University of Virginia Library

Theodosivs the Roman Emperor,
Son of Arcadius, was named Junior,
Being grandson of Theodosius the Great,
And in weak nonage raised to his estate.
He in Byzantium ruled: yet 'twas not he,
In truth, that held the sway of sovereignty;
Pulcheria 'twas, his sister fair and chaste,
A nun, that nigh his halls her cloister placed,
And governed thence by management and art,
Which well she knew, from outward show apart;
Whence famous in the histori s is her name:
Who, though to be the Augusta making claim,
A thing in women never known before,
Herself in other ways so wisely bore
That Theodosius felt no whit her curb;
No envy fell, that might her reign disturb.
And she was bent to make him, as she could,
That was her younger brother, great and good,
And worthy to be callèd Emperor.
She taught him how to seem a governor,
And all the arts that upkept majesty;
To walk, to hold his robe, complacently
To take his throne, from laughter to refrain,
To fix a serious gaze, or smiles to deign:
To condescend, grave answers to return,
And from their looks men's thoughts to think to learn.
And he, being thereto of a ready mind,
Grew up into a prince graceful and kind,
And wise, as then was held: by study he
The Scriptures knew by heart, most excellently
Sang offices: had skill in argument,
And therein still to gain the victory bent;
So that 'twas rumoured that he could dispute
With any doctor upon any suit.
Humane he was, but strict: apt to require
In others all that made his own desire;
And of a rectitude to seek perfection
In the world's ways. Alas, that this complexion
Should soon become a scruple sticking fast
In cold persistence, and to misery cast
Life's fairest good, e'en love: as must be told.

In things that men for light and little hold
This prince contentment found: his chief delight
To paint and carve and exquisitely write:
Hence named Kalligraphos: but more his ease
Than grew his royal fame in works like these.
Since albeit studious, strict, and punctual
In his high office, as the hour might call,
His hiddenest thoughts stole forth to play around
Fair texts, untwining spirals, limned in the bound
Of vellum margins,—whatsoe'er designed
In curious art was moving in his mind.
Whence loss his empire felt: for vain indeed
O'er house or realm to rule, vain to proceed
In course of life, or place to occupy
Without full purpose: though exemplary
The daily round, the want is felt of force,
As currents fall with half diverted source.

And in this prince moreover 'twas complained
Of misdirection, whereso force obtained:
For he it was that levelled with the ground
The temples old which through his realm were found
Of idol worship, ruined long before,
And unfrequented: he to them no more
Left stone on stone: which seemed a wanton feat,
And set no whit steadier his royal seat.

Now first when came the time that seemed it fit
This noble prince should marry, by her wit
The wise Pulcheria framed that he should wed
No equal of himself, but, as 'tis read,
A damsel poor, to whom she favour shewed,
Who name perhaps, as birth, to Athens owed,
Named Athenais, that was the daughter
Of one Leontius, a philosopher:
And in the old religion was she taught
Which now was trodden down, and deemed of nought.
So wondrous fair was she, that, when he died,
Her father willed his substance to divide
To her two brothers, leaving her in store
One hundred golden pieces and no more,
Affirming that her beauty would be found
Sufficient portion: but upon that ground
He seemed at first to err, for avarice
Appearèd in her brothers nature's vice;
Her beauty in their hearts no pity bred,
So she from Athens to Byzantium fled
Seeking Pulcheria's aid: who piteous
Of her ill fortune, kept her in her house:
And, still observing, soon designed that she
The wife of Theodosius might be:
Devising thus herself to have a friend
That might her power and credit well defend,
Owing such station unto none but her.

Now at fit time her brother she gan stir
By telling of this wondrous Athenais:
Her large and open eyes, well worth the praise,
Her high and arching eyebrows, and her hair
Curled golden all about her forehead fair;
Her understanding and the arts she knew.
With her sad story she his pity drew;
And then in midst of all uplifted straight
A curtain which concealed a little grate,
Through which he saw the virgin presently,
Who sat with writing tables on her knee:
And as her ivory plates she seemed as fair,
Or fresh as roses which the morning air
Moves to and fro. Anon the Emperor
Was ushered by his sister through the door,
And soon declares his love; whom modestly
With love she answers: soon then askèd he
If of her gods she would take exorcism,
And after for his sake receive baptism.
“Sir,” answered she, “I have already thought
“Concerning this: and in these tables wrought
“See mayst thou Homer's verses new disposed
“Into the life of Christ, for I have closed
“The door of unbelief; and now require
“Baptism, yea, seek it with vehement desire,
“And that I may in sign of penitence
“For Athenais be named Eudocia hence.”
Then tenderly he said, “Change thou thy name,
“Be new in Christ, but be to me the same,
“Oh Athenais.” Therefore was she baptiled
In that new name; and soon was solemnised
Her marriage with the prince in joyance great
Throughout the city and the Roman state.

