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

Straight ran we to him: “Have no fear
Fellows,” he said; “from a strange dream,
Or something more, as ye shall hear,
Have I just waked; thus did it seem:

I stood upon a certain land
Hard by the sea, a white city
Above; a sea-beat yellow strand
Furrowed by keels was under me.

And as I stood, it seemed, perdie!
A yellow lion was I grown;
Of you some forty were with me,
Each as a lion with a crown

Each one of us a great axe had
In his right paw; and blithe we seemed
And thereat nothing mazed or sad:
And furthermore, fellows, I dreamed

That folk kept passing to and fro
Nor saw us: all were fair and young,
Laughing and merry did they go,
And many were the songs they sung.

Forth to the city then we went,
The fairest houses there we saw
With walls about green gardens bent,
And in the midst, without a flaw

Rose up a temple of green stone
Like glass: therein were images
As of Diana, burd-alone,
Trim-shod, with dainty naked knees.

Jupiter saw I, furthermore,
Without a frown upon his face:
And Pallas with her book of lore
Set in a corner of the place.

There was the Ruler of the Sea,
And Juno still in wrathful mood,
Bacchus we saw, and Mercury;
With downcast eyes there Pluto stood.

And midmost there, with wings that met
Over his head, was mighty Love,
And there beside was Venus set,
Fresh, soft, and naked, with her dove

Brushing his wings against her feet.
Now in this temple, Sirs, I say,
I dreamed I saw two fellows meet
And talk together such a way:

‘Ah!’ said the first, ‘if folk but knew
The merry days we live in here,
No longer should we be a few,
Full many a keel would hither steer.’

‘Yea’ quoth the other, ‘did they know
That every man grows young again
That underneath our gates doth go,
And never after suffers pain;

No war, no winter, no disease,
No storm nor famine reach us here,
Ever we live 'mid rest and ease
And no man doth another fear!’

When this I heard, so loud my heart
'Gan beat that scarce I heard one say:
‘But far this sweet land is apart
From all the world! Yet is the way

Not altogether hard to find
If still you steer west hardily
Beseeching Venus to be kind.’
This said, they passed on presently.

No longer was I lion then,
But man again, old, near my death,
And ye were gone, as oft to men
In helpless dreams it happeneth.

Kneeling to Venus (big)

Down fell I straight upon my knees,
And holding Venus by the feet,
‘I pray thee give me rest and peace
And fearless life, my lady sweet,’

Said I, and therewithal I wept;
Nearer and nearer to my death
I grew, yet still my hands I kept
Upon the image, with weak breath

Muttering out prayers; till suddenly
As happed once to Pygmalion
So dreamed I that it happed to me;
The stone my hands were laid upon

Grew into soft flesh, the fair leg
Drew back a little as she said,
‘My knight, I grant you that you beg,’
And laid her hands upon my head.

Then shuddering my head I bent
Before the Goddess, with shut eyes,
As through my veins the new blood went
Filling my heart with ecstasies

Forgotten long; within a while
I raised my eyes and looked and there
Still stood the image with set smile
And colourless with gilded hair.

Then suddenly aware I was
All was a dream; yet woke I not
But passed from out that house of glass,
And went again to that same spot

Where first I found myself, and then
I woke indeed, but, fellows mine,
Waking, I saw two ancient men
There in the corners; of gold fine

One wore a crown; about his head
Shone rings of light, all armed was he
And all his raiment was of red;
He held a great axe handily.

The other man was clad in blue
One-eyed he was and held a spear:
Olaf and Odin straight I knew
And cried the cry that you did hear.

Straightway they vanished, but each one
Beckoned me westward as he went;
Then to the tent I heard you run—
Say, fellows, what these wonders meant.”

All waited till the mass-priest said:
“The Devil well such dreams might send,
When one lay helpless on his bed,
To tempt a man to evil end.”

Such things were possible to be
He doubted not, a little while,
“Hell-fire afterwards,” said he;
I broke in with a certain smile,

“Yea also here St Olaf came.”
He said, “The Devil, oh my son,
Having no body but a flame
Can just as well be two as one,

Olaf as Odin for the nonce,”
Said John our mass-priest, “yea, and know
I heard a tale of men who once
Sought for this land ye seek of now,

And to some isle far in the West
Outside the world they came one day
And there they went ashore to rest
But as upon the grass they lay

Devils set on them and to shreds
Tore many, but some got away
And years thereafter with white heads
Came broken-hearted to Norway.”

When he had done Sir Rolf the Old
Next said: “Captain, it seems to me
You plan a voyage overbold—
Now such a thing as this might be

If we were sitting poor at home—
But I am rich and old and bent
And think no more at last to roam.
I think, that westward if ye went,

Many a strange thing might ye see
Nor yet come home again, or live
More than a month or two; for me
At home henceforth I think to thrive.”

“Yea too,” quoth one, “the western seas
Are all alive with fearful things,
Great rolling waves without a breeze
And wingless birds and fish with wings.”

Then I hot-headed and aflame
To seek new things, at such-like words
Cried, “In that place from whence you came
Do folk perchance sell spears and swords?

Or by the loom do men there sit
Watching the women's shuttle fly
From side to side, not touching it
With any finger? Do they die

And of that great renown think nought
Our fathers won in other days
Who over strange seas strange things sought,
Nor bore to die with little praise?

Let whoso will of these go home
And sit there while the minstrels sing
Great lies about him, the beer-foam
Still on their beards, and sea-roving

In words alone: but we will go
Follow our fortunes to the West,
And leave the winter and the snow
And gain all things that men love best.”

The young men shouted thereupon;
For through their hearts the thoughts did pass,
Warm days, ripe fruit, the merry sun,
And sweet fair ladies on the grass,

Or cinnamon-fires burning bright
In the cool autumn evening,
And gold-gowns fairer to the sight
Than raiment of the Greekish king.

But there were old men there, and men
Not old, but fain enow to live
Without risk three score years and ten
With what delights that land could give;

So there rose up a murmuring
And earnest talk 'twixt man and man;
There was said many a foolish thing—
Yea, some of us indeed began

Within our sheaths to loose the swords,
Until the Captain cried at last,
“O fellows, you have heard my words,
Nor do I bid you on this cast

To venture all but if your hearts
Are firm thereon as mine today,
Then let those go who for their parts
Would still live on in their old way.”

Then with his sword he drew a line
Deep in the sand and said, “Fellows,
Whoso from henceforth will be mine
To sail in seas no shipman knows.”

Two hundred of us followed him—
The Captain said: “Good fellows mine,
Sell me two ships for these my men
And for our gold and cloth your wine,

Stockfish and salt-meat; and farewell,
God prosper all things to your hand.”
“Which,” said they, “would you have us sell?”
“The Fighting Man and Rose Garland,”

Said he. So all was straightway done,
And each man happy thought himself
As we went westward with the sun
And they sailed eastward with their pelf.

The Ships splitting (big)

Alas! we left that merry shore,
And never to come back again,
And never see our own folk more,
And suffer many and many a pain.

For twenty days we sailed away,
Due west past many lands we knew,
Till at the last before us lay
Stretched out, the landless sea and blue.

Edward on his galley at Sluse (big)

Still west we went, till the north-wind
Came on us, amid clouds and rain;
And so no longer could we find
Our true course, therefore were we fain

To strike sail, as we drove before
The wind that yet kept rising till
We thought we ne'er should see the shore
In life again, for good or ill.

Till as it happed the great wind fell
Even at its highest, and that past
We rode becalmed, and in the swell
Dipping our yard-arms; then at last

We saw stars, and as the wind
Rose light and fair, we steered north-west:
Then was the weather sweet and kind
As unto sailors at the best.

So passed ten days and it grew warm,
And warmer ever as we sailed;
And no man yet had come to harm
Spite of the storm. Now the wind failed

One evening just as the night fell,
And rose again about midnight,
And blew till morning fair and well,
Then saw we land as it grew light.

A long green coast dipped in the sea,
A wall of trees behind there was,
Under our ship's sides certainly
Clear showed the water green as glass.

Ah, how we sang and shouted then!
Never before such joy we had,
We were the happiest of all men,
Never again could we be sad.

Most grievous of all times is this
For wretches to remember now,
We thought then, Here begins our bliss—
Alas! for then began sorrow:

For ever as we coasted there
The fair young folk we looked to see
Our fellow dreamed of, and the fair
Long yellow beach and white city:

But we saw nought but trees and grass
And thereupon wild things playing
Around the sea as green as glass
And fish with many a scarlet ring.

Then doubting drew we near to land
With fainter hearts than heretofore;
With iron chain and hempen band
We made the ships fast to the shore.

Then said the Captain: “Good fellows,
This is a right fair land to see,
Deep grass, sweet streams and trees in rows,
And birds singing in every tree.

And yet no sign of man there is;
How good the sweet land of my dream
Must be, when such a land as this
Is left untilled of any team,

Without a man or house thereon!”
“Yet inland, Captain, let us go
And seek thereafter,” called out one,
“And sail at last if it be so

There are no folk. A grievous thing
It would be to sail back again
A year hence for this land seeking;
And well it might be then in vain.”

Yea, said we all, so it shall be,
And chose by lot nine of our men,
And sent them out by three and three
Well armed and victualled; said we then:

“A month here do we wait for you
Then sail away whate'er betide,
But that ye light on something new.”
This done we built our camp beside

That warm sea, and there many a day
We swam among the purple fish
And sported there in every way
That any man could think or wish.

Or in the woods went wandering
And lay beneath outlandish trees,
Heard strange new birds new carols sing
And thought of coming voyages.

Moreover there we held great feasts
Because the place was furnished well
With deer and goats and such like beasts
Whereof full many a head there fell;

Thereof also we made good store
Of salt meat for our voyages.
So passed the month along the shore
Nor saw we ought of those same threes.

Until one day, the time being past
We hauled the ships down to the sea
And broke the camp up, then at last
Three men came running hastily.

Far had they gone, but nothing seen
But trees and meadows fair enough,
And such beasts as with us had been.
No lion or bear, and nothing rough,

Hurtful or evil did they see,
Nothing but still the quiet land,
But of all fruits right great plenty
Whereof they carried some in hand.

A great river they came unto
And went along its bank, until
On the fifth day they saw it go
Into a cavern in a hill

With a great roar, as well might be.
Then up that hill they clomb and thence
Looked landward but did nothing see
But trees and meads until a fence

Of mountains rose against the sky.
They went thereto for three days more.
Then clomb the mountains easily;
Thence seaward could they see the shore,

Landward a fairer place than all
They yet had seen, a fair green plain
With trees and streams, yet like a wall
Far off the mountains rose again.

Therefore they crossed the plain, but when
They reached the top of this third range,
And saw no signs of any men
And saw the land with little change

Spread out beneath them as before,
They thought it good to turn straightway
Back to the ships. So to the shore
They came upon the thirtieth day.

“Fellows,” they said, “the land is good,
Nor is there anything to fear.
We are the first that have spilled blood
Even of beasts; none dwelleth here.”

But as they spoke a certain one
Came towards us between bush and bush
Out from the forest to the sun,
Holding a basket made of rush.

Thereto his hair was white as snow
And bent he walked as if with pain,
Yet as he neared us, did we know
Our fellow John the Long again

100

Who went from us both young and fair
And merry-hearted, a stout man,
Broad-shouldered and with yellow hair:
Half-dead he stood there bent and wan.

We pressed around him, but he said
No word, but stooping opened wide
The rushen basket, then as dead
Our hearts grew, when we saw inside

The heads of our two fellows lie
Bloody and cut off at the neck;
Then straight some cried out angrily
To have him forthwith to the deck

Of the chief ship and judge him there;
Some clashed their axes o'er his head;
But then beholding his white hair
And that he stood like one long dead,

Upright, but looking at nothing,
Their clamour died out suddenly.
For in our ears the words did ring
The priest spoke, of the isles that lie

Outside the world where devils be.
We thought, our fellows have been slain
And damned perchance most piteously,
And this one has been raised again

And sent to frighten us to death—
And little of that did it fail:
We stood scarce daring to draw breath
Or look around us, while the sail

Kept flapping in the rising wind,
And the noon sun was shining fair,
Till this thought came into my mind,
What if the night should find us here?

101

Then gasping to the ship I ran
And straight the others followed me
As sheep their leader, till no man
Was on the shore but only he.

No heed at all he seemed to take
As we the hawsers cut, and as
Some way the ships began to make
Leaving that land of trees and grass

Inhabited by fiends of Hell;
Nor did we ever after know
What things the other three befell
That erewhile with the rest did go.

Three days we sailed that land along
Ever with hearts right sore afraid
Till from the land the wind blew strong
And so the open sea we made.

This was the first day of those days
When we were sorry we had come
Far off from the green land-locked bays
And white-wood houses of our home.

But whitherward now should we steer,
What star should lead us now thereto?
Yea though our hearts should die with fear
No way but on ward could we go.

Yea call it onward if you will:
Whereto the wind blew there went we,
There was no use for strength or skill,
We were as boys blown out to sea.

It will be noticed that this incident does not occur in the poem here, though it is referred to later on. It was evidently to be added on revision, and is happily preserved in the published Prologue.

Westward so far as we could tell
With a fair wind twelve days we sailed,
And nothing evil us befell;
Till as before the sea-breeze failed

102

At night-fall, therefore watch and ward
We kept with little sleep that night;
The low land, covered with green sward
We saw at the first streak of light.

Above, the tall trees as before,
And all about, the goats and deer
Playing together on the shore—
Masters, then sunk our hearts with fear.

To leave that evil land behind
Twelve days to sail upon the sea
Before the merry Eastern wind
And still in the same place to be

As to our eyes it verily seemed:
Almost we thought to see laid there
Our fellow's body—had we dreamed
At sight of that still land so fair

Those evil things that there befell,
Or was there such another place
Inhabited by fiends from Hell
And otherwise in goodly case?

Now as the wind blew on the land
A furlong from the land we rode,
An anchor out on either hand;
And many an evil we forbode.

This happed: about the dead of night
The watch gave warning, and we all
Looked landward, and saw many a light
Pass to and fro, and therewithal

Strange cries we heard come from the shore,
And still the lights came one by one,
And kept increasing more and more
Until the rising of the sun.

103

But in the twilight we saw there
A multitude of moving things
Black on the green shore: many a prayer
We muttered hearing their cryings.

We said, we sought for Heaven on earth
But now at last have come to Hell;
These things that make such sort of mirth
With these for ever shall we dwell.

Alas the merry merchant-town,
Alas the farms at home, we said,
The crossed tombs on the grassy down
Around the church when we [OMITTED] dead.

But now hereafter shall they say
To those that in our houses dwell,
Forgetting God they sailed away
And drove into the mouth of Hell.

Yet God was good to us, fair Sirs;
As day-light spread we looked to see
Uncertain forms of great monsters,
And soon within their grip to be;

Nevertheless as the day rose
With fainting hearts we armed us clean
And saw the faces of our foes,
Such folk as we had often seen;

Black men such as our people bring
With ivory and spices rare,
When southward they go sea-roving,
Or like the Greek kings' eunuchs are.

They offered battle by their guise,
As crowding on the grassy strand
They hailed us with outlandish cries
And shook their weapons in their hand.

104

Right ugly staves they had with them
Set round with many a spiky bone,
Skin coats with gaudy painted hem,
And axes evil made of stone.

And bows they had but weak enough,
They had no raiment of defence
But furry skins, and targets rough;
They had no boat to come from thence.

Therefore our hearts again grew light
And little heeded we their noise,
But that it stirred in us forthright
Remembrance of old battle joys.

And loud the Captain shouted: “Sirs
Here is a good game to your hand!
Ye are no merchant mariners
To buy and sell from land to land.

Up anchors, man the oars forthright,
Get ready axes to the hand;
Blow horns, for we shall hear ere night
New tidings of our promised Land!”

Joyous our hearts grew and merry;
We cried our cries, while overhead
Out went the banner suddenly,
And down the wind went long and red.

Out ran the forty oars like one,
While from the stern the minstrel men
Struck up The King of England's Son.
Forgotten were our troubles then,

As towards the shore we drove, singing,
Amid the stones and sharp arrows—
We counted that a little thing,
So fain we were to come to blows.

105

There in their midst ashore we leapt,
And great and grim the slaughter was,
In their skin coats their bodies kept,
The great stone axes broke like glass.

There on the shore in heap on heap
They fell upon the trodden grass,
Or from the beach they fled like sheep
By such wild ways as they might pass,

And these we followed after straight,
But left behind some fifty there,
To guard our passage, if ill fate
Betid, for still we feared a snare.

But nought within the woods that day
We saw but dying men and dead,
They had no rede, but, get away,
These strangers may not be bested.

So on we pressed till at noontide
We came unto a clearer space
Where stood their town, and therebeside
A little river ran apace.

A poor place built of reeds and wood
And no man there to make defence;
Ajar the gates of wattle stood,
Both men and women had gone thence.

Natheless their beasts were left behind,
And, namely, pigs and beasts like goats
But bigger far than are our kind;
And geese swam all about their moats.

But iron or silver, brass or gold
Nor any metal, found we there,
But stout staves certain flints did hold
Brought to a sharp edge and a fair.

106

And nothing woven there we found
For all their raiment was of skin,
And pots but neither glazed or round
We saw with evil drink therein.

And in the midst we saw a hall
Wherein their filthy God they keep,
Who had on him, for royal pall,
The skins of some beast like a sheep,

Set round with many a coloured shell.
So there our helmets we did off,
And on their swine we feasted well
Then burnt their God with jeer and scoff.

Thereafter all the place we burned,
Then got together some poor spoil,
And back toward our ships returned
At undern. Now with care and toil

Had we come through the woods before;
Much more we laboured coming back,
Driving our cattle us before;
Nought was it now but hew and hack

And stumble; till the night-fall came
And found us still deep in the woods
Forewearied with our arms, foot-lame,
And scattered shepherding our goods.

Therefore we made a barrier,
Wherein we laid us down to sleep
And wait; nor had we any fear
Of miscreants and such Devil's sheep.

But in the dead of night I woke,
And heard a sharp and bitter cry,
And there saw, struck with a great stroke,
Lie dead, Sir John of Hederby.

107

We armed us with what speed we might,
As thick and fast the arrows came,
Nor did we any more lack light,
For all the woods were red with flame.

Straight we set forward valiantly
While all about the blacks lay hid,
Who never spared to yell and cry—
A woful night to us befell.

For some within the fire fell,
And some with shafts were smitten dead,
Neither could any see right well
Which side to guard, nor by my head

Did we strike stroke at all that night,
For ever onward as we drew
So drew they back from out our sight;
Thus we went on as men might do

In evil dreams, until we felt
The sea-breeze push the smoke away,
And of the sea the savour smelt
Sweeter than roses by my fay!

Now when we were all met, some bade
To turn again and smite these thieves,
Yet were the more part now afraid
Nor list to die like shrivelled leaves.

Soon we should all be more than kings,
Nor was there anything to gain
From these but hogs and such-like things,
And folly was it to be slain

Upon the eve of Paradise.
Therefore we put again to sea
Leaving a land that might entice
More wary travellers than we.

108

We coasted by cape after cape
Until the wind blew easterly,
Then due west we our course did shape,
Withal was but a gentle sea.

Our hearts upon the end were set
As fair we sailed before the wind,
All things behind did we forget
In sweet hope happy life to find.

The third day came Sir Nicholas,
Our Captain, to the Rose Garland.
And coming up to where I was,
Spoke to me, holding up his hand:

“Sir Rafe, I deem you wise and true
Nor given unto babbling words,
Which spoken we may not undo
And make worse wounds than grinded swords.

Now I am heavy in my heart,
And all my hope is fallen to nought,
Fain would I you should have a part
Of this my burden: I am brought

Night after night in lifelike dreams
To that land where we wish to go;
Alas none ever happy seems
Of all the folk I meet there now.

And tombs are in the fair church set,
No man adores the Goddesses,
The palace steps with blood are wet,
And weeds grow up between the trees.

Last night I saw my father there,
My mother whom I left alive
In Norway, and my daughter fair,
No one of them did seem to thrive.

109

At last this question came from me,
That long unto my tongue did cling:
‘Do folk die here?’ Then piteously
They answered me with sore weeping.

‘Alas! fair son,’ my father said,
‘None comes to this unhappy place
Unless for ever they are dead;’
And therewith he lift up his face.

O, well do I remember, Rafe,
My father, when from sea we came,
And thought to see our homestead safe,
And saw, instead, its last thin flame

Die out above my dead mother;
His face was not so wretched then
As that the shade did show me there—
O, Rafe, we are but ruined men!

A dream has sent us on this quest,
And certain half-forgotten tales:
To live for ever is the best
That haps to us; but if all fails

What is the worst of all?” Said I,
“It is well seen, friend, by my head,
We shall find some good way to die;
Then are we, as our fathers, dead,

Who fell upon the English shore,
Or sunk below the sandy Seine,
Or back from Russia came no more,
Or got no mercy from the Dane.

Yea, also, ere we come to this
Doubt not that we shall find some way
To pass our life in worldly bliss
In some sweet isle with game and play.

110

And shall we now curse God and die
If following some minstrels' dream,
As boys a painted butterfly,
We find it lead us down the stream

Of circumstance, to a strange life
Wherein more wonders we shall see
Than if we lived at home in strife
Thirty men's lives, as men now be?

I say a dream has brought us here,
Let us now go where it may lead,
For no dream shall we ever steer
Back eastward, Captain, by my rede.

Yea, are we now as like to find
This very Earthly Paradise,
As any land I bear in mind.
Needs must we on in any wise—

Or will the wind that ever blew
From some point east, as we came here,
Be unto us so leal and true
As back at our command to steer?”

“I would the wind would rise,” said he,
“And blow us to some Christian shore
Through howsoever wild a sea,
Thence would I never wander more.

There should we find some fair abbey
Where long in penance should I dwell
And ever to the great God pray,
And say my psalter fair and well.

For now have we sinned Adam's sin,
To make us Gods who are but men,
To find a heaven and dwell therein
Whose years are but three score and ten.

111

Yea, almost are we fain to have
Such Gods as we ourselves have made,
For if they be not strong to save
Of them is no man much afraid.

This is the thing I fear therefore,
That we our journey end too well,
And reach the much desired shore,
And without dying come to Hell.

I pray rather that God may stay
Our ship in the mid-ocean now,
Until our flesh fall all away;
Or else that some great wind may blow,

And drive us underneath the sea—
There shall [OMITTED] do what seemeth best
Unto our bodies, that shall be
Until the Day of Doom at rest.”

Now even as he spake to me,
Dead fell the wind, the sails did flap,
And all our way stopped suddenly,
Just as he wished that it might hap.

Thereat a terror seized my heart
He was foredoomed: and I was wise
And wished a long life for my part
Should we fail of our paradise

With joyous tilts and ladies' love,
Fair things, and flower-crowned revelry:
And were we never hence to move,
God's martyrs in the middle sea.

The Captain looked up in my face
Amazed and blank, then slunk away
And went about from place to place
Nor spoke to me again that day.

112

The next day twice he passed me by
Then turned, and said, “My words were nought:
Why do you look so bitterly
As if some evil I had wrought?

This is a calm such as might chance
In any sea that you could find.”
Yet here withal he looked askance
Eastward, as though he prayed for wind.

I said, “They say that God hears prayer,
And, by the Saints I deem it true;
You asked a small thing, and a fair:
Suppose that God has given it you.

To die in war, when all is said,
You and your fellows, this you asked:
God is a great God, by my head,
And is not lightly overtasked.

Pray again, Captain, as before
And we shall see that abbey fair
Clean standing on some grassy shore;
And well I wish that I was there.

O for another draught of life
I would endure their lazy hum
And snatch some flower from their strife—
Cucullus non facit monachum.”

He said no more but slouched his hat
And went, and soon I heard him sing,
And saw his flushed face, as he sat
With our fellows, carolling.

Within a while they sang no more,
For many a day we hung there still,
And want of water grieved us sore,
To eat our meat we had no will.

113

And now Sir Nicholas sat silent,
Although his lips were still moving,
So that men deemed a spell he meant
To call up some unholy thing.

Thus lay we till the twentieth night,
Which was with moon and clear enow,
The Fighting Man lay in our sight
Some half a furlong from our bow.

Between her masts in the moonlight
We saw a small black cloud arise;
We were as joyous at that sight
As we had found our paradise.

Straightway the Captain cried aloud,
“Man oars and sails! here cometh wind!”
But so increased on us that cloud,
His words we had no time to mind,

When no man now could see his hand,
And the green seas rolling in;
Then neither had we place to stand,
And but if one some hope could win

Straight were his troubles at an end.
In rags the sails went, weak and strong,
The masts like withy twigs did bend
And through the dark we went headlong.

At night we drove before the gale,
And fain we were, that tide, of light;
The leaden day came dull and pale
And little clearer than the night.

Four days the Rose Garland was cast
From hill to hill of inky sea,
And then the wind gave out at last
And from the west blew easily.

114

And we, storm-tossed and battered men,
Could count our losses, who were now
But threescore rusty folk, and ten,
Who were two hundred, brave enow

Of gold and silver—What betid
That night unto the Fighting Man
From us for ever will be hid;
The dying moon with mist was wan,

Across that light we saw her men
Run hurrying to sail and oar,
We saw her sails flap downward; when
The dark came and we saw no more.

A ship sailing (small)

We came unto another land
With gentle winds in two days more;
But all unlike the fair green strand,
This was a brown and dreadful shore.

Natheless of water were we fain
So sent some twenty fellows tall
To fetch it at whatever pain
And what flesh they might meet withal.

Of flesh indeed we had some store
So cared the less: in half a day
Back came our hunters to the shore,
Two less than they had gone away.

Water they had with them enow,
For flesh two lions dead they bore
Smitten with many a stab and blow,
And somewhere had the fight been sore

115

For many of our folk were torn:
Thus said they, that the land was bad,
Never was land so foul, forlorn
And crossed and evil, dull and sad,

Until a small vale fair and green
Betwixt two rugged hills they found,
As fair a place as man has seen
Where streams and wells did much abound,

Set all about with orange trees
And heavy-hung pomegranates fair;
They shouted, setting eyes on these,
And made haste to be quickly there.

But as they stooped by the full brook
And drank great draughts upon their knees,
Or down from off the fair trees shook
Pomegranates, and great oranges,

Lions set on them, two were slain
At unawares, and many a wound
The others had, but with great pain
They slew two, chased the rest, and bound

The slain beasts upon boughs. This tale
Set all of us afire to go
And see this dangerous and fair vale
And slay the beasts that plagued it so.

We chose a twenty men to stay
And guard the ship, that now lay hid
Under a ness; then went away
All armed; and strange things straight betid.

For as we came just at the head
Of that rough pass that reached the place,
The foremost man stopped short and said,
Turning on us a mazed face,

116

“Hold! hold! for many well-armed men
Be in the valley, by God's blood!”
Softly enough we crawled on then
Unto a rock near where we stood,

Priests, bull, ladies, soldiers (big)

Behind which many a man might hide.
Then through the valley in our sight
Five hundred soldiers straight did ride,
All featly armed in armour bright,

Not loathly black men, by my head,
But white and fair as men might be;
And soon two ways they opened
And then a new thing did we see.

There in the midst of carven stone
An altar, built in ancient wise,
A white bull that did stamp and moan,
And two priests dight for sacrifice;

Behind ten damsels who were clad
More richly than the tongue can say,
Gold crowns upon their heads they had,
Gold copes their kirtles overlay.

So delicate their beauty was
With open mouths we lay and stared;
But with a frown Sir Nicholas
His trenchant shining sword half bared,

Muttering, “Some Moloch's sacrifice!”
But I thought, well with one of these
Could I make me a paradise
Among these flowers and sweet trees.

Natheless their eyes were full of woe,
And heavily they hung the head;
So that I deemed it might be so
Even as Sir Nicholas had said.

117

Now did the priests move presently
And slew the white bull where he stood,
And on the people standing by
Threw up in showers the dark red blood.

Then came the maidens up, and cast
White lilies on the altar stone,
Then to the other side they passed,
Towards us and there stood alone

And seemed half-fainting with some grief
But none said ought; and then there came
An armed man crowned with oaken leaf,
And underneath the bull set flame

When on the altar it was laid,
Then as the flames shot up on high
Outlandish horns and trumpets made
A strange and solemn melody.

And this being done, there came again
The priests to where the maids did stand,
And seemed in words we heard not plain
To give to them some straight command

The meaning whereof soon we knew,
For forthwith all their golden crowns
And gold copes on the ground they threw,
Then set their fair hands to their gowns,

Then on the green grass piteously
The silken garments down did rain,
The soft smocks slipped from breast and thigh
They never now should hide again.

And if for shame and sore trembling
A little while a damsel stayed
The priest cried out at that fair thing
Till mother-naked she was made.

118

So mid their raiment there a space
Naked they stood nor word did say,
Nor of those men asked any grace
Knowing full well the bitter play

That should be played: for thither drew
The priest and with cold sour face
Set them in order two and two
And moved them slowly from that place.

Led by the priests and minstrelsy
To a huge rock they came at last,
Over against where we did lie.
Then to each side the minstrels passed

Adown the vale, and the wind sent
This way and that their golden hair
About their bodies as they went
With fainting feet through flowers fair.

And then came forth four sturdy men
With brazen chains that foot and hand
They did upon the damsels ten;
And when so bound they all did stand

Unto the rock they made them fast.
And when we saw them side by side
Wailing and naked, then at last
Scarce in our place could we abide.

But Nicholas said: “Bide, fair fellows,
And see some further felony
Before we come to handy blows
And die like men if needs must be.

For this I think to be their case,
And with the thought is my soul sick,
That chaining them in this wild place
They leave them to be eaten quick

119

Of those same beasts that fell on you.
Now if things be thus as I say,
Since they are many we are few;
Bide here until they go away,

Which needs they must ere the beasts come—
Small help shall we be being rash!”
Straightway we heard the burr and hum
Of their great horns and cymbals' clash,

That drowned the poor lost maids' wailing.
Then turned the felons hastily,
And got them gone with horns sounding
From out the vale; yet abode we

Behind the rock, lest, to our cost
Some one might turn upon his tracks
To seek some thing he might have lost,
And bring the others on our backs.

Ladies chained to rock, lions coming (big)

But as we waited, with dull roar
We saw steal forth a yellow beast,
And then another, then three more,
Then many flocked toward the feast.

Judge if we griped the sword hilt then
Or of the axe the plated haft,
Or if those few that were bowmen
Drew to the head of the long shaft.

And out we broke with a great shout,
And ran toward the rock with speed;
There did we ring those maids about,
And unto our defence took heed.

And soothly there was a grim fight,
So many were the beasts and fell
That we had liefer men of might
Had been before us; truth to tell

120

Here was no talk of ransoming,
The fallen man to shreds was rent.
There happed full many a grievous thing,
But in the end the beasts were shent,

And all were slain; yet did they tear
Ten of our folk, so stout they fought.
Fain were they of the feast so fair
The felons for their maws had brought.

Then from the rock all tenderly
We loosed those ladies; and full oft
Deliciously our hearts beat high
At touching the round limbs so soft,

The dainty hands and naked feet.
Long was it doing, but at last
An end it had; then as was meet
We brought them all the raiment cast

Down by the altar: and all mazed
They decked themselves in these again,
And in their country tongue they praised,
Or so we deemed, our care and pain.

Then said one, “This is the Greek tongue
That erst at Micklegarth I heard
By the Greek king when I was young,
Yet lacks it something, by my beard.”

Then by our fellow that knew Greek
We bade them have no fear at all,
For we their proper land would seek,
Being masters of a dromond tall.

Thereto they said, that in short space
Their country folk would thither come
To take their crushed bones from that place
And bury them with tears at home;

121

That overland their country lay,
Our dromond was no skill therefore;
But prayed us with them still to stay
And with them leave this cursed shore.

“At home ye shall be kings,” they said,
“When that they know your noble deed
And nothing, by Diana's Head,
Shall be denied that ye may need.”

Then did we ask them whence they came,
And how they were in such a case,
And if their country was of fame,
And if they were of Grecian race.

“Sirs, of the Ladies' Land we be,”
They said, “and such-like are our folk
That ladies there have sovreignty
And men be underneath the yoke.

Now of the race whereof ye speak,
Our country was of noble fame,
Yet know we not this word of ‘Greek’
And have not even heard the name.

Needs must we say our country ‘was,’
For now are we in servage base,
Being but poor conquered folk, alas!
Therefore are we in evil case:

For now this tribute must we pay
Each year unto the Emperor,
Ten maids of us these beasts must slay
In honour of his ancestor

Who was a God called Hercules:
Yea, Sirs, and even now we fear
His wrath not lightly to appease
When of this slaughter he shall hear.”

122

“Have no fear, fair maidens,” we said,
“We do not greatly doubt his might,
And for his God, now is he dead,
And hidden up from all men's sight.

And some of us have fought in France
And some in wild Prussia have been,
And some in Spain have led the dance
And unafraid Greek fire seen.

Yea, and to some isle will we flee,
And there our bodies from him hide,
And live long lives there, if so be
That ours should prove the weaker side.”

Now as we talked together thus
We heard a great horn sound afar,
With a long wail and piteous,
And blown unlike a point of war.

And then we saw where came riding
Folk all in black but armed nobly,
A sad song did their trumpets sing
And ever went they heavily.

Procession of other ladies with banner (big)

Over their heads a great banner,
Wherein was painted royally
Diana, with her snooded hair
And fair legs naked to the knee.

And in the midst a great black bier
All wrought about with cypress trees,
And ever as they drew anear
We saw that they were all ladies.

Now when they saw us, still they stood
Amazed, a while, then spurred forward,
And leaping down amid the blood
Of men and beasts upon the sward,

123

Caught up in arms those maidens fair
Weeping aloud, and kissed them oft
Upon the lips and yellow hair,
Or nestled in their bosoms soft.

Then in a while they turned to us
And, seeing the dead men who lay
All rent and torn, and piteous,
They said, “We thought to take away

Some little bones of poor damsels:
Therefore at home a tomb there is
Well built mid trees and sounding wells,
Unto your dead men we give this.

And unto you that be alive
Will we give whatsoe'er you ask,
And evermore, Sirs, will we strive
To be your handmaidens; no task

Shall be too much for our good will.
Now come with us to our country
For soothly would we gaze our fill
On such men, if no Gods ye be.”

“We have some fair fellows,” we said,
“Left in our ship, these would we bring
And other matters—By God's Head
There have we many a full fair thing

May be to you all strange and new.”
Thus said we, and went all away
Toward the ship, except a few
Who with the ladies there did stay.

There when we met our fellows, we
From out the ship did quickly take
What we could carry easily
And chiefly for the ladies' sake.

124

As for ourselves, we thought that there
Of nothing would there be a lack,
So needed nought but some poor fare
And the good armour on the back.

There did we leave the Rose Garland:
God wot if she were borne away
A fair spoil to some heathen land
Or slowly rotted where she lay!

All riding away together (big)

So when we were all met again
The dead men on the bier we laid
And crossed the desert with much pain,
Nor were we any more afraid

Of any thing that we might meet,
Being now a goodly company
All armed, for every maiden sweet
Rode girt with sword about the thigh.

The land was desolate and rough,
And waterless till the fourth day,
Then came a green plain fair enough
Where many a head of neat did play.

For two days more we travelled on
And rich and fair the land was still.
The third at early morn we won
The top of a round-headed hill.

The ladies' town (big)

Then showed the ladies how their town
Lay in the valley, and thereby
A river toward the sea ran down,
Where many a keel we did espy.

125

Thence did we send a messenger,
One of the ladies from that place,
Off to their Queen upon the spur
To show her lightly all the case.

And as we drew anigh thereto
The folk came thronging thick and fast
Or out upon the walls they drew,
Until through the great gate we passed.

Inside with people riding (big)

Great was the town and built nobly
And all with black was hung about,
Which down they tore as we went by
And hung rich golden carpets out.

The Queen, old, by herself (small)

Soon to a mighty hall we came,
And there upon a throne of gold
In gold raiment, a noble dame
Ancient and grey we did behold.

Then on their knees the ladies fell,
And fain we would have done the same
And shown her reverence full well;
But down from off her throne she came

And took us by the hands and said:
“Which is your Lord, that I may give
My crown to him from off my head,
And make him king while he shall live?

And you, Sirs, ask for heaps of gold
And lands and houses; do not fear
In any thing to be too bold.”
Now when this saying I did hear,

And saw our knights with wild eyes stare
Upon those maids fit to entice
A wise man into foolish ways,
I thought, here ends our Paradise.

126

Then spoke Sir Nicholas and said,
“O Queen, it seemeth unto me
I ask a great thing, by my head!
The body of my sweet lady.”

Therewith the leader of the band
That came that day into the vale
Did he lead forward by the hand;
And she by turns both red and pale

Her head upon his shoulder leant;
And of the other maidens, some
Blushing, their dear eyes downward bent;
While from our knights there rose a hum,

And some stood all pale and upright
Looking aloof with troubled eyes—
Sirs, there can be no fairer sight
In any hall of Paradise.

Then did the Queen laugh out and say,
“O Sir, your boon seems small enow,
To ancient folk like me and grey.
Have here the crown upon your brow:

And no light thing therewith ye have
For ye shall lead us in the war
And from our foes this city save,
Many and grievous as they are.”

Then answered Nicholas again,
“O Queen, ye make too much of this:
We were well paid for all our pain
With no more guerdon than a kiss.

But if of us ye please to make
Your knights and soldiers, will we then
Do noble battle for your sake;
For neither are we borel men:

127

From Harald Fair-Hair am I sprung
And thence from Odin in right line,
Who was a God, as skalds have sung.
Ye see this jewelled collar shine

About my armour; this to me
The King of England with his hand
Did give, upon his own galley
By Sluse hard by the Flemish Land.

And these are knights and gentlemen
Who know no fear, well skilled in war
And each a worthy match for ten
Of such folk as your foemen are.

With these men and your country-folk
Will we well guard this fair walled town
And you from this felon's yoke;
But never will I wear your crown

For of your law I know not ought,
And you are old and ripe in wit;
On many a hard thing have you thought
And have been used long time to sit,

Judging the people day by day.”
“Sir,” said the Queen, “so be it then,
Yet am I bond woman alway
To you and to your noble men.

And, for your ancestor Odin
A noble temple shall he have
With a gold altar set therein
Which many a skillful man shall grave.”

“Lady,” he said, “by no dead man
Were we brought to the lions' jaws,
Through many waters wild and wan:
I rede you know our holy laws,

128

And learn to know the Trinity
The Mother of God and All Hallows;
And leave your false Gods.” Silently
She stood and listened with bent brows,

While our mass-priest took up the word
And showed her much about her faith,
And many things about the Lord,
And what the holy Gospel saith.

At last she said, “Sir Holy Man
Too many things at once ye show;
I will believe all that I can:
But pray you cease for a while now.

Truly it makes the senses reel
To hear all this so suddenly—
The Gods we sought in woe and weal
Devils, or else a painted lie.

And many things must we believe,
That now for the first time we know
And from you by mere chance receive,
Or lie in endless fiery woe.

Sirs, ye are noble, and we think
Ye would not bid us trust a lie,
Or from a muddied river drink.
Your God has served you faithfully,

So in some fountain wash away,
If so ye will, our forebear's sin
Who stole the apple as ye say;
Faith an ill deed he did therein.

