University of Virginia Library

I

And then it was
I saw once more, of women wisest, best,
The great Erinna; her of whom I dream'd;
The heart I yearn'd to solder unto mine;
Till our twin glories, like two differing notes
That sound like one, each counterpart of each,
Wedded together with pure harmony,
Might stream together to the end of Time.
For was she not the flower, that drank the most
From me the pure dew of poetic thought?
To whom my lightest words were sparks of light,
As the first glance of dawn to songbirds is
That spring to meet it, with such notes as seem
Fire turn'd to sound? Had I not led her on
Through all the summer mazes of sweet song,
Till she outran me in her eager flight;
And I strove hard to follow her? But she,
As tho' she were a shadow without self,
Or substance of her own, gave back to me
The wreath my hands had twined her: had she owed
Thoughts half as precious to my voice, as I,
If I had sounded my own soul as she
Might have traced to her silence? Her grey days
Of toil, and care, and penury; her lorn youth
Cheerless, and hopeless; unseen tears, that grew
Patience and fortitude, and made her more
Than mortal in her victories over time;
Her aspect queenlike; and her utterance more
Than music in its majesty? Ah me!
This well I know, that when I read her words,
Or hear her voice, my soul is stay'd on hers;
And this I told her as we met again.
Oh! what a brow, what awful eyes were hers!
'Twas Hera flashing from her midnight orbs
The soul of Pallas, like a star; her steps
Part Nature's own, part moulded by the grace
Of noble thoughts: she was a marble dream
Lightening with life. I look'd on her, and seem'd
To draw in from her presence strength beyond
Mine own more gentle spirit; but I sigh'd
Lest she indeed should look on me and scorn.
Not so; but, as a summer-tree, that sways
Its blossoms to warm winds, and earthward sheds
Its odours, toward me she lean'd her face
Touch'd with a simple sweetness, and her lips
Seal'd it upon my brow; and then she spake
In tones like the clear waters of a spring,
That fall with tuneful echoes from the rock:—
“Oh! this is the prime hour of all my life,
If I by any means can pay thee back
Some little of the debt for ever due.”
She said no more; but that was all to me.
And all that day her gentle words and pure
Fell on my heart, like drops of dew at even
On the green herb scorch'd by the sun of morn.

