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

But when all rites to Jove were duly done,
Unto the King went up Bellerophon,
To tell him of his fare upon the sea;
So in the chamber named of porphyry
He found Jobates pacing to and fro,
As on the day when first he bade him go
And win the Solymi.

“O King,” he said,
“All hail to thee! the water-thief is dead,
His keel makes sport for children of the sea.”

“And I, Bellerophon, have news for thee,
And see thou to it! The Gods love so well
The fair wide world, that fear and death and hell
In this small land will they shut up for aye.
And thou—when thou hadst luck to get away,
Why must thou needs come back here, to abide
In very hell? I say the world is wide,
And thou art young; far better had it been,
When o'er the sea-thief's bulwarks first were seen
Men's wrathful eyes, the war-shout to have stayed;
Then might ye twain, strong in each other's aid,
Have won some fair town and good peace therein:
For here with us stout heart but death shall win.”
Now on a table nigh the King's right hand
Bellerophon beheld a casket stand
That well he knew; thereby a letter lay,

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Whose face he had not seen before that day,
And as he noted it a half-smile came
Across his face, for a look like to shame
Was in the King's eyes as they met his own.
Cheerly he spake: “O King, I have been thrown
Into thine hands, and with this city fair
Both weal and woe have I good will to share.
Young am I certes, yet have ever heard
That whether men live careless or afeard
Death reaches them; of endless heaven and hell
Strange stories oft have I heard people tell;
Yet knew I no man yet that knows the road
Which leadeth either to the blest abode
Or to the land of pain. Not overmuch
I fear or hope the gates of these to touch—
Unless we twain be such men verily
As on the earth make heaven and hell to be;
And if these countries are upon the earth,
Then death shall end the land of heaven and mirth,
And death shall end the land of hell and pain.
Yea, and say all these tales be not in vain,
Within mine hand do I hold hope—within
This gold-wrought scabbard—such a life to win
As will not let hope fall off utterly,
Until such time is come that I must die
And no more need it. But the time goes fast;
Into mine ears a tale the townsmen cast
With eager words, almost before my feet
The common earth without Jove's fane could meet;
I heard thy herald too say mighty things—
How sayest thou about the oaths of kings?”
The King's eyes glistened: “O Corinthian,”
He said, “if there be such a twice-cursed man
As rules the foolish folk and punisheth,
And yet must breathe out lies with every breath,

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Let him be thrice cursed, let the Gods make nought
Of all his prayers when he in need is caught!”

“What sayest thou,” then said Bellerophon,
“If a man sweareth first to such an one,
And then to such another, and the twain
Cannot be kept, but one still maketh vain
The other?”

Then the King cast down his eyes:
“What sayest thou, my son? What mysteries
Lie in these words of thine? Go forth and break
This chain of ours, and then return to take
Thy due reward—oft meseems so it is
That these our woes are forged to make thy bliss.”

Then laughed Bellerophon aloud, and said:
“The Gods are kind to mortals, by my head!
But so much do they love me certainly
That more than once I shall not have to die;
And I myself do love myself so well
That each night still a pleasant tale shall tell
Of the bright morn to come to me. But thou,
Think of thy first vow and thy second vow!
For so it is that I may come again
Despite of all: and what wilt thou do then?
Ponder meanwhile if from ill deeds can come
Good hap to bless thee and thy kingly home!”
And even with that last word was he gone,
And the King, left bewildered and alone,
Sat down, and strove to think, and said at last:
“Good were it if the next three months were past;
I should be merrier, nigher though I were
Unto that end of all that all men fear.”
Then sent he for his captain of the guard,
And said to him: “Now must thou e'en keep ward
Closer than heretofore upon the gates,
Because we know not now what thing awaits

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The city, and Bellerophon will go
The truth of all these wondrous things to know:
So let none pass unquestioned; nay, bring here
Whatever man bears tales of woe or fear
Into the city; fain would I know all—
Nay, speak, what thinkest thou is like to fall?”
“Belike,” the man said, “he will come again,
And with my ancient master o'er us reign.
E'en as I came in did he pass me by,
And nowise seemed he one about to die.”
“Nay,” said the King, “thou speak'st but of a man;”
Shall he prevail o'er what made corpses wan
Of many a stout war-hardened company?”
“Methinks, O King, that such might even be,”
The captain said; “he is not of our blood;
He goes to meet the beast in other mood
Than has been seen amongst us, nor know I
Whether to name him mere man that shall die,
Or half a God; for death he feareth not,
Yet in his heart desire of life is hot;
Life he scorns not, yet will his laughter rise
At hearkening to our timorous miseries,
And all the self-wrought woes of restless men.”
“Ah,” said the King, “belike thou lov'st him then?”
“Nay, for I fear him, King,” the captain said,
“And easier should I live if he were dead;
Besides, it seems to me our woes began
When down our streets first passed this godlike man,
And all our fears are puppets unto him;
That he may brighter show by our being dim,
The Gods have wrought them, as it seems to me.”
“What wouldst thou do then that the man might be
A glorious memory to the Lycian folk,
A God who from their shoulders raised a yoke

