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

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

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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.

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—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!