University of Virginia Library

PYGMALION

PRELUDE.

BOOK I.

Thus wandered he in mazes: when perchance
He caught a seeming clue and onward strove,
Sudden a blank impossibility
Closed his advance and drove him wide again;
Till effort breeding failure sickened him,
Who, like a squirrel in a turning cage,
Found himself where he was for all his pains.
Beside her household slaves, and those who won
Their freedom by their worth, twelve noble maids
Did suit and service to uphold her state
And learn from her the management of home.
All fit observances of time and place;
All secrets of the loom; skill in the use
Of warp and weft; their textures various;
Colours unchangeable, to each one fit.
Of herbs: knowledge of food and cordial drinks:
Pastimes, and exercises: when was best
To lave their lovely bodies in the sea,
And race, with garments looped, across the lawn.
Whatever made them prudent, strong, and fair,
Worthy to wed with heroes and to rear
A race of children bold and beautiful.
No greatest painter by the Gods beloved,
Painting their deeds on their own Temple walls
Gave more devotion to the forms that grew
Day after day beneath his subtle hand,
Than she in fashioning her maidens' lives
Unto their fullest nature: each one's gifts
Brightening with use, expanding in the press
Of loving rivalry and sympathy,
Working together under wise control.
Each maiden had her well-appointed work,
Either to weave; to measure seeds, or oil;
Direct the corn-grinding; stow safe the fruits
Sun-dried erewhile, or in wild honey kept.
Some cleared the garment-presses to espy
Amid care-woven wool, linen, or silks
If moth made havoc. Numbers variable
Of slaves, or women freed, suited to needs,
Obeyed each maid's command; doing all rough
And lower labour: but the sacred Gods
No slave on pain of high displeasure dares
Finger: Aglaia, she whose white hands fell
Softly as snowflakes on a windless day,
Reverently, with lightest zephyr touch
Of swandown plume, beats off the summer dust.
A ruler born; tho' mistress of each art,
Wisely the matron at no labour toiled,
But held a watchful eye on every maid,
With guidance here and gentle pressure there,
By hint or look, by tone, and words of cheer
Kept the mixed household one harmonious whole.

BOOK II.

Beyond a cloud of pines the chambers stood
Where toiled Pygmalion. Loftily they rose
And widely stretched; by the curved pathway grew
Laurel alternately with honoured bay
On either side in pairs: between each pair
An oleander gorgeous in the bloom
Of rosy light gladdened the massive green:
While flanking all gigantic cypresses
And olives huge in gnarled antiquity
Made an elysium for the birds of heaven.
It was Pygmalion's wont to rise at dawn,
Reach the lone shore and plunge into the sea;
And after joyful buffet with the waves
Begin his labours with the singing day.
At times he wandered far along the sands
And drank the radiant beams as from the waves
They flashed in light and laughter to his feet;
Wondering how man with such a heritage
In splendours manifold, his own each day
For ever, passed that span 'twixt birth and death
In hate, and wild beast clutchings after gain
Through wild beast slaughters; giving scantily
To love, and loveliness, and kindly acts!
Or he would range the forest solitudes
To meditate by what new feats of art
That ever-present beauty haunting him
Could be in substance bound and manifest;
And how the life that beamed in all he saw
Could be made beam to others as to him.
These lapses from close labour nerved his will,
Which, quickening half-born dreams and thoughts obscure
To living truths, gave him the strength he craved
Whereby to animate the forms he wrought
With nature's varied movement; pause and play
Of impulse: complex outwardly in strain
And laxity alert. Armed with this power
The damp impressible clay glanced into light
Along the tendons' length; hardened to bone;
And tightened straightway into comely shape
Beneath his certain touch. Hard marble changed,
In softened shadows rounding tenderly
To firm elastic life: and what anon
Was but as chaos beamed a new delight
More lasting than all beauty born of man.
Pygmalion now was working to reveal
The wonder of great Aphrodite's birth.
How raged Lycurgus at the proffered gift
Of Dionysus. How Prometheus bound
Was spared the vulture's beak by Heracles.
And how rebellious Titans overthrown
Writhed shattered under Zeus omnipotent.
These were the deeds he conned, and strove to show
On four great walls of marble pure and white.

Cytherea.

Now, as a man lifts up a little child,
Placing it down where he would have it walk,
The wave of mighty azure forward driven
By magic impulse sheer in downward slope
Fell, then drawn backward sank, and was no more;
Leaving the Goddess on her Cyprian coast.
And when her feet first touched the trembling sand,
She fired awakened Earth's remotest veins
To strange ethereal ecstasies; as birds
Brighten to clamour by the fires of morn.
Thus to Pygmalion beamed the wondrous Birth;
And this in pure immortal marble he
Laboured to show; bound by those rules of Art
The Wise had found inexorably fixed.

Dionysus.

When Dionysus, flushed triumphantly
From Indian deeds, rich-bronzed by Indian suns,
And riotous in delightful lustihood,
First touched the shore of Thrace; around him thronged
His large-limbed, cymbal-clashing nymphs; rough fauns.
Braying horn trumpets; ruddy satyrs danced,
Clicking their hard hoofs on the harder rocks:
Weak-kneed Silenus, puffing, on both sides
Upheld by grinning slaves, who plied the cup,
Wherein two nymphs squeezed juice of dusky grapes.
Bright girls and agile youths curvetting wild
On leopards, bitted, straining gilded reins,
Nigh touched the God, lolling on tiger huge,
Silent of footfall, tawny flamed and striped;
He with his ivied spear pointing the way.
Stout baby boys, bestriding frisky goats,
Clutched fast their horns when arching up to butt;
Rolling each other under perilous paws.
Behind walked modest maids and men sedate
Whose charge it was to bear the nurseling vines.
In logbuilt palace grim Lycurgus, King,
Scornful of corn and oil and every fruit,
Ate flesh himself had slain. He hunted sure,
Tracking his prey by signs to certain fate.
Came unto him the din: first faintly heard;
Soon swelling into loud uproar that burned
The blood within him to a warlike rage;
When, seizing nearest weapons, head unhelmed,
Clattering spear on shield, he rushed without
And to his people shouted vehemently.
Hastily arming, wondering, on they came,
Obedient to the call; fast they formed rank;
Led by their King fast strode to meet the God.
Woe to the mortal who assaults a God!
Fear; palsied madness; some outrageous death!
Come the Erinyes soon: I hear their wings!
Then at Lycurgus hurling his green spear
Thro' metal shield and right uplifted arm;
He plunged down headlong in the plunging waves,
Where Thetis, by the mightiest Gods beloved,
Calming the waters saved the God from hurt.
Thus saw Pygmalion Dionysus' gift
Roughly rejected by Lycurgus, King.
And this in pure immortal marble he
Laboured to show; bound by those rules of Art
The Wise had found inexorably fixed.

Prometheus.

