Chronicles and Characters :: :: University of Virginia Library

Chronicles and Characters

By Robert Lytton (Owen Meredith): In Two Volumes

Lytton, Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton (1831-1891)

[dedication]

VOL.I

II.

BOOK II.

III.

BOOK III. ROMANCES.

IV.

BOOK IV.

BOOK V. LEGENDS AND ROMANCES.

VI.

BOOK VI.

THE SIEGE OF CONSTANTINOPLE.

VII.

BOOK VII. LEGENDS, BALLADS, AND ROMANCES.

VIII.

BOOK VIII. NARRATIVE, DRAMATIC, AND LYRICAL.

IX.

BOOK IX. HERE AND THERE.

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VOL.I

BOOK I. TALES FROM HERODOTUS.

“ως φησιν εν τη πρωτη Ηροδοτος.” Athenæus. B. xxiii.

PRELUDE.

With fancies that, like phantoms, bear
The bodies of long-buried men,
Whose bones are dust, whose spirits are air,
Whose dwellings are the days that were,—
The suns that will not rise again,—
A bark, dream-built to drift along
The tides of other times, I throng;
And, helmless, here and there am blown
Beyond my will, by the Power of Song,
From shore to shore of regions lone
In sempiternal Even lying
Glimmeringly, girt by the moan
Of memories ever dying.
Like that bewilder'd Cretan crew
These old-world-wandering fancies are;
Whose course, unsteer'd by chart or star,

With tugging sail and slanted deck,
Latona's newborn offspring blew
Where er he will'd; nor could they check
In the plunging prow the spirit that knew
Whose sudden hand his speed obey'd;
As ever about in the billowy dip
And briny dance of the beakèd ship
A golden dolphin flasht and play'd,
While fast thro' shallow foam they flew
Along the shore-lock'd seas, and fast
Beheld the Elean port slide past,
And many a wisht-for haven fade,
And many a slowly-sun-flush't bay,
Till faint their staggering keel was stay'd
Off Crissa; when the crimson day
In lights and ardours manifold
Was burning all the west away,
And, bright beyond the harbour bar,
Brimm'd his blue baths with fervid gold:
Then, o'er the seaborn mountains far,
And far in Even's inmost hold,
The weary mariners (thus they say)
Saw white walls hang in a rosy air;
For so the god had built them there.

I.OPIS AND ARGE.

[_]

(Herodotus iv. 35.)

Past Ophïusa sailing, long ere morn
Had stolen beneath the summer stars from where
About the waters' verge in paler air
The stars are fewest and most large, near land
The Ortygian mariners their sea-drench'd bark
Moor'd on the shallow sea, a weary band,
By Delos, waiting for the dawn; and there,
(While broken winds, among the mountains born,
Scarce heaved—the sighing stillness of the dark)
They heard, along wild shores of capes forlorn,
The Hyperborean virgins, hand in hand,

Sing loud, from lands beyond the wind o' the north,
With mystic music moving down the seas
Toward Greece, this hymn, whose latest notes drew forth
Full-crownèd sunrise from the Cyclades:

“Sister Arge, sister Arge, shake thy tresses to the wind,
Till the life that floods them overfloat the lone air with delight!
And tread swiftly down the shadows of the starry hills that bind
To the bases of the darkness the high silence of the night.
Virgin, watcher of the veilèd forms, to whom hath been consign'd
The divinity enshrin'd,
Thou that bearest on thy bosom all the beauty, all the might,
Of the yet-unheard, the yet-unseen, whence floweth sound and sight;
Dost thou tremble at the nearness of the time that we are touching?
Doth the whitefire leaping in the stars that lead us scorch thee blind?
Art thou wary of the sly and wishful winds that would be clutching
At the shut heart of the blessing we are bearing to mankind?
Show not! show not!
Let men know not

What is coming. For the mind
Of the world is undefined;
And the dark not yet the daystar doth release.
Wherefore watch ye well, and ward,
Sister, hold ye fast, and guard
The sacred straw
From bruise or flaw,
And the mystic veil from soil or crease,
Whilst, unseen but aware
And awake, we bear
The high gods safe to their home in Greece.”

“Sister Opis, sister Opis, I am moving at thy side
In the power that is upon us: I am treading stride for stride
Down the wonder of the world with thee, undaunted by the throng
Of the startling stars that, brighten'd by the breath of thy clear song,
Give in glory heaven's gladness forth. But oh, the way is long
From the distance of the darkness to the distance of the light!
And, like a shipman eyeing
Along a shoreless sea
That sliding rippled lane the lucid moon hath paven bright,
Which to sunder, and escape from, all the livelong labouring night

His patient keel is trying;
But, with a fond denying,
It doth ever seem to be
Where it first was on the waters, and yet, o'er the waters ever
Gliding silent with the ship is still beside it, so that never
Is that watcher any further from the light that leaveth dark
The last wave it leapeth out of ere 'tis broken by his bark;
So my spirit, striving forward, yet doth never find release
From the still-pursuing splendour of the thoughts that pass in peace,
Passing swift from sweet to sweeter,
Strange to stranger, thro' completer
Indications of the stature
Of the beautiful in nature,
To the perfect form and feature
Of the godship of this Greece.

“I heard a gryphon yelping for his gold across a dim
Blue frostbitten mountain gully, where the rock-stream would not flow:
I outsped the Arimaspian that was outspeeding him,
Whose one eye, when he beheld me, shrivell'd blinded in his brow
With a knowledge premature
Of what, knowing, to endure,
Not yet the gods had granted his incompetence-to-know.

And not even so much sound
As doth lisp around, around,
In a little whisperous whirl of windy snow,
My flitting footstep made,
As it travers'd unbetray'd
The silent iron-colour'd floors of frozen lakes below
Those bitter pale Cimmerian skies,
Whose ghostly suns with bloodred eyes,
Thick wrapt in frosty film, make wan
The whited desert of lean plains,
Where hornless beeves in wooden wains
The Scythian and the Sindian
Drive, streaking, as unheard they go,
The echoless white waste with slow
Dark dotted trains,
As silent as, thro' light that lies
Lone on the verge of evening, flies
A troop of long-neck'd cranes.
And the bald-head Argipæan,
Beneath his black bean-tree,
Sat bare-headed in the sun to judge the people, as I pass'd.
But to-night from bowers Eubæan
Blow sweet odours up the sea,
And the Grecian beauty breathes into my being at the last.
Yet I show not,
For I know not,
What is coming to mankind.
White the wheat lies on the faces of the folded Images:

And other hands
In other lands
Are destined to unbind
The veil of this Invisible by slowly-sweet degrees.
Wherefore aye in watch and ward,
Sister, hold I fast and guard
The sacred straw
From bruise or flaw,
And the mystic veil from soil or crease,
Whilst, awake and aware,
Together we bear
The high gods safe to their home in Greece.”

A wind, that all night long in Rhodope,
Waiting release, had crouch'd with casual thrills
Of power but half repress'd, now leaping free,
His kindred from the high Keraunian hills
Call'd to him athwart the dark Ægæan sea,
And swept from Athos and the rocky fringe
Of many a mountain-builded promontory
Beyond Pallene those high vapours hoary
That, soon as Morn swings out on silent hinge
Her golden gates against the eastern skies,
Do travel the dim air in search of glory.
Whereat they rose (greybearded companies,
Whose paths above the peakèd mountains are)
Leaving the moonless night upon the wane,
In haste to fill their floating urns with flame,

And midway meet the Light that loves to rise
On Delos, where his mother dwelt. There came
A change across the skies, and in the strain
Of that strange music, that now dropp'd from far
Fresh, clear, and cold, as drops of driven rain
Dasht on dark summits from the morning star:—
“Art thou near me, Sister Arge?”
“Sister Opis, I am near.”
“And dost hear me, Sister Arge?”
“Sister Opis, speak, I hear.”
“From the cold to the warm, from the dark to the light,
From the wish to the will, from the part to the whole,
To the deed from the need, to the day from the night,
From the brute in the body to the god in the soul,
Man grows.
For, the gods having first morsell'd Man into men,
Men by growing together must grow into Man;
Who grows outward at first, to grow inward again,
Thus outgrowing the point whence his first growth began;
Till (who knows?)
Point by point in successive ascensions, perchance
The high gods, on his being upborne, shall go higher
Up in Heaven, to leave scope for the search of his glance,
And large space for the love in his life to aspire
To the air that feeds fire:
Still, as more and more godlike he grows, to discover
More and more in the godhead, above him for ever;

The wider he reaches, more reachlessness; over
His highest attain'd, still a higher to endeavour
In the Ever-near Never.”

