they of the unfulfilled desire<br /> +That turns to ashes all the joys of earth,<br /> +Nor knew they yearning love amidst the dearth<br /> +Of kind and loving hearts to spend it on,<br /> +Nor dreamed of discontent when all was won;<br /> +Nor need they struggle after wealth and fame;<br /> +Still was the calm flow of their lives the same,<br /> +And yet, I say, they wearied not of it—<br /> +So did the promised days by Ogier flit.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">T</span><span class="caps">hink</span> that a hundred years have now passed by,</span><br /> +Since ye beheld Ogier lie down to die<br /> +Beside the fountain; think that now ye are<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</a></span>In France, made dangerous with wasting war;<br /> +In Paris, where about each guarded gate,<br /> +Gathered in knots, the anxious people wait,<br /> +And press around each new-come man to learn<br /> +If Harfleur now the pagan wasters burn,<br /> +Or if the Rouen folk can keep their chain,<br /> +Or Pont de l'Arche unburnt still guards the Seine?<br /> +Or if 'tis true that Andelys succour wants?<br /> +That Vernon's folk are fleeing east to Mantes?<br /> +When will they come? or rather is it true<br /> +That a great band the Constable o'erthrew<br /> +Upon the marshes of the lower Seine,<br /> +And that their long-ships, turning back again,<br /> +Caught by the high-raised waters of the bore<br /> +Were driven here and there and cast ashore?<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Such questions did they ask, and, as fresh men</span><br /> +Came hurrying in, they asked them o'er again,<br /> +And from scared folk, or fools, or ignorant,<br /> +Still got new lies, or tidings very scant.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But now amidst these men at last came one,</span><br /> +A little ere the setting of the sun,<br /> +With two stout men behind him, armed right well,<br /> +Who ever as they rode on, sooth to tell,<br /> +With doubtful eyes upon their master stared,<br /> +Or looked about like troubled men and scared.<br /> +And he they served was noteworthy indeed;<br /> +Of ancient fashion were his arms and weed,<br /> +Rich past the wont of men in those sad times;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</a></span>His face was bronzed, as though by burning climes,<br /> +But lovely as the image of a god<br /> +Carved in the days before on earth Christ trod;<br /> +But solemn were his eyes, and grey as glass,<br /> +And like to ruddy gold his fine hair was:<br /> +A mighty man he was, and taller far<br /> +Than those who on that day must bear the war<br /> +The pagans waged: he by the warders stayed<br /> +Scarce looked on them, but straight their words obeyed<br /> +And showed his pass; then, asked about his name<br /> +And from what city of the world he came,<br /> +Said, that men called him now the Ancient Knight,<br /> +That he was come midst the king's men to fight<br /> +From St. Omer's; and as he spoke, he gazed<br /> +Down on the thronging street as one amazed,<br /> +And answered no more to the questioning<br /> +Of frightened folk of this or that sad thing;<br /> +But, ere he passed on, turned about at last<br /> +And on the wondering guard a strange look cast,<br /> +And said, "St. Mary! do such men as ye<br /> +Fight with the wasters from across the sea?<br /> +Then, certes, are ye lost, however good<br /> +Your hearts may be; not such were those who stood<br /> +Beside the Hammer-bearer years agone."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So said he, and as his fair armour shone</span><br /> +With beauty of a time long passed away,<br /> +So with the music of another day<br /> +His deep voice thrilled the awe-struck, listening folk.<br /> +<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet from the crowd a mocking voice outbroke,</span><br /> +That cried, "Be merry, masters, fear ye nought,<br /> +Surely good succour to our side is brought;<br /> +For here is Charlemaine come off his tomb<br /> +To save his faithful city from its doom."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Yea," said another, "this is certain news,</span><br /> +Surely ye know how all the carvers use<br /> +To carve the dead man's image at the best,<br /> +That guards the place where he may lie at rest;<br /> +Wherefore this living image looks indeed,<br /> +Spite of his ancient tongue and marvellous weed,<br /> +To have but thirty summers."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 11em;">At the name</span><br /> +Of Charlemaine, he turned to whence there came<br /> +The mocking voice, and somewhat knit his brow,<br /> +And seemed as he would speak, but scarce knew how;<br /> +So with a half-sigh soon sank back again<br /> +Into his dream, and shook his well-wrought rein,<br /> +And silently went on upon his way.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And this was Ogier: on what evil day</span><br /> +Has he then stumbled, that he needs must come,<br /> +Midst war and ravage, to the ancient home<br /> +Of his desires? did he grow weary then,<br /> +And wish to strive once more with foolish men<br /> +For worthless things? or is fair Avallon<br /> +Sunk in the sea, and all that glory gone?<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nay, thus it happed—One day she came to him</span><br /> +And said, "Ogier, thy name is waxing dim<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</a></span>Upon the world that thou rememberest not;<br /> +The heathen men are thick on many a spot<br /> +Thine eyes have seen, and which I love therefore;<br /> +And God will give His wonted help no more.