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

Next morn, the captain, as it was to be,
Held speech with King Jobates privily,
And when he came from out the royal place
A smile of triumph was there on his face,
As though the game were won; but as he went
Unto the great gate on his luck intent,
A woeful sound there smote upon his ear,
And crossed his happy mood with sudden fear;
For now five women went adown the street,
That e'en the curious townsmen durst not meet,
Though they turned round to look with wild scared eyes,
And listened trembling to those doleful cries;
Because for Pallas' sacred maids they knew
Those wild-eyed wailing ones that closer drew
Scant rags about them, as with feet that bled
And failing limbs they tottered blind with dread,
Past house and hall. Now such-like had been these
And guarded as the precious images
That hold a city's safety in their hands,
And dainty things from many distant lands
Were gathered round them in the house that stood,
Fair above all, within the hallowed wood,
Ten leagues from out the city; wondrous lore,
Folk deemed, within that house they pondered o'er,

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And had been Goddesses, but that they too
The hope of death if not its terror knew.

White grew the captain's face these folk to see,
Yet midst his fear he muttered: “Well be ye,
O Gods, who have no care to guard your own!
Perchance ye too weary of good are grown;
Look then on me, I shall not weary you—
I who once longed great things and high to do
If ye would have it so;—come, bless me then,
Since ye are grown aweary of good men!”

So to his folk he turned, and bade them take
The holy women for the Goddess' sake,
And give them unto some kind matron's care.
So did they, and when bathed and clad they were,
he strove in vain to know their tale; for they
Had clean forgot all things before that day,
And only knew that they by some great curse
Had late been smitten, and mid fear of worse
Were leaving life behind. So when he knew
That with these woeful women he might do
Nought else, because their hearts were dead before
Their bodies, midst the fear and tumult sore
He went unto the gate, and waited there
If he perchance some other news might hear;
But nought befell that day to tell about,
And tidingless night came, and dark died out.

But just before the rising of the sun
The gate was smitten on, and there sat one
On a grey horse, and in bright armour clad.
Young was he, and strong built; his face seemed glad
Amidst of weariness, and though he seemed
Even as one who of past marvels dreamed.
Now turned the captain to him hastily,
And said: “Fair fellow, needs thou must with me,
Nor speak thou good or bad before the King

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Has heard thee;” therewith, scarcely wondering,
He rode beside the captain, and the twain
In no long time the palace gate did gain,
Which opened at a word the captain spake,
And past the warders standing half awake
They came unto the King: sleeping he lay,
While o'er his gold bed crept the daylight grey;
But softly thereunto the captain went,
And to his sleeping head his own down bent
And whispered; then as one who has just heard
Right in his ears the whisper of death's word,
He started up with eyes that, open wide,
Still saw not what the strange new light might hide;
Upright he sat, and panting for a while,
Till heeding at the last the captain's smile,
And low and humble words, he smiled and said:

“Well be ye! for I dreamed that I was dead
Before ye came, and waking thought that I
Was dead indeed, and that such things were nigh
As willingly men name not. What wouldst thou?
What new thing must the Lycians suffer now?”

“King,” said the captain, “here I have with me
A man-at-arms who joyful seems to be;
Therefore I deem somewhat has come to pass,
Since for these many days no face here has
Made e'en a show of gladness, or of more
Than thinking good it were if all were o'er—
The slow tormenting hope—the heavy fear.
Speak thou, good friend! the King is fain to hear
The tale thou hast to tell.”

Then spake the man:
“Good hap to me, indeed, that thus I can
Make glad the Lycian folk, and thee, O King!
But nowise have I wrought the happy thing,
But some immortal as meseems:

247

“Now I
With other two made up my mind to try
The chance of death or glorious life herein,
In good hope either rest from fear to win
Or many days of pleasure; so I armed
In this my father's gear, that had been charmed
Years long agone by spells, well worn I doubt
To nothing now, if one might clean tell out
The truth of all; then in Diana's fane
Anigh our house I met the other twain,
And forth we went at dawn, two days ago.
Not hard it was our rightful road to know,
For hour by hour of dreadful deaths we heard,
And still met fleeing folk, so sore afeard
That they must scowl upon us questioning.
And so at last we deemed the dreadful thing,
What death soever he dealt otherwhere
From time to time, must have its chiefest lair
Within Minerva's consecrated lands,
That stretch from where her mighty temple stands
Midst its wild olive-groves, until they meet
The rugged mountain's bare unwooded feet.
Thither we turned, and at the end of day
We reached the temple, and with no delay
Sought out the priests and told them our of rede.