Light rose in response mild a lovelier voice
Along the morning air, like a spring wind
Whose benediction bids old earth rejoice
Because of violets it is come to find.

“Sister Opis, I hear thee,
And, near thee,
My heart, with thy song in it, glows;
And the fulness of sweetness o'erflows,
While thy soul from thy lip
All a-tremble doth slip
As a dewdrop in light from a rose.”

And, higher thought in higher tone to pour,
The music of that mystic voice intense
Rose on the tingling dark, and more and more
Was felt like light within the listener's sense.

“Blind and mute no more,
As, for ages and ages old,
Upon Time's storm-beaten shore
It dwelt in the dark and cold
Of error, and shame, and wrong,
Man's race, erewhile forlorn,

With speech that is now made song,
And sight that is beauty born,
Shall see, and speak, and be heard;
And the lion, and wolf, and leopard,
As tame as a mountain herd
That follows at morn the shepherd,
By a music and a light
To a fairer land afar,
Charm'd out of the caves of night,
Shall follow man's dawning star;
Where the force, refined to grace,
Of Strength and Beauty mated
Shall give birth to a lovelier race
Of men to gods related;
Till there beat in the old brute world
A human heart that knows
Where the Spirit of Love lies curl'd
In all that breathes and blows;
And a peeping face shall flit
Thro' the leaves of the forest lone,
And the mountain wells be lit
By the limbs of a Naiad known,
And the orbs that brighten heaven
Shall be no nameless glory,
But the beauty and splendour given
To a breathing human story.”

Anon together, like two butterflies

Born of one flower that gave to both its hue,
Which sport around each other in warm skies,
Yet all the while their upward flight pursue
Thro' summer's liquid lights and melodies,
Those voices twain on intertwinèd wing
Of woven music mounted, hovering:

“Blessèd art thou, O man, at thy lowest,
O thou lord of the hand and the thought!
For thou livest in that which thou doest,
And thou makest thyself out of nought.
Now to thy cradle we bear thee
The Teachers, the bright, the benign,
That out of earth's dust shall uprear thee
An altar, a temple, a shrine,
And forth of all things that be near thee
(By the touch of a tenderness fine)
To guide, to sustain, and to cheer thee,
Shall summon a Presence Divine.
Beauty, the wave-born, the flowing,
Shall rise, and in rapture give birth
To Love, the man-maker, the glowing
Boy-bringer of Beauty to earth.
Lo! I weigh thee the weight of thy worth.
All things are thine:
All things combine
In a strenuous design
To make thee divine.

Name them, and claim them!
None dare decline
In aught to fulfil
The behest of thy will.
Choose them, and use them!
The moving, and the still,
The upright, the supine,
Take them, and make them
(Both the colour and the line)
Ministers all at the marvellous shrine
Of the strong-bodied, spirit-wedded,
Hundred-handed, myriad-headed,
Mighty, wonder-working Skill!

“The wave shall render thee
Its intricate harmony
Of movement multiform, and gliding swerve
Of shadowy curve;
The mould of Music visible, the free
Lip o' the eloquent sea:
The vine shall fix for ever
For thee her fond endeavour
Of drooping leaf, and tendril-twine,
To richly deck the rigid line
Of limitary law, that lies
Unseen, endear'd by love's disguise:
The milk-white marble pale,
To tell thine eyes the tale
Of what thy thoughts discern

Beyond them, shall avail
Olympian speech to learn;
And, for thy sake, forthwith forego
The formless face of his smooth snow
For novel features, sweet or stern,
To fit thy fancy, gay or grave,
And in unmoved memorial save
The falling leaf, the flowing wave,
From death, that doth their beauty crave:
And, as both stock and stone
To thee their uses lend,
Thou too, in turn, shalt these befriend
With better beauty, not their own;
And every tender slope and turn
Of sumptuous form, well-featured face,
Or pure proportion, pleased to deck
This mortal mould, shall flow to grace
Some calyx'd vase, with curling neck,
Fine-ear'd, or fluted urn.

“Now, therefore, new-grown,
Come forth, and be known,
Thou poor hewer, thou blind-handed breaker
Of wood and of stone!
Henceforth, in thy might, as the maker,
To the ages be shown!
And the gold shall break out into glory,
And the ivory be pallid with awe,
At the frown of the god high and hoary,

That liveth alone in the law
Of himself; when, in splendour strong-zoned,
Zeus, sovran in Elis, sits throned.

“Blessèd art thou, O man! for thou growest
(O thou lord of the thought and the band!)
In the growth of whatever thou doest,
And the ages await thy command.

“Life's image, born of the brain,
In the form which the hand hath fashion'd,
Shall for ever unmarr'd retain
Life's moment the most impassion'd;
All power, that in act hath been
Put forth, shall perish never;
And life's beauty once felt and seen
Is life beautified for ever.”

In that high tone the mingled music shrill
Of those triumphant voices, ceasing, left
The silence tremulous with a solemn thrill,
As one whose troubled sense is sharply cleft
By sudden knowledge of undream'd-of good.
And, for a while, there was no other sound
Than the sea's murmur on the solitude,
And the light winds that sigh'd and whisper'd round
The dawning headlands. Then, with alter'd tone,
Was pour'd from the pale hills one voice alone:

“Sister Opis, sister Opis, thou exultest in thy song;
For to thee the god speaks certainly, and therefore thou art strong.
But me a sorrow moveth in the midst of much delight,
For the grief that's growing in the joy, the weakness in the might,
Of this two-fold nature, each way growing into depth and height;
Whereby more strength more strongly feels more weakness, in despite
Of more strength yet in sight.
For man, from the moment when man
Feels a power in his soul to conceive
Of a power surpassing the span
Of the life he hath power to achieve,
Must be wretched; perceiving, both ways,
The abyss of a boundless Beyond;
With, as more imperfection may gaze
On perfection, more cause to despond.
Evermore must the life of the many,
That in Art is completed alone,
Transcending the mere life of any
One creature, leave hopeless that one.
And no shepherd shall stand on the mountain
As stately as Phœbus the fair;
And no maiden shall move by the fountain
As radiant as Hebe the rare;
And Niobe's marble bereavement,

In anguish made beauty forever,
Shall immortally mock the achievement
Of grief's merely mortal endeavour.
Then say, if thou seest,—for I see not,
What hope is in man that he be not
The architect merely—as, stone
Upon stone, it ascends—of his own
Mortal life's monumental despair?
From insolent heights never ending,
In immutable forms ever fair,
Conception transcending, offending,
And mocking Experience,—declare
What shall comfort the poor life of each,
When, fixt far beyond the soul's reach,
Though confronting the sense—ever there
In completion, abasht, it must gaze
On the full-imaged life of the All?
What shall reconcile shame? and upraise
To man's greatness mere men, that are small?
Ay me! for man's sake my tears fall,
Not seeing whence comfort to call.”

Whereto, in answer, the hill-tops along,
That other voice, clear, confident, and strong:

“Sister Arge, sister Arge, dost thou falter? But to me
The god hath given certainly to utter what shall be.
Wherefore listen.”

