Chronicles and Characters By Robert Lytton (Owen Meredith): In Two Volumes |
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THE APPLE OF LIFE. |
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 | Chronicles and Characters |  |
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THE APPLE OF LIFE.
From the river Euphrates, the river whose source is in Paradise, far
As red Egypt,—sole lord of the land and the sea, 'twixt the eremite star
Of the orient desert's lone dawn, and the porch of the chambers of rest
Where the great sea is girded with fire, and Orion returns in the West,
And the ships come and go in grand silence,—King Solomon reign'd. And behold,
In that time there was everywhere silver as common as stones be, and gold
That for plenty was 'counted as silver, and cedar as sycamore trees
That are found in the vale, for abundance. For God to the King gave all these,
With glory exceeding; moreover all kings of the earth to him came,
Because of his wisdom, to hear him. So great was King Solomon's fame.
As red Egypt,—sole lord of the land and the sea, 'twixt the eremite star
Of the orient desert's lone dawn, and the porch of the chambers of rest
Where the great sea is girded with fire, and Orion returns in the West,
And the ships come and go in grand silence,—King Solomon reign'd. And behold,
In that time there was everywhere silver as common as stones be, and gold
That for plenty was 'counted as silver, and cedar as sycamore trees
That are found in the vale, for abundance. For God to the King gave all these,
With glory exceeding; moreover all kings of the earth to him came,
Because of his wisdom, to hear him. So great was King Solomon's fame.
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And for all this the King's soul was sad. And his heart said within him, “Alas,
“For man dies! if his glory abideth, himself from his glory shall pass.
And that which remaineth behind him, he seeth it not any more:
For how shall he know what comes after, who knoweth not what went before?
I have planted me gardens and vineyards, and gotten me silver and gold,
And my hand from whatever my heart hath desired I did not withhold:
And what profit have I in the works of my hands which I take not away?
I have searchèd out wisdom and knowledge: and what do they profit me, they?
As the fool dieth, so doth the wise. What is gather'd is scatter'd again.
As the breath of the beasts, even so is the breath of the children of men:
And the same thing befalleth them both. And not any man's soul is his own.”
“For man dies! if his glory abideth, himself from his glory shall pass.
And that which remaineth behind him, he seeth it not any more:
For how shall he know what comes after, who knoweth not what went before?
I have planted me gardens and vineyards, and gotten me silver and gold,
And my hand from whatever my heart hath desired I did not withhold:
And what profit have I in the works of my hands which I take not away?
I have searchèd out wisdom and knowledge: and what do they profit me, they?
As the fool dieth, so doth the wise. What is gather'd is scatter'd again.
As the breath of the beasts, even so is the breath of the children of men:
And the same thing befalleth them both. And not any man's soul is his own.”
This he thought, as he sat in his garden, and watch'd the great sun going down
In the glory thereof; and the earth and the sky, in that glory, became
Clothed clear with the gladness of colour, and bathed in the beauty of flame.
And “Behold,” said the King, “in a moment the glory shall vanish!” Even then,
While he spake, he was 'ware of a man drawing near him, who seem'd to his ken
(By the hair in its blackness like flax that is burn'd in the hemp-dresser's shed,
And the brow's smoky hue, and the smouldering eyeball more livid than lead)
As the sons of the land that lies under the sword of the Cherub whose wing
Wraps in wrath the shut gateways of Paradise. He, being come to the King,
Seven times made obeisance before him. To whom, “What art thou,” the King cried,
“That thus unannounced to King Solomon comest?” The man, spreading wide
The palm of his right hand, show'd in it an apple yet bright from the Tree
In whose stem springs the life never-failing which Sin lost to Adam, when he,
Tasting knowledge forbidden, found death in the fruit of it . . . So doth the Giver
Evil gifts to the evil apportion. And “Hail! let the King live for ever!”
Bowing down at the feet of the monarch, and laughingly, even as one
Whose meaning, in joy or in jest, hovers hid 'twixt the word and the tone,
Said the stranger (as lightly the apple he dropp'd in the hand of the King),
“For lo ye! from 'twixt the four rivers of Eden, God gave me to bring
To his servant King Solomon, even to my lord that on Israel's throne
He hath 'stablisht, this fruit from the Tree in whose branch Life abideth: for none
Shall taste death, having tasted this apple.”
And therewith he vanish'd.
In the glory thereof; and the earth and the sky, in that glory, became
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And “Behold,” said the King, “in a moment the glory shall vanish!” Even then,
While he spake, he was 'ware of a man drawing near him, who seem'd to his ken
(By the hair in its blackness like flax that is burn'd in the hemp-dresser's shed,
And the brow's smoky hue, and the smouldering eyeball more livid than lead)
As the sons of the land that lies under the sword of the Cherub whose wing
Wraps in wrath the shut gateways of Paradise. He, being come to the King,
Seven times made obeisance before him. To whom, “What art thou,” the King cried,
“That thus unannounced to King Solomon comest?” The man, spreading wide
The palm of his right hand, show'd in it an apple yet bright from the Tree
In whose stem springs the life never-failing which Sin lost to Adam, when he,
Tasting knowledge forbidden, found death in the fruit of it . . . So doth the Giver
Evil gifts to the evil apportion. And “Hail! let the King live for ever!”
