University of Virginia Library

Weary of counsel and worn with fight,
The King to be sate alone with the night;
For foes were many and friends were few,
And the friends were false, but the foes were true.
And one by one, Confederates three,
Came in the night to the King to be—
Came in the night from where they sit,
Warding the steps of the Bottomless Pit;
And he heard as they came a Voice far down:
“A monarch's soul for a monarch's crown!
For the one who crowneth the King to be,
Winneth for ever his soul in fee!”
Then he heard how Madness spoke to Sin:
“Thou or I, sister, which shall win?”
But a third beyond, with a stifled moan,
Muttered, “Tempt ye and fail! He is mine alone!”

One came with an eye that saw him not,
But peered right through at I know not what:
His cap was gay with a peacock's plume
That dangled down from a crumpled bloom
Of blood-red poppy and milk-white bells:
The Bishop, he said, of the Seven Hells,
And lord of the lordliest diocese
Of all in the great Pit Bottomless.
“I am Lord and Bishop,” he cried, “of all
From the great world's brink to the seventh wall,
And I feed the flock in each several fold
With steel and brass and silver and gold,
With topaz and ruby and diamond;
And I give to my chosen an empire's wand,
And an empire's crown that mocks the things
Which hoop the cracks of your crazy kings;
For the realm they rule is as deep and high
As the Bottomless Pit and the roofless sky!
Lo here!” and the King saw how from a gem
That flashed like a star in his great key's stem,
He plucked three rays, then another three,
And another yet, and athwart his knee
Bent them and twisted with might and main,
Twisted and plied and plied again,
Till they curled and writhed like the golden snakes
That leap in the sun on the rippling lakes;
Plied and plaited, one up, three down,
Till he wove them all in a living crown
Of light and glory: “It lacks but a gem,”
He said, “to be meet for the diadem
Of the kingliest soul in my seventh fold:”
And he bent him down to the grass, and rolled
The thing like a hoop in the starry dew,
And the drops as they touched it, fixed and grew
Into sapphire, emerald, chrysoprase,
The diamond's frost and the ruby's blaze,
Cunningly fashioned in stars and knops
Of glistening braids and dancing drops,
Till it shone like the trail of a meteor
Spangled with planet-dust o'er and o'er.
“This is my crown,” he cried, and smiled,
“For the soul that comes like a little child!”

But the King said—“Yea, but a cypress wreath
Were a kinglier boon, were it bought with death!
I know thee of old! Thou hast dogged me long
Through the crowds with thy whispered undersong:
Thou hast watched and waited, and watched in vain:
Thou may'st wait and watch as thou wilt again!”

“Seven folds, seven hells! They are full enow!”
He said, with a careless lift of the brow:
“See here!” He pricked the crown with a straw,
And it shrivelled to nought; but the sad King saw
How the stalk was charred at the touch, and knew
Though the crown were false, yet the flame was true.
“Feed him with steel,” he cried—“with steel!
He is mine when I call, from head to heel:
Aha! I remember his soul's eclipse,
When he knew me first by my scorpion-whips,
The Shepherd, who tended his flocks so well,
And gave them to drink of the streams of Hell!”

Then he turned and went, and the Second came,
With an eye so steeped in a ghastly flame,
That, fair of feature and lithe of limb,
That light of the Pit left her beauty dim.
Proudly she came, and the King was 'ware
Of a hemlock-bloom in her clustered hair,
And the hand that was hidden, he seemed to know,
Clutched something behind which she feared to show.

“What!” she said; “art dazed by yon juggling fool?
“Let the idiot pack to his own, and rule
Them that I send him, and their sons' sons!
What is he to thee and the lordlier ones?
Wouldst wear his crown? Who shall give thee the skill?
To wear it aright needs more than the will!
But I, I ask but thy will, and see
What a crownal of joy I store for thee!”
Then forth from behind her back she drew
A garland of roses dashed with dew:
Red as the cheek and the lip we love;
And into her tresses the bloom she wove
With one delicate hand, till her hair was alight
Like the waves with the sheen of ships by night,
And a passion of beauty, a trance of grace
Slid into her queenly limbs and face,
And the light in her eye but seemed to be
The soul of that lovelier mystery.