“I am listening, with my spirit turn'd to thee.”

“List, and see!—
Base wert thou, O man, tho' thou buildest
Halls higher than ever the emmet,
And poor, tho' thou purplest and gildest
Thy pomp: a fly's wing would condemn it.
But to measure thy weakness, and know it,
Is the crown of thy strength. Wherefore speak,
And come forth, O consoler! O poet!
Thou whose song giveth strength to the weak.
Thou doer, aye unguess'd among
Things done: deceiver of the throng
That's ignorantly thine; whose life,
Living thro' all, unheard proceeds
Amid the noise of mortal deeds,
And shapes of passing things, and strife
Of changing times, which, when thy presence
Their emptiness and little strength
Hath fill'd and interpenetrated
With its own divinest essence,
Grow great and calm, take breadth and length,
And height and depth, and rest related
To those immortal verities
That change not with the changing skies,
And reel not with the rolling years:
Thou Destiny, whose thoughts are seers,
Come forth, controller of the shears,
The spindle, and the rock!

Hero, whose words are victories all,
Enlarge man's life: leave nothing small,
Inconsequent or fractional:
The world's shut heart unlock.
Do thou with beauty stop the chinks
And flaws of uncompleted man,
And with music brim the brinks
Of nature: filling out the plan
Of the life man yearns to live,
And strives to seize, but never can,
Till thy help to him thou give;
Putting space within his span.

“Life's flower hath many springs:
Leaves fallen feed its root:
Camps, nations, courts, and kings
Murmur, and soon are mute.
But over the bloody plain
Where a nation's life lies lost,
From the bodies of many slain
Doth arise but a single ghost.
Nor chance nor change can mar
The beauty of her pale brows,
Whereon the pilot star
Of the wandering Future glows:
She, that is all pure essence,
Can no more suffer wrong:
Men call her name The Presence
Of the Past made theirs in Song.

And this most beauteous child
Of a Past that cannot die,
Whose spirit doth reign strong-will'd
O'er the realm of Futurity,
By means of her mighty sons, that are
The makers of man's thought, fair, and far
From the perishing Present's fitful strife,
Upbuildeth the beautiful dome of life;
All throng'd with lucid shapes that be
Clothed each in the calm of eternity;
Those mighty memories of mankind,
Whose home is the universal mind.
Wherefore yet I praise man at his lowest,
Being lord of the living voice.
Hark, O wind, thro' the reeds where thou blowest,
Pan cometh! I bid thee rejoice.
The ægipans, satyrs, and fauns,
To his shrill pipe trooping after,
Trample over the lanes and the lawns,
With timbrel and tipsy laughter:
But after Pan cometh Apollo,
Whose music is sound made fire,
And the gods and the heroes follow
The loud twang of his golden lyre.”

Down swept a rushing sound, across the lone
And melancholy mountains clothed in cloud,
As of the multitudinous hurrying on

Of unseen feet, and murmurings of a crowd,
With music, cymbals faint, faint flutes; as when
On festal days, with pomp processional,
And minstrelsy, and dancing maids and men,
Some merrymaking city pours thro' all
Her gaping gates a jubilant swarm; whose sound
Among the humming hills is sometimes heard
Where gorges open, and then shut again,
Sudden, i' the shifting vale, with all its train
Of mirthful tumult manifold, and drown'd
In such deep silence that the hooting bird,
That haunts by mountain tarns, is audible
Far off once more, and audible alone,
In the reinstated stillness, with stern tone
Chiding the solitary air. So fell
Down vaporous precipices, soon almost
As heard, those sounds of things unwitness'd, lost
Along the dreaming gulfs, and roll'd away.
Anon once more, against the dawning day,
The former voices; shrill distinct, as darts
That, clash'd against sonorous metal, sing,
Sharp tune; whereto clear echoes from the hearts
Of hollow caves rang response, vibrating:

“Sister Opis, sister Opis, on a silver wave of song
Sweetly streaming,
Dim as dreaming,
The deep melodies among,

By thy singing,
Bliss is bringing
All my being. Yet prolong
The loved rapture!”

“Listen, Sister!
For my spirit on the throng
Of the ages rushes strong.
When the strong archetypal moulders
Of mortal clay
Have bequeath'd to unborn beholders
The forms that stay
Fixt and fast
In the flux of time,
For man's thought, cast
In a mould sublime;
And the few fine Spirits first needed
To build up the walls of the world,
(From the Protoplast freshly proceeded)
Having, each from his fortress, unfurl'd
The standard of man's realm, made fuller
For all men by one man alone,—
Over marble, or music, or colour,
Or language,—are gather'd and gone
From the sun's sight, like stars of the morning,
Lost in level enlargements of light,
Where the world needs no longer their warning
Or witness to steer through the night,

Then the men that come after, not equal
In height, but more spacious in span,
Shall combine and complete in the sequel
Each sublime isolation: and man,
Grown compacter, shall gather together
His faculties, full-grown before
Each up to the length of its tether,
But scatter'd and single of yore.
No piling on Ossa of Pelion,
Leaving valleys uncultured and lone:
But the whole world in high perihelion,
Breathing light, shall set broad to the sun!
And for this I praise man, at his lowest,
Being heir to heights higher than his;
For, when even his march is at slowest,
He is ever beyond what he is.

“The form of the shining present,
By the shade of the past controll'd,
As the curve of the young moon's crescent
Is shapen about the old,
In the self-completing orb
Of a life, that in its own light
Doth the shade of itself absorb,
Man lifteth thro' time's lone night.
In the present his future he feeleth,
Formeth and holdeth it fast,

And himself to himself revealeth
Himself by himself surpast.

“But see! the great light is beginning
Up yonder; with sharp silver thinning
The thick night, and peeling away
The black shell that shut down the day.
Leave we here on the high promontory,
That is toucht at the tops with the glory,
Each great Form, folded fast head and feet,
And swathed in the sweet yellow wheat;
Best befitting for symbol and sign:
For man's first need is merely to live,
His next to make mere life divine;
Aud the corn-crownèd Ceres must give
The first gift to the god-crownèd shrine.
With the hard hand that hacks out the harvest
From the solid resistance of things,
Poor peasant, a portion thou carvest
Of ease for thy sons that be kings!”

By this, severe cold amber-colour'd light
Was sharpening the dark edges of the sea:
From shadowy summits, slowly stolen in sight,
Thro' the still air the voice came, carolling free:

“Come, Sister, come down
The deep meadows unmown!

Down, Sister, deeper and deeper down,
Thro' the lone bright lands
Not ours, where hands
Happy and fair, in the years unshown,
Of boy and of maiden,
Shall our sepulchres crown,
Flower-deck'd and gift-laden,
With green myrtle coronals oft.
Light let us stray
Down the valleys away,
And where shadows wave soft
Thro' dim olive-woods, sighing
With the low undertone
Of a life ever dying,
Ere her crownet of dew the pale cistus hath doff'd.
Leave the High Ones alone
And aloft, fitly lying
In the light that lives lonely aloft.
Down! down!”

Whereto, with mimic echo, from a cloud
Brightening upon the impenetrable peak
That his dim head in heaven did highest shroud,
An answering voice far off came faint and weak:

“Down, down,
And deeper, Sister, and deeper down,
I come, I come
To our long-sought home!

And, lightly stepping, my step unknown,
Not a print, as we pass, ever presses
From the blossoming grasses below.
We, the breath of the morn in our tresses,
And the beam of the morn on our brow!
Nevermore to the fierce wildernesses,
And the hollow rocks heavy with snow,
Nevermore to the storm-beaten beaches,
Whose black gulfs their chafed surges churn
Into bleak foam, the bitter wind bleaches,
Shall our god-guided footsteps return!
But here, at the last, our life reaches
The limit, and drops in the urn,
And passes complete,
At the touch of a hand
Whose touching is sweet,
To a sweeter land.”