Bowing down at the feet of the monarch, and laughingly, even as one
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Said the stranger (as lightly the apple he dropp'd in the hand of the King),
“For lo ye! from 'twixt the four rivers of Eden, God gave me to bring
To his servant King Solomon, even to my lord that on Israel's throne
He hath 'stablisht, this fruit from the Tree in whose branch Life abideth: for none
Shall taste death, having tasted this apple.”
And therewith he vanish'd.
Remain'd
In the hand of the King the life-apple: ambrosial of breath, golden-grain'd,
Rosy-bright as a star dipt in sunset. The King turn'd it o'er, and perused
The fruit, which, alluring his lip, in his hand lay untasted.
In the hand of the King the life-apple: ambrosial of breath, golden-grain'd,
Rosy-bright as a star dipt in sunset. The King turn'd it o'er, and perused
The fruit, which, alluring his lip, in his hand lay untasted.
He mused,
“Life is good: but not life in itself. Life eternal, eternally young,
That were life to be lived, or desired! Well it were if a man could prolong
The manhood that moves in the muscles, the rapture that mounts in the brain
When life at the prime, in the pastime of living, led on by the train
Of the jubilant senses, exulting goes forth, brave of body and spirit,
To conquer, choose, claim, and enjoy what 'twas born to achieve or inherit.
The dance, and the festal procession! the pride in the strenuous play
Of the sinews that, eager for service, the will, tho' it wanton, obey!
When in veins lightly flowing, the fertile and bountiful impulses beat,
When the dews of the dawn of Desire on the roses of Beauty are sweet:
And the eye glows with glances that kindle, the lip breathes the warmth that inspires,
And the hand hath yet vigour to seize the good thing which the spirit desires!
O well for the foot that bounds forward! and ever the wind it awakes
Lifts no lock from the forehead yet white, not a leaf that is wither'd yet shakes
From the loose flowers wreathing young tresses! and ever the earth and the skies
Abound in rich ardours, rejoicings, and raptures of endless surprise!
Life is sweet to the young that yet know not what life is. But life, after Youth,
The gay liar, leaves hold of the bauble, and Age, with his terrible truth,
Picks it up, and perceives it is broken, and knows it unfit to engage
The care it yet craves . . . . Life eternal, eternally wedded to Age!
What gain were in that? Why should any man seek what he loathes to prolong?
The twilight that darkens the eyeball: the dull ear that's deaf to the song,
When the maidens rejoice and the bride to the bridegroom, with music, is led:
The palsy that shakes 'neath the blossoms that fall from the chill bridal bed.
When the hand saith ‘I did,’ not ‘I will do,’ the heart saith ‘It was,’ not ‘'Twill be,’
Too late in man's life is Forever—too late comes this apple to me!”
Then the King rose. And lo, it was evening. And leaning, because he was old,
On the sceptre that, curiously sculptured in ivory garnish'd with gold,
To others a rod of dominion, to him was a staff for support,
Slow paced he the murmurous pathways where myrtles, in court up to court,
Mixt with roses in garden on garden, were ranged around fountains that fed
With cool music green odorous twilights: and so, never lifting his head
To look up from the way he walk'd wearily, he to the House of his Pride
Reascended, and enter'd.
“Life is good: but not life in itself. Life eternal, eternally young,
That were life to be lived, or desired! Well it were if a man could prolong
The manhood that moves in the muscles, the rapture that mounts in the brain
When life at the prime, in the pastime of living, led on by the train
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To conquer, choose, claim, and enjoy what 'twas born to achieve or inherit.
The dance, and the festal procession! the pride in the strenuous play
Of the sinews that, eager for service, the will, tho' it wanton, obey!
When in veins lightly flowing, the fertile and bountiful impulses beat,
When the dews of the dawn of Desire on the roses of Beauty are sweet:
And the eye glows with glances that kindle, the lip breathes the warmth that inspires,
And the hand hath yet vigour to seize the good thing which the spirit desires!
O well for the foot that bounds forward! and ever the wind it awakes
Lifts no lock from the forehead yet white, not a leaf that is wither'd yet shakes
From the loose flowers wreathing young tresses! and ever the earth and the skies
Abound in rich ardours, rejoicings, and raptures of endless surprise!
Life is sweet to the young that yet know not what life is. But life, after Youth,
The gay liar, leaves hold of the bauble, and Age, with his terrible truth,
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The care it yet craves . . . . Life eternal, eternally wedded to Age!
What gain were in that? Why should any man seek what he loathes to prolong?
The twilight that darkens the eyeball: the dull ear that's deaf to the song,
When the maidens rejoice and the bride to the bridegroom, with music, is led:
The palsy that shakes 'neath the blossoms that fall from the chill bridal bed.
When the hand saith ‘I did,’ not ‘I will do,’ the heart saith ‘It was,’ not ‘'Twill be,’
Too late in man's life is Forever—too late comes this apple to me!”
Then the King rose. And lo, it was evening. And leaning, because he was old,
On the sceptre that, curiously sculptured in ivory garnish'd with gold,
To others a rod of dominion, to him was a staff for support,
Slow paced he the murmurous pathways where myrtles, in court up to court,
Mixt with roses in garden on garden, were ranged around fountains that fed
With cool music green odorous twilights: and so, never lifting his head
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Reascended, and enter'd.
