Chapter III: Book II: Hades (1)

Then from those dark And dreadful precincts passing, ghostly fields And voiceless took me. A faint twilight veiled The leafless, shadowy trees and herbless plains. There stirred no breath of air to wake to life The slumbers of the world. The sky above Was one gray, changeless cloud. There looked no eye Of Life from the veiled heavens; but Sleep and Death Were round me everywhere. And yet no fear Nor horror took me here, where was no pain Nor dread, save that strange tremor which assails One who in life's hot noontide looks on death And knows he too shall die. The ghosts which rose From every darkling copse showed thin and pale-- Thinner and paler far than those I left In agony; even as Pity seems to wear A thinner form than Fear. Not caged alone Like those the avenging Furies purged were these, Nor that dim land as those black cavernous depths Where no hope comes. Fair souls were they and white Whom there I saw, waiting as we shall wait, The Beatific End, but thin and pale As the young faith which made them; touched a little By the sad memories of the earth; made glad A little by past joys: no more; and wrapt In musing on the brief play played by them Upon the lively earth, yet ignorant Of the long lapse of years, and what had been Since they too breathed Life's air, or if they knew, Keeping some echo only; but their pain Was fainter than their joy, and a great hope Like ours possessed them dimly.

First I saw A youth who pensive leaned against the trunk Of a dark cypress, and an idle flute Hung at his side. A sorrowful sad soul, Such as sometimes he knows, who meets the gaze, Mute, uncomplaining yet most pitiful, Of one whom nature, by some secret spite, Has maimed and left imperfect; or the pain Which fills a poet's eyes. Beneath his robe I seemed to see the scar of cruel stripes, Too hastily concealed. Yet was he not Wholly unhappy, but from out the core Of suffering flowed a secret spring of joy, Which mocked the droughts of Fate, and left him glad And glorying in his sorrow. As I gazed He raised his silent flute, and, half ashamed, Blew a soft note; and as I stayed awhile I heard him thus discourse-- "The flute is sweet To gods and men, but sweeter far the lyre And voice of a true singer. Shall I fear To tell of that great trial, when I strove And Phoebus conquered? Nay, no shame it is To bow to an immortal melody; But glory. Once among the Phrygian hills I lay a-musing,--while the silly sheep Wandered among the thyme--upon the bank Of a clear mountain stream, beneath the pines, Safe hidden from the noon. A dreamy haze Played on the uplands, but the hills were clear In sunlight, and no cloud was on the sky. It was the time when a deep silence comes Upon the summer earth, and all the birds Have ceased from singing, and the world is still As midnight, and if any live thing move-- Some fur-clad creature, or cool gliding snake-- Within the pipy overgrowth of weeds, The ear can catch the rustle, and the trees And earth and air are listening. As I lay, Faintly, as in a dream, I seemed to hear A tender music, like the AEolian chords, Sound low within the woodland, whence the stream, Flowed full, yet silent. Long, with ear to ground, I hearkened; and the sweet strain, fuller grown, Rounder and clearer came, and danced along In mirthful measure now, and now grown grave In dying falls, and sweeter and more clear, Tripping at nuptials and high revelry, Wailing at burials, rapt in soaring thoughts, Chanting strange sea-tales full of mystery, Touching all chords of being, and life and death, Now rose, now sank, and always was divine, So strange the music came. Till, as I lay Enraptured, swift a sudden discord rang, And all the sound grew still. A sudden flash, As from a sunlit jewel, fired the wood. A noise of water smitten, and on the hills A fair white fleece of cloud, which swiftly climbed Into the farthest heaven. Then, as I mused, Knowing a parting goddess, straight I saw A sudden splendour float upon the stream, And knew it for this jewelled flute, which paused Before me on an eddy. It I snatched Eager, and to my ardent lips I bore The wonder, and behold, with the first breath-- The first warm human breath, the silent strains. The half-drowned notes which late the goddess blew, Revived, and sounded clearer, sweeter far Than mortal skill could make. So with delight I left my flocks to wander o'er the wastes Untended, and the wolves and eagles seized The tender lambs, but I was for my art-- Nought else; and though the high-pitched notes divine Grew faint, yet something lingered, and at last So sweet a note I sounded of my skill, That all the Phrygian highlands, all the white Hill villages, were fain to hear the strain, Which the mad shepherd made. So, overbold, And rapt in my new art, at last I dared To challenge Phoebus' self. 'Twas a fair day When sudden, on the mountain side, I saw A train of fleecy clouds in a white band Descending. Down the gleaming pinnacles And difficult crags they floated, and the arch, Drawn with its thousand rays against the sun, Hung like a glory o'er them. Midst the pines They clothed themselves with form, and straight I knew The immortals. Young Apollo, with his lyre, Kissed by the sun, and all the Muses clad In robes of gleaming white; then a great fear, Yet mixed with joy, assailed me, for I knew Myself a mortal equalled with the gods.