The louder voice then, with a sudden cry,
Peal'd from the lower heights imperatively:

“Wherefore stir not a straw
From the sacred Awe,
And the mystic Veil neither crush nor crease,
But, awake and aware,
Hid in Delos, there
Leave the High Gods o'erlooking their home, sweet Greece!”

Whereat both voices, fainter grown, did seem
Strange as the ebbing music of a dream:

“Hush, O hush, within the sense
Of their own wise reticence,
Thoughts too sweet for song to sing
Even where none be listening!
Breathe, O breathe, no sound less light
Than a lizard's startled flight
Thro' the leaves, when lovers pass
O'er the silent summer grass!
Leave the dreaming world to waken,
Wistful of the mystic numbers
Of the music that hath shaken
With prophetic sound its slumbers.
Let the patient Many fashion
Into common use the true
Substance of the solemn passion
Of the sudden-minded Few.
Stay not, singer! song will stay
Where who sung it sings no more.
Doubt not, doer! love will pay
Life's deed done when life is o'er.
Haste! away, before the day
Show by shadows where we stray!
Violets that are not bow'd
By the shadow of a cloud
Laden with midsummer thunder;

Eyes down-lidded in dim sleep,
'Neath whose fringes dare not peep
Any dream that passeth under;
Be, O earth, more still than those,
Where our unseen footstep goes!”

And, like a flock of swallows on swift wing,
Before the falling of the rain in Spring,
Light-wavering o'er a whisperous lowland green;
That suddenly, from none knows whence, are seen,
And in and out the maze of their own making
Inextricably wheel, and wink, and find
And lose themselves, but at the last, forsaking
Their momentary haunt, do leave behind
In the grey light upon the grass beneath
Not any shadow; so the scatter'd breath
Of those melodious voices, here and there
Along the desultory morning air
Dispersing, left at last within the wind
Not even a wandering echo, as it ceased
Against the startling stillness of the east;
Where now conspicuous, by no cloud confined,
But stern, in steadfast skies, with serious light,
Lay bare the starless forehead of the Dawn.
The sparkle of a golden sandal shined
One moment on the mountain peak. A white
And vaporous hem of eddying vesture, drawn
Across a saffron-colour'd cliff from sight

Slowly, left all along the mountain lawn,
Among the tawny grass and camomile,
A tremulous streak, soon quench'd in day's strong smile,
Of waning splendour. Then those mariners all
Rose up amazed, and drew out of the deep
The hookèd anchor, and drove out to sea
Their little bark beneath a shadowy shore.
But, while they set the sail, and plied the oar,
Full-lighted on the heavenly mountain wall
Leap'd the large Sunrise, and all round shook free
His flamy wings: when lo! on every steep,
Wrapt with the auroral vapour rolling high,
An august image stood, majestical,
With lifted arm, far off, 'twixt earth and sky.

In the two succeeding poems the narrative of Herodotus has been literally followed: but in the present instance his passing allusion to the supposed introduction into Greece of the images of the gods, wrapped up in wheaten straw, by two Hyperborean virgins, has been taken only as a text for the utterance of some thoughts concerning what is owed, on behalf of human culture, to the mythology and art of the Greeks.

II.CROESUS AND ADRASTUS.

[_]

(Herodotus i. 35.)

Fortune, that walks above the heads of men
I' the rolling clouds, the witless denizen
Of airy Nothing, by Necessity
Among the unsteady Hours with hooded eye,
Subservient to a will not hers, is led:
And, as she passes, oft upon his head
That, underneath heaven's hollowness, doth stand
Highest of men, her loose incertain hand
Lets fall the iron wedge and leaden weight.

Crœsus, the lord of all the Lydian state,
Of men was held the man by Fortune best
With her unheedful blind abundance blest:
Because all winds into his harbours blew
Opulent sails; because his sceptre drew
Out of far lands a majesty immense;
Because, to enrich his swol'n magnificence,

The homage of a hundred hills was roll'd
Upon a hundred rivers; because gold
And glory made him singular in the smile
O' the seldom-smiling world a little while.
To him, in secret vision, at the deep
Of night, what time Fate walks awake thro' Sleep,
The gods reveal'd that, in the coming on
Of times to be, Atys, his best-loved son,
Untimely, in the unripe putting forth
Of his green years, and blossom-promised worth,
By an iron dart must perish.
Then the king,
Long while within himself considering
The dreadful import of the dream,—in fear
Lest any iron javelin, lance, or spear,
Left to the clutch of clumsy Chance, should fall
On Atys,—gave command to gather all
Such weapons out of reach of him he loved,
Safe in a secret chamber far removed.
And,—that the menaced prince no more should take
His wont i' the woods, with baying dogs to break
The rough boar's ambush, nor the lion wound,
Nor flying stag, with dexterous darts,—he found,
And wived to Atys, the most beautiful
Of Lydian women: lovelier than the lull
Of summer eves in lands where Summer fills
With slumbrous light the slopes of snowy hills
Flusht by a fleeting sun. So fair was she

Whose claspèd arms should gentle gaolers be
To Crœsus' chiefest treasure.
This being done,
The king was comforted about his son.

But while the nuptial feast, at 'mid of mirth,
O'erflowed with festival the golden girth
Of the king's palace,—while, with fold on fold
Of full delight, the mellow music roll'd
From Lydian harps a heaving heaven of sound
In the gorgeous galleries, and garlands crown'd
Warm faces in a mist of odours rare,—
There came before the king at unaware
A stranger from beyond the storm-beat sea:
A man pursued by pale Calamity,
With hands polluted; on whose countenance
Was fix'd the shadow of foregone mischance.
His slow steps up the hymeneal hall
Struck sounds that sent deep silence on thro' all
That swarming revel. Music's broken wing
Flutter'd and strove against the check'd harp string:
And he that pour'd stood, holding half-way up
The two-ear'd pitcher o'er the leaf-twined cup,
While the wine wasted: he that served lean'd o'er
The savorous fumes of anice-spicèd boar,
With trencher tilted: they whose limbs were dropp'd
At ease on purple benches, elbow-propp'd,
Half rose, and, stooping forward, shock'd awry

From jostled brows, sloped one way suddenly,
Their slanted crowns, blue-boss'd with violet,
Or dropping roses: each with eyes wide-set
In unintelligent wonder on the wan
And melancholy image of that man.
He, moving thro' the amazement that he caused,
Approach'd, unbid, the throne of Crœsus; paused,
And there, with groans from inmost anguish brought,
The hospitable-hearted king besought
His hands by the Lydian rite to purify
From taint of blood.
To whom, when presently
He had his asking granted, Crœsus said:

“Whence art thou, stranger? and whose blood hast shed,
That doth so fiercely clamour at the porch
Of Heaven's high halls? What burning wrong doth scorch
Sweet rest from out the record of thy days?”

To whom that other:
“But that Judgment lays
Foundations deeper than Oblivion,
I would my shadow from beneath the sun
Had pass'd for ever; being the most forlorn
Of men! A Phrygian I, and royal-born;
The son of Gordius, son of Midas; who,
Ill-starred! unwittingly my brother slew.

For this, my father from his much-loved face,
And all the happy dwellings of my race,
Me into wide and wandering exile drave:
Whence, flying on the salt white-edgèd wave,
Cast out from comfort unto stars unknown,
My hollow ship, before the north wind blown,
Fate to these shores directed; where I stand
A friendless man, sea-flung on foreign land.
In thus much learn, O king, from whence I came,
And what I am. Adrastus is my name.”

The monarch smiled upon him, and replied,

“Thy friends are ours: thy land to ours allied:
If not with kindred, here with kind, thou art.
A frowning fate to bear with smiling heart
Is highest wisdom. In our court remain.
Cease to be sad. Nor tempt the seas again.”

So in the Lydian court Adrastus stay'd,
Eating the bread of Crœsus: and obey'd
The kindly king, well-pleased to roam no more.