Then he said in a broken voice and strange:
“Whence come they, the roses? And whence the change?
Show me! And show me thy other hand,
For thy garland grew in no earthly land!”
“My hand?” she cried, and she raised it up,
“'Tis a hand like thine, and it grasps but a cup!”
“Like mine?” he said, “Does the Queen of the Hells—”
But she lopped the words: “Tush! A cap and bells!
See here!” One drop from the cup's red well
She dropped as she spoke, and caught as it fell
Like a falling star, on her finger-tips,
And fanned it awhile at her dewy lips,
Till it swelled and blossomed and bloomed in her breath,
A sister rose to the blushing wreath.
“Bind it,” she said, “in thine own wild hair!
'Tis a bloom, I ween, for a king to wear!”—
“Is it blood?” he asked. “Our mate was fain,
'Tis clear, to test his art on thy brain,”
She said, with a sneer: “Is the red, red gold
No better than blood? Look again!” She rolled
A little rill from the cup's red brink,
And it splashed on the stones with a clash and a chink
Into coin and cross and buckle and star
In a glistering frost of golden spar.
“Is it blood?” and she gathered her treasure up,
And laughed. But he said, “There is blood in the cup!”
“If the blood be the life,” she said, “'tis blood!
'Tis life to the dying—a lean world's food!—
Is it only a falsehood, the gold and state?
Is it sweet to be rich? Is it sweet to be great?
Is it sweet with kings to be hand in glove?
Is it sweet to rule? Is it sweet to love?
Is it sweet to be loved? Ay me, how sweet!
Yet these are my gifts! Do thy pulses beat
Only with milk, that the red blood-wine
Womans thee thus? It is like to thine!”—
“Like mine?” he said, “Does the Queen of the Hells—”
But she broke in again: “Tush! A cap and bells!—
Am I Queen of the Hells if the dead men sleep?
In a world so shallow what room for the deep?
The deepest is but the centre, and thence
But a span to the blue circumference!
I am Queen, 'tis true, from thence to the sky:
But if Hell, 'tis the Priest that makes it, not I!—
Give me thy will! Does it seem such a boon,
Just the feeble stir 'twixt the earth and moon?
This nothing? Am I not fair enow?
Wilt thou walk the world with a crownless brow?”

As she spoke, what a full warm womanhood
In the heart of her loveliness throbbed and glowed!
What witchery flashed from her every limb!
What love from her eyes! His own waxed dim
As he said: “Even so: But a cypress-wreath
Were a kinglier boon, were it bought with death!
I have known thee of old! Thou hast haunted me long
In the night with thy whispered undersong!
Thou hast watched and waited, nor all in vain!
Thou mayst wait and watch as thou wilt again!”
“Not all in vain in the days of old,”
She echoed, “when thou in thy love wouldst fold
Even these poor limbs to thy trembling breast,
And dream that thou wert not all unblest!
Dost thou, indeed, remember the day,
And the eyes that were bright in thy youth's sweet May?
The day when Belial blessed us both
At the bridal of Mammon and Ashtaroth?”
And he said: “Too well! and the moods that plough
The furrows of eld in the boy's smooth brow!
See here!”—But she turned in her wrath to tear
The roses that dawned in her midnight hair,
Till they oozed from her clenched red hand as she stood,
And dripped on the grass and stones in blood!
“Seven pits,” she cried, “for the living dead!
For the living may die while the blood runs red!
And the dead can eat and drink and sleep,
For the world is shallow, but Death is deep!
Does he dream that he lives?” As she turned to go,
He saw in her eye the ghastly glow,
And the glory had died on cheek and tress,
And her beauty's self was a loathliness!