Ah me! how fair they were! how fair and dread In face and form, they showed, when now they came Upon the thymy slope, and the young god Lay with his choir around him, beautiful And bold as Youth and Dawn! There was no cloud Upon the sky, nor any sound at all When I began my strain. No coward fear Of what might come restrained me; but an awe Of those immortal eyes and ears divine Looking and listening. All the earth seemed full Of ears for me alone--the woods, the fields, The hills, the skies were listening. Scarce a sound My flute might make; such subtle harmonies The silence seemed to weave round me and flout The half unuttered thought. Till last I blew, As now, a hesitating note, and lo! The breath divine, lingering on mortal lips, Hurried my soul along to such fair rhymes, Sweeter than wont, that swift I knew my life Rise up within me, and expand, and all The human, which so nearly is divine, Was glorified, and on the Muses' lips, And in their lovely eyes, I saw a fair Approval, and my soul in me was glad.

For all the strains I blew were strains of love-- Love striving, love triumphant, love that lies Within beloved arms, and wreathes his locks With flowers, and lets the world go by and sings Unheeding; and I saw a kindly gleam Within the Muses' eyes, who were indeed, Women, though god-like. But upon the face Of the young Sun-god only haughty scorn Sate and he swiftly struck his golden lyre, And played the Song of Life; and lo, I knew My strain, how earthy! Oh, to hear the young Apollo playing! and the hidden cells And chambers of the universe displayed Before the charmed sound! I seemed to float In some enchanted cave, where the wave dips In from the sunlit sea, and floods its depths With reflex hues of heaven. My soul was rapt By that I heard, and dared to wish no more For victory; and yet because the sound Of music that is born of human breath Comes straighter from the soul than any strain The hand alone can make; therefore I knew, With a mixed thrill of pity and delight, The nine immortal Sisters hardly touched By this fine strain of music, as by mine, And when the high lay trembled to its close, Still doubting. Then upon the Sun-god's face There passed a cold proud smile. He swept his lyre Once more, then laid it down, and with clear voice, The voice of godhead, sang. Oh, ecstasy, Oh happiness of him who once has heard Apollo singing! For his ears the sound Of grosser music dies, and all the earth Is full of subtle undertones, which change The listener and transform him. As he sang-- Of what I know not, but the music touched Each chord of being--I felt my secret life Stand open to it, as the parched earth yawns To drink the summer rain; and at the call Of those refreshing waters, all my thought Stir from its dark and secret depths, and burst Into sweet, odorous flowers, and from their wells Deep call to deep, and all the mystery Of all that is, laid open. As he sang, I saw the Nine, with lovely pitying eyes, Sign 'He has conquered.' Yet I felt no pang Of fear, only deep joy that I had heard Such music while I lived, even though it brought Torture and death. For what were it to lie Sleek, crowned with roses, drinking vulgar praise, And surfeited with offerings, the dull gift Of ignorant hands--all which I might have known-- To this diviner failure? Godlike 'tis To climb upon the icy ledge, and fall Where other footsteps dare not. So I knew My fate, and it was near. For to a pine They bound me willing, and with cruel stripes Tore me, and took my life. But from my blood Was born the stream of song, and on its flow My poor flute, to the cool swift river borne, Floated, and thence adown a lordlier tide Into the deep, wide sea. I do not blame Phoebus, or Nature which has set this bar Betwixt success and failure, for I know How far high failure overleaps the bound Of low successes. Only suffering draws The inner heart of song and can elicit The perfumes of the soul. 'Twere not enough To fail, for that were happiness to him Who ever upward looks with reverent eye And seeks but to admire. So, since the race Of bards soars highest; as who seek to show Our lives as in a glass; therefore it comes That suffering weds with song, from him of old, Who solaced his blank darkness with his verse; Through all the story of neglect and scorn, Necessity, sheer hunger, early death, Which smite the singer still. Not only those Who keep clear accents of the voice divine Are honourable--they are happy, indeed, Whate'er the world has held--but those who hear Some fair faint echoes, though the crowd be deaf, And see the white gods' garments on the hills, Which the crowd sees not, though they may not find Fit music for their thought; they too are blest, Not pitiable. Not from arrogant pride Nor over-boldness fail they who have striven To tell what they have heard, with voice too weak For such high message. More it is than ease, Palace and pomp, honours and luxuries, To have seen white Presences upon the hills, To have heard the voices of the Eternal Gods."

So spake he, and I seemed to look on him, Whose sad young eyes grow on us from the page Of his own verse: who did himself to death: Or whom the dullard slew: or whom the sea Rapt from us: and I passed without a word, Slow, grave, with many musings.