In cluster, high lamps, spices, odours, each side,
Burning inward and onward, from cinnamon ceilings, down distances vast
Of voluptuous vistas, illumined deep halls thro' whose silentness pass'd
King Solomon sighing; where columns colossal stood, gather'd in groves
As the trees of the forest in Libanus,—there where the wind, as it moves,
Whispers “I, too, am Solomon's servant!”—huge trunks hid in garlands of gold,
On whose tops the skill'd sculptors of Sidon had granted men's gaze to behold
How the phœnix that sits on the cedar's lone summit 'mid fragrance and fire,
Ever dying and living, hath loaded with splendours her funeral pyre;
How the stork builds her nest on the pine-top; the date from the palm-branch depends;
And the shaft of the blossoming aloe soars crowning the life which it ends.
And from hall on to hall, in the doors, mute, magnificent slaves, watchful-eyed,
Bow'd to earth as King Solomon pass'd them. And, passing, King Solomon sigh'd.
And, from hall on to hall pacing feebly, the king mused . . . “O fair Shulamite!
“Thy beauty is brighter than starlight on Hebron when Hebron is bright,
Thy sweetness is sweeter than Carmel. The King rules the nations; but thou,
Thou rulest the King, my Belovèd.”
Burning inward and onward, from cinnamon ceilings, down distances vast
Of voluptuous vistas, illumined deep halls thro' whose silentness pass'd
King Solomon sighing; where columns colossal stood, gather'd in groves
As the trees of the forest in Libanus,—there where the wind, as it moves,
Whispers “I, too, am Solomon's servant!”—huge trunks hid in garlands of gold,
On whose tops the skill'd sculptors of Sidon had granted men's gaze to behold
How the phœnix that sits on the cedar's lone summit 'mid fragrance and fire,
Ever dying and living, hath loaded with splendours her funeral pyre;
How the stork builds her nest on the pine-top; the date from the palm-branch depends;
And the shaft of the blossoming aloe soars crowning the life which it ends.
And from hall on to hall, in the doors, mute, magnificent slaves, watchful-eyed,
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And, from hall on to hall pacing feebly, the king mused . . . “O fair Shulamite!
“Thy beauty is brighter than starlight on Hebron when Hebron is bright,
Thy sweetness is sweeter than Carmel. The King rules the nations; but thou,
Thou rulest the King, my Belovèd.”
So murmur'd King Solomon low
To himself, as he pass'd thro' the portal of porphyry, that dripp'd, as he pass'd,
From the myrrh-sprinkled wreaths on the locks and the lintels; and enter'd at last,
Still sighing, the sweet cedarn chamber, contrived for repose and delight,
Where the beautiful Shulamite slumber'd. And straightway, to left and to right,
Bowing down as he enter'd, the Spirits in bondage to Solomon, there
Keeping watch o'er his love, sank their swords, spread their wings, and evanish'd in air.
The King with a kiss woke the sleeper. And, showing the fruit in his hand,
“Behold! this was brought me erewhile by one coming,” he said, “from the land
That lies under the sword of the Cherub. 'Twas pluckt by strange hands from the Tree
Of whose fruit whoso tasteth shall die not. And therefore I bring it to thee,
My belovèd. For thou of the daughters of women art fairest. And lo,
I, the King, I that love thee, whom men of man's sons have call'd wisest, I know
That in knowledge is sorrow. Much thought is much care. In the beauty of youth,
Not the wisdom of age, is enjoyment. Nor spring, is it sweeter, in truth,
Than winter, to roses once wither'd. The garment, tho' broider'd with gold,
Fades apace where the moth frets the fibres. So I, in my glory, grow old.
And this life maketh mine (save the bliss of my soul in the beauty of thee)
No sweetness so great now that greatly unsweet 'twere to lose what to me
Life prolong'd, at its utmost, can promise. But thine, O thou spirit of bliss,
Thine is all that the living desire,—youth, beauty, love, joy in all this!
And O were it not well for the praise of the world to maintain evermore
This mould of a woman, God's masterwork, made for mankind to adore?
Wherefore keep thou the gift I resign. Live for ever, rejoicing in life!
And of women unborn yet the fairest shall still be King Solomon's wife.”
So he said, and so dropp'd in her bosom the apple.
To himself, as he pass'd thro' the portal of porphyry, that dripp'd, as he pass'd,
From the myrrh-sprinkled wreaths on the locks and the lintels; and enter'd at last,
Still sighing, the sweet cedarn chamber, contrived for repose and delight,
Where the beautiful Shulamite slumber'd. And straightway, to left and to right,
Bowing down as he enter'd, the Spirits in bondage to Solomon, there
Keeping watch o'er his love, sank their swords, spread their wings, and evanish'd in air.