And that good Lord of whom ye tell,
Who all his life did nought but good,
And loved the people passing well;
And whom, upon a cross of wood,

129

For his reward they foully hung—
Would God I had been there that day!
Another song ye might have sung,
Your faith been turned another way.

Now for a while let these things be—
And for the rest, I dare well say
That who will choose as foolishly
As your chief, none will say him nay.

And therewithal, Sirs, will we give
Some house and goods and needful weed
To each; that while with us ye live
Such common things ye may not need.”

Then from the presence did we go;
And over my shoulder as we went
I looked full oft that I might know
If my maid's eyes were on me bent.

But she held ever down her head
Toward the ground and smiled gently,
Moving her lips as if she said
Some little ballad inwardly.

Then to a chamber did we come
Where, being unarmed, on us they did
Such gowns as there were none in Rome
Ere of the Cæsars they were rid.

Then came we to another hall
Spread for a feast, and hung around
With histories, where ladies tall
In strife with men full many a wound

Feast (big)

Both gave and took: and there we met
Unarmed and gay the maidens sweet,
With gems in their white bosoms set,
And naked arms, and gold-shod feet.

130

Not half so sweet the west wind smells
That blows in spring through the may-bush;
Sweeter their voice than he that tells
The coming summer, or the thrush;

Or Philomela that bewails
The wrongs of many hundred years,
And fills our hearts with speechless tales,
Our ears with sweet and causeless tears.

Softly they bid us to the feast
Which was full noble, and withal
Was many a pageant and strange beast
Brought for our pleasure through the hall.

There saw we how that Theseus slew
The Beast, by help of a poor may,
To whom not long abode he true;
There saw we the Knight Perseus slay

The evil thing by the sea-side;
There was the noble story told
Of those good knights that wandered wide
With Jason for the Fleece of Gold.

Thereafter all the feast being done
We wandered in a garden green;
And I for my part went alone
With her that was my joy and Queen.

Sweet follies there we said and did,
I list not tell now, being old:
Only I know, her face half-hid
Among her rippled hair of gold,

She burst out singing suddenly
While I was telling of our quest
And of the land we thought to see
In some far ocean of the west.

131

SONG

O Love whither do you go
Spear in hand and belted so?

Two lovers in garden (big)

I go to win a crown, my love,
To put your golden hair above,
I go to fight and travail sore
That you may cling to me the more.

I will wear a crown of green
With red roses set between,
If it be not rich enow
Then sweet kisses shall you sow
In between the flowers red
All about my golden head;
I will cling so hardily
You shall never go from me.

O my Love, soon goes the day,
O my Love, soon comes the night;
All my glory goes away,
Comes my hour of delight.

O god! how sweet the kisses were
Upon her lips and breast and brow
Amid the glory of her hair—
Ah folly, to remember now

When I am old and soon to die!
—Sirs, to my tale. So passed away
The golden days most happily
In many a quaint disport and play.

For there were tiltings with the spear,
Music in gardens and in halls,
And converse with our ladies dear,
And dancing between golden walls.

132

And beautiful old tales were sung
By minstrels that were well beseen
On fair long wooden stages hung
With palaces, and gardens green.

Wedding (big) and ladies being christened

And soon the maids were christened
With much pomp in the great church, then
Full richly were we fellows wed
And were the happiest of all men.

Now amid all these pleasant days
Sir Nicholas went to and fro
Strengthening the city in all ways
Lest the Great King should come thereto.

In time indeed, for on a day
His herald to the city came
With a foul message by my fay,
Whose best word was but blood and flame:

That he would sow the place with salt,
And yoke young maidens to his plough,
And take such vengeance for their fault
That no grass any more should grow

In all the land: that those that fell
By the sharp sword should fare the best:
That when the scourge had torn them well
Fierce fire should burn up the rest.

But first a great drove would he drive
Unto his country, that his men
Might see them naked, and alive
Into the fire send them then.

133

That for the strangers who had come
By water, when their eyes were out,
By water would he send them home
With great stones tied their necks about.

Now we, when this thief we had heard,
Went nigh to slay him evilly;
But at the last his hair and beard
We shaved, and ugly devils three

Upon his tabard did we paint,
And sent him back, and by my head
Then was no time for us to faint,
For then were we as good as dead.

Now was it but a word and blow;
For the third day we saw the smoke
Of the burnt homesteads upward go
All round the City; and poor folk

Came hurrying in through all the gates,
Men, ancient folk, and maids weeping;
Then did we arm us with our mates,
And go to look upon the King.

Soon met we certain of his folk
Burning a village, and at first
We slew some hundred in the smoke,
And afterwards put to the worst

Another band more orderly;
And as they came on thicker then
We gat us back to the city,
Leaving but two of all our men.

And at our heels a rabble came,
At whom so well the archers shot
They scattered with no little shame,
And with our walls they meddled not:

134

Whom straight, as afterwards we learned,
The Great King met as fast they fled,
And caused some of them to be burned,
Some to be scourged till they were dead.

Then soon with much folk, and great show,
And cymbals and great horns sounding,
There came one whom the maids did know
By his apparel for the King.

Who having sacrificed a bull
To some dead dog, gave straightly word
That they should take that city, full
Of living souls, and to the sword

Put all the men, and old women;
But take the younger ones alive,
And shut them, fettered, in a pen.
A fierce assault they then did give,

But nothing won but loss and harm.
So past the next day, and the next,
Nor any day without alarm.
And all day long their camp we vext

With arrows, quarrels, and big stones.
And oft they shot wild-fire forth
That burned the marrow and bones.
At last Sir Nicholas grew wrath

And swore to end the thing or die,
So the tenth night from a small gate
We issued out, we fellows only,
When moonless was the night and late.

Then to the King's tent did we go
And found him drunk amid his men
Who lay about him drunk also;
Then took we him with eight or ten

135

Of his chief lords and came away.
Great joy there was in the city
Thereof, as soon as it was day;
But from the camp arose a cry,

And straight they trussed them to be gone;
Then did we open the gates wide
And set on them with sword and stone,
Arrow and spear, on every side.

Nor made they any great defence,
But ever, running here and there
Half armed, but hasted to get thence—
Fair grew the field flowers that year

Over the bones of those that came
To ravish, torture, and to slay,
To set the city on a flame
And lead the fairest maids away.

A triumph (big)

Now when from very weariness
The slaughter ceased, with bells ringing
Back went we, whom all folk did bless,
And out of hold we took the King

Who when he saw his end was near
His helpless God he loud did curse,
And grovelling his beard did tear,
And ever grew from bad to worse;

Yea, scarce a man he seemed to be
When to the market-cross he came,
And trailing hung back heavily,
And let us drag him without shame.

There was his vile head smitten off;
And yet, because he was a king,
We slew him without any scoff,
Nor paid him back with torturing

136

For his vile words; and his body
Under the earth with little show
We laid, but without villainy;
Being wishful to forget all now.

For no more evil could he do,
And he was come of noble kin
Who dwelt in Greece a while ago
And were great Lords and Knights therein.

Now he being dead, there came to us
Three ancient men to pray us peace,
And that for ransom plenteous
Their folk taken we would release.

And we thereto being nothing loth,
Took of them money and much good,
And caused them swear a solemn oath,
And swore ourselves upon the Rood.

So now that ended was this strife
Like Lords and Kings we dwelt at home
And long time lived a quiet life
Nor yet had any will to roam.

River of sand lions with wings fiery well, ox over hell mouth (small)

But of the marvels of the land
The Ladies showed us many things;
As of the river of fine sand,
The lions that had eagles' wings.

The Land of Darkness too they showed,
The bottomless and fiery well;
The great brass ox that ever lowed
Over the going down to Hell.

Two pictures (big) one in hall one in garden of joyances

The time is short to tell of these,
And of the tiltings that we had,
The feasts and other joyances
Wherewith the Ladies made us glad.

137

If here my tale could have an end,
O my masters, I might say now
Although our lives we well might mend
Yet were we happy men enow.

Further afield my story goes
And drags us through most evil ways,
And woes past all our other woes;
Unbearable and heavy days.

For there we all lived happily
Until our youth was wholly gone
And wives and friends began to die:
Then on a day I walked alone,

And as I walked, there all about
The merry children at their play
Ran by, with many a joyous shout;
And there went singing many a may.

Thereby a house was built richly
Behind a garden walled with stone,
Therein upon the grass did lie
A fair maid singing all alone.

SONG

SHE

Two lovers with music (big)

In the white-flowered hawthorn brake,
Sweet, be merry for my sake;
Twine the flowers in my hair,
Kiss me where I am most fair,
Ah! kiss me, love, for who knoweth
What thing cometh after death?

138

Love, hold back the golden hair,
That hides you where you are most fair,
Let me kiss the rose-tinged snow.
Ah! the time goes, fast or slow—
Kiss me, my sweet! for who knoweth
What thing cometh after death?

SHE

Shall we weep for a dead day
Or set sorrow in our way?
Will you weep that the days wear,
Hidden in my golden hair?
Kiss me, my love, for who knoweth
What thing cometh after death?

O Love, weep that the days flit
As on my neck I feel your breath
That I may then remember it
When I am old and near my death.
O kiss me, love, for who knoweth
What thing cometh after death?

Whether with music, or the pain
Of moody thought touched to the quick,
I know not, but like summer rain
My tears upon the dust fell thick.

And far away my thoughts were brought
When I was but a boy at play,
Nor yet of life or death had thought,
But only on the coming day,

139

The great hall where the people ate,
The church half-hidden by the hill,
The pier, where in the evening late
The covered ship lay grim and still,

The gold-coped singers in the quire,
My mother's hand upon my head,
The stories round the big yule-fire,
The snow upon the tower-lead,

The rough old vassals, cap in hand
Unto the Master of the House,
The steward with his silver wand,
The squires slim and amorous—

All rose before my swimming eyes
And still that maid sang loud and clear,
Like some lark in her extasies,
That half pierced to my muffled ear.

Young lady singing Crone and Rafe (small)

But from the house came suddenly
An old crone propped with crutches tied
With many a bandage; that with high
And shrill voice did the damsel chide.

Till she arose and entered in:
She and her singing gone away,
My dreams fled as a saint flees sin,
And all the sunlight left the day.

Then on I went distraught, moody,
Doubtful, unhappy in my heart;
Counting the few years left to me
The fair things death would from me part.

In this mood came I to the quay,
Where lay the ships both great and small,
Some just at point to go away,
Some just letting the anchor fall.

140

There did I find Sir Nicholas
Whose wife was dead now for this year;
Moody of countenance he was,
He saw me not as I drew near.

For at a ship he was gazing,
Whose folk were loosening her prow
From the great cable of the ring
That bound her to the shore: but now

Round at my touch he turned to me,
And for awhile along the quay
We walked together silently
Till I found heart at last to say:

“Do you remember the ill dream
You told me in the Rose Garland,
When evil did our voyage seem;
And that you wished a Christian land?

Behold your wish has come to pass
For all this we have christened,
And for our quest, Sir Nicholas,
With right few words it had an end.

Yea on their banners now they bear
The Holy Mother of God's Son
Rayed round with gold, instead of her
That loved of old Endymion.”

He said, “Our souls may now be safe
Where all folk worship the high God:
Yet sometimes do I wish, O Rafe,
That I were underneath the sod,

Thinking of her that had a part
In days that now are overpast—
Ah fool! ever to set my heart
On one who needs must die at last!

141

Yea, I remember that ill dream
And I remember too the first:
Now do all past days good days seem
When we are getting to the worst.”

I said, “Like you do I regret
Overpast time; yet still I think
We might be happy even yet—
Yea, if we were upon the brink

Of death itself: for were we mad
When we left friends, goods and country
One day—such strong belief we had
In that fair place beyond the Sea.

Here is our life of little worth,
These few last years will soon be past;
And I am weary of the earth
With death for our reward at last.

Behold these ships all-boun for sea—
And what shall hinder us to go?
For here we have all sovreignty,
In nothing folk can say us no.”

Then said he, “Rafe, I thought on this
A while ago, in very deed,
When ended was my earthly bliss,
And death seemed coming for our meed.

And even now, I sought this place
That I might think upon the sea,
And of the days when in short space
We thought in Paradise to be.

And now the time is short, I fear,
When we are gotten old and grey,
And this quest might take many a year,
And we may die off any day.

142

Yet at all hazards will I go;
Therefore I pray thee our men find
And whether folk say yea or no,
If there be ten men of our mind,

Will we spend our last years in this.”
Then merry grew my heart again,
For either should we come to bliss
Or at the worst have no more pain

Than death at last. I left him there
And with much trouble and fair words
Prevailed on twenty of our men
Who in that place were mighty lords,

Turn simple mariners again.
Then did we buy a ship with gold
And left that place with little pain;
For some were dead, and all were old

Of our first loves; their blood was chill
And little moaning did they make,
Though certainly none wished us ill
And we were sorry for their sake.

Ships going people of shore (big)

Though at our parting some did weep,
Remembering the green valley,
And how their bodies we did keep
Safe that day from the enemy,

By no constraint or bitter prayer
They held us: as we left the shore
We saw the folk pass here and there,
And all things went on as before.

When first we left the river-mouth
Being wishful to get out to sea
We turned our vessel to the South
Although the wind was easterly.

143

But when we lost the land at last
We steered again toward the West,
As in the merry days now past
When ever we did hope the best.

Scarcely now had we hope or fear,
Although the savour of the sea
Pricked thoughts now dead for many a year.
But to fulfil our destiny

Was all our thought: yet none the less
Though we were old yet brisk we were,
And felt no pain or weariness,
As we slid through the water clear.

Now did we run before the wind
For many a day and still no land
Or good or evil could we find,
Or signs of it on any hand,

As short-winged birds or floating rack.
So when it reached the fortieth day,
Of food and drink we feared a lack
Though through the sea we made great way.

Therefore we ate right sparingly
And drank still less; yet passed withal
The tenth day, no land could we see
And sore famine on us did fall.

The next day, just at sunrising,
The watchman cried, “Land cometh now!”
Glad were we when a small white thing
We saw upon the weather bow.

Thither we steered, and at noontide
Began to draw anigh thereto,
And saw a city fair and wide
And looked to hear of something new.

144

City from the sea (big)

The white walls stood in the green sea,
The white foam fringed them all around;
By them the wind went noisily,
Nor heard we any other sound,

As hale and how of mariners
Or cries of men, or bells ringing
Or music when some great Lord stirs,
Or any such-like wonted thing.

And though the harbour was nigh full
Of fair new ships, yet alongside
The harbour-tower a rusty hull
Lay swinging in the rising tide.

The harbour-mouth was full narrow,
So as smooth water we did win
We well nigh brushed against the bow
Of this old ship that stood therein.

Now as we passed it, was I ware
Of Nicholas, who with face all wan
Cried out aloud, “O, Sirs, look there!
The image of the Fighting Man.”

There on the prow the image stood,
Battered and ruined of its gold,
Yea, and beside, the carven rood
We knew there in the days of old.

And round about the gunwale ran
The lions of Sir Nicholas;
And underneath the Fighting Man
In copper letters beaten was,

“O Jesu Mercy.” Now when we
By all these tokens knew her well,
What bitter stings of memory
Beset us, it were hard to tell.

145

What! were these thirty years a dream,
And we young still? I looked and there
My fellows stood, with many a seam
Upon their faces, and white hair

Was trickling down from every hood.
Take this for answer: we must die
Or win all, by the Holy Rood—
We must win all, and presently,

Or else before us death would go
And meet us at the Happy Place;
Yea, in the golden gate thereto,
We should but see his fearful face.

Where were our fellows, that we saw
The last time, ere the storm came on,
Just smitten by the gusty flaw?
Like us some shelter they had won

Doubtless, but had they left their quest
Like us, and in some pleasant isle
Forgotten death, and made the best
Of common life a little while?

Or were they slain as they sought life,
Or had they, by some happy fate,
Passed through turmoil and deadly strife
And reached at last the golden gate?

Then such ill thoughts went through my brain,
I cannot bring my tongue or lip
To tell you what they were again:
Pass it—Now no man touched the ship,

Until, as we went slowly past
I caught a grapnel up and ran
And threw it, thinking to hold fast
The bulwark of the Fighting Man;

146

But when upon the rope I leant
The grapnel came home to my hand,
And into dust the bulwark went
As though it had been built of sand.

Then one man with a boarding-spear
Thrust at the ship's side, and straightway
Through the great hole did we see clear
That there our old companions lay.

Asleep they seemed but all ruddy
And neither dead nor gotten old;
But young men fresh and all lusty,
As when we last did them behold.

Then none of us did any more
But let our ship go drifting by
Until we struck against the shore;
Then did we land, but fearfully,

And looking round about like men
Woke up in some unknown wild place
After a battle; and with wan
And timorous looks we prayed God grace,

Then with drawn swords moved down the quay.
Folk saw us who stood ever still
Nor turned their heads, nor word said they
Or noticed us for good or ill.

And this we thought a marvellous thing,
That being fresh landed from the sea
No man said ought of marketing,
Or asked us what the news might be.

And in the ships in like manner
The folk moved neither more nor less;
There stood the master-mariner
Beside the helm all motionless.

147

There stood the sailor with one hand
Upon the rope, or on the shroud
One foot. And in that quiet land
Our footfalls seemed to groan aloud.

Then such a fear did seize on me
I never think to feel again
In whatsoever case I be:
Yet went we on, driven by pain

Of famine and by great wonder,
For soon we saw these men were dead
But uncorrupted: oft would stir
Their raiment, and their hair drifted

This way and that way in the wind,
That mocked their sleep so noisily.
Then did it come into my mind
That this the place had used to be

We were in search of: our fellows
Had found it happily; and then
God had o'erwhelmed it with His blows
That kill without destroying men.

Along the quays to the big gate
Which was most stately, then we came
Into a city rich and great,
Where still all folk did seem the same.

The riches of this dead city,
And the dead folk that were therein,
Were hard to tell; for verily
If one Byzantium should win,

A country village would he have
By this; but now a piece of bread
We lacked, our very lives to save,
Or else right soon we were but dead.

148

On all the shops and stalls there lay
Both bread and meat, and other things,
Whereto in spite of fear, straightway
We ran to deaden our cravings.

But though these things looked fresh and fair
As those that stood and could not stir,
Yet when within our hands they were,
They went away to mere powder.

Then did we see no other rede
But in our ship to get away,
And for some help in this sore need
To God and all the Saints to pray.

And yet because the sea was wide,
And no good land we might come to,
There on the land we would abide
Till all the city was gone through.

So through the long streets on we went,
And man, and maid, and child we met
Like painted images of Ghent,
Within some fair cathedral set.

Now to a square we came at last
Midmost of which a conduit fair
Four streams of water outward cast
That ran four ways throughout the square.

Thereto I and my fellows ran,
For fain we were to quench our drouth;
But when unto the water wan
I stooped and thought to set my mouth,

Nought met my mouth but common air:
Then wearily we turned us round,
And spying a great palace there
We entered it, and heard no sound

149

But of the wind that ever went
Through open doors, and fires vast
That through the chimnies upward sent
Great roaring; so straightway we passed

Men going into palace (small)

Through many a chamber and rich hall,
Where the worst hangings that we saw
Were wrought of gold and royal pall
Or samite without any flaw.

There did we pass through the guard-room,
There saw we dames half-hid with veils,
And ladies working at the loom,
And ladies holding books of tales.

Then came we to a door close-shut,
Where stood a soldier with a spear,
As if on guard he had been put;
We passed him by with little fear

And found a court of marble white,
Set round with pots of orange-trees,
And midmost, open to the light,
A clear green pool, where three ladies

Ladies bathing (small) The Knights don't come in any of these three last pictures

Naked, but covered to the knee
By the thin water, stood bathing;
While on the brink lay daintily
Their clothes with many a chain and ring.

Well nigh we wept thereat, although
We were in evil case, and old;
Yet went, and to a chamber low
We came where was a bed of gold

Lovers (small)

Where sat, half-dressed, a maiden sweet,
While by her, on the floor there lay
A goodly man who kissed her feet—
She had been smiling on that day.

150

We sighed again, when we saw these,
And their sweet love, so quickly done;
But passed them to a close of trees,
Where birds sat glittering in the sun.

There, on one side, we saw a hall,
Whereof the door was opened wide;
Of deep green jasper was the wall
With images on every side,

In which, thereto being quickly led
By evil fate and destiny,
We found a royal table spread
And thereat a great company

Of knights and ladies sitting round,
A set smile upon every face;
Their gold gowns trailing on the ground,
The light of gold through all the place.

Minstrels were in the gallery,
With silent open mouths, and hands
That moved not on the psaltery
And citern; and with ivory wands

The marshalls stood about the hall.
And there were carpets of great cost,
And histories upon the wall
Of kings, whose very names were lost.

A wretched crew we seemed surely
Amongst such fresh things as were there,
As we moved forward fearfully
With eyes upon the table fair:

For there we saw both flesh and fowl
And fish, and many a sugared cate,
And wine in many a jewelled bowl,
And longed therefore, being moved by fate.

151

Then shuddering our hands we set
Unto that food: then were we glad
Past words to find it all fresh yet
And that some real man's food we had.

Then ate we of it greedily
Standing beside those stony folk;
Such bread as never man did buy
In any market there we broke.

And at the last, which was the worst,
Grown bold, we dared to take our seat
By those dead folk, and slake our thirst
From out their cups; yea and did eat

From dead hands many a strange morsel:
Thereof we grew right mad at last
And drunk with very wine of Hell.
And as we laughed and chattered fast

The Feast (big)

Things worthy weeping, suddenly
All things grew dim, and deadly sleep
And heavy dreams came over me
While watch the stony folk did keep

With glittering eyes, and that set smile
More sad to see than bitter tears;
And the great fire burned all the while
As it had done these many years.

Now how long in this sleep we lay,
My masters, cannot now be told;
Taking no heed of night or day,
Summer or winter, heat or cold.

152

Only I know, with many a dream
My sleep was filled; whereof this one
Will serve to tell of: it did seem
On a ship's deck I sat alone

Taking no care of helm or sail
Or sea; but in an ancient book
For some forgotten ancient tale
With straining eyes did ever look:

At last I found it, and it told
About a knight of Germany,
Who, when he was already old,
By water-thieves upon the sea

Was taken, and being made their slave,
Saw lands he never knew before,
Until he chanced himself to save
From out their hands, on a wild shore.

Whereon—but here the page was torn,
And as in dreams it oft will go,
I seemed to be that knight, forlorn,
Wretched and rent from top to toe.

Upon my legs fetters I saw,
Rusty and old, and felt my back
With stripes of whips was yet half raw,
And victuals I did wholly lack.

I drifted in this evil plight
For many a league, it seemed to me,
Until at last I came in sight
Of a good ship upon the sea.

And when her folk did see me there
They sent a shallop thence with speed,
And brought me to a dromond fair;
And of her crew I took good heed.

153

They were an aged company
And yet were richly dressed withal;
Now knew I all their history,
Though no man spoke to me at all,

As oft in dreams it happeneth;
Namely that these same ancient folk
Were sailing to escape from death,
And had good hope to break his yoke

By bathing in a certain stream
That from a mountain cometh out
In some far land; now did I dream
That when I turned me round about,

My ship was sunk down in the sea,
And straightly was I dressed in gold,
The king of all that company,
But white-bearded and very old.

Then did the dromond outward go,
While we, like men remembering tales,
Went ever walking to and fro
And took no heed of masts or sails.

At last we saw a mountain rise
Before us, green a little way
Then brown, then white against the skies,
And straight the dromond turned that way

And ran upon a sandy beach,
And we with all the speed we might,
Leapt out, the happy stream to reach,
Whereof right soon we came in sight.

But when we came unto the bank,
And saw how terrible it was,
Then all our hearts within us sank,
For clearer was it than fine glass,

154

No wind was there or any weed
And black it was, although the sky
Over our heads was blue indeed
As is the sky of Italy.

And also on the other side
There lay a black and tangled wood
Wherefrom a noise, as if folk cried
In anguish, froze our very blood.

There stood we shivering on the brink,
Old men and women in long line,
Doubtful if this cup they would drink
Would be of endless bliss or pine.

But as we waited, doubting thus
And precious time of eld was lost,
One falling, with a piteous
And frightful face, gave up the ghost.

And one man cried, “My head, my head!”
And staggering fell in the stream
And sank; then did we count us dead
And hard I strove to break the dream.

But goaded by some sudden sting
Into that place we rushed at last
With screams wherewith the hills did ring,
That this our death might soon be past.

And now behold a fresh marvel;
This water that we dreaded so
We deemed it but the mouth of Hell,
Waist-deep through it we did but go,

And when unto the bank we came
Our clothes fell from us; then were we
Naked like Adam without shame
And fair and young as folk might be.

155

And in a sweet green mead we were
With flowers all about growing
And flowers set upon our hair,
And no desire for anything.

And clean forgotten was the life
We led before, and all our friends,
And all our foes, and all the strife
For many unaccomplished ends:

Yea for one minute I felt this,
But quickly was I snatched away,
My dream changed from that place of bliss,
And by a city gate I lay,

Just waked from sleep, and folk went by,
Nor spoke to me good words or bad,
Though in strange guise I there did lie,
For in my armour I was clad,

And they were all in ancient weed.
Then I arose upon my feet,
And seeing they took no further heed,
I straightway entered the long street:

There did much folk go to and fro,
And all in ancient raiment clad;
And young they were, and yet did go
Full heavily, and seemed not glad.

So soon I stopped a man who went
Wrapped with his cloak in a strange way,
His head down toward the pavement bent,
And said I had a thing to say.

“Say on,” said he, nor raised his head.
“Fain would I know if folk die here,
For all of you are young,” I said,
“And if of death ye have no fear,

156

How may I come in such-like case?”
He said, “Would God that we could die!
O man, get quickly from this place
Even if you fall dead presently—

If we could die—if we could die!
And get at last a little rest,
Twixt misery and misery!”
Therewith his hand from out his breast

He drew, and shewed a mark thereon
In fashion of an ancient seal:
“This is the Heaven we have won,
This is the guerdon of our zeal.”

Therewith he filled the air with screams,
And quick I turned to get away
Half dead with fear; but as in dreams
The manner is, there must I stay.

While those folk, sealed hands raised on high,
Came flocking round me crying out,
“God, let us die! God, let us die!”
At last I sprung forth with a shout

But straight fell flatlings on my face,
And, as I struggled to arise,
Woke suddenly, in that same place
Watched by the sleepless stony eyes.

There burned the fire as before,
There sat unchanged the sweet ladies,
Unchangeable now any more
Until the drying of the seas.

157

And she beside me had risen up
To take her jewelled sandal off,
Meanwhile her lover held his cup
Out towards her with a smiling scoff.

Toward me her face was turned away
Blushing with long forgotten shame,
Across my face her long sleeve lay,
As slowly to myself I came.

Shuddering I swept it from my face
Then turning saw my fellows there,
Arising and in such-like case
As I myself; long was our hair,

And fallen away to very dust
Was all our raiment; we were clad
In armour eaten up with rust,
Whereof some store with us we had.

Together there we gathered us
And stood and knew not what to say.
—Masters, this had been piteous
To those who saw us on the day

When first we manned the Rose Garland,
Or on that merry day when we
First saw far off the low green land
And hoped to live, and happily.

At last Sir Nicholas said, “Fellows,
If ye have dreamed as I have done,
And seen what things in sleep God shows,
Your lust to live on earth is gone.

And yet I pray God of His grace,
Seeing how feeble we are grown,
To give us strength to leave this place,
And not at last to die alone,

158

But else on land with husbandmen
Or mariners upon the sea;
Come Sirs, or else we perish here,
And find our way back to the quay.

As for myself, I hunger not
And if ye are the same herein,
Perchance God has not yet forgot
His ancient kindness, though we sin.”

Now some of us, when we heard this,
Remembering days of hope and fear,
Rest and turmoil, sorrow and bliss,
Were fain to weep, old as we were.

Natheless we moved down towards the shore
Hoping for nought but quiet death,
Nor did we look back any more
On those fair creatures that lacked breath.

Then through those courts we went again
And found the doors still open wide:
Still brushed the golden counterpane
Against that lady's naked side;

Still stood the bathing dames, spotless
In the green water, on the brink
Still lay the shoes their feet did press,
Fairer than any man could think.

And still as through the streets we went
We saw the people as before
Standing like images of Ghent,
Until we came unto the shore.

There swung our good ship in the swell
Among the others, but her sail,
We left new, strong, and sheeted well,
Was gone—none left to tell the tale.

159

Now all of us did kneel on knee
And for the souls of those dead men
We prayed to God full heartily,
And boarded our old vessel then

Ship rowed out (small)

And loosed the hawsers and set out
Bending but weakly to the oar,
And with no cheery and glad shout
As we had done so oft before.

The Fighting Man just as of old
We saw still swinging in the tide,
And 'twixt her timbers did behold
Our fellows laid asleep inside.

So there we left the Fighting Man,
And as we turned round toward the West
And up the white-topped seas we ran,
Almost we thought their lot the best.

Now when we were got out to sea
We laboured little at the oar,
Taking but care her head should be
Turned westward, as in days of yore.

Thus did we drift till the third day,
And then we came unto an isle,
And spying there a sandy bay
Had heart to rest a little while.

And when we landed there, we found
The place was well-watered and fair,
And sea-birds' eggs did much abound,
And ripe sweet fruit was plenty there.

We victualled the good ship with these,
Being fain to let the sea-birds go
Though tame they sat upon the trees,
For neither had we shaft nor bow.

160

Then we took ship and put to sea,
And in such case for fifteen days
We were, as any folk might be
Who go upon the watery ways.

But then the moon being high and bright,
A rosy light we did espy
About an hour before midnight,
Far off to leeward in the sky.

And when straightway we made for it
Brighter it grew as we drew near,
But clouds across it oft would flit,
At day-break did it disappear.

By night we saw it clear again,
But redder, as a fire shows
From far, that sometimes seems to wane,
And sometimes waxing brighter grows

But this grew great, as we did sail
On towards it, till the night grew day
Therewith, and the full moon grew pale
And yet the fire was far away.

And now, since in us fear was dead,
We sailed thereto, and saw a sight
That was full dreadful, by my head,
A mighty city all alight,

But certes with no earthly flame:
No houses fell, no smoke arose,
No weeping people from it came;
About it were no shouting foes.

The burning city (big)

Upright and whole the houses stood,
There stood the pinnacles, blood-red;
Marble and stone, and brick and wood
Were bathed in fire that nothing fed.

161

For all the folk were gone away
Or else consumed: that God's mercy
Might light upon them did we pray—
Yea wheresoever they might be.

Then did we turn our dromond's head
And rowed West, with what strength we might,
And for three days the sky was red
With shining of that dreadful light

Both night and day: for three days more
At dark the pink cloud did we see,
Above the ever-burning shore;
Then all was grey, as it should be.

And now, Sirs, thin our story grows,
And soon unto an end we come;
Yea, a good end of all our woes
One way or other in your home.

For on the twentieth day from that
On which we left the burning town,
As idle on the deck I sat,
An hour before the sun went down,

Sir Nicholas, who at the bow
Was standing, called aloud and said:
“Ho Sirs! a new thing cometh now—
A town or white cliffs right ahead.”

Then one to the mast-head did go
To whom a town it seemed to be,
Therefore we busied us to row,
And, pulling all night mightily,

At morning twilight came anear
Unto this place whate'er it was,
And anchored in the water clear.
Then to me came Sir Nicholas,

162

And, stammering with eagerness,
Said, “O Rafe, once I dreamed a dream,
That day upon the Northern ness,
So long ago, it now does seem

Like an old story: oft ere this
With hope that all these things might be
And we thereby should come to bliss
Have I been mocked; therefore are we

Now weak and near our death for eld:
But now, even in the gathering light,
The place that dreaming I beheld
Do I see clear with waking sight,

So may God help me, every turn
Of the white houses and the walls;
Look! Look! for now the East doth burn
With dawn, and yellow glimmer falls

On that dear place, on that sweet place,
Where we shall live for evermore.
Kneel quickly, Rafe, and pray for grace
That we may live to reach the shore.”

But ere the deck did touch my knees
We heard the sound of men that sung
Born seaward from some revelries,
And through our ears and hearts it rung.

Drink about, for night doth go,
By daylight grey hairs will show;
Now from silver lamps doth fall
Golden light on gilded wall;
Seize this hour while you may;
Let it pass—there cometh day
When all things will turn to grey.

163

Let me think about my love
Softer than pink-footed dove;
Nobly-born, and meek, and wise

A picture (small)

As the guard of Paradise.
She would be a King's despair
From her golden-gleaming hair
To her silver feet so fair.

Who shall pray to Proserpine
For her? Juno, for her line?
Pallas, for that she is wise
As the guard of Paradise?
Venus, she that maketh fair,
For her golden-gleaming hair?
Or Diana, the full fleet,
For her sweet and silver feet?
Ah! these even, should they care
For us that die, must once despair;
Therefore are they made most fair.

Ah! yes, she shall lie alone
Underneath a carven stone.
Then be merry while ye may
For to each shall come a day
When no pleasure shall be bought,
When no friend can guess our thought,
When all that has been, shall be nought.

Now, when I looked at Nicholas
To see what he might think of this,
Upon the deck he sunken was
And now surely had come to bliss.

For with the singing of that song
His heart was broken, and he lay
Dead, nigh the place he sought so long:
Nor had the flush yet gone away

164

Wherewith his aged face was lit
While he was telling me he knew
The place, and what belonged to it,
And that his wretched dream was true.

And now, Sirs, what more can I say?
To shore we rowed, the people thronged
About us, for it now was day,
Asking to whom the ship belonged.

And when we heard them speak these words
In the Greek tongue, that well we knew,
We prayed to see their King or Lords,
And straight they brought us unto you.

Picture of City (big)

And on the way to this great Hall,
The things our captain dreamed, we saw,
As many a garden girt with wall
And the green temple without flaw.

And through the door the images
Just showed, of Venus soft and sweet,
And tall Diana with white knees
Beneath her gown, and sandalled feet.

And now, Sirs, have ye heard our tale
And by what wild hope we were led,
And why we long ago set sail;
And everything has now been said—

But this: ye are of wealth and might
And we are few and aged folk;
Yet, Sirs, take heed, for by this light!
We will not die without a stroke;

165

But if ye choose to give us life,
Then what we may do, that we will,
Though we are men of war and strife,
And in few crafts have gotten skill.

But tales of many lands we know,
And if some poor bread these be worth,
Gladly these pastimes would we show
As long as we may live on earth.

Sirs, pray you let us die in peace;
And so may God your country save,
And of your goods give great increase,
And every thing that you would have.

THE PEOPLE OF THE SHORE

Alas! my masters, by my head
Your hope was but a rotten reed.
What! and are not our fathers dead
Who battled once against the Mede

Yet overlived it? Coming here,
Through many and many a woe they passed,
Oft were their hearts fulfilled of fear,
Yet found they rest and ease at last

Here in this land; great deeds they did
As many an ancient story saith;
Yet these also the earth has hid,
No man among them but found death.

166

No doubt the Gods have sent you then
To a fair land and plenteous;
Of all the gifts they give to men
Not one have they withheld from us.

No doubt our gardens might entice
The very Gods themselves to leave
The happy woods of Paradise,
Nor once again thereafter grieve.

Their fields bright with unchanging May,
Pressed by the feet of Goddesses,
Are scarce more fair than are today
Our meadows set about with trees.

Pageant of peace (big)

Here fields of corn and pleasant hills
Dotted with orchards shall ye see,
And sweet streams turning many mills,
And of all fruits right great plenty.

By our fair-painted palaces
The green white-flowered rivers pass;
About our coasts the summer seas
Run bubbling up the slopes of grass.

Oxen and sheep and horses go
About the merry water-meads,
Where herons, and long cranes thereto,
Lie hidden in the whispering reeds.

Pretty ladies filling up picture (small)

Among all these the maidens play;
The fair white Goddess of the sea
Is little fairer made than they
In all her members certainly.

167

Like you, Sirs, am I chilled with eld,
Yet still I look on them with joy,
As Priam's Lords erewhile beheld
Fair Helen on the walls of Troy.

Thereto our men are strong and brave
And hale and seldom wanting wit,
Many a good archer we have,
A little mark who well can hit,

Artists (small)

And cunning folk to make for us
The images of Gods and men,
And painted walls right beauteous,
And men to make us music, when

Our hearts are full, and men to write
The stories of the past again,
And grave philosophers in white,
Leeches to heal us of our pain.

Poet, sage, doctor (small)

Thus under gentle laws we live
Well guarded, and in rest and peace,
And ever more and more we thrive,
And ever do our goods increase.

Astrea (small)

All things the Gods give to our hands,
Wisdom and strength, skill, great beauty,
A land that is the crown of lands—
Yet, therewithal, at last to die.

O masters, here as everywhere,
All things begin, grow old, decay;
That groweth ugly that was fair,
The storm blots out the summer day.

168

The merry shepherd's lazy song
Breaks off before the lion's roar;
The bathing girls, white-limbed and long,
Half-dead with fear splash toward the shore

At rumour of the deadly shark;
Over the corn, ripe and yellow
The hobby stoops upon the lark,
The kestrel eyes the shrew below.

The green snake in the apple-tree
Sits watching, as the shadows pass,
The feet of some Eurydice
Half-hidden by caressing grass.

The hoar frosts cut the flowers down,
The cold north wind dries up the blood;
The glassy streams grow dull and brown,
Tormented by the winter flood.

And friends fall off and pleasures cease
As grey hairs grow upon the head,
And weariness doth so increase
We have the heart to wish us dead—

Masters, your hope that this could be,
To live for ever anywhere
Has brought sad longings strange to me,
Sad thoughts, my heart can hardly bear.

And sad words from my lips have gone
Unmeet for ancient folk to say;
Pray you forget them, ye have won
Life sweet and peaceful from today.

169

The Gods have sent you here to us—
The land you sought for, did you know,
A fair land and a plenteous:
Henceforth ye shall not reap nor sow,

Nor spin nor weave, nor labour aught,
But ever all things shall ye have
That can by any man be sought;
And may the Gods your dear lives save

Many a year yet; and as priests
Of some revered God shall ye be,
And sit with us at all our feasts,
And houses have in our city

With most fair gardens. Ye shall tell
What lore ye have of your country,
And other things ye know as well;
And how lands great are grown to be

Our fathers knew not, when they fled
Before the face of the Great King:
And what lands are become as dead
That in their time were flourishing.

Yea, and fair Sirs, we fain would know
Who is your God of whom ye speak;
And of the Romans shall ye show,
And ye shall tell us of the Greek

Who reigns at Byzant, as ye say;
And what of Sparta is become
And Athens, and the lands that lay
In ancient days about our home.

170

And then in answer will we tell
Of countries that ye never knew,
Of towns, that having long stood well,
The Gods in anger overthrew;

Of kings, who in their tyranny
Were mighty once, but fell at last;
Of merchants rich as men could be,
And yet one day their wealth was past.

The voyage for the Golden Fleece,
The Doom of King Acrisius
And how the Gods gave Psyche peace—
These stories shall ye hear from us;

And many another, that shall make
Your life seem but a story too,
So that no more your hearts shall ache
With thought of all ye might not do.