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Dreadful to bear; then, as he came, so went,
When he had fully wrought out his intent?”
“Nay, King, what say'st thou? Hast thou then forgot
Whereto he goes this eve? Nay, hear'st thou not
His horse-hooves' ring e'en now upon the street?
Look out! look out! thine eyes his eyes shall meet,
And see the sun upon his armour bright!
Yet the gold sunset brings about the night,
And the red dawn is quenched in dull grey rain.”

Then swiftly did the King a window gain,
And down below beheld Bellerophon,
And certes round about his head there shone
A glory from the west. Then the King cried:
“O great Corinthian, happy mayst thou ride,
And bring us back our peace!”

The hero turned,
And through his gold hair still the sunset burned,
But half his shaded face was grey. He stayed
His eager horse, and round his mouth there played
A strange smile as he gazed up at the King,
And his bright hauberk tinkled ring by ring.
But as the King shrank back before his gaze,
With his left hand his great sword did he raise
A little way, then back into the sheath
He dropped it clattering, and cried:

“Life or death,
But never death in life for me, O King!”
Therewith he turned once more; with sooty wing
The shrill swifts down the street before him swept,
And from a doorway a tired wanderer leapt
Up to his feet, with wondering look to gaze
Upon that golden hope of better days.

Then back the King turned; silent for awhile
He sat beneath his captain's curious smile,

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Thinking o'er all the years gone by in vain.
At last he said:

“Yea, certes, I were fain
If I my life and honour so might save
That he not half alone, but all should have.”

“Yea,” said the captain, “good the game were then,
For thou shouldst be the least of outcast men;
So talk no more of honour; what say I?—
Thou shouldst be slain in short time certainly,
Who hast been nigh a God before to-day!
Be merry, for much lieth in the way
'Twixt him and life: and, to unsay the word
I said before, be not too much afeard
That he will come again. The Gods belike
Have no great will such things as us to strike,
But will grow weary of afflicting us;
Because with bowed heads, and eyes piteous,
We take their strokes. When thou sitt'st down to hear
A minstrel's tale, with nothing great or dear
Wouldst thou reward him, if he thought it well
Of wretched folk and mean a tale to tell;
But when the godlike man is midst the swords
He cannot 'scape; or when the bitter words,
That chide the Gods who made the world and life,
Fall from the wise man worsted in the strife;
Or when some fairest one whose fervent love
Seems strong the world from out its course to move,
Sits with cold breast and empty hands before
The hollow dreams that play about death's door—
When these things pierce thine ears, how art thou moved!
Though in such wise thou lov'st not nor art loved,
Though with weak heart thou lettest day wear day
As bough rubs bough; though on thy feeble way
Thou hast no eye to see what things are great,
What things are small, that by the hand of Fate
Are laid before thee. Shall we marvel then,

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If the Gods, like in other things to men,
(For so we deem them) think no scorn to sit
To see the play, and weep and laugh at it,
And will not have poor hearts and bodies vile
With unmelodious sorrow to beguile
The long long days of heaven—but these, in peace,
Trouble or joy, or waxing, or decrease,
Shall have no heed from them—ah, well am I
To be amongst them! never will I cry
Unto the Gods to set me high aloft;
For earth beneath my feet is sweet and soft,
And, falling, scarce I fall.

“Behold, O King,
Beasts weep not ever, and a short-lived thing
Their fear is, and their generations go
Untold-of past; and I who dwell alow,
Somewhat with them I feel, and deem nought ill
That my few days with more of joy may fill;
Therefore swift rede I take with all things here,
And short, if sharp, is all my woe and fear.

“Now happier were I if Bellerophon,
This God on earth, from out our land were gone,
And well I hope he will not soon return—
Who knows? but if for some cause thou dost yearn
For quiet life without him, such am I
As, risking great things for great things, would try
To deal with him, if back again he comes
To make a new world of our peaceful homes.
Yet, King, it might well be that I should ask
Some earthly joy to pay me for the task;
And if Bellerophon returns again
And lives, with thee he presently will reign,
And soon alone in thy place will he sit;
Yea, even, and if he hath no will for it.
His share I ask then, yet am not so bold
As yet to hope within mine arms to fold
Philonoë thy daughter, any more

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Than her who on the green Sicilian shore
Plucked flowers, and dreamed no whit of such a mate
As holds the key of life, and death, and fate—
—Though that indeed I may ask, as in time,
The royal bed's air seem no outland clime
To me, whose sire, a rugged mountaineer,
Knew what the winter meant, and pinching cheer.”