The King with a kiss woke the sleeper. And, showing the fruit in his hand,
“Behold! this was brought me erewhile by one coming,” he said, “from the land
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Of whose fruit whoso tasteth shall die not. And therefore I bring it to thee,
My belovèd. For thou of the daughters of women art fairest. And lo,
I, the King, I that love thee, whom men of man's sons have call'd wisest, I know
That in knowledge is sorrow. Much thought is much care. In the beauty of youth,
Not the wisdom of age, is enjoyment. Nor spring, is it sweeter, in truth,
Than winter, to roses once wither'd. The garment, tho' broider'd with gold,
Fades apace where the moth frets the fibres. So I, in my glory, grow old.
And this life maketh mine (save the bliss of my soul in the beauty of thee)
No sweetness so great now that greatly unsweet 'twere to lose what to me
Life prolong'd, at its utmost, can promise. But thine, O thou spirit of bliss,
Thine is all that the living desire,—youth, beauty, love, joy in all this!
And O were it not well for the praise of the world to maintain evermore
This mould of a woman, God's masterwork, made for mankind to adore?
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And of women unborn yet the fairest shall still be King Solomon's wife.”
So he said, and so dropp'd in her bosom the apple.
But when he was gone,
And the beautiful Shulamite, eyeing the gift of the King, sat alone
With the thoughts the King's words had awaken'd, as ever she turn'd and perused
The fruit that, alluring her lip, in her hand lay untasted—she mused,
“Life is good; but not life in itself. So is youth, so is beauty. Mere stuff
Are all these for Love's usance. To live, it is well; but it is not enough.
Well, too, to be fair, to be young; but what good is in beauty and youth
If the lovely and young are not surer than they that be neither, forsooth,
Young nor lovely, of being beloved? O my love, if thou lovest not me,
Shall I love my own life? Am I fair, if not fair, Azariah, to thee?”
Then she hid in her bosom the apple. And rose.
And the beautiful Shulamite, eyeing the gift of the King, sat alone
With the thoughts the King's words had awaken'd, as ever she turn'd and perused
The fruit that, alluring her lip, in her hand lay untasted—she mused,
“Life is good; but not life in itself. So is youth, so is beauty. Mere stuff
Are all these for Love's usance. To live, it is well; but it is not enough.
Well, too, to be fair, to be young; but what good is in beauty and youth
If the lovely and young are not surer than they that be neither, forsooth,
Young nor lovely, of being beloved? O my love, if thou lovest not me,
Shall I love my own life? Am I fair, if not fair, Azariah, to thee?”
Then she hid in her bosom the apple. And rose.
And, reversing the ring
That, inscribed with the word that works wonders, and sign'd with the seal of the King,
Hath o'er spirits and demons dominion—(for she, for a plaything, erewhile
From King Solomon's awful forefinger, had won it away with a smile)—
The beautiful Shulamite folded her veil o'er her forehead and eyes,
And, with footsteps that fleeted as silent and swift as a bird's shadow flies,
Unseen from the palace, she pass'd, and pass'd down to the city unseen,
Unseen pass'd the green garden wicket, the vineyard, the cypresses green,
And stood by the doors of the house of the Prince Azariah. And cried,
In the darkness she cried—“Azariah, awaken! ope, ope to me wide!
“Ope the door, ope the lattice! Arise! Let me in, O my love! It is I.
Thee, the bride of King Solomon, loveth. Love, tarry not. Love, shall I die
At thy doors? I am sick of desire. For my love is more comely than gold.
More precious to me is my love than the throne of a king that is old.
Behold, I have pass'd thro' the city, unseen of the watchmen. I stand
By the doors of the house of my love, till my love lead me in by the hand.”
Azariah arose. And unbolted the door to the fair Shulamite.
“O my queen, what dear folly is this, that hath led thee alone, and by night,
To the house of King Solomon's servant? For lo you, the watchmen awake.
And much for my own, O my queen, must I fear, and much more for thy sake.
For at that which is done in the chamber the leek on the housetop shall peep:
And the hand of a king it is heavy: the eyes of a king never sleep:
But the bird of the air beareth news to the king, and the stars of the sky
Are as soldiers by night on the turrets. I fear, O my queen, lest we die.”
“Fear thou not, O my love! Azariah fear nothing. For lo, what I bring!
'Tis the fruit of the Tree that in Paradise God hideth under the wing
Of the Cherub that chased away Adam. And whoso this apple doth eat
Shall live—live for ever! And since unto me my own life is less sweet
Than thy love, Azariah (sweet only thy love maketh life unto me!),
Therefore eat! Live, and love, for life's sake, still, the love that gives life unto thee!”
Then she held to his lips the life-apple, and kiss'd him.
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Hath o'er spirits and demons dominion—(for she, for a plaything, erewhile
From King Solomon's awful forefinger, had won it away with a smile)—
The beautiful Shulamite folded her veil o'er her forehead and eyes,
And, with footsteps that fleeted as silent and swift as a bird's shadow flies,
Unseen from the palace, she pass'd, and pass'd down to the city unseen,
Unseen pass'd the green garden wicket, the vineyard, the cypresses green,
And stood by the doors of the house of the Prince Azariah. And cried,
In the darkness she cried—“Azariah, awaken! ope, ope to me wide!
“Ope the door, ope the lattice! Arise! Let me in, O my love! It is I.
Thee, the bride of King Solomon, loveth. Love, tarry not. Love, shall I die
At thy doors? I am sick of desire. For my love is more comely than gold.
