The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley :: :: University of Virginia Library

Dyseris—Simus
DYSERIS
So he goes.
He is well gone— you told me it was best,
Told me and showed me, did you not, my Simus?
Confirm me now: I wished him gone, God knows,
And yet a kind of dread has taken me,
That these men lie, or that you lie; forgive me,
I am only weak and womanly with you.
The world holds me an iron queen to break
All opposition, my son holds me so,
An iron woman with one dream of power—
Ay, and till you came, surely power was all,
And found the secret of my heart, that I
Dreamed not could ever move at a man's step.
Did I not hate him, this boy's father? Yea,
I wept, but there was no salt bitterness
In all my ready widow's tears; as these
Laid down my clumsy spouse with a knave's knife
In his fine armour joinings, and they said
The hind that slew him had a mere wool coat.
And then you held the army, and at first
You feared as all men feared me. How you dared
Speak love to such a woman? I remember,
The strange and sneering laughter at my heart,
That I should hear this tale of girl and boy;
And verily I think, had I not feared
Your men, I should have mocked out to your face.
And so, as you persisted, day by day
It came less strange—No, I will not go on,
But for this boy, my Simus, is he safe?

220

He thwarts me, and I love him not, but still
I would subdue him wholly to my will.
But I would keep him safe of other scathes.
Tell me, these envoys, can you trust them, Simus?

SIMUS
Queen and my love, we had no choice but yielding.
Orestes they demanded; being strong
And knowing us revengeful, no mean head
Could give them any safety of our peace.
Had we refused to send, what else but war?
And our hired spears that overawe the town,
Are good enough for plunder and stone walls,
But against Crannon's armies like a smoke
They would be broken. And Orestes ran
More risk abiding war than going in peace
At these same envoys' heels. Be thou content;
For all is well, and thou shalt rule the days
In large dominion a great queen and fair.

CHORUS

Who may forbid a king that will do wrong?
He is so strong,
And master of the time, and fenced with purple sway.
And, like a god, to him belong
The hours to bring him sweetness on his way,
The meek hours at his will and footstool chained alway
To waft a little perfume of keen song
To make their lord his joy;
To smooth his brow from fold, and light
The brooding royal eyes an instant with delight.
A king who may forbid?
The man-god in his glory, crowned and strong,
Rises to reach his arm toward his desire,
While in his face a hunger beams like fire,
Stern as much fate and terrible as death;
So that men hold their breath
As like a tempest to his wish he goes.
Who shall stand up before his face and say
“Lord, thou wrought a shameful thing to-day,
A wrong eternal whose great curse shall grow
In after years to work thy children woe.
Merciless, hast thou heeded any cry?”
And he shall frown reply,

221

“Let this one worm writhe on. For who am I
To stay my hand for such? And thou beware
Lest interceding a worse woe catch thee.”
Therefore are all men mute. He rules and will not care:
He rules and honour clothes his years supremely fair.
So of his crime he takes the sweet, and dies
With the full savour of it in his mouth,
And keen delightful eyes;
While yet his lips a quiet laughter keep
At fools that fear the gods. So turns he to his sleep.
And men will come and say,
“His crime is surely done and clean and passed away.:
Can god account with these dry bones for wrong,
Or make them live again?
His vengeance is not wakeful, and this one
Hath made him rest, and done
His full of pleasure and escaped god's pain.”

Not so, ye fools and vain,
Heap up his grave and listen: from the ground,
From the grey bones when years have greened his mound,
An Atè vengeance rises. As soft rain
Her feet, and like the fluttered leaf, her robe,
And like a dream she goes
Pale-eyed and unreposing. And she knows,
Patient to wait, that years and years again
Will not erase the stain.
For which she watches the accursed race,
The seed of him who prospered his disgrace,
And made his laughter at the gods and died.
And well she knows that vengeance waxeth sweet
For keeping, and her face
Is pale for want of blood, and yet she curbs desire,
Altho' her veins are fire,
And years are very slow,
She bides her time to strike, and needs no second blow.

Strange is the vengeance of our lords on high,
That strikes the child and spares the guilty sire;
Gives him fat lands and lets him calmly die
Full of sweet bread and lord of all desire.
And men look sadly as they close his eyes
And wind him round in purple for his rest:
And, save a little murmur in the land,
They say he sleeps with the eternal blest.

222

Ay me, for that man's children, and again
A triple wail for those who call him sire.
Cry for the old hereditary stain,
Bewail the Atè that can never tire.
Hope not, thou blameless son, she will refrain:
Sprinkle with ash thine head and thine attire,
Thou shalt not turn her steps, nor yet assuage her ire.

The wise have in their wisdom said,
That ever since the world began
All blood the father king hath shed
An Atè visits on his son.
Surely some royal house may dread
Her silent feet, to whom is given
To search old crime forgotten as the dead,
And vex the seed of those who hated heaven
Therefore, O Lord, thy vengeance passes over
Ignoble heads as ours.
Therefore, I sit foreboding, to discover
Some mighty issue that most dimly lours.
Therefore Orestes' safe return I pray
With bated breath and fear.
Lest those two great ones who divide our sway
Should frown such prayer to hear.