Ye shall be shown how vain it is
To strive against the Gods and Fate,
And that no man may look for bliss
Without an ending soon or late.

But what is in our hands to give
That shall ye have: and now again
We pray the Gods, long may ye live,
And fall asleep with little pain.

Old chaps telling tales (big) no women

Now, Sirs, go rest you from the sea,
And soon a great feast will we hold,
Whereat some pleasant history
Such as ye wot of, shall be told.

These notes are written in the manuscript on the back of the previous leaf opposite the verse selected. They are suggestions for the illustrations to be made by Burne-Jones.

171

THE STORY OF ARISTOMENES

ARGUMENT

THIS STORY TELLS OF THE LIFE OF ARISTOMENES THE MESSENIAN; AND HOW HE STROVE TO THE UTMOST OF HIS POWER TO MAKE HIS PEOPLE AND NATION FREE, AND, FAILING HEREIN, NEVERTHELESS WON A GREAT NAME THEN AND FOR EVER AFTERWARDS

HOW THEY CAME TO LACONIA

Nigh twenty years had the Messenian folk
Striven to free them from the Spartan yoke,
And fought in godlike wise, yet all in vain;
For as bright days amid the year's sure wane
At end of autumn had their victories been,
And 'twixt the bay boughs had their wise ones seen
The shadow of the end a-drawing nigh:
After each battle won must they ask why
Their fields grew narrower: helpful man on man
Failed from their triumph: ably plotted plan,
Great hearted strenuous stroke, mere winds and waves
Made nought before their foemen; their own graves
Their own swords dug; in their most glorious fields
The foes, once beaten, hung their fallen shields;
For ever in this woefullest of wars
Against them in their courses fought the stars.

So is Messenia now a Spartan farm;
Scarce are their men indeed grudged lying warm
In winter, or the shade in summer days,
Or corn or wine, so that their hands may raise
Fat crops to block the Spartan market-place;
Their women surely may grow fair of face
And delicate of limb that they may be
Well praised by men fresh come from over sea

172

When in the Spartan feast they pour the wine;
Their craftsmen still may fashion ivory fine
And unstained marble into Gods, to stand
With Spartan bay leaves decking head and hand;
Their poets yet in thin sweet voice may sing,
So they will quite forget the axes' ring
Amidst the battle-song: nay sometimes still
Their men-at-arms may show their wonted skill
Amid the Spartan spears—'gainst Spartan foes,
Where nought there is to gain and all to lose.

Ah evil days! for surely may ye wot
That such as erewhile had cast in their lot
With King Aristodemus, Euphaes,
Damis, all dead and deathless memories,
In joys of slaves would have but small delight.
For them no morn of May was e'er so bright,
No eve of June so soft, that they forgat
Oaths sworn long time agone, while their king sat
Smiling with hope of battle, in his tent,
Whereto the fresh wind, laden with [the] scent
Of trodden grass, bore with it therewithal
The tumult of the far off foeman's call:
For them all eyes of women seemed grown sad,
All songs within them a lamenting had,
All children's glee reproached them with the day
When these too needs must learn what weight there lay
Upon all life in that sad land of theirs.

So passed over the land the heavy years,
Wherein none looked on daughter or fair wife
With any joy, and none but fools deemed life
To have much hope in it; but ye must know
That there were some who bode not the last blow
But fled away when hope was quite outworn;
One house amid these, ere the folk forlorn
And leaderless and 'wildered at the last

173

Ithome's war-beat gates wide open cast,
Since fate compelled them not to bide the end,
Into Arcadia made a shift to wend,
Since in that land dwelt others of their kin;
So they were counted worthy folk therein,
And there in honour did their old folk die,
Their young folk grow to eld, while longingly
They thought and told of the great hapless war.
Amid these days of restlessness and care,
Twenty-three years after Ithome's fall,
Unto the exiles latest wed of all
A child was born named Aristomenes,
Who grew up little caring folk to please
And little loved of all; dull in the school,
Careless but rough in boys' games, half a fool
Half dangerous folk deemed him; as he grew
Amid the fellowship of those poor few
Sons of the exiles of Ithome, they
Would mock him often, and yet day by day
Grew more to fear, casting, all the same,
Upon his shoulders more than half the blame
Of their wild deeds; for certes most of these
In that fair land were as a north-east breeze
Amid a poppy-field—so oft enow
He learned that birch twigs in Arcadia grow
Nor heeded much the knowledge: for the rest
Not over big he was, but deep of chest,
Long-armed beyond most lads, swift-foot and light,
Well-knit and lithe, full-lipped, with eyen bright
And grey as a hawk's; and ever would he be
In his attire rough and slovenly;
Silent he was and patient of all jeers
And hating feasts. So unto nineteen years
Did he attain, still deemed of all, as one
By whom would nought of any note be done;
For no least deed e'en of their rioting
Had he once led, or counselled anything;

174

Though he had oft been trusty instrument
To carry out some pushing fool's intent.

Now at this tide oft whiles would it befall
That these same youths would cross the mountain wall
Into Ætolia and thenceforth would take
Such things as folk not too much moan would make
Over the loss of; but on such-like days
Would Aristomenes no least voice raise
For or against; whiles would he seem to lack
Courage indeed, yea and would oft hold back
When there was most to do. Of this it came
That of these deeds was somewhat too much fame,
And for a while it scarce was good to bide
At the city for these youths, who wandering wide
Fared so that at the last it fell, their way
By the head-waters of Alpheus lay,
And high amid the goat-browsed hills they were
Mid which the homesteads were but small and rare.
So on a night with certain shepherd-folk
They guested, and arising when day broke
Fell to their food in glee: nineteen of these
Messenian youths with Aristomenes
And four Arcadian shepherds—ye may wot
That every one of them some arms had got
And were rough players for their years; sixteen
Of summers had the youngest of them seen,
The eldest three and twenty.

Now they fell
To asking these same shepherd-folk to tell
About the land south of the mountain ridge,
Where goat and thorn-bush looked like fly and midge
From the rough vale wherein they breakfasted.
Laconia lay beyond, the shepherds said,
The springs of the Eurotas rose up there
On the other side; a country good and fair
For folk, they said, and grinned, if only one

175

Were sprung from Hercules of yore agone.

All laughed thereat save Aristomenes,
Who by the porridge-pot was on his knees,
The steam wherefrom now well nigh hid his face.
But presently he rose up in his place,
Stammering and blushing e'en as he would speak
But found the words a long way off to seek:

“Lo I have heard,” quoth he, “my grandsire tell,
How these folk, these same thieves upon him fell
And had away ten horses from his field,
And from his house nine brass bowls, a gilt shield
Given to Pallas, and two handmaids fair:
Too many years agone to find them there
Did that befall; yet since we needs this tide
Must be away from our own country side,
Good pastime should I find it for my part
To bring him somewhat thence to glad his heart
Instead of these when we go back again:
Then might he deem he had not lived in vain,
If I—if his son's son should grow to be
All unafraid the light of spears to see.”

Loud they laughed out; his grandsire, sooth to say,
Had been but doting for this many a day,
Remembering nought that in his time went on,
Forgetting nought of old fields lost and won:
So they were merry, mocking him a while
Who paid no heed a space, but with a smile
And grey eyes staring dreamily, looked out
Onto the misty mountain; till at last
As they beheld him, o'er them all was cast
A sense of something going to befall,
Nor did they laugh more, when around on all
He turned, and in their midst three paces made,
And in a changed voice grave and solemn said:

176

“Ye laugh; but I shall laugh not till it comes,
The day that sees us in our ancient homes,
Or till I am a-dying; if ye deem
My grandsire dozes through a wavering dream
Yet has he held the sword, and good methinks
It is for one who into grey eld sinks
To mind the great life that has passed away
Rather than little matters of today,
When we, being smitten, durst not e'en cry out.”

They looked at one another as in doubt
If this were even he, Aristomenes,
And their hearts swelled; for few amidst of these
Knew aught of fear, only too far away
And great had Sparta seemed until today.
And therewithal he spake again and said:

“A fool ye deem me, and my words ill-weighed,
And the life good enow ye live in yet:
So may it be, and ye may well forget
If so ye will, for life lasts no great while
Nor will it skill if we lived base or vile,
Once we are dead: but are ye then so safe?
What if the Spartans one day 'gin to chafe
At this small heart of the old land living free,
Or seeming free, anigh them? Certainly
Ye are not soft or tame, well ye wot
If the Arcadians love you much or not,
Or if they fear Laconia: sooth to say
Our friends' spears even now may block the way
Behind us; at the worst of all, a space
Of merry days shall pass ere Sparta raise
Her force against us—nay now, I behold
No faint-hearts here but sturdy men and bold,
And my heart tells me whatso comes at last
That many an hour in fair hope shall be past,
And many an eve of victory shall we know;

177

And many a time our mere names whispered low
Down in wind-gathering hollows of the hills
Shall quell our foes, e'en as the thunder stills
The babble of the summer afternoon—
O fair Gods, lead us unto battle soon!”

He felt their gathering voices as he went
With great strides leading o'er the heathery bent,
Sword clashing against shield, till suddenly
Their shout went echoing up the valley high
Beat back from hill to hill as they arose
As men the God drives blind against their foes,
And recking nought, swift followed after him,
Watched by the shepherds till they grew all dim
In shifting haze of morning; to their sheep,
Their well-known day of toil, their dreamless sleep
These turned, half scornful, yet half longing still
For something more their empty lives to fill.

On toiled the sons of the exiles up the steep,
And early that same night were laid to sleep
Far down the southern slope; then with the day
Rose up and gazed adown, and there it lay,
The land that bred their tyrants; homestead fair,
Pasture and wood and cornland gathered there
About the hid Eurotas: orderly
And rich seemed all; and these were young to die,
Yet young to think of dying or of fear,
Or what the slow revenge of time might bear.

So downward went the youths, till the slopes grew
Wooded and tilled, and here and there a few
Of early-stirring folk they met, who fled
As though Arcadian hill-thieves they did dread;
But none made question to them, till at noon,
They passed an oak-wood heavy with the June,
And came upon a great man's house, whereby

178

There stood the shrine of some divinity:
Plenteous the place was, orchard, garden-close,
Rick-yard and barn spread round, and high o'er those
The pillared house, through whose court-gates flung wide
Came sound of folk at meal in hot noontide.
Great looked the place and lordly, the young men
Gazed each on each, and certainly by then
The morn's vague rashness had grown somewhat dull;
Poor seemed they in a place so plentiful,
Beardless and light-limbed by the ponderous gate.
But in their leader did the heart wax great,
Fair visions passed before him, as he said,
Like one who knew their thoughts:

“Let nought be weighed,
But all be dared today!—time later on,
When with the Gods' help great things we have won
Will we be wise: not hard now to be brave,
For in each Spartan house good friends we have,
If not our kin, yet foes of our kin's foes;
And this shall be no woeful day to those—
Men torn from home and fair life, having nought
Save the one hope to vengeance to be brought.
No words, but follow swift unto the hall!”

Into the court they passed then; down did fall
The brazen jar from off a maiden's head,
And flashed in the hot sun; a boy who led
A horse from hall to stable stopped and stared,
And durst not flee, while restless, unafeared,
The lustred doves before their swift feet brushed,
The peacock 'twixt the close-set yew-stems pushed;
Nought looked like war, as all doors round about
The band beset. But tumult and great doubt
Rose in the hall, when in the doorway there
Stood Aristomenes, his golden hair
Bright with the sun, and through the locks of it

179

Might men behold the noonday sunbeams flit
From spear to spear behind; great fear fell then
Upon those half-armed and unwary men;
Till over all his loud clear voice was heard.

“Men in this hall, be ye no more afeard
Than if the Gods, who sent us here, were come!
Behold, we have a will to get us home
Unto Messenia; from the Arcadian land
We come last, bearing little wealth in hand,
For ye Laconian folk our stewards are made
This many a year: so when ye down have laid
The increase of our own store, harmless we
Will go our ways; who yet this side the sea,
Yea in our fathers' fields, have mind to dwell;
Moreover on this day methinks 'twere well,
If here abide perchance folk of our kin,
Or strangers, who have found it hard to win
From out this house, that with this company
They now should wend more fields of Greece to see.
—Nay let your weapons be!—we are enough
To slay all here, if once the play wax rough;
Take life, and meet us on another day!
And whoso goeth to Sparta, let him say
That Aristomenes his eyes have seen,
Wending his way to what of old hath been
A happy land, that either he may live
Some joy to folk down-trodden there to give,
Or at the least die not without good fame!
—Now, master of this house, speak forth thy name,
And once more, if here be Messenian folk
Or strangers bowed down 'neath the Spartan yoke,
Now let them come with us, either to die
As the Gods meant them, or live happily!”

A sullen hush, mid scowl of angry brows
And clenching of hard hands; and then uprose

180

Glad clamour from the many bondmen there,
'Gainst whom the Spartans not a stroke might dare;
Then spake the master of the house:

“O youth,
Beardless, unknown thou art; and yet in sooth
One good day hast thou won in thy life-days,
While I, Cleombrotus, must lose the praise
That once I had, of being victorious—
—But you, scourged slaves, get forth from this my house
Where no more meat ye gorge from this day forth.
Dogs bought with money! beasts of little worth,
Dragged from our fee-farm of Messenia, go,
Lest ye tomorn the stocks and whip-cord know!—
—Take them, bold youth, and blame thyself, when they
From the first clash of steel shall flee away.
But for my wealth, if thou indeed take all
Thou takest not more than the Gods one day shall;
Lo thou, my daughter! wilt thou take her then?
One day I deem she shall bear warlike men
To fail at last, and come to misery!”

And as he spake he drew forth from his knee
A growing maiden, some twelve winters old,
Who with great eyes the stranger did behold,
Trembling, and clinging to her father's knees,
Who smiled upon her. Aristomenes
Would fain have spoken, and a threatening sound
Rose from the slaves who gathered close around;
But the lord cried:

“Thou hast begun a war
Knowing but little who thy foemen are;
And if thou thinkest thou hast gained great things
This day from me, the seed and friend of kings,
Yet shalt thou think ere thou hast gained the end
How many joys thou from the world didst send,
—My joy the first, and thine perchance the last.”

181

Therewith back to the wall behind he cast
His right hand suddenly, and caught adown
A hunting-knife, thin-bladed, sharp and brown,
And to his own heart thrust it with sure stroke,
And fell down dead and silent; from the folk
A mingled murmur rose, and pale and wan
The little one stood gazing on the man
Greater than was the greatest man she knew.
But Aristomenes unto him drew,
Smiling, but pale and somewhat sick at heart,
And said:

“In brave wise has he played his part,
Yet better had he lived to hinder ours!
But go, ye freed Messenians, to the bowers
Where arms are stored, and raiment and good grain,
And gather from the home-fields the best gain
Of neat and sheep and horses, nor delay
Our setting forth three hours; because this day
I fain would tread on the Messenian soil.
But here shall sit these Spartans free from toil
Till we are on our way.”

So here and there
Ransacked the slaves just freed, of whom there were
Some thirty men, but the Messenians stayed
Guarding the sullen home-folk: the young maid
Stood by her mother and some women, late
Come from their chambers in most sad estate,
And she wept too; but mid her sobs, no less
Gazed on the strange and new-born stateliness
Of the rough-clad Messenian, as he passed
To and fro through the hall.

And so at last
In the very hottest of that day of June,
While the great brazen trumpet's clattering tune
And clash of arms broke through the drowsy hum
Of scarce-seen things of summer, did they come
Into the courtyard, armed now gloriously,

182

All save their leader; therewith could they see
Out in the highway waggons tilted o'er,
The victuals and the goodly things that bore,
And further on steeds, sheep and lowing neat.
Forth went they joyous; yet with lingering feet
Out of the hall passed Aristomenes
Half sad at heart, the very last of these,
And as he passed the sun-scorched threshold o'er
Still were the maiden's eyes upon the door,
And she forgat to weep till he was gone.

Bright on the temple now the hot sun shone
As through the gates the little army went;
And Aristomenes with fresh intent
Cried out to halt, and asked one of the stead
Who dwelt therein; who with a glad face said
It was the God of War; then did they take
A black bull for the hopeful omen's sake,
And as they might they sacrificed him there.
Well dight the pillared shrine was, and most fair;
And just before the image of the God
There hung upon a fair-wrought brazen rod
A goodly helm bedight with silver wings,
A mail-coat wrought as for the best of kings,
And a great shield, thereon an eagle made
Whose wings outspread the golden ground did shade.
Then told a homeman how these arms were won
At Stenyclerus in the days agone,
In that last fight when the Messenians broke
And fled away a feeble hopeless folk.
So therewithal cried Aristomenes:

“O thou great God, if thou wilt give me these,
Somewhat I deem I yet may give to thee;
Yet will I wear them not, until I see
My foemen's backs, when sevenfold more than mine
I count them.”

183

Either the June sun did shine
Brighter than erst, or else the altar fire
Red flickering in the white sun shot up higher,
Or Ares' face gleamed, answering the face
Of Aristomenes, who from its place
Took down that gear, and bore it to a wain
And cast it in. Then sang the horn again,
Men leaped to saddle, creaked the wain-wheels, lowed
The sullen herd, and from the thirsty road
Into the green trees rolled the cloud of dust
As westward went that handful, in fair trust
Of Aristomenes, new breathed upon
By that old spirit that great fields had won—
—And he in trust that Fate would make no end
Till o'er the world some tale his name should send.

HOW THEY CAME TO MESSENIA

So rose the little cloud like a man's hand
Upon Laconia, spreading, till the land
Was wet with drenching of that evil shower.

Down sank the great sun now from hour to hour
As steadily they went unto the west,
Showing no force 'gainst any for the rest,
Nor seeming aught, if any drew anear,
But Spartans by their riding and their gear.
Good speed they made, for they had some who knew
How best to pierce the tangled valleys through,
And so before the ending of the day
They gat them through a certain narrow way
Betwixt the hills, and, coming out of it,
Beheld the kites sweep and the swallows flit
Against the grey cliffs with the sun still bright,
And down below a land of all delight
Green with June not yet weary: then the guide,

184

Who ever went by the young leader's side,
Turned to his smooth fresh face his careworn eyes,
And said:

“O godlike youth, the Gods are wise
To dull our memory, since they will that we
Should live on still: so has it fared with me
That mid my daily pain and daily fear,
I had forgotten what we gaze on there,
The sweet land of Messenia.”

Then that word,
Said low in the soft eve, their hearts so stirred
That sounds without a meaning and strange tears
Broke from them, amid thoughts of all the years
Wherein alternate hope and fear had played
With their dead fathers, and the deeds now made
Songs for the Spartan children: there a space
They lingered, gazing on the pleasant place
From the grey pass; till Aristomenes
Cast up his sword into the evening breeze,
And caught it falling, and cried:

“Praise to you,
O Gods that ye have given me deeds to do,
And days to do them in, and for an end
No dream of vain things whatso Fate may send!”

Then all cried out for joy, and down they went
Unto the lower land, till 'neath a bent
They saw where lay a homestead grey-roofed, long;
Thither they turned, and still the herdsman's song
Going to fold at day's end, or the voice
Of youths and maids who ever must rejoice
With the mere joy of living, sank and died
As, turning, they beheld these fellows ride
In Spartan wargear; close shrank child and maid
Unto the grey stone well-shaft as afraid,
When nigher still they drew; by the garth-gate
The unarmed door-wards scowled with helpless hate,

185

And as their spears the trim wall overtopped
The piper mid the light-limbed dancers stopped
His pipe as pleasant as the morning bees
Within the limes: but Aristomenes
Smiled as if glad, and much they wondered then
To see the rough lad leading steel-clad men
With such proud mien, and some folk murmured low,
“What mumming will the cursed thieves make now
To grind us lower yet?” But on he rode
And smote upon the door of that abode,
That opened almost even ere his blow,
And there an old man stood, with hair of snow,
Flushed face and wrathful eyes, who cried:

“Why then,
Come ye to shear the shorn, O Spartan men?
These are your own fields that we dwell upon,
When all is wasted then is your wealth gone
As well as our poor lives.”

The youth leapt down
Unto the earth, and 'neath the elder's frown
Smiled joyously, and scarce for joy could cry:
“Help for Messenia, father, ere thou die!
—Come now and tell me what young men are here
Who with stout heart may carry sword or spear
Nor faint when foes are many!”

The old man
Stood there with open mouth and cheeks grown wan
And stared at him a while, then stammering said:
“What is thy name then? Come ye from the dead
That ye must name Messenia as a thing
To help or fight for? As of a great king
Thy voice is and thine eyes, despite thy gear;
Mock not an old man in his last ill year!”

“Well, like a mock it seems that I should strive,
E'en with this handful, happy days to give
Unto the beat-down land,” he said; “yet sooth

186

So dying shall I crown a happy youth
With no ill end—Yea, but I will prevail:
Beseems it not a god-helped man to fail;
And such as ye behold me in this place,
I spring from Æpitus of ancient days.”

Then mid the ring of spears the old man cried:
“Ah is it so that my dream hath not lied?
Now may the rest come after—Come ye in,
And if your cheer tonight be poor and thin
Yet may we look to mend it on a tide
When 'neath us lies the Spartan country-side:
Since of your tidings somewhat do I guess.”

Then through the door in did the young men press,
The home-folk gathered round much wondering,
While still the old man cried for many a thing,
To spread the boards, to fold the new-come neat,
To bring the strangers water for their feet
And garlands for their heads, and so at last
Into the hall both guests and home-folk passed
And feasted as they might with plenteous glee,
Though small wealth there indeed there was to see
Of aught but roughest things; but maidens' eyes
Made the bright blood to many a cheek arise
Mid the new comers; sweet it seemed to give
New hope of life, new hope for love to live
To such as these; like very Gods they felt
As though to a great world weal and woe they dealt.

But now the goodman did for silence cry,
And Aristomenes spoke out on high
And told the hope and good hap of that morn,
Saying moreover,

“Lo, into the corn
The hook is thrust, but further than our eyes
May see, the unshorn field before us lies.

187

Surely I think that we shall one day rest
And look behind, those who have not been blest
With death before the victory; yet mean while
With no soft words will I your hearts beguile:
Hard are the years wherein we have to deal
With a proud folk, an unbowed commonweal;
Ye who draw swords now, for no holiday
I lead you forth, nor for a while to play
That ye may sleep the sounder, that your loves
May kiss you sweeter in the olive groves.
Nay, amid ruin a God must each become
With stern face watching wrack within his home;
Unthought-of horrors must he look to find,
A fresh pain drifting nigher on each wind,
Fresh fear, if he could fear, in every breath
Made into words; no love but such as death
May make not pale unto his lips shall stoop,
No hope but such as hopeth against hope:
Is it too great to bear?—Yet shame and scorn
Ye slay, so bearing this—But yestermorn
I, who speak this as if the fire of Jove
The boy's heart in my breast did verily move,
Knew nought whereat I aimed, why I did yearn,
And now within me such a light doth burn
As shall light up in Sparta faces pale
With listening to a still increasing tale—
—A flame to last till death comes—yea in sooth
E'en this same morn was I a hot-head youth
Who thought to do my deed and get away,
Laughing an hour at all the disarray
Of Spartan grey-beards—now I know that I
Am driven on by some divinity
To free the land, and none shall stay me now!”

So godlike did the visage of him grow
As thus he spake, that men's hearts in them swelled,
And when he made an end from out them welled

188

A great cry glad and strong and terrible,
And on all folk a godlike courage fell.
But the old man called mid the noise and stir
His five sons to him, and said:

“Lo ye hear
How the Gods have remembered us; haste now
And get to saddle, and these tidings show
Wide through the land to every trusty man,
And bid none loiter if so be he can
Set foot before foot, but be here ere noon
Tomorrow, for doubt not that over soon
Shall Sparta be upon us.”

Therewithal
To one or two more did his kinsmen call
And went their ways, and then the goodman said:

“Hearken fair friends: last night upon my bed
I slept and dreamed, and lo a dead friend came
Unto me and said, ‘Damis, name the name
Most famous amid all Messenian folk!’
A sigh methought from out my heart there broke
As I named Euphaes: ‘Nay long agone,’
He said, ‘he went with many another one
Unto the dead; seest thou my face, how bright
It is now; shall a beaten ghost delight
This heart that loves Messenia mid the dead?’
Methought I fell a-trembling then, and said:
‘Nay, by the holy things that thou and I
Buried in Ira's midmost secretly
Ere the last fight, tell me what thing is this!’
He said, ‘E'en now an eagle flying is
From out Arcadia, let him not fly lone—’
And into the dimness straightway was he gone
Leaving the name unspoken; but I woke
Struggling with memories of the bygone folk,
The last hours of Ithome; and how he
The prophet [Theoclus] bade that man and me

189

Bury the holy things of Jove deep down
Amid the dusk of Ira's woods unsown:
‘Which things once hid,’ quoth he, ‘ye shall not stir,
Till of the living from the dead ye hear,
And from the eyrie of Arcadia fly
Jove's bird to bring our people victory.’
—And now meseems I am not grown too old
To go to Ira: yea, a fair stronghold
Meet for our purpose shall ye find the same,
A place where a great host need scarce think shame
E'en by a band like thine to be long stay'd.
Moreover thither may we well have aid
From out Arcadia, lying close indeed
Unto its marches: good for every need
The country is around, nor may ye face
The hosts of Sparta save in such a place,
Until we gather force that may avail;
Yea, and get arms too, for a weary tale
It is to tell of all the ransacking
In every stead for any warlike thing.
Yet is there left indeed a spear and sword
In this my house, because my well-hid hoard
Has 'scaped the thieves of Sparta. Now one cup
Unto our first fight, and then stand we up
And for departing all things here array.
Glad shall I be to see the winding way
Dimmed by the dust-cloud that our hoofs shall raise;
And though I see not one of all those days
When in this house unfeared my kin shall sit,
Yet doubt I nought about the end of it.”

Amid the clatter and the joyous sound
That rose up as the cup of oaths went round
Sat Aristomenes, as though a dream
Had come on him unwares; all things did seem
Too little and too hopeless for a while
A wise man into striving to beguile;

190

But then, remembering what great toil there lay
Betwixt him and the coming of the day
When all attained should leave him nought to hope,
With what a world of troubles he must cope
Ere he could turn about to weigh the worth
Of all the deeds men do upon the earth,
He smiled and stretched his hand out for the cup
And as amid the clamour he stood up,
And drank in silence, to his eyes there came
A kind grave look, as though he knew no shame
And mid the day's work had no time to scoff;
All querulous curses and all dreams fell off
From his fair soul, that great his name might grow.

So in the fair eve were they busy now
By wain and byre, nor slept they much that night,
And long ere the first breaking of the light
Men 'gan to gather to the stead, and when
The sun was fully up, on many men
Full-flushed with hope his rays fell: then a band
Of chosen youths pushed onward through the land
Toward Ira for the clearing of the way;
And ere the midmost of the troubled day
Old Damis the main body of them led
From out the cleared deserted ancient stead,
Nor once turned back his cheery face to gaze
Upon the ruin of the well-loved place,
For still behind stayed Aristomenes
Watching the dust-cloud float above the trees
As through the vale they wound; now a great train
Where wife and child and beast and laden wain
Made the spears seem but scanty: so when he
No more mid that moving cloud could see
The steel a-glittering, round he turned and bade
His men to work, who, falling to there, made
Such wrack of the empty stead as might be done
Without fire-raising.

191

Low had fallen the sun
Before he cried to horse; then with grave face,
As one grown old untimely, from that place
He turned the last of all men, and his heart,
Brave as it was, scarce seemed to have a part
In all the eager hopes of yestermorn,
So sad a courage in his soul was born,
As swiftly through the o'erworn windless day
He and his folk toward Ira went their way.

HOW THEY MADE A STRONGHOLD ON THE HILL OF IRA

In a great hollow of the mountain slopes,
Where toward the south the woodland country droops,
This hog-backed spur of Ira lies, that falls
On every side save toward the mountain walls,
Whereto a ridge there runneth; thick thereon
The unsown pine-woods stand, and scarce had shone
The sun upon the soil there, till the sound
Of the shrill pipe pierced the dim dusk around
This morn, and midst its eager melody
Broad axe and glittering bill were swung on high.

A little way as you go lower down
With oak-woods are the hillsides overgrown,
And then begins the tillage; fair enow
Among the orchards doth the barley grow
Now yellowing for the scythe; on terraces
The vine is trellised, and grey olive-trees
Spread cloudlike o'er the slopes—A noble land,
A happy place, if still man's grasping hand
Itched not for more and more, and e'en when full
Of rest and life, found not the days grow dull
Without he make some story for the folk,

192

Who, his days past, are writhing 'neath the yoke
Of sorrows that they may not understand.
Ah, a good place, a fair and hopeful land
For these new-comers!—fast now falls the axe,
No blast of horn the swine-filled forest lacks,
And Aristomenes rides far and wide,
And gathers up from all the country side
Both men and goods; and from Arcadia come
Wild men and runaways to make their home
On Ira; but the Arcadian commonwealth
Will make nor meddle yet, although by stealth
Some great men send them arms and such-like gear.
Nor camplike dwelt these long, for you may hear
The hammers and the saws at work day-long,
And sill and strut and upright rising strong
E'en in the places where as trees they grew
A while agone. And still, though the year drew
Round unto autumn and the fields were shorn,
Unto the place no tidings were there borne
Of Sparta stirring; yea though twice or thrice
In the Laconian fields did flame arise
From homesteads plundered. And yet no less grave
Or watchful were the leaders. “We shall have
The heavier storm,” quoth Damis, “when it breaks,
For these folk play for nought but heavy stakes,
And care not for a plundered farm or twain
To risk an army beaten home again!”

So it befell on a fair autumn day,
While yet in hollows of the mountains lay
The white mist, and the apple fell adown
Through the still air, amidmost their new town
Folk gathered round about the fane new wrought,
And unto Jove the best they might do brought,
Fruit, flowers and worthy beasts; but midst of these,
By Damis led and Aristomenes,
There came a company of maidens fair

193

Fresh-clad and flower-crowned, who aloft did bear
Shut in a brazen ark the holy things.
Few men were there who then felt less than kings,
As pressing after these, whom hope did move
Amid the flutter of their hearts to love
E'en though they knew it not, through the wide door
They went into their temple rude and poor,
And twixt bright heads and well wrought shoulders saw
The old man's quivering eager thin hands draw
From out the ark Jove's image silver-wrought,
Black with the damp of years but harmed in nought,
And other twain of Helen's brothers bright,
And thin gold plates figured with words of might
Few men could read now; and the empty car
Of the Mighty Mother wrought with gem and star:
Yea their hearts swelled, for these they knew indeed
Had heard the crying of their fathers' need
While yet Ithome stood.

Back now a space
The maidens fell, and their young leader's face
Bright and yet solemn they beheld now turn
To where the new-lit altar flame did burn;
Clad still he was in his rough peasant gear,
Yet a world's weal his shoulders seemed to bear,
So noble was he, as he cried:

“O Jove,
If anywise a mortal man may move
Thy heart that rules all, grant to us who bring
These holy things here, that so longed-for thing
They erst heard prayed for, victory and good peace
For this their land: new weal and fresh increase,
This second thing some folk of Thee might pray,
And yet not I, because I know today,
It shall not fail us at the worst to die
Unshamed and striving still for victory:
Hearken the third thing then, and grant that soon
I and all these may learn with what a tune

194

The Spartan spears clash on the Spartan shields,
When their King's tents rise fair above the fields!”

Loudly the people shouted as he spake,
And through the press therewith the priests did break,
Leading the gilt-horned milk-white wreathed bull;
But ere the echo of that shout grew dull,
Ere the priest's axe fell, came another sound
Of horse-hoofs beating on the stony ground.
Then on all men, and wherefore they knew not,
Great awe and silence fell; and they forgot
Their very lives and what they came to do,
As the press fell asunder, and there drew
Up to the altar two men great of growth,
Fair with the fairness of the prime of youth,
Bright-haired, gold-clad, and wonderful, alike
As coins just minted one same die doth strike,
Who in one voice sent forth a mighty cry,
Awful but sweet with untold melody:

“What do ye here, Messenians, when your foes
Are treading down fair meadows and green close
About Andania, laughing as they tell
The woes that to their slaves of old befell,
Portioning out your women to the great
Of their great men? Be swift, and they shall wait
Your coming, for a lost and feeble folk
They deem you, waiting tamely for the stroke!
Be swift, for surely on this autumn night
The waxing moon shall give enow of light
To guide your feet 'twixt dying men and dead!”

Some were there who heard not the words they said
Amidst their awe, but said the thunder crashed
Through the soft cloudless sky, and weapons clashed
A long way off; but Aristomenes
Stood with flushed cheeks and bright eyes, facing these

195

As one who hearkens, till they turned them round
And down the street again the hoofs did sound.
Then he cried out:

“Heard ye their promise then,
Shall not this evening make us more than men?
Fair hope, sweet life! whatever comes henceforth
Surely our lives shall seem now something worth.
Out, out and arm! Let us be swiftly gone,
For they do well on whom these twain have shone,
The Dioscuri—O fellows, arm and out!”

All folk gave answer with a joyous shout
As their hearts came again, and, all being done
That they must needs do to the Highest One,
Men cast away their garlands and soft gear
And from their loves' hands took the shield and spear,
And soon with few words and in fair array
Were wending down the leaf-strewn woodland way,
A little band indeed, but well knit, strong
In hardy hearts and memories of all wrong.

OF THEIR FIRST BATTLE

No long tale of that fight there is to tell;
Through byways led most secretly and well
Upon the Spartan camp unwares they came
Just as the sun set, and a night of shame
Was that for Sparta: scarcely here and there
A few brave men had heart to raise a spear
'Gainst their old slaves, the dregs of the Great War.
Adown the valley fled they fast and far
Long after all pursuit of them was stayed:
Short of Laconia might they have no aid,
For Stenyclerus shut her gates, when they
A drifting rout drew thither in the grey
Of the autumn dawn; and ere their rearward passed

196

They heard upon the haze the old cry cast
From her high towers, and saw the just-risen sun
Light the old banners from the temples won.
So on they slunk, to have rude greeting when
They met the women and the ancient men
Of that proud Sparta.

Aristomenes
Abode that night among the cut-down trees
And trampled fields wherein the gained camp lay,
But sent a messenger at break of day
To make all Ira joyful, and withal
Led his few folk within Andania's wall,
Not knowing that the rout was all so great:
But ere the sun had come to his full heat
True tidings had he, and from many a place
Poured in the folk, flushed and in joyous case,
To tell him of the freeing of the land,
And praying for some weapon to their hand.
Amidst the Council-hall he sat, and heard
Their wild joy, and within his heart there stirred
Strange pity for the blind delight of men,
And he bethought him of the old days, when
E'en such-like hope, such joy in war, filled hearts
That long ago played to an end their parts,
Nor ere the last rest failed to know despair.
Yet since the present day was e'en so fair
He was glad too, nor trembled at his gain
E'en as he feared no whit the utmost pain
His life might chance to bring.

Now soon was come
Glad message back from Ira, that the home
Of the old valour of their folk, the hill
Of dear Ithome, would be better still
As meeting-place for folk made free and glad
Than any stead the fair land had;
And men from Stenyclerus came to say
The selfsame words; whereon he sent that day

197

Wide through the land, and bade come thereinto
Whoso might deem that he had aught to do
With ruling of the land, upon a tide
He and his named. Nor did he bide
Long idle at Andania: the next morn
He rose up ere the dark was quite outworn,
And bearing with him those fair arms that he
Won in Laconia, went full silently
Unto a shrine of Mars upon the wall,
And silent mid the warder's slow footfall
There he arrayed himself in these; then said:

“O dreadful God, if ever I had prayed
For happy life, or quiet days, or e'en
Short life and peaceful death, then had it been
But mockery on my body these to bear
Wrought in thine honour so exceeding fair.
But when they lay a man on his last bed
With fairest raiment do they deck the dead,
And even so it fares with me today:
Scarce were I lonelier now, if far away
My soul were gone, my body laid at rest:
Yet do I deem well I have chosen the best
When I look round upon the lives of men
And the vain dreams, dreamed o'er and o'er again,
Waked from with anguish, blindly sought for still.
No need to ask thee if I do thy will,
No need to ask thee to abide by me
To look upon my doings that shall be,
Since fate has marked me body and soul to bear
The loneliness, the sternness and the care
That do these deeds, the failure and the shame
And—when my soul can feel no more—the fame
That men must needs desire. See, I go
In a few hours e'en such a deed to do
As Thou, O God, shalt think me marked thereby
To be thine own.”

198

He turned and pensively
Paced up and down the rampart for a space,
Till others 'gan to stir about the place
Besides the warders: then he bade to horse,
And, leaving there the more part of the force
Gathered about Andania, rode his ways
With a chosen band.

Old folk in after days,
When all was fallen unto nought again,
Telling the story of their struggle vain,
Would feel their hearts beat quicker as they told
Of his grey eyes beneath his hair of gold
That dreamy morn; then like a tale come true
Told of the Gods it seemed, that one should do
Such deeds and be so fair, so strong to save,
And yet so kind-eyed, smiling and yet grave
As though with deep insight, as round about
Rang the glad voices of folk free from doubt
And soft with new found bliss; as wife or maid
Went on their way rejoicing to have laid
Hand on the skirts of him or to have touched,
It might be, the brown hand that erewhile clutched
The pitiless sword that woke anew that strife
Amid whose clashing failed so many a life.

HOW ARISTOMENES SAW SPARTA AND CAME TO ITHOME

Throughout the countryside that day he rode
And stayed awhile at every fair abode
He passed, that he might know how the land fared,
And to give arms and counsel: still he heard
Of no foes nigh, and all the people seemed
As though the end now fully gained they deemed;
Feasting and joy he looked on everywhere;

199

For now the maiden might be slim and fair
Nor make her lover tremble and look round,
When in the wood they walked, at every sound
He did not know: the goodman now might praise
His sleek-skinned herd nor fear his voice to raise:
Folk drank from silver now, nor feared to dine
With their halls done about with hangings fine.
On all of whom would Aristomenes
Cast neither doubt nor fear to break their ease
But praised what arms they had and gave them more,
And bade them give good heed unto the lore
Their fathers had in such things, and to deem
That women loved the clatter and the gleam
Of sword and shield, and bade them still to strive
As free men ready for the fight to live:
And unto all he seemed a God indeed,
A man to help them at their utmost need.

About the ending of the second day
He stayed his band anigh the mountain-way
That threading rough Taygetus cometh down
Upon Eurotas and the lordly town
Where dwelt the Spartans; just in Spartan land
They pitched their tents, and there he gave command
That they till noon of the next day should bide
And do no hurt unto the countryside:
“But me,” he said, “the Gods call otherwhere;
And if so be that I should chance to fare
The longest and the latest road of all,
Think no great harm thereof; for that shall fall
That the Fates will: and verily I think
If all our folk 'neath fire and steel should sink,
Of these dry straws ye gather for a bed
The Fates would fashion warriors in their stead
To quell Laconia. Have no care for me,
But rest in peace, for good days shall ye see!”