<br /> +Wilt thou, then, help? canst thou have any mind<br /> +To give thy banner once more to the wind?<br /> +Since greater glory thou shalt win for this<br /> +Than erst thou gatheredst ere thou cam'st to bliss:<br /> +For men are dwindled both in heart and frame,<br /> +Nor holds the fair land any such a name<br /> +As thine, when thou wert living midst thy peers;<br /> +The world is worser for these hundred years."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From his calm eyes there gleamed a little fire,</span><br /> +And in his voice was something of desire,<br /> +To see the land where he was used to be,<br /> +As now he answered: "Nay, choose thou for me,<br /> +Thou art the wisest; it is more than well<br /> +Within this peaceful place with thee to dwell:<br /> +Nor ill perchance in that old land to die,<br /> +If, dying, I keep not the memory<br /> +Of this fair life of ours." "Nay, nay," said she,<br /> +"As to thy dying, that shall never be,<br /> +Whiles that thou keep'st my ring—and now, behold,<br /> +I take from thee thy charmed crown of gold,<br /> +And thou wilt be the Ogier that thou wast<br /> +Ere on the loadstone rock thy ship was cast:<br /> +Yet thou shalt have thy youthful body still,<br /> +And I will guard thy life from every ill."<br /> +<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">So was it done, and Ogier, armed right well,</span><br /> +Sleeping, was borne away by some strong spell,<br /> +And set upon the Flemish coast; and thence<br /> +Turned to St. Omer's, with a doubtful sense<br /> +Of being in some wild dream, the while he knew<br /> +That great delight forgotten was his due,<br /> +That all which there might hap was of small worth.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So on he went, and sometimes unto mirth</span><br /> +Did his attire move the country-folk,<br /> +But oftener when strange speeches from him broke<br /> +Concerning men and things for long years dead,<br /> +He filled the listeners with great awe and dread;<br /> +For in such wild times as these people were<br /> +Are men soon moved to wonder and to fear.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now through the streets of Paris did he ride,</span><br /> +And at a certain hostel did abide<br /> +Throughout that night, and ere he went next day<br /> +He saw a book that on a table lay,<br /> +And opening it 'gan read in lazy mood:<br /> +But long before it in that place he stood,<br /> +Noting nought else; for it did chronicle<br /> +The deeds of men whom once he knew right well,<br /> +When they were living in the flesh with him:<br /> +Yea, his own deeds he saw, grown strange and dim<br /> +Already, and true stories mixed with lies,<br /> +Until, with many thronging memories<br /> +Of those old days, his heart was so oppressed,<br /> +He 'gan to wish that he might lie at rest,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</a></span>Forgetting all things: for indeed by this<br /> +Little remembrance had he of the bliss<br /> +That wrapped his soul in peaceful Avallon.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But his changed life he needs must carry on;</span><br /> +For ye shall know the Queen was gathering men<br /> +To send unto the good King, who as then<br /> +In Rouen lay, beset by many a band<br /> +Of those who carried terror through the land,<br /> +And still by messengers for help he prayed:<br /> +Therefore a mighty muster was being made,<br /> +Of weak and strong, and brave and timorous,<br /> +Before the Queen anigh her royal house.<br /> +So thither on this morn did Ogier turn,<br /> +Some certain news about the war to learn;<br /> +And when he came at last into the square,<br /> +And saw the ancient palace great and fair<br /> +Rise up before him as in other days,<br /> +And in the merry morn the bright sun's rays<br /> +Glittering on gathered helms and moving spears,<br /> +He 'gan to feel as in the long-past years,<br /> +And his heart stirred within him. Now the Queen<br /> +Came from within, right royally beseen,<br /> +And took her seat beneath a canopy,<br /> +With lords and captains of the war anigh;<br /> +And as she came a mighty shout arose,<br /> +And round about began the knights to close,<br /> +Their oath of fealty to swear anew,<br /> +And learn what service they had got to do.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</a></span>But so it was, that some their shouts must stay<br /> +To gaze at Ogier as he took his way<br /> +Through the thronged place; and quickly too he gat<br /> +Unto the place whereas the Lady sat,<br /> +For men gave place unto him, fearing him:<br /> +For not alone was he most huge of limb,<br /> +And dangerous, but something in his face,<br /> +As his calm eyes looked o'er the crowded place,<br /> +Struck men with awe; and in the ancient days,<br /> +When men might hope alive on gods to gaze,<br /> +They would have thought, "The gods yet love our town<br /> +And from the heavens have sent a great one down."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Withal unto the throne he came so near,</span><br /> +That he the Queen's sweet measured voice could hear;<br /> +And swiftly now within him wrought the change<br /> +That first he felt amid those faces strange;<br /> +And his heart burned to taste the hurrying life<br /> +With such desires, such changing sweetness rife.