 | Searching the net (1873) |  |
“Searching the net of sense which binds us in.”
Old Play
28
A MIDDLE-CLASS TRAGEDY.
Lonely I went by a highway-road track
Threading a desolate level;
Leafless the hedges, the herbage lay black,
Fit for swine flocks of the devil.
Threading a desolate level;
Leafless the hedges, the herbage lay black,
Fit for swine flocks of the devil.
Nothing less evil such pasture could tread:
Drosses and dregs of the city
Broad-cast abolished the clover, and spread
In a vitriol scum without pity.
Drosses and dregs of the city
Broad-cast abolished the clover, and spread
In a vitriol scum without pity.
Here they had flayed the field-faces for brick,
Here the black sails of great mills
Flapped round in ruins, despondently sick,
Strident, rehearsing their ills.
Here the black sails of great mills
Flapped round in ruins, despondently sick,
Strident, rehearsing their ills.
29
Near them a woman sat making her moan,
Deep in the slow-creeping glooms.
A hedge at her back and her feet on a stone,
Pale as a tenant of tombs.
Deep in the slow-creeping glooms.
A hedge at her back and her feet on a stone,
Pale as a tenant of tombs.
I was a penman without coin or birth,
Chained to a desk with a quill.
“Nobody needs me the least upon earth,
If I save her some one will.
Chained to a desk with a quill.
“Nobody needs me the least upon earth,
If I save her some one will.
“Some one I need to expect me at eve,
Some one to love me of right,
To drudge all the week for, that she may receive
A pound more on Saturday night.
Some one to love me of right,
To drudge all the week for, that she may receive
A pound more on Saturday night.
“A weed! well, no matter: the weed bloom is sweet,
A stray! who am I to complain?
So only she love me, I'll kneel to her feet,
Forgetting their highway stain.
A stray! who am I to complain?
So only she love me, I'll kneel to her feet,
Forgetting their highway stain.
30
“Who without scorn there had passed thee? Not one.
Faded, O love, was thine eye.
Frozen almost in the rain-blast alone,
Cherish her, lest she may die.”
Faded, O love, was thine eye.
Frozen almost in the rain-blast alone,
Cherish her, lest she may die.”
Past rode a banker, his hat-brim was wide;
Sleek came a Levite in view,
Crossed at a trot to the opposite side,
Sniffing his tithe over-due.
Sleek came a Levite in view,
Crossed at a trot to the opposite side,
Sniffing his tithe over-due.
Knaves, let them go; their abhorrence is praise,
Scorning that greatens my prize.
Swine are these, folded with fat round their face;
Sweet, O my pearl, then arise.
Scorning that greatens my prize.
Swine are these, folded with fat round their face;
Sweet, O my pearl, then arise.
Let me recover this thing on my lips,
Utterly mine, loved of none.
Let my life cherish her dead finger tips;
Let my blood make her pulse run.
Utterly mine, loved of none.
Let my life cherish her dead finger tips;
Let my blood make her pulse run.
31
Live for her only that she may have mirth,
Derelict, waif of the night;
Birthright I've none like the choice of the earth;
Delicate things are their right.
Derelict, waif of the night;
Birthright I've none like the choice of the earth;
Delicate things are their right.
Firm in one counsel I builded my nest,
Mine is she now, that was vile;
Utterly mine, what she was matters least,
Let the world sneer, I can smile.
Mine is she now, that was vile;
Utterly mine, what she was matters least,
Let the world sneer, I can smile.
Love I had need of, and ever so great
Will to give love where I chose;
Training my fancy to baffle my fate,
Perfect she seemed as a rose.
Will to give love where I chose;
Training my fancy to baffle my fate,
Perfect she seemed as a rose.
Lovely I held her, tho' faded indeed,
Queen of all wisedom and love;
On sweet delusion I feasted my need,
Till my soul freshened and throve.
Queen of all wisedom and love;
On sweet delusion I feasted my need,
Till my soul freshened and throve.
32
Till a rich neighbour in mischievous play,
Satyr and exquisite, chose
Once, like a lurcher, to loiter my way,
Feeling his track by his nose.