More precious to me is my love than the throne of a king that is old.
Behold, I have pass'd thro' the city, unseen of the watchmen. I stand
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Azariah arose. And unbolted the door to the fair Shulamite.
“O my queen, what dear folly is this, that hath led thee alone, and by night,
To the house of King Solomon's servant? For lo you, the watchmen awake.
And much for my own, O my queen, must I fear, and much more for thy sake.
For at that which is done in the chamber the leek on the housetop shall peep:
And the hand of a king it is heavy: the eyes of a king never sleep:
But the bird of the air beareth news to the king, and the stars of the sky
Are as soldiers by night on the turrets. I fear, O my queen, lest we die.”
“Fear thou not, O my love! Azariah fear nothing. For lo, what I bring!
'Tis the fruit of the Tree that in Paradise God hideth under the wing
Of the Cherub that chased away Adam. And whoso this apple doth eat
Shall live—live for ever! And since unto me my own life is less sweet
Than thy love, Azariah (sweet only thy love maketh life unto me!),
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Then she held to his lips the life-apple, and kiss'd him.
But soon as alone,
Azariah lean'd out from his lattice, he mutter'd “'Tis well! She is gone.”
While the fruit in his hand lay untasted. “Such visits,” he mused, “may cost dear.
“In the love of the great is great danger, much trouble, and care more than cheer.”
Then he laugh'd, and stretch'd forth his strong arms. For he heard from the streets of the city
The song of the women that sing in the doors after dark their love ditty.
And the clink of the wine-cup, the voice of the wanton, the tripping of feet,
And the laughter of youths running after, allured him. And “Life, it is sweet
“While it lasts,” sang the women, “and sweeter the good minute, in that it goes,
For who, if the rose bloom'd for ever, so greatly would care for the rose?
Wherefore haste! pluck the time in the blossom.” The prince mused, “The counsel is well.”
And the fruit to his lips he uplifted: yet paused. “Who is he that can tell
“What his days shall bring forth? Life for ever . . . But what sort of life? Ah, the doubt!”
'Neath his cloak then he thrust back the apple. And open'd the door and pass'd out
To the house of the harlot Egyptian. And mused, as he went, “Life is good:
“But not life in itself. It is well while the wine-cup is hot in the blood,
And a man goeth whither he listeth, and doeth the thing that he will,
And liveth his life as he lusteth, and taketh in freedom his fill
Of the pleasure that pleaseth his humour, and feareth no snare by the way.
Shall I care to be loved by a queen, if my pride with my freedom I pay?
Better far is a handful in quiet than both hands, tho' fill'd to overflow
With pride, in vexation of spirit. And sweeter the roses that blow
From the wild seeds the wind, where he wanders, with heedless beneficence flings,
Than those that are guarded by dragons to brighten the gardens of kings.
Let a man take his chance, and be happy. The hart, tho' hard press'd by the hounds
When the horn of the hunter hath scatter'd the herd from the hills where it sounds,
Is more to be envied, tho' Death with his dart follow fast to destroy,
Than the tame beast that, pent in the paddock, tastes neither the danger nor joy
Of the mountain, and all its surprises. The main thing is, not to live long,
But to live. Better moments of rapture soon ended than ages of wrong.
Life's feast is best spiced by the flavour of death in it. Just the one chance
To lose it to-morrow the life that a man lives to-day doth enhance.
The may-be for me, not the must-be! Best flourish while flourish the flowers,
And fall ere the frost falls. The dead, do they rest or arise with new powers?
Either way, well for them. Mine, meanwhile, be the cup of life's fulness to-night.
And to-morrow . . . Well, time to consider” (he felt at the fruit): “What delight
Of his birthright had Esau, when hungry? To-day with its pottage is sweet.
For a man cannot feed and be full on the faith of to-morrow's baked meat.
Open! open, my dark-eyed beguiler of darkness!”
Azariah lean'd out from his lattice, he mutter'd “'Tis well! She is gone.”
While the fruit in his hand lay untasted. “Such visits,” he mused, “may cost dear.
“In the love of the great is great danger, much trouble, and care more than cheer.”
Then he laugh'd, and stretch'd forth his strong arms. For he heard from the streets of the city
The song of the women that sing in the doors after dark their love ditty.
And the clink of the wine-cup, the voice of the wanton, the tripping of feet,
And the laughter of youths running after, allured him. And “Life, it is sweet
“While it lasts,” sang the women, “and sweeter the good minute, in that it goes,
For who, if the rose bloom'd for ever, so greatly would care for the rose?
Wherefore haste! pluck the time in the blossom.” The prince mused, “The counsel is well.”
And the fruit to his lips he uplifted: yet paused. “Who is he that can tell
285
'Neath his cloak then he thrust back the apple. And open'd the door and pass'd out
To the house of the harlot Egyptian. And mused, as he went, “Life is good:
“But not life in itself. It is well while the wine-cup is hot in the blood,
And a man goeth whither he listeth, and doeth the thing that he will,
And liveth his life as he lusteth, and taketh in freedom his fill
Of the pleasure that pleaseth his humour, and feareth no snare by the way.
Shall I care to be loved by a queen, if my pride with my freedom I pay?