“They answered us that heavy was their need,
That day by day they dreaded death would come
And take them from the midst of that fair home,
And shortly, that when midnight was passed o'er,
Their lives in that house they would risk no more,
But get them gone. ‘All things are done,’ said they,
‘The sacred maids, who have not seen the day
But in these precincts, count the minutes now
Until the midnight moon the way shall show;
Ten horse-loads of the precious things we have,
That somewhat of our past lives we may save

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To bring us o'er the sea. So sorry cheer,
Fair sons, of meat or lodging get ye here,
For all is bare and blank as some hill-side;
Nor, if ye love your lives, will ye abide
Another minute here: for us, indeed,
One answer more from Pallas do we need;
And, that being got at, nothing stays us then.’

“Worn were the faces of these holy men,
And their eyes wandered even as they spake,
And scarcely did they move as men awake
About that place, whose mighty walls of stone
Seemed waiting for the time when all was gone,
Except the presence of the Dreadful Maid,
Careless of who was glad and who afraid.

“Shortly we answered; we would bide and see
What thing within the precinct there might be
Until the morn, and if we lived till then,
Further afield would seek this death of men.
They heard us wondering, or with scorn, but gave
Such cheer to us as yet they chanced to have;
And we, being weary, fell asleep withal
Within a chamber nigh the northern wall
Of the great temple. Such a dream I had,
As that I thought fair folk, in order glad,
Sang songs throughout a place I knew to be
A town whereof had tales been told to me
When I was but a youngling: years agone
Had I forgot it all, and now alone
The nameless place had come to me.—O King,
I dreamed, I say, I heard much people sing
In happy wise; but even therewithal
Amidst my dream a great voice did there call,
But in a tongue I knew not; and each face
Was changed to utter horror in that place;
And yet the song rose higher, until all tune

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Was strangled in it, and to shrill shrieks soon
It changed, and I sat upright in my bed,
Waked in an instant, open-mouthed with dread,
I know not why—though all about I heard
Shrill screams indeed, as though of folk afeard,
Mixed with a roar like white flame that doth break
From out a furnace-mouth: the earth did shake
Beneath my bed, and when my eyes I turned
Without the window, such a light there burned
As would have made the noontide sunshine grey.
There on the floor one of my fellows lay,
Half-armed and groaning like a wounded man;
And circling round about the other ran,
With foaming lips as one driven mad with fear.

“Then I, who knew not what thing drew anear,
And scarce could think amidst my dread, sat still
Trembling a little space of time, until
To me from out the jaws of death was born,
Without a hope it seemed, a sudden scorn
Of death and fear; for all the worst I knew,
And many a thing seemed false that had been true,
And many a thing now seemed of little worth
That once had made the mean and sordid earth
All glorious.

“So with fixed and steady face
I armed myself, and turned to leave the place,
And passed from out it into the great hall
Of the very temple, where from wall to wall
There rolled a cloud of white and sulphurous smoke;
And there the remnant of the temple folk,
That had not heart enow to flee away,
Like dying folk upon the pavement lay,
And some seemed dead indeed. High o'er that gear
Stood golden Pallas, with her burnished spear
Glittering from out the smoke-cloud in that light,
That made strange day and ghastly of the night;
And her unmoved calm face that knew no smile

250

Cast no look down, as though she deemed too vile
The writhing tortured limbs, the sickening sound
Of dying groans of those that lay around,
Or to the pillars clung in agonies
Past telling of; but now I turned mine eyes,
Grown used to death within a little space,
Unto the other end of that fair place,
Where black the wood of polished pillars showed
Against the dreadful light, that throbbed and glowed,
Changing, and changing back to what it was.
So, through their rows did I begin to pass,
And heavier grew the smoke-cloud as I went;
But I, upon the face of death intent,
And what should come thereafter, made no stay
Until two fathom of white pavement lay
Betwixt me and the grass: the lit-up trees
Sparkled like quick-fire in the light night breeze,
And turned the sky black, and their stems between
The black depths of the inner wood were seen;
Like liquid flame a brook leapt out from them,
And turning, ran along the forest hem:
'Twixt that and me—How shall I tell thereof,
And hope to 'scape hard word and bitter scoff?