Satyr and exquisite, chose
Once, like a lurcher, to loiter my way,
Feeling his track by his nose.
Cried, “Who is she, that this boor of a clerk
Treasures so close in his nest?
Of all sweet birds flocking in to my ark
Surely his ring-dove is best.
Treasures so close in his nest?
Of all sweet birds flocking in to my ark
Surely his ring-dove is best.
“Why should he smooth her sleek feathers alone,
Why this monopoly claim?
Pipe to her, fowler, thy mellowest tone,
'Tice her, then trample her tame.”
Why this monopoly claim?
Pipe to her, fowler, thy mellowest tone,
'Tice her, then trample her tame.”
So to her ear he trilled poison, till she
Said, “I am all that he sings;
Coarse is my master, plebeian; but he
Lovely, begotten of kings.
Said, “I am all that he sings;
Coarse is my master, plebeian; but he
Lovely, begotten of kings.
33
“Will he not love me in houses of gold?
Hateful this hovel of clay;
Here I sit penned like a sheep to my fold;
Shall I mope longer a day?
Hateful this hovel of clay;
Here I sit penned like a sheep to my fold;
Shall I mope longer a day?
“New lover noble, my true lover strong,
Make me thine own till we die.
Let this old scarecrow to whom I belong
Whistle, his cage-bird will fly.
Make me thine own till we die.
Let this old scarecrow to whom I belong
Whistle, his cage-bird will fly.
“There you will wrap me in raiment and wreaths,
Feed me with beautiful flowers;
Days in this cabin are so many deaths,
Ashes and fetters my hours.
Feed me with beautiful flowers;
Days in this cabin are so many deaths,
Ashes and fetters my hours.
“Chained to his desk my love, ragged indeed,
Leans; well he loved me at least.
Look at my lord on his wing-footed steed
Chasing in crimson the beast.
Leans; well he loved me at least.
Look at my lord on his wing-footed steed
Chasing in crimson the beast.
34
“Is he not beautiful, utterly fair,
Carelessly sweet his caress?
Is not my clerk out-at-elbows, threadbare,
Pinching to buy me a dress?
Carelessly sweet his caress?
Is not my clerk out-at-elbows, threadbare,
Pinching to buy me a dress?
“Kind enough always, poor indigent soul!
Ah! but that other, a god,
Leads me, and loves me, and seems to control
Life with a finger, a nod!
Ah! but that other, a god,
Leads me, and loves me, and seems to control
Life with a finger, a nod!
“Grey love, adieu! See, I wave you a hand!
Drive on in patience your quill:
Life to a bountiful river expand;
Here it ran cramped to a rill.”
Drive on in patience your quill:
Life to a bountiful river expand;
Here it ran cramped to a rill.”
So, like a flash, she fled off to his towers,
Over the river-wood there.
Fed here awhile in his precinct of flowers
Queen, and immortally fair.
Over the river-wood there.
Fed here awhile in his precinct of flowers
Queen, and immortally fair.
35
Lo, what befell in his palace of light!
Love in a week became pain.
Till he cried, “Pack thee out, wench, to the night,
Rot in the ditch or the drain.
Love in a week became pain.
Till he cried, “Pack thee out, wench, to the night,
Rot in the ditch or the drain.
“Why, thou art ugly as Erebus seen
Near, plain as death to my view;
Wasted thy cheek, and I thought thee a queen,
The other fool made such ado.
Near, plain as death to my view;
Wasted thy cheek, and I thought thee a queen,
The other fool made such ado.
“Push her out hastily, night-chill begins;
Stifle her petulant breath.
Forth as my scape-goat go freighted with sins:
Crawl to the waters of death.
Stifle her petulant breath.
Forth as my scape-goat go freighted with sins:
Crawl to the waters of death.
“Wise-working Nature ordains me scot-free;
She for my sin dies; it's well.
She is no firstling of kids sent by me,
Down salt dry reaches of hell.
She for my sin dies; it's well.
She is no firstling of kids sent by me,
Down salt dry reaches of hell.
36
“First? no, nor last. 'Tis an excellent game;
This wise old world will have play.
So it transfers to her shoulders the blame
Out of a nobleman's way.
This wise old world will have play.