Prometheus, he of all the Heavenly-born,
Alone felt sympathy for wretched man.
By grief emboldened he Athena sought
And kneeling to her Presence made his boon:
After Prometheus had for ages borne
The tearing of the demon's eagle beak:
Whether remembrance of high service done
When the leagued Giants made their huge assault;
Or tired to hear his yells of agony;
Or that he from the Titan's lips had learned
To dread the offspring of his Thetis loved;
Great Zeus at length relenting sent his Son,
Strong Heracles, to slay the fiend, and set
Prometheus bold, the mighty Titan, free.
The feathered demon flapping in the dust,
The Sufferer delivered. The wild joy
That Naiades brought down from mountain streams:
Dryads and Nymphs with long uplifted arms
Shouting their exultation he was free!
This was a scene that charged Pygmalion's soul:
And this in pure immortal marble he
Laboured to show; bound by those rules of Art
The Wise had found inexorably fixed.

Zeus.

Ere the omnipotence of Zeus was known
By every Power of Earth, and Sea, and Air;
The Titans, who had sometime been a law
Each to himself, bore the outrageous load,
Enforced authority! Their ancient joy
Was gone; their old prerogative to lounge
Through the long sunshine; or to work at will.
The galling need to worship what they loathed;
Or seem to worship, which they loathed yet more;
Made brooding hate grow deadlier day by day,
And deepen in the dreamings of the night,
When the mysterious fires of darkness burned
Watching the fates of Titans and of Gods;
Till anger burst in flame; and all as one
Were bent on war to battle for their own.
Thus saw Pygmalion Titans overthrown;
Some writhing yet among the huddled dead:
While Zeus above, His Powers on either side,
Stood with His ready bolts omnipotent.
And this in pure immortal marble he
Laboured to show; bound by those rules of Art
The Wise had found inexorably fixed.

BOOK III.

It was Ianthe's duty every noon
To bring Pygmalion bread, and fruit, and wine,
And place them in the chamber where he wrought.
At times she saw he heeded not; so bound
Unto the dimly formed uncertain things
His active chisel laboured to release
From their confinement in the marble world.
She dared not break the spell: and quietly
Returned unnoticed. But more often he
Graciously owned the care and gentleness
She day by day bestowed. Then would she pour
For him the wine: offer the bread and fruit:
And maybe tarry to behold his skill
Translating into substance visible
Love's tenderness, or passion's smouldering depths.
How shaped Aglaia's cheek against the charm
Of Aphrodite's breast. How the sharp lines
Of agony Prometheus must endure,
Tortured less cruelly his spacious brow:
Or gloomed the shades of power more deeply calm
And terrible within the eyes of Zeus.
Well pleased to watch from time to time the Gods,
And others, cleared of their embarrassment.
His Mother with Ianthe came one day
In azure June to watch her son at work;
For she had fears unceasing toil might fret,
If left unminded, her Pygmalion's strength.
She would press on him nourishment, and plead
He took more rest and sportful exercise.
They found him mounted higher than the ground
Working at Cytherea's smile. His floor
Was overspread with mat, the Matron's slaves
Wove of green rushes, soft of pith, that he
Be spared unnecessary noise, even noise
Of his own footsteps, in those rarer moods
When thought is striving to complete itself.
Pausing, the Matron and Ianthe watched
Admiringly, the chisel's dainty play
Soften the valley 'twixt the cheek and mouth,
Sweeten the laughter rippling thro' the lips,
And fine the chin to rarer witchery.
He turned,
Gazing as one awakened from a dream,
Eyes on the maiden fixed. Descending, then
He to his Mother bending reverently,
Kissed her loved hands.
Ianthe, drink will I!
Without libation would I drain a cup
That should Silenus shame commanded by
One so imperiously meek! But now
You looked as a great Hebe meet to fill
His goblet for high Zeus sitting enthroned!
Moved in the pure white blossom of her cheeks
A tinge of rose: taking the cup she placed
It down; then brought him bread and fruit.
He cried,
O mother, give me your assent and I
Will carve Ianthe as she stood erewhile
Pouring the wine, a Hebe, child of Zeus
And Hera, pouring nectar for the God!
In her deep eyes there shone an upward awe
As though she gazed at Zeus gazing at her.
The matron smiled, and said, if Hebe he
Must carve, Eos the tender was most fit;
Being of lighter form, and what would seem
To men the figure of immortal youth.
Eos were well, my Mother, were I bound
To make her fill the cup for Heracles,
Or her own brother Ares. But I mean
To make her serving Zeus her Father, who,
Throwing his thunders makes Olympus shake;
Ianthe's gaze alone for him is fit.
Your work is hard, my Son; your health will fail
If worked to overstrain.
Fear not for me
O Mother! Labour in its fullest force
Heightens the blood; gives to the limbs their strength,
And scales by storm the noblest heights of thought.
It is the daily cark and constant dread
That fret the body down to wretchedness.
But feel this arm, and judge if that be weak!
She laid her hand upon his lissom arm,
Fine on its surface as the myrtle flower,
Hard as the shoulder of the proudest horse,
First in a chariot race. Though thus assured,
The Mother felt his shot beyond her range.
Now daily came Ianthe to repeat
The posture for Pygmalion which he chose
For youthful Hebe when she filled the cup
Of Zeus. Hard was the Maiden's task, for she
Flinched not at tingling nerves and throbbing pulse;
Tho' dizzy oft from the continual strain
Of keeping motionless. He, all absorbed,
Regarded her but as a beauteous shape
Aiding him in the Godlike counterfeit,
Unconscious what she felt. Amazed each day
By fresh perfections dawning, he, each day,
More resolutely toil'd. The gracefulness
And pride of her long rounded throat, his hands
Changed into awkwardness by mimicry.
The arches of her shoulders! Could he touch
On curves so exquisitely drooped, their sheen
Of movement tremulous! In despair he sighed,
Avowing it impossible for hand
To trace the lines in full variety
Throughout the space of that majestic breast;
Of dignity so peerless that if clad
In the great Virgin's golden armour scales
They would but seem a suitable defence.
Ianthe, calmly perfect, stood complete
In youthful strength, whose easy negligence
Of varying grace baffled the captive sight
To trace her beauties thro' the play and flush
Of bounding health exulting in its home!
Cheeks apple-blossoms; and how rough your hair,
Ianthe!
Yes, the wind against me beat
So forcibly I scarce could make my way.
We saw the struggling. Well knew Boreas
The sweetness of a wrestle with the charms
Of one so well endowed. Your garments he
Plucked at so wildly I began to dread
We might become like old Tiresias
When great Athena bathed!
Metharme, hush:
Pray hush! The Matron urged; seeing how prompt
Her Maidens' titter at the quaint conceit,
Ianthe robbed and vanquished to her own
White beauty bare, in native comeliness.
Ianthe spoke not but the blush remained.
Doves softly cooing murmurs musical
Gladdened unseen the darksome cloud of pines:
Below bright-hued innumerable wings
Carried love messages from flower to flower.
For Spring's outstretching fingers nearly touched
The Summer's welcoming hands. Pygmalion's work
On Hebe's statue now was nearly done;
Tho' yet her features lacked that splendid gaze
Of worship which Pygmalion saw, or thought
He once saw in Ianthe's face, and fired
The passionate belief he could present
Immortal Hebe pouring for the God.