II

About the last days of the dying year
It chanced the noble Anaktoria came.
And when she saw me, with my sunken eyes
And bloomless cheek, and heard the tongue she loved
Untuned, and faint as lispings of a spring
After the burning summer; first she stood
Amazed, as one who sees a spectre pass;
Then snatch'd me to her heart with bursting tears.
Pity, soft pity, folded o'er her pride,
Became her beauty, like a pure white veil
Of simple fashion on that noble bosom:
The haughty glitter of her dark blue eyes
Quench'd in a dewy softness.—“Ah! dear friend,
How long,” she said, “how long shall that sweet voice,
Clear spring of inexhaustible delight,
Be fetter'd by a single night of frost?
Those happy songs, that I have made my own,
By oft repeating them among my friends?
And if true sympathy be more than praise,
Satisfying both my heart and thine,
Methinks, it doth reward both me and thee:
Me more than flattering tongues, assuring me
These lips were shaped to give them utterance
Most musical, because I feel them most;
And thee more truly than a thousand tongues,
That echo them unconscious of their charm.
Awake! and be thy self, with the new year.
The spring's warm bud will thrust off the sere leaf,
And Love with beamy brows and living voice,
For ever following where swift Death hath pass'd,
Kindle the shadows, and awake the silence,
And fill his footmarks with fresh flowers and green.
Past time is but the sepulchre of hope;
And what is laid therein can live no more.
A thousand voices and perennial tears
Move not nor melt the marble of the tomb;
But thy one voice can move a thousand hearts,
Sun thy forlorn regrets, and dry thy tears.
Grief is not kind to the kind Nature here,
If it strike down so deep into the heart
As to lock up the promise of the Spring:
Listen, for I bring comfort for thine heart.
Thy mournful passion shall exhale in fires
Of glory, and thy name be as a Queen's,
Whose spirit shall not be her only sceptre.
Henceforward I will set thee up on high;
And all the virgins of the isles shall see thee
The Muses' crowned minister. And now
Lift up thine eyes, ev'n from these quiet seats:
Thou may'st behold amid the embowering green
The sunlit porticos, and spacious front
Of a fair palace, rivalling the proudest
Own'd by your island nobles; this my sire
With his great wealth hath raised; and hath inwrought
With many colour'd marbles, that uphold
Roofs that are wreathed with delicate traceries,
Thick as a plot of flowers; and here and there
Inlaid with gorgeous golden star, and disk
Of vermeil, and of sapphire, that breathed down
Soft shadows on the silent company
Of snowwhite sculptures of heroic men,
Hard by the grander figures of the Gods.
What, if I throne thee there, the queen of all?
To rule when I am not; and when I am,
To rule me most, and with thy voice alone;
And such a living throng around thee there,
As, while they hear thee in the present time,
Shall see thee in the future foremost too,
If not the first, among the immortal dead!”
She ended; but the joy within her eyes,
More eloquent than utterance, glorified
Their depths, and made them lovely as the sunstar,
Lifted upon blue waters, as she stood,
One foot a little raised, and her right hand
Stretcht forth, as tho' to gather up the world
Under her domination: and I cried;—
“Be ever thus, dear friend; be ever thus.
Would that thy perfect image in mine eyes
When thou art parted, might be throned here,
In milkwhite marble, on this green hillside;
As now I see thee; but I dream, perchance.
For Dian, or Demeter would look down
With angry eyes, and make of thee, I fear,
A virgin Niobe.” She laugh'd, and said;—
“Forgive these dreams of sunshine born, and youth,
And country air”: “Thy dreams, more happy girl,”
I cried, “may yet in essence, and in part
Fulfil themselves; for unto thee alone
The happy horns of plenty on thy spring
Pour showers, all golden drops; and what thy heart
Conceives, thy hand may fashion, if it will.
I have my dreams too; and an hundred kings
Might sit together over golden cups,
Contriving royal palaces; and fail
To reach the height of my fantastic art.
I too have dreams of wondrous architecture;
Princedom, and vast emprise, and victory;
But I will leave the land for Fauns to till.
The Nymphs themselves shall sow and reap for me.
For me the Oreads shall prepare a space
Of smoothest green upon a mountaintop;
The Hamadryads throw the forest back
So far, that only I shall hear it surge
And murmur, when the clear Etesian blows;
And I shall see it sweep into the plains,
And shake its stormy shadows on the floors;
As 'twere a thousand isles, that lose themselves
Far off in purple levels, and seamists
Of tender gold, and azure, paved throughout
With slabs of summer light, and gems of flowers.
And for a long, long Summer day—no more—
For swiftly shall arise my mountain throne—
Love shall unchain the Titans for my sake.
Up on a cloud of thunder they shall sail,
Gigantic masons, brandishing on high
Tools, made to work their will with lightning speed!
So let me rather rule in that high realm,
Than in thine earthly kingdom, O dear friend.”
“O Sappho, rich in treasures of the soul
And raptures of the heart;” the maiden said:
“Thou nam'st me happy, for that I have wealth,
That makes idolaters of them, who see
Nothing beneath the outward; and commands
The poor man's handiwork; and by its spells
Can kindle thoughts in noble souls; and mould
The sculptor's marble, and the minstrel's song—
But, were I shut up by the prison bars
Of penury, or sickness, or such cares
As haunt thee now—(dear girl, I know thy heart,
And sue thee not to tell me the old tale.
The first spring blossom hath been wither'd up,
Because the sun hath fail'd it; but the next
Shall be a nobler blossom than the first,
And bear sweet fruitage in the aftertime).—
Know'st thou if I should find within me that,
Which might beguile sad memories; lull my pain;
And by enchanted touches, like thine art,
Turn sorrow into music, fit to melt
A thousand hearts to sweetness, that might be
Cruel without it; and bring recompense
Ev'n to thine own? I tell thee no: such bliss,
As falls to me, is born of constant change
Rather than constancy; variety
Rather than fixed purpose. Had I not
The power to wander with the winds; to turn
Winter to summer; with my clime to change
Old friends for new, and then come back again
To find the old, the newer; and to run
To and fro like a restless babe; perchance
The lack of fancied good might bow me down
Lower than many evils. Come with me,
Dear Sappho, come with me; and we will fly,
Where nothing but sweet memories shall pursue,
Sweet hopes go on before us, with the sun.
Say me not nay; for thou wilt find my charm
Potent to heal, and bring thee back thy peace;
And more delights than ever comes to me,
Familiar with them, and without thy heart,
That trembling harp that sighs to every wind:
Come with me, O my Sappho, come with me.”
And so it was, that, as the sunny breeze
Of morning scatters all the clouds of night;
The spring wind musical with songs of birds
Bears off the lifeless leaves; her voice awoke
A chord within, responsive to her own;
And wing'd me, like a lark that drowns in light,
Up through a flood of radiant phantasies,
Visions of happy lands, of golden isles
Where sorrows are forgotten, and all tears
Are wiped away; fair cities, flowery dales;
Blue rivers, folding in their soft embrace
A thousand rushing rillets, and mingling all
Their thousand happy voices into one
Deep choral harmony; that seems to blend
All blisses of fair climes where they were born;
Green mountain solitudes, whence there are breathed
The dewy spirits of inviolate flowers;
And the glad eye looks down on half a world.
Across the mirror of my soul there pass'd
Enchanted pictures, as when we behold
The swift-blown clouds transfigured in the light;
And suddenly I clasp'd my hands, and cried;—
“I will, I will; my Lethe shall not be
Oblivion, the cold shadow of dead hope;
But memory, slain by fairer memories still,
Like summer flowers that wreathe a funeral urn.”
Three morns thereafter we stepp'd down into
Her gilded galley, where the regal wealth
Of the great merchant prince, her sire, shone forth
In carvedwork and colours: the tall mast
Of cedar, ring'd with ivory bands, upbore
A sail, that caught the breath of April flowers,
Fresh from the budding hills, in its pink folds,
That changed the yellow sunbeam into rose.
And from the prow—a long-hair'd Naiad prone
To dive into the azure whence she rose—
Young roses hung, and painted the smooth sea
With their own beauty; and soft couches, strow'd
With purple, curtain'd from the eager light
By laurel sprays, and myrtle intertwined,
Woo'd to low converse or to waking dreams.
A lusty band of rowers rose at once
As we approach'd, and hail'd us with a song.
And there was one, who seem'd to rule the rest
By hand, and eye, more than outspoken words.
A kingly shape was he, and might have been
The great Ulysses, had he lived before,
The strong and wise: his years were manhood's prime:
His sunny aspect, and his fearless eye,
Spoke of all climes, and many trials met
And overcome; and Anaktoria said;—
“Sappho, look on the mainstay of our house;
Who by his care, and craft, and valiant heart
Hath gather'd half our riches; him we trust
To steer the vessel of our fortunes here
And there, by sea or land, and shape our aims
To prosperous ends—and ofttimes he hath wrought
Our vague hopes into such realities
As were not dreamt of; him we trust to steer
Through adverse ventures and rough hates, and guile,
As thro' wild winds and sunken rocks the bark
He holds in his command: a noble man!”