<br /> +And yet, indeed, how should he live alone,<br /> +Who in the old past days such friends had known?<br /> +Then he began to think of Caraheu,<br /> +Of Bellicent the fair, and once more knew<br /> +The bitter pain of rent and ended love.<br /> +But while with hope and vain regret he strove,<br /> +He found none 'twixt him and the Queen's high seat,<br /> +And, stepping forth, he knelt before her feet<br /> +And took her hand to swear, as was the way<br /> +Of doing fealty in that ancient day,<br /> +And raised his eyes to hers; as fair was she<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</a></span>As any woman of the world might be<br /> +Full-limbed and tall, dark-haired, from her deep eyes,<br /> +The snare of fools, the ruin of the wise,<br /> +Love looked unchecked; and now her dainty hand,<br /> +The well-knit holder of the golden wand,<br /> +Trembled in his, she cast her eyes adown,<br /> +And her sweet brow was knitted to a frown,<br /> +As he, the taker of such oaths of yore,<br /> +Now unto her all due obedience swore,<br /> +Yet gave himself no name; and now the Queen,<br /> +Awed by his voice as other folk had been,<br /> +Yet felt a trembling hope within her rise<br /> +Too sweet to think of, and with love's surprise<br /> +Her cheek grew pale; she said, "Thy style and name<br /> +Thou tellest not, nor what land of thy fame<br /> +Is glad; for, certes, some land must be glad,<br /> +That in its bounds her house thy mother had."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Lady," he said, "from what far land I come</span><br /> +I well might tell thee, but another home<br /> +Have I long dwelt in, and its name have I<br /> +Forgotten now, forgotten utterly<br /> +Who were my fellows, and what deeds they did;<br /> +Therefore, indeed, shall my first name be hid<br /> +And my first country; call me on this day<br /> +The Ancient Knight, and let me go my way."<br /> +He rose withal, for she her fingers fair<br /> +Had drawn aback, and on him 'gan to stare<br /> +As one afeard; for something terrible<br /> +Was in his speech, and that she knew right well,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</a></span>Who 'gan to love him, and to fear that she,<br /> +Shut out by some strange deadly mystery,<br /> +Should never gain from him an equal love;<br /> +Yet, as from her high seat he 'gan to move,<br /> +She said, "O Ancient Knight, come presently,<br /> +When we have done this muster, unto me,<br /> +And thou shalt have thy charge and due command<br /> +For freeing from our foes this wretched land!"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then Ogier made his reverence and went,</span><br /> +And somewhat could perceive of her intent;<br /> +For in his heart life grew, and love with life<br /> +Grew, and therewith, 'twixt love and fame, was strife.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But, as he slowly gat him from the square,</span><br /> +Gazing at all the people gathered there,<br /> +A squire of the Queen's behind him came,<br /> +And breathless, called him by his new-coined name,<br /> +And bade him turn because the Queen now bade,<br /> +Since by the muster long she might be stayed,<br /> +That to the palace he should bring him straight,<br /> +Midst sport and play her coming back to wait;<br /> +Then Ogier turned, nought loath, and with him went,<br /> +And to a postern-gate his steps he bent,<br /> +That Ogier knew right well in days of old;<br /> +Worn was it now, and the bright hues and gold<br /> +Upon the shields above, with lapse of days,<br /> +Were faded much: but now did Ogier gaze<br /> +Upon the garden where he walked of yore,<br /> +Holding the hands that he should see no more;<br /> +For all was changed except the palace fair,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</a></span>That Charlemaine's own eyes had seen built there<br /> +Ere Ogier knew him; there the squire did lead<br /> +The Ancient Knight, who still took little heed<br /> +Of all the things that by the way he said,<br /> +For all his thoughts were on the days long dead.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">There in the painted hall he sat again,</span><br /> +And 'neath the pictured eyes of Charlemaine<br /> +He ate and drank, and felt it like a dream;<br /> +And midst his growing longings yet might deem<br /> +That he from sleep should wake up presently<br /> +In some fair city on the Syrian sea,<br /> +Or on the brown rocks of the loadstone isle.<br /> +But fain to be alone, within a while<br /> +He gat him to the garden, and there passed<br /> +By wondering squires and damsels, till at last,<br /> +Far from the merry folk who needs must play,<br /> +If on the world were coming its last day,<br /> +He sat him down, and through his mind there ran<br /> +Faint thoughts of that day, when, outworn and wan,<br /> +He lay down by the fountain-side to die.<br /> +But when he strove to gain clear memory<br /> +Of what had happed since on the isle he lay<br /> +Waiting for death, a hopeless castaway,<br /> +Thought, failing him, would rather bring again<br /> +His life among the peers of Charlemaine,<br /> +And vex his soul with hapless memories;<br /> +Until at last, worn out by thought of these,<br /> +And hopeless striving to find what was true,<br /> +And pondering on the deeds he had to do<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</a></span>Ere he returned, whereto he could not tell,<br /> +Sweet sleep upon his wearied spirit fell.