The Collected Works of William Morris :: :: University of Virginia Library

Then o'er their hearts a melancholy fell,
And they began to think they might forget
The quest whereon their hearts had once been set,
Now half accomplished, and all wealth and fame,
All memory of the land wherefrom they came,
Their very names indeed, to wander on,
Unseen, unheard of till their lives were done.

In such-like thoughts they anchored for the night,
Nor slept they much, but wishing for daylight,
About the deck they paced, or sat them down
In longing thought of some fair merchant-town.

So sadly passed the heavy night away,
That, dreary, yet was noisier than the day;
For all about them evil beasts 'gan stir
At nightfall, and great soft-winged bats would whirr

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About their raiment and their armour bright.
And when the moon rose, and her crescent white
Made the woods blacker, then from either shore
They heard the thundering of the lion's roar,
Now coming nigher, dying now away;
And once or twice, as in the stream they lay
A spear-cast from the shore, could they behold
The yellow beast stalk forth, and stark and bold,
Stand in the moonlight on the muddy beach.
Then, though they doubted not their shafts could reach
His kingly heart, they held their hands, for here
All seemed as in a dream, where deadly fear
Is mingled with the most familiar thing;
And in the cup we see the serpent's sting,
And common speech we answer with a scream.
Moreover, sounds they heard they well might deem
To be men's voices; but whatso they were,
Unto the river side they drew not near,
Nor yet of aught like man did they have sight.

So dawned the day; but like another night
Unto their wearied eyes it seemed to be,
Amid that solitude, where tree joined tree
For ever, as it seemed; and natheless, they
Ran out the oars and gat them on their way
Against the ebb, and little help the flood
Gave them that day; but yet for bad or good
They laboured on, though still with less intent
More hopeless past the changeless woods they went.

But every day, more and more sluggishly
And shorter time, the water from the sea
Ran up, and failed ere eve of the third day,
Though slower took the downward stream its way,
Grown wide and dull, and here and there the wood
Would draw away and leave some dismal rood
Of quaggy land about the river's edge,
Where 'mid the oozes and decaying sedge
There wallowed ugly nameless dull-scaled things.

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These now the weary company of kings,
As they passed by, could not endure to see
Unscathed of arrows, turning lazily
Blue-gleaming slimy sides up in the sun,
Whose death swift Atalanta first begun.
For as anigh the prow she chanced to stand,
Unto her bow did she set foot and hand,
And strung it, and therefrom an arrow sent
That through the belly of a monster went,
Legged like a lizard, maned with long lank hair.
He, screaming, straight arose from out his lair,
With many another of his kith and kin,
And swiftly getting to the water thin,
Made for the ship; and though upon the way
Some few among them lost the light of day,
Smit by Thessalian arrows, yet the most
The narrow strip of water fairly crossed,
And scaled the ship's sides, and therewith began
A fearful battle betwixt worm and man.
Not long it dured; though Ceneus through the mail
Was bitten, and one monster's iron tail
Smote down Asterion, whom Eribotes
Made shift to save; but chiefly amid these
She who had been the first to raise the strife
Was hard bested, and scarce escaped with life.

One worm 'twixt ship and shore her arrow slew,
But ere her amazonian axe she drew,
Another monster had got slimy hold
Of her slim ankles, and cast fold on fold
About her legs, and binding thigh to thigh,
Wrapt round her sides, enfolding mightily
Her foiled right hand, then raised aloft his crest
Against her unembracèd tender breast;
But she, with one unarmed hand yet left free,
Still strove to ward the blow, but giddily,
Because the deadly rings still tighter grew
About her heart; yet as she fell, there flew

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A feathered javelin swiftly from the left,
By Arcas desperately cast, that cleft
The monster's head, and dulled his glittering eyes.

Then the glad Minyæ, with joyous cries,
Cleared Argo's decks of all the monstrous things,
As from the maiden's limbs the slimy rings
Slacked and fell off: but she, so saved from death,
Sat weary by the mast, and drew glad breath,
And vowed the grey and deadly thing should shine,
Wrought all of gold, within Diana's shrine,
In woody fair Arcadia. But the rest,
When they with poured-out wine the Gods had blest,
And flayed the slain worms, gat them to the oar,
And 'gainst the sluggish stream slid past the shore.