So it transfers to her shoulders the blame
Out of a nobleman's way.
“World, on sweet hinges, run lightly and smooth,
Feed us, the poor ones will pay!
Primest of pasturage beckon our tooth!
Rot, thou jade, till the last day!”
Feed us, the poor ones will pay!
Primest of pasturage beckon our tooth!
Rot, thou jade, till the last day!”
Out she was pushed by a varlet in black:
Warned it was penal to linger:
Feathers and lace on her head and her back,
Rings raying fire round her finger.
Warned it was penal to linger:
Feathers and lace on her head and her back,
Rings raying fire round her finger.
So, the tale runs, he has ruined my life,
For a week's pastime, it's clear.
He, a great nobleman, covets my wife,
Clerk on a hundred a year.
For a week's pastime, it's clear.
He, a great nobleman, covets my wife,
Clerk on a hundred a year.
71
A FAREWELL.
Since thy lips hunger to pronounce farewell,
And a pale mist makes bitter both our faces,
Tear down the banner on Love's citadel,
Lead up the rabble to his pleasant places.
And a pale mist makes bitter both our faces,
Tear down the banner on Love's citadel,
Lead up the rabble to his pleasant places.
Go to thy Siren, she is fresh and white;
My love is worn; oblivion is its meed.
Let her ray darken mine with ampler light;
I, in her zenith dwindle and recede.
My love is worn; oblivion is its meed.
Let her ray darken mine with ampler light;
I, in her zenith dwindle and recede.
Let her round arms be as the sun-way is,
More sweet than all old kisses her last one;
Lest I should weep, I will consider this,
Love once came in our dreams; he is well gone!
More sweet than all old kisses her last one;
Lest I should weep, I will consider this,
Love once came in our dreams; he is well gone!
72
And yet my thought is busy on one dream,
Now I am stranded past the reach of tide,—
Imagine, whither, had I held the stream,
Love would have helmed us in his boat to glide.
Now I am stranded past the reach of tide,—
Imagine, whither, had I held the stream,
Love would have helmed us in his boat to glide.
Again the rocking current draws our keel,
The sun is nearer and the moon more fair,
Our pilot Love, beneath whose rosy heel
As dust are laid empire and time and care.
The sun is nearer and the moon more fair,
Our pilot Love, beneath whose rosy heel
As dust are laid empire and time and care.
Arcadian spaces of great grass arise;
Crisp lambs are merry: hoary vales are laid,
Studded with roe-deer and wild straw-berries:
In one a shepherd tabours, near a maid,
Crisp lambs are merry: hoary vales are laid,
Studded with roe-deer and wild straw-berries:
In one a shepherd tabours, near a maid,
Who teazes at the button of his cloak,
Where rarely underneath them grows the herb;
A squirrel eyes the lovers from an oak,
And speckled horses pasture without curb.
Where rarely underneath them grows the herb;
A squirrel eyes the lovers from an oak,
And speckled horses pasture without curb.
73
In a fair meadow set with tulip heads;
A water-mill rolls little crested falls
Of olive torrent, broken in grey threads,
A grave-yard crowds black crosses in square walls.
A water-mill rolls little crested falls
Of olive torrent, broken in grey threads,
A grave-yard crowds black crosses in square walls.
Quaint pastoral Arcadia, where are set
Thy rainy lands and reddish underwoods?
Earth hath not held thy fabled sunsets yet,
Though lovers build their palace on thy roods.
Thy rainy lands and reddish underwoods?
Earth hath not held thy fabled sunsets yet,
Though lovers build their palace on thy roods.
My Love in dream was changeless: he of earth,
A changeling god unstable as the sand,
Reckons his gifts and reasons in his mirth:
His kisses! a child counts them on one hand.
A changeling god unstable as the sand,
Reckons his gifts and reasons in his mirth:
His kisses! a child counts them on one hand.
Under his instep once arose light flowers,
Now dead and curled, as leaves in caverns dry,
Where heedless gusts have lost them at odd hours;
So out of sight time pushes loves gone by.
Now dead and curled, as leaves in caverns dry,
Where heedless gusts have lost them at odd hours;
So out of sight time pushes loves gone by.