Then I came On one a maiden, meek with folded hands, Seated against a rugged face of cliff, In silent thought. Anon she raised her arms, Her gleaming arms, above her on the rock, With hands which clasped each other, till she showed As in a statue, and her white robe fell Down from her maiden shoulders, and I knew The fair form as it seemed chained to the stone By some invisible gyves, and named her name: And then she raised her frightened eyes to mine As one who, long expecting some great fear, Scarce sees deliverance come. But when she saw Only a kindly glance, a softer look Came in them, and she answered to my thought With a sweet voice and low. "I did but muse Upon the painful past, long dead and done, Forgetting I was saved. The angry clouds Burst always on the low flat plains, and swept The harvest to the ocean; all the land Was wasted. A great serpent from the deep, Lifting his horrible head above their homes, Devoured the children. And the people prayed In vain to careless gods. On that dear land, Which now was turned into a sullen sea, Gazing in safety from the stately towers Of my sire's palace, I, a princess, saw, Lapt in soft luxury, within my bower The wreck of humble homes come whirling by, The drowning, bleating flocks, the bellowing herds, The grain scarce husbanded by toiling hands Upon the sunlit plain, rush to the sea, With floating corpses. On the rain-swept hills The remnant of the people huddled close, Homeless and starving. All my being was filled With pity for them, and I joyed to give What food and shelter and compassionate hands Of woman might. I took the little ones And clasped them shivering to the virgin breast Which knew no other touch but theirs, and gave Raiment and food. My sire, not stern to me, Smiled on me as he saw. My gentle mother, Who loved me with a closer love than binds A mother to her son; and sunned herself In my fresh beauty, seeing in my young eyes Her own fair vanished youth; doted on me, And fain had kept my eyes from the sad sights That pained them. But my heart was sad in me, Seeing the ineffable miseries of life, And that mysterious anger of the gods, And helpless to allay them. All in vain Were prayer and supplication, all in vain The costly victims steamed. The vengeful clouds Hid the fierce sky, and still the ruin came. And wallowing his grim length within the flood, Over the ravaged fields and homeless homes, The fell sea-monster raged, sating his jaws With blood and rapine. Then to the dread shrine Of Ammon went the priests, and reverend chiefs Of all the nation. White robed, at their head, Went slow my royal sire. The oracle Spoke clear, not as ofttimes in words obscure, Ambiguous. And as we stood to meet The suppliants--she who bare me, with her head Upon my neck--we cheerful and with song Welcomed their swift return; auguring well From such a quick-sped mission. But my sire Hid his face from me, and the crowd of priests And nobles looked not at us. And no word Was spoken till at last one drew a scroll And gave it to the queen, who straightway swooned, Having read it, on my breast, and then I saw, I the young girl whose soft life scarcely knew Shadow of sorrow, I whose heart was full Of pity for the rest, what doom was mine.

I think I hardly knew in that dread hour The fear that came anon; I was transformed Into a champion of my race, made strong With a new courage, glorying to meet, In all the ecstasy of sacrifice, Death face to face. Some god, I know not who, O'erspread me, and despite my mother's tears And my stern father's grief, I met my fate Unshrinking. When the moon rose clear from cloud Once more again over the midnight sea, And that vast watery plain, where were before Hundreds of happy homes, and well-tilled fields, And purple vineyards; from my father's towers The white procession went along the paths, The high cliff paths, which well I loved of old, Among the myrtles. Priests with censers went And offerings, robed in white, and round their brows The sacred fillet. With his nobles walked My sire with breaking heart. My mother clung To me the victim, and the young girls went With wailing and with tears. A solemn strain The soft flutes sounded, as we went by night To a wild headland, rock-based in the sea.

There on a sea-worn rock, upon the verge, To some rude stanchions, high above my head, They bound me. Out at sea, a black reef rose, Washed by the constant surge, wherein a cave Sheltered deep down the monster. The sad queen Would scarcely leave me, though the priests shrunk back In terror. Last, torn from my endless kiss, Swooning they bore her upwards. All my robe Fell from my lifted arms, and left displayed The virgin treasure of my breasts; and then The white procession through the moonlight streamed Upwards, and soon their soft flutes sounded low Upon the high lawns, leaving me alone.

There stood I in the moonlight, left alone Against the sea-worn rock. Hardly I knew, Seeing only the bright moon and summer sea, Which gently heaved and surged, and kissed the ledge With smooth warm tides, what fate was mine. I seemed, Soothed by the quiet, to be resting still Within my maiden chamber, and to watch The moonlight thro' my lattice. Then again Fear came, and then the pride of sacrifice Filled me, as on the high cliff lawns I heard The wailing cries, the chanted liturgies, And knew me bound forsaken to the rock, And saw the monster-haunted depths of sea.

So all night long upon the sandy shores I heard the hollow murmur of the wave, And all night long the hidden sea caves made A ghostly echo; and the sea birds mewed Around me; once I heard a mocking laugh, As of some scornful Nereid; once the waters Broke louder on the scarped reefs, and ebbed As if the monster coming; but again He came not, and the dead moon sank, and still Only upon the cliffs the wails, the chants, And I forsaken on my sea-worn rock, And lo, the monster-haunted depths of sea.

Till at the dead dark hour before the dawn, When sick men die, and scarcely fear itself Bore up my weary eyelids, a great surge Burst on the rock, and slowly, as it seemed, The sea sucked downward to its depths, laid bare The hidden reefs, and then before my eyes-- Oh, horrible! a huge and loathsome snake Lifted his dreadful crest and scaly side Above the wave, in bulk and length so large, Coil after hideous coil, that scarce the eye Could measure its full horror; the great jaws Dropped as with gore; the large and furious eyes Were fired with blood and lust. Nearer he came, And slowly, with a devilish glare, more near, Till his hot foetor choked me, and his tongue, Forked horribly within his poisonous jaws, Played lightning-like around me. For awhile I swooned, and when I knew my life again, Death's bitterness was past. Then with a bound Leaped up the broad red sun above the sea, And lit the horrid fulgour of his scales, And struck upon the rock; and as I turned My head in the last agony of death, I knew a brilliant sunbeam swiftly leaping Downward from crag to crag, and felt new hope Where all was hopeless. On the hills a shout Of joy, and on the rocks the ring of mail; And while the hungry serpent's gloating eyes Were fixed on me, a knight in casque of gold And blazing shield, who with his flashing blade Fell on the monster. Long the conflict raged, Till all the rocks were red with blood and slime, And yet my champion from those horrible jaws And dreadful coils was scatheless. Zeus his sire Protected, and the awful shield he bore Withered the monster's life and left him cold, Dragging his helpless length and grovelling crest: And o'er his glaring eyes the films of death Crept, and his writhing flank and hiss of hate The great deep swallowed down, and blood and spume Rose on the waves; and a strange wailing cry Resounded o'er the waters, and the sea Bellowed within its hollow-sounding caves.