BOOK IV.

Longed not Prometheus for the fire of heaven
Wherewith to solace miserable man,
More vehemently than sought Pygmalion
The spark to flash his Hebe into life.
His utmost stopped at failure; spent, he felt
Powerless, helpless, if unaided now
By gracious favour of immortal Love.
Entering, the Matron and her Maidens ranged
Themselves at fitting distance; mute awhile
Ere the twelve-voiced home oracle pronounced.
Some on the mat, rushwoven, sat them down;
While others lounged on seats: some leaned against
The farthest wall, holding their heads aslant
And hands in movement, conned the work by parts.
Ready the titter. Dainty shoulders rose
And shook; some Maids took instant coughs, and some
Looked gravely wise, their hands before their mouths.
Then Eos taking her Lord's lute began
A merry clash of laughter pealed around
As Eos ended. Loud the verdict rang
The shortest being best; though something like
The song before. Pygmalion also laughed,
Avowing, gaily, that an audience pledged
To one against the other, could not hold
The balance true. The Judges therefore he
Impeach'd of favour to the sacred Nine.
The sentence passed; the Judgment now broke up,
Leaving Pygmalion to his solitude.
His bitter longing still unsatisfied.
From noontide's broadest blaze no light for him:
From spacious clouds, the noontide's chariots,
Traversing day's eternal dome in long
White ranges splendid, or receding far
To ether pale, he saw no God descend.
When asked, the wandering winds gave no regard
Adventuring on to wastes remote, unknown.
The flowers kept fast their secrets why so bright
And bountiful of sweets. Successive waves
Told only their own regularity,
Though ever whispering to the sands they kissed.
And men in council, or in market-place
Seemed unto him babbling of emptiness.
Hard unresponsive was the open world;
No voice spoke cheer within. At length resolved
On craving aid from Heaven, to Her Temple he
With offerings of doves and myrtle boughs,
Wearied and anxious sought the Queen of Love.
Before a pan of fire on tripod placed
Pygmalion knelt. All unabashed his doves
Cooed in their new-found home complacently.
The Priestess incense burned; then throwing on
The myrtle boughs, with feathers chosen, she
Bade him look on the Goddess fronting him
With fixed regard; neither to left nor right
Swerving, by gaze or glance; above, below;
Nor look behind; but offer prayer and wait.
Departed then the Priestess; leaving him
Alone with Aphrodite and the fire.
The flames and fumes between them: as he gazed
The Goddess seemed to tremble; Her sweet smile
Wavering to sweeter meaning. He felt faint
For joy; hazarding an audacious hope
To hear Her voice responsive to his prayer.
O Goddess, Aphrodite! Queen of All,
Thou knowest how I am thy loving slave;
And how devoted to thy services
I have been since my memory's earliest dawn:
That beauty is to me the worth of life
Beauty thy privilege, thy very self.
Striven have I, O Goddess, to create
Hebe's similitude as She might stand
Filling His cup for Zeus. I made her young;
Fair in her countenance; well-shaped in limb;
And lightly poised in force of mute reserve.
But spark divine, the throbbing touch of pulse,
To touch all other pulses as Her own,
She lacks, and looks as one who had not woke.
My utmost being done, having so failed
By mortal effort, I to Thee appeal
O Aphrodite, in Thy love of man
To yield the secret, that my handicraft
May truly show the awe my spirit feels:
Send from Olympus Life!
Pygmalion ceased.
His senses closed. And from him parted then
His inmost self to meet the Goddess, now
Aloof and beaming in resplendent light,
And shedding azure radiance from Her eyes;
She, brightly clad in tissue sunbeam-wove,
Diaphanous, no charm concealed whereon
He in his awe sublimely dared to gaze;
For, like the sun thro' wavering mists of morn,
Her beauty pierced.
In rapturous suspense
Awaiting lips divine to speak his doom,
Conscious became he of ethereal sound
That filled the universe with song. Each star
Joining the chorus in celestial praise
To her the Queen of life and loveliness;
Whose voice came to him like a violet gust
From breezy earth in spring.
Know you that I
Breathe in the lilies' perfume: daffodils
Awake surprise, taking their light from me.
I teach the tender nightingales my thought,
Rejoicingly they warble in the moon.
I start the thistledown's adventurous quest
For increase in some happy spot. I nerve
Doves to such boldness hawks would they attack:
And lions soothe to gentleness so fond,
Harmless they sport as playful butterflies.
To spin like maids bent I strong Heracles,
And Zeus I tempted to become a swan!
I draw his clouds together; make them fight;
Embrace in flame, and breed live thunderbolts
For Him. I put the edge on war. To peace
I add the honey.
But hark! Before
These high Olympian gifts are yours to hold,
Braced must you be to battle for your own.
Dire hate will strew your path with scorpions,
And dog you for your life. Foul calumny
Will taint your name with poisonous lies, truthtinged,
Whereat familiar friends fall back appalled,
While other loved ones fledge the barbëd lies.
For Gods do not their rarest gifts bestow
Without sure test and payment. Men cannot,
In earthly state handle pure truth and fire,
The means of Gods, and still remain unscorched.
But you are strong; the prize shines bright in view,
Cost what it may a pathway must be cleared.
And if you forward press unfalteringly,
Pallas Athena may beside you march.
Now Cytherea's dulcet chanting ceased;
And on his brow Pygmalion felt Her breath
Touch him like frost or fire, and knew no more.

BOOK V.