200

Therewith from off him his fair helm he did,
And with a homespun coat his armour hid,
And took an ill-wrought and rough-shafted spear
Such as a shepherd 'gainst the wolf might bear
And pulled a hood over his face, then went
Unto the gear that lay before his tent
And took a bundle from it, that might be
Some wicked thing for all that folk could see,
Then backed a horse rough-groomed but strong & tall,
And as the shadows of the hills 'gan fall
Their longest, jogged on slowly up the pass
That led to Sparta. A soft eve it was,
But from the south the clouds were gathering now
'Neath a light wind, and as the dark did grow,
So grew they till a drizzling undersky
Hid moon and stars, and all the wind did die,
Though rather grey than black the night was still
As slowly onward, betwixt hill and hill,
Amid the noises of the night, he passed,
Meeting few folk at first, and none at last
For a long while: once on the silence broke
From somewhere nigh the noise of feasting folk,
And blurred lights gleaming wide could he espy.
Once heard he cows low from some shed, so nigh
That trampling of the horses too he heard;
And once a shepherd, mocking some night-bird
And answered by his dog; and on he rode
Through the dank drizzling night with little load
Upon his heart, thinking of matters great.

And now he deemed indeed the night grew late,
And once or twice he drew rein, for it seemed
That somewhat glimmered far off, that he deemed
The water whereof did his foemen drink,
The white Eurotas, till the dream would shrink
And all be grey and empty; till at last
When down-hill sleepily he long had passed,

201

Close by a sudden light broke on his eyes
And a black gable shadow-like did rise
In the grey night, and in the road near by
Were other shadows moving silently
Whence here and there steel glimmered: the long street
Dimly he saw beyond, as he did meet
The watch of Sparta: for belike ye know,
Their glory and their might the more to show,
Unwalled the town was of this haughty folk.

So from the watch the word of challenge broke
As they his horse-hoofs heard; with clownish shout
He answered them, and now with little doubt
They dealt with him when in their midst he came,
Making small question of his place or name,
But of the tidings from the west would know.
God wot he did not spare therewith to show
Strange things enough to them and portents dire,
Saying moreover he had seen the fire
Spread o'er Laconia, that a mighty band
Of the Messenians harried all the land,
That the Arcadian and the Elian kings
Were come to help, and many such-like things;
The which in surly wrath they took: then he
Asked them in turn where might the dwelling be
Of Jove's priest, for thereunto would he wend;
They bade him go unto the great street's end
Where he should see the temple, and near by
The priest dwelt in the marble house on high.

So forth he passed, and coming to the place
Its mighty pillars through the dusk could trace
And all was silent round: no stay at all
He made but gat him o'er the boundary wall
Struggling with hand and knee: then looking round
Slowly he passed the tree-set holy ground
Nor yet saw aught; so going on again

202

He passed the hushed porch of the mighty fane,
And came to the inner place, where burned aloft
A glimmering lamp: again with footsteps soft
He went about, but there was no one there.
Then to the feet of great Jove's image fair
He went, and gazed on His dim face awhile,
Then stooping down he undid with a smile
The bundle he had brought, and therefrom drew
A mail-coat, glittering and well-wrought and new
But stained with blood; a crested helm cleft down,
And a fair shield whereon a lion brown
Was wrought upon a ground of ruddy gold.
And therewithal a scroll did he unfold
Whereon was written:

Aristomenes,
O Dweller mid the Spartans, gives thee these;
Since little gifts henceforward shall they have
Of such to give thee, O Thou strong to save:
Take the first-fruits of the Messenian sword,
And spare thou not to be a gracious lord
To those who fear not aught and hate not thee!

So then the arms he bare up reverently
And laid them at Jove's feet, and thereupon
The scroll well writ; then turning gat him gone
And out into the street, and found his beast,
And went his ways again. Down in the east
The light spread now; day dawned, the rain was o'er
When to the warders' post he came once more,
Shifting his sword in such a wise that he
Might come unto the handle easily,
And smiling as a man that makes a jest
Unto himself: but now unto their rest
The more part of the guard was gone, but four
Were there on foot; who stood his path before
And bade him stand, wherewith the foremost said:

203

“Thy debts in the good town are swiftly paid;
Where goest thou, churl?”

“Spartan fool, stand off,”
Said he, “more business hast thou than to scoff
Good men and true!”

“What business,” said he, “then?”
Handling his spear.

“To stand and fight like men,”
Said Aristomenes, “not flee away,
As the tale goes ye fled the other day.”

Another drew nigh: “Speak thy name out, thou,
That we may tell whom we are slaying now.”

He laughed, but ugly eyes were in his head
And “pull him down” the other warders said.

Swiftly the hero with his left hand smote
The man before him, drawing from his coat
His naked sword that, whirled about him now,
Dread and strange in the dripping morn did show,
As his freed horse sprang forward; low he bent,
Laughing aloud, as o'er his head there went
The streak of the white spear; then he turned about
In his saddle crying midst their wrathful shout:

“Heed well the name of Aristomenes;
Because in vain ye pray the Gods for ease
Till he is but a name, though unforgot.”

Tumult there was and scattering arrow-shot
That harmed him nought; the echo of his name
Like an ill dream to folk just wakened came,
As in hot haste half-armed the Spartans ran
To horse; but saw no more the godlike man
Till they had fain not seen him.

On he sped

204

Through the fresh morn, and scarce knew more of dread
Than the light clouds above him, wondering still—
—As swiftly he pressed on 'twixt hill and hill,
Passing a homestead here, and there a bridge,
And here a turret-marked grey mountain-ridge—
What he was thinking of when yesternight
He passed these same things hidden from his sight.
Good will and heart he had to turn about
Fair word unto the staring hind to shout;
Good will to smile on the short-kirtled maid
Who shrank with shaded eyes and half afraid
Against the rock that hedged the narrow road;
Good will to snatch from off the waggon's load
A handful of the sweet close-lying hay;
Good heart to rise in stirrups when the way
Grew dark with the oak-boughs and to snatch adown
Acorn and deep-cut leaf a-growing brown;
Good heart to sing a snatch of some old song
Learned in the days before he thought of wrong.

And so at last his pace he needs must slack,
And, drawing rein high up, he looked aback
And saw none following him; then on he passed
At slower pace, and reached his folk at last,
Who with great joy made tremulous with fear
Received him, as he cried that all might hear:

“Ill-built is Sparta for a great abode;
Amid their chiefest street, God wot, the road
Is roughly paved: small houses are therein;
Eurotas' bridge is ugly, old and thin:
When we have won the place, mid days of ease
There will we build us nobler palaces
And fairer temples than this morn I saw.”

Then laughing, as about him they did draw
With wondering faces, did he tell them all,

205

And trembling triumph on their hearts did fall
And trust in such a man their hosts to lead.

In fair wise did his careful journey speed
Throughout the land now; to the sea he came
The second day, and there he heard the fame
Of his last deed: whereby the merchants said
The Spartan folk were smitten with strange dread
More than men might have looked for; wide about
He went thence through the land and met no doubt
Or hanging-back as yet: and on the day
Appointed reached Ithome; tents there lay
Before it on the plain, both rich and rude,
For there was come so great a multitude,
That the burg, dwindling for this many a year,
Fell short of house-room for their lodging there.

But when the rumour spread that he was come
Unto the entry of their Kings' old home,
How did folk run together in his way,
And there with tears that nought of shame would stay,
And cries like sobs, and words they never knew
That they could speak, worship the strong and true,
As up the steep his folk wound to the gate
Broke open in the days made desolate
Despite of such as he. He turned about
And 'twixt the spears gazed back upon that rout
When 'neath the shadow of the gate he was,
And far below he saw the light clouds pass
Over a quiet land, made ready now
For winter's rest: then to his broad high brow
There came a troubled look, and he grew pale,
Either with memory of the long-past tale,
Or wild forebodings of the tale to come—
—And therewithal Ithome had him home.

206

HOW THEY WOULD HAVE MADE ARISTOMENES A KING

Ithome hath an ancient counsel-hall,
Where you might now see places on the wall
Reft of their carven work by hammers long
Made rust themselves, and quiet from all wrong;
In its walls' compass ghosts of hopes and fears
Stood thick if one might see them; and past years,
That seemed once as they ne'er would pass away
Because of all the woe that on them lay,
Made it a solemn place for all the sun
That lit it now when there in morn half done
Stood Aristomenes, mid greybeards who
The sweet from bitter now no longer knew,
Yet knew that they were glad; amid their sons
Who long ago, as frightened little ones
Had hearkened talk of all despair, and came
In after years to know what meant the shame
And wretchedness they then heard talked about;
Amid their sons' sons, youths without a doubt
That nought they needed now but new-forged steel
To beat adown the Spartan common weal
Once and for ever: o'er the breath of joy
High up he stood—But like a glittering toy
Made for the hour that tide unto him seemed
A full half of their courage: his eye gleamed
With fire of deeds to do, as he unrolled
Their chances, like a tale that has been told
Already. As one reading from a book
Of certain fate he spake, and bade them look
On each side of the glittering height whereon
They stood now, deeming everything well won,
And note how black the worst was, and how grey
The very best, chequered with evil day
Repulse and hope deferred. Yet even so
Stronger and brighter seemed their hope to glow;

207

Belike his voice more than his words they heard
Seeing him standing there so unafeared,
So strong, so far above them, and must think
How can it be that we shall ever sink
To drag him down? Silent at last he smiled,
And to himself he said: Joy hath beguiled
Their blind hearts that they look not to the end—
And that indeed I pray the Gods to send
Kindly upon them, that they may not rue
The day they trusted me; for kind and true
The hearts of these are, neither do I think
That folk shall come to hate me, though they shrink
As I shall shrink not.

But e'en therewithal
A messenger there came into the hall
Who cried aloud, that, come unto the gate,
Folk from Arcadia for their will did wait
To wot if they might have good hearing now
Of the chief men, for great things would they show.
So they were bidden in, and straightway came,
A great train; many of them known by name
To the young chief, whom now they did behold
With no small marvel. Fair gleamed out the gold
On robe and head of them, for they were clad
As though great dealings with great Kings they had,
Not with the unruly shockhead youth that they
Awhile ago would pass by in the way
Warily, in good sooth, and yet with scorn:
Since certes then tomorrow was unborn.

Amidst all these and with a strange sharp gleam
Of the past days that so far off did seem,
The chief's eyes met the bright eyes of a youth
Who smiled up at him, e'en as if in truth
Those days had been no dream; slim and right fair
He was to look on, eager-faced, his hair
Twixt brown and golden, and his eyes brown too;

208

Too great a man's son was he erst to do
Much in the worst deeds that those youths had done,
Yet in their company did he count one,
And was much honoured; [Bion was] his name
And of a great Arcadian house he came.
Ever he seemed a youth of gentle ways
And kindly, and would go about to praise
Rough Aristomenes e'en as he might,
And do his utmost, wrongs of his to right,
And as one pained would put off mocks from him.

A little while the hero's eyes waxed dim,
As though regret had not all left his soul,
But upward then a mighty shout did roll
Shaking the dusty beams to welcome these,
For sure folk deemed they brought their cause in crease.
Then spake the first man of them:

“Friends made free,
Good men of fair Messenia, here with me
I bear a message from the Arcadian land,
So tell me prithee to whose ear or hand
I shall deliver it; which saith no less
Than that our folk behold your happiness
With joy for you, and knowing therewithal
That Sparta doth but wait her time to fall
Upon Arcadia, fain the time would take
Ere it is flown, and with your stout hearts make
Trusty alliance both in fold and field
That each to each may be fair sword and shield
'Gainst Sparta. If ye deem the offer good,
Not long we greybeards shall rub hood 'gainst hood
And talk of what shall be: certes I think
In the good town I heard the hammers clink
On other gear than cooking-pots; and sooth
About the streets was many a likely youth
Who in his sister's hands had left the crook.”

209

Again in answer the old rooftree shook
And then old Damis stood forth and did cry
For silence, and a little company
Of elders was behind him; in his hand
Somewhat he held silk-covered, and a wand
Silk-covered too: he said:

“Arcadian friends,
With great strides in these later days time wends;
For your good will, O neighbours, certainly
We looked, but wotted not when we should see
The word ye bring: so are we met today
The greatest weight upon one head to lay,
And are the gladder ye are witnesses
To this our will. O Aristomenes,
Too full the days are filled with weighty things
That we should beat about to find us Kings
If no one here were by so much the best
That we a kingless company might rest;
But now nought have we got to choose at all
For on thine head the power of Jove doth fall
Will we or will we not: of royal seed
Thou art; stretch forth thine hand then in our need
O child of Æpitus, and take this crown
And staff that 'neath the moon I dug deep down
In Ira on that night of all despair!
Nought is it that the things are rich and fair,
Little that they are hallowed by the touch
Of brave men dead; nay hardly is it much
That with them go the worship and the trust
Of all our hearts: we do but as we must.”

Amid the thundering shout that followed then
He raised aloft before the eyes of men
A gemmed crown glistening, and an ivory rod,
Gold-bound and meet it seemed for any God,
That once had swayed Messenia; Bion felt
His heart beat quick and high, as his friend dwelt

210

Smiling a moment, with an unchanged cheek
And merry eye, waiting till he might speak.
At last he stooped adown and from his feet
Lifted his bright steel helm, and cried:

“O sweet,
To think that I this day am well beloved,
To think that through me this great folk is moved
To freedom and to glory! nor say I
But I may hold this sceptre verily
In days to come: if ye shall need me then
When ye are living free and peaceful men
With nought to fear; as surely as I deem
That in those days to most folk I shall seem
Worth no reward but love for that wherein
I loved my folk—but now is all to win—
Look you that headpiece that ye show me now,
Is it as meet a thing to ward the blow
Of Sparta, as thing that glitters too
When dint of sword shakes off the morning dew?
This ivory staff ye offer, will it hold
Nor fall atwain when rank 'gainst rank is rolled,
Like this—that no unhandy smith hath made,
Pommel and hilts and guard and shapely blade?”

The helm was on his head now, and the sword
Gleamed in his right hand as he spake the word,
A God new-born he seemed to all that tide,
As from amid the tumult a voice cried:

“Name thine own name then; we are nought but thine;
Whate'er folk call thee shalt thou be divine!
How shall we speak against thee?”

“O fair friends,”
He said, “till all the war and trouble ends,
Till my life ends—if so be while I live
Aught for your need these hands this heart may give—
Call me the Captain of your Hosts; and gaze

211

With such looks on me in those other days
When all seems tottering—that we may not part
Save by the stroke of death!”

From every heart
Forth leapt the cry, “Hail Captain of our Host!”
And o'er the upturned faces, weapons tossed
Gleamed in the white sun. Then the Captain turned
Unto the guests:

“Sirs,” said he, “ye have learned
How this folk trusts my youth—but for your part
Doubt not that ye are dear unto our heart
And that we hope great things from this your aid.
Now by my counsel were all due things paid
Unto the Gods, the oaths ye came to swear
Sworn fittingly: then to speech fall we here
That we [may] know all wisdom that ye have,
Since mighty things, meseems, there are to save.”

So to Jove's temple through the press they went
In solemn wise; but on the way he leant
Towards Bion and said softly:

“Art thou glad,
Or dost thou deem the world and I are mad,
And that I sell my youth and bliss too cheap?
What sayst thou, fellow; wilt thou laugh or weep?”

For Bion's cheek was flushed and to his eyes
Somewhat like tears there seemed indeed to rise
And his lip quivered; yet he smiled withal
As now he answered: “Surely may I call
Thy lot the happiest lot e'er told in tale;
And if it might be that I could avail
To share it somewhat, what wouldst thou say then?”

The Captain's face grew grave: “Among all men
I should choose thee belike—yet scarce know why—
Though thou art kind, and thine heart aimeth high,

212

And thou art fain a life of fame to live—
Come now, if so thou willest, we will strive
To hold together till the end of all;
Belike as into loneliness we fall
Each to the other through dull days shall be
The glimmering light whereby we each may see
The joy and promise of the bygone days
Ere into many dark and doubtful ways
The broad way sundered—what an untold pain
That yet may be before the end we gain!”

They parted mid the press as thus he spake
But into bloom in Bion's heart did break
A great delight; full of things sweet to win
The world seemed; good it was to dwell therein,
And yet a fair thing 'twixt glad day and day
To risk the sweeping of all this away
To win a little more.

Now so it fell
That with the Arcadians went things more than well,
And back again they went in two days' space,
But Bion had good leave in that same place
Yet to abide: full word the envoys gave
That in a week an army would they have
Afoot and hot for fight: but ere that tide
Fluttered with fear the land was far and wide,
For Sparta was afield again: wild tales
Of horror came from all the nighest vales
Unto Laconia, of man, wife and child
Slain with sharp torments; holy maids defiled
Before the altar; steads with salt strewn o'er,
All hate and fury loose: and more and more
Each hour did folk upon the Captain gaze
As though it lay in him to give good days.
So at the last, he, thinking of the thing,
'Gan deem it best the dice once more to fling
In desperate wise, nor wait the coming there

213

Of the Arcadian folk, lest swift despair
Should quench the unreasoning joy his folk erst had.
So he rode forth, and who but he was glad
That day at least, as out of gates he went;
Firm looked his band, bright-faced and confident,
Until all folk, the foe being unseen yet,
They and their close array, 'gan to forget
That this was but a handful; for be sure
The Captain had but those who might endure
Hard brunt and long, nor cared to eke
His line out with poor-hearted folk and weak,
Or half-armed lads; so sullen silence broke
And the gates shut upon a shouting folk,
And most thus left behind were of good cheer
But those belike whose loves or children were
Marching on proud enough, nor thinking much
Whose hearts but theirs the coming fight might touch.
But Bion who beside the Captain rode
Looked grave and pale, as one who knew what load
Upon the smiling Captain's heart might lie,
For he, though he should hold it good to die
In such fair fellowship, yet in good sooth
Deemed life a lovely thing amidst of youth,
And with a sickening of the soul still thought
Of the world going on while he was nought,
And heeding little of his life or death.

Not far from Stenyclerus, the tale saith,
On certain Spartan plunderers did they come
And slaying many drave the others home
Unto their camp: then, it being end of day,
Upon a little knoll-side they made stay,
And till the dying moon the daylight brought,
A rampart of felled trees about them wrought
And waited there with good heart, till they heard
An hour ere sunrise how the Spartans stirred;
Merry were all, but Bion, who as yet

214

No point of mortal steel had ever met,
Felt as in some wild dream; all flushed he was
And 'thwart his spirit changing clouds did pass
And minutes seemed grown hours; and all the while
He watched the Captain pass with quiet smile
About the ranks, even as one who felt
But little hope or fear, but deftly dealt
With a great engine, understood indeed,
Yet but half trusted, asking for all heed:
His mien to most men there gave heart enow,
Strange fear to Bion—all things seemed to grow
So changed and hard to cope with. But the sun
O'ertopped the hills and suddenly outshone
O'er a grey world, and down below, where lay
The tents of Sparta midst the olives grey,
On a great shifting coil of steel 'gan flame,
As from the camp the dreadful spear-wood came,
Silent of words, but in the morning still
Sending dull tramp and clash from hill to hill.
A pain grew Bion's breath, and hard to draw,
Colours of things kept changing, like a straw
His great spear felt within the hand of him.
But as he looked about, with eyes now dim,
Now passing clear of sight, he saw his friend
Rub from his sword-blade with his gown-skirt's end
A speck of rust, e'en as a dreadful shout
Rang from the hill side; then he turned about,
And from his lips a word came, sharp and clear
But nowise loud; and from the hope and fear
Of many hearts a cry came, bowstrings' twang
And dull sounds answering and the changing clang
Of armour smitten followed, and a sound
As though of thunder prisoned underground,
A wild cry and a flash, and face to face
Amid the tangled spears for a short space
Stood Bion with the wild-eyed men of war,
With life and death no more to him a care

215

And no more feeling hopeless or alone,
Or wondering aught at aught that might be done,
For fallen dead the Spartan fury was
Before the hopeless wall they might not pass,
Whence man on man fell back, as the line swayed
This way and that, as little knots there made
Wild rushes and gave back again. At last,
Drawn back a little way beyond spear-cast
To arrow-shot they turned them, till a man
Armed gloriously from out their midmost ran
And cast away his shield; then at his cry
Down went the spears of all that company,
And dying men beneath the wall turned round
With hopeless eyes as the feet shook the ground.
But ere their spears could surge against the wall,
The Captain from the top thereof did call
In a great voice: “O fellows, come ye forth
Lest they should think our spear-staves of less worth
Than these green boughs! too far apart are we—
Too far apart those cruel eyes to see!”

Clashing he leapt adown amid their shout,
Up went the spears, and soon were most without
The piled-up trees, and running 'gainst the foe
Foremost of whom the gold-clad man did go,
Big made and open-mouthed and fiery-eyed
Who, setting eyes upon the Captain cried,
“I see the man!” nor spake another word,
For swift ran Bion forth, and ere the sword,
Whirled wild about, smote Aristomenes
Fallen beneath an axe cast to his knees,
The Arcadian's blade let out the Spartan soul
Through his pierced brawny throat; down did he roll
And over him clashed spear and axe and shield
As the ranks met together; swayed and reeled
Amid wild clamour there the Spartan folk,
Then gave back slowly, and then turned and broke

216

Adown the hill, and with all death behind,
All shame before them, scattered, 'wildered, blind,
Fled toward their camp; and little did it lack,
The story tells, but none of them went back
Unto the camp or Sparta; but it fell
That the high Gods, who love great men too well
To let them work their work out over soon,
Cast o'er the world two hours before the noon
Thick mist and clouds low-drifting; so the rout
Of beaten men escaped through dark and doubt;
And when the next day dawned serene and clear
The Spartan leaguer was no longer there.

Now when the man Bion had beat down there
Was borne forth in his golden armour fair,
Known was he for a man of royal kin,
And for his slaying did the young man win
Thanks in few words from Aristomenes,
And from all men such praise as well did please
His eager heart, and still for more he yearned,
And down the dusk of coming life there burned
Bright shows of life and death made sweet by fame.

And now to make Messenia's joy complete
The Arcadian help the Captain's band did meet,
And a great host they were, who wended now
Their might unto the countryside to show
That lay anigh Laconia; there they found
Great signs of ravage everywhere around,
And many a tale of Spartan wrath they heard.
So in the Spartan marches flock and herd
And plenteous wealth they swept up, nor might hear
Of men-at-arms to meet them anywhere
Nigher than Sparta: but the Gods once more
Would not that all too quickly should be o'er;
For when the host was ready to set on
For very Sparta that all men deemed won,

217

The Arcadian prophets put forth omens dire
Nor would their folk move forth a furlong nigher
Despite the Captain's prayers, toward the foe.
Then first 'gan Aristomenes to know
How one man fights against the world and dies
Winning great fame and many miseries.
Yet did the host with plenteous joy wend back
And in the Captain was there little lack
Of smiles for all, and sweet words: why should he,
He thought, foretell the coming misery
To such as these?—a many would die first,
Though he should live to see his life accurst.
So at Ithome was there joyful day
At their returning.

Now would Bion stay
Beside the Captain, and things turned out so
That he had leave his will herein to do,
And thereat glad his friend was for his part;
The young man's eagerness rejoiced his heart
Old ere its time, in sombre manhood steeped,
Its freshness with so many cares o'erheaped,
Where day by day some bliss long cherished died,
Some hope that once seemed fashioned long to bide.

TRUCE WITH SPARTA: THE YEARS GET OVER

Fair bloomed meanwhile Messenia's hap brought back,
No fortune now the freed land seemed to lack
For a long space; with the Arcadian aid
And a great host of men right well arrayed
Fared Aristomenes to meet again
The gathered might of these most stubborn men,
Whose good heart at the last did fail them now
When ugly omens did their prophets show
Upon the eve of battle; wherefore they

218

Made truce until three years should pass away,
And so to rest may all Messenia turn,
And it may be, before long come to learn
How wealth dulls courage.

But this time of peace
Brought little rest to Aristomenes
Who now must turn his eager heart to deal
With daily troubles of the commonweal;
Wherein, God wot, his heart would sicken oft,
So hard it seemed to bear the head aloft
Mid dull recurring waves of faithlessness,
And cruel folly; young he was no less,
Strong-hearted, and as day passed over day
No added weight he on his soul did lay
That he might 'scape; so he lived on his life
With calm heart waiting for the coming strife
Nor ill content that not too swift it came.

There Bion dwelt too greedy after fame,
Splendid of speech, devouring eagerly
Life as it passed lest too young he should die,
Hot-hearted, longing sorely for all praise,
And amorous as the first of April days,
Beloved in turn amid his youth's fresh flower
By many a maid from sweet hour unto hour;
Deeming his friend scarce worser than a God.

And so the days each on the other trod
And months rolled into years: not overwell
The truce was kept, and at the last men fell
To open war ere the three years were o'er,
As though full fain to make peace never more.
Fierce fights there were, and it fell oft enow
That neither side much glory had to show;
Defeats borne up against; sad victories
Where dead men lay as thick as autumn flies
For little gain; treachery, faint-heartedness

219

When courage most was needed. And no less
Than in the first flushed days of glorious strife
Was Aristomenes with all hope rife
In outward seeming; and in sooth, the land,
However buffetted on either hand,
Had still a name and place.

More years passed on
And from all people now had Bion won
The good name that he yearned for; brave and kind
He was, and in his presence would men find
Help against hard things; women loved him well.
Of all his happy days 'twere hard to tell
And how sweet life still seemed to him: most men
Would turn a little grave and silent, when
The eyes or speech of Aristomenes
Came 'thwart their life; but unto all of these
Did Bion seem most meet for every need.
Folk feared the Captain now; deemed him indeed
Wise, just, but hard; yea ready it might be
As the years changed, for needful cruelty—
Dark-souled they deemed him: but the other one
Across the dull path of the world had shone
A very light from heaven, so brave and true,
So soft e'en when the worst of folk he knew.
So of all men was Bion well beloved
And many hearts of women had he moved
E'en as I said; yet was it even so
That Aristomenes still failed to know,
Amid his wisdom, one thing strange to tell,
That scarcely ever when his feared glance fell
Upon fair women, did it fail to move
Their inmost hearts with thoughts of a sweet love
That brought no shame with it—and it was true
That children well the heart within him knew
Nor feared him, though no smile should light his face.
Thrice it befell that in some open place
Mid a wild storm he was; then to the knees

220

Of this so-dreaded Aristomenes,
Trusting, unchid, the homely children crept
And unscared watched the lightning as it leapt
From heaven to earth, thinking that surely there
No need there was the Godmade threat to fear.

Men deemed it fair that Bion clung so close
To Aristomenes, who yet might lose
The people's love, they said, ere all was told;
So did keen eyes and clear the end behold!

THE DREAM OF GLAUCE

Say that five years are worn by since the day
When Aristomenes first reft away
Peace from Laconia; at the very stead
Where those first wild defiant words were said
My tale deals now; there dwelt the widow still
Of the slain man: her barns the year did fill
With plenteous increase now, and rich she was.
For ever had it chanced all war to pass
This side or that of her fair fruitful lands,
Nor had she had a trouble on her hands
Since that ill day long bygone. Still waxed there
That daughter, now a woman wondrous fair,
Great-hearted by folks' deeming, and most wise,
And yet a trouble to men's hearts and eyes.

So on this summer morn behold her go
About a garden-alley to and fro;
Fresher than are the daisies swept aside
By the fair wrought hem that her feet doth hide
Has she been wont to walk there; but today,
Yea for a many days, her eyen grey
Show heavy thoughts, and her fair brow is drawn
With memories of the slow-foot leaden dawn

221

When weary with wild longings of the night,
Empty of thought, she chid the lingering light.

She stayeth now, and with a languid hand
Plucks at the raspberry bramble, and doth stand
Gazing with listless eyes upon the wealth
Of the full garden, till at last by stealth
Come through unnoted sound and scent and sight
Dear memories of her childhood's fresh delight,
Which little by little draw her on to see
That summer morn, when, somewhat wearied, she
From out the murmuring scented place had turned
Into the court wherein the hot sun burned,
And so with slow feet reached the peopled hall,
Amid its coolness into dreams to fall,
That were dreams still, when those Messenian folk
With woe and wrong across her young life broke.

So now she stood awhile, and scarce, I deem,
Could have told out what things were in her dream
If one had asked her; yet therein indeed
Were images of war, and days of need,
Sick-hearted striving, utter loneliness,
That may not ask for any heart to bless
Its gain and loss; all this borne in such wise,
For such a glorious end, that men's cleared eyes—
When the worn heart rests, lonely still at last—
Behold a dead God from amidst them past,
And make long tales of it. Her dream saw then
Another life apart from striving men,
Listless and self-despising and alone
Till death should find it out with nothing done,—
—What if a third dream swept in with the breeze
That bore the scent of blossomed linden-trees
And fruits full ripe unto her weary face?
Sometimes within her heart with these had place
A dream of eager life and happy rest,
Lonely no more, still striving for the best.

222

—Whate'er she dreamed, like dreams of sleep it was,
Unmastered by her, as her feet 'gan pass
Once more between the lilies.

So she came
Unto a yew-set place, and her own name
Seemed in the throbbing air, as dreamily
She sat her down beneath the darkest tree
And heavy with unrest sank back at last
Against the trunk and into real sleep passed.
And still in sleep her name she seemed to hear
Each time called louder, yet she might not stir,
Till like a shriek throughout the place it rang—
“Glauce, O Glauce!” and she heard a clang
As of an armed man fallen, and upright
She stood awake again, the sudden light
Making the sweet place dreadful; but withal
She heard one close anigh her name outcall,
And turning, pale and trembling, still she saw
Her fostermother through the dark boughs draw;
A woman old and wise, and somewhat feared,
Because men deemed that from the Fates she heard
More than the most of folk: with anxious eyes
She gazed at Glauce, till there 'gan to rise
A great dread in her heart, and she cried out:
“O mother, hast thou given me then this doubt
Of what today shall bring?”

She set her hand
Upon her breast, and panting there did stand
Till the old woman came to her, and laid
A kind hand on her slender hand and said:

“Fear not, my child, sure nought goes wrong with thee,
Though thou and I belike somewhat may see
This morn of what is coming.”

She sat down
As one o'er-weary on the bench of stone
Beneath the tree, but the maid stood a space

223

Gazing upon her with an anxious face,
Then sank adown upon the grass beside,
And, while her lashes her deep eyes did hide,
Spake out:

“Thou knowest, mother, time agone
While I was yet a child, thou deem'dst me one
Who knew of unseen things; myself I knew
As one who cast all heart and hope unto
Great things and far off: but time passed and I
Waxed and at last was somewhat womanly,
Then gloomy dreaming left me clean, and thou,
As well beseemed, thereat wert glad enow;
For I grew lithe therewith and strong and fair,
Glad with my life alone and the world's air
And common sights and sounds—wise as a man,
Thou calledst me once, and a pain through me ran
As thou saidst that—yet surely with good days
My life went by along those pleasant ways,
Too happy to need hope or passion aught.
But now a long while something has been brought
Anigh my eyes that I may see not clear,
Yet know that change and trouble doth it bear
For me and for my life.”

Her hand fell down
From off her gown's hem to the grass, as she
Spake these words; but the old dame curiously
Gazed on her, yet said nought; until she saw
A rising pain her fair lips down ward draw
And down her cheeks slow tears began to fall;
Yet she spake on:

“Nor, mother, is that all;
Behold me; has not my bright face grown wan
These days past—those wise words as of a man,
Hast thou heard aught of them for long? scarce now
I heed in what wise the fair flowers may blow
In this desired summer-tide; my eyes
See and see not: scarce have I will to rise

224

In the sweet morn, although I loathe my bed;
Night comes and I am weary, yet my head
May have no rest upon the pillow there;
And yet I dream, and wild eyes seem to stare
On my unhappy face, that once would smile
So frankly upon all things; and meanwhile
Nought know I why these things should fall on me
For I ail nought; in fair estate are we,
And all the trouble of this dragging war
Is but a murmur to us heard afar.”

She stopped, and her head fell, her eyes did meet
In empty wise the gems upon her feet
And her fair-broidered hem. But the nurse spake:

“Some little while, belike, thou didst not wake
Last night, O dear one; for I mind me well
That years agone when weighty dreaming fell
On me, thy night was dreamful too, and now
A dream I hold of import could I show.”

Glauce turned not to her, but wearily
Made answer: “Yea I dreamed last night; for I
Thought I abode with hunters in the wood,
And wove a wreath of flowers as red as blood,
The while they told of all their cares and foils,
And how the King-beast had escaped their toils.
Nor did I think that ill; but midst of this
Things changed without surprise, as still it is
The wont of dreams; amid grey wolves I sat
Who snarled and whined in hungry wise; with that
From out the dusk came other dog-wolves ten,
Marshalled indeed after the guise of men,
About a mighty lion, who methought
Nobler than all beasts; but his claws were gone
And his jaws bound: well, so my dream went on
That well I knew these wolves had done the thing,

225

And long they snarled about the yellow king
Rejoicing, till at last they lay down there
And fell asleep. Then was I full of care
For that great beast, and rose and went about
To rend his bonds; and then without a doubt
Of aught of folly, as in dreams it goes,
I gave him other claws in place of those
That they had had from him; and glad at heart,
Roaring like thunder, then did he depart
Into the waste, and I—I cowered down
Among the brake, for grass-green was my gown,
And from the wakening wolves I strove to hide;
But now my gown at first full long and wide
Grew short and strait, and therewith did I seem
To see my bare limbs in the moonlight gleam,
And knew the grey beasts, white-toothed, red of tongue,
Beheld them too—but through the air there rung
Great sound of trumpets as my terror grew
Unto its height, nor more of dream I knew,
But in the moonlight lay awake and cold.”

“E'en such a dream I looked thou wouldst have told,”
The crone said; “but upon a hill of grass
Amid my dream last night methought I was
And saw an eagle struggling in a gin,
And would have told thee, but might nowise win
Away from where I stood, till presently
Lo, even thy very self came hurrying by
And freed the noble bird, then didst thou reach
Thy white wrist out, and seemed fain to beseech
That he would perch there, neither did he fail
To do thy will, then did thine arm avail
To bear him up, and thou didst turn to me,
And I came to thee, and we went all three
Through pleasant meads until I woke to day.”

Sidelong upon the grass fair Glauce lay
As the nurse spake, nor seemed to heed at all;

226

Nay, mid her own tale the words seemed to fall
From out her lips, as though she scarce knew aught
Of what she said: clear now the soft wind brought
The throstle's song from the deep wood-side near,
And mingled sweet scent with that sound did bear;
Short grew the shadows, and the conduit's noise
Was a fair sound to make parched lips rejoice,
For not a cloud there was in all the sky.
Silent were both there, until suddenly
Unto her feet leapt Glauce, and the sun
White with the noon adown her side did run
As she cried out:

“Is there no more than this
In such a life as folk call full of bliss?
The daily rising to soft words of slaves,
The flute a-babbling while the bath's cool waves
Lap one about; the scented essences,
The lordly loitering 'neath the blossomed trees,
Hearkening the hum of working maids anigh;
The word scarce uttered that one's will may fly
To folk that fear us; then the harp-soothed meal,
The talk of little things while sleep doth steal
Over the weary soul; the lingering sun
So weary-hot e'en with day well nigh done,
And then the night, with change and hope shut out,
And within, yearning vain and ravelled doubt—
—And all this o'er and o'er and o'er again!
Ah is there one who has not deemed it vain,
A life like this? who has not cried to live
Some fairer life, with hope and fear to strive,
That dying they might leave a little done,
Nor while they lived be utterly alone?”

The nurse smiled on her, and said: “Fair my child,
E'en such a life as folk hath oft beguiled
To thinking hopeful yet may come to thee:
When thou wert little often might I see

227

Glimpses of this thy coming life; but now
Misty do all foreshadowings to me grow,
Because perchance the things that they foretell
Are nigh at hand now.”

E'en therewith there fell
Upon their ears the sound of a great horn,
And either started with new thoughts halfborn
From anxious hearts, and the nurse said:

“Woe's me
Shall our stead at the last war's ruin see?
This was a blast of war that we have heard.”

But some fresh hope within the maid's heart stirred.
“Come,” said she, “and fear not, nought will it save
Of harm, if here the meeting we shall have.”

And catching up her skirts she hurried on
Into the paved court flooded with the sun,
Where 'bove a crowd of men new come afield,
Raised high on a great spear shone forth a shield,
Wherein on golden ground wrought cunningly
With outstretched wings an eagle seemed to fly,
And well the nurse deemed that that shield of yore
Had hung in their own shrine the God before;
But midst the knot of home-folk they could see
Were men-at-arms, and one spoke eagerly,
As one who tells a fair tale: “Well,” he said,
As they drew nigh, “not ill the trap was laid,
This man—behold him, a mere man he is!—
Works hard, God wot, to win his people bliss,
And mad things must he do to make them think
That he no more than Hercules would shrink
From dealing with a host—that he is God—
Whereby it came that in the springe he trod:
He fell upon the chapmen, as I say,
And with his spoil he followed up the way
To where the pass makes dusk at the noontide,

228

And there we bode him by the highway side.
No need to make long tale, for there were we
With bows and spears, sixscore in company,
And when the whistle let the shafts fly forth
And they were sped, but ten of his were worth
Touching with edge or point, and he fled not,
And sooth to say was nowise over hot
In handy blows, so here without a wound
We have him, a fair sight thus safe and sound
For the old town—ah your dame is here,
Stand by, my masters, leave a good space clear.”

Indeed the good wife came from out the hall
Fair clad, and back fell serving-man and thrall,
And midst the men those twain could now behold
A goodly one in armour dight with gold
But swordless and fast bound, who in calm wise
Now turned his sun burned face and light grey eyes
Toward Glauce, and a faint smile crossed his face
As though her fairness pleased him; 'neath his gaze
She changed and trembled sore, and the hot blood
Seemed stayed about her heart, as there she stood
Twitching her hands as though to reach to him,
And feeling faint and weak of heart and limb,
Yet ever counting o'er and o'er again
Those men-at-arms and muttering, “Ten, yea ten.”

But now whereas the good wife was come forth
The spokesman said: “A thing once deemed of worth
We bring you, lady, though perchance tomorn
It shall but be a thing of all to scorn,
And the next day an ass-load of worm's meat,
Though once indeed it went on eager feet
And had the name of Aristomenes.”

“Welcome,” she said, “in what thing may I please
Thee and thy fellows? all is not enow
Some honour to this happy hour to show.”

229

“Lady,” he said, “here would we lie tonight;
Our company shall come back with the light
Tomorrow morn, and with them shall they have
Enow to meet whoso shall try to save
This treasure here, when they shall hear of it,
How it is vanished.”

A light smile did flit
Across the Captain's face; but the dame cried:

“Be welcome here as long as ye will bide,
And sooth I hope to make you say henceforth
That this is a fair stead of plenteous worth.
Ah I am glad today—for thou, for thou
Didst speak thy name here once—cried far enow
Since that tide now some five years past away.
How sayst thou, art thou glad yet of that day?
Speak, is thy tongue bound too?”

A murmur ran
With chuckling laughter on from man to man;
But Glauce flushed blood-red and new strength came
Into her heart as he spake out:

“Nay, dame,
Gladness and sorrow for a long time past
Are grown mere words to me; if life shall last
Beyond tomorrow I shall hope again,
As I hope now, yet not for loss of pain,
Nay I scarce know for what. But now behold
If any tale of this thine house is told
This shall it be, that Aristomenes
Guested here twice.”

