Laurella and other poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Whilome—when still the world's great heart was young,
Making wild music as the minstrel sung;
When still fair creatures of the poet's dream
Haunted each legendary grove and stream,
And still the pallid shades of throneless gods
Lingered in wrath around their loved abodes,
Ere from their shrines all awe was past away—
In Sicily a Norman King bore sway.

And on a day from that delightful isle
There sailed a ship for Smyrna—many a mile
Of treacherous sea to compass, many a night
To battle with the winds, ere hove in sight
The snows of Tmolus, and they furled her sails
Securely in the gulf. Right costly bales
Waited her coming; yea, a goodly prize
Had been that vessel with her merchandise—
Great pearls, and antique gems, and rare perfumes;

Tissue of silver; webs of Indian looms
Or Persian, glowing like their orient skies
With woven gold and deep imperial dyes.

Fair blew the wind as gay they sailed for home,
But on the second day in sudden foam
Leaped the Ægean billows to the blast
Of the fierce-rushing North; whereon they cast
Their heaviest lading overboard, and wore
The shuddering ship; and fearfully before
The ever-threatening surge two days they ran
With bare and groaning spars. Then first began
The storm to slacken; but they nothing knew
Where they were driven, for none of all the crew
Could surely name the land which rose to crown
The sick-eyed hopes that saw the gale go down:
Howbeit they anchored in a quiet bay
At evenfall, and waited for the day.

Joy to those storm-tost mariners! The dawn
Revealed a land where many a pleasant lawn
Sloped greenly to the white and shelving shore,
Where lazy breakers tumbled with a roar
Of bygone tempest. From the circling hills
The mists rose, and they saw the gleam of rills
Which headlong leaped in flashing waterfalls,
And dark yews clinging to the rocky walls,
And in the valleys many a stately tree,
And all fair things thriving deliciously.

Joy to those storm-tost mariners! O bliss,
To stretch their numb and wearied limbs in this
Undreamed-of Paradise! They pushed ashore
Gleefully all, and none, I ween, forbore
His jest or song, as each man filled his cask
Or sluiced his salt-sore face. 'Twas joy to bask
On the white shingle; for the brisk sea-air
Was filled with living sunshine, and all care
Was lifted from their hearts.

A wooded glen
Enticed them from the beach, and gently then
Emerged upon a lawny solitude,
Kept secret from the sea by sheltering wood.
There centuried cedars and great fig-trees made
In the hot noon broad tents of placid shade,
And vagrant vines and gourds wove pleasant bowers—
Lairs of cool grass, whereby sun-loving flowers
Breathed all around. The sultry hum of bees
Boomed in the dreaming air; but in the trees
The birds were hushed for heat, and did not sing.
The languid wind that set heath-bells aswing,
Stirred with its wings such incense of wild thyme,
It seemed the wafture from a tropic clime.
At every step they roused some startled thing,
Which gazed at them a moment, wondering,
Then bounded from its browsing up the slopes,
Off to the hills—wild goats or antelopes;

But sign was none that ever man had come
To make in that sweet solitude a home.

Thereat much marvelling, they wandered on,
Gay as the myriad butterflies. Anon
They came upon a steeply-rising ground,
And, mounting on through laurel thickets, found
A broad space of rank grass, where thistles tall,
Brambles, and burs pushed through the ivied wall
Which still made crumbling shift to fence it in.
It seemed an ancient garden; for some sin,
In ages past committed, surely curst.
The leprous fruit-trees knelt to quench their thirst
About a stagnant pool; and nettles rank
And nightshade revelled o'er each mound and bank,
As in an ill-kept graveyard. Here and there
A satyr face grinned leeringly in air,
Fallen from its mossy pedestal; awry
And totteringly still stood the Termini;
And in the centre rose a marble Pan
From a festooning vine which overran
His goatish thighs, and on his lifted arm
Hung its deep-purpling clusters.

What grave charm
Locked every lip, when mid the trees a pile
Of melancholy marble, whose proud style
Made boast of bygone splendour, came in view?
I know not; but in silence paused the crew

Before yon central wonder of the place,
Gazing on that dumb dwelling in amaze—
On the serene Greek sculptures of the frieze,
Chaste-cut entablatures, and traceries
Where Æsculapian snakes gordianing twined;
On mystic symbols wondrously designed,
Time-mouldering plinth, and ruined portico,
And grass-grown steps—well worn ages ago!
It seemed a lonely palace of the dead
Guarded by silence; and a ghostly dread
Fell on them, even when at times a hare
Took fright and scampered to its grassy lair:
For there were hares in legions—strangely tame,
They sat to watch the men, and went and came
Through the high classic doorway.

