 | Preludes and Romances |  |
49
III
PRELUDE: AT HURSTMONCEUX
Who knows not Hurstmonceux, those russet walls
That nestle 'mid green fields where upland falls
To fenland, southward facing, now more fair
In memory-haunted ruin than when, four-square
In ashlar, first they rang with life and noise.
The fingering ivy with the turret toys,
And loosens brick from brick, and makes the grim
Hard outline gracious, breaks the plumb-ruled rim
Into such faultless flaws as human art
Mars often but makes never. Every part
That nameless and soft-handed Power that hides
In Nature, but man's question not abides
Nor his command obeys, has touched to forms
Unmatched, unmeasured, shaped to unknown norms.
The roseate ruin lingers like a dream
That holds half-waking eyes, still fain to deem
The dying vision to be living day;
Or sunset cloud ready to pass away;
So real it is to sense, to sight so plain,
To thought so quickening, and to use so vain.
That nestle 'mid green fields where upland falls
To fenland, southward facing, now more fair
In memory-haunted ruin than when, four-square
In ashlar, first they rang with life and noise.
The fingering ivy with the turret toys,
And loosens brick from brick, and makes the grim
Hard outline gracious, breaks the plumb-ruled rim
Into such faultless flaws as human art
Mars often but makes never. Every part
That nameless and soft-handed Power that hides
In Nature, but man's question not abides
Nor his command obeys, has touched to forms
Unmatched, unmeasured, shaped to unknown norms.
The roseate ruin lingers like a dream
That holds half-waking eyes, still fain to deem
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Or sunset cloud ready to pass away;
So real it is to sense, to sight so plain,
To thought so quickening, and to use so vain.
Hither, when oaks new-leafed and fern new-grown
Filled earth with scents of Eden, and full-blown
The bluebells lay (like robes from Heaven flung
To fit a beggar-maid for place among
Queens at high banquet), came these friends again,
A-foot, by field-path and green-mantled lane.
Across the grassy levels many a mile
They wandered, leaped the ditch and climbed the stile;
Where in wide leasowes, like the fields of heaven,
Feed flocks and herds like those of old time driven
By conquerors across a conquered land,
Or creatures of the prairie, band on band,
Unnumbered, swallowed in the dream of space.
So wide the earth is, and so vast the face,
Milky, pearl-lucent of the peaceful sky;
So low the green world and the blue so high;
So all forgotten is the noise of man
And grime of cities; so immense the span
Of emptiness above; that thought lets go
Her anchorage awhile, and to and fro
Wavers in buoyant, new, unstrained delight,
And with strange wonder takes each common sight.
But when at last, with travel-weary feet,
They reached the rising land and hedgerows sweet
With honeysuckle, and came unto their end,
And saw the ruin, saw the road descend
To moat and gateway: “Here,” one cried, “we stay,
And rest and feed and dream an hour away,
Removed a little from the sight-seërs;
For here is scented fern and golden furze,
And turf for seat or table; and outspread
Before us, like a pageant of the dead,
The unseen ghosts on that yet real stage
Shall act again their parts from age to age.”
Filled earth with scents of Eden, and full-blown
The bluebells lay (like robes from Heaven flung
To fit a beggar-maid for place among
Queens at high banquet), came these friends again,
A-foot, by field-path and green-mantled lane.
Across the grassy levels many a mile
They wandered, leaped the ditch and climbed the stile;
Where in wide leasowes, like the fields of heaven,
Feed flocks and herds like those of old time driven
By conquerors across a conquered land,
Or creatures of the prairie, band on band,
Unnumbered, swallowed in the dream of space.
So wide the earth is, and so vast the face,
Milky, pearl-lucent of the peaceful sky;
So low the green world and the blue so high;
So all forgotten is the noise of man
And grime of cities; so immense the span
Of emptiness above; that thought lets go
Her anchorage awhile, and to and fro
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And with strange wonder takes each common sight.
But when at last, with travel-weary feet,
They reached the rising land and hedgerows sweet
With honeysuckle, and came unto their end,
And saw the ruin, saw the road descend
To moat and gateway: “Here,” one cried, “we stay,
And rest and feed and dream an hour away,
Removed a little from the sight-seërs;
For here is scented fern and golden furze,
And turf for seat or table; and outspread
Before us, like a pageant of the dead,
The unseen ghosts on that yet real stage
Shall act again their parts from age to age.”
Ah, what delight more joyous than, between
Dull days of labour, in some blissful scene,
With friends close-bound by many sympathies,
To give the wand to fancy, and see rise
Touched by romance the old dry bones of story,
Like spiritual bodies seen in glory!
Ev'n thus these friends re-pictured ancient days,
Each adding his self-touch, in divers ways,
And many divers colours. “Oh, for me,”
Cried one, “let History fancy-tinted be,
And dreamlike as a distant landscape, veiled
The sordid motive, and the dark deed paled!
This is the dearest whiteness on Time's brow
To dote on: Then and thus men laboured, now
May we, their children, without labour share
The joy of labour, without battle bear
The glory of battle. O rich heritage!
O priceless history! O golden page!
Elysian rest, down-looking on the world;
Gladness of truce, when for a moment furled
Our forward banners stand, the incessant fray
Forgotten, striving limbs no more at bay.
O dreamlike pageant! Cæsar's blood is shed
As in our sight, and yet the earth not red;
Francesca wrongly loves, yet does no wrong;
Paul is thrice scourged, and no flesh feels the thong;
Buddha his body to the tigress gives,
And still with untorn body Buddha lives.
So in yon walls was many an evil way,
In yon green woodlands many a wild affray;
Here was the red hand harboured, and the crime
Allowed full oft; until at last the time
Ripened to murder in the woods, and he,
The high young lord, was hanged on Tyburn tree.
All this was done; yet here peace broods for us,
And all the place unmindful, slumberous,
And innocent abides, as here had stood
The cloister of some holiest brotherhood.”
Dull days of labour, in some blissful scene,
With friends close-bound by many sympathies,
To give the wand to fancy, and see rise
Touched by romance the old dry bones of story,
Like spiritual bodies seen in glory!
Ev'n thus these friends re-pictured ancient days,
Each adding his self-touch, in divers ways,
And many divers colours. “Oh, for me,”
Cried one, “let History fancy-tinted be,
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The sordid motive, and the dark deed paled!
