University of Virginia Library

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.