74
Time held Love's daughter fair a little while;
Wept at her feet and died at her desire;
He would have bartered heaven for one sweet smile,
But now her roses are as highway mire.
Wept at her feet and died at her desire;
He would have bartered heaven for one sweet smile,
But now her roses are as highway mire.
O child of change, thy refuge is “farewell;”
The dumb slow days teach many, may teach thee.
I shall not lure Love back with any spell;
Soiled are his feet, his hand rough, let him flee!
The dumb slow days teach many, may teach thee.
I shall not lure Love back with any spell;
Soiled are his feet, his hand rough, let him flee!
Leave to the kingdom of thy new delight,
A land of vines and apples overhead;
Where the great golden stars move out at night,
And the air burns with love when day is dead.
A land of vines and apples overhead;
Where the great golden stars move out at night,
And the air burns with love when day is dead.
Let her await thee, thy new Siren, there,
This garden-empress, thy most beautiful;
Whose robe is red as sun-death, and her hair
Gleams as the rippled eve-cloud wonderful.
This garden-empress, thy most beautiful;
Whose robe is red as sun-death, and her hair
Gleams as the rippled eve-cloud wonderful.
75
Seal up thy past with kisses, lest a cry,
A shape, a phantom, in thy lightest hour
With dead sad eyes and wandering arms go by,
And turn the vintage of thy passion sour.
A shape, a phantom, in thy lightest hour
With dead sad eyes and wandering arms go by,
And turn the vintage of thy passion sour.
Till on thy lips the red wine savour blood,
And garlands grind as ashes on thy head;
And loathly tastings taint thy banquet food,
And marriage guests seem mourners of the dead.
And garlands grind as ashes on thy head;
And loathly tastings taint thy banquet food,
And marriage guests seem mourners of the dead.
Ah, for Remorse is mighty, blind thy soul,
And hoop thine heart with iron to forget,
Drown Record under ocean's tidal roll,
And deeper than an oak-root hide Regret.
And hoop thine heart with iron to forget,
Drown Record under ocean's tidal roll,
And deeper than an oak-root hide Regret.
Wind rough acanthus round thy burning cup,
Let white arms soothe thee and fresh lips of song,
Lie sweetly down and rise in gladness up,
Quench—if thou canst—the echo of my wrong!
Let white arms soothe thee and fresh lips of song,
Lie sweetly down and rise in gladness up,
Quench—if thou canst—the echo of my wrong!
190
IN SICILY.
Yonder is Ætna purple with one cloud.Below us the enduring water-sound
Arises, broken where the vineyard men
Sing in their houses; under and below
The long Tyrrhenian islands meet the foam;
Then the illimitable sea rolls in,
Where the lights pass; until the rosy space
Of ether deepens into olive grey;
And rays the floating purple like a hand,
Or holds the gates of light in violet waves.
Why art thou silent, voice of my desire?
Be pitiful and answer, lest I feel
191
Of thy sweet hand that lulls my soul asleep.
Bend thine eyes, beautiful with all their light,
Full on my face; let thy lips follow them;
Lest I should fear delusion, and awake
Hereafter weeping for a phantom joy.
What have I done to merit love of thine,
How shall I rise up worthy of mine own?
Honour enough for any lips of mine
To kiss the little broken cistus bud
Slain by thy rosy feet at some cliff edge.
Wonder of Eros, this and thus was I;
The dull weak thing, whose instinct at thy face
Drave him to fall in adoration prone.
He saw thy beauty terrible as fire,
His feeble nature faltered as in pain.
Marvel of love, whose empire alters all,
Since thou hast deigned to raise me to thy smile;
192
To ascend and glisten in her glorious arms,
Till in his vapour all her form is lost;
But he who veils her round glows more and more.
As in a silence of warm air the lark
Sings, in thy love my spirit is content;
As in a waste of many buds the bee
Is busy with much perfume, till it tire;
I am broken with the sweetness of my love.
I feel thy spirit brooding in serene
Completeness, deep as ether, pure as dew.
The still hours come and watch us and depart.
At length, beyond the glory of a star,
Thou dost arise; and, in thy leaving me,
Soothest my burning forehead with thy hand.