III

Like Summer birds that fly from bough to bough,
And bathe their songs in light, and the rich breath
Of fullblown flowers, we sped from shore to shore,
Fed with the charm of change; till real life
Show'd as unreal, like a spectacle
Seen at a theatre, or dreams that lapse
Into fresh dreams, or glancing of a stream
Through evergreens, and ever-varying blooms.
And when we anchor'd in the pleasant port
Of Himera, among the first we met
Was Tisias, whom men style Stesichorus;
For that he crown'd plain song with harmonies,
And led the choral march its step sublime.
For many days we wander'd forth with him,
A courteous host, and gentle; and he said:—
“I am a self-made exile in this land:
Far from my native hills, where dwelt my sires
In days before; the ancient cities there,
With their grey walls that seem by giants wrought,
Know me no more; and here all things are new.”
And then he show'd us sunny Himera;
Its stainless marbles mirror'd in the calm
And purple waters, the unfinish'd walls
And yet defenceless gates; great theatres
But halfway from the ground; uncolumn'd fanes
With still unsculptured pediments, to be
Henceforth the thrones of godlike forms, portray'd
By mortal hands that wield immortal art;
To live ev'n when the very names are dead
Of them who shaped them: “Strange it is,” he said,
“To see the solitude swept by the winds,
That heard for ages but the seabird's cry,
Or fisher's low sad song, transform'd, as 'twere,
By magic art, into a world of life;
Henceforth to make this little plot of earth—
Where spring and autumn, day and night, and waves,
And winds, were monarchs only, leaving nought
To mark their empire of a thousand years—
Gather within itself in one brief day
Swifter and vaster change: where man is king,
The mind of man is as a mighty wind;
The thousand years of time as the great sea
Blown on perpetually, that strows the shore
With countless wrecks, but piles the space between
With gold, and pearl, and every precious gem,
That rise and shine for ever.” As he spake,
We heard from far and near the mingled sounds
Of masons, shouting from the scaffolds tall;
Hammer, and saw, and anvil, and the gride
Of carven stone; and still from far and near
The tumult soften'd with the sound of songs.
And many days we listen'd to his voice
Of tuneful melancholy: oft he sued
In vain to hear a song of mine; ah me!
Not yet the fancies lock'd within my soul
Had sprung to life again, the frozen rills
Of melody to freedom; but I seized
A lyre, and wrung from it, I knew not how,
So wild and sweet a carol; as when a gust
Of summer rain wrings from a ruffled rose
Its rarest breath, and mingles it with tears.
He look'd on me in wonder; and he said:—
“As is the spirit to a lovely form;
As is the perfume to a purple flower;
As is the music to that song of thine,
Making it utter something more than words;
So are the words themselves, though all too few,
Speaking of maiden love unrecompensed;
As 'twere a better soul which thou hast given
To an old tale of mine which thou shalt hear.”

LEUCADIA IV

CALYCE

“In fair Leucadia, youngest of the isles,
Dwelt Calyce, a maid of modest eyes,
And simple speech; she was not one of those
Whom all eyes in a multitude might mark
As a surpassing vision, tall and proud
As some Olympian, for a while on earth.
But those, who watch'd, with wiser insight saw
A veiled softness in her sometime smile;
Like midnight moonlight, when no leaf is blown,
And scarce a sound is heard, and common things,
That garish day would burn up into nought,
Are mellow'd into sweetness. Oh! she was
No darkbrow'd, darkorb'd empress of such hearts;
Too swiftly slain by an imperial eye,
As by a flash of sunlight strongest men
Are stricken down. But those who heard her speak
Of her delights—which were not as the joys
Of city maidens, striving to o'ermatch
Each other by an artful grace, a robe
Folded more winningly, by flowing locks
Sprinkled with gold, or that sweet silver laugh
Like harped trebles running up and down,
That lyre attuned to their self-love so well—
Ah! those who heard her to a songbird sing,
And wait sweet answers, and then sing again;
Or leading on some fond child's lisping tongue
To perfect speech, or uttering to herself
Her love and awe; heard the melodious voice
Of a rare soul. She, like a woodnymph pure,
Loved the green gloom of sylvan arches, cool
And still, save when great winds, or thunders lone
Roll'd o'er them their deep music, or sweet breath
Of summer, in the moonlight or at dawn,
Sigh'd thro' the topmost leaves; when the first flower
Look'd on her from the woodwalks; the first note
Of lark at morn, or starry nightingale
Witch'd her quick ear; or, after many days
Of stormy wind and cloud, the faithful sun
Hail'd her at early morn; and, as she stept
To meet him thro' the dews, she veil'd her eyes
With one small hand, the other fill'd with spring.
Ah! those who mark'd her then might well believe
That eyes, whose light is sometimes veil'd in tears,
Win more than those that dazzle in their joy:
That low-voiced love is more than gaudy pride;
As evergreens outlive the crimson flower.