<br /> +And on the afternoon of that fair day,<br /> +Forgetting all, beneath the trees he lay.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Meanwhile the Queen, affairs of state being done,</span><br /> +Went through the gardens with one dame alone<br /> +Seeking for Ogier, whom at last she found<br /> +Laid sleeping on the daisy-sprinkled ground.<br /> +Dreaming, I know not what, of other days.<br /> +Then on him for a while the Queen did gaze,<br /> +Drawing sweet poison from the lovely sight,<br /> +Then to her fellow turned, "The Ancient Knight—<br /> +What means he by this word of his?" she said;<br /> +"He were well mated with some lovely maid<br /> +Just pondering on the late-heard name of love."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Softly, my lady, he begins to move,"</span><br /> +Her fellow said, a woman old and grey;<br /> +"Look now, his arms are of another day;<br /> +None know him or his deeds; thy squire just said<br /> +He asked about the state of men long dead;<br /> +I fear what he may be; look, seest thou not<br /> +That ring that on one finger he has got,<br /> +Where figures strange upon the gold are wrought:<br /> +God grant that he from hell has not been brought<br /> +For our confusion, in this doleful war,<br /> +Who surely in enough of trouble are<br /> +Without such help;" then the Queen turned aside<br /> +Awhile, her drawn and troubled face to hide,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</a></span>For lurking dread this speech within her stirred;<br /> +But yet she said, "Thou sayest a foolish word,<br /> +This man is come against our enemies<br /> +To fight for us." Then down upon her knees<br /> +Fell the old woman by the sleeping knight,<br /> +And from his hand she drew with fingers light<br /> +The wondrous ring, and scarce again could rise<br /> +Ere 'neath the trembling Queen's bewildered eyes<br /> +The change began; his golden hair turned white,<br /> +His smooth cheek wrinkled, and his breathing light<br /> +Was turned to troublous struggling for his breath,<br /> +And on his shrunk lips lay the hand of death;<br /> +And, scarce less pale than he, the trembling Queen<br /> +Stood thinking on the beauty she had seen<br /> +And longed for, but a little while ago,<br /> +Yet with her terror still her love did grow,<br /> +And she began to weep as though she saw<br /> +Her beauty e'en to such an ending draw.<br /> +And 'neath her tears waking he oped his eyes,<br /> +And strove to speak, but nought but gasping sighs<br /> +His lips could utter; then he tried to reach<br /> +His hand to them, as though he would beseech<br /> +The gift of what was his: but all the while<br /> +The crone gazed on them with an evil smile,<br /> +Then holding toward the Queen that wondrous ring,<br /> +She said, "Why weep'st thou? having this fair thing,<br /> +Thou, losing nought the beauty that thou hast,<br /> +May'st watch the vainly struggling world go past,<br /> +Thyself unchanged." The Queen put forth her hand<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</a></span>And took the ring, and there awhile did stand<br /> +And strove to think of it, but still in her<br /> +Such all-absorbing longings love did stir,<br /> +So young she was, of death she could not think,<br /> +Or what a cup eld gives to man to drink;<br /> +Yet on her finger had she set the ring<br /> +When now the life that hitherto did cling<br /> +To Ogier's heart seemed fading quite away,<br /> +And scarcely breathing with shut eyes he lay.<br /> +Then, kneeling down, she murmured piteously,<br /> +"Ah, wilt thou love me if I give it thee,<br /> +And thou grow'st young again? what should I do<br /> +If with the eyes thou thus shalt gain anew<br /> +Thou shouldst look scorn on me?" But with that word<br /> +The hedge behind her, by the west wind stirred,<br /> +Cast fear into her heart of some one nigh,<br /> +And therewith on his finger hastily<br /> +She set the ring, then rose and stood apart<br /> +A little way, and in her doubtful heart<br /> +With love and fear was mixed desire of life.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But standing so, a look with great scorn rife</span><br /> +The elder woman, turning, cast on her,<br /> +Pointing to Ogier, who began to stir;<br /> +She looked, and all she erst saw now did seem<br /> +To have been nothing but a hideous dream,<br /> +As fair and young he rose from off the ground<br /> +And cast a dazed and puzzled look around,<br /> +Like one just waked from sleep in some strange place;<br /> +But soon his grave eyes rested on her face,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</a></span>And turned yet graver seeing her so pale,<br /> +And that her eyes were pregnant with some tale<br /> +Of love and fear; she 'neath his eyes the while<br /> +Forced her pale lips to semblance of a smile,<br /> +And said, "O Ancient Knight, thou sleepest then?<br /> +While through this poor land range the heathen men<br /> +Unmet of any but my King and Lord:<br /> +Nay, let us see the deeds of thine old sword."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Queen," said he, "bid me then unto this work,</span><br /> +And certes I behind no wall would lurk,<br /> +Nor send for succour, while a scanty folk<br /> +Still followed after me to break the yoke:<br /> +I pray thee grace for sleeping, and were fain<br /> +That I might rather never sleep again<br /> +Then have such wretched dreams as I e'en now<br /> +Have waked from."