Now, at that time, a horrible wild boar,
By hunger driven from his lair, below
The dells dark-leavèd, lit with golden snow,
Where Mysian Olympus meets the morn,
Made ravage in the land; despoil'd the corn,

The tender vine in many a vineyard tore,
Each sapling sallow olive wounded sore,
And oft, about the little hilly towns
And stony hamlets, where high yellow downs
Pasture, among cold clouds, the mountain goat
That wanders wild from wattled fold remote,
His fierce blood-dripping tusk foul mischief wrought.
For this, the sorely-injured Mysians sought
At many times the ruinous beast to slay;
But never yet at any time could they
Come nigh him to his hurt. For he, indeed,
Slew many of them, and the rest had need
Of nimble feet in fearful flight to find
Unworthy safety. Thus was ruin join'd
To ruin.
Therefore, unto Crœsus now
They sent an embassage; that he should know
The damage done them by this savage thing;
Entreating much, moreover, that the king,
With certain of the Lydian youths, would send
Atys, the prince, to help them make an end.
For of all noble youths in Lydian bound
Atys the most high-couraged was renown'd,
Nor match'd in martial vigour.
Crœsus then,
When he had heard the message of these men,
Made answer to the Mysians:
“For our son,

Ye shall not have him. Think no more upon
That matter. For, indeed, the crescent light
That was newborn to gild his nuptial night
Is yet the unfinish'd circlet of a moon.
And shall a husband leave a wife so soon,
Ere the first spousal month be sped, to lie
On hill-tops bare, beneath the naked sky,
Neglecting wedlock young, and the sweet due
Of marriage pillows, Mysians, for you?
But since (touching all else) we love you well
And fain would see the huge beast horrible,
That hath such havoc made of your fair land,
Defeated, we will send a chosen band
Of our best valours; men that shall not miss
What is to do. Be ye content with this.”

But, when the Mysians were therewith content,
The son of Crœsus, hearing these things, went
To Crœsus, and said to him:
“In time past,
Father, or in the chase, or war, thou wast
The first to wish me famous; who dost now
To me forbid the javelin and the bow.
Wherefore? For yet I deem that thou hast not
In me detected any taint or spot
Of fear, dishonouring one to honour born.
Yet think how all men from henceforth must scorn
Thy son, whom, being thy son, they should revere,

In him revering thee, when I appear
Among them in the agora: I alone
Of all men missing honour to be won
From this adventure! For what sort of a man
To the coarse general (that is quick to scan
Faults in superior natures) shall I seem?
Or what to my fair wife? How shall she deem
Henceforth of him, who in her white arms lay
No less than as a god but yesterday?
Wherefore, lest I some memorable deed
Now miss to do, I pray thy leave to lead
The honourable ardours of this chase,
True to my noble name and princely place;
Or, this denied, vouchsafe, at least, to say
For what just cause I must remain away.
Since I, in all things, would my heart convince
The king must needs be wiser than the prince.”

But Crœsus, weeping, answered:
“Not, my son,
Because in thee aught unbecoming done
Displeased me, nor without sad reason just,
And strict constraint to do what needs I must
(Not what I would, if what I would might be!)
Have I thus acted. For there came to me
A vision from the gods, upon my bed,
In the deep middle of the night, which said
That in the days at hand, an iron dart

Thee from my love, and from thy life, must part.
For this, thy marriage have I hasten'd on:
That, with occasion due, thou should'st, my son,
Awhile withhold thee from thy wont to seek
The haunts of lions, or with dogs to break
The rough boar's ambush in the rooty earth,
But rest, companion'd, by the pillar'd hearth,
To one new-wedded a befitting place:
For this, did I forbid thee to the chase:
For this . . . O stay, my son, by thy fair wife,
And, in prolonging thine, prolong my life!”

And his son answer'd:
“Wisely, since the dream
Came from the all-wise gods, as I must deem,
Wisely, dear head, and kindly, hast thou done;
Thus, with forethoughted care, to hold thy son
Back from the far-seen coming of the wave
Of Fate,—if him forethoughted care could save!
But I, indeed, as touching this same chase,
Can see no cause for fear. In every place
Death's footsteps fall. Nor triple-bolted gate,
Nor brazen wall, can shut from man his fate.
Yet, had the vision prophesied to me
That, or by tooth, or tusk, my death should be,
I had been well content to stay at home;
Leaving the coming hour, at least to come
By me not rashly met in middle way.

But since 'twas said an iron dart must slay
Me, to black death appointed, I might fear
An iron dart as well, tho' staying here,
As there, in open field, among my friends.
For who can lock his life up at all ends
From charmèd Chance, that walks invisibly
Among us, to elude the dragon eye
Of Policy, and the stretch'd hand of Care?
Wherefore, I pray thee yet that I may share
What honour from this hunt is to be won,
Before death find me. Since a man may shun
Honour, yet shunning honour all he can,
He shuns not Death, which finds out every man.”

Then Crœsus, overcome, not satisfied,
From under moisten'd eyelids, doubtful, eyed
The impatient flushing in the brighten'd cheek
Of Atys. And, because his heart was weak
From its vague fears to shape foundation fast
For judgment, “Since, my son,” he sigh'd at last
“My mind, tho' unconvinced, thy words have shaked,
Do as thou wilt.”
But, like a man new-waked
From evil dreams, who longs for any light
To break the no-more-tolerable night,
Soon as, far off in the purple corridor,
The sandal clicking on the marble floor
Ceased to be heard, and he was all alone,

And knew that Atys to the chase was gone,
He started up in a great discontent
Of his own thoughts, and for Adrastus sent.
To whom the monarch thus his mind express'd:

“Adrastus, since, not only as my guest
But as my friend, thou hast to me been dear,
If aught of natural piety, and the fear
Of Zeus, whom I by hospitable rites
Have honour'd, honouring thee, thy heart delights
To harbour, heed thou well my words. For I,
When thou, pursued by pale Calamity,
Didst come before me, thee, upbraiding not,
Did purify, and, as a man no spot
Of blood attainted, to my hearth received,
And there with ministering hand relieved.
Now, therefore, follow to the chase my son,
Nor leave him ever till the chase be done;
His guardian be; prevent him in the way,
And let no skulking villain lurk to slay
The son of him that hath befriended thee.
Moreover, for thine own sake, thou shouldst be
Of this adventure; so, to signalise
A noble name by feats of fair emprise;
Since thy forefathers of such feats had praise,
And thou art in the vigour of thy days.”

Adrastus answer'd

“For no cause but this
(Since Crœsus' wish unto Adrastus is
Sacred as law delivered from above)
In this adventure had I sought to move.
For 'tis not fit that such a man as I,
Under the shadow of adversity,
Should with his prosperous compeers resort;
And, not desiring this, from martial sport
Among the Lydian youths, with spear or bow,
I have till now withheld myself. But now
Since I am bid by him I must obey,
Bound to requite in whatsoe'er I may
Kindness received, this chase I will not shun.
Thou, therefore, rest assured thy royal son,
Dear Paramount, so far as lies in me,
His guardian, shall unharm'd return to thee.”

Meanwhile, the huntsmen had with leathern thongs
The lean hounds leash'd, and all that fair belongs
To royal chase appointed, as was fit;
With pious rites around the altar, lit
To solemn Cybele, at whose great shrines
On wooded Ida, mid the windy pines,
Or Tmolus, oft the Sardian, to invoke
The mighty Mother, bade the black sheep smoke;
And Artemis, the silver-crescented,
Adoring whom, a white kid's blood was shed,
And crowns of scarlet poppies, intermix'd

With ditany, among the columns fix'd,
Or hung, fresh-gather'd, the high stones upon.