Then knew I, I was saved, and with me all The people. From my wrists he loosed the gyves, My hero; and within his godlike arms Bore me by slippery rock and difficult path, To where my mother prayed. There was no need To ask my love. Without a spoken word Love lit his fires within me. My young heart Went forth, Love calling, and I gave him all.

Dost thou then wonder that the memory Of this supreme brief moment lingers still, While all the happy uneventful years Of wedded life, and all the fair young growth Of offspring, and the tranquil later joys, Nay, even the fierce eventful fight which raged When we were wedded, fade and are deceased, Lost in the irrecoverable past? Nay, 'tis not strange. Always the memory Of overwhelming perils or great joys, Avoided or enjoyed, writes its own trace With such deep characters upon our lives, That all the rest are blotted. In this place, Where is not action, thought, or count of time, It is not weary as it were on earth, To dwell on these old memories. Time is born Of dawns and sunsets, days that wax and wane And stamp themselves upon the yielding face Of fleeting human life; but here there is Morning nor evening, act nor suffering, But only one unchanging Present holds Our being suspended. One blest day indeed, Or centuries ago or yesterday, There came among us one who was Divine, Not as our gods, joyous and breathing strength And careless life, but crowned with a new crown Of suffering, and a great light came with him, And with him he brought Time and a new sense Of dim, long-vanished years; and since he passed I seem to see new meaning in my fate, And all the deeds I tell of. Evermore The young life comes, bound to the cruel rocks Alone. Before it the unfathomed sea Smiles, filled with monstrous growths that wait to take Its innocence. Far off the voice and hand Of love kneel by in agony, and entreat The seeming careless gods. Still when the deep Is smoothest, lo, the deadly fangs and coils Lurk near, to smite with death. And o'er the crags Of duty, like a sudden sunbeam, springs Some golden soul half mortal, half divine, Heaven-sent, and breaks the chain; and evermore For sacrifice they die, through sacrifice They live, and are for others, and no grief Which smites the humblest but reverberates Thro' all the close-set files of life, and takes The princely soul that from its royal towers Looks down and sees the sorrow. Sir, farewell! If thou shouldst meet my children on the earth Or here, for maybe it is long ago Since I and they were living, say to them I only muse a little here, and wait The waking." And her lifted arms sank down Upon her knees, and as I passed I saw her Gazing with soft rapt eyes, and on her lips A smile as of a saint.

And then I saw A manly hunter pace along the lea, His bow upon his shoulder, and his spear Poised idly in his hand: the face and form Of vigorous youth; but in the full brown eyes A timorous gaze as of a hunted hart, Brute-like, yet human still, even as the Faun Of old, the dumb brute passing into man, And dowered with double nature. As he came I seemed to question of his fate, and he Answered me thus: "'Twas one hot afternoon That I, a hunter, wearied with my day, Heard my hounds baying fainter on the hills, Led by the flying hart; and when the sound Faded and all was still, I turned to seek, O'ercome by heat and thirst, a little glade, Beloved of old, where, in the shadowy wood, The clear cold crystal of a mossy pool Lipped the soft emerald marge, and gave again The flower-starred lawn where ofttimes overspent I lay upon the grass and careless bathed My limbs in the sweet lymph. But as I neared The hollow, sudden through the leaves I saw A throng of wood-nymphs fair, sporting undraped Round one, a goddess. She with timid hand Loosened her zone, and glancing round let fall Her robe from neck and bosom, pure and bright, (For it was Dian's self I saw, none else) As when she frees her from a fleece of cloud And swims along the deep blue sea of heaven On sweet June nights. Silent awhile I stood, Rooted with awe, and fain had turned to fly, But feared by careless footstep to affright Those chaste cold eyes. Great awe and reverence Held me, and fear; then Love with passing wing Fanned me, and held my eyes, and checked my breath, Signing 'Beware!' So for a time I watched, Breathless as one a brooding nightmare holds, Who fleeth some great fear, yet fleeth not; Till the last flutter of lawn, and veil no more Obscured, and all the beauty of my dreams Assailed my sense. But ere I raised my eyes, As one who fain would look and see the sun, The first glance dazed my brain. Only I knew The perfect outline flow in tender curves, To break in doubled charms; only a haze Of creamy white, dimple, and deep divine: And then no more. For lo! a sudden chill, And such thick mist as shuts the hills at eve, Oppressed me gazing; and a heaven-sent shame, An awe, a fear, a reverence for the unknown, Froze all the springs of will and left me cold, And blinded all the longings of my eyes, Leaving such dim reflection still as mocks Him who has looked on a great light, and keeps On his closed eyes the image. Presently, My fainting soul, safe hidden for awhile Deep in Life's mystic shades, renewed herself, And straight, the innocent brute within the man Bore on me, and with half-averted eye I gazed upon the secret. As I looked, A radiance, white as beamed the frosty moon On the mad boy and slew him, beamed on me; Made chill my pulses, checked my life and heat; Transformed me, withered all my soul, and left My being burnt out. For lo! the dreadful eyes Of Godhead met my gaze, and through the mask And thick disguise of sense, as through a wood, Pierced to my life. Then suddenly I knew An altered nature, touched by no desire For that which showed so lovely, but declined To lower levels. Nought of fear or awe, Nothing of love was mine. Wide-eyed I gazed, But saw no spiritual beam to blight My brain with too much beauty, no undraped And awful majesty; only a brute, Dumb charm, like that which draws the brute to it, Unknowing it is drawn. So gradually I knew a dull content o'ercloud my sense, And unabashed I gazed, like that dumb bird Which thinks no thought and speaks no word, yet fronts The sun that blinded Homer--all my fear Sunk with my shame, in a base happiness.