This is the dearest whiteness on Time's brow
To dote on: Then and thus men laboured, now
May we, their children, without labour share
The joy of labour, without battle bear
The glory of battle. O rich heritage!
O priceless history! O golden page!
Elysian rest, down-looking on the world;
Gladness of truce, when for a moment furled
Our forward banners stand, the incessant fray
Forgotten, striving limbs no more at bay.
O dreamlike pageant! Cæsar's blood is shed
As in our sight, and yet the earth not red;
Francesca wrongly loves, yet does no wrong;
Paul is thrice scourged, and no flesh feels the thong;
Buddha his body to the tigress gives,
And still with untorn body Buddha lives.
So in yon walls was many an evil way,
In yon green woodlands many a wild affray;
Here was the red hand harboured, and the crime
Allowed full oft; until at last the time
Ripened to murder in the woods, and he,
The high young lord, was hanged on Tyburn tree.
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And all the place unmindful, slumberous,
And innocent abides, as here had stood
The cloister of some holiest brotherhood.”
“Yet,” said another, “can we surely know
Which seed is fruitful? Does the deed of woe,
Lust, murder, vengeance, like the doer die,
Or break in other semblance presently?
For oft it has been told or sung in verse
That on this house or that there hangs a curse;
And well it may be that a wicked deed
Soweth from heart to heart such evil seed
As flowers from age to age and dieth ne'er,
Though crime change fashion and new feature wear.
What if a madness haunted yon proud halls
Prompting to evil act? Who but recalls
That direful wreaking of a woman's spleen
That wrecked their splendour? Came it of the tene
Of ancient time, because in this fair glade
Rage was familiar, madness common made?”
Which seed is fruitful? Does the deed of woe,
Lust, murder, vengeance, like the doer die,
Or break in other semblance presently?
For oft it has been told or sung in verse
That on this house or that there hangs a curse;
And well it may be that a wicked deed
Soweth from heart to heart such evil seed
As flowers from age to age and dieth ne'er,
Though crime change fashion and new feature wear.
What if a madness haunted yon proud halls
Prompting to evil act? Who but recalls
That direful wreaking of a woman's spleen
That wrecked their splendour? Came it of the tene
Of ancient time, because in this fair glade
Rage was familiar, madness common made?”
“Nay, why explain by ought but nature's chance,”
One answered him, “a woman's petulance?
Two thousand years ago a poet knew
What deeds a woman in mad mood will do.
Her will is as the wind, stormy or soft,
In calm how soothing! aye, and strenuous oft
For great and happy purpose. Yet what ship,
Trusting the wind alone, with no stern grip
Of stark hand on stout rudder, should escape
Shipwreck on reef or rock or jutting cape?”
One answered him, “a woman's petulance?
Two thousand years ago a poet knew
What deeds a woman in mad mood will do.
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In calm how soothing! aye, and strenuous oft
For great and happy purpose. Yet what ship,
Trusting the wind alone, with no stern grip
Of stark hand on stout rudder, should escape
Shipwreck on reef or rock or jutting cape?”
“Here,” cried the poet, “have I yet for you,
All pat to purpose, an old tale made new,
A little gold thing from that monkish mine,
Which I have set about and sought make fine
With jewels stolen from old Homer's store,
In his hand glorious—ah, in mine how poor!”
All pat to purpose, an old tale made new,
A little gold thing from that monkish mine,
Which I have set about and sought make fine
With jewels stolen from old Homer's store,
In his hand glorious—ah, in mine how poor!”
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CHRYSEIS
She stood, a captive, in the conqueror's tent,
Weeping. The great lord Agamemnon bent
His low'ring eyes upon her loveliness,
And felt some long-forgotten tenderness
Rise in his breast. The heart, that had not beat
Long time for any passion save the heat
Of royal anger, or the fierce wild joys
Of battle, throbbed again as doth a boy's
In his first love-dream. At himself amazed,
In a long silence on the girl he gazed,
Doubting if he, the lord of war, might yield
To the sweet influence; but while he steeled—
Or thought to steel—his breast, her large dark eyes
She lifted, soft with sorrow, in such wise
As a tame creature hunted, who not yet
Has learnt she might be tortured. And their wet
Shy lashes, and their pitiful deep gleams,
Changed in a moment all his world. His dreams,
Ambitions, faded from him. As a soul
Stands in the dead-world, stripped clean of its whole
Life's clothing, worn desire and soiled delight,
And faces a new Orient: so the might
Of Agamemnon saw new heaven and earth
In one look of a girl's eyes leap to birth.
Weeping. The great lord Agamemnon bent
His low'ring eyes upon her loveliness,
And felt some long-forgotten tenderness
Rise in his breast. The heart, that had not beat
Long time for any passion save the heat
Of royal anger, or the fierce wild joys
Of battle, throbbed again as doth a boy's
In his first love-dream. At himself amazed,
In a long silence on the girl he gazed,
Doubting if he, the lord of war, might yield
To the sweet influence; but while he steeled—
Or thought to steel—his breast, her large dark eyes
She lifted, soft with sorrow, in such wise
As a tame creature hunted, who not yet
Has learnt she might be tortured. And their wet
Shy lashes, and their pitiful deep gleams,
Changed in a moment all his world. His dreams,
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Stands in the dead-world, stripped clean of its whole
Life's clothing, worn desire and soiled delight,
And faces a new Orient: so the might
Of Agamemnon saw new heaven and earth
In one look of a girl's eyes leap to birth.
He spake not; but the signs of love she knew,—
What woman knows not?—and a brighter hue
Stole to her cheek, as hope came back, and pride.
Her drooping head was raised, her tears were dried;
Ev'n as the rain-bowed lily after rain
Shakes off the drops, and lifts her face again
To watch for sunbeams: so Chryseis stood
Before the stern dark face in its soft mood;
Then spake with liquid low untroubled tone:
What woman knows not?—and a brighter hue
Stole to her cheek, as hope came back, and pride.
Her drooping head was raised, her tears were dried;
Ev'n as the rain-bowed lily after rain
Shakes off the drops, and lifts her face again
To watch for sunbeams: so Chryseis stood
Before the stern dark face in its soft mood;
Then spake with liquid low untroubled tone:
“Magnanimous Atrides! If alone
On thee my fate hangs now, what need of prayer?