And now the Lydian youths (with whom the son
Of Crœsus and the Phrygian stranger) blew
The brazen bugles, till the drops of dew
Danced in the drowsy hollows of the wood;
And the unseen things that haunt by fell and flood,
Roused by the clanging echoes out of rest,
Shouted from misty lands, and, trampling, press'd
Thro' glimmering intervals of greenness cold,
To hang in flying laughters manifold
Upon the march of that blithe company:
Great-hearted hunters all, with quiver'd thigh,
And spear on shoulder propp'd, in buskins brown
Brushing the honey-meal and yellow down
From the high-flowering weed, whilst, in their rear,
The great drums throbb'd low thunder, and the clear
Short-sounding cymbals sung; until they came
To large Olympus, where the amber flame
Of morn, new-risen, was spreaded broad, and still.
There, for the ruinous beast they search'd, until
They found him, with the dew upon his flank
Couch'd in a hollow cold, beneath the dank
Roots of a fallen oak, thick-roofèd, dim.
And, having narrowly encircled him,
They hurl'd their javelins at him. With the rest
That stranger (he that was King Crœsus' guest,

The Phrygian, named Adrastus, purified
Of murder by the monarch), when he spied
The monster, by the dogs' tenacious bite
And smart of clinging steel, now madden'd quite,
Making towards him,—hurl'd against the boar:
Which missing, by mischance he wounded sore
Atys; through whose gash'd body, with a groan
The quick life rush'd.
Thus fates, in vain foreknown,
Were suddenly accomplish'd. For those Powers
That spin, and snap, the threads of mortal hours,
Had will'd that Crœsus nevermore should hear
The voice of Atys; unto him more dear
Than fondest echo to forlornest hill
In lonesome lands, more sweet than sweetest rill,
Thro' shadowy mountain meadows murmuring cold,
To panting herds: nor evermore behold
The face of Atys; unto him more fair
Than mellow sunlight and the summer air
To sick men waking heal'd. Now, therefore, one,
Having beheld the fate of the king's son,
Fled back to Sardis, and to Crœsus said
What he had seen:—how that a javelin, sped
By that ill fated hand, to nothing good
Predestined, from the blot of brother's blood
By Crœsus purified, yet all in vain,
Since still to bloodshed doom'd,—had Atys slain,
Fulfilling fates predicted.

Crœsus then,
Believing that he was of living men
Most miserable, who had purified,
Himself, the hand by second slaughter dyed
In the dear blood of his much-mourn'd-for son
(Since by his own deed was he now undone)
Uplifted hands to Heaven, and vengeance claim'd
Of Zeus, the Expiator; whom he named
By double title, to make doubly strong
A twofold curse upon a twofold wrong:
As God of Hospitality,—since he
That was his guest had proved his enemy;
As God of Private Friendship,—since the man
That slew his son was his son's guardian,
To whom himself the sacred charge did give.

Therefore he pray'd, “Let not Adrastus live!”

But, while he pray'd, a noise of mourning rose
Among the flinty courts: and, follow'd close
Out of the narrow streets by a dense throng
Of people weeping, slowly moved along
The Lydian hunters bearing up the bier
Of Atys, strewn with branches; in whose rear,
Down-headed, as a man that bears the weight
Of some enormous and excessive fate,
The slayer walk'd.
Full slowly had they come,
With steps that ever slacken'd nearer home,

And heavier evermore their burthen seem'd,
As ever longer round their footsteps stream'd
The woeful crowd; and evermore they thought
Sadlier on him to whom they sadly brought
His hope in ruins. When they reach'd the gate
The western sky was all on flame. Stretch'd straight
Thro' a thick amber haze Adrastus saw,
As in a trance of supernatural awe,
The high slant street; that lengthen'd on, and on,
And up, and up, until it touch'd the sun,
And there fell off into a field of flame.
He knew that he was bearing his last shame;
And all the men and women, swarming dim
Along the misty light, were made to him
Shadows, and things of air, for all his mind
Was pass'd beyond them. So, with heart resign'd
To its surpassing sorrow, he bow'd down
His head, and follow'd up the column'd town
The bier of Atys, without any care
Of what might come: because supreme despair
Had taken out the substance from the show
Of the world's business, and his thoughts were now
In a great silence, which no mortal speech,
Kind, or unkind, might any longer reach.
Meanwhile, with melancholy footsteps slow,
Slow footsteps hinder'd by the general woe,
Those hunters mount the murmurous marble stair
To the king's palace.

He himself stood there
To meet them; knowing why they came; with eyes
Impatiently defiant of surprise.
But, when they set their burthen down before
The father of him murder'd whom they bore;
And, when the inward-moaning monarch flung
His body on the branchèd bier,—there hung
With murmurings meaningless, and dabbled vest
Soak'd in the dear blood sobbing from the breast
Of his slain son,—there, dragg'd along the flint
His bruisèd knees; and crush'd, beneath the print
Of passionate lips, groans choked in kisses close,
Pour'd idly on those eyelids meek, and those
White lips that aye such cruel coldness kept,
For all the hot love on them kist and wept;
And when the miserable wife, whom now
The sudden hubbub from the courts below
Had pierced to, thro' the swiftly-emptied house,
Flew forth, and, kneeling o'er her slaughter'd spouse,
Beat with wild hands her breast, and tore her hair,
And cried out, “Where, you unjust gods, O where,
Between the stubborn earth and stolid sky,
Was found the fault of my felicity?
That such a cruel deed should have been done
Under high heaven, beneath the pleasant sun!”
Then he, that was the cause of that wide woe,
Came forth before the corpse, and, kneeling low,
Stretch'd out sad hands to Crœsus; upon whom

He call'd, to execute the righteous doom
Of death on him, deserving life no more.

When, therefore, Crœsus heard this, he forbore
To groan against the edge of his own fate;
But judged most miserable that man's state
Who, evil meaning not, had evil done,—
First having slain his brother, then the son
Of him that gave him hospitality.
So, letting sink a slowly-soften'd eye
To settle on Adrastus, who yet knelt
Before him, his hard thoughts began to melt,
And he was moved in mind to tolerate
The greatness of his grief; which, being less great
Than his that caused it, stood in check, to make
This tolerable, too.
Sadly he spake:
“To me,” he said, “thou hast requital made,
Most miserable man! on thine own head
Invoking death. Wherefore, I doom thee not.
Nor deem thy hand hath this disastrous lot
From the dark urn down-shaken. Rather, he,
That unknown god, whoever he may be,
That long ago foreshadow'd this worst hour,
Hath thus compell'd it to us. Some veil'd Power
Walks in our midst, and moves us to strange ends.
Our wills are Heaven's, and we what Heaven intends.”
Then Crœsus caused to be upheaved foursquare

A mount of milk-white marble: and did there
In trophied urn the holy ashes heap
Of his loved Atys. And, that fame should keep
Unperish'd all the prince's early glory,
Large tablets wrought he, rough with this sad story.

But when the solemn-footed funeral,
With martial music, from the marble wall
Flow'd off, and fell asunder in far fields;
And silenced was the clang of jostling shields,
And the sonorous-throated trumpet mute,
And mute the shrill-voiced melancholy flute;
What time Orion in the west began
Over the thin edge of the ocean
To set a shining foot, and dark night fell;
Then, judging life to be intolerable,
The son of Gordius sharply made short end
Of long mischance: and, calling death his friend,
He, self-condemn'd to darkness, in the gloom
And stillness, slew himself upon the tomb.
This to Adrastus was the end of tears.

But Crœsus mourn'd for Atys many years.

III.GYGES AND CANDAULES.

[_]

(Herodotus i. 8.)

I

O for the lute whereon Apollo play'd
At Love's own marriage! or the ecstatic string
That ransom'd thy too-soon-recaptured shade,
Renown'd Eurydice, from Hell's hard king!
O for one warbled strain of those that made
Ulysses long to leave his voyaging,
That in my song might now be felt and seen
The beauty rare of King Candaules' Queen!