Better far is a handful in quiet than both hands, tho' fill'd to overflow
With pride, in vexation of spirit. And sweeter the roses that blow
From the wild seeds the wind, where he wanders, with heedless beneficence flings,
Than those that are guarded by dragons to brighten the gardens of kings.
Let a man take his chance, and be happy. The hart, tho' hard press'd by the hounds
When the horn of the hunter hath scatter'd the herd from the hills where it sounds,
286
Than the tame beast that, pent in the paddock, tastes neither the danger nor joy
Of the mountain, and all its surprises. The main thing is, not to live long,
But to live. Better moments of rapture soon ended than ages of wrong.
Life's feast is best spiced by the flavour of death in it. Just the one chance
To lose it to-morrow the life that a man lives to-day doth enhance.
The may-be for me, not the must-be! Best flourish while flourish the flowers,
And fall ere the frost falls. The dead, do they rest or arise with new powers?
Either way, well for them. Mine, meanwhile, be the cup of life's fulness to-night.
And to-morrow . . . Well, time to consider” (he felt at the fruit): “What delight
Of his birthright had Esau, when hungry? To-day with its pottage is sweet.
For a man cannot feed and be full on the faith of to-morrow's baked meat.
Open! open, my dark-eyed beguiler of darkness!”
Up rose to his knock,
Light of foot, the lascivious Egyptian, and lifted the latch from the lock,
And open'd. And led in the prince to her chamber, and shook out her hair,
Dark, heavy, and humid with odours; her bosom beneath it laid bare,
And sleek sallow shoulder; and sloped back her face, as, when falls the slant South
In wet whispers of rain, flowers bend back to catch it; so she, with shut mouth
Half-unfolding for kisses; and sank, as they fell, 'twixt his knees, with a laugh,
On the floor, in a flood of deep hair flung behind her full throat; held him half
Aloof with one large languid arm, while the other up-propp'd, where she lay,
Limbs flowing in fulness and lucid in surface as waters at play,
Tho' in firmness as slippery marble. Anon she sprang loose from his clasp,
And whirl'd from the table a flagon of silver twined round by an asp
That glitter'd,—rough gold and red rubies; and pour'd him, and praised him, the wine
Wherewith she first brighten'd the moist lip that murmur'd, “Ha, fool! art thou mine?
“I am thine. This will last for an hour.” Then, humming strange words of a song,
Sung by maidens in Memphis the old, when they bore the Crown'd Image along,
Apples yellow and red from a basket with vine-leaves o'erlaid she 'gan take,
And play'd with, peel'd, tost them, and caught them, and bit them, for idleness' sake;
But the rinds on the floor she flung from her, and laugh'd at the figures they made,
As her foot pusht them this way and that way together. And, “Look, fool,” she said,
“It is all sour fruit, this! But those I fling from me,—see here by the stain!—
Shall carry the mark of my teeth in their flesh. Could they feel but the pain,
O my soul, how these teeth should go through them! Fool, fool, what good gift dost thou bring?
For thee have I sweeten'd with cassia my chambers.” “A gift for a king,”
Azariah laugh'd loud; and tost to her the apple. “This comes from the Tree
“Of whose fruit whoso tastes lives for ever. I care not. I give it to thee.
Nay, witch! 'tis worth more than the shekels of gold thou hast charm'd from my purse.
Take it. Eat. Life is sweeter than knowledge: and Eve, thy sly mother, fared worse,
O thou white-toothèd taster of apples!” “Thou liest, fool?” “Taste, then, and try.
For the truth of the fruit's in the eating. 'Tis thou art the serpent, not I.”
And the strong man laugh'd loud as he push'd at her lip the life-apple. She caught
And held it away from her, musing; and mutter'd . . . “Go to! It is nought.
“Fool, why dost thou laugh?” And he answer'd, “Because, witch, it tickles my brain
“Intensely to think that all we, that be Something while yet we remain,
We, the princes of people—ay, even the King's self—shall die in our day,
And thou, that art Nothing, shall sit on our graves, with our grandsons, and play.”
So he said, and laugh'd louder.
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And open'd. And led in the prince to her chamber, and shook out her hair,
Dark, heavy, and humid with odours; her bosom beneath it laid bare,
And sleek sallow shoulder; and sloped back her face, as, when falls the slant South
In wet whispers of rain, flowers bend back to catch it; so she, with shut mouth
Half-unfolding for kisses; and sank, as they fell, 'twixt his knees, with a laugh,
On the floor, in a flood of deep hair flung behind her full throat; held him half
Aloof with one large languid arm, while the other up-propp'd, where she lay,
Limbs flowing in fulness and lucid in surface as waters at play,
Tho' in firmness as slippery marble. Anon she sprang loose from his clasp,
And whirl'd from the table a flagon of silver twined round by an asp
That glitter'd,—rough gold and red rubies; and pour'd him, and praised him, the wine
Wherewith she first brighten'd the moist lip that murmur'd, “Ha, fool! art thou mine?