Suddenly
A sailor, pale with terror, whispered, ‘See!’
And clutched his Captain's arm, and turned to go.
Then to their anxious question, what could so
Have shaken him, he only answered, ‘There!
That window! Look! 'Tis gone; but I could swear
I saw the thing!’ Each felt a secret pang
Shoot cold to the roots of life; and feebly rang
The fear-born laugh flouting their comrade's fear;
But, seeing naught, they mocked his altered cheer
With ready jest: ‘'Fore God, it seems the place
Turns men to marble—look but at his face!

What thing is this? Hast seen a ghost?’ But he,
Beckoning a youth who gazed, said tauntingly,
Yet with a timorous eye, which roved in vain
The horror it had known to meet again:
‘Now, Sieur Gualtier, if your heart be stout,
Prove it; for here you may, past touch of doubt.
Here stand the lists pitched for that valorous deed
You oft have sighed to seek—God be your speed!
And ye, who look so bold, see out the play—
The Devil make me an ass if here I stay!
Come, come—we stand upon enchanted ground:
I know it now, Christ keep us! we have found
That spot of Cos where dwells—what scarce I dare
To name—O Queen of Heaven, look there, look there!’

They looked. A sudden pallor blanched each cheek,
And not a man had power to move or speak;
For there a hideous serpent raised its head,
And gazed upon them keenly with its red
And fiery eyes, and stretched its squamous neck
Horribly towards them—every lustrous speck
And lurid circlet glittering in the sun
With hateful splendour. And they could not run,
But spell-bound stood. The monster raised its crest
Sharply as might a heron, eager lest
The prey should 'scape, with little backward jerks;
And so stayed keenly gazing—all the cirques

Of its tremendous length yet coiled within.
Then with weak knees they struggled to begin
Their trembling flight.

But Gualtier did not fly;
The glittering mazes of the serpent's eye
Wrought in his brain, like some Circean wine,
With a delirious joy. He felt divine
As Adam with the juice sweet on his lips,
And wisdom's day new-burst from its eclipse,
Eve glowing at his side. All dreams he had dreamed
Of love and fame grew quick in him.

He seemed
No common sailor, by his noble air
And rich though sea-stained dress. A young Trouvère
He was indeed, who came with them along,
Seeking adventures or new themes of song;
And now fame hovered near. Stung to dare all,
He firmly turned, his comrades to recall;
‘Friends, 'tis a gentle creature, as men say,
And these tame hares bear witness—let us stay.’
‘Stay then,’ replied the Captain; ‘try your fate
With your tame snake. Come, men! Good fortune, mate—
Keep your mad bones unpicked to dream on.’

Then
Gualtier was left alone.

He looked again—
The snake had vanished. Like an evil dream
Drawing to its final horror all did seem.
Irresolute he stood, in act to fly;
Yet, with a fearful courage, eagerly
His heart leapt for the proof. There comes a time
For each man when his nature stands sublime
In one stern moment's light, when all his past
Blossoms in one instinctive act. At last
Death witnesses the bond with fortune sealed.
Even thus the whole man Gualtier stood revealed:
His life was full in blossom. There he stood,
The chivalrous passion tingling through his blood,
Yet half-faint, agonising on the tense
Of expectation. By all gates of sense
The scene infixed itself upon his soul.
In an eternal present glowed the whole
Charmed garden in the hush of high mid-noon;
The feverous hum of bees and creaking tune
Of myriad crickets thronging through the grass
Boomed in his ears; but all things seemed to pass
In the dim background of his mind.

Then came
A sudden rustling, and those eyes of flame
Burnt at his very feet. It was too late
For flight—he sickened in the grasp of fate;
And a cold shiver stirred his rising hair.

Trembling, yet with a heart that bayed despair,
He gazed upon the cruel-fangèd jaws
That fawned around him, making gentle pause
As though to win his pity.

Awed he spake:
‘In the name of God, what art thou?’

Then the snake
Answered him in a human voice—none less
Appalling for its feminine slenderness:
‘Hast thou not heard of me?’

He made essay,
With dry and tuneless tongue, to stammer, ‘Yea,
Thou art—the fearful Thing of Cos!’

Again
The monster spoke, writhing as if in pain,
And its voice shook: ‘I am that loathly thing.’
Then it was dumb; but every lurid ring
Swelled with a passionate grief, which seemed at last
To tear itself a way, as fierce and fast
Words followed words: ‘Ay, thou hast heard my tale—
Thy ears have heard; but how shall I assail
With this chill tongue thy heart? How shall my woe
Plead there in sacred human guise? Yet O
Believe, believe, I was not always barred
By this dread prison from my kind's regard!
Not always was I thus—a thing to flee!—
Teach the clear eyes of thy just soul to see