“Let me say first that, changing horribly,
That noise went on and seemed a part of me,
E'en as the light; unless by death I won
Quiet again; earth's peace seemed long years gone,
And all its hopes poor toys of little worth.
Therefore I turned not, nor fell down to earth,
And still within my hand I held my sword,
And saw it all as I see thee, fair lord.
“And this I saw: a mass, from whence there came
That fearful light, as from a heart of flame;
But black amid its radiance was that mass,
And black and claw-like things therefrom did pass,
Lengthening and shortening, and grey flocks of hair

251

Seemed moving on it with some inward air
The light bore with it; but in front of me
An upreared changing dark bulk did I see,
That my heart told me was the monster's head,
The seat of all the will that wrought our dread;
And midst thereof two orbs of red flame shone
When first I came, and then again were gone,
Then came again, like lights on a dark sea
As the thing turned. And now it seemed to me,
Moreover, that, despite the dreadful sound
That filled my very heart and shook the ground,
Mute was the horror's head, as the great shade
That sometimes, as in deep sleep we are laid,
Seems ready to roll over us, and crush
Our souls to nought amidst the shadowy hush:
Nor might I know how that dread noise was wrought.

“But, when unto the place I first was brought
Where now I stayed, and stared, I knew not well
If the thing moved; but deemed that I might tell
Ten fathoms o'er betwixt us, and midway
'Twixt me and it a temple-priest there lay,
Face foremost, armed, and in his hand a spear;
And as with fixed eyes I stood moveless there,
Striving to think how I should meet the thing,
Amidst that noise I heard his armour ring
As smitten by some stroke; and then I saw
Unto that hideous bulk the body draw,
And yet saw not what drew it; till at last
Into the huge dark mass it slowly passed.
Nor did the monster change; unless, methought
A little nigher thereto I was brought—
And still my eyes were fixed on it; with hand
Upon my drawn-back sword I still did stand,
Mid thoughts of folk who meet dread things alone
In dreadful lands, and slowly turn to stone.
So stood I: quicker grew my fevered breath,

252

Long, long the time seemed betwixt life and death,
And I began to waver therewithal,
And at the last I opened lips to call
Aloud, and made no sound; then fell my brand
Clanging adown from out my feeble hand,
And rest seemed sweet again; one step I made
Aback, to gain a huge pier's deep black shade,
Then at my fallen sword in vain I stared,
And could not stoop to it—

“And then there blared
A new sound forth, I deemed a trumpet-blast,
And o'er mine eyes a dull thick veil seemed cast,
And my knees bent beneath me, and I fell
A dead heap to the earth, with death and hell
Once more a pain, and terrible once more,
Teaching me dreadful things of hidden lore,
Showing strange pictures to my soul forlorn
That cursed the wretched day when I was born.

“There lay I, as it seemed, a weary tide,
Nor knew I if I lived yet, or had died,
E'en as the other folk, of utter fear,
When in mine ears a new voice did I hear,
Nor knew at first what words it said to me;
Till my eyes opened, and I seemed to see,
Grown grey and soft, the marble pillars there,
And 'twixt their shafts afar the woodland fair,
As if through clear green water; then I heard
Close by my very head a kindly word:
‘Be of good cheer! the earth is earth again,
And thou hadst heart enow to face the bane
Of Lycia, though the Gods would not that thou
Shouldst slay him utterly: but rise up now
If so thou mayst, and help me, for I bleed,
And of some leech-craft have I present need,
Though no life-blood is it that flows from me.’

253

“Then clearer grew mine eyes, and I could see
An armed man standing over me, and I
Rose up therewith and stood unsteadily,
And gazed around, and saw that the fell light
Had vanished utterly; fast waned the night
And a cold wind blew, as the young dawn strove
With the low moon and the faint stars above,
And all was quiet. But that new-come man,
Standing beside me in the twilight wan,
Seemed like a God, come down to make again
Another earth all free from death and pain.
Tall was he, fair he seemed unto me then
Beyond the beauty of the sons of men:
But as our eyes met, and mine, shamed and weak,
Dropped before his, once more he 'gan to speak:

“‘Be not ashamed,’ he said, ‘but look around,
And thou shalt see thy fear lie on the ground,
No more divine or dreadful.’

