Read Ebook: The Earthly Paradise: A Poem (Part II) by Morris William

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, 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 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.

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.

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 da?s; 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 remember?d 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.

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.

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.

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."

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-adorn?d 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 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-vein?d 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 accurs?d 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?"

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.

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 remember?d, 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 belov?d 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."

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