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

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.