“Then I saw
A tangled mass of hair and scale and claw
Lie wallowing on the grey down-trodden grass;
Huge was it certes, but nought like the mass
Of horror mid the light my fear still told
My shuddering heart of, nor could I behold
Clearly the monster's shape in that dim light;
Yet gladly did I turn me from the sight
Unto my fellow, and I said:

“‘Hast thou
Some other shape unto mine eyes to show?
And is this part of the grim mockery
Whereto the Gods have driven me forth to die?
Or art thou such a dream as meets the dead
When first they die?’

“‘I am a man,’ he said,
‘E'en as thou art; thou livest, if I live;

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And some God unto me such strength did give,
That this my father's father's sword hath wrought
Deliverance for the Lycians, and made nought
This divine dread—but let us come again
When day is grown; and I have eased the pain
Of burning thirst that chokes me, and thine hands
Have swathed my hurts here with fair linen bands,
For somewhat faint I grow.’

“So then we passed
Betwixt the pillars till we reached at last
The chamber where I erst had slept, and there
We drank, and then his hurts with water fair
I bathed, and swathed them; and by then the day
Showed how my fellows on the pavement lay
Dead, yet without a wound it seemed; and when
Into the pillared hall we came again,
From one unto the other did we go
That lay about the place, and even so
It was with them; then the new-comer sighed
And said: ‘Belike it was of fear they died,
Yet wish them not alive again, for they
Had found death fearful on another day;
But gladly had I never seen this sight,
For I shall think thereof at whiles by night,
And wonder if all life is worth such woe—
But now unto the quarry let us go.’

“So forth we went, but when we came whereas
The beast lay, slantwise o'er the wind-swept grass
Shone the low sun on what was left of him,
For all about the trodden earth did swim
In horrible corruption of black blood,
And in the midst thereof his carcase stood,
E'en like a keel beat down and cast away
At dead ebb high up in a sandy bay.
But when I gathered heart close up to go
And touch that master of all horror, lo,

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How had he changed! for nothing now was there
But skin, beset with scale and dreadful hair
Drawn tight about the bones: flesh, muscle strong,
And all that helped the life of that great wrong,
Had ebbed away with life; his head, deep cleft
By the fair hero's sword-edge, yet had left
Three teeth like spears within it; on the ground
The rest had fallen, and now lay around
Half hidden in the marsh his blood had made;
Hollow his sides did sound when, still afraid
Of what he had been, with my clenched hand
I smote him. So a minute did we stand
Wondering, until my fellow said to me:

“‘In the past night didst thou do valiantly,
So smite the head from off him, and then go
This finished work unto the King to show,
And tell him by that token that I come,
Who heretofore have had no quiet home
Either in Corinth or the Argive land.
Here till to-morrow bide I, to withstand
What new thing yet may come; for strange to me
Are all these things, nor know I if I be
Waking or sleeping yet, although methinks
My soul some foretaste of a great bliss drinks.
So get thee to the work, and then go forth;
These coming days in sooth will show the worth
Of what my hand hath wrought!’

“Weary he seemed,
And spake, indeed, well-nigh as one who dreamed;
But yet his word I durst not disobey;
With no great pain I smote the head away
From off the trunk, and humbly bade farewell
Unto my godlike saviour from deep hell;
I gat my horse, and to the saddle bound
The monster's head, whose long mane swept the ground,
Whose weight e'en now was no light pack-horse load,

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And so with merry heart went on my road,
And made on toward the city, where I thought
A little after nightfall to be brought;
But so it was, that ere I had gone through
The wasted country and now well-nigh drew
Unto the lands where people yet did dwell,
So dull a humour on my spirit fell,
That at the last I might not go nor stand;
So, holding still the reins in my right hand,
I laid me down upon the sunburnt grass
Of the roadside, and just high noon it was.