In lonesome chamber, darkened, hushed, and cool,
Pygmalion lay asleep. Beside him sat
His Mother watchful, listening every breath,
Timorous and awestruck at the strange event.
The Priestess found Pygmalion stretched before
The tripod where the fire was dead, and he
Himself seemed dead. The Temple Guardians bore
Him home, and told all they could tell; when she,
His Mother, soon by arts her son restored
To life, by chafing; soothing cordials warm
And prosperously enticing grateful sleep.
Now she sat by and watched him slumbering.
No deadliest hate that vigilantly eyes
Its victim for the grievous chance, could watch
With keener vision than she scanned each change
In her belovëd son, the beautiful.
Her soul ran thro' the past; when he a babe
Against her breast would pause to laugh, and leave
His food neglected: while the warlike sire
Smiling, declared her eyes would starve the child.
He said that as a voice might sound in dreams,
These words came to his soul.
Await the foe
Fast by the landing-place in part concealed.
Your men rank close in shape of hollow wedge.
A trusted Leader place at either horn.
Yourself within the apex give command.
Move swiftly to and fro on either side.
Hold well aloof a strong force in reserve.
The foe when dashed, his every charge repulsed,
Signal your onset; charge with all your strength.
The fairest death is death in victory,
Gods love the Brave who fighting for them die.
His head was bent in reverence when the sound
Had ceased; but conscious was he of some touch
That thrilled and ran throughout his brain like fire:
Whereon he rose, his purpose luminous,
His resolution fixed.
When leave he took
Of her, she said, more sweet his tenderness
Than in the earliest yearning flush of love.
Whatever might be his appointed fate
It would be hers to know her sweetness made
His life a blessing. Should the blade of war
Cut short his thread, he bade her not bewail
As he should fall obedient to the Gods,
Man's highest privilege. That she would find
The future of their Boy an ample world
For love; forethought; and fortitude to bear
Changes inevitably born of growth.
And should she grace him in her memory
As cenotaph he wished their Son be taught
His Father's deep immeasurable love.
When back were beaten Egypt's smirking hordes
In flight confused rushing to reach their ships;
Pointing the chase, your Father, strides advanced
Beyond his warriors, neared so fast the shore,
Drew on himself a concentrated shower
Of arrows aimed to cover the retreat,
And, as the Oracle foreshadowed, fell.
They would not let me see his lifeless form,
So marred and mangled by the volleyed death.
But after rite and ceremony fit
All that was left of my own honoured Lord
A brazen vase contained: a pinch of dust,
Fragments of calcined bones, and memory.
My heart were pained, O mother, could I think
In common paths my duty halted lame.
But dare I plod blind and unheedingly
When light immortal opens on my sight?
The light of stars in his rapt lustrous eyes.
His tenderness; even poor slaves his care
Protected often from deserved mishap.
The fire of strength, his resolution swift!
Thus mused the Matron; hands still clasping his,
Remembering his skill in warlike arts;
Severe devotion to his godlike work;
She owned, although strangely dissimilar
From her great Husband's constancy of worth,
Not less, but other was Pygmalion.

BOOK VI.

Relax Orsines, your left arm relax:
In that which holds the spear I want your strength.
If this you tighten you draw force from that;
And Dionysus meant a deadly wound
When pointing steel at grim Lycurgus King;
Compel your strength where strength will best avail.
So spoke Pygmalion to his willing friend
Who stood as Dionysus. Light his love
For sculptured forms and mimicry on walls;
But as a graybeard with a favourite child
For love will join his pastimes and pursuits,
That otherwise were moil and weariness,
Orsines loved to posture God or man
Aiding Pygmalion's service to the Gods.
Thus on they toiled thro' many a summer morn:
One's ardour warming to lay hold and show
That force the other did his best to give.
One day they argued on the people's press
For power, which turned against them to their bane
Unguided by the Best. How wantonly
Their abject faith in mouthing demagogues
Noised empty phrases into oracles,
And gave base maxims vogue by utterance.
Orsines thought these bubbles might be touched
By spear and sword with profit to the state.
To cut off thistles ere they flower and seed
Saved wasting soil and spared the labourer.
Nay, nay, Orsines, you a warrior trained
By daily exercise in warlike feats
Tend to resolve all tangles by the stroke
Of steel. But steel, O friend, will scarce suppress
A rising tide; or backward push the sun
Because forsooth his beams too fiercely burn!
Against the tide we must protect our shores
By driven piles; and stones in sloping walls;
And quays of solid strength. Then tides become
The servants of our greatness, bearing ships
Exultingly to conquest; or in peace
Enriching us by gathered merchandise.
We must not throw sharp sand against the wind.
No; we must strive to guide not stay this growth;
For tho' we are in our high state the flowers,
The people are the mighty stem whereon
We live and grow; or perish if cut off.
Orsines thought Pygmalion must hit true
As, tho' in arms by far his overmatch,
He beat him worse in words and arguments;
And meekly prudent ventured no reply.
Pygmalion asked what did Orsines think;
Would lengthening our bows by one good span
Increase the force within the men's control?
Orsines said the attempt were dangerous.
The men might hold the force well in command,
And aim as truly as at shorter range;
But if attacking over greater space,
With sword and spear, their breath might fail before
The close, and profit thus the waiting foe.
Ianthe, radiant, entered while he spoke,
With wine; and bread; and fruit; these placing by
She said,
May I pour wine for you my Lord
Orsines?
Rough and simple warrior he
Would take of wine, yea verily he would.
And as she offered him the well-filled cup
He reddened to the roots of his black curls
Vowing he fain would pour for her instead.
A strangely ordered Ganymede would you
Make my Orsines with your knotted beard
And hands of sinewy grip. Old stories say
Hephaestus once poured nectar for the Gods,
And made Olympus with such laughter shake
The wrath of Zeus in thunder scarce had made
A greater uproar. But of Ares yet
I have not heard he so amused their feast.
Orsines said that maids so often poured,
And tended on the wants of men, that men
Might change at times and tend upon the maids.
Ianthe looked amazed at words so sleek
From Chief so rough. Pygmalion laughing cried
It is our Island's lack of war that tames
Orsines into peaceful courtesies.
Both gazed upon Ianthe as she moved
Across the chamber to the doorway where
Beyond the day was shining bright and still.
When, while her figure moved dark and defined
Against the outside glare, both inwardly
Felt there was something yet more fair than light.
Orsines told Pygmalion how alway
His Mother, older and in lassitude
Beyond Time's warrant, urged him constantly,
In mild pathetic plaint, that he would bring
Her home a daughter to her loneliness,
As she had never since my Father fell,
The day your own great Father met his fate,
Much mingled with the cheerful world without.
She yearns for children's laughter in the house;
Her breast is dry for longing. Pattering feet
Would be as music to her heart. The clasp
Of tender little fingers; kisses soft
That baby lips give sweetly, as the prankt
Delicious honeysuckle utters sweets
To every wandering zephyr that demands,
Her pent-up desolation would, she says,
Release in new-born joy of young delights,
And she again partake of blessed life.
How comes it my Orsines you so fail
Fulfilling her such reasonable hopes?
It comes Pygmalion from the hindering fact
That though I have seen many noble maids
Too good and fair for my rude warrior ways,
Yet have I not seen one who strikes my soul
With sense of possibility that I
Could pass untired with her my lifelong course
Till now; when suddenly, as I saw her,
Ianthe, asking should she pour for me
I felt I could for ever with her dwell
And she would be my home. Therefore, as you
Are Lord and Guardian of her fate, I ask
Permission to declare my suit, and take,
If graciously received, the Maiden home
To cheer my Mother with delightful hopes.
Came to Pygmalion's memory when a child
He heard a moth scrape at his prison-walls
With energy unflagging. Worn, at length
The side began to tremble to and fro,
Scarcely a film, which the small creature burst
And struggling out, all moist and crumpled, clung
To his sometime tomb. Motionless awhile
The warm air dried his wings, to gorgeous hues
Expanded: these for a time he fluttered,
Then half an arm's length rose, and wavered back.
This did he thrice, then paused. Last, gallantly,
In power complete and noble sweep uprose;
But reached not more than half the tree's height ere
A darting bird from out the branches seized,
And gorged him in mid air. This pirate, too,
Had ears and eyes in watching for his prey,
Whose first flight from his dusky prison-house
Was to his grave in that rapacious maw.