II

In old Mœonian Lydia, lord of all
Between the blue sea-floors and snowy brows
Of ancient Tmolus, where, by many a wall
Red with the bloom of ripe pomegranate boughs,
From bridge to bridge, the Golden Tide did fall
Thro' silken Sardis, with his bright-hair'd spouse
Dwelt that soft monarch, slave to her sweet eyes,
In gardens green 'neath costly canopies.

III

For he was so enamour'd of his wife,
So sunk in love's soft sea without a shore,
That he no longer lived save in the life
Which her full-flowing loveliness did pour
On his dim passion: all his thoughts were rife
With her red kisses: ever he forbore
State business, and let all things fall asleep
That he might dream, and dream, of beauty deep.

IV

There was no sweetness under the sweet sky
That to the heart-sick king was half so sweet
As all the languorous summer days to lie,
Faint as a fallen rose leaf, at her feet;
To loose his spirit o'er her in a sigh;
And feel, like sunny light and odorous heat,
The bounteous influence of her looks and lips,
And touchings fine of her faint finger-tips.

V

And he would break from solemn council hall,
To breathe within the comfort of her face;
And he would steal from flaring festival,
To sit within her smile in private place;
And oft in midst of grave discourse would fall
To musing mute upon her matchless grace,
Then hurl wild words of passion into air,
Vaunting her perfect limbs and lustrous hair.

VI

But oftenest he with Gyges would discuss
Her unimaginable excellence;
—Gyges, his friend, the son of Dascylus,
A man in honour, and of soberest sense
To disapprove the over-garrulous
Ill-counsell'd king; whom he, with deference,
Rebuked not seldom, pacing pleasant hours
Among the palace halls and garden bowers.

VII

Yet this Candaules, in his foolishness,
(Mad as a man foredoom'd to misery!)
Was anger'd that his friend should aye repress,
With slant cold speech, his fervid ecstacy.
And once he said “But you would wonder less,
Since man's ear is less credulous than his eye,
That I so boast the beauty of my Queen,
If you her unrobed whiteness once had seen.”

VIII

But Gyges cried “Forbid it, gods on high,
That I should see a sight to shame my king!
For woman's robe is woman's modesty.
Surely, a man should only heed the thing
Which only him concerns. And therefore I,
That would my Queen to no dishonour bring,
This wisdom from the words of sages spell:
‘Let no man wish what is to no man well.’”

IX

This Gyges answer'd; and for evermore,
Fearing lest harm unto himself should be,
The foolish king with cautious words forbore;
But evermore the foolish king, for he
Was às a man the Nymphs have frenzied, swore
That his too-much-mistrusting friend should see
The thing he would not. Therefore he replied
“Have thou no fear lest mischief hence betide.

X

“Her shalt thou see, thyself by her unseen;
For in the purple draperies of the door,
By night, what time the unsuspecting queen
Lone, as her wont is when our cups flow o'er,
Moves to the nuptial couch, behind the screen
Of broider'd Tyrian that is drawn before
The inner portal, thou, close-hid, shalt see
Her smooth-limb'd beauty breathing bare to thee.

XI

“Fast by the royal couch for ever stands,
Under a silver lamp, a golden chair;
And, when she comes, she with her own white hands
Lays down her light of gorgeous garments there;
And smoothly slips from out their jewell'd bands
Her lustrous shoulders; and beams shining fair
In the amazèd mirror, ere is slid
Her snowy sweetness 'neath the coverlid.”

XII

Then Gyges, when he found not any way
The monarch's mad design to set aside,
With groaning heart prepared him to obey,
Tho' cursing deep his king's unkingly pride.
And, when night came, from out the banquet they
With guilty steps, like stealthy ghosts, did glide
Thro' wondering chambers dim with woven dyes,
And listening lengths of empty galleries.

XIII

Thus to the nuptial chamber did they steal.
And in the portal's purple curtains there
The king himself did Gyges close conceal,
And bade him watch behind the golden chair
Whereby the queen her beauty should reveal.
Then to the banquet back, without a care,
Went King Candaules, pleased with folly done;
And Gyges with his thoughts was left alone.

XIV

And first self-scorn shut all his sullen sense
Within himself: but soon the odours sweet,
Stream'd from the misty lamps, and that intense
Rich-scented silence, seeming to entreat
Some sound to ease its sumptuous somnolence,
Lured out his thoughts, and made his pulses beat
With wondrous expectation. The dim place
Seem'd aching to be filled up by her face.

XV

Meanwhile, the music out of distant halls
Humm'd like the inland sound of hid sea-shores,
And ghostly laughters lapsed at intervals
Along the faint-lit cold-wall'd corridors;
And portals oped and shut, and then footfalls
That wander'd near, and, over other floors
To other silence, wander'd off again,
Kept up continual throbbing in his brain.

XVI

At length, deep-down the opposing gallery,
From out the long-drawn darkness flash'd a light;
And, peering from his purple privacy,
He spied, with red gold bound and robed in white,
Sole as the first star in a sleepy sky,
That, while men watch it, grows more large and bright,
The slow queen sweeping down the lucid floor;
And in her hand a silver lamp she bore.

XVII

Before her, coming, floated a faint fear
Into his heart who watch'd her whiteness move
Swan-soft along the lamp-lit marble clear,
And, lingering o'er her in the beams above,
The wing'd and folded shadow shift and veer,
Her airy follower, fraught with fretful love.
Thro' all his shaken senses rose vague heat
From the sweet sounding of her sandall'd feet.

XVIII

Anon, she enter'd, and her lamp down-laid
By the smooth-metall'd mirror; and awhile
Stood, slanting low the glory of her head,
And dipp'd her full face in its own warm smile;
Then look'd she sidelong thro' one loosen'd braid
Of her rich hair, as tho' she would beguile
Some love-sick spirit on the air to linger,
Twining a gold curl round her glowing finger.

XIX

But soon she all that twisted gold outshook,
Till over either shining shoulder stream'd
The sudden splendour; and began to unhook
From those white slopes the buckled gems that beam'd
Deep in the mirror's kindling dark, which took
Her mellow image to itself, and gleam'd
With soft surprises, and grew bright and warm
With the delicious phantom of her form.

XX

Her Gyges watch'd, as one that helpless hears
The cataract call him downward. His heart made
Such passionate pealing in his flutter'd ears,
That by his fear he fear'd to be betray'd.
And, but that ever greater with his fears
His raptures grew, he had not so long stay'd;
But, having stay'd so long, he still must stay,
And, having look'd, he may not look away.

XXI

Last, she with listless long-delaying hand
The golden sandals loosed from her white feet,
And loosed from her warm waist the golden band.
The milk-white tunic slided off its sweet
Snow-surfaced slope, and left half bare her bland
Full-orbèd breast. But, in the fainting heat
Of his bewilder'd heart and fever'd sight,
Here Gyges in the curtain groan'd outright.

XXII

She started, as a Nymph of Dian's train,
Surprised, when bathing blithe in forest pool,
By some chance-straggler from the purple plain,
Ere she, quick-flashing thro' the fern-fringed cool,
Her golden darts can from the green weed gain,
Wherewith to pierce the rash low-fronted fool;
And where he cower'd, she, in superb surprise,
Levell'd the lustres of her angry eyes.

XXIII

Then, more with wrath than shame, from breast to brow
Each snowy surface pass'd to rosy red,
The rosy redness pass'd again to snow;
Scornful she sprang into the purple bed,
And plunged her globed and gleaming limbs below
Their silken-fringèd sheath. Forth Gyges fled,
As from the god profaned some mad wretch flies,
Stricken and scorch'd, beneath indignant skies.

XXIV

All down the hollow gallery, after him
The loud stones shouted at his heels: behind
The unseen Fury, sailing fast thro' dim
And dreadful space, breathed like a burning wind
Upon his hair: swift fire in every limb
Seeth'd up and down: night's blackness broke and shined
All round with restless eddyings of the glare
Of that strong vision, flooding the hot air.