Or, in caress that runs before farewell,
I watch thee gather back thy heavy curls
Disordered; leaning in a silent care
To smile, before thy lips are moved to mine;
Lest I should lose thy smile, as intense light
Is lost if men consider it too near.
So leaning drink my soul into thine own;
Have thy sweet arm about me, and begin
A murmuring breath in whisper, as the talk
Of mated swallows when their nest is laid.
My flower of dawn, my bud with timid folds,
My lily, quailing ere the light is laid
Or rain goes on thy petals; O my song
Borne brokenly as a moth in perfumed air;
My silver cloud of spices consecrated,
O incense of my altar; last, my love;
Rest in that name of all the number best!
Ah, but to rest with thy sweet serious eyes
Above my slumber; that were lovely dream,
Worthy a lord of heaven, whose stately joy
Immortally continues. Whisper me
In living silence: thy smooth cheek on mine:
And let thy ringlet flakes efface the day
With clustered ripples from my glowing eyes.
And so remain as radiant as of yore,
Mysterious in thy beauty; till this heart
Dissolve to equal thine and pulse with thine,
In larger beatings, as a god's that loves,—
Until arterial ichors change the stream
Of puny life within me. Till I drain
Enormous inspiration at thy lips;
For surely they who love become as gods
Knowing all wisdom; and thy love shall draw
My faltering soul invested in its power,
Out and beyond this tumult we call Time.
Where the loud fruitless billows heave themselves,
Where the long heedless clouds roll and are lost—
Where one year's blossom is the next one's dust.
And summer's wife may fade to winter's dead.
The infants of her love surround her urn
Year after year with unenduring wreaths;
The dim sweet face fades from them. Children's eyes
Weep nothing long, and she shall be forgot
Out in the lonely grasses of her rest.
Sings, in thy love my spirit is content;
As in a waste of many buds the bee
Is busy with much perfume, till it tire;
I am broken with the sweetness of my love.
I feel thy spirit brooding in serene
Completeness, deep as ether, pure as dew.
The still hours come and watch us and depart.
At length, beyond the glory of a star,
Thou dost arise; and, in thy leaving me,
Soothest my burning forehead with thy hand.
Or, in caress that runs before farewell,
I watch thee gather back thy heavy curls
Disordered; leaning in a silent care
To smile, before thy lips are moved to mine;
193
Is lost if men consider it too near.
So leaning drink my soul into thine own;
Have thy sweet arm about me, and begin
A murmuring breath in whisper, as the talk
Of mated swallows when their nest is laid.
My flower of dawn, my bud with timid folds,
My lily, quailing ere the light is laid
Or rain goes on thy petals; O my song
Borne brokenly as a moth in perfumed air;
My silver cloud of spices consecrated,
O incense of my altar; last, my love;
Rest in that name of all the number best!
Ah, but to rest with thy sweet serious eyes
Above my slumber; that were lovely dream,
Worthy a lord of heaven, whose stately joy
Immortally continues. Whisper me
In living silence: thy smooth cheek on mine:
And let thy ringlet flakes efface the day
With clustered ripples from my glowing eyes.
And so remain as radiant as of yore,
194
Dissolve to equal thine and pulse with thine,
In larger beatings, as a god's that loves,—
Until arterial ichors change the stream
Of puny life within me. Till I drain
Enormous inspiration at thy lips;
For surely they who love become as gods
Knowing all wisdom; and thy love shall draw
My faltering soul invested in its power,
Out and beyond this tumult we call Time.
Where the loud fruitless billows heave themselves,
Where the long heedless clouds roll and are lost—
Where one year's blossom is the next one's dust.
And summer's wife may fade to winter's dead.
The infants of her love surround her urn
Year after year with unenduring wreaths;
The dim sweet face fades from them. Children's eyes
Weep nothing long, and she shall be forgot
Out in the lonely grasses of her rest.
Across the silver lyre-beat of my love,
Intrudes a chord of death! a moaning wire
Changes the honied cadence at its close.
Let the song cease. Ah, me, my beautiful,
Let us be very busy with our joy,
While there is light above us and sweet air.