BOOK VII.

Breathe, O breathe, ye perfumed lilies,
Worshipping great Aphrodite!
Shout and sing, O nightingales,
Giving voice to Aphrodite!
Her's the power that binds his breath
When the lover's accents fail!
Thus chanted troop of girls at morningtide,
As towards the Temple they, with roses piled
On baskets, went to worship Cytherea
In loosely ordered march. Some on their heads;
At arms' length some; and some resting on hips
Their baskets bore; while other loads so large
Took two young girls to carry one between.
In strange perplexity Pygmalion heard
The chanting girls, as he was passing near.
The chant seemed but the echoed Oracle;
And he, bewildered, wondered if in dreams
The sound had mixed; or had divinely come
From Aphrodite as the voice of Fate.
Would ever Hebe bring the fire from heaven?
Should he the Treasure find, and foul despite
Crawl withering on his track like pestilence?
But after much vain thought and wandering,
Seeing by shadows' fall and city signs
It lacked but one good easy hour of noon,
He loitered homeward on Orsines' suit.
He was abrupt; his words were harsh; noring,
Or gentle intonation in his voice.
Orsines is of birth high as your own.
Before our Island merged its petty Kings
In one great Kingship, reigned his ancestors,
Ruling a vast and fertile stretch of land.
Birth would not tempt a Maid. And lineage high
Maidens of lineage take by right, as they
Take food and air; but not as privilege.
A Maiden does not cast so far before,
And such concernings leaves in Hera's charge.
Hurt am I Lord, in being followed close
From point to point by chasing arguments;
Thus made to turn and double like a hare
Before remorseless hounds, to save myself.
Gazing he looked so woebegone, so lost,
The Maiden's soul was smitten: mournfully
She spoke;
Ianthe!
O Ianthe!
Treasure found!
My Goddess! O my Dearest! Thou art She!
Then lifting up his heart, that until now
Had been a weight of pain, he spoke to her:
How have I been, O loved Ianthe, blind!
The longed-for ripe perfection of my life
Here manifest before me day by day
Between the dawning and the setting sun!
And I from circumstance, not wilfulness,
O well may you believe, have seen it not!
But having found the Resting-place of this
My anxious self I will not wander more.
My Hebe, my most loved One; I beheld
Now, when you saw Olympian Zeus enthroned,
And happy spirit gazing on His power,
Again the look divine I saw before,
And dreaded was the fragment of a dream
I never more might see!
Do you in truth,
In very truth, your Maid Ianthe love?
And do you feel that she can give you joy
Thro' lifelong changes to gray fall of age?
Or is it your wild rapture at some grace
Discerned in me that may advance your work
Makes you thus utter such bewildering words?
Ianthe; should the Gods of heaven combine
And offer make me of an added charm
For you, in stature, strength, or loveliness,
Or some sweet witchery I know not of,
So much I love you I should ask the Gods
To leave you perfect as I see you now.
Herself releasing softly from his hold
She went and stood upon the platform where
So often she had postured for her Lord,
And, no way conscious, she the attitude
Of Hebe took, asked should the statue be
Smitten to life; should Athens, and should all
Proclaim him the first Maker of the world,
At such a time would he not feel it rash
To have her taken for his wedded wife
Ere his pride knew the swell of victory?
Ianthe, I have faith in Aphrodite.
The Treasure have I found; the Life will come.
Light effort now carving the lines that fire
The marble into passion, brand the thought;
I see them now clear and determinate.
You hold the fire; I see the glory burn!
Should every State of Greece, with Athens proud
To head them, crown me King of our whole race:
Should all the Gods in conclave ratify,
And after make me an Olympian God,
No other would I love, none take but you.
Now to my Mother; I will tell her Fate
Has crowned me with the diadem of joy.
His left around her waist, his right hand held
Both hers; they proudly thro' the doorway went
Along the curving path: their stately forms
More seeming demigods than man and maid
On this our common earth. They overpassed
Where once she saw within the doorway shade
The Lord Pygmalion stand regarding her.
The memory of that delightfulness;
That unfamiliar music in her heart;
Again she lost her feet, and saw herself
In bygone solitude with Echo nymph,
With Dido, Ariadne, and Medea.
Also for certain the great Matron cried,
O Hebe! O Ianthe! Am I mad!
And fell down in their arms, and likely dead.

BOOK VIII.

The disk of Hyperion barely stands
At span above the ocean line; I must
Haste to Orsines and report his fate.
Hail, hail, Pygmalion! You are light of step.
The firm exactness of your tread speaks power
That would us mortals hold at high command!
Say not so, my Orsines. Sad the tale
For you I have to tell. Ianthe loves
Not you but me. Instead of gift divine,
Fiat of loss I bring, and baulked desire.
Noble Orsines, from my heart you ease
A pain I feel had wrung your own to know.
Some other where and when, not now, I will
In parcel tell how I my Treasure found.
But O my well-loved brother, I am grieved
That joy like mine should not be joy of yours,
And that for you there is no Resting-place.
I hold it savours of discourtesy
To shoot conjecture through a maid's reserve;
As though her secrets were but things of chase,
Untended, game for any venturous shaft.
But what to wantonness devoid of weight
Should be forbidden, to the Guardian lies
An open path; not only charged with right
Of entrance, but with need to act and serve
Her, who perforce, must helpless be herself.
You know I love my Mother's noble Maids
Each one and all as they my sisters were:
But one so tender, and so young, so meek
In her wild timid ways, mayhap I love
Above the rest; and she I think loves you.
The visage of Orsines now turned pale;
And eagerly he forward bent to hear.
Eos the tender, we the Maiden call,
Of great blue timid eyes.
Pygmalion! Say
You do not fool me with these precious words!
O Eos, loved One! O my Soul on Earth!
Long, long ago, my dearest Heaven-sent friend,
I thought I loved young Eos. Ever shy
She seemed of my rough presence; in the house,
Or in the myrtle walks, and Temple Feasts.
I felt but a shagged mountain bear that strove
To woo a great-eyed fawn, or shining swan.
Resolved I would not fright, or be her bane,
I closed my heart against her once for all.
Till now I have not swerved from my resolve,
Thinking my ancient interest in her dead:
But now! O now! And may I hope to win?
Orsines, you will win. But hearken first:
I almost grudge that even Orsines should
Command the tender Eos. Few who live
Can know in her the depth of tenderness!
So daintily attuned, that instrument
Responds in music to the faintest breeze;
While harshness would distract the chords and make
A jangle of her nature. Gentle be
Your touch of her Orsines! Low and soft
Your voice and words; your meaning ever kind.
Then in your household will be light and flowers,
And a sweet bird singing throughout the day.
Orsines' head sank in Pygmalion's neck,
Long there he wept for very, very love.
Pygmalion cared not, he indifferent was.
Ianthe, who with Crito entered, said
Nowise indifferent, my Lord, art thou.
The matter has not fairly caught thy mind
And claimed attention due. Thyself hast said
That men who do not show their works when done
Are either conscious of their worthlessness,
Or treat with traitorous scorn their fellow men.
For they assuredly stand traitors stark,
Refusing thus their miserable best
To their nativity and kindred race.
Lofty Ianthe! Crito cried; entranced
Am I to hear you strike heroic chord.
Our noblest dames too often hold their part
Enough to safely move on footworn ways.
Curbing adventurous sally in their Lords.
Not thus, Pygmalion knows, is our great world
Made greater. Not by smiling effort down;
Or wailing when her Lord takes spear and shield
To slaughter lions, boars, and savage beasts
That rage and ravage to the herdsmen's loss,
Wasting the country's wealth; or meets his foes
To save her lovely self from slavery.
Fitting it was the nightingale should sing
Above his grave who sang so sweetly here.
Who sang wild man to worshipping the Gods,
The dread of Hades, and the pangs of crime!
Pygmalion said there was no longer doubt
The statue must be shown, but when and where?
He would not have an ever babbling stream
Disturb his working hours throughout the day.
What says our Crito, wisest Cyprian Lord?
Your chambers then are closed against the crowd.
Meseems Ianthe has first privilege:
The statue is of her, whose judgment sound
Will sift the circumstance and find the place.
Ianthe challenged thus pronounced its doom.
As I was the unconscious cause my Lord
Began the Statue: and as day by day
I gave him my best aid in posturing:
And when we had our best done that he failed;
And that responsive to his pious prayer
The Goddess Aphrodite promised gift
Of life; that, not till then, could he make clear
The vision in his soul; it seems to me
My Lord's relation and my own the same.
Nor he nor I have in the statue right
But as the ministers of higher Power.
And therefore I, Ianthe, now pronounce
The Statue be with ceremony fit
A sacred offering to the Goddess made,
And placed within her Temple for all time!