“Nay, bondsman, hold thy peace!”
The goodwife cried, “a long tale dost thou make,
Thou needst not weep belike for thy life's sake,
I deem not they will slay thee; rather thou
In some barred cage shall be full-fed enow,
And children shall be brought to see thee eat
And laugh because thou thinkst a beast's life sweet.”

230

But Aristomenes laughed out and said:
“Well, when the turf upon my breast is laid
I shall lie still perchance, nor heed mocks aught;
But more fools are the Spartans than I thought
Unless they lay me in that strait abode.”

Then from the homefolk one unto him strode
And smote him with a rake-staff from behind
And the rest laughed and jeered; but deaf and blind
Grew Glauce now, and well nigh had cried out,
But the nurse whispered low: “Have thou no doubt
That the Gods need us; strive then with thine heart
Till the time come for us to play our part!”

But now the goodwife led into the hall
And there was good cheer dealt out unto all,
And men were merry, mocking at their prize,
Who sat amid their jeers with unchanged eyes
And ate the meat they brought him, though indeed
For that they mocked him more, and said, “Small need
For thee to eat, Messenian, unless thou
Deem'st thou hast not yet wasted us enow!
Wilt thou die drunk then?”

Nought at all he said,
Nor changed his colour, nor abased his head
Whatso they spake, but Glauce sat all pale
And quivering, till she, fearing for the tale
Her face might tell, said:

“Mother, dost thou see,
What an ill face I bear about with me?
Scarce now this place, this man's eyes may I bear,
Because methinks I see my father here,
And those eyes glaring on him.”

But with that
Must her face turn to where in bonds he sat
With a strange look that did belie her speech;
For pardon rather did that look beseech

231

As her eyes met his solemn eyes, wherein
Through wonder did a troubled pity win,
As of a seer who seeth the end so well
Yet nought to any man thereof may tell.
Sick yearning took her soul amid that gaze,
She strove her hand to failing eyes to raise
And might not, but sank backward fainting there,
Whom to her bower the maids did straightly bear
While spake her mother:

“Ah poor maid, she grows
Changed now, ailing and dreamy, but who knows
But a man's love might somewhat change her dream.
Love-sick without a lover doth she seem.”

But Aristomenes, as one whom death
Made clear of vision, muttered 'neath his breath:
“Woe's me, that yet my dying face should make
The heart of such a lovely thing to ache—
My face, that living had no power to move
The heart of any woman unto love!
Ah, if my soul shrinks from the coming end
God wot that from great troubles do I wend
Wherewith I thought full surely once to strive.
Yet were I fain a little while to live—
Well, a few hours proves all for good or ill.”

“What, bondsman, wilt thou mutter at us still?”
A homeman cried, “hast thou some magic then
To cast o'er us, the best of the world's men,
And so o'ercome us vilely? Deemest thou
Perchance that thou wilt 'scape us even now?”

Then with a smile said Aristomenes:
“Fair fellow, nay, I dreamed I was at peace,
For that a God had taken me by the hand
E'en at the entrance of a flowery land,
Fairer than my Messenia.”

232

His calm voice
Thrilled through the hearts of men mid all the noise,
And something like a dread across them crept,
As though they doubted that some vengeance slept
Anigh them, and no man spake to him more,
But from the hall to a strong room they bore
Their Terror soon, and there they guarded him
Nor durst do off the bonds on hand and limb.

Day waned and died, and with the first night-fall
Again 'gan men make merry in the hall
And drank deep, but five men-at-arms bode still
With Aristomenes and ate their fill,
And drank, but sparingly. Now ye shall wot
That the nurse [OMITTED] that night had got
Charge o'er the drink; according to their need
Unto the maids she dealt out; and indeed
There ever would the drink be clear and good,
And strong enow, and midst their joyous mood,
Small marvel if they deemed it best that e'er
Their lips had touched, and the feast wondrous fair.

So into deep night did the first dark pass,
And dreadful all that noise of feasting was
To Glauce, as she lay awake and clad
Within her bower, and in her mind still had,
Through yearning and confused grief, a doubt
Of something great at hand, that should lead out
Her feet from that dull maze of fear and woe.

But where the Captain bounden lay alow
More muffled came the noise, that still he heard
Betwixt harsh laughter and loud scornful word
His guards raised, as he watched them at some game,
Till over him a gentle slumber came
Bearing soft dreams, that vague and meaningless
Did yet with some familiar happiness
Float round his rest.

233

In such wise the night grew,
But as close unto midnight now it drew,
The noise of feasting somewhat suddenly
Seemed to fade out, till on the house did lie
Dead silence; then fair Glauce, sunk ere now
Into a half dream, broad awake did grow
With heart that beat quick and a sudden fear
At that deep stillness, midst which did she hear
Footsteps a-drawing nigh; the moon's grey light
Wherein she trembled seemed to grow o'er-bright,
Panting she waited till some fearful scream
Should break the silence: then a sudden stream
Of red light through the half-shut door did fall,
And then it opened—and she knew it all
What was to do, when on the threshold there
The old nurse stood and beckoned; strange and fair
Showed Glauce, bright her face flushed, as she went
Up to her nurse and whispered, “Thine intent
Methinks I know, so no more need for words
Among the edges of the poisoned swords.”

The nurse smiled and led straight into the hall,
Through whose high windows did the moonlight fall
Upon the feasters sunken as they sat,
Blind, motionless, and rigid; and thereat
Somewhat did Glauce start, and whispered, “Yea,
Have we then slain them, are they passed away?”

She smiled and said, “Nay, surely they will wake
Some time tomorrow angry for our sake;
They have but had a sleepy draught of me.”
And therewithal she led on speedily
Unto the hall's end by the high-seat fair
And held aloft her taper, in whose glare
Did Glauce see the helm and erne-wrought shield
Hung up beside the sword that he did wield—
Old trophies new come back unto that house—

234

Which things on tiptoe, with her tremulous
White fingers straight she took adown and bore
After the nurse, who hastened toward the door
That led unto the dungeon; weight enow
That gear was of, but if she went o'er-slow
Beneath it, she but stayed to set her lip
Unto the well-worn silver of the grip
Of that good sword.

And so they reached the place
Wherein she knew was hidden the dear face
That had changed all her life. She hung aback
As the door opened now, and seemed to lack
All strength at once; strange noises seemed astir
About the dank walls and the prisoned air;
Strange doubts came o'er her of the days to be,
Of those grey eyes that she so longed to see,
Of the brave life and great and glorious heart
Wherein she longed so sore to have a part.
But the nurse drew her in, and she must gaze
Despite herself upon his solemn face
Calm in the depths of sleep: then down she knelt
And all the joy of utter love she felt
Sweep o'er her heart, as, like a wandering bird
Her mouth stole o'er his face, and her ears heard
His light breath from the lips that sleep did part
A moment, and the beating of her heart
Stopped as her burning lips were pressed to his
And all her soul went from her in a kiss.
Then his eyes opened slowly, and his hands
Moved somewhat underneath the iron bands,
And sweet his smile was, and a bright flush ran
Across his face; but, even as a man
Who wakes up to a well-expected fate,
He started not, but silent there did wait,
While from a guard's belt a small fetter-key
The soft-foot nurse had stolen silently,
Which into Glauce's trembling hand she slid.

235

Who took it and scarce knowing what she did
Unlocked the bonds on foot and hand: but he
Waited for that last clicking of the key,
Watching her slender hand, then to his feet
He rose up stiffly, and his hand did meet
Her hand outstretched; but as they stood there close
Each to the other, on his prostrate foes
His eyes he cast, a moment did he stand
Unsteadily, while her deserted hand
Fell down, and felt no love left there with it,
And o'er her heart a great pain did there flit.

But he knelt down, and smiled and 'neath his breath
Muttered a word, then drew from each sheath
Each sword of those his guards, and the bare blade
Across the throat of each dull sleeper laid,
Then rose, and saw her standing with the sword
And shield and helm, and took them with no word
But followed as the old nurse led the way.
But when they had passed through the hall where lay
Broad stripes of moonlight yet, and all about
The sleepers wallowed, as a man in doubt
He paused beside the door, as though he thought
No further on his way he should be brought
By those who led him, and he made as though
He would have spoken there, his heart to show.
But the old woman, who had laid adown
Her taper quenched, muttered, “Haste, haste, pass on;
Who knows when vengeance will awake tonight?”
And forth she led out into the grey light
That flooded half the court: you might have deemed
For the great silence 'twas some city dreamed
In olden tales, where fast as sleep the dead
All people sleep; but onward still she led
And after her white gleamed the Captain's helm,
And fluttered Glauce's gown. In some strange realm
She seemed to be where none should know her more;

236

The kindness of old days a burden sore
Lay on her soul; a many images
Seemed sweeping past her in the fitful breeze;
A many hopes of unregarded years,
And on her feet fast fell adown the tears.
Once or twice he looked back, and then she turned
Her face away; 'twas as the moonlight burned,
Burned as her tears burned.

Groaned the heavy key
In the outer gate now, and the silent three
Drew close by its great leaves; then back they swung;
But still her feet upon the threshold hung
A little while, and dreadful thoughts did rise
Within her heart, as there with close-shut eyes
She dealt with fear, and thrust regret aside,
Until with greater fear her heart nigh died
As presently she found herself alone—
A short space only, for the two were gone
Into the oak-wood; with a smothered cry
She ran to join them, and there presently
They stood together by three horses tied
Unto the trees their coming there to bide.
Then in a low voice did the Captain say:

“This life of mine late ebbing fast away
Ye twain have given me—wherefore I know not—
And if in turn aught is there I have got
To call mine own—as verily my life,
Made by the Gods a weapon for this strife
Is not mine own—if aught ye e'er shall ask
Well may ye deem 'twill be no heavy task
To give it you. One word yet, short as is
Our time together here—What meaneth this,
These horses dight for three—will ye—wilt thou
Flee from this place so rich and happy now?
Maiden, thou know'st me not; shalt thou so fair
Cast all thy soul and love on empty air?

237

Forgive my rude words, for full sure I see
Some cruel God drives thee to loving me—
Woe's me therefore! Where are the words to tell
How great a burden on my spirit fell
Those first days of the strife! I smile, I talk,
And like a dead man mid the living walk
Because I have this deed that I must do.
Where are the words wherewith to tell to you
How I desire Death, if it might be?
How shall ye then have part or lot in me?
Think of the burden of our miseries
When I shall be all changed unto thine eyes!
And that shall be as surely as I live,
For how should such as I have love to give?”

Now when she understood that well he knew
The heart in her, strong in her love she grew,
Nor did she falter as she said to him:
“Hearken a little, ere my thought wax dim!
Needs must I pray for all that I desire,
Needs must all right and wrong burn in the fire
That burneth me: yet ever do thy will,
So am I better led, nor less thine still!
And yet howso thine heart or mine shall ache,
Whate'er thou givest me, that will I take
Nor count the cost—Wilt thou that I return,
Amid dull life and hopelessness to yearn,
To think thee cruel and bitter cold, to say
‘A fool I was to cast my weal away,
I should have won him ere the end was o'er’?
—Behold now, never will I speak word more
Hereof, however close to thee I live.”

Something within his heart there seemed to strive,
But while he stood as if he pondered there,
The nurse, who while they spake on both did stare,
Said in great wrath: “Nay for thy manlihood

238

Needs must thou do whatso she deemeth good,
Since she for thee is made her country's foe;
And know ye not to what fate she shall go
If she go back? Thou who hast dealt with these
Know'st with what tender mercies they shall ease
Their hearts for luckless losing of thine head;
Nay rather draw thy sword and strike us dead
Before thou goest safe home unto thy place!”

But while she spake a bright look crossed his face,
Most kind his eyes grew. “Dame, as young folk will,
We dream,” he said, “but there is good time still.
Hasten and mount! and thou O kind and sweet,
Let me but kneel adown to kiss thy feet
That brought me life and healing, and then come
For I would know thy deeming of the home
That waits thee there; where surely shalt thou be
Worshipped by all folk that set eyes on thee.”

She trembled, for in very deed he knelt,
And on her throbbing feet his lips she felt,
And stooped to touch him, and no more debate
Her soul held now with coming days and fate.
Then with kind arms he set her on the steed,
And mounted, and the ancient nurse 'gan lead
Through the blind woodways onward to his land,
Until the wood grew thin on either hand.
The noon of moonlight streamed upon his face
Whereon with longing eyes did Glauce gaze
Half happy now—O unforgotten night
Of bitter grief of passion and delight!

239

THE STORY OF ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE

ARGUMENT

ORPHEUS THE THRACIAN SINGER HAVING LOST HIS LOVE BY DEATH, WOULD YET NOT BELIEVE THAT SHE MIGHT NOT BE WON BACK AGAIN, BUT SOUGHT HER WHERE NONE ELSE HAS DARED TO SEEK, & THERE AS IT WERE, COMPELLED THE GODS TO GRANT HIM SOMEWHAT; WHICH NEVERTHELESS HIS OWN FOLLY CAST AWAY AGAIN, AND HE WAS LEFT TO LIVE AND DIE A LONELY MAN.

Down in the south Laconian country-side
About mount Tenarus, a wood spreads wide
And toward the heart of it holm-oak and yew
Make it right hard for light to struggle through,
Make twilight in the noonday. Ere ye reach
This darkest place, the crisp leaves of the beech
Make a sweet ceiling overhead; the oak
And many-keyed ash good for shaft and yoke
Grow sparser next above the thin hard grass;
Then through a clear space doth a swift stream pass
A rod from whose bank the black wood uprears
Its mighty mass of dread: in long passed years
So was it at the least, as tells my tale;
And in those days no quarry might avail
To draw the hunter to the further shore
Of that small stream, though, folk said, golden ore
Rolled from the hills thick on its shallows lay
To wait, belike, the coming of the day
When Pan should die and all the Gods should leave
The world all changed, as folk did then believe
Should one day come to pass. All men did dread
That wood exceeding much, and deemed the dead

240

Walked there at whiles; and that the Gods who least
Love mortal men, whose dreadful altar-feast
Needeth men's blood, at whiles would haunt the place.

Yet one there was in such a fearful case
That hope from fear she never more might tell
Who e'en amidst the very place did dwell
And with the dead held converse; nor might men
Number the years this fearful one bore then;
Or know if she would die, for ever she,
As tells the tale, in all folk's memory
Had been the same to look on: so it was
That sometimes would her awful shadow pass
Long in the sunset, long in the low moon
Over the hay-field, and the maidens' tune
Would quaver and die out, and hand from hand
Would fall away, and youth and damsel stand
Trembling and scarcely daring to draw breath,
As love grew faint before the coming death.
Yet since strange tales went of her wondrous lore,
Sometimes would folk that hard need pressed full sore,
Cry from the stream's bank on her dreadful name,
They durst not name else; and the hag still came
At the seventh call, and, for such homely hire
As woollen cloth, or knife fresh from the fire,
Wheat-meal, or kid fit for the slaughtering,
Fresh oil or honey, or such like other thing,
Would speak in dreadful voice that scarcely seemed
To come from her, and of ill dreams thrice dreamed
Would tell the import; or teach fearful skill,
How to gain love perforce, and how to kill
Far-off unseen—in battle to prevail,
To heal the half-dead and make weak the hale.

That wood and she who dwelt therein did curse
The country-side, I deem: more wild and fierce,
More cruel and hard in love, more fell in hate

241

Were those than other folk, content to wait
With blind eyes in this changing doubtful home
The bitter and the sweet that were to come.

With none of these our story dealeth now
But with a stranger who went to and fro
Amid the dwellings that stood round about
The wood, and hearkened tales of dark and doubt
Men told thereof, silent himself, distraught
Amid the wondering men with bitter thought
With grief untold to these, which yet our tale
Shall tell of somewhat. In a Thracian vale,
He dwelt erewhile, and Orpheus had to name,
And from a proud and mighty race he came
Of which few words folk tell, but know that he
Could deal with measured words and melody
As no man else, and all the people moved,
And in all matters was right well beloved.
Now this man wooed the maid Eurydice
And won her, and the days wore by till she
Was wedded to him, but or ere the night
When all their longing into pure delight
Should melt away, as her fair feet did pass
Over the sweetest of the garden grass
And he beheld them, unbeheld there crept
A serpent through the flowers o'er which she stepped
And stung her unshod foot in deadly wise
So that before the July moon might rise
To gleam upon the rose-strewn fragrant bed,
She, the desire of all the world, lay dead.

Ye who shall read what after followeth
May deem belike how this man first saw death;
Who none the less at last arose from pain
So great, that from its heart he needs must gain
Some little hope, if he should yet live on,
And so this grew until at last he won

242

A bitter courage from his lone despair,
That scarcely would believe in death, or bear
The burden of the changeless Gods while love
Was yet alive the very death to move,
What lore he gained, or in what hidden place.
But so it was that still he set his face
Toward Tenarus, until at last outworn
With grief and watching, on a bitter morn
Upon the borders of that stream he stood
With strained eyes fixed upon the fearful wood.

Black was his raiment, and a withered wreath
Of flowers that once had felt the summer's breath
Was round his head; an ivory harp, well strung
With golden strings, about his neck there hung:
Lovely he was, well-wrought of every limb;
But white and wasted was the face of him
Beneath his golden hair, a thing to move
The best of Goddesses to ruth and love,
If she might dream a little while that fate,
Stayed by the hand of love, an hour could wait
To let her taste the fear and hope and pain,
That still we strive to think not wholly vain.

Midwinter was it, dark the full stream ran
Betwixt two shelves of ice; the sun grew wan
Already, as the promise of the day
Was marred by the long cloud-bars dull and grey
That the light frosty wind drew from the north;
From the brown brake-side peered a grey wolf forth
And snarled behind him, e'en while overhead
A raven wheeled, glad that the year was dead
To make him rich. Then Orpheus seemed to wake
As from a dream, and looked around and spake:

“Long hast thou been a-dying, O bitter year,
Whose summer-tide such woe to me did bear!

243

And dieth not time withal, though still I strive
A little, and a little hope doth live.
But I—I shall not die, I shall not die
E'en when this hope is utterly gone by,
But, living, unconsumed by misery still,
Into a timeless changeless sea of ill,
Made but to waste my wretched soul, shall float,
As from a dark stream's mouth an unmanned boat
Floats into a windless sea fulfilled of death.”

He clenched his hands, and drew a weary breath,
And o'er the grass that through the thin dry snow
Struggled aloft, he went with footsteps slow
Until he came to the stream's shallowest place,
Then with his sick hope quivering in his face,
Crashed through theice and splashed the ripple through
And gained the bank, and toward the dark wood drew,
That none in memory of aught alive
Had dared to seek, with death and hell to strive.
But he for nought that might abide him quailed,
E'en when the winter day's sick sunlight failed
Beneath the black boughs, and the twilight dim
Betwixt the tree-trunks needs must seem to him
Gained not from day, but from some strange place shed
Where day and night need not the changeless dead.
Nought living in that wood his eyes might see,
Scarce might the snow betwixt thick tree and tree
Reach the sparse herbage, or the hard brown ground:
Though the wind rose without now, no real sound
But of his hasty feet therein he heard;
Yet by the silence nowise was he feared,
For, wrapped about in grief and strong intent,
Scarcely he saw the way on which he went
Or took note of the trees, as one by one
From out the gloom his eyes were fixed upon
They grew, then met him, then were left behind.

244

Thus darkling through the changeless wood ways blind
Long time he went, till suddenly a light,
Red, dusky, flickering, through the silent night
Of the moveless boughs sent a long wavering way,
Changing to black and red the tree-trunks grey.
No cry came from his lips, nor did his feet
Falter one whit, but swiftlier moved to meet
The heart of the strange light, until at last
Into a treeless open space he passed,
Though what was overhead he might not say,
Sky or what else; for surely the world's day
Had scarce waned yet, yea and were it night
With neither moon nor star the sky to light
Scarce had this wide-spread twilight glimmered there
To mingle with the red blaze that did flare
From out the windows of a house of stone,
White and unstained as is a wind-bleached bone
In a dry land. He looked down toward his feet
And might not name the flowers that they did meet,
Though blossoms certainly that glare did light
Not the thin grey grass and snow dusty-white
Of the cold world without; whereby he knew
That some strange land he thus had journeyed to,
But felt no fear, nay rather hope, that strange
Should all be round him; and the changeless change
Of seasons, each slaying each, and night and day
Waxing and waning thus were passed away.

So now unto the doorway of that hall
Swiftly he passed, and as his feet did fall
Upon its threshold, wild new hopes there came
Across his heart. He entered; a great flame
Shot up from floor to ceiling of that place
Reddening his raiment and his wild white face
And lighting every nook and cranny there.
A mighty [hall] had he accounted fair
Mid the world's sunlight, with the boughs of trees

245

Brushing its windows in the fitful breeze;
But here, mid utter silence of all else
Save the flame's roar, mid horror such as dwells
Amidst a city where all folk have died,
Dreadful it seemed, and even he did bide
Doubtful a little while, with eyes all dazed
As through the smokeless swirling flame he gazed;
All was of stone there, flawless-smooth, and white,
Pavement and walls and roof, but for the light
That reddened it: betwixt the fire and door
A laver was there sunken in the floor
Whose moveless water mirrored the straight flame;
A brazen bowl there floated in the same,
And by the pillar that rose up anigh,
A black-fleeced ram lay gasping piteously,
The red blood running from his breast apace.

Now sounded a shrill voice adown the place:
“Draw nigher, Orpheus, tell thy tale to me
Of the glad world unmeet for me and thee
That hast a mind the heavens and earth to move:
Tales wherein hope is told of, and sweet love,
Where each loves each in sweet and equal wise
Beneath the just Gods' happy unseen eyes.”

Then such a laughter on his ears did fall
As made him deem that in that dreadful hall
His sin and his despair did him abide,
A thing made manifest, that ere that tide
Dimly he knew, a dream: and yet his feet
Now drew him on the worst of all to meet.
But as betwixt the pillars tall he passed
Lo, nor their whiteness, nor his blackness cast
A shadow on the pavement, in despite
Of that great swirling shaft of ruddy light.
But now all fear that his great heart drew round
At the first hearing of that dreadful sound

246

Died clean away as onward he did wend
And saw one sitting at the hall's far end
On a great seat of stone, a woman, clad
In white wool raiment: in her hand she had
A rock wherefrom she span a coal-black thread;
Her face was as the face of one long dead
But for her glittering eyes, and white and long
Hung down her hair her raiment's folds among.

“All hail, World's Hope, World's Love!” she cried, “we twain
Of such a meeting long have been most fain:
Yea, though thou knowest me not, yet oft indeed
Thou calledst on me in thy bitter need,
To make thy face as brass, thine heart as stone—
O good it is we twain are met alone!”

Now as he drew close, therewithal it seemed
As though this too with all these things were dreamed,
And had no import: as he stood there, still
One thought, one hope his wasted heart did fill,
That in such wise from out his soul did flame
That o'er his cheeks a ruddy flush there came
Mocked from her corpse-like lips by laughter low
As if his thoughts she nowise failed to know.
Then with a proud and steady gaze he cried:
“Mother, all hail! for though the world be wide,
Thus have we met; I who desire, and thou
Who hidden things and life's end well can show!”

“Mother of nought at all,” she cried, “am I;
The love and hope that I saw wane and die,
I brought it not to birth, but in a dream
Was it made mine: the thought that once did seem
Born from my very heart—who knows, who knows,
Whence it was born, amid what fearful throes
Of Gods, to mock me as alone I sit,
Mazed twixt the rising and the end of it.

247

Fool of the world, thou hearkenest not to me,
Deeming thy love a part of thee to be,
Knowing it mighty, thinking that thou too
Art grown a God all marvellous things to do—
Assay it, O thou singer, who didst move
The little hearts of men ere thou didst love,
And canst not move them more, O hot-heart fool,
Who then as now wert but the helpless tool
Of that undying worldwide melody
Whose sweet sound mocks the vain hearts made to die.
—Thou hearkenest not—how then shall I avail
Thy vain desire? Speak, tell me of thy tale!”

Indeed with wandering eyes he turned to her,
As though no meaning all her words did bear,
But when she made an end of all, he said:
“Mother, folk say thou dealest with the dead,
Thyself alive—as old as thou mayst be,
As wise by lapse of years of misery,
I, young, unwise, methinks might look upon
The eyes of those that their last rest have won
As thou thyself dost, nor more lonely grow
E'en for that sight; because within me now
Instead of lore and wisdom is there set
Desire too strong to dally with regret,
To deal with dreamy bitter-sweet half-rest,
To strive for that which wise men call the best,
Forgetfulness and blotting out of day;
Too strong but as a thinnest mask to bear
Sick-hearted patience through the days to wear.
Nay I need pray thee not, I know thy thought
As thou know'st mine; I am not come for nought,
Alone of all men, to this fearful place.”

Silent awhile upon him did she gaze,
Then cried: “Nay nay, thou com'st not here to strive
Save with the Gods who kill and make alive

248

And know not why—so even let it be,
And as I may will I give help to thee;
I who perchance am even one of these
And shall not die to gain a little ease.
—Yet hearken now, thou as thou standest there,
So loving and so lovesome and so fair,
All music on thy lips, and in thine heart—
More than a God in this one thing thou art,
And if love ruled the world thou too shouldst rule.
But so it is not; love is but the tool
They use to make the morning bright and fair.
Even by the silence of thy dull despair
The brown breast of the thoughtless nightingale
Is filled with longings vague to tell thy tale:
Through the cold patience of thy grief forgot,
A hundred thousand springs wax bright and hot,
A hundred thousand summers bear the rose;
And with the fruitful rest thine heart did lose
A hundred thousand autumns grow o'ersweet
Before the star-crowned winter's cold white feet;
While thou thyself, a waif cast forth, shalt fare
Alone, unloved, thou knowest not why or where.
Come then today and strive and strive and fail,
Beat down and conquered—yet of more avail,
Sweeter and fairer to the world than though
In triumph thou thy short life passedst through,
Glad every day and making others glad.”

Methinks he knew not, or for good or bad,
The words she spake to him, but in his eyes
Gleamed a strange light, as he beheld her rise
And step down toward him; as a king's eyes gleam
When from the hall forth unto battle stream
His folk foredoomed behind him, and the shout
Of foes unnumbered ringeth round about.

But now on his hot hand her hand did fall
Ice-cold, and slow she led him down the hall

249

Until they came unto the laver fair,
And there she bade him bide, and into the air
Departed, but returning presently
Bare store of herbs with her all strange to see,
With some whereof her dreadful hair she crowned,
And some she strewed about upon the ground,
Or cast into the water: then she took
The ram now dead, and from her long arms shook
The cumbering raiment back, and therewith strode
Unto the fire and cast therein her load,
That flesh and fell and bone the fire licked up;
Then from her girdle did she take a cup,
And filled it from that water, and then spake:
“Drink and fear not; thine heart that so doth ache
Shall rest a while. Lie down hereby, and sleep
Over the trouble of thy soul shall creep
Despite thyself. But when thou wak'st, take thou
Thine harp, if aught there be within thee now
Of melody; and in the sweetest wise
Thou mayest, sing thou of thy miseries:
For doubt thou not, that those shall be anear
Who all thy tale shall nowise fail to hear
Howso they mock thee afterward. Farewell,
What end soe'er of this thou hast to tell,
Belike it is that ne'er shall meet again
Thine all-devouring feverish longing vain
And my despair that the Gods needs must call
Patience and silence, the great help of all.”

He drank, and almost ere her speech was o'er
Sank with dim eyes upon the marble floor,
Then twice he feebly raised his eyes to see
If she were gone, and twice sank languidly
Again; and yet again somewhat he strove
To look forth, but now scarcely might he move,
For heavy sleep was on him 'gainst his will,
And a void space; then dreams of the fair hill

250

That hung in Thrace above his father's house,
Beset with youths and maidens amorous,
That waited there his coming forth to them
With harp and fair song, that the wool robe's hem
Might dance about the maiden's dancing feet,
And her loosed hair smite with its tangles sweet
The youth's flushed trembling face drawn close anigh.
But from the house he deemed there came a cry
“Orpheus is dead, and will not come again.”
And therewithal he seemed to strive in vain
To add a cry unto the wailing loud
That burst out straightway from the lovesome crowd;
But as he strove all sight passed clean away,
And no more had he thought of night or day,
Or lapse of time, nay scarce if he did live;
But none the less ever his mouth did strive
With that dumb wail and made no sound at all;
Until at last the pillars of the hall
Midst a dim twilight did he now behold
Grow slowly from the dark void; quenched and cold
The fire was; great drops fell from on high
Into the laver, and a strange wild cry
Rang through the lone place—O Eurydice
My love, my love!—yet he knew not that he
Had ever cried: but as he slowly rose
Unto his feet and drew the raiment close
Unto his shivering body, and his heart
Strove to gain memory, his white lips did part,
And as the dead may call unto the dead
With listless hands down-dropped, and hopeless head,
He cried: “O love, O love Eurydice!”
And through the hall his voice rang mournfully,
And died away, nor other sound was there
Except the drip into the water near,
And his own breathing. So at last he moved
And his foot smote against his harp beloved,
And from its strings there came a jarring sound

251

Familiar once, but mid the marvels round,
In that last refuge of his hope and woe
A stranger sound than e'er he hearkened to.
Therewith he 'gan remember where he was
And all that hitherto had come to pass,
And of the bidding of the dreadful crone.
Then with the pain of feeling so alone,
None nigh to tell of all his longing sore,
His heart grew soft, and his vexed eyes ran o'er
With bitter unseen tears; and midst of these
Came thronging thick and fast the images
Of bygone days; he stooped adown to take
His harp up, and he felt the strained strings quake,
Trembling himself; then with a doubtful hand
Laid on the harp, a while there did he stand
Nor named his hope; until at last the hall
Heard his deft fingers on the red gold fall
And move in loving wise: though he belike
Scarce knew what music therefrom he did strike,
Scarce knew what words from his parched lips came forth.
For all these things to him were grown nought worth:
Only his love lived, only his longing strove
To think the whole world filled with his sweet love.

Long ago has he gone, nor left behind
One word of his to loose love, or to bind,
Yet tells the tale his thought in words like these,
Faint as they be to match his melodies.

While agone my words had wings
And might tell of noble things,
The wide warring of the kings,
And the going to and fro
Of the wise that the world do know.

252

Then the sea was in my song,
And the wind blew rough and strong,
And the swift steeds swept along
And the griding of the spears
Reached the hot heart through the ears.

So a slim youth sang I then
Mid the beards of warring men;
Till the great hall rang again,
And the swords were on their knees
As they hearkened words like these.

Or before the maids that led
The white oxen, sleek, full fed,
When the field gave up its dead,
The dead lover of the sun,
Sweet sang I when day was done.

Hearts I gladdened, limbs made light,
When the feet of girls gleamed white
In the odorous torch-lit night,
And belike my heart did flame
Though my cheek told lies of shame.

Or in days not long agone,
Would I sit as if alone
Though around stood many a one,
Each as if alone we were
For of fresh love sang I there.

All such things could I sing now,
And to this dull silence show
How the life of man doth grow;
Of all love and hope and hate
And unseen slow-creeping fate.

253

But of this how shall I sing?
The sick hope whereto I cling,
The despair that everything
Moaneth with about mine eyes,
This dull cage of miseries?

Slow died the sweet wail of his voice along
The dusk of the hall; an echo of his song
He deemed came back, he knew not whence or how
But there a long while stood he silent now
Amid the silence, till a sudden thought
An unseen frown unto his white brow brought
And once again he smote his harp and sang
Great words that wildly through the dread hush rang.

O ye, who sit alone And bend above the earth
So great that the world's gain Is but a hollow dearth,
And pain forgot like laughter, And love of fleeting worth,
Did ye teach me how to sing Or where else did I gain
The tears slow-born of bliss, The sweetness drawn from pain?

I stand alone and longing Nor know if aught doth live
Except myself and sorrow Nor know with whom to strive,
Nor know if ye have might To hold back or to give,
Nor know if ye can love, Or what your hate shall be
Or if ye are my foes, Or the love that burns in me.

Can ye hearken as men hearken, Can I move you as erewhile
I moved the happy kings, And the wise men did beguile?
When the lover unbeloved Must sigh with rest and smile
For the sweetness of the song That made not light of woe,
And the youngling stand apart, And learn that life must go.

254

O ye who ne'er were fettered, By the bonds of time and ill,
Give give, if ye are worthy Or leave me worthier still:
For the measure of my love No gain of love should fill.
If I held the hands I love, If I pressed her who is gone,
Living, breathing, to my breast, Not e'en so were all well won.

O be satisfied with this, That no end my longing knows
If the years might not be counted, For we twain to sit all close
As on earth we sat a little Twixt the lily and the rose,
Sat a little and were gone Ere we mingled in the strife,
Ere we learned how best to love, Ere we knew the ways of life.

Folk pray to us of earth To be loved, and sick at heart
Must turn their eyes away, And from every hope depart:
We are lone who cannot give, And grow hard beneath the smart
But ye have wealth and might, Ye can hearken and can give,
What gain is there in death? O be wise and make alive!

He ceased and listened, for he deemed a sound
Unnameable stirred the still air around,
But knew not if from his own heart it was;
But into utter silence all did pass,
Whate'er it might be, in a while, and he
Stood in that place a moment silently,
Then passed unto the door, and gazed about
And the same glimmering twilight was without
As in the hall, and silence as of death,
So that the very drawing of his breath,
His feet just scarcely moving 'gainst his will,
Seemed a great sound, portentous, mid the still
Warm moveless air: till now he 'gan to think:
Yea, perchance death it was that I did drink
From the crone's cup, and this is but death's life
Silent and lonely, yet with memory rife,
With all the pain of the old struggle left,

255

With all the love unsatisfied; hope reft
Away from us alone—Ah is it so
That in such wise with thee the hours do go,
And thou art lone, O love, as I am lone?
Yet if thy love for me is no more gone,
Than is my love, sure we shall meet again
To weep and smile above the tales of pain
That threatened, mocking, it would never cease.
Ah, if a word of mine might give thee peace,
Now or we meet, now while thou wanderest
Amid the languor of this dull unrest!

And once again his hands ran o'er the strings,
And once again with thought of long-past things
His heart swelled into music, and his song
Within that echoless land rang sweet and strong.

O me, a white house there was
Set amid the Thracian grass
And the wood-dove moaned thereover,
And the Thracian loved and lover,
Passing by the garden-close
Speaking words that no one knows,
Stopped awhile to smile and say
“Orpheus shall be wed today—”
“The white feet of Eurydice
Fair as thou art fair to me
Soft beneath the lilies white—”
“Bear her forth to full delight
Till the night and morn shall touch.”
“Come then, love, for overmuch
Them and us the Gods do bless
With enduring happiness.”
“Yea love, for the grass is green
Still, and thrushes run between

256

The faint mallows overworn,
And the berries of the thorn
Know no ruddy threat of death!”

So they felt each other's breath
And each other's shoulders warm,
And the weight of hand and arm
As they went amid the grass;
There her naked feet did pass
And her hand touched blossoms fair
By the poison lurking there
In the yellow-throated snake;
But their beauty did not wake
His dull heart and evil eyes
And belike in happy wise
They abide now, and shall come
Yet again unto that home.

Ah, the gate is open wide,
And the wild bees only hide
In the long-cupped blossoms there,
And the garden-god is bare
Of the flowers he used to have,
And no scythe the sward doth shave
And the wilding grasses meet
High above their faltering feet
Where the lilies used to grow
And unnailed the peach hangs now,
No more is the fountain full
And the dial's gold is dull;
And the foot-worn pink-veined stone
Of the porch all green hath grown;
Through the empty chambers cold
Moans the wind as it did hold
Dull winter mid the summer's heart.

Think ye that the twain depart
Glad that they alone are glad?

257

They who saw the clothes that clad
Her fair body that fair night,
Yellowing as the jasmine white
Yellows as it fades away,
And how withered roses lay
On the pillows of the bed
That ne'er touched her golden head?

They who looked so close they saw
The bed-gear into creases draw;
Drawn that noon so by my mouth
Feverish with half-happy drouth.

And the threshold, saw they not
Where my lips thereon were hot
Ere she came, that she might feel
As her feet thereo'er did steal
Trembling sweet, and know not why,
Fluttering hope so soon to die
In the heart of utter bliss
As the still night saw our kiss?

Think ye that these twain might rest
Till they knew why they, so blessed
Such a sorrow of heart should feel?
Through the summer day they steal,
E'en as folk who dwell alone
In a land whence all are gone
Where their shame hath wrought the thing.
For their hands forget to cling
Each to each, and their sweet eyes
Are distraught with mysteries
Hard to solve and hard to leave.
Till at ending of the eve
Folk they meet at last to tell
How the death of joy befell.

258

He ceased now, trembling sore, for certainly
A murmur like a gathering wind went by;
Then as it were a strange laugh musical
But mocking, fearful, on his ears did fall.
“Ye hearken, O ye hearken,” cried he then,
“Yet hearkening do ye mock the woes of men?
O speak, speak, yet again O song of mine!
Wilt thou be dumb, now, when this love divine
Meeteth the very Gods, naked, alone,
And unafraid, as though the world were gone
Adown the void?”

Already as he spake
A step across the threshold did he take,
And with his heart a-fire and flaming eyes
He let the fountain of his song arise.

O if ye laugh, then am I grown,
O Gods, as here I stand alone
The body of a ceaseless moan,
Yet better than ye are, a part
Of the world's woe and the world's heart.

For the world laughed not on the morn
When my full woe from night was born
When first I called on you forlorn:
The world laughed not, although I feared
When first its waking breath I heard.

O me! the morn was bright enow;
A little westering wind did blow
Across the rye-field's outer row,
Across her white breast no more warm,
Across my numbed enfolding arm.

259

The July morn was bright and clear,
No more the cock's cry did I hear,
Now when the sparrows wakened there,
Now when all things awoke around
Mine arms about her heart enwound.

Then o'er the edge of earth and sky
The sun arose, and silently
Lit up the lily-heads anigh;
The sun stole through the room to light
Her arm hung down, her fingers white.

Higher and higher arose the sun
Until unto our breasts it won
And burned there till the noon was done;
Upon my head the sun was hot
And scorched me sore, but harmed her not.

Then toward the west it 'gan to wend,
No wind was left the rye to bend
Till drew the day unto an end;
No wind until the night grew cold
Above the face my hands did hold.

Yet all that bright day mocked me nought,
Through sunny hours its end was wrought
Yet was it sad enow methought;
Its end was wrought mid calm and peace
Yet mournfully did it decrease.

And if men went upon their ways
E'en as in other summer days,
Surely they toiled with no glad face,
Amid the bright day did they seem
To toil as in a hapless dream.

260

And so at first I thought indeed
The world was kind to help my need;
No thing therein, from man to weed,
But it was kind my love to lack,
To help my need and wish her back.

But ye help not nor know how I
Would help the whole world's misery
And give it bliss ne'er passing by,
Ne'er passing by, if I might sit
Above the world, and yearn to it.

He ceased and once more passed the murmur by
And after it a sound as of a sigh
That sounded sweet to him, for in his heart
This seemed at last to have a little part.
Then through the dark he cried:

“May it be then
That if no more I see the sons of men
Yet even so I am not quite alone!”