V

There is a forest, on the mountain side
Above the city, whence, across the strait,
Is seen the land of Hellas, the blue heights,
That paint themselves in the Ambracian gulph;
And on the other hand in the clear light
The far Corinthian waters. Here she dwelt;
And with her widow'd mother found her life
Amid her fruittrees and well-water'd flowers,
And her rare-breathing plots; and orchard shades
Shelter'd the loving songbirds well as if
The whole lay underneath a barred cage:
For she was known to them, as they to her;
And at the welcome of her tuneful voice
They flock'd about her; and no fowler snared
Her winged children, and no winter cold
Or summer heat, while she was nigh at hand,
Prevail'd against them. When she struck her lyre
To some old ditty, her clear voice went out
Into the oakwalks like a sunbeam; when
She ceased to sing, and suddenly, there rose
A tide of all sweet sounds, from far and near,
Around her, and made answer to her own.
And then she laugh'd, and joy'd at touch of joy,
Like breezy waters dimpling in the sun.
Sometimes, when she had gone to early rest
At set of sun, a flood of moonlight soft,
Falling upon her dreaming eyes, awoke her
Suddenly to the actual world again.
And when she saw 'twas midnight, with the moon
And silence; all but whispers of the leaves,
When the seawind, yet warm with summer, flew
Down the long woodwalks, and o'er-arched aisles
Fragrant and dark, thro' which a golden star
Peep'd here and there; then she would rise, with foot
Scarce heard in the deep hush, and make her way,
With awe that was not fear, until she came,
Where the tall forest sloped into the plain,
And left an opening, like a portal huge;
Thro' which her vision wander'd in the deep
Clear heaven above; and down along the waves
Of the oaktrees, that murmur'd till they met
The murmuring sea, and outspread city fair,
Whose towers shone forth like silver in the night.
And, if it was a festival, she heard
Faint sound of songs; if in the day had been
A tumult of the people, she could mark
The uproar growing less and less; if doom
Of fire had fallen on some homestead there,
She saw, and shudder'd, the uprolling flame
Scatter the sea and the white walls with blood;
And caught the sound of lamentable cries,
And rushing wheels, till she too fled away,
And sought again the couch that she had left;
Till sunny day came up and drown'd all fears.
But most at morn she loved to tread those paths
Of balmy shade; and when she stood at length
Beneath the great gate opening on the sky,
And the far lands, their azure bays, and isles,
And mountain snows, that snatch'd the crimson dawn;
While yet the vales, the rivers, and the seas
Lay darkling, in the solitude divine
She drank a peerless joy; she bade the woods
Answer her joy, and wake up all their songs.
She bade the winds unroll their banners broad,
And roll their harmonies; she bade the seas
Send up from far below their choral bass,
In honour of that moment, when the sun
Crown'd the great world, and set on fire the steeps
And promontories, and made every tower
A blazing lamp, and every sandy beach
A golden floor. And then the city woke
With many voices like a living sea;
And barks shot forth as seabirds; here and there
The fishers hurl'd their big nets from the prow;
And armed hosts went out with trumpet-sound,
And clash of arms; and their long line of spears
Moved like a silent river in the sun;
Then drown'd in sudden shadow; soon the clouds
Of dawn evanish'd in the gulf of day.