BOOK IX.

Hail Lord Pygmalion whom our Goddess loves,
And brought for love his statue into life!
Hail to the Matron and her noble Maids!
And hail ye Warriors who do honour him!
And hail again, to Aphrodite, Hail!
Thus the great populace approval voiced,
Proud that Pygmalion's triumph was their own.
Garrulous, and by smug listeners girt, there sat
One of the dark deposits seething vice
Precipitates from scum in swarming towns.
A shape most like a blasted trunk, whose limbs
Are withered boughs: the only brute life shown
One yellow tooth, and two red glittering eyes.
She, unto one, a citizen, his bulk
Far wider round by measure than his height;
His jowl from chin hung larger than his cheeks:
Small nose and eyes and wide capacious mouth.
Aye, aye, the Best; we know what means the Best.
Eating best meat; drinking best drink; best clothes
To spoil; the best made by hardworking hands!
This is the Best they wot of. In what else
The Best, it passes me to know; and I
Have age upon me and I ought to know!
At this protested blandly, he so round.
They have their merits, as of course defects;
They buy of us and we sound profits make.
Let us not quarrel with our meals; but eat
All we can get, then look about for more.
No, no, the Best I cannot wholly hate.
Roundness remarked it was not well to rail
Too boldly at the Best: scoffs might by chance
Bounce to their ears: they might think well to shift
Their purchases and other purses fill;
A change too horrible! Let well alone;
Let well alone say I; for thrive I do
And grow the bigger for it as you see.
Look at Pygmalion and Orsines; large
Most true, and tall; but bones compared with me!
With that, self-satisfied, his Roundness swagged
From side to side, like vessel over-poised,
Cargo too heavy and too scant of keel,
And swagging swayed himself lost in the crowd.
Meanwhile the vulture in that blasted trunk
Clutching thin air her scorching hatred barked.
Behold young Bacis, my own daughter's son.
She was well shapen till one of these Best
Fathered her boy: like Ariadne then
She took drink comfort in our island wine,
And grew bloat, dull, and purple. He, the Best,
Gave us the gold King-likenesses we loved.
But when cursed steel let out his life in war
Our fountain dried: we did the best we could.
She did her best; but bloat and purple red
Draw young men less than whiteness, strength, and shape.
Discomfited with failure, more she drank;
Swelled larger daily; caught the plague, and died.
Shame, shame, the listening Chorus cried, to take
Him from his gutter playfellows to school!
To make a statue-maker of a boy
Who might have saved and scraped a heap of wealth!
Inspired by choral sympathy, the fowl,
The dry gray fowl barked more from blasted tree.
And when my fox's sharpness learned the art,
Outstripping all the elders; what was done
By this my Lord Pygmalion called of Best!
Much wanted he, the boy, to make a strip,
A narrow strip of wall, with figures cut
Thin, flat, and laid along its utmost length.
No toil could ever make him lag fatigued.
Sheepskins he took, scoured bright and clean; these stretched
He tight and firm on frames, then drew the forms
Of men and maidens going to sacrifice
On horses, in proud chariots, and on foot.
In one part was a Fury marked; the fox
Made my face into hers! This world! this world!
Shame, shame it was, the Chorus cried, to stop
The spawn of gutter drab from beating Best!
Thus midden-heated, hatched the festering lies
That bred in multiplying swarms, and wove
A cloud of hatred round Pygmalion's name.
Some fat and full-blown, dashed with strains of truth,
Catching to careless glance, and shallowness.
Some crawled the dust intent; by wriggling hard
Fixed themselves tight in unexpecting ears.
Others winged-born, and swift, in hovering buzz
Sought places from the rubs of life worn bare
To strike their pitiless and poisonous stings.

BOOK X.

At those loved names a ray of pleasantness
Lighted his countenance as he replied:
Of pure and perfect health as birds in song
But I am somewhat troubled by cold smiles,
Or no smiles, and coarse scowls instead; but why
And wherefore nought can tell. Friends I thought kind,
Who hitherto responded graciously
To courtesies of mine, now darkly smirk;
Or mince the countenance to acrid stare;
Or standing by forget Pygmalion lives.
Another passing drops his face on breast
Plunged in profoundest thought; whose thought erewhile
Had never risen beyond his sandal strings.
And twos will talk of things above my head
As if too high for me to understand.
Or if I question some give half replies
And start away on sudden business bound.
Others in laughing converse, when I near,
Cease, and compose their masks to unconcern.
While much of this I have for long observed,
And passed it by as fancy, or as chance;
But now at length I know there must be root
And widely spread to grow such evil fruit
Of rudeness, spite, and hate, so come to you,
My wisest and most ancient friend, for help
To dig this mandrake from its hold and find
The planter, and to what his purpose trends.
Farewell, dear Crito; with those calm clear eyes,
With that experienced head, the matter must
Be tangled beyond hope, and deftly hid
That you cannot unravel and descry.
Pygmalion, what I thought but clattering
The wooden swords of youth in sportfulness,
I find no boy's play now; but grip of steel
And deadly hate. Murder is what they mean.
Hate stealing on to murder: and for what?
When my glib youth had got thus far he stopped
Dead short and blushed. I saw he went beyond
Intention; from his loosened tongue had slipped
What he had fain concealed. Then promptly I
Forbade all future intercourse between
Archaics and himself. To make secure
I kept him to his chamber, guard at door:
Where he will stay till our needs call him forth.
Yes, and had done so had you not forbade!
What mean these knaves that I mix in no games?
I mix in every public game, and am
One of the Chiefs; made one by better skill!
That I should mix in little games and feasts
Is the inanity of recklessness.
Those who have nothing have the fewest cares;
But I have vineyards, corn countries, and woods;
Store-houses, quays, an active fleet of ships;
All which, tho' I have trusty heads, demand
Some thought of me, and that too, closely given.
Without your statues I should say you had
More than enough to keep the best at work.
But loved Pygmalion make us promise you
Will not walk public ways without your sword.
Promise I make, let that content you both.