Beneath this husk of hideousness a form
That hath moved men to love—a bosom warm
With more than woman's tenderness—a heart
Where passions, pent for centuries, ache to start
Into wild life. O dost thou long for love?
How I could love thee—with a strength above
All that thy dreams—nay, woe is me, I rave!—
Love hissed upon this tongue moves loathing! Brave
As thou art proved, that were a dream too dread.
Yet mercy, mercy! Since thou hast not fled,
Save me—be pitiful! Ah, was ever fate
More piteous than mine, whom Dian's hate—
Think of it—tortures thus, age after age?
That tale is true; my father was the sage
Hippocrates! How measure you the years
That have remoulded nature since his tears
Fell, unavailing as his prayers, for me?
Since the fierce gods, in vengeful cruelty
Cursing the issues of my mortal breath,
Bound me to hateful life? No nearer death
For aging all the long, long century through,
I cast my slough, my hideous youth renew—
Ah, think, think, think of it, and save me! O
Salve with a moment's pang this age-long woe!
Cancel this curse of Dian—laid on me
Until—’ Her keen eyes sparkled horribly,
Her jaws dilating as she raised her crest

At once eagerly upward to his breast.
‘O gentle youth, kiss me upon the mouth!’

Shuddering, he started back—a deadly drouth
Parching his tongue, and all his flesh a-creep
With a damp chill. The serpent seemed to weep,
For twice he heard a piteous inward groan;
Then down she grovelled, with a sobbing moan,
Upon the ground; a wailing smote his ears,
As when a woman weeps, and warm large tears
Sprang in her eyes and bathed her loathsome cheek.
Gualtier was moved, and said: ‘What boots to speak,
O Lady—if thou lady art indeed—
Of curse of that false goddess, whom our creed
Holds for a devil? 'Tis a thing of naught.
I cannot kiss thee!’ At the sickening thought
Such charnel savours to his palate rose
As presage oft a swoon, and death drew close,
With icy fingers clutching at his heart.
He shook them from him, crying, with a start
That caught the flying life: ‘But I will sign
Thy forehead with that pledge of love divine—
The Cross of Christ our Lord; and in His name
I bless thee!’

All her colours went and came
Marvellously,—then, pale for drearihead,
She turned her from him droopingly, and said:
‘The Cross, the Cross! Alas! so talk they all,

Pouring its blood on the fair world in gall;
Cold hearts to fashion's pearls turn pity's tears;
Sweet can he sing of love divine who fears
To wear love's earthly thorns; ease would be kind,
Ruffling no feather. Deem'st thou canst find
In holy sign quittance from holy deed?
Can blessèd names disfever wounds that bleed
For tender hands? Not so, by Him who died!’
Sharply in Gualtier's eyes, with wonder wide,
From her deep orbs she flashed indignant fire.
Her words stung like a scourge. Then, lifting higher
Her crested strength, she spoke again: ‘This curse
A thing of naught! O what a cloud perverse
Hangs in the heaven of thy fair sympathy!
I tell thee 'twas my sin, though none in thee,
That I denied this goddess. I was made
The hated thing I am, because I paid
No worship at her altars. Hated? Lo!
So past all hate, that thou, who seest my woe,
In pitiless loathing wilt redungeon me
Where love and joy, like wailing spectres, flee
My passion's clasp; where on the iron door
Wan hopes beat out their lives for evermore!
O foulness, foulness, with what mortal blight
Thou nipp'st my womanhood's grace! Thy gorgon sight
Chills men to marble gods, whom beauty's tale

Had found refreshing rivers. Hence with that pale
And comfortless face of thine!—for my despair
Has dreadful promptings, which this moment tear
My breast like tigers. Hence I charge thee—fly!
Fair as thou art, I would not have thee die;
But misery breeds fell brood—a tyrant thought
Shakes all my feeble soul, long overwrought
With passion self-represt, and I could well—
Nay go! I will not harm thee.’

Then she fell
A-weeping in contorted agony;
And Gualtier, filled with wonder thus to see
Her sorrowing rage for cruelty confest,
Felt such a fascination in his breast
As a man feels when hideous temptings rise
To an abhorrèd sin. He kept his eyes
Fixed on her writhing neck, and clutched his sword,
Ready to strike.

But now she turned her tow'rd
Her palace, with a passionate shriek of: ‘Go!’
Then Gualtier spoke again: ‘How can I know
Thou dost not lure me to some dreadful doom—
Death—or a death-in-life of spell-bound gloom,
With thee, for ages in this charmèd isle?
I pity thee—yet—I fear thy serpent guile.’