VI

One day in early autumn she was there.
The drains had fallen, and the winds had cloud.
Tempests had swept the air of mist and cloud;
And left a deeper purple in the air;
The stirless woods, tinted with gold and rose,
Breathed up a dewy sweetness, like a prayer
Of mute thanksgiving for the latter days
Of blissful calm and sunshine; and the voice
Of the far seas seem'd nearer; and far peaks,
Sprinkled with the first snows, seem'd now as though
A hand might touch them; and far cities shone
As built of gems: and suddenly there rose
From underneath the oaken glooms a sound
Of merry tumult, mix'd with echoing horn
And crying hound; still nearer and more near
The jovial hunt came up; she would have fled.
Too late was her resolve; for, ere she turn'd,
To seek the shadows of the upland trees,
The youthful company of merry men
Fill'd all the space beneath her, and the plot
Of green which was her watch-tower night or day.
But, in the simple gaze of her surprise,
Less awe there was than wonder, as she stood,
Like Artemis in sight of mortal eyes.
But she was circled by her maids, when he
Too daring huntsman leapt the screen of leaves;
While Calyce, sweet hermit of the woods,
Was all alone when that bright host came on,
Radiant with rich apparel, plume, and casque,
And sheenign spears; she knew not if she look'd
On mortal men, as they came swiftly by,
Their horses snuffing up the mountain air
With shrill delight, and tossing up their manes;
Or whether 'twas a vision of such shapes,
As mingle with the earthborn for a day
And pass and come no more. For there was one,
The foremost of them all, who seem'd a king
Above the rest, more lordly clad than they;
Nobler in form and stature, as he stay'd
His course a little while the others pass'd.
And, leaning gently from his saddle-bow,
He look'd upon her, and she look'd on him.
And in that moment each beheld in each
A beauty they had never seen before.
He look'd upon her, as her eyes might look
On a wild bird, or windflower; and her eyes
Drank in his aspect, as tho' she had seen
Hermes himself; she gave him a white rose.
With a light laugh he laid it on his heart;
And from his bosom pluck'd a jewel of gold,
And cast it on her neck; she bent her head
To eye the glittering wonder; and then raised
To look upon the giver; he was not.
For in that moment he had fled away,
Turning into a bypath, thus to join
The sooner his companions; yet her ear
Had caught some low-toned accents, ere he went,
Whisper'd unto himself, that seem'd to her
More precious than all gifts; for he had said;—
‘Oh! could a sweeter handmaid be than this?’
Words sweeter than a song; but when she saw
Nought but the earth, and sky, and autumn woods,
She could have wept; she thought she was a seer
Of ghostly things; but there was the bright gold;
And still she heard the belling hounds afar,
And neighing steeds, and cries of merry men;
Till the sounds follow'd the fair sight away,
And only left the sighing of the leaves,
And from below the sobbing of the sea.
All day she wander'd, and she reck'd not where;
And knew not why; her heart was sweetly stirr'd.
She thought not what had fill'd it with the joy;
Given her a lighter step, a clearer voice;
And made her see strange pictures, as she pass'd
Under the whispering boughs, and thrust aside
The tangled sprays, and caught a glimpse far off
Of dewy dingles, shifting silently
From light to shadow; green embowered nooks
Floor'd with soft moss, and twinkling flowers, that laugh'd
A moment in the sunny light and air;
Then gloom'd again as suddenly; bright birds,
That glanced into the light and out again
As lightning; or some hidden waterfall
That rose and fell with the low wind; or herd
Of frighted deer, that started at the sound
Of foes she could not hear; ev'n her light step,
Or glimmer of her garments as she came,
Ere yet they cast a shadow on the ground.
So it was sunset ere she reach'd her home.
But when she raised her eyelids—for she near'd
Her own gate, scarcely heeding how she came,
With her eyes fix'd upon the turfy way
In a day dream—What saw she at the gate?
There were the hunters she had seen at morn,
Where was their chief? Their looks were sombre now,
Their voices sad and low; and when she spoke,
It seem'd they heard not, for they answer'd nought.
So she pass'd in between their careless eyes
As though they saw her not. Just then she mark'd
The tallest tree, that overtopt the rest
Cast down the longest shadow; and she thought,—
‘Ah me! if all the blisses of this day
That have made dim all joy I ever knew,
Should end in deepest sorrow; woe is me!
If proudest life should end in sudden death
As the bright cataract leaps into the dark,
As the great sun sinks down into the sea!’
Her mother met her in the inner house,
And pointed toward her chamber, where he lay
Upon her bed, that mighty man, that lord
Of men, who was her wonder and her joy
At sunny morn, a few brief hours before.
The warm cheek, and the happy eager eye,
The strength that poised the javelin in his hand,
What were they now? There lay he pale, and dumb,
And deaf and blind; the life-blood staunch'd but now,
That purpled his apparel, sure had stream'd
Thro' some great gate of life; some evil beast,
Some lynx, or tusky boar, or hungry wolf,
He thought to slay, had slain him; was there hope
While the heart stirr'd? or were those pulses low,
Like fluttering wings of the fall'n bird, or like
The quivering of the fawn he struck that day?
She knew not; but her hope was as the star
That rises after sunset; or that moon,
All golden, opposite the sinking sun,
For she remember'd the enchanting words,
‘Oh! can a sweeter handmaid be than this?’
The sun is sunken; and the moon is up
Once more; the merry chase with horn and hound
Have taken silently the downward way
Toward the city; many days and nights
The day and night were idle unto him,
Who lay within that forest home; and friends
Look'd on him daily, but he knew them not.
The rayless eyes grew bright as throbbing stars;
The deathpale cheek wax'd red as burning flame;
In its own sacred shrine the spirit hid,
While Death and Life made him their battlefield.
It was a woeful thing to hear him speak
Of pleasant pastimes, as tho' they would be,
Because they had been, ready at his word;
Of yesterdays, as tho' they were to-morrows;
To hear blithe laughter change into a shriek
Of torment; and a threatful angry frown,
And lifted hand lapse into moveless calm;
And sudden peace that seem'd the end of all.
But when the cup, that held the anodyne
Mix'd by her careful hand, had brought him rest,
It seem'd the ruler of his waking thoughts
Still sway'd him in his slumber, for his lips
Would whisper, ‘Oh! I love thee, how I love!’
And oft again she heard the loving words,
‘Oh! could a sweeter handmaid be than this?’
And now, when after weary nights he slept,
And gentler pulses, like subsiding streams
After hot thunders, lived along his frame;
Again she went forth with a jocund heart.
And that first love—which scarce had time enough
Out of the cloud of many fears and cares
To look upon itself—now sprang to life,
And was a terror to her; who was she?
What had she done to raise her eyes to one,
As far above her as Olympian Jove
A peasant of the valley? And she blush'd
Ev'n to the dewy leaves and shadows cool.
But then again she thought; ‘He look'd on me:’
But mocking conscience; ‘Sure I look'd on him
Or how could I have seen him?’ ‘But not first.
His eyes outran my own; ah me! ah me!
Or first or last, 'tis certain I was slain.’
But once again she heard the whisper'd words,
‘I love thee, how I love thee’ once again,
‘Oh! could a sweeter handmaid be than this?’
Then she remember'd every lifeful change,
That came across his pale face, as he lay,
Looking with conscious, and more conscious eyes,
Into the golden autumn air, across
The crimson clusters of the viny walk,
That led down the home garden into gloom
Of ancient forest; till with each new day
His dark eyes brighten'd, and his tongue was loosed;
First to low whispers, then to manly words;
And then a smile—no, she was not deceived,
He loved her; and that smile was as the sun
Risen upon the dawn that went before—
And then the outstretch'd hand that clasp'd her own.
No, she was sure; and then the happy words,
‘Oh! could a sweeter handmaid be than this?’