I question not beyond thee. Love is more
Than Time: thine eyes are on me, and thy palm
Is wound with mine: thy lucid orbs resume
Old tenderness, and wean me from the thought
Beyond thine arms: thine instant, love, is more
Than all hereafter, when the immeasurable
Cycles of darkness brood above our graves
For ever. Leave me this, that I may hear
The breathings of thy bosom, hear thy sighs
Drawn out in long suppression from thy soul,
To tell me more than language all thy love.
Leave this, I question not while this endure:
Beautiful dream, be patient and delay
A little while; and leave us hand in hand
To watch the dædal changes of the woods,
The wave, the vineyard, and the floating heads
Of Ætna, islanded in amber cloud.
Intrudes a chord of death! a moaning wire
195
Let the song cease. Ah, me, my beautiful,
Let us be very busy with our joy,
While there is light above us and sweet air.
I question not beyond thee. Love is more
Than Time: thine eyes are on me, and thy palm
Is wound with mine: thy lucid orbs resume
Old tenderness, and wean me from the thought
Beyond thine arms: thine instant, love, is more
Than all hereafter, when the immeasurable
Cycles of darkness brood above our graves
For ever. Leave me this, that I may hear
The breathings of thy bosom, hear thy sighs
Drawn out in long suppression from thy soul,
To tell me more than language all thy love.
Leave this, I question not while this endure:
Beautiful dream, be patient and delay
A little while; and leave us hand in hand
To watch the dædal changes of the woods,
The wave, the vineyard, and the floating heads
Of Ætna, islanded in amber cloud.
196
THE SHEPHERD AND THE HIRELING.
A MONKISH DOGGREL.
Who keepeth his sheep in the wattled fold?
A wise man godly, merry, and old.
His own is the flock and he loves it well,
As the grey wolves under the forest can tell;
When a rough one comes he stands very fast,
With his staff and his hounds and his stones to cast,
For his sheep, safe sheep!
A wise man godly, merry, and old.
His own is the flock and he loves it well,
As the grey wolves under the forest can tell;
When a rough one comes he stands very fast,
With his staff and his hounds and his stones to cast,
For his sheep, safe sheep!
Who foldeth his sheep on the hill that is red?
A sleepy, hireling fellow instead.
His sheep are another's; he caroth none
Tho' the wolves are rending them one by one.
When the grey beast comes, he fleeth away
Down the hill like a feather; ah, well-a-day
For his sheep, poor sheep!
A sleepy, hireling fellow instead.
His sheep are another's; he caroth none
Tho' the wolves are rending them one by one.
When the grey beast comes, he fleeth away
Down the hill like a feather; ah, well-a-day
For his sheep, poor sheep!
197
Who tethers our flock in the Church her yard?
A merry good saint who is honest and hard.
His sheep know the Bishop, he knows his sheep,
So, when a lean heretic tries to creep,
He raises his crook and his gold hoop-ring
And scares him away, while the choristers sing
For their souls, safe souls.
A merry good saint who is honest and hard.
His sheep know the Bishop, he knows his sheep,
So, when a lean heretic tries to creep,
He raises his crook and his gold hoop-ring
And scares him away, while the choristers sing
For their souls, safe souls.
Who foldeth his swine in the city of sin?
The bloat brown Satan burning within.
He pushes on each to his trough with a prong
And away to perdition goads them along.
When an angel hovers, he shouts him away
And gathers them muck till the judgment day.
Well-a-day, poor souls.
The bloat brown Satan burning within.
He pushes on each to his trough with a prong
And away to perdition goads them along.
When an angel hovers, he shouts him away
And gathers them muck till the judgment day.
Well-a-day, poor souls.
He pastures them well in a forest tall,
And beats on the boughs till the acorns fall;
In each of their snouts he rivets his ring,
And drags them in where the old nettles sting;
On each of their withers right plain to see
He brands them deep with a gothic D,
Poor swine, poor souls!
And beats on the boughs till the acorns fall;
In each of their snouts he rivets his ring,
And drags them in where the old nettles sting;
On each of their withers right plain to see
He brands them deep with a gothic D,
Poor swine, poor souls!
198
Now sing we together for souls, and sheep
Who sit on the hills where the night lies deep.