“I am thine. This will last for an hour.” Then, humming strange words of a song,
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Apples yellow and red from a basket with vine-leaves o'erlaid she 'gan take,
And play'd with, peel'd, tost them, and caught them, and bit them, for idleness' sake;
But the rinds on the floor she flung from her, and laugh'd at the figures they made,
As her foot pusht them this way and that way together. And, “Look, fool,” she said,
“It is all sour fruit, this! But those I fling from me,—see here by the stain!—
Shall carry the mark of my teeth in their flesh. Could they feel but the pain,
O my soul, how these teeth should go through them! Fool, fool, what good gift dost thou bring?
For thee have I sweeten'd with cassia my chambers.” “A gift for a king,”
Azariah laugh'd loud; and tost to her the apple. “This comes from the Tree
“Of whose fruit whoso tastes lives for ever. I care not. I give it to thee.
Nay, witch! 'tis worth more than the shekels of gold thou hast charm'd from my purse.
Take it. Eat. Life is sweeter than knowledge: and Eve, thy sly mother, fared worse,
O thou white-toothèd taster of apples!” “Thou liest, fool?” “Taste, then, and try.
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And the strong man laugh'd loud as he push'd at her lip the life-apple. She caught
And held it away from her, musing; and mutter'd . . . “Go to! It is nought.
“Fool, why dost thou laugh?” And he answer'd, “Because, witch, it tickles my brain
“Intensely to think that all we, that be Something while yet we remain,
We, the princes of people—ay, even the King's self—shall die in our day,
And thou, that art Nothing, shall sit on our graves, with our grandsons, and play.”
So he said, and laugh'd louder.
But when, in the grey of the dawn, he was gone,
And the wan light wax'd large in the window, as she on her bed sat alone,
With the fruit that, alluring her lip, in her hand lay untasted, perusing,
Perplext, the gay gift of the Prince, the dark woman thereat fell a musing,
And she thought . . . “What is Life without Honour? And what can the life that I live
“Give to me, I shall care to continue, not caring for aught it can give?
I, despising the fools that despise me—a plaything not pleasing myself—
Whose life, for the pelf that maintains it, must sell what is paid not by pelf!
I? . . . the man call'd me Nothing. He said well. ‘The great in their glory must go.’
And why should I linger, whose life leadeth nowhere?—a life which I know
To name is to shame—struck, unsexed, by the world from its list of the lives
Of the women whose womanhood, saved, gets them leave to be mothers and wives.
And the fancies of men change. And bitterly bought is the bread that I eat;
For, tho' purchased with body and spirit, when purchased 'tis yet all unsweet.”
Her tears fell: they fell on the apple. She sigh'd . . . “Sour fruit, like the rest!
“Let it go with the salt tears upon it. Yet life . . . it were sweet if possess'd
In the power thereof, and the beauty. ‘A gift for a king’ . . . did he say?
Ay, a king's life is life as it should be—a life like the light of the day,
Wherein all that liveth rejoiceth. For is not the King as the sun
That shineth in heaven and seemeth both heaven and itself all in one?
Then to whom may this fruit, the life-giver, be worthily given? Not me.
Nor the fool Azariah that sold it for folly. The King! only he,—
Only he hath the life that's worth living for ever. Whose life, not alone
Is the life of the King, but the life of the many made mighty in one.
To the King will I carry this apple. And he (for the hand of a king
Is a fountain of hope) in his handmaid shall honour the gift that I bring.
And men for this deed shall esteem me, with Rahab by Israel praised,
As first among those who, tho' lowly, their shame into honour have raised:
Such honour as lasts when life goes, and, while life lasts, shall lift it above
What, if loved by the many I loathe, must be loathed by the few I could love.”
And the wan light wax'd large in the window, as she on her bed sat alone,
With the fruit that, alluring her lip, in her hand lay untasted, perusing,
Perplext, the gay gift of the Prince, the dark woman thereat fell a musing,
And she thought . . . “What is Life without Honour? And what can the life that I live
“Give to me, I shall care to continue, not caring for aught it can give?
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Whose life, for the pelf that maintains it, must sell what is paid not by pelf!
I? . . . the man call'd me Nothing. He said well. ‘The great in their glory must go.’
And why should I linger, whose life leadeth nowhere?—a life which I know
To name is to shame—struck, unsexed, by the world from its list of the lives
Of the women whose womanhood, saved, gets them leave to be mothers and wives.
And the fancies of men change. And bitterly bought is the bread that I eat;
For, tho' purchased with body and spirit, when purchased 'tis yet all unsweet.”
Her tears fell: they fell on the apple. She sigh'd . . . “Sour fruit, like the rest!
“Let it go with the salt tears upon it. Yet life . . . it were sweet if possess'd
In the power thereof, and the beauty. ‘A gift for a king’ . . . did he say?
Ay, a king's life is life as it should be—a life like the light of the day,
Wherein all that liveth rejoiceth. For is not the King as the sun
That shineth in heaven and seemeth both heaven and itself all in one?
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Nor the fool Azariah that sold it for folly. The King! only he,—
Only he hath the life that's worth living for ever. Whose life, not alone
Is the life of the King, but the life of the many made mighty in one.
To the King will I carry this apple. And he (for the hand of a king
Is a fountain of hope) in his handmaid shall honour the gift that I bring.
And men for this deed shall esteem me, with Rahab by Israel praised,
As first among those who, tho' lowly, their shame into honour have raised:
Such honour as lasts when life goes, and, while life lasts, shall lift it above
What, if loved by the many I loathe, must be loathed by the few I could love.”