Then in the air again he heard a moan,
And then a voice cried “Orpheus” thrice aloud
And with that sound such strange wild hopes did crowd
About him, that the very death indeed,
Whate'er that is, had well nigh been his meed,
But when his senses cleared he heard again
A voice that spake:

“O Orpheus, not in vain
Thou sayst that the world mocked thee not: and we
Unnamed, unknown, how then should we mock thee?
But how shall song move that which hath no ears,
Or love the thing that nought of longing bears,
Or grief move that, which never doth behold
The world amid unnumbered griefs grown old

261

Yet still alive more griefs to bear and more?
But forasmuch as thy grief is as sore
As many are, thy will exceeding strong
Mid earthly wills, some semblance of a wrong
Done to the world thou yet from us mayst win
To satisfy thy lust; some gift wherein
Shall poison seem to lurk: this shalt thou take
And fear not for the end; if for the sake
Of that which thou hast set thine heart upon
E'en such a lonely gift thou deemest well won;
But ere thou standest lone and strong, look forth
And weigh how much thy grain of woe is worth
Amid the measureless dust of woes bygone.”

Then ceased the voice, but that strong-hearted one
Put back his hair to gaze, and lo, a light
Spread slowly through the dusk of that half night
Until the flowers showed bright, the last trees stood
Grey 'gainst the blackness of the bounding wood;
And then a low and moaning wind, and then
Came and passed by the forms of sad-faced men
And weary women; nor failed each to turn
Such eyes on him as into his heart did burn
An added grief: nor might he turn away,
Till as the unending flock of rain-clouds grey
O'er the sea streaming did they grow to be,
And each one with its unmatched misery
Unnamed, unhealed: until the dusk again
Dropped slowly down over that world of pain
And left him voiceless, sightless, void of thought.

And so again the voice to him was brought;
“O Orpheus, hast thou seen and measured this,
And wilt thou wail out for a life of bliss
And deem thyself great-hearted? knowest thou
If even those thou criedst at e'en now
Live as live happy men who die?—then pray
And gain the grace that the Gods give today!”

262

Thought stirred within him, but his mouth was dumb
A long time, for faint sickness still did come
Betwixt him and his prayer, until at last
From out his gasping lips a cry was cast
Forth to the dark:

“O love Eurydice!
Where then amid this mournful crowd is she?
With mine own eyes these gazed into my face
And yet I knew them not.”

Then through the place
There came a trembling, and the voice grown great
Filled all the air, and shuddering did he wait
Till he might know its meaning, and it said:
“O Orpheus, this thy love is of the dead
As well thou knowest: none shall tell thee now
Whereas she dwelleth; yet perchance, when thou
Goest to the dead land, this and a many thing
Thine eyes shall see clear—O thou tuneful king
What wilt thou have of us? speak out and pray,
Gaining the grace that the Gods give today!”

But therewithal cried Orpheus eagerly:
“O ye, if men should learn that one might die
And yet return, should not their grief be less
Because of hope? should not their happiness
Falter no more twixt time of longing pain
And time of gaining all that they may gain?”

Soft spake the voice: “And thou, O Orpheus then,
Wilt bear this thing alone of living men,
And as thou hither to hast helped them well,
Help them in this and leave a tale to tell.
For whereas neither God nor man indeed
Thou fain wouldst be, yet may we grant thy need.
Great art thou, great and strong all things to bear!”

No laughter through the darkness did he hear,
Yet a sick fear possessed him, he 'gan quake

263

As the reed set amid the stream: then spake
The voice again:

“Nay be thou of good cheer
For hither soon shall come the Messenger
And speak to thee what thou mayst understand,
And give thee tidings from the unknown land.
—O glorious Orpheus, leader of the earth
Into the paths of rest and endless mirth,
Well hast thou done to seek us face to face
And win despite our will a little grace
For the world's weary sorrow: surely thou
Art clean apart from all men born ere now,
And as thou wieldest grief so joy can wield,
And hold thy patience as an untouched shield
Twixt thee and change—All shall be well with thee
If thus thou dost, O forge of melody.”

So died the voice, and nothing might he hear
Save his own heart a-beating: but strange fear
Unreasoning, of some huge mocking ill
Hanging about him, half his soul did fill
And struggled with the other half, wherein
Was fluttering joy of what he looked to win
Mixed with confused longing: and so dealt
These things together, that at last he felt
Nought round about him, nor knew where he was,
But over him a heaviness 'gan pass
As if of coming happy death, and slow
He sank adown on the hall's threshold now,
And in dead sleep lay long in that dull land
With fear and wonder close on either hand.

He woke up with the sound of his own name
Filling the air: a sense of wrong and shame
Wrought in him as his heavy head he raised
And round about him through the half-dusk gazed.

264

Howe'er it was, beat down he felt, brought low
Who had been proud and great a while ago.
He rose at last, and therewithal he heard
His name given forth, and afterward this word:

“O Orpheus, art thou ready for the sake
Of love this burden on thy soul to take:
Unknowing mid unknowing men to dwell
With one who many a secret thing could tell
Yet may not? Art thou willing to see eyes
Thou lovest so grow cold amid surprise
Of thee and thy desires, and all the ways
Of mortal men who wear away blind days,
They know not why? Wilt thou be satisfied
To have a living body that shall hide
A shuddering soul, restless, gazing across
The world's shows and its idle gain and loss
Unto the things that shall at least endure—
A soul to whom nought earthly shall be pure
Or strange or great—nay, nay, not e'en thy love,
Thou deemest greater than the Gods above?
Is it enough, the gain we offer thee?
Bethink thee; get thee back, and thou shalt see
Thy world again and nurse thy grief therein,
Thy grief and love; then a short space win
The rest of death, and gifts thou dream'st not of.
Or else bear all, and thou shalt see thy Love
Ere this world's day is ended—Speak and pray,
And take the gift the Gods will give today!”

Then Orpheus cried: “O whosoe'er thou art
That speaketh: surely I can hear a part
Of what thou sayest, telling me that I
Shall surely see mine own love presently,
She and I face to face—e'en she whom men
Once called Eurydice, in old days, when
We found each other—for the rest it seems

265

The air holds soundless thoughts, that as in dreams
Flicker about my heart, but show nought clear—
The babble of the mind—If thou canst hear,
And understand, hear this: Give thou me back
The only thing my heart shall ever lack,
Or let me be—and let the world grow worse
And men and Gods, that heed me nothing, curse
Each other, and the endless wrack begin,
The endless strife where nought there is to win
But worser swifter ruin—O let me be,
A helpless hapless mass of misery,
But lonely at the least, with no pretence
To bless or curse your vain omnipotence,
To be a part of what your hands have wrought,
Who knoweth how, for nought, for nought, for nought.”

There stood he panting: but these words being said,
Long silence was there, till there grew sick dread
Within him, that but mocks the promise was,
And nothing from henceforth would come to pass
Except that lonely death for which he cried.
But midst his fears a light 'gan glimmer wide
Betwixt the trees, and grew, until he saw
A strange and lustrous shape anigh him draw.
Man-like it was, not overgreat to see
More than a man, but wings sprang wondrously
From his two shoulders, bright of changing hue;
Moreover when still nigher him he drew,
And seemed about himself strange light to bear,
In nought might Orpheus see his visage clear;
Now burned his eyes with wild and dreadful light,
Now soft they grew, as though his soul had sight
Of something good past words; an odorous air
Stirred in his long locks, from his pinions fair,
Till his bright cheeks were half veiled; then all stern
His mouth grew as of one who needs must learn
Dread things not dreading them himself, and then

266

In even speech unlike to speech of men
He spake and said:

“Since thou hast made thy choice,
Here am I sent to bid thee to rejoice
Yet amid trembling, for e'en so it is
That e'en this little shred of earthly bliss
Thou hast so wailed for, O thou lonely one,
Is not yet gained, or the deed fully done
The Gods have mind to do—nay what strange pain
Of hope deferred sickens thine heart again?
Be strong, for thou art not amidst a dream
And I am he for whom on earth ye deem
The name of Hermes meet. And now behold,
Thou sayest that thy love would wax not cold
How many years soever thou might'st live,
Thou deem'st thyself full strong enow to strive
With all the Gods, to live and long alone.
And it may be that thou art such an one
E'en as thou deemest—then in very deed
Well shall thy strength now help thee at thy need.
Behold, somewhat the glimmering light doth grow,
A sign of help to thee, of help enow
If thou fail'st not. Toward the world set thy face
Nought doubting of the way, and when the place
Thou gainest, whence thou enteredst first this wood,
Then look beside thee—and how fair and good
The snow-drift and the winter then shall seem
Unto thine eyes! how like a wretched dream
The overburdened summer of thy woe!
For she thine outstretched hand shall surely know,
But yet forgetting all the hollow past
Shall wonder at thine eyes so overcast
With wonder, and the pining of thy cheek,
Thy trembling lips, and why thou dost not speak,
And why thou shudderest there upon the brink
Of the dark stream and e'en somewhat must shrink
Away from her—yea and belike the tears

267

Shall dim her eyes, drawn forth by tender fears
Of anger risen within thee, or some change
To make the dead forgotten days all strange.
But then withal the pain of her and thee,
The pity for each other's agony
Shall make love greater—deem'st thou not that earth
Shall tremble somewhat through its changing girth
When round about her heart thine arms are cast
And lips to lips your bodies meet at last—
O happy, happy shall ye be that tide!”

Panting stood Orpheus, with eyes staring wide
As from the God's lips forth the fair speech flowed,
Gentle, heart-piercing; and his whole soul glowed
With warmth of happy love: yea was it not
That all that sweetness from his own heart, hot
With hope returning, meeting love had come?
Yet when he strove to speak his lips were dumb,
Nay scarce he knew if yet his aching eyes
Beheld the God or in what wondrous wise
Things were changed round him. Then the voice again,
And o'er his heart there swept a wave of pain,
Bitter and cold as, smooth word knit to word,
Rose up a threat, an overhanging sword:
He saw himself entangled in time's net,
Of love forgotten, helpless to forget,
Yet longing and its sweetness all gone by,
And no one left to note his misery—
Ah me, a space of time ere he should touch
The lips that once with longing overmuch
Had changed his life! before the words were said
Face to face stood he with this newborn dread,
And moaned for pity, as confused and dim
Slowly their import floated on to him
As from a waste land:

“Happy shalt thou be,
O Orpheus, if the love that is in thee

268

Deal not with time or change or doubt, but still
Thou lookest onward through all pain and ill
Unto the goal, believing that thy love
Can never die howso the world may move:
But ah, how hapless, if thou shouldst forget
That thou upon the steps of death art set,
If thou shouldst deem this minute all in all
And let such dreadful longing on thee fall
That thou must needs turn round about to gaze
On the changed body and the sightless face
That ne'er can mate thee, living as thou art!
Then certainly a fearful wall shall part
Thy soul and her soul; then thy love is weighed
And found a light thing.”

Slowly Orpheus said:
“O hollow sound of empty words again!
What thing of earth and heaven can know my pain,
If ye, O Gods, shall doubt my love?—nay this
Rather I say: ye grudge to see love's bliss
Here, where things die not: only on the earth
Beset by cold death's ever narrowing girth
Ye let us love—Come, love, I know no more
How much of that sweet space is now passed o'er
Wherein we have to love—come, unseen sweet,
Be not too far behind my hurrying feet!
Come, the Gods slew thee, I redeemed thee, dear!
Come from the dreadful silence hard to bear
Unto the place where each to each we twain
May weep the loss of all we hoped to gain!”

And therewithal he hastened to be gone
And saw no more by him the Shining One,
Nay methinks scarce now had a thought of him,
As o'er the open space into the dim
Close wood he hurried: on he went until
The sweetness of his love his heart 'gan fill
With many a thought, until his harp, his friend

269

He 'gan to handle, and therefrom did send
A low sweet sound, and his soul's longing fell
Into sweet words whereof e'en these may tell.

Winter in the world it is
Round about the unhoped kiss
Whose shadow I have long moaned o'er;
Round about the longing sore
That the touch of thee shall turn
Into joy too deep to burn.
Round thine eyes and round thy mouth
Passeth no murmur of the south,
When my lips a little while
Leave thy quivering tender smile,
As we twain, hand touching hand,
Once again together stand.
Sweet is that as all is sweet;
For the cold drift shalt thou meet,
Kind and cold-cheeked and mine own,
Wrapt about with deep-furred gown
In the wide-wheeled chariot:
Then the north shall spare us not;
The wide-reaching waste of snow
Wilder, lonelier shall grow
As the short-lived sun falls down.

But the warders of the town
When they flash the torches out
O'er the snow amid their doubt,
And their eyes at last behold
Thy red-litten hair of gold,
Shall they open, or in fear
Cry, “Alas, what cometh here?
Whence hath come this Heavenly One
To tell of all the world undone?”

270

They shall open, and we shall see
The long street litten scantily
With the stream of light before
The guest-hall's just opened door,
And our horses' bells shall cease
As we gain the place of peace:
Thou shalt tremble as at last
The worn threshold is o'erpast
And the firelight blindeth thee:
Trembling shalt thou cling to me
As the sleepy merchants stare
At thy cold hands slim and fair,
Thy soft eyes and happy lips
Worth ten times their richest ships.

O my love, how over-sweet
That first kissing of thy feet,
When the fire is sunk alow,
And the hall made empty now
Groweth solemn dim and vast!
O my love, the night shall last
Longer than men tell thereof
Laden with our lonely love!

Somewhat he lingered now, his hand he laid
Upon his forehead, even as if he weighed
Strange thoughts within him; then he hurried on
Once more, as eager all should be well won,
Nor spake aught a long while; and then once more
A wave of sweet fresh longing swept all o'er
His troubled heart: slower a while he went
And from his parched mouth song again he sent.

271

Shall we wake one morn of spring,
Glad at heart of everything,
Yet pensive with the thought of eve?
Then the white house shall we leave,
And go walk about the meads
Till our very joyance needs
Rest at last; and we shall come
To that Sun-god's lonely home,
Lonely till the feast-time is,
When with prayer and praise of bliss,
Thither comes the country side.
There awhile shall we abide,
Sitting low down in the porch
By that image with the torch:
Thy one white hand laid upon
The black pillar that was won
From the far-off Indian mine;
And my face nigh toucheth thine,
But not touching; and thy gown
Fair with spring-flowers cast adown
From thy bosom and thy brow.
There the south-west wind shall blow
Through thine hair to reach my cheek,
As thou sittest, nor mayst speak,
Nor mayst move the hand I kiss
For the very depth of bliss;
Nay, nor turn thine eyes to me.

Then desire of the great sea
Nigh enow, but all unheard,
In the hearts of us is stirred,
And we rise, we twain at last,
And the daffodils downcast
Feel thy feet and we are gone
From the lonely Sun-Crowned one.
Then the meads fade at our back,

272

And the spring day 'gins to lack
That fresh hope that once it had;
But we twain grow yet more glad,
And apart no more may go
When the grassy slope and low
Dieth in the shingly sand:
Then we wander hand in hand
By the edges of the sea,
And I weary more for thee
Than if far apart we were,
With a space of desert drear
'Twixt thy lips and mine, O love!
—Ah, my joy, my joy thereof!

Now as he sang he 'gan to wend more slow
Yea well nigh stopped, and seemed to hearken now
For footsteps following—no sound might he hear
But his own heart a-beating, and great fear
Stung sudden to the quick, and forth he sprang
And from his random-smitten harp there rang
A loud discordant noise: swift he passed on
A long while silent, till upon him won
A dreadful helpless sense of loneliness
That with all fear his spirit did oppress;
And at the last he cried: “Eurydice
O hearken if thou art anigh to me!
Hearken lest I faint and fear thou too
Shouldst faint and fear, and all be left to do
Once more—O hearken sweet—this is a dream
And all our sorrow now doth only seem
And thou art mine and I am thine: we lie,
We twain, at home so soft and quietly
In the moon-litten bed amid the sound
Of leaves light-rustling, and my arms are wound
About thy body, but thy hands fall down

273

Away from me, O sweet, mine own, mine own!
Doubtful e'en now with thy last waking shame.”

Therewith from lips and harp the sweet song came.

O my love, how could it be
But summer must be brought to me
Brought to the world by thy full love?
Long within thee did it move,
Move and bud and change and grow,
Till it wraps me wholly now,
And I turn from thee a while
Its o'er-sweetness to beguile
With a little thought of rest.

Ah me, have I gained the best,
Have I no more to desire
No more hope to vex and tire
No more fear to sicken me,
Nought but the full gift of thee,
All my soul to satisfy.

Ah sweet, lest my longing die
E'en a moment, rise and come,
For the roses of our home,
For the rose and lily here
Are too sweet for us to bear.
Let us wander through the wood
Till a little rest seem good
To our weary limbs, till we,
As the eve dies silently,
Neath the chestnut boughs are laid
Faint with love but not downweighed
By the summer's restlessness,
Wearied but most fain to bless
Pity-laden summer, sad
With the hope the spring once had.

274

He broke his song off therewithal; but vain
His hurrying feet seemed the sweet end to gain
Howso he hastened: in his ears there grew
Noises of things that for nought real he knew:
Noises of lands lonely of men, but full
Of uncouth things; the heavy sound and dull
Of earth cast unto earth, the swallowing sea
Changing to roaring fire presently;
Whining of strange beasts, driving of the rain
Against the lone hall's rattling window-pane;
Low moaning of the wind that was not there,
Swift wings of pigeons that the heavy air
Might never nourish: things known that did change
E'en in their midst to things unknown and strange,
Till his brain 'gan to reel, and soon he thought,
How if to dreamlike hearing there were brought
The sight of dreams? And even therewithal
It seemed to him a crowd his name did call
In moaning unison, that to shriek
Was growing, when the darkness seemed to break,
And once more through the shadowless strange day
Came thronging forth that crowd of sorrows grey,
Silent, slow-moving, staring all at him;
Thereat with sickened heart, and tottering limb,
He stayed and hid his eyes a while to cry:
“O if they mocked me not, and thou art nigh,
Help with thy love, thy patience, O my sweet,
To take these unseen fetters from my feet
And pierce this wall of dreams, that I may move.
O help me yet, dear spirit of my love,
Help me, Eurydice!”

Sweet was the name
Upon his lips, and over him there came
A feeling as of rest: the tumult sank,
And when, with eyes from that wild dream that shrank,
He gazed again, empty the dim dusk was,
And onward once again he 'gan to pass.

275

Yet in a while, when nothing changed he saw
The wood, then terror 'gan again to draw
About him; he felt caged, prisoned there,
And scarce his love and longing now seemed fair,
And time was dead, and he left all alone
Wandering through space where nothing might be won
By will or strength or courage: yet withal
The old wont of song upon his heart did fall
And with the last shred left of hope did blend,
As wearily and slowly he did wend
On through the eyeless dusk, and once again
The harp-strings wailed in answer to his pain.

O love, how the dying year
Love amid its death doth bear—
Death, for though the younglings play
On the green patch by the way,
Though the blue-clad maidens sing
O'er the end of vintaging;
Though to them no pain is love
But a dear joy that shall move
Heaven and earth to do their will;
Yet hangs death above us still,
And no hope of further gain,
But foreboding of a pain
But the dread of surefoot fate
Makes thine eyes so passionate
Makes thy hands so fain to cling.

Hearken, sweet love, how they sing,
And their song is prayer and praise
To the givers of good days,
Though we twain sit all alone
Thinking how that all things won
Are as nought and nought and nought

276

To the joy our fresh love bought
When all fear of change was dead.

O my love, turn not thine head,
For they laugh amid their song,
And they deem themselves so strong,
That if ever they shall cry
From the midst of misery
There is that shall help their need.

O my love, look not, nor heed
For they deem themselves divine,
And shall curse those eyes of thine
Where death gathers now, and grows
Thy passion to its fainting close.

On me, look awhile on me!
And if nought thine eyes can see,
And if nought thy breast can feel
For the sickness that doth steal
O'er desire that was thine heart,
Yet not all alone thou art,
For my lips and hands are nigh,
And I fail and faint and die
As thou diest, O my sweet.
Our souls meet and our loves meet,
And at last we know for sure
What shall change and what endure.

O my love look down and see
What they deem felicity!
Look down on the autumn earth
And their terror-girded mirth;
Speak with words that have no name
All thy love and pity and shame!

277

With a wild cry he dropped his harp adown
Scarce knowing what a change in him was grown,
He smote his hands together, and ran on
As though he deemed at last the end nigh won,
For far away betwixt the trees 'gan gleam
A feeble light, that verily did seem
To be the day:

“O me, Eurydice,
Be swift,” he cried, “to follow after me,
For in the world, if nowhere else, love lives,
And with the very best of all he gives
Shall we be glad, if for a little space.
O the fair earth, my sweet, the joyous place,
Filled with the pleasure of thy loveliness
New-born at last my weary eyes to bless!”

No answer to his breathless cry there came
Whatso he hoped; again he cried her name,
And the light broadened, as his swift feet drew
On toward it, until breathless, dazed, he knew
The goal anigh, but on he staggered still:
The trees grew thinner, the world's light did fill
His eyes, his heart: yet e'en with all so won
The last sick fear and horror fell upon
His quivering soul—Was all a dream, drawn forth
From his great grief that the Gods held no worth
More than another's?

Sick and faint he stood
Now on the very border of the wood,
And strove to think and strove to heed and see.
Without the winter wind sang mournfully
About the lonely place, and the light snow
Was driven round about and to and fro,
Veiling the sky and earth: he gasped for breath
For all seemed failing:

“O thou bitter Death,”
He cried, “and shall I die, and shall she live,

278

Is [this] then all the gift that thou wilt give,
Her life for my life?”

Still he faced the world
And heard no sound but of the wind that hurled
The white snow up and on; till suddenly
Rigid and stark he grew, and shrieked:

“A lie,
A lie! she never followed me, but dwells
Down in the dark depths whereof no tongue tells.”

Then with a dreadful face slowly he turned
Unto the wood, and through the dark there burned
A sudden white light, pure, that blinded not,
And for an instant all was well forgot
But very love; for through the midst of it
His mortal eyes beheld her body flit,
Yea coming toward him: her remembered eyes
Gazing upon him in no other wise
Than when upon the earth in some fair wood
Their feet drew each to each and all was good.

So was it for a space no man may name
Or measure; then a dreadful darkness came
O'er all things, such a sickening void as though
His feet alone must wander to and fro
About a wide waste world made all in vain,
The very body of the deathless pain
Immeasurable, that was himself, his soul.
He moved and knew it not; the wind did roll
The snowflakes greater grown still o'er and o'er,
And in the close-set beech-trees did it roar,
As on the white world went the dusk adown
Mid cold and clamour: but o'er him was thrown
The dreadful silence of the Gods, as he
Went through the unheeding world most listlessly,
With heart too dead to think of life or death,
Which was the best, or why he yet drew breath.

279

What fell to him after that last sad sight
How shall I say? it may be that cold night
More than most nights of winter was fulfilled
With mournful aimless dreams; that the morn, stilled
By iron frost, white world and sky of grey,
Had more of blank despair than e'en such day
Will often have—that on his weary bed
The hopeless love lifted up his head
To hearken, and a strange wild thrill did cross
His dreary oft-told tale of endless loss
And waning hope, as the wind rushing by
Seemed in the breast of it to bear a cry
That well nigh shaped itself into a name,
A name unknown: until there grew a shame
Of his own lonely grief within his heart
And to that cry he cried to have a part
In some more god-like sorrow than the days
Shed dully on his petty tangled ways—
I know not, I—but know as the years grew
Some rumour of the tale twixt false and true
Did reach men's hearts, whereof it came that some
Told of sad shapes haunting that Thracian home,
Sad voices in the chestnut-woods about.
And some that when the night held most of doubt
And terror round the black Laconian wood,
When heaviest the dark o'er it did brood,
When wildest roared the wind about its trees,
When most the moonlight made ill images
Of the o'erhanging boughs about its brink
And to its narrowest the vexed stream did shrink—
That at such tides, amid the wind heard shrill,
Cleaving the dark like threat of god-sent ill,
Low in the hush of the dread summer night
The name of that dead love, that lost delight
Would come upon the world—Eurydice,
What hideth so thy hands thine eyes from me.

280

But the world wore through years of good and bad,
And tales that less of pity in them had,
Or more of hope, of Orpheus men 'gan tell:
Such as how death at last to him befell
Long after this: for he was slain, they said,
By the God-maddened bands that Bacchus led
Adown the banks of Hebrus: other some
Say that the tuneful muses took him home,
That on the cloud-hid steep of Helicon
From out the world's grief a calm life he won,
Nothing forgotten of his feverish pain,
Nothing regretted, but all spent and vain,
And he not glad nor grieved, but God indeed.

Ah let such go their ways, his earthly need
Ye know; his earthly longing and defeat.
Thank him low-voiced that even this is sweet
Unto our dying hearts that needs must gain
A little hope from pity and from pain.

281

THE WOOING OF SWANHILD

ARGUMENT

OF OLD TIME A CERTAIN KING, WELL STRICKEN IN YEARS, SENT HIS YOUNG SON TO WOO FOR HIM AN EXCEEDING FAIR MAIDEN, BUT, WHEREAS EVIL TONGUES WERE BUSY ABOUT THESE THREE, THE END OF IT WAS THAT THE YOUNG FOLK BEWRAYED THE OLD KING, AND, BEWRAYED IN THEIR TURN, DIED A TERRIBLE DEATH.

A King of the Goths there was as tells my tale
Men called Hermanaric, a man of might
Whose fortune midst all trouble did prevail;
High soared his joyful spirit many a night
Of battle won beneath his banner bright;
Bowed knees he knew, and trembling outstretched hands,
And shouts of welcome to new-conquered lands.

But now at last he sat him down in peace
Fain to forget that there was more to win,
Doubtful in dealing with his late-gained ease,
Mid the wide borders of his land, wherein
Whate'er there was of woe or fear or sin
But reached him when his great men bade him choose
If they should slay or save or bind or loose.

Now mid his highest lords a man there was
Of forty summers, fair of speech and mien,
Well-liking, deft to bring all things to pass
That by the King's eyes they might so be seen
As though Hermanaric the Goth had been
The King of Paradise, and no more wrong
Than God, to give account to weak or strong.

Black-haired this lord was, thin-lipped, stern of brow,
As one fulfilled of justice; so when he

282

Gave mercy unto one beat down enow,
Strange sweetness seemed in that benignity
Wherewith his freed heart bade the wretch go free.
Folk trembled at his name, prayed for him, deemed
His death a hope that scarcely might be dreamed.

But whatsoe'er he was to other folk,
This lord called Bikki, to the King he grew
His right hand, yea his will, who, ere he spoke
The very thought his heart was big with knew;
Bold to do things the King had scarce dared do,
Yet would have done—no flatterer of the King,
Outspoken, fearing neither man nor thing.

The King had seen him kind, and knew his word
A thing ne'er broken: when the last great strife
Was quenched in one huge battle Bikki's sword,
When every minute with all loss was rife,
Had been unto the King the hope of life,
And his calm heart had made full victory
Bloom from the barren sword-encompassed tree.

So by the King's hands well-nigh Bikki ruled,
Yet in such wise that not to any there
It showed as though the King was much befooled,
And he, nigh sixty winters old, must bear,
As he was well content, both foul and fair,
Curses and blessings, seeming still to be
The God that gave both bliss and misery.

Yet one there was that had no wish to praise
The state of Bikki, e'en the King's one son,
A fair man in the spring-time of his days,
Who for his youth's sake few great deeds had done
And therewithal was strangely looked upon,
Unloved, unfeared, unknown by most of folk
Not kindly, men said, haughty when he spoke.

283

Unknown as he might be, yet was it so
That Bikki knew him, and he none the less,
As one unwitting, Bikki's heart did know
Which thing with all despair would him oppress
At whiles, and whiles would prick him to redress
The wrong that God upon the world had cast
And raise the burden from men's hearts at last.

For praise and love he longed for overmuch;
No sluggard was he, yet with such a soul
As pleasure somewhat overquick did touch,
As over-soon felt pain's cloud o'er it roll;
And much he lacked clear sight of any goal,
And lacked withal the power of lasting hate
Of being to any as relentless fate.

Note of these men too, that though Randver felt
The bright day darken when his foe drew nigh,
And though in Bikki's cruel heart there dwelt
Most strong intent to sweep his enemy
From out his path, yet scarce to any eye
Seemed Bikki to the prince but frank and kind,
Though somewhat sullen Randver did they find.

Now in these days it fell out that the King
Would hold a great feast: thereat Bikki was
And Randver the King's son, and everything
In the most mirthful wise was brought to pass,
Till gleamed the summer moonlight through the glass,
Then mid a pleasant lull of the feast's noise
Unto the King cried Bikki in high voice:

“In merry days, O King, we dwell with thee
E'en as this day, and wide around thy land
Is richly dowered with all felicity,
And all thy foes lie quiet neath thy hand,
And all men praise thee, praying that still may stand

284

Thy wise dominion; yet no God thou art;
Despite thy wealth one day must thou depart.

“And though we doubt not that, if this thy son
Shall live to reign when thou art fallen asleep,
Then neath the guiding hand of such an one
Our honour and our good-hap we shall keep,
Yet is he one alone—not over-deep
The sword need pierce, o'er-deep the arrow fly
For all thy race to perish utterly.”

The King signed with his hand, as down the hall
A murmur rose, and smiled, and spake in turn:
“Meseems, O Bikki, that my thoughts do fall
From out thy lips; either the wine doth burn
Within me past its wont now, or I yearn
At waking-tides to see upon my bed
Hope of more sons, some fair Queen's goodlihead.

“Speak out, O friend, what more thou hast to say,
For pleasant seems thy face, and well I know
Thou art not one to cast thy words away,
And as thou hast beheld my longing grow,
So unto me art thou good friend enow
A fair fulfilment thereunto to seek;
Speak out the name thy heart hath bade thee speak.”

“O King,” said Bikki, “scarce without the sound
Of harp and fiddle should I speak the name
Thou bidst me name—but bid the girls fill round
At least, and drink one cup unto the fame
Of one who feared not iron nor the flame,
Nor words of men, nor love to madness grown—
Sigurd, the best man that the world has known!”

Up stood the King, and through the hall there rang
A mighty shout; for fresh in each man's mind

285

That memory was; so mid the beakers' clang
Folk drank thereto, and brave and true and kind
Men 'gan to feel: but as one deaf and blind
Sat Randver, with his hand about his cup,
While to the roof men's boastful glee rolled up.

Then turned Hermanaric unto him and said:
“Grudgest thou then the fame of such an one,
Or me the late-come bliss of being well-wed
Unto his kin?—for as my friend's words run
That is the deed meseems that must be done—
Rise up for shame, man, lest I deem thee yet
No son that ever erst I did beget!”

Then Randver rose and said with troubled face,
In low voice: “Sigurd, wheresoe'er thou art
I drink to thee!—who in such happy case
Abode that thou wert loved, nor diedst apart
From her who was the nighest to thine heart—
So fell the shadows from thee—would that I
None otherwise than thus might live and die!”

Sourly his father looked on him, then turned
To Bikki, and said: “Yet methought, men tell
Of Sigurd that his young child slain was burned
Beside him on the fire, when that befell
Which long had been foretold for him; for well
The Niblungs willed none should be left behind
To grow up keeping their ill deed in mind.”

“Yea,” Bikki said, “so was it that there died
A man-child with him, but when Gudrun lay
Over her husband dead, within her side
There lay a child unborn—fair was the day
That saw her first, eighteen years past away—
A fair day in despite the tears and woe,
The tangled misery that she woke unto.”

286

Again the King spake: “Dreadful tales we heard
Of Gudrun wed to Atli, and how he
Entrapped the guileful Niblungs unafeared,
And how they died: and how at last that she
Slew both her children in her misery,
And of his own hall filled with swirling fire
Made for King Atli royal funeral pyre.”

“Yea,” Bikki said, “such tale may one deem true,
Yet know for sure that on the yellow sand
She stood, not able any more to wail,
And foiled in gaining death, her cold white hand
And wet arm round her babe, in the fair land
Of Jonakur: because, folk say, the sea
Would nowise end her life and misery.

“There the King wedded her, and there e'en now
She dwelleth: and the sea-drenched white-lipped child
Of that sad morn, fairer each day did grow
Till over her the Queen who ne'er had smiled
For many a year, is grown all kind and mild
Since of her babe Swanhild the Gods had care;
And in that court sweet pass the days and fair.”

Then the King smiled and said: “Hearkenest thou, son,
To what our counsellor saith, and deemest thou
That it were good we wedded such an one,
Daughter of Sigurd, were she fair enow
To look down from the throne, when, helm on brow,
And spear in hand the Goths go forth to war,
Wondering how fair the maids of Heaven are?”

As Randver reddened, struggling with some word,
And the King's wrath seemed rising once again,
Bikki broke in: “Nay fear ye nought, fair lord,
That she of Sigurd should be come in vain!
She is so fair, folk say, that men are fain

287

She should not die or change—it shameth me
Somewhat to speak of such-like things to thee:

“For thou art old, I battered with much war,
And worn with thought of counselling thee at need,
Judging of men, all things that weary are,
And through all toil perchance nowhither lead:
And yet, Lord Randver, unto thee indeed
Meet might it be to hearken what folk say,
Poets and wandering folk, of this fair may!”

A troubled frown gathered on Randver's brow
At Bikki's words, but nought he answered him,
Who spake: “Time was I had been fain enow
To hear of poets' guess of hidden limb
And swaying of the silk-clad body slim,
And what they say of hands like lily-flowers
Dealing a-morning with the golden showers

“Of hair that God shall never make again;
Their tale of lips too fair to love, of eyes
So bright that to behold them is a pain,
Of what it is to see the fall and rise
Of her fair fragrant bosom; what surprise
Of joy shall greet the happy man she loves,
When through the clouds the moon of midnight moves.”

Randver sat moody-silent, and no less
The King withal, who smiling stroked his beard
Till at the last he woke from thoughtfulness,
And cried: “Well now that I thy tale have heard,
It seems a fair tale: neither are we feared
Of this King's saying nay to our desire
Since for the maiden scarce may he look higher.

“But let tomorn bring counsel, and more words
Concerning this last stem of a great race.

288

Drink to our fortune, son!—and ye, fair lords,
In all the earth let there be one glad place
Whatso of trouble the world without may chase
Through these fair hours of night that heed us not—
Drink and be glad for all that we have got!”

So wore the feast through to an end: but when
The next morn came then withal Randver knew
That the King sat among his wisest men
In council: but the prince went not thereto
Nor was he summoned, for the days were few
Whereon the King would call him to the board
O'er which the great men dealt the treasured word.

But when noon came the King for Randver sent
Who found him lonely; and all eagerly
He 'gan to tell him of his full intent
How Swanhild in his kingly bed should lie:
“Lo son,” he said, “swift draweth eld anigh,
And I would live my life nor waste the days
Yet left me ere I travel on dark ways:

“Therefore tomorrow a fair company
Shall take ship here, and in a noble keel
Make for King Jonak's land across the sea
Bearing great gifts, as coming not to steal
The maid, but in a royal fashion deal
With her and hers; and now my will it is
That thou and Bikki speed my hope in this.”

Now Randver reddened as the King made end,
And answered slowly: “Meet it is that I,
O father, on thine errands still should wend,
And bear aloft thy might and majesty;
Yet mindst thou not how in the haven lie
Things wherein thou too once wouldst have delight,
Fair long-ships with no maidens' pillows dight?

289

“Mindest thou not how word thou gavest me
That in what embers of the old strife burn,
Quickening our life yet, I myself should be
The captain and the leader? Sore I yearn
Among hard things a goodly name to earn;
For mid thy peaceful glory here I dwell
Mocked of myself by unrest none can tell.

“Mocked of myself—and, to speak out my heart,
Scarce looked upon by thee or any one
In such a wise, as well befits the part
That I should play on earth: with little done
Amid folk wont to see great marvels won—
Let me go, father, for the world is wide;
As lief would I be from my death to hide

“In homespun cloak as in a cloak of gold!”
His voice rose as he spake, and at the last
Nought wavering did there seem in him or cold:
But o'er the King's wide face a shadow passed
Of puzzled wrath; that no less faded fast
Before his son's eyes; and he smiled and said:
“Nowise the good-heart of our kin is dead;

“And well meseems is that—I have enow
To bring my bride home: in the days bygone
I should make such words just e'en as thou
Nor borne, when aught of fame was to be won,
To go my father's errands—I have done
As an old man in asking thee for this:
Go, son, and grudge me not a little bliss—

“A little bliss such as my life knew not
The sooth to say ere I began to think
That after all my fame might be forgot
Or I at best into dull death must sink—
All blessings on thee! Would I had to drink

290

The cup the Fates have filled for thee anew!
Go forth O son, be happy, strong and true.”

Then Randver spake in a low voice and grave,
“All hail my father, and tomorrow morn
Two fleets shall stem together the green wave
At the haven's mouth, and unto days unborn
Shall each go its own way and ere the corn
The plain is green with now is garnered in
I hope a little change of life to win.

“Farewell in love, O father, if again
I see thy face it may be I shall speak
Words that my lips this day should speak in vain:
O farewell! think if I have been too weak
Through all the coils that mar our life to break,
Yet have I been too strong that with blind eyes
I should help weave our web of miseries.”

Then spake the King: “I know not of this word
What thou wouldst mean by it; once more I say
Good hap go with thy counsel and thy sword—
And yet again, meeter for thee to stay
Until thou mightest go upon thy way
After high feast and good gifts as is meet
For a son of the Goths and lord of a fair fleet.”

“Nay,” Randver said, “thou wottest well that we
Have waited but a week for wind and now
The wind is fair—hold thou no feast for me,
Pinch not thy treasury to help my show—
Keep all thy gifts until my fame shall grow,
For now a banner and a name is all
I need wherewith to conquer or to fall.”

They kissed and parted; Randver to the quays
And tumult of the shipmen passed; the King

291

Sat silent thinking over long-past days
And gazing at the ghost of many a thing
That once was full of life—till hurrying
O'er his departure thither Bikki came
And thoughtfully the King called out his name,

And when he drew [nigh] said: “Did Randver pass
From out the palace?” “Yea,” he said, “and I
Rejoiced to see him blithesome as he was
As in the porch he passed me hurriedly;
Most well content he seemeth certainly
To go a-wooing for thee, yet belike
Fair blows one day his gilded sword shall strike.”

“Nay, Bikki,” said the King, “and is it so?
Thou growest envious—I have done him wrong:
High words he spake e'en now and needs must go
His own ways and not mine. His heart is strong
To win all glory mighty men among
And I am glad of him and so being glad
Must lose the sight of him that once I had

“Whenas I deemed him but of little worth.”
Then Bikki smiled. “Nay, me thou wrongest withal
Who ever deemed that all the fame of earth
Into the lap of thee and thine would fall
And therefore have so served thee: this I call
A happy day whereon he doth begin
E'en greater fame than thou belike to win.

“Moreover in despite thy word, not ill
I deem it that this marvel of thy wife
(For surely few days shall that wish fulfill)
Should meet him not first mid an idle life,
Idle yet with desire of high things rife—
Thou deemedst him of little worth saidst thou?
Ever I deemed him wise and great enow:

292

“Knewest thou ever dastard's or fool's heart
Go with such eyes as in the head of him
Are set: or hast thou seen a coward's part
Played by a man so wrought in every limb?
Trust me those eyes shall yet make fair eyes dim.
But all is well now—brave and amorous
Wise, fain of fame, well shall he prop thine house.”