But as I gazed, and careless turned and passed Through the thick wood, forgetting what had been, And thinking thoughts no longer, swift there came A mortal terror: voices that I knew, My own hounds' bayings that I loved before, As with them often o'er the purple hills I chased the flying hart from slope to slope, Before the slow sun climbed the Eastern peaks, Until the swift sun smote the Western plain; Whom often I had cheered by voice and glance, Whom often I had checked with hand and thong Grim followers, like the passions, firing me, True servants, like the strong nerves, urging me On many a fruitless chase, to find and take Some too swift-fleeting beauty; faithful feet And tongues, obedient always: these I knew, Clothed with a new-born force and vaster grown, And stronger than their master; and I thought, What if they tare me with their jaws, nor knew That once I ruled them,--brute pursuing brute, And I the quarry? Then I turned and fled,-- If it was I indeed that feared and fled-- Down the long glades, and through the tangled brakes, Where scarce the sunlight pierced; fled on and on, And panted, self-pursued. But evermore The dissonant music which I knew so sweet, When by the windy hills, the echoing vales, And whispering pines it rang, now far, now near, As from my rushing steed I leant and cheered With voice and horn the chase--this brought to me Fear of I knew not what, which bade me fly, Fly always, fly; but when my heart stood still, And all my limbs were stiffened as I fled, Just as the white moon ghost-like climbed the sky, Nearer they came and nearer, baying loud, With bloodshot eyes and red jaws dripping foam; And when I strove to check their savagery, Speaking with words; no voice articulate came, Only a dumb, low bleat. Then all the throng Leapt swift on me, and tare me as I lay, And left me man again. Wherefore I walk Along these dim fields peopled with the ghosts Of heroes who have left the ways of earth For this faint ghost of them. Sometimes I think, Pondering on what has been, that all my days Were shadows, all my life an allegory; And, though I know sometimes some fainter gleam Of the old beauty move me, and sometimes Some beat of the old pulses; that my fate, For ever hurrying on in hot pursuit, To fall at length self-slain, was but a tale Writ large by Zeus upon a mortal life, Writ large, and yet a riddle. For sometimes I read its meaning thus: Life is a chase, And Man the hunter, always following on, With hounds of rushing thought or fiery sense, Some hidden truth or beauty, fleeting still For ever through the thick-leaved coverts deep And wind-worn wolds of time. And if he turn A moment from the hot pursuit to seize Some chance-brought sweetness, other than the search To which his soul is set,--some dalliance, Some outward shape of Art, some lower love, Some charm of wealth and sleek content and home,-- Then, if he check an instant, the swift chase Of fierce untempered energies which pursue, With jaws unsated and a thirst for act, Bears down on him with clanging shock, and whelms His prize and him in ruin. And sometimes I seem to myself a thinker, who at last, Amid the chase and capture of low ends, Pausing by some cold well of hidden thought Comes on some perfect truth, and looks and looks Till the fair vision blinds him. And the sum Of all his lower self pursuing him, The strong brute forces, the unchecked desires, Finding him bound and speechless, deem him now No more their master, but some soulless thing; And leap on him, and seize him, and possess His life, till through death's gate he pass to life, And, his own ghost, revives. But looks no more Upon the truth unveiled, save through a cloud Of creed and faith and longing, which shall change One day to perfect knowledge. But whoe'er Shall read the riddle of my life, I walk In this dim land amid dim ghosts of kings, As one day thou shalt; meantime, fare thou well."

Then passed he; and I marked him slowly go Along the winding ways of that weird land, And vanish in a wood.