VII

So on that day, and many a day beside,
She wander'd woodward, while her mother served
The sick man in his chamber; brought him fruits,
And cooling syrups, or a bunch of flowers;
The last a wonder, with such speaking art
So fondly, and so curiously wreathed,
That only love itself, through her young hands,
Could have devised it; babbled to him oft
Of the poor folk, the simple foresters,
Their pains and pleasures; bridals in greenwood
Unheard of thro' the city; the light dowers
Of wedded maidens, fair and blithe as nymphs,
And poor as songbirds: and she heard from him
The fell mishap, that dash'd the turf and flowers
With the red blood drawn from him, as he sprang
Down from his horse, and without fear or care
Bending above the wild swine he had spear'd,
Drew forth the knife to slay him, when he rose
With his last strength, and rushing on his foe
Avenged himself, and perish'd in the act.
And well it was his slacken'd sinews wrought
But half the ill his slakeless fury aim'd;
Or death's pale image, which they bore away,
Had never changed except to death itself.
Sweet Calyce, she wander'd far away
To hear the music of her one glad heart
Reverberate from every silver bell
Of the rosecurtain'd rivulet; every note
Of tuneful merle; to see its soaring hope
Look up into her face from every disk,
And golden anther of the lowly flowers
That wagg'd their heads, and laugh'd, as she came on
With jocund step; yet lingering here and there
Beneath some bank, whose wavy curtain screen'd
Both eye and ear from every sight and sound;
All but the lisping of some runnel clear,
That lapsed through clustering cress, and waterflags,
Blue bells, and yellow lilies at her feet;
So fleetly, and so stilly, that it seem'd
A mirror laid for her to look into;
And see the beauty she had never dared
To prize until that moment; yet not seen
More clearly than the other by its side
Pictured upon the glass of phantasy,
As fairly as her own upon the stream!
And tho' she ne'er had breathed them to herself,
She shamed not to remember his sweet words;
‘Oh! could a sweeter handmaid be than this?’
What wonder if she link'd the two together?
And, having warrant of her own fond heart
In favour of him, she was fain to trust
Those simple words as messengers from him?

VIII

One day, it chanced, she turn'd, ere set of sun.
But, as she near'd her home, she heard a voice.
Her heart beat quick; she harken'd; sure 'twas his;
Why did she tremble? Was it not delight
To know that he was strong? That he went forth,
To breathe the westwind, better than old wine
To one return'd from death? To hear him speak
Softly unto himself? Himself? Was that
Himself that answer'd to himself, that tongue
So silvery-clear, so girlish? Listen not,
Sweet Calyce, but rather seal thine ears;
And lay thy head among the drowsy flowers,
That breathe sleep, and forgetfulness; and dream
Thy waking dream in that deep sleep, ev'n though
It never wake again for evermore.
And yet she fled not; but her heart that beat
Wildly, grew still as marble; and her eyes—
Clear as the western sunbeam, thro' the leaves
Quivering, that lighten'd on a little space,
Matted with flowers, a hundred paces off,
While she stood under shade dark as her soul—
Look'd on two lovers; he was bending down:
The damsel looking up into his face
With such a rapturous tenderness, as she
Only believed could breathe up from herself;
And he, altho' with utterance clear and low,
Answer'd her;—‘Oh! I love thee, how I love thee!’
And press'd therewith a kiss upon her lips.
And she was beautiful; so beautiful,
She seem'd a goddess, in the sunny shine
That flow'd about her. After a brief space,
He pointed to the forest home, where he
Had lain in sickness, and she saw his lips
Murmur to low words that she could not hear.
But when he raised his voice—and, had he not,
The sweet words she had ofttimes heard before,
Now graven on her very heart and ear,
Had echoed to the whisper'd syllables—
She heard not, ‘Oh! I love her, how I love her’
But now, as to the ear a tuneless lyre,
Or to the eye a faded scentless flower,
The words that were her life, but lifeless now,
‘Oh! could a sweeter handmaid be than this?’
Lower and lower, thro' the quivering leaves
The sunlight throbb'd and trembled, as it flow'd
Along the green way, underneath the boughs
That vanish'd cityward; with dreadful eyes
She saw a sight that was the end of all.
Up thro' the stream of dying daylight rose
A brighter vision than the first she saw.
No hunters now, no cries of merry men,
With blown horn, and uplifted lance, and sound
Of trampling hoofs; but orderly array
Of lords and dames, in festal raiment robed;
Crimson, and gold, and purple, with the pomp
Of gilded car, and horses pacing slow,
With curved necks and large eyes, blazing back
The level sun, and mingled sound of flute
And dulcimer. And when the glittering host
Stood still, that mighty man, that king of men,
Who now was lord of that poor virgin heart,
Led forth the queen that was, or was to be:
And to the central car he led her up,
And took his seat beside her; then again
Stream'd the sweet music; and the stately train
Turn'd back the way they came; and by and by
She lost all sight and sound; and they sank down
Into the glooms of even, as the sun
Drew back again the tapestry of gold,
Strown all along the midway of the wood
By which the noble company had pass'd,
With chariots, and with music, and that one
Of women, worthy of the love of him
The one of men she loved, who loved not her.
How long sweet Calyce in silence stood
Under the ancient cypress in the shade,
That hid her from their sight, and heard its moan
That answer'd to her sighing, she knew not;
Leaning her brow against its rugged bark
Till it was fray'd and bleeding. But at last,
When she look'd up, with pale face, and dim eyes,
All, all was shadow round her; the deep gloom
Of forest night, all but the stars; and some
Fell down like burning tears; but oh! her soul
Was starless, and her eyes too hot for tears.
When suddenly she started from her place,
And rush'd forth, with her hands upon her brows,
Into the broad green way, just as the moon
Rose in the east, and shone upon her face,
And turn'd it into marble, as she flung
Her arms to heaven, and shriek'd that heaven might hear.