Thy noble heart shall prompt thee, lord, to spare
The lowly creature that to thee is nought,
Yet much to those that mourn her. 'Tis thy thought,
Haply, that cheap to thee is cheap to all.
Nay—not the lightest forest-leaf can fall
But leaves its little void. Let me go back
To them whose large gain means how small a lack
To thee, Lord Agamemnon!”
On thee my fate hangs now, what need of prayer?
Thy noble heart shall prompt thee, lord, to spare
The lowly creature that to thee is nought,
Yet much to those that mourn her. 'Tis thy thought,
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Nay—not the lightest forest-leaf can fall
But leaves its little void. Let me go back
To them whose large gain means how small a lack
To thee, Lord Agamemnon!”
So she prayed;
But he, who listened, not the meaning weighed
Of her girl talk, but her delicious tone
Drank as the very echo of Love's own.
But he, who listened, not the meaning weighed
Of her girl talk, but her delicious tone
Drank as the very echo of Love's own.
“Gift of the Gods! Fear not thy lofty fate!
Not thus the Immortals dower when they hate;
Nor here of their own handiwork are they
Grown jealous (this too has been!) since to-day
They crown their gift of beauty with this prize,
The love of Agamemnon. In thine eyes
I find again an old forgotten dream,
A joy desirable above the gleam
And dusty glory of a conqueror's name.
Therefore lift up thy head, to wear the fame
Of Agamemnon as thy worthy crown,
The day when Clytemnestra is cast down
(The adulteress, so they whisper) and her sway
And all these evil days put clean away!”
Not thus the Immortals dower when they hate;
Nor here of their own handiwork are they
Grown jealous (this too has been!) since to-day
They crown their gift of beauty with this prize,
The love of Agamemnon. In thine eyes
I find again an old forgotten dream,
A joy desirable above the gleam
And dusty glory of a conqueror's name.
Therefore lift up thy head, to wear the fame
Of Agamemnon as thy worthy crown,
The day when Clytemnestra is cast down
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And all these evil days put clean away!”
No pleading lover this, but as a god
Imperious in kindness, whose least nod
Stirs storm or fire or earthquake, ungainsayed.
And in a dumb amazement stood the maid,
Listening the low grave thunders of his speech.
The words fell as great waves fall on a beach,
When a tempestuous day has died serene,
And the full waves fall thunderous; but between
Are silences that mark the measured beat
Of a great music. She knew well the sweet
Petulant importunities, the soft
Unmeaning words of lovers, listened oft
By every maiden on the lengthening eves,
When nightingales sing love's name to the leaves.
How all unlike that low-voiced love was this
Half-awful wooing! Yet an unknown bliss
Grew round her heart, and on his face she stole
A shy fleet glance; and wonder held her soul
If Zeus himself, within his golden cloud,
Were nobler, more majestic, broader-browed.
So every impulse, that stirs woman's heart
To love, now moved her, one alone apart.
And had the calm of power sat less serene
Upon his brow, and had his utterance been
But once half-broken by one pleading tone—
One touch to show that great heart mateless, lone,
A desolation 'neath its mask of pride:
Then Pity, Love's half-sister, had thrown wide
Her heart's half-opened gates, and Love rushed in.
(So easy 'tis a woman's love to win!)
But, pity wanting, all the rest was vain;
And with herself she warred to let disdain
Of his despotic speech and high self-praise
Master the awe, the gladness, the amaze,
That stayed her speech and stirred her heart within.
(So hard it is a woman's love to win!)
So to the great king made the girl reply:
Imperious in kindness, whose least nod
Stirs storm or fire or earthquake, ungainsayed.
And in a dumb amazement stood the maid,
Listening the low grave thunders of his speech.
The words fell as great waves fall on a beach,
When a tempestuous day has died serene,
And the full waves fall thunderous; but between
Are silences that mark the measured beat
Of a great music. She knew well the sweet
Petulant importunities, the soft
Unmeaning words of lovers, listened oft
By every maiden on the lengthening eves,
When nightingales sing love's name to the leaves.
How all unlike that low-voiced love was this
Half-awful wooing! Yet an unknown bliss
Grew round her heart, and on his face she stole
A shy fleet glance; and wonder held her soul
If Zeus himself, within his golden cloud,
Were nobler, more majestic, broader-browed.
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To love, now moved her, one alone apart.
And had the calm of power sat less serene
Upon his brow, and had his utterance been
But once half-broken by one pleading tone—
One touch to show that great heart mateless, lone,
A desolation 'neath its mask of pride:
Then Pity, Love's half-sister, had thrown wide
Her heart's half-opened gates, and Love rushed in.
(So easy 'tis a woman's love to win!)
But, pity wanting, all the rest was vain;
And with herself she warred to let disdain
Of his despotic speech and high self-praise
Master the awe, the gladness, the amaze,
That stayed her speech and stirred her heart within.
(So hard it is a woman's love to win!)
So to the great king made the girl reply:
“What, am I Helen? or think you to vie
With Paris in light loving? As he left
Forlorn Ænone, will you thus with deft
Excuse leave Clytemnestra? In this thing
Wiser, that not the darling of a king
But a weak girl you cozen, whom no war
Shall follow, nor a nine-year siege pay for.
Mighty is Agamemnon, but the maid
Of Troas not by sounding names is swayed,
Nor lets love follow fancy, as the Greek,
Light, lovely and lascivious; nor is meek
To any man who holds before her eyes
His own proud name as her most glorious prize.
With us, forsooth, are heroes not so rare,
Nor all too numerous are maidens fair!
Talk Agamemnon in some prouder ear,
And leave Chryseis to her lowly sphere!”
With Paris in light loving? As he left
Forlorn Ænone, will you thus with deft
Excuse leave Clytemnestra? In this thing
Wiser, that not the darling of a king
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Shall follow, nor a nine-year siege pay for.
Mighty is Agamemnon, but the maid
Of Troas not by sounding names is swayed,
Nor lets love follow fancy, as the Greek,
Light, lovely and lascivious; nor is meek
To any man who holds before her eyes
His own proud name as her most glorious prize.