XXV

Nor did he, chased by stony echoes, mark
The silly-smiling king, with tumbled wreath,
Stretch hands wine-stain'd to stay him in the dark,
And waft wild whispers thick on heated breath
To win him back. More desperate than the bark
Unrudder'd in the storm, and blind as death,
He rush'd to waste himself in some unknown
Mad morrow, from that wicked midnight grown.

XXVI

But when at last clear-crested Dawn upbroke
The seeming-endless trouble of that night,
And Gyges out of sleepless dream half woke
To wonder at himself, and loathe the light,
And groan beneath the unaccustom'd yoke
Of wrong recall'd, whilst yet on his sick sight
Swam floating gleams of all that glory seen,
And the wish'd image of the much-wrong'd Queen,

XXVII

Even then, whilst smouldering fancy strove, like flame
Choked under kindled weeds, some rainy night
Leaves moist at morn, a sudden summons came
From her whose eyes still scorch'd him. Oh what might
Of dreadful dearness now was in that name,
To mingle sick dismay with mad delight,
And, oh, with what shamed knowledge now must he
Loathe to be seen by whom he longs to see!

XXVIII

Unconscious by what power his powerless feet
Were moved within the light of her deep eyes,
He sank beneath them, smitten by the heat
Of their slow scorn; and, pour'd in agonies
Upon the pavement, did not dare to meet
Looks that grew large and larger, to comprise
The slowly-widening circle of some doom
That deepen'd ever in their sultry gloom.

XXIX

Long while she spake not; and thro' every limb
He felt the silence straining at his heart;
Whilst her remorseless eye, still searching him,
Went to its aim like a dividing dart:
But still faint nearness to the fragrant rim
Of her warm robe dissolved his inmost smart
In dear delight, and still in sumptuous dread
Swift lives of joy seem'd dying. Then she said:

XXX

“Rise! and remember that thou wast a man,
Tho' most unmanly hast thou shamed in thee
Earth's universal manhood. Dare to scan
The monstrous measure of thy wrong to me,
Then find whatever expiation can
Make life not all intolerable. We
Are made one shame together. I that bear,
And thou that didst, this wrong, this wrong must share.”

XXXI

But he, that long'd into her arms to leap,
And, lost in too-completed life, die there,
Swift as a fountain flashes from the deep
Up into sudden sunshine and sweet air,
Sprang, shivering, to his height; and, from its steep
And restless poise 'twixt rapture and despair,
His long-pent passion overflow'd, and he
His full heart, gushing into speech, set free.

XXXII

Then, when he flung into fierce words and few
Recital of the monarch's mandate base,
Wherewith he strove, and strove in vain, there grew
Strange anguish in the changes of her face.
“Enough it seem'd,” so moan'd she, “when I knew
Myself, tho' most unmeriting disgrace,
The fool of outrage. Must a husband's name
Stay ever at the summit of my shame?

XXXIII

“Yet, half, my knowledge of the king divined
In last midnight's intolerable deed
The ignominious madness of his mind.
And, but that nature would so sharply plead
With that unnatural thought, all human kind
(For such wide warrant such wild wrong must need!)
Of human kindness had seem'd emptied quite,
Since love could in such loathly deed delight.

XXXIV

“For thou hast seen what, so to have been seen,
Leaves an eternal blush between us twain.
My blood yet burns where'er thine eyes have been:
And insult unavenged in every vein
Makes memory mad. Me miserable Queen!
Where shall I turn? To whom do I complain?”
“Nay but,” said Gyges, “injured Beauty's child,
Indignant Love, slew him whose gaze defiled

XXXV

His mother's image. That wrong-doer lives
No more in me, that am Love's votary all!”
“Yea, so?” she answer'd. “But the king survives,
And this round base of earth is made too small
To hold such shameless husbands with shamed wives.
The very stones beneath men's heels will call
Disgrace on things so graceless, and express
Scorn of this king of all unkingliness!

XXXVI

“But words waste anger weakly. Therefore choose:
There is no room beneath the all-circling sun
For me, and thee, and him, wherein to lose
The knowledge of the thing which hath been done.
Wherefore to us nought rests but to refuse
To live ourselves, or not let him live on.
Judge thou for both. Die, and I follow thee:
Or, slaying him, live on sole lord of me.”

XXXVII

She ceased with a long sigh; and look'd, less scorn
Than sad self-pity, and dejection deep,
Lowering faint eyelids over eyes forlorn.
But Gyges cried “O that the tomb should keep
In that oblivious night, which hath no morn
To call obstruction cold from senseless sleep,
The silenced sweetness of so fair a face,
And no breath leave of all its breathing grace!

XXXVIII

“Or that those lustrous limbs should ever fade
To fleeting shadow by the lampless shore
Of Orcus, or that lovely form be laid
In urnèd ashes to be seen no more!
But might the half of this dear debt be paid
By hecatombs of lives and seas of gore,
And had the king a hundred lives to lose,
To reach thee thro' them all I still must choose!”

XXXIX

She mused a little; and her intricate eyes,
Orb within orb, grew dark with cruel light.
Then she said slowly “On the place he dies
Where he design'd dishonour yesternight.
But we must risk no rescue, hear no cries;
Sleeping, we slay him swiftly. Briefest fight
With fate is safest counsel. That must be
This night. The headless kingdom falls to thee,

XL

“To thee whatever rests of woman here
Not made the food of Furies such as rise
From deeds like this. And so, from year to year,
We two must learn to bear each other's eyes;
Nay, cling the closer to shut out pale Fear,
And smother Horror up in Love's disguise.
For never now for us, ah never more
Love's chaste auroras! Dewy dawn is o'er.

XLI

“This sun of passion, fed with guilty fire,
Leaps blood-red from the womb of blackest night.
Yet call it lovely names! I must desire
Thy love, and love thee, ay in scorn's despite!
Since my hate help of thy hate doth require.
It were less base to be united quite
Than in this shameful nearness to remain,
One in dishonour, tho' in honour twain.

XLII

“So kiss this crime off!” Suddenly she fell,
A blinding gush of beauty upon his breast.
Thereafter all day long, in surge and swell
Of whirling thoughts, he chased his own unrest
About wild places, till heaven's purple bell
Was dropt with stars, and redden'd round the west;
Then in dark precincts, where the palace shone
New-lit, he paced the impatient hours alone.

XLIII

Ere midnight, thro' the dusky doors he slid,
Drawn like an evil dream adown the dark;
And in the penetralian purples hid
His wicked knife, and crouch'd where he might mark
The stealthy signal, which his steps should bid
To their bad goal; and soon from slumber stark
The King's hard breathing on the silence spread,
And the Queen beckon'd from the treacherous bed.

XLIV

There, bent beneath the winking lamp, those two,
With hearts hard-edged as was their glittering knife,
The senseless King in silken slumber slew,
And, with no moan, from his misusèd life
He fleeted down to Orcus. Then they drew
The dead reluctant weight, thro' silence rife
With horror, o'er the soak'd and slippery floor,
And dropp'd the blood-red ruin at the door.

XLV

So died Candaules, slain for deed obscene:
So fell the Heracleidæ's fared tree.
So Gyges took the kingdom and the Queen:
So wrong was heap'd on wrong, till Fate should be
Accomplish'd. But, by Heaven's high Justice seen,
Not unjudged went the deed. For when, to free
The realm from that usurping hand, men rose,
And shook the throne, and added woes to woes,

XLVI

The god at Delphi sentence strict proclaim'd:
That crown and queen to Gyges should belong,
Since queen and crown the murder'd King had shamed;
Albeit, because wrong is not heal'd by wrong,
Therefore sharp retribution Fate had framed
Far in the folded years, and curses strong
To plague the canker'd brood as yet unbred
From the base getting of that guilty bed.

END OF BOOK I.