A Sculptor and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

'Twas Mopsa told it: rough and coarse was she,
Stampt vulgar to the core with the brand self
Unlovely and unlov'd; and, as she told,
The hearers were unfain to hear, and yet
She moon'd along, until one stay'd her tongue
With gentle prayer that she would keep her tale
For better audience and a better day.

She lik'd the tale, or lik'd to tell the tale,
And laid it in the silence, with the hope
To tell it one day at a festival.
Poor Mopsa! Here beginneth Mopsa's tale,
Told, nearly as may be, in Mopsa's words.

“In the time past,” she said, “there was a king,
The mightiest man in all his countryside,

Whose wife bare unto him a child that was
The fairest daughter ever tasted pap.
And the king kept a great and generous house
Where all might come and freely take their meat.
So one day, as the king's fair daughter sat
Within her window, playing on a harp—
As sweet as any rose was she: her hair
Held by a rich comb, set with precious stones—
There came a knight riding into the court
Upon a goodly horse, one hair of gold,
The other silver; and 'twas so that he,
Casting his eyes up to that window of hers,
Fell into such extremity of love,
That he did grow not worth the bread he ate:
Till, many a sorry day going o'er his head,
With daily diligence and griefly groans,
He won her heart and won her word to leave
Her father's court and go along with him.

And so in May when all true hearts rejoice,
They stole away together, staying not
To break their fast, but satisfied with love.
And now as they together went, and oft
Did fall to kissing one another's face,
He told his lady how the water-nymphs
Had brought him up, and had bewitcht him so,
If any one should ask him of his name,
He presently must vanish quite away.

And therefore charg'd her, on his blessing, ne'er
To ask him what he was or whither he would.

So a great while she did his bidding keep,
Till, passing through a cruel wilderness,
As dark as pitch, her heart so burn'd in her,
She could not choose but ask the question.

Then he, making the grievousest complaints,
That would have melted hardest wood to hear,
There in the darkness vanisht quite away.
And she lay down casting forth pitiful cries.

But having lain so five days and five nights,
Wet by the rain, burnt by the sun, she rose
And went o'er many high hills and rivers deep
Until she came to an aunt's house of hers,
And stood and cried aloud to her for help.
And she, for pity, gave a nut to her,
And bade her never open it, till she
Were come to the extremest misery
That ever tongue could speak of: and she went
And went, and never rested her at even
Where in the morn she went, until she came
Unto a second aunt, who gave to her
Another nut.”—Here Mopsa's tale breaks off.

I read this o'er, and ponder'd, till I saw
Unto an end, albeit not Mopsa's end;

Only an end that met the soul of one
Small singer of the nineteenth century,
Who felt her heart burn in her at the words,
“And bade her never open it till she
Were come to the extremest misery.”

I think she must have found another aunt
And gain'd another nut.—Though fairy tales
Delight to deal in sevens and in threes,
I let the third gift go and keep the two.

This was the word went with the second nut,
“Break this when thou dost know there is no need
To break the other.” And she faintly smil'd,—
“I think that will be in the day of joy,
The day of joy that I shall never see.”

Suppose a woman with a gift like this,
Not to be us'd till she herself was come
Unto the very extremest misery
That ever tongue could speak of—how of it?—
May it be thus?—

The princes must go on
Smitten of sorrow, driven of remorse,
Seeking and never finding, till her limbs
Refus'd to bear her up, and so she cast
Her length upon a rocky beach, 'neath cliffs
White, sharp, and strong and stern, around whose base

Beat that eternal trouble of the sea.
“And now,” she said, “the time is surely come,
The very extremest time of misery,
For what I seek is gone, and power to seek
Is gone.” But lo, a voice that whisper'd, “Nay,
For will to seek is thine; till that be gone
Thou art not come to thy extremest woe.”

And so she rose and still pursued her way,
Bedrencht with rain, or faint for extreme heat,
Footsore and tir'd; and yet there never came
A moment in the which to pause and say,
“Now am I come to woe's extremity.”

And on her way she sang this song of hers.

“I may not find thee, O my love of loves;
My sin it was that drave thee from my side,
My suffering would I give to bring thee back.
Unfaith of mine hath struck thee like a flash
Of lightning, and I cannot see thy face.
My loss I know, but thine, who hast lost the light
Of earth and all the sweets of human joy
And grandeur of human suffering, know I not;
I love thee and seek, though finding never come.”

So cried she weeping, in a stranger land,
And the men said, “Behold, the maid is mad!”
And took her up in their ungentle arms

And bare her to a dungeon underground,
And left her there; so she was all alone
With flitter-mice and heavy dark and damp,
And silence; and on her bosom lay her nut,
And yet she brake it not.

But lo! a cry
Smote through the horrible darkness on her ear;
And, sharp upon her brain, no need of sense,
There came the knowledge that he lay close by,
Prison'd and tortur'd: then she lifted up
Her voice, that bare exceeding love and ruth
In a strong cry upon her lover's name.
But it sank quivering on the darkness' heart,
And could not reach him, for the walls were thick.
Then moan'd she in her grief, “The time is come,
My most extremest time of misery,
For I am fain to help and cannot help;
No darker time can come.”

But the same voice
That stay'd her heretofore, rose up, and said,
“Thou hast the will to help, if not the power;
Therefore thou art not in extremest woe.”

And then the princess askt, “Is there yet more?”
And this the answer, “Not for thee, O child,
The extremest misery tongue can utter forth,
Or shuddering silence hold upon her breast;
Seeing that all the suffering laid on thee

Hath quicken'd thee, not kill'd thee: sharp regrets
For sin have prickt thee on, not stung to death:
Great waters going over thee washt clean,
Not drown'd thee: therefore rise and break the nut
Whose breaking was to be when thou wert sure
Thy woe should never be extremest woe.”

And so she brake the nut—and then—there came
That which I know not how to tell—great joy
And peace and strength—and came for both of them,
The seeker and the sought.

I dedicate
This little tale to You, for You will know:
And, if some throw the thing aside, because
I have mixt the thought of separate centuries
And thence brought forth some strange inconsequence,
I shall be satisfied, if You approve.
If any shrug the shoulder, saying, “Well,
But Mopsa never would have ended thus.”
You know I never said or thought she would.