With us, forsooth, are heroes not so rare,
Nor all too numerous are maidens fair!
Talk Agamemnon in some prouder ear,
And leave Chryseis to her lowly sphere!”
Lovely she looked, in the defiant pride
Of beauty; and her half-feigned furies hide
For him—unused to woman's ways—her heart,
That half reproved, half urged her to the part
She played, too tragical to be all true.
For as one in a whirlpool caught, she knew
Of vague great conflict round her, but discerned
No clear decision, nor what fortunes turned
For what dim multitudes upon the act
Of her unweighted girlishness, compact
Of light desires and little straws of will,
And not one master purpose good or ill.
Lovely she looked, and Agamemnon smiled
Indulgently as on an angry child.
Of beauty; and her half-feigned furies hide
For him—unused to woman's ways—her heart,
That half reproved, half urged her to the part
She played, too tragical to be all true.
For as one in a whirlpool caught, she knew
Of vague great conflict round her, but discerned
No clear decision, nor what fortunes turned
For what dim multitudes upon the act
Of her unweighted girlishness, compact
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And not one master purpose good or ill.
Lovely she looked, and Agamemnon smiled
Indulgently as on an angry child.
“Girl, I am Agamemnon. Woman's tongue
Can wound me not, nor taunts at random flung.
Not yours to speed the issue or delay!”
And smiling still, unmoved, he turned away.
Can wound me not, nor taunts at random flung.
Not yours to speed the issue or delay!”
And smiling still, unmoved, he turned away.
His love had moved her not to love or hate;
His anger might have moved her love, had fate
So willed it; but his smiling untouched calm
Stung her to fury. Speechless, with clenched palm,
She stood, her words of anger and disdain,
A woman's armoury, spent all in vain.
In a white stillness, like a shape of rare
Cold marble, she stood solitary there.
But not within were cold or calm; a fire
Scorched all her soul, one passionate desire
To sting some way that steeled heroic heart.
This thought and that she tried, nor let depart
Unscrutinised the grisliest shapes of harm,
Witchcraft and bloody murder, heathen charm
And hellish potion that drives reason out.
But as her pulse beat calmer, the red rout
Of horrible revenges, fading, left
Clearer her purpose, and her wit more deft.
And using woman's subtle ways, she sent
A secret message, by a ship that went
On other purpose, to Apollo's priest,
Chryses, her father,—might she be released
By ransom. And the old man rose and came,
Gifts in his hand, and made his high heart tame;
And humbly to the proud Achœans prayed,
And most to the twin chieftains, that the maid
Might be restored; and shewed the ransom meant.
Then all the Argives' voice was to consent,
Save only Agamemnon's; but the king
Thrust him away and spake a cruel thing:
His anger might have moved her love, had fate
So willed it; but his smiling untouched calm
Stung her to fury. Speechless, with clenched palm,
She stood, her words of anger and disdain,
A woman's armoury, spent all in vain.
In a white stillness, like a shape of rare
Cold marble, she stood solitary there.
But not within were cold or calm; a fire
Scorched all her soul, one passionate desire
To sting some way that steeled heroic heart.
This thought and that she tried, nor let depart
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Witchcraft and bloody murder, heathen charm
And hellish potion that drives reason out.
But as her pulse beat calmer, the red rout
Of horrible revenges, fading, left
Clearer her purpose, and her wit more deft.
And using woman's subtle ways, she sent
A secret message, by a ship that went
On other purpose, to Apollo's priest,
Chryses, her father,—might she be released
By ransom. And the old man rose and came,
Gifts in his hand, and made his high heart tame;
And humbly to the proud Achœans prayed,
And most to the twin chieftains, that the maid
Might be restored; and shewed the ransom meant.
Then all the Argives' voice was to consent,
Save only Agamemnon's; but the king
Thrust him away and spake a cruel thing:
“Look to it that I find thee not again
Loitering by the ships, old priest, or vain
For thy defence shall all thy priest-gear be,
Nor shall thy holy office shelter thee
From Agamemnon's anger. She is mine,
And shall be; nor for prayer or gift of thine
Will I release her, ere her head grow grey
Beside my hearth in Argos far away.”
Loitering by the ships, old priest, or vain
For thy defence shall all thy priest-gear be,
Nor shall thy holy office shelter thee
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And shall be; nor for prayer or gift of thine
Will I release her, ere her head grow grey
Beside my hearth in Argos far away.”
Heavy with grief, and dread, and bitter wrath,
From the king's presence went the old man forth;
And slow, with leaden feet that slurred the sand,
Passed from the busy ship-staith, till the strand
Curved round a rocky point, that hid the bay
And the black boat-hulls; and before him lay
A lonely beach, a wide and lonely sea.
Then his grey head he lifted, breathing free,
And raised his white-robed arms to heaven, and prayed
To great Apollo whom he served; and said:
From the king's presence went the old man forth;
And slow, with leaden feet that slurred the sand,
Passed from the busy ship-staith, till the strand
Curved round a rocky point, that hid the bay
And the black boat-hulls; and before him lay
A lonely beach, a wide and lonely sea.
Then his grey head he lifted, breathing free,
And raised his white-robed arms to heaven, and prayed
To great Apollo whom he served; and said:
“Hear me, Apollo, who with sovran pride
Chryse and holy Cilla dost bestride,
And over western Tenedos ev'n now
Majestically lift'st thy royal brow!
Look, Lord, on all the service of thy priest,
The temples raised, and blood of many a beast!
Look now on his dishonour, hear his cry,
And rain thy vengeance on the Danai!”
Chryse and holy Cilla dost bestride,
And over western Tenedos ev'n now
Majestically lift'st thy royal brow!
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The temples raised, and blood of many a beast!
Look now on his dishonour, hear his cry,
And rain thy vengeance on the Danai!”
So spake the priest, full-facing to the West,
Where the great Sun-god stood above the breast
Of the broad waters. And behold a sign
Followed the prayer! For, lo, as line on line,
Like even ridges in a long plough-land,
The marching waves rolled in upon the sand,
The reddening sunlight from the verge began
To touch each crest, till seemed a ladder ran
Right down the waters, and with glowing feet
The golden god himself stepped down to meet
His minister, and presently declare
The swift and terrible answer to his prayer.