“But moonrise was it when I woke again;
My horse grazed close beside with dangling rein;
But when I called him, and he turned to me,
No burden on his back I now might see
And wondered; for right firmly had I bound
The thing unto him; then I searched around
Lest he perchance had rolled, and in such wise
Had rid him of that weight; and as mine eyes
Grew used to the grey moonlight, I could trace
A line of greyish ashes, as from place
To greener place the wandering beast had fed;
But nothing more I saw of that grim head.
Then much I wondered, and my fear waxed great,
And I 'gan doubt if there I should not wait
The coming of that glorious mighty one,
Who for the world so great a deed had done.
But at the last I thought it good to go
Unto the town e'en as he bade me do,
Because his words constrained me. Nought befell
Upon the road whereof is need to tell,
And so my tale is done; and though it be
That I no token have to show to thee,
Yet doubt not, King Jobates, that no more
The Gods will vex the land as heretofore
With this fell torment. Furthermore, if he
Who wrought this deed is no divinity

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He will be here soon; so must thou devise,
O Lycian King, in whatso greatest wise
Thou wilt reward him—but for me, I pray
That thou wilt give me to him from to-day,
That serving him, and in his company,
Not wholly base I too become to be.”

The King and captain for a little while
Gazed each at each; an ugly covert smile
Lurked round the captain's mouth, but the King stared
Blankly upon him, e'en as though he heard
A doom go forth against him; and again
The man who brought the news stared at the twain
With knitted brows, as greatly marvelling
Why they spake nought, until at last the King
Turned eyes upon him, and the captain spake:
“Certes, O King, brightly the day doth break
If this man sayeth sooth; nor know I one
To do this deed except Bellerophon;
And so much certes hast thou honoured him
That nothing now thy glory can wax dim
Because of his; and though indeed the earth
Hold nought within it of such wondrous worth
As that which thou wilt give him in reward,
Not overmuch it is for such a sword,
And such a heart, the people's very friend.”

So spake he, and before his speech had end
His wonted face at last the King had got,
And spake unto the man:

“We doubt thee not;
Thy tale seems true, nor dost thou glorify
Thyself herein—certes thou wouldst abye
A heavy fate if thou shouldst lie herein—
So here shalt thou abide till sight we win
Of him who wrought this deed; then shalt thou have
A good reward, as one both true and brave

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As for a son of man, for he, meseems,
Who made an end of our so fearful dreams
Is scarcely man, though friend to me a man—
But now this tale of thine, that well began
And went on clearly, clearly has not told
The very shape of what thou didst behold.”

“No,” said the man, “when I stood therebeside
Methought its likeness ever would abide
Within my mind! but now, what shall I say—
Hast thou not heard, O King, before to-day,
That it was three-formed? So men said to me,
Before its very body I did see
That, lion-like the beast's shape was before,
And that its goat-like, hairy middle bore
A dragon's scaly folds across the waste
Itself had made. But I, who oft have faced
The yellow beast, and driven goats afield,
And shaken the black viper from my shield,
Can liken it to these things in no whit.
Nay, as I try e'en now to think of it,
Meseems that when I woke in the past night,
E'en like a dream dissolved by morning light,
Its memory had gone from me; though, indeed,
Nought I forgot of all my dreadful need.
Content thee, King, with what I erst have told;
For when I try his image to behold
Faint grows my heart again, mine eyes wax dim,
Nor can I set forth what I deemed of him
When he lay dead—Hearken, what thing draws nigh?”

For from outside there rang a joyous cry,
That grew, still coming nearer, till they heard
From out the midst thereof a well-known word,
The name Bellerophon: then from his bed
The King arose, and clad himself, and said:

“Go, captain, set the King Bellerophon
Without delay upon the royal throne,

259

And tell him that I come to make my prayer,
That, since for a long time I have sat there,
And know no other trade than this of King,
He of his bounty yet will add a thing
To all that he hath given, and let me reign
Along with him. Send here my chamberlain,
That I may clothe me in right fitting guise
To do him honour in all goodly wise.”
So spake his lips, but his eyes seemed to say:
“Long is it to the ending of the day,
And many a thing may hap ere eventide;
And well is he who longest may abide.”