Thereat she slowly rose, swelling her height
Like a majestic wave; serener light

Gleamed in her eyes, and in her voice awoke
A grand and mournful music as she spoke:
‘O green and happy woods, breathing like sleep
In quiet sunshine! Living things that creep,
Or run, or fly amid these glades in peace!
O earth! O sea! O heavens, that never cease
Your gentle ministry, witness my truth!
Must every word that melts man's heart to ruth,
Move grim suspicion and the fear of lies?
O powers of nature, grand benignities
Of all this dumb creation! must the clay
That shades our delicate lamp from the fierce day
Of boundless life, lie on us like a mound
Of graveyard earth, that shuts us from the sound
Of all the kindly world, smothers our pale
And struggling lips, and makes our feeble wail
Come strangely to men's ears, like a ghost's cry?
My voice appals? Alas! 'tis one deep sigh
To be made lovely by one loving act;
Yet he who hears leagues me in horrid pact
With nether powers of ill. Farewell, thou fair
Dream of a man, who comest, like despair,
To torture me in happy human shape.
Man's faith is not like woman's—nought can 'scape
His sceptic fears—not faith itself—farewell!
Thy doubts did ice the tender founts that swell
Here in my breast a moment; but once more

They gush as warm as tears. My passion's o'er—
I blame thee not. Farewell, and happy be;
But in thy distant world remember me!’

Two frisking hares just then came racing by;
Starting from Gualtier, they couched timidly
Among her serpent coils. She bent her head
And licked them gently, weeping.

Gualtier's dread
Changing, chameleon-fashion, as her mood
Took tenderer lights, had grown less deadly-hued,
Shot through with pity's colours. All his powers,
Like stripling soldiers whom the first stern hours
Of battle veterans make, now burnt to dare
That final grip with danger which did scare
The vanward fancy; like a captain now,
Who stares across the field with resolute brow,
He rallied them, as with a trumpet-call
Sounding to desperate charge. ‘Stand I or fall,
O Christ,’ he murmured, ‘whom the wormy grave
Held three days in its womb, us men to save
From our corruptions, I will follow thee
Even to the death! Shed now thy blood in me,
To save this soul and mine!’ Aloud he spake,
And shuddering closed his eyes: ‘I'll kiss thee, snake!’
And held his lips out, thinking on His name
Who cast, when she besought him in her shame,

Seven devils out of Mary Magdalen;
And with the cross he signed himself.

O then
In his blind agony he seemed to sink
In a cold sea of horror. He must drink
The cup of loathing to the very lees.
He felt the kiss approaching by degrees—
That venomous toad-mouth, with its clammy chill;
Now!—now!—

It came at last. A sudden thrill
Ran through his frame. A soft mouth fast and warm
Was prest on his—about his neck an arm
Clung rapturously. He looked, and, O surprise!
O transport! gazed into the sweetest eyes
That ever made a heaven for mortal man.
It was too vast revulsion—faint and wan,
He sank upon the ground.

The hares had fled
That sudden apparition in the stead
Of the familiar creature of their love:
For there a beauteous woman bent above
The swooning youth, and kissed his eyes and hair,
And lips, and brow; and chafed with tender care
His languid hands, and to her bosom prest;
And, motherlike, cherished his feeble breast
With the glad warmth of her own; and made ado
To stir his fluttering heart with pulses new

From hers, which yearned to pour its blood for him.
O happy Gualtier, through whose senses, dim
And winter-chill, her glowing summer played!
Thrice-happy Gualtier, with so sweet a maid
To kiss him back to life! For she was fair
As virgins are; her cheek and bounteous hair
Had drunk the sunshine from the rising day
And gave it back in beauty; the glad play
Of youth was in her limbs; and all her form
Kept its auroral curves, as though the storm
Of agony had never swept the shore
Of her lone life. But never virgin wore
Brows of such ripe love-wisdom; virgin eyes
Ne'er held in their grave deeps such mysteries
Of sorrow and love; never did virgin lips
Kindle and quiver to their tender tips
With such rare smiles, wherein transfigured pain
Grew love. Thrice-happy Gualtier, when each vein
Ached with new-flowing life, and he awoke
Nested in home-like peace! Wondering he spoke:
‘Mother of God, do I behold thy face?
And am I snatched, through Christ's exceeding grace,
From hell to heaven? O if it be a dream,
Let me not wake!’ With a low tuneful scream
Of laughing joy she caught him to her breast:
‘O let me be thy heaven, thy haven of rest,
As thou art mine! 'Tis I, thy ransomed—I

Who cling so close. These lips thou wilt not fly?
O tell me I am loved—at last, at last—
And make me all thine own! My slough is cast—
Call me Aglaïa, give me back my name—
That too! Ah! was this snake so hard to tame,
Who, coiling ever closer, burns to be
Thy home, thy bride, thy happy snake—by thee
Restored to love—and death!’

Long did they live, and long from every land
Thronged to them annually a pallid band
Of sick folk, by their hands to be made whole;
For, as was blazed abroad, they had control
Of all diseases—skilled in secret lore
And occult arts; and ever more and more
Their fame grew loud, and of their wondrous cures,
And wealth, and charities, the noise endures
Even to this day in Cos, their island home.