Where the great Sun-god stood above the breast
Of the broad waters. And behold a sign
Followed the prayer! For, lo, as line on line,
Like even ridges in a long plough-land,
The marching waves rolled in upon the sand,
The reddening sunlight from the verge began
To touch each crest, till seemed a ladder ran
Right down the waters, and with glowing feet
The golden god himself stepped down to meet
His minister, and presently declare
The swift and terrible answer to his prayer.
Then with a vengeful gladness in his heart
Homeward he went, the priest, and watched apart
For news of evil in the Grecian camp.
Nor did the god forget. No armèd tramp
Nor warlike trumpet tells when gods attack.
Silently the host sickened, for a black
Horrible plague broke out on beasts and men,
And day and night the death-fires burnt.
Homeward he went, the priest, and watched apart
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Nor did the god forget. No armèd tramp
Nor warlike trumpet tells when gods attack.
Silently the host sickened, for a black
Horrible plague broke out on beasts and men,
And day and night the death-fires burnt.
But when
For nine full days had grown the deadly bale,
And ever more the people's hearts 'gan fail;
Nor ever Agamemnon spake a word,
The looked-to leader, for within him stirred
A doubtful dim foreboding; then at last
Arose Achilles, and his heralds passed
Through all the host, with summons to debate.
And Agamemnon heard; and knew dark fate
Nearer and nearer pressing, like the net
When hunters trap a lion; but not yet
Discerned he the decreed resistless end.
What! had one weak girl-captive force to bend
The fates 'gainst Agamemnon? 'Twas a thing—
A thought—envenomed as a gadfly's sting,
But lightly brushed aside. And yet the hour
Called him, lest even now the kingly power
Pass from him. For another's voice ev'n then,
Not his, had called the council; and to men
Stricken and strong in numbers, a king's name
Weighed light.—The shadow of a coming shame
Fell on him, and with fierce resolve he bade
Summon Chryseis. And she came, the maid,
Slight in her girlhood, lovely in her youth;
A thing to be crushed lightly, save for ruth;
A flower to be trod under, save for grace;
A cage-bird to be spared a little space
For song's sake or bright feathers—such she seemed;
And briefly the king spake, for still he deemed—
Being in his power to spare her or to kill—
That one strong word would fright her to his will:
For nine full days had grown the deadly bale,
And ever more the people's hearts 'gan fail;
Nor ever Agamemnon spake a word,
The looked-to leader, for within him stirred
A doubtful dim foreboding; then at last
Arose Achilles, and his heralds passed
Through all the host, with summons to debate.
And Agamemnon heard; and knew dark fate
Nearer and nearer pressing, like the net
When hunters trap a lion; but not yet
Discerned he the decreed resistless end.
What! had one weak girl-captive force to bend
The fates 'gainst Agamemnon? 'Twas a thing—
A thought—envenomed as a gadfly's sting,
But lightly brushed aside. And yet the hour
Called him, lest even now the kingly power
66
Not his, had called the council; and to men
Stricken and strong in numbers, a king's name
Weighed light.—The shadow of a coming shame
Fell on him, and with fierce resolve he bade
Summon Chryseis. And she came, the maid,
Slight in her girlhood, lovely in her youth;
A thing to be crushed lightly, save for ruth;
A flower to be trod under, save for grace;
A cage-bird to be spared a little space
For song's sake or bright feathers—such she seemed;
And briefly the king spake, for still he deemed—
Being in his power to spare her or to kill—
That one strong word would fright her to his will:
“Girl, 'tis no time for follies that girls use;
The hour is stern, and brief the time to choose.
Content thee to be Agamemnon's bride,
For so the god will put his wrath aside!”
The hour is stern, and brief the time to choose.
Content thee to be Agamemnon's bride,
For so the god will put his wrath aside!”
As to a slave he spoke, imperiously;
And like one startled from a dream stood she.
For, once her vengeance sure, her mind had turned
Back to soft thoughts; and in her memory burned
His kingliness, his godlike looks, his tone
Of world-dominion.—There are deeps unknown
In all girl-hearts, where of slight things is wove
In secret the first nameless shape of Love.
And all the nine days past her dreams had been
Of him, so royal a lover, by the tene
Her hands had brought upon him, turned to crave
For pity and for love of her his slave;
And rainbow-bright had been her dreams beyond
Of love and splendour. Day by day with fond
And disappointed eyes she looked for him;
But when he came, more stern, more hard, more grim,
And spake with curt command his “Be content!”
A sudden anger changed her soft intent.
And like one startled from a dream stood she.
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Back to soft thoughts; and in her memory burned
His kingliness, his godlike looks, his tone
Of world-dominion.—There are deeps unknown
In all girl-hearts, where of slight things is wove
In secret the first nameless shape of Love.
And all the nine days past her dreams had been
Of him, so royal a lover, by the tene
Her hands had brought upon him, turned to crave
For pity and for love of her his slave;
And rainbow-bright had been her dreams beyond
Of love and splendour. Day by day with fond
And disappointed eyes she looked for him;
But when he came, more stern, more hard, more grim,
And spake with curt command his “Be content!”
A sudden anger changed her soft intent.
“Nay, I am in thy power for good or ill!
But not thy power can move a maiden's will
To love the bed she loathes, or count her shame
Well cloaked behind a warrior's bloody fame.
Truly to him, who for fair wind and wave
To vengeful gods his very daughter gave,
Light seems a maiden-sacrifice. Arise,
And slay me, while the blood is in thine eyes,
If so Apollo may be won to spare
Some lean remains of Argives here and there!”
But not thy power can move a maiden's will
To love the bed she loathes, or count her shame
Well cloaked behind a warrior's bloody fame.
Truly to him, who for fair wind and wave
To vengeful gods his very daughter gave,
68
And slay me, while the blood is in thine eyes,
If so Apollo may be won to spare
Some lean remains of Argives here and there!”
As a keen bowman from his well-strung bow
Lets fly his shafts to lay some hero low,
Choosing him in the press; and tries in vain,
For through the mail no arrow may attain;
At last some fissure finds the stubborn steel,
And with a sudden death he sees him reel;
So, trying many taunts, the girl's light tongue
At last that great heroic heart had stung.
“Girl, girl, you know not what you say!” he cried,
And turned him from her eyes his hurt to hide.