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 7.5em;">Lovelier she seemed to grow</span><br /> +Unto him as he spoke; fresh colour came<br /> +Into her face, as though for some sweet shame,<br /> +While she with tearful eyes beheld him so,<br /> +That somewhat even must his burnt cheek glow,<br /> +His heart beat faster. But again she said,<br /> +"Nay, will dreams burden such a mighty head?<br /> +Then may I too have pardon for a dream:<br /> +Last night in sleep I saw thee, who didst seem<br /> +To be the King of France; and thou and I<br /> +Were sitting at some great festivity<br /> +Within the many-peopled gold-hung place."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The blush of shame was gone as on his face</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</a></span>She gazed, and saw him read her meaning clear<br /> +And knew that no cold words she had to fear,<br /> +But rather that for softer speech he yearned.<br /> +Therefore, with love alone her smooth cheek burned;<br /> +Her parted lips were hungry for his kiss,<br /> +She trembled at the near approaching bliss;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nathless, she checked her love a little while,</span><br /> +Because she felt the old dame's curious smile<br /> +Upon her, and she said, "O Ancient Knight,<br /> +If I then read my last night's dream aright,<br /> +Thou art come here our very help to be,<br /> +Perchance to give my husband back to me;<br /> +Come then, if thou this land art fain to save,<br /> +And show the wisdom thou must surely have<br /> +Unto my council; I will give thee then<br /> +What charge I may among my valiant men;<br /> +And certes thou wilt do so well herein,<br /> +That, ere long, something greater shalt thou win:<br /> +Come, then, deliverer of my throne and land,<br /> +And let me touch for once thy mighty hand<br /> +With these weak fingers."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9.5em;">As she spoke, she met</span><br /> +His eager hand, and all things did forget<br /> +But for one moment, for too wise were they<br /> +To cast the coming years of joy away;<br /> +Then with her other hand her gown she raised<br /> +And led him thence, and o'er her shoulder gazed<br /> +At her old follower with a doubtful smile,<br /> +As though to say, "Be wise, I know thy guile!"<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[Pg 322]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">But slowly she behind the lovers walked,</span><br /> +Muttering, "So be it! thou shalt not be balked<br /> +Of thy desire; be merry! I am wise,<br /> +Nor will I rob thee of thy Paradise<br /> +For any other than myself; and thou<br /> +May'st even happen to have had enow<br /> +Of this new love, before I get the ring,<br /> +And I may work for thee no evil thing."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now ye shall know that the old chronicle,</span><br /> +Wherein I read all this, doth duly tell<br /> +Of all the gallant deeds that Ogier did,<br /> +There may ye read them; nor let me be chid<br /> +If I therefore say little of these things,<br /> +Because the thought of Avallon still clings<br /> +Unto my heart, and scarcely can I bear<br /> +To think of that long, dragging, useless year,<br /> +Through which, with dulled and glimmering memory,<br /> +Ogier was grown content to live and die<br /> +Like other men; but this I have to say,<br /> +That in the council chamber on that day<br /> +The Old Knight showed his wisdom well enow,<br /> +While fainter still with love the Queen did grow<br /> +Hearing his words, beholding his grey eyes<br /> +Flashing with fire of warlike memories;<br /> +Yea, at the last he seemed so wise indeed<br /> +That she could give him now the charge, to lead<br /> +One wing of the great army that set out<br /> +From Paris' gates, midst many a wavering shout,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[Pg 323]</a></span>Midst trembling prayers, and unchecked wails and tears,<br /> +And slender hopes and unresisted fears.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now ere he went, upon his bed he lay,</span><br /> +Newly awakened at the dawn of day,<br /> +Gathering perplexéd thoughts of many a thing,<br /> +When, midst the carol that the birds did sing<br /> +Unto the coming of the hopeful sun,<br /> +He heard a sudden lovesome song begun<br /> +'Twixt two young voices in the garden green,<br /> +That seemed indeed the farewell of the Queen.</p></div> + +<h3><span class="smcap">Song.</span></h3> + +<h5>HÆC.</h5> +<div class="poem"><p><span style="margin-left: 4em;"><i>In the white-flowered hawthorn brake,</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>Love, be merry for my sake;</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>Twine the blossoms in my hair,</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>Kiss me where I am most fair—</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>Kiss me, love! for who knoweth</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>What thing cometh after death?</i></span></p></div> + +<h5>ILLE.</h5> +<div class="poem"><p><span style="margin-left: 4em;"><i>Nay, the garlanded gold hair</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>Hides thee where thou art most fair;</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>Hides the rose-tinged hills of snow—</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>Ah, sweet love, I have thee now!