BOOK XI.

Pygmalion walking toward the Council Hall
Where other two with him were pledged to choose
A plan for its embellishment, his gaze
Lay on the azure of a laughing sea,
A sapphire ending shade-divided street.
Till, hearing ring of coming chariot wheels
He turned and saw Crito with Graceless pass
At speed; but not too fast for Crito's glance
Of greeting; when, but not till then, he found
He had forgot his promise and his sword.
Nay, not deceived O Crito; over-keen!
A common form to call his sight too keen
Who sees beyond the caller! Then am I
A boy full-sail, no ballast in my hull,
No steersman at the helm; I drive so fast
Perhaps on rocks and ruins?
No, no; not so.
But men may hate and do dire deadly ill,
And yet stop short of murder foul and red.
Tracing the spirit through its various shapes
In law and custom takes long time to learn.
Who learns will often see no difference
Between an act the law rewards with death
And one the law regards with stone blank eyes.
A lazy rascal, drunken and half starved
Scatters a rich man's brains and steals his purse:
There is no question what becomes of him.
A hard stern parent has a gentle child
Whom, from moroseness, or some cause obscure
He hates; and with fixed purpose day by day,
By savage looks, harsh words, and heartless thwart
Crushes her soul thro' wretchedness to death.
What law or custom interferes with him?
And yet a knife drawn thro' her tender throat
Were mercy's self compared with that long death
She died!
This pack, Pygmalion, joining in one cry
Could not by howling hunt you out of life;
From this you are as far removed as stars.
They cannot pinch your heart to starving death;
They know not how to poision you; therefore
Will use their only remedy at hand.
As loved Pygmalion now you see their souls
Can you doubt longer these men mean your death?
I do not doubt their meaning, but I doubt
Their power to execute. You scarcely think
They could make civil war to murder me?
I do not fear a war; but much I fear
An ambush. This my care you should not go
Swordless about the ways. For well I know
A few of these same knaves were but a stroke
Of play for your unerring sword to give
Them lasting peace: unarmed, Pygmalion, think!
I do not much affect the sword you know,
Compared with bow and spear; for one takes skill
Of poise in handling; while the other flies
A venture with the wind. But with my sword
Crito, give me a high wall at my back
Six of these wretches would find overwork
To touch me; and it would go hard indeed
Did I not thin the circle. Warriors born
Fight with their feet as much as with their hands:
It is the thrust, and backward leap that tell;
The certain eye that makes each stroke a death,
Or limb disabled; and the cold clear brain
That odds can never fluster.
All most true,
And therefore wear your sword!
Pygmalion found
On reaching home the weight of Crito's threat
To leave the sword in abler hands than his.
For when Ianthe, waiting, saw him pass
Toward his work-chamber, straight she sought him there,
Her visage all aglow with eagerness,
A boon my Lord; I crave a boon of thee!
Ianthe could not ask what was not mine
To give; and therefore waiving question I
Grant your desire. Yea, tho'it were to snare
A lion and bring netted to your feet.
Swear then by Aphrodite, and by Zeus,
You will not leave your home or work-chamber
Without a sword safe buckled by your side!
I see, his dread on you has Crito laid;
Gladly I swear by Aphrodite, Zeus,
And every God that sways our mortal life;
And if I durst would swear by Styx itself.
But O, my Treasure, had I sworn by you
The thread of Fate could not have bound me more.
When the dark story of those murderous three
Was noised abroad, Pygmalion shone like day.
The clouds dispersed; the wild winds fell; his praise
Was trolled by every tongue. What could show more
Our age's madness than that men should rave
Against Pygmalion, just, and strong, and wise?
All always knew some harm would come to those
Who dared assail his lofty name with spite.
How happy he could guard his life so well!
For had his priceless thread been cut what loss
To Cyprus: how the King had grieved! And his
Poor Hebe statue, what must that have felt?
And thus from baseless calumny the herd
Of rich and poor, thoughtless as sheep that bleat,
Passed into senseless ecstasy of laud;
As din of croaking frogs melodious,
Or deafening caws that rend the evening air.

BOOK XII.