May they gain a good grass that is sweet to feast,
And never be scared by a prowling beast.
This is my carol, God help us, Sirs,
And keep you each clean of such evil curs;
In æternum, Amen.
Who sit on the hills where the night lies deep.
May they gain a good grass that is sweet to feast,
And never be scared by a prowling beast.
This is my carol, God help us, Sirs,
And keep you each clean of such evil curs;
In æternum, Amen.
130
NEMESIS.
Who may rebuke a monarch bent on wrong?
If he be rough and resolute and strong,
And tyrant of the time and fenced with master sway;
If, like a god, to him belong
The Hours to bring him sweetness on his way,
The meek Hours at his will and footstool chained all day;
To waft a little perfume of keen song
To make their lord his joy;
To smooth his brow from fold, and light
The brooding royal eyes an instant with delight;
A king who may forbid?
The man-god in his glory, crowned and calm,
Rises to reach his arm in purple hid
Towards his desire;
While in his face a hunger beams like fire;
His eyes are fate, his lips severe as death,
So that men hold their breath,
As like a whirl-wind on his wish he goes.
Who shall confront him in his deed? And say,
“Lord, thou hast wrought a shameful thing to-day;
The curse of whose misdoing may descend
To vex thy ungrown race;
Because thine iron vengeance would not bend
Or give to mercy place.
Thy lips have curled against the widow's cry,
Have sneered in some dead adversary's face;
Tyrant, assuage thy fury and amend!”
Will he not frown reply?—
“Lover of death and greedy of thy fate,
Prate not of woes to me.
Worse curses on thine intercession wait,
Thine instant, mine shall be
Hereafter ages hence, when earth is grey.
This one worm at my feet,
Let him writhe on and wither into clay;
His agony is sweet.
I will not stay my hand for any fears,
The old gods slumber long;
They are grown childish with their weight of years,
They are blind and love the strong.”
Therefore are all men mute;
He rules and will not care.
No plagues of heaven refute his impious boasting there;
He reigns, and honour clothes his years supremely fair.
So of his crime he sucks the sweet, and dies
With the full savour of it in his mouth,
And keen delightful eyes.
While yet his lips a cunning laughter keep
At fools who fear the gods. So turns he to his sleep.
And all the simple people muse and say,
“His crime is surely done, and clean and passed away.
Can god account with these dry bones for wrong,
Or make them live again?
His vengeance is not wakeful, and this one
Hath made his rest, and done
His full of pleasure, and escaped god's pain.”
Not so, ye fools and vain;
Heap up his grave and listen: from the ground,
From the grey bones, when years have greened his mound,
Within its circuit of sepulchral stones,
An Atè vengeance rises; soft as rain
Her footprint on the plain,
And like the fluttered leaf her lucid robe.
Wan as a dream she goes,
A floating shadow grey,
Pale-eyed, without repose,
Patient to bide the coming of her day;
Nursing her ire, till time across her path,
Fling down the helpless thing, that she may slay
The bleeding lamb delivered to her wrath.
Years are to her the shadows of one night,
Such certainty of her revenge she hath;
That, tho' they roll and roll again
And ruin all things fair,
Blood only can erase the enduring stain;
For which she watches one accursed race:
The seed of him, who ruled,
And prospered his disgrace,
Who made his laughter at the gods befooled;
And ended full of days,
Sleek and secure of fate;
Above whose resting-place
Her phantom outlines wait.
She knows, that vengeance waxes good
For keeping, as old wines;
And, tho' her veins are fire,
And all her being pines
In pain, in pain,
For the good great hunger of blood,
And the scent of the fresh sweet slain;
Yet pale in her wild want she curbs desire;
The sluggard years are slow;
Days long, hours infinite,
She bides her time to strike the blow—
And surely at last, as a flash in the night,
The signals of Nemesis sound;
At a leap, at a bound, red her hand is, and bright
Is the gash of her wound.
If he be rough and resolute and strong,
And tyrant of the time and fenced with master sway;
If, like a god, to him belong
The Hours to bring him sweetness on his way,
The meek Hours at his will and footstool chained all day;
To waft a little perfume of keen song
To make their lord his joy;
To smooth his brow from fold, and light
The brooding royal eyes an instant with delight;
A king who may forbid?