So she rose, and went forth thro' the city. And with her the apple she bore
In her bosom: and stood 'mid the multitude, waiting therewith in the door
Of the hall where the King, to give judgment, ascended at morning his throne:
And, kneeling there, cried, “Let the King live for ever! Behold, I am one
“Whom the vile of themselves count the vilest. But great is the grace of my lord.
And now let my lord on his handmaid look down, and give ear to her word.”
Thereat, in the witness of all, she drew forth, and (uplifting her head)
Show'd the Apple of Life, which who tastes, tastes not death. “And this apple,” she said,
“Last night was deliver'd to me, that thy servant should eat, and not die.
But I said to the soul of thy servant, ‘Not so. For behold, what am I?
That the King, in his glory and gladness, should cease from the light of the sun,
Whiles I, that am least of his slaves, in my shame and abasement live on.’
For not sweet is the life of thy servant, unless to thy servant my lord
Stretch his hand, and show favour. For surely the frown of a king is a sword,
But the smile of the King is as honey that flows from the clefts of the rock,
And his grace is as dew that from Horeb descends on the heads of the flock:
In the King is the heart of a host: the King's strength is an army of men:
And the wrath of the King is a lion that roareth by night from his den:
But as grapes from the vines of En-Gedi are favours that fall from his hands,
And as towers on the hill-tops of Shenir the throne of King Solomon stands.
And for this, it were well that for ever the King, who is many in one,
Should sit, to be seen thro' all time, on a throne 'twixt the moon and the sun!
For how shall one lose what he hath not? Who hath, let him keep what he hath.
Wherefore I to the King give this apple.”
In her bosom: and stood 'mid the multitude, waiting therewith in the door
Of the hall where the King, to give judgment, ascended at morning his throne:
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“Whom the vile of themselves count the vilest. But great is the grace of my lord.
And now let my lord on his handmaid look down, and give ear to her word.”
Thereat, in the witness of all, she drew forth, and (uplifting her head)
Show'd the Apple of Life, which who tastes, tastes not death. “And this apple,” she said,
“Last night was deliver'd to me, that thy servant should eat, and not die.
But I said to the soul of thy servant, ‘Not so. For behold, what am I?
That the King, in his glory and gladness, should cease from the light of the sun,
Whiles I, that am least of his slaves, in my shame and abasement live on.’
For not sweet is the life of thy servant, unless to thy servant my lord
Stretch his hand, and show favour. For surely the frown of a king is a sword,
But the smile of the King is as honey that flows from the clefts of the rock,
And his grace is as dew that from Horeb descends on the heads of the flock:
In the King is the heart of a host: the King's strength is an army of men:
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But as grapes from the vines of En-Gedi are favours that fall from his hands,
And as towers on the hill-tops of Shenir the throne of King Solomon stands.
And for this, it were well that for ever the King, who is many in one,
Should sit, to be seen thro' all time, on a throne 'twixt the moon and the sun!
For how shall one lose what he hath not? Who hath, let him keep what he hath.
Wherefore I to the King give this apple.”
Then great was King Solomon's wrath.
And he rose, rent his garment, and cried, “Woman, whence came this apple to thee?”
But when he was 'ware of the truth, then his heart was awaken'd. And he
Knew at once that the man who, erewhile, unawares coming to him, had brought
That Apple of Life was, indeed, God's good Angel of Death. And he thought
“In mercy, I doubt not, when man's eyes were open'd and made to see plain
All the wrong in himself, and the wretchedness, God sent to close them again
For man's sake, his last friend upon earth—Death, the servant of God, who is just.
Let man's spirit to Him whence it cometh return, and his dust to the dust!”
And he rose, rent his garment, and cried, “Woman, whence came this apple to thee?”
But when he was 'ware of the truth, then his heart was awaken'd. And he
Knew at once that the man who, erewhile, unawares coming to him, had brought
That Apple of Life was, indeed, God's good Angel of Death. And he thought
“In mercy, I doubt not, when man's eyes were open'd and made to see plain
All the wrong in himself, and the wretchedness, God sent to close them again
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Let man's spirit to Him whence it cometh return, and his dust to the dust!”
Then the Apple of Life did King Solomon seal in an urn that was sign'd
With the seal of Oblivion: and summon'd the Spirits that walk in the wind
Unseen on the summits of mountains, where never the eagle yet flew;
And these he commanded to bear far away,—out of reach, out of view,
Out of hope, out of memory,—higher than Ararat buildeth his throne,
In the Urn of Oblivion the Apple of Life.
With the seal of Oblivion: and summon'd the Spirits that walk in the wind
Unseen on the summits of mountains, where never the eagle yet flew;
And these he commanded to bear far away,—out of reach, out of view,
Out of hope, out of memory,—higher than Ararat buildeth his throne,
In the Urn of Oblivion the Apple of Life.
But on green jaspar-stone
Did the King write the story thereof for instruction. And Enoch, the seer,
Coming afterward, search'd out the meaning. And he that hath ears, let him hear.
Did the King write the story thereof for instruction. And Enoch, the seer,
Coming afterward, search'd out the meaning. And he that hath ears, let him hear.
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