So from the presence did the captain pass,
When now the autumn morn in glory was,
And when he reached the palace court, he found
The eager people flocking all around
The door of the great hall, and diversely
Men showed their joyance at that victory.
But in the hall there stood Bellerophon
Anigh the dais, and the young sun shone
On his bright arms, and round from man to man
In eager notes the hurried question ran,
And, smiling still, he answered each; but yet
Small share that circle of his tale did get,
Because distraught he was, and seemed to be
As he who looks the face of one to see
Who long delays; but when the captain's staff
Cleft through the people's eager word and laugh,
And, after that, his fellow of the night
Bellerophon beheld, his face grew bright
As one who sees the end. Withal he said
As they drew nigh:

“Has the King seen the head,
Knows he what it betokens? For, behold!
Before the sun of that day grew acold
Whereon thou left'st me, all that heap was gone

260

Thou sawest there, both hair and flesh and bone;
So when this dawn I mounted my good steed,
I looked to thee to show forth that my deed,
Lest all should seem a feigned tale or a dream.”

“Master,” the other said, “thou well mayst deem,
That what thy will loosed, my will might not hold;
E'en as thy tale, so must my tale be told,
And nought is left to show of that dread thing.”

E'en as he spake did folk cry on the King,
And now to right and left fell back the crowd,
And down the lane of folk gold raiment glowed,
And blare of silver trumpets smote the roof.
Then said the captain:

“Certes, no more proof
The King will ask, to show that thou hast done
The glorious deed that was for thee alone;
Be glad, thy day is come, and all is well!”

But on his sword the hero's left hand fell,
And he looked down and muttered 'neath his breath:
“Trust slayeth many a man, the wise man saith;
Yet must I trust perforce.” He stood and heard
The joyful people's many-voicèd word
Change into a glad shout; the feet of those
Who drew anear came closer and more close,
Till their sound ceased, and silence filled the hall;
And then a soft voice on his ears did fall,
That seemed the echo to his yearning thought:
“Look up, look up! the change of days hath brought
Sweet end to our desires, and made thee mine!”
He raised his eyes, and saw gold raiment shine
Before him in the low sun; but a face
Above it made the murmuring crowded place
Silent and lone; for there she stood, indeed,
His troublous scarce-kept life's last crown and meed;

261

Her sweet lips trembled, her dear eyes 'gain swim
In tears that fell not, as she reached to him
One hand in greeting, while a little raised
And restless was the other, as she gazed
Into his eyes, and lowly was her mien;
But yet a little forward did she lean,
As though she looked for sudden close embrace,
Yet feared it 'neath the strange eyes of that place.

But though his heart was melted utterly
Within him, he but drew a little nigh,
And took her hand, and said:

“What hour is this
That brings so fair a thing to crown my bliss?
What land far off from that which first I knew?
How shall I know that such a thing is true,
Unless some pain yet fall on thee and me?
Rather this hour is called eternity,
This land the land of heaven, and we have died
That thus at last we might go side by side
For ever, in the flower-strewn happy place.”

Then closer to her drew his bright flushed face,
Well-nigh their lips met, when Jobates cried:
“Good hap, Corinthian! for thou hast not died;
The pale land holds no joy like thou shalt have
If yet awhile the Gods thy dear life save;
Yet mayst thou fear, indeed, for such thou art,
That yet the Gods will have thee play thy part
In heaven and not on earth—But come on now,
And see if this my throne be all too low
For thy great heart; sit here with me to-day,
And in the shrines of the Immortals pray,
With many offerings, lest they envy thee,
And on the morrow wed Philonoë,
And live thy life thereafter.”

So he spake,
Smiling, and yet a troubled look did break

262

Across the would-be frankness of his smile.
But still the hero stood a little while
And watched Philonoë, as she turned and went
Adown the hall, and then a sigh he sent
From out his heart, and turned unto the King
As one who had no thought that anything
Of guile clung round him, and said:

“Deem thou not,
O King, that ruin from me thou hast got,
Although I take from thee my due reward;
For still for thee my hand shall hold the sword,
Nor will I claim more than thou givest me,
And great is that, though a King's son I be.”

So on the throne was set Bellerophon,
And on his head was laid the royal crown
Instead of helm; and just as safe he felt
As though mid half-fed savage beasts he dwelt.
Yet when he went out through the crowded street,
Shouting because of him, when blossoms sweet
Faint with the autumn fell upon his head,
When his feet touched the silken carpet spread
Over the temple-steps; when the priests' hymn
Rang round him in the inner temple dim,
He smiled for pleasure once or twice, and said:

“So many dangers, yet I am not dead;
So many fears, yet sweet is longing grown,
Because to-morrow morn I gain my own!
So much desire, and but a night there is
Betwixt me and the perfecting of bliss!”