And next I knew A woman perfect as a young man's dream, And breathing as it seemed the old sweet air Of the fair days of old, when man was young And life an Epic. Round the lips a smile Subtle and deep and sweet as hers who looks From the old painter's canvas, and derides Life and the riddle of things, the aimless strife, The folly of Love, as who has proved it all, Enjoyed and suffered. In the lovely eyes A weary look, no other than the gaze Which ofttimes as the rapid chariot whirls, And ofttimes by the glaring midnight streets, Gleams out and chills our thought. And yet not guilt Nor sorrow was it; only weariness, No more, and still most lovely. As I named Her name in haste, she looked with half surprise, And thus she seemed to speak: "What? Dost thou know Thou too, the fatal glances which beguiled Those strong rude chiefs of old? Has not the gloom Of this dim land withdrawn from out mine eyes The glamour which once filled them? Does my cheek Retain the round of youth and still defy The wear of immemorial centuries? And this low voice, long silent, keeps it still The music of old time? Aye, in thine eyes I read it, and within thine eyes I see Thou knowest me, and the story of my life Sung by the blind old bard when I was dead, And all my lovers dust. I know thee not, Thee nor thy gods, yet would I soothly swear I was not all to blame for what has been, The long fight, the swift death, the woes, the tears The brave lives spent, the humble homes uptorn To gain one poor fair face. It was not I That curved these lips into this subtle smile, Or gave these eyes their fire, nor yet made round This supple frame. It was not I, but Love, Love mirroring himself in all things fair, Love that projects himself upon a life, And dotes on his own image. Ah! the days, The weary years of Love and feasts and gold, The hurried flights, the din of clattering hoofs At midnight, when the heroes dared for me, And bore me o'er the hills; the swift pursuits Baffled and lost; or when from isle to isle The high-oared galley spread its wings and rose Over the swelling surges, and I saw, Time after time, the scarce familiar town, The sharp-cut hills, the well-loved palaces, The gleaming temples fade, and all for me, Me the dead prize, the shell, the soulless ghost, The husk of a true woman; the fond words Wasted on careless ears, that seemed to hear, Of love to me unloving; the rich feasts, The silken dalliance and soft luxury, The fair observance and high reverence For me who cared not, to whatever land My kingly lover snatched me. I have known How small a fence Love sets between the king And the strong hind, who breeds his brood, and dies Upon the field he tills. I have exchanged People for people, crown for glittering crown, Through every change a queen, and held my state Hateful, and sickened in my soul to lie Stretched on soft cushions to the lutes' low sound, While on the wasted fields the clang of arms Rang, and the foemen perished, and swift death, Hunger, and plague, and every phase of woe Vexed all the land for me. I have heard the curse Unspoken, when the wife widowed for me Clasped to her heart her orphans starved for me; As I swept proudly by. I have prayed the gods, Hating my own fair face which wrought such woe, Some plague divine might light on it and leave My curse a ruin. Yet I think indeed They had not cursed but pitied, those true wives Who mourned their humble lords, and straining felt The innocent thrill which swells the mother's heart Who clasps her growing boy; had they but known The lifeless life, the pain of hypocrite smiles, The dead load of caresses simulated, When Love stands shuddering by to see his fires Lit for the shrine of gold. What if they felt The weariness of loveless love which grew And through the jealous palace portals seized The caged unloving woman, sick of toys, Sick of her gilded chains, her ease, herself, Till for sheer weariness she flew to meet Some new unloved seducer? What if they knew No childish loving hands, or worse than all, Had borne them sullen to a sire unloved, And left them without pain? I might have been, I too, a loving mother and chaste wife, Had Fate so willed. For I remember well How one day straying from my father's halls Seeking anemones and violets, A girl in Spring-time, when the heart makes Spring Within the budding bosom, that I came Of a sudden through a wood upon a bay, A little sunny land-locked bay, whose banks Sloped gently downward to the yellow sand, Where the blue wave creamed soft with fairy foam, And oft the Nereids sported. As I strayed Singing, with fresh-pulled violets in my hair And bosom, and my hands were full of flowers, I came upon a little milk-white lamb, And took it in my arms and fondled it, And wreathed its neck with flowers, and sang to it And kissed it, and the Spring was in my life, And I was glad. And when I raised my eyes Behold, a youthful shepherd with his crook Stood by me and regarded as I lay, Tall, fair, with clustering curls, and front that wore A budding manhood. As I looked a fear Came o'er me, lest he were some youthful god Disguised in shape of man, so fair he was; But when he spoke, the kindly face was full Of manhood, and the large eyes full of fire Drew me without a word, and all the flowers Fell from me, and the little milk-white lamb Strayed through the brake, and took with it the white Fair years of childhood. Time fulfilled my being With passion like a cup, and with one kiss Left me a woman. Ah! the lovely days, When on the warm bank crowned with flowers we sate And thought no harm, and his thin reed pipe made Low music, and no witness of our love Intruded, but the tinkle of the flock Came from the hill, and 'neath the odorous shade We dreamed away the day, and watched the waves Steal shoreward, and beyond the sylvan capes The innumerable laughter of the sea!

Ah youth and love! So passed the happy days Till twilight, and I stole as in a dream Homeward, and lived as in a happy dream, And when they spoke answered as in a dream, And through the darkness saw, as in a glass, The happy, happy day, and thrilled and glowed And kept my love in sleep, and longed for dawn And scarcely stayed for hunger, and with morn Stole eager to the little wood, and fed My life with kisses. Ah! the joyous days Of innocence, when Love was Queen in heaven, And nature unreproved! Break they then still, Those azure circles, on a golden shore? Smiles there no glade upon the older earth Where spite of all, gray wisdom, and new gods, Young lovers dream within each other's arms Silent, by shadowy grove, or sunlit sea?

