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

But when the night was o'er, and the great sun
Another day for all things had begun,
The kings arising unto Corinth rode;
But ere they left the woodland fair abode,
Unto the Goddess did they sacrifice,
And on her altar in such woodland wise
As huntsmen use, their offerings did they lay.
With them was Glauce on that dawn of day,
Upon the left hand of the ancient king,
Unto the reverend Goddess ministring.
But when they turned once more unto the town,
The half-quenched censer did she lay adown,
And holding still the fresh-plucked flowery wreath,
Bade them farewell.

Then by thick wood and heath
They rode, and on their journey Jason said
Few words and wandering; for still that maid
Did he behold before his waking eyes,
And with the oft-recurring memories
Of days and things a long time passed away
Her image mixed, and words that she did say.

270

But when upon the threshold of his house
He met Medea, who, with amorous
And humble words, spoke to him greetings kind,
He felt as he whose eyes the fire doth blind,
That presently about his limbs shall twine,
And in her face and calm grey eyes divine
He read his own destruction; none the less
In his false heart fair Glauce's loveliness
Seemed that which he had loved his whole life long,
And little did he feel his old love's wrong.

Alas for truth! each day, yea, hour by hour,
He longed once more to see the beechen bower,
And her who dwelt thereby. Alas, alas!
Oft from his lips the hated words would pass:

“O wavering traitor, still unsatisfied!
O false betrayer of the love so tried!
Fool! to cast off the beauty that thou knowst,
Clear-seeing wisdom, better than a host
Against thy foes, and truth and constancy
Thou wilt not know again, whate'er shall be!”

So oft he spoke words that were words indeed,
And had no sting, nor would his changed heart heed
The very bitterest of them all, as he
Thought of his woodland fair divinity,
And of her upturned face, so wondering
At this or that oft-told unheeded thing.

Yet whiles indeed old memories had some power
Over his heart; in such an awful hour
As that, when darksome night is well-nigh done,
And earth is waiting silent for the sun;
Then would he turn about his mate to see,
From lips half open breathing peacefully;
And open, listless, the fair fingers laid,
That unto him had brought such mighty aid.
Then groaning from her would he turn away,
And wish he might not see another day,
For certainly his wretched soul he knew,

271

And of the cruel God his heart that drew.
But when the bright day had come round again,
With noise of men, came foolish thoughts and vain,
And, feeding fond desire, needs must he burn
Unto Cleonæ his swift steps to turn.

Nor to these matters was the Colchian blind,
And though as yet his speech to her was kind,
Good heed she took of all his moody ways,
And how he loved her not as in past days;
And how he shrunk from her, yet knew it not,
She noted, and the stammering words and hot,
Wherewith as she grew kinder still he strove
To hide from her the changing of his love.

Long time she tried to shut her eyes to this,
Striving to save that fair abode of bliss;
But so it might not be; and day by day
She saw the happy time fade fast away;
And as she fell from out that happiness,
Again she grew to be the sorceress,
Worker of fearful things, as once she was,
When what my tale has told she brought to pass.