Then the Third one came in an abbess' weed,
With an eye of rule, and a strong will's speed.
“Wear this!” she croaked, “for thy choice is gone!
They have tempted and failed—thou art mine alone!
Come forth!”—As she spoke, from the wayside dust
She lifted a crown of thorns, and thrust
With her wrinkled hand on his naked brow,
Tearing the flesh like a burning plough.
“Peace!” she cried: “He who walks with me
Must be still as death and eternity!
Is the blood in thine eyes?” One drop as it fell
She caught on her finger: “The Dame of Hell
Is, to give her her due, no monopolist!
Look here! Mayst fashion a rose an thou list
As deftly as she!” and he saw how there grew
A rose in her fingers dashed with dew,
A sister rose to the blushing crown.
“Not yet!” she cried, as she dashed it down,
“They are thine at will as thou wendest home,
To wear or waste in the years to come!”
Then he walked beside her silently
Down a rocky stair without flower or tree,
In the side of a cliff, with a gulf below
On the left, where a great sea seemed to flow,
Though nothing he saw save a depth of sky,
The same below, and the same on high:
And he groaned, “O God, but the cypress-wreath
Were a kinglier boon were it bought with death!
I know thee of old! Thou hast chased me long
Through the world with thy dismal undersong!
Let me die!” But he felt a clutch on his arm:
“Peace, craven, peace, ere thou come to harm!
Look back!” He turned, and saw from afar
How the steps were ablaze with buckle and star
And coin and cross where the blood had flowed
From his streaming brow on the stony road.—
“Peace! peace! March on! Thou shalt find the track
Even by these that shall guide thee back!”—
He was still, but he thought: “O, the cypress-wreath
Were a kindlier boon were it bought with death!”

Down, down they toiled, till a feeble light
Flashed out of a cavernous depth on the right,
And they strode right in, where a taper shone
At the head of a bier in the gloom, alone:—
A taper, a bier, and a winding-sheet,
That waited, it seemed, for the bearers' feet.—
And she said: “Come hither!” Too well he knew
The dead one there, or ever she drew
The cloth from the cold white face, and cried:
“Is she fair—too fair for a dead man's bride?”
But he heard no more, for his brain spun round
In a deathsick close of all sight and sound,
And his heart ere it stopped gave a stifling beat
As he fell into a swoon at the mocker's feet!

Then the life came back through a blinding dew
Of deadly tears, and he saw or knew
As he lay foredone from his soul's eclipse,
How she caught a tear on her finger-tips
And it froze at the touch into starry stone
Rayed like the head of the Holy One.—
And she gathered three rays, then another three,
And another yet, and athwart her knee
Bent them and twisted with might and main,
Twisted and plied and plied again,—
Till they curled and writhed like the golden snakes
That leap in the sun on the great ship's wakes;
Plied and plaited, one up, three down,
Till she wove them all in a living crown
Of light and glory. “It lacks but a gem,”
She said, “to be meet for the diadem
Of the kingliest soul in my seventh sphere.”
And she bent her carelessly over the bier,
And touched with the hoop the brow of the dead,
Till the gathered death-dews glistened and spread
On the gleaming plait, and the whole was ablaze
With diamond, ruby and chrysoprase,
And it shone like the trail of a meteor
Spangled with star-seed o'er and o'er.—
“Our mate is no wizard,” she cried, “for, see,
Thou canst fashion a crown as deftly as he!
Not yet! not yet!” And she dashed it down:
“Thou must give me thy Hope ere thou wear the crown!
Thou must give me thy Hope! Is the boon so great?
Is it bliss so sweet to whimper and wait,
Like a child for the moon, for the fairer chance,
The dupe and the vassal of circumstance?
Give it! Who gives me Hope, gives Fear!
He is free for ever! The cross and bier,
The torture and waste of soul and limb,
And the great world's wrong,—they are solved for him!
He is free of the Hells, of Earth, of Air,
Who hath builded his bliss on a wise despair!”

“Take it!” he groaned: “My Hope! it lies
Dead as the light in yon dear eyes!
Yet take it! I care not! What to me
Is living or dead, or bond or free?
Take it!”—Ah, God! what a holy smile
Lit the lip that had smiled but to mock erewhile,
As she lifted the thorns from his clotted brow!

“Go forth! Even I am thy bondslave now!
Go forth! Thou art lord of wont and use,
With might among men to bind and loose!
Wear thou no crown, yet be thou a king,
And the world is thine, and all worldly thing!
Go forth!”—He turned, but his guide was gone,
And he stood in the cavernous gloom alone.