Ah days too fair to last! There came a night When I lay longing for my love, and knew Sudden the clang of hoofs, the broken doors. The clash of swords, the shouts, the groans, the stain Of red upon the marble, the fixed gaze Of dead and dying eyes,--that was the time When first I looked on death,--and when I woke From my deep swoon, I felt the night air cool Upon my brow, and the cold stars look down, As swift we galloped o'er the darkling plain; And saw the chill sea glimpses slowly wake, With arms unknown around me. When the dawn Broke swift, we panted on the pathless steeps, And so by plain and mountain till we came To Athens, where they kept me till I grew Fairer with every year, and many wooed, Heroes and chieftains, but I loved not one.

And then the avengers came and snatched me back To Sparta. All the dark high-crested chiefs Of Argos wooed me, striving king with king For one fair foolish face, nor knew I kept No heart to give them. Yet since I was grown Weary of honeyed words and suit of love, I wedded a brave chief, dauntless and true. But what cared I? I could not prize at all His honest service. I had grown so tired Of loving and of love, that when they brought News that the fairest shepherd on the hills, Having done himself to death for his lost love, Lay, like a lovely statue, cold and white Upon the golden sand, I hardly knew More than a passing pang. Love, like a flower, Love, springing up too tall in a young breast, The growth of morning, Life's too scorching sun Had withered long ere noon. Love, like a flame On his own altar offering up my heart, Had burnt my being to ashes. Was it love That drew me then to Paris? He was fair, I grant you, fairer than a summer morn, Fair with a woman's fairness, yet in arms A hero, but he never had my heart, Not love for him allured me, but the thirst For freedom, if in more than thought I erred, And was not rapt but willing. For my child, Born to an unloved father, loved me not, The fresh sea called, the galleys plunged, and I Fled willing from my prison and the pain Of undesired caresses, and the wind Was fair, and on the third day as we sailed, My heart was glad within me when I saw The towers of Ilium rise beyond the wave.

Ah, the long years, the melancholy years, The miserable melancholy years! For soon the new grew old, and then I grew Weary of him, of all, of pomp and state And novel splendour. Yet at times I knew Some thrill of pride within me as I saw From those high walls, a prisoner and a foe, The swift ships flock at anchor in the bay, The hasty landing and the flash of arms, The lines of royal tents upon the plain, The close-shut gates, the chivalry within Issuing in all its pride to meet the shock Of the bold chiefs without; so year by year The haughty challenge from the warring hosts Rang forth, and I with a divided heart Saw victory incline, now here, now there, And helpless marked the Argive chiefs I knew, The spouse I left, the princely loves of old, Now with each other strive, and now with Troy: The brave pomp of the morn, the fair strong limbs, The glittering panoply, the bold young hearts, Athirst for fame of war, and with the night The broken spear, the shattered helm, the plume Dyed red with blood, the ghastly dying face, And nerveless limbs laid lifeless. And I knew The stainless Hector whom I could have loved, But that a happy love made blind his eyes To all my baleful beauty; fallen and dragged His noble, manly head upon the sand By young Achilles' chariot; him in turn Fallen and slain; my fair false Paris slain; Plague, famine, battle, raging now within, And now without, for many a weary year, Summer and winter, till I loathed to live, Who was indeed, as well they said, the Hell Of men, and fleets, and cities. As I stood Upon the walls, ofttimes a longing came, Looking on rage, and fight, and blood, and death, To end it all, and dash me down and die; But no god helped me. Nay, one day I mind I would entreat them. 'Pray you, lords, be men. What fatal charm is this which Ate gives To one poor foolish face? Be strong, and turn In peace, forget this glamour, get you home With all your fleets and armies, to the land I love no longer, where your faithful wives Pine widowed of their lords, and your young boys Grow wild to manhood. I have nought to give, No heart, nor prize of love for any man, Nor recompense. I am the ghost alone Of the fair girl ye knew; she still abides, If she still lives and is not wholly dead, Stretched on a flowery bank upon the sea In fair heroic Argos. Leave this form That is no other than the outward shell Of a once loving woman.' As I spake, My pity fired my eyes and flushed my cheek With some soft charm; and as I spread my hands, The purple, glancing down a little, left The marble of my breasts and one pink bud Upon the gleaming snows. And as I looked With a mixed pride and terror, I beheld The brute rise up within them, and my words Fall barren on them. So I sat apart, Nor ever more looked forth, while every day Brought its own woe. The melancholy years, The miserable melancholy years, Crept onward till the midnight terror came, And by the glare of burning streets I saw Palace and temple reel in ruin and fall, And the long-baffled legions, bursting in By gate and bastion, blunted sword and spear With unresisted slaughter. From my tower I saw the good old king; his kindly eyes In agony, and all his reverend hairs Dabbled with blood, as the fierce foeman thrust And stabbed him as he lay; the youths, the girls, Whom day by day I knew, their silken ease And royal luxury changed for blood and tears, Haled forth to death or worse. Then a great hate Of life and fate seized on me, and I rose And rushed among them, crying, 'See, 'tis I, I who have brought this evil! Kill me! kill The fury that is I, yet is not I! And let my soul go outward through the wound Made clean by blood to Hades! Let me die, Not these who did no wrong!' But not a hand Was raised, and all shrank backward as afraid, As from a goddess. Then I swooned and fell And knew no more, and when I woke I felt My husband's arms around me, and the wind Blew fair for Greece, and the beaked galley plunged; And where the towers of Ilium rose of old, A pall of smoke above a glare of fire.