Long time they livèd in full happiness,
And in fair works comparèd they no less
Than in the love they bore with equal mind:
For what he wrought she came no whit behind
In carving, painting, and calligraphy;
And matchèd all he could in poetry.
Yea, rather of the two might she excel:
Zachary she versified, and Daniel,
And all the legend of Saint Cyprian:
To paraphrase the Scriptures she began,
And wrote the first eight books: add here to these
Her Panegyric of the Victories
Of Theodosius, albeit that he
Warred not himself except by deputy.
And, better than her praise, to him she bare
Anon and in good time a daughter fair.

This child, to whom a marvellous history
In place belongs, in the baptistery
Was named Eudoxia, by a better name
Than of her mother, albeit nigh the same:
And at that time came forth the holy nun
Herself Pulcheria, saying, “Henceforth I shun
“That title vain which I too long have worn,
“Namely Augusta: it shall hence be borne
“By thee, Eudocia, who a child hast given
“Vnto thy lord after the will of heaven:
“And she from thee shall bear it in descent:
“But not the less for this shall I be bent
“To serve my brother always, as I may,
“And be full peace between us from this day.”
Eudocia answered well: and peace there was,
As heretofore, some time, ere that, alas,
Occasion came that might their minds estrange,
And caused Eudocia weal for woe to exchange.

Theodosius being, as hath been made appear,
Such in his mind as might become severe
Where love was cast, of nature cold and high,
That for perfection looked, and would deny
His grace to less, and, if he found one fault,
Be turned from heavenly beauty in revolt
For ever, gentle though he seemed in all,
Such as would put away, and ne'er recal
Love thought deceivèd, as remorselessly
As if he had been sped by cruelty,
Occasion came.

It happened that to her
He sent a present by a messenger,
An apple the which a merchantman had sold
To him for much: an Indian man full old
The seller was, who strangely left the shore,
Ere men could stay him, and was found no more.
This apple was golden, carved with fair device,
Fragrant, and filled inly with unknown spice,
And to be eaten at a bidden hour,
When it should be of most medicinal power.

This precious balm Eudocia spared to eat,
But sent to one Paulinus, to be meat,
That which for her alone her husband meant;
And this Paulinus unto whom 'twas sent
Was styled the Master of the Offices,
Who then was sick, whom thus she thought to ease.
She sent it by the hand of Martian
The captain of the guard, the boldest man
Of all that in that tempest bare renown,
Who bore the name Augustus to his own,
Because of valiant deeds that he had wrought.
But now Paulinus, when the gift was brought,
For his part feared to make such prize his gain,
So to the Emperor sent it he again,
Vntasted and unbroken, as it came.

Then in the Emperor rose the thought of blame,
Suspicion grew, and in his heart waxed great,
Because Paulinus in his charge of state,
Who was the goodliest person of the court,
Vnto Eudocia often had resort.
Anon to her he went: and, “Where,” said he,
“The golden apple that I sent to thee?”
She, noting not his look, full merrily
“I to Augustus gave it,” made reply,
Playing upon the name that Martian bore
And the Emperor's high name: meaning no more
Than such light jest as might be passed between
Two lovers fond, as they had ever been.
Then said he gravely, “Wilt thou swear thereto?”
“Swear?” said she, “Nay, what oath would prove me true?
“Should I Augustus' head and tender beard
“Vnto himself allege, or best be cleared
“By his high crown and throne imperial,
“Or by some rat or mouse that is in the wall,
“Since trifles ask for trifles?” He again,
“This playing on my name is something vain,
“Eudocia: such that might another move,
“Though I regard it not.”—“O curious love,”
Cried she in anger half, “wouldst thou believe
“That I have eaten of the fruit like Eve?”
He answered, “In the Scriptures mayst thou read
“How Eve, that was mother of human seed,
“Tasted the apple, that was fair to sight,
“Being thereto urged by hellish rage and spite,
“Because the serpent”—“Aye,” quoth she, “full well!
“Beyond all doubt canst thou such history tell,
“Since none can equal thee: yet I but spake
“Of Eve a moment for resemblance' sake
“Supposed in jest.”—“Too much of jest,” said he;
“Let me refine upon that history,
“And interrupt me not.”—“What words are these?”
Cried she, and sank before him on her knees,
Then rose, and on his countenance set her gaze.
“Eudocia, much thou givest to me amaze
“Staying my speech of Eve: now would I say
“That when to Adam on that woful day
“She gave the apple that so fairly grew
“Vpon the tree in every creature's view,
“Having herself eaten, she ate not all:
“This of the very case must needs befal.
“Now therefore, if thou hold contrary part,
“If thou have eaten all, no Eve thou art:
“And glad were I, and kindness shalt thou own,
“Where now but rigour thou wouldst find alone:
“Nay, for that very end I sent it thee,
“That thou mightest eat.”—“I ate it not,” said she.—
“Moreover, that I further may refine,
“And separate between Eve's case and thine”—
Said she, “Again of Eve, when I but spake
“Her name for momentary semblance' sake”—
“Let me speak on,” said he, “what yet remains.
“Eve to her husband gave, which brought our pains,
“But I to thee have given, not thou to me:
“So thou by argument mayst plainly see
“The cases opposite, if thou but keep
“The meaning of my mind in matters deep.
“'Twas I too bad thee eat; which was not so
“In her: nor me beyond may bidding go:
“But she was bidden by heaven from false delight.”
Hereat her hands together gan she to smite,
And cried, “An alien will to me is shewn,
“An alien will! Now first is trouble known
“To be alive, for now suspicion cold
“Taketh love's place, where sat but he of old,
“And changefulness, cruelest impiety,
“O'erthrows the noble heart of constancy.
“Ah, first the pain is great, thou hurtest me
“More than again within thy power shall be.
“Well had it been to have avoided the first sign
“Of difference, rather than with art design
“How difference might be made: to have put away
“The thought thereof at first, not bidden it stay:
“To have banished it to good occasion,
“Rather than opened road to draw it on.
“For let suspicion enter once the door,
“Never again is love as heretofore.”
—“In the respect, Eudocia, thou complainest
“Of trouble,” he answered, “and changefulness, thou feignest.
“'Tis not thy mind to enter on this thing:
“Thou art averse: and thence thy troubles spring,
“Who shouldest consideration give to me.
“I make these questions without injury,
“And for thy thought these curious points prepare.
“But now what further might be enquired I spare:
“Say only where this apple now may be.”
—“I gave it to Augustus,” answered she,
“Or ate it; as thou wilt.”

Then back he drew,
And first he thought the apple fair to shew
From out his robe, or roll it on the floor:
But at the last he passèd through the door,
And kept it secret still: and from that day
Evil suspicion held in him the sway.
“She of Paulinus spake not,” this his thought,
“Paulinus lies therein,” holding for nought
That 'twas Paulinus who to him had sent
The apple back, which shewed him innocent.
“Granted Paulinus innocently did,
“Yet wherefore should his name by her be hid?
“Had she but spoken once, it had procured
“Comfort to me; then peace had been assured.
“Not for ill deeds I look, nor seek to spy
“Token of lightness and false harlotry,
“But he adheres within the deepest hold
“Of her heart's thoughts, that was erewhile my fold.
“Silent becomes the tongue of that the heart
“Cherishes best: tongueless is false in part:
“She is not perfect there.”

Without all fail
To wise Pulcheria soon he brought the tale,
Who answered, “Mighty brother, sure thy mind
“Has pierced the simple jest that she designed:
“That to Augustus Martian 'twas she gave
“This apple, so Paulinus' life to save.”
He looked, and said, “I understood, certain,
“All that she meant, and to my mind stood plain
“The subtlety that others might have missed:
“Which thou sawest not before I gan assist
“Thy quickness by my words in telling thee.”
—“Most true, I saw it not before,” said she.
Then he, “Hence that I knew doth well appear,
“Because I said that 'twas ill jesting here.
“I said not that from her I had not got
“The balmball back: and that I charged her not
“Shews me to have known her meaning: I reproved
“Her jest on me, nor other matter moved.
“Now, if I had not known (mark well the token)
“That 'twas a jest, how should I so have spoken?
“Jest was the offence, lightness that went to engrieve
“The falling off from me that I perceive.
“To punish that my mind is justly bent,
“And banishment to smite with banishment:
“That she in leisure long may well espy
“How ill it is to jest with majesty.”

Thereat Pulcheria smiled; for, sooth to say,
She was at enmity before that day
With fair Eudocia, through the quarrel great,
That then was noised about the Roman state,
Of bishop Flavian and bold Eutyches
The heresiarch: which they may read who please
In the authors of that age: and to that hour
Pulcheria had been worsted, and the power
Of the Empress seemèd ever to prevail.
Now was the apple tossed into the scale:
Vprose the fortunes of Pulcheria,
Down into exile sank Eudocia:
And to Jerusalem bound, the holy site,
She from Byzantium was conveyed by night.

But albeit Theodosius cast her thence,
He left her not to pine in indigence,
And, as she was religious, through the East
Were poured her benefits, that her fame increased,
Till she was named the second Helena,
Or even more great: it was Eudocia
That dared the Holy City's walls rebuild:
And round she planted many a pious guild,
The which were Lauras named, most curious seats
Whereto she drew of the holy anchorets,
Who in that age made in all place their bower;
Whose way of life was dreadful, stern, and sour
Beyond what man can think: but for man's sake
I the description from Evagrius take,
Who tells what life they willingly embraced.—
Either they had their dwelling in the waste
Away from all; or, if they companied
With one another, 'twas but to abide
Vnder a yoke of stricter discipline,
Truly they lost the use of mine and thine,
The cloak that this one wore was not his own,
His fellow took it on occasion.
They had a common table, and their fare
Was only herbs and pulse; and they would spare
This food, as if through dainties they were nice.
To eat they lived not: and contrariwise
They scarcely could be said to eat to live.
Some of them grudged unto themselves to give
What their own laws allowed them, and would be
Fasting for two whole days, or even to three.
So ghastly were they when at board they met,
They seemed to be dead men not buried yet,
Save that they broke their fast with sighs and prayer.
Others made for themselves with skill and care
A little cabin of such length and height
That neither could they lie nor stand upright,
But lived in dens, e'en as the Apostle said.
But others in the way their life they led
Passed patient sufferance: for they forth would crawl
To the dry desert, men and women all,
Naked except what needs must be concealed:
The rest of their poor bodies would they yield
To winter's pinching cold and summer's heat,
Contemning both alike: nor would they eat
The food of man, but like to ox or ass
Crawlèd along the fields to pull the grass:
And from such humble fare received the name
Of Grazers: such in course of time became
As beasts in shape and mind, and, like the brute,
Escaped from man by nimbleness of foot.

Sometime in exile thence Eudocia lived
And in devotion strict: but she received
Nor sign nor letter from Theodosius,
And wasted heart at chance despiteous.
She hopèd every day some word to hear,
And often half resolved in passion drear
To make submission of the petulance
That cast her down;—“If I by happy chance,”
Thus would she say, “might deal with him alone!
“But no! Pulcheria sits upon my throne.
“They two are forged together in that place
“Whence me they cast through allegation base:
“A little jest! How poor the mind that made
“Aught serious there! Yet would I had not played!
“If but I could have known how poor the mind
“That lay untested under semblance kind!
“They glory now: Pulcheria sits on high,
“And by his side divides the majesty.
“I cannot yield to that; my mind is bent.
“Eudocia, thou must die in banishment.”

When thus she mused, tears from her eyes would start,
And fiery gleams, the while she pressed her heart,
And desolately up and down would walk
Still with wild look, when she had ceased to talk
The bitterness within to the empty air,
Appealing and protesting unaware.
When, on a day that thus she spent her woe,
Her eye suddenly caught an eye: and, lo,
A man was watching her beside the wall:
Who, seeing that he was seen, rose straight and tall,
And toward her drew and knelt: in rags was he,
And white his hair; and yet, marked narrowly,
He seemed not far in age: alike his cloke
Seemed newer, viewed more nearly: thus he spoke.

“Knowest thou not me? Valerius then behold,
“Thy brother false, who for the love of gold
“Wrought thee much wrong, my only sister dear,
“And now in penitence hath sought thee here:
“Oh Athenais, as thou art changed in name,
“Neither am I in wicked heart the same,
“But changèd too, and turnèd, as my hairs,
“With sorrow greater than our length of years.”

Then marvelled she, and question made to know
Of that strange turn of things: the which to shew
With eagerness he thus began his tale.

“To us in Athens came the news, no fail,
Of thy advancement to high majesty,
Sister most dear, to Cleon and to me.
Alas, but I confess with shameful pain,
Sister, that in thy cruel brethren twain
This rumour only stirrèd to devise
How we upon thy fortune high might rise,
Coining thy kinship into bars of gold:
Expecting pardon of thy injuries old
From memory lightened and forgiving heart,
Topping the baseness of our former part
To weigh thy bounty in our selfish scales,
And, so far greed in cankered mind prevails,
Advancing arguments of industry
To prove ourselves not lacking innocency.
‘Our sister dear,’ said we, ‘it is certain,
No loss or damage can from us complain;
But contrary the very cause are we
That have uplifted her to high degree.
We knew that beauty great must greatness win;
To urge her hence to greatness was no sin,
Nor that we did unkind, nor e'en a thing
Vnusual, if the truth to her we bring.
For what two brothers, being so left in charge
As we, but would, their favour to enlarge
In future time, deny the present use
Of some small portion? this was no abuse,
Since still we meant to give her all her due
In days to come, with added much thereto,
Having increased by skill her meagre share,
Ere she to Athens should again repair.
This soon shall we explain; then offer her
A score that makes her our sweet usurer
For that we hold in trust: which total sum
As we had paid, if she to us had come,
So now 'tis e'en to pay it to her we go,
And that we meant through all these years to shew.’

“With that we packed in bags our money, and laid
On hirèd beasts, full long a line that made:
And forth we set our journey for to take
From Athens to Byzantium for thy sake.
Our servants armèd we with bow and spear
From dread of robbers in the forests drear;
And each of us on every other day
Shifted to van or rear upon the way,
But with blind prudence: neither one perceives
That in our very midst we guard our thieves;
And longer as we labour to secure
Our riches, we but make our loss more sure:
Which in short time was found: for when afar
Beyond the bound of Greece toward the the North star
We were ascended, yea, e'en as we passed
Into the Thracian forests dark and vast,
They of our household rose against us there,
Smote us, stript us of all, and left us bare.
Our horses took they, and they bad us go
Afoot our journey thenceforth whitherso:
Their mercy was to leave us bow and spear,
And quivers full, that we might hunt the deer,
And to our wallets they gave of our own store.
With that they turned: we saw of them no more.

“Ah, then, my sister, in our wretchedness,
Vnto thy presence with most haste to press,
To make confession, empty of that pretence
Which first in Athens, ere we issued thence,
We had devisèd, this was all our mind,
Now beggared, stepping forth on road unkind.

“Vnkind the road, bitter the wind, that blew
In blizzards rough: and the wood savage grew,
Where howlèd wolves, and lions sought for prey.
Vnder the bleakgrown pines we held our way;
And some time by a stream we kept, that led,
As best we thought, down to a valley's bed,
Whence we might issue to the open plain.
But eftsoons turnèd this backward again,
And shewed us a great mountain to the sky,
White with dry snow, above the woods on high:
About the foot of which the dashing wave
Raced on, and fell into a rocky cave
With roaring sound, and the north wind with might
Burst from the sky, although the sun shone bright.

“Then fell we in dispute, whether to keep
Onward, or venture in the forest deep:
And Cleon's mind prevailed, that we should leave
The stream, and through the wood our journey weave:
And many days we travelled in the waste.
Sparing our food as best might be, we chased
And shot our arrows at some birds and deer;
Yet hit we none, so ill we handled gear:
For well thou guessest that our trading hands
Were better fit to manage measuring wands.
Our quivers thus were the emptier, and we felt
Our wallets through our fumbling fingers melt
Like bags of sand, so few the scraps they held.
Then anger rose from hopes aye quickened and quelled,
We cursed each other for our lack of skill,
And wrangled over every shaft shot ill.
But not the less we hurried through the waste,
And trod the thickets down with desperate haste,
Lest, ere the end, ended should be our food.
Sometimes a sunbeam in the tufty wood
Gilding the rafters of the treetop towers,
Sometimes a star would give our course for hours.
But day and night we went, whate'er might be
The sign that guided us in sky or tree.
In vain! the last bit down our throats was gone,
And still the wilderness of trees came on.

“But worse remained behind. The second day
That food had failèd us, as we held our way,
Cleon being foremost, when we never had said
A word for hours, sudden he turned his head
Saying, ‘I hear water.’ Certes, at the word
The sound of roaring water I too heard,
And louder grew it, the further that we went,
Vntil we stood upon a rocky bent,
And saw a flood borne down a hollow cleft.
Lo! 'twas the place that we before had left,
When first we thought to make the open plain:
We had but traced a circle back again.

“There saw we the same tree, whose black-tossed head
Waved o'er us, when in error thence we sped:
The narrow path was there, that through the glade
With tempting look a snare for us had laid:
And at the bitter sight we flung our palms
To the empty skies, and howled: heart-piercing qualms
Of rage within us unto madness burned.
Sister, not then the thought of thee returned,
When down we cast ourselves, down on the ground,
In front of that fell river and his sound.

“Apart we cast ourselves: for in that hour
Between us stood a separating power,
And each the other feared: so seemed to me,
Certain each the other watched, while we could see,
From day through night into another day.
But I was sleeping when the morning ray
The second time mounted the crystal height,
And dreamed this dream: That over me upright
Was set a table with all manner store,
Whereto I could not reach: next down gan pour
Nought else of all that was upon the table
But blood: the which I drank insatiable:
And 'twas my brother's blood, as well I knew:
Nevertheless the draught I deeply drew,
Albeit I said that no such thing would I.
Then, waking suddenly, I heard a cry
Of wolves that in the forest made their run,
And saw my brother snoring in the sun.—
‘Brother,’ said I, ‘what arrows hast thou in store?’
He starting said, ‘Two arrows have I, no more.’
And I, ‘None have I: empty is my case,
But lo, I hear the cry of wolves at chase:
Take one, give one to me: I say, I hear
The cry of wolves at chase, that draw anear
Hunting some creature: with me be ready now,
If here it pass, to shoot, both I and thou:
For both together it may chance, I wis,
That both of us the quarry shall not miss.’
So spake I in advice: and we arose,
And our last arrows we fitted to our bows:
Nor long before a stag came leaping fast,
Which by the mighty pine tree fairly passed.
We shot together: our arrows missed the mark,
And stood together in the pine tree's bark.

“Then blamed he me for bidding shoot together:
I him because his arrows drooped in feather:
And so we fell to strife, and our last strength
Spent one on other, till we fell at length
Both senseless after many a furious blow
Into the bush that hung the rocks below.
Vile wretches! nought we knew, O sister dear,
That our deliverance then was drawing near:
That by the very means should life be brought,
Which we to death's dark end had wellnigh wrought.

“For next we found ourselves revived, and laid
By kindly hands beneath the pine tree's shade,
And cherished by a noble company.
Hunters well furnished seemèd they to be
With hounds and horses: midst of whom was one
Of highest presence and condition,
Who question made with us, and from us drew
All that had chanced: the which whenas he knew,
And what we were, our names, and all our state,
‘O miserable men! how shall I rate,’
Said he, ‘your crimes with safety strangely given,
But that I own herein the hand of heaven?
Know therefore that the very arrows twain
Which into yonder trunk ye shot in vain
Have rescued you: for when this hunt I made,
The beaters, whom I sent before, I bade
An arrow upon their track at times to shoot,
And two where'er they found the game afoot;
That whoso found two arrows in the chase
Might sound, and call his fellows to the place.
If then one arrow alone had been found here,
I had not halted, nor for sign of deer
Summoned my dogs and all my company.
For he that saw your arrows the first was I.
Then searchèd we the rocks that lie beneath,
And found your senseless bodies nigh to death.’

“Then marvelled we: and thankfulness so filled
My eyes, that on the earth their burden 'stilled;
Nor spake I for the wonder that I felt
Of heavenly mercy unto wretches dealt.
But Cleon answered, ‘Wondrous strange is this,
And yet the same we had not died, I wis,
If with our arrows we the stag had slain.’—
‘A little worthy thought is in thy brain,’
The other said, ‘ideally wouldst thou take
What God hath wrought, and thereof little make
To make the less of Him: Thou ingrate man,
Have thou thy life from heaven by heaven's own plan,
And equal rate the effects of common chance,
But have no more: to the height never advance
Thou mightest have won: or see, not climb, the tower,
Being led to the foot by wonderworking power
More than thou knowest as yet, and by thy fault
Shutting the staircase at the very vault.
Know more; and own that God meant more for thee
Than thou hast granted to thyself to be
In these concurrents of rare enginry:
Know more and more lament! for know that I
Am Theodosius, Prince and Emperor,
Am he to whom your voyage hither bore:
Who married your fair sister Athenais,
Eudocia now, and raised her to my dais.
But nought hast thou in this: I bid thee hence
Attended go; for thou hast done offence;
And in some office poor that shall be given
Eat scanty bread, and learn good thoughts of heaven.’

“Then to me turning thus the Prince spake on:
‘For thee, that art Leontius’ other son,
And right Eudocia's other brother so,
Since better nature bids thine eyes o'erflow,
And bows thy knees to earth, for thee I say
Honour remains, and welcome from this day.
Thy former guilt that thou confessed hast
Toward Athenais be buried in the past:
And, as thou art her brother, thee I tell
That her and me between all goes not well.
Yea, here to thee in turn confess may I,
Albeit that not in me the cause can lie,
All goes not well: but thou shalt seek her face
A journey long, bearing this sign of grace:
All shall be well, for thou to her shalt go
A journey long; I will instruct thee so:
And lo, in sign of pardon and of grace
This golden apple, set in precious case,
She knoweth: this the second time I send:
Return with her: so shall our grief have end.’—
So he: the journey after his command,
Sister, have I performed, and here I stand.”

With that he laid a casket at her feet,
And with gold key unlocked the apple sweet,
The same whose fragrant and medicinal core
Caused first that mischief that was told before:
And up Eudocia rose with marvelling cheer.
But the man said, “Stay yet, O sister dear,
“O most beloved unhappy Queen, whose day
“Outlasts her sun, hear what I yet must say.
“Brief be it: but if thou make return with me,
“Never thine eyes thy noble lord shall see.
“For scarcely had he spoken that I have told,
“And to my keeping given this quince of gold,
“When toward the river broke a stag pursued
“By others of the hunt from out the wood.
“Loud was the cry: and thy proud lord uplept
“Vpon his horse, and with the chase he kept;
“And all swept onward, till the quarry took
“The water in that fiercely running brook:
“Nor paused the Prince thereat his horse to ride
“Straight down among the rocks into the tide;
“As if the river to a lord so great
“Would turn like palace conduit smooth and strait:
“Alas! it cast his horse, and broke his spine!
“But bow we both beneath the will divine,
“And thou shalt come, and see where he is laid,
“For to convey thee homeward me he bade.”

Then rose Eudocia up, and loud she cried,
“Pulcheria, thou hast won! woe's me for pride!
“Fain would I go and see my daughter dear,
“That I in cradle left, being banished here.
“But the end of him thou tellest of stays me now.
“For I beneath Pulcheria cannot bow,
“Nor enter in the city where she dwells.
“Here must I die amid these Laura cells.
“In him I erred somewhat, as I confess,
“He more in me: of faults greater and less
“Came ruin first; now death his penalty
“Exacts from him, exile falls still to me.
“My very sentence in his death appears,
“And nulls the grace that thou bringest to my ears.
“But, brother, brother, wondrous is thy tale!
“Thy former deeds lie not in memory's pale,
“Nor thy ill plots shall not with me outlast.
“Here rest in peace until our days be past:
“And if I die the first, when I am gone,
“Thou shalt dispense the poor provision
“That I for wretches make, O brother dear,
‘For now I make of thee mine almoner
“To them that I have settled hereabout,
“Lest after my decease they be cast out.”

So was it agreed: Eudocia and her brother
In the Holy City livèd each by other:
And after years she died in blessèd peace.
And through her days and after her decease
He dealt right kindly, as an angel good,
Vnto her poor dispensing daily food.