The prodigy, three murderous wretches slain
By two great Chiefs of war, was yet alive
In idle tongues, when drifting rumours shook
Both weaklings and strong men throughout the land.
The ships were coming in from every sea;
Their hordes were arming fast; they would be thrown
Wave upon wave in hungry multitudes
Cyprus could raise no forces to resist.
Such were the rumours that appalled the land
With certain conflict and conjectures wild.
While freaked with terror labour ran astray.
The tiller ploughed his furrows all awry;
Wide of her bowl, the cow-girl milked the ground;
Swineherds drove swine to feed with pastured sheep,
And sheep were driven in the swineries.
The armourer burnt his metal gossiping,
And merchants could not make their balances.
The gilded idlers, erst of fluent prate
And buzzing nothings, nothing had to say.
While silent men now stormed in fiery speech
Threatening the throngs on crowded quays and ways
They would be slain, or slaves, unless they sprang
Straightway to savagery in slaughterous war,
Where each must feel an overmatch for three!
From merchants flying home in rapid ships,
Men of renown and weighty in the state,
The King and Rulers learned that Egypt swarmed
Alive with preparation, ships and men
Bound to make Cyprus vassal of her sway.
Time now was more than life. To choose a Chief
In whom authority be absolute
To hold the force of Cyprus at his will,
In this they saw their first necessity.
The King and Rulers met in Council Hall,
And as the King said each Lord present knew
Wherefore they met, he asked them to propose
Without delay the Chiefs to be discussed.
Pygmalion! Crito! Our Orsines! Loud
Were called from every side, and these alone.
The King then asked,
Crito as first in age
And deep experience, will you be Chief,
Should your name bear the heaviest lot in votes?
Orsines, should the weight
Of votes fall to your name, would you be Chief?
O King, I must refuse, for well I know
Another better fitted to command.
Our island, after Crito, holds no head
So clear and wise; no one whose skill so great
In war; no arm so strong to execute
As our Pygmalion's. Him I give my vote.
Pygmalion, cried the King, as all the votes
Are yours you must accept the Chieftainship,
And during this dark crisis imminent,
Hold all our power in trust to meet the foe.
Uprose the King, supported on each side,
And passed out from the Council Hall. With pain
The Rulers saw how lustreless his eyes;
How wan his wrinkled visage: bowed and sunk
Those shoulders once so signed by kingliness
His subjects cast their bearing after his.
Pygmalion knew the woodmen of the Isle,
Dexterous in use of axe; a stubborn race,
Clad in hard leather fitting to their shapes,
And formed them one rough body who would dare
Make their attack uncovered by a shield.
Men watched from every height along the coast;
Ships from all quarters hastened into port;
Save flying vessels sent to catch the first
Glimpse of the foe and bring the tidings home.
Awhile the fleets of Egypt had been bound
In idleness by winds, and adverse storms,
One hard on other's heels; such, old men said,
Had not been known on Egypt's seas before.
And every hour was Cyprus' gain. At length
A ship that had outsped the rest was seen
Nearing the shore and signal made the Foe.
Proudly at eventide the Pharaoh's fleet,
Innumerable, and unmolested, lay
Threatening in dreadful beauty off the shore.
A flood of glory from the stormy west
Poured over dancing waves and splashed the ships
With antic gold; and drove dark purple shades
Far on the waters to the deepening East.
All night on every point along the shore
Burned signal watchfires; watchers each in turn
Taking his rest. Fresh must be every man
To-morrow's dawn, for every man awakes
The fate of Cyprus holding in his hands.
When last from darkness feeble pallors broke
Pygmalion peering thro' the glimmering saw
Movement among the ships, and straight gave word
To rouse the host. Fiercely then squealed the pipes,
And hoarsely brayed the sea-shell trumpeters:
The army like a monster myriad-voiced
Sprang into instant life, the tramp of men,
The shouting leaders, metal clang of arms.
Three spear-lines charge, and back again to rank!
Chariots to right,
Flank the Egyptians, drive them eastward back.
Spears form in triple line; press on to join
Pygmalion's wing that fast is drawing nigh.
Pygmalion's Mother on the gate-tower watched
Remembering. At the King's wish she came
With Eos and Ianthe: sad herself
She strove to cheer him on this fateful day.
All day the fight had seemed some monstrous thing
Hugging the earth and shuddering thro' its length.
And all day long they heard a sound as of
Far waters rushing over broken stones.
Upon the mound a giant signal fire
Throwing a world of smoke. And chariots thronged
Driving at speed toward the western shore.
Now outward move the two great battle-lines.
And widely stretch across the plain and join
A line of spears that touches on the mound.
Now moves the whole line straight from west to east,
As I have seen an eagle spread his wings
Poising for prey. The chariots of both flanks
Are moving separate ways. The axes too
Are striding forward; on their shoulders shine
The dreadful blades.
I see our ships far out
Now turning round towards the Pharaoh's fleet.
Orsines! Eager Eos cried, how dares
He with that scanty sail of ships attack
A fleet so vast, enormous, as the foes'?
Hard is it child to say, the King replied,
What that may be Orsines does not dare,
If bid by me, or by Pygmalion charged!
Be calm, the Matron said, for rest assured
Pygmalion had not sent his friend beloved
On service of more risk than man could take.
Behold! Behold! By the high Powers of Heaven
The Pharaoh's fleet is fired! Again behold!
Our chariots thunder to the charge; they catch
Them either wing.
Their fleet smoke clouds themselves.
But look, the axes are at work; they rise,
And fall, and gleam like beat of seabirds' wings,
Incessant: every stroke must be a back
Hewn through, or head and helmet crushed. I scarce
Can see them now for smoke and flames beyond.
Escape for Egypt none. Slaves will be had
For asking, as they cannot kill the whole,
Their arms will ache too much.
Behold, then cried
Ianthe; list that dreadful thunder roll!
Fighters and foes must both be overwhelmed;
Stroke upon stroke the lightning lashes them!
The hungry tempest gapes to swallow all!
Look, Eos shrieked, our fleet is out at sea
And strives against the wind; Orsines must
Be drowned. Thus to fight against Boreas,
And Zeus, and great Poseidon on the waves!
The Chief, O King, a message from the Chief.
Good, said the King, but why not captive make
Of that Egyptian Chieftain, was it chance?
Pygmalion would have saved the Chief, but one,
A spearman, whose son wounded fell, and who
Was after coldly mangled, rushed and clove
The Chieftain's neck in twain; he could not live,
He said, without this offering to Fate.
Pygmalion bade me add, himself, O King,
Anon would follow my report.
And while
He spoke the warm air trembled to the sound
Of chariots thundering up at topmost speed,
Leaving a storm of coiling dust behind;
For unfulfilled, the threatened drench had passed
And left the evening bright.
Pygmalion, Lo!
He comes outstripping guards! Ianthe cried,
His helm, sun-smitten, crowns him with a star!
And while she spoke the thunder suddenly
Stopped at the gates below, changing to din
Of jingling arms; the snort, pawing of dust,
And shaking of the chariot horses; when,
Ere they could wonder, filling all regard,
Pygmalion entering fell before the King,
And took his long white withered hands to kiss,
And in the King's lap sank his stately head.
O Eos nay! It is more horrible
Than anything beside except defeat!
Ianthe then,
Think O my dear One, think
Of those brave youths whose hands Pygmalion's clasped;
Whose lips have smiled upon him, cold in death.
Their mother's hopes all withered at the root!
The women who have lost their strong supports:
The children's wail for what will never come.
Such are the flowers that bloom where victory
Has soaked the earth in blood. But were that blood
The well-shed blood alone of enemies
Then victory were in truth a glorious thing.
And when the aged King's last hour had come,
Reverent and sad, around the chamber walls,
And silent sat the rulers, lacking hope.
His head lay resting on Pygmalion's breast;
Hands holding hand he sighed his latest breath,
Kingly art thou. O take my crown; my crown.
Before the King's sepulchral rites began
The Council, Crito told Pygmalion, would
Elect him King. But, as they something knew
Of moodiness in him, and strange disdain
Of what the most held dear, right was it judged
To test beforehand would he take the crown
If his election stood by force of votes?
Then Crito went his way, mournful at heart
For loss of his loved King; but pleased to know
Ianthe had the choice, as her great soul
Would choose the rugged path for him she loved.
Crito was sent in all due form of state
Demanding, should the votes declare me King,
Would I accept their burden of the crown?
I would give neither nay, nor yea, till you
Ianthe had avowed your will to me.
A rugged path Pygmalion has to tread;
But in his home there will be peace and calm.
He knows the Gods are just. Let that suffice.
At Crito's call the Lords of Council met
In solemn state and chose Pygmalion King.