</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>Kiss me, love! for who knoweth</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>What thing cometh after death?</i></span></p></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[Pg 324]</a></span></p> +<h5>HÆC.</h5> +<div class="poem"><p><span style="margin-left: 4em;"><i>Shall we weep for a dead day,</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>Or set Sorrow in our way?</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>Hidden by my golden hair,</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>Wilt thou weep that sweet days wear?</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>Kiss me, love! for who knoweth</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>What thing cometh after death?</i></span></p></div> + +<h5>ILLE.</h5> +<div class="poem"><p><span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>Weep, O Love, the days that flit,</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><i>Now, while I can feel thy breath,</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>Then may I remember it</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><i>Sad and old, and near my death.</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>Kiss me, love! for who knoweth</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>What thing cometh after death?</i></span></p></div> + +<p> </p> +<div class="poem"> +<p>Soothed by the pleasure that the music brought<br /> +And sweet desire, and vague and dreamy thought<br /> +Of happiness it seemed to promise him,<br /> +He lay and listened till his eyes grew dim,<br /> +And o'er him 'gan forgetfulness to creep<br /> +Till in the growing light he lay asleep,<br /> +Nor woke until the clanging trumpet-blast<br /> +Had summoned him all thought away to cast:<br /> +Yet one more joy of love indeed he had<br /> +Ere with the battle's noise he was made glad;<br /> +For, as on that May morning forth they rode<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[Pg 325]</a></span>And passed before the Queen's most fair abode,<br /> +There at a window was she waiting them<br /> +In fair attire with gold in every hem,<br /> +And as the Ancient Knight beneath her passed<br /> +A wreath of flowering white-thorn down she cast,<br /> +And looked farewell to him, and forth he set<br /> +Thinking of all the pleasure he should get<br /> +From love and war, forgetting Avallon<br /> +And all that lovely life so lightly won;<br /> +Yea, now indeed the earthly life o'erpast<br /> +Ere on the loadstone rock his ship was cast<br /> +Was waxing dim, nor yet at all he learned<br /> +To 'scape the fire that erst his heart had burned.<br /> +And he forgat his deeds, forgat his fame,<br /> +Forgat the letters of his ancient name<br /> +As one waked fully shall forget a dream,<br /> +That once to him a wondrous tale did seem.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now I, though writing here no chronicle</span><br /> +E'en as I said, must nathless shortly tell<br /> +That, ere the army Rouen's gates could gain<br /> +By a broad arrow had the King been slain,<br /> +And helpless now the wretched country lay<br /> +Beneath the yoke, until the glorious day<br /> +When Ogier fell at last upon the foe,<br /> +And scattered them as helplessly as though<br /> +They had been beaten men without a name:<br /> +So when to Paris town once more he came<br /> +Few folk the memory of the King did keep<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[Pg 326]</a></span>Within their hearts, and if the folk did weep<br /> +At his returning, 'twas for joy indeed<br /> +That such a man had risen at their need<br /> +To work for them so great deliverance,<br /> +And loud they called on him for King of France.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But if the Queen's heart were the more a-flame</span><br /> +For all that she had heard of his great fame,<br /> +I know not; rather with some hidden dread<br /> +Of coming fate, she heard her lord was dead,<br /> +And her false dream seemed coming true at last,<br /> +For the clear sky of love seemed overcast<br /> +With clouds of God's great judgments, and the fear<br /> +Of hate and final parting drawing near.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So now when he before her throne did stand</span><br /> +Amidst the throng as saviour of the land,<br /> +And she her eyes to his kind eyes did raise,<br /> +And there before all her own love must praise;<br /> +Then did she fall a-weeping, and folk said,<br /> +"See, how she sorrows for the newly dead!<br /> +Amidst our joy she needs must think of him;<br /> +Let be, full surely shall her grief wax dim<br /> +And she shall wed again."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 10em;">So passed the year,</span><br /> +While Ogier set himself the land to clear<br /> +Of broken remnants of the heathen men,<br /> +And at the last, when May-time came again,<br /> +Must he be crowned King of the twice-saved land,<br /> +And at the altar take the fair Queen's hand<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[Pg 327]</a></span>And wed her for his own. And now by this<br /> +Had he forgotten clean the woe and bliss<br /> +Of his old life, and still was he made glad<br /> +As other men; and hopes and fears he had<br /> +As others, and bethought him not at all<br /> +Of what strange days upon him yet should fall<br /> +When he should live and these again be dead.