But she with swift repentance, woman-like,
And half afraid—as one unused to strike—
At her own doing, and half pitying,
Gazed on the bowed head of the great grim king.
And had he then but raised his troubled eyes,
The sorrow in them yet without disguise,
And so met hers where yet the pity lay,
Had been another ending of that day.
Not so 'twas written. Just one step she made
Towards him; but, ere her light touch was laid
Upon his shoulder, lo, in the tent door
Talthybius stood, the messenger, who bore
Word to the king—the leaders all were met
Already, and the council duly set.
And as he heard him, knew the king the weight
Of a dark urgent hour, and pressing Fate.
And from the tent he passed, nor turned his head
Once where the girl stood gazing. A great dread
Lay heavy on his soul. Like one he seemed,
A swimmer, who with practised limbs has deemed
'Twere light to reach the shore whene'er he would,
But making thither finds his force withstood;
Some soft resistless current thwarts his toil,
And bears him, in full sight of the fair soil,
Irrevocably to a sunless deep.
Or as a dreamer, striving in his sleep,
Who, striving ever, never nears the goal:
So Agamemnon felt, with raging soul,
Despised things grown resistless: a priest's prayer,
A slave-girl's mood-by these things he must bear,
He, Agamemnon, to be turned aside
From his determined path! A flame of pride
Flared in him: if to gods he needs must bow,
Let men look to it how they thwart him now!
Lets fly his shafts to lay some hero low,
Choosing him in the press; and tries in vain,
For through the mail no arrow may attain;
At last some fissure finds the stubborn steel,
And with a sudden death he sees him reel;
So, trying many taunts, the girl's light tongue
At last that great heroic heart had stung.
“Girl, girl, you know not what you say!” he cried,
And turned him from her eyes his hurt to hide.
But she with swift repentance, woman-like,
And half afraid—as one unused to strike—
At her own doing, and half pitying,
Gazed on the bowed head of the great grim king.
And had he then but raised his troubled eyes,
The sorrow in them yet without disguise,
And so met hers where yet the pity lay,
Had been another ending of that day.
69
Towards him; but, ere her light touch was laid
Upon his shoulder, lo, in the tent door
Talthybius stood, the messenger, who bore
Word to the king—the leaders all were met
Already, and the council duly set.
And as he heard him, knew the king the weight
Of a dark urgent hour, and pressing Fate.
And from the tent he passed, nor turned his head
Once where the girl stood gazing. A great dread
Lay heavy on his soul. Like one he seemed,
A swimmer, who with practised limbs has deemed
'Twere light to reach the shore whene'er he would,
But making thither finds his force withstood;
Some soft resistless current thwarts his toil,
And bears him, in full sight of the fair soil,
Irrevocably to a sunless deep.
Or as a dreamer, striving in his sleep,
Who, striving ever, never nears the goal:
So Agamemnon felt, with raging soul,
Despised things grown resistless: a priest's prayer,
A slave-girl's mood-by these things he must bear,
He, Agamemnon, to be turned aside
From his determined path! A flame of pride
70
Let men look to it how they thwart him now!
So, like a black cloud in whose bosom burn
The boding lightnings, strode he grim and stern
Beside the ship-staith, where the heroes wait.
And first Achilles spake and 'gan debate.
The boding lightnings, strode he grim and stern
Beside the ship-staith, where the heroes wait.
And first Achilles spake and 'gan debate.
“Great Agamemnon, if now sickness crave
And war as well its tithing, what can save?
Better, ere all shall perish, to enquire
Of seer or soothsayer, for what the ire
Of Lord Apollo burns so balefully,
And for what offering he will lay it by.”
And war as well its tithing, what can save?
Better, ere all shall perish, to enquire
Of seer or soothsayer, for what the ire
Of Lord Apollo burns so balefully,
And for what offering he will lay it by.”
So spake the king; but Agamemnon still
Kept silence, knowing in his heart the will
Of Heaven, and raging 'gainst the gathering doom.
And the host watched him, as men watch the gloom
When the low mutter 'mid the hills grows loud,
And black as midnight climbs the thunder-cloud.
Then rose, with bright eyes watching the king's frown,
And pale as one who trembles to call down
The sudden lightning, Calchas, the skilled seer,
To whom what is, was, shall be, all was clear;
And through dark seas and dangerous days he led,
By dexterous divination piloted,
All the right way to Troy the Grecian ships.
But now he spoke with less assurèd lips:
Kept silence, knowing in his heart the will
Of Heaven, and raging 'gainst the gathering doom.
And the host watched him, as men watch the gloom
When the low mutter 'mid the hills grows loud,
And black as midnight climbs the thunder-cloud.
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And pale as one who trembles to call down
The sudden lightning, Calchas, the skilled seer,
To whom what is, was, shall be, all was clear;
And through dark seas and dangerous days he led,
By dexterous divination piloted,
All the right way to Troy the Grecian ships.
But now he spoke with less assurèd lips:
“Achilles, all thou askest I can tell,
And why Apollo's fury is so fell.
Yet swear thou to defend me, since belike
One shall I anger, who hath power to strike
This day, or when he will, a meaner man.
Ill luck it is to lie 'neath kingly ban.”
And why Apollo's fury is so fell.
Yet swear thou to defend me, since belike
One shall I anger, who hath power to strike
This day, or when he will, a meaner man.
Ill luck it is to lie 'neath kingly ban.”
Then proudly spake Achilles: “Be this arm
Thy bulwark 'gainst whoe'er would do thee harm,
Aye, were it Agamemnon!”
Thy bulwark 'gainst whoe'er would do thee harm,
Aye, were it Agamemnon!”
Then the seer
Spake confidently, putting off his fear:
Spake confidently, putting off his fear:
72
“Lo, he who troubles Argos—even he,
King Agamemnon! who refused to free
The damsel, the priest's daughter; and reviled
With cruel words the priest who craved his child.
For this Apollo's wrath is fall'n on you;
Nor will he turn therefrom until the due
Amend be made—the girl unransomed given,
And hecatombs arise in smoke to Heaven.”
King Agamemnon! who refused to free
The damsel, the priest's daughter; and reviled
With cruel words the priest who craved his child.
