University of Virginia Library

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.
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
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
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
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
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
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.