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now drew the time round when he should be wed,</span><br /> +And in his palace on his bed he lay<br /> +Upon the dawning of the very day:<br /> +'Twixt sleep and waking was he, and could hear<br /> +E'en at that hour, through the bright morn and clear,<br /> +The hammering of the folk who toiled to make<br /> +Some well-wrought stages for the pageant's sake,<br /> +Though hardly yet the sparrows had begun<br /> +To twitter o'er the coming of the sun,<br /> +Nor through the palace did a creature move.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">There in the sweet entanglement of love</span><br /> +Midst languid thoughts of greater bliss he lay,<br /> +Remembering no more of that other day<br /> +Than the hot noon remembereth of the night,<br /> +Than summer thinketh of the winter white.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In that sweet hour he heard a voice that cried,</span><br /> +"Ogier, Ogier!" then, opening his eyes wide,<br /> +And rising on his elbow, gazed around,<br /> +And strange to him and empty was the sound<br /> +Of his own name; "Whom callest thou?" he said<br /> +"For I, the man who lie upon this bed,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[Pg 328]</a></span>Am Charles of France, and shall be King to-day,<br /> +But in a year that now is passed away<br /> +The Ancient Knight they called me: who is this,<br /> +Thou callest Ogier, then, what deeds are his?<br /> +And who art thou?" But at that word a sigh,<br /> +As of one grieved, came from some place anigh<br /> +His bed-side, and a soft voice spake again,<br /> +"This Ogier once was great amongst great men;<br /> +To Italy a helpless hostage led;<br /> +He saved the King when the false Lombard fled,<br /> +Bore forth the Oriflamme and gained the day;<br /> +Charlot he brought back, whom men led away,<br /> +And fought a day-long fight with Caraheu.<br /> +The ravager of Rome his right hand slew;<br /> +Nor did he fear the might of Charlemaine,<br /> +Who for a dreary year beset in vain<br /> +His lonely castle; yet at last caught then,<br /> +And shut in hold, needs must he come again<br /> +To give an unhoped great deliverance<br /> +Unto the burdened helpless land of France:<br /> +Denmark he gained thereafter, and he wore<br /> +The crown of England drawn from trouble sore;<br /> +At Tyre then he reigned, and Babylon<br /> +With mighty deeds he from the foemen won;<br /> +And when scarce aught could give him greater fame,<br /> +He left the world still thinking on his name.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"These things did Ogier, and these things didst thou,</span><br /> +Nor will I call thee by a new name now<br /> +Since I have spoken words of love to thee—<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[Pg 329]</a></span>Ogier, Ogier, dost thou remember me,<br /> +E'en if thou hast no thought of that past time<br /> +Before thou camest to our happy clime?"<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As this was said, his mazed eyes saw indeed</span><br /> +A lovely woman clad in dainty weed<br /> +Beside his bed, and many a thought was stirred<br /> +Within his heart by that last plaintive word,<br /> +Though nought he said, but waited what should come<br /> +"Love," said she, "I am here to bring thee home;<br /> +Well hast thou done all that thou cam'st to do,<br /> +And if thou bidest here, for something new<br /> +Will folk begin to cry, and all thy fame<br /> +Shall then avail thee but for greater blame;<br /> +Thy love shall cease to love thee, and the earth<br /> +Thou lovest now shall be of little worth<br /> +While still thou keepest life, abhorring it<br /> +Behold, in men's lives that so quickly flit<br /> +Thus is it, how then shall it be with thee,<br /> +Who some faint image of eternity<br /> +Hast gained through me?—alas, thou heedest not!<br /> +On all these changing things thine heart is hot—<br /> +Take then this gift that I have brought from far,<br /> +And then may'st thou remember what we are;<br /> +The lover and the loved from long ago."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He trembled, and more memory seemed to grow</span><br /> +Within his heart as he beheld her stand,<br /> +Holding a glittering crown in her right hand:<br /> +"Ogier," she said, "arise and do on thee<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[Pg 330]</a></span>The emblems of thy worldly sovereignty,<br /> +For we must pass o'er many a sea this morn."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He rose, and in the glittering tunic worn</span><br /> +By Charlemaine he clad himself, and took<br /> +The ivory hand, that Charlemaine once shook<br /> +Over the people's heads in days of old;<br /> +Then on his feet he set the shoes of gold.<br /> +And o'er his shoulders threw the mantle fair,<br /> +And set the gold crown on his golden hair:<br /> +Then on the royal chair he sat him down,<br /> +As though he deemed the elders of the town<br /> +Should come to audience; and in all he seemed<br /> +To do these things e'en as a man who dreamed.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And now adown the Seine the golden sun</span><br /> +Shone out, as toward him drew that lovely one<br /> +And took from off his head the royal crown,<br /> +And, smiling, on the pillow laid it down<br /> +And said, "Lie there, O crown of Charlemaine,<br /> +Worn by a mighty man, and worn in vain,<br /> +Because he died, and all the things he did<br /> +Were changed before his face by earth was hid;<br /> +A better crown I have for my love's head,<br /> +Whereby he yet shall live, when all are dead<br /> +His hand has helped." Then on his head she set<br /> +The wondrous crown, and said, "Forget, forget!