Well pleased the King smiled e'en as Bikki went
From out the chamber—who at eve that day
Came upon Randver on the quays, intent
On furnishing his fleet in the best way
That might be, and light of heart and gay
He seemed indeed, as one at last set free
From tangling trouble and uncertainty.

A cloud came o'er his face as Bikki drew
Anigh him, and his cheek grew somewhat red
As though he wotted that the other knew
His inmost thought; but Bikki spake and said:
“Fair sight to me to see the goodlihead
Of this thy fleet! Thou lookest a great chief;
I look to hear of deeds past man's belief.”

By a great open arm-chest Randver stood
And his right hand amid the mail-rings played,
A vague blind hate curdled his eager blood
As he looked up to Bikki now and said
With a half smile: “If all be rightly weighed
This journey shall in after days become
More famed than mine—this bringing the may home.”

“Yea,” Bikki said, “yet as thou art my friend
More than my King's son, so much will I say,
That would the thing were well brought to an end,
And I as heart-whole as I am today!
I have heard tell of men who cast all life away

293

For such a hope as when I lie asleep
Betwixt my troth and vague desire will creep.”

Randver stared wild at him. “Thou meanest then
That thou amid thy five and forty years
Shouldst turn stark traitor, be a tale to men!
Bethink thee, Bikki, that thy King's son wears
A sword, and of the axe the headsman bears—
Or art thou grown so great that thou art king,
Lord of my father, me and everything?”

Bikki smiled calmly: “When the deed is done
Then slay me: but behold I told this tale to thee
Because in good sooth still I deemed thee one
Too wise to long too much for sovereignty,
And therefore, thought I, goeth he over sea
Because he deems holding a war-ship's helm
An easier thing than ruling a great realm.

“But if thou art less wise than I had thought
And thinkest to come back unto this land
To rule it when thy sire is come to naught,
Then wiser had it been to glove thine hand
And in the court of Jonakur to stand
Wooing fair Swanhild for thy father's bed.
Come, art thou wroth when all my word is said?”

There Randver stood a short while silently
The swift thoughts busy in his inmost mind:
Somewhat too glad to see the back of me
My father seemed—Bikki is left behind,
Hermanaric's heart grows day by day more blind—
Yea and may happen I may yet prevail
And death is left me even though I fail.

Then Bikki spake: “The thing that erst I said
Whenas I deemed that thou wert prince no more,

294

No more thy father's heir, I scarce should dread
If thou went'st with me—and behold full sore
I cling to life nor would that all were o'er
For a youth's longing—neither durst I say
Unto the King what thee I tell today.”

Then Randver laughed aloud. “I deemed thee wise—
Nor know what madman's dream this is that thou
Shouldst tell me of a love for unseen eyes
Grown in an hour within thine heart; ere now
I deemed no wind maids' love to thee might blow.”
Then Bikki said: “Belike a dream it was
That brought this strange desire of mine to pass.

“Medreamed that on my bed last night I lay
And heard a moaning slowly drawing near,
And through the open door there came a may
Bewailing her, more fair than aught is fair
Who seemed unto my inmost heart more dear
Than mine own life. She held out hands to me
And showed her slim wrists shackled cruelly

“And moaned, ‘O Bikki thine hand forged me these
And who shall free me?’ On mine heart withal
Came thronging thick a crowd of memories
Of fair deeds undone, proffered love let fall
All barren to the earth—and musical
Mine own rough voice seemed grown now as I said:
‘In all wise would I help thy drearihead—

“‘For thou art Swanhild.’ Then she smiled on me
In piteous wise, and with bare hands I wrought,
As dreams will have it, till I set her free;
And then she kissed me and it passes thought
To tell how sweet that was till day made nought
Of all my gladness. Nay but well thou sayst
I am a fool to strive such bliss to taste.”

295

Then Randver thought, Lies is it, nought but lies
Belike—and yet men tell strange tales of love,
And this man, forger of all miseries,
Who knows but somewhat might his hard heart move?
And lies or truth nowise doth it behove
A man to flee from fate and they meseems
Would have me to the end dream out these dreams.

Then he spake out: “What counsel givest thou
For me to follow? for thou knowest I deem
That the King gave right joyous leave e'en now
For my departing; neither will a dream
Hold back the word of dastard if I seem
To choose for my ease' sake to go with thee.”
“Nay,” Bikki said, “easy the thing shall be:

“Take thou tonight thy due seat at the board
And in meanwhile shall I have seen the King,
So say thou nought till he takes up the word,
Then answer at thy best e'en to such thing
As he shall say. Yea thou art wise to cling
To what the Fates have given into thy life—
Hard to build up great state from daily life.”

He went therewith, and Randver left alone
Felt listless, restless, full of a vague fear;
A petty thing the world to him was grown,
And yet he felt as great days drew anear—
Great days great joy and woe with them to bear—
And yet withal foiled, beaten did he feel
And fresh defeat upon him seemed to steal.

Most glorious was the feast that night in hall
When all the glories of his days bygone
Hermanaric seemed about him to recall;
Yea with the spirit of old battles won
Men's hearts seemed raised aloft, old banners shone

296

From wall and pillar and old war-cries rang
Amid the melodies the minstrels sang.

There sat Hermanaric, ruddy, wide of face,
His yellow white-streaked hair and beard spread wide
Over his gold gown; keen adown the place
Gazed his grey eyes, unruffled fearless pride
All wrath and selfwill in his face did hide;
Great was the hand that had so oft prevailed
In dreadful fight, long fingered, almond-nailed.

Uneasily did Randver gaze at him
As toward his place he went, and in his heart
The morn's clear vision now had grown all dim,
And in a net he seemed to play his part
In a strange land where by some devilish art
All that he had of good seemed turned to ill,
A petty peevish deedless dreamer still.

Dream-like the feast went on—as in a dream
At last he heard the King say: “O fair son,
True is it that this morning we did deem
That whereas thou wert fain to get thee gone
From our foes' hands to win what might be won,
Thy wish was worthy of our name, yet now
Again a choice we give thee. So choose thou:

“Choose when thou once again hast heard me say
That gain we deem [it] that thy lips should speak
The words our heart has for the matchless may
Our counsellor tells of. Sure not far to seek
Hereafter shall times be to help the weak
And beat adown the strong. Yet make thy choice,
And either way well may thy heart rejoice.”

And now when Randver rose to meet the King
His iron scabbard clashed against the board,

297

And a pang took his heart, for in its ring
Seemed unto him a warning word,
And o'er his heart strange thoughts unbidden poured
And he grew dizzy, till across a space
Of gold and fair things he saw Bikki's face.

And then, what say I? even as a blank
Waiting for somewhat did his vexed heart grow
And all the tumult of his spirit sank.
Within himself he said, Scarce did I know
This man's power erst. Yet did he feel as though
Something there was that craved for help from him,
And with vague pity did his eyes wax dim.

“O father,” said he, at the last, “I choose
E'en that which seemeth to be most thy will,
My hope of glory at this tide to lose
The better all thy glory to fulfill:
And yet account me fain as ever still
To try myself amid the sweep of swords,
Nor deem my morning's speech but wind and words.”

A short laugh laughed the King and said: “O son
Thanked be thou, as thy deeds shall be thy worth.”
Then fierce wrath fell on Randver, all alone,
Deserted did he feel amid the mirth
Wherewith the hall rang, and a hollow dearth
Of all desire and hope there seemed to be,
On coming days he brooded balefully.

And he alone, he thought, was in such mood
Of all men there, though the King once or twice
Cast looks at him that boded nothing good,
And Bikki glanced at him with eager eyes
Not noted of him: so in mirthful wise
Passed on the feast triumphant to its end,
And somewhat nearer death did all men wend.

298

By noon of the next day did Randver stand
Upon the ship's deck looking back to where
Quick lessening lay the hillsides of his land,
Striving to think if it were foul or fair
The aspect of the days to come—nought clear
Might he behold the road his feet must tread
Or know if hope his way adown it led.

At least the sense of weakness and defeat
That made his life seem ruined yesterday
Was dimmed withal: he felt as he might meet
Whatever trouble round his journey lay
Without complaint, and play out all the play
Hoping for little, fearing nought at all,
Till into time's waste all he was should fall.

Then Bikki came to him and said: “Fair lord,
Worse than my thought went matters yesternight.
The King has fools about him and some word
Has reached his ears from these in my despite
Nor might I strive this morn the thing to right
For fear of worsening them—Let be, for time
Shall help thee yet—high shall thy fortune climb:

“Because methinks I know thee such an one
Who will not strive a little thing to win,
Painfully doing what must needs be done
Hour by hour; but waiting to begin
Thou standest did the sky and earth raise din,
And Gods are on the earth—and then forsooth
The world shall see thy greatness and thy truth.”

He turned away when he had spoken this
Not as one mocking him, and Randver stood
Wondering what in such great words was amiss
Spoken so gravely too—that scarce seemed good
Despite of that—and yet withal his mood

299

Was softened by that speech, and Bikki seemed
A better man than Randver erst had deemed.

So the time passed a ship-board: neither spoke
Much of the errand they were bound upon,
And Bikki never that past tale awoke
Of dream-brought longings, but of great things done
In days past spoke regretfully as one
Who still must be a useful drudge and thrall
To those on whom the world's good word should fall.

So sailing on ere eve of the sixth day
The shipmen saw King Jonak's land ahead
And in the morning midmost of a bay
Beset by mountains blue on either hand
They saw his city and made haste to stand
Toward shore, and ever as they neared the same
On every ship raised banners of great fame,

And o'er the shield-hung sides hung cloth of gold
And made the minstrels sweet and soft tunes sing;
And all men were arrayed fair to behold
Yet without sign of any warlike thing
As toward the town they sailed forth triumphing,
Save only that Prince Randver now was clad
In all the daintiest war-gear that he had.

A rich and goodly place it seemed to be,
Ships of strange fashion thronged the haven there,
And noble houses stood anigh the sea,
And up the slopes rose wall and tower fair
Guarding the many homes that therein were
From war and wrong. Then Bikki spake and said,
“A peaceful place mid the world's drearihead!

“Were it not good, fair lord, in such a place
Neath this fair sky a little while to dwell

300

Beholding through the long day's hours some face
Thou lovedst most of all, that loved thee well,
Letting the world go its wild ways to tell
Wild stories of the cruel hearts and strong
That weigh the world down with resistless wrong?”

Nought answered Randver, but with face a-glow
Went forward, for betwixt the craft that lay
Thick in the haven passed the galley now,
And he felt happy and the sunny day
Seemed rife with hope as in time past away
When each new waking up was bright and strange
And in his own right hand lay all life's change.

And now ashore with all their state they went,
And as along the much thronged street they passed
Folk wondered much what all this glory meant
And many a look on Randver maidens cast
And well nigh deemed that now belike at last
Some God long worshipped all unseen had come
To look upon his people in their home.

So in the King's hall were they made good cheer
When they had named themselves and land and lord,
And word was given them that the King would hear
Their speech if they had brought him any word
Concerning peaceful dealings or the sword
The morrow morn, when rested they should be
By food and sleep from tossing on the sea.

But the next morn in great state were they brought
Unto the King, and Bikki on the way
Spake unto Randver: “What is now thy thought
Concerning that which we shall see today?
Is not this like an old dream passed away
And half forgotten? Hark how the bells ring!
Most certainly this is a mighty King.

301

“Yet is thy father mightier—she may live
A noble life, this maiden.” Red as blood
Waxed Randver as some answer he did give
Of little import; for it seemed nought good
That any man should know each changing mood
As this man knew it, and in pitying tone
Had Bikki spoken e'en as he had known

The swelling pity in the prince's heart.
Then Bikki spake again: “Yea and thou too
Art born methinks to play a noble part
Who thinking not of that which thou wilt do
Shalt some day find thyself betwixt the two,
Sorrow and ease, and scarcely made thy choice—
Thy heart a maid great-hearted shall rejoice.”

Then Randver would have answered, but withal
Out blared the trumpets and the street they turned
Into the square that lay before the hall,
Upon the steps whereof the bright sun burned
With steel and gold—and sorely Randver yearned
Even as one would see his lady by
When some great deed he doeth mightily.

But in the hall deep shadowed did they wend
And as one in a dream did Randver see
A throne adown the steel grove's nether end
Whereon there sat arrayed majestically
A black-haired man not great, and by his knee
Upon the marble steps a youth there sat
Black-haired and short, and yet well-knit with that.

But by the King's right hand stood two men more,
Younger it seemed and of most mighty make,
Who with fierce grey eyes looked the Goth folk o'er
As though they had been ever fain to take
The spear and shield and deadly strife to wake

302

With men so well arrayed—yet did he gaze
Still as one dreaming for a woman's face.

And on the King's left hand did there sit one
A woman crowned upon a chair of state
From whose great eyes all restless grief was gone
Whose hands were folded ever as to wait
The hands that came not from the bonds of Fate;
Kind red her lips were yet, nor grown all white
The golden hair once wrought for man's delight.

Yea kind the eyes beneath the unwrinkled brow
Above the cheeks grown hollow, colourless,
That once were like the sky of dawn aglow.
Then many a thought on Randver's dream did press,
Scarce knew he if to fear or pity or bless
For Gudrun Giuki's daughter there he knew
And all the wild days she had laboured through.

No other woman there he saw, and while
He pondered dreamily on many a thing
Across King Jonak's face there came the smile
That well befits the visage of a king
When all his life goes forward triumphing,
And down the hall his voice came round and fair,
Meet for the glory that was gathered there.

“Good welcome to you, Goths, and chief of all
To thee, King's Son, whether thou comest here
To pass fair days with us in festival,
Or weighty matters of goodwill dost bear!
Yea welcome still if news of war and fear
Thou carriest, since every man's last day
Awaits him unseen on his changing way.”

Then Randver spake rather from memory still
Of things that like a dream or an old tale

303

Hung round him than from any present will:
“All hail, O King! no news of war or bale
We bring thee, yet are earnest to prevail
In asking a great gift of thee, that yet
Scarce shall a worthier man than this one get

“Who asketh thee thereof now. King, men say
That in thine house there dwelleth such an one
That all the world holds not so fair a may
And her we ask—Is my speech well begun?
For if not, ere this glittering morning sun
Has come to his full height our oars shall smite
The green waves of your haven into white.”

Then spake King Jonak somewhat eagerly:
“Yea for thyself then askest thou this maid?”
There seemed a murmuring in the air anigh,
Why not, why not? as Randver spake and said,
“The King my father all due things has weighed
And deemeth nothing may fulfill his bliss
Or cure past trouble save the gaining this.

“He sayeth also that thy realm is great
And rich, abiding ever in good peace,
But biddeth thee take heed of wavering fate,
To look around and note the world's disease,
And how the grey wolf howls through palaces
Where once a great lord scarce might raise his voice
Unless its sound should make the king rejoice;

“Therewith he bids thee call to mind how oft
Hermanaric's crest through doubt and fear hath shone,
The banner of the Goths been raised aloft
When some great folk must needs with day be done;
He asketh thee if thou wilt call him son
And from his restful scabbard draw his sword
If evil threats thee with thy lightest word.”

304

A little space was silence now, the while
King Jonak with his exultation strove
That he might answer like a king; a smile
Somewhat the war-worn face of Bikki now did move,
And Randver's eyes met Gudrun's from above
[Bending] upon [him] with a doubtful gaze
Where fear and pity, yea e'en hate had place.

Then spake the King: “Thanks at the least we give
To thee for thy fair speech, prince; for thy sire,
Although we hope without his aid to live
And rule our folk in peace, yet we desire
Beyond all things to draw unto us nigher
So great a king whom all the world doth praise
For his great heart and life and happy days.

“Yet must we hold some counsel with our lords
This day at least, and making no delay
Give thee thine answer in all loving words
Whether we needs must answer Yea or Nay.
So with good heart take our good cheer today
And fair things for a memory of this morn.”
Then forth on both sides were the fair gifts borne,

And men's eyes glistened such as looked for gain.
But 'twixt the King and Queen sat Randver now
Amid fair talk, although a restless pain,
Whose seed and root no troublous search would show,
Was at his heart and still on him did grow
Craving to be alone a little while,
All things about him seemed so base and vile—

All things save Gudrun who in kindly wise
Sat hearkening, whose faint smile would die away
At whiles e'en as the shimmering sunlight dies
About the noon of some wild rainy day,
At whiles she seemed as she her hand would lay

305

On his caressingly, then with a frown
And helpless look would let her hand fall down.

But howsoe'er betwixt these twain it went,
Or Bikki watching them, o'erlong it were
To tell of all the glee wherein was spent
That summer day. Joyous seemed all folk there,
Nor had the Goths seen anything more fair
Than the King's house arrayed all suddenly
For feast as if for men who need should die.

So wore the day until the sun was low
And Randver in his chamber sat alone
At last, and felt the scented west wind blow
From out the garden, hearkening to the moan
Of the low surf, and song of thrushes grown
O'er joyous with the coming of the dew,
And the late 'wildered bees that scantly flew

From lily-flower to lime tree: sitting so
And pondering, did one smite upon the door
And entering bowed before him, bid him know
That fain the Queen was ere the day was o'er
To show him 'twixt the palace and the shore
How fair the birds sang. So he went with him
Just as the sea sucked down the sun's last rim.

A little time they went whenas they met,
Gudrun and he, alone between the trees
Not speaking much until a hand she set
Upon his shoulder and said: “Would the seas
Had been red flame to stay you, that some peace
I might have gained this latter end of life!
O me, O me, again beginneth strife!”

306

He shuddered and she said: “Thou knowest not,
For thou art young—art young—all hope thou hast,
I know thee that thy heart may well grow hot
With the sweet poison that for me is past
So long ago—poor man, thou shalt be cast
Into an endless sea of strife and ill
And good it were if I might save thee still.”

“Lady,” he said, “I wot not of thy words
What they should mean! my life is scarce begun;
I think indeed to try me mid the swords
When this vain day of court-serving is done:
But then—what then? all life beneath the sun
Is full of risk and trouble, little ruth
Is due to me slain mid the swords forsooth.”

“Hearken,” she said, “thou seemest true and brave
Though thou mayst deem but raving that I say:
A wise man and a true nearby I have
Called Ulf the Red; at morn of this same day
His long-ship ready for fair cruising lay
Nor did he stop save this same feast to see:
Now him and his and life I give to thee.”

He started: “Surely,” said he, “this I know
That thou wouldst have me straightway get me gone,
And in my mind a glimmering thought doth grow
That thou for some cause deemst me such an one
That I should cheat the man who sent his son
To win him bliss and honour—hastily
I speak, for haste within thy words doth lie.”

“O haste enow,” she said, “else might I tell
A many signs to thee whereby I deem
That most strong longing on thy spirit fell
Ere thou might'st know it, fostered by some dream
A wake or sleeping, or words that did seem

307

To hold up hope or pleasure to thine eyes—
How should I tell? but born in dreadful wise.”

He said: “Tomorrow would I answer thee:
Fain would I commune with myself this night.”
“Nay, ere men sleep begins the misery—
O man, O man! when thou hast her in thy sight
How shalt thou bear to let that dear delight
Pass without thee adown life's dismal road?
How shalt thou bear the unhelped lonely load?”

How sweet the eve was! twixt the garden trees
The new-risen moon showed now and sweeter scent
The lily cast forth neath the dewy breeze
And round their heads flittering the dusk bats went:
He hearkened and knew all her swift words meant,
But sweet and sweet and sweet they seemed to him,
No pain there seemed in them however dim.

His heart beat quick as with some joy new gained,
As silent there he stood awhile, the night
Strode on apace and the light west wind waned
And she stood silent watching him, till bright
The house 'gan glow with new-lit light on light
And noise of much folk hurrying to the hall,
For well nigh ready was the festival.

Then spake she in a low hard voice: “Vain love—
The vain love of my life and vainer still
The life that nothing other folk may move!
O Gods that make alive that ye may kill,
And give that ye may take away, your will
In other worlds should needs work something good
Since here your chosen dwell mid tears and blood!

“And now at last the image of old days
Drifts from me into mortal change and strife

308

Where this man seeing but flower-tangled ways
Pities not her nor me nor his own life,
And Sigurd has no memory of the wife—
Ah not his love, but she who dwelt with him
Ere yet the glory of the world waxed dim.

“Ah me how kind, how kind I might have been—
Had I been loved—” She sought his dreaming eyes
Amid the soft night's gathering dusk of green
Until strange passion in her breast 'gan rise
And on his breast she laid in eager wise
A trembling hand and cried: “Not all so ill
Thou choosest, son! short life with woe to fill

“And be beloved—and be beloved as I
Was never loved who yet for all good peace
I might, would cast no longing by
Nor change my misery for the world's increase
Of all good things!—O we at least with these
Will deal not waiting dully for the tide
When stripped and shivering death we must abide!”

Then from the palace out the trumpets blared,
And growing clamour came across the night,
And through the trees afar the torches flared
As seeking betwixt rose and lily white
The King's folk went. “Hearken,” she said, “delight
Awaiteth many a careless man this eve,
And thou—thou goest thither to receive

“A strange new life that beareth death withal;
For doubt thou not thy wooing well hath sped,
And on thine offer King and lords did fall
As falls a starving man on new baked bread.
I hate thee not, yet would thou hadst been dead
A month agone! would that the Gothic land
Lay waste and kingless 'neath some conqueror's hand!

309

“Ah me I rave, yet hearken once again:
That councillor that on thy right [hand] stood,
Either my ancient foresight is all vain
Or thou and I from him may hope no good—
I know the eyes and mouth that thirst for blood.”
Then as one wakened, toward her Randver turned,
And in his eyes a strange and new light burned.

He spake:“Thanks have thou, O great-hearted Queen,
For all thy words! Natheless thou wrongest me,
Whatever idle dreams in me have been,
If still thou deemest that on thine and thee
My hands shall lay the weight of misery.
For though thy Swanhild's loveliness should move
My dreamy fiery heart to utter love,

“Yet fear me not, for I might live worse life
Than such a love about with me to bear
To make my hands the stronger in all strife,
And make my heart the freer from all fear
Since I should care nought for what most men care—
Perchance at last to fall asleep and find
That she at last was grown mine own and kind.

“Be merrier, Queen, for where she goeth indeed
May I not serve her as a very friend
Where not unlike it is that she shall need
True heart to help her ere her life-days end,
So that we twain unto death's door may wend
With hands not touching aught, heart free from heart,
Yet scarcely lonely though so nigh apart.”

She answered not save only with a sigh,
And in the dusk eve did he deem withal
He saw her smile; but those drew anigh
Who bore the torches, and the flowers did fall
Brushed by the stiff gold robes as toward the hall

310

They passed together, talking of such things
As well befit the lives of Queens and Kings.

High feast in hall that eve, great joyance there
Of pageant and of song while men did eat.
The very maidens that the cups did bear
About the Gothic guests' adorned seat
Were clad in raiment for Kings' daughters meet,
And as the scented tapers burned away
From off their sides waned figures painted gay.

Scarcely the Goths deemed they had seen ere then
Such weight of gold and silver nobly wrought,
Or such rich raiment on the serving-men,
Or drank such goodly wine from far lands brought.
Shortly to say in glory passing thought,
Such careful state as though men's lives should last
For ever, to its midst that great feast passed.

Then flushed were men with glory and with wine,
And many rash words to their lips did rise
As more and more they deemed themselves divine;
But Randver sat with restless troubled eyes,
Glancing about aweary, anxious-wise,
From Bikki's laugh and the King's merry face
To Gudrun's sad set smile, till the glad place

Seemed filled with foolish shadows round about,
Dread lurking hate and guile and baffled love;
And yet a strange hope struggled with his doubt
And whiles his heart beat high with thought to prove
How yet his secret love the world should move,
For now at last he knew how it should be
When he that face the world's desire should see.

Now made the King a sign and forthwithal
Loud sang the horns shattering 'gainst the high

311

Adorned roof, and down the joyous hall
Was silence when their noise died utterly.
And then afar off a low melody
Sprang up and seemed drawing nigh but slow,
As if the folk who made it lingered now.

Then Randver noted Bikki grow right grave,
And how the Queen flushed and the King meanwhile
Seemed struggling all his kingly grace to save
From mere delight—and Randver a faint smile
Strove somewhat his wild faintness to beguile
And even this he said: If it should be
That all my hope was but vain mockery!

But amid this the music grew all loud,
The hall-doors swung aback and through them came
Into the hall so fair and strange a crowd
That the Goths' wonder has not any name;
For in their foremost did great tapers flame
And down the hall a day-like lustre shed
From hands of damsels white-clad, garlanded.

Then came the music, maids and children fair,
Flushed sweet with summer, bright-eyed with delight,
So clad that cantles of the meads seemed there
Whereas their raiment 'neath young limbs and light
Went wavering underneath the harp-strings bright,
And down the hall there came a marvellous scent
As though the summer through its portals went.

More maids withal, each holding in her hand
Lily or rose-bough, clad in such a wise
As though the summer never left the land
And they need hide but little from the eyes
Of the brown thrush hushed by the mysteries
Of moon-blessed woods now on the high tree swayed.

312

But round the hindermost of these were slung
Baskets of thin woven silver wherefrom they
Sweet rose-leaves on the marble pavement flung,
Making thereon a soft and odorous way
For feet that were to follow, and the day
Might well come back for midmost night to show
Her aspect that adown that path did go.

Gold-clad she was, gold-shod and crowned with gold,
So that her raiment like herself might seem
Too delicate for mere men to behold,
Yet she herself looked not like any dream,
Nay rather, mid the changing flush and gleam
Of moving limbs and waving raiment, she
Seemed the one noble fair reality.

I know not what within her eyes there was
More than in other sweet and passionate eyes,
I know not what across her mouth did pass
More than o'er others wrought in wondrous wise,
With what snare heaved the store-house of her sighs
More than another's wrought supremely fair:
Yet went all madness and desire there

Whereas she went adown the silent hall
Nor might one call her eager or at peace,
Nor stern nor kind, nor glad nor sorry at all,
Nor full of love nor lacking love's increase,
And yet above and ruling all of these
Not bound by love nor binding it but more
Herself the very love she did adore.

The hall was silent for a while, and then
Upleapt the Goths unto their feet, and high
Their wild shout rang and in the hands of men
Gleamed the white steel and tossed tumultuously
Round the white face of Randver; but one cry

313

Unheard amid the tumult had he given
As though his heart with unnamed pangs was riven.

Bikki himself was pale a little while
And a strange frown made dark his wide clear brow
That gave place soon unto a lip-made smile
The eyes might make no answer to: but now
She drew anigh. King Jonak flushed did grow
And raised his cup twice, then spake out and said:
“O King's son, have thou here the goodlihead

“That thou hast asked for for thy father's sake,
Knowing not what thou askedst; and thou maid,
Draw nigh unto him, give a kiss and take—
For he is now thy son.” As the King said
These words, 'gan Gudrun tremble, and she laid
Her hands upon her chair as if to rise,
Gazing about with wild and wandering eyes.

But Randver, when he felt her hand in his
And all the heaven of her sweet lips drew nigh,
Faltered no more nor shrank away from bliss
When on his lips at last her lips did lie,
And when the little space had clean gone by
Wherein they touched so, a strange happy smile
The pallor of his changed face did beguile.

But she was changed and for a little space
Piteous and wild her eyes were, till at last
They met as in a dream her mother's face
Kind and imploring: then the anguish passed
From out her face and round about she cast
A glance by inner agony made cold
But durst no more the prince's eyes behold.

Yet must she sit betwixt him and her sire
And hearken to his voice and wonder how

314

Amid the bitterness of his desire
He spake of common things, for surely now
She did not fail her heart and his to know,
And she fell wondering when the time should be
When she alone his lonely eyes should see.

Strange minutes heavy laden to these twain
With bitterness and joy, so real, so strange,
Wherein now nothing more seemed left to gain,
Now nothing gained of all the wondrous change
Had left them yearning for, and still did range
From utter woe to utter bliss each heart,
So close they seemed now, now so far apart.

Meanwhile who noted them? Bikki talked loud
With flushed face, and the King sat glad and smiled
With lips and eyes and heart; Gudrun was bowed
Over the board as somewhat now beguiled
With thought of past days—and the joy waxed wild
Within the hall among the rest of folk
Until the pale dawn o'er the garden broke.

Then as a burnt-down torch out the feast flared,
And through the town and palace noisily
The guests unto their wonted dwellings fared;
Then in the gathering light o'er all did lie
Deep silence, but no rest of heart or eye
For those that love from all the world made lone,
Who lone of love lay now that hour was gone.

In tilt and pageant and high feast went by
The next few days. Randver saw Swanhild oft
But never so but some one was anigh,
Whether he saw her glorious eyes aloft
Above the spears, or heard her speaking soft

315

Anigh him, or they passed so close that each
Might feel the other's breath their parched lips reach.

Howe'er they met still flickering shadows seemed
To part their hands and lips and hearts, and make
Their lives a dream without their own wills dreamed—
A dream that feverish pain should ne'er forsake,
Wherefrom perchance they never should awake,
With no more hope than hell, yet sweet indeed
As Heaven's ne'er parched, ne'er frozen, blessed mead.

So shall it be, thought Randver, many a day
Till all days end for us: must change needs be?
Why must we strive to cast this pain away
And in the gulf of all uncertainty
Go struggling till again we come to see
All things as others see them, with no hope,
With all the dread ourselves have made to cope?

316

IN ARTHUR'S HOUSE

In Arthur's house whileome was I
When happily the time went by
In midmost glory of his days.
He held his court then in a place
Whereof ye shall not find the name
In any story of his fame:
Caerliel good sooth men called it not,
Nor London Town, nor Camelot;
Yet therein had we bliss enow.
—Ah, far off was the overthrow
Of all that Britain praised and loved;
And though among us lightly moved
A love that could but lead to death,
Smooth-skinned he seemed, of rosy breath,
A fear to sting a lady's lip,
No ruin of goodly fellowship,
No shame and death of all things good.

Forgive the old carle's babbling mood;
As here I sit grey-haired and old,
My life gone as a story told,
Ye bid me tell a story too;
And then the evil days and few,
That yet were overlong for me
Rise up so clear I may not see
The pictures of my minstrel lore.

Well hearken! on a day of yore
From prime of morn the court did ride
Amidmost of the summertide
To search the dwellings of the deer
Until the heat of noon was near;
Then slackening speed awhile they went
Adown a ragged thorn-bushed bent
At whose feet grew a tangled wood

317

Of oak and holly nowise good:
But therethrough with some pain indeed
And rending of the ladies' weed
They won at last, and after found
A space of green-sward grown around
By oak and holly set full close;
And in the midst of it arose
Two goodly sycamores that made
A wide and little sun-pierced shade
About their high boles straight and green:
A fount was new-born there-between,
And running on as clear as glass,
Flowed winding on amid the grass
Until the thick wood swallowed it.

A place for happy folk to sit
While the hot day grew hotter still
Till eve began to work his will.
—So might those happy people think
Who grudged to see the red sun sink
And end another day of bliss
Although no joy tomorn should miss—
They laughed for joy as they drew nigh
The shade and fount: but lo, thereby
A man beside the fountain laid
The while his horse 'twixt sun and shade
Cropped the sweet grass: but little care
Had these of guile or giant's lair,
And scarce a foot before the Queen
Rode Gawain o'er the daisied green
To see what man his pleasure took;
Who rose up in meanwhile and shook
His tangled hair aback, as one
Who e'en but now his sleep hath done.
Rough-head and yellow-haired was he
Great-eyed, as folk have told to me,
And big and stout enow of limb:
As one who thinks no harm he smiled,

318

And cried out: “Well met in the wild,
Fair King and Queen; and ye withal
Sweet dames and damsels! Well befal
This day, whereon I see thee nigh,
O Lancelot, before I die!
And surely shall my heart rejoice
Sir Gawain, when I hear thy voice!”

Then Lancelot laughed: “Thou knowest us then
Full well among a many men?”

“As quoth the lion to the mouse,”
The man said; “in King Arthur's House
Men are not names of men alone,
But coffers rather of deeds done.”

The Queen smiled blithe at heart, and spake:
“Hast thou done deeds for ladies' sake?”

“Nay dame,” he said, “I am but young;
A little have I lived and sung
And seen thy face this happy noon.”

The King said: “May we hearken soon
Some merry tale of thee? for I
Am skilled to know men low and high
And deem thee neither churl nor fool.”

Said he, “My fathers went to school
Where folk are taught a many things,
But not by bliss: men called them kings
In days when kings were near to seek;
But as a long thread waxeth weak,
So is it with our house; and now
I wend me home from oaken bough
Unto a stead where roof and wall
Shall not have over far to fall

319

When their last day comes.”

As he spake
He reddened: “Nathless for their sake,
Whom the world loved once, mock not me
O King, if thence I bring to thee
A morsel and a draught of wine,
Though nothing king-like here thou dine.”

Of some kind word King Arthur thought,
But ere he spake the woodman caught
His forest-nag and leapt thereon,
And through the tangled brake was gone.
Then leapt the King down, glad at heart,
Thinking, This day shall not depart
Without some voice from days that were;
And lightly leapt down Guenevere,
And man and maid lay presently
Neath the bee-laden branches high,
And sweet the scent of trodden grass
Amid the blossoms' perfume was.

There long they lay, and little spake,
As folk right loth the calm to break;
Till lo upon the forest-breeze
A noise of folk, and from the trees
They came: the first-seen forester,
A grizzled carle in such-like gear,
And then two maidens poorly clad
Though each a silver chaplet had
And round her neck a golden chain:
And last two varlets led a wain
Drawn by white oxen well bedight
With oaken boughs and lilies white;
Therein there lay a cask of wine
And baskets piled with bread full fine,
And flesh of hart and roe and hare;
And in the midst upon a chair

320

Done over with a cloth of gold
There sat a man exceeding old
With long white locks: and clad was he
No other than his company
Save that a golden crown he bore
Full fairly fashioned as of yore,
And with a sword was girt about
Such as few folk will see I doubt.
Right great it was: the scabbard thin
Was fashioned of a serpent's skin,
In every scale a stone of worth:
Of tooth of sea-lion of the north
The cross was, and the blood-boot stone
That heals the hurt the blade hath done
Hung down therefrom in silken purse:
The ruddy kin of Niblung's curse
O'er tresses of a sea-wife's hair
Was wrapped about the handle fair;
And last a marvellous sapphire stone
Amidst of the great pommel shone,
A blue flame in the forest green.
And Arthur deemed he ne'er had seen
So fair a sword: nay not when he
The wonder of the land-locked sea
Drew from the stone that Christmas-tide.

Now forth the forest youth did ride,
Leapt down beside the King, and spake:
“King Arthur for thy greatness' sake
My grandsire comes to look on thee;
My father standeth here by me;
These maidens are my sisters twain;
My brethren draw out from the wain
Somewhat thy woodland cheer to mend.”

Thereat his sire the knee did bend
Before the King, who o'er the brown

321

Rough sleeve of the man's homespun gown
Beheld a goodly golden ring:
And fell to greater marvelling
When he beheld how fine and fair
The woodman's kneeling sisters were.
And all folk thereby deemed in sooth
That (save indeed the first seen youth)
These folk were nobler e'en than those
Of Arthur's wonder of a house.

But now the elder drew anigh,
By half a head was he more high
Than Arthur or than Lancelot,
Nor had eld bent him: he kneeled not
Before the King, but smiling took
His hands in hands that nowise shook;
And the King joyed as he who sees
One of his fathers' images
Stand glad before him in a dream.

Then down beside the bubbling stream
They sat together, and the King
Was loth to fall a questioning;
So first the elder spake and said:

“It joys me of thy goodlihead
O great king of our land; and though
Our blood within thee doth not flow,
And I who was a king of yore
May scarcely kneel thy feet before,
Yet do I deem thy right the best
Of all the kings who rule the West.
I love thy name and fame: behold,
King Arthur, I am grown so old
In guilelessness, the Gods have sent,
Be I content or uncontent,
This gift unto my latter days

322

That I may see as through a haze
The lives and deeds of days to come:
I laugh for some, I weep for some—
I neither laugh nor weep for thee,
But trembling through the clouds I see
Thy life and glory to the end;
And how the sweet and bitter blend
Within the cup that thou must drink.
Good is it that thou shalt not shrink
From either: that the afterdays
Shall still win glory from thy praise
And scarce believe thee laid asleep
When o'er thy deeds the days lie deep.”

He ceased but his old lips moved still,
As though they would the tale fulfil
His heart kept secret: Arthur's eyes
Gleamed with the pride that needs would rise
Up from his heart, and low he said:
“I know the living by the dead
I know the future by the past.”
Wise eyes and kind the elder cast
Upon him; while a nameless fear
Smote to the heart of Guenevere,
And, fainting there, was turned to love:
And thence a nameless pain did move
The noble heart of Lancelot,
The store of longing unforgot.
—And west a little moved the sun
And noon began, and noon was done.

But as the elder's grey eyes turned
On Guenevere's, her sweet face burned
With a sweet shame; as though she knew
He read her story through and through.
Kindly he looked on her and said:

323

“O Queen, the chief of goodlihead,
Be blithe and glad this day at least
When in my fathers' house ye feast:
For surely in their ancient hall
Ye sit now: look, there went the wall
Where yon turf ridge runs west-away:
Time was I heard my grand-dame say
She saw this stream run bubbling down
The hall-floor shut in trench of stone;
Therein she washed her father's cup
That last eve e'er the fire went up
O'er ridge and rafter and she passed
Betwixt the foemen's spears the last
Of all the women, wrapping round
This sword the gift of Odin's ground.”

He shook the weapon o'er his knee,
Thereon gazed Arthur eagerly.
“Draw it, my lord,” quoth Guenevere,
“Of such things have we little fear
In Arthur's house.” And Lancelot rose
To look upon the treasure close.
But grimly smiled the ancient man:
“E'en as the sun arising wan
In the black sky when Heimdall's horn
Screams out and the last day is born,
This blade to eyes of men shall be
On that dread day I shall not see—”
Fierce was his old face for a while:
But once again he 'gan to smile
And took the Queen's slim lily hand
And set it on the deadly brand
Then laughed and said: “Hold this, O Queen,
Thine hand is where God's hands have been,
For this is Tyrfing: who knows when
His blade was forged? Belike ere men
Had dwelling on the middle-earth.

324

At least a man's life is it worth
To draw it out once: so behold
These peace-strings wrought of pearl and gold
The scabbard to the cross that bind
Lest a rash hand and heart made blind
Should draw it forth unwittingly.”

Blithe laughed King Arthur: “Sir,” said he,
“We well may deem in days by gone
This sword, the blade of such an one
As thou hast been, would seldom slide
Back to its sheath unsatisfied.
Lo now how fair a feast thy kin
Have dight for us and might we win
Some tale of thee in Tyrfing's praise,
Some deed he wrought in greener days,
This were a blithesome hour indeed.”

“Sir,” said the elder, “little need
To pray me hereof. Please ye dine
And drink a cup of woodman's wine,
Surely meantime some tale shall stir
Within my heart of days that were.”