Into the twinkling crafty eyes of him
The King looked long, until his own waxed dim
For thinking, and unto himself he said:
“To such as fear is trouble ever dead,
How oft soe'er the troublous man we slay?”
At last he spake aloud: “Quick fails the day;
These things are ill to speak of in the night;
Now let me rest, but with to-morrow's light
Come thou to me, and take my word for all.”
The mask of reverence he had erst let fall
The Captain brought again across his face,
And smiling left the lone King in his place;
Who when all day had gone, sat hearkening how
Without, his gathering serving-men spake low,
And through the door-chinks saw the tapers gleam.
But now while thus they talked, and yet the stream
Of golden sunsetting lit up the world,
Ere yet the swift her long dusk wings had furled
In the grey cranny, fair Philonoë went
Amid her maids with face to earth down-bent
Across the palace-yard, oppressed with thought
Of what those latter days to her had brought;
Daring, unlike a maid's sweet tranquil mind,
And hushed surprise, so strange a world to find
Within her and around her: life once dear,
Despised yet clung to; fear and scorn of fear;
A pain she might not strive to cast away,
Lest in the heart of it all life's joy lay;

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Joy now and ever. Toward the door she came
Of the great hall; the sunset burned like flame
Behind her back, and going ponderingly
She noted her grey shadow slim to see
Rise up and darken the bright marble wall;
Then slower on the grass her feet did fall
Till scarce she moved; then from within she heard
A voice well loved cry out some hurried word.
She raised her face, and in the door she seemed
To see a star new fallen, therefrom there gleamed
Such splendour, but although her dazzled eyes
Saw nought, her heart, fulfilled of glad surprise,
Knew that his face was nigh ere she beheld
The noble brow as wise as grief-taught eld,
Fair as a God's early and unstained youth.
A little while they stood thus, with new ruth
Gathering in either's heart for either's pain,
And fear of days yet to be passed in vain,
And wonder at the death they knew so nigh
And disbelief in parting, should they die,
And joy that still they stood together thus.
Then, in a voice that love made piteous
Through common words and few, she spake and said:
“What dost thou, Prince, with helmet on thine head
And sword girt to thee, this fair autumn eve?
Is it not yet a day too soon to leave
The place thou camest to this very noon?”
He said: “No Lycian man can have too soon
His armour on his back in this our need,
Yea, steel perchance shall come to be meet weed
For such as thou art, lady. Who knows whence
We next may hear tales of this pestilence?
Fair is this house: yet maybe, or to-day
The autumn evening wind has borne away
From its smooth chambers sound of woe and tears,

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And shall do yet again. Death slayeth fears,
Now I go seek if Death too slayeth love.”

A little toward him did one slim hand move,
Then fell again mid folds of her fair gown;
She spake:

“Farewell, a great man art thou grown;
Thou know'st not fear or lies; so fare thou forth:
If the Gods keep not what is most of worth
Here in the world, its memory bides behind;
And we perchance in other days may find
The end of hollow dreams we once have dreamed,
Waking from which such hopeless anguish seemed.”

Pale was her face when these words were begun,
But she flushed red or ere the end was done
With more than sunset. But he spake and said:
“Farewell, farewell, God grant thee hardihead,
And growing pleasure on from day to day!”

Then toward the open gate he took his way
Nor looked aback, nor yet long did she turn
Her eyes on him, though sore her heart did yearn
To have some little earthly bliss of love
Before the end.

But right and left did move
Her damsels as he passed them, e'en as trees
Move one by one when the light fickle breeze
Touches their tops in going toward the sea;
And their eyes turned upon him wonderingly
That such a man could live, such deeds be done;
But now his steed's hooves smote upon the stone,
He swung into his saddle, and once more
Cast round a swift glance at the great hall door
And saw her not; alone she stood within,
Striving to think what hope of things to win
Had left her life; her maidens' prattling speech
Within the porch her wildered ears did reach,

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But not the hard hooves' clatter as he rode
Along the white wall of that fair abode,
Nor yet the shout that he cast back again
Unto the King; dark grew each window-pane,
She seemed to think her maids were talking there,
She doubted that some answer came from her;
She knew she moved thence, that a glare of light
Smote on her eyes, that old things came in sight
She knew full well; that on her bed she lay,
And through long hours was waiting for the day;
But knew not what she thought of; life seemed gone
And she had fought with Gods, and they had won.