<br /> +Forget these weary things, for thou hast much<br /> +Of happiness to think of."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 10em;">At that touch</span><br /> +He rose, a happy light gleamed in his eyes;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[Pg 331]</a></span>And smitten by the rush of memories,<br /> +He stammered out, "O love! how came we here?<br /> +What do we in this land of Death and Fear?<br /> +Have I not been from thee a weary while?<br /> +Let us return—I dreamed about the isle;<br /> +I dreamed of other years of strife and pain,<br /> +Of new years full of struggles long and vain."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">She took him by the hand and said, "Come, love,</span><br /> +I am not changed;" and therewith did they move<br /> +Unto the door, and through the sleeping place<br /> +Swiftly they went, and still was Ogier's face<br /> +Turned on her beauty, and no thought was his<br /> +Except the dear returning of his bliss.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But at the threshold of the palace-gate</span><br /> +That opened to them, she awhile did wait,<br /> +And turned her eyes unto the rippling Seine<br /> +And said, "O love, behold it once again!"<br /> +He turned, and gazed upon the city grey<br /> +Smit by the gold of that sweet morn of May;<br /> +He heard faint noises as of wakening folk<br /> +As on their heads his day of glory broke;<br /> +He heard the changing rush of the swift stream<br /> +Against the bridge-piers. All was grown a dream<br /> +His work was over, his reward was come,<br /> +Why should he loiter longer from his home?<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A little while she watched him silently,</span><br /> +Then beckoned him to follow with a sigh,<br /> +And, raising up the raiment from her feet,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[Pg 332]</a></span>Across the threshold stepped into the street;<br /> +One moment on the twain the low sun shone,<br /> +And then the place was void, and they were gone<br /> +How I know not; but this I know indeed,<br /> +That in whatso great trouble or sore need<br /> +The land of France since that fair day has been,<br /> +No more the sword of Ogier has she seen.</p></div> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[Pg 333]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="big">S</span><span class="caps">uch</span> was the tale he told of Avallon.</span><br /> +E'en such an one as in days past had won<br /> +His youthful heart to think upon the quest;<br /> +But to those old hearts nigh in reach of rest,<br /> +Not much to be desired now it seemed—<br /> +Perchance the heart that of such things had dreamed<br /> +Had found no words in this death-laden tongue<br /> +We speak on earth, wherewith they might be sung;<br /> +Perchance the changing years that changed his heart<br /> +E'en in the words of that old tale had part,<br /> +Changing its sweet to bitter, to despair<br /> +The foolish hope that once had glittered there—<br /> +Or think, that in some bay of that far home<br /> +They then had sat, and watched the green waves come<br /> +Up to their feet with many promises;<br /> +Or the light wind midst blossom-laden trees,<br /> +In the sweet Spring had weighted many a word<br /> +Of no worth now, and many a hope had stirred<br /> +Long dead for ever.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">Howsoe'er that be</span><br /> +Among strange folk they now sat quietly,<br /> +As though that tale with them had nought to do,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[Pg 334]</a></span>As though its hopes and fears were something new<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But though, indeed, the outworn, dwindled band</span><br /> +Had no tears left for that once longed-for land,<br /> +The very wind must moan for their decay,<br /> +And from the sky, grown dull, and low, and grey,<br /> +Cold tears must fall upon the lonely field,<br /> +That such fair golden hopes erewhile did yield;<br /> +And on the blackening woods, wherein the doves<br /> +Sat silent now, forgetful of their loves.<br /> +Yet, since a little life at least was left,<br /> +They were not yet of every joy bereft,<br /> +For long ago was past the agony,<br /> +Midst which they found that they indeed must die;<br /> +And now well-nigh as much their pain was past<br /> +As though death's veil already had been cast<br /> +Over their heads—so, midst some little mirth,<br /> +They watched the dark night hide the gloomy earth.</p></div> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<h4>Printed by <span class="smcap">Ballantyne, Hanson & Co</span><br /> +Edinburgh & London</h4> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><b>Transcriber's Note:</b></p> +<p>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.</p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +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-h.htm or 30332-h.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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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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