But swifter the next day the river ran
With higher banks, and now the woods began
To be of trees that in their land they knew,
And into clumps of close-set beeches grew,
And oak-trees thinly spread, and there-between
Fair upland hillocks well beset with green;
And 'neath the trees great herds of deer and neat,
And sheep and swine, fed on the herbage sweet,
Seeming all wild as though they knew not man,
For quite untended here and there they ran,
And while two great bucks raised the armèd brow
Each against each (since time of fight was now)
About them would the swine squeal, and the sheep
In close-drawn flock their faint republic keep,
With none to watch: nor saw they fence or fold,
Nor any husbandry did they behold,
But the last men their wearied eyes had seen
Were those strong swimmers in the Phasis green.

So seeing now these beasts in such plenty,
It seemed but good unto the Minyæ
To make provision thereof for their need.
And drawing Argo up through sedge and reed,
They made her fast, while divers took the land.

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Arcas the hunter, Idas strong of hand,
White Atalanta, wise Eurytion,
Far-seeing Lynceus, and the Sminthian's son,
Keen Theseus, with Pirithous his mate;
Clitius, whose swift shaft smote as sure as fate,
Ætalides, the runner of the plain,
Phocus, whose sling was seldom whirled in vain,
Cæneus the cragsman, Periclimenes,
And Apheus, haunter of the close-set trees.

So forth these set, and none of them had lack
Of spear or bow, or quiver at the back,
As through the land they went with wary mirth,
For they rejoiced once more to feel the earth
Beneath their feet, while on their heads fell down
The uncupped acorn, and the long leaves brown,
For on that land the sad mid-autumn lay,
And earlier came the sunset day by day.

But now unto their hunting gave they heed,
And of the more part happy was the speed,
And soon to Argo did they turn again,
Laden with that they had set forth to gain,
Of deer and beasts the slaughtered carcases
Upborne on interwoven boughs of trees.

With whom came Theseus not, nor Arcas came,
Nor yet Ætalides (who had the fame
Next Atalanta among all the rest
For swiftness, she being easily the best).
There waiting till the night, yet none the more
Came down those three unto the river's shore,
Nor through the night: but swift Ætalides
At dawn they saw come running through the trees,
With Arcas far behind, and Theseus slim
The last of all, but straining every limb
To be their equal: empty-handed they
Came back to Argo on that dawn of day,
And on being asked, a short tale had to tell.

Unto their part to chase a great buck fell,

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That led them far, and he at last being lost,
They sat them down with nought to pay the cost
Of all their travail; so being set they heard
A hubbub of strange voices, and afeard
Leapt to their feet, and presently they saw
Strange folk, both men and women, toward them draw,
Who spread about them as to stop their flight
On all hands more than they durst lightly fight.

So being thus trapped they fain had spoke them fair,
But knowing not their tongue, they yet had care
To speak with smiles as though they feared not aught,
Asking for food by signs, which soon was brought;
No flesh, but roots and nuts, whereof they ate,
And so by signs until the day grew late
They dealt together, making clear indeed
Each unto each but little of their need;
At last of their departure were they fain,
But, being stayed, they durst not strive in vain
For fear of worse; but now, the night being come,
The wild folk seemed to think that place their home
Just as another, and there gat to sleep,
Nor yet upon the Greeks a watch did keep
To stop their going; “So,” said Arcas, “we,
An hour after midnight, warily
Stole from among them, neither gave they chase,
Being still asleep like beasts, in that same place;
And for their semblance, neither were they clad,
Nor in their hands a spear or sword they had,
Nor any brass or iron, but long slings
And scrips of stones, and ugly stone-set things
Most like to knives, and clubs of heavy wood;
Soft-voiced they were, and gentle of their mood,
And goodly made as such wild folk may be,
But tanned with sun and wind; there did we see
Old men and young, and women old and young,
With many children scattered there among,
All naked, and with unshorn yellow hair

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Blowing about; and sooth we deem they were
Houseless and lawless, without town or king,
Knowing no Gods, and lacking everything.”

So said he, but Medea spoke, and said:
“O heroes, surely by all likelihead
These are the folk of whom I erst heard tell
In Æa, where to me it oft befell
To speak with many men from many lands,
Long ere ye crossed the Phasis' yellow sands.

“Of these I learned more tongues of speaking men
Than ye might deem men spoke, who told me then
Of such as these, that ye have seen but now.
And yet indeed some Gods these folk do know,
The Sun, the Moon, the Mother of the earth,
And more perchance, and days they have of mirth
When these they honour; yea, and unto these
Within their temples, groves of ancient trees,
Clad but in leaves, and crowned in solemn wise,
They offer strangers up in sacrifice,
Which was your doom had not the Gods been kind,
Who for your bodies other graves will find.”