IX

‘O Night, why hast thou any moon or star;
Not rather darkest dark, that might be felt?
Not to look down with pitiless cold eyes
Upon me desolate, but rather shroud
In everlasting gloom, the sunny world,
That morning nevermore should wake again,
Steep'd in all fatal magic, full of shows
That win the heart thro' the enchanted eyes;
But turn to phantoms, like the bow of heaven
I ran to clutch when I was but a babe;
And wept to see it vanish. If I were blind,
I still had heard the linnet and the lark;
The falling spring, and summer breeze, and breathed
The early violet, and the last red rose;
But nothing had made pictures in mine eyes
To grave them on my heart. I had been free,
If all the fair Immortals had come down
To walk the green woods, or to take their rest
Under my roof: if I had only dreamt
All I have heard and seen, and woke by night
In a hush'd blackness, ev'n the memory of it
Had made me yearn and weep, and pray to heaven
To make it real; though a voice from heaven
Had cried ‘Beware! 'tis madness!’ But I know,
Ah me! I know my waking eyes have seen,
Mine ears have heard; and now the living truth
Is vanish'd like a vision! lost, oh! lost:
Far more for ever, than if I had fed
Upon the dream for ever; hoping still
That in the mortal future, or in that
That may be endless, when mortality
Is ended, it might meet me some fair day,
Substantial, henceforth never to dissolve;
As ye have faded, O fair days, and false
Into an endless nothing.
Oh! I thought—
What did I think? I knew not what I thought,
Or if I thought at all, for light of joy,
As one who sees not for the dazzling sun,
Oft as he look'd on me with earnest eyes,
And took my strengthless hand in his, and said;—
‘O Calyce, methinks it were a boon
The Gods might play with, to fly far away
From the hot noonday light of daily state;
The pitiless revel when the eyes are blind
With sleepless hours, and heart and head are faint
With public care; fly, and be found no more;
When tongues prove false, that were believed most true;
And warm hearts trusted only burn with hate.
When midnight tumults scatter lovers' dreams;
And war, or treason, as a thundercloud,
O'ershadow some fleet hour of joy unfeign'd,
We steal from vanities in solitude,
Fly far away into a peace like this,
Where worldly hearts, like birds in gilded wires,
Would never will or think to follow us.
To mark, as thou dost, the returning spring,
And the last hues of autumn—oh! how sweet
They seem unto me, now born into life
Once more, to me, but now a falling leaf,
And nevermore to see another May.’
Said he not, ‘us’? Who was the other half
Of that one twofold syllable? Oh! I see;
And better blindness than such sight. O eyes,
That fed me from my childhood with delights!
O heart, that grew in strength from day to day,
With such ambrosial sweets! why have ye thus
Led me, as one who wanders on thro' flowers,
Right to the edge of an abyss? Can faith
Follow the faithless? love be taken captive
By a loveless voice, a smile where love is not,
More than a fire within an icicle,
That glows with hues of flame? Is vanity
The heart of woman? if 'twas mine, 'tis fallen,
As fast and far into the utter dark,
As that fleet star I saw this moment pass,
For now I know who is that other half:
And scorn of all that ever was myself
Imbitters my despair. I saw the queen,
The queen of beauty and his queen; I saw
A woman, worthy of the foremost man,
Who loves him as he loves her: and I know
She is in grace and beauty more than I;
As Aphrodite, fresh from the blue sea,
More than a dusky beggar: and I love!
O fool! and yet there is no place for thee
In that one heart, where thou wouldst bask; no place
In all this lovely world where love is not.
For now all other loves that lit my heart
Are quench'd for ever; as all lesser fires
Grow black against the sun. Fool, thou must die.
And yet, methinks, it were a pleasant thing
To live for ever, even without hope;
To love his image pictured on my heart,
If I but thought that loving heart was mine
I saw him give another; howsoe'er
Space, and time, and pride, and fear might hold
Our sympathies apart. It cannot be.
Fool, thou must die; there is no place for thee
In all this world: Oh yes, there is; remember
The sweet words, but as poison'd honey now;—
‘Oh! could a sweeter handmaid be than this?’
My royal lady bids me stand before her.
She looks into my face; she laughs; I read
Her thoughts, as though I were an oracle:
And, if she spoke, it would be words like these;—
‘I care not, for she is not loveable;
I fear not, for she is not beautiful;
I doubt not, for she is a simpleton.’
She speaks not; but she turns her eyes on him;
And with their glory he is blind again;
And shows it by the dazzle in his own.
And then she turns to me, as tho' to say,
‘Judge for thyself, there is no peril here.’
And yet she only utters;—‘Pretty maid,
Serve me if thou art willing; for I see
A sweeter handmaid cannot be than thou.’
Serve thee? oh yes! as I have heard a tale.
My Lady calls me from the topmost tower,
Where she is cushion'd upon Tyrian folds,
Or cloth of gold, after the banquet hour,
To slumber to the scent of shaded flowers,
Mix'd with the fragrance from the forest blown,
And murmuring leaves and moaning of the seas.
And when I reach with toil the topmost stair,
And pass the doorway; saith the royal dame,
‘Fetch me my kerchief dropt there at thy feet,’
Three feet from her own chair; or, ‘Hie thee down,
And bring my wimple from the banquet-table,’
Or ‘jewell'd slipper lost upon the stair;
It was too hot to stoop;’ or, ‘Go for him
My lord’—Oh yes! her lord, not mine—that they
May while away soft moments, with the doors
Closed on the worthless one. Was it my heart,
Too faithful heart, that warn'd me, or a voice
Out of the crowd, that whisper'd, as they pass'd;—
‘To-morrow they are wed’? Ah! then, to-morrow,
To-morrow—yet'—and two large tears, the last
Of mortal sorrows fell among the dews—
‘And yet I would have served him, better far
Than many hirelings, in whose conscience fear
Awakens memory; but who lack the faith
Ev'n of a dog or horse; I should have read
His instincts in his eyes; before he spoke
Have scann'd his thoughts, and syllabled his words.
If he were anger'd, I would judge myself
So cruelly that he would cry out, ‘Hold’!
And, if he slept, I would watch over him:
If he were sleepless, I would never rest:
And if he died—ah! he is dead to me:
To-morrow they are wed; ah, then, to-morrow,
To-morrow’—there was silence in the wood
For many hours; and then the moon went down,
And there was darkness; 'twixt the dark and dawn
Where was she? The forsaken mother watch'd,
And wail'd, and wept; and yet she came not home.
The finches flutter'd, and awoke in fear;
The wild things fled in wonder at the sound
Of swift unwonted steps at dead of night;
And peaceful Dryads raised their oak-crown'd head
Awhile, to listen for some dreadful deed!