For this Apollo's wrath is fall'n on you;
Nor will he turn therefrom until the due
Amend be made—the girl unransomed given,
And hecatombs arise in smoke to Heaven.”
He spake, and all might see the deepening night
On Agamemnon's brow. He rose upright,
Black as a storm-cloud; from his eyes a flame
Flashed on the cowed seer; and the thunder came.
On Agamemnon's brow. He rose upright,
Black as a storm-cloud; from his eyes a flame
Flashed on the cowed seer; and the thunder came.
“Thou evil prophet! Never hadst thou yet
Fair sooth for me. Thy heart is ever set
On bitter bodings, nor one happy thing
Hast thou e'er said or compassed for the king.
And now thou dar'st to use a great god's name
To do despite to Agamemnon's fame,
And filch his lawful portion, the fair slave
Whom to their king the Argive voices gave.
Be it so! Yet not so weak a king am I
To see this insult, sitting tamely by.
Look! There were other girl-slaves in the prey,
To others portioned! Let who will gainsay,
One will I send for, whom I choose, of those.”
Fair sooth for me. Thy heart is ever set
On bitter bodings, nor one happy thing
Hast thou e'er said or compassed for the king.
And now thou dar'st to use a great god's name
To do despite to Agamemnon's fame,
73
Whom to their king the Argive voices gave.
Be it so! Yet not so weak a king am I
To see this insult, sitting tamely by.
Look! There were other girl-slaves in the prey,
To others portioned! Let who will gainsay,
One will I send for, whom I choose, of those.”
He spake; and with fierce eyes Achilles rose:
“Ah, clothed in shamelessness, thou usurer king!
How shall Achœans bear thy captaining
In wayfare or in warfare any more?
No grudge against these men of Troy I bore;
Mine ox they had not stolen nor my steed,
Nor harried lands of mine; too wide indeed
Between us the dark skies and dangerous seas.
Thee came we all this weary way to please.
Therefore will I the way I came return,
Nor spend dishonoured days thy wealth to earn!”
“Ah, clothed in shamelessness, thou usurer king!
How shall Achœans bear thy captaining
In wayfare or in warfare any more?
No grudge against these men of Troy I bore;
Mine ox they had not stolen nor my steed,
Nor harried lands of mine; too wide indeed
Between us the dark skies and dangerous seas.
Thee came we all this weary way to please.
Therefore will I the way I came return,
Nor spend dishonoured days thy wealth to earn!”
As in the desert ways the lion's lair
Is unmolested, for no creature dare
Challenge or chance his wrath; until some day
Haply another lion come that way:
So looked the two kings in each other's eyes,
Equals in anger; and Atrides cries,
Is unmolested, for no creature dare
74
Haply another lion come that way:
So looked the two kings in each other's eyes,
Equals in anger; and Atrides cries,
“Away then, if thou wilt! No word from me
Shall stay thee! I have surer friends than thee
And wiser counsellors. Thy joy of heart
Is but in battle, and thine only art
Untutored turbulence to friend or foe.
Strong though thou be, 'tis God that made thee so,
Not thine own arm or brain!—I tell thee then,
Away with thee! Call off thy ships, thy men!
Rule thine own Myrmidons, that brook thy rule!
Hear this beside, thy lofty heart to school!
Ev'n as Apollo claims this maid from me,
So will I, Agamemnon, take from thee
Thy maiden. This, to tame that pride of thine,
Nor let another match his might with mine!”
Shall stay thee! I have surer friends than thee
And wiser counsellors. Thy joy of heart
Is but in battle, and thine only art
Untutored turbulence to friend or foe.
Strong though thou be, 'tis God that made thee so,
Not thine own arm or brain!—I tell thee then,
Away with thee! Call off thy ships, thy men!
Rule thine own Myrmidons, that brook thy rule!
Hear this beside, thy lofty heart to school!
Ev'n as Apollo claims this maid from me,
So will I, Agamemnon, take from thee
Thy maiden. This, to tame that pride of thine,
Nor let another match his might with mine!”
As a keen sword-stroke dealt in the last stress,
When foemen, weary of fencing, fiercely press
In deadliest onset: so the king's high speech
Had some insistent hatred that could reach
The heart of the adversary. And he, who sings
In antique simpleness this wrath of kings,
Tells how Achilles' mind was instantly
To draw the vengeful steel and bid him die;
Had not Athenè with unseen control
His impulse swayed, and soothed his angry soul.
To us the story tells of that old might
Of kingliness we mock at and think slight
In these unkingly days; that yet had force
So godlike in strong will and strenuous course,
That ev'n Achilles, that renownèd name,
Before king Agamemnon proved so tame.
When foemen, weary of fencing, fiercely press
75
Had some insistent hatred that could reach
The heart of the adversary. And he, who sings
In antique simpleness this wrath of kings,
Tells how Achilles' mind was instantly
To draw the vengeful steel and bid him die;
Had not Athenè with unseen control
His impulse swayed, and soothed his angry soul.
To us the story tells of that old might
Of kingliness we mock at and think slight
In these unkingly days; that yet had force
So godlike in strong will and strenuous course,
That ev'n Achilles, that renownèd name,
Before king Agamemnon proved so tame.
Then Nestor rose, the ancient calm old man,
Whose long full life had passed the human span,
Whose voice was as the voice of judgment-days
Far-off, eternal, passionless—the phrase
Of grave historian or philosopher,
Who lets to-morrow's light on this day's stir.
He now with quiet words assuaged their ire;
Nor yet did more than one who stays a fire
Among the heaths and grasses of a plain,
But leaves a smoulder that shall blaze again.
Yet for the present was the strife composed,
And that undying rancour lightly glosed.
And the assembly to their tents went back,
Hoping the end might be of days so black;
When Agamemnon had the maid released,
Surely the angry god and vengeful priest
Should stay the pestilence! And now a fleet
Black ship lay ready; and the unresting feet
Of swift decorous heralds hotly went
To bring the maiden from the royal tent.
Whose long full life had passed the human span,
Whose voice was as the voice of judgment-days
Far-off, eternal, passionless—the phrase
Of grave historian or philosopher,
Who lets to-morrow's light on this day's stir.
He now with quiet words assuaged their ire;
Nor yet did more than one who stays a fire
76
But leaves a smoulder that shall blaze again.