Then to their meat they gat and there
Feasted amid the woodland fair
The fairest folk of all the land.
Ah me when first the Queen's fair hand
Drew near the kneeling forest youth
New-wrought the whole world seemed in sooth
And nothing left therein of ill.
So at the last the Queen did fill
A cup of wine, and drank and said:
“In memory of thy fathers dead
I drink, fair lord, drink now with me
And then bethink thee presently
Of deeds that once won prize and praise
The glory of thy fathers' days.”

325

He drank and laughed and said, “Nay, nay,
Keep we the peace-strings whole today.
This draught from where thy lips have been
Within mine old heart maketh green
The memory of a love full true,
The first recorded deed that drew
My fathers' house from dark to light.

If thus my grandame told aright,
A rougher place our land was then,
Quoth she, than with us living men,
And other trees were in the wood
And folk of somewhat other blood
Than ours: then were the small-eyed bears
More plenty in the woodland lairs
Than badgers now: no holiday
It was to chase the wolves away,
Yea there were folk who had to tell
Of lyngworms lying on the fell,
And fearful things by lake and fen,
And manlike shapes that were not men.
Then fay-folk roamed the woods at noon,
And on the grave-mound in the moon
Faint gleamed the flickering treasure-flame.
Days of the world that won no fame,
Yet now, quoth she, folk looking back
Across the tumult and the wrack
And swelling up of windy lies
And dull fool-fashioned cruelties,
Deem that in those days Gods abode
On earth and shared ill times and good
And right and wrong with that same folk
Their hands had fashioned for the yoke.
Quoth she, of such nought tells my tale,
Yet saith that such as should prevail
In those days o'er the fears of earth
Must needs have been some deal of worth,

326

And saith that had ye seen a kin
Who dwelt these very woods within
Them at the least ye would have told
For cousins of the Gods of old.
Amongst all these it tells of one,
The goodman's last-begotten son,
Some twenty summers old: as fair
As any flower that blossomed there
In sun and rain, and strong therewith
And lissom as a willow withe.
Now through these woods amidst of June
This youngling went until at noon
From out the thicket his fair face
Peered forth upon this very place;
For he had been a-hunting nigh
And wearied thought a while to lie
Beside the freshness of the stream.
But lo as in a morning dream
The place was changed, for there was dight
A fair pavilion blue and white
E'en where we play, and all around
Was talk of men and diverse sound,
Tinkling of bit and neigh of steed,
Clashing of arms and iron weed.
For round about the painted tent
Armed folk a many came or went,
Or on the fresh grass lay about.
Surely our youth at first had doubt
If'twere not better to be gone
Than meet these stranger folk alone—
But wot ye well such things as these
Were new to him born mid the trees
And wild things: and he thought, Maybe
The household of the Gods I see:
Who for as many tales as I
Have heard of them, I ne'er saw nigh.
If they be men, I wotted not

327

That such fair raiment men had got;
They will be glad to show them then.

For one thing taught these woodland men
Whatever wisdom they let fall
Men since have won Fear nought at all.

So from the holly brake he strode
Shouldering the while his hunter's load,
A new slain roe; but there arose
To meet him half a score of those
Whom in fair words he greeted well.

Now was he clad in a sheep's fell
And at his back his quiver hung,
His woodknife on his thigh: unstrung
His bow he held in a staff's stead.
An oaken wreath was round his head
From whence his crispy locks of brown
Well nigh unto his belt hung down,
And howso frank his eyes might be
A half-frown soothly might you see
As these men handled sword or spear
And cried out, “Hold, what dost thou here?”
“Ah,” said he, “then no Gods ye are.
Fear not, I shall not make you war.”
Therewith his hunting-knife he drew
And the long blade before them threw.
Then loud they laughed; one sheathed his sword:
“Thanks, army-leader, for that word!
We are not Gods e'en as thou say'st,
Nor thou a devil of the waste
But e'en a devil's friend belike.”
Something [of] hate hereat did strike
Unto the woodman's unused heart,
Yet he spake softly for his part:
“What men are ye and where dwell ye?

328

What is the wondrous house I see?”
“In the fair southland is our home
Yet from the north as now we come,”
Said one: then with a mocking smile,
“And in our house there dwells awhile
A very Goddess of the north.
But lo you, take a thing of worth
For that thy quarry, and begone.”

But as he spake another one
Spake softly in his ear: and so
The word from this to that did go,
With laughing that seemed nowise good
Unto the dweller of the wood,
Who saying nought moved toward the tent.
But they came round him as he went
And said: “Nay, pagan, stay thy feet;
Thou art not one our dame to greet

329

[ANTHONY]

On board ship off the coast of Norway: Anthony, Wulfstan the Shipmaster, and Sailors.
SHIPMASTER
Well, master merchant, you slept late this morn
Despite our drawing nigh our journey's end—
Well, you did well perchance being among friends:
For one day at the least a steady wind,
A cloudless sky and all things going well.

ANTHONY
Why, but to hear you things go not so well
Since now I go ashore—among unfriends
You seem to say. Yet was your word before
That this Lord Rolf the Red was a good lord
To those who dealt in peaceful wise with him;
And in no warlike wise I come, meseems.

SHIPMASTER
There now again I note you—looking round
As though to find a man or two to smite—
That's still your way, and sooth it seems to me
The nigher you come to land the hotter grows
Your blood. I warn you this good lord withal
His sword-blade nowise grows unto its sheath
And he is one of many, lord or thrall
Tis much the same—life is cheap enow
And one man's blow is like another's still.
A second warning: try your mocks on them,
They will not laugh belike or say a word
Though the hall roars around them: you shall think
Them dull and go on piling jeer and jeer;
But two hours thence, two hours or days or months,
As time serves, you shall find they understood.
Warning the third: some things here shall be bought—

330

Most things—a sword, a house, a horse, a wife:
You may want all these things except the last,
And certes you are rich enough to deal.
—Take this by the way that they may well deal thus,
Sell you a sword and thrust you through therewith,
Sell you a house and burn it o'er your head,
Sell you a horse and steal it the next morn,
Sell you a wife and bid her loose her tongue
Until you make a red mark on her face—
And then the district-court and her tall kin
And point and edge, or clink of the King's sweet face
Outside your purse—Well all that by the way,
But this I mean by the third: all women here—
Yea how you start—are marked and known and named
Daughter of this goodman, sister of that
Nor will gold buy them save in open wise,
As wives I mean—though you indeed may deal
In wares that please them, if to help your face,
Your song, your story of old time, your dance,
You therewithal could play well with the sword,
Or throw your hair back in the face of death
To show your cheeks no paler for the sight—
Eh! do I make too long a tale; you scowl:
Why don't you ask me then to make an end?
Turn round and look, we've weathered the last ness.
Off half a point, you helmsman! There it is
The stead we were to bring you to—though why
You were so eager after this man's fame
I know not. Does it like you well or ill?

ANTHONY
A place to be forgotten in, it seems
The hill-sides like a wall, the deep green sea
The pine-trees all above it—so there dwells
The man who tears his gold from out the fire.

331

SHIPMASTER
Yea, fire full hot enow—lo there the hall
Big enough for a king, the water deep
Up to the garth-gate; there on the round hill
Thor's temple—may Christ curse it! the ship-stocks,
One, two, three cutters, one great merchant-ship
Just newly pitched—the long-ships neither there;
If I had not a sort of name of friend
With him and his, that would not like me well;
I would not care to meet him in the main.

ANTHONY
What then, the lord is gone away belike?

SHIPMASTER
Most like, but since the winter comes apace
Tis but a matter of ten days at most
Ere he come back unless his fiends, his Gods
Have got his soul at last.

ANTHONY
Nay, God forbid!

SHIPMASTER
Why art thou eager? wouldst thou see him live?

ANTHONY
Nay by the saints, but I would see him die—
Tell him my name first!

SHIPMASTER
There it all comes out.
I doubted this, fair merchant, God to aid
Thou hadst a look of Jonah in the face
E'en from the first; well, full certainly
There gapes the whale for thee stranded ashore,
But a dark cavern of ill hap.

332

ANTHONY
Good sooth,
Ill luck enow is still on my tongue's end
And in the corners of my eyes; what need
To say bewray me not, thou knowst not much—

SHIPMASTER
Why, [had] I said to Rolf thou wishedst him dead
He would laugh somewhat—drink nightlong with thee
And call thee to the ring of hazel wands
Wherein they fight next morn and then—

ANTHONY
What then?

SHIPMASTER
Is thy neck iron, he could cut it through,
E'en so I think; is thy sword as swift
As July lightning, three swords seem aloft
When his sword leaves the scabbard and he plays;
So say his own men, and our English folk
Have e'en such tales to tell of him at York
And Scarborough and Dunwich.

ANTHONY

Come thy ways
Below deck, shipmate, somewhat more away
From these long-eared east-countrymen, and then
You will soon learn the reason from my mouth
Why the mere killing him or being killed
Will not mend all for me.

Green unburnt slopes
Under the soft sun, smooth green waveless sea,
Too kind a world thou art for such as I.
When shall I bid farewell and learn what place
For such a restless helpless loveless man
Twixt lowest hell and highest heaven there is
Since earth is all at strife with all I am?

333

The Hall at Earlscrag. Thora, Margaret, Bower Maidens.
THORA

Well, maiden, such a tale as thou hast told
Two years agone I thought I could foresee
When first thine eyes 'gan look to woman's years,
And thou wouldst redden at a tale of love.
Trust me, I knew that when my lord had time
And thou wert riper, he would reach his hand
To take the fair fruit to him; day by day,
For a year past, I thought of sending thee
Unto my mother's brother in the North
Or out to Iceland to my father's kin:
But time passed, neither thee nor my lord Rolf
Seemed worth the pains, though neither him nor thee
Do I hate or could hate: nor for him methinks
We sit together in the hall nor know
Each of the other what is in our hearts
About us, and for thee the dull days here
Will drag from out me what had better lie
Quiet within my heart for thee—nay, nay,
I will not speak. I note thee ready now
To take my whole speech rash and lay it up
In that deep storehouse of thy mind.

Thorgerd,
Come hither, tell me how the fishing sped
Our folk came back from at the dawn.

[MAIDEN]
But ill,
Goodwife; they said they deemed the shoal
Had shifted and the sea was e'en too deep.

THORA
Thou sittest silent, Margaret, car'st not
For hate or love of mine?

334

MARGARET
Nay, if I could
Well would I love thee, if I needs must speak—
What say I? for I love thee well indeed
As slaves durst love: and thou art worthy love.

THORA
A many loves 'twixt a few common words,
And no man by to take one of them all.
But hearken, as for thee, I think, I fear
Thy smooth soft speech, thy voice so seldom raised
That dealeth not with great words, thy great eyes
That fall asleep and dream of far off things
E'en midst thy speech—thou shalt be dangerous
In love belike unto thyself and all
Who come across thee.

MARGARET
Lady, fear me not.
I do thy will—thou hast been kind to me,
And for the rest day comes and day goes by
And leaves me with nought done and nought to hope
And nought to fear even when all is said
That I have said e'en now.

THORA

As from a man's
That came from out thy lips, and well I deem
That if thou hadst a brother he and I
Might be fair friends a while.

Hearken, the horn
Sounds at the garth-gate; is my lord come back?

Enter a Servant.
SERVANT
Mistress, Wulfstan the English ship-master
Has anchored in the haven, and is here

335

Some six in company and prayeth thee
For harbourage for him and his awhile.

THORA

We shall have tidings then; go bid them in.
Well now the day shall go nowise so ill;
We shall have merry talk, news of our earl
And his last dealings with the English king.
Five years ago he sat a gold-haired youth
At the great wedding-feast where Rolf was God
And I was Goddess, and he kissed me then
The new wed wife of that same fostersire
Who bade me love him for the most of hope
Of all the men then waxing in the North.
He kissed me, and my heart felt soft to him
At first; I thought, when sixteen years are gone
Shall I have such a son to win the world?
Then something chilled my heart as I beheld
My husband's eager eye on him and me,
The youth he loved, the wife he had just won
And deemed a fair thing doubtless.

Southland may,
Almost would he have moved thy solemn heart;
Baldur come back to life again he seemed
A sun to light the dim hall's glimmering dusk—
What, sighest thou then?—I am babbling on
Before thy wisdom—Ah here come the guests.

Enter Wulfstan the Shipmaster, Anthony and Shipmen.

Welcome, my masters, and thou Wulfstan, first,
Good hast thou done to ours across the sea
And once again somewhat we pay thee back.
Lord Rolf had been right glad to see thee here
And hearken to thy tidings.

WULFSTAN
None the worse

336

We think to fare at thy hands than at his:
Be merry, for two gifts I bring today,
A bale of English linen for thy beds
And a fair winter-guest to make thy board
The merriest in Norway. Greet him well
For he is worthy of it, a rich man
Of noble Southland kin and yet withal
A merchant of all merchants—and thou, friend,
Behold a woman noble as she seems,
Kind, wise and open-handed, craving still
For honour and for knowledge: greet her well.

THORA
Nay Wulfstan, we shall get to verses soon;
Content thee, man, two Icelanders we have
To set the big words going. Verily
I am right glad to see thee and thy friend;
The winter shall be merrier for his words
I doubt me not. Thou lookest round, fair Sir
As if thou wonderest whither thou art come.
Thou hast seen Southland kings and all their state
And deemest us of small account belike,
Yet are we merry at whiles.

ANTHONY
Hail, most fair dame!
Kings' courts hold men and women gaily clad,
Soft words of priests and bitter lies and change,
But few names more redoubted than thy lord's,
And few—no eyes methinks as bright as thine.
Yea, this fair hall should be a happy place.
Aside. The Welshman lied not: she is changed indeed
From the slim joyous maiden of twelve years
And looks my mother of fifteen summers back
Come from the dead to gaze with mournful eyes
Upon the ashes of her house. Yet strange
She doth not seem to know me—Would that I

337

Had come upon this torment of the seas,
Whose death is my desire, amid his men
Flushed with his wealth and wine; for certainly
Peace seems about the place: these red-lipped girls,
Shock-headed herds not all too full of work,
That song without, the smiles here, that soft hand
And ready welcome—Would that we were gone
And they at peace as now.

THORA
And yet, fair Sir,
Your soft speech well said, merely on the ground
Your eyes are fixed. Well, some unburied grief
Perchance you left behind you in your land
And think you are a long way off from it,
And deem our coming winter but a sign
Of mortal separation from all love,
As I have done at whiles.

ANTHONY
In kindly wise
Thou speakest to me. Thirty-five years past
I first saw light, and in our land God wot
That is a long time to be free from grief—
But all shall go well now. Aside. A kind soft place
For me to ruin like my father's house
The soft-winged owl will through to-night!

WULFSTAN
Well lady, if you could turn to me
From this fair Southlander, then might your ears
Hear tidings from the West that touch on you.

THORA
What tidings?

WULFSTAN
These, that Sigurd your young earl,

338

My lord Rolf's fosterson, when spring comes round
Saileth for home bearing the good word
Of all men, and great fame that shall endure
And gold enow for anyone but him
Who deems himself Lord God to give away
Whate'er he has, yet never to grow less.

THORA
Great tidings, Wulfstan. Aside. How the bondmaid stares
Upon the guest! a fine man but a proud;
He looks as though he somewhat hated me
Already—Who shall love me? O fair Sir
Sawest thou Earl Sigurd at the English King's?

ANTHONY
Nay, lady.

WULFSTAN
Now by all the saints of heaven
Thy wits are gathering wool upon the downs!
When first I saw thee thou didst stand three feet
From the Earl's nose, wert telling him long tales
Of Sicily and the isles, the day I came
To pray for his good word in Norway here.

THORA
Well, if [thou] wakedst then, fair guest, say now
How thou deemest of him?

ANTHONY
A tall man was he,
Bright cheeked and fair haired, glib enow of speech;
Men called him a good swordsman.

WULFSTAN
O my merchant-friend,
No need to cheapen him so eagerly,
We sell no earls here.

339

THORA
Friends and guests, come forth
Unto the great hall, for the boards by now
Should be well laid. Yea now the horns blow up;
Come, whatso things tomorrow's sun may bring,
Tonight at least shall see us somewhat glad
Drinking the grave-ales of our joys bygone,
Our hopes too bright to bear three noonday suns.

A Wood near the House. Anthony, Margaret.
MARGARET
Thanks to the beech-boughs we are deep enough
Amongst them now to turn eyes each to each—
O brother with the eyes of the old days
Kiss me and bring the old hope back again
And half forgotten scents of Southland things!

ANTHONY
Or bring thou back unto the lonely man
Foiled, unloved and unloveable, that tide
A month belike or our last parting day,
That morning of the South wherein we sat
Anigh the tideless sea beneath the wall
Whereon the rose-laurel grew.

MARGARET
I was twelve then,
I had known no sorrow—yet as children use
To be saddened by the sound of bells or song
And try to shake from them the first sweet pain,
That as time wears is all the joy belike
That they may hope for, so there hung on me
A vague disquiet that day long ago.

340

ANTHONY
It showed not in thee, rather joy in life,
Sweet, healthful, strong, burned in thee as I deemed,
The gift we waste, the seed of the longings vain
That poison all when at the last we know
That God has made each one of us as lone
As he himself sits, crying out for love
Through mouths of loveless prophets, unwed priests,
Through all his judgments on the dreadful word,
Yet if we meet in hell 'tis good to meet—
Thou lookest hard: a vile sour face it is,
Thy brother's face, but shows not all the worst.
Yet I am glad thou lovest me.

MARGARET
No face
Here have I seen as dear a long, long while;
Help in a helpless place it bringeth me.
Thou art great-hearted.

ANTHONY
Ah, if it were so
And the world might go its ways while I abode
Embraced by some great love, not heeding pain
Or fearing change. With thee it might be so.
Thou art grown wondrous fair, calm are thine eyes,
Strong seemest thou all grief well to endure
And grow the fairer—

MARGARET
Brother, let us talk
Of how the world goes, and thou first, and all
That thou hast dealt with since our parting day.

ANTHONY
Nay first of thee, since a free [man] thou seest me
And rich, while thou—while thou—

341

How shall I say it? art a bondmaid here.
Tell me about thy life.

MARGARET
Little to tell
After that first time when my young heart found
The misery undreamed of and I saw
As in a picture of the very hell
The red flame blazing strong against the sky,
The cloudless sunny sky, and all about
Betwixt the hot deck and the flapping sail
The great-limbed fearful sailors stained with blood,
Redfaced hoarse-voiced and restless, mad with blood
And gain of gold and joy of their lives gained
After the battle, deeming the earth made
For them alone. Small wonder that the men
The Duke sent for our father's guard and help
Shrank back before them, being what well you know,
Door-keepers, varlets, full-fed, purblind knaves
Taking their ease as the world takes sunrise,
A thing that God has made once to endure;
These rather were like dreadful Gods—the fight?
I saw it not; a lad of fifteen years
With a great axe all bloody dragged us down,
Me and my nurse, into the Castle-yard—
O what a dreadful place it seemed that day
Filled with the clamour of the barbarous tongue
And clash of arms and crash of things thrown down
From out the windows, groans of dying men
And sobs and wails, and now and then a scream
Of sudden pain. By their chief there lay
A dead man well nigh covered with a cloth,
But from beneath it was a hand thrust forth,
The dead hand of my father; on the ground,
Without a wound but with their hands bound, sat
Some thirty men, the Duke's folk, waiting death
Or so they thought, and calm enow indeed

342

Now no more was to do. The women stood
Huddled together each in her own way,
As I belike, deeming that now she knew
What the world will be on that day of days
When o'er hushed town, and useless fruitful fields
The Judge's face shows dreadful—Well, the chief
When I was brought before him stared a while
Into my wan face, then in grave voice said,
“A great man's child; had there been twenty such
As she and he a nobler tune belike
Our fiddles might have played.” Then he cried out,
“Eric the skald, good skill thou deemst thou hast
In ways of women, choose thou ten of these
That like thee best besides this noble may.”
Then forth there stood a huge red-headed man
And grinning went up to the trembling band
And drew forth nine of all the fairest there,
But therewithal a palsied withered crone
Our porter's grand-dame. Then a huge laugh burst
From out the seafarers who stood round, and the chief
Said, “Tell us, Eric, why must we bear forth
This great-mouthed toothless porridge-eater then?”
“Nay,” said he, “I have chosen her for thee,
For she looked old and wise to teach thee well
How big a fool thou art to give such choice
Unto another.” Midst the laugh I heard
The lord say: “Nay, for this Valkyria here
Shall be my darling some four summers hence

343

WRITTEN IN A COPY OF THE EARTHLY PARADISE, DEC. 25, 1870

So many stories written here
And none among them but doth bear
Its weight of trouble and of woe!
Well may you ask why it is so;
For surely neither sour nor dull
In such a world, of fair things full,
Should folk be.

Ah, my dears, indeed
My wisdom fails me at my need
To tell why tales that move the earth
Are seldom of content and mirth.
Yet think if it may come of this—
That lives fulfilled of ease and bliss
Crave not for aught that we can give,
And scorn the broken lives we live;
Unlike to us they pass us by,
A dying laugh their history.
But those that struggled sore, and failed
Had one thing left them, that availed
When all things else were nought—

E'en Love—
Whose sweet voice, crying as they strove,
Begat sweet pity, and more love still,
Waste places with sweet tales to fill;
Whereby we, living here, may learn
Our eyes toward very Love to turn,
And all the pain it bringeth meet
As nothing strange amid the sweet:
Whereby we too may hope to be
Grains in the great world's memory
Of pain endured, and nobleness
That life ill-understood doth bless.

344

Words over-grave and sad for you
Maybe: but rime will still be true
Unto my heart—most true herein
In wishing, dear hearts, you may win
A life of every ill so clear,
That little tale for folk to hear
It may be: yet so full of love,
That e'en these words your hearts may move,
Years and years hence, when unto me
Life is a waste and windless Sea.

345

VERSES FOR THE MONTHS EARTHLY PARADISE

MARCH

In March, when the gold-bringing east wind blows
And bright and cloudless is the pale blue sky,
And day by day the sunset later grows,
And on red hedges green buds you may spy,
On such a day of March, when eve was nigh,
In a fair hall, those old men sat talking
With people of the land; and many a thing

Of ancient stories, each to other told;
Till for sweet youth and unforgotten land
The strangers sighed, and longings manifold
Possessed the strong ripe men that there did stand
Half shamefaced; and young lovers hand in hand
Sat silent, feeling the sweet tears arise
Into their happy, longing, youthful eyes.

APRIL

Soft is the air in the sweet April-tide,
When all day long the small brown thrushes sing
And sings the blackbird in the coppice side
And ever is the cuckoo on the wing.
Then were these old folk fain to welcome spring
And [in] an open southern chamber sat
One April morn and talked of this and that.

And in that morn to make their old hearts glad
With people of the land they drank well there,
Yet none the less, distraught they seemed and sad,
Although the promise of the spring was fair
And soft the April wind blew in their hair.
There in low voices these old tales they told
Remembered but in songs and ballads old.

346

MAY

The might of Love, and all his triumphing,
They told in Maytide, and yet therewithal,
Since to the wars he goeth, like every king,
They told of troubles too that needs must fall
Upon the faithful servants he doth call.
When they were dead and gone, on many a time
These tales were told in May beneath the lime;

For to a lover joy it is to lie
And watch his lady's face change here and there,
While moves the verse along melodiously
Through tales that tell of love and ladies fair;
Or see her blush from little chin to hair
When gentle longing for the end of day
The sweet words move, or the sweet flowery May.

347

HAPLESS LOVE

HIC
Why do you sadly go alone,
O fair friend? Are your pigeons flown,
Or has the thunder killed your bees,
Or he-goats barked your apple-trees?
Or has the red-eared bull gone mad,
Or the mead turned from good to bad?
Or did you find the merchant lied
About the gay cloth scarlet-dyed?
And did he sell you brass for gold,
Or is there murrain in the fold?

ILLE
Nay, no such thing has come to me.
In bird and beast and field and tree,
And all the things that make my store,
Am I as rich as e'er before;
And no beguilers have I known
But Love and Death; and Love is gone,
Therefore am I far more than sad,
And no more know good things from bad.

HIC
Woe worth the while! Yet coming days
May bring another, good to praise.

ILLE
Nay, never will I love again,
For loving is but joyful pain
If all be at its very best;
A rose-hung bower of all unrest;
But when at last things go awry,
What tongue can tell its misery?
And soon or late shall this befall—
The Gods send death upon us all.

348

HIC
Nay, then, but tell me how she died,
And how it did to thee betide
To love her; for the wise men say
To talk of grief drives grief away.

ILLE

Alas, O friend, it happed to me
To see her passing daintily
Before my homestead day by day—
Would she had gone some other way!
For one day, as she rested there
Beneath the long-leaved chestnuts fair,
In very midst of mid-day heat,
I cast myself before her feet,
And prayed for pity and for love.
How could I dream that words could move
A woman? Soft she looked at me:
“Thou sayest that I a queen should be,”
She answered with a gathering smile;
“Well, I will wait a little while;
Perchance the Gods thy will have heard.”

And even with that latest word,
The clash of arms we heard anigh;
And from the wood rode presently
A fair knight well apparelled.
And even as she turned her head,
He shortened rein, and cried aloud:
“O beautiful, among the crowd
Of queens thou art the queen of all!”

But when she let her eyelids fall,
And blushed for pleasure and for shame,
Then quickly to her feet he came,
And said, “Thou shalt be queen indeed;
For many a man this day shall bleed

349

Because of me, and leave me king
Ere noontide fall to evening.”

Then on his horse he set the maid
Before him, and no word she said
Clear unto me, but murmuring
Beneath her breath some gentle thing,
She clung unto him lovingly;
Nor took they any heed of me.

Through shade and sunlight on they rode
But 'neath the green boughs I abode,
Nor noted aught that might betide.
The sun waned and the shade spread wide;
The birds came twittering overhead;
But there I lay as one long dead.

But ere the sunset, came a rout
Of men-at-arms with song and shout,
And bands of lusty archers tall,
And spearmen marching like a wall,
Their banners hanging heavily,
That no man might their blazon see;
And ere their last noise died away,
I heard the clamour of the fray
That swelled and died and rose again;
Yet still I brooded o'er my pain
Until the red sun nigh was set,
And then methought I e'en might get
The rest I sought, nor wake forlorn
Midst fellow-men the morrow morn;
So forth I went unto the field,
One man without a sword or shield.
But none was there to give me rest,
Tried was it who was worst and best,
And slain men lay on every side;
For flight and chase were turned aside,

350

And all men got on toward the sea.
But as I went right heavily
I saw how close beside the way
Over a knight a woman lay
Lamenting, and I knew in sooth
My love, and drew a-near for ruth.

There lay the knight who would be king
Dead slain before the evening,
And ever my love cried out and said,
“O sweet, in one hour art thou dead
And I am but a maiden still!
The Gods this day have had their will
Of thee and me; whom all these years
They kept apart: that now with tears
And blood and bitter misery
Our parting and our death might be.”

Then did she rise and look around,
And took his drawn sword from the ground
And on its bitter point she fell—
No more, no more, O friend, to tell!
No more about my life, O friend!
One course it shall have to the end.

O Love, come from the shadowy shore,
And by my homestead as before
Go by with sunlight on thy feet!
Come back, if but to mock me, sweet!

HIC
O fool! what love of thine was this,
Who never gave thee any kiss,
Nor would have wept if thou hadst died?
Go now, behold the world is wide:
Soon shalt thou find some dainty maid
To sit with in thy chestnut shade,

351

To rear fair children up for thee,
As those few days pass silently,
Uncounted, that may yet remain
'Twixt thee and that last certain pain.

ILLE
Art thou a God? Nay, if thou wert,
Wouldst thou belike know of my hurt,
And what might sting and what might heal?
The world goes by 'twixt woe and weal
And heeds me not; I sit apart
Amid old memories. To my heart
My love and sorrow must I press;
It knoweth its own bitterness.

352

THE MOTHER UNDER THE MOULD

1

Svend dyring rode on the island-way
Yea have I not myself been young,
And there he's wedded so fair a may
Fair words give joy to many a heart.

2

Seven years the twain together sat
And children six between them gat.

3

Then came a death into the land
And died that lovely lily-wand.

4

Then Svend he rode on the island-way
And there he's wedded another may,

5

He's wedded a may and home is she
As grim and evil as may be.

6

When she came a-driving to the door
There stood the six babies weeping sore,

7

There stood they weeping many a tear,
With her foot she thrust them forth from her.

8

She gave them neither ale nor meat:
O ye shall have both hunger and hate.

9

She took from them the bolster blue,
Said, [In] the bare straw lie alow.

353

10

She's taken from them the great wax lights:
In murk house shall ye lie anights.

11

Late in the eve the bairns they grat,
The Mother under the Mould heard that.

12

That heard she under earth as she lay:
O now must I to my babes away.

13

Then did she stand the Lord before:
O may I go see my babes once more?

14

So long there did she stand and pray
That the Lord let her go her way.

15

But come thou back at cock-crow-tide,
No longer away must thou abide.

16

Then forth her weary feet put she
To meet both wall and imagery.

17

But when she came unto the stead
Under the sky the hounds they bayed,

18

And when to the door she drew near-hand
There did her eldest daughter stand.

19

O daughter mine, why stand'st thou there,
How do thy little brethren fare?

354

20

Thou art never Mother of mine,
For ever was she fair and fine.

21

My Mother was white with cheeks full red,
But thou art pale and like the dead.”

22

O how should I be fine and fair,
For dead folk all pale cheeks must bear.

23

O how should I be white and red
So long as I've been cold and dead.

24

But when she came to the chamber door,
There were [the] bairns and grat right sore.

25

The first she brushed, the second she plaited,
The third she dandled, the fourth she patted,

26

The fifth upon her breast she set
As though sweet food it thence should get.

27

Then to her eldest daughter said she,
Go bid Svend Dyring come to me.

28

So when within the hall he stood
She spake to him in wrathful mood.

29

I left behind me ale and bread
Yet must my babes [of both] have need.

355

30

Bolsters blue did I leave enow,
In the bare straw lie my babes alow.

31

I left behind me waxlights high
But in chamber dark must my little ones lie.

32

Look to it that if I come once more
Ill fate for you there lieth in store.

33

But now is the red red cock a crowing
And under the earth must the dead be a going,

34

Now croweth the black cock on high
And heaven's gate openeth presently.

35

And now the white cock croweth clear,
No longer is there biding here.

36

So every time the hounds they bayed
They gave the children ale and bread.

37

No sooner did they hear them bay
But they thought the dead was on the way.

38

The hound's voice did they no sooner hear
Than sure they thought the dead was there.

356

SAD-EYED AND SOFT AND GREY

Sad-eyed and soft and grey thou art, O morn!
Across the long grass of the marshy plain
Thy west wind whispers of the coming rain,
Thy lark forgets that May is grown forlorn
Above the lush blades of the springing corn,
Thy thrush within the high elm strives in vain
To store up tales of spring for summer's pain—
Vain day, why wert thou from the dark night born?

O many-voiced strange morn, why must thou break
With vain desire the softness of my dream
Where she and I alone on earth did seem?
How hadst thou heart from me that land to take
Wherein she wandered softly for my sake
And I and she no harm of love might deem?

357

RHYME SLAYETH SHAME

If as I come unto her she might hear,
If words might reach her when from her I go,
Then speech a little of my heart might show,
Because indeed nor joy nor grief nor fear
Silence my love; but her gray eyes and clear,
Truer than truth, pierce through my weal and woe;
The world fades with its woods, and naught I know
But that my changed life to My Life is near.

Go, then, poor rhymes, who know my heart indeed,
And sing to her the words I cannot say,—
That Love has slain Time, and knows no today
And no tomorrow; tell her of my need,
And how I follow where her footsteps lead,
Until the veil of speech death draws away.

358

MAY GROWN A-COLD

O certainly, no month this is but May!
Sweet earth and sky, sweet birds of happy song,
Do make thee happy now, and thou art strong,
And many a tear thy love shall wipe away
And make the dark night merrier than the day,
Straighten the crooked paths and right the wrong,
And tangle bliss so that it tarry long.
Go cry aloud the hope the Heavens do say!

Nay what is this? and wherefore lingerest thou?
Why sayest thou the sky is hard as stone?
Why sayest thou the thrushes sob and moan?
Why sayest thou the east tears bloom and bough?
Why seem the sons of man so hopeless now?
Thy love is gone, poor wretch, thou art alone!

359

AS THIS THIN THREAD

As this thin thread upon thy neck shall lie
So on thy heart let my poor love abide
Not noted much, and yet not cast aside;
For it may be that fear and mockery
And shame, earth's tyrants, the thin thing shall try
Nor scorch therefrom what little worth may hide
Amidst its pettiness, till fully tried
Time leaves it as a thing that will not die.

Then hearken! thou who forgest day by day
No chain, but armour that I needs must wear
Although at whiles I deem it hard to bear,
If thou to thine own work no hand will lay,
That which I took I may not cast away,
Keep what I give till Death our eyes shall clear.

360

SONG

Twas one little word that wrought it,
One sweet pang of pleasure bought it;
Long 'twixt heart and lips it hung
Till too sore the heart was wrung,
Till no more the lips might bear
To be parted, yet so near—
Then the darkness closed around me
And the bitter waking found me
Half forgotten, unforgiven and alone.

Hearken: nigher still and nigher
Had we grown, methought my fire
Woke in her some hidden flame
And the rags of pride and shame
She seemed casting from her heart,
And the dull days seemed to part;
Then I cried out, Ah, I move thee
And thou knowest that I love thee—
—Half forgotten, unforgiven and alone.

Yea, it pleased her to behold me
Mocked by tales that love had told me,
Mocked by tales and mocked by eyes
Wells of loving mysteries;
Mocked by eyes and mocked by speech
Till I deemed I might beseech
For one word, that scarcely speaking
She would snatch me from that waking,
Half forgotten, unforgiven and alone.

All is done—no other greeting,
No more sweet tormenting meeting,
No more sight of smile or tear,
No more bliss shall draw anear

361

Hand in hand with sister pain—
Scarce a longing vague and vain—
No more speech till all is over
Twixt the well-beloved and lover
Half-forgotten, unforgiven and alone.

362

WHY DOST THOU STRUGGLE

Why dost thou struggle, strive for victory
Over my heart that loveth thine so well?
When Death shall one day have its will of thee
And to deaf ears thy triumph thou must tell.

Unto deaf ears or unto such as know
The hearts of dead and living wilt thou say:
A childish heart there loved me once, and lo
I took his love and cast his love away.

A childish greedy heart! yet still he clung
So close to me that much he pleased my pride
And soothed a sorrow that about me hung
With glimpses of his love unsatisfied—

And soothed my sorrow—but time soothed it too
Though ever did its aching fill my heart
To which the foolish child still closer drew
Thinking in all I was to have a part.

But now my heart grown silent of its grief
Saw more than kindness in his hungry eyes:
But I must wear a mask of false belief
And feign that nought I knew his miseries.

I wore a mask, because though certainly
I loved him not, yet was there something soft
And sweet to have him ever loving me:
Belike it is I well-nigh loved him oft—

Nigh loved him oft, and needs must grant to him
Some kindness out of all he asked of me
And hoped his love would still hang vague and dim
About my life like half-heard melody.

363

He knew my heart and over-well knew this
And strove, poor soul, to pleasure me herein;
But yet what might he do some doubtful kiss
Some word, some look might give him hope to win.

Poor hope, poor soul, for he again would come
Thinking to gain yet one more golden step
Toward Love's shrine, and lo the kind speech dumb
The kind look gone, no love upon my lip—

Yea gone, yet not my fault, I knew of love
But my love and not his; how could I tell
That such blind passion in him I should move?
Behold I have loved faithfully and well;

Love of my love so deep and measureless
O lords of the new world this too ye know

364

O FAR AWAY TO SEEK

O far away to seek, Close-hid for heart to find,
O hard to cast away, Impossible to bind!
A pain when sought and found, A pain when slipped away,
Yet by whatever name, Be nigh us, Love, today.

Sweet was the summer day, Before thou camest here,
But never sweet to me, And Death was drawing near!
Is it summer still? What meaneth the word Death,
What meaneth all the joy Thy mouth, Love, promiseth?

Wherefore must thou babble Of thy finding me alone?
What is this idle word, That thou may'st yet be gone?
Laugh, laugh, Love, as I laugh, When mine own love kisseth me
And saith no more of bliss Twixt lips and lips shall be.

O Love, thou hast slain time, How shall he live again?
We bless thy bitter wound, We bless thy sleepless pain—
Hope and fear slain each of each Doubt forgetting all he said
Death in some place forgotten Lingering, and half dead.

When my hand forgets her cunning I will loose thee, Love, and pray
—Ah and pray to what—For a never-ending day,
Where we may sit apart, Hapless, undying still,
With thoughts of the old story Our sundered hearts to fill.

365

OUR HANDS HAVE MET

Our hands have met, our lips have met,
Our souls—who knows when the wind blows
How light souls drift mid longings set,
If thou forget'st, can I forget
The time that was not long ago?

Thou wert not silent then, but told
Sweet secrets dear—I drew so near
Thy shamefaced cheeks grown overbold,
That scarce thine eyes might I behold!
Ah was it then so long ago!

Trembled my lips and thou wouldst turn
But hadst no heart to draw apart,
Beneath my lips thy cheek did burn—
Yet no rebuke that I might learn;
Yea kind looks still, not long ago.

Wilt thou be glad upon the day
When unto me this love shall be
An idle fancy passed away,
And we shall meet and smile [and] say
“O wasted sighs of long ago!”

Wilt thou rejoice that thou hast set
Cold words, dull shows 'twixt hearts drawn close,
That cold at heart I live on yet,
Forgetting still that I forget
The priceless days of long ago?

366

FAIR WEATHER AND FOUL

Speak nought, move not, but listen, the sky is full of gold,
No ripple on the river, no stir in field or fold,
All gleams but nought doth glisten, but the far-off unseen sea.

Forget days past, heart broken, put all thy memory by!
No grief on the green hill-side, no pity in the sky,
Joy that may not be spoken fills mead and flower and tree.

Look not, they will not heed thee, speak not, they will not hear,
Pray not, they have no bounty, curse not, they may not fear,
Cower down, they will not heed thee; long-lived the world shall be.

Hang down thine head and hearken, for the bright eve mocks thee still:
Night trippeth on the twilight, but the summer hath no will
For woes of thine to darken, and the moon hath left the sea.

Hope not to tell thy story in the rest of grey-eyed morn,
In the dawn grown grey and rainy, for the thrush ere day is born
Shall be singing to the glory of the day-star mocking thee.

Be silent, worn and weary, till their tyranny is past,
For the summer joy shall darken, and the wind wail low at last,
And the drifting rack and dreary shall be kind to hear and see.

Thou shalt remember sorrow, thou shalt tell all thy tale
When the rain fills up the valley, and the trees amid their wail
Think far beyond tomorrow, and the sun that yet shall be.

Hill-side and vineyard hidden, and the river running rough,
Toward the flood that meets the northlands, shall be rest for thee enough
For thy tears to fall unbidden, for thy memory to go free.

Rest then, when all moans round thee, and no fair sunlitten lie
Maketh light of sorrow underneath a brazen sky,
And the tuneful woe hath found thee, over land and over sea.