X

The dawn was flushing o'er the eastern hills.
The marble temple of the God of light
Began to glimmer on the southern steep,
And cast its shadow on the deep; below
The waters wail'd; and the sweet winds of morn,
With the seawaters, made a dirge of sighs.
For, ere the darkness had given place to day,
A flash of silent lightning from the west
Show'd the torn raiment, and unbraided hair
For one brief moment of the hopeless one
Held like a spirit, in mid-air; but she,
Long ere her warm limbs mingled with the sea,
Spared the reluctant waves the sad delight
Of snatching her young life; and she was borne,
Midway 'twixt sea and sky, into a realm
Where hapless loves, those thunderstricken flowers,
Put forth once more their purple; and her limbs
Stain'd not the sharp rocks with their virgin blood;
For sea-nymphs bore her up in their embrace.
Nothing of her was found upon the shore
But the false jewel of gold; and if some hand
Of fisherman had pluck'd it from the sand,
And borne it to the king, he might have droopt
His head upon his hand in woeful wise;
And low tongues might have whisper'd to his soul
Secrets unknown to all his wisest men,
And sorrows he had never dreamt before.”

XI

He ended; and methought I heard again
My own tale told; for, through the fiery haze
Of those tormented moments, when the breath
Of the Eumenides had laid me low;
And wither'd up long memories of the past,
All but the one, that I had loved in vain,
I scarce could tell what sunder'd my own lot
From hapless Calyce's; but wonder took
Place of all fitful moods that came and went,
Like shapeless clouds, shame, sorrow, anger, fear,
Or maiden modesty that held them all,
And cross'd my heart, but, thro' hush'd lips and pale,
Gave forth no sign. Had Earth, great Mother, heard
Down to her central soul the cry of one
Afflicted child? and throbb'd from far, within
Her sympathetic pulses, whereunto
All kindred hearts might vibrate? Had the storm,
That shook me, echoed far off, like the sound
Of thunders, like the silent lightning-flash,
Ran round the world? How else had Tisias known
My mystery? For a while I droopt my head
Upon my hand, and dared not meet the gaze
I thought I felt. If this were phantasy,
Then dreams and visions, howsoever strange,
Were match'd by life itself; if sometimes more,
Were often less; or if the poet's song
Were life made music, then some other heart
Had beat as mine and suffer'd, and his ear
Had heard that tale not mine. And so I laugh'd,
And raised my head, and look'd into his face.
His eyes were calm; they look'd not into mine.
There was no question in them, no reserve
More eloquent than words, that seem'd to say;—
“Thy secret is inviolate with me,
Thy precious heart is casketed in mine.”

XII

He ended; and the story he had told,
And I have echoed from him, was adorned
With no fair flowers of poesy; but given
In his plain speech. “For if such things be true,”
He said, “they have no need to be o'erlaid
With colours rare, or framed in gold and gems,
Or chanted to the sound of tuneful strings,
That they be heard and seen. And yet such joys
And woe, so far beyond the common heart—
As sunlit peaks, or heights of sunless snow,
Stand forth so wondrously, that awful eyes
Are turn'd upon them—all the more enchant
The poet's inner sense; and draw him on
To look more fixedly on passing shows
Than the world's eye, that for a moment sees,
Marvels, and then forgets; so that past years
Or dark, or bright, like lands they leave behind
Drown'd in grey mist, and then beheld no more,
Pass into fable, then oblivion.
So pardon me, my friends, if I have dared
To breathe such life into a mournful tale,
As lyric measures, to sweet music join'd,
Can best impart; and should it be that I
Give to these sorrows of mortality
Immortal being, such as marble yields
To the great Gods and to heroic men;
Haply it may not be in vain, if one
Fond heart of woman blossoms with a leaf
Of wisdom, one man's with a flower of love.”

XIII

I had no time to ponder; for he rose;
Drew back a vail, which hung between the hall
And inner chambers; at a signal given
Within, the doors were open'd right and left.
And lo! two bands of youths, eight on each hand,
Ranged themselves; then came harpers with their harps;
And first the right, and then the left hand choir
Took up, in lyric measures interwoven
Harmoniously, the sweetest of the joys,
And saddest of the sorrows he had told;
As when the choicest of a garden's flowers
Are wreathed into a garland; and pale bells,
That droop their heads in piteous wise, are mix'd
With purple roses; and there is no place
For other blooms, or the green leaf itself,
Which, like the common things of daily life,
Charms not the eye. I listen'd; and I heard,
Methought, the inmost disembodied souls
Of anguish, and of ecstasy, upborne
On wings of melody; as when a cloud,
Risen with the sun upon the radiant light,
Soars on, and drowns amid the golden fire.
I listen'd, and I wept; but no one knew
Whether those tears were sweet, or bitter; whether
Shed for myself, or for poor Calyce;
And whether joy, or sorrow drew them forth;
For they may fall for either; lastly whether
Music, the soul of all things beautiful,
Be not itself all-potent to subdue
The heart, and with its voices manifold
Shake it like terror. So I listen'd long
The music, and the voices; and my tears
Fell in the twilight; for the day was done
And when the end had come, and we arose,
And parted from the noble Tisias,
My heart was calmer in my breast; my thoughts
Breathed something of the sweetness of the past,
Without its pain; as the low winds of even
Bore from the champaign dews impregn'd with flowers.
And softer light, less than the noon of joy,
Yet more than midnight gloom, dawn'd in my soul,
Fair as the moon just rising from the sea.