Yet for the present was the strife composed,
And that undying rancour lightly glosed.
And the assembly to their tents went back,
Hoping the end might be of days so black;
When Agamemnon had the maid released,
Surely the angry god and vengeful priest
Should stay the pestilence! And now a fleet
Black ship lay ready; and the unresting feet
Of swift decorous heralds hotly went
To bring the maiden from the royal tent.
There came no brightness in her face—her breast
Heaved with no sudden gladness. She had guessed—
No word yet said—the very tale they bore.
Her seemed she dreamed of things done long before,
And moved resistless in a dreamer's way.
For in her heart one moment 'twas to say
Take me to Agamemnon! but her tongue
Helped her not, nor her hands helped, when she clung,
(Did she not cling?) resistful, to the tent.
And slowly, like a sleep-walker, she went
Following to the ship-staith and the ship.
She heard the signal—saw the brown hands grip
The smooth-worn ashen oars, the white foam churned
In bubbling whirlpools, as the long keel spurned
The grooved sand and leapt out to meet the wave.
That tore her heart out: one low cry she gave,
Heard not amid the creak of oars, the crash
Of smiting oar-blades and the water's dash.
Then rising, turning, to the land she set—
The flying land—her face, if haply yet
One lordly lonely man she might discern
Last lingering of the gazers. Ah, too stern,
(Her heart knew well) too stern, too proud, too great
He, for the void regrets 'twixt love and hate!
He watched not, as some weaker lover might,
Half wistfully the dwindling sails of white,
Giving one hour to dreams of might-have-been.
Empty her eyes returned; and wide between
Now grew the waters, misty the low land,
Dreamlike the blue hills and the shining sand.
Heaved with no sudden gladness. She had guessed—
No word yet said—the very tale they bore.
Her seemed she dreamed of things done long before,
And moved resistless in a dreamer's way.
For in her heart one moment 'twas to say
Take me to Agamemnon! but her tongue
Helped her not, nor her hands helped, when she clung,
(Did she not cling?) resistful, to the tent.
And slowly, like a sleep-walker, she went
77
She heard the signal—saw the brown hands grip
The smooth-worn ashen oars, the white foam churned
In bubbling whirlpools, as the long keel spurned
The grooved sand and leapt out to meet the wave.
That tore her heart out: one low cry she gave,
Heard not amid the creak of oars, the crash
Of smiting oar-blades and the water's dash.
Then rising, turning, to the land she set—
The flying land—her face, if haply yet
One lordly lonely man she might discern
Last lingering of the gazers. Ah, too stern,
(Her heart knew well) too stern, too proud, too great
He, for the void regrets 'twixt love and hate!
He watched not, as some weaker lover might,
Half wistfully the dwindling sails of white,
Giving one hour to dreams of might-have-been.
Empty her eyes returned; and wide between
Now grew the waters, misty the low land,
Dreamlike the blue hills and the shining sand.
Now has she missed her life's immortal hour
In one light moment. As a splendid flower,
Whose bearing was her birthright, whose rich fruit
Ripening had blessed the world in years yet mute,
And spread to distant lands a golden seed,
It died unblossomed through her petulant deed.
A great fear fell on her, and boding dire
Of blood and infinite wailing and black fire.
Her soul in its tense agony took on
A prophet prescience; visions waste and wan
Arose and vanished. In a swoon of fears
She lay, with dreadful music in her ears.
Yet no clear shape she saw of coming doom,
The sequence of her deeds; and knew not whom,
Trojan or Greek, she feared for. Not the rout
Of Argives, nor Patroclus' death, the shout
That shook the Ilian plain, nor Hector drawn,
Nor Priam's praying hands, nor that red dawn
Of fire upon the rocking walls of Troy—
Not these clear sorrows saw she; nor the joy
Of the victorious, and her lover-king
Lord of the triumph; nor the last worst thing,
The adulterous queen, the snaky paramour,
The treacherous welcome at the palace door,
The bath, the horrible net, the murderess wife
At work with the brute axe, the ebbing life
Of that great lord of lions, dying so,
Not as a king, facing some glorious foe,
But shamefully, a naked man, by hands
A coward's and a woman's.
In one light moment. As a splendid flower,
78
Ripening had blessed the world in years yet mute,
And spread to distant lands a golden seed,
It died unblossomed through her petulant deed.
A great fear fell on her, and boding dire
Of blood and infinite wailing and black fire.
Her soul in its tense agony took on
A prophet prescience; visions waste and wan
Arose and vanished. In a swoon of fears
She lay, with dreadful music in her ears.
Yet no clear shape she saw of coming doom,
The sequence of her deeds; and knew not whom,
Trojan or Greek, she feared for. Not the rout
Of Argives, nor Patroclus' death, the shout
That shook the Ilian plain, nor Hector drawn,
Nor Priam's praying hands, nor that red dawn
Of fire upon the rocking walls of Troy—
Not these clear sorrows saw she; nor the joy
Of the victorious, and her lover-king
Lord of the triumph; nor the last worst thing,
The adulterous queen, the snaky paramour,
The treacherous welcome at the palace door,
The bath, the horrible net, the murderess wife
At work with the brute axe, the ebbing life
79
Not as a king, facing some glorious foe,
But shamefully, a naked man, by hands
A coward's and a woman's.
Ah, what brands
Are lighted at one little flame, that she,
Who lightly kindled it, shall never see!
Therefore because to women the clear sight
Not oft is giv'n, to follow wrong and right
From one small-seeming moment in their great
Irrevocable sequence; at each gate
Of perilous decision God has set
Love for the guide and guard; nor ever yet
One woman, how-so weak, unreasonable,
Took noble Love for guide, but has been able,
Spite of all doubtful turns and crossing ways,
To tread true paths, and live out righteous days.
Are lighted at one little flame, that she,
Who lightly kindled it, shall never see!
Therefore because to women the clear sight
Not oft is giv'n, to follow wrong and right
From one small-seeming moment in their great
Irrevocable sequence; at each gate
Of perilous decision God has set
Love for the guide and guard; nor ever yet
One woman, how-so weak, unreasonable,
Took noble Love for guide, but has been able,
Spite of all doubtful turns and crossing ways,
To tread true paths, and live out righteous days.
| Preludes and Romances | |