131
Rises to reach his arm in purple hid
Towards his desire;
While in his face a hunger beams like fire;
His eyes are fate, his lips severe as death,
So that men hold their breath,
As like a whirl-wind on his wish he goes.
Who shall confront him in his deed? And say,
“Lord, thou hast wrought a shameful thing to-day;
The curse of whose misdoing may descend
To vex thy ungrown race;
Because thine iron vengeance would not bend
Or give to mercy place.
Thy lips have curled against the widow's cry,
Have sneered in some dead adversary's face;
Tyrant, assuage thy fury and amend!”
Will he not frown reply?—
“Lover of death and greedy of thy fate,
Prate not of woes to me.
Worse curses on thine intercession wait,
132
Hereafter ages hence, when earth is grey.
This one worm at my feet,
Let him writhe on and wither into clay;
His agony is sweet.
I will not stay my hand for any fears,
The old gods slumber long;
They are grown childish with their weight of years,
They are blind and love the strong.”
Therefore are all men mute;
He rules and will not care.
No plagues of heaven refute his impious boasting there;
He reigns, and honour clothes his years supremely fair.
So of his crime he sucks the sweet, and dies
With the full savour of it in his mouth,
And keen delightful eyes.
While yet his lips a cunning laughter keep
At fools who fear the gods. So turns he to his sleep.
And all the simple people muse and say,
“His crime is surely done, and clean and passed away.
133
Or make them live again?
His vengeance is not wakeful, and this one
Hath made his rest, and done
His full of pleasure, and escaped god's pain.”
Not so, ye fools and vain;
Heap up his grave and listen: from the ground,
From the grey bones, when years have greened his mound,
Within its circuit of sepulchral stones,
An Atè vengeance rises; soft as rain
Her footprint on the plain,
And like the fluttered leaf her lucid robe.
Wan as a dream she goes,
A floating shadow grey,
Pale-eyed, without repose,
Patient to bide the coming of her day;
Nursing her ire, till time across her path,
Fling down the helpless thing, that she may slay
The bleeding lamb delivered to her wrath.
134
Such certainty of her revenge she hath;
That, tho' they roll and roll again
And ruin all things fair,
Blood only can erase the enduring stain;
For which she watches one accursed race:
The seed of him, who ruled,
And prospered his disgrace,
Who made his laughter at the gods befooled;
And ended full of days,
Sleek and secure of fate;
Above whose resting-place
Her phantom outlines wait.
She knows, that vengeance waxes good
For keeping, as old wines;
And, tho' her veins are fire,
And all her being pines
In pain, in pain,
For the good great hunger of blood,
And the scent of the fresh sweet slain;
135
The sluggard years are slow;
Days long, hours infinite,
She bides her time to strike the blow—
And surely at last, as a flash in the night,
The signals of Nemesis sound;
At a leap, at a bound, red her hand is, and bright
Is the gash of her wound.
Strange is the vengeance of our lords on high,
Who harm the child and pass the guilty sire;
Give him fat lands and let him calmly die
Full of sweet bread and lord of all desire.
And men look sadly as they close his eyes,
And wind him round in purple for his rest;
And, save a little murmur in the land,
They say he sleeps with the eternal blest.
Ay me, for that man's children; and again
A triple wail for those who call him sire;
Cry for the old hereditary stain,
Bemoan the Atè that can never tire.
Hope not, thou blameless son, she will refrain;
Sprinkle with ash thy head and thine attire:
Thou shalt not turn her steps, nor mitigate her ire.
Who harm the child and pass the guilty sire;
Give him fat lands and let him calmly die
Full of sweet bread and lord of all desire.
And men look sadly as they close his eyes,
And wind him round in purple for his rest;
And, save a little murmur in the land,
They say he sleeps with the eternal blest.
Ay me, for that man's children; and again
A triple wail for those who call him sire;
Cry for the old hereditary stain,
136
Hope not, thou blameless son, she will refrain;
Sprinkle with ash thy head and thine attire:
Thou shalt not turn her steps, nor mitigate her ire.
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