What then in the near future? Ten long years Bring youth and love to that deep summer-tide When the full noisy current of our lives Creeps dumb through wealth of flowers. I think I knew Somewhat of peace at last, with my good Lord Who loved too much, to palter with the past, Flushed with the present. Young Hermione Had grown from child to woman. She was wed; And was not I her mother? At the pomp Of solemn nuptials and requited love, I prayed she might be happy, happier far Than ever I was; so in tranquil ease I lived a queen long time, and because wealth And high observance can make sweet our days When youth's swift joy is past, I did requite With what I might, not love, the kindly care Of him I loved not; pomps and robes of price And chariots held me. But when Fate cut short His life and love, his sons who were not mine Reigned in his stead, and hated me and mine: And knowing I was friendless, I sailed forth Once more across the sea, seeking for rest And shelter. Still I knew that in my eyes Love dwelt, and all the baleful charm of old Burned as of yore, scarce dimmed as yet by time: I saw it in the mirror of the sea, I saw it in the youthful seamen's eyes, And was half proud again I had such power Who now kept nothing else. So one calm eve, Behold, a sweet fair isle blushed like a rose Upon the summer sea: there my swift ship Cast anchor, and they told me it was Rhodes.

There, in a little wood above the sea, Like that dear wood of yore, I wandered forth Forlorn, and all my seamen were apart, And I, alone; when at the close of day I knew myself surrounded by strange churls With angry eyes, and one who ordered them, A woman, whom I knew not, but who walked In mien and garb a queen. She, with the fire Of hate within her eyes, 'Quick, bind her, men! I know her; bind her fast!' Then to the trunk Of a tall plane they bound me with rude cords That cut my arms. And meantime, far below, The sun was gilding fair with dying rays Isle after isle and purple wastes of sea.

And then she signed to them, and all withdrew Among the woods and left us, face to face, Two women. Ere I spoke, 'I know,' she said, 'I know that evil fairness. This it was, Or ever he had come across my life, That made him cold to me, who had my love And left me half a heart. If all my life Of wedlock was but half a life, what fiend Came 'twixt my love and me, but that fair face? What left his children orphans, but that face? And me a widow? Fiend! I have thee now; Thou hast not long to live. I will requite Thy murders; yet, oh fiend! that art so fair, Were it not haply better to deface Thy fatal loveliness, and leave thee bare Of all thy baleful power? And yet I doubt, And looking on thy face I doubt the more, Lest all thy dower of fairness be the gift Of Aphrodite, and I fear to fight Against the immortal Gods.'

Even with the word, And she relenting, all the riddle of life Flashed through me, and the inextricable coil Of Being, and the immeasurable depths And irony of Fate, burst on my thought And left me smiling in the eyes of death, With this deep smile thou seest. Then with a shriek The woman leapt on me, and with blind rage Strangled my life. And when she had done the deed She swooned, and those her followers hasting back Fell prone upon their knees before the corpse As to a goddess. Then one went and brought A sculptor, and within a jewelled shrine They set me in white marble, bound to a tree Of marble. And they came and knelt to me, Young men and maidens, through the secular years, While the old gods bore sway, but I was here, And now they kneel no longer, for the world Has gone from beauty. But I think, indeed, They well might worship still, for never yet Was any thought or thing of beauty born Except with suffering. That poor wretch who thought I injured her, stealing the foolish heart Which she prized but I could not, what knew she Of that I suffered? She had loved her love, Though unrequited, and had borne to him Children who loved her. What if she had been Loved yet unloving: all the fire of love Burnt out before love's time in one brief blaze Of passion. Ah, poor fool! I pity her, Being blest and yet unthankful, and forgive, Now that she is a ghost as I, the hand Which loosed my load of life. For scarce indeed Could any god who cares for mortal men Have ever kept me happy. I had tired Of simple loving, doubtless, as I tired Of splendour and being loved. There be some souls For which love is enough, content to bear From youth to age, from chesnut locks to gray, The load of common, uneventful life And penury. But I was not of these; I know not now, if it were best indeed That I had reared my simple shepherd brood, And lived and died unknown in some poor hut Among the Argive hills; or lived a queen As I did, knowing every day that dawned Some high emprise and glorious, and in death To fill the world with song. Not the same meed The gods mete out for all, or She, the dread Necessity, who rules both gods and men, Some to dishonour, some to honour moulds, To happiness some, some to unhappiness. We are what Zeus has made us, discords playing In the great music, but the harmony Is sweeter for them, and the great spheres ring In one accordant hymn. But thou, if e'er There come a daughter of thy love, oh pray To all thy gods, lest haply they should mar Her life with too great beauty!" So she ceased. The fairest woman that the poet's dream Or artist hand has fashioned. All the gloom Seemed lightened round her, and I heard the sound Of her melodious voice when all was still, And the dim twilight took her.

Next there came Two who together walked: one with a lyre Of gold, which gave no sound; the other hung Upon his breast, and closely clung to him, Spent in a tender longing. As they came, I heard her gentle